All The Big Ones Are Dead

by Christopher A. Gray

  “Difficult story to check out, Bishop.”

  “Not if you know how to use a mobile phone, Colonel.” For a few seconds Bishop watched the colonel work up a head of steam over the obvious sarcasm, then cut off whatever he was about to say.

  “Colonel Hoksted, you are in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’ll never make Brigadier unless you play the right part at the right time.”

  Hoksted started to rise up out of his chair, but Bishop cut him off again by staring at him and tilting his head slightly in the direction of the Marine MP standing by the door.

  Hoksted stopped, narrowed his eyes at Bishop, who nodded slightly. Hoksted got the message, turned to the MP at the door and dismissed him.

  “All right, what’s up, Bishop,” Hoksted asked after the soundproof door had firmly shut.

  “We’ve got a leak, maybe even a facilitator, highly placed. We don’t know who it is. We think that he or she is so highly placed that a public outing would be disastrous for the government and for the military. All branches of the military.” Bishop had Hoksted partly off-balance and he’d tacked on the bogus military aspect to keep the colonel that way.

  “A politician or a military officer?” Hoksted burst out, almost laughing. “We’re nattering at each other over a politician or a career man? Who cares about a politician? And if it’s military, we can deal with our own without help.”

  “I doubt it, Colonel. You may have been read in, but your clearance is unlikely to cover any more than I’ve already told you, and you absolutely do not have specific clearance to discuss the characters I’ve got in mind. Any questions from you that try to probe deeper right now will put you on my suspect list too.” Bishop was staring directly at Hoksted as he said it.

  Colonel Hoksted backed off immediately.

  “Those poachers?” Bishop went on casually. “They are in direct contact with highly placed Boko and Da’esh couriers. Money and messages, Colonel. Money and messages. Financing the Caliphate is expensive.” Hoksted just stared back in response, thinking hard.

  “So, Bishop,” Hoksted asked after a moment, “how do I help myself make Brigadier General; in your humble opinion, of course?”

  “By writing this up as a work in progress. Let me get on with my day, as I asked. The downside for me is that I’m about to dig into some nasty actors on U.S. soil. The upside for you is that you and I will be friends. There is no downside for you.”

  “What’s the upside for you?” Hoksted asked, playing along.

  “There is no upside for me, unless you consider me not getting killed in a back alley or a warehouse an upside.”

  “You could do worse, Bishop, but then you wouldn’t be you.” Hoksted had read Bishop’s military and CIA general distribution file on his way to the airport. The parts that weren’t redacted, few though they were, still painted a picture of someone who was best left alone to do his work. After reading the files, Hoksted had made one phone call to his own commanding officer, Brigadier General Wallace Arnott who’d told him to get the interview done as quickly as possible. That’s what he was doing too, in his own way, because he was good at his job, because he didn’t like the CIA, and because he didn’t like ex-Marines who’d become highly respected intelligence operators. This one, he had to admit, was different. And it was better to make a friend than an enemy. He made up his mind.

  “Thank you, Bishop,” Hoksted said, as he slid an ID card across the table. Bishop picked it up. “The ID was provided by Customs & Border Protection. It’s scannable, but it expires in seventy-two hours. Use it wisely. CBP told me that it will open a lot of doors and it’s real. Remember that you are not in the bush in Cameroon. You’re on U.S. soil. Due process rules. The CBP ID and your secondment to Interpol will cover your presence here. Do not forget that if anybody finds out that you’re actually CIA operating here, you’re fucked.”

  Bishop nodded as he pocketed the ID card. Clearly all that Hoksted knew about was Cameroon, and Bishop seriously doubted that Hoksted had been briefed on any specifics much beyond the country name.

  “I understand,” Bishop replied.

  “You’re free to go. Happy hunting,” Hoksted said, as he walked over to the door and rapped twice.

  Bishop nodded and picked up his medium size, carry-on shoulder bag. The door was opened by the MP standing his post immediately outside. The MP looked a question at Hoksted who just shook his head as Bishop passed through.

