All The Big Ones Are Dead

by Christopher A. Gray

  Jorge belatedly noticed that an LED on one of the cameras connected to the video feed was lit.

  “Monitoring me, Marc?”

  “I am concerned about your tone and your attitude. I see you are, in fact, alone in your office. That is good. Anything else?”

  “No, Marc.”

  “The funds transfers are arranged?” Tudor asked, changing the subject. “My people are eager as usual.”

  “The transfers are arranged. A new contact who will perform admirably,” Dominican replied, thinking of his conversation with Paul, the bank VP.

  “Thank you.”

  “My best to your father, then. The buyers will expect to see the raw materials at eight tonight. Our political connection will be present. Two of Trask’s people will be present to meet you, help handle the shipment and provide security. Our political connection still wants to meet you privately. Keep out of sight of the other buyers, but stay close by for a five-minute meet and greet. You’ll recognize him immediately, so keep calm when you meet him. Do nothing to spook him. He expects you to be experienced and professional in your manner.”

  “I certainly will be,” Tudor replied, controlling his temper. “Look, Marc, I don’t like this. I don’t like the exposure. It’s bad business. The fewer people who associate me directly with any of these operations the better.”

  “The connection is well controlled. Proceed as instructed.”

  “I’ll be there,” Jorge replied. “The crate will be delivered on time and the buyers will watch it being opened for the first time. The buyers will be able to see the real materials. Then the materials will be transported to the chemist and carvers at the Chinatown building.”

  ***

  Bishop was awake at 5:30 AM. After a serious size breakfast, he got ready for a long day.

  The safe house apartment location was well stocked with all the Internet access, comms field tech, weapons and ammunition that an operator might need to conduct business in a dense urban environment. Bishop holstered his Glock in the small of his back, checked the charge on his phone, checked for messages, and then headed back to bathroom to check his appearance in the mirror. He was looking for signs of the previous day’s battles, but his face was unmarked. The bruise on the side of his head was still there, but the residual swelling had finally gone away. It was the fourth time he’d checked and he knew he was lucky. Any enhancements to his already attention-getting appearance would not make his life easier.

  He coded the day’s password into the electronic deadbolt and locking mechanism and headed up to the roof of the building. The roof access door was secured with the same sort of lock, so Bishop coded in and gained access to a very cold, pre-dawn rooftop. He was unfamiliar with the viewing angle from the street, so he opened the door very slowly. When the door was open half a meter, he crouched down on the inside landing and risked a look around the jamb to see what was in view. All he saw was the rooftop itself, exhaust fan boxes pulling stale air out of kitchens and bathrooms, metal vent stacks, and an assortment of leftover old roofing repair materials. The sounds of the city came through the open door as well. A beep-beep-beep of a garbage truck backing up in a nearby alley, a distant siren, a faint susurrus of rumbling from the MTA underground, the rise and fall noise of pre-rush traffic from people either coming off shift or going on shift. Manhattan was never quiet, but different times of day were marked by different layers and subtleties.

  He slowly rose from his crouch and looked in the direction of the building parapet, watching carefully as the faintest glare of the pole lights on the other side of the street became visible as his downward viewing angle improved. When he was satisfied that he couldn’t be seen from the street, he opened the door wide and stepped out onto the roof. It was empty and cold, and a gust of wind stung his eyes, making them water almost instantly. He crouched and made his way over to the high, old parapet at the edge farthest away from where he’d last seen the female tracker farther up the block. He checked every direction from a variety of vantage points on the roof, on the street side and the alley side, but there was no sign of a tracker or a vehicle that didn’t belong or anything else suspicious.

  The clear view didn’t satisfy him. He’d learned that from his own skill set, which allowed him to blend in almost as well as anyone despite his size and powerful appearance. Just when you thought nobody was looking, there was often somebody looking after all. To a casual observer, all this careful observation might have seemed like a waste of time. It wasn’t. Bishop had just learned two things. If the tracker was still watching, she was good enough to conceal herself from his view and that meant she might be observing him right now. It also meant she was very good at her job. All that would do is confirm that he was in fact present in the building. He was providing reassurance for a tracker to report that Bishop had been properly put to bed the night before and that he was still under surveillance. If the tracker was actually nowhere nearby and was not visible to him as a result, it told him that his work last night had been successful and nobody knew that Kwok was sitting on the crate he’d tracked to South Street.

  Time for a wake-up call. He tapped a message into his phone.

  It was answered immediately.

  ‘I’m here,’ came the reply from Kwok. ‘Good morning. All quiet and no action overnight.’

  “I am coming to you now. 20 min. Coffee and breakfast?’

  ‘Gr8. Tx and tx.’

  ‘See you soon.’

  ***

  When Bishop arrived at Kwok’s stakeout location, he noticed that she’d moved the car from the parking spot she’d reported the night before. Kwok was smart enough and experienced enough to disappear into the general location. She knew that an unfamiliar vehicle with someone sitting in it for hours could attract attention. The time of day or night made no difference. If it wasn’t a suspicious local who eyeballed a vehicle containing a watcher, it would be a cop in a cruiser.

