by Ed Kovacs
“I found out that NASA rents out warehouse space to civilian companies out at Michoud. Let me guess: Global is a stand-alone operation that got dumped in your lap and your orders were to keep hands off.”
He scratched his elbow.
“In Building J-Nineteen.”
He scratched his elbow. “Sorry I couldn’t be of any help to you today, but I really have to get going,” he said loudly. Never know when someone might be listening.
I nodded and watched as he eased his bulk into his small SUV.
“Salerno—” He lowered his window. “If it should work out that NOPD recovers certain items, I’ll make sure they get returned to you.”
We locked eyes for a moment, and then I turned away. Sometimes guys you fight with turn out to be your best friends. Salerno was a tough SOB who took his job very seriously. And while we hadn’t physically fought, we’d crossed swords. I imagined he was behind the eight ball due to the fresh espionage at Michoud. Maybe CI-3 was setting him up for the fall. Either way, it felt good to have enlisted a new ally, because I needed all the help I could get.
I had an Omni Hotel parking garage attendant deliver the Bronco to me at the foot of Canal Street where I met Honey just before 10 A.M. I filled her in regarding events with Decon and showed her the TDF receipt indicating Building J-19 out at Michoud was where all the action was.
“We need to drop in there,” said Honey.
“I’m working on a plan for an unannounced visit.”
“You trust Decon? I like the sting idea with the GIDEON sample, but—”
“Decon has the right street cred and contacts to pull it off. We don’t.”
Honey nodded and then told me the chief was not a happy guy. He had no qualms with the Haddad bust, would have loved the headlines, but had to field a lot of heat from the FBI and the mayor. Since he was already fighting to keep his job, Pointer didn’t appreciate the extra heat, but he still backed us. For now.
Which meant our radical morning plan was a go.
Clayton Brandt stood out as the nexus of the Buyer’s Club. We had the layout for his offices on the twenty-fourth floor of One Canal Place; we knew he had a messy desk; we knew where his staff sat; and we coordinated our moves.
“Detective Baybee, Homicide, I need to speak with Clayton Brandt, right now.”
“Do you have an appointment, detective?” The secretary casually pressed a button on her desk.
“I don’t need one. Mister Brandt is a person of interest in a homicide investigation.”
The office suite consisted of four rooms: the outer office where we now stood and where Brandt’s secretary’s desk sat, a security team office, a staff office, and Brandt’s private office.
“If you would wait just a moment—”
Honey didn’t. I followed her lead. We could see into the room where two staffers at computer workstations gave us wide-eyed looks. But we didn’t get much farther as six big, husky guys in suits piled out of the security office. They looked like the Saints’ first-string defensive line and they planted themselves between us and further encroachment.
“Officers, Mister Brandt wants to fully cooperate with your investigation, but he wants his lawyer to be present. Would you mind if he met you at police headquarters later today?”
The leader was a well-spoken guy with a bulge that told me his concealed carry wasn’t that concealed.
“I’ll be happy to discuss that with him right now,” said Honey.
“Mister Brandt is occupied.”
“Step out of the way,” ordered Honey.
“He wants to fully cooperate—”
“Step aside or you’re under arrest for impeding an investigation.”
“I’m simply trying to—”
“All of you are now under arrest,” said Honey.
Honey hit squelch on her police radio, tuned to a certain frequency, and one second later the hallway door flung open and ten members of the NOPD SWAT team in tactical-ops gear, but not yet pointing their weapons, stormed into the room.
Honey and I pushed past the goons who opted not to resist in the face of the men in black carrying HK-MP5A submachine guns and Benelli semi-automatic shotguns.
We rounded the corner that led to Brandt’s office and ran smack into my good friend Ding Tong.
“Well look who’s here. It’s Ding Dong the witch is dead. He carries the luggage for Mister Chu,” I said.
“Move aside,” said Honey.
“You may not enter.”
“Oh, yeah?”
