by Krakondack
“That sounds like nukes.”
“I’ve thought of that,” replied Frank. “But neither Evan nor I knew what to do with the information. Robbie went to the FBI and now he’s dead. This Smithfield guy says he has documents to prove it. He may have found Hozie’s folder of papers. But he was worried about being linked to any information leaks, so he asked me if I thought there was a way to get the papers to someone who could use them properly. Robbie himself was going to come to Chicago to get them, so they’re probably important.”
“And you think I can find a way to blow the lid off an arms smuggling operation when going to the FBI gets you killed?”
“Robbie thought you could. I’m sorry if I was mistaken, and I’ll understand if you don’t want to get involved.”
“Robbie always thought I could do stuff like that, but I couldn’t even get the SEC to do their job when I worked there. How do you expect me to pull off something like this?”
“Robbie believed in you, John. If we don’t try, none of us is safe. Have you heard about the plane crash?”
“Yeah, management from Tilbury was wiped out. You think that was suspicious, too?”
“Wouldn’t you?” asked Frank.
“Point made. When do I meet this guy?” asked John, still unsure why he was here or what he would do with any information he found.
“This afternoon at 4 pm, in the Hancock building.”
“And where will you be during this meeting?” asked John, slightly suspicious of Frank.
“I’m not going to be there. He insisted on that,” replied Frank.
“Well that’s nice,” said John with evident sarcasm. “Doesn’t this sound like a trap to you?”
“I’ve thought about that and it might be a trap. I’m not asking you to give your life for nothing. I’ll gladly give you my gun to take with you, if that helps.”
“That does help,” conceded John, now calmer than before. “Where is your gun?”
“In my car,” replied Frank. “We can go get it as soon as we’re done here. It’s on the way to the Hancock building.
“Where should I go when I get to the Hancock building?” asked John.
“Take the elevator up to the top. Go to the south facing lounge with a view of the water and the Sears Tower. Sit in the second row from the window. Order a Goose Island 312 and put this pen on the table.” Frank handed John a bright purple metallic pen.
“Frank, this is just too weird. I’m not some kind of secret agent. And I still don’t know what I’m going to do if I find something useful.”
“Again, I’m very sorry to do this to you, John. If I knew of another way, I never would have involved you.”
“I had already decided to get involved for Jess’ sake,” replied John. “I’m just having trouble getting used to thinking this way. Sorry for the sarcasm.”
The two men stopped at the parking lot and John quickly memorized Frank’s license plate for future reference. Frank opened the trunk and found his gun, then realized he’d left the ammo under the driver’s seat. As Frank walked around the side of the car, John reached into his pocket and pulled out a GPS-based tracking device provided by his friend the electronics ace. He put the device behind the lining of the trunk in contact with the exterior metal.
Frank walked back the way they came, saying he had some personal business downtown, while John walked north along Michigan Avenue, crossing the Chicago River. As he passed the Tribune building, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into. His resolve of the other night was being put to the test, and for a while he felt nagging doubts about engaging himself in this affair. As he arrived at the Hancock building, he paused and gave himself a moment for any second thoughts. He realized that he was about to take a step from which there might be no turning back. He took a deep breath, then descended the exterior stairs to the sunken lobby and took the elevator to the 96th floor lounge. He was in this to the end now. He exited the elevator and entered the first lounge on his left, and found his seat. He ordered his 312, placed the pen on the table and waited.
Chapter 26: Reaching Limits
The envelope came to Roger Snyder’s desk marked “confidential,” so he closed his door before opening it. He was waiting for Morningstar Security’s financial records to try to learn what Derek Ellis was involved in. He zeroed in on the dates where his notes on Ellis indicated there had been important financial transactions. He mapped out payments received by Morningstar on the calendar he had previously developed, superimposing the payments over his other data on Morningstar. The dates invariably coincided with the commencement or resumption of key contracts, with most amounts in the $1-$3 million range. But as Snyder reached the date of the termination of the Afghanistan contract, the numbers jumped out of their previous proportions. Unlike previous contract crises, Morningstar did not let go many of its staff this time. Additionally, Ellis had advanced the firm $10 million. He’s either suddenly concerned for his staff’s well being or he was counting on a big payday, thought Snyder. Sure enough, Morningstar had formed the Nightwatch Security subsidiary, secured a $20 million advance from Helsing-Tilbury, and returned $15 million to Ellis. Nice profit, Derek. I’d like to know why these guys would pay that kind of money to a pretty boy like you. It was time to have a look into Tilbury.
It turned out that the CIA already had a dossier on Tilbury. When a major international shipping company is acquired by a mysterious holding company, considerable energy is invested into determining the identities of the new owners. Snyder knew this would have been standard practice, so he expected this part of his job to be simple. He looked through the dossier again and again. It was full of background information, market analysis, and an analysis of strengths and weaknesses, but no information at all about the acquisition. This was strange, since the inquiry was launched following the acquisition and was mentioned in the preamble. The absence of information about the acquiring company was conspicuous. Snyder was under strict instructions to work alone, but it couldn’t hurt to speak informally with the Agent who had compiled the dossier without revealing anything about his mission. He turned to the summary page and gasped as he read the name Colm Rowley. He had known Rowley, a devoted father and husband, and victim of a recent DC area sniper who killed a half dozen people before he was caught. The killings were random, or so it seemed until now. Rowley was shot and killed at a gas station close to his home. He looked up Rowley’s career statistics, and slammed his fist on the table.
