by Brett Baker
“Investment guy, of course. Doesn’t surprise me that some guy who’s got hundreds of millions is open to screwing others to make a few more bucks.”
“Not that kind of guy. He’s successful, but small scale. No one’s ever gotten filthy rich off of money markets. But he’s looking to expand his portfolio, so he’s involved in gold. I’m not sure what’s going on, but in the conversations I’ve heard he’s got some plan involving China, and he’s trying to screw one associate in China with the help from another associate in China, who’s trying to screw them both.”
“Sounds like a typical China deal and a typical gold deal.”
“And just to sweeten the pot, murder is on the table now.”
“Murder? They killed someone?”
“Not yet,” Mia said. “It’s about to happen though. No one trusts anyone, and they’re all worried that they’re getting screwed. One guy admitted that he’s going to the authorities in exchange for immunity, so the others are trying to save their own asses. It’s a mess. I don’t blame any of them though. It seems like complete chaos, so self-preservation only makes sense.”
“What’s the deal?” Randy asked.
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. And that’s why I’m calling you.”
“I don’t know the deal,” he said.
“Of course not,” Mia said. “I’m going to China to track down these other two assholes. But Driscoll’s here and I don’t want to lose track of him, so I need someone to watch him. He’s getting nervous, and that’s when people start to make mistakes. I need someone on him at all times. Think of it like a presidential detail. If he leaves his office or his home I want someone right behind him. Things are falling apart around him so maybe we’ll get lucky and he’ll make a mistake. We need to be there when it happens. Can you spare a guy to take care of that?”
“I’ll do it myself,” Randy said. “If I send anyone else that I have to explain what we’re doing. Best to just take a few days and do it alone.”
“That’d be great,” Mia said. “It’ll save me a lot of trouble. And if you stumble across anything just let me know.”
Mia gave Randy the rest of the details he needed to monitor Driscoll, and asked what he knew about China, which wasn’t much. Mia thanked him for his assistance and hung up the phone. Since Buster and Fabrice were marked men, and it took a day to get to China, Mia left right away. She almost always worked alone, but with pressing matters on both sides of the Pacific she was happy to have Randy on her side.
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Chapter 40
Randy wasted no time in his pursuit of Driscoll. Within an hour he was at Reagan National to catch a flight to New York, and two hours after that he was in a rental car on his way to Driscoll’s building. He parked in the public garage next to the building, and then took the elevator up to the 46th floor. After exiting the elevator he walked around without attracting attention. A few people nodded and said, “Hello,” to him, but none of them asked him to leave, probably for fear of angering him if he were a client.
He didn’t intend to confront Driscoll in his office, or wait for him in the leather chairs situated around the fountain just outside of his office, but rather just wanted to familiarize himself with the surroundings, and maybe get a look at Driscoll, if possible. He’d found an image of him with a simple web search, but preferred to see his target in person before a critical moment. Driscoll was in full crisis mode in his office though, so Randy had no chance to see him.
Randy spent the rest of the afternoon scoping out the building to familiarize himself with its features. He found no underground garage, and no other ways to exit the building than from the main door in the front. He moved his car to a loading area in front of the building next door, and waited for Driscoll to appear.
Just after six o’clock Driscoll emerged from the lobby, walked around the front of a car that had parked at the curb in front of the building, and got in the driver’s seat. The young man who had been in the driver’s seat said something to Driscoll and then walked in the main entrance of the building and disappeared. Randy assumed that Driscoll had sent an employee to retrieve his car, but thought it odd that Randy would choose to drive himself rather than having a driver of his own, or even taking public transportation.
Driscoll pulled away and Randy fell in behind him, letting a handful of cars establish space between them. He’d followed more cars than he could count in his years of service and had developed it into an art and a science. He never worried about someone detecting him, or losing the person he was following. Driscoll was no different.
