Kill Alex Cross

and a woman in a hijab and long coat started backing out onto the front walk.
    “What the hell —?”
    It took a second to see the man in the wheelchair. Once they’d cleared the door, the woman did a 180 and started pushing him down toward the street.
    “That’s them? ” Mahoney said.
    They looked to be in their sixties, both of them heavyset. The man had a thick, almost nonexistent neck and just a few wisps of hair. The woman walked with a slight limp. Actually, she hobbled more than walked.
    Kravetz manipulated her controls to follow them on camera.
    “Wait for it,” she said. “Wait for it …”
    As soon as they turned onto the sidewalk, two unmarked cars were there! They pulled up to the curb, and half a dozen agents jumped out. One of them took control of the wheelchair. Another cuffed the woman immediately.
    I could hear the man in the chair shouting now, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying.
    It all happened very fast. They’d barely gotten the woman into one of the cars when a handicap-accessible van pulled up. The Bureau was clearly ready for this. They loaded up their mystery man and everyone took off, leaving the corner just as quiet as it had been sixty seconds ago.
    I looked over at Ned when it was done. He was still staring at the screen, but his eyes looked blank. If I had to guess, I’d say he was thinking about that terrible scene at the motel from the other night. Was this couple responsible? Were they the planners?
    “Where are they taking those two?” I asked. “Any idea?”
    Mahoney shrugged. “To hell, I hope.”

THE NAME OF the man in the wheelchair was Faizal Ahmad Angawi. According to the prevailing intel, he went simply by “Uncle” within the organization.
    When they reached their destination, he was unloaded from the van, and his blindfold was removed.
    “You maniacs! Where in God’s name have you taken me?” he screamed at the FBI agents. “You are breaking your laws.”
    They’d arrived in a vast, unheated garage bay. Nothing too specific to clue him in to his exact whereabouts. There was a loading dock and a long row of empty steel shelving units along one wall. Several fluorescent light fixtures hung from the girdered ceiling, far overhead. Also, it was quite cold.
    CIA interrogator Matt Sivitz stood in front of Angawi. His hands were clasped behind his back, while the seated man ranted on and on.
    “I have my rights! You can’t do this. I demand to see my attorney immediately!”
    “Absolutely,” Sivitz told him. “Just as soon as we’re back in the real world, you can see a lawyer, Mr. Angawi. Or should I call you Uncle?”
    The man squinted up at him while the corners of his mouth turned down. “Uncle? What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Don’t be insulting. You know exactly what it means.”
    Sivitz walked over and took a folding chair off the dock. When he set it across from the wheelchair and sat down, the two men were face-to-face.
    “Here’s how I see it,” he went on. “I think you’re stuck in the middle of something here. You answer to your people back in Saudi. You pass orders to your operatives. But you don’t control anything. Not really. You’ve got all the knowledge but none of the power — and that’s what makes you vulnerable. Am I close?”
    “Close to what?” Angawi shouted. “This is an outrage! I’m a law-abiding man. Look at me!” He reached for the wheels on his chair and found them locked.
    Sivitz held up a finger, which was also clearly a warning. “Actually, we’ve been watching you for a while.”
    He unfolded a slip of paper from his pocket and glanced down at it. “Does the number 20852409 mean anything to you?” he said. “No? Maybe you didn’t memorize the account numbers. How about Trinity Bank, in Washington? Saudi British Bank, in Riyadh?”
    Angawi was having none of it. “You can’t intimidate me like this,” he said between clenched teeth. “All of my accounts are perfectly legal.”
    Sivitz nodded. “All of Faizal Ahmad Angawi’s accounts are legal. That’s true. But not the ones you’ve created under Muhammed Al-Athel. Or Charity of Hope. Or Chesapeake Properties.” He watched the man while he spoke, gauging his expression. “That’s where Al Ayla’s money is coming in, isn’t it? Please correct me anytime here. Just in case I have any small details wrong.”
    The detainee didn’t even show a glimmer of recognition. Just pure, seething hatred.
    “I have a right to an