David Trask was ex-U.S. Army because of overly violent tendencies. He was ex-CIA because of on-the-job difficulties with a variety of field staff, and he’d been forcibly retired due to a perplexing inability to consistently follow orders while on a tour of duty in Afghanistan. He was also an ex-private security operator for several international contractors because of a tendency to shoot first and not bother to ask questions later. The CIA had tried to kill him a few years earlier, but the agent had missed. Or rather the agent had only nicked him with a shot taken in a crowded market somewhere in Pakistan.
Dominican saw in Trask an overly independent but employable enforcer who preferred to operate in the field alone and with no discernible backup. It took Marc’s investigator some time to track Trask down to his mother’s huge old apartment on the Upper East Side, in Manhattan, where he went daily to provide care and company. Trask’s long standing security habits made him difficult to locate and tail. A quick investigation into Elizabeth Trask’s health and Dave’s lack of health insurance and lack of cash to pay for any more of his mother’s cancer treatments put Marc in the driver’s seat. The CIA and private security companies didn’t provide long-term health insurance benefits to former operators they’d prefer were dead. The pay had been better than the employment, but men like Trask did what they did because they were wired that way. Many of them dreamed about really big paydays, and they were certainly well paid enough, at least when a client or the agent actually paid off. But the sort of men drawn to the life were rarely the type who also thought about saving money and investing wisely.
However much Trask was reviled by the government and the private sectors, he was very good at his trade; well trained, deeply experienced and deadly. He was also the dictionary definition of a psychopath.
“It will not be a problem, Marc,” Dave replied. “It will be accidental.”
“What have you got there, Dave?” Trask had something long and shiny in his right hand.
“A complimentary ballpoint pen. It’s from a restaurant in DC. Your contact eats there regularly. The pen will be planted on Abood.”
“I thought we’d agreed on a matchbook.”
“Nobody smokes anymore. Not in DC. The restaurant discourages it. There are free pens at the front entrance now.”
“As you say. Enjoy your evening, Dave.”
Dave nodded as he turned and headed for the elevator. Marc waited until Dave had left before he finished loading his briefcase and heading for a private charter jet that would be waiting for him at Teterboro.
***
Salim Abood was young, but had nevertheless become a creature of habit. Dave had watched Salim take a late evening break on the fire escape of his old apartment building on Lafayette Street many times. Always the same landing, always the same coffee cup, always the same hip-hop pouring through the open apartment window.
Salim’s apartment was only a half hour walk from Marc Dominican’s offices. On a beautiful evening like this one, Salim might run into a couple of locals he knew as he strolled past the restaurants on the short strip still referred to as Little Italy on the way to his place. Dave was counting on Salim’s leisurely walking pace. Dave was also counting on Salim’s unerringly bad habit of always jaywalking across Park Row just before the ramp to the south roadway on the Brooklyn Bridge. Traffic moved fast through the light a block further west. It was a very good spot for a pedestrian accident.
I did it, Salim said to himself, half aloud, in a rush of excited thoughts. He was getting ready to cross Park Row, but he was so excited that he was barely paying attention. I’m back in. Dominican will keep his promise. He knows I won’t talk about any of this because I’d just end up implicating myself. If the university network is as badly fucked up as I think it is, everyone will be happy to see me. What did John always say? An old English proverb or something. ‘Many hands make much work light’ or something like that. Salim thought about enrolment in a day or two at the Admin office, about being back in the Columbia scene, and about being back doing the studying and research he loved and working with a lot of talented people. I don’t care if they filled my spot in the group. They must have. I don’t care. I’ll work my way back in no matter what it takes. I guess I didn’t need my backup plan after all.
Salim was deeply wrapped in his thoughts. He never noticed the unremarkable man jaywalking at the same quickening jogging pace just behind him. Nor did Salim notice the speeding taxi coming up on his left when Trask shouted “Hey!” to distract him just before he drove his left shoulder into Salim’s upper back to propel him into the path of the taxi.
