by Ed Kovacs
“So you swapped out weapons and ammunition and war matériel you had in stock on your ship for items Breaux had, the higher-end stuff.”
Nassir nodded. “Yes, we’ve all covered each other, at one time or another. Except for Chu. He’s not really an arms dealer. He simply buys goods for China. Period.”
“Kind of like you, Pelkov. Think I don’t know you’re full-blown GRU? A sample of everything you buy here finds its way to the Russian Defense Ministry in Moscow. But go ahead and keep lying. You’re going to rot in a hole. You won’t be traded for an American agent because you’re being arrested by the NOPD and we don’t make swaps.”
Pelkov stayed silent. His usual smug look transformed into a scowl. I handed one more photo to Pelkov. “Last picture.”
Pelkov grunted. “I wanted to buy these landmines. Nassir too. Even Breaux. But Chu outbid us every time. Where you find this?”
“In my refrigerator.”
“Good reason to eat out.”
“Speaking of a fine dining experience, you’ll have to let me know how you like prison food, because you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder.”
“But I—”
“You called your Russian-mob buddy in Brooklyn, the ex-KGB guy with the nightclub you like to party at up there. You specifically requested ‘Nati.’ Did you have plans with her for later tonight, after she waxed me? They were both naturalized U.S. citizens, which makes a good argument for tightening up our immigration policies, don’t you think?”
“I never pay for hit team. Clayton Brandt pay for—”
Grigory Pelkov’s head exploded right in front of me and the force of the sniper’s round knocked him and his chair over backwards. I lunged forward, grabbed Haddad, and pulled him to the floor. My body felt like a world of hurt as I heard one of the uniforms on his portable radio calling in the shooting. Haddad had fainted and Pelkov, well, he turned out to be a dead end.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The sniper had fired from a seldom-used sun deck at a classic old apartment building that had gone condo one block away. Officers found it easily because the shooter had left the Russian Dragunov SVD sniper rifle there, still perched upright on its bipod. He or she had made a hell of a shot. And curiously it had happened just as Pelkov was naming Clayton Brandt as the money guy behind the wet team sent to kill me.
Pelkov’s sun room wasn’t bugged, so Honey and I operated on the suspicion that a hacker had compromised his cell phone and turned it into a listening device. This was a technique gaining in popularity, used mainly by the feds, and I wanted to add it to my list of tricks.
Honey cut me loose from the crime scene, and I drove out of the demolished sun room with Haddad next to me in my big Ford. I felt like hell, but couldn’t afford to rest. We took River Road all the way to a St. Rose dock on the Mississippi River. Ocean-going cargo ships could navigate far north into Louisiana on the Mississippi, but it struck me as unusual that Haddad docked here, since most of the ships were off-loading gravel from Africa or standing by to load up with massive tonnage of American grains. We caught a slow skiff to his faded, black-hulled cargo vessel—its name El Fazlin emblazoned across the stern—sitting low in the water. Sweat bees gave chase, skimming the surface of the warm, glassy current as large lumbering flies buzzed us. Even the river seemed to lag due to the brutal heat. I had no warrant, but Haddad didn’t make a fuss and gave me the VIP tour of his ship, which had now been docked in NOLA for ten months but was clearly undergoing hurried preparations to get underway.
I saw his holds fat with weapons and military equipment. Interestingly, I saw crates of Dragunov SVD sniper rifles. A crate of pistols was open, and I reached in to grab one: a Steyr M9, in scratched, used condition. There were dozens more like it in the crate. They all looked exactly like the murder weapon found next to Del Breaux’s hand.
“You sell used weapons?” I asked Haddad.
“Reconditioned. I have many clients on a budget who aren’t so choosy.”
“I’m going to have to keep this one as part of my investigation.”
Haddad didn’t seem fazed. “Consider it a gift.”
The tour resumed, and he showed me his ultra-plush, oversized accommodations that would seem more appropriate on a yacht than an old rust-bucket cargo ship. Two teenage girls, possibly over the age of consent, lounged in the master suite listening to hip-hop and drinking shots of Limoncello when Haddad and I walked in. I was out of my jurisdiction, but even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t collar him on a contributing-to-the-delinquency charge.
