All The Big Ones Are Dead

by Christopher A. Gray

  “A transport team will be here in three minutes,” Bishop said as he turned and walked toward the library door. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  “Looks like we found the money,” he said quietly as he passed Linders. He was suddenly feeling more normal than he had in several days. His headache had finally gone away completely. Reports and debriefing would keep until the following morning. At that moment he was thinking about a pastrami on rye at Katz’s, followed by a hot shower and clean sheets at the hotel.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  With his left arm still in a sling, John struggled with his tie in front of the mirror using only his right hand. It was nearly impossible to cinch the knot tight.

  “Hold still,” Julie said, as she reached up and tightened the knot. They were in his apartment, getting ready to go out for dinner. “This place is such a mess,” he said apologetically. “I haven’t had time to straighten up after the… incident.”

  “Don’t apologize, John. Most guys have a little clutter,” she smiled. “I can help you with that if you like, but let’s not worry about it for now. You’ve been through a lot.”

  “We’ve been through a lot,” he corrected, looking into her eyes and squeezing her upper arm. “That assassin approached us only a minute after you left. Had you stuck around, I don’t want to think could have happened.”

  John was wearing his navy blue blazer, the one he saved for special occasions. His light blue shirt had a couple of minor wrinkles, but was otherwise neat. Same for his light grey pants. His dark brown brogues, a questionable match for his pants and blazer, had multiple scuff marks. Unless one was wearing a business suit, John had convinced himself, this seemed to be the contemporary acceptable condition for leather shoes, much like deliberately ripped jeans. His charcoal grey tie was accented in red with famous mathematical equations. Professorial geekiness it was, but Julie seemed completely unconcerned as she smoothed out the shoulders of his jacket.

  Julie was wearing a smart fall jacket and scarf over her dark grey dress. The scarf didn’t quite match the dress, but she was wearing it because John had complimented it one day, months earlier, when she’d worn it while working during a particular cold spring morning.

  “I didn’t say it yesterday, but I was impressed with the eulogy you gave at Julius’s funeral,” she said. “It must have been hard. You had been friends for what, ten years?”

  “Twelve, since our undergrad days. Julius wasn’t even thirty-four. His relatives were looking for an explanation for his death, and I couldn’t give them one. I feel terrible about that.”

  “It’s not your fault John, and I also don’t think it’s your responsibility. Agent Linders made it clear anyway. We’re muzzled. I don’t disagree either. You know a lot more about these kinds of security restrictions than me. I just hope that Agent Linders finds a way to give Julius’ family the closure they need. But what you said during the service gave them some comfort. I could tell.”

  “Thank you.” They looked into each other’s eyes, sharing a moment of tenderness. They hugged, and John glanced at his bedside clock. “We had better get going. The reservation is for seven.” They continued to hold each other for a few seconds. For the first time in a long while, John was optimistic about the future.

  John checked himself in the mirror one last time. The light beige sling had a few dirt marks from a week’s worth of use. It would need to be washed, but he didn’t have a spare.

  “Screw it,” he said, gingerly taking off the sling and tossing it onto the bed.

  “John, are you sure? It’s too soon.”

  “I’ll keep my hand in my pocket. It should stabilize my arm enough.” He slowly moved his left hand into his pants pocket, wincing at the pain in his forearm as he did so. The pocket was a poor substitute for a sling, but at least it would help keep his arm immobile. He could always keep his arm level on the table during dinner.

  Julie noticed the wincing, picked up the cloth sling and stuffed it in her shoulder bag.

  John smiled and nodded at her as he used his good hand to pat his jacket pockets one more time, making sure he had his phone and keys. They left the apartment and John locked the door, deliberately not double-checking it. He wanted to break a few of his odd habits if he was to be seeing Julie on a long-term basis.

  They held hands in the elevator. Its descent slowed as it approached the fifth floor.

  “Shit,” John said. “I’m wearing a good pair of pants. I hope Mrs. Schmidt will keep her dog at bay for once. Maybe if I move to the corner of the elevator…” John squeezed himself into the corner opposite the button panel as Julie shook her head and laughed.

  “Ever the eccentric professor,” she said. John immediately realized that he was being a little ridiculous. He relaxed his body and moved beside her again.

  The doors opened and Mrs. Schmidt got on, minus her dog Pippi. “Hello, John,” she smiled as soon as she saw him.

  “Hello, Mrs. Schmidt,” John sighed with relief that the dog wasn’t with her. “Where is Pippi?”

  “She already had her walk this afternoon. Just going down to see if I have any mail.” She noticed John’s arm. “I’m glad to see you out of that sling. Did they ever catch the mugger?”

  “Uh, yes,” John replied. He had already explained to Mrs. Schmidt that the attacker was a criminal responsible for several murders in the city, but she wasn’t very good at keeping details straight. It was much easier to categorize his injury as the result of a mugging. “He died when the authorities tried to arrest him.”

  Mrs. Schmidt wasn’t looking at John as he spoke. She had turned slightly, still smiling, and was looking expectantly.

