Killer Instinct - James Patterson Page 0,29

simple explanation,” I said.

“A civilian recruit? It rarely happens,” said Julian, “and even less so with a woman.”

“Rarely, but not never.”

Sadira Yavari could’ve been recruited by the Agency for a specific assignment because she matched a unique profile that was needed—in this case an Iranian-born professor, and a very attractive one at that. But recruiting civilians fully entrenched in their civilian lives is a hard sell. Like ice-to-Eskimos hard.

And Julian was right—it’s even harder with women. As opposed to men, women don’t secretly harbor thoughts of being James Bond.

“Is it possible? Sure,” said Julian. “Think limited scope. Maybe all she had to do was cozy up to Darvish and set the table for someone else to kill him.”

“With a heart attack? And a bottle lodged up his—”

“Yeah, I read the report. You can spare me the details.”

Regardless, it prompted a question: had the two professors previously known each other? “What do we have for phone records?” I asked.

I watched Julian work his keyboard, his fingers a blur. He had both cell and landline numbers for Darvish and Yavari within seconds. Just as quick, he cross-checked all their billing statements for the past couple of years.

“No calls or texts between them,” he said.

“It makes sense. A one-night stand.”

Julian eyed Yavari again on the wall. Actually, it was more like ogling. She truly was gorgeous. Long dark-brown hair and high cheekbones. She looked a bit like Amal Clooney. “A one-night stand would’ve certainly worked for me,” he said.

Julian clicked on the video of her from the NYU website so we could hear her voice. Sure enough, she sounded as good as she looked. Poised. Intelligent. In complete control.

She was telling a funny anecdote about taking the wrong subway all the way out to Queens when she first moved to Manhattan. The point being, as much as she believed she knew where she was going, the truth was that she had no idea. It was a parable for epistemology.

“But what if I had guessed right?” she asked the audience. “Does taking the right subway unto itself prove that I knew where I was going?”

On cue, the person filming her lecture turned the camera on the audience. Some heads were nodding; others were bobbing as if pondering the question. Everyone was fully engaged. Sadira Yavari had the room, as they say. They were hanging on her every—

“Wait! Hold it,” I said.

Julian paused the video. “What is it?”

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “Third row, second from the right. Do you know him?”

“No, but you obviously do,” said Julian. “Who is he?”

“I’m not exactly sure, but I’ve met him. He’s even been inside my apartment.”

“And you don’t know his name?”

“No,” I said. “But I know what his name definitely isn’t. Benjamin Al-Kazaz.”

CHAPTER 34

ELIZABETH’S SUNGLASSES were pulling double duty as she opened the door to the Starbucks around the corner from Dylan and Tracy’s apartment. In addition to shielding her from the press in the wake of the Evan Pritchard video, the dark-tinted lenses were concealing the Samsonite-sized bags under her eyes on the heels of less than four hours of sleep.

She was exhausted. She was also running late. Pritchard had scheduled an early briefing with all agents assigned to the Times Square bombings. It started in twenty minutes. Her Uber was due out in front of the Starbucks within moments.

“I’ll take a large coffee, please.”

“We don’t have large,” said the girl with the purple-dyed hair behind the counter. “Did you mean a venti?”

Elizabeth could count on two fingers how many times she’d ever set foot in a Starbucks. She always preferred her coffee from diners. So did her wallet. But there was no time this morning. “Sure, I’ll take a venti—whatever your largest size is,” she said.

“Well, our largest size is actually a trenta. It means thirty in Italian. As in, ounces. Venti means—”

“Yeah, venti means twenty. As in, ounces. I get it,” said Elizabeth.

“So which one do you want, a venti or a trenta? If you haven’t noticed, there’s a line behind you.”

Oh, really? Do you know what fottiti means in Italian? I assure you it’s not forty …

A minute later, venti coffee in hand, Elizabeth reached for a carafe of nonfat milk at the end of the counter.

“It sure looks like a large to me,” said a man with a thick Middle Eastern accent. He grabbed a Splenda, tearing it open.

“I know,” said Elizabeth. She figured he’d been right behind her in line. “Forgive me for not speaking Starbucks, right?”

The man laughed.