Julie smiled as she walked past the small man on the bench. He apparently didn’t notice. Julie turned her attention to John, and slowed her pace as she got his attention.
“Hello, John, nice evening, isn’t it?” John looked up. He had been frowning as he was talking to his friend, who looked down at the footpath.
“Oh, hello, Julie,” John sat up a little straighter, surprised and pleased to see her. “This is my friend Julius…” he trailed off as he realized Julius wasn’t paying attention, continuing to stare at the footpath. Julie could tell that Julius was uncomfortable. She realized the two men had been in a serious conversation, and so she decided not to linger.
“Nice to meet you, Julius. See you at the café, John,”
“Good night, Julie.” He and Julius continued their serious conversation as Julie walked on.
***
David Trask had made a rare mistake. A small one to be sure, but a mistake nonetheless. He had been shadowing Julius Coppola, checking to see if the IT expert’s routine had wavered since entering into the agreement with Marc Dominican. Coppola’s phone and apartment were bugged, but Trask had to make sure Coppola wasn’t meeting people he shouldn’t be.
Trask had observed Coppola meeting John Logan twice outside of the University, once at Central Park and once at Logan’s favorite coffee shop. For the most part, the meetings consisted of brief social chats and talk about the University’s budget, along with some hushed conversation about the security breach, which was expected. Trask’s mistake occurred when he made the decision to visit the same coffee shop on his own. His mother had phoned him with a request for a blueberry scone, “The kind they have in cafés,” she’d said. So Trask went to the nearest cafe, which also happened to be the one Logan frequented.
“Nice to see you again,” the young woman behind the register said as she gave him his change. Trask looked up at her. Instantly he recognized the girl as someone Logan had waved to in the park as she had walked by two days before.
Julie read Trask’s quizzical look. “I saw you sitting near John in the park, and here again at the Cafe. John Logan. Are you friends with him?”
“I don’t know anybody named John,” Trask said brusquely as he took his change and left with the scone.
The girl must have a memory for faces, Trask thought. Of course she does. She’s a waitress and a barista. She’s bound to recognize regulars and remember regular orders. She had recognized him despite his efforts to blend in, and despite his changing his clothing on a daily basis from one bland style to the next. Trask knew better than to frequent an establishment that was a favorite of anyone that had anything to do with a job. His soft spot for his ailing mother had momentarily interfered with his judgment. And now this Julie woman had associated him with Logan, and therefore Coppola, the man Trask was about to kill.
Now he would have to track Julie. When Julius Coppola was eliminated, she must not associate his demise with David Trask. The only question was whether Trask should inform Dominican about the barista girl. She would have to be terminated immediately after Julius Coppola.
Chapter Fifteen
The flight from Paris to New York was long and boring. Bishop had made the trip many times, and he knew how to relax, calm himself and get as much sleep as possible. It was definitely easier to do in business class than back with the herd in steerage. But this trip was different. His head still hurt while he’d spent the first hour listening to his surveillance recording of the warehouse two action. As the aircraft crossed the European coast to begin its long flight across the Atlantic, Bishop was still wide awake.
There was no doubt in Bishop’s mind that the lone crate would clear U.S. Customs in record time. The paperwork he’d gotten a quick look at seemed unassailable. The crate would not be inspected or even scanned, not with a government pre-clearance seal on it and not with the paperwork pre-clearances. That was a neat trick—the government seal. The contact who’d produced it and applied it to each crate back at the warehouses in Marseille had some interesting connections, no doubt about it. Or someone else higher up the ladder had the connections. Orest Demarchuk’s casual remark to the contact to pass along that he “wished the good senator all the best” was something that DeCourcey and his U.S.-based team would have to run down as soon as possible. It was alarming and unsettling and a major piece of intel to find out that a senior government source might be aiding and abetting a major smuggling operation.
“Well,” Bishop said aloud, “senior enough. Senators are senior, aren’t they?”
“Uh, yes they are,” a woman across the aisle answered his accidental question.
“Pardon me?” Bishop said, turning in his seat to look at her.
“You said, ‘senators are senior, aren’t they?’ so I said, ‘yes, they are.”
Bishop smiled. I am preoccupied and really, really tired and the headache is making me stupid.
“I am tired enough to be speaking out loud some things that are better left unspoken,” he said, “and it’s been a, uh, a hectic few days. Sorry if I disturbed you.” He turned as much as he could in his seat to look around the business class section to make sure he wasn’t attracting any other attention.
“It seems we’re the only two still up…” he said.
“I think so,” the woman said, lowering her voice to a whisper and leaning slightly toward him. “I can’t sleep on transatlantic flights. Heading east, heading west, it makes no difference. No sleep. I envy these people.”
“I usually get a few hours. Enough to keep me alert when I land. But when I’m working on a problem, a few hours turns into just a couple.” Bishop’s smile had faded. Demarchuk’s comment that he “wished the good senator all the best” was suddenly taking on a lot more weight.
“So what’s the problem? Sometimes a light airing can help clear things up.”
Bishop was not about to discuss high security operations with a total stranger, but he was not about to pass up an opportunity to work over a problem in generalities.
