by Joe Nobody
Ghost seemed to be studying his hands, his mind obviously occupied with dozens of potential issues. After a bit, he again spoke. “Are they good enough to move product around the area?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
Chapter 5
“Where to now?” Sam asked, the frustration bleeding through as she tugged the pickup’s door.
Zach wasn’t much happier. For three days, the pair of rangers had interviewed no less than 14 different executives, managers, dockworkers, and expeditors. All told basically the same story – many of the parts manufactured by KKT were commodity items and sold on the open market. There was no telling who had sourced the shipment to Damascus.
A complex worldwide network of wholesalers, distributors, and value-added resellers flourished, any of which could have procured the now-famous part being splashed all over the internet by ISIS. None of them were supposed to, given the United Nations sanctions, but that didn’t seem to make any difference to the international community.
“Blowout preventers, valves, pumps, and other tools are mostly standard in size and specification,” the CEO of KKT had informed Zach. “We manufacture hundreds of them per year. Some sit in warehouses for months before being transported to the field. Others are resold on the secondary market or offered as used components.”
“But an entire shipment?” Sam had pushed. “I can see one or two parts being smuggled into Syria, but an entire freighter full?”
“We don’t believe that,” the executive smugly replied. “There’s no evidence to support that claim. In the meantime, I’ve had nearly 200 million dollars in orders canceled since that story hit the airwaves. Our stock has dropped over 40%. I’ve had my ass chewed by everyone from my banker to our shareholders. We didn’t do anything wrong, yet I’m going to have to start laying off workers if the truth doesn’t come to light soon.”
What KKT could provide was a place to begin tracing a particular part number. Zach was sure it would be a wild goose chase. The serial number of the unit touted by ISIS had originally been shipped to a Beaumont area reseller almost two years ago.
Now, sitting in front of the KKT headquarters, Zach pondered their next move. “You know the major. He’ll want every lead followed, every fact double-checked. I suppose we head down to the Port of Houston and verify that our mystery part did, in fact, get loaded onto a ship.”
“Oh, the excitement,” Sam replied. “I can hardly wait.”
Zach shifted the truck in gear, happy to leave corporate America in his rearview mirror. As they headed south, Sam’s mood improved. “I used to know a great place to eat down here. When I was working homicide for HPD, we had a case that forced me to spend a lot of time around the port.”
“What kind of food?”
“It’s a French bistro with salads, lots of fresh fruit, light soups… and the best homemade bread you ever tasted,” Sam claimed.
“French? Really? Salads?” Zach cynically replied.
The two rangers arrived at the waterfront, Zach studying the GPS’s instructions to find the correct address. Finally, a small sign announcing the offices of Great Southern Freight came into view.
It was in the massive harbor’s older section, and it was nothing like the rangers expected.
Rather than a busy, massive warehouse being crisscrossed with darting forklifts and shouting men in hardhats, the duo found a small, dusty, quiet office.
Sam took the lead, flashing her badge and announcing, “Ranger Temple, I’d like to speak to the manager, please.”
“He’s not here,” replied the older lady behind the modest, plywood counter.
“We need to verify a shipment record and bill of lading. Is there anyone here who can help us?” Sam pressed, returning the badge to her belt.
“I didn’t know they had lady rangers,” the woman answered. “That sounds like a great job. Is 46 too old to apply?”
Sam glanced at the woman’s oversized waist and then at the nearly full ashtray sitting beside a pack of cigarettes. She started to make a snide comment but then reconsidered. The rangers were known for their polite interaction with everyday citizens. Adjusting to a warm, albeit pasted-on smile, Sam responded, “I don’t know the actual maximum age to apply. But trust me, it’s not as exciting as those cop shows on television. Now about my shipment….”
“My name’s Doris,” the lady said, returning the smile. “Let’s see now… what was the date you wanted?” she continued, spinning her chair toward a computer resting along the back wall.
Zach pulled a small notepad from his back pocket, flipping to the second page. After giving Doris the date specified by the KKT computers, he watched as a deep scowl crossed the receptionist’s face. “Oh my, that long ago? We only keep the last 12 months on the computers. Somebody will have to go over to storage and look that up.”
“And who might help us with that?” Sam inquired.
“You’ll need Andy to do that. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“No problem, ma’am. Now, where might we find Andy?”
“Well, he’s in Corpus today. You see, his grandmother passed away. Poor old thing – she must have been ninety. Anyway, he’s at the funeral today. Pallbearer, ya know. But he’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
The two rangers left empty-handed, long looks of disappointment adorning their faces. Neither noticed a young man working in the back room.
After watching Zach’s pickup pull away, the coworker turned and said, “Doris, I’m not feeling well today. I think I’ll head out a few minutes early.”
“Okay, hun. I hope you get to feeling better.”
“Don’t tell Andy, okay?”
“No problem sweeties,” she winked.
Less than a minute later, the young man pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. “Two Texas Rangers were just here. They’re tracking down the shipment. I thought you’d like to know.”
