Targets of Revenge

by Jeffrey Stephens

  Sandor rode in Ferriello’s sedan, leaving a couple of minutes later. Four plainclothes officers trailed them in two other cars for street-level backup. Those four, Ferriello, and Sandor were issued Kevlar bulletproof vests, which they now wore under their shirts.

  Several uninformed officers remained in the conference room to monitor communications.

  It was not long before the SWAT team leader radioed that they were in place.

  Ferriello, who had been sitting three blocks from their destination, pulled out and made the turn onto Brighton Beach Avenue. He parked and led Sandor to the now familiar entrance to Little Siberia.

  The two beefy types at the front door were the same pair they had met just a few nights before.

  “Hello boys,” Sandor greeted them as he and Ferriello reached the top of the short staircase. “Remember us?”

  One of the two large skinheads began to say something, but Ferriello was not in the mood, not tonight. “Stand down, asshole,” he told the bouncer.

  “Wow,” Sandor whispered as they walked through the door and then past the red velvet curtains that led to the bar, “you on some sort of adrenaline high?” When Ferriello grunted his response, Sandor warned him, “Take it easy partner. We may have a long night ahead.”

  Ivan was already on his way across the room, obviously having been given a heads-up from his men out front. He was scowling at Sandor by the time his long strides got him there.

  “I owe you,” he snarled.

  Before Sandor was able to offer his view of their relationship, Ferriello reached in his pocket and pulled out the search warrant. “This is only going one of two ways, Ivan, easy or hard. This warrant says I can do basically whatever the hell I want here tonight and believe me, I’ve got the manpower to do it.” Ferriello kept his voice down. For the moment, he wanted this to stay a three-man discussion. “You follow?”

  Ivan gave up the eye-lock with Sandor and turned to the lieutenant, but he did not answer, he only blinked.

  “I don’t need to break up your bar, ruin your business, and haul you and all your weight-lifting friends into lockup, but I will if I have to. You paying attention here?”

  “What do you want?”

  “We know where Vaknin’s office is. Mr. Sandor was a guest there the other night, as you may recall. You’re going to take us there to see Vaknin and we’re all going to sit down and talk. Right now.”

  “Vaknin is not here,” the big man told them with obvious satisfaction. “You have wasted your time.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sandor said. “The warrant gives us access to the entire premises, with or without your boss at home. We’ll just pay his private room a visit.”

  “I do not have the code or the key,” Ivan told them, another apparent triumph.

  Sandor shook his head and then smiled in that way he knew could really irritate people. “I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot with you again, Ivan, but I think you may be lying to us. So here’s how we’ll do this. You’ve got sixty seconds to take us to the office because, if you don’t, twenty cops are going to bust in here with everything from battering rams to plastic explosives and by the time we get done, this place will be a wasteland and you’ll be doing twenty years in a federal penitentiary for kidnapping a federal agent.” When Ivan responded with a blank look Sandor said, “That’s right, remember the other night when you tied me up and threw me in the basement?” Sandor paused. “That look you’re giving me, is it indigestion or a language problem?”

  “We are not done, you and I.”

  “Maybe not. Meanwhile, it’s just like Lieutenant Ferriello said, this can only go one of two ways. So what is it going to be, door number one or door number two?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY

  WASHINGTON HEIGHTS, NEW YORK CITY

  MIGUEL LASCO HAD received word. Everything was in place for tomorrow.

  He was with three of the men in his inner circle, looking over the cars they had parked on the upper floor of a multistory indoor garage on Payson Avenue. Since the economic decline in this area, it had become an underused building. It was on the selling block various times, offered as a potential warehouse, a teardown for apartments or offices, or even for use in its current configuration. There were no takers. No one was going to demolish this old brick structure and invest in new residential or commercial construction, not at this location in this neighborhood. It remained a garage, barely generating enough revenue to pay the real estate taxes and throw off a few dollars to the elderly man in Florida who owned it.

  This week, however, the upper floor was chock-a-block with stolen cars, each of which had a new license plate attached, some expired, some exchanged from other cars, enough of a disguise to allow the limited use to which these automobiles would be put in the morning.

  “We have all we need then,” Lasco was saying.

  “Yes, with the cars the other men already have, there are plenty.”

  “Good.”

  For a moment none of the four men spoke. Then Eduardo, his closest confidant, said what all of them were thinking. “We have done a great deal of work on faith. We have involved many young men. Some may not live through tomorrow. We have been given promises and we have made preparations. Now we must arrange the most dangerous part, rigging the cars and making them ready. So where is the money? And where are the drugs?”

  Miguel responded with a somber look. “I have to make a couple of calls. Give me a few minutes.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

  BRIGHTON BEACH, BROOKLYN

  IVAN CHOSE THE easy path, at least for now. He led Sandor and Ferriello across the floor, unlocked the panel door by punching a code into the keypad, then took them upstairs to Vaknin’s private office.

  It appeared Ivan had been telling the truth. Vaknin was nowhere to be found.

  Ferriello told Ivan to have a seat. Sandor drew his Walther and aimed it at the Russian’s head as the narcotics detective handcuffed Ivan to the chair.

