He pulled latex gloves from a cardboard tissue-style box. He offered a pair to Bin-Hezam, which he accepted.

The man crossed to the other counter. He moved a pile of gray rags from the shelf beneath it and pulled out a lockbox. He opened it with a key from his ring. He removed a top tray of tools from the inside, withdrawing a cloth bag.

He slid out a nickel-plated pistol with a black rubber grip—holding it openhandedly, offering it to Bin-Hezam for inspection.

“Thirty-eight special. A revolver. It will never jam.” The man flicked the release and flopped open the cylinder, showing Bin-Hezam that the weapon was not loaded. “This is what I was told to have ready for you.”

Bin-Hezam took the weapon into his hand. A good weight, polished but not brand new.

“Ammunition?” said Bin-Hezam.

The man reached into the toolbox again and pulled out a paper bag containing brass cartridges.

“They told me six,” he said. “There are twelve here. I assume you want more, just in case.”

Bin-Hezam said, “I will take exactly six.”

The man gave him another moment to reconsider, then relented. “Six it is,” he said.

The man counted out six bullets with his gloved hands, standing them on the countertop. Bin-Hezam laid the .38 next to them.

“Holster,” said the Senegalese. This he pulled down from a shelf, a sling made of Cordura and Velcro. “Fits over your shoulders,” he said, miming putting it on—the holster straps were much too small for his bulk. “The butt of the gun is down for clean pull.”

Bin-Hezam nodded. He watched the fat man lay the holster down on the counter. He did not need to touch it or try it on.

“Eight thousand,” the fat man said.

Bin-Hezam turned his head slightly. “Eight? I have three. I was told the gun would cost three thousand.”

“That was the floor price. The request was for an untraceable late-model thirty-eight caliber with a rubber grip. No serial numbers, not even any which could be raised by chemicals. That meant procuring the weapon directly from the manufacturer. Test-firing it and field-testing it to ensure its accuracy, reliability, and durability. For a tool of such precise specifications, I ask a minimum eight thousand. It is a fair price.”

Bin-Hezam neither smiled nor frowned. “You must have known I would not have that much.”

“How would I know that, brother?”

Bin-Hezam was not one to show emotion. Part of his preparation for this journey was an exercise in self-control. To do what he was going to do required the highest level of discipline. He was a pillar of restraint.

“I do not have that much money,” Bin-Hezam said. “You have wasted my time.”

The Senegalese shrugged. “I will remain here all evening. Surely you can get five thousand more.”

“I can,” said Bin-Hezam. “With five thousand questions and five thousand complaints.”

The fat man shrugged again. “I am the best. I will be paid accordingly.”

Bin-Hezam pulled off his latex gloves, dropping them into his jacket pocket. He turned back to the door. “Am I to find my own way out?”

The fat man sighed and waddled past him, opening the door to the junkyard. Bin-Hezam passed him and slowed, waiting for the fat man to lock the door with his key. Bin-Hezam then led the way, following the path back to the building. He opened the door himself, entered the hallway, and stopped there, again waiting for the fat man. Bin-Hezam listened for the solid click of the heavy door behind him, sealing them inside the tunnel-like hallway.

“I trust you are not offended—” the fat man began to say.

Bin-Hezam whirled around with his arm bent and crushed the Senegalese’s nose and upper mouth with his elbow.

Bin-Hezam followed that with a chop to his throat, the fat man’s sweaty skin nearly enveloping his hand. The Senegalese’s head struck the side wall, and his great body slid down backward.

He opened his mouth to scream, but the only sound he could get out of his busted palate was “Mmmuuunnhh!”

Bin-Hezam brought the sole of his shoe and the full weight of his body down against the fat man’s prodigious neck. Again and again, with little thrusting hops, until he felt the crack of the fat man’s neck giving way. Froth bubbled up from his destroyed mouth, a pink mix of saliva and blood. His eyes were open and bulging, becoming fixed.

Bin-Hezam knelt at the dead man’s side for a long moment. Uncertain of his surroundings, he listened intently for any sound that might mean discovery.

The building was silent above him. He looked down at the dead man, lit gently through the stained-glass window in the door.

The act of reaching into the fat man’s sweaty pants pocket was more unpleasant to Bin-Hezam than the commission of murder. Bin-Hezam discovered and pulled out the ring of keys, warm in his hand. He then pulled hard on the fat man’s arm, struggling to roll him over facedown in the hallway. The man’s bulk was prohibitive.

Bin-Hezam stood, finding his own shirt drenched in perspiration. He had never killed a man before. He had been well trained in techniques handed down for centuries but had never thought it possible of himself. But he was a new man now. A man on a mission. Giving himself over to a cause, and to God, had freed his soul.

He exited the building, touching the doorknob with his hand inside his jacket sleeve, back in the direction of the shop. He listened outside, then returned swiftly along the path formed by the yard of junk. The key worked in the lock after some wiggling and pulling. Again, he kept his fingerprints from the metal knob.

Inside the garage shop, Bin-Hezam removed his jacket and pulled on the shoulder holster. He inserted the handgun and closed the small retaining Velcro belt. He slipped his jacket back on and felt that the weapon was adequately concealed.

The six cartridges went into his jacket pocket like so many pieces of gold. He checked the fall of his jacket one more time, the handgun tucked securely under his arm. He muttered a prayer of gratitude, then left the garage again, locking the door.

He carried the keys with him, reentering the building, looking once more at the fat man’s corpse. Moving it would be difficult and hiding it perhaps impossible. He decided it did not matter, and continued swiftly yet steadily down the hallway to the front door.

He turned the knob with his hand inside his sleeve, then exited onto the sidewalk. He heard a siren and started walking, seeing blue lights approaching along the street.

The siren’s wail peaked . . . and then the car was past him, weaving in and out of traffic as it moved uptown.

Bin-Hezam could not take the subway back. Not with an unlicensed firearm in his possession. He dropped the key chain and his used gloves into the first trash receptacle he saw. Bin-Hezam walked two blocks to the nearest hotel, also memorized from Google Maps. There he hired a taxi to return him—though not directly—to the Hotel Indigo.

Chapter 26

After returning to the Hyatt through the rear entrance—reserved for deliveries or VIPs, depending on the circumstance—Gersten escorted The Six up to their floor. The exhilaration they had experienced before the interview had bottomed out on the ride back like a sugar crash, and The Six returned the few blocks from Times Square in near silence.

Upstairs, Frank and Sparks lingered in the hospitality suite, unwinding, not talking. The television was tuned to a baseball game, but Patton, the other Intel cop who had remained behind, was the only one really watching it.

Maggie Sullivan returned a minute or two later with two nips of Bacardi from her room’s minibar. She mixed them into twin glasses of Diet Coke and offered one to Sparks, who accepted it and drank wordlessly. Maggie took a seat by the window and rested her chin in her hand, looking out at the night.