Illicit Trade

by Michael Niemann

  “You were here yesterday afternoon, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s look. What’s your last name?”

  “Jackson.”

  Agnor did a double take. “Right.” He looked left and right to check if anyone was nearby.

  “So, do I have AIDS?” Jackson said.

  “No, you don’t. You’re as healthy as can be.” He looked around again. “Usually Renko discusses the remaining results with the test subjects. But I haven’t seen him.”

  “What remaining results?”

  “If a subject is HIV-free and looks promising, Renko orders a whole other battery of tests. Just a few days ago, he gave me a very specific set of criteria to check against. So I checked your blood from every which angle.”

  “What kind of extra tests?”

  “Blood type, of course, a whole panel to check for other diseases, and HLA.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know if I should tell you this. Renko usually does that.”

  “Well, if he’s going to tell me anyway, you can give me the preview. I promise to look surprised when I hear it from him.”

  “I guess there’s no harm in it. The HLA test tells me about your immune system—human leukocyte antigens, to be specific.”

  “Human leuko … what?” Jackson said. “Why would anyone need to know about that?”

  “For all kinds of reasons. But I think Renko is looking for a very specific person. At least on the basis of the parameters he’s given me. Almost as if he was looking for an organ donor.”

  “An organ donor? He told me it was for drug trial.”

  “Yeah, that’s his story. I guess if they were testing a drug for an autoimmune disease, like regular diabetes …. But he gave me very specific values. If they were testing a drug, they’d want a variety of subjects. You don’t develop a drug for such a narrow group of recipients.”

  “So what’s the result?”

  “You aced all tests. If they are looking for, say, a kidney, you’d have the perfect specimen.”

  Chapter Fifty

  Kidney transplants. Of all the possible medical schemes Jackson had imagined, kidney transplants had not been in the picture, not even in the vicinity. It all made sense, though. The amount of money involved, finding people hard enough up to consider giving body parts for cash. Made much more sense than drug testing. The distance involved puzzled him. Even with the potential money involved, it seemed like a complex operation. There were a lot of ways a scheme like this could go sideways. Even getting to America would be difficult.

  He looked at the people in line to be tested. Any one of them might be a candidate. It struck him. These folks were dirt poor. They were scared. They didn’t know squat about Newark or the U.S. If they got into trouble, they’d keep their mouths shut and be deported.

  Abasi had twenty-five hundred dollars in his pocket. Jackson knew that was too much for participating in a drug test. But it seemed pretty low for losing a kidney. He knew people could live fine with only one, but what if that one failed?

  He had to find Renko and get back home. There he’d disappear. No way was anyone getting near his kidneys, no matter how much they promised. The easiest way to find Renko was to just stay here at the test clinic. He was bound to show up eventually.

  A hawker had set up a makeshift stall, selling cold drinks to the people waiting in line. He bought a Coke and a bag of peanuts and walked back to the railroad tracks. He picked up a piece of cardboard, put that on the gravel bed supporting the tracks, and settled against one of the ties. Far enough from the clinic to be inconspicuous, close enough to keep an eye on things. He opened the Coke, took a sip, and waited in the sun.

  The wait lasted an hour. First Jackson heard the car horn. A few minutes later, a four-wheel-drive vehicle pushed its way through the crowd. The incessant honking didn’t seem to have any effect. The people kept walking where they were walking and didn’t move out of the way until the car almost touched them. It had to be a white guy. Nobody else would be so stubborn.

  Eventually, the car stopped. The door opened and Renko got out. He scanned the clinic and its immediate surroundings. His glance missed the tracks where Jackson lounged. Renko even stepped on the bottom of the door frame to get a better view. No difference. Finally, he marched to the clinic and shouted something.

  Dr. Agnor came out, looking concerned. Renko gesticulated and shouted some more. Agnor shrugged, pointed toward a different part of the tracks, shrugged again as if to say, Nope, I don’t know where Jackson went. Agnor returned to the tent and Renko marched back to his truck and drove off.