  “This is false arrest,” the man protested.

  “Write the Kremlin,” Sandor suggested, then relieved Ivan of the Glock in his shoulder holster. “Now, where is Vaknin hiding?”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything. Your warrant only gives you the right to look, it does not require me to talk.” He managed another of his defiant looks, which were starting to get on Sandor’s nerves. “I will say nothing more. I want a lawyer.”

  “Of course you do,” Sandor said, giving him a pat on the head. Then he turned to Ferriello. “The team leader would let you know if they saw anyone leaving?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Including the back exit I used the other night?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do me a favor, check with them anyway while I return this call to D.C.”

  As Ferriello radioed SWAT command to confirm that there had been no sign of Vaknin coming or going, Sandor phoned Raabe for an update.

  “I was just calling you.”

  “So I saw,” Sandor told him. “I’m in the middle of something here. What gives?”

  “We’ve identified a call from the Heights.”

  Sandor turned his back to Ivan and walked to the corner of Vaknin’s office. “Go ahead.”

  “There’s suddenly very little communication back and forth, as if everyone was ordered to go radio silent.”

  “But you said you heard something.”

  “There was a short call from a disposable cell somewhere in upper Manhattan—get this—to an airborne cell.”

  “Airborne as on an airplane?”

  “We triangulated the coordinates. Somewhere over the Atlantic, east of South Carolina.”

  “Can FAA identify the flight?”

  “Negative. Too much air traffic, no way to establish altitude or vector. As I say, it was a short call.”

  “Any way to tell if it’s commercial or private?”

  “No way to be sure, but our guess is private. The call was incoming, so it couldn’t be
made to one of those old credit card phones on the plane. And receiving a call on a commercial flight is a tricky business.”

  “Unless you have a satellite phone and duck into the men’s room with it.”

  “Possible but not likely.”

  “Tell me about the call.”

  “The discussion was in Spanish. There were no greetings, no names. The caller wanted to know if everything was on schedule. Guy on the other end was clearly not happy, said the number was for emergencies only. Said everything was on schedule, not to call again until contact was made. The caller pushed the issue, said people were getting nervous that the package had not arrived. He was told to assure everyone that everything was on schedule.”

  “He repeated that phrase?”

  “He did.”

  “What else?”

  “Nothing. That was it.”

  “That really was a short call. What about voice ID? Or pinpointing the caller’s location?”

  Raabe reported what they had so far. The audio was full of static. Even after the recording was enhanced, voice recognition was useless. The best they could do on the source of the call was someplace in Washington Heights, toward the west side. “But there was a second call from the same number, immediately after that one. To a cell somewhere in the South Bronx.”

  “Go on.”

  “This conversation was in English. Same caller, telling someone that everything was on schedule. The guy on the other end said, ‘Allah be praised,’ and hung up.”

  “That was the entire conversation?”

  “That was it.”

  “I take it you have more.”

  “Oh yeah. Did some cross-checking and DHS weighed in. They’ve been keeping an eye on a mosque in the South Bronx with suspected Al Qaeda connections. Right near the site where that call was received. The group has been quiet, so DHS has been monitoring without making contact.”

  “I would say it’s time to make contact.”

  “I’m on it,” Raabe said and hung up.

  Sandor returned his attention to Ferriello, who was busy going through papers in Vaknin’s desk. “The hell with that,” Sandor said, “you can be sure he didn’t leave anything in writing that’ll help. I’ll grab his laptop, you take Ivan, and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “What about finding Vaknin?”

  “Somehow he knew we were coming for him. It’s written all over this goon’s ugly puss. Leave your people in place to wait for him, we’ve got other work to do right now.”

  ————

  They left Little Siberia the way they came in, right through the main room. Ferriello went first, followed by Ivan with his hands cuffed behind his back, and Sandor trailing. Sandor wanted to make a show of their departure in the hope that another of Vaknin’s lieutenants would call to tell his boss the police were gone.

  As soon as they reached Ferriello’s car, the narcotics detective radioed the SWAT commander to advise what they were up to and to have the teams hold their positions in the hope Vaknin would appear. Then Sandor shoved Ivan in the backseat of the sedan and climbed in after him.

  Back at the precinct they threw the Russian in lockup and returned to the war room. Sandor laid out everything he had learned from Raabe.

  “So,” he concluded, “we’re fighting this on two fronts with almost no time left. The biological weapons are on their way, and may be coming by air. The drugs are still likely to be arriving by sea. But either or both of those assumptions could be wrong.”

  The captain in charge of this detail thanked Sandor for the briefing, then said, “You realize that most of this is way beyond our authority.”

  “I do. The task force in D.C. has been in contact with the local FBI, DEA, and DHS offices. I just wanted you to be up to speed, especially with all the help the lieutenant has provided.” He nodded in Ferriello’s direction. “I’ll keep your unit advised captain, and I would appreciate any word you get on Vaknin. He may know more about what’s going on than the last time I spoke with him.”

  “We’ll keep the SWAT team in place for the next few hours. If he doesn’t show we’ll shut his operation and that may flush him out.”