“Sure you want to hear this?” he asked, feigning a bit of reticence.
“Oh my god,” the woman laughed. “Yes! I mean, that bit about not being able to sleep on transatlantic flights is really true.” She laughed again, a bit quieter because they’d already received a quick glance from one of the flight attendants. “Please, give me an interesting problem to work on.”
Bishop nodded.
“Okay,” he said, and then extended his hand across the aisle. “My name is John Garrick,” he went on, giving her the name under which was traveling. “I do security analysis work.”
“Eve,” the woman said, shaking Bishop’s hand and offering her standard reply. “Eve Bissette. I’m an investigative researcher for a large company.” Bishop smiled at her, recognizing immediately another person who wanted to talk seriously but who also preferred to offer as little personal information as possible. He started to pull his hand back, but Eve held on and Bishop realized that she was looking at the left side of his head.
“You okay?” she asked. “Bit of a bruise developing there.”
“Ah that,” Bishop replied, trying out a brief, quiet, nonchalant laugh. “Fished around under my hotel room sink for a dropped toothbrush. Forgot all about the edge of the vanity. Gave myself a real good smack.” He sighed for effect and shook his head ruefully at his own clumsiness.
“Huh, yeah,” Eve said. “I hear that. Unfamiliar rooms on the road.” She shrugged, but needed a moment more before she moved her eyes away from the damage done by the dead smuggler.
“Are you ready?” Bishop asked to get his conversation back on track. And I will have to take a closer look at my injury again, as soon as I can get to the lavatory, he thought.
“Fire away,” she said settling a little more deeply into her seat.
“I am pulling together—trying to pull together—some widely disparate but inevitably connected threads. The question is, how do I find the definitive smoking gun? I mean, how do I
find the perpetrator of original planning? I want the one who set at least seven different efforts in motion across five countries.”
“Go on,” Eve said. “Do I get specifics, or is this a generic problem challenge?”
“Generic all the way,” Bishop replied, looking directly into her eyes.
“Sure. The problem details are confidential. I get that,” Eve said with a laugh. “Don’t make it too generic though, or this conversation might get boring too quickly.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” Bishop smiled. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” she replied. “There have to be spies.” She said the last bit in a whisper and leaned well over her armrest toward Bishop as she spoke the words. Contemporary air travel dictated an absolute absence of trigger words during casual conversation.
“Really?” Bishop said.
“Well… as long as we’re telling stories and making stuff up, shouldn’t there be intrigue? Or at least some low rent Somali pirates? A street punk with a Chinese-made Ruger knock-off maybe?”
“Very funny,” Bishop replied. “You want me to go on?”
“Go ahead,” Eve said. “Let’s hear it. Analysis is my middle name, Mr. Garrick.”
Eve had clearly registered in Bishop’s thinking as a fortuitous accident; an engaged and confident traveler who was also experienced enough to recognize another professional when she met one. Her frankness and glibness was a refreshing and honest change from the typically secretive and dangerous people he most often dealt with. And I really do want to bounce some ideas around.
“Well, okay. Let’s begin at the beginning. A question first though. Have you ever heard a story by Plato called The Allegory of the Cave?”
“I have. Read it in university. First year Philosophy. Plato created the allegory in an effort to explain the nature of truth. He described a gathering of people who have lived chained to the wall of a cave all of their lives, facing a blank wall. These prisoners are chained so that their legs and necks cannot move, restricting their vision to a view only of the wall in front of them, unable to look around at the cave, or at each other, or even to look down at themselves. Behind the prisoners is a fire, and between the fire and the prisoners is a raised walkway with a low wall, behind which people walk carrying objects or puppets that resemble men and other living things. As the people walk behind the wall, their bodies do not cast shadows for the prisoners to see, but the objects they carry do cast shadows in just the same way that shadow puppet theatres work. Of course the prisoners cannot see any of this behind them. They’re only able to see the shadows cast upon the cave wall in front of them. The sounds of the people talking echo off the shadowed wall, and the prisoners falsely believe these sounds come from the shadows.”
“Perfect,” Bishop replied, pleased at the accuracy. The woman was smart and well read. “The question is, how can something be real and not real at the same time?” Bishop was thinking exclusively about the Marseille crate and the Customs seal and pre-clearance that were evidently impossibly real. Every customs agent in the world dealt with standard ploys. Forged documents, corruption, bribery, coercion based on personal leverage. It was all familiar. But a U.S. Customs pre-clearance certificate and seal that were real, not forged—logged in the secure database as having been legitimately issued—was a disturbing new problem.
“There’s someone in the shadows. There always is. But in this situation I now find myself confronting something apparently real that cannot possibly be so. It calls into question a number of different things I’ve relied on, not the least of which is that I’m still headed in the right direction. Lots of players though, and some familiar faces, but the flow of goods, the receivers of goods, the exchange of money and where the money ultimately ends up is opaque so far. So I have to suddenly ask myself if I’ve been the unknowing victim of misdirection. It is troubling.”
