The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,61
growing louder with anger. “Stupid American. How dare you accuse us of—”
Thinking of the thousands of innocents I was with just hours ago, my own impatient rage gets the better of me. I push him against the thin plaster wall, knocking the bulletin board to the ground.
“An unhinged multimillionaire is funneling thousands of dollars through you!” I demand. “Why? What the hell is going to happen on Mardi Gras?”
“Nothing that I know of,” he shoots back. “As Allah is my witness.” Then he adds, spitting on the floor in disgust, “Except a full day of obscenity and blasphemy that is a complete disgrace to Islam.”
“What about Ibrahim Farzat?” I demand. “He was a Muslim refugee who struggled to adjust to his new life. The exact kind of person your group ‘helps.’ Or should I say, ‘recruits’?”
“I know of no man by that name,” he says with contempt. “And the only cause I have ever ‘recruited’ for is peace.”
I’m getting to the end of my rope with this guy.
“Who did Farzat associate with? What are you planning?”
He hesitates—so I release my grip on him…and draw my weapon.
“Please, I swear to you,” his voice softens. “I am not a violent man. I am not a terrorist. Whatever you are trying to find out, I do not know. Perhaps others here do but—”
“Exactly,” I say, holding my weapon so he can easily see it. “Which is why I’m going to need documents. The name of everybody who’s ever walked through these doors. Their numbers, addresses, e-mails. Your group’s tax and financial records, too. Paper, digital, everything you’ve got. Now!”
He swallows. Then nods, resigned.
“All of that is stored in the back office. You may wait here, or come with me.”
I scoff. “Let’s take a walk.”
Without lowering my weapon, we walk along together down a narrow corridor with some open doors on either side, revealing their interiors. One is a dim, barren conference room with a few copies of the Koran scattered around the table. Another looks like a prayer room, with colorful woven rugs rolled up and stacked in the corner. A third is some sort of daycare room, with Legos, dolls, and other toys strewn about the grubby carpet.
We arrive at the last door at the far end of the hall.
He unlocks it and we step inside this dark, dusty office. He turns on the lights—revealing an absolute mess. Piles of papers everywhere. Metal cabinets that look decades old. A beige PC on the desk that can’t be much younger.
“I should start with the computer,” he says. “It will take a minute to boot up.”
“I don’t need it turned on,” I say. “Just give me the whole thing.”
“Very well.”
He moves behind the desk and starts pulling cords.
“David Needham,” I say. “Tell me everything you know about him.”
“I do not know that name, either,” he says. “Who is he?”
I shake my head in frustration. Again my instinct says he’s bullshitting me. I really don’t want to have to hurt him to get the truth. But will I have a choice?
As he finishes disconnecting the computer, I glance around at the mountains of paper, looking for any of value. But most are written in Arabic. Damn.
“I need your phone, too,” I say, turning away for a moment. “And any other computers and tablets. Your texts, e-mails, phone records, anything else that could possibly—”
CHOCK-CHICK!
That’s a sound I’ve heard more times than I care to count.
A shell being chambered in a pump-action shotgun.
Chapter 50
INSTINCTIVELY I hit the deck, just as—BLAM!—buckshot roars over my head.
I lift my pistol and—
POP-POP-POP!
I fire three rounds at el-Sharif—hidden behind two filing cabinets—and desperately look around for cover.
CHOCK-CHICK!
My only real option is the office doorway behind me.
I scramble backward toward the doorframe and slip behind it just in time.
BLAM!
I get hit—but only by plaster dust that’s been shot loose from the wall.
POP-POP! POP-POP!
I return fire again, and then from my knees sneak a peek into the office.
The room was already dark. Now it’s filled with hazy smoke. Zero visibility.
I hear rustling inside. I see his shadow darting around. But I can’t get a clear shot. Not that I’m sure I want to take it. Damnit! Am I really going to have to shoot my only living suspect?!
“Saleel, just talk to me!” I yell. “Help me. And I can help you.”
CHOCK-CHICK…BLAM!
CHOCK-CHICK…BLAM!
Two more shotgun blasts keep me pinned down. I stay perfectly still and listen…until I don’t hear any more motion coming from inside the office.
So I make my move.
I burst inside, gun trained…and see