Salim never had a chance. Dave had timed his move perfectly. To any passerby who happened to catch the whole thing, it looked exactly like Dave was trying to outrun Salim and bumped him accidentally. Dave drove his left shoulder into the right side of Salim’s upper back. It snapped Salim’s head back momentarily and ruined his balance so that he was catapulted forward and down without any chance of being able to recover his balance in time. In fact, Salim was bent nearly in half when the right front headlight of the taxi struck him squarely in the left temple. Salim was unconscious and almost dead before he hit the hard asphalt pavement.
As the taxi driver braked hard after the impact, Dave was already stopped and bent over Salim, yelling for help. He planted the ballpoint pen in Salim’s right pants pocket.
“Help! Someone!” Dave yelled at the top of his lungs. “Somebody run for help,” he called back to shocked pedestrians on the sidewalk. “Somebody call an ambulance! He’s dying!” The language Dave was using was carefully calculated to distract and to keep people away from his position hunched over Salim and apparently giving first aid. As he leaned over Salim he drove the heel of his left hand into the young man’s windpipe and leaned on it to cut off whatever bit of life still remained. Traffic was stopping all around him and Dave knew he had less than a minute before some other citizen braved the wide street and still moving traffic to lend assistance. But Salim was dead. Dave quieted his own breathing and checked Salim’s carotid pulse, but felt nothing. He checked the radial pulse. Still nothing, and it was time to leave the scene.
“Somebody help! For god’s sake!” Dave shouted. He turned to the shocked taxi driver who was standing just outside the driver door about thirty feet ahead. “You!” Dave shouted at him. “Look after this boy and call your dispatcher for an ambulance while I try to find a payphone.” It was a senseless thing for Dave to say and he knew it. But that wasn’t the point. It was just an excuse for him to run, apparently panicked, toward the Chambers Street subway station and escape the scene. The shocked taxi driver was startled by Dave’s shout, but dove back into his cab and grabbed for the radio mic.
Not more than ten minutes later, the four cops who were trying to get witness statements were shaking their heads as fifteen different witnesses described Dave variously between five feet two inches and six feet tall, bald, brown hair, red hair, wearing hiking boots, a specific model of Nike cross-trainers, sunglasses, no glasses, a short leather jacket, a sports jacket and a couple dozen other things. As usual, nobody had seen anything useful.
Chapter Nine
Aminou and Prosper were dead. Mkutshulwa no longer had a head. Babila’s arm was almost shot off just below his right shoulder. From his vantage point behind a tree, Narcisse could see Babila on the grass, shaking violently. Narcisse ran to his friend when it became clear that the sniper had fled, pursued by what was left of the poaching gang.
Babila’s chest was heaving as he tried to get his breath. His face was covered in sweat. He clutched at the grass with his left hand while blood continued to spurt from what was left of his right shoulder. The dying man managed to make eye contact with Narcisse, who grimaced and shook his head. Babila leaned his head backward on the grass and closed his eyes as Narcisse started to pray. “Go with God,” Narcisse said, as Babila’s body stopped shaking.
The radio on Narcisse’s hip crackled. “You let one go.” It was Kapi, posit
ioned downriver to look out for government patrols. He also had a big gun in case an animal tried to escape. “I see a big tusk coming my way down the river. I am in position.”
“OK. We will be there,” Narcisse responded.
Narcisse stood and looked around. The elephants and rhino had moved off as the shooting started. Even as he saw the sniper shot hit his friend, Narcisse had taken note of the herd’s direction. There was too much money at stake to lose all the animals, even as Babila lay dead at his feet. A speeding Land Rover approached. It was Akwo.
“The Duke is dead. Gregoire and Yanick are going after the sniper, but I have a feeling they may not have much luck. Gregoire must take control of the camp too. The buyers will not wait while he chases through the bush. Did you see where the herd went?”
“Most of them went south. The big tusked one went down river. We must hurry, Kapi is alone,” Narcisse motioned for Akwo to move over to the passenger seat. After a moment’s hesitation, he yielded. Now that the Duke was dead, Narcisse was in charge in the field.
“Use your sat phone to call Gregoire,” Narcisse said to Akwo. “Tell him to come deal with Babila.” He shook his head as he looked over at the dead man again.
