“So, if it is him,” I asked, “can you arrest him and extradite him back to the US?”
“The Cayman police will have to make the arrest. Possibly with FBI or Interpol assistance, if requested,” Monroe answered. “As to extradition, it’s a commonly held misconception that we don’t have a treaty with the Caymans. However, in 1976, Gerald Ford signed an extradition treaty with the Caymans, as did the UK and Northern Ireland. So, you bet, we can grab his sorry ass.”
“What can we do to help?” Cyrus asked. “I’d really like to see this fellow pay for what he did to Malcolm Trueblood.”
“Best thing for you to do now, is nothing,” Monroe replied. “Don’t say anything to your property manager. Don’t send her Flannigan’s photo. Just keep it business as normal. We’ll get an agent on the island to make a positive ID, and notify the local authorities. Then mother justice will bring the hammer down on Mr. Flannigan’s Irish ass. And hopefully, the scumbags who hired him.”
“The Pantellis?” I asked.
Agent Monroe paused. “As we say in the trade, ‘They’re definitely persons of interest.’”
Chapter 58
Flo Fabrini pulled her car into the visitor’s parking lot of Pollack Federal Prison and followed the signs to the visitor’s area. Once inside, she filled out a form and was given a visitor’s badge. Senior Corrections Officer, Sam Savoie, a huge Cajun, who’d been on the Pantelli pad for years, spotted Flo and directed her to a table.
“You’ll have ten minutes, ma’am. Don’t pass anything to the prisoner and keep your voice low.”
A prison guard brought Anthony Delucia in and sat him across the table from Flo. The guard glanced at Savoie and then backed off, out of earshot.
“I’m Tony Delucia, Miss . . . ?”
“It’s Flo, and I’ve got a request from Pino.”
Tony leaned forward a bit. “What can I do for him?”
Flo filled Delucia in on the situation with Bugati.
“I see,” Delucia said, leaning back in his chair.
Flo started to say something more, but Delucia put his index finger to his lips and shook his head slightly.
Leaning forward again, he spoke in a barely audible voice. “I understand the situation. You may tell Pino it will be resolved in the required timeline. Please leave now.”
In his cell that night, Delucia planned the hit. He would do it during the mid-day exercise period in the yard. Concealed behind a thin slit in his mattress was a shiv made of quarter- inch-thick plastic. Delucia had worked the plastic into a needle- pointed blade. In close quarters it would be lethal.
At two the next afternoon, Delucia was in the exercise yard with the shiv tucked up his right sleeve. He spotted Bugati talking with a small group of cons. Walking toward his target, Delucia let the shiv slide, butt first, into the palm of his hand. As he closed on Bugati, he looked across the yard and pretended to wave at another con. The movement caught Bugati’s attention, causing him to shift his eyes in the direction Delucia waved. A slight diversion, but enough. To a casual observer, it looked as though Delucia accidently bumped into Bugati.
Looking directly into Bugati’s eyes, Delucia drove the shiv deep into Bugati’s solar plexus. The air rushed out of Bugati’s lungs at the force of the blow, allowing the weapon to penetrate even deeper into his body.
“This is from Pino,” Delucia whispered, in Bugati’s ear as he pushed the shiv deeper into his body, stopping only when the handle was flush with Bugati’s skin.
Bugati gasped at the pain and clawed at the wound, trying in vain to grasp the bloody hilt of the shiv. Blood began to stain the front of Bugati’s faded prison-issue denim shirt. Delucia took a half-step to his left and blended into the morass of convicts milling about the yard.
Several of the men standing around Bugati could see the blood oozing from between his fingers, as he tried to stanch the bleeding. They immediately backed away from him. No one called out. No one moved to help him.
Bugati slumped to his knees, his hands and clothing now soaked in blood. He died before the guards could get to him.
Special Agent Monroe got a call from the warden a couple hours after Bugati died. He hung up the phone and cursed under his breath.
“What is it, Beau?” Agent Wilson Allen asked, looking up from his desk.
“They hit Bugati. He’s dead.”
“Jesus. He was going into protective custody in the morning.”
“Somebody found out we were talking to him and must have gotten word to the Pantellis.”
