Against the Law

by Against the Law (epub)

  “Sir, step back now please,” Donna said, and Fusco pulled him back. Parks stepped up, focusing in, as Donna pulled open the door. Along with some files and manila envelopes, she found a large black plastic garbage bag. “Can you tell me what this is, sir?”

  Richards stared. His mouth was open.

  “Sir?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand. I’ve never seen that before.”

  She lifted it out, it had some heft to it, and put it on the desk, Parks panning along with her. Carefully she opened the bag and revealed the nice neat bricks of Persian heroin, vacuum sealed and taped. She spoke to the camera. “This bag contains what seems to be fifteen kilos of a powdered substance. Mr. Richards, for the record, do you know what this substance is sir?”

  She kept her face totally blank, like a pro, but she could see, behind the camera, Parks, Fusco, Janet, and, from the doorway, Andy, too, all smiling at her. But it was the look on Richards’s face that really struck her. Stark terror, which makes sense for someone about to go down for heroin smuggling and murder conspiracy, but also total confusion. He looked like he was having a nightmare.

  Looking as though he had aged ten years in ten seconds, Richards sat silently on the couch while the evidence against him was exhaustively photographed, measured, packed, and transported. It wasn’t until Donna and Fusco headed over to get him on his feet and out to the car that he spoke.

  He addressed her. “Agent, I have some important information I want to share.”

  “You’ll have a chance to make a statement when we get to the office, sir.”

  “There’s no time,” he said. “I want to inform you right now that I have firsthand information about a possible terrorist attack. Here in New York.”

  Donna looked at him. Then she looked at Fusco, who was also staring in surprise. “When?” she asked him.

  Richards shrugged. “Any second.”

  Richards went dumb again after that. Donna demanded to know the details, when, where, who, and Fusco was this close to turning the camera off and beating it out of him, but when he refused absolutely to talk any further without a deal, Donna decided not to waste time arguing and got on the phone to Tom, who was already on the way, having heard about the big dope score. He told her he’d call for a US Assistant District Attorney to meet them there. So when the elevator doors opened, she expected a few extra suits, but she didn’t expect Mike, though she supposed she should have. This was, no doubt, why he’d been nosing around all along.

  “What do you know about this?” she muttered as they all trooped into the Wildwater conference room, which had been searched and cleared.

  “Right now probably less than you,” he said, and while she had given up trying to guess when he was lying—the answer, she’d found, was pretty much always—he did look genuinely freaked out. So did they all, except for Richards, who had recovered a little of his cockiness, now that he was back in the driver’s seat.

  They all took seats as the ADA put out a recorder and turned it on. “I am here with the full authority of my office to offer you consideration on the charges of drug possession with intent to sell and smuggling of a prohibited substance in exchange for all information regarding terrorist activities.”

  “I want full immunity,” Richards said. “From all charges, including murder and conspiracy to commit murder, stemming from all federal and local investigations into Zahir and Wildwater.”

  “Bullshit . . .” Fusco muttered under his breath.

  The ADA shot him a look. “Agreed,” he said.

  “And . . .” Richards began.

  Fusco erupted. “There’s more, you scumbag?”

  “Sit down and shut up!” Tom yelled at him and Fusco snarled. Parks put a hand on his arm and he sat.

  Richards waited for quiet. “And,” he went on, “I want a new identity and permission to leave the country freely. No offense . . .” he looked around, eyes lingering on Powell, “but with what I know, US agencies are the last people I’m going to trust.”

  The ADA huddled with Tom and Powell for a moment, then faced Richards. “My colleagues from the FBI and CIA assure me this can be done. You’ll be placed under my supervision with Secret Service protection.”

  Richards nodded. “Deal,” he said.

  Now Tom, who’d barely moved, leaned over and spoke. “Start talking.”

  Richards sat back. “The name of the man you are hunting is Rick Toomey.”

  “Shit . . .” Now it was Donna who muttered under her breath.

  “Where is he?” Tom asked.

