And what exactly did Lydia know? Jacob Swann wondered, sitting forward in the front seat of his Nissan, parked in Midtown, listening to this conversation in real time, having tapped once again into Amelia Sachs’s 3G, easily tappable phone. He was now pleased she hadn’t been blown to nothingness by the IED in Java Hut. This lead was golden.

“What languages?” Sachs was asking. Swann had the other caller’s mobile identification number. Lon Sellitto, another NYPD cop, the Tech Services people had told him.

“Russian, German, Arabic, Spanish and Portuguese.”

Interesting. Now, more than ever, Swann wanted her surname and address. If you please.

“I’ll go interview her now.”

Well, that would be particularly convenient: Detective Sachs and a witness, together in a private apartment. Along with Jacob Swann and the Kai Shun knife.

“Got a pen?”

“I’m ready.”

So am I, thought Jacob Swann.

Sellitto said, “Her full name’s Lydia—”

“Wait!” Sachs shouted.

Swann winced at the volume and held his mobile away from his ear.

“What?”

“Something’s wrong, Lon. It just occurred to me: How did our perp know about Java Hut?”

“Whatta you mean?”

“He didn’t follow me there. He got there first. How did he find out about the place?”

“Fuck. You think he’s got a tap on your phone?”

“Could be.”

Oh, hell. Swann sighed.

Sachs continued, “I’ll find a different phone, a landline, and give you a call through the main number at headquarters.”

“Sure.”

“I’m dumping my mobile. You do the same.”

The line disconnected, leaving Jacob Swann listening to pure silence.

Chapter 36

CHAPTER 36

AT FIRST, AMELIA SACHS WAS CONTENT to pull the battery out of her phone.

But then paranoia seeped in like water in the badly grouted basement of her Brooklyn town house and she pitched the unit into a sewer grate outside the smoking cave of Java Hut.

She found a Patrol officer and swapped her smallest bill, a ten, for four bucks’ worth of change and called Police Plaza from a nearby pay phone, then was transferred.

“Sellitto.”

“Lon.”

“You think he was really listening?” he asked.

“I’m not taking any chances.”

“Okay, fine with me. But it pisses me off. That was a new Android. Fucker. Now are you ready?”

She had pen in hand and a notepad balanced on the stained shelf under the phone. “Go ahead.”

“The interpreter’s name is Lydia Foster.” He gave Sachs her address on Third Avenue. Her phone number too.

“How’d the canvassers find her?”

“Legwork,” Sellitto explained. “Started at the top floor of that office building where Moreno picked her up and worked their way down twenty-nine stories. Naturally, they didn’t get a hit till floor three, took ’em forever. She was working freelance, translating for a bank.”

“I’m going to call her now.” She added, “How the hell did he tap our lines, Lon? It isn’t just anybody who can do that.”