Honey tried to push past Tong. He grabbed her arm, and then it was on. I jumped in and we both began grappling with him. Tong displayed incredible strength and balance for such a small-framed man. Before I could think of what move to use, a large hand reached in and pulled him to the side as a crushing black-leather-gloved fist demolished his face, knocked out two of his teeth, and dropped the Chinese agent onto the floor.
As he cuffed Tong, the SWAT team commander looked up at Honey and said, “No problem, I got him.”
I had hesitated again in a fight when it counted, when Honey was under attack. I should have taken Tong easily, especially with Honey’s help. I hated myself for being so ineffective, but there was no time to think about that now, as we barged into Brandt’s large office.
Clayton Brandt and Tan Chu sat in chrome and leather Eames chairs set at right angles in a corner of the plushly appointed room. They didn’t get up as we entered, nor was there any attempt to shake hands. There were no papers, files, folders, notes, cell phones, laptops, or data of any kind out in the open in front of them. They’d had enough time to prepare for our coming through the door.
“You couldn’t be polite and wait until I came downtown, could you? You two have no clue,” said Brandt.
Honey and I remained standing, but I leaned against his massive, heavy desk and crossed my arms in a gesture that suggested he was insignificant.
“Well, we have a little bit of a clue,” I said. “But why not explain why you’re sitting next to a Chinese intelligence agent and why you facilitated his purchase of weapons to the People’s Republic of China and other nations unfriendly to the United States?”
“Because it’s legal! Because the Pentagon wants the weapons and other equipment sold! Did you somehow miss that the United States is the largest manufacturer and seller of arms and military matériel in the world? The country is broke and we’re getting some money back for the taxpayers. I am the Pentagon’s point man; I broker the sale of weapons and equipment that our defense contractors have built. If the military or other federal agencies choose not to deploy these items, they become surplus and are sold to the highest bidder. Those grenade launchers that were in that shipment you stopped at the port cost about ten million dollars to develop and manufacture. A decision was subsequently made not to use them. So they are auctioned off for maybe ten cents on the dollar, putting a million dollars back into the coffers, which is better than locking them up in a warehouse to rust.”
I was surprised he was speaking to us and not “lawyering up,” but I was floored by his assertion that this was a sanctioned Pentagon operation. Back-door, illicit dealing from military bases or even sensitive installations was what Honey and I thought had been happening. But sanctioned selling? With a wink and a nod to embargoed countries? The merchandise was leaving through the front door, with the blessings of the Joint Chiefs.
This was big stuff. I glanced at Honey, and she seemed to be having a similarly difficult time wrapping her head around it.
If Brandt weren’t lying, then the FBI CI-3 agents were probably acting under orders as the security arm of the operation. That meant Terry Blanchard was working for them, although the under-the-table payment couldn’t have been legal. The guilty always maintain their innocence, but perhaps Pelkov and Haddad had told the truth; perhaps their dealings were legitimate. But I wondered how Americans would feel if they knew state-of-the-art weaponry and technology our defense contractors developed with
taxpayer dollars was being sold to our enemies for pennies on the dollar to possibly be used against us someday. To me it felt wrong through and through.
It had previously occurred to Honey and me that we might have stumbled on an FBI sting operation, but the only sting in all of this was that our so-called protectors were selling us out. If this had been some kind of counterintelligence op that sold technology that was bogus or useless, that would have been sweet. But the Pentagon was selling the real thing to the highest bidder.
I tried not to let this rattle me and kept my poker face in place.
“If this is above board, why are you upset that you have to discuss it?”
“Just because it’s legal doesn’t mean it’s not classified. This is done on the QT for obvious reasons, not the least of which is public safety.”
“Please General, I grew up on a farm and I know what bullshit smells like. Global Solutions Unlimited, the company that provided Tan Chu a receipt for the weapons. Who controls it? Where are they operating out of?”
“If either of you held an active security clearance of Top Secret with the right compartmentalization, I might answer that question.”