  “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Schmidt,” John said, realizing his omission. “This is Julie. We’re going to dinner.”

  “A date?” Mrs. Schmidt exclaimed as the doors opened to the lobby, making John wince and startling an elderly couple that had been standing there waiting for the elevator.

  “She’s so pretty! And she must be smart too, to be going out with you, John.” Then to Julie she whispered, loud enough for John to hear: “He’s such a nice boy. I hope you can get him better shoes.”

  Julie suppressed a laugh. As Mrs. Schmidt went to check her mail John and Julie exited the building to the street. It was going to be a very nice evening.

  Epilogue

  Min had worked quickly. She’d felt inspired by the deepening winter season. The intricate traceries of her beautifully delicate work seemed to flow from her skilled fingers, creating dramatic lines, astonishing filigrees, and exotically intertwined figures. They cascaded down the ivory curves like finely etched frost. Everybody else in the studio had complimented her, some with tears in their eyes at the beauty Min had created.

  Within three weeks all of the pieces had been specially packaged and shipped to New York, at least that’s what Tommy had told her. Then the carvings were shipped via a trusted courier to a few select merchants. James Chan’s gift shop in Chinatown was one such merchant.

  Chan never sold ivory carvings to customers off the street. That would be far too risky, and almost certainly absurdly far out of any tourist’s price range, anyway. Only special customers—very wealthy and particularly discreet ones—were allowed to see the ivory by special appointment. Tourists were sold synthetic resin carvings. They were very nice in their own right, but nothing like the highly intricate and emotional art pieces created by remarkable artists like Min.

  The special customers for genuine ivory carvings were the so-called elites of society, some born and bred New Yorkers, some wealthy Chinese immigrants. Moneyed professionals, wealthy businessmen, rare antique collectors, certain art enthusiasts. All of them had an appreciation for rare objets d’art, and not a few of them lusted after the illicit ones.

  Ironically, many considered themselves to be philanthropists, making generous donations to wildlife conservation charities. Their money and power not only thrust them into the most desirable social circles, but also gave them relati
vely easy access to the black market. The purchase of items from the black market was a powerful status symbol behind closed doors. Most customers reasoned that their purchase of ivory or other contraband was a drop in the bucket, not significantly detrimental to the overall health of elephant populations. There were many customers the world over that shared this exact same rationale.

  James Chan wasn’t expecting a shipment from Tudor’s warehouse, so when the cold or flu he was battling became severe he felt confident about calling his nephew Carter to tell him to run the shop alone for the day.

  “It is Monday, and raining, so it should not be very busy. All items are price marked.”

  “I know, Uncle James, remember I worked alone for a day last month?”

  “Oh yes, fine. I'm not expecting a shipment, but if one arrives, don’t bother unpacking it. I will take care of it when I get back.”

  James didn’t wait for his nephew’s response as he hung up the phone. He couldn’t wait to get back into his warm bed and go to sleep or at least lie down in silence while his sickness took its course.

  As the minutes stretched into an hour, Carter realized his uncle was right. It would not be busy today. Bored, the young man wandered around the shop. Carter’s eyes fell to some white figurine carvings on the shelf.

  He picked one up to examine. It was actually an attractive piece, smooth and glossy, with some well-cast figures. He turned it over and saw the price: $29.95. He tapped it with his fingernail. “Plastic,” he said.

  There was a knock at the back door. Carter put the carving back on the shelf and walked to the back of the shop to see who was there.

  “Delivery. The usual,” the man said. “Where is Chan?”

  “I’m his nephew.”

  “You work here?”

  “Yes, I'm in charge today,” Carter said, very pleased with himself.

  “Very well. Here, give this only to your uncle. He will be billed with the next shipment,” the man handed an unmarked cardboard box to Carter. Eager to get out of the rain, the man trotted off to his van parked nearby.

  Carter closed and locked the back door, walked back into the shop with the box and placed it on the floor behind the counter. He wondered what was in the package, but remembered that his uncle didn’t want him to bother opening any shipments. Maybe it is because he thinks I have no business sense, Carter thought.

  The minutes dragged on as Carter surfed on his smartphone. Soon even that became boring. He looked at the unopened box on the floor.

  Maybe it is the new security camera uncle James mentioned that was to replace the old one, he guessed. Carter loved expensive electronic gadgets. He found a small pen knife under the counter and sliced through the packing tape. Inside the cardboard box was a small wooden crate. The fastening nails were small so Carter managed to pry the wood loose with the penknife.

  Inside were three gorgeous carvings, similar in theme to some of the ones on the shelf he’d looked at earlier, but rich in detail and amazingly fine work. The texture was different to the touch than the plastic pieces, but before Carter could examine it more thoroughly, a woman walked into the shop.

  As the woman shook the water droplets off of her umbrella, Carter saw that she was wearing a paper name tag on her blouse that read ‘Alice’ as well as a large laminated access card of some kind hanging around her neck. He guessed that she was from out of town, attending a convention. She was older than Carter, perhaps thirty-five. He thought she was very attractive.