“Had to be somebody who works at the prison. No one else knew about the meetings.”
“Yeah, probably some damn guard on the take.”
“Great—now what?”
“We go, and we go fast, after the only lead we’ve got left, Mr. Sean Flannigan.”
Agent Allen nodded. “Yeah, before the Pantellis find out he’s in the Caymans.”
“See if we have an agency plane available for tomorrow morning. I’ll alert the local authorities and set up a joint operation to arrest Flannigan on suspicion of murder. Once we get a positive ID from the Brits, we’ll move to extradite his ass.”
“You know the Brits are going to want him pretty bad, and they’re part of the bilateral extradition treaty, along with Northern Ireland.”
“Yeah, well, they can have him. But only after he gives us the Pantellis.”
Sean Flannigan signed the lease on Cyrus’s condo as William O’Connell. He’d paid one month’s rent plus a security deposit in cash. So far everything was copacetic, but he was in no hurry to fill the Pantellis in on his whereabouts. He knew from Al’s tone on the phone that, he was in deep shit.
As Sean lounged by the pool the next day, a white Cessna Citation touched down at Owen Roberts International Airport, in George Town. Other than tail numbers, the bird carried no identifying features. The co-pilot opened the main door and Agents Monroe and Allen stepped out into the warm humid island air.
“Let’s clear Customs and grab a cab,” Monroe said. “We’ve got a meeting with Chief Inspector John Thomas in thirty minutes.”
Both agents grabbed their carry-on luggage and headed for customs. They showed the immigration officers their FBI identification, and were out front at the cab-stand in less than five minutes.
“Police headquarters on Elgin, please,” Monroe said, to the cabdriver.
In a few minutes the cab dropped them off in front of the Royal Cayman Island police headquarters.
“Agents Monroe and Allen to see Chief Inspector Thomas, please,” Monroe said, to the attractive female officer at the reception desk.
“Right this way, gentlemen,” the officer replied. “The chief inspector is expecting you.”
The female office led the two agents down a hallway and opened the door to the chief inspector’s office.
“Go right in, gentlemen,” she said, gesturing with her left hand.
Chief Inspector Thomas got up from his chair and came around in front of his massive and paper-covered desk. The inspector stood about six feet tall; he was, trim with fair hair and freckles. And, Agent Monroe guessed, a more or less ongoing case of sunburn.
“Chief Inspector Thomas at your service, gentlemen,” Thomas said, extending his right hand.
“Agents Monroe and Allen, sir,” Monroe said, both showing their badges after they shook hands with the chief inspector.
“Have a seat, fellows,” Thomas said, gesturing to two side chairs. “So we’ve got a bad actor on the island?”
Thomas hiked up his left trouser leg and sat on the edge of his desk.
“Yes, sir. You do. I assume you’ve received the information from our New Orleans office?” Monroe asked.
“Yes, Agent Monroe, we have,” Thomas replied. “And I must add, your Mr. Flannigan, aka, Mr. O’Connell, is at the very top of the UK fugitive list.”
“Understood, sir,” Monroe replied. “He’s also a prime suspect in the recent bombing of a private aircraft over the Gulf of Mexico, and the ki
lling of a New Orleans police officer.”
“Ah, yes. The small plane bound for George Town out of Houston?” Thomas replied. “I hadn’t heard about the officer. Sorry.”
“Yes, sir. We have an eyewitness putting Flannigan at the aircraft, just prior to take-off,” Allen replied. “And, as you eluded, he’s wanted in the UK for his activities with the IRA.”
“We’ve had Mr. O’Connell under surveillance since we received your alert,” Thomas said. “We can pick him up at your convenience.”
“Would it be possible for us to be on-site for the arrest?” Monroe asked.
“I shouldn’t think that would be a problem, Agent Monroe. Give us a few hours to coordinate the operation. I assume you’re both armed?”
“Yes, sir,” Monroe replied. “But if you’ve got a couple extra vests, it would probably be a good idea.”
“Expecting some resistance, are we?” Thomas asked.
“Sir,” Monroe replied, “Flannigan put three rounds in a very experienced New Orleans detective before he skipped town. So, yes, I would expect the unexpected. He’s got nothing to lose.”
