Judge & Jury - James Patterson [81]
“Yeah, thanks.” Andie nodded flatly.
I took the rope and some duct tape. She stroked the boy, as if she were comforting Jarrod. “Sshh . . . it’s going to be all right.”
“And one more thing.” Our eyes met, as close as I could come in this moment to an embrace. “After the exchange, you wait an hour, that’s all. If I don’t come back to the hotel, you drive to Tel Aviv. You make that flight.”
“Assuming things go wrong.”
“You won’t know. You just take off. Okay?”
She shook her head. “I’m not leaving you.”
“Believe me, if I’m not back in an hour, you won’t have to worry about that.”
Chapter 100
I’M NOT SURE who first decided to build the vast, multiterraced gardens that climb steeply up the slope of Mount Carmel and are dedicated to the Baha’i faith, but whoever it was had perfect insight into the art of the clandestine exchange.
The grounds were public enough to get lost in and open enough to spot any unwanted accomplices hanging around. It had multiple exits leading to heavily trafficked thoroughfares. Tours were constantly going around, and that Thursday, late in the afternoon, the gardens were as crowded as the lawn at a Tanglewood concert.
If this goes well, I told myself, trying to calm my nerves, I might even give some thought to converting.
I got there at 6:45 p.m., a few minutes early, and stood around the statue of someone named Sayyid Ali Muhammad, or the Bab, on the lowest level of the gardens, where I told Remlikov we would meet. I had given him only thirty minutes’ warning, not much time to prepare. The elaborate park had eighteen different terraces. He didn’t know whether I was at the upper or lower gardens. And with Ben Gurion Street only meters away, it would be easy for Andie to drop the boy and escape.
Me—that could be an entirely different story.
I’d done secret meets dozens of times, but always with the confidence that someone with a listening device and a sniper’s rifle was watching my back. Never naked, on unprotected turf—and with the slight complication of having kidnapped some cold-blooded killer’s kid.
Crowds were starting to form. Some Israeli folksinger was performing two levels up. The setting couldn’t be better. I told myself, just think like it’s Madison Square Garden. All I had to do, once the exchange was made, was blend in with the crowd and get away.
At five of six, I took out my cell in front of the statue and gave Remlikov our final call. “Are you here?”
“I’m here. What about my son?”
“Walk to the statue of Ali Muhammad off Ben Gurion Street. You know it?”
“I know it. How will I know you?”
“I’ll be the one holding the twelve-year-old with tape over his mouth. Don’t worry, I’ll know you.”
Remlikov sniffed, unamused. “It will take me a few minutes. I’m on the upper level.”
“Don’t bother, then. In five minutes, I’ll be gone.” I punched off the line. He’d be here. I didn’t want to give him a single extra moment to prepare.
Chapter 101
I HAVE TO ADMIT, the following couple of minutes were as tense and heart-stopping as any in my life. I tried to focus on the crowds, mostly young people and families heading up to the higher terraces. An occasional policeman wandered by, dangling the ubiquitous Uzi.
I checked my Glock one last time. I adjusted my sunglasses. I tried to calm the riot in my gut.
5:59 p.m. Come on, Remlikov. This has to happen now!
Then I spotted him coming out of the crowd. He was wearing an open-collar print shirt and a black leather jacket. A few people passed in front of us, but he focused directly on me. Must’ve been the chess book I was holding prominently. He walked right up to me. He removed his sunglasses and took a long look into my eyes. I had seen the faces of many professional killers. There was always a dull glaze in the eye, even when they smiled. Remlikov had it in spades.
“Stand in front of me,” I said, shifting