‘Real list includes Dominican’s own office bldg., plus a high sec storage building, plus four wrhse locs, all fully leased,’ came the reply.
‘Hi-sec storage?’
‘Med size facility according to specs. used for evrythng from fur coats to art.’
‘Give me that one.’
‘LES Mini-Store, 310 South St’
‘A mini-store? That’s not hi sec.’
‘It is when the top four floors are patrolled by armed guards and the security is state of the art.’
‘Should have shipped there in the first place?’
‘No. too much traffic. The place is full of storage tenants coming and going. People, companies, everything. Too many eyes. And hi sec in some areas or not, there’ve been break-ins.’
‘Anything from K?’
‘No.’
Bishop looked up from the phone and exhaled. They’d been stopped at a long traffic light half a block before the entrance to the bridge. The light was obviously on a traffic load delay of some sort. It finally turned green, but a police car had pulled across the intersection to hold traffic even longer as some sort of over-wide flatbed truck made its way up the bridge at about ten miles an hour. The truck they were following was stuck in the same group of stationary vehicles as the cab.
“I am sorry, Mr. Bish, but at this pace the meter will be very high. Shall I turn it off?”
“No. Thank you, Mr. Eloundou. The policeman might notice the high flag.”
The cab driver nodded in the mirror at Bishop.
“What’s the best route to three-ten South Street?”
“Canal off the bridge,” came the reply without hesitation, “then south on Forsyth to Henry Street. Henry to Market, then down to South Street. I will be close to Market Slip on South Street.”
“If the truck bears right to Canal when we get to the other side, how can we get ahead of it to get to the address first without passing the truck on Forsyth or Market?”
“If the truck turns on Division Street instead of first going further south, we just keep going, but faster. If the truck does not turn on Division Street, then we do, and we can still arrive faster if that is what you want.”
“I do, Mr. Eloundou. It would be appreciated.”
The cab driver nodded again.
It took almost fifteen minutes to get across the bridge behind a long line of vehicles being slowed by the wide-load flatbed. Mercifully, the thing kept going through the gentle curve onto Chrystie. It would have been impossible to negotiate the sharp, narrow radius turn onto Canal anyway.
The truck they were following made the hard right turn onto Canal and then another right onto Forsyth. A long minute later, it made another right onto Division, so Mr. Eloundou had his route. He didn’t actually floor it, but he was speeding fast enough for Bishop to ask him to ease off a bit. Cabs were a pervasive and invasive species unto themselves in Manhattan and all of New York City, but Bishop chose caution when he could. Mr. Eloundou pulled into a tight parking space on the river side of South Street, almost directly across from the address.
“Thank you again, Mr. Eloundou,” Bishop said, paying off the meter and adding two fifty-dollar bills. “My best to your family on the weekend.”
The cab driver nodded his thanks and watched Bishop safely cross South Street before pulling out of the parking spot to finish his shift.
***
‘The driver is out of the truck.’
It was a text from Kwok.
‘Do tell.’
‘Truck is parked in front of an all-night diner in brklyn hghts. Driver in the diner eating dinner.’
‘Hungry?’
‘Famished!’
‘Think about something else.’
‘Not sure why the driver is parked and eating.’
‘Doubt he’s spotted you yet. It’s a tactic to keep the tail that might be there occupied with him instead of helping the tail that might be on the other truck.’
‘They planned for what they couldn’t see. It’s what I’d do too.’
‘Got it. So what’s the move?’
‘Wait and watch.’
Bishop texted Rector.
‘Decoy truck is perched in brklyn hghts. Confirm K is camped on it and the driver. I’m watching Trask himself pull into the South Street mini-store address.’
‘You chose the right truck.’
‘I did. Made sense. Fewest assumptions and following the money.’
‘We’re getting deeper into their local organization’ Bishop tapped as he turned the corner into the wide loading lane behind the enormous mini-store building. He still had his Customs & Border Protection ID and he intended to use it.
‘Is there a bonded loc in the bldg.?’
‘Second flr west, half of the flr’
‘Send me a form for a random inspection, something I can fill out while I’m inspecting.’
‘Couple of minutes. Happy hunting.’
***
David Trask half expected Bishop to loom out of the darkness surrounding the bright pools of light on the loading dock at LES Mini-Store. He’d been careful. He’d checked parallel routes, he’d checked his mirrors, he’d circled and done several double-backs as well to confound a tail, to get a tail to startle or do something that stood out in the usual traffic. He’d made sudden stops. He’d also checked with his contractor three times. But he’d been clear all the way and Bishop was apparently checked in for the night. I’ll bet what’s in the crate that Bishop has packed it in for the night because DHS or the FBI cancelled his ticket through channels. CIA is not supposed to operate on domestic soil. No exceptions. It will take at least 24 hours for them to task a team to try and pick up the trail, and only if they’ve got the resources to spare in the first place, let alone the motivation to pick up a sketchy trail. The crate and I will be unfindable by then. Trask thought he’d absolutely lucked out.
As Trask watched his crate being picked up by a forklift and loaded into one of the four freight elevators by a couple of Teamsters, he failed to notice one of the shift security guards talking to a badge of some sort. If he had noticed, with Bishop in the shadow of the doorway overhang he’d have seen only a random Customs inspection mid-shift.