“We don’t need a security clearance to investigate the murders of local citizens. Are you saying the feds made a decision to let Tan Chu get away with murder?”
“You think Chu killed that coon-ass Del Breaux? Breaux was the biggest shyster in all of Louisiana, and that’s saying something. I mean, he had become an embarrassment, a liability. I deeply regret ever letting him come into the group. But my policy was that if a qualified individual showed up with cash, they were welcome.”
“How egalitarian of you.”
Brandt ignored the remark. “Breaux would steal everything that wasn’t bolted down. He shoplifted, for heaven’s sake, right in front of me, over at the Windsor Court Hotel gift shop. He’d walk out of a busy restaurant without paying a check because he knew he could get away with it. To say he felt like the world owed him a free ride is an understatement.”
“Why did you let him remain in the Buyer’s Club?”
“I didn’t. I put him on notice. Gave him sixty days, so he could make a little money to put aside. After that, he would be expelled.”
“When did you give him the notice?”
“About three weeks ago.”
“General, you said you were the Pentagon’s point man to get the arms and equipment sold. But I heard you were also a buyer.”
“That’s correct. I’m a licensed arms dealer. I deal with very reputable organizations, many of which you would recognize, all over the world.”
“So you are very familiar with all of the items that have come up for auction through Global?”
“Yes, very.”
“Then can you tell me what this is?”
I showed Brandt a couple of eight-by-tens of the stolen GIDEON sample.
“Some piece of metal. Hard to say.”
“Was this part of the auctions you described to me, General? Is this something Global Solutions Unlimited was selling?”
“No.”
“Del Breaux worked on Project GIDEON. Surely you’re aware of that.”
For the first time, Brandt looked uncomfortable. “That’s highly classified and shouldn’t be discussed in the presence of Mister Chu.”
“Does that mean Mister Chu here shouldn’t have had this materials sample carefully packed next to the grenade launchers in that green container of ‘scrap’ going to China? Would you and FBI CI-3 really want to facilitate Del Breaux selling the secrets of the GIDEON program?”
Clayton Brandt’s lips tightened and his jaw tensed. “No comment, sir?” I asked. Brandt shot Chu a brief hard look. For a moment I thought the general was going to respond, but he kept silent.
“You created this situation, General. You baptized Breaux as a buyer and seller of American high- tech weaponry; he was buying from Global with your blessing and then selling to every murderous dictator on the planet. Didn’t it occur to you he might become tempted to sell some of his scientific secrets as well? Secrets he accumulated over a lifetime of engineering work. When he learned you were dumping him from the group, the facts suggest he decided to take that small step—small for someone with the integrity of an arms trader—to sell a little something else to China. You made it easy for him to become a traitor, throwing around your papers talking about congressional waivers allowing dual-use technology to be shipped to those communist bastards. We found two point five million in cash in his house, and the bills were sequentially numbered, traced to the Bank of China. Does that sound right, General Brandt? Maybe your little arms bazaar here is on the up-and-up, I don’t know. But I do know it’s a real bitch to wake up and realize you’re on the wrong side and that the fingers will be pointing back to you.”
Brandt wouldn’t make eye contact with me. If he clamped his jaw any tighter his teeth were going to shatter.
“Why are you persecuting me?” It was the first time I had heard Chu speak, and his words were carefully measured, his tone even and calm. “You make offensive accusations without presenting proof. I have committed no crimes. I am in your country legally. Are you racist? You don’t like Asians?”
“I like everyone except the people who want me dead, lie to me, steal from me, hustle or disrespect me. I don’t like people who think I owe them simply because I have something that they don’t have, even though I worked for it and they didn’t. I also don’t like the rude, selfish, inconsiderate or mean-spirited. Nor do I like hypocrites, phonies, or smug elitists with a superiority complex, which would probably include most politicians. I don’t like crooks, murderers and rapists. I don’t like waiters who want to be actors and give me service in a restaurant that is all about them and not about me. I dislike bartenders who won’t give me a healthy pour or ever buy me a round. And I really don’t care for pushy old women who wear too much cheap perfume and elbow me aside in line at the supermarket. I figure that means I dislike about half the people on the planet.
