Illicit Trade

by Michael Niemann

  The whole Vienna excursion had made a serious dent in his finances. Which meant taking the subway to Manhattan. He followed the signs for ground transportation. Halfway across the arrivals hall, he saw something that made him stop.

  Two white men were shepherding a black man toward the exit. The black man seemed unsteady on his feet, like he’d had too much to drink. He also looked like Earle Jackson. That couldn’t be. Vermeulen was about to continue on his way to the exit when one of the men holding Jackson’s arm turned his head. Vermeulen knew him. He’d accompanied the Broker at the Azure Lounge. The black man was Jackson. His plan to give them the slip had failed. That dumb kid. What was he thinking?

  He ran after them, dividing the mass of people with his left arm while dragging his bouncing bag behind him. People yelled at him for bumping into them; others stared as if he were the Wolfman. He didn’t care, because he knew that Jackson wasn’t going to come out of this alive. Once they harvested his kidney, they’d kill him. When he reached the doors, he saw the two men push Jackson into the rear of a black Chrysler.

  He raced to the taxi stand. The dispatcher saw him and shook his head.

  “Go inside, get in line. No hailing from the curb.”

  There was a cop on the sidewalk. Making a stink would just delay him more. He ran inside, looked for the taxi dispatch. The line reached around a support column. He turned around, saw the limo drivers with their signs. This was the moment to impersonate a “Mr. Smith.” But that wasn’t necessary. To his considerable surprise, one of them was holding a sign that said, “Vermeulen.”

  Of course, there was a more than even chance that some Dutch or Belgian businessman was the expected client. He knew of no one who’d send a limo to pick him up.

  The driver holding the sign had noticed him stopping. “Are you Mr. Vermeulen?” he said.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Mr. Valentin Vermeulen?”

  The likelihood of that being someone else grew much smaller. He nodded.

  “And you are with the UN?”

  Okay. There was no one else.

  “Uh … yes, that’s me.”

  “If you’d come with me. The car is waiting outside.”

  The man turned toward the door. Vermeulen followed.

  “Who ordered the limo for me?”

  “I just got the call to pick up Mr. Vermeulen, arriving from Vienna.”

  “Where are you supposed to bring me?”

  “The East Village, Gansevoort Street.”

  That was his apartment. And it didn’t make sense. If Suarez had sent a limo, it would take him to the UN, not home. But then, Suarez would never in a million years send a limo.

  “And you really don’t know who ordered the ride?”

  “No. I just get the call and drive.”

  They arrived at the curb where a black Lincoln stood. The driver popped the trunk and reached for the roller bag. Vermeulen was about the hand him the bag when he saw that the plate wasn’t a T&LC license. This wasn’t a real limo.

  The Broker knew he’d come back.

  Even worse, she knew which flight he’d be on. There were only three people with that information: Tessa, Gaby, and Marieke. He hadn’t told the Vienna police, since he didn’t want to deal with them. He hadn’t told Suarez. Hell, he hadn’t known himself until Austrian Airways confirmed his seat late in the evening the day before.

  There were only two ways the Broker could have found out. She, or someone connected to her, had called the clinic, asked for him, and Tessa or Marieke had told the caller. Extremely unlikely. The only other possibility was that someone in the Broker’s organization had access to passenger lists of incoming flights. That required access to Homeland Security computers. And that was deeply unsettling.

  Vermeulen ripped his bag from the driver’s hand and ran back into the terminal. It was too late to follow the car that had taken Jackson. But its destination wasn’t a mystery. They’d bring him to Rosenbaum’s office in Newark.

  The name-brand rental car counters were crowded. He chose a no-name company because its counter had no line. An hour later, he crossed the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge and raced across Staten Island toward New Jersey.

  Suarez and the investigation would have to wait. It wasn’t his choice, and it might well mean the end of his job. But a confrontation with the Broker was inevitable. She had made sure of that. Better it was on his terms than hers.

