Lilac and Old Gold

by Jeff Siebold

  “Clive, here.” He heard the familiar voice with a touch of Aristocratic England in the rich baritone.

  “It’s Zeke. Most curious, I was at the exchange, the coffee shop, and a fellow showed up with a backpack, hung around for a few minutes, then left the bag on a table and took off. He didn’t get across the street before he was neutralized. It looked like a pro hit.”

  “And the bag?” asked Clive.

  “I have it. I’m planning to get it somewhere safe and hidden quickly,” said Zeke.

  “Do you require assistance?” asked Clive.

  Zeke smiled. “Not yet,” he said, and hung up the cell phone.

  First order of business, he thought, is to get this bag someplace safe. He pulled a random book from a nearby shelf, sat and pretended to peruse it.

  Earlier, while walking, he had planned for safe interim storage. Eventually, he would arrange for someone in The Agency to pick it up and get it back to the Secret Service.

  It’s too awkward to mail or ship it to myself, he’d considered. And it’s too big to hide it easily. There were people he could have asked to hold it for him – in the office at the apartments or maybe a librarian – but that involved other people, and other people were an additional risk. In the meantime, he needed it safe.

  The campus Student Union had lockers for rent, the kind you could find in an airport or bus station in some places. You could put your item in the locker, push in a couple of dollars in quarters, and extract the key for short-term storage. Not a bad option, and pretty anonymous with no trail leading back to Zeke if it were found.

  Looking around the library, he noticed the same people as when he entered the room—no new faces. He settled in to read for a reasonable amount of time before heading across campus to the Student Union. If anyone were following him, he’d wait for them to show themselves.

  Zeke selected the local paper, as well as a copy of The Economist magazine, and moved to a comfortable reading chair facing the entrance and the research desk. He set his backpack on the floor between his feet, leaning it slightly against his calf, feeling the heft of it as he scanned the paper.

  Falling oil prices were being celebrated in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, while in the magazine they were being blamed for the near failure of several smaller European Union economies. A robbery gone wrong in Knoxville had resulted in a hostage situation, and yet another school shooting was reported, this time in a small Michigan town. Where’s the love, he wondered?

  Chapter 7

  Back at the coffee shop, Tracy was interviewing the barista, Susan, and noting her comments in a small black notebook. She had circled the block and checked in with her two spotters, who had been located in a second floor classroom across the street from the shop. They had seen the man in the khaki’s and black shoes leave the coffee shop, and they had seen the accident. And then, unexpectedly, they saw the Cadillac driver finish the job and drive out of their sight. They had taken digital pictures, but there were no license tags on the Cadillac and no identifying marks.

  Susan didn’t really have any information for Tracy. Yes, she had seen the man walk in. No, it wasn’t anyone she’d seen before. No, he didn’t speak to her; he just stayed by the door, mostly, looking out at the street. She had stepped into the back, the storage area, to get more coffee filters, and when she came back he had already left.

  The line at the coffee shop grew long while Tracy spoke with Susan. One cashier was helping customers, but he was struggling to keep up with the increasing line. Classes were over, and the shop was filling up.

  When asked, Susan didn’t remember the backpack, or any case or bag for that matter; but she hadn’t spent much time thinking about the man. She had been working through her end of the shift checklist, getting a jump on it, and brewing more of the Ethiopian coffee while all this was going on.

  “Actually, “ Susan said, “you were a lot closer to him than I was. He was blocking your way when you first came in.”

  Tracy nodded as she finished her notation. She had flipped her badge to the outside of her shirt pocket, where it was more visible and authoritative. “Who else was in here?” she asked.

  “Well, the guy with the computer, and that other guy, the one who was sitting there...I saw you talking with him when you came in,” said Susan.

  “Can you tell me anything about him?” she asked.

  “Not really.” Susan thought about it for a moment. “He drank the dark, the Ethiopian, and ordered it with room for cream. He was here for about 20 minutes, had an iPad with him, I think. He was reading something.”