  “Hello,” he said, trying to make conversation. “Come to New York on business?” The woman was puzzled for a moment but then realized her name tag was prominent.

  “Oh yes, I’m from Atlanta, going home tomorrow. I’m trying to find a gift for my eleven year-old daughter. It’s her birthday.”

  “I see. Feel free to look around.” Carter put the carving back in the open crate on the counter and smiled at the woman. He wanted to appear professional, as if he owned the shop. After browsing for a while the woman walked over to the synthetic carvings on the shelf.

  “These are nice, what are they made of?” she ran her finger along the fig tree leaves, feeling the smooth texture.

  “They are imitation ivory, Miss.”

  She picked up the figurine that Carter had examined before. Her daughter loved that sort of stuff.

  “They look so real. Are you sure they’re synthetic? I wouldn’t buy it if it were real. Have you seen on television the way they kill elephants? Terrible.”

  “Yes, miss. These are not real, but my uncle says that even for the real ones, the ivory is harvested when the elephant dies a natural death. It is a very ethical product.”

  The woman clutched the carving as she browsed some more. As she approached the counter to pay for the mermaid she noticed the carvings in the open box on the counter. She reached carefully into the box and picked one up.

  “This one is more detailed, and has a much different feel,” she said. “It’s really nice. Is it the same price as the rest?”

  “Uh... no,” Carter replied. “That’s much nicer work than the usual tourist pieces. You can tell. It’s twenty dollars more.” The woman didn’t glance up at Carter when he mentioned the higher price. She was examining and appreciating the carving.

  “It’s very nice,” she said after a minute or so of turning it over and looking at it from different angles. “I really like it. I’ll take it,” She paid for the carving and was pleased that Carter wrapped it in tissue paper and provided a decorative box with images of elephants. Her daughter would be thrilled.

  Carter was happy he managed to get a premium for that particular carving. His uncle would be proud that his nephew was such an astute businessman.

  ***

  The walls of the computer development lab at the NSA’s Multiprogram Research Facility, located deep inside the enormous main building at Oak Ridge National Laboratories in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, were literally covered with large screen monitors. The ceiling lights, high above, were kept dim to prevent glare from aggravating the thirty to forty people in the room at any given time. The monitors displayed a constant stream of video and data feeds from hundreds of sources. Network cabling festooned from ceiling mounted supports. Open cubicles with desktop computers and other more exotic workstations were running in every available workspace. Analysts, developers and engineers at every one were either hard at it, conferring with someone, or leaning back and thinking.

  Two men were conferring particularly quietly, one of them sitting in front of his desktop monitor, the other standing right next to him. Their eyes were glued to the screen. Some decrypted programming code was displayed as they paged slowly through each section.

  “Where did this come from? I mean, who brought it in?”

  “Came through the usual channels.”

  “Sure. Yeah. What does that mean?”

  “Uh, right. Sorry. Manhattan FBI. Security & Intelligence directorate. No specific analyst’s name given.”

  “Do they know what they had?”

  “Nope. Mitchell told me they had no way of decrypting. They might have, but all their most powerful hardware was already fully tasked. So they sent it on to us.”

  “Has anybody else seen this?”

  “Well, uh—”

  “Come on, man. DTRA? DHS? CIA? Has anybody else seen this? You’re the one who called me over.”

  “Uh, sorry. Yeah. I mean, no. Nobody but Mitchell. He worked on it for half a day. He tasked the XT5. Cracked the first file in about six hours. Turned out to be a README. Hit the panic button then, like, right away.” The programmer paused to stare at another section of the code as he paged down.

  “Okay,” the engineer stated, urging his companion to continue. Then he pointed to the screen, at a line in the README file. “Who’s Salim Abood?”

  “I think he's the coder who put all of this together.”

  The two men stopped talking at that point. They were both carefully and slowly working through the decrypted
programming code in the file that had just been fed to the workstation. They scanned through the code for another minute, then turned to look at each other.

  “Is this what I think it is?”

  “Oh come on, Harry. We saw this sig last month, right? It was associated with a specific event, right?”

  “Sorry, uh, yeah. I think it’s what you think it is. Far as I can tell, I mean.”

  “This is the code that brought down Columbia University?”

  Harry was back to staring at his monitor, working through the code line by line.

  “Harry! Come on man.”

  “Yeah, it is. It is definitely the Columbia code.”

  “Mitchell doesn’t know yet?”

  “Uh, nope.”

  “Well, let’s bring him in on it.”

  “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

  “We can use this.”

  “We sure can.”

  “The Chinese won’t know what hit them.”

  ⸻

  DARK NIGHTS

  ISBN: 978-0-9868364-9-7

  For further adventures of Michael Bishop and Alexei Rector, read the novel Dark Nights by Christopher A. Gray, available where this book was sold. Click to view.

  “Innovative and well-paced… part scientific exploration, part action, part political intrigue, the combined result is a page-turner.”

  − Publisher’s Weekly

  ALL THE BIG ONES ARE DEAD

  Thank you for your purchase of this book. If you think others would enjoy this story please leave a review at the place of purchase.