  Jackson considered this. Wycliff had probably spent some time looking for him. He wouldn’t have liked going back to Renko and admitting that he’d lost Jackson. When that didn’t help, he must’ve gone to Renko and reported the bad news. Renko was mad and figured that Jackson had come back to the clinic. Had he known that Jackson was a perfect match? Maybe he’d called the doctor. That would explain his rush and his anger. Jackson was a prize he couldn’t let slip through his fingers.

  He hiked to the clinic. If his kidney was really the perfect match, Renko would come back.

  * * *

  Renko eased his SUV through the throng of people. He’d given up leaning on the horn. It had no effect. The phone call from the Broker had shaken him more than he cared to admit. Jackson had come straight from the U.S. on Abasi’s passport. Not some expat, floating around East Africa, as he’d claimed. He’d found Wycliff and made contact within a day of his arrival. What was he after? According to the Broker, he was a small-time hustler from Newark. He sure didn’t act like one.

  To make things worse, the man turned out to be the perfect match for the special order the Broker had relayed only a couple of days earlier. None of his other candidates fit the requirements. The very man to make them a lot of money turned out to be the one who knew enough to be trouble.

  It was a real conundrum. His first instinct had been to eliminate him. That’s why he had rushed to the clinic, his SIG 9 mm in his pocket. But now that he sat in his car unable to go anywhere fast, he was figuring out a way to cash in on the match. The best solution would be to harvest the kidney and have Jackson expire during or after the operation. But that required getting him to the U.S. and onto the operation table. And Renko had a strong feeling that Jackson wasn’t going to do that without resistance. One way would be to harvest the kidney here, put it on ice in a cooler, and bring it to the U.S. But there were no direct flights. Even with dry ice, the kidney would be worthless by the time it got to Newark.

  Nope, there was no way around it. Jackson had to go back to Newark. The only question was how. Of his own free will or under duress? The more he thought about it, duress wasn’t going to work on Jackson. So he had to persuade the man to get on the plane. Once on it, the people in Newark could figure out how to deal with him. The best solution was kicking the problem back to Newark. He turned the car and headed back to the clinic.

  Jackson stood there with a grin on his face.

  “Mr. Jackson, am I glad to see you here. Thought for a moment I’d lost you. I have good news. You earned yourself a trip back to the U.S. of A. If you’re ready, we’re gonna put you on a plane tonight. A quick stopover in Dubai and then on to New York City.”

  “Good deal. I’m looking forward to seeing the home country again. It’s been a long time.”

  It was the reaction Renko had hoped for. But he didn’t feel much better. He couldn’t figure out Jackson’s angle. The man shows up and tracks him down in only two days, but then he’s happy as can be to go back to the U.S. Why’d he come in the first place? What if he ran? There was little chance of him staying in Dubai. There was nothing for him to do. But in JFK? That was a different story. Too many ways to escape. But that was the Broker’s problem. Not his.

  “Let’s go to my office and get you the paperwork for the flight. You’ve got your passport?”

  Jackson nodded.r />
  “Great. You won’t believe what we have to do to get a visa for some of the locals.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The goodbyes had been difficult. Vermeulen had wanted to stay another week, explore Vienna with Gaby and Tessa, maybe even have a quiet dinner with Marieke as a start to getting back to a relationship that wasn’t based on anger and accusation. He had vacation days he could’ve used. Going back to New York City was his last choice.

  Tessa had been the voice of reason. You want to keep your job? It was her only question. After a lot of hesitation, he’d answered in the affirmative. Despite the aggravation working for OIOS generated, he liked the work and was good at it. He also liked the ethos of the UN, even if the organization didn’t always live up to it.

  “Then you’ve got to get back there now,” she’d said. “Your boss was doing you a favor by urging you to come back as soon as possible. If he wanted to get rid of you, he’d have encouraged you to stay away as long as you like.”

  That thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

  “He wants you to beat this rap, and the only place you can do that is at UN headquarters. So listen to his advice.”

