Free THE WAVE: A John Decker Thriller by J.G. Sandom Page A

was pretty thin. He’d been married briefly in 2000 but divorced within a year. Immigration and Naturalization Services said it was probably a marriage of convenience so that he could become a U.S. citizen. Like bin Basra, he was arrested for disorderly conduct during that incident in Queens, then released. He traveled to Germany and Russia in the spring of 2002, and to Kazakhstan later that same summer. He may have trained with Gulzhan Baqrah, but there was no hard evidence. Then he was implicated in the same black market cigarette scheme as bin Basra.
    Despite their status as fugitives and their recent identification after the cigarette heist, the FBI decided not to arrest the suspects. “Sunfish lead to bass,” the Special Agent in Charge intoned. Better to be patient and wait.
    Ali Singh and Mecca sat together on a sofa in the living room, watching something on TV. All of a sudden, Mecca got up, said a few words, put on his coat and headed toward the door. Decker whipped out his cell phone and called Bartolo. As soon as it connected, Decker heard the phone ring – on the chair immediately behind him! He spun about. There it was, glowing. He could hear the familiar theme song from The Godfather. His partner had forgotten his cell.
     
    * * *
     
    Bartolo entered the Happy Day deli to the tinkle of a bell. He walked up to the counter, said hello to the Korean man behind the bulletproof glass, and ordered two coffees – one black, one light and sweet. The deli smelled of Pinesol and old mothballs. Bartolo eyed a pack of brownies on a rack. One hundred and twenty calories, he read. About six minutes on the Stairmaster. Forget it, he thought. The Korean poured the coffees, capped them with lids and stuffed them into a small brown paper bag. Bartolo paid. “Thanks,” he said, and turned, and ran right into Mecca.
    For a moment they stared at one another. Then Bartolo said, “Excuse me,” and shuffled down the narrow aisle. Mecca stepped forward to the counter. He asked for half a pound of green tea, with scarcely an accent, as Bartolo headed for the door. Bartolo could feel the suspect staring at his back but he resisted the urge to turn. He ambled nonchalantly through the deli door. He made his way outside and risked a quick glance sideways through the window. Mecca was still staring at him. Bartolo shied away. He gazed at a silver-gray Toyota parked across the street. He strolled along the sidewalk, around the corner, and stopped to catch his breath.
     
    * * *
     
    Decker watched the men in the apartment get the call. It was Ali Singh who finally stood and answered it. He said something, turned and peered out through the window. Something was wrong. Decker picked up his infrared eavesdropper – a device that bounced a laser beam across the street and captured conversations from vibrations on the window glass – but since it was still raining, the voices were impossible to hear. Not even the noiseless PIN-Diode laser linked to a 500 mm lens could distinguish what was being said. Singh hung up the receiver. He barked something at bin Basra and then moved swiftly through the room, past the blank wall, into the bedroom where he began to pack up some belongings in a small black duffel bag. Decker swung the camera back toward the living room. Bin Basra still hovered by the personal computer. He typed furiously on the keyboard. Then he stood and made his way to the front hall. Singh joined him and they vanished.
    Decker leapt to his feet, grabbed his coat, and bolted out the door.
     
    * * *
     
    At exactly the same moment, the man known only as Mecca left the deli and sauntered through an alley toward his apartment building. Bartolo spotted him as soon as he had turned the corner. The Arab glanced about, hesitated for a moment, and then ran. Bartolo gave chase. Mecca tore into the lobby of the apartment building with Bartolo close behind. The suspect ducked into an elevator. The doors closed just as Bartolo stepped into