Narcisse cursed as he put the vehicle into gear and sped after the big tusked elephant. The sniper had cost them a lot of money today. Neither man spared another glance for Babila’s body as they drove past.
Six minutes later they had caught up to Big Tusk, who lay dead. Narcisse inspected the tusks. The smaller one had a large chunk missing, and was riddled with cracks.
“Merde! You shoot like a fool!” Narcisse said. Kapi looked indignant, and was about to reply when Akwo raised his hand.
“The Duke is dead.” Kapi looked at Narcisse.
There was no sign of the rest of the poaching party, or of any government patrols. A juvenile elephant had been hovering nearby in the tall grass, in shock and unable to comprehend why its mother was immobile. The men paid it no notice.
Akwo checked the level of petrol in the chainsaw. Narcisse retrieved a machete, took a half-minute to dress the edge of the blade, then began hacking at the flesh covering the root of the tusk. The animal twitched and inhaled faintly, still clinging to life. Narcisse didn’t hesitate, reasoning that the elephant was near death and posed no threat. As he caped the flesh, Kapi used a baling hook to pull it aside and make it easier for him to keep going. When he’d exposed as much as he could, he started chopping and slicing higher up near the top of the trunk at mid-skull. Akwo's chainsaw could not work through so much heavy hide and muscle without binding and burning out. The skull had to be exposed so it could be cut in left and right halves. Once that was done, the side of the skull with tusk intact could be removed. Then the side that was laying on the ground could be cut, because they certainly couldn’t turn over the animal.
As Narcisse finished exposing as much as he could, Akwo fired up the chainsaw and started cutting deep into the upper skull. It took a ten full minutes for Akwo to work the saw through the remaining, thick wet tissue and bone, gradually working around to the left side. The blood and tissue spray was soaking into his trousers and the air was thick with the smell of copper and raw flesh. They would get the entire length of each tusk and leave the butchered skull and enormous carcass to rot for the carrion eaters.
Thirty minutes later, they had their prizes. Akwo cleaned the chainsaw with alcohol and an oil dressing, and then went to work cleaning the machete and dressing the blade edge again. Narcisse used his sat phone to make a call and when he was done, gestured for Kapi and Akwo to load each of the tusks. It took two of them to lift and safely stow each, large prize.
They all took a drink of water. As Narcisse tilted his head back and let some of the canteen water wash over his face, he noticed some movement in the tall grass nearby. He stopped, focused and concentrated for a moment, his right hand moving slowly to his holstered sidearm. But it was just one of the elephant calves. It was still watching them, still terrified, but unwilling to leave.
“I’ll get to you when you grow up,” Narcisse said, grinning.
He looked up and saw several vultures circling above. The birds were smart enough to have followed the hunting team. The boldest one landed on the elephant as the three men got into the vehicle to start the long drive to their camp. Looking in the rear-view mirror Narcisse saw the elephant calf approach and use its trunk to touch the body of the cow. But that brief thought was pushed out of his head as he felt a rush of pride and power.
They arrived at their camp before nightfall, and were met by Gregoire, who went immediately to the back of their vehicle. He swept back the tarp covering the ivory.
“That's all?” he gestured to the pair of tusks.
“You saw what happened,” Akwo replied. “The herd scattered.”
Narcisse stepped up to stare Gregoire in the eyes, only inches away. “Did you harvest any tusks? Did you catch the gunman at least?”
Gregoire was in charge now. He'd been Michel's second-in-command, and he did not like Narcisse’s approach. So he hardened his expression as he stared back at the man.
“No, bamenda,” Gregoire replied, using insult to goad Narcisse and put him in his place. “But that is not the point, is it. It wasn’t my hunt, was it? Did I miss that?” Then he gestured over his shoulder. “Stop your nonsense. We have company. The money is here. Let’s get this over with. I don’t want him in camp any longer than necessary.”
“Who is here? Which one is he?”
“Not he,” Gregoire replied, distaste evident in his voice. “They. Abu-Iyaas was expected. The other one is a Somali. From Mama Abdi. Al-Shabbab.”