“Okay, Snyder, does this stink? I’m not imagining this, am I?” He was talking to himself, trying to straighten out the implications. “He writes the report. He’s shot the day he submits it. And the acquisition, the whole reason the report was commissioned, is completely missing from the damn report. Without that, what’s the purpose of even writing it?”
Snyder read what he could about the DC sniper shootings and learned that the FBI had come in and federalized the case right after the Rowley killing. So he called the FBI and was put through to an archivist. He asked for a comparison of the ballistics reports in the DC sniper case. The archivist asked “which victims?”
“All of them, if I can,” replied Snyder.
“I can get you five, but the Rowley case is sealed. You’ll need special authorization from the Director for that one. Sorry about that.”
“Thanks, that actually clears something up,” said Snyder, now certain that Rowley had been assassinated in a manner meant to look like the DC sniper had murdered him at random. And the reason for it had to do with the Tilbury buyout, and what he had discovered. The plane crash now also seemed a lot more suspicious than before. So what are you going to do to me if I discover the same information? Snyder thought to himself. After a while, he concluded that this was as far as he was taking the investigation. It was time to report back to Connolly before going any deeper and endangering himself.
Chapter 27: Meeting a Stranger
About 10 minutes after John Corson arrived in the lounge in the Hancock
building, an intense man of medium height walked in. His eyes were too close together, making it seem he was staring straight through whoever he was looking at. His gaze was at odds with his calm, confident gait. He walked straight to John’s table and attempted a strained smile. “May I join you, John?”
“You know my name. I thought we weren’t doing that,” replied John.
“I only know the name John. I can’t get meaningful information from the name John after all,” said the stranger, uncomfortably. There was something out of place about this man’s manner. He had a self-assurance about him that was at odds with that of someone who needed help with a serious matter.
“What can you tell me about Smithfield’s operations?”
“I have some papers that I think blow the lid off things,” answered the stranger. “It’s arms smuggling of geopolitical significance. And your friend was killed over it.”
“I know that and I know he’s dead,” answered John. “What do you define as ‘geopolitical significance’?”
“Well, let’s just say the whole world will wake up and notice this should it come to pass,” answered the man. His vagueness was not sitting well with John. It obviously implied nukes, but he was unwilling to say so.
Then came the kicker. “I don’t want to say anything more here.” The stranger leaned forward to John and whispered, “Too many eyes and ears around. Let’s take a walk outside and I’ll give you the details and the paper.”
“So tell me straight up, did you find Hozak’s folder of papers?”
“I’ll tell you outside,” was the frustrating reply.
John’s suspicions were boiling over, but he agreed to the walk. In order not to be seen leaving together, the stranger excused himself briefly to the restroom. John took that opportunity to reach into his jacket and release the safety from his gun. He then took the elevator to the lobby and slowly made his way to the shore, allowing the stranger time to catch up.
The two men made their way north along the shoreline, cutting into small talk when others were about. “What I have is hot and I think it got your friend killed,” said the stranger redundantly, further irritating John with his vague and repetitive statements. It was now about 5:00 and the late afternoon sun was still strong on their faces, but the shadows were growing longer.
As they left concrete and walked along the beach they approached Lincoln Park, where retaining piers held the sand in place. There was nobody nearby. John was walking ahead of the stranger, aware of his situation. He asked, “Are you going to give it to me now?” and reached into his jacket.
The stranger answered a little too decisively, “Yes.”
Without any conscious thought on his part, John Corson was now reacting to the situation as he’d been taught in his brief SEAL training. He quickly spun around and ducked, pulling the gun from his jacket as he did so, just as a bullet sailed past the spot his head had occupied a split-second earlier. He squeezed off a single shot as he spun, hitting the prospective assassin directly in the middle of the chest. He walked over as stranger slumped to the ground, dead within seconds.
It was the first time John had killed a man, and the experience was extremely unsettling. The revulsion of taking a life, the shock of having been shot at, the exhilaration of being unharmed, and the panic of clearing the scene, all merged into one moment that seemed to happen in slow motion. John could hear his heart pounding as he struggled to gather his thoughts. He checked the body for ID and was not surprised to find none. How about markings? Assassins will go to great lengths to avoid carrying ID but will think nothing of having a telltale tattoo. He rolled up the man’s sleeves and on the inside of the man’s forearm found a tattoo of two daggers side by side, one slightly higher than the other, with the crossguards each just touching the other dagger. The tattoo seemed somewhat familiar to John, but he could not place it.