  “I have no goddamn idea.”

  “What is your relationship to this man?”

  “He is, or was, my employee. He led my security forces overseas . . .”

  “Mercenaries,” the ADA put in.

  “Whatever. Soldiers. All perfectly legal.”

  “And illegally? What else did he do for you?”

  “He seized heroin shipments from suppliers. Smugglers and warlords. He also handled transporting it to the US and delivering it to our partners here.”

  “He was the one who attacked the other dope operations?” Fusco asked. “Here in the city?”

  “Yes. He and his men.”

  “Where are his men now?” Fusco asked.

  “You’d know that better than me, detective,” Richards said. “I assume they are dead.”

  Tom interrupted: “Tell us about the terrorist connection.”

  Richards cleared his throat. “Part of our strategy, politically, was to use this money to seed small terror strikes overseas . . .” He held a hand up and raised his voice. “Only overseas! In order to keep elected officials and the American people focused on what we thought was the real threat to our way of life.”

  “And what threat is that?” Tom asked.

  “Islam, of course.”

  Parks, who’d been the calmest one there, finally leaned in. His voice was bitter. “And that also kept government funds flowing into your bank accounts, and paid for all this, did it not?”

  Richards nodded.

  “What happened?” Fusco asked. “What could have possibly gone wrong with this brilliant plan?”

  Richards clenched his jaw. “It was Toomey. He’s a fanatic. He went off on his own.”

  “When did you become aware of this?” the ADA prompted.

  “When the last shipment never arrived. You were there,” he nodded at Donna, “at first we thought you grabbed it and him. But then he disappeared, and we realized you hadn’t gotten anything either. So the product was never there, even though Toomey told everyone he’d sent it like always and was going to pick it up. That’s when I checked with our people in Afghanistan and found out that Toomey had been making secret purchases on his own with our dope money. And that he sent his own shipment through instead.”

  “What was in his shipment, Mr. Richards?”

  “Uranium. We estimate about sixty kilos.”

  “Jesus . . .” That was Mike, saying the first thing he’d said. Audible sighs went around the room.

  “How could that just come through in a normal container?” The ADA asked.

  Richards shrugged. “It’s benign until it’s weaponized. More or less. The same radiation as kitty litter.”

  The ADA spoke carefully, controlling his rage. “And what did you do when you realized that your colleague had perhaps smuggled material into the area suitable for building a nuclear weapon?” Everyone stared at Richards, like a jury about to order execution. But now Richards stood up, defiantly.

  “What did I do? I tried to stop him. I sent our best operative to take him out, and she would have too, she was this goddamn close.” He pointed at Donna who stared back, stunned. “And then you saved him.” He sat back down, waving an arm, dismissively. “And the rest of you let him go. Congratulations.”

  By the time they got Richards cuffed and shod and downstairs, there was quite a crowd. The caravan of law enforcement vehicles stretched down the block and someone h
ad tipped off the media, so reporters were buzzing, and that drew an outer ring of onlookers, many of whom had no idea what they were waiting to see. They probably would have been disappointed when it turned out to be a disheveled old man being escorted into a black Tahoe by a bunch of exhausted government workers in suits. But that’s not how it turned out. As they were leaving the building and crossing the courtyard to the waiting cars, with Parks leading the way, parting the crowd, and Fusco and Donna holding Richards by the arms, with Tom, Mike, and the ADA bringing up the rear, suddenly Parks clutched his chest as if he were having a heart attack and fell. Donna knew it was not a heart attack though, because she saw the exit wound erupt, like a red blossom opening in his coat. The bullet flattened itself on the sidewalk.