“And regardless of what the asswipe politicians, State Department bureaucrats, sell-out lobbyists, the news media, pointy-headed think-tank intelligence-analyst schmucks, defense-industry sales-people, and corrupt retired flag officers would like us to believe, the Chinese government, your employer, is not our friend. We fought Chinese soldiers in Korea, we fought them in Vietnam, and will fight them again probably sooner rather than later. Your state-sponsored hackers have been cyber-attacking us for years, stealing our most precious secrets with impunity, and we’re too chicken-shit to do anything about it. You’re an intelligence agent for a government that does not allow freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of religion, freedom of dissent. Your government puts its critics in front of a firing squad, shoots them down like animals, and then sends the bill for the bullets to their families. Regardless of all that, as an investigator, I just have a nose for duplicitous psychopaths capable of great evil. But to play the race card, Chu? You can do better than that.”
On cue, Honey crossed in front of Chu’s and Brandt’s sightlines to retrieve the eight-by-tens. In that spilt second I slipped a listening device that looked like an ink pen between stacks of folders on Brandt’s cluttered desk.
“Saint James, why don’t you wait outside and cool off?” asked Honey. As I pretended to leave in a huff, I heard her say, “Just a few more questions about the murders, General Brandt, and then we’re done here.”
I closed the office door behind me. SWAT had removed Brandt’s security detail and all staff from the suite of offices and were questioning them downstairs as had been pre-arranged with the SWAT commander. I knew he had a crush on Honey. She had come onto the team and established herself right off the bat in a weapons-retention exercise. One at a time, she had taken the sidearm away from eight two-hundred-plus-pound operators, including the SWAT defensive-tactics instructor, using a technique I had taught her. She had established some bona fides with the boys. And since they were running a tr
aining exercise this morning anyway, Honey asked if they would play supporting players for us. Nice to have them waiting right outside in the hallway exactly when we needed them.
It took me ninety seconds to locate and download Brandt’s appointment book from his secretary’s PC. I then made a beeline to the office where Brandt’s two key support staffers worked. I installed fast-loading keystroke, screenshot, and eavesdropping software onto their PCs as I copied their hard drives. They hadn’t had a chance to log out of their computers when SWAT stormed in. The eavesdropping software would allow me to listen to the staffers remotely via the Internet by turning their computer speakers into microphones.
I texted Honey and the SWAT commander CODE 4 then took the stairs down one flight and dialed in the bug I’d placed on Brandt’s desk.
From the sound of things, Honey and Chu had left his office and Brandt was now alone, talking on the phone. He sounded unsettled, not thinking straight, as he made calls on what I assumed was an encrypted line. All part of my plan to come on strong and shake his cage.
“We hold the auction as scheduled but it will be the last one in New Orleans,” Brandt said.“We’ll have to relocate the whole operation. So I want every last crate we have down here moved into J-Nineteen immediately. It’ll be a closeout sale.”
Brandt hung up and dialed another number.
“It’s me. My guy call you about those cops coming here? Well they’ve figured out too damn much and they’re on a high horse about that queer’s death. We need to initiate Plan B, now! And we need to talk in-person ASAP about what to do about Chu.”
Honey joined me, and as I recorded the transmission, we listened using ear buds. The small battery-operated ink-pen device would only transmit a hundred feet so we stood in the hallway one floor below Brandt for seventy-one minutes, until the bug was discovered by Brandt’s security guys, who had returned and conducted an electronic sweep.
“Even if the arms dealing is legal? We still have murders to solve,” said Honey.
“Why don’t you and your mom move in with me? You guys take the bedroom; I’ll take the couch. My place has better security, so I won’t have to worry so much,” I said, insistently.