  “How did he pay?” asked Tracy, thinking about credit card numbers.

  “Cash, and I gave him a refill,” Susan remembered. “Oh, I think he said his name was Zeke. Something like that. Does that help?”

  “Zeke...sure, good.” she noted this, smiling to herself. “What do you know about the guy with the computer?” asked Tracy.

  “He had a small vanilla latte. I think he was watching a movie on his computer. He seemed pretty absorbed in something,” added Susan. “Oh, and he paid cash, also. That’s all I know...he didn’t say much.”

  “OK,” said Tracy. “Please write your name and phone number down for me, Susan. I appreciate your help.”

  * * *

  Zeke looked up and saw the small man, George the assassin, enter the library and immediately move away from the door, to the right and to the cover of the bookshelves, with practiced precision. The man’s quick, business-like manner was all that was needed to set off alarms in Zeke’s mind. Zeke recognized him from the street in front of the coffee shop, from the accident scene.

  In a smooth motion Zeke was out of the chair and behind the nearest shelves with his backpack in tow. No need to hurry, but keep moving, he told himself. He set the magazine on a shelf as he worked his way toward the back stairwell. The library stacks were between him and the small man who was still moving laterally while watching the library staff and students, looking for something or someone. Looking for Zeke.

  Chapter 8

  Zeke entered the library stairwell and took the stairs up, two at a time. The small man seemed organized, and Zeke was concerned that the street level exits might be covered. The school library was a three-story building, with stacks and reference on the first two floors, and archives on the top floor.

  Entering the archives quietly, and holding the stairwell door to keep it from making a sound as it closed, Zeke moved quietly in his rubber soled Sperry’s around the perimeter of the large open room. There were a couple of people at tables, both facing away from the direction he chose.

  There were offices around the exterior of the space on three sides, each with glass walls and a wooden door. Zeke found that most were unlocked. The central area was open, housing moveable shelves, tables and chairs and a couple of computer terminals. Zeke moved directly to a vacant corner office, opened the door and closed it quietly behind him. He also shut the wooden blinds. The corner offices had locks on their doors, and he threw the latch.

  As is typical in modern office space, the ceiling was a 2’x 2’ drop ceiling, with vinyl grid ceiling tiles. The desk chair was on rollers, so Zeke pulled a visitor’s chair around the desk to the outside corner of the office. Standing on it, he lifted the corner tile and then the two tiles on either side of it. There was a reinforced ridge that followed the seam of the ceiling where it met the exterior walls. Zeke knew the ridge was the strongest area of the ceiling, closest to the wall attachment hardware.

  Quickly, he slid the wrapped bundles above the ceiling tile, spreading them out across several tiles. Then he added the individually wrapped plates. A minute later, he had returned the tiles, repositioned the chair and dusted off the seat. He looked in the center desk drawer for an office key, but had no luck. A small tray in the top right hand drawer held a spare key attached to a paperclip and marked “OD”, probably for “Office Door”. A moment later, he opened the blinds and went out the office door, careful to c
heck that the key worked, and then locked the latch as he left. It was late Friday afternoon, and most likely the office’s occupant wouldn’t be back for a while. Staff hours in the library were 9 to 5, Monday through Friday. There was a skeleton staff on weekends but not much going on in the Archive area. He had checked on this during his preparation.

  With his empty backpack over his left shoulder, Zeke headed back toward the stairwell.

  * * *

  A few minutes earlier, George had finished searching the open floors of the library methodically, while looking like someone trying to orient himself in the building. He wandered back to the main door and asked the librarian at the counter an innocuous question. Then he walked through the reading area, looking for Zeke between the stacks as he went.

  George decided that the blond man would have to exit the building eventually, so he took a place just outside the main exit door to wait. From there he could see both the main library entrance and the side exit, a self-closing emergency exit door with a push bar that latched on the inside when it closed.