  The Broker had wanted to keep Jackson’s transplant separate from dealing with Vermeulen. That’s why she’d sent the fake limo. And it meant her crew was split. Two were dealing with Jackson and at least one, probably two, were supposed to deal with him. That meant Rosenbaum was alone. He was the weakest link in the whole operation. He was the one Vermeulen could pressure for the truth.

  Jackson’s role was an added complication. He’d tried to take advantage of the scam and got caught. But Jackson was Exhibit One in the case against the Broker’s organization and Rosenbaum. Jackson provided the link to Kenya. And there was something likable about that man. Maybe he had done the right thing in Nairobi.

  He crossed Goethals Bridge and merged onto the Jersey Turnpike north, then wove his way through the Newark traffic until he reached Rosenbaum’s office on MLK Boulevard.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The old brownstone on MLK Boulevard stood quiet amid the mid-afternoon bustle around the hospital. The sign still announced Dr. Rosenbaum and his medical specialty: surgery. Vermeulen circled the block once and didn’t see the black Chrysler anywhere. Either they had already delivered Jackson or they’d stashed him somewhere else. He parked on Summit and went around the block to the entrance.

  Nobody answered his first buzz. He knocked on the door. Someone ought to be in the office at three thirty in the afternoon in the middle of the week. He pushed the button again.

  Finally, he heard steps and the door opened a crack. Vermeulen could see the chain securing the door. The face of a middle-aged woman appeared in the crack.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’d like to speak with Dr. Rosenbaum.”

  “The doctor isn’t here.”

  “Hmm, that’s too bad. Do you know if he’ll come back today?”

  “No, the doctor is out for the day.”

  That was odd. According to Jackson’s last message, Rosenbaum should be expecting a very special kidney. Not the day on which you’d knock off early.

  “Well, I’d better make an appointment then. Can I do that?”

  “Of course.”

  The woman closed the door to release the chain and let Vermeulen in. The inside was decorated like every medical office Vermeulen had ever entered—off-white walls and prints of peaceful landscapes on the walls. There was a small reception area with a desk and two chairs. A hallway led to rooms in the back, a staircase to the upper floors. The woman settled into her chair behind the desk and began typing.

  “Where are you keeping him?” Vermeulen said.

  The woman looked up as if she’d misheard.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Where have you put Jackson?”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Oh, you understand just fine. I’m talking about the black man who’ll be donating a kidney against his will.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about. There is no black man here.”

  Her face had turned white. Her gaze shifted from Vermeulen to the phone on her desk and back.

  “You’re thinking about calling for help, aren’t you?”

  The woman shook her head.

  “Good. What’s your name?”

  “Eileen.”

  “You don’t want to do that, Eileen. I know enough of what’s going on in this office to put you behind bars for accessory to murder. What you want to do right now is get in my good graces. You got that?”

  Eileen nodded.

  Just to remove any lingering temptation, he unplugged the cord from the phone and yanked hard. Plastic snapped somewhere und
er the desk and the other end of the cord flew out. Wrapping it around his hand, he looked at her.

  “Your cellphone.”

  She didn’t move.

  “Listen, you people have messed up my life so thoroughly, I’m beyond cranky. Hand me your phone or I will find it myself.”

  She dug through her purse on the desk and handed him her phone. He stuck it into his jacket pocket.

  “Come over here. Turn around. Put your hands behind you.”

  He tied her wrists with the phone cord.

  “Now show me where you’ve put Jackson.”

  She headed for the stairs.

  The second floor looked as institutional as the first. The contrast to the clinic in Vienna was stark. Given how much money Rosenbaum had to be making here, he sure hadn’t put any of it into creating a pleasant space. But then, the patients here weren’t meant to linger. The recipients of the kidneys had plenty of money to recuperate elsewhere, and the donors didn’t matter.

  There were three doors along the corridor. She took him to the last one. He opened it. Inside stood a hospital bed, a chair, and a small cupboard with a cup. On the bed lay Jackson, eyes closed and breathing slowly. His wrists and ankles were strapped to the bed.