At the word “troubling” Eve looked up. Bishop said the word in a sharp, almost quietly angry tone, but when she looked up his expression was merely calm. His tone had startled her, momentarily, but his expression revealed depths that were slightly disturbing.
But to Eve, every problem in her line of work was an analytical challenge. This particular issue, whatever the details happened to be, and I’m getting the feeling that I’d really rather not know the precise details, had run this man Bishop ragged. Bishop’s type was somewhat familiar to her, but even so he seemed slightly bigger and more intelligent and more, what’s the word I’m looking for… ah, seasoned. He’s the result of not just the pursuit of things I don’t want to know about, but the successful pursuit of such things. He will worry away at a problem to the exclusion of everything else until the problem is solved. Time to give him the good news, then.
“The answer, or the solution, is easy. You’ve gotten so close to the problem that you’re down in the weeds, with yet more to do and no room or time to step back to get a large view.”
Bishop didn’t respond. He just waited.
“Like Occam’s Razor…” Eve paused, prompting Bishop to continue for her.
“The simplest solution is often the correct one?”
Eve smiled and turned more directly to Bishop. “That’s the cut-down social media version. The principle of Occam’s Razor states that if you’re presented with a problem for which there are a range of competing solutions or answers that at least on the surface seem like they could all be right, choosing the solution or answer that contains the fewest assumptions is usually the best decision and the basis for the best course of action.”
Bishop nodded at her, turned his head to face forward and sat back in his seat. He was obviously thinking about something significant, so Eve just let him be.
Bishop smiled to himself after a minute or so. “The nature of being, of existing, demands simplicity,” he said turning toward Eve again. “So no matter how much someone, or a group of like-minded people, tries to impose complications as a way of obfuscating his or their activities, the more important it is to ignore the complications and maintain a belief based on experience and whatever prior knowledge exists.”
“You’re smart,” Eve said. “So the trick is to apply Occam’s Razor to your, um, circumstances. Your problem has an explanation, even if it’s not obvious right now. Don’t be distracted by smoke and mirrors that may only appear to be important details. To see what a magician is really doing, we can't let ourselves look where the magician wants us to look.”
“In order to avoid looking where he wants you to,” Bishop said, half to himself, “you have to learn at least a little bit about magic.”
The glimmer of an idea began to form in Bishop’s mind. It was not a solution. It might only be the beginning of an idea that might eventually work itself into the first step in a solution. The way point—the destination of the crate stowed in the aircraft’s hold beneath his seat—might very well be made to function as the first step he could take to eliminating assumptions. I want that contact, Bishop thought, whoever he is. I’ve got his face and voice on video. He’s an American, and I’m going to make him my personal project for the next little while. He’s the key to following the money. Follow him and I’ll bet a year’s pay I find the money.
For anybody to wield influence sufficiently weighty enough to obtain forged or real government seals and clearance documents good enough to pass muster in the current climate of heightened awareness, he or she had to have been in place for significant period of time. The major villains who did business with governments anywhere in the world, did not do so with rookie or junior politicians who had yet to learn the rules and who had yet to prove they could cover their tracks well and keep their mouths shut when the going got rough or when the general scrutiny inevitably increased from time to time.
Eliminate assumptions, Bishop thought. Someone who regularly accesses international shipments. That only faintly narrows an astonishingly long list. Not enough to make DeCourcey’s job any easier. When this crate lands, Occam’s Razor is going to be t
he word of the day. Seems to me that following a trail built on the fewest assumptions also means eliminating distractions built on politically correct assumptions and politically correct avoidances. This, to say the least, will be interesting. Forget about the Customs seal and pre-clearance. Let others deal with that. Follow the crate and follow the people I can see. Maintain focus. Chasing shadows and people I can’t see is idiotic.
Eve had lain back in her seat, reclined almost flat in the motorized sleep mode position.
“Eve,” Bishop whispered, “no need to sit up again. Thank you. Get some rest. I think I owe you a very nice dinner. I’ll take your business card if you’ll give me one in the morning.”
Eve smiled, her eyes still closed. Bishop let his gaze linger on her for a few more moments. Then he sat back, allowed himself a grim smile, and closed his eyes as well.
Chapter Sixteen
“You're early. Is there something specific you would like to discuss? I have some other business I was going to attend to.” Dominican agitated the porcelain tea ball in the tall china pot, then leaned back in his chair. He looked at Trask and gestured towards the spare tea cup on the tray.
“Forgive me, would you care for some?” Dominican asked. Trask held up his hand to refuse the offer. It was a ritual they had been through countless times. Dominican always offered tea, Trask always refused. They both preferred it that way, to maintain a measure of professional distance.
“Coppola met with Logan in Central Park yesterday,” Trask said. Dominican raised his eyebrows as Trask sat down.
“What was said during their meeting?”
“I didn’t catch it all. Coppola left his cell phone at his office, perhaps deliberately, so I had to eavesdrop the old fashioned way. Logan questioned him over the data breach, asking how it had happened under Coppola’s nose. The conversation got heated for a moment as Coppola became defensive.” As he listened to Trask, Dominican gingerly took a sip of tea, then put the cup down. It was still too hot.
All The Big Ones Are Dead Page 19