Monroe and Allen checked into the Colonial, changed into tactical clothes, and waited for the chief inspector’s call. They didn’t have to wait long.
“Special Agent Monroe, it’s Chief Inspector Thomas. We’re ready to move. We’ll pick you up in five minutes. Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir, we are. We’ll be out in front of the entrance,” Monroe replied, looking over at Agent Allen. “Let’s go, Wilson.”
A police SUV pulled up near the hotel entrance, and Monroe and Allen climbed into the back-seat.
Chief Inspector Thomas turned to the two FBI agents. “We’ve sealed off the compound. There’s no way out unless he wants to swim to Cuba. We’ll be there in six or seven minutes.”
Sean Flannigan, aka, William O’Connell, was warming himself on a pool-side chaise lounge after doing thirty minutes of laps. He was just about to nod off when the RCIP stormed the compound.
“That’s him by the pool!” Agent Monroe shouted, pointing to the reclining figure.
Flannigan heard the shout and jumped up, looking around frantically.
“Don’t move or we will shoot to kill!” Chief Inspector Thomas yelled. “Get on your knees and lock your hands behind your head.”
Sean could see there was no escape. He dropped to his knees and clasped his hands behind his head. One of the uniformed officers came up behind him and quickly cuffed his wrists.
“Mr. O’Connell, or is it Flannigan?” Chief Inspector Thomas said. “You’re under arrest for the murders of Malcolm Trueblood and Detective Decker. Please stand up.”
“You don’t have jurisdiction for crimes committed outside of the Cayman Islands,” Flannigan protested.
“Maybe not,” Chief Inspector Thomas said, gesturing toward agents Monroe and Allen. “But these two gentlemen are with the FBI, and they do.”
Flannigan looked at the two FBI agents and nodded in acquiescence.
“Look, for the record, I just want you to know the plane bombing was strictly business. And the cop in New Orleans was just plain bad ádh . . . bad luck. He recognized me and went for his piece. It was me or him. However, the fuckin’ Brits, now they . . . they were a pleasure. I wish I’d killed a passel more.”
Flannigan looked directly at Special Agent Monroe and grinned sardonically. Then he opened his mouth as if he was going to say more, but instead used his tongue to pry the cap off a hollow molar at the back of his mouth. Flannigan bit down hard on the rubber-cased glass vial of potassium cyanide. A small amount of white foam containing tiny flecks of glass oozed from his mouth as he crumpled to the ground and died.
“Jesus,” Agent Monroe said, dropping to Flannigan’s side. “A cyanide ampoule.”
Chapter 59
My cell phone went off at about ten in the morning.
“Mr. Brandon, Special Agent Beau Monroe. Have you got a minute?”
“Yes, sir, I’ve always got time for the FBI.”
“Uh-huh. I promised I’d keep you updated on our efforts to arrest Mr. Flannigan.”
“Yes, sir. Did you get him?”
“Yes and no. With the aid of the Cayman Island authorities, we grabbed him at Mr. McSweeny’s condo.”
“Man, that’s good news.”
“Well, the good news is, we arrested him. The bad news is, he had a cyanide capsule hidden in a hollow molar. He was able to bite down on it before we could stop him. He died instantaneously.”
“Damn, just like Herman Goering. Did he say anything about Malcolm?”
“Just that it was only business.”
“Did he implicate the Pantellis in any way?”
“Nope. He took any information he may have had with him. Which leaves us with no living witnesses. We’d also been working on turning a low-level drug dealer doing time in Louisiana. He claimed he could tie the Pantellis to Rosenburg’s murder, but he’s dead too. Killed the day after our last meeting with him.”
“Damn, the Pantellis don’t leave any loose ends, do they?”
“No, and neither do we. Do you mind telling me why you and McSweeny met with the Pantellis, in Vegas?”
“No, I guess I don’t,” I said, exhaling softly. “The Pantellis asked to meet with me because they’d been approached by a Chinese uranium company who wanted to buy their Montana Creek Mining shares. The fly in the buttermilk being, the deal hinged on me agreeing to sell my control block to the Chinese. The Pantellis asked me to come to Vegas to discuss the Chinese proposal. I took McSweeny with me as back-up.”