  “What did you give him?” Vermeulen said.

  Eileen shrugged.

  “Eileen, this whole operation is going down. You know that. One of your donors died. Do you want to be an accessory to murder?”

  She shook her head.

  “So tell me. What did you give him?”

  “I didn’t give him anything. I assume the doctor gave him a sedative before he left.”

  “Does that knock him out completely?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Vermeulen walked to the head of the bed and shook Jackson.

  “Hey, Jackson. Time to wake up.”

  Jackson didn’t respond. Vermeulen kept shaking him. “Come on, Jackson, let’s go. You don’t want to end up under the knife.”

  A groan emerged from Jackson’s mouth. His eyes stayed closed. Vermeulen unbuckled the straps around Jackson’s wrists and ankles and moved the arms. More groans. He slapped Jackson’s cheeks gently.

  “Come on, Jackson. Rise and shine. Time to go.”

  Jackson’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. His pupils were the size of nickels, black and unfocused. Vermeulen pulled his torso to a sitting position. Jackson was no help at all. He plopped back to the bed the moment Vermeulen let go. His eyes closed again.

  Vermeulen sampled the liquid in the cup with his pinky. It was water. He dumped it on Jackson’s face. It had the desired result. Jackson’s eyes opened again. He sputtered, raised his head, and opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

  “Jackson, we’ve got to get out of here. I can’t carry you. So you’re going to have to get up.”

  “Wha …?”

  “Get up, man.”

  Vermeulen tried to shift the legs over the edge of the bed. Jackson wasn’t much help. It took several tries to get him to sit, and then he could do so only with Vermeulen keeping him upright.

  “Listen. We’ve got to get out of here. So you have to work with me on this.”

  “Okay.”

  Vermeulen draped Jackson’s arm around his neck and tried to lift him to his feet. It was like lifting a sack of potatoes. He struggled, lost his momentum, and ended up sitting on the bed next to Jackson, who looked at him with an expression that said, Do I know you?

  Before Vermeulen could give it another try, the door slammed.

  Eileen.

  She’d waited until Vermeulen was immobilized with Jackson’s deadweight and made a run for it. He jumped up to run after her. Too late. There was no handle on the inside.

  The door wasn’t a cheap hollow-core thing you could punch through. It was wooden, installed when the brownstone was built, solid and fit properly into its frame. But it was also a panel door. Nice to look at, but not as sturdy. Vermeulen maneuvered Jackson into the chair and moved the bed aside to make more space. He stepped back and aimed a kick against the lower right panel. The door made a loud creak and a crack appeared. Another kick, and the wood splintered. With the third kick, half the panel flew into the hallway. He reached through the hole and opened the door.

  That was the easy part.

  He ran downstairs and found the front door open. Eileen had run away. The police were only minutes away.

  Back upstairs he roused Jackson, put his arm around his waist, and slung the man’s arm over his shoulder. They managed to make it out the door and into the hallway. Jackson must have realized that this was important. He tried to keep upright, moved his legs, but he was wobbly. The stairs were worse. Twice, Vermeulen had to pull Jackson back and sit him on the steps or they would have fallen down the stairs headfirst.

  The temptation was to go out the front door. It was nearest. But it was also where the cops would come in. He coaxed Jackson through the office to the back door and down the steps into a neglected yard. As he closed the back door, he heard voices at the front. No time to rest.

  A ramshackle gate in the rotten wooden fence didn’t put up much resistance. In the back alley, he pulled Jackson forward until they reached Summit, where he’d left his rental. Jackson still couldn’t stand on his own. Coaxing him into the car took more time than he had. The cops could show up any moment. After levering Jackson into the passenger seat, Vermeulen lifted his legs inside. The seatbelt kept Jackson halfway upright. They drove off.

  Passing the brownstone on MLK Boulevard, he saw two black-and-whites double-parked. Eileen stood by the second car and talked to another cop. She didn’t look his way.

