All The Big Ones Are Dead

by Christopher A. Gray

  Bishop took one last look at the video feed in warehouse three and then nearly shouted in surprise.

  “Jurgen Schimpf?” Bishop rasped. “You greedy, vicious, Nazi bastard. How the hell do you figure into this? What’s with all the known faces here? This is a very bad sign.” Bishop fixed his eyes on Schimpf’s face in the feed. The camera was providing a high angle view, so Bishop wasn’t seeing a full face. There was no doubt though. The longer he stared at the monitor, the more sure he was. Jurgen Schimpf. If the fixer in Douala had given up some of these names, Interpol and half a dozen other government agencies would have organized a swarm of agents to descend on Marseille.

  Whatever. Bishop was on his own and he preferred it that way. Now to business.

  Bishop put together a small but useful and deadly kit. Zip ties, metal-handled wire garrotte, a Glock G26 chambered for 9mm short, five extra clips, a small Sony voice recorder, and a tiny, black video camera clipped to his tactical vest. He never went anywhere without his folding knife and it was secure in its ankle holster. He also had a multi-tool tightly sleeved in an outer pocket on the front of his vest right next to a small LED flashlight with fresh batteries.

  When everything was secure he killed the little work light he’d been using, silenced his mobile phone and secured it in a waist pouch, checked to make sure yet again that the laptop was recording everything thing, then made his way quietly down the metal outside stairs to the paved loading area outside the warehouse.

  There was nobody around, but warehouse one was less than a hundred meters distant so he still had to ensure his approach was clear. His video surveillance did not extend beyond the entrance gate closest to each of the warehouse buildings, so he had no idea whether or not any of the smugglers had dropped perimeter guards before entering each compound. He hadn’t seen anyone in any of the warehouses communicate with a mobile phone or a two-way radio, so he doubted the existence of guards, but Bishop hadn’t made it this far in the trade by being sloppy, so he made a long curving route outside the area where he might have positioned perimeter guards if he’d been running a smuggling operation. There was nobody in any of the potential positions, so he then made a direct approach to warehouse one along its back wall, well away from the glare of the gate lights and interior high bay lights blazing though the open doors.

  Bishop was struggling a bit to get himself on track, to get himself fully into the recon. It wasn’t a physical problem. It was his head; he’d been cooped up in the stakeout for just a little too long. It occurred to him, as he squatted low, keeping alert until his head cleared a bit more, that he’d done exactly this sort of thing many times before. That was the thinking that shook the stakeout torpor out of his mind and into the physical moment.

  Seeing nobody on lookout as he slowly moved his head to the left, just far enough so that he could use his left eye to scan forward toward the front of the building. He eased out of his position and moved forward five long, quick strides. He stopped, crouched low, head still and eyes looking straight ahead. He used only his eyes to scan from side to side, pausing every two or three seconds to let his peripheral vision work. When he was sure there was no movement and no one in sight, he took another five long, quick strides, and repeated the process. It took him only two minutes to reach the front wall of the warehouse.

  The light spilling out of the open warehouse door was even brighter than he’d seen in the camera feeds on his laptop.

  Bishop made a fast check of his gear to make sure everything was tight and quiet. No noise tonight. This strictly a recon. No contact. Intel only.

  He used the same technique that he’d used from the back wall. Position himself flat and low against the side wall, move his head slowly left, just enough to let his left eye see the area immediately in front of the building. No guards, no lookout or perimeter guard near the front gate. He could hear the crew inside the building talking and joking, killing time.

  Bishop needed two looks at the crate. One look had to take place before the contact arrived to work on the crate. If the crate got sealed before Bishop could get a look at the contents, he’d never be able to get into it without damage the seals or the paperwork or both. That meant he would need a distraction, something that would get everybody out of the warehouse for at least five minutes. There were no barking dogs available, no movie-style distractions, no wanderers on the front industrial street who could be magically persuaded for a couple of hundred euros to pretend to be lost. Bishop was continuing to scan the area for ideas, his mind racing, when he spotted what he needed. It was a well-placed water supply line and hydrant; a combination common in Marseille. It looked like it was operated by either a lever wrench that Bishop didn’t have or the regulator wheel that was attached and appeared to be so rusted that he doubted it could be budged by two or three big men hauling on it together. He decided to work his way over to the valve anyway.