  ***

  As soon as the plane touched down, Bishop had activated his mobile. As usual, the smartphone had erupted with a long string of messages, emails, texts and alarms. Most of it was operational updates, encrypted notes containing a new set of codes for secure comms, and updates on data and activities that some team of analysts at Langley deemed relevant to his op. It had the smell of something that Langley had obtained from one of the domestic agencies. He skimmed it all quickly, but it was mostly useless—the current crop of international suspects in the usual places. After bouncing a few things around with Eve Bissette, he’d decided that the real players were domestic, U.S. born and bred, not Asian or French or Cameroonian or anything else. He had some hunches too, but he needed a lot more intel to support them. He had to be patient.

  The text he was looking for was there. Linders had come through again. He owed her a dinner too. He didn’t know JFK and the general airport area well enough though, so a little local support was in order. He dialed a number from memory. The call was picked up after two rings.

  “We secure?” the firm voice on the other end asked. It was Alexei Rector, Bishop’s case officer and occasional fellow field agent. For several years they’d periodically worked each other’s projects when they weren’t in the field together. A few months earlier, Rector had been assigned a liaison and case officer’s desk after encountering some problems on a field mission.

  “We’re secure,” Bishop replied. One of the file attachments he’d received had come from his control at Langley. Using the latest field update, the file attachment had securely re-encrypted all his comms from the smartphone.

  “How are you, Bish?” Rector asked.

  “Jet lagged,” Bishop answered, “or I will be later. Five hours off the pace.”

  “Westbound, correct?” It was a security question. Rector knew exactly where Bishop had been.

  “Yes.”

  “How’s the head?” Rector had been briefed by his deputy director, who’d been briefed by DeCourcey, who’d been briefed by Linders.

  “Hurts just fine, thank you,” Bishop replied. The bruising hadn’t worsened, and he’d gotten some deep sleep on the flight. He had also loaded up on aspirin just prior to landing.

  “Nice though. France, Spain and Portugal are perfect for me at this time of year.”

  “You should go,” Bishop said. “Visit some old friends. Take the waters. Arles is still… relaxing as ever.”

  “I remember it well. Travel is difficult for me these days, though. You know how it is.”

  Bishop knew how it was for Rector. He was not welcome at all in several European countries in which all his aliases were fully blown. It wasn’t like the movies and the cheap spy novels. Aliases weren’t just names and fake passports. Real aliases that held up under scrutiny were the product of a lot of hard work by a lot of agency people and by the clandestine use of unwitting state and local government departments. It took months of work, months of effort and a serious chunk of budget money to set up solid aliases. There was no endless supply. A blown, deep cover identity was a serious matter.

  Rector had done good work for the agency over the course of many years, but it had taken a toll and his most recent missions had burned a lot of bridges. He’d been temporarily re-assigned to the NSA as an agency liaison. It was partly compensation for previous good work, and the pay was very good. Still, it would likely be a long time before he could safely leave the continental U.S. again, so the field work he liked best might be a very long time coming.

  Bishop took
the phone away from his ear and tapped a few commands.

  “I just sent you a shipment code and a building location.”

  “Wait one,” Rector said. After a pause of a few seconds, he said, “I’ve got it. What do you need?”

  “A secure approach, a location I can use for observation, and a security feed.”

  “Call you back in a while,” Rector replied and hung up.

  ***

  Sitting in the arrivals area of Terminal 1 at JFK was not possible. The main reason was that there weren’t any benches or chairs. 9/11 had seen to that. Got to keep people moving if you want to spot laggards and suspicious looking ones. It’s either that, or keep them standing still and look for the nervous, fidgety, sweaty ones. But that didn’t help you move people, so out went the Arrivals waiting area chairs and benches. Meeting someone? Too bad. Stand. Wait for your relative, then get moving and get out.

  Bishop strolled out into the morning sunshine intending to let its warmth wake him up. The warm up was not to be. November in New York was nothing like November in the south of France and literally worlds away from the blistering heat of November in Cameroon. He zipped up his jacket and rooted around in the top of the carry-on for the gloves he’d put there for exactly this reason. He sighed as he pulled on the gloves, shaking head and smiling slightly.

  He was definitely going to be jet lagged. He always felt it after a few days east of home, anything more than five or six hours ahead. He was fine at that moment, and would be fine for the rest of the day. But come eight or nine PM and he’d be yawning uncontrollably. He sighed audibly again. At least his headache was starting to recede.

  The long taxi rank was a continuous stream of honks, hollers, porters, and travelers. He watched as a family of five struggled with at least seven bags. There was no way the family and their bags were all going to fit in one taxi. The wife was demanding a van, the man in charge of the taxi rank was telling them to wait off to the side until a van showed up in the rank, the wife was demanding one right now, and the husband looked like he’d given up years ago. It must have been a lovely vacation.

  Bishop checked his watch. It had been ten minutes since he’d talked to Rector. That was unusual.

  A loud, “Aw come on!” at the taxi rank got Bishop’s attention. A man in a dark business suit seemed to be arguing with a taxi driver. Bishop strolled a few steps closer to get a better look at what was going on.

  “Seventy bucks to Woodbury?” the businessman shouted into the passenger window of the taxi at the head of the line. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Yeah, seventy bucks,” the driver replied looking right at the guy. “You heard me. Don’t like it? S’okay with me. Talk to him if you like,” the driver said shrugging his shoulders as he jerked his thumb at the next taxi in line.

  “Hey, buddy,” the uniformed porter running the taxi rank said loudly. “Either get in the cab or step aside. There’s people waitin’ here! It’s cold, pal. Come on.”

  The businessman was experienced enough to know that you didn’t mess around at the taxi rank. Tempers could flare in an instant. He got into the back seat, taking his suit bag and carry-on rolling bag with him. The taxi driver shrugged, dropped his flag and took off.

  Bishop’s phone vibrated.

  “What have you got for me?”

  “Two names, a specific location, and a perch.”

  “Two names?” Bishop said quietly. “That’s unexpected.”

  “Somebody made a mistake. Popped right up. May not mean anything. May mean something. One name is interesting. The other name is troubling.”

  “Nothing like getting good news all at once. Do tell.”

  “You’re heading for warehouse one twenty-two on North Service Road. The entrance is just below the northbound ramp to Federal Circle.”

  “Got it.”

  “It’s a bonded warehouse.”

  “I figured.”

  “It’ll have a sign that says, Eurocath Interfreight. Had to look it up. That’s why it took so long.”

  “Anything I should be interested in?” Bishop asked.

  “Ya. That’s the first name. Anyone who takes a quick look at the corporate ‘About Us’ page on the company web site is likely to skip most of the list of sixteen business partnerships. Turns out that they’re all independent freight handlers with offices in thirty countries or more. Could be forty or more, but I stopped counting at thirty. Most of the thirty are wholly owned by other companies, and most of those other companies are owned by registrants off-shore. All of the registrants come down to a single primary majority shareholder. A guy named Marc Dominican. Operates out of offices in lower Manhattan.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Appears to be just another rich guy in New York. He’s an art collector, has major public share positions in a number of technology companies. He throws venture capital at tech startups, and he donates money to save whales, owls, endangered whatever, and third-world education programs. Third-world places like, ahem, Cameroon.”

  That got Bishop’s attention.

  “Interesting it is,” Bishop replied. “But there are a lot of steps between all those companies, all those independents, all those offices, Cameroon, and a perch in lower Manhattan. This guy ever pop up on the radar before?”

  “Nope. But then nobody ever asked me to look in this particular direction before.” What Rector meant by “me” was the enormous data gathering and data mining might of the NSA.

  “Interesting maybe. Now… who’s the trouble?”

  “The trouble is that Mr. Dominican has a chief of security by the name of Avida Karst.”