After spending an uneventful evening in yet another featureless hotel room, the duo of law officers had finally managed to verify that the shipment had indeed left Houston. Andy had been less than enthusiastic about helping them at first, eventually agreeing to dig up the old records. The discovery prompted a jaunt to the far eastern corner of Texas.
While Zach monitored the in-dash GPS in an effort to avoid missing a turn, Sam scanned the latest updates to the case’s file via her laptop.
“There’s no record of that Syrian bound freighter anywhere to be found. No route was filed, no customs paperwork, no declarations,” she announced, closing the computer’s screen. “The FBI and CIA claim they’ve got nothing but a satellite photo of a ship arriving at the port. A vessel, I might add, that they think is the one we are looking for. Not much help,” she sighed, returning the small tablet to its case and then stretching out her back as best she could in the confined space. “At least we’re not the only dogs barking up the wrong tree.”
Zach frowned, “So here we go again. The media is all over this, like flies on a fresh cow pie. No one is reporting the details or letting the world know that those parts could have come from practically anywhere. This story is all being fueled by sensationalism, and the people of Texas are going to suffer because of it.”
“Washington hasn’t helped,” Sam added. “They seem to enjoy making the Republic look like a misbehaving child.”
Shortly after passing Beaumont, the GPS voice advised Zach to turn right, their destination less than a mile away.
A few minutes later, the rangers pulled into the parking lot of East Texas Tool Supply, the company that had originally purchased what was being called the “Damascus Bomb” by the media.
The rangers found weeds growing through the cracks in the pavement’s parking lot, the metal-sided industrial building’s exterior now rusty and boarded up. Even the peeling, faded sign was dangling at one end of the clearly faulty roof.
“Bullshit and saddle sores,” Zach muttered. “So much for tracing the part.”
“Another dea
d end. Damn it, Major Putnam is going to be furious.”
Sam used her hand to brush away a thick coating of dust and weather-grime, peeking in the front door just to be sure. An official-looking notice caught her eye.
“Says here that they had a tax auction several months ago. I wonder if there’s any record of who purchased the inventory.”
“Can’t hurt to give it a shot,” Zach answered, glancing over her shoulder. “Let’s head down to the courthouse and see what the clerk has to say.”
The 50’s style diner didn’t have any cameras, of that Ghost was sure.
After ordering a light breakfast, he made for the furthest table along the southern wall.
For ten minutes, he studied the few patrons and the front door. No one followed him in; no one seemed to notice his presence.
The coffee shop next door advertised free, wireless access to the internet. Carefully removing his tablet computer, he checked the signal strength of the neighboring router. It was enough.
The tablet’s standard operating system had been replaced with a special, rarely used brand of Linux. All of the popular, commonly installed binaries were easy for the authorities to hack, check history, and recover deleted files. While there were professionals who could break into Ghost’s device, it was unlikely any of them were in the employ of a government or police force.
He set the timer on his watch for four minutes. A digital security expert had once explained that tracing an internet connection was like tracing a phone call – it required a little time.
He then entered a series of three passwords and afterward pressed his thumb against the touchscreen. A rather plain looking display appeared.
Despite all of the risk and exposure, Ghost’s mission, employment, and life-long aspiration to harm all things associated with the royal line that had murdered his family required that people be able to contact him. Cell phones were strictly off-limits, as were common email and text messages.
The phone number used by the Houston caller was actually a professional answering service in Paris. For a small monthly fee, the French firm would automatically translate any phone message into an email, including the original voice recording as an attachment.
His first email account was in Turkey, and a dead drop. It had been a simple configuration to have all messages automatically forwarded to a second IP address, this one just outside of Moscow. They were then immediately deleted from the Istanbul Internet provider’s storage. Untraceable.
In Russia, a slightly more expensive service would encrypt any incoming message. Ghost had to laugh, remembering the day he’d discovered the Moscow company’s primary customers were call girls. They used a nearly identical protocol to protect their clientele.
“Why not?” he’d chuckled. “Aren’t we all whores of one sort or another?”
When he read the message from Houston, the Arab thought one of the translators had made a mistake. Taking an unusual, risky step, he listened to the actual recording.
At 2:14 on his watch’s countdown timer, Ghost closed the message and shut down the tablet. The servers in Moscow were just deleting the email and scrambling memory as the Arab rushed out the door.
The valet at the Grand Hotel was nearly asleep when Ghost appeared at his side. Until mid-afternoon, when the new check-ins started arriving, little would be going on.
After recovering from his start, the man recognized one of the guests. “I’m sorry, sir. You scared the crap out of me. How can I help you?”
Flashing a $20 bill, the Arab lowered his voice to a confidential whisper, “I’ve been seeing a married woman, and I’m afraid her husband might be waiting for me in the lobby. He’s a huge man with dark hair and many tattoos. Could you check for me? I don’t want any trouble.”
With a knowing smile and nod, the valet accepted the tip and strolled casually toward the entrance… eventually going inside to scout the lobby.