He waved the girls off and sank heavily into a velour chair. He looked burned out. Even his blinking had slowed down. But he still looked frightened. A Filipino valet brought us Turkish coffees and baklava.
“This has gone far beyond anything I want to be involved in. No amount of money is worth this. I just want to leave America.”
“You’ll have to stay for at least another twenty-four hours. The Harbor Police will make sure of that. You’re free on bail for the drug charge, but I’ll hold you as long as I can.”
“In that case I won’t be leaving my ship.”
“So who just shot Pelkov?”
“It doesn’t make sense. Your government wouldn’t shoot a Russian agent on American soil. It’s a gross violation of rules. They don’t want a U.S. agent killed in retaliation. Maybe it was Chu.”
“Tan Chu?”
“Yes. He was very upset with Grigory.”
“Doesn’t sound like the Buyer’s Club was much of a fraternity. Why was Chu upset with Pelkov?”
Haddad sighed and wiped his brow. “Del joined us for lunch last Friday at Grigory’s house. It was me, Chu, Grigory, and Del. Without any warning, Del offered to sell the GIDEON secrets and sample to the highest bidder.”
About an hour ago Haddad had denied knowing anything about the GIDEON sample. Funny how seeing an associate get his brains blown out right next to you can jog your memory.
“Del was drunk, but he was serious. He actually had the sample piece with him. He offered to provide the formula, reports, supporting documents—everything. We couldn’t believe it. Chu won the impromptu auction, of course. The Red Chinese are the new masters of the universe. The deal was sealed, and an exchange of money for the items set up for the next day, Saturday.
“But later that night, Grigory and I went to Del’s house and suggested he cut the sample into three pieces and sell everything to all of us simultaneously. A win-win-win-win scenario. Del would make much more money, Grigory could appease Moscow, and I had my benefactor to consider.”
“Benefactor?”
“Please don’t ask. Anyway, even though Peter strongly advised against it, Del and Ty thought it was a great idea.”
“Peter Danforth was at Breaux and Park’s house? Last Friday night?”
“Yes, he was. That was rather typical, actually. I heard he spent a lot of time with Del and Ty.” Haddad took a sip of coffee.
“So you’re saying that you saw Danforth there yourself?”
Haddad nodded. “Yes, absolutely.”
So much for Danforth being in Atlanta the weekend of the murders. Maybe he did fly there and check into a hotel. But he could have flown right back. Then return to Atlanta on Sunday, make a big display of eating in the hotel restaurant and drinking in the lobby bar—Honey had confirmed that—before checking out and returning to New Orleans.
“Okay. So did Chu deliver the money on Saturday to Breaux?”
“Yes, the entire amount, two and half million. He didn’t know Del like we did, or he wouldn’t have done that. I imagine he was quite anxious to get his hands on the merchandise. Anyway, Del made an excuse and delayed delivering the sample and other information. He was giving Grigory and me time to come up with cash.”
I flashed on the million bucks I’d found in Pelkov’s locked desk drawer.
“Okay—but, how could you trust him? Wasn’t Breaux angry with all of you because he was getting kicked out of the Buyer�
��s Club?”
“He was angry with Clayton Brandt and the American government. And no, Grigory and I didn’t trust Del, but our desire to obtain the GIDEON secrets outweighed our misgivings.”
“So Chu didn’t know what you guys were up to?”
“Correct. He was furious at Del for delaying the delivery. We were all at dinner together at Restaurant August that night. Since Clayton Brandt was there, we couldn’t discuss it; Clayton knew nothing about the GIDEON deal. I think if Clayton hadn’t been there, Chu would have just kidnapped Del on the spot.”
“This was last Saturday night, the night Breaux and Parks were killed.”
“Yes.”
“So after dinner, everyone went to the auction at Michoud?”
“Yes. Del bought some electronic non-lethal weapons that night.”
“So, just to be clear, who was selling and who was buying?”
