Murder at the Opera - Margaret Truman [53]
“Good evening,” Crowley replied, coming around to the passenger side and getting in.
“Not an especially cheery place to meet up,” M.T. said, “but safer than in town
Crowley said nothing as M.T. pulled away and drove into the park till they reached a secluded picnic area covered by a canopy of pines and oaks; a little, colorful field of wildflowers looked like a painting in the car’s halogen headlights.
M.T. turned off the lights and ignition and cracked windows on both sides. “Good trip?” he asked.
“Horrid. Tell me about Rihnai
“Not much to tell, really. Poor bugger had half his head blown off. We’d just had a meeting at one of the safe houses. Can’t use that place again. It’s been compromised. Not quite sure how that happened, or how Rihnai was found out, but working on it
“The young Iraqi he befriended as a source. Do you know him?”
“Afraid not. Never did meet him or know his name. Clever chap, the former Mr. Ghaleb Rihnai was. He evidently knew that as long as he kept his Iraqi source to himself, he held the trump card. Didn’t get him very far, though. A bloody shame what happened to him. He wanted out, wanted to go back to the States. Maybe he knew someone was on to him
“And to you,” Crowley said. “Look, I’ve been sent here to make sure that there’s a sense of urgency on your part. The Americans are damned edgy about what your Mr. Rihnai came up with. You said in your communiqués that the attack was being choreographed out of Cairo. Explain. How did this Iraqi patsy know that?”
“Through a brother in Iraq, according to Ghaleb. This brother, another name he wouldn’t share with me, is connected there. At least that’s what he claimed
“This concerns me,” said Crowley, lowering his window farther to allow more night air into the Mercedes. “All I hear from you is ‘he claimed’ and ‘as far as I know.’ If al-Qaeda successfully pulls off this attack, the fallout will be significant. We’ve got to have more specifics
“Back off, Crowley,” M.T. said. “I’m doing all I can here, with bloody little support. If Ghaleb hadn’t been taken out, I’ve no doubt that those ‘specifics’ you want would be forthcoming. But damn it, man, I’ve given you all I can. Ghaleb said that bin Laden has personally ordered the attack, and that it’s being activated through an al-Qaeda cell in Cairo. Oh, yes, and there’s some vague Canadian connection. Sorry, mate, but that’s all Ghaleb had to say about that. His Iraqi source was intending to go back to Baghdad and confer there with his brother. We would have learned more specifics if Ghaleb hadn’t gotten it
Crowley said nothing.
“You’d think the bloody Americans would do their own snooping,” M.T. said. “Hell, it’s them at the receiving end of the attack. Doesn’t make sense to me why we’re digging up dirt for them, sticking out our necks. I’ve got a contracting business to run here in Jordan, plenty of work to keep me busy without playing spy games for the Yanks
“When can you find out more?” Crowley asked, ignoring the diatribe.
“Probably not fast enough for you, Crowley. Not without Ghaleb and his Iraqi chum
“Keep trying
“Easy for you to say, mate. Staying in Amman long?”
“No
“Back to Baghdad?”
“No. Washington. Tomorrow morning
“I’m due for some R-and-R myself,” M.T. said.
“Take me back to the city,” Crowley said.
“Right you are, mate. I’m a full-service provider, handler, and chauffeur. On the side, I fix boilers in this bloody place.” He started the car, turned on the lights, and drove away, the angry sound of the engine mirroring his mood. He dropped Crowley off at a taxi stand on the outskirts of the city.
“Always a pleasure,” M.T. said as Crowley exited the car without saying a word and climbed into a waiting cab. “And your mother, too,” M.T. muttered as he watched the taxi disappear into a dense fog that had descended upon the city.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Sylvia Johnson and Carl Berry were going over the day’s schedule when Willie Portelain came through the door.
“What are you doing here?” Berry asked. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital