Near Enemy by Adam Sternbergh Read Free Book Online

fight. Fake ship portholes for windows, but they don’t look out onto anything.
    Boonce flaps his linen napkin, then smooths it on his lap.
    So I assume you know who Robert Bellarmine is.
    Sure. I know his name from the Atlantic Avenue sweep.
    Boonce smiles.
    The sweep. Yes, if that’s what you want to call it. More like a massacre, if you ask me. But it sent a message. Which I guess was the point, right?
    Boonce fiddles with his silverware. Rearranges it. Tells me.
    Well, I work for Bellarmine.
    If you’re a cop, Boonce, why aren’t we having this conversation at a police station?
    Boonce adjusts his fork just-so. Looks up at me.
    I’m off the books.
    Then he pulls out a handheld and lays it on the table, screen-side down.
    Spademan, I’m about to show you three photos. I think they’re photos you’re going to want to see.
    Okay.
    But before I do, I need to know something. I need to know that we can work together.
    Okay. Work together on what?
    He smiles. Taps a finger on the backside of the handheld.
    Let me put it this way. If I show you these photos, and share this information with you, and we don’t work together, that’s going to be a problem.
    Okay. Why don’t you start by showing me the photos?
    He turns over the handheld. Shows me photo number one. A crisp surveillance photo of Lesser, taken at Stuyvesant Town.
    I assume you know who this is. Jonathan Lesser.
    Sure. I know him. Bed-hopper. Fond of peeping.
    Boonce grins.
    Good answer. But he’s not just any hopper, mind you. He’s king of the hoppers, basically.
    Boonce swipes his finger to bring up photo number two. This one I don’t recognize. It’s another surveillance photo, taken on the street, of a young man in a tweed suit with round glasses. Looks Middle Eastern. Egyptian, maybe. Frail kid, fragile as a bulrush. Bad burns stretched across one side of his face like a handprint from a lingering slap.
    Boonce asks me.
    Does this person look familiar to you?
    No.
    Well, let me introduce you. His name’s Salem Shaban, aka Salem Khat, aka Sam Khat, as his friends like to call him.
    Why Khat?
    It’s a drug. You chew it. Looks like twigs and leaves.
    Sorry, but his name doesn’t ring a bell.
    How about the name Hussein el-Shaban?
    No.
    You sure? It was in all the papers.
    I don’t read the papers.
    Well, Hussein el-Shaban was a minor terrorist. Right-hand man to a right-hand man. Killed in Egypt a few years back. Drone strike. Wife too. Whole building full of people, actually. But his wife was an American citizen, which got some bleeding hearts ruffled stateside. More important, el-Shaban also had a son.
    Let me guess.
    Boonce gestures to the photo.
    Shaban Junior here survived the drone strike, barely, got pulled out of the rubble, and now he’s living here, in Brooklyn, running a perfume shop on Atlantic Avenue.
    I thought no one lives on Atlantic Avenue anymore. Not after the sweep.
    Shaban’s trying to change that. Encouraging Muslims to move back to the neighborhood. He’s become something of a celebrity, actually.
    How is he even living in the States?
    Boonce fidgets with his wristwatch.
    Like I said, his mother’s American. Trust me, he’s on every watch list, including mine. But he used to be some sort of computer whiz kid and he got shipped over here on a special visa. There were … back-channel accommodations. The punch line is, he gave up all that tech-whiz stuff when he suddenly found religion. Became a devout Muslim. Then became an activist.
    I examine the photo again. Kid looks harmless. Bookish even. Smooth cheeks, save for the burns, which curl across one cheek and wrap around his throat. Tweed suit’s baggy, maybe two sizes too big.
    I say to Boonce.
    He looks fifteen.
    Boonce chuckles.
    Don’t let the babyface fool you. His father also had a daughter, but guess what? The daughter’s dead. Rumor is, Salem Shaban murdered her, his own sister, back in Egypt. Honor killing. That’s what they call it. She got gang-raped, so