Storm Front

are going,” the big Turk said.
    “I’m listening,” Virgil said.
    “We are going . . . because my . . . mmm . . . principal . . . also has dealing in Israel and other places where the Israelis have some authority, and he has received a telephone call from the Mossad asking him to withdraw. He is pleased to do this.”
    “Really? You mean, because if he doesn’t, the Mossad will kill him?”
    The small Turk wagged a finger at him: “People in the U.S.A. speak too much of killing. This is not true in our country.”
    The big Turk, the one who supposedly cut the testicles off recalcitrant Kurds, said, “Of course, the Mossad doesn’t say this. And they don’t do this, anyway. Well, maybe they do it, but not to Turks. But, for a man who does business in Israel, business could become difficult. So, he telephones us, and tells us, we are done. So we go.”
    Virgil: “The arrival of the Hezbollah has nothing to do with it?”
    “Mmm. We did not know that the Hezbollah has arrived. This information would also be of interest to our . . . mmm . . . principal. Perhaps he can make friendly with the Mossad, telling them this.”
    “All right. That’s good,” Virgil said. “Is it okay if we keep you under surveillance until you go through airport security?”
    “Of course,” the big Turk said. “It will be an honor.”
    “Try to stay away from those Kurds, too. You know, when you get back,” Virgil said.
    —
    O UTSIDE , V IRGIL CALLED the Mankato chief and asked if he could shake a patrol car loose for the afternoon. “Maybe. What do you need?”
    “You know those Turks that got shot?”
    “Yeah. Everybody knows, Virgil,” the chief said. “Everybody in the state. Everybody in Iowa, too. Everybody—”
    “Okay, okay. The Turks are supposedly leaving for the airport up in Minneapolis. I’d like one of your patrol cars to follow them. Not subtly.”
    “A little encouragement . . . I think we can do that. We always welcome foreign investors, of course, but perhaps these gentlemen should be on their way.”
    “Have to be quick,” Virgil said. “They’re already packed up.”
    “We’ll have somebody there in two minutes.”
    —
    V IRGIL WALKED across the street for a piece of breakfast pie and a Coke, sat in the window and watched the Turks pack the Mercedes. The patrol car pulled into the parking lot, and the cop on the passenger side got out and said something to the Turks. The big man said something back, and flashed a smile. A moment later, the Turks pulled out, with the cop car fifteen feet behind.
    When they were gone, Virgil called the Homeland Security chief at the airport, told him about the situation, and asked that the Turks’ bag be checked carefully, and that somebody watch them get on the airplane.
    That would be done.
    Virgil was happy to see them go; and the fact was, from their attitude after the shooting, he suspected that he might like Turks in general, if not these Turks specifically.
    But then, he liked most people.

13
    T hree bidders, Jones’s note had said. Hezbollah, the Turks . . .
    Maybe Sewickey would know, Virgil thought. Might as well check in, anyway, since he was right there. He walked back across the street to the Holiday, up the stairs to Sewickey’s room, and found a note on the door: “TV Personnel: We have gone to Custard’s Last Stand.”
    Custard’s was a diner and party room, six blocks away.
    When Virgil arrived at the diner, he almost kept going: three white TV vans were parked outside. Sewickey, he thought, was having another press conference. He thought that for almost four seconds, at which point Sewickey exploded through the front door, one hand wrapped in the jungle shirt of a man who was punching him in the head.
    A half-dozen reporters followed them out, plus two cameramen, rolling. Virgil said to the truck, “Ah, Christ Almighty, now what?”
    He stuck the truck into a fire hydrant space, threw it into park, pulled the keys, and jumped out. The cameramen were following the fight, which now had gone to the pavement. Virgil broke through the screen of cameramen, grabbed Sewickey, who was on top, by the shirt, and threw him across the sidewalk. The man who’d been beneath him said, “Thanks,” and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing some blood across his attractively dimpled chin.
    Sewickey, showing a trickle of blood from one nostril, was rolling to his feet and Virgil said, “Do not start