  He booked his return flight and spent a tearful evening with Gaby and Tessa at the clinic. Gaby was able to walk a bit but had little stamina after lying in bed for so long. The doctor assured them that it was simply a question of physical therapy and regaining strength. They’d do another brain scan to make sure that everything was as it should be. The rest was up to Gaby. “Human bodies are incredible healing machines,” the doctor had said. Vermeulen believed him.

  At the airport, waiting for his flight, he finally listened to the voicemail messages on his phone. The last one had arrived merely four hours before he got to the airport. Both came from long, unfamiliar numbers. The first one was from Jackson. He had to listen twice to understand that Jackson had gone to Kenya. It wasn’t quite clear why he’d gone. As far as he could make out from the garbled recording, he’d been in trouble in Newark and took Abasi’s money and passport to go to Nairobi. “I’m doing the right thing” were his last words before he hung up.

  Good for you, Vermeulen thought and wondered what kind of trouble he’d gotten into. If it was related to the Broker, it probably was wise to put as much distance between himself and that woman as possible. But Nairobi was one of the organization’s centers of operation. Jackson was likely to end up in even more trouble.

  The second message was also from Jackson. The connection was much better. The background noises sounded like an airport. Jackson sounded excited.

  “Hey Vermoolen. I found out what they’re up to. It ain’t drug tests as they told me. It’s kidneys. They’re after kidneys. They get ’em from poor folks in Kenya. They fly ’em to America for the operation, pay ’em a little, send ’em back, and cash in. Man, what a racket.

  “I’m in Dubai. Never thought I’d get around this much, did ya? Here’s the deal, they were looking for a very special kidney, and guess what? I got it. So I got myself a free trip back home. Don’t worry, I ain’t going through with the operation. Once I get to JFK, I’m gonna skip town. Renko—he’s the one who runs the show down in Kenya—didn’t know who I was. Told ’im I was a world traveler, looking for some cash. He was happy to send me. So long, man. Don’t think I’ll be seeing you again.”

  * * *

  Camille Delano saw the word “Private” on her phone’s display after the ringtone had woken her. A call from management at five in the morning meant trouble. Management never called this early. In a normal month, they’d call her twice with updates and orders and she’d call them as needed with results. But this month had been far from normal. An early call like this meant things had gotten bad. And worse, that management wasn’t on top of it. When management wasn’t on top of things, the trouble usually landed in her lap.

  “Yes,” she said, answering at the last possible moment.

  “Three things,” the familiar voice said. “One, Vermeulen exposed the Vienna operation. We’ve been working on containment for most of a day. The UN office there has been playing ball, but the Vienna police have not. Kurtz and Popescu are in jail. Two, Vermeulen is on his way back to JFK. Three, Jackson is a perfect match for the client and is also on his way to JFK. He’s a serious flight risk, so make sure you get him as soon as he clears customs.”

  “What happened in Vienna?” she said.

  “We are still reconstructing the events. We tried to talk to Kurtz by posing as family but weren’t let in. Our regular legal counsel is out of town; we are looking for a suitable substitute. None of this is your concern. You must focus on Vermeulen. He’s the only one who can make the connection between Vienna and Newark. If he goes public with it and involves the authorities, you’ll be the first to go down.”

  That threat was unnecessary. She knew how dangerous Vermeulen was. She also knew that Rosenbaum would be a far juicier target for the federal prosecutors. A famous surgeon always beats an unknown woman when it comes to the perp walk. Sure, he’d lawyer up. That would make it even more interesting. In the meantime, she’d be long gone. Bonaire sounded more tempting than ever.

  “Are you there?” the voice said.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll rely on you to keep this mess contained to Vienna. Vermeulen must be eliminated. He is on Austrian Air Flight 19 and will arrive at JFK at noon. Jackson is scheduled to arrive at eleven on Emirates Flight 59. Grab him, drug him, whatever. Just make sure you get his kidney, then get rid of him. A lot of money is riding on your getting this done.”

