All The Big Ones Are Dead

by Christopher A. Gray

  He dialed the phone number on the card he still held.

  “Eloundou Taxi, at your service,” the driver said when he picked up.

  “This is Bish,” Bishop said as he walked through the building entrance doors. The concierge nodded recognition as Bishop nodded in return. “I need you back right now. An urgent matter just came up.”

  “You are kind to call me, Mr. Bish. I am turning around as we speak. Shall I pick you up at the same spot?”

  “No. Please come to the rear delivery door. Catch it on the laneway off East Third, entrance between Avenue A and B. I’ll be waiting. Look for me.”

  “Four minutes Mr. Bish. Not more.”

  Bishop hung up as he walked straight through the lobby. He punched the elevator button and a car door opened immediately. He pressed the buttons for three and ten. When the doors opened at three, he bolted at a dead sprint for the rear stairwell. He took the stairs three at a time. When he got to the main floor again, Bishop took a moment to control his breathing and straighten his jacket. The cab driver might be happy for the quick fare, but Bishop did not want to startle him by suddenly being out of breath or otherwise out of sorts.

  Thirty seconds later, Bishop walked through the rear exit of the building next to the move-in/move-out area. The driver was a good as his word, arriving in exactly four minutes even though he’d slowed down to carefully weave his way through the nasty alley littered with large garbage bins, broken glass and a few homeless men who stared at the passing cab, angry at the disturbance in an alley that was not supposed to be used at that time of night.

  “Where to, Mr. Bish?” the driver asked.

  “Thank you for coming back quickly, Mr. Eloundou,” Bishop replied. “We have to go back to Brooklyn. Jay Street, near Front in Dumbo. As fast as you can without breaking the law.”

  Mr. Eloundou wheeled his cab expertly. “The best way is to get to Grand Street, then take Bowery to the Manhattan Bridge ramp. This is fastest on a weekday evening.”

  “By all means,” Bishop said. “How long?”

  “Thirty minutes. Maybe thirty-five. Not more.”

  “By the way, Mr. Eloundou. Do you know the name and cab number of the driver who followed us?”

  “Yes, I do,” Mr. Eloundou answered, and then fell silent.

  “Perhaps I could persuade you to provide me with the information?”

  “I can be persuaded, Mr. Bish.”

  “Are you married, Mr. Eloundou?”

  “I am, sir. Married. Three children. Two girls and one boy. All school age.”

  “Perhaps your son is interested in hockey?”

  “Oh he is. Very much so. The biggest Rangers fan.”

  “And your daughters? They are sports fans too. Perhaps something more dignified?”

  “Ah my daughters,” Mr. Eloundou said, smiling broadly. “My wife says they are just like her when she was a little girl. Smarter than both of us though. They are enrolled in ballet. I must say they are both quite beautiful dancers.”

  “I am taken with your family, Mr. Eloundou. You have been so kind to accommodate my needs. May I return your fine work with a gift of Rangers tickets and American Ballet Theater tickets? I have a good friend who arranges such things. Of course I also have a fare to pay you at my destination.”

  Clive Eloundou was not a well-educated man. He was merely hard working, street smart, devoted to his family, and a keen judge of character. He needed no time at all to recognize Bishop as a man worthy of trust.

  “Your gratitude and gifts will leave me speechless, Mr. Bish,” he said, turning slightly to catch Bishop’s eye. “Speechless.”

  Bishop nodded understanding and began texting. “The other driver then, Mr. Eloundou?”

  Bishop tapped the information into a text message to Rector as Eloundou dictated it.

  ‘Tag ‘n tail only pls’ Bishop texted. ‘I’m going back to 153 Frt on the dbl. Bet real dough Karst is moving gds asap. Need hlp to tail frm 153.’

  ‘Understd. Still no hlp avail. Local cops all over. Some could be trble. UR solo for now. I’m looking 4 assets.’

  ‘Tx. 1 more thing’ Bishop replied. Then he started typing his favors. Alexei would be scratching his head over this one. It took Bishop a full five minutes to text the details after getting Mr. Eloundou’s address and contact information.

