The Nano-Thief: A Lenny D. Novel (Lenny. D. Novels Book 1)

by Michael Lieberman

  "And Howard?"

  "Don't you go worrying after Howard. Me and him go back a long ways."

  Barry's boss has pretty much given him carte blanche control of the operation. He knows the details, but just to be sure Barry gives him a quick recap and a real time update. The note Snorri gave Faraday and Klastan specified that the money be sent to Jorge's IP address via the usual encryption procedures. In turn the two have provided Snorri with the account numbers and routing procedures for the recipients, WHV. Barry is going to stay out of cyberspace until the transfer is over. The Israelis know too much about him. No sense in taking chances. "By 9:50 we'll be in fat city"

  "And what about the other end, San Francisco? Are you sure we have it under control," the boss wants to know.

  "Absolutely," Barry says. What he really means is, I hope so. I've made a judgment about Faraday and Klastan, and I hope it's correct.

  "And locally?"

  "Yeah, I have Snorri on the ground as my eyes and ears, and everybody knows their part. Just talked to him. It's all good. Larkin—he's the constable—and his sidekick are there and…" he looks at his watch, "in about thirty minutes we're going to start moving the heavy equipment into place."

  "Okay…. At the first sign of trouble, let me know. And listen, Weeks, don't screw this up. It's too important to all of us."

  "Don't worry, I've got skin in the game. And what I have planned for N.K. and his team will more than keep them occupied. "

  About 8:50 a.m. a large tractor pulling a flatbed trailer begins to make its way down the narrow street. The truck belongs to Navarro Demolition Services, and a crane with a wrecking ball is chained to the flatbed. Tito Navarro looks at Constable Larkin's patrol car leading him forward, its blue and red lights flashing. "Go slow, hombre, quidado," Tito mumbles to himself. "We don't want to clip someone's car." Tito doesn't have to remind Larkin. The whole idea is to go slow. Tito catches Preston's patrol car in his rearview mirror. His lights are flashing red and blue as well. But Preston has stopped at the mouth of the street. His job is to direct traffic away from the demolition site.

  It's a tight squeeze—the load is oversize, and the street narrow. When people are parked on both sides, there is barely a lane and a half. It takes them the better part of fifteen minutes to negotiate the distance.

  At 9:10 a.m. they come to a stop in front of N.K.'s house. That way when the crane comes down the ramp, it will be in front of the driveway of Snorri's brick house. The diesel is running, and Tito and the wrecker get out and begin to unchain the crane. N.K.'s two Dobermans rush to the fence. Their barking adds to the general chaos. Larkin ignores all of it. His immediate task accomplished, he's daydreaming about his deer-hunting lease. He figures the hard part is over. He reaches down and pulls out a bag of donuts and begins to work on one. The diesel drowns out everything. You can hardly hear the dogs.

  It's slow going for Tito and José as they undo the crane and begin to back it down the ramp. In any event they are in no hurry. Quick Draw and his partner look out of the SUV, which is parked almost directly in front of the yellow clapboard house with the dormers. "N.K.," he says on his cell, "we've got a bit of a situation out here. A big truck is parked…"

  "Fix it. I don't want to hear about it. I'm in the middle of something."

  Quick Draw puts on his Mr. Nice Guy manners as he gets out and wanders over. "Hey, guys, what's going on?" he says above the diesel and the Dobermans.

  "Not much, just unloading the crane so that José here can demo that house." He points to Snorri's purchase.

  "How long's this going to take?"

  "We have to be done by five, for sure. Got to be. We're in Katy in the morning."

  "No, to unload."

  "Thirty minutes, give or take."

  "You can't leave that truck there. You got to move it."

  "Can't move it till we unload."

  The Mr. Nice Guy routine is beginning to fade. "You can't block the street this way. I've got to get in and out and so does Mr. Ben David. He's with the Israeli Consulate. You know we didn't have any notice. We weren't prepared."

  "Sorry, mister, that's not my department. Call the City or DPW, that's what they're supposed to do."

  "Buddy, move the damn truck. Now."

  "No way. We got to take that sucker down and bust up the concrete slab."

  "I'm not going to tell you again."

