As he stood to leave, he noticed a photo on the kitchen wall. It was a photo of the woman and the cook, a few years earlier, standing in front of their newly opened restaurant. They were the owners.
“The pie was very good,” he said, looking down at the couple crouching beside the grill. “Back door?”
“Next to the ladder, mister, uh, Bish?”
But Bishop was already gone, through the back door and over the rickety fence and into the next alley behind a small three-story building along the south side of Front Street. He emerged a few doors further east and walked directly toward all the action. As he got close to the corner, a uniformed officer started to wave him across the street and away from the crime scene. Then he thought better of it and stopped Bishop.
“What are you doing here?” the officer asked.
Bishop flashed his CBP ID, as he pointed to 153 Front. “I’m on the job, heading for something called Eurocath. It’s a company. Offices in that building. Third floor.”
“Oh yeah?” the officer said, taking Bishop’s ID and examining it. “Who’re you seeing there?”
“Guy named, Karst,” Bishop replied. “He’s expecting me.”
“Awright,” the cop said, handing Bishop a pen and notepad. “Write your name, address and phone number down here.” Bishop took the pen and pad and wrote down the usual agency name, number and honeypot address for New York. Any check on his ID would match.
“Thanks, Mr., uh, Bishop,” the cop said looking down at the pad to catch Bishop’s name again. “Cross the street though. You don’t want to see the front of this place. One dead, I think. Another is badly messed up.”
Bishop nodded, feigned a momentary look of shock, then refocused his attention on 153 Front Street only a block away.
***
David Trask was watching everything. His vantage point and his high-powered binoculars gave him a clear view of the useless contractors. He’d shaken his head when the first contractor had taken the low percentage shot. He knew the shooter had to be at least ten yards closer. Both contractors knew it too, but they were in it for the money. A miss here, a miss there, didn’t mean much to either of them. They weren’t committed. “And that’s the problem with the help these days,” Trask had said aloud as he watched the action. “No commitment.”
He watched Bishop take the missed shot and use it to his advantage. The sap along the coffee shop roof was a very smart move. Trask couldn’t tell Bishop’s position anywhere along the inside of the parapet. Trask also did not have anything more than a handgun that was completely useless at this distance. Neither of the contractors had looked up, so they hadn’t seen the danger from above. Bishop hasn’t lost a step yet, Trask had thought. When Bishop dragged the contractor through the smashed coffee shop window, Trask had momentarily leaned back to avoid being seen as Bishop scanned his surroundings. He recovered quickly, but Bishop was out of sight by then.
As soon as the police arrived on the scene, Trask stowed the binoculars. It wouldn’t do to be noticed by the police through the window. Uninvited guests had yet to set foot in the third floor offices of Eurocath, and Trask intended to maintain that security.
Bishop was going to be a problem. Someone in Africa had talked. Or someone here. It didn’t matter where. It only mattered that security was supposed to be tight and unbreachable. Talkers in Lagos or Cameroon, or even in France as long as Tudor was doing his job properly, were too far from reality and the real money to be any trouble. But Bishop was on the job, of that Trask was sure. He didn’t believe in coincidences either.
Trask looked across the open space toward the open rear door of the offices that led into the back service hallway. He could see the gates of the freight elevator. It was locked in position for his use. He observed the large shipping crate for a moment, then decide to re-secure it. The third floor might not be secure now. He walked over and entered the elevator, closing the scissor gates and punched the button for the fifth floor. The elevator slowly hummed and crawled up to the fifth. As he opened the gates again, Trask lowered the control handle for the hydraulic dolly and hauled the crate partway into the service hallway. He opened the back service door of Siegel Kleinermann Mitchell, Attorneys at Law, and then hauled the crate through and into the empty space. One of Dominican’s holding companies was the leaseholder. Siegel Kleinermann Mitchell was nothing more than a shell company.
Trask took the service elevator out of control mode, closed the gate, and it automatically returned to the main floor. He locked the service door to the law office, exited through the self-locking front door and took the stairs down to three. He checked the public third floor corridor carefully in both directions before stepping out and walking to the Eurocath office. As he punched the entry code into the button pad, he sensed some movement. Trask whipped around to his left, and dropped to a crouch while simultaneously drawing a Sig Sauer P226, 9mm from his shoulder holster.
“Hello, David,” Bishop said from cover at the end of the hallway, fifteen meters away. He was at the top of the emergency stairwell in the middle of the public corridor.
“What do you want, Michael?”
“Your unconditional surrender, and your unconditional co-operation,” Bishop said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Failing that, I’ll take your life.”
“I understand. You tried that once before. You missed.” Trask suddenly shifted position as he heard Bishop making some sort of shuffling or scraping noise. Bishop, wary of the fact that the stairwell wall might be pierced by a snap shot from Trask, had moved down a couple of stairs. Trask took that moment to reach back up to the button pad. The door had re-locked because the code had timed out.
“I didn’t miss. I let you live. Don’t move, David,” Bishop said. He could see everything Trask was doing reflected in the highly polished brass kick plate on the open stairwell door. “Let’s talk for a moment.”