  Three blocks farther, he stopped. With all the tumult, he’d forgotten to get Rosenbaum’s home address from Eileen. Damn. He reached into his jacket for his phone and found Eileen’s. Sure enough, it had Rosenbaum’s home address in Millburn, about a half hour away. Her phone’s calendar also indicated that Rosenbaum was scheduled for eight that evening. He entered the doctor’s address into the map app of his own phone and tossed Eileen’s out the window.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Vermeulen drove past Rosenbaum’s house, which bordered a wooded area next to a small lake. Past the lake, he saw more mansions. He turned around and nosed the car into a small dirt lot next to the water. It was empty and the far end wasn’t visible from the street, a perfect place to keep Jackson without attracting unwanted attention. He left the car keys on the driver’s seat, just in case. Jackson dozed in the passenger seat.

  “I’m going to visit the doctor, Jackson. Stay in the car. Don’t go anywhere. If I don’t come back in an hour or two, take the car to Newark and call the police.”

  Jackson’s response was unintelligible. Not a reassuring sign, but Vermeulen couldn’t wait for Jackson to recover. The Broker could show up any moment.

  The house was a single-story sprawl built in a U-shape, and it just kept on going. Its wings were surrounded by gardens. A semi-circular driveway connected the road to the portico. Everything about it was pompous, even the doorbell, which sounded as if it were only a fraction smaller than Big Ben itself. It rang out the entire sequence of the original. Vermeulen half expected it to count out the hours as well. People must not ring doorbells much in this part of New Jersey. Otherwise any sane person would have disconnected the button a long time ago.

  A small Latina opened the door.

  “Yes?”

  “I’d like to speak to Dr. Rosenbaum. It’s an urgent matter.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Valentin Vermeulen.”

  “Please wait.”

  She closed the door. A moment later, it was opened by another woman. She was the exact opposite of Rosenbaum. Her face looked peeled, scrubbed, the skin as tight as a drum. If Rosenbaum’s face had a life of its own, this woman was in complete control of hers. Everything was exactly where she and her surgeon had determined it should be. Her age was a mystery. Older than thirty was about all anyone could guess.


  “Can I help you?”

  Her voice had a tinge of reproach, as if he should have called at the service entrance.

  “I need to speak with Dr. Rosenbaum. It’s very urgent.”

  “This is a private residence. If you have business with my husband, you should call his office and make an appointment.”

  “I did go to his office and was told that he’d gone home. It’s a private matter.”

  “I doubt that very much. I know my husband’s private circles, and you aren’t part of them.”

  “I didn’t say I was his friend, I said it was a private matter. It’s imperative I talk to him now.”

  “Who do you think you are, coming to my door, looking like something the cat dragged in? Whatever it is you have to talk about, I’m sure my husband isn’t interested. Leave now, or I will call the police.”

  Vermeulen wasn’t surprised that the threat of the police came so quickly. The police would be on Mrs. Rosenbaum’s side. No doubt about it. And Vermeulen needed to keep them away for a little longer.

  “That would only postpone the inevitable,” he said. “Your husband is involved with some nasty characters. I’ve tracked them from Newark all the way to Vienna, Austria. That end of the operation has already been rolled up by the police. The Newark end will follow soon. Your husband’s fate depends on whether he cooperates with me or not.”

  “Who are you again?”

  “I’m Valentin Vermeulen, senior investigator for the United Nations Office of Internal Oversight Services.”

  “Senior investigator of what?”

  “The UN Office of Internal Oversight Services.”

  Repeating the information had no discernible effect on Mrs. Rosenbaum.

  “Is this a joke? Why does the UN concern itself with my husband?”

  Vermeulen pulled out his wallet and showed her his ID. “It’s far from a joke. Given the international nature of the crimes in which he’s participated, the involvement of the UN is routine.”

  It was a lie, of course, and ordinarily he’d be loath to add to the pervasive ignorance about the UN. But in this case, it was the easiest way to keep Mrs. Rosenbaum from calling the police. And it worked. Her demeanor changed from haughty to worried.