Black Water Transit

by Carsten Stroud

  “And I think I can resolve it for you.”

  “Really? I’m so pleased for you. This is so exciting for us.”

  “I took a Lear to Harrisburg, South Dakota. Not Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.”

  There was a long, stunned silence.

  Greco showed her teeth.

  “You’re being clever, Mr. Pike. I don’t recommend it.”

  “Really? You should try it yourself. For example, when one of your agents here pushes a female clerk around at the Slipstream desk at LaGuardia, makes a lot of ugly threats, and generally acts like a Gestapo thug, and the wretched clerk tells your agent where the plane went—under duress—and the answer is Harrisburg and nothing more, then the clever thing to do would be for that young ATF agent to determine which Harrisburg the girl was talking about.”

  “The clerk said Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Mr. Pike.”

  “I think not. The video camera at the Slipstream flight desk caught the whole incident. The tape is at my lawyer’s office. The clerk simply said Harrisburg. Your agent then smacked the desktop with his fist, said, ‘Was that so hard?’ and as he stalked out of the office the audio recorded his last words. They were ‘stupid cunt.’ ”

  “This agent had just lost three men to a sniper. I think we can cut the man a little slack. And we looked into Slipstream Jetways, Mr. Pike. The owner is a man named D’Arcy Pruitt. Mr. Pruitt is also a full partner at Crisis Control Systems. This seems convenient, to say the least.”

  “D’Arcy Pruitt is an old friend from the army. And a business partner. Why the hell wouldn’t I use his charter service?”

  “And this work you claim you were doing in South Dakota. I take it you were working alone?”

  “No. I had two men with me.”

  “From CCS, I take it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they’ll verify your presence in South Dakota, will they?”

  “If you ask them. Please do.”

  “You can count on it. And when we crack them open, they’ll be charged and indicted right next to you.”

  “Lady, the brutal fact is I really was in Harrisburg and I have people who’ll back me on that. I’m sorry about your agents. From what I can gather, this Vermillion person is some sort of Mafia figure. You want to look for your sniper, start with them. They’re all over the shipping business. Maybe you stumbled in on something and got your guys killed for it. You forgot to ask which Harrisburg. You got fixated on the wrong man. You have several flunkies here. Be a leader. Burn one and move on.”

  Greco could not restrain herself from sending a death ray at one of the ATF men, who received it with a stony face.

  She then recovered, smiled thinly at Pike.

  “And the purpose of your trip?”

  Pike shook his head.

  “Can’t tell you. Client confidence.”

  “But you were unable to respond to our calls?”

  “I didn’t get them. Harrisburg is right on the Iowa border. It’s quite rural. There’s no cell phone service in that region. I was pretty involved. My client is a large landholder in that area. We were trying to be discreet. Now I would like to ask you a question, Ms. Greco.”

  “Certainly.”

  “What is the status of my collection right now?”

  “Kiss it good-bye, Mr. Pike. It has been seized.”

  “Has it been destroyed?”

  “Not yet. But it will be. You broke the law, Mr. Pike.”

  “I do not admit that I broke the law.”

  “You attempted to ship prohibited weapons. That’s a felony. Weapons specifically banned under federal legislation of 1994.”

  “I can—and will—make the argument that those weapons constituted part of a collection with great historical value and therefore were exempt from that statute.”

  “There’s no record of your making such an application for this collection. You attempted to move illegal weapons out of the country and sell them to a foreign national. A military officer in Mexico.”

  “I filed an application for exemption with the ATF last year. I have been waiting patiently for a decision ever since. In the meantime I had every reason to believe that my collection had not been rendered illegal since, according to articles of the firearms act, a collection for which an exemption application has been filed cannot be the subject of a seizure operation until the application has been adjudicated.”

  “You claim you made this application … when?”

  Pike handed her a sheet of triplicate paper.

  “Here’s my receipt. There’s the date.”

  She plucked it out of his hand, tossed it to one of the ATF people, who left the room in a hurry.

  “We’ll confirm that. I still maintain that an attempt to ship weapons—illegal or not—without a complete disclosure to the ATF is a serious criminal offense.”

