Operation Underworld

by Paddy Kelly

  The old metal door creaked open to reveal Redbone’s frail, bent frame standing in the doorway.

  “Who da hell are you people and why’s you in my office?”

  The dumbfounded look on the agents’ faces only lasted until Johnson gave the order. “Take care of him!”

  One of the lackeys grabbed the defenceless old man and pinned his arms behind his back. The other had seen one too many movies, and hit Redbone in back of the head with a pistol butt, causing him to yell out and kick wildly with his feet. His heavy work boot found a mark in the shin of the agent, who disengaged, howling and hopping around the room, both hands holding his leg.

  The second agent remained occupied with restraining Redbone’s arms, and that’s when Johnson intervened. A punch to the jaw, followed by two vicious blows to the back of the head with his brass knuckles rendered the frail man unconscious.

  The agent, who had not uttered a word until now, released Redbone, allowing him to fall to the floor and looked at Johnson.

  “Looks like now we got three, huh?”

  “Three what?” Johnson enquired with a puzzled look.

  “Three ta contend with.”

  “Less than a year to retire,” Johnson said to himself.

  “Should we go to Woolworth’s?” enquired the agent with the bruised shin.

  “Yeah, good idea. We’ll just split up so we can cover all hundred and twenty-nine of them in the greater New York area quicker! Fuckin’morons!”

  “You wanna go after the book?”

  “No. We’ll wait until tomorrow. Use the parade as cover,” Johnson replied.

  “What about him? He ain’t breathin’ too good!” the agent with the bruised shin asked, pointing to Redbone. Johnson eyed Redbone’s brutalised body before answering.

  “Fuck him. By the time they find him we’ll be back in DC with a cover story.”

  “And McKeowen?”

  Johnson thought before answering. A smile crept across his face as he stared through the agent. “Déjà-fuckin’-vu.” He uttered under his breath. The two agents exchanged glances.

  “That guy’s father was a prick, and his kid’s a prick.”

  “You knew his father?”

  “Yeah. I helped the DA on an operation one time to control some rogue cops. Now I get to take this prick out.”

  Although winter appeared to have lost her way to New York City, tell-tale signs of the season encroached. The defoliated trees in front of Gracie Mansion in Carl Schultz Park waved in the late afternoon breeze.

  The Mansion is normally reserved for charitable, humanitarian and social functions as opposed to hardcore, political head-banging sessions. Those are done downtown. However, the afternoon of Friday the thirteenth was a notable exception.

  A single patch of brown, windswept grass was the first thing that caught Captain MacFall’s eye as he stepped out of the marbled entrance into the blustery afternoon, donning his white dress gloves. Despite the fact it was the informal request of Fiorrello LaGuardia which brought him to the Mansion, he thought it prudent to wear his dress blues. Out of more than courtesy, LaGuardia accompanied him to the door.

  “So can I tell the council we’re on the same sheet of music?” LaGuardia sought one last confirmation.

  “I understand your position, Mayor, but I must repeat myself. I’m not at liberty to discuss anything relating to any classified operations in the Third Naval District.”

  “Roscoe, I have to tell the city council members something! There are serious privacy issues here! I thought we…”

  “Tell them what you like, sir. All I can say, off the record,” MacFall looked LaGuardia straight in the eye, “is that I promise you there won’t be a problem.”

  “That’s all the city can ask, Captain.” The mayor extended his hand. MacFall reciprocated.

  “Thank you for your hospitality. Look forward to the parade tomorrow.”

  Captain MacFall’s black 1938 Chrysler staff car pulled around to meet him and as he got in, he instructed the driver to take him back to Church Street.

  To the staff driver, who had been with MacFall over three years now, the Captain seemed unusually quiet.

  “Ya think the Pin Stripes‘ll do it on Sunday, sir?”

  MacFall continued to gaze out at the bluish-grey East River. He watched a pair of river tugs as they effortlessly cut through the current, heading up river and memories of the DE’s he served on and the sea-going tugs which serviced them at each liberty port flowed through his mind.