  * * *

  Tracy Johnson was anxious. Alberto Cruz never showed up. And the guy wearing khakis had been killed in a hit and run and the printer plates had disappeared. And then there was the blond guy. What did Susan say his name was? Tracy checked her notebook. Zeke, that’s it, who coincidentally disappeared about the time the bag went missing. And Tracy didn’t believe in coincidences.

  But, she thought, he was good looking. Nice eyes. Maybe he’ll make my job simple and call me.

  This whole incident began with Alberto Cruz. Alberto Cruz had been an important contact for her unit, a former counterfeiter from the north border of Mexico who had worked for a Mexican cartel that was controlled by a man called Jefe. Jefe’s operation was based in San Luis Rio Colorado just south of Yuma, Arizona.

  During their initial interviews, Tracy found out that Cruz was involved in the counterfeiting process in Mexico. He had been recruited into an uneasy partnership with a Mexican cartel, a part of the process of making $100 bills. The cartel members would print the bills and send them over the border. In Phoenix and San Diego and Los Angeles they were delivered to customers in return for real cash, about fifteen cents on the dollar. A bit higher than normal, but the quality of the bogus bills was very good.

  Alberto Cruz was not a tall man, but he was substantial. His body type tended toward thick, and with straight, black hair and brown eyes, he had a Mexican-Hispanic look that was supported by his heritage, part European Spanish, part African and a large part Native American. When they first met, Cruz was dressed shabbily, wearing blue pants, a long sleeved, plaid shirt and work boots.

  Alberto Cruz had an honest looking face and a sincere manner that somehow instilled confidence in those around him. He seemed concerned about other people, and he was somewhat self-effacing, a quality that enhanced his likability. Cruz wore black-rimmed glasses, nothing fancy, and had small hands with narrow, even elegant fingers. His nails were ragged but clean, and there were no marks or tattoos on them.

  There are bad guys, and there are bad guys, but this guy isn’t out to hurt anyone, Tracy remembered thinking at the end of the first interview. He got caught up in this counterfeiting, a victimless crime for the most part. And like a lot of people, it went too quickly, and his family got hurt. Now he wants out. I can understand that.

  When an opportunity finally arose, Cruz told them he had run to Phoenix and then to Atlanta (flown, actually) but was inconveniently spotted by one of Jefe’s men, who were checking the outgoing flights from the Phoenix airport. Apparently, he was followed from there, and his place of residence and automobile information were reported back to Jefe in San Luis Rio Colorado. All in return for a few pesos, no doubt.

  Cruz was a realist. He had worked closely enough with Jefe’s gang to know that he was as good as dead, but he held on to the hope of saving his family. After a couple of days of being followed by some of Jefe’s people, he went to the Atlanta police, who in turn called the Secret Service, who passed him on to Tracy’s unit.

  “I’m Tracy Johnson, Mr. Cruz,” Tracy had said at the start of their first interview. “The Atlanta Police have told me an interesting story about you.”

  “Yes,” said Cruz, “I have a curious past. You will want to know what I know,” he continued.

  “You’re being threatened right now?” Tracy continued.

  “Yes, I am,” said Cruz.

  “By whom?” Tracy asked.

  “By Jefe. Senor Antonio Gurrerra is his real name. He runs the Mexican gangs in the northern part of my country. He is a violent and unforgiving man,” said Cruz.

  “What did you bring with you when you left Mexico?” asked Tracy.

  “Nothing. I am in danger because I left the work I was doing, and I escaped,” said Cruz. “Jefe does not tolerate disobedience.”

  “Counterfeiting work,” Tracy confirmed.

  “Yes,” said Cruz.

  “U.S. dollars,” said Tracy.

  “Si, yes,” said Cruz, nodding.

  “What denomination?”

  “Sorry?” asked Cruz.

  “What size bills? How much? Cuánto?”

  “I only know what my part was. I had access to quite a number of the $100 bills.”

  “How do you know that you’re in danger,” asked Tracy.

