by C. W. Saari
“Agent Campbell, did you copy?” Witt, who was pacing inside Global’s security office, asked nervously.
“Ten-four,” Campbell said. “I’ve got the number and I’m heading out now.”
Four cars surveilled the white Global van as it wound its way through light traffic to Peachtree Street in midtown. Two cars were ahead of the van on parallel streets, and two trailed behind at a discreet distance. The Bureau plane, which had been circling above the Georgia World Congress Center, banked northward as it monitored the van’s progress.
“Bannister, this is Witt,” the ASAC said as he called the command post on a secure FBI radio.
“I copied the caller’s transmission,” Bannister said.
“One of the subjects is a woman.”
“Might be,” said Bannister.
“What do you mean ‘might’ be? I heard her voice,” Witt said.
“The caller could be using a portable telephone voice changer. I know that’s what I’d use. They’re pre-programmed with up to twenty-four different voices, male or female, as well as different accents.”
When Campbell made the turn seven minutes later onto Peachtree Street, he dialed the extortionist’s number.
“Pull into the front circular drive of the Woodruff Arts Center and stop,” the female voice ordered and hung up.
Campbell knew the Arts Center was less than a mile ahead. The surveillance teams reported no unusual vehicles following the van. While Campbell pulled into the front drive of the Arts Center and kept the van running, his eyes rapidly scanned back and forth across the marble entranceway. No cars were moving and there wasn’t anyone on foot. Five minutes later the phone rang.
“Go back the same way you came. When you get to Northside Drive, turn south to Bankhead Highway and turn right. After you make the turn onto Bankhead, call.” Click.
On a large map board, Kush was tracing the van’s route. Witt continued pacing back and forth, his right hand unconsciously jingling change in his pants pocket. “They may lead this van all over the city,” he said.
“You’re right,” Kush replied. “Bannister told us to be prepared for this thing being mobile for up to twenty-four hours. I’ve got additional people on call.”
When Campbell reached Bankhead Highway, he dialed the number again.
The voice said, “Continue down Bankhead for two miles. When you get to Garry Avenue, turn right. There’s a small shopping center there. At the entrance is Mike’s Mini-Mart. Pull into Mike’s and call.”
Witt called Bannister on the radio. “Any luck on the trace?”
“We’re working on pinpointing the caller’s location. With all the cell towers in that area, it’s going to take some time. Right now, we’ve identified the subscriber as a woman in Marietta, Georgia. My guess is either it’s a stolen cell phone or a cloned number, but we’re checking it out.”
“Okay, let me know what you come up with as soon as you get it,” Witt said.
“Why don’t you sit down,” Kush suggested as he noticed Witt stumble over one of the rubber floor mats near the computers. “We might be here for a while,” he added as he swallowed another Tums.
Campbell called the number again once he pulled into a parking space in front of the Mini-Mart.
“Take the bag and put it in the dumpster on the left side of the Mini-Mart,” the female voice ordered. “Then leave immediately.”
Campbell turned off the engine. “I’m assuming you guys have an eyeball on me,” he said. “I’m about to step out of the van. I don’t see anyone outside the store. There’s a red Taurus parked on the far right near the big ice machine. No one’s in the car. I’m exiting the van now, and I’m going to put the bag in the dumpster.”
Campbell got out, slid the side panel door of the van open, and took out the black trash bag with the canvas money pouch inside, being careful to hold it with both hands. His every move was being watched by six agents, four in cars and two in the plane. He walked fifteen feet to a large brown Dempsey dumpster. He put the bag on the ground for a few seconds to open the lid. He then dropped the bag to the bottom of the trash bin, closed the lid, and notified the command post he was returning to the van so they could send the electronic signal activating the motion sensor in the bag.
Once back inside the van, Campbell said, “Delivery made. No one coming out of the store. I’m returning to base.”
The surveillance teams stayed at their observation sites as the arrest team, in two cars, moved into position.
The two GPS devices were silently beeping their signals every ten seconds.
“I guess we’re in a waiting game now,” Campbell muttered to himself.
Ten minutes went by, and then two things happened. The signal from the motion sensor went off briefly, then its signal and those from both of the GPS locators went silent.
As soon as Bannister heard the signals go silent, he called Witt on the radio. “They’re taking the money. We gotta move in now!”
“Stand by,” Witt told Bannister. “I’m calling the plane and ground units for a situation report.”
In a few seconds, both responded. No one had approached the dumpster.
“All units, sit tight,” Witt ordered.
Back at the command center, Bannister was irate. Stu Peterson walked over to the command center console in time to hear Bannister yelling, “I don’t know how they’ve done it, but the bastards got the money, and Witt’s sitting on an empty nest!”
“What makes you so sure?” Stu asked.
“I had two GPS locators placed in the money bag and one motion sensor as a backup. Somehow, three different technical devices went out at the same time. That’s not coincidence. And it’s not faulty equipment. I checked those units myself a half-dozen times. What it means is that someone’s a step ahead of us.”
The next phase of the agonizing waiting game began.