“You can't sell to them!” Narcisse exclaimed in a tense whisper. “Michel would never have dealt with them. They are not...” he trailed off, struggling to find the right word. “They are, ah, sick.”
“I have no intention of dealing with the Somalis,” Gregoire replied, disdain clear in his voice. “We do not like them. Nobody likes al-Shabbab. They cannot be trusted. Their man will be kept waiting until we have finished our business.” He turned away.
“Put them with the others,” Gregoire ordered, pointing at the load. Narcisse, Akwo and Kapo unloaded the vehicle and put the tusks in a hut that had a Red Cross emblem on the roof. The emblem was fake, and made good cover when the helicopter patrols were around. Inside were many more tusks and rhino horns. The smell in the hut was shocking, and the air was thick with flies. There were maggots covering parts of the some of the tusks were flesh remained. Tusks taken a few weeks before had been cleaned completely by the maggots and flies. All that remained to be done was to wash the tusks to prepare them for shipment.
Gregoire, Narcisse and two of the other men placed the latest tusks and horn on the ground directly in front of a table attended by man using a laptop computer. The man looked up as they came in.
“Assalamu ‘Alaikum, Gregoire,” the man said, tilting his head slightly in greeting.
“Wa’alaikum Assalam, abu-Iyaas,” Gregoire replied, using the man’s cover name mainly to identify him to Narcisse. “You are well?”
“As well as I must be, masha Allah.”
Narcisse had heard the man’s name and froze. Abu-Iyaas was not the usual Boko cut-out who could be easily sacrificed if caught. Abu-Iyaas was a player known to directly represent the Boko Haram money men. He was a terrorist fanatic. He couriered large amounts of cash or diamonds between Boko and a Da’esh faction growing in Douala on the coast. His presence at this transaction meant that this particular take was a very important one for some reason.
“This is not the promised take, Gregoire,” abu-Iyaas said, dissatisfaction evident in his tone and expression.
“The Duke is dead,” Gregoire said immediately. The terrorist looked up at Gregoire, then to Narcisse. “We were attacked. My men say it was an American. A white man, anyway.”
“And did this man, la hawla wala quwata illah billah Hil Ilyl Azeem, take any of the ivory or horn for h
imself?”
“No, abu-Iyaas. He did not.”
“Then he is no concern of mine, Gregoire.”
Gregoire decided not to dwell on misfortune. Abu-Iyaas could not have cared less anyway. The man was evil. Gregoire only wanted to be polite and agreeable. He wanted the money for the take and he wanted abu-Iyaas to finish his business and leave as quickly as possible. Gregoire was in it for the money and nothing else. He wanted nothing to do with terrorists. Too easy to get killed around them. It was another uneasy half hour before abu-Iyaas had finished the tally and paid off. He gave his instructions to Gregoire then for the loading of the truck and a destination for the drop off. The poacher could not wait to get it loaded, because they had another hunt in two days. They had to rest and get ready. He would lead this time.
***
“Min! Remember, the distributor wants you to carve mermaids. Lots of mermaids.” Min rolled her eyes at Tommy as he placed a tusk on her worktable. She had been working on a small fig tree carving, and was using the finest of her tools to carve the leaves.
“Why give it to me? Mermaids are the easiest. Give it to Jing.” Across the small shop room Jing looked up from his carving. He wasn’t particularly insulted by the remark. He enjoyed carving mermaids, and his skill was unquestioned, second only to that of Min.
“They want you to do the smaller mermaids. More pieces per kilo of ivory. They like your work.” Min turned the tusk over. It was a fine piece, dense and faintly ridged, with a beautifully natural color. She sighed, nodding her head. A satisfied Tommy walked out.
Min was a victim of her own talent. She wanted to go to a Computer Science school like her cousin Li, but her father insisted that she carry on the family tradition of ivory carving, especially since the trade had for years been paying more than ever before. Her appreciation for art, her natural ability and pressure from her parents conspired to keep her in the family business. Her dream of getting an education and moving to America seemed to be a long way off.
All The Big Ones Are Dead Page 13