Randy followed as he headed south on Bowery, to Canal, remaining in the right lane the entire time, as if he planned to turn, but couldn’t decide where. After turning onto Canal he made a quick right onto Elizabeth Street, which was the sort of small, quiet street that always presented a challenge when following someone. Randy realized the forthcoming problem as Driscoll turned onto Canal, so he left some extra space, but remained close enough that when Driscoll pulled into a parking garage he was just turning onto Elizabeth Street, and he didn’t lose him.
With no other garage on the street, Randy had no choice but to follow Driscoll into the parking garage. Randy didn’t know what he’d do if he pulled into the garage and saw Driscoll standing outside his car waiting for him, but he decided he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
He had no reason to worry though. Randy took his ticket and followed the winding ramp two levels below the street, and exited to the parking area. As he pulled around the corner, along the front wall of the structure, he saw two concrete panels that extended from floor to ceiling, and watched as they swung closed at the same time, sealing off a space beyond. The panels blended with the rest of the shady, dank structure.
Randy found a spot to park, and then scanned the area for Driscoll’s car. When he didn’t find the car, he looked again with more caution, but still saw nothing. He got out of the car and walked back to the level above and looked around but didn’t see Driscoll’s car. It had disappeared.
He returned to his own car and concluded that Driscoll must have gone behind the panels. He approached the panels, and saw no way to open them, and no indication that they’d just opened. He saw no hinges, handles, locks, tracks, hydraulics or motors that would have been necessary to help the doors open outward into the parking garage as he’d seen them. The panels seemed a part of the wall, so much so that he began to doubt whether he’d actually seen them open.
He returned to his car and waited for Driscoll to emerge. He wanted to wait by the panels and enter as soon as they opened, but he had no idea where the doors led. No one knew where he was, so he didn’t want to get himself trapped inside the walls of an out-of-the-way parking garage.
After more than an hour inside, the panels opened and Driscoll’s car emerged. Randy crouched behind the wheel of his car and peered inside Driscoll’s car as it passed. He saw no one else inside, and Driscoll didn’t seem to notice him. Randy backed out of his parking spot and followed Driscoll out of the garage.
Driscoll drove to Westchester County at speeds with which Randy felt nervous approaching, but did so anyway. He lived in a idyllic setting, on acres of land that Randy would have never believed existed within such a short distance of the city. If Driscoll noticed Randy following him, he gave no indication. After watching Driscoll pull into his garage and close the door, Randy decided to head back to the city.
He had to find out what was on the other side of the concrete panels in the parking garage.
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Chapter 41
On his way back to the city, Randy made two phone calls. The first was to the special agent in charge of the Brooklyn field office. Randy had worked alongside her since their days in the training academy, and her rise up the ranks of the Service had been meteoric. She always seemed capable and intelligent to Randy, so her success didn’t surprise him. Despite a reputation as a no-nonsense administrator, Randy had
always found her easy to work with, and their personalities meshed, so he stayed on her good side.
Their history together often worked to his advantage, as it helped to have a bigwig on his side when he had a special request. Randy called her on the way back to the city, and after an exchange of pleasantries with her, hadn’t even finished stating his rationale for his request before she granted it. She gave him another number to call, and told him to tell the person who answered the phone that she wanted his request granted without delay.
Randy thanked her, and dialed the number she gave him. The man who answered identified himself only as Lewis, without stating that he worked for the Secret Service. After some back and forth to establish their credentials, Randy made clear that the special agent had given him permission to use the ground penetrating radar that belonged to their field office. Lewis listed half a dozen reasons why Randy shouldn’t borrow the radar, before conceding that he didn’t have much of a choice but to give it to him. He told Randy he could come late the following morning to pick it up. Randy let him know that wouldn’t work, that he needed it right away, and the special agent understood why. After a few more choice words, Lewis told Randy to meet him at the field office in Brooklyn in 30 minutes.
