All The Big Ones Are Dead

by Christopher A. Gray

  “—follow the money. That’s the risk,” Bishop replied. He pulled away from the curb and drove straight along Monroe, to get to the next block. He wanted to approach the storage building from another vector. “Right at this moment, with all that has happened over the past six days, the action with the lowest risk and that contains the fewest assumptions is I believe the best course.”

  There was a pause. Some clicks on the line, then a change in the ambient sound of the phone call as another party was conferenced in.

  “Bishop, Agent Kwok. Assistant Director Elliott is on the line. Agency. What is your operational condition?”

  “Fully operational, AD,” Bishop replied, then turned and nodded at Kwok to speak up.

  “Fully operational, AD,” Kwok said, in a clear voice.

  “What do we lose if you’re wrong, Bishop?” the AD asked without hesitation.

  “Nothing. I believe that this part of the entire operation is centered in Manhattan, right under our domestic noses. I believe that David Trask is close enough to the top of the local operation. I believe that I can persuade Trask to expose the entire domestic operation.”

  “That’s a lot of believe, Bishop. You are not to kill him,” the AD stated flatly, “unless absolutely necessary. Superintendent DeCourcey believes the money trail ends in terrorist financing. I agree. We want the players. A dead guy can’t talk. Do I make myself clear? Unless absolutely unavoidable, you are not to use agency resources to kill a U.S. citizen on U.S. soil even if the citizen is a stone killer who should have been put down a few years ago.” Bishop accepted the dig over his crashed mission impassively.

  “Covert detention and interrogation only. If anything bad happens and your detainee ends up in the hands of the local authorities to parade in front of news cameras it would be counter-productive if the detainee appeared to be snapped in half, halting, semi-lucid or just plain dead. You’re on U.S. soil.”

  “Understood.”

  “Agent Kwok?”

  “Yes, uh, Assistant Director Elliott. “

  “You’re read in. Your security clearance, with this conversation, will flex to cover whatever intel, materials, property and actions occur for the next seven days. Any longer and you’ll have to be read in again. You’re CBP, Kwok, so you may be unfamiliar with the degree to which we take our security clearances seriously. Mention your work to your brother, breathe it out loud while talking to yourself in a bathroom mirror, laugh at the wrong time in a conversation with me, screw up an action—any of those things and a lot more—and I will personally drop you into the Marianas Trench and laugh as the pressure of millions of tons of water crushes you out of existence. Do you understand this, Agent Kwok?”

  After a moment during which she tried to look to Bishop for guidance but received only a neutral gaze in return, she replied. “Yes, AD. I fully understand.”

  “That’s it, Bishop. Your case officer is in possession of written orders. Confirm!”

  “Confirmed, AD,” Alexei spoke up at almost the same instant the sound of the connection changed as the AD and DeCourcey simultaneously hung up.

  “Your secure storage building has been open for a couple of minutes,” Rector said, as Bishop and Kwok found a tight parking spot a block north of the storage building and regained the wireless connection to the video camera.

  “We’ve got it,” Kwok said. “There are two big trailers backed up to the docks. Can’t tell if they’re giving or taking. Leader Transport and Blue Forwarding are the names on the trucks.”

  “Nothing to do with either of your boys,” Rector came back after checking the company names. The line went dead.

  “Did he just hang up?” Kwok asked after a moment.

  “Uh-huh,” Bishop said with a faint smile. “We talk too often during operations of this kind. Too much ‘Well g’bye now’ or ‘Talk soon, ‘K?’ wears thin real quick. When we’re done, we’re done.”

  Kwok shrugged and looked out the car window. She was going to have to get acclimatized and adapt to the new operational parameters real quick too, and she knew it.

  The day had dawned sunny and cloudless as forecast. The rising sun warmed the car quickly enough, so much so that they both had their windows cracked open slightly. Early morning passed into mid-morning, with idle chatter about everything and nothing, a bit of serious conversation about the few parts of their work they could share without incurring the wrath of ever watchful superiors who might react badly if a slip of the tongue ever occurred, all of it punctuated by periods of silence as their eyes moved back and forth between the video screen in the dashboard and the rest of the neighborhood going about its day.

