“Better and better,” he muttered, “with a unifying contact running around to help sort these guys out, this is bound to be a large shipment.”
Bishop thought back to his little tête-à-tête with Fabrice Masiki three days earlier, and to the heavy action in Cameroon bush shortly thereafter. He knew that he’d thoroughly shocked everyone involved, and that was the main point of his actions. He had made it clear to all concerned that they could no longer feel safe in their own world. He could reach out and touch them. The whole point of the Cameroon exercise, even if Interpol and DeCourcey would never admit it out loud, was to goad the players into action. You can’t track what isn’t moving. You can’t trace what isn’t en-route. Illegal ivory and rhino horn was moving now. At least, that’s what Bishop hoped was being prepared for inspection in the back of the truck.
***
The heat of the day was finally easing as the pleasant Marseille evening took hold. It was 20:30 and Jorge was trying to make his way through the throngs of locals and tourists who all seemed to be deliberately trying to delay him. He’d turned left on Cours d’Estienne d’Orve to find himself completely jammed up by at least a thousand milling people. It took only a moment more to realize that the street performers were out in force for the evening. The tourist throngs had stopped to gawk and cheer and throw coins, and they were blocking everything up.
It took almost five minutes to push and shove and slide his way the fifty meters to Rue Fortia. He turned left again and made his way the short half-block to the patio in front of Chez Loury. The place was almost full, so Jorge walked past the three couples waiting patiently at the entrance and quickly threaded his way to a middle table next to the patio railing.
“Excusez moi, monsieur,” a waiter said, coming over to Jorge almost immediately.
“Yes?” Jorge replied.
“Ah, you speak English,” the waiter said with a bit of a smirk. “I am sorry, sir, but this table is reserved. You will have to wait for a patio table. There are customers ahead of you. Only a short wait, I think. Please sir.”
Jorge reached into his pocket as he stood up and leaned closely toward the waiter, placing his hand gently on the man’s shoulder as though they were friends. Jorge had palmed a fifty euro note. He grabbed the waiter’s right hand and shook it vigorously, nodding and smiling as the waiter, realizing that he was in the money, changed the look on his face.
“I’m sure we can work something out,” Jorge said politely and quietly to the waiter. “Don’t you think, my friend?”
“Ah yes, sir,” the waiter replied, as he looked around feigning confusion. “The booking must have been for an inside table.”
“A bottle of vin rouge, then” Jorge said flatly. “Vin de la maison, please. And two glasses.”
The waiter turned without a word and went off to do his thing. Jorge heard him making excuses in French to the couples near the entrance, all of whom looked extremely put out.
At precisely 20:45, Jorge felt a tap on his elbow. He had been engrossed in emails on his smartphone for about ten minutes and hadn’t seen the contact approach.
“Herr Benson,” the man said in a clipped German accent. “How nice to see you again.”
“Jurgen,” Jorge replied. “Please come around to the table and have a seat. We have so much to talk about.”
The dapper German, all smiles and bonhomie, made his way to the patio entrance and spoke briefly to the maître d’ who’d been absent when Jorge had made his way in. A laugh, perhaps and joke, and Jurgen Schimpf was directed to find his way to Jorge’s table.
“Herr Schimpf,” Jorge said when the man had settled into his chair. “Can I order something for you besides the wine?”
“Alas, my friend. Nein, danke. I cannot stay long. Business presses me so.”
“Only a glass of wine then,” Jorge said simply. “I fear I am still running a bit late. If you were left to, ah, wait in the shadows or something, I apologize.”
“Not at all. Waiting is a cultivated skill. Valuable too, in our mutual business. Would you not agree?”
“I suppose so,” Jorge replied. “Five only, please,” as he lifted the phone bag and placed it closer Schimpf’s chair.
“Ah, yes,” Schimpf noted, “the latest communications devices. Nicely done.”