  “Never heard of him… or her. What’s an Avida Karst? Sounds biblical—the first name I mean. Hebrew? Karst is definitely German. A German-Jewish security chief. Don’t tell me he’s ex-Mossad?”

  “The name works just as it should, Bish,” Rector said. “It’s a rabbit hole. The name makes sense so people try to run it down. But it’s a rabbit hole, like I said. Turns out there’s no such person as Avida Karst.”

  “Go on.”

  “Avida Karst is on the payroll of VCI. That’s the name of one of Dominican’s companies, or the main office out of which he works. Karst gets benefits, pays taxes. Everything. Avida Karst has an Israeli passport, became a landed immigrant, and now holds U.S. citizenship and a U.S. passport. But he’s not real. We checked carefully.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “Avida Karst is not an Israeli or a German-Jewish ex-Mossad agent. The name Avida Karst is a semi-anagram for David Trask.”

  The name stopped Bishop cold, but only for a moment.

  “Hmm,” Bishop said as he gritted his teeth. “That gets my attention.”

  “Supposed to be dead, Bish. You know it. Very dead. Everyone wants him to be dead. He’s very much alive, and he’s been in the employ of Mr. Marc Dominican and VCI for quite a few years. Can’t say for how long, exactly. But it’s a good bet that it has been exactly as long as ‘Avida Karst’ has existed.”

  Bishop was feeling a moment of vulnerability or sensitivity or just plain anger that hadn’t yet found an anchor point in his thinking. Trask, if it really was him, could present a problem.

  “Confirmation?”

  “Ya, Bish. It’s him,” Rector said firmly. “Facial recog screeched alarms when we ran the name and company photo against the corporate security personnel database. It cross-references the database of ex-staff compiled from a very large number of agencies collected from a number of countries. Director Cole broke out of a meeting and interrupted my comms to ask a direct question.”

  “I suppose the question was, ‘Is he really alive?’” Bishop said.

  “That was the first question. Want to know what his second question was?”

  “Sure.”

  “Second question was, ‘Where’s Bishop!’”

  “Not surprised.”

  “One other item. Facial recog coughed up a sixty per cent match for Trask at the scene
of a traffic fatality near the Manhattan end of the Brooklyn Bridge. Trask has been hiding in plain sight in Manhattan. His mother lives on the Upper East Side. He takes care of her. Victim may have been pushed into high-speed oncoming traffic, but the local precinct only says, maybe.” Problem is, the victim is one Salim Abood, most recently in the immigration sponsorship employ of Mr. Marc Dominican. Abood was recently a respected grad student and high flyer in one of the high-end telecommunications research groups at Columbia, and before that the son of a wealthy father and mother in Tanzania. Just so happens that Columbia’s secure network is down right now. Nobody knows precisely why just yet. Columbia is in a bit of serious panic right now. We’ve been getting urgent inquiries from every three and four letter agency and organization from NASA on up about Columbia’s problem. Government too. Anyway, Salim Abood lost his student visa because his father back in Tanzania fell on hard times. So the younger Abood lost his status here and got shipped back home when he couldn’t make the tuition payment. It’s a hard world. Mr. Dominican brought him back under a sponsorship. Now Salim Abood is dead, we’ve got a partial facial recog match with Trask at the scene of the fatality. Not your direct interest right now, but file it away. Connections, connections, connections.”

  “The grad student,” Bishop said. “Telecom research? The connection to the black wall around the comms being used by half the people I’ve tracked seems obvious.”

  “Correct. Linders has a covert security and protection team on one Professor John Logan, the grad student’s boss at Columbia. Logan is some sort of genius. Linders and DeCourcey are co-opting him to work on the comms issue. Top priority for Interpol. NSA is watching all this too. Seems Logan’s group at Columbia is a key source of encryption and special services for NSA and a long list of other agencies. The dead grad student had been a bit of a hotshot on Logan’s team. You can guess how bent out of shape NSA is about being unable to crack this particular comms problem. Top priority for them too. They're scared silly this tech will escape the barn.”