  ‘You serious?’ Rector texted in reply.

  ‘Yes. Good man. Good sense. We may be able to use him in future. Occasional work.’

  ‘Done. I’ll security check him too. Tell him tickets will be hand-delivered before the weekend.’

  ‘Tx.

  Bishop looked up to see that Mr. Eloundou had made good time to Grand Street. Several lights ahead, he could see the Bowery Street intersection.

  “It is done, Mr. Eloundou.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “May we call you again in the future, Mr. Eloundou?”

  “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Bish. Any time.”

  ***

  “Mr. Eloundou,” Bishop said quietly as the cab rolled slowly along Jay Street toward Front, “it might be best to drop me in the middle of this block.”

  “But perhaps not directly under the street light?” Mr. Eloundou said as he tapped the accelerator to move them past a clothing store that was shuttered for the night. “Is this suitable?”

  “This is suitable, Mr. Eloundou. Thank you.” Bishop slid five, crisp, fifty dollar bills through the security slot. “It will be best if you travel well into Brooklyn before heading back to Manhattan.”

  “As you say. Thank you, Mr. Bish.”

  Bishop exited the cab on the curbside, then faded up against the dark building as the cab pulled away at a normal pace.

  Bishop was calculating his position against the third floor location of Trask’s office. At least he hoped it was Trask’s office. Bishop figured that Trask had started sorting out his own logistics as soon as he’d taken care of his leg wound. What would that be? Five minutes? Ten? Twenty? Probably not that long. Trask had as many real skills and as much real tradecraft as Bishop. He’d have a first aid kit close by. The kit would be a professional one that included ClotIt or something similar. Five or ten minutes at the most.

  Bishop cursed himself for being too tired to have flagged a potential move almost an hour earlier. Alexei had no help to offer. Local constabulary was useless for this, and possibly untrustworthy. Bishop knew it. Local cops were great on the street. They knew their own town, but they didn’t have the training to go after someone like David Trask.

  Bishop’s phone vibrated once. A text message.

  ‘Found a resource. Female. C&BP agent Chantal Kwok. Assigned to a local task force working our end. One of Linder’s team. Sending her your way now.’

  Things were looking up.

  ‘In her own vehicle?’

  ‘Yes. She’ll ID as Agent K looking for Agent B.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Best I could come up with. Hope she gets there in time.’

  ‘She qualified?’

  ‘Ya. Enough field work. Smart by rep. She’ll do fine in a pinch, which is what ur in. Be happy Bish.’

  ‘Happy. Yes. Deliriously.’

  ‘Tell K to text me.’

  ‘On it.’

  Bishop had been walking and texting as he made his way down Jay Street to approach 153 Front from the alley. If Trask was moving the crate, he’d need a truck and a loading dock because the crate was too big and heavy for any other sort of handling. That meant the alley loading dock. There was no other possible location.

  A crowd of people were standing in front of a restaurant, talking and smoking. Two people, a couple, seemed to be making departing movements, so Bishop slowed his stroll to let them say their goodbyes. He hoped to fall in behind them and start a conversation about the mild weather, using the chat as a cover to get closer to the alley entrance. But the couple turned south, and walked toward a cab rank a block west.

  Trask, you better be gua
rding that crate on the loading dock instead of scanning the street from your office window. Bishop knew that the Eurocath office overlooked Front and that anybody keeping an eye out would notice a lone walker heading toward the shuttered office and light industrial buildings for no reason at this time of night.

  As he walked past the alley entrance, he hazarded a glance as far down as he could see into the dimly lit lane. He couldn’t see anything human. But the two large delivery trucks backed into a loading dock halfway in were unmistakable.

  Dammit! I do not like Trask one step ahead. Two trucks for one crate. That means one of the trucks is a diversion. He hasn’t gotten sloppy with age.

  And then Bishop nearly jumped out of his skin as someone tapped him lightly on the arm. He wheeled on the person and found a five foot-five inch woman smiling pleasantly at him, looking cheerful, holding up CBP ID, waiting expectantly for Bishop’s ID challenge.