  “Any action?” Bishop asked as he slid into the passenger seat and handed over the hot take-out he’d picked up at a busy early morning work-crowd diner on Market Street. “Hope you like the breakfast.”

  “No action at all his morning,” Kwok said as she tore open the stapled brown bag and lifted out a covered plastic tray of French toast and scrambled eggs, a fruit cup and a still-hot, medium size coffee. “Thanks for the food.”

  After that, approximately five minutes of silence ensued as agent Kwok refueled. At one point, Bishop reached over and started the car because the two of them were fogging up the windows. The day was going to dawn bright and sunny without a cloud in the sky, but for now it was still dark and chilled so they had to run the defroster.

  “Water?” Kwok asked after taking a couple of sips of coffee and stuffing the breakfast remains back into the bag.

  “You bet,” Bishop said, pulling a plastic bottle out of each pocket. “Take your break now. Sunrise is fifteen minutes away and the loading dock opens in half an hour. That enough time for you?”

  “Plenty of time,” Kwok replied, as she read the name and address of the diner printed on the outside of the bag. “I’ll use the bathroom at the diner. Now be a good agent and pretend that we’re just husband and wife exchanging the car so I can walk up the street without drawing any looks. Don’t want anybody thinking I’m a hooker that just did an early morning trick in the front seat of the car. This neighborhood is pretty normal, so I don’t want anybody calling the local precinct.”

  “Oh, I radiate respect and a husband’s concern. No hookers for me. My bible-belt upbringing.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Right,” Bishop replied, laughing, “I’m kidding. Except I spent years in Sunday school when I was small. My parents made my sister and me read new and old testament Bibles, at least two different Koran translations, Talmud excerpts. My father in particular wanted us well armed against the religious hordes. ‘Know your enemy, Michael’ he said, I don’t know how many times. My sister is younger than me and
she thought he said, ‘Know your enema’ and that’s what she started repeating. It really cracked us up.”

  “Hell of a way to do it, though,” Kwok said, laughing. “And I’ll bet that story makes you think I feel safe around you. Religious nuts are far too hard on women. So keep your distance, Mr. Bishop.”

  “There are a few things I dislike more than organized religion, Agent Kwok,” Bishop replied, still smiling, “but I can’t think of any right now.

  “For sure,” she replied.

  “All right, pretend wife. If you’re ready, get out your side, I’ll get out at the same time and you can hand me the key and a parting morning kiss for the day. I’ll get out of here and pick you up at Market & Monroe, in front of the Food Stop.”

  They did the ritual, finishing off with a mutual peck on each other’s cheeks. Kwok grabbed him by the shoulders again, just like she’d done near the office building the night before, and gave him a proper kiss. Bishop momentarily felt the stirrings of something other than the business at hand. But then she backed off just as quickly, smiling radiantly.

  Kwok had a shoulder bag with her that looked as though it was big enough to contain a change of clothes and whatever else she needed.

  Bishop looked around for a moment, as the two of them briefly hugged once more. She turned to go, but he walked a few steps with her.

  “Where is it?” Bishop asked.

  “It’s mounted on the back of the stop sign ahead and to the left, perched on top of the support post.” They were talking about a wireless video camera with a transmission range of about two hundred meters. “It’s got a clear angle on the loading dock, the main door and the visitor parking spots next to the door. I planted it three hours ago. Made sure it had a full charge from the accessory outlet in the car. We’ll be out of range at Market & Monroe, but it’s got a high capacity SD card in it so we won’t miss anything.”

  Bishop just nodded. Kwok knew her business. He’d still do a visual double-check when he drove away, but he was ready to bet that everything would work perfectly.

  “Where’s the remote?”

  “Front console, in the cubby under the video monitor in the dash. It’s a lousy remote. You’re going to have to cut the corner really tight to get in range to turn on the camera as you drive away. But it will work.”

  “Thank you. Off you go, then.” They smiled and waved at each other just like a normal couple.

  ***

  As he drove away and around the corner, Bishop keyed the control number into his phone.

  “Morning, Bish,” Alexei Rector answered on the first ring. “How’d Kwok work out?”

  “Effectively,” Bishop replied. “Very effectively. She knows her business.”

  “What else?”

  “I’m tailing a crate. I don’t like tailing crates. If we’re unknowingly blown, they’ll be shipping that crate all over Manhattan, running us ragged until their real business is done. We’ll look like monkeys.”

  “Always a possibility, Bish, which only means that there’s nothing new going on here.”

  “I’m also not liking our odds.”

  “Odds on what?”

  “We picked up solid intel that led us to Masiki. We picked up solid intel from Masiki that led us to Mkutshulwa and the fixer in Douala. Which led to Marseille and some more intel that identified several players, including Tudor. His known associates hit my mobile in a burst from your people last night. We had no trouble tracking the shipment from Douala to Marseille to Port of New York. We had the bad luck-good luck all rolled into one when we just about ran physically into David Trask. We had no trouble tracking the shipment from JFK to Dumbo and from Dumbo to Two Rivers.”

  “You’re saying it’s all been too easy.”