  “My nephew, my sister’s child, he lived with me in San Luis Rio Colorado. After I left, he was shot dead. He was just a boy, only fifteen years old. And then I received a phone call explaining that the rest of my family was also in danger, unless I gave them what they wanted,” said Cruz.

  “And you have something that they want?” asked Tracy.

  “Well, that may be so,” said Cruz with a self-effacing smile.

  Tracy had been associated with the Counterfeiting Section for six years, starting shortly after she joined the Secret Service. Two years earlier, after she had been passed over for a promotion that she clearly deserved, she’d had her fill of Washington, DC politics and its snowy weather, and requested a transfer to the Atlanta field office. The transfer had come through with unexpected speed, leaving her with the impression that the desire for her to move on was apparently mutual.

  For 137 years the Secret Service had been a part of the Treasury Department. Their responsibilities, as conceived by President Lincoln were to suppress counterfeit currency after the end of the Civil War. Those responsibilities were expanded in 1901 to include protecting the president, in response to the assassination of President William McKinley. After 9/11, one hundred years later, the Secret Service became a part of the newly formed Department of Homeland Security, along with 21 other federal agencies including TSA, the Coast Guard, FEMA and Customs. The Secret Service has now been in existence for 150 years.

  Honestly, Atlanta wasn’t a hotbed of counterfeiting activity, and the local Secret Service office spent quite a bit of its time educating local businesses. They focused on banks and retail businesses, and particularly those that handled large amounts of cash. Chasing down criminal enterprises was a very small part of Tracy’s day-to-day job. Their offices were more administrative than most law enforcement agencies.

  “What else do they want, Mr. Cruz?” asked Tracy. “If they were just getting even with you, I suspect you’d have disappeared already. You said that they know where you’re living.”

  “Where I’m living?” said Cruz.

  “Where you’re staying in Atlanta.”

  “Oh, yes, they do,” said Cruz.

  “What else is there?” asked Tracy again.

  “Well, there is the matter of the counterfeit printer plates,” said Cruz.

  Chapter 9

  During their interviews, Tracy learned a lot about the counterfeit operation. “Mr. Cruz, how big of an operation are we talking about? What does Jefe gross on the sale of bad currency?”

  “Eh, gross?” said Cruz.

  “How much does he make?” she asked.

  “Once the the pl
ates were finished, he had the ability to print about ten million dollars in counterfeit money,” Cruz said.

  “Ten million dollars a year?” asked Tracy.

  “No, ten million dollars a month,” said Cruz. “The thing that limited the production was the paper,” he continued. “If he had more paper, he could have printed much more.”

  “What about the color fibers and the holograms?” asked Tracy.

  “Holograms?” asked Cruz. “What is that?”

  “Hologramas,” said Tracy, referring to her notes.

  “Oh, no, Jefe printed bills from 2013, before all of that was changed,” said Cruz. “He is very careful, and very smart.”

  “Where did he get the paper?” she asked.

  “I don’t know that, Miss Tracy. Trucks delivered it at night. I saw them drive into the warehouse, and the next morning we had a paladar of paper for the printing press.”

  “Paladar?” asked Tracy.

  “You know, rolls of paper on a large wooden frame...for the forklift to move it,” said Cruz.

  “Pallet?” said Tracy.

  “Si, yes, pallet,” agreed Cruz.

  * * *

  Zeke descended the library stairs, passing the second floor and continuing to the street level of the building. He passed no one on the stairs and stepped out the side door into the sunshine. He looked around once, and although he didn’t see him, there was a good chance that the small man was nearby. Zeke took out a disposable cell phone and dialed a number from memory. He started across the campus toward the Engineering Building, his phone to his ear.

  The call was answered on the second ring. This number was always answered on the second ring. Had it been any different, Zeke would have hung up, wiped his phone electronically, removed the SIM card, and dropped it in the nearest storm sewer.

  “4273,” said a female voice. She repeated the last four digits that Zeke had dialed but had transposed two numbers, the 7 and the 3. Anyone calling that number would have assumed that they had dialed incorrectly, and a second call to the same number would always go unanswered.