  “You are…?” Bishop said.

  “Agent K,” Chantal Kwok replied.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Agent B.”

  “I was expecting the ID challenge to be a little more… sophisticated.”

  “We’re improvising tonight. How’d you get here so fast?”

  “Linders got a call almost forty minutes ago. She detailed me. Broke some speed records getting here.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Kwok looked capable. Her eyes were mainly fixed on him and his movements, trying to assess him. Each time Bishop spoke, she frowned slightly as she concentrated on his words. But her hands were still, not fidgety. She was calm and ready to work. He liked her immediately. Have to thank Alexei. Have to thank Linders, too.

  “Linders does good work. I’ve worked with her before,” Bishop said.

  “She’s good. Yeah. We’re not on the best of terms right now, though. Bit of a surveillance mix-up.”

  “Anything I need to know?”

  “Maybe that I’ve got to be more careful about using initiative without clearance.”

  “That sort of thing saves lives sometimes. I like people who can think on their feet.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Bishop.”

  “I think I’m too tall for you,” Bishop said, as the two of them edged closer to each other, looking just like some of the couples milling in front of the restaurant. He was looking at her eyes and she was looking right back at him. Their gazes locked for a few seconds, until they shook themselves free of the moment.

  “That was interesting,” Kwok said. “You keep looking down the alley. Those trucks for us?”

  “One of them is. The other one is a decoy.”

  “What’s the play?”

  “Depends. Where’s your vehicle?”

  “One block north, fifty meters east on Water Street, south side of the street.”

  “Car or SUV?”

  “Car. A dark red Chevy Malibu with a few tricks.”

  “Get to the car. Water Street is one way westbound. The alley is one way westbound too. The trucks have to exit on Jay Street right here, but odds are one will turn south and the other will turn north. Problem is, there’s nothing north except galleries, self-storage places, restored apartment buildings, and the East River. A truck that heads north has to be tailed until we’re sure it’s a diversion or until the driver is sure we think it’s a diversion. The target has excellent skills. He’ll know he’s being followed.”

  “And the other truck?”

  “The other truck is the one I follow.”

  “How?”

  But Bishop was already dialing Mr. Eloundou’s number.

  “Eloundou Taxi.”

  “It’s Mr. Bish.”

  “Are you well, sir?”

  “Quite well, thank you. Are you still in Brooklyn?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bish. Only a few blocks from where I dropped you. I just finished a local run from the art gallery opening. Some very drunken people. Smelled badly of wine. I’m afraid the taxi is not as clean as it was.”

  “As long as you are driving, Mr. Eloundou, it will be fine. Would you please be kind enough not to drop your flag. Just keep the car parked and running on York Street just west of Jay?”

  “I will do so. Four minutes, Mr. Bish. Not—”

  “Not more, I know,” Bishop smiled. “I thank you for your promptness.” Bishop ended the call.

  “That was the politest exchange I’ve heard in years,” Kwok said when Bishop looked at her. “Where does that leave us?”

  “Set up in the car. You’re going to follow the truck that heads north or east. I get the truck that heads south or west.”

  “Seems kind of obvious, doesn’t it? South or west can take the truck anywhere in Brooklyn, back to Manhattan. Anywhere.”

  “Two vehicles, two of us,” Bishop replied with a slight shrug. “Somebody has to follow one truck. Somebody has to follow the other one. The choice with the fewest assumptions is most likely to be the correct choice. If I’ve chosen wrong anyway and end up with the diversion truck, I will make the driver talk to me. I seriously doubt he’s being paid enough to hold anything back.”

  Agent Kwok took a step back. Bishop was looking directly at her as he spoke. It was disconcerting. He had suddenly, briefly, radiated an aura of violence, but he’d spoken in such a plain tenor voice that it had felt disconcerting and tense to her rather than scary. She felt momentarily queasy.

  “The local constabulary is still sorting out a mess I made two blocks away. Almost two hours ago now. Only the empty truck will be allowed the chance of being stopped by a routine check. There are patrol cars all over the place and the intersection is taped off. I’ll bet real money that the empty truck stays in Brooklyn and the truck with my crate heads for Manhattan.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “So. Are you still up for this, K?” He was not looking at her, but scanning the area instead.

