Chapter 3

Eames held one of three white takeout bags to her nose and breathed deeply. "Oh, man, there must be two hundred calories just in the smell. How can you stand it?"

"What happened to 'I'm too tired to move'? You sound positively perky."

"Perky? Give me a break. Pastrami on rye happened. What else is in here?" Eames asked, rustling among the bags.

"Put that stuff down. That pastrami's for me you know. Make yourself useful and call the captain."

"Mr. Impatient doesn't want to keep our commanding officer waiting?" Eames asked with a grin.

"It has nothing to do with impatience. It has to do with guilt. Ross hasn't exactly been on vacation since we started this nightmare. If he goes down, gets sick or something, the rest of us are screwed."

"Good point." Eames checked with dispatch and relayed the information to her partner, not that Goren really needed her to repeat it. "He left his last call thirty minutes ago and was on his way in. He should be there before we are."

"That's because we're running late," Goren noted.

"Not my fault, man. It was either smelly socks or stop at Wal-Mart. You voted for stopping."

"I'll plead self-defense," Goren said wryly.

"I'll see what I can do about getting laundry done, in my spare time or next day off, whichever comes first." Eames said seriously.

"I didn't mean it was your problem, Chief. We'll work something out." Eames avoided his eyes, staring out into the night. Good job, Goren. Have her fretting over laundry. Pile it on, why not?

The remainder of the ride into Manhattan passed in silence.

Armand Fischer glared at his subordinate. The young man was nearly quaking in his shoes, a total idiot, but the only man he could spare. "You understand? We can't afford any mistakes."

The young man shrank back, before asking in his tortured English. "Please - why we don't kill him?'

"No! You do NOT think, you DO NOT question me." Fischer nearly shouted, reining himself in at the last moment. Even idiots had their uses, and this child enjoyed thinking he was part of the inner circle. He tried to be patient as he explained. "Joseph, if his body is not discovered, there will be doubt, there will be hope." He spoke slowly, insisting as always their conversations be in English. Not that it did any good with Joseph. "When an American policeman is killed the pursuit is rabid. We do not want that. An abandoned car will bring questions, many questions, but not the pursuit a verified death would bring. There will be no manhunt." He sighed inwardly. Joseph's blank expression revealed how little he actually comprehended. Best to go for simplicity, and make sure Joseph knew what to do, even if why eluded him. "Now, repeat your instructions back to me."

The young man fished out a cigarette and lit it, aiming for an air of confidence. He failed miserably as his shaking hands fumbled with the lighter. "Take the car. Do not hurry; break no traffic - signs." Fischer winced at the mangled English, but let him continue. "Wear fingers."

"Gloves, Joseph. They are gloves," Fischer corrected. He struggled to keep his face neutral. Joseph was hopeless, but at least he knew to cover his hands with something. "Where are you to go?" Fischer asked. "To the ocean – a – park."

"What park?" Fischer demanded, again ready to lose his temper. To his dismay, it took Joseph several moments to remember.

"Overtop, overhang – no, overlook. Overlook Park." Joseph smiled, apparently feeling very satisfied with himself. His pronunciation was awful. Fischer wanted to strangle him. "Continue," he said firmly.

"Leave the car in the parking area. Walk to the 'quick store' and wait to be picked up."

Fisher sighed. They had worked on that repeatedly, and Joseph STILL thought convenience stores were quick stores. Hopeless. "The coat," Fischer said impatiently. "You have forgotten the coat."

"Yes, yes. Leave the coat near the edge of the water."

"Joseph! Pay attention! It must appear that he dropped it. Make sure it does not go into the water. Climb over the railing and arrange it, if necessary." The older man's gaze turned back to the bloodied man lying on the floor, then to the identification in his hand. An ordinary police officer was a dreaded complication. A police captain, a commander, was unimaginable. Their luck could not have been worse, tonight of all nights. This man had come at the wrong time, with too many questions. Even outnumbered, he had nearly overwhelmed them.

What was such a man doing, springing out of the rainy night? Fischer had selected this lonely neglected neighborhood, this particular house as a base of operations because it was of no consequence to anyone.

What could it mean that the police officer had shown up tonight? Had someone discovered his plans? Had one of his few 'partners' betrayed him? He hadn't seen any signs of this, had no sense of trouble. Was this man acting alone, or was his presence some cosmic accident?

So many things to worry about. Fischer gestured to his errand boy. "You must remember every detail. You must be precise."

"I will not fail," Joseph said.

"See that you don't," Fischer answered grimly, and waved the man away. It had taken time to find this police captain's vehicle, the authorities would be looking for him soon. If only he had someone else he could spare, but he didn't have time to pull someone else in, someone stronger than Joseph. Tonight's shipment was his true priority. His organization was short on people and heavy on work tonight.

Calm, be calm, he urged himself as Joseph nearly ran out the door. No one saw the struggle on this rainy, gloomy night. There had been little noise. What could happen if Joseph failed utterly, and was caught? This was not Iraq or Saudi Arabia. The police would not torture a student with atrocious English for a traffic violation, and the young fool would not break, immediately. No real harm would be done. He had time. One merely had to be clever.

Fischer turned to the others gathered in the room, waiting anxiously for his decisions. At a minimum, they needed to secure their unfortunate visitor. He pointed to one of the men, his most reliable operative. "You will stay with me and see to this one. The rest of you, reload the vehicles and leave immediately. Our delivery south will go as planned, with three cars instead of four. Follow the plan exactly and you will have no problems. I expect you back in the morning."

He gestured to the unconscious man, bound and blindfolded. "This one is to be guarded constantly, but from a distance. Do not speak within his hearing. We will do nothing with him until I return." He started for the door.

"And if there are problems?"

Armand considered the question. Ibrahim was French, the son of immigrant parents from North Africa, at least that's what was on his official passport,. The two had worked together for years, unlike the others who came and went like butterflies on the breeze. His judgment and dedication could be trusted.

"Kill him."