  The water feed line and shut off valve was in the usual location for these sorts of warehouses. The main water lines were buried up to the hydrant, but this close to the seaport and the docks of Port-du-Vos nothing beyond the hydrant was buried more than a half meter deep. Dig any deeper and you’d get seawater surging up from tide pressure. So the water lines and shut off valves were close to the surface. As he worked his way closer and closer Bishop was rewarded with just what he needed. Somebody had thoughtfully hung a long, heavy valve wrench, tethered to a chain, on the fence next to the shut off. There were plenty of thieves stealing municipal water using old tanker trucks, bottling it, and selling it to the tourists.

  The double ended wrench had a chock on one end to disconnect the pipe collars, and a square valve box spanner on the other end to work the valve itself. Bishop very carefully lifted the wrench and disconnected it from the carabiner used to attach it to the chain. Then he quietly placed the chock on the pipe fitting and very gently leaned all of his six foot two inch, 220 pound, densely muscled frame into the bar. To his surprise, the collar moved easily, but there was enough pressure in the line to force a very fine high speed spray through the threads. He tightened the collar again, removed the wrench, then used the spanner end to slowly turn off the valve. Only two full turns to completely shut off the valve, so that meant it really was a water supply rather than a hydrant. Definitely used by fresh water thieves, he thought. Then, with the pressure off, he reversed the wrench again and removed the pipe collar. There was a bit of play in the vertical pipe, so he twisted it as much as he dared to direct the open outlet more toward the front of the warehouse.

  Bishop stopped for a moment, squatted down and scanned the whole area slowly for movement, lookouts, anything at all that looked suspicious. Still nothing. From his position in utter darkness, he could see the entire interior of the front of the warehouse, the open end of the truck, and all of the men he’d first seen in the camera feed. Nobody missing. He turned to his right to work out a safe route into the warehouse, and he spotted the front office with an electrical box jutting out just behind it. That did it for him. He turned, placed the spanner on the valve, and cranked it fully open with two huge heaves. The water stream exploded outward with tremendous force. It reached almost to the right half of the open warehouse door, which was exactly where Bishop hoped it would go. The tremendous stream startled everyone into immobility and the heavy misting gave Bishop the cover he needed to sprint, wrench still in hand, back to the side of the warehouse.

  Ngouabi was the first one out. He assessed the situation, looking carefully at the water building up fast and rolling toward the warehouse. It was too dark for him to see the source of the water, and he didn’t really care about it. Ngouabi did not believe in accidents or fate or coincidences or anything of the kind. He firmly believed only that inconvenient events happened for reasons that were likely intended to be bad for him. He was looking for signs of hijackers, and that was punctuated by the handgun he drew as he edged forward a couple of paces. The weapon was pointed at the ground, but Ngouabi suddenly crouched and wad
ed into the edge of the mist that was pounding upward. He emerged out of the mist no more than three meters from Bishop’s position.

  Ngouabi was looking for hijackers, not a lone recon, so his concentration was all directed forward. When he could wait no longer, scanning from side to side for any kind of movement or sound that could be heard above the rushing water, he turned back and jogged to the men who’d arrayed themselves behind cover in the warehouse. He barked orders quickly. One of the men sprinted out to the gushing water line. He yelled back for a tool of any kind that could be used to close the valve. That set off a mad scramble in the warehouse and around the water line for the wrench that Bishop had kept with him. After less than two minutes, the water building up continually and now beginning to enter the warehouse, Ngouabi and the other men had also gone out to the valve to see what could be done.

