Omega Blue

by Mel Odom

“The sarge didn’t ask you what you wanted.” The speaker was a young giant in uniform. His short shirtsleeves were rolled up to show off his biceps. He moved his baton without warning, slamming it toward Wilson’s head.

  Taking a step back, Wilson hooked his arm inside the young policeman’s elbow and broke the force of the blow. The baton slid by without touching him. Grasping his attacker’s wrist, Wilson jerked it behind the man’s back, then twisted the baton free with his other hand. He swung the baton forcefully between the policeman’s legs, hooked the pistol grip handle in front of the guy’s crotch, and yanked.

  With a shrill bleat of pain, the policeman dropped to the steps and tried to curl up in a fetal position.

  Wilson let him, but kept the baton’s pistol grip pressed against the policeman’s throat.

  Instantly guns were drawn on both sides.

  Wilson knew the policemen wouldn’t fire. There were too many bystanders, innocent and otherwise. Mac had revealed the cut-down Mossberg 590 shotgun under his trench coat, while Rawley had fisted the MAC-11 holstered under his sheepskin jacket, and January showed them the explosive detonator in his hand.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God, he’s got a bomb.”

  “I want to see Vache,” Wilson repeated.

  The sergeant peered at the FBI SAC over the sights of his pistol. “You can’t do this, Wilson.”

  “I already have,” Wilson replied. “Isaacs didn’t leave me a choice.”

  “They’re going to lock you up and throw away the key.”

  A momentary image of Kasey at the center filled Wilson’s mind and he had to force it away before it distracted him. He had to remain cool and aloof in order to force Isaacs and Cashion to deal with him. “I don’t think so.”

  “You guys aren’t going to get away with this,” the sergeant said.

  Wilson read the sergeant’s name tag. “I’m not here to get away with anything, Knox. I’m just trying to set some things straight before they get any worse.”

  “You’re insane.” The pistol was wavering in Knox’s hands. “You people can’t come in police headquarters by force.”

  Mac spoke in a drawl, soft and dead and without passion. “You boys given any thought as to how you’re going to walk back inside that police station without us?”

  One of the cops cursed fearfully.

  The two lines of media defining the combat zone instantly dropped back a few more yards.

  “Even if your SWAT snipers get of killing shots,” Rawley said, “there’s gonna be huge mess of blood and body parts on these steps. The man wants to talk. Me, I’d let him talk.”

  “Tell Isaacs,” Wilson said as the young policeman at his feet moaned. “Tell him right now.”

  Knox spoke rapidly on the walkie-talkie belted at his waist. There was only a brief hesitation before the answer came back, then they were moving slowly toward the front entrance of the building.

  Wilson blew on the T-jack’s mike. “Maggie.”

  “Go.”

  They walked through the entrance of the police headquarters, guns still out and pointed. In the background, other uniformed officers scurried around the desk sergeant’s workstation and hustled the morning’s collection of lawbreakers to different parts of the building.

  “It’s show time,” Wilson said. His boots sounded loud as they thumped against the floor.

  “We’re only minutes away,” Scuderi replied.

  “That’s going to be cutting it thin.”

  “We’re in!” Valentine shouted. “Slade, we’re in!”

  “Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back, kid,” Wilson said. “Stand by to transmit.”

  “You got it.”

  Mac was smiling as he rugged at the T-jack’s receiver in his ear. “Boy can be downright exuberant, can’t he?”

  Wilson nodded. “Not the elevator,” he told Knox. It would be too easy to confine them in the cage. “I want you and two other people to accompany us up the stairs.”

  Knox volunteered two people that didn’t look like they felt honored.

  As a group, never out of arm’s length of the Boston policemen, they started up the stairs with Darnell January in the lead.

  Wilson gazed up the flights of stairs and saw armed men waiting above them as more armed men filled in the gap they left as they went up the stairs.

  “I want a conference room,” Wilson told Knox. “Something with a computer, and a satlink.”

  “I’ve got to hand it to you,” Knox said as he holstered his weapon. “You’ve got more guts than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

  “Who dares wins,” Rawley said.