  “Sorry, Eddie. I was somewhere else.”

  “The ball game. The papers are sayin’ we could wind up with a second Murder’s Row!”

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far. But if Gherig has a good day, there could be a lotta bookies with smiles on their faces come Sunday night.” Sunday night, he realised. One day before Monday. Monday, which would be seven days since he had been in Washington and been given the seven-day deadline for the operation.

  He remembered Charlie Haffenden’s words: “Like pulling a Band-Aid off.” MacFall made a decision.

  “Eddie, what time is it?”

  “Sixteen-thirty, sir”

  “Belay Church Street, head for the Astoria.”

  “All ahead full for Hotel Astoria, aye sir.” MacFall smiled at Eddie, pretending to man a ship’s helm while at the steering wheel.

  Traffic was accumulating, but not yet jammed, and fifteen minutes later they were cross town and pulling into the hotel car port at the front entrance.

  “Put the priority tag in the windshield, Eddie and wait over there. I have no idea how long I’ll be.”

  Eddie eyed the hot dog cart across the street. “Sir! I missed lunch. Any chance me runnin’ over for a coupl’a tube steaks?”

  MacFall eyed the cart as well. “Stand by. I’ll take care of it.”

  Walking past the doorman, the Captain handed him a five dollar bill and asked him to run across the street. The doorman at first refused until he was told to keep the change. MacFall gave him Eddie’s usual lunch order. Four dogs, heavy mustard and sauerkraut and two Yoohoos.

  The last time Captain MacFall had seen the mezzanine suite, it was devoid of anything except some furniture and Commander Haffenden. As he opened the door this time, he was greeted by a scene which appeared to be nothing short of mayhem.

  There were at least four people busy dashing back and forth across the rooms, two more at desks, busy writing away, and a line of what MacFall guessed to be operatives, waiting to see the Commander. One of the uniformed personnel sighted the Captain and immediately called out. “Attention on deck!”

  Everyone momentarily stopped in their tracks, stood at attention and awaited MacFall’s counter order.

  “As you were!”

  The room slid back into a noisy buzz. Proceeding straight to the Commander’s back room, the Captain let himself in and was greeted with a picture which made his mission even more difficult then it already was.

  Camouflaged by mounds of paperwork, Commander Haffenden sat at his desk, head down, all but oblivious to his surroundings. He could not see who had entered the room without permission, and assumed it was the next operative, there to give his report.

  “You’re supposed to wait until… Captain! Out slummin’, sir?” Haffenden stood to greet his commanding officer.

  “Quite an op you got going here, Commander. Well done.”

  “Thank you, sir. Things are finally on track. We’re flowing pretty good. This time next week, we’ll have the last of the rotating schedules worked out for the Bronx and Queens, and that’ll be all five boroughs.”

  Haffenden was surprised to see the Captain on his home turf. This was only the second visit from his boss since the operation began. He was, however, prepared for the rough seas he was about to face. The delinquent reports he assumed the Captain was there to complain about were nearly finished, and Haffenden was confident he could fend off any attack MacFall was about to launch.

  “Sir, I have the
back status reports and I apologise if you got any flak from the higher-ups.” Haffenden began digging through the paper mountains.

  “Haff, let’s take a walk,” the Captain suggested.

  Haffenden looked up and stopped rummaging. “Sir, it’s near seventeen-hundred. I have to get the next shift of operatives out before eighteen-hundred. There are others coming in, we’ve got…” Haffenden had a bad feeling as he watched the Captain stand, signalling they were going to have a heart-to-heart, regardless of the Commander’s busy schedule.

  He decided that if he were to accept what ever form of bad news the Captain couriered, he would do it at his desk, in his office. “We can talk here, sir.”

  “Why didn’t you set this up downtown? I’m not tryin’ to second guess, mind you. Just curious.”