  Bishop moved as the group trotted out to the hydrant. With their backs to him, he made it to the back wall of the office and completely out of sight. He was standing right next to main electrical panel. He didn’t wait any longer. Everything went completely dark when he threw the main switch to kill all the power.

  It worked. The first thing he heard anyone shout was that the water had shorted out the power. They’d all be afraid to get anywhere near the electrical panel. Bishop had the time he needed to enter the back of the open truck and check the crate. He waited only another ten seconds, to be sure that none of the smugglers had a flashlight. He couldn’t wait any longer than that because it wouldn’t take long for everyone else’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. He quietly made his way into the truck and moved to the rear of the crate.

  The crate side panels were loose. Well, of course they are. The contact has to seal everything up in a certain way in order to be sure that whatever greased border agency supervisor set up to clear the crate didn’t get all nervous and fidgety. Bishop had expected to be in the back of the truck for a couple minutes, but the loose rear panel lifted easily out of its bottom slot in the base of the crate. He set his flashlight to low power, shielded it, then flicked on a weak beam inside the crate. He didn’t need more than a few seconds to recognize the packing. It contained raw, cut up rhino horn without a doubt. He didn’t have to dig into the packing to see it for himself, because he’d seen it in briefings, he’d seen it first hand, and he was looking at it now.

  He killed the weak beam, secured the flashlight, and replaced the crate panel. The whole process had taken just over one minute. He was ready to leave, but a clean exit was always harder than a clean entry.

  He stopped all movement, and remained completely still while he took his bearings and controlled his breathing. Noise and movement attracted attention no matter how dark it was. Just enough time had passed for him to be sure enough that Ngouabi and his boys had their night vision back.

  Then Bishop heard what he’d been hoping for. A sudden shout erupted from the men at the hydrant. Then they were all speaking rapid French. They’d been trying to cap the outlet with the pipe collar to reconnect the line. It was a stupid thing to attempt. The pressure was enormous. The wet collar had slipped out of a wet hand and either broken someone’s leg or severely injured it.

  Bishop couldn’t see that far out into the darkness any more than the men at the hydrant could see him. He was sure their attention was all on the injured man, so he made his exit quietly and swiftly. He got back to the side of the warehouse, at the same time as Ngouabi was walking back into the warehouse. He hadn’t even sensed Ngouabi’s approach. Bishop froze for a moment, until he was sure that Ngouabi hadn’t seen him. Ngouabi disappeared into the warehouse and a moment later the lights came back on. Bishop could hear the man cursing, banging on storage closet doors, and after less than a minute, calling for one of the men to come a fetch the large wrench he’d found in a tool cabinet. Less than a minute later, the water had been shut off and the soaked group was standing around, dripping, relieved there hadn’t been a hijacking, but wary.

  The noise of their agitated chatter covered Bishop’s retreat to the outside rear of the warehouse. He was waiting for the contact to arrive and do his thing. All Bishop needed to see after that was the manifest number, the seal, and the destination port.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, an Audi Q5 came through the open gate and pulled up directly in front of the warehouse. The driver and front seat passenger got out, scanned the area, then the driver nodded his head to someone still in the vehicle.

  Jorge Tudor got out of the SUV and stepped carefully around large puddles left over from the water diversion.

  “Did you have some rainfall here, Destin?” he asked, looking around.

  “No. Not rain,” the man replied. “A water line opened up.”

  “It broke? I don’t understand.”

  “Not broken. The connection came apart.”

  The two men just stared at each other for a moment.

  “I think that is unusual, Destin, if true,” Jorge said, plain disbelief in his voice, “although for the life of me I don’t know why anyone would make up such a story.”

  “It is unusual. But there is no one around. We are prepared for hijackers, but no one appeared. The electrical power was off for a very short time. An earthed connection somewhere underground tripped the circuit because of the water, perhaps in the wires connecting the outside lights. I do not know. The package is safe and untouched. If it were otherwise, we would be having a different sort of talk, I believe. Oui?”