  "That's good, because I ain't listening."

  Quick Draw moves close to Tito and exposes the handle of a pistol in his jacket pocket. He doesn't say anything. He lets Navarro digest the threat.

  "I don't know who the fuck you are, pendejo, but we have a work permit from the city."

  "And I have this." He pulls the gun from his pocket, but does not point it at Tito or José.

  "And I have these," and Tito points to two video cameras mounted on the cab of the tractor.

  Quick Draw is enraged. He's not used to being told what to do by a couple of yokels. "Well, we'll see." He's an excellent shot, and with only a few rounds he takes out both cameras.

  "Congratulation, payaso, with real time transmission we have you on video threatening me and shooting out the camera."

  "I could shoot you right now, you slimy brown bastard."

  Tito's cool. "You could, but you'd have to run on foot. No way you're getting your SUV out of here. Not until the crane's offloaded."

  Quick Draw is about to pistol whip Tito for his insolence.

  Constable Larkin is a little slow off the blocks. But the shots have roused him, and he comes around the open door of his patrol car with his .38 drawn and leveled. "Put it down, now." Quick Draw looks at him. "Now is now. If you don't, I'm going to shoot you." Quick Draw looks at him and decides that the constable will send him home to Israel in a body bag. No one is going to question a constable who shoots a guy with a loaded gun threatening someone.

  Down the block, Preston has heard shots or thinks he has. The diesel is loud. Now he comes puffing up to assist.

  "Flat against the SUV now. And you." Larkin points at the other guy. "You too." In a minute Larkin and Preston have the two in cuffs. He decides not to call for backup or help just yet. Barry has told him not to let up until 10:00 a.m.

  N.K. still does not appear.

  Snorri strolls by still clutching the flyers with the picture of poor Agatha. He stops on the other side of the street, like any neighbor who has happened by. There's Quick Draw and his partner handcuffed up against their black SUV, and José has the crane's diesel running. Two diesels and the Doberman's—the clamor is deafening. He's about to call Barry on his burner and give him an update.

  Then the door opens, and N.K. comes out onto the porch in a coat and tie, dressed, Snorri thinks, to go into work at the consulate. He calls his dogs and ushers them inside. He's left Ari inside to monitor their high-interest sites, including UVL's activity. N.K. comes up to Larkin and Preston. As best Snorri can tell, he doesn't say anything. He looks the two officers up and down and shifts his gaze to José in the cab of the crane and Tito leaning against the tractor. Then N.K. says something in Larkin's ear, and they get in the patrol car where they can hear.

  "Hey, this is Burner 1 to Burner 2," Snorri says to Barry. "Sorry for the all the racket. So far we've winning. More to follow." And he hangs up.

  Constable Preston motions Snorri over and tells him to move on. Somehow Larkin has failed to tell him about Snorri. Snorri looks at his watch: 9:20 a.m. Almost home free, he thinks. "No problem, officer." He walks down the block a bit and turns back. Not a perfect view, but good enough.

  Inside the patrol car, N.K. explains that he is an Israeli diplomat and points to the plates on the black SUV. Then he launches into a series of complaints that sound like he and Quick Draw are reading from the same script. It's a long and not very diplomatic tirade that ends with, "Look, officer, I think we can work all of this out." Larkin waits to hear how the Israeli thinks he can work all of this out. "Well," N.K. says.

  "Well, what
?"

  "Are you going to get the crane and the truck off the street? If you don't, there's going to be an international incident."

  Larkin knows he's holding all the cards: "Look, mister, ah, mister…"

  "Ben David, N.K. Ben David."

  "Mr. Ben David, I don't know anything about international anythings, but you're in the U.S. of A., and here you follow our rules. These guys have a permit, and they are going to knock down the house. That's it."

  By this time, José has backed the crane down the ramp, maneuvered it into position on Snorri's front lawn, and untethered the wrecking ball.

  "Mr. Ben David, for safety sake, I need you to get anybody else out of your house. Nothing's going to happen, but just in case."