  “Space, prying eyes. Besides, I can get food here, got a bed in the back and a rain locker in the head. No real reason to leave.”

  Macfall chose his words carefully, without being condescending. “That’s what I explained to the people downtown. It’s that level of dedication that drove me to pick you for this project.”

  As the Captain began to talk in terms of ‘The Project’, Haffenden began to experience serious concern. “Pull the Band Aid, sir.”

  MacFall sat up straight in his chair. “I just came from LaGuardia’s place. They’ve received some complaints from some influential business types concerning privacy issues.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “These guys are no dummies. They have connections, too. They know you’re snooping around their places of business.”

  “We’re snooping around wherever the trail takes us. Besides, most of the leads on that target list come straight from DC! The FBI, the Pentagon. The President’s own advisory committee, fer cryin’ out loud! On top of it, they all want separate reports of the findings, and they’re tellin’us they don’t want each other to know about it!”

  “I understand your dilemma.”

  “Since when do local officials influence Navy policy, anyway?”

  “That’s not the only issue.” Haffenden waited for the Captain to continue.

  “This murder case is bringing unwanted focus on our existence right here in the middle of Manhattan. They feel things like little old men being dumped in the East River scare people and increase their feelings of paranoia.”

  “They damn well should! There’s a war on, god-damn it!”

  “Look!” MacFall took a breath. “It’s not just him.”

  “What are you tellin’me?”

  “Chuck, it’s outta my hands.” Now Haffenden sat back in his chair. A strong sense of betrayal crept over him.

  “You’re shuttin’ us down because we’re not producing?”

  “I told you it’s outta my hands!” The Captain was becoming increasingly irritated at the difficulty of his task.

  “Why? Because a bunch of money-hungry merchants in the downtown area are scared to go out at night? This is the murder capital of the world, for fuck’s sake! They’ll catch the guy!”

  MacFall, as an experienced executive, understood the dynamic of allowing a colleague time to adjust to bad news, and so permitted Haffenden to continue. The Commander readjusted his sights.

  “We’re just gettin’ on track here, sir. The increase in manpower was exactly what we needed. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of these contacts lasted until after the war! Some of these guys are really playin’ ball here.”

  “How many spies ya catch, Chuck?” MacFall reluctantly reduced the argument to the numbers game.

  “We’re buildin’, you know that. Just gatherin’momentum. It’s barely been six weeks, fer Christ’s sake!”

  “How many?”

  Haffenden sat in silence. Now MacFall entered into the convalescent stage of the mission.

  “Look, Haff. You’re not really being shut down. It’s more like a conversion.”

  “Conversion? Conversion to what?”

  “The Casablanca summit was an important turning point in the war. Now that we have Africa, we can turn our sights to the continent. It’s not official yet, but most of the DC boys are bettin’ it’s gonna be Italy by way of Sicily. Some sources have already agreed to work with us to gather intel on potential landing sights.”

  “Where do I fit in?” Haffenden asked cautiously.

  “They’re calling it ‘F’ Section. They want you to head

  “They’re calling it ‘F’ Section. They want you to head it up.”

  “Am I officially being relieved of command?” Every officer’s worst nightmare. A sure dead end to a career. MacFall laughed at the suggestion.

  “Relieved? Don’t be stupid!” He leaned into the desk. “I’m not supposed to tell you, but you’re to receive a special commendation.”

  “For what? Not catchin’ spies?”

  “Don’t lose your military bearing, Commander. Not at this late stage in the game.” At that exact moment Commander Haffenden made a vow to himself. Immediate retirement the day the war ended.

  “Anything else I need to know?

  “One more thing. I need you down at Church Street, zero seven hundred tomorrow. Report to the mail room. The new clerk will issue the remainder of the op fund. Arrange an escort, take the money to the Federal reserve on Wall Street. Find a guy named Paladin. Your contact code is ‘You can’t take it with you’. Go with him.”

  Haffenden was puzzled. “What for?”