While the security guard was calling the phone number on Bishop’s ID card to confirm his authority to inspect, Bishop kept a wary eye on Trask. There was no recognition because Trask never looked his way. In any event, it would have been unbelievable to Trask that Bishop could have known about, let alone arrived at this destination before him. Trask had been concentrating outward looking for tails and surveillance, not inward for someone in his space already. By the time the two freight handlers had maneuvered the crate into the elevator, the security guard had his confirmation and Bishop was entering the building through a regular door.
When the elevator doors closed, Bishop turned on the guard.
“You like your job?”
“What?” the guard replied.
“You like your job?” Bishop repeated. “It’s a simple question.”
“Uh, yeah. I guess,” the guard replied. “What’s it to you?”
“I need to know where the crate that was just loaded is being stored. I need to know in the next five minutes.”
“Why’d you ask about my job?” the guard stammered, put off by Bishop’s size and his grim look.
“Because you get me the information without letting anyone else know, you keep your job. Screw it up, you lose your job.”
“Whu…?”
“National security,” Bishop stated flatly, allowing his voice to rasp deliberately, “is all you need to know.”
“But I don’t kn—” the guard started to say, but Bishop had suddenly moved his head a fraction of an inch more toward the guard.
“Get on that two-way of yours, and talk to the dock foreman. Tell him to keep it quiet and there’s two hundred bucks in it. Two yards for you as well. Both of you, tonight.”
The guard was underpaid
. The dock foreman was overpaid. They were both bent. Who wouldn’t be, in a city that demanded much of its people who were paid little by their employers, and treated worse still.
In response, the guard fumbled his radio mic off an epaulette, thumbed it a couple of times, and then spoke into it asking for Luigi.
“Yeah, it’s Lou. Whozzis?”
“It’s Tom. Go to the private channel for a sec, will ya?”
Tom the guard fumbled with the channel selector, overturning the knob first, then clucking at the thing when his fingers slipped, then getting back to it one click at a time.
“… you wanted me on the private channel and now you ain’t there?” Lou’s voice came through clearly.
“Sorry, Lou. Sorry. Got a Customs agent here. Inspection. You know how it is. Needs to know, on the down-low mind you, where that crate went. The one that just came in on dock four.”
“Yeah, he does, eh?” Lou replied, but quietly, as though he’d moved his mouth very close to his own mic. “So why’d I wanna do something like that? Don’ he need a warrant or an inspection order or something? Gotta have a reason. That’s the rules, Tommy.”
“Lou, I got two hunnerd reasons. Seriously.”
There was a pause of half a minute, while Tom the guard fidgeted. Bishop was sure of his guys, though.
“Sixth floor,” Lou came back, still quiet. “Door fifteen. That’s a high security floor. Live and electronic surv. S’all I know.”
Bishop nodded at the guard.
“That’s great, Lou,” the guard said into his mic. “See ya after the shift.”
That was it for Bishop, too. If the truck was still in the area, he might have to stick it out a while longer. But he was sure that Trask was done for now as well. As far as Trask and his people were concerned, their crate was securely moved and stored, hidden from all prying eyes, with nobody but themselves the wiser.
Bishop walked down the emergency stairs and hit the Market Slip side street again. He opened the building door quietly and slowly. Staying back in the shadow of the recessed doorway for a full five minutes, he listened to the sound of vehicles on the bridge high above, on South Street, and watched the street traffic on Market Slip. He scanned the opposite sidewalk. Nothing and nobody was watching back. Bishop left the shelter of the doorway and walked past the loading lane to find that the truck was gone, as he expected. Still cautious, he walked briskly up Market Slip, turning his head to scan down Water Street. Nothing but passing traffic, a playground empty at this late hour, a parking lot full of cars. No truck. He kept walking north to Cherry Street, and turned left in order to circle the block. He made his way west to Catherine Street, then turned left again down Catherine Slip. No truck. To be safe, he walked the whole Catherine Slip residential square. No truck. All the while, he kept an eye out for a tail. But at eleven o’clock at night there were few people around, very little traffic, and nobody to spot.
A very tired Bishop turned east and headed toward Pike Street to flag a taxi.
***
Bishop tapped out a detailed text message to Kwok before he fell asleep. He’d entered the safe house apartment through the building next door. And he’d entered the building next door from a service tunnel in the basement of the hotel next to it. The tail, who was still hanging around halfway down the block from the apartment building, had no idea Bishop had been in Dumbo, Vinegar Hill and Two Bridges for several hours.
Bishop needed sleep. He had to trust agent Kwok. She’d proven reliable enough. Linders wouldn’t have sent her if she wasn’t. Besides that, Kwok had a CBP car that she could use for her stakeout of the mini-store warehouse. Her reply text message was an order for breakfast and wake-up call the next morning. Bishop had laughed out loud as he read it. He liked her a lot. Professional. A great attitude. No arguments. If somebody showed up to get the crate, Kwok would know about it and alert him and Alexei. Until then, he was going to get as much sleep as he could.