As soon as the hotel employee had disappeared, Ghost reached up and opened the wooden key box. He studied the array of hooks inside until he found the row containing the labels, “Courtesy 1” and “Courtesy 2.”
Like other better hotels, the Grand provided courtesy cars for its customers. The service often included rides to the airport and major events. Ghost didn’t think anyone would miss one of the vehicles this early in the day, so he deftly slid the keys to #2 in his pocket.
After the valet’s report that no such gentleman waited in ambush, Ghost thanked the valet and quickly strolled inside. He rode the elevator to the sixth floor, entered his room to collect a few belongings, and then used the fire stairs to exit the back of the hotel.
Minutes later, Ghost was driving the practically new sedan through the streets, looking for the signs that would take him to the interstate.
Texas was only an hour away, a big part of the reason why Lake Charles had been selected.
The county clerk, or, as she pointed out to Zach, assistant clerk, remembered the public sale. “Organizing the tax auctions is the worst part of this job. I’ve lived in this county all my life, and I hate it when we have to take someone’s property.”
With flashlight in hand, the party proceeded to the dank-smelling basement, complete with row upon row of green metal filing cabinets.
It was with no small amount of pride that the clerk produced the county’s record of the auction. Ten minutes later, Zach lowered the documents, the telltale grimace indicative of his frustration. While there were over 30 pages of inventory listed, no parts numbers had been noted.
“Who was the auctioneer?” Sam asked her partner.
“You don’t need the records for that sweetie. We always use the same one. Teddy Lindenhurst is the best around.”
“Do you think he would have kept more detailed paperwork?” Zach asked, but there was little optimism in his tone.
“Maybe, maybe not. But I bet he remembers who bought which items. He’s good about that sort of thing. Even though he’s 74 years old, his memory is that of a young man.”
With Mr. Lindenhurst’s address in hand, the two rangers were again on the road.
“I appreciate this fancy GPS more than ever,” Zach commented, punching in the numbers.
The rangers were only a few miles from the auctioneer’s address when the flashing strobe of red lights appeared in the rearview mirror. “What the hell?” Zach grunted, pulling to the side of the road as a firetruck rushed past.
A minute later, a second unit roared by.
“You don’t think?” Sam asked, a worried look on her face.
“Naw, probably just a brush fire.”
But the ranger’s attitude changed after the next turn. Mr. Lindenhurst’s home was ablaze, fully engulfed, with a huge column of dark smoke in contrast to the bright blue Texas sky.
The volunteers were fighting a gallant battle, dragging hoses and getting as close to the inferno as possible. Red flames were already licking the top of the shingle roof, rolling black clouds of smoke and ash pouring through the windows. After flashing their badges, Zach rushed to help two men struggling with a hose while Sam moved to direct what little traffic was in the remote area. It was obvious the home was a complete loss.
Zach asked a couple of men the critical question, “Is there anyone inside?”
No one knew, but one of the firemen nodded toward the driveway. “Two cars,” he said. “Doesn’t look good.”
The blaze eventually burned itself out, the volunteers unable to influence the outcome. “It was already out of control before we arrived,” one man stated in disgust. “Now comes the worst part.”
With their heavy boots and coats, two of the firefighters gingerly began poking through what little remained of the still-hot structure. It only took a few minutes before one of them lifted a smoldering section of wall with his pike and then shouted for the chief. “We’re going to need an ambulance. I’ve got at least one over here.”
“Shit!” Zach spouted, throwing his partner a troubled glance. “The timin
g of this is very, very suspicious. I’m not much for coincidences.”
“It’s too early to start drawing conclusions, Zach,” she replied, “but I’ve got to admit, it looks damned strange.”
“Someone is covering his tracks.”
The firemen, probing the steaming rubble called again. “Make that two ambulances, Chief. We’ve got another one.”
After the firemen decided it was safe, Sam borrowed a pair of knee-high fire boots and was escorted into the building. Her years working HPD homicide made her the logical choice for the gruesome task.
The first step was to photograph the scene. Zach retrieved a quality camera from the pickup, double-checked the batteries, and gave his partner a sincere look as if to convey, “Hang in there.”
The first body was male, the lady ranger’s basic knowledge of human anatomy noting the exposed hipbones. Snapping photos at every step, Sam then asked one of the firemen to move another section of charred wall, thus exposing the upper torso.
After Sam had taken a dozen pictures, the firefighters lifted the dead from the ashes and carried the victims to the yard. Zach joined his partner.
Despite the intense heat and flames, there was still flesh on the upper body. Sam knew in less than a minute that Mr. Lindenhurst had been murdered. More specifically, his throat had been cut.
“I’ve seen it before,” she informed Zach. “You can see a separation of the muscle around the neck. It was a clean cut, not a tear from some other trauma. The fire was set to hide the murder… or murders.”
While Sam continued to inspect Mr. Lindenhurst’s remains, Zach moved to the female victim.
