Chapter 7

Fischer slipped behind the computer at yet another coffee shop. After only a few hours of sleep, the espresso he ordered was essential. He sipped as he accessed his email. He loved New York City, the anonymity it afforded him with its countless internet cafes. He could use a different location every day and go on for years before needing to repeat. For all the bluster of the Americans and their Homeland Security, this was so pathetically easy. Multiple email accounts, messages within messages. They spent millions for their war on terror, and yet he was able to operate with complete freedom and internet access for the price of a cup of coffee.

First, he checked on the status of his drivers. Yes! All of the deliveries had arrived safely. His part of the operation was the last step in an elaborate chain: arms and explosives had been purchased from sympathetic parties in the Balkans and then smuggled overland into Germany, to be hidden in legitimate shipments bound, first to Canada and then into his own warehouses.

He smiled, deeply satisfied. Yes, there had been some problems, some information had leaked. The authorities had received a 'credible threat' that seemed to have nothing to do with their operation, but it had made things more difficult. New supplies and personnel had required additional precautions and precious time. It was almost amusing to see the authorities with their silly yellow and orange alerts, scuttling around the city, around the harbor, searching in all the wrong places.

Now the operation could go forward. Even better, his own operation, his plans could begin forward. Finally, he would be able to show the world what he was capable of, what his brothers were unable to visualize.

He was loyal to the jihad. His skills and connections were highly valued. He knew there were some in the movement that merely thought of him as a supplier of goods and services, perhaps too European. Despite his own frustrations, he had carefully kept his own plans in reserve, deferring to others, subservient to the cause.

Too European - how ironic. His beautiful Iranian mother had left her heritage, her religion, and doubtlessly her honor behind when she married his father, a wealthy German banker. That was long ago, under the reign of the last Shah. Her family had fled their homes with their Swiss bank accounts and little else. If they objected to his mother's behavior, they were too overwhelmed to restrain her.

And his father? When he had tired of his lovely Iranian beauty, he discarded her in favor of another, younger Aryan. As the only son, Armand was considered a separate issue, clay to be educated, polished, molded into the perfect heir for the Fischer position and fortune. After his mother's banishment back to her disgraced family, he hated the father who kept the young boy isolated from his mother and who demanded so much from him.

What a blessed day it had been when he had discovered his true faith. Following the counsel of others who were far wiser, rather than reject his upbringing, he nurtured it, used it as the perfect cover. His fingers paused on the keyboard, considering what his next move should be. His responsibilities to the cause were complete. The window could now open on his own plans.

Caution was important. He had lived cautiously since his own personal awakening. Now that things were in motion, he should kill the police officer, and dispose of him quietly. That was the practical, safe thing to do.

So why had he awakened this morning with other ideas? The police officer could be the hand of destiny, a great opportunity. If he allowed his mind the freedom to see, if he were willing to take the calculated risk, there might be other alternatives. He must talk with Ibrahim immediately, he needed his trusted ally to help him see the possibilities.

Eames didn't get to the doorbell. Jeremy bolted out the front door the minute her foot touched the front porch. "Where's my dad?"

"Let's go back inside, Jeremy," Eames said, trying to steer him back into the house.

"No. Tell me straight." Jeremy's voice broke. "Tell me right here, right now." His young face looked haggard and tired. The poor kid must have paced all night after realizing his dad hadn't come home.

Still Eames hesitated, but there was no sense in delaying it. The message she came to deliver wasn't going to change. "We found the car. Your dad wasn't there. That's all we know for sure. Let's go inside." She moved toward the front door, hoping the boy would follow her.

Jeremy promptly stepped in and blocked her path. "What's the rest of it? Where was the car? Was there blood? Signs of a struggle? I'm… I'm not afraid of the truth, just of not knowing…"

Damn, what else could she expect? Jeremy had grown up surrounded by police work, and learned the art of questioning from a parent who was very, very good at it. If Alex was under any delusion that she was going to be able to break this slowly and gently wasn't looking good. "The car… was found in Overlook Park. His coat was out lying out on the rocks, near the water. That's all I know, all we know now. Just his coat. Nothing else."

Jeremy's lip trembled. "My dad isn't dead. He's not."

"Who said anything about dead? Of course he's not dead," Eames said gently, taking Jeremy's arm. "Listen to me. We'll find him. I just need to make sure you're okay while we figure this out. Let me take you over to your mom's."

"No. My mom and brother are out of town." Jeremy stood there, breathing heavily. "I'm not a little kid who needs social services. Take me up there, or I'll go by myself."

"Jeremy, it's an official investigation. You're a civilian. You know you can't."

Jeremy snorted. "Give me a break. When did being a civilian ever stop anyone? Try a better one, Eames. Do I get in the car, or do I have to call a cab? I can always start walking."

"Jeremy, don't give me a hard time. Until we know what's really going on here, you could be in danger, too. You can't just take off and start looking for your dad." Eames sighed. Jeremy was his father's son. "Get your coat first, and bring your cell, but you're not going to Overlook. I'll take you down to 1PP with me. You can call your mom and brother from there, and we'll get the latest from Goren and Powell."

Jeremy headed into the house, still talking. "Don't you even think of ditching me, or locking me up somewhere. I'm fifteen and I've got rights, you know." A moment later, he locked the door to the house and marched down the front walk, still full of himself. Eames knew it was just a show of bravado before the storm. She still hadn't told him the hardest part yet. She wished she could have coaxed Jeremy inside.

"Hold up a minute, before we go." She was hurrying to catch the young man, and nearly ran into Jeremy when he stopped and turned back abruptly. Eames looked up into the young man's face. Jeremy was no longer the slightly chubby youngster Eames had first seen the day he helped Captain Ross move into his office. "Look, I promise to treat you straight if you do the same. There's more… you need to understand. The way things look, there might be several different theories floating around, some that can't be true, just conjecture, you know? Don't take it seriously."

Jeremy frowned, trying to understand. "Well, sure, no problem. Dad's always talking about how the media gets stuff messed up. Besides, what could they say?"

Eames swallowed. She could see the wheels turning, Jeremy considering and answering his own question. "What? Are they saying he did something wrong? He's missing, not guilty."

"That's not what I meant…"

"No." Jeremy took a step back, his face shifting from obstinacy to panic. "If that's not it, what is it, then? What?"

"Jeremy, just don't take everything you might hear as gospel. That's all I'm saying."

"No. No, you're not telling me. What? The rocks? What are they saying?" There was a pained silence; Eames couldn't bring herself to say the words. "That he fell… or he jumped?" Jeremy whispered harshly. Eames stood quietly as the voice rose in anger and the words tumbled out. It wasn't until the tears came that she wrapped her arms around Jeremy, riding the waves of that storm.