The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,24

to be detonated aboard an aircraft, right above the fuel tanks!

What could these bastards be planning that no one’s ever thought of before?

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. What the hell was I thinking coming to this parade in the first place? What did I really think I’d learn? All it’s done is show me how vulnerable Mardi Gras really is. And make me even more worried.

Then it hits me.

Literally.

I feel something strike the top of my head and skitter to the ground. I open my eyes—and realize it was just a necklace of plastic beads. It was tossed at me by a man wearing a colorful court jester costume in a passing float, doing a silly little jig.

“Be merry, good sir!” he calls in an awful English accent. “Here cometh the king!”

He’s pointing behind him to an approaching float: the biggest and most elaborate of all, decorated to look like a giant castle. On a “throne” toward the rear is a matronly looking woman wearing a large white robe, a dazzling gold crown, and giant reflective sunglasses. She’s “King Arthur,” the parade’s star—even though that “real” legendary monarch probably wasn’t a middle-aged lady in aviator sunglasses.

But that’s part of the fun of Mardi Gras, I think, as I politely push my way back through the crowds to leave. Anybody can be anyone. Nothing is as it seems.

And unless I do something to stop it, anything horrific can happen.

Chapter 19

I PARK on Freret Street and cut the engine. Used to be, this was a strip of shuttered storefronts and abandoned buildings. You didn’t dare come near here after sundown—unless you were in the market for a new wallet and phone with few questions asked.

But today it’s an up-and-coming dining hot spot. That’s thanks largely to Beatrice St. Ville, a local chef who opened Bea’s Café on this block a few years ago, jump-starting the area’s revival. I don’t know Beatrice personally, but she has a reputation for being extremely liberal—with her Cajun seasoning and her politics. The food at her new joint was plenty good. But what really put it on the map was her policy of hiring cooks, servers, and other staff exclusively from disadvantaged backgrounds. Like undocumented immigrants. Recovering addicts. Even ex-cons.

Which is all well and good with me.

Except when one of them might be a terrorist.

Ibrahim Farzat, a thirty-year-old Syrian refugee, moved to New Orleans with his wife about a year ago and got a job at Bea’s as a dishwasher. I remember him showing up on the NOPD’s radar last summer when he was arrested for disorderly conduct and resisting arrest. After he was booked, detectives took a gander at his online activity. A conservative Muslim, Farzat posted frequently about his religious devotion, and he followed some pro-Islam accounts that looked edgy.

But there were no immediate terrorist red flags, and the charges against him were eventually dropped. Still, we passed the info on to Homeland Security, just to be safe. They got back to us quick. The Farzats, we were told, had been thoroughly vetted and weren’t considered a terrorist threat.

Looking back, maybe Homeland got back to us a little too quick.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the feds, they like to take their sweet time. DC isn’t a swamp; it’s an ocean full of quicksand. Why was DHS so lightning-fast to dismiss our concerns that time? What didn’t they want the NOPD to know?

I swung by Farzat’s last known address earlier this afternoon to try to find out. But his rented home in Dixon was dark and empty. Neighbors told me they hadn’t seen him or his wife around in weeks. One gave me Farzat’s cell number, but when I called, a cheery recorded voice told me it was no longer in service.

It’s not a crime to move houses or change numbers or follow people on Twitter. And maybe I’m going down a dead end here. But given what I know about Farzat, I just want to find the guy, ask him a few questions, and rule him out.

I exit my car and unlock the trunk. Bea’s Café doesn’t open for another hour, and since I don’t have a badge to flash anymore, I probably won’t get anybody to talk to me much about Farzat. Especially not this close to dinner service.

So I have another idea.

I remove a freshly washed, white chef’s apron and slip it on. Then I head into the alley behind the restaurant. When I reach