  “The Special Air Service, right?” Knox asked as they started up another flight of stairs.

  Wilson saw the flash in Mac’s eyes that said the man had filed away another possible tidbit concerning Rawley’s mysterious past.

  “Darth Vader,” Rawley said with crooked grin beneath the mirror shades.

  *

  Long minutes later, as perspiration was starting to dapple Knox’s round face, they reached he third-floor conference room. Earl Vache was standing in the hallway beside the door, looking tense and confused.

  “Slade,” Vache said.

  “Later,” Wilson replied. “We need to talk in private so I can lay this thing out for you.” He told Mac and the others to stand guard while he stepped into the conference room with Vache. Knox and two more policemen continued to serve as hostages. The door hissed closed behind them, and Wilson stepped to the room’s telephone and computer. Opening a window in the upper right-hand corner of the monitor, he accessed a local cable news channel he remembered from the array of vehicles parked in front of police headquarters.

  The window cleared at once while he dialed, showing Congressman Lamar Cashion engaged in animated discussion with reporters. “… promise to arrest FBI Agent Slade Wilson and put the whole Omega Blue department in stasis till we review and decide whether this kind of unit is a viable law enforcement tool.”

  “Cashion’s not kidding around here ,” Vache said quietly.

  “Neither am I,” Wilson said. “It’s time some housecleaning was done in this department. And I’ve finally got a broom.” He switched off the volume on the television channel but continued watching the congressman posture and pontificate.

  Scuderi answered the phone.

  Putting the phone on speaker function, Wilson said, “Download the files as I cover them.”

  “Affirmative,” Scuderi answered in a professional tone.

  “Pay attention,” Wilson said to Vache, “we’re going to have to move fast.”

  Front and profile pictures of a distinguished looking man filled the screen.

  “Three men,” Wilson said in summary as he pointed to the screen. “First up, Alexander Silverton.”

  “Boston blue blood,” Vache said as he unwrapped a stick of gum and slipped it into his mouth.

  “You’re familiar with him?”

  “He funds a lot of the stuff Cashion represents in the House. I’ve had occasion to check him out.”

  Wilson nodded, then quickly filled in as much of Silverton’s background as he deemed necessary, bringing up the connection to JetStar Investments last. Scuderi and Valentine moved through frame after frame of information, showing how JetStar worked, showing how widespread the buyouts had been.

  “Across the board,” Wilson continued, “this city was quietly going up for sale. Economic hardships, labor layoffs, government funding for several projects like housing and DHS, all those factors were contributing to tighten the cash flow in Boston. Need a loan to expand your business, settle insurance claims, float your company for a few months till the current cash crisis goes away, or to buy new equipment to replace the machinery that’s gone beyond anyone’s ability to repair? JetStar Investments was there. Only you didn’t know it was JetStar because JetStar was twenty-six different investors on paper. Tracing an investment back from stateside was nearly impossible. Valentine and Scuderi trie
d it. If we hadn’t turned up the information in the jackal network, and from the bookie and hijacking operations, we wouldn’t have known about it either.”

  “How much?” Vache asked quietly.

  “JetStar Investments owns twenty-one percent of Boston as of this moment.” Wilson paused to let that sink in. “And they are continuing to buy. In another year, possibly a year and a half, JetStar will own forty percent of this city.”

  “Silverton can’t do that. Why hasn’t RICO and the antitrust agencies uncovered this?”

  “We weren’t exactly looking for it ourselves.” Wilson had Scuderi move the monitor on, revealing a picture of Tonsung Min in front of a Korean restaurant in Pyongyang. More stills circulated across the monitor, showing Min with the diplomatic attaché in Washington, D.C., obviously trying to avoid the cameras. “Know him?”

  “No.”

  “Tonsung Min. He’s registered at the embassy under another name.”

  Another image flashed onto the screen, showing Min under the name Dae Li Yun. According to his cover, he was an undersecretary and wouldn’t be exposed much to the public.

  “I take it,” Vache said, “that he’s not the undersecretary he’s supposed to be.”

