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kid a shove toward the door. “A car ran over my puppy when I was a kid and I never got over it. Now move your ass out there! And make sure you’re all back here in five minutes.”
    He watched him go. Those little monkeys could do a shitload of damage in five minutes—and enjoy every second of it.
    Tomorrow was one of Tommy’s days to visit the office. That was when Vinny’s fun would begin.

 
    WEDNESDAY

 
    1
    Dane Bertel parked his 1984 junker Plymouth Reliant fifty yards down Kennedy Boulevard from the Masjid Al-Salam. Time for a stint of stakeout. On the seat next to him he had the morning papers, a Thermos of coffee, and his favorite breakfast—fried egg and cheese with Taylor ham on a kaiser roll. It didn’t get any better than that. He poured some coffee and slouched into a comfortable position.
    The Mohammedans who ran the mosque sure as hell didn’t advertise its presence. A block-printed sign in the upper right window of the three-story, flaking brick building was the only clue. A nameless, low-end electronics shop, the China Lee Kitchen takeout, and a toy store took up the commercial spaces at street level. A mailbox/money-order/check-cashing place occupied the second floor; the mosque had the top to itself.
    Who’d ever guess that worldwide jihad was being planned in these seedy surroundings?
    Quite a comedown for Sheikh Omar—banished from the heart of the action in Brooklyn to this relative backwater. But faithful lunatics like Kadir Allawi and Mahmoud Abouhalima had followed him over. A dozen or so more surely would have trailed along had they not been blown to pieces on Long Island’s south shore a couple of years ago. But no shortage of crazy Mohammedans here in Jersey City. Omar had found a fresh audience for his hate-America rants.
    Dane had little doubt he’d been noticed. This section of Kennedy Boulevard, just off Journal Square, ran two lanes each way and was busy at all hours, but he’d parked along here too damn often to believe no one had made him. Still, he varied his vehicles and varied his parking spots up and down the street, sometimes near, sometimes far, but always with a view of the doorway, either straight through the windshield or reflected in one of the side-view mirrors. Today he sat on the opposite side with a straight-ahead view.
    He wondered what they thought of him. FBI? Dane had spotted Fibbies off and on taking a pass at surveillance, but mostly the Bureau seemed interested in Omar’s old digs, the Al-Farooq Mosque in Brooklyn.
    Dane stared at the doorway. Yeah, you wish I was FBI.
    When he was on watch like this, he wore an oversize boonie cap and a ratty beard—one that would never pass even a cursory inspection close up—and alternated this old Plymouth with his pickup truck. Kadir Allawi worked for the Mummy, one of Dane’s cigarette customers, and he couldn’t risk being recognized.
    He was reaching for the Taylor ham-and-egg sandwich when a black Mercedes rolled up and stopped in front.
    â€œHello … what have we here?”
    Benzes passed by all the time but Dane couldn’t remember ever seeing one stop on this block. The driver was not an Arab, but that was all Dane was sure of. The combination of glare and tinted windows kept the inside hidden. All doors except the driver’s opened. From the rear emerged the unholy trinity: Kadir Allawi, Mahmoud Abouhalima, and Allawi’s roommate who had so many names Dane couldn’t be sure who he was. And from the front passenger seat …
    â€œWell, well, well! We meet again.”
    The trim Arab in the thobe … Dane had seen him on the beach that night two years ago. He hadn’t known who he was then and still didn’t know. He reached under the front seat and pulled out his Nikon with the telephoto lens. He already had plenty of pictures of the others, but this guy … who the hell was this guy?
    He took a