  “Yes, I fully agree. You are absolutely correct.”

  “You do? We are?”

  “Without a shadow of doubt. I gather you have already arrested the man. And then I understand you let him get away. Unfortunately, after he killed two guards, I hear.”

  “You’re talking about Jack Vermillion?”

  “I am. He was the shipper of record. The disclosure responsibility lies with him. I informed him of the contents of that container, and I assumed that he would make all the proper filings. That’s his business, isn’t it? That’s what Black Water Transit does.”

  Greco’s makeup was being sorely tested by this.

  “You colluded with Mr. Vermillion to disguise—”

  “I colluded? You have surveillance tapes? Recordings? The usual grainy telephoto shots you people love to take?”

  “We have the testimony of—”

  “My word against his. And his word, I understand, is the word of a dealer in stolen cars, a money-laundering criminal. A Mafia-connected criminal. You said as much yourself. I watched your press conference in a roadhouse yesterday. You were quite persuasive. And this is the witness you’ll bring to court to testify against me?”

  Greco’s makeup failed at this point. A sheen of moisture had appeared on her porcelain upper lip. The door opened up and an ATF agent jogged back in with a printout, which he placed on the desk in front of Greco. He backed away quickly while Greco read the sheet.

  “Bad news, Ms. Greco?”

  “It seems you did file an application to have your collection granted a historical exemption. At least the record suggests it.”

  “The record suggests? It’s in your own computer.”

  “The process is … these records may have been altered. I—”

  “Okay. Now I’m faking records inside the ATF database. You’re sounding a little desperate, lady. I think that’s all the time I have to waste with you people right now, Ms. Greco. Is there anything more? Shall I be off? Shall I … tarry?”

  Pike’s smile was blade-thin, his tone full of contempt.

  “Tarry?” said Greco. “No. You needn’t … tarry.”

  Pike got up, brushed the creases of his trousers, straightened his suit jacket, and stood a moment, looking around the room.

  “This is your office, Ms. Greco? Very impressive. I thought you were based in Albany, in the federal courts up there.”

  “No. I’ve been … transferred. I’m now on staff in New York.”

  Pike gave her a direct look, his eyes remote and cold.

  “Really. A promotion? Very nice. What a wonderful view.”

  “Thank you. You can go. But this matter is far from over, Mr. Pike. We’ll be talking to your friends at CCS. I’ll ask you not to leave the state.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ll be nearby, Ms. Greco. You may depend upon it. In the meantime, please take good care of my collection. I know I can trust you to keep it safe. I expect it to be returned to me very shortly. I want you to know, however, that should any clerk in your office allow a single item to be damaged, or lost, or ‘extracted from source for training purposes’ … if the collection is
in any way interfered with, I am going to view such an event as a deliberate act on your part—an act of cold malice—and I will hold you responsible. Professionally. Personally.”

  “Oooh, not a lawsuit,” she said. “I’m all aquiver. Take your best shot, Mr. Pike. We’ll see each other again.”

  Pike smiled broadly at that.

  “My best shot? Very droll. You all have a great day.”

  GOWANUS EXPRESSWAY WESTBOUND

  BROOKLYN

  1215 HOURS

  Derry Flynn and Maya Bergmann were airborne again in the black ATF chopper, Flynn at the controls, Bergmann watching the big green van as it rolled westbound along the Gowanus, part of a slow-moving stream of trucks and cabs and vans. The sun had broken through the cloud cover and the glare off the traffic a thousand feet below was hurting her eyes. Flynn was keeping an eye out for other aircraft and following the gray concrete ribbon of the parkway about a mile back from the van.

  They had two cars laying back on the parkway and a third vehicle, a Verizon truck, in close to Jack’s van. Flynn was keeping the units advised while Maya monitored the progress of the green van. Up in the distance the towers of lower Manhattan floated in a brown haze and the East River was the color of spilled mercury. The thunder of the chopper’s blades was giving Maya a headache.

  “Why don’t we just scoop this prick?” she said, fighting to keep the binoculars trained on the target.