Jorge looked at Schimpf carefully as the man bent to inspect the contents of the phone bag. Schimpf with his always-happy and ever-so-pleasant demeanor was a wolf in sheep’s clothing if ever there was one. Jorge had worked with Schimpf before. He knew him to be every bit the cold blooded illegal trader that had made a name for himself over twenty years of pan-European and pan-African smuggling of everything from counterfeit pharmaceuticals to counterfeit Swiss watches, stolen container loads of electronics, to the current interest in ivory and rhino horn.
“Destroy the old phones immediately. No exceptions.”
Schimpf nodded curtly while still sorting through his selection of phones.
“I heard a story not long ago, Jurgen,” Jorge said casually, “about a German national who was the target of some interest by the French government. I knew it couldn’t be anyone I know, though. The subject of the interest seemed to be related to some of the late troubles in France. Terrible thing, wouldn’t you say? Those terrorists in the supermarket?”
Schimpf had bent down to select five fresh phones. As Jorge finished his question, Schimpf look up at him and smiled briefly. Then he sat up and frowned slightly.
“Ya. A bad thing, I would say. All those poor Jews,” Schimpf’s vicious sounding emphasis on the word was unmistakeable. “Slaughtered for nothing. You would think these terrorists would learn from the lessons offered by history. But they do not. No matter. It is a very bad time to be in the terrorist business. Or to be a Jew.”
“On that we can agree,” Jorge replied, though he meant something entirely different. “It is, ah, good to hear your opinion on the matter.” If Jurgen Schimpf said he disapproved of the horrors that had taken place in France, it meant the rumors about his arms-length involvement as a weapons facilitator were fabrications likely put out in the wild to distract the French and European Union authorities. Schimpf was a bad man—very bad—but he had always known better than to get involved with fanatics who insisted on painting big bullseyes on themselves.
“Oh my goodness, Benson,” he exclaimed in mock surprise, glancing at his wristwatch, “Look at the time. I must be on my way. It was so nice to see you!”
Jorge shook the proffered hand, and stood as Schimpf bowed slightly to him then turned and made his way out of the patio and up Rue Fortia to disappear into the busy street life.
***
Jorge checked his watch. It was 21:00 and he had only one more drop to make. Best of all, he was back on schedule. Ngouabi was terse and brief. Demarchuk had gone a bit faster than anticipated. Schimpf was his reliably swift self.
The evening was in full swing. But too many people walking and lining up for restaurants, walking and enjoying the gentle sea breezes meandering through the narrow streets, chatting in groups, strolling the cobbled pavement, was better than too few. It was very hard to track someone in these crowds and Jorge knew it. As much as he hated everything about Marseille, he had chosen the meeting times and locations with care. As much as he hated how Marseille smelled and grated on his nerves, he knew how to make the best of the situation.
Jorge made his way a few meters down Rue Fortia to Rue Saint-Saens, then turned right and walked at a moderately quick pace toward Cours Jean-Ballard. He made a left, but then was stopped by a huge crowd of tourists who were milling around and apparently waiting for their tour guide, having all just gotten off an enormous motor coach that was half-blocking the entrance to Rue Saint-Saens. Jorge jogged across the pedestrian cours, then dodged some traffic-jammed cars and trucks along the main road to get to the other side. He quickened his pace and checked his watch. He had booked a table at Ristorante del Arte just fifty meters or so along Quais des Belges. That woul
d be his final drop.
At 21:10 precisely, Jorge caught the eye of the hostess for the patio at Ristorante del Arte.
“Bonsoir,” he said, forcing a slightly smile. “J’ai une reservation pour une table au nom de Benson.”
“Bonsoir, monsieur,” she chirped. “This way please. Your table is ready.”
“How is the veal tonight?” Jorge asked as they walked to his table at the rear of the patio.
“Ah, très bon,” she replied. “Ça te changera les idées… oh, I mean it’s very, very—”
“I get it,” Jorge said, smiling genuinely at the young woman as he sat down facing the Quay and the lights of the Old Port glancing off the ocean waters.