Chapter Twenty
Jorge Tudor’s office was hot. The building and the offices in it reeked of hot metal and whiffs of steam from the old central heating system. It was 6:30 on a chilly November morning and the building boiler was working hard. At that hour, it was still pitch dark outside, so the harsh, flickering ceiling fluorescent lights in his office made him squint. Tudor was in early because of the message he’d received on his secure phone. The message was simple enough: ‘product secure - pick up at location 2’.
Location 2 was the secure leased unit at the storage building on South Street. Tudor’s task was to personally pick up the crate he’d originally checked, labeled and sealed in Marseille, haul it to a showing for some wealthy and powerfully well-connected buyers to prove it was the real thing, then deliver it to an artisan’s back room operation controlled by Dominican.
Jorge had repeatedly advised Dominican to distance himself from the actual horn processing and ivory carving operations. He’d told Dominican over and over again that a single shop that took a bust, or an individual carver or amateur chemist who got pinched—neither of which or whom should ever be allowed to know anything about even the existence of Marc Dominican and Jorge Tudor in the first place, let alone their real names—could hurt them if they named names. But Dominican’s insistence on periodically supervising the creation of the final products was sociopathic. He couldn’t be kept away and he so deeply controlled everyone involved that they were terrified of him. Jorge began to suspect, as with all things, that Dominican had some sort of frightening influence over the artists and potion makers that went deep enough to keep them hard at it, well paid and silent under all circumstances. That was Dominican’s method.
Where Dominican was convinced of his invulnerability, Jorge Tudor was paranoid and fearful. Tudor knew through hard experience that coercion through fear and terror worked only as long as the dictator or the terrorist emanated power and kept his victims on edge. He’d also observed that such tactics never lasted too long: human beings only live with terror for so long before they either give up and die or make a desperate attempt to escape. His run with Dominican had extended into years though. Still, where Dominican acted carelessly in the misguided belief that his pervasive extortion, frightening threats, and the payoffs and spying that provided the information to make it work gave him absolute control, Tudor knew that many Dominican-types had come along and ended miserably over the years. The problem with Dominican, he thought as he sorted through some paperwork for another shipment and searched for the keys to the truck he intended to use, is that he was born to success and money. His extortion methods have worked for him long enough to convince him that he’ll never run out of indentured slaves. His tactics have never failed, so he doesn’t see potential problems.
Jorge sighed. He knew that he was in urgent need of an exit strategy, and it wasn’t the first time he’d thought about it. His problem was that no matter how hard he thought about it, Dominican’s hold and over him seemed unbreakable.
Tudor dialed a number from memory.
“Good morning,” Marc Dominican answered after the first ring.
“Did Trask have trouble at location 1?” Jorge asked.
“I am not concerned,” Dominican replied. “He knows his work. The shipment is securely stored.”
“I have a doubt.”
“I do not, Jorge. And I’ll let you in on a little secret, too. The products we make from the contents of the crate confirmed and sealed by you are destined for a group of very special buyers. What they’re paying—what they’ve already paid in full as a matter of fact—will make you and many others back down the line very, very happy indeed. I suggest you keep that in mind.”
“It might be prudent to be a little more cautious. Perhaps we should wait.”
“Jorge… why are we having this conversation?”
Jorge paused a few seconds more than he wanted to before answering. He wanted to sound sincerely worried, not scared.
“Look,” he said, after taking a deep breath, “I ha
ve been moving cargo of all kinds for many years longer than you’ve been in this business. I’ve learned a couple of lessons. One of them is that if a process or deal or a situation feels wrong, then it’s wrong. Walk away. Watch the place, watch the people, watch the situation. Or not. Whatever. But walk away.”
“There’s no such thing as a sixth sense,” Dominican said coldly and quietly. “Your smuggler’s paranoia makes you hesitate and it makes you suspicious of your own reflection in a mirror. But I’ve learned some things too, Jorge. I’ve learned that Trask is capable and efficient. I’ve learned that you know your business. And I’ve learned that my decisions work. Thank you for expressing your doubt. I have none.”
“You’re there, in your office or wherever you are,” Jorge insisted. “You’re secure and you’re not on the street. I’m on the street. I’m telling you here and now that I don’t like the direct association with money men who have connections to enemies of the state. A lot of those enemies are on watch lists. We know that much. There’s not much separation between a name on a watch list and a name on a terrorist list. A small amount of the money they’ll see back down the line over the next few days or weeks is going to be used to pay off a few poachers, but most of the money will go to feed, clothe and arm, uh, others. If this operation... if our operation, is cracked over illegal rhino horn and illegal elephant ivory, we’ll end up with sanctions and stiff fines. If this operation is cracked through a terror finance connection, a fair trial will follow after which we’ll be executed immediately after being tortured into giving up everything we know. So basically, I just want to know how you feel about that.”
“There is no one to talk, Jorge,” Dominican replied, almost laughing. “I am who I am. There isn’t a soul in this country or anywhere else who’d dare to accuse me of such a thing. You think my influence begins and ends with leverage only because you and your parents made some mistakes that came home to roost. My influence with others extends... even farther. You should keep that in mind.”
All The Big Ones Are Dead Page 27