  “He’s already met with one of Torinetti’s people. Just like we figured. He’ll do it again. Now he’s moving. See that collection of buildings up there, where the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel starts? That’s Red Hook. This all started there. Maybe he’s going back. Let’s just hang back and see what he’s up to, okay?”

  The stream of traffic on the Gowanus was thickening as it approached the jam around the tunnel entrance. As they watched, the green van slowed and edged toward an exit ramp.

  “Okay, units. He’s taking the BQE. I think he’s going to Red Hook Container Terminal. Everybody stay clear. Don’t get burned. We have the transponder, so we’re covered.”

  Now the van was within a few yards of the exit ramp onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. For a Sunday morning, the traffic was brutal, a river of cars and trucks, bumper to bumper and stop-and-go. The first weekend of the summer, and the town was already choking on tourism. They could see the Verizon truck a few cars behind the van. Flynn pressed his transmit button.

  “Delta, you’re too close.”

  “Baker, I don’t want to lose him. The traffic’s piling up here.”

  “I know. Remember, we’re on him too.”

  “Ten-four, Baker.”

  The green van had come to a full stop now, and cars were piling up behind it. A section of road opened up in front of the van.

  “He’s thinking it over,” said Maya.

  “Yeah. Be ready.”

  The van moved out, passed by the turnoff to the BQE, and stayed on the Gowanus.

  “Okay, all units, cancel Red Hook. Target is taking the Brooklyn-Battery. Delta, move back. Charlie and Alpha, come up on him. He goes down the tunnel, you lose us, so stay close. We’re gonna pick him up when he comes out the other end.”

  “Ten-four, Baker, Charlie out.”

  “This is Delta, affirmative. Pulling back.”

  “Alpha moving up. Ten-four.”

  “I don’t like tunnels,” said Maya, leaning back in the passenger seat and rubbing her face. “Shit happens in tunnels.”

  “We have three units on him and a transponder in the vehicle. Even if we lose visual, we have him on the GPS. Take a red one.”

  The chopper gained altitude as Flynn increased the collective. They watched as the green van inched up to the tollbooth and stopped.

  “Alpha here. He’s paying the toll. It’s him. I got a visual.”

  “Roger that, Alpha.”

  “There he goes,” said Maya. “I wish the hell we had a cell phone trace on him. Why don’t we?”

  “Maya, a Blackbird trace costs thousands of dollars. We already have a GPS transponder in the truck.”

  “I got a bad feeling, Derry.”

  “Well, lighten up, Maya. Okay?”

  The green van moved away from the tollbooth and disappeared into the twin black squares of the tunnel entrance. They hovered as the Alpha unit, a white Lumina, moved up to the toll plaza and stopped. The other two units, the Verizon truck and a green Ford Windstar, were visible in the line several cars back. It was a choke point, but they still had the transponder signal, although it was fainter now and fading even more as the van moved under the river and the concrete tunnel interfered with the signal.

  “Baker, this is Alpha. We got a problem.”

  “Alpha, this is Baker. What is it?”

  “They’re not letting any more cars in right now.”

  “Why?”

  “Wait one …”

  “I told you,” said Maya.

  “Baker, they say they got an MVA in the tunnel. Stalled vehicle.”

  “I told you,” said Maya again.

  “So tin the guy and go!”

  “They got the barrier down. They say nobody’s going in until the jam is cleared up here. They say I can shove the tin up my ass.”

  “Alpha, go in on foot. Go now!”

  “Roger that!”

  They watched from five hundred feet as the two ATF agents jumped out of the Lumina and jogged down into the tunnel. Both men had their weapons out.

  “Cowboys,” snorted Maya.

  “Delta and Charlie, you copy this?”

  “Ten-four, Baker.”

  “Delta, you assist Alpha on foot. Charlie, hold your position. We’re going to the Battery and cover that exit. People, move it!”

  “Roger that, Baker.”

  Flynn increased the collective and pushed the cyclic forward and the chopper rose up in a hammering wind and soared out across the East River. The trees of Governor’s Island were swaying in a wind off the Verrazano Narrows and boats were cutting white lacy patterns in the blue-gray plain of the upper bay. Flynn brought the chopper in low around the bottom arc of the Battery, took it up to five hundred feet, flared out, and hovered over the exit ramps where they came up out of the greenbelt of Battery Park.