“Nothing to say, Michael.”
“There is, David. You’re financing terrorists. Your boss is financing terrorists. The thugs supplying you and your boss with product are responsible for killing everything in sight in several African countries. Profits are being fed to fanatics. You’re looking like a prime suspect. To someone like you, it’s just another job. I know you don’t give a shit about the train wrecks you leave behind, or how many people suffer. But you’re going to have to pay for the hatred, the crimes and the murders.”
As Bishop watched the distorted reflection in the kick plate, Trask seemed to be using his left hand to slowly reach into his left outer jacket pocket. He’s reaching for a suppressor; he wants to fight. Bishop shifted himself slightly to draw a twist-lock suppressor of his own and attached it as he reset himself into a crouch on the third stair.
“I have nothing to say, Michael, nor it seems do you. If you’re going to take a shot, do it. If you had anything interesting or factual to say, you wouldn’t be hiding from the police on the street less than half a block away.”
Bishop extended out of the crouch to lie nearly flat on the stairs, his elbows on the landing, with his left foot braced against a railing bar. In a single smooth movement, he shoved himself forward into view of the corridor. He extended his arms, both hands on his Glock in a braced grip, planted his elbows on the hard terrazzo floor, and squeezed off a single, silenced shot into Trask’s upper right thigh. Bishop hooked his left boot into the railing and hauled himself back as fast as his powerful leg muscles would allow. He unhooked his boot, sat up and rolled forward in a split second. He took the stairs five at a time down to street level. He didn’t expect pursuit. He’d watched the bullet tear a nasty hole in the top of Trask’s thigh. Another miss, they’d say. But a deliberate one. He’d marked Trask.
Bishop removed the suppressor, stowed it, and holstered the Glock before leaving the building. He checked the alley exit, but it was as empty as anything could be on a late Friday afternoon. He pulled out his phone and tapped recall.
“Hello, Bish,” Rector answered. “You’re up to t
rouble.”
“I am,” Bishop replied. “Trask knows I’m on the job. He does not know what I know. I modified him slightly. Enough to slow him down for some time to come.”
“Approvals all around, no doubt, after I report. Got a call from Erielda and Arturo Arguello. Your coffee shop couple. Cleanup will be underway. A front line rep is on site now, dealing with the local constabulary. A full crew will be on site in an hour.”
“Nice people.”
“Aren’t they all, Bish? How was the coffee?”
“Not bad. The pie is even better. You should try it some time.”
“Maybe next week, when I’m in town. What else have you got?”
“All of one fifty-three Front Street is controlled by whoever it is that controls Trask. One shot suppressed is still loud enough to notice from behind those old office doors with the large frosted glass panes. Didn’t see a soul, though. Not one in a good ten minutes of prowling the building. Didn’t hear anything or anyone. The floors from five up to the top floor at eight were dead quiet. Ditching work early on a Friday is one thing, but a whole building full of people? The only action in the entire building, aside from Trask on three, came from the main floor businesses open to Front.”
“You recommend a deeper look?”
“No,” Bishop said. “I recommend a deep search on everything related to Trask. Or rather Karst. We know he’s involved. Whoever he’s associated with might tell the tale.”
“That’s a longshot, Bish. Trask may be a psychopath, but he still would not let any associates know anything besides what they need to know.”
“Maybe.”
“We’ll see about it.”
Rector hung up.
Bishop had been walking at a fast pace. He could outwalk most people he’d ever met, and could cover surprising distances in short periods of time. He’d zig-zagged his way to a busy art gallery on Plymouth, where he knew there’d be a few taxis waiting for the culture vultures who hated driving in the borough only slightly less than they hated the MTA.
He was suddenly very tired. The action, the jet lag, a nagging worry about the restaurant owners (now alleviated slightly), nicking up Trask just because there was nothing else he could do to the man right at that moment, was all catching up to him. Sleep was just a taxi ride and a quick shower away. Tomorrow was another day.
As he got into the cab, exactly where he knew he’d find one, Bishop caught a brief glimpse of a woman in a brown leather jacket and wool toque who turned away from him just a bit too quickly as he bent to get into the back seat of the cab. His headache was back. The swelling had gone down at the exact point of impact just above his left ear. The bruising hadn’t gotten any worse, thankfully, but he still felt a lancing pain whenever he touched it.
Chapter Nineteen
“We’re blown at one fifty-three Front Street,” Trask said into his mobile phone, wincing as he dressed the thigh wound with antibiotic and a pressure bandage. “Contractors assigned to remove the tracker I ran into at the warehouse were badly shot up. One is dead, the other one is in serious condition, but he talked to the tracker. The tracker is a very good interrogator.”
“Who is the tracker?” Marc Dominican asked.
“CIA. Likely on loan to Interpol. Agent Michael Bishop. It’s irrelevant. One fifty-three has to be cleared now. The tracker is taking a break and he was working alone. He had a comms bug in his right ear. Caught a glimpse of it. I’ve got someone on him. A woman. She’s good. She’ll keep a careful eye on Bishop and report location.”
“What do you need?”