  “Accompany him to the incinerator vault and observe him burn the remainder of the fund.”

  Haffenden was completely lost. “Am I at liberty to ask why? There’s just over twenty thousand dollars left in that op fund!”

  “You’re not at liberty to ask, you don’t have a need to know. However, I am at liberty to tell you. DC is worried about accountability. About the possibility that if the money is sent back, somebody might start sniffing around.”

  “Well, why not just leave it where it is and use it for ‘F’ Section?”

  “No need. They’ve already allotted funds for the new op. They’re worried about how to explain the money if it went back up the chain. People would find out that the Op was… converted. It’s an unnecessary security risk.”

  “When do we have the fire sale?” MacFall was pleased to hear Haffenden maintained a sense of humour.

  “Cease and desist not later than midnight tomorrow. See you in my office zero eight hundred, Monday morning.”

  Faster than it was begun, Operation Underworld was laid to rest.

  MacFall never told Commander Haffenden about the deadline for Operation Underworld he had been given the previous week in Washington.

  In addition, Haffenden never received his copy of the top secret message, informing him that his op fund was suspected of having been tampered with and that an investigation was underway in connection with the disappearance of $45,000 in counterfeit bills from the US Treasury.

  Nikki sat bolt upright in bed. Had she dreamt the sound or was it real? The clock on the night stand read one-thirty.

  There it was again. A knock on the door. Who the hell was at the door at this hour? Her mind raced. Kate! The knock came again, this time a little louder.

  Her fear mounting, Nikki jumped out of bed, threw on her night gown and raced down the hallway. Passing by the front door, en route to the kitchen, she gasped as the intruder knocked again.

  Frantically rummaging through the silverware drawer, Nikki found the Thanksgiving carving knife.

  Standing to one side, she spoke through the door. “Who is it?” Her throat was dry and the words were difficult to form and came out as a whisper.

  “It’s me!” Doc’s voice whispered back.

  Nikki unlocked the door and opened it slowly. Still brandishing the knife, she greeted Doc. “Jesus Christ on a cross!! You scared the hell outta me!”

  Doc peeked his head through the door. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We were just in the neighborhood conducting a survey, and were wondering if
you happened to have any highly classified, government documents lying around the house?”

  Nikki let him in. “So now I’m dating Emmet Kelly? How the hell did you get past the vestibule? I didn’t ring you in!”

  “Trade secret, sweetheart. You alright?”

  “Nothing one of those magic teas of yours wouldn’t cure! Come into the kitchen so we don’t wake Kate.”

  She locked the door behind him and followed him into the kitchen.

  “Get the book,” Doc instructed and after Nikki set the kettle, she reached into the cupboard and removed the sugar bowl. Removing the lid, she held it over the sink and fished out the small black book. Handing it to Doc, he flipped through it, shaking sugar crystals out onto the table.

  Nikki set the tea tray and motioned to be quiet as she led Doc into the front room. She took a seat in the bay window and clutched her tea with both hands.

  “Well? Whatta you think?”

  “Looks like an ordinary address book. Some sort of nonstandard, internal code. Names, places, dates.”

  “So, whatta we do?”

  “We make a deal.”

  “But…”

  “But nuthin’! We make a deal. The book for our lives back. They get it, they agree to leave us alone.”

  “And if they don’t, we go to the press or somethin’?”

  “I don’t think that’s gonna be an option.”

  “So how do we get it to them? Cops?”

  “Definitely not the cops! These guys are Feds. They control the cops.”

  “You were a cop. Don’t you have any friends left on the force?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice.”

  “What then? The mail?”

  “Ameet, face to face. It’s the only way.”

  “Doc, that’s risky!” As Nikki spoke, Doc realised that she was ignorant of Johnson’s involvement in Ira’s murder.

  “I’ll call one of the Treasury guys you work with. What’s the name of the head guy? The creep?”

  “Johnson, Robert Johnson. Doc, that guy’s bad news!”