Despite his crankiness and general difficulty, Lewis arrived right on time, and gave Randy a brief tutorial on how to use the radar, which Randy didn’t need since he’d become proficient in the use of the machine a decade before, when he worked a buried treasure case in the panhandle of Florida. Lewis asked him for details on why he needed the radar, but Randy declined, as Lewis knew he would.
With its wavy, black-and-white readout, results that vary depending on the soil beneath the surface, and limited range, ground penetrating radar is a difficult tool to use. Randy’s research and experience showed that it could be very useful or very worthless, depending on the situation, and the expectations. Randy thought it could be useful for what he needed, but he tried not to expect too much.
He returned to the parking garage on Elizabeth Street, which had emptied except for two cars that occupied the first two spaces by the entrance, and which Randy guessed never moved. He setup the radar, which looked like a small lawnmower. As he pushed the radar in front of him, it sent waves into the ground, which bounced back. A printout showed where the waves bounced underground, and by finding inconsistencies in where the waves bounced, Randy could detect objects beneath the surface. He’d located two buried chests full of counterfeit bills the first time he used the radar, and a long-buried body the most recent time he’d used it. The half dozen or so times in between were hit or miss, but given the right situation, and the right soil composition, it was an invaluable tool.
Randy began scanning the bottom level of the parking garage in long, back-and-forth swipes. He had to maintain a consistent pace as he walked to ensure the radar captured accurate data. After swiping half the area, he stopped and printed a report. He hadn’t looked at a radar report in more than two years, but all the knowledge came back to him as soon as he saw it. He detected the dips and peaks below ground, and interpreted them as sewer pipe, an area of dense clay, and layers of rock, probably limestone, that appeared to have been dumped before the concrete was poured. Comfortable with the machine once again after such a long hiatus, he put it back in his car, drove back up to the street, and parked in one of the many empty spaces available late in the evening on Elizabeth Street.
He sat in his car and scoped out the area, looking for anyone or anything unusual, or that might present a problem. He wished he didn’t have to worry about attracting attention, but he knew as soon as he began scanning the street passersby would start looking at him, and the more bold among them would ask about the radar and what he was searching for. No one would recognize it as a ground penetrating radar, so he’d make up a story about losing a ring and hoping that his metal detector would find it. If anyone asked why he couldn’t just look for a ring on concrete with his eyes he would ignore their question and hope they went away. His Secret Service credentials would appease any law enforcement officers who confronted him.
Randy setup the detector and began scanning Elizabeth Street. He started near the north end of the garage, around the same area as the concrete panels below ground. He walked from the curb on the east side of the street, and made an oncoming car stop, and then go around him, and continued to the west side of the street. He moved five feet further south and then walked back across the street. When he reached the other side of the street, he printed a report, hopeful but cautious about what he would find.
At first he thought the radar must have malfunctioned. The waves in the report showed a picture too clear for Randy to believe. As he reviewed both reports he thought that an amateur could detect what they implied, and for a brief moment considered asking a passerby to take a look, just to confirm his own assumption.
But the report he’d reviewed inside the garage seemed accurate to him, so he had no reason to think the machine had broken all of a sudden.
His heart began to race as he reviewed the report for a third, fourth and fifth time. Both reports indicated the same thing.
Beginning on the east side of the street, the waves reflected for twenty-five feet or so, and then had nothing to reflect off of for another fifteen feet down, before reflecting off of another surface. The depth of the void grew as he crossed Elizabeth Street, until it changed about halfway across. The waves reflected off of the same soil to begin with, and the void was much deeper, almost sixty feet below the surface. Most radars couldn’t measure much more than fifty feet, but the report suggested this particular machine gave credible, precise measurements. The obvious indication of a void ten feet deep terminated with a variance of the ground surface. Some surfaces seemed flat, but some looked like they had something stacked on top. The waves indicated that whatever was below ground varied in height.