  “Shooter,” she yelled, drawing her own gun, but with no idea where to even look. Then the top of Richards’s head came off, and she knew, as he collapsed into a heap, that there was a sniper somewhere in one of the gigantic buildings across the street. But before she could even think about taking cover, she was knocked off her feet by someone grabbing her by the shoulders and yelling, “Lookout!” As she fell, she realized it was Mike on top of her. By then the pileup had begun, with bodies covering each other everywhere and people pushing to get away and everyone yelling, so it wasn’t until a few seconds later, when she tried to move that she felt the wet spot on his back and realized that he too had been shot. “Agent down!” she yelled as she rose up on one knee. Across the street, in a window, she saw a muzzle flash, and another shot entered Mike’s chest. She fired at the window, glimpsing a female silhouette with long hair and, she could have sworn, a quick wave. Then she was gone.

  Donna leaned over Mike now as she heard the ambulance sirens coming. He smiled up at her and whispered something. She leaned in.

  “Tell Larissa I love her,” he said.

  “Tell her yourself,” she answered and he smiled. And then he was dead.

  Vicky hadn’t planned to kill the cop. But then again, until the night before, she hadn’t planned on killing Richards. But once the hit on Toomey had—she hated the word but it was unavoidable—failed, she was told that it was time to cut their losses, to tie up loose ends and go. The call came from a familiar voice, one of those who had sent her to work for Richards in the first place. Now he’d become a liability and she had a new primary target. The cop was just in the way. As she watched through the scope, from the window of an office that wouldn’t open till 9:30, she saw that the only way to get a clear shot at Richards before they reached the car was to clear the path. So she shot the cop. Then she took out Richards, who’d always rubbed her the wrong way. She was going to put one more in him, just to be safe—no more unfortunate accidents—when that cute CIA boy Mike Powell stepped in front of it. Heroic or suicidal? No one would ever know. But it was just as well; he was a sweet playmate but one more loose end who needed to be tied off. As for the FBI agent, his ex, Donna Zamora—good luck to her. Vicky bore her no ill will and rather hoped she caught Toomey, since he was part of the mess Vicky had been sent to clean up. And those other two, Joe and Yelena: she was sorry not to be playing with them any further, after seeing what they were capable of. They were her kind of fun, especially the girl. But for now, she was walking away. In five minutes she was back on the street, mixing with office workers who had no idea something awful had happened a block away. In an hour she’d be on a train to Boston. And then on a plane back to London, for a well-deserved rest. But before leaving, she did bend over the rifle and press her mouth to the stock, leaving a lipstick print, just as a kind of farewell kiss.

  41

  JOE WAS STILL IN bed. He’d slept deeply, physically exhausted, but also with the clear mind of someone whose labors were at an end. He had no nightmares and woke up feeling good. Even his feet were okay, now that he’d cleaned and bandaged them; the cuts were minor and staying off them for a day or two sounded fine to him. By the time he got up, Gladys had the coffee brewed. She brought him a cup and was suggesting scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast when the door buzzed.

  Gladys went to the hall and opened the door but kept it on the chain. It was Donna. “Sorry, hun, but if you’re going to keep doing this I’m going to have to call Mrs. Padera in 3B. Her son’s a lawyer.”

  “I’m sorry about last time Gladys. I was wrong. I apologize. But this is serious, really serious. People will die. And I need Joe’s help.”

  Gladys didn’t ask any questions. She undid the chain and stepped back. “Have a seat. Coffee’s fresh if you want some,” she said. “I’m about to make scrambled eggs.”

  “Nothing for me, thank you.” Donna said, walking into the living room. Joe, who’d heard them, was dressed now, in jeans and a clean black T-shirt. He held a cup of coffee.

  “Don’t worry about Mrs. Padera’s son,” he said. “I think he just does housing law.”

  Joe took Donna into his room and offered her the chair.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” she said. “But first I owe you something.”

  “An apology for tossing the place? I heard it.”

  “No, that was for your grandmother,” she said, “this is for you,” and slapped him hard across the face.

  “Ow,” he said and then sat on the edge of the bed. She took the chair.

  “Do you want to know what that’s for?”

  Joe rubbed his cheek. “I’m not sure it matters now.”

  “It does to me,” Donna said. “It’s for violating my professional integrity. For using me to further your goals, and in so doing, leading me to compromise my core values of honesty, fairness, and justice. I don’t care if you’re a criminal. But making me one.” She shook her head. “I can’t forgive that.”