John knew he couldn’t linger. The shots would have been heard, and the area was extensively patrolled by the police. He didn’t need to be hampered again explaining himself to the police, this time with his finger on the trigger. They would then find a way to make him a suspect in Robbie’s murder, and his time and resources would be tied up defending himself. He holstered his gun and walked casually through Lincoln Park back to Michigan Avenue. Setting a brisk pace, he made his way south. Stopping at the Chicago River when he was sure nobody was looking, he nonchalantly dropped the gun into the river. He then continued along towards his rental car.
As John walked along, he wondered whether he’d learned anything from his interaction with the assassin. The lure of “weapons smuggling of geopolitical significance” was probably just bait used to set the trap. But the tattoo on the assassin’s arm meant something. John was sure of it. He committed the double dagger design to his memory, expecting that it would be significant in the future.
The cops would find the dead assassin with a gun that had been fired, and in him a bullet fired from an unknown gun. They would find no ID, but would see that tattoo. Either the investigation would conclude that this was some drug related gun fight and dismiss it as unsolvable, or they would bring in the Feds and the tattoo would tip off somebody. That would lead the Feds to the killers or, if the wrong person stepped in, the investigation would stop dead. There would be surveillance tapes in the Hancock building and they would identify the dead man on the tape because they would be looking for him, but they would not identify John unless they already suspected him. He would make a quiet exit from Chicago and avoid any further complications. He had to tie up all loose ends and – “Frank!” His anxiety level peaked as he realized Frank was likely to be a “loose end” to the killers.
Chapter 28: Delivering the Report
Roger Snyder waited some 20 minutes for Bill Connolly to call him into his office. He handed Connolly the dossier he had developed on Ellis and Morningstar, along with the Rowley dossier on Tilbury. “I’m done with this shit, Bill! If you want to push this it’s going to be without me.” He pointed to the Rowley dossier and said “Rowley was killed over something that was in this dossier and is now missing.”
“Rowley? He was killed by the DC sniper,” retorted Connolly.
“Yeah I know the official story. But you know what? The FBI federalized the case right after he was shot. I can call up and get the ballistics reports on all the victims except one. That would be Rowley. His report is sealed and you need Hoover’s approval to see it. I’m not sure even you could view it.”
Connolly smiled with amusement at Snyder’s manner and his invocation of J. Edgar Hoover. “Walk me through this Roger,” he said to calm things down.
Roger settled in his chair and said, “Morningstar has experienced numerous financial crunches over the years, usually when contracts expired and were not renewed. Each time, Derek Ellis did three things. First, he laid off most of his staff with the promise of calling them back when work returned. Second, he wrote a personal check in the range of $1 to $3 million to keep Morningstar solvent. Third, he licked every butt crack on the Hill until he got more work. This was the story in at least five previous cases, but not with this most recent one.”
“When Ellis was embargoed by President Torres, he couldn’t go back to the same people on Capitol Hill for business, and his revenues were reduced to almost zero. You’d think he’d shut the place down. But instead, he wrote a check for $10 million, far in excess of what he’d previously done, and he kept all his staff in place. He knew he was on the verge of something big, and he was right. Right around then is when he formed the Nightwatch Security subsidiary, and right away landed a sweet gig with Helsing-Tilbury. Not only that, but Nightwatch hired new staff, so the old Morningstar staff was still not doing anything I can see, at least officially. The new contract was rich, and Ellis paid himself back $15 million. By my best guess, Tilbury is paying for Nightwatch as well as the Morningstar staff that Ellis kept on the payroll. It’s insane from a profit and loss standpoint, and therefore suspicious. So I looked up Tilbury and it
turns out we had Rowley develop a dossier on them after they were acquired by a holding company I can’t learn anything about. Rowley’s dossier is there on your desk minus any details about the acquisition, the very reason the dossier was developed. And I’m guessing it wasn’t you who pulled the details. So since I don’t want to end up like Rowley, I’m not digging any further into Tilbury. You may have heard of them in the news recently. Their management was wiped out in that plane crash that has not been properly explained.”
“I was afraid it would get complicated,” lamented Connolly, leaning forward and trying to put Snyder at ease. “Roger, what does your gut say here? Just tell me off the record so you’re not implicated, where should we be looking to get to the core of what’s going on?”
“Easy,” replied Snyder. “Whoever acquired Tilbury is paying a ton of money for whatever Ellis is offering, and it’s not simple port security, which could be had for pennies on the dollar. Whatever it is involves Morningstar’s battle hardened staff, or he would not have put $15 million on the line to retain them. Find out who’s paying the bills and why they need access to our ports, and something will emerge.”
“Why are the ports so important? What should I be looking for here, Roger?”
Snyder was fidgety, knowing he was going out on a limb he would rather avoid, but he couldn’t bear to be accused of not having an opinion. “Ports mean something is being smuggled into the country. It could be drugs, weapons, who knows. A worst case might be nuclear weapons, though the ports are not how I would imagine someone doing it. You’d want to smuggle a nuke using a small operation that can fly under the radar. This operation is just too big. My gut says it’s big because the objective requires it.”