  “Hardly. He’s an intermediary used by Korean crime syndicates. Supposed to be retired and only involves himself in the biggest of big deals for a large percentage. The CIA had a thick file on him. They’ve used him a few times themselves.”

  “Does the CIA know Min’s inside the United States?”

  “If they do, they’re not telling. Valentine checked, but he couldn’t nail down any paper circulating on Min.”

  “What’s he doing in this?”

  Wilson went through JetStar assets again, showing Vache where Min’s signature represented a third of the investment capital flowing through the veins and arteries of Boston’s financial pump like blood poisoning.

  “Silverton has been lobbying in favor of foreign investments for years. Whether he or Min put this deal together, Silverton would know who in Boston financial circles would be willing to join with them. Besides investing their liquid assets, Silverton’s Boston partners could contribute information about businesses that were foundering, probably even pointed some of those people into the false safety net JetStar Investments was weaving under all those different aliases. Maggie checked through financial reports and movement of stock. During the last year, it’s possible that Silverton and some of his partners have maneuvered a number of corporations into vulnerable positions through stock market machinations. All they had to do was temporarily raise prices on some aspect of the business that was dependent on something they already controlled, then that business suddenly had cash-flow problems.”

  “And JetStar was only too willing to make those problems go away.”

  “On the surface. But when you boil it down, Silverton was selling this city out from under the people who live here.”

  “Where does DiVarco fit into this?”

  The monitor shifted to DiVarco and Wilson pointed at the screen. “DiVarco’s supposed to be the enforcement arm. Every time a country has been invaded, the invading army has struck deals with the criminal element inside that country. The practice dates back to Sun Tzu, five hundred years before Christ.”

  “Sun Tzu.”

  “A Chinese military strategist.” Wilson paused a moment, glanced at the clock, and tried to figure out how long he’d been in the room with Vache. It couldn’t have been long. On the television window on the monitor, Cashion was still talking. “When the U. S. joined in World War Two against the Germans, they used the Italian Mafia behind the lines to carry supplies as well as men. When the reconstruction of Japan began after the war, MacArthur’s people released high-ranking Yakuza members from prison in return for promises to keep Japanese politics on the straight and narrow. The CIA used the American Mafia in their bid against Fidel Castro, and they used Vietnamese guerillas in the Vietnam War. Then again in the War On Terror with the Afghan warlords. Precedents have been set. This isn’t a new idea.”

  “But using it against an American city?”

  “Think of it as a beachhead,” Wilson suggested.

  “What you’re describing sounds like war.”

  “Economically, maybe it is. To the victor go the spoils.” Wilson looked into the FBI liaison’s eyes. “Someone else can figure out the semantics after the dust settles. Right now, we need to move fast.”

  “You’re planning on taking these guys out of business?”

  “If you try to push this thing through channels to RICO and the antitrust guys,” Wilson said, “Min and Silverton will be long gone, and maybe they’ll be able to close most of this operation up behind them. They may even be able to continue working through JetStar Investments once they’re out of the country after changing the computer records we’ve tumbled to. The Justice Department doesn’t carry any weight in the Cayman Islands or in Switzerland.”

  A knock sounded at the door, then Mac called, “Slade. Isaacs wants to talk to you.”

  Wilson worked the computer keyboard and tapped into the police headquarters security net. The monitor cleared, then the pixels rearranged themselves into a picture of Isaacs standing in front of the conference room door while a phalanx of camera-accoutered reporters waited expectantly down the hall.

  “The commissioner’s going for high ratings points in the news services,” he said to Vache. He raised his voice so Mac could hear. “Tell him to wait.”

  “Wilson,” Isaacs roared. “You can’t stay in there forever.”

  “I don’t intend to,” Wilson said softly. He accessed the T-jack. “Maggie.”

  “Go.”

  “Prepare to send.”

  “Standing by.”

  Wilson turned to Vache. “I need a judge who’ll issue warrants on the basis of the information I’ve given you.”

  “For who?”

  “Cashion and Isaacs. They’re both on the JetStar payroll.”

  “You can prove that?”