  Bishop was used to the long waits for someone to show up or make a move or merely appear. Kwok had already spent a fitful night in the car, and was not as patient or as emotionally well controlled as Bishop. It was to be expected. Customs & Border Protection, Port of New York, unequivocally had its work cut out for it and it had its field agents and covert operations too, but Kwok was keenly aware of Bishop’s reputation. Linders had needed only a few words to drive it home. She knew he had positioned her in a situation that was an order of magnitude more dangerous than anything she’d experienced before. Linders had filled her in on Bishop, and on Trask, as much as Kwok could be allowed to know without having been read in at that time. Linders had also filled her in, overnight, about the street fight and the shot Bishop had fired while inside 153 Front. Kwok was really only just at that moment getting her head around Bishop and what he represented. She liked him. She’d been watching his face while the AD was speaking, and what she saw was impressive. The AD’s language had been emphatic and direct, but Bishop hadn’t bristled or gotten offended. He had simply let the AD state what his rank and position demanded in the circumstances. Bishop was solid and he was obviously deeply trusted by others.

  The tractor-trailers were long gone, having been followed by an endlessly changing stream of cars, pick-up trucks, work vans, SUVs, cube vans and other vehicles by the time noon rolled around. At exactly 12 noon, a box truck with Delivery Solutions written on the driver’s door, box and rollup, pulled into the alley and then reversed to the loading dock. Kwok was watching.

  “Another one, about the same size as the truck from last night,” she said, drawing Bishop’s attention away from a bunch of bundled up five year olds in the small community park across the street, playing under the watchful eyes of a handful of mothers. Bishop turned to look at the video screen just as the truck driver opened his door, got out and came around front of the vehicle into plain view.

  “That’s my guy from Marseille,” Bishop said, half surprised. “He came here himself. That’s got to be important.” Kwok looked at him, unstated question on her lips. But Bishop only said, “Let’s move,” as he started the car.

  Bishop checked his mirrors as he shifted into reverse.

  “You see any police, parking officers, anything?”

  “Nothing. We’re completely clear.”

  In response, Bishop made a quick reverse out of the parking spot, and into a backwards U-turn. He shifted quickly into drive and mashed the accelerator as much as he could without chirping the tires.

  “I’ve got CBP ID just like you,” he said after a moment as they made a quick right and headed down Market Slip toward the storage building. “I’m going to use the car to block the truck in. Then I’m going to wait for the driver to return to the truck with his crate. I want to you escort the security supervisor and the dock foreman to one of the inside offices and keep them there under threat of a Homeland Security violation. That should keep their mouths shut for the time being. We don’t know if they’re involved or how deeply. We know that the shift guy last night takes money. No reason to think these guys are any different. Cuff ‘em both to a desk or a pipe, confiscate their mobile phones and tear any desk phone out of the wall.”

  “Roger that,” Kwok replied.

  Bishop suddenly hauled the wheel to the left and pulled into an emp
ty spot at the curb.

  “Forgot something,” he said to Kwok, as he tapped his phone. “Scroll back in the video and capture the truck driver, please. Send it to this number right now,” he said as he held the phone so she could see it.

  “Yes,” Rector said after a three rings.

  “Image just texted to you. It’s my guy from Marseille.”

  “You sure?”

  “You tell me,” Bishop replied.

  “Wait one.”

  An agonizing three and a half minutes passed. Bishop and Kwok were unable to monitor the video live feed while the still image was being sent. Then, the feed refused to update and all they saw was a frozen screen stuck on the image that Kwok had sent.

  “The contact guy,” Rector said, coming suddenly back online, “is Mr. Jorge Tudor. Convicted eleven years ago for smuggling. Counterfeit, high-end designer merchandise. Got a fine and a two-year stretch. Did six months of it and then walked out on good behavior, prison study credits, and parole. Seems his on-again off-again business partner at the time gave him up in exchange for immunity. Tudor kept his mouth shut inside. Gave up nothing. Asked for nothing. Any time any authority ever asked him a question, he’d answer ‘Lawyer!’ then stare at the floor.”