  “I should say so,” Jorge replied, looking around again at the soaked ground. “I have work to do, so let me get to it.”

  Destin had stopped paying attention to Jorge. Though nobody had tried to interfere with his business, Destin did not believe in coincidences. He walked over to one of the helpers, one of a small, select group of loyal lieutenants in the smugglers employ, and motioned for him to follow.

  “We may have a watcher, Neville,” Destin said quietly to the man when they were out of earshot of the others. “Take a blade. Check our perimeter. Start your sweep there,” he said as he pointed to the far end of the warehouse well away from Bishop’s entry point. “Circle back.”

  “And if I find something? Someone?”

  “Kill him.”

  The man nodded quickly, trotted to the truck to get his gear, then took off at a quick pace to start his search.

  Destin watched him go. The man was a good tracker and a good fighter. A veteran of many battles back home where he’d almost grown up with Destin. City, jungle, inside or outside. It didn’t matter. Anybody he found would come to a swift and silent end.

  ***

  Jorge nodded at his driver, who gave a high sign to the other bodyguard. He walked to the back of the Audi, retrieved two large suitcases, and brought them to Jorge who was standing near the rear of Ngouabi’s truck. Jorge laid both of the suitcases flat on the concrete floor of the warehouse. He opened both suitcases, and from one he withdrew three document packages, each one sealed, a tape gun loaded with clear packing tape, a metal seal stamped with a code number, and a large roll of sealing plastic. He picked up the items and walked up the truck ramp to the front of the crate. After lifting out the front panel, he affixed one of the document packages using the tape gun. Jorge checked the shipment packing, then called to the bodyguard to bring him a briefcase from the back seat of the Audi. The man fetched it quickly. Jorge opened the briefcase and took out a wand scanner. He used it to wipe half a dozen surfaces on the outside of the shipment package, then put the business end into a reader in the briefcase. Inserting the wand, he turned on the reader. Jorge waited half a minute, got a satisfactory reading, returned the wand to its storage position, closed the briefcase, and handed it to the bodyguard on the warehouse floor near the back of the truck.

  Jorge walked back down the ramp to the second suitcase. He withdrew an industrial power stapler, a large battery pack, and a magazine of 2” barbed staples. Jorge walked back up the ramp and made short work of stapling the crate securely. The resin fi
ber panels of the crate would shred before the barbed staples ever gave way. Jorge used the roll of green-tinted plastic wrapping film to make two full wraps of the crate. Then he affixed the second document package using the tape gun, and wrapped the crate again. The last thing he did before walking back down the ramp was to staple the metal seal to the outside of the crate. The seal was stamped United States Customs & Border Security: Pre-cleared goods. Do not unseal without authorization. DVSX-55135.

  When Jorge had packed everything back into the suitcases, the driver and bodyguard immediately stowed them in the Audi.

  “Here you are, Destin,” Jorge said, handing him the third document package. “The pre-clearance code matches the code in this manifest, declaration and waybill. The driver is to make his way tonight to Paris. He must deliver to the freight terminal at CDG, door 8, for Dart International Air Freight, and hand the paperwork to the customs broker named Arnaud Fournier and no one else. No one else, Destin. And not later than 1100 tomorrow.”

  Destin smiled in assent. “I understand. Arnaud Fournier only.”

  “The truck is fueled and ready to go?”

  “Oui. C’est pret. Comme d’hab, Monsieur Benson.”

  “Okay Destin. Bon chance and au revoir,” Jorge said as he turned toward the Audi, “and I hope not to see you again any time soon.”

  ***

  Bishop was too far away to hear any of the conversation and he was not in any position to see into the back of the truck. He was confident that the surveillance feeds were being recorded, so there would be time enough later to sift through it all. The contact had prepared the shipment, of that he was sure. Now Bishop had to get another look at the crate, at the documents and the seal if there was one.