“I need to call Tudor to arrange for transport right now. Before this Bishop and his people have time to get local resources into place. It’s seven o’clock. We have to be clear in under two hours. Faster if possible.”
“Do what you need to do then. Do not lose sight of your previous assignments.” Dominican ended the call.
Trask tapped in another phone number. It was answered after three rings.
“It’s Karst. I need a crate moved from one fifty-three to another location. This is an emergency. I need two trucks. Drivers only. And one manual hydraulic fork dolly.”
Jorge Tudor did not need to ask which crate or how heavy it was. He knew his own shipments.
“Does the boss know?”
“It’s approved.”
“The trucks. Deuce-and-a-half or five ton. Not sure yet. Forty to fifty minutes. Loading dock. Have the crate ready. Do you need help?”
“No. Drivers only. I’ll keep one of them and kick the other one loose.”
“They’ll back the trucks up to the dock. Then they’re all yours.”
“That will do.”
“Any surveillance?” Tudor asked. “On short notice like this, I can’t guarantee the best drivers.”
“One live tracker who is away right now. That’s why time is of the essence. I want your people here before the tracker can get back or get a team into place. For now I’ve got one of my people on the tracker. I’ll know where he is at all times. Any movement in this direction and I’ll intercept.”
Jorge shuddered slightly at the word, “intercept”. He knew what that meant.
“Let me make my calls then,” Jorge said.
“Go,” Trask replied and tapped the End button.
***
Bishop gave the cab driver a crisp fifty dollar bill to let him use the car’s rear view mirror. From his position in the back seat, Bishop had a fairly clear view of the cab that was following him. It was a clear evening, but he could still only make out the silhouette of the passenger behind and to the driver’s right. He’d been gratingly tired as he approached the taxi stand, but he was wide awake now.
“Any change in destination?” the driver asked. “You want to go somewhere else instead?”
“No thanks,” Bishop replied.
“You want me to lose that guy?” the driver asked. “I know him. He’s a lousy driver. I could lose him easy.”
“No thanks,” Bishop said again. “I want him to follow me all the way. I just like to keep an eye on things.”
The driver shrugged his shoulders. As far as he was concerned, most Americans were either peculiar, rude and loud, stupid or a combination of two or more. Occasionally, he admitted only to himself, he met a smart one. To the uninitiated, his attitude seemed like landed-immigrant resentment. To the keenest observers, watching carefully only how a large number of fares treated him as a matter of course, he was bang on.
Bishop looked around the back seat of the cab for a moment.
“This is a very clean taxi,” he said, his teeth almost rattling as the car hit a nasty pothole.
“Thank you, sir,” the driver replied.
“Mr. Eloundou?” Bishop asked, reading the name from the permit showing in the security barrier. “That’s your name?”
“Yes, sir. This is me. Clive Mariam Eloundou.”
“I know an Eloundou. A good man in Cameroon. He’s army over there. A captain in national security. Any relation?”
“No, sir,” the cabbie replied, shaking his head emphatically. “There are many Eloundou families in Cameroon, and in Nigeria, Gabon and Congo. I am from Nigeria. Benin City.”
“Nobody in the army there?”
“Some family in Cameroon, but not army. My mother told me about them once. Second cousins. She said they are all assholes.”
Bishop nearly snorted out loud. He regained his composure.
“I understand,” he said. “The assholes are the ones who leave family behind, and then go their own way without a care.” Bishop understood the traditions of extended families in a lot of different countries. “Then one day you receive a letter or an email from them asking for money and telling you that you must be so rich living and working in America?”
The cabbie blinked three times, craned his neck to look back at Bishop, then turned back to keep his eyes on the busy traffic.
“You, sir,” the cabbie said sternly. “How do you know my fami
ly?”
Bishop laughed. “It’s nice to meet you Mr. Eloundou. Call me Bish.”
***
Ten minutes later Bishop paid his fare and got out of the cab in front of the apartment building in which three agency safe houses were located. The cabbie had given him a business card, extracting a promise from Bishop to call the number directly whenever he needed a ride. Bishop watched him drive off and turn the corner at the end of the block. Then instead of half-turning to his left to walk under the canopy and directly to the front doors of the building, he turned all the way around to his right, head slightly bowed but eyes up to spot the other cab parked at about a hundred meters down the block.
Good, he thought. Let’s see where this goes. While still in the cab, Bishop had texted Alexei that he was being tailed. They both knew—at this point everybody who was plugged into the operation knew—that the crate at 153 Front would be moved quickly. Rector had texted back within a couple of minutes.
‘Rear exit of safe house. Back to 153. Follow the crate. No other resources available. Emerg.’
“Emerg” was code for “We’re not sure how high up this goes, somebody just got nervous what with real customs docs and real pre-clearances and a suspected political connection, so we don’t know who to trust and therefore you’re basically on your own for now, pal.”
Bishop had no choice. He was tired, if not exhausted. Between meals, noisy passengers, and a heavy-footed flight attendant, the four hours of sleep he’d gotten on the airplane would have to do. Besides that, nobody ever said that following the money would be easy.
All The Big Ones Are Dead Page 25