After one hour, Witt was overcome with impatience and called for a surveillance unit to break cover and go to the store, buy something, and then take some trash out to the dumpster. One of the agents was ordered to look inside and verify the bag was still there. At the same time, a report from the phone company came in. The location of the cell phone used by the extortionist was in the exact sector as the mini-mart. Bannister relayed this information to Witt.
“We’re holding tight at the mini-mart. All units, be aware the caller’s cell phone has been traced to this vicinity,” Witt said.
“Watchdog to Base,” one of the units called in a minute later.
“Go ahead.”
“We’ve confirmed the bag is still in the trash bin.”
Bannister asked if agent Hollister had lifted the bag to make sure the money was in it.
“We’ve had a half dozen agents watching that dumpster, and no one’s gone near it. The bag’s still there,” Witt said.
The next five hours dragged by with no activity except for the normal traffic into and out of the mini-mart. The sun disappeared on the horizon. Finally, Witt made the decision to abort.
“Base to Watchdog,” Witt called. “Retrieve the package. I want all surveillance units to keep an eyeball on Watchdog until the package is back at Global.”
Agent Hollister returned to the trash bin and reached down to retrieve the black plastic garbage bag with the red tie. He knew immediately something was up when he went to lift the bag. It couldn’t have weighed more than two pounds.
The other agent had already popped the trunk when Hollister got back to the car. He and his partner opened the bag and saw shredded newspapers. They immediately radioed Witt.
“Base from Watchdog. The money’s gone. Repeat. The money’s gone. There’s nothing in the bag but newspaper. What do you want us to do?”
“Secure the trash bin until I get there,” Witt blared into the phone.
As soon as Bannister heard the transmission, he said to Peterson, “Stu, the team here can continue coverage and work the leads. I’m going to Mike’s Mini-Mart.”
“Go ahead. We’ve got things under control here. It looks like you were right. Someone’s got a six-hour head start on us.”
The direct route to Mike’s Mini-Mart was Spring Street to North Avenue and over to Northside. Bannister hoped to get there before Witt. He knew that whenever the ASAC had the chance, he liked to use lights and sirens. It was unlikely the display would get him there any faster, but it certainly heated up the scene once he arrived. Bannister found that fast, alert driving and going through traffic lights after checking for oncoming traffic worked best with unmarked cars, which was all the FBI drove.
He pulled into the lot from the north as Witt, with blue lights flashing from his visor, and the alternating wig-wag lights blinking from behind his grill, entered Mike’s lot from the south. Witt swerved to narrowly miss hitting a steel pylon holding up a giant billboard.
Agent Derrick Hollister was standing beside his Bureau car, talking on a cell phone. Bannister parked the Buick near the road, got out, and gave Hollister the “time-out” signal. Hollister concluded his call immediately.
“Have your partner go inside, identify himself, and tell the manager we have a crime scene here and we’re going to be around awhile. Make sure your partner tells him to stay off the phone.”
“I don’t believe in magic, but your guess is as good as anyone’s about what happened to the money,” Hollister said.
“I’m not guessing. Give me a hand with this dumpster.” Bannister walked a few paces toward the rusting bin that emitted an odor like burning cheese.
“Watch where you step,” he warned. As they shoved the dumpster toward the rear of the alley, a long strip of pink insulation rolled out from underneath it. Exposed directly below the dumpster was a square hole.
“Someone have a light?” Bannister yelled.
Hollister produced a flashlight and offered it to Bannister, who shined the beam down into the shaft of a tunnel gaping from beneath the asphalt alley. Witt rushed over and his mouth dropped open.
“I’ll be damned. He’s dug a tunnel.” Witt stood there gawking down the hole.
Bannister wanted to say, “No shit, Sherlock,” but instead called the plane. “Eyeball One.”
“Go ahead,” one of the pilots responded.
“Download all your video coverage for the past six hours to the command post computer.”
“It’s already done.”
“Pull the arrest teams and have them start canvassing the businesses across this alley. Hollister and his partner can start interviewing the employees in the mini-mart. We’ll need a forensics team to search this tunnel and wherever it ends up. My guess is that it empties into the office space there.” Bannister pointed directly to a building about twelve feet from the dumpster.
“I need an agent to go down and see where this thing goes. I’d do it myself, but it looks a little narrow for my shoulders. We’ll need a warrant to get into that office. I’ll get the duty US Attorney on the line as soon as I have enough detail.”
Witt was still leaning over the hole. At least he wasn’t barking out orders. Bannister gave him credit for that.
“Gary, would you mind turning off the blue lights in your car?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Call Adam Kush and confirm his money’s gone, at least temporarily. And then give the boss a call and fill him in. He’s probably home by now.”
Mercedes Ramirez pulled up and walked over to where Witt and Bannister were standing. She looked down into the hole, shaking her head. “I went back to the office to follow up on the ricin report and Stu told me what happened. I thought maybe you could use me here. Yes?”
“Thanks, have you got your disposable hazmat suit?”
“I have a couple of them, but I don’t think they’ll fit anyone else. They’re in the trunk with the evidence kit. I also have a portable searchlight. You want me to check out this tunnel?”