  “I am,” she said, swallowing hard. She had to clear her mind in order focus. Bishop was a whole order of magnitude different from anyone she’d ever met before on the job. She also thought he was startlingly good looking, barely submerged violence and all.

  “Comms?” she asked.

  “Text messages. Voice only in an emergency. Emergency means physical problems. Any bad guys who see you talking are liable to panic. Can’t have that.”

  “So. Follow only. Track and report?”

  “Yes.”

  “The principal, who is also probably going to be one of the truck drivers, thinks I’m in my hotel room right now. I’m betting he thinks he’s moving before I can get additional resources into place.”

  “That’s a good thing,” Kwok said.

  “And If I’m right, the other driver will have instructions to drive carefully enough to lose a tail whether he can spot one or not. Don’t get caught trying to follow him into every alley and one way. Note which one-ways and two-ways he’s using. Remember that a five ton is a pain in the ass to U-turn, so double-backs are less likely. If he’s got any brains at all, he’ll stick to making normal lefts and rights and he’ll stay out of lane or alley shortcuts. Too many tight turns. He won’t circle the same block more than once. Too much chance of a patrol car pulling him over. But you can use alleys and laneways easily. You’ve got to think about the street map. Do your best to anticipate where he’s heading.”

  “I’ll bring up the GPS grid on the car. It’s built into the front console.”

  “That’ll work.”

  “If I end up in Manhattan, I may be able to bring in another resource or two. Depends on Linders. My team is hanging around the upper west side. Maybe midtown. Minding. Depends on their load.”

  “For now, it’s the two of us. Improvise if you have to, but don’t jump to conclusions. If in doubt, text me. If it’s an emergency, phone.”

  “Alright, B. I’m on it,” Kwok said, putting her hands on his shoulders and pulling him down to her. She planted a just momentarily-longer-than-casual kiss on his cheek, then a brief one on his mouth. Bishop hugged her back an
d they waved at each other like parting friends heading in different directions after dinner. After all, you never knew who was watching.

  As he walked toward Mr. Eloundou’s location, his phoned vibrated. Kwok was texting him.

  'what if my guy just parks?'

  'then you txt the number I’m going to send you shortly and let the man know. He’ll get you sorted.'

  'you do this every day, B?'

  'only every 2nd thursday.' He looked up from the screen at the sound of one of the trucks being started.

  'better get moving, K. Trux getting ready to roll.'

  As he predicted, a white, five-ton Daily Dray delivery truck rumbled past, gradually picking up speed as Bishop rounded the corner of Jay and York, waved at the idling cab, and jogged over to it. The truck driver, aware of the police activity just a block and a half away was concentrating on his driving and never noticed the cab that crossed Jay Street behind him.

  Too many people around, and it’s too dark to see anyone clearly. Cabs everywhere, drunks in the street, people coming and going.

  David Trask was certain that Bishop’s people had no one in place. The tail he’d put on Bishop had called only a few minutes earlier to confirm that Bishop was still inside the apartment building. She was a reliable contractor. She’d figured out the decoy button press to the third floor, but she’d watched the elevator go all the way up to the tenth floor and then waited to see if it was really a coincidental call for another tenth floor resident. But the elevator hadn’t come down again and nobody had come out of the street door or the emergency exit. Trask believed he had Bishop all wrapped up for the time being.

  It was starting to rain, lightly, so Trask flicked on the wipers. He was checking the side streets as he passed them, looking for a tail trying to parallel his route. There was nothing but cabs, people rushing a bit faster along the sidewalks now that it was raining, and traffic getting heavier as he worked his way up Jay Street. He turned left at Tillary and headed for Gold Street. From there he could catch Nassau and the turn off onto the Manhattan Bridge. If there really was a tail that he hadn’t spotted, he lose them on the bridge or in lower Manhattan.

  From the back of the cab, Bishop was texting Rector. ‘Need a list of addresses in lower Manhattan assoct’d w/eurocath.’