“The United States government is the seller. Period. They use a front company, Global Solutions. Clayton Brandt is paid by the Pentagon to facilitate the auctions, to make sure there are no flies in the ointment, so to speak. But he’s also an arms dealer who is bidding on lots, competing with the rest of the Buyer’s Club as well as with the out-of-town bidders, usually representatives of some foreign military. It’s a simple, straightforward auction, made dramatic only by what it is that’s being auctioned.”
“So Breaux’s private selling of the GIDEON secrets had absolutely nothing to do with Global, with the auctions at Michoud?”
“My God, if Clayton Brandt knew Breaux was going rogue with GIDEON, he probably would have had him shot.”
Maybe he did.
“You said Breaux showed up at a lunch out of the blue and offered to sell the GIDEON secrets. That sounds far-fetched. You guys had been soliciting him, hadn’t you? Trying to turn him against his own country.”
Haddad paused, then: “That’s a fair statement.”
No wonder Salerno became suspicious of Del; he knew what a lion’s den he’d gotten involved with.
“So Michoud J-Nineteen is just a warehouse, a staging building for matériel that comes from elsewhere?” I asked.
“Yes. Just as in Huntsville and all the cities before New Orleans. Who cares where the weapons are developed or manufactured? We only want to purchase them.”
“Can you remember if Breaux had his laptop with him at the auction the night he was killed?”
Haddad popped an entire baklava into his mouth and washed it down with the last of his demitasse of coffee. “He had it. He always had it at the auctions. He used it to electronically pay for the goods he purchased.”
“What time did Breaux and Parks leave?”
“Maybe eleven, or half past.”
The timing worked. Breaux and Parks left the auction and returned to their home in Broadmoor around midnight. The downstairs renters confirmed that. Breaux used his laptop in the toilet off the party room and left it there. Breaux got a call at 12:15 A.M. from someone at the Banks Street Bar, and then for some reason, around 1 A.M. they drove to their rendezvous with fate in a dark parking lot near the old Calliope Projects.
“So Breaux had made the decision to cut the sample into pieces. Do you think he had the sample in his car the night he was killed?”
“I don’t know. He hinted he had a safe place to keep it where it was guarded by U.S. soldiers. That made no sense, however; I assumed it was simply drunken bluster.”
It made no sense unless you knew that Breaux had warehouse space at the Academy, where armed guards in American military uniforms patrolled the place night and day.
“When he was drinking, Del couldn’t keep quiet. He told Chu as we were leaving Restaurant August that Grigory had come up with a good idea to make everybody happy.”
“To divide the sample and sell the secrets to all three of you simultaneously. That would have made everyone happy but Chu.”
“Exactly. Our Chinese friend became even more incensed.”
“So Chu was furious with Del Breaux and Grigory Pelkov.”
“Yes. And Del was dead within a few hours and the sample gone. The next time I heard about it was when you started showing people pictures of it.”
Haddad’s information felt right. He remained a suspect, of course—he admitted he was guilty of conspiracy to commit espionage. But the feds didn’t seem to be taking that too seriously these days. My take was that he was talking to me in an attempt to save his own hide; he wanted to exit stage right before he could be set up as a fall guy in case Brandt’s operation went tits up. I also needed to consider that the murder weapons might have come from his stock, even though he couldn’t have been more nonplussed about giving me the Steyr pistol. I wasn’t sure if the lab could somehow match the Steyr and Dragunov in NOPD possession with the lots in Haddad’s hold. If that could be done, then Haddad had a real problem.
“That crate of Steyr pistols in your hold—” Haddad nodded for me to continue. “Did you ever sell or barter any of them to the Buyer’s Club? Or anyone else in New Orleans?”
Haddad pursed his lips, thinking. “No.”
“What about those Dragunov SVD rifles I saw in there? I’ll have to take one of those too.”
“No, I never bartered those either.”
“And you don’t keep the holds locked up?”
“Not really. The ship itself is very secure.”
“Have any members of the Buyer’s Club been on board your ship?”