“And?”
“I told them I currently had no interest in selling my shares to the Chinese, or anybody else.”
“How’d they take it?”
“I don’t think they were too happy about. Especially after I mentioned that if anything happened to me, like an explosion or eating a poison tree frog, all my shares would go to my alma mater’s general fund.”
Agent Monroe laughed. “Poison tree frog?”
“Yeah, well, I wanted them to know I knew they killed Rosenburg, and probably Malcolm.”
“You like to live dangerously, Mr. Brandon?”
“No, not really, but they pissed me off.”
“Well, with all the suspects dead, we’re going to have a tough time making any kind of a murder case against the Pantellis. All we can do for now, is keep an eye on their moves and see if we can nail them on some kind of lesser charge. When all else fails, there’s always the IRS and the SEC. Maybe we can nail them on some kind of tax evasion charge, or a securities violation.”
“Hey, that’s how you finally nailed Al Capone.”
“Exactly so, Mr. Brandon. Watch your back, and stay in touch.”
“Roger that.”
I hung up and called Cyrus.
“Cyrus, it’s Trace. Got a sec?”
“Sure, Trace. Anything new from the fucking big Indians?” Cyrus asked, with a chuckle.
“As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m calling. They caught Flannigan slash O’Connell at your condo.”
“Damn good news. Are the sending the bastard back to the States?”
“Yep, in a body bag.”
“Jesus, they had to shoot him?”
“Nope. The son of a bitch pulled a Herman Goering and bit down on a cyanide capsule. Agent Monroe said he was dead before he hit the deck. And get this, the FBI had a snitch in a Louisiana pen who was evidently going to cooperate, and testify against the Pantellis.”
“Let me guess. He’s dead too?”
“Good guess. Killed after Agent Monroe’s last meeting with him.”
“I told you, Trace. The Pantellis have a long reach, and murder is just a tool to them. What else did Monroe have to say?”
“He said to watch my ass and call him if the Pantellis made any kind of move against me or Montana Creek Mining. He also mentioned possibly being able to nail them on some kind of tax evasion or securities violation.”<
br />
“Hmmm, interesting idea. I don’t have a clue about their tax situation. And so far, I don’t see where they’ve violated any SEC reg.’s. However, the situation could change in the future. Al or Pino don’t have a lot of experience with securities. Maybe they’ll do something stupid.”
“One can only hope,” I said with a laugh. “But we do have an ace in the hole.”
“And what would that be?”
“You hold the Pantelli’s voting proxy for nearly three more years.”
“True enough. If properly played, the proxy could well be a trump card. One other thing, I doubt we’ve heard the last of Lei Chang and his band of immortals.”
“Agreed. Chang gave the Pantellis ten days to respond to his offer, and their time is about up. I suspect when they turn him down, he’ll be contacting me again.”
“Well, our stock price is holding pretty steady in the high fives to low sixes, and we should get our listing on the Toronto Exchange shortly. The listing will allow some of the larger funds to buy our shares.”
“Yeah, it will be interesting to see what Chang, and the Pantellis, do next.”
I didn’t have to wait too long to find out. About forty-eight hours later I received an e-mail from Chang, requesting a meeting in Spokane followed by a site visit to the Sullivan Mine. He said he was bringing along his chief mining engineer, Mr. Zhoa. I guess he wanted a firsthand look at his investment.
I contacted Cyrus and got his okay to use his offices for the initial meeting. Will Coffee and I would drive over to Spokane for the meeting. Following the meeting, we’d haul Chang and Zhoa, up to the Sullivan Mine. For this trip, I decided to leave my Bronco at home and rented a Suburban from an Ellensburg car-rental agency. With the Suburban, I could get everybody and their gear in one vehicle.
A few days later, Will and I left Ellensburg at 8:00 a.m. and headed east on Interstate 90, to Spokane. We got to the airport before Chang’s plane landed and met him and Zhoa at baggage claim.
From the airport, I drove the entourage to Cyrus’s office in the Inland Empire Building in downtown Spokane. I parked the Suburban, and we walked to the lobby and took the elevator to the sixth floor.
Deadly Lode (Trace Brandon Book 1) Page 23