“Mercedes, I don’t know what’s down there. I don’t think it’s dangerous, but if someone is willing to send ricin in the mail, they’re capable of anything.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take it real slow.”
“If you see anything suspicious, stop and get out.”
“Let’s see where this thing ends up.” Ramirez put her portable searchlight on the ground and climbed into her white Teflon suit with built-in boots and gloves. She would have just used the hard hat, but Bannister made her put on the hood.
A six-foot wooden ladder constructed of two-by-fours had been secured into one side of the tunnel’s opening. Ramirez carefully descended the five rungs into the shaft. When her feet reached the bottom, Bannister lowered the searchlight to her.
“I’ll have to do a duck walk down here,” Mercedes shouted. “It looks like this thing goes horizontally for about twenty feet or so. The tunnel’s circular. It’s got either fiberglass or plastic sections bolted together, and there’s an aluminum track on the floor. There’s some kind of small cart at the end.”
A few moments later, they heard Mercedes’s voice again. “I measured eighteen feet to where there’s another shaft going up, and another wooden ladder attached to the wall. It looks like the opening is covered with plywood. Do you want me to continue?”
“No, come on back,” Bannister called down to her. “We’ll wait for a warrant.”
As Ramirez climbed up out of the tunnel, Bannister was already on the phone for a warrant, having been patched through to the same Assistant US Attorney who had authorized prosecution.
Hollister, his partner, and one of the arrest teams had returned, having identified the four businesses across from Mike’s. The assistant manager and clerk inside Mike’s were of no help. Of immediate interest was the office closest to the tunnel—US Euro Trans-Consultants. The full range of FBI records checking began on that business and all the others in the vicinity.
Witt said he’d remain on the scene while the search warrant was drafted. Bannister called the Technical Supervisor, Ernie Gonzales, with the bad news.
“Yeah, I heard. One of two things happened. Either our tracking devices were located and destroyed, or someone managed to block their signals,” Gonzales said.
“They went out too fast after the drop. They wouldn’t have been able to search the money and bag that fast.”
“That’s what I thought. I’ve got a theory on how this could have gone down. I don’t know if Witt’s told you yet, but the boss called a meeting at the office for nine-thirty tonight. We’ll talk about it in a couple of hours.”
Bannister noticed Witt scraping his left shoe, trying to remove a wad of gum someone had spit onto the pavement.
Ramirez walked over in her jump suit and silver hard hat. Even though the temperature was dropping, she’d worked up a sweat inside her suit and her bangs were plastered to her forehead. Looking in Witt’s direction, she whispered to Bannister, “Real gumshoe, eh?”
Bannister laughed. “I’m going downtown to the US Attorney’s office,” he said. “How about identifying the door lock on the front of this business?” He pointed to US Euro Trans-Consultants. “Make sure one of Gonzales’s tech guys comes out with the forensics team so we can key the door rather than breaking it.”
“Gotcha.”
“One other thing. See if any of these businesses have cameras focused on the outside.”
An hour later, with search warrant in hand, Bannister pulled back into the last vacant space at Mike’s Mini-Mart. Surprisingly, no local police or media had stopped by to investigate all the activity. A van with the crime scene recovery group was getting their equipment ready. Ramirez was in charge of logging all evidence, and the search team was reporting to her. Ernie Gonzales’s guy advised there were no alarms. He said he could pick the lock easily and cut a key for it after they were inside.
Everyone wore latex gloves. Once the lock was picked, Bannister opened the door and flipped a switch on the wall. Two overhead lights illuminated an eerie scene. Everything inside was coated with a layer of gray dust. Two large
windows and wooden blinds had been completely covered on the inside with black plastic stapled to the wall. In the room were two office desks with matching chairs. That was it. No other furniture. The floor was covered with light brown industrial carpeting, which appeared to have been vacuumed. Everything else was coated in dust. The door in the rear led to a spartan bathroom with nothing in it except a toilet, sink, and mirror. One of the techs took photographs.
The chair behind the second desk was sitting on a square sheet of plywood. Bannister rolled the chair aside and lifted the plywood board. Staring at him was the end of the tunnel. Eight feet down was a red pull cart that looked like a gardener’s wheelbarrow.
“Well, the money’s not here,” Witt said.
“You’re right, Gary. I think the last time it was here was two o’clock, or five minutes after Campbell put it in the dumpster.” Bannister let that sink in. “The search team will probably need a couple of hours to process everything. If you’ve got things under control, I’m heading back to the office. I want to see what the analysts have been able to find.”
“I’ll be back for the briefing,” Witt said.
“By the way, make sure the alley’s blocked off before we secure. I don’t want some citizen to drop out of sight.”
At the office, the command center was buzzing under the able direction of Stu Peterson.
“Ty, Germaine’s come up with something you need to hear,” Stu said, beckoning Bannister into his office.
Germaine White was an intelligence analyst assigned to the task force. She was a single black female who favored bright-flowing dresses and pastel-colored shoes. When she walked through the office, her glasses swayed from a gold-colored cord. She was the only employee who worked inside the special security room everyone called the “vault.”