  N.K., like everyone else in his game, is a probability guy. What's the chance that an experienced crane operator is going to miss with a wrecking ball? This guy does this all day every day. Too much is riding on Ari's work to interrupt him. Monitoring is N.K.'s most important task. It's a 24/7 deal. "No," he says, "I'm the only one home. It's okay."

  "You, sure. What about the Dobermans?"

  "Don't worry about them. No one's inside," he says.

  N.K. and Larkin exit from opposite sides of the patrol car—the red and blue lights are still flashing. The constable walks over and shouts to José above the diesels that it's okay to begin. He flashes him and Tito a thumbs up.

  It's 9:35 a.m. Down the block Snorri is on his phone, "Hey, friend, it's New Year's Eve and the ball is about to drop."

  Actually, José has decided on a lateral attack. He swings the pear-shaped ball from the edge of N.K.'s property toward the brick house. The idea is to drive the debris away from N.K.'s property toward the center of the Snorri's lot. He makes three passes, each time pounding at the brick and moving the back swing of the ball closer to the yellow clapboard house with the dormers. That way the ball travels further and picks up more speed.

  N.K is watching this, and with each pass he gets more nervous. Does this yo-yo really know what he's doing? But the house is coming down. The next pass brings the ball dangerously close to N.K.'s house before José swings it toward the collapsing brick structure.

  "The motherfucker is out of control," N.K. shouts. He looks at Larkin. "Stop, him. Shut it down. I've got a guy…"

  But before he can say "inside," the back swing of the ball hits the side of the yellow wooden structure. It's not nearly as sturdy as the brick house. The sidewall splinters as the ball strikes it and penetrates deep inside, bringing the second floor down onto the first and burying the ball. Half the house is dust and rubble.

  N.K. is shaking Larkin. "Stop him, stop him. Ari's in there."

  José has already stopped and shut down the crane. Everyone can hear José shout above the noise of the tractor's diesel. "Chinga tu madre—go fuck your mother," he says to the crane. There has been slippage and too much cable has spooled out on the back swing, allowing the ball to strike N.K.'s house. A mechanical failure of some sort deep in the bowels of the crane's gears and clutches.

  N.K. calls 911. He is all nerves, practically incoherent. "He's trapped, a man, he's an information offi…he may be injured. Ari needs help." The person on the other end tries to extract the pertinent information from him, but N.K. goes on. "Ari is buried, maybe alive, trapped under the rubble of a house or worse…. You've got to come quick." The voice is able to calm him and get the information EMS, HFD, and HPD need.

  The ball stays in place. They can't take the chance of injuring Ari further. And HPD will want the scene in tact at least initially for their investigation. Larkin tells Tito to move the flatbed and tractor so that the Fire Department and EMS can get in. "But come back. They're going to want to talk to you."

  One of the Dobermans manages to scramble out of the rubble. He crouches dazed and whimpering at the fence. N.K. wants to go through the gate and start digging. The two constables warn him off. It's too dangerous for untrained personnel.

  Snorri checks his watch: 9:48 a.m. "Good news, and a little bad," he says to Barry. "Miley Cyrus has brought home the bacon."

  "What?"

  "You know, her famous song 'Wrecking Ball.' N.K.'s house had been hit. He starts to tell him about Ari, but Barry has hung up.

  "Hello, Jorge," Barry says, "All systems are go."

  And go it does, smooth as a baby's bottom. The Chinese money flows through Tbilisi to Klastan's folks to UVL, boutique merchant bankers, to WHV.

  "We're in fat city," Jorge says. "It's gone."

  "The boss knows?"

  "He will in a second. He'll be breaking out the New York State Champagne before you know it."

  Snorri's on the horn to Barry again. "There's bad news, too," and he tells him that one of N.K.'s guys is trapped under the rubble. His fate is unclear.

  "When you can, come by and tell the three of us all about it."

  At the scene, it's tense. A team of firemen is digging through the debris looking for Ari. They work cautiously, moving collapsed beams and drywall, trying to ensure nothing else collapses. They're staying well clear of the part of the house that's still standing. No sense taking chances. The support columns have been weakened and the rest of the house is liable to come down. The paramedics wait in the street, shooting the breeze.