  “What if he takes the FDR tunnel?”

  “We’ll see him. We’ll follow him. You’re in a real negative frame of mind today, Maya.”

  Several minutes passed with Flynn fighting the controls, the chopper rocking in the crosswinds off the bay and the Venturi effect of the tall buildings all around them. He was listening for the transponder signal. There it was. It was growing stronger. Thirty seconds later they both watched as the green van popped out of the tunnel and rolled up along Greenwich.

  “Okay, units. This is Baker. I have him. He’s on Greenwich … he’s turning right onto Rector … he’s going to Broadway. Okay, he’s stopped in traffic at Broadway and Rector. I have the transponder signal. He’s five by five. Copy?”

  “This is Charlie. Delta and Alpha are still in the tunnel. I can’t raise them. Do I hold here?”

  “You have no choice. I’ll stay with the van. You hold and wait for Delta and Alpha. Copy?”

  “Ten-four, Baker.”

  “Derry, that van’s not moving,” said Maya.

  Flynn looked down at the van. It was stopped in the middle of Rector. Traffic was building up behind it.

  “What’s he doing?” asked Maya.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I got a bad feeling, Derry. Go down.”

  “This is Wall Street. Look at these buildings. I can’t go down. The currents are nasty. I’ll wreck the chopper. Kill people.”

  “Something’s wrong. He’s not moving at all.”

  Now the traffic behind the green van was stopped up completely. People were getting out of their vehicles. Flynn saw a police car with NYPD B 1 on the roof roll up the sidewalk and approach the vehicle.

  “Maya, get the citywide for the NYPD! Warn them
.”

  Two police officers were getting out of the patrol car and walking toward the side doors of the green van.

  “Central, this is an air unit of the ATF. We’re at Broadway and Rector. Your patrol unit Boy One is approaching a green van. Suspect inside is armed and dangerous.”

  “Identify yourself.”

  “This is Special Agent Maya Bergmann of the ATF. You better get on to your patrol unit now!”

  “One Boy, K?”

  One of the two police officers stopped. Then the other one. They were less than ten feet from the door of the truck. Flynn and Bergmann watched as he keyed his shoulder mike. Then they heard his voice.

  “One Boy, Central.”

  “One Boy, we have an air unit of the ATF on scene.”

  The cop looked up. They saw his white face in the crowd and the blue blur of his jacket.

  “I see them, Central.”

  Maya cut into the transmission.

  “Officer, this is Special Agent Maya Bergmann of the ATF. The green van you’re approaching is under our surveillance. Suspect is armed and dangerous. Do not approach the suspect. Repeat, do not approach. This is a federal operation. Do not contact the suspect.”

  “Do not contact? He’s sitting in the fucking traffic, Agent Bergmann. People are gonna lynch him. I gotta approach.”

  “Do you have visual contact?”

  “I do. Guy’s sitting right in the driver’s seat. Wearing a marshals jacket with a gold star. Grinning at me.”

  The police officer had his gun out now and his partner had moved into a hostile-contact position at the left of the van. Both guns were trained on the doors of the green van. Crowds of people had gathered. The operation was blown.

  “What the hell,” said Flynn. “Let them take him.”

  “Out?”

  “No. Into custody. This is getting too hairy.”

  “One Boy, this is the ATF.”

  “Not now, ATF. One Boy, this is Central. Report status.”

  “Report status, Central. Ten-four. Wait one.”

  Flynn moved the chopper in as low as he could manage, threading it down between the glass towers of Wall Street. The trees and the grasses of Battery Park were flattened and silvery-looking and the dust of the streets was coming up in clouds. The two NYPD officers approached the side doors of the vehicle with their guns out. There was a rush at the driver’s door, the cop ripped it open, stuck his weapon inside. The other cop came through the passenger door at the same time. The van rocked, and then the first cop reemerged, dragging a white-haired man in a brown marshals jacket.