Four minutes later the final contact walked, or rather strutted, into the patio area and straight to Jorge’s table. The man was medium height, spare in build, dark skinned, and he had a look of arrogance about him. His body language, the way his hands curled slightly at the end of his long arms, his tight stride, all combined to create space around him. That was exactly what Hassan Abdi wanted.
Abdi just stood by the table, staring at Jorge.
“You don’t ask me to sit, Benson?” Abdi declared. “Why you don’t ask me to sit?”
“Oh for god’s sake, man,” Jorge said softly, “just sit down. Save your attitude for someone who doesn’t know you.”
The Somali-born gangster looked around, scanning the crowded Quai des Belges as though he fully expected an armed police assault at any moment. Abdi had good contacts, and he ran a tightly controlled poaching and smuggling pipeline, but he was a poser and he was arrogant. It was not a great combination. He was difficult to deal with, but his boys rarely got caught. He was also uncontrollably violent when angered, which by all accounts happened much too frequently.
Several restaurant customers also on the patio were staring at the Somali. He looked directly at them, inclining his head toward each person very slightly. It was enough to make them all look away and not look back.
“What do you have for me?” he demanded.
“New comms, Hassan. Take them and go. Four, as agreed. There are four in the bag. Take it,” Jorge said, as he place the bag at the man’s feet.
“I check them here,” Hassan in a clipped tone. “I don’t trust you.”
“Tell you what, Hassan. Take the fucking phones and fuck off before I tell your mother that you smoke, drink and run with whores when you’re in Fez. Everybody is weary of your attitude and your temper.”
The Muslim Abdi actually made a croaking noise at the mention of his mother. She was a tribal matriarch, formerly a rare thing but now much more common because of all the men that had died during the almost twenty years of civil war that had torn the country apart with sectarian and anti-independence and religious factional violence. Mama Iman, as she was called, had organized at least one of the Al-Shabaab gang cells that had terrorized the Sii-Sii district in north Mogadishu for months in early 2006. That, at any rate, was the rumor and Abdi didn’t hesitate to spread it when it served his needs. Even the concept of a woman ordering men to do religious battle was creepy in that part of the world, but the rumor persisted. Nothing like having a reputed Islamist terrorist for a mother.
Abdi also never failed to remind anyone who tried to reason with him that “one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.” Abdi didn’t know who he was quoting, and he was no freedom fighter, but he just dripped attitude and swagger and used every means at his disposal to enhance his image.
“You talk like this to me?” Abdi said, his voice rising as he began to rise from his chair.
“Hassan, you exist at the pleasure of men more powerful than you. Sit down. Do this business well and your mother will be proud of you.”
The Somali stopped what he was about to do and sat back down. He stared around the patio to make sure nobody was looking at him.
“Destroy the old phones, Hassan. No exceptions,” Jorge said, as Abdi continued to glare in every direction.
“Hassan!” Jorge said, louder, snapping his fingers. “Did you hear what I said?”
The Somali turned back to Jorge and stared at him as well.
“I hear you,” he said after a few seconds, “I am wary, not deaf.”
“You keep looking around the place like an angry mobster, you will attract attention, not dissuade it. Now relax, and, make sure your people are on time. There are two runs to make for my shippers. No delays because your boys are out looking for Moroccan pussy in the backstreets of Marseille. Do you understand?”
“We are not stupid, Benson. We know how to tell the time.”
“I hope so,” Tudor replied grimly, “because your man was late in Cameroon. If he’d been on time, he might have had a chance to take this part of the latest hunt. To buy off Michel’s people and to get ahead of Iyaas. But he was late.”
Abdi just stared at Tudor, trying to decide whether to display anger or keep quiet.
“No response is needed, Hassan,” Tudor said, after a moment. “We pay well enough at source to guarantee a bit of loyalty. Don't make the mistake of thinking that because we’re white we are stupid.”
Abdi's jaw muscles were clenching and unclenching, but he was experienced enough to keep his anger to himself at that moment. He took the bag of phones, stood up and left. “We will be on time,” he called over his shoulder as he walked off into the night.