  “Remind me. When did I do this?”

  “The tip? About the safe in Richards’s office?”

  Joe shrugged.

  “I know, I know, you sent your buddy Gio Caprisi, another patriot, and he fed me the info about the safe.”

  “And?”

  “It was full of heroin, as you well know, heroin that I’m sure will connect to the dope being brought in by Zahir and to White Angel. Case closed.”

  “So? What’s the problem? Congratulations.”

  “The problem is that I could tell from the expression on Richards’s face when we popped the safe, he had no fucking idea how that dope got there. And why would he? Hide dope in his own safe? Confirm the contents were all his? He was set up by someone very clever.”

  “Is that what he said?” Joe shrugged again. “I’m not Mrs. Padera’s son or anything, but that sounds like a pretty weak defense. He won’t make that work in court.”

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now. He’s dead.”

  “What?” Now she could see Joe was genuinely surprised. Thrown.

  “And that’s why I’m here,” she went on. “Ready to grovel and ask for help, even from you. Because lots of people are going to die, innocent people. Some already have. And it’s all my fault.”

  Then she told him the whole story as best she knew. Joe listened in silence, except for when she got to the part about there being uranium in the container, when he said “Of course . . .”

  “What?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing, go on,” but he was thinking of the strange assortment of items on the shipping manifest Juno had dug up, all objects that emitted a small, harmless amount of radiation, nothing that would throw up a red flag with anyone. Certainly nothing that would alarm a dog trained only to sniff for drugs.

  “So,” he said, “when he tried to get you to arrange disabled parking . . .”

  “His truck was wired the whole time. He wanted to set it off at Ground Zero. A goddamn truck bomb, right there, and I let him drive it away.”

  “At least you didn’t let him in. You followed protocol. That saved hundreds, maybe thousands. You did your job.”

  “And then I saved his fucking life.”

  “That’s also part of your job,” Joe said. “Just li
ke trying to save Richards.” He started to put on his sneakers. “But fortunately it’s not part of mine. I’ll call you.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked, as he tied the laces, wincing just a little and leaving them a bit loose. “What are you going to do?”

  “Something that violates your core values. But don’t worry.” He put his phone and keys in his pocket and then headed for the door. “You won’t be involved. I’m used to government officials needing my help, but not wanting to know anything about it.”

  “Joe, wait . . .”

  He turned back. She stood and came closer. “I’m thinking about, just in case it goes bad, having my mom take Larissa out of town, just to the beach or something. Your grandmother can go too. They can go to AC. They won’t need to know the truth.”

  Joe smiled. “Thanks, Donna, but if anyone can spot a bluff, it’s Gladys. That’s why I just don’t say anything.” On the way out he grabbed a piece of toast. “Sorry, I’ve got to run. But Donna is staying for breakfast.”

  42

  WHEN JOE TOLD DONNA that she didn’t want to know where he was going, it was partly because his feelings were hurt, but it was also because he actually didn’t know himself. He called Gio, keeping the details vague, just to be sure he and his family were all out on Long Island, then began walking aimlessly. He just needed to move, to feel like he was doing something, if only wandering through the streets of his own neighborhood. As always, in Jackson Heights, the world was on display. Women in saris shopped at the Mexican-run fruit stand. Dominican and Ecuadorian kids rode their bikes to the Yemeni candy shop. Taiwanese businessmen from Elmhurst walked into the bank, crossing paths with the delivery guy from the Thai place. The colors, sounds, voices, tastes, and smells of the whole globe mingled and merged around him. He’d been told, back in PS 69, that over a hundred languages were spoken just in his school. No doubt that figure had only grown. But to him this was normal. It was only when he grew up and ventured into the big world that he realized how special his little corner was, a unique and wondrous ecosystem. But to someone like Toomey, it was more like a petri dish, which he’d be happy to wipe out with a nuclear blast, to cleanse with radiation.