  That gave her less than six hours to put her plan in place.

  First, she started her coffee machine. Then she called Gergi. By the time she was sipping from her second cup, the outlines of her strategy were clear. It was an iffy plan. It depended on the two flights arriving on time. And on her crew performing without a flaw. Two conditions that weren’t necessarily a given.

  At seven, she called Rosenbaum and told him that the kidney for Woodleigh had been found and that the donor would arrive that morning.

  “That was fast,” Rosenbaum said. “I’ll set everything up for tonight.”

  “There’s a small complication. This donor is likely to resist. We’ll have to sedate him the moment he comes off the plane.”

  “He isn’t one of the usual candidates?”

  “No.”

  “Inject him with Narcozep. I’ll tell my staff to have it ready for you. Just stab the needle into his arm and push the plunger. That should make him docile enough to get him to my office. Make sure you tie him to the bed. We don’t need him walking off like the other guy.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Vermeulen stood in the visitors’ line at JFK, moving at a snail’s pace to the passport control booths. Since he wasn’t a permanent resident and didn’t have a diplomatic passport, he had to bear the long wait. Not that he minded. It wasn’t much of a homecoming. Being the object of an investigation had soured the joy of returning to his apartment.

  The line moved a little.

  During the flight, he’d reviewed each decision he’d made during his time in Vienna. By themselves, none of them were grounds for dismissal. Only his decision to stake out Kurtz’s house and follow him to that apartment building could be interpreted as reckless. But he’d explain that by recounting his fear that his daughter might be harmed. They had to take that into consideration. Best case scenario, he’d walk away from this with a commendation for uncovering a bad apple in the organization. Worst case, he’d get a slap on the hand for being a “cowboy.” No big deal. He’d gotten a few of those.

  The line moved again.

  Jackson’s last message reminded him of all the unfinished business awaiting him. The Broker wasn’t going to care about the UN investigation. He was certain that she had orders to deal with him. Her organization had taken a serious blow in Vienna. Their next steps would be protecting the other branches of their network. And he was the only one who could establi
sh the link between them.

  Protecting Gaby had been his only concern in Vienna. It made him go after Kurtz and Popescu. The fake invitation letters were just the means to find them. But those letters were also central to the case waiting for him. Human trafficking to harvest organs. Why hadn’t he thought of that? It explained the last piece of the puzzle that hadn’t fit—Rosenbaum. But that wasn’t his concern anymore. Not when OIOS was putting his conduct under a microscope.

  The people in front of him were directed to the booths. An officer motioned him to stop.

  The more he thought about it, the more he didn’t believe Tessa’s argument that Suarez was in his corner. Why would he want to help Vermeulen? Bad employees reflected poorly on their managers. Rule number one was to disavow them. The best he could hope for was Suarez not making things worse for him. Having solved the origin of the fake letters would help. He would recommend that Suarez turn over the human trafficking investigation to the FBI. OIOS had channels to the Bureau. That might get both Suarez and the Broker off his back.

  The officer sent him to Booth 8. He rolled his bag over to the booth and waited again. There were three visitors ahead of him.

  It sounded just like Jackson to get himself hired as a kidney donor for a free ticket home. Once a hustler, always a hustler. He still couldn’t understand why Jackson had gone to Kenya in the first place. The do the right thing story didn’t sound like him at all. More likely, he’d run from the gangsters. They’d be out for blood after he got away from them once. He’d better be careful.

  He made it to the booth. The officer checked his passport and visa. He saw the UN credentials and went about his job with a quiet efficiency. Right thumb on the green glass, right four fingers, left thumb, left four fingers, look into the camera, thank you, next.

  He rolled his bag through customs and emerged into the public concourse. There were the usual array of limo drivers holding up signs. He was tempted to pretend to be Mr. Miller or Mr. Perlmutter and snag a free ride to Manhattan. Better not. It’d be his bad luck to get into a limo headed to New Jersey or Connecticut.