  “You found out all this in three or four minutes?” Kwok exclaimed.

  “Nope. Read his file earlier this morning along with a list of known associates of one Mr. Marc Dominican. Wealthy. Influential. Stuck out like a sore thumb, as did Trask whom we already know well.” Bishop tapped off.

  “Once the dock foreman and security are under restraint,” Bishop said to Kwok as he pulled away from the curb, “go to the car and set up in the driver’s seat. Back me up when I take down Tudor.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “With professional detachment,” was all Bishop said as he made a hard right into the loading alley and raced up to the front of the docked truck. He pulled up barely an inch from the front bumper of the truck and just far enough to allow his own door to fully open.

  Their timing was good. Tudor had wasted no time getting inside the building and onto the elevator. The manual hydraulic fork dolly he needed had been left ready and waiting in place under the crate locked in the secure unit.

  Kwok strode purposefully and quickly to the dock, flashed her badge at the dock foreman and motioned for him to come over to the security entrance. When he got within a couple of meters, she drew her sidearm and spoke to him very carefully and clearly.

  “I am Customs & Border Protection,” Kwok said quietly. “Your immediate cooperation is required. Take me directly to the security office.”

  Guilty people—guilty of taking bribes, guilty of taking money to look the other way, guilty of pilfering the storage units—tended to cooperate with confrontational authority. They had consciences that leaned heavily toward self-entitled rationale, and they also automatically measured cooperation now against the benefit it might bring should there ever be future punishment or calling to account. Confronted with a hard-eyed CBP agent flashing a real-looking badge, drawn weapon and urgently stated orders, the dock foreman wilted instantly and scrambled to open the door. He wasted no time walking down the narrow hallway to the security office.

  “Hey, uh, José,” the foreman called, “there’s, uh, somebody here to see us, I mean you. Er, us.”

  “Whazzat Louie?” the security manager said absently as he swiveled his chair toward the dock foreman’s voice without actually taking his eyes off a streaming porn video.

  “Jeez, José. It’s only lunch time and you’re at that stuff already?”

  José turned all the way around to face Louie, but ended up bumping his nose against the business end of Kwok’s H&K P2000 9mm pistol. It was a compact, effective weapon at anything under 30 meters, it smelled of cordite and gun oil, and it froze the security manager into immobility.

  “Get up, walk to me,” Kwok said, slowly backing up. She’d positioned the dock foreman on the floor in front of the desk, his back toward the door. “Sit back to back with this man.”

  As soon as they two men were sitting on the floor back to back, she approached them slowly.

  “Slide your cell phones and two-ways to me,” she ordered. Then, “Now!” when they hesitated. She pocketed the phones and radios, backed up to the desk and ripped the desk phone cord out of the wall.

  “I do not care about either of you,” she said, walking to the two men and kneeling, her H&K jammed into the side of Louie’s head. “My team and I have much bigger fish to fry. Do not struggle, do not move, and you may get out of this with whole skins. Screw around and I’ll put you both down.”

  Both men scared easily. Kwok had no problem cuffing the two together.

  “Why are you doin’ this?” Louie pleaded. “We didn’t do nuthin’.”

  “Listen Louie... José... I see you and your underpaid kind ripping off shipments every week. You’ve been guilty of doin’ somethin’ for a long time. Be thankful, we’re not actually after you two. Got any duct tape, by the way?” she asked matter-of-factly, as she started rifling desk drawers.

  “Uh, yeah,” the security manager said. “Filing cabinet next to the door. Top drawer.”

  Kwok stood and retrieved a brand new roll of grey duct tape, then proceeded to tape both men together around their mouth and throats, quickly lashing them into complete immobility.