As he stared at the Somali receding into the crowded streets, Jorge couldn’t help thinking that Hassan Abdi would make a great target for David Trask.
Jorge checked his watch. It was 21:30 and he had to be on his way. Warehouse one first, then the others in order. He was expecting a driver out front of the restaurant at 22:00. Time enough for some Fiocchetti di carne, and a glass of wine as he waved to the waiter to hurry over.
Chapter Thirteen
The action in the warehouse had stopped. Bishop was back to patient vigilance. The truck driver and two helpers had only moved the cargo crate to the rear of the truck and set up a ramp so they could walk up rather than clambering to get inside the box. But now they were just standing around. Bishop decided that they were waiting for the contact man to show up, so he turned his attention to the camera feeds from the other three warehouse locations. Bishop checked his watch and verified that the clock in the lower right of the laptop screen and the rolling time codes in each of the video surveillance windows were synced.
At 21:47, the motion sensor at warehouse two went off with the telltale beep-beeeep. Bishop had sensed the arrival before the sensor went off because he noticed a shadow pass in front of the gate lighting that was shining back toward the front of the warehouse. Someone had opened the gate. A medium size Mercedes lorry had arrived at warehouse one and was pulling up to the large doors of warehouse two.
The shadow passed in front of the gate lighting again, this time moving from right to left on camera. A moment later a black Mercedes sedan followed the truck, paused while the warehouse doors were opened by a motorized system, and then both vehicles drove into the large building.
The first person out of the car was the driver, who opened the passenger door behind him. Bishop got a good look at the passenger and leaned back, frowning as he fixed his gaze on the newcomer.
“Well, I will be damned,” Bishop grated, “but that is most definitely Orest Demarchuk. What are you doing here, you violent, crooked bastard? Aren’t you a little old for this sort of in-person action? And why wasn’t your file in my briefing?”
As Bishop was cursing about seeing an old and dangerous enemy, Orest was walking over to the driver’s door of the truck and giving the driver the exact same instructions as Destin Ngouabi had given the truck driver at warehouse one. Open the back of the truck, move the shipping crate to the edge, and wait for further instructions. It took the helpers several minutes longer to grapple with their crate. It’s either a lot bigger than the crate at warehouse one, or these guys are just bad at their job. It had to be a bigger crate. No othe
r reason to use such a big truck.
For the fiftieth time, Bishop checked to make sure that the camera feeds were being recorded properly. He was monitoring Demarchuk’s conversation with the driver. It was easy enough. They were practically yelling at each other.
“I do not care about what you have heard, Albert. The operative is not here. Rumors do not drive our business. I do.” Demarchuk was keeping himself under control, but the tension in his voice was betraying him.
“You will drive yourself into an early grave then,” the Frenchman spit back. “The operative was seen. We are being tracked. Some idiot in Cameroon folded under pressure.”
“Shut up, Albert,” Demarchuk shouted. “Unless you think that idiot in Cameroon knew more than the tiny and unimportant bits of information he’s allowed to know?” He glared at Albert, then darted his eyes back and forth to remind the man that the others present were listening. He had relied on Albert before, but the man seemed to be getting too nervous or too old for this business or both.
“Just be quiet,” Demarchuk said, quieting down. “You’ll frighten the children.”
***
Twenty minutes later, the motion sensor at warehouse three went off. Bishop was half expecting it because of the timing between the first two alarms. It was another five ton Mercedes delivery truck. The third alarm helped him make a decision.
This is too good to be true, he thought to himself. Three out of four locations are hot. Time to move in and get a first-hand look at what’s going on.
Bishop spent a good five minutes, but no more than that, weighing some options. If he infiltrated warehouse one right away, he’d have to wait until he could get back to his stakeout location to find out who the fourth player was. But by then, it was possible that the truck and the nasty actors in warehouse one would be either already gone or getting ready to leave. That wouldn’t do, so the decision began to form clearly. Leave the stakeout position, infil warehouse one, get a good look at the crate, get a good look at the contact.
All The Big Ones Are Dead Page 16