  It turns out they are not needed. It's past noon before HFD can begin to see the ball a little further back. Then one of them spots a pair of running shoes protruding from the rubble.

  "Hold it," she shouts. "We have to go slow," and she points to the shoes and the bottoms of a pair of jeans. "Hey, you in there, can you hear me?"

  Nothing comes back. It looks bad, but they move each piece of wallboard, each plank with great care. Caution is the word of the day. Judging from the legs and the ball just beyond, they intuit the outcome, but you never know. They take off his shoes and feel for a pulse. Negative on both sides.

  They move more quickly now, and soon they have most of the rubble cleared.

  "Poor bastard, he never had a chance," one says. "At least it was quick and painless."

  Most of what was Ari's head and torso are obscured under 1,500 pounds of forged steel. Blood has leaked out from under and stains the rubble. It doesn't look so bad now. But when the wrecking ball is lifted, the ME will have to scrape much of Ari from it.

  N.K. takes one look. "These motherfuckers"—he means Navarro Demolition Company and Tito and José in particular—"are going to pay for this."

  Some weeks later at the inquest, it will come out that the problem has been declared mechanical failure. Human error has no been involved. Further, if there is any negligence, it belongs to N.K., who put Ari's life at risk in the first place.

  Barry has planned the diversion perfectly. It's not his fault N.K made the wrong call for one of his operatives. As soon as Barry can get to the bank, he'll withdraw some cash. It's payday for Snorri, Larkin, and Preston—and Tito and José as well. As befitting investment bankers, Barry's payout will be a yearend bonus.

  Barry decides not to wait for Snorri to come by and debrief him. He knows what he needs to. They can celebrate later. He goes into work to touch base with his boss and the rest of the folks at Unlimited Ventures, Ltd. Felicidades, Jorge!

  41.

  Meanwhile, a certain clean-shaven, curly-haired guy in a Texans T-shirt has gone about his business undetected. And why shouldn't he? Everyone has been focused on the yellow house with the dormers and the news from Klastan in San Francisco. Sammy wants to upgrade his wardrobe before his rendezvous with destiny. Now, the discount store in the mall is open. He picks out a gray button down and a pair of black jeans. He doesn't want to look like he has stepped out of a Dracula movie when he shows up at FDU. He goes to a changing room and puts them on. Then he heads up front to pay. Now he looks the part of any sleep-deprived graduate student set for a meeting with his advisor.

  He sits in the mall parking lot, visualizing every step—every action, every aspect of his encounter, every sentence he imagines uttering.
Then he thinks through all the moves for all the steps of his Plan B. He's not quite ready, and he knows it. His head still aches from last night's wine. He is shaking slightly—the way people do when they have a chill. But the temperature is perfectly comfortable. He would like to put off the encounter a few days, but he knows his energy and resolve will only attrite from this point forward. He puts the briefcase with the money in the trunk and goes through the computer case once more to make sure he has everything he needs. "Time to move out," he says out loud. He turns the Kia's key. This time it starts right up.

  As he drives to the university, he worries that a cop will pull him over and cite him for the cardboard in the passenger side window. He wouldn't mind the fine, but the gray Kia doesn't exist and the Florida plates came off God-knows-whose junker. Of course he's got no insurance. He drives like a deacon. It goes fine, and he turns into an FDU entrance near the engineering school. He's got a card to let him into student parking, but the car has no FDU parking sticker. He opts for visitor's parking. He struggles with which credit card to insert to gain entrance, then decides it doesn't matter. By the time anyone checks the credit card records, he will be long gone. He parks near the exit with a straight shot at the wooden arm and the pay terminal. If he has to, he can crash the barrier on the way out.

  As he walks across campus, he is invisible. The only slight exception is that most students carry their laptops and books in backpacks, but no one is going to hassle him because he's got a computer case. An FDU campus police car passes him going the other way. He doesn't even draw in an extra breath. For now, he's secure. He's flying under the radar. Later it may be different, but the day is mild and clear. If life had dealt him a different hand, he would be feeling content. He's aflutter with low-level tension: on a better day his grinding jaw, the tightness in his stomach, the remains of his headache would belong to someone else. Suck it up, he says to himself.