  “Like I said, if you’re lucky and if you’re only even a little bit smart, you’ll get out of this with a whole skin, keep your jobs, and you’ll have a good story to tell your friends and grandkids. Screw this up by worming free and setting off an alarm, and I will come back here and end the both of you. Nod carefully and slowly if you understand.”

  José had turned pale and sweaty. Louie was shivering. Both men smelled of cigarettes, bad breath and fear.

  Kwok sprinted back down the hall to the door next to the dock. She cracked the door open slightly and peered out at Bishop who had positioned himself beside the driver’s side of the truck, close to the dock. She waited half a minute, until the freight handlers were occupied with something at the back of the loading bay, then strolled naturally to the car, got in, then slammed the door shut. At the sound of the car door, one of the freight handlers looked up and walked toward the dock, calling out to Kwok.

  “Hey, you’re gonna have to move that. Man’s comin’ down with his load. You’re gonna havta’ make way.”

  That was just what Bishop wanted to hear. Sure enough, one of the freight elevators opened and Jorge Tudor leaned back heavily on the hydraulic dolly handle to start the crate moving. One of the freight handlers came over to help him maneuver the load into the box of the truck, and attach load straps between eyebolts on the truck box walls and the lash points on the crate. As soon as Bishop heard the rollup door being shut, he crouched down and crabbed sideways under the truck, stepped up quietly onto the passenger side fuel tank and got into the cab. He drew his Glock just as Jorge opened the driver’s door and stepped up into the seat.

  “Hello, Jorge,” Bishop said softly. “You’re being detained. Do not move. My partner is in the car jammed against the front bumper of the truck. If she sees anyone who is not me leave this truck, she will shoot.” Then Bishop smiled. “She’s very good at what she does.”

  There is something about the thought of being shot and incapacitated by a woman that leaves many men fearful and cold. The idea has the effect of dredging up in the man’s mind every coarse word and every bit of harsh treatment he has ever directed at a woman, and then warps it all into thoughts of women taking revenge. Bishop knew his subjects well.

  “Drive,” Bishop said. “I’ll provide you with directions. Deviate or improvise and I’ll put one shot into your right knee. Do it again, and I’ll shoot your left. I can drive this thing perfectly well myself. Understood?”

  Jorge Tudor just nodded.

  ***

  There are a variety of ways that have been devised to quickly extract accurate information fro
m initially unwilling subjects. The acts of applying enough sudden pain, not quite enough to render unconscious or kill, while still offering believable hope that the provision of accurate information will truly result not only in cessation of pain but in reward as well, is a studied craft. It is not for the faint of heart. It is not for those who are affected by the primal screams of a grown man being rendered nearly insane by the use of a knife and a pair of pliers on various parts of his body. The problem with such methods is that they’re no more successful than other, less physically and mentally damaging methods. The choice of interrogation method depends on how firmly the interrogator believes his subject has grown deep loyalties, the interrogator’s assessment of the subject’s mindset, and the interrogator’s assessment of the subject’s ability to withstand mental and physical stress. Just as often as not, a single demonstration of the interrogator’s intent creates a sufficiently sturdy platform on which the interrogator can build intense fear in his subject. So much fear, in fact, that not another single physical act has to be performed. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn’t.

  Churchill defined a fanatic as someone who won’t change his mind and who also won’t stop talking about it. Jorge Tudor was no fanatic. He was no zealot or freedom fighter. What an avowed terrorist could resist for some period of days or weeks until the persuasion, pain, stress, fear and hopelessness became great enough to overcome training, fanaticism and corrupt ideology, was also not the way to interrogate Tudor. The fanatics, were rather the sort of problem that ended up frustrating poorly controlled interrogators as they stupidly rationalized the application of increasingly brutal and ineffective practices. Too often, in the minds of such interrogators, the brutality they rationalize is justified as just another part of the fight, merely waged in a cell or interrogation room rather than a battlefield or street. They rarely extracted enough reliable information to make any of their techniques worthwhile. Everybody talks, eventually, but the trick is to get them to say something useful.