  “Not exactly. I’m saying we’ve been on a roll. A thousand different obstacles could have popped up. Broken down transport, comms failures, missed connections, misdirected shipment, Masiki might have been a better liar that day, some of the intel could have gone stale, a few minutes delay at the airport diner and I would have missed Trask, I could have missed the shipper in Marseille. It could have all gone sideways at any time, but it didn’t.”

  “Your point?” Rector asked, genuinely curious. “State your request.”

  “It’s that our luck can’t hold. If Trask shows up here, I want to pick him up, interrogate him, eliminate him, and then move on to the next target.”

  “That won’t help you follow the money. Following it all the way to the top was your idea. It was a good idea. It’s still a good idea. Now is not the time to break off.”

  Bishop was quiet for a moment.

  “Where is Operations with the source of the shipping arrangements and the Customs pre-clearance documents?”

  “Good question,” Rector said with a more than a bit of irritation in his voice. “Everything about the shipping documentation and the Customs pre-clearance appears to be legitimate.”

  “Legitimate?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “That is impossible,” Bishop said flatly. “Linders told me two days ago that the pre-clearance was real. I didn’t believe it then and I don’t believe it now.”

  “Bish,” Rector replied quickly, “there is no doubt. None of the paperwork is forged. The records are all digital, the documentation clearly shows as current in the database, all the numbers match. Customs, the freight handlers and every supervisor and manager we’ve talked just have one problem. Basically, they can’t explain it. The fact is, the crate sailed through Customs unmolested.”

  “You’re implying that someone can covertly access the CBP database to create whatever documentation they want.”

  “Correct.”

  “So now there’s the specter of any number of contraband shipments, or worse, heading for various destinations in the U.S. without any sort of knowledge on the part of DHS, CBP or even Defense Threat Reduction?”

  “Correct. Not even DTRA.”

  Alexei sighed audibly. He couldn’t see Bishop at that moment of course, but he could picture a dark, scary look on Bishop’s face. He’d seen it before, followed shortly thereafter by rapid, violent and definitely final outcomes. When Bishop was in this sort of mindset, he was difficult to stop. The other problem was that Alexei knew that his sometime partner was absolutely right. Directors and assistant directors in a variety of agencies were running around, issuing orders and demands, trying to find what they all seemed to think was a deep hack into CBP. That was their focus because there’d been no major hiccups, delays or problems elsewhere except for Bishop’s skirmish in Cameroon. Bishop’s head injury might have been a concern to one or two people, but it wasn’t the first time that any of them had been nicked up in the field. The matter of the apparently real shipping documents and U.S. Customs pre-clearance was causing deep shock to just about everyone behind closed doors. Alexei had already heard reliable information about heads rolling. The frantic people at Columbia apparently weren’t the only ones with severe network penetration and intrusion problems.

  “No argument, other than another reminder that Trask is a vicious psychopath who is usually barely under control and won’t talk sense no matter how he’s interrogated,” Rector said, finally. “I really want to know who’s running him right now,” he continued, with uncharacteristic emotion. “What do you propose if someone other than Trask shows up?”

  “Mostly the same thing, mainly because I believe that anyone who shows up with the security access card and ID to obtain the crate is likely to be someone deeper inside the organization. I propose that you designate an interrogation unit that is as close to my current location as possible. Obtain a written order for me to retain Kwok. Have her read-in to the appropriate security clearance. And I’ll need a written order for me to covertly detain and interrogate the person or persons who claim the crate, and act on whatever information is obtained.”

  “Is that all?” Rector asked, with more than a trace of sarcasm.

  “For now.”


  “Where’s Kwok? She’ll have to be read in by DeCourcey or one of ours. For now it’s his show, and he’s the one at the top of this particular heap who can give the approval for the rest of it.”

  “Kwok is doing a reset. I’m picking her up in less than five minutes,” Bishop said as he wheeled the car right onto Monroe Street and parked a few doors down from a corner convenience store.

  “All right. DeCourcey in less than that if I can reach him. If this works, DeCourcey will read her in right away.”

  Precisely at the fifteen-minute mark after parting company, agent Kwok opened the passenger door and got into the car.

  “You all right?” Bishop asked. “You look wide awake again. And refreshed.”

  “Everything is working to spec, thanks.”

  “Good,” Bishop said looking at her more directly. “You up for a change of plan?”

  “I’m up for whatever works. What’s going on?”

  “I asked for you to be read in and to assist in covertly detaining and interrogating whoever shows up for the crate. I’m waiting for the phone to ring.” Which it did before he got to the end of his sentence.

  “I’ve got DeCourcey,” Rector said.

  “Are you playing the odds, Bishop?” DeCourcey said immediately, “or are you just trying to speed up the process, or are you being serious?”

  “I’m serious,” Bishop replied.

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I’ve got Linders conferenced in. Diane, what do you say to a covert pick up and interrogation?”

  “I say it’s Bishop’s call. He’s been right on every proactive move we’ve made so far. He’s not subverting process here. Chasing a crate around Manhattan is a low percentage occupation.”

  “And if Trask or whoever shows up has another appointment for which he is suddenly and inexplicable late this morning because he’s been detained?” DeCourcey asked, pointedly. “That’s not the best way to—.”