  “Yeah.” Wilson accessed the T-jack. “Give it to me.”

  The screen filled with page after page of bank account statements showing monies received over monthly periods by accounts maintained in Boston and Washington, D.C., from other accounts traceable to JetStar Investments. Arranged the way it was, it was easy to follow the paper trail leading to the police commissioner and the congressman.

  “Both of them used false identities,” Wilson said, “but it’ll be easy to verify everything we’ve documented there. And the evidence against Cashion is even more certain this time because he accepted ownership in JetStar Investments as part of his payoff. It’s recorded and in his real name.”

  Vache curse as he approached the phone and dialed. He spoke in a low voice. The satlink blinked as the feed was redirected. When he was done, he hung up the phone and waited, staring at his cell’s screen. “A congressman and a commissioner. Judge Shoemake was impressed, and wants to make sure the media spells his name right.”

  “That’s your department,” Wilson said. “I’ve got work to do, and we’re going to be scrambling. When we clear up this mess here and walk out, Silverton and Min are going to know we’re coming. Silverton’ addressing a group of visitors in one of the buildings he owns, and I’m betting Min’s somewhere in the wings. We put too much pressure on yesterday afternoon and last night for them to ignore.”

  Grinning coldly, Vache held up his phone and flipped through the edocuments showing there. Judge Shoemake’s signature was reproduced faithfully at the bottom of the documents.

  “Wilson!” Isaacs yelled.

  “Let him in, Mac.”

  The police commissioner walked into the room and gave Wilson a hard-eyed stare. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove here, but it’s coming to a screaming halt right now.”

  In the window opened up on the computer monitor, Congressman Cashion continued citing what he considered to be a number of infractions caused by Omega Blue under
Wilson since its inception.

  Wilson switched the television channel off.

  Three men crowded in behind Isaacs, flanked by the Omega Blue team.

  Wilson ignored Isaacs and looked at the young man in a three-piece suit beside him. “You’re Harlan Wells, the assistant police commissioner.”

  Looking undecided about what to do, Wells only nodded.

  In his peripheral vision, Wilson saw Vache moving into position to support him. He showed Wells the documents on his cell phone.

  “We know about JetStar Investments,” Wilson said to Isaacs.

  The color drained from Isaacs’s face and he tried to bluster his way through it. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  Wilson gave the warrant to Wells, who opened it up and looked at it. “Your lawyer will explain it to you. Just have him go slow.”

  “This warrant is for your arrest,” Wells said, glancing at Isaacs.

  “It’s some kind of stall,” Isaacs said as he reached for Vache’s phone.

  Wilson caught the man’s hand, ready for the instinctive swing that followed. Keeping hold of Isaacs’s clenched fist, he whirled and snapped a side kick to the police commissioner’s temple.

  Isaacs went down in a heap and stayed there.

  The two uniformed cops drew their weapons, uncertain about aiming them because the three FBI agents behind them were still armed, and Vache had reached under his jacket as well.

  “You’re in charge, Wells,” Wilson said levelly. “What are you going to do?”

  “Is this warrant legit?” Wells asked. There was a fire in the young man that Wilson liked. Despite being thrust into a situation that he’d probably never envisioned in his whole career, and being seriously undermanned, Wells wasn’t giving up his ground because of the odds.

  “Yeah,” Wilson said. “You can call Judge Shoemake.” He pointed at the phone.

  Wells’s conversation with the federal judge was brief. When he got off, he addressed one of the cops and ordered him to cuff Isaacs. He glanced at Wilson. “The judge suggested I follow your lead till this thing unwinds.”

  “That sounds like a plan.” Wilson reached under his jacket and brought out an envelope with a thick sheaf of papers tucked inside. “I don’t know if you’re clean or dirty, Wells, but you’ve got a lot of dirty cops inside this department. Chances are, you know who some of them are. Cut them out of the loop in this. This could be your chance to redeem yourself. Isaacs was as dirty as they come. Even if you’ve stayed clean, you’re going to suffer from guilt by association. By this afternoon, you people are going to be inundated with federal crime task forces. Take my word for it.”