Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

tower.
    Al-Nutjobs Mosque. That wasn’t its real name, of course. It was called Al-Nutjobs by the British newspapers; they claimed that every Muslim extremist in London was a regular there, but the members of the Muslim community weren’t so sure. Their view was that most of the people who hung out at Al-Nutjobs were undercover newspaper reporters, police spies, and operatives from various Western intelligence agencies. Whatever the case, Rukshana knew the street was plastered with CCTVs and other forms of surveillance and that all the local public phones were bugged. She had to be very, very careful.
    She walked up to the pay phone opposite the mosque. She checked that her gloves were on and then went inside. She picked up the phone, put some coins in, and called the special police antiterrorist hotline. When she got through, she faked an Indian accent, the sort that had been thought very amusing on British comedy shows in the 1970s but that in these more liberal times wasn’t considered funny anymore.
    “Please, please, this afternoon, bombs, bombs!
Bombs!
”
    Rukshana explained in her accent that she’d overheard a campaign being planned in Al-Nutjobs, and the ringleader was an undercover white convert who worked at — and she gave them all Jeff’s details. As the operator desperately tried to keep her on the line, Rukshana shouted, “Please, please, this afternoon, bombs, bombs!
Bombs!
”
    She hung up and walked smartly down the street. Rukshana collected her bike from the disused workshop and checked her watch. It was 1:15 p.m. Time was short. As she jumped on the bike to pedal back to the bank, a siren wailed through the air. Shit — she hadn’t expected the cops to move that quickly. A police car screamed down the street heading toward the mosque. Rukshana didn’t look back as she cycled to the bank. Once there, she parked her bike in the same spot as before, took off her burka, and slipped into her heels.
    Her old bench opposite the bank was still available, and she sat down and checked her watch. It was 1:55 p.m. She was just in time. At 2:00 p.m. precisely, just as Kelly had said he would, Jeff appeared and walked back into the bank. Five minutes later, Sarah arrived, looking a little red-faced and with her clothes askew, and followed him in. Now Rukshana just had to wait.
    If you reported any ordinary crime, the police would assess the evidence and decide what, if anything, to do. If you reported a terrorist bombing from a pay phone outside Al-Nutjobs, the police couldn’t wait. They couldn’t investigate the threat to see if it was serious; they couldn’t weigh things up. They had to act fast and worry about it later.
    At 2:15 p.m., the police acted. In the distance Rukshana heard sirens, and then more sirens as other police vehicles joined the chorus, and then they all came around the corner, brakes squealing, lights flashing, careering down the street. A police van mounted the pavement and juddered to a halt; it was followed by police cars and motorbikes. The doors to the van flew open and a half a dozen cops in black-and-white-checkered baseball caps, submachine guns slung over their shoulders, jumped out. Pistols were pulled from holsters; safety catches were disabled. The police raced up the stairs and into the bank. Other vehicles arrived, and soon there were so many flashing blue lights, you might have thought you were at a carnival.
    Five minutes later, Rukshana rose to her feet to enjoy the view. Jeff was dragged down the steps, being frog-marched by two burly cops. He was thrown to the ground and spread-eagled; one cop kept a pistol to his head while the other cop pressed his knee into Jeff’s back and handcuffed him. Down the steps came another officer holding Jeff’s computer. Then the doors to the bank flew open as two policemen tried to stop Sarah from running after Jeff. She screamed, “Leave him alone, he hasn’t done anything, what’s the matter with you?”
    Rukshana winced as Sarah punched one of the policemen in the face, after which Sarah was bundled to the ground, long legs akimbo, and thrown into the back of a van. Then the two suspects were driven away.
    Rukshana sat back down. An old teacher of hers had once quoted a French saying: Revenge was a dish you ate cold. Perhaps that was true. But it certainly filled up the belly.

    “O H , R UKSHANA , YOU should have been there!” Kelly rang that evening to tell Rukshana about the day’s events. “The cops