Randy knew right away he had found the gold storage facility that Driscoll had been hiding. He’d accessed it through the parking garage, in complete cover thanks to the concrete wall. Randy suspected that cameras guarded the underground facility, but they had no reason to question Randy’s presence in the parking garage, so no one stopped him, despite seeing Driscoll come from the garage. He suspected that if he had time to check with city hall he’d find that no one knew about the underground facility. But Mia had conveyed to him the urgency of the situation, so he knew he didn’t have time. He had to act.
He had to find a way to get into a room below a New York City street guarded on one end by concrete panels. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, a far-fetched plan became clear. He didn’t know how he’d do it, but he had to try.
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Chapter 42
Although known for skyscrapers, unique neighborhoods, and cultural diversity above ground, the subterranean life of New York City is almost as interesting. In addition to its well-known subway system, the city has other networks of tunnels critical to its operation. The sewer system keeps the city from becoming a cesspool. With all of those people in such a small area, millions of gallons of water has to flow each day, and the city has a large network of tunnels buried deep in the bedrock, hundreds of feet down, that ensures no one goes thirsty.
However, for every mile of operational tunnel in the city, there are three miles of outdated, abandon tunnels that exist in various states of disrepair. Few people know about them, and fewer have ever seen them. The city itself is unaware of many tunnels since their existence is indicated on some long-forgotten map, or other document sitting in a filing cabinet. Various entities have tried to create a comprehensive map of the subterranean New York over the years, but the job is bigger than anyone knows, and funding for it does not exist.
Law enforcement knew more about the tunnels than any other entity in the city, including the MTA and the DEP, the agencies responsible for the city’s trains and water. The tunnels provided safe haven for criminals, retreats for runaways, and easy access to many places in the city. Y
ears before, while investigating a printing press in upstate New York that doubled as a counterfeit operation, Randy spent many hours beneath New York searching for a secret tunnel through which the counterfeiters transported their handiwork to a central point for distribution. Although Randy knew that only certain places within the city provided access to distribution channels, he searched beneath the city far and wide to familiarize himself with the tunnels.
One such tunnel built had been abandoned for more than a hundred years. Built in the 1870s, during the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge, the tunnel began at the bridge, paralleled Bowery and 3rd Avenue for most of its run, before jutting to the west and terminating just short of Central Park. Tunnel designers intended to the tunnel to serve as a congestion-free path from the bridge to the park, one of many they wanted to build underground to handle pedestrian and horse traffic. Few people wanted to walk long distances underground though, especially with horses that polluted confined air, so the idea was soon given up. More than a century of construction had obliterated most of the tunnel, but sections of it remained.
Randy hoped to benefit from the secrecy of one such section.
In the basement utility room of an ancient limestone building situated right next to a modern bank building on Chatham Square, a steel bar latched across the middle of a wooden door. Anyone who didn’t know better would think that the door led to a small closet, as it was only twenty-four inches wide, and less than six feet tall. When Randy investigated the tunnel years before, the building’s owner had never opened the door, and had hidden it behind a shelving unit on which he stored cleaning supplies and rock salt for the sidewalk.
Randy walked four blocks south from the parking garage on Elizabeth Street, to Chatham Square. He stopped at a pharmacy and purchased the lone garden shovel available, which looked like it had been on the shelf for decades, and a flashlight. At the back of the limestone building he went down the steps that lead to the basement entrance, picked the lock on the protective gate in front of the door, and then picked the lock on the door. The musty smell of decades of wetness enveloped him as he closed the door. He fumbled for the light switch, turned around, and saw the small door near the side of the room, which the building’s owner now kept clear. The steel bar remained across the door, but no latch or lock secured it. He opened the door, turned on his flashlight, and went down four earthen steps to a low, narrow tunnel. He bent at the waist as he walked to the end of the tunnel. He went down twenty-five more steps to another short tunnel that led to yet another stairwell of thirty steps that led to a decrepit door that seemed determined to break free from its hinges. He pulled the arched door open, and stepped into the tunnel. He threw the beam from his flashlight down each direction, and saw a rat scurry away. He saw no humans though, which is what he wanted to avoid.