  Sandor nodded. “Good. Now I’ve got to head to Federal Plaza to see what the task force has drummed up.”

  “Not without me, you’re not,” Ferriello said as he got to his feet.

  Sandor looked to the captain.

  “Already approved,” the silver-haired officer told him. “Bobby will be our on-site liaison. If that’s all right with your department.”

  “Right now we can use all the help we can get.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

  STEWART AIRPORT, NEWBURGH, NEW YORK

  JUST AS HE had assured Miguel Lasco, Adina was on schedule. His flight from Santo Domingo made a stopover in Wilmington International Airport in North Carolina to clear Customs and Immigration. The forged passports he procured for Alejandro, Jorge and himself easily passed muster—after all, they were created by the Venezuelan government. A thorough inspection of the plane disclosed nothing improper—neither the cases of anthrax nor the cash from Mateo was found inside the specially constructed bins along the interior of the plane’s fuselage. The three well-dressed visitors from the Dominican Republic were sent on their way without any untoward delay.

  The United States is a huge country, Adina reminded himself, with too many harbors, too many airports, and too many miles of border to effectively monitor every unwanted activity. For nations as well as people, size can create both strength and vulnerability.

  The jet was soon approaching Stewart Airport, north of Westchester County in New York state. Adina realized the security would be tight at the area’s major airports—LaGuardia, JFK, and Newark. Smaller venues nearer the city, such as White Plains and Teterboro, received many private and charter flights, but they would also be closely watched. A couple of hours north of midtown Manhattan, Stewart provided the perfect point of entry.

  While on the ground in Wilmington, Adina received word that Mateo had been captured and turned by the federales, and was now cooperating with the American DEA. There was a concern the cocaine shipment was now in serious jeopardy. However that played out, Adina was especially pleased to have received the down payment provided in Mendez. There might even be a collateral benefit from the Mexican’s betrayal, since he would cause the authorities to focus on the cargo ship heading up the eastern seaboard rather than the journey Adina had undertaken with the anthrax already in hand. Mateo knew nothing of the Venezuelan’s primary objectives or the fact that the anthrax had been removed from the cargo container, so he had nothing to tell them about that.

  Meanwhile, Adina decided to make some minor modifications to his plans. The new details were put in place and he was about to discuss them with his lieutenants when the pilot came from the cockpit and joined them in the main cabin.

  “Gentlemen, we’ll be reaching the airport soon and you will need to put on your seat belts and make yourselves comfortable for landing.”

  When the young man lingered, Adina asked, “Is there something else?”

  “Yes sir, there is. As you know this is the fourth leg of our trip in the past two days. Our time in the air has already exceeded our permitted flight time.”

  Adina responded with a knowing smile. “There are two of you up there. Don’t you take turns getting some rest?”

  “Of course, sir, but as a two-man crew there are certain limitations.”

  Adina, maintaining his thin-lipped smile, asked, “Is there a point to this? You aren’t suggesting my men come up front and land the plane, are you?”

  Alejandro and Jorge gave their best impression of laughter and even the pilot smiled.

  “No sir. I was just wondering where we might be going from here. More important, when you expect to leave.” Adina’s smile vanished as he stared at the young man. The pilot broke the uncomfortable silence by saying, “I’ve flown this sort of itinerary for, uh, dignitaries before. I just find
it’s helpful to get some idea of the timing.”

  “I see,” Adina replied, his tone sounding now like a concerned parent. “You have no need to worry, you’ll have all night to rest up. We will be leaving around dawn.”

  “Thank you.”

  As the pilot turned to walk away, Adina added, “You and your colleague will be properly rewarded for your tireless effort.”

  The pilot stopped and looked back. “Well thank you, sir,” he said. Then he disappeared behind the closed door of the cockpit to share the good news.

  ————

  It was dark when they landed, which was for the best. As the crew went about their business, checking in at the private air terminal and making plans for where they would sleep that night, Alejandro and Jorge picked up the two rental cars they had reserved. When they returned, with the plane to themselves, Adina watched as his lieutenants opened the storage compartments, pulled out the false panels, and removed the hard plastic suitcases containing the anthrax.

  The tarmac was quiet as they quickly placed the six cases in the trunk of one of the sedans, locked the car, then joined Adina again inside the jet.

  “You have more than enough time to reach the hotel, no need to speed or draw attention to yourselves.” They nodded. “As soon as I have word from you that you are in place, I will initiate the signal to have them send their men to your room. They will have the detonation devices, but I want the two of you to ensure they are securely fitted to each of the units before you leave.”

  “Of course,” Alejandro said.

  “Once you are comfortable they know what to do you will return here, but no earlier than sunrise. We do not want to encourage any unnecessary questioning by the locals. We will aim for a takeoff at seven, but as long as we are in the air by seven thirty we will be fine.”

  “Understood.”

  They then took some time to review the various signals they had arranged, so that no telephone discussions would be required unless an emergency arose.

  “I will meet with this mercenary Lasco, then I will be at the motel.” The two men nodded, then they all stood and Adina shook hands with each of them. “Tomorrow we will enjoy a great victory,” he told them, then sent them on their way.