Free Storm Front by John Sandford Page A

did.”
    “Exactly how close are you to the Hezbollah?” Virgil asked. “Don’t lie to me.”
    “I am not close, I promise you,” Awad said, holding up his right hand, as though swearing an oath. “I am now calling my uncle and telling him what has transpired here, and telling him I want nothing more to do with it.”
    “Probably a little late for that,” Yael said. “Especially if you plan to go back to Lebanon. The Hezbollah do not like people who say ‘no’ to them. They’d cut off more than your testicles, though they might start there.”
    “See, I don’t want to hear this,” Awad said. “I am an innocent pilot-in-training. I don’t need ‘Hezbollah agent’ on my résumé.”
    —
    B OTH V IRGIL AND Y AEL asked a few more questions, but got nothing more of substance. Crawford swore he’d told Virgil everything he knew, and Virgil said, “If you find out anything else, call me up.”
    “I think I’m done with this case,” Crawford said. “Hezbollah, the Turk, Mossad. And you
know
if a guy’s from Texas, and he’s driving a Caddy, he’s gonna be carrying a gun.”
    “Yeah, probably,” Virgil said. “Staying clear might be a good idea.”
    Crawford switched the kitchen match from one side of his mouth to the other, and back. “I understand you’re chasing after Ma Nobles.”
    “You got something on that?” Virgil asked.
    “Nope. Not other than the observation that Ma has some excellent headlights. I personally wouldn’t mind examining her high beams.”
    “Thanks for that,” Virgil said. “I’ll put it in my report.”
    “What is this?” Yael asked.
    “Car talk. American men love cars,” Virgil said.
    “There were ambiguous undertones,” she said.
    “You really do speak great English,” Virgil said.
    —
    W HEN THEY WERE back out on the street, in the dazzling sunshine, Yael said to Virgil, “I will confess, this was an amazing interrogation. He tells you everything, because you ask.”
    “He’s our only private eye,” Virgil said, as they walked back to his truck. “There’s not a lot of private detective business around here, so he makes ends meet by selling marijuana to the college students. He’s probably got a hundred pounds of it down in his basement, which is why he’s careful about committing any other crime—like going into Jones’s house. If we find a reason to search Crawford’s place, he’d be in trouble.”
    “You’re saying that he’s a drug dealer, and yet you don’t arrest him.”
    “Well, he sells only California-grown pot, and none of the heavier stuff like cocaine or heroin,” Virgil said. “That mostly keeps the Mexican dope out of here. I mean, we can bust as many people as we want, but somebody will still be selling weed. Better to have it somebody we know, who buys only California, instead of letting the cartel in.”
    “Also, it gives you an excellent lever when you need one.”
    “That’s the other reason,” Virgil said.
    “Interesting,” she said.
    “Pretty sophisticated for a rural state, huh?”
    “Yes. So, what is next?”
    “Next we check out Jones’s farm.”
    “Perhaps we should go to the Holiday Inn, instead?”
    Virgil said, “Here’s what I’m thinking: if we get hold of Jones, we could probably get the stone. Once we get the stone, everything stops, and right quick. We no longer have to worry about the Turk or the Texas guy, or Hezbollah, because we’ve got the stone. But another possibility would be for me to drop you at the Holiday Inn, you could check in there, too, and keep an eye on the place, while I go out to the farm.”
    Yael mulled that over for a moment, then shook her head. “I think I ride with you. You’re a lucky guy. One of my advisers tells me, ‘Good intelligence is important. Good luck is critical.’”
    “That would be one of your advisers at the antiquities bureau?”
    “Of course,” she said.
    —
    T HEY ’ D JUST CLEARED TOWN running northwest, when Virgil saw a red Ford