“Of course, they all have. Chu and his men, Grigory and his security detail. Brandt and his office staff. Del and Ty. I’ve had many dinners, many parties here.”
Meaning any of my suspects could have lifted the murder weapons from Nassir Haddad’s ship.
“You heard what Pelkov said just before he was shot. He said Clayton Brandt had paid for the hit team. And Peter Danforth told me Clayton Brandt was the most dangerous member of the Buyer’s Club.”
Haddad shrugged. “Clayton was our liaison with the United States government. A powerful, threatening position. But if you don’t wield the power—”
“What do you mean?”
“For a long time we have watched Clayton and the FBI let local investigators learn too much, first in Charleston, then in Miami, then in Huntsville. Each time the operation became threatened with exposure, we moved to a new city. That’s why we came to New Orleans—too many people asking questions in Huntsville. Chu and Grigory think Americans are weak; communists like them would simply kill reporters or local police who asked the wrong questions. And they think the American government is stupid.” Haddad set his coffee cup and saucer aside. “I do, too, really. China would never sell such sensitive technology to their enemies. Never. But America is committing suicide by greed.”
“A Chinese hit team and a Russian hit team came to New Orleans to kill me. Are you saying Brandt didn’t have anything to do with that decision?”
“He might have. He was certainly prepared to frame you. Plant drugs or something like that is what I heard.”
“Really?” That must have been Brandt’s Plan B.
“Chu and Grigory categorically decided to eliminate you. The day you met Chu at the port, the decision was made. You have been the biggest threat they have ever faced. They don’t want the operation to be exposed. They assumed the U.S. authorities would look the other way if you were killed.”
“Business comes first, I understand.”
Haddad gave me a Dragunov rifle sample, and I left him aboard his ship. Though I couldn’t yet reconcile all of the facts into a cohesive whole, I had made some major connections that I needed to follow up as quickly as possible.
Back in my pick-up I booted up my laptop and checked the software that monitored the cell phone I’d given to Decon. He’d been contacted by the Chinese; they wanted to set a meet to check the authenticity of the GIDEON sample. The sting was going forward.
I dropped off the Steyr M9 and a Dragunov SVD rifle to the lab, feeling like I could fall asleep on my feet. I
had to pop a couple of caffeine pills I bought at Walgreen’s. Maybe it was a result of the anesthetic, maybe I was just getting old before my time, maybe it was an adrenalin come-down from the shootout, but when Harding opened her Mid-City condo door around 6 P.M. I almost asked if I could take a nap on her couch, I felt so tired. I figured by the way Harding gasped when she saw me, I must have resembled an airline crash survivor. I could usually tune out pain, but I kept feeling the Russian’s tanto slice me, like it was happening all over again.
“Harding, I could use a cold one.”
“Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”
“I don’t think they serve Grey Goose.”
She looked for a good arm to take—there weren’t any—then gestured for me to enter. She closed and locked the door.
“How did you find me?”
“Scent.”
I was punchy, and that’s when the needle on my smart-ass dial enters red. She took a second to decide whether she was going to be angry that I showed up unannounced, but she must have felt sorry for me and guided me to the sofa. She wore a pink workout bra top and green short shorts, having been on the treadmill in the corner of her living room when I knocked. Some women don’t like to be seen when they’re working out and all sweaty with flushed cheeks and no makeup. Maybe it was that. Or maybe she didn’t like that I had tracked her down when she had orders to avoid me.
“I heard what happened. I called the hospital to check on you. Martini okay?”
“I like it dirty.”
She smiled a coquettish little smile. I admired her goods as she walked into the open-plan kitchen. Sweaty, buff girls kind of rang my chimes. I craned my neck and saw she had a tray set up like a little work table so she could read case files as she ran on the treadmill.
“I heard Chief Pointer ordered you and your partner off the case this morning,” she said from the kitchen.
“Was that this morning? Seems like weeks ago.” I flashed serious. “Why did that take so long? I figured we would have been dumped days ago.”
“Disagreement in Washington. Not all the brass support the Pentagon’s cozy arrangement selling to foreign intel agents.”
