All The Big Ones Are Dead

by Christopher A. Gray

  He had arrived at Central Park on schedule, to survey the area and determine where the killing zone would be. On his first pass around the path he had seen Logan and the barista arrive and sit down on a bench. They were early. Trask’s walk took him out of Shakespeare Garden for a few minutes, to allow Coppola to arrive.

  As he ambled along the path back to the Garden, he saw Julius Coppola walk quickly past him. Coppola glanced back, but there was no sign of recognition or alarm. It would have been easy for Trask to run up behind Coppola and deliver a knife through the heart, but he wanted all three victims in close proximity.

  As he anticipated, no passerby gave Trask a second look. He was one of many dozens of ‘seniors’ in the area, taking in the sunshine in this early winter day.

  ***

  Julius was huffing and puffing as he walked at a brisk pace down 5th Avenue. Despite his good diet, he had gained weight and was out of shape from spending far too many hours at his desk. It was difficult to budget the time for a game of squash or a jog on the treadmill. The current situation that was forcing him to sleep in his office wasn’t helping. Then again, he wondered how much of his present shortness of breath was due to his nerves.

  Despite the tremendous stroke of luck of John proposing Salim Abood as the mole, the relief was short lived. Julius was still potentially in a world of trouble. Logan was a respected expert and his professional opinion would carry weight with the authorities, but that didn’t mean everyone would be convinced of Julius’ innocence, at least not yet.

  As much as he hated to, Julius had to push the idea that he himself had dropped the ball when it came to security, and in finding the hacker. At the very least, his once sterling reputation was now blemished, forever tainted by this massive ‘failure.’ Even if he wasn’t fired, he would certainly be demoted. If he was fired, his future employability would now be in question. All thanks to Marc Dominican.

  John had said Abood might have been killed on purpose, as a loose end tied up by the so-called smugglers. There was no indication that Abood had been working for Dominican, Julius thought to himself as he walked. He was a poor student from Tanzania for god’s sake. Smart, but so were so many other grad students at Columbia. No, Abood’s death was an accident. He had no connection to Dominican, but let John play detective and push the sabotage idea to the FBI. That will keep the focus away from me.

  He did his best to think positively. Salim Abood’s death was the perfect catalyst to send John Logan’s brilliant mind off on a tangent of intrigue, and it would most likely do the same for the university president. Hopefully the FBI would take the theory seriously.

  Julius was meeting John in Central Park again. John had suggested a walk on the grounds of Columbia for a change, but Julius wanted to get away from the University, away from the knocks on his door and his computer’s email ping sound. The park had enough space so that Julius could disappear, away from the day’s distractions and troubles, at least for a few moments.

  He turned his mobile phone to silent as he walked to the spot John had suggested in Shakespeare Garden. In all of his time spent at the park, Julius had only been at the garden once, during late winter when it was covered in snow. He made a mental note to return to this area of the park more often. There was an elderly man shuffling along the path in the same direction, stooped and limping with his cane. As he passed, Julius glanced back at him. The man’s face was unlined, but he had some white stubble on his chin. Julius guessed the man wasn’t as old as he looked. Rheumatoid arthritis, probably, just like my uncle Blake, Julius thought. Poor bastard, old before his time.

  As he entered the beautifully kept grounds, Julius instantly forgot the unfortunate man and made a mental note to visit this section of the park more often. He rounded a path to see John sitting on a bench with that barista he was apparently so fond of. Dammit! Julius thought. Logan should know better. I’m in no mood to be social. The bench was apart from most of the others, and farther back from the path, in a perfect spot for having a private conversation. Upon seeing Julius the pair stood up.

  “Julius, you remember Julie.”

  “Nice to see you,” Julie said enthusiastically. “The three of us might be called the ‘Three Js’.” John gave an exaggerated laugh, while Julius forced a smile, but said nothing. Julie sensed his mood immediately.

  “Well John, I need to get back home. I have a deadline.” She kissed him on the cheek.

  “Good luck with that essay,” John said, blushing as she walked away. Julie looked back and waved. Julius noted his friend’s wide grin as he unwaveringly watched the woman disappear down the path.

  “You in love or something?”

  “What?” John replied quickly, his expression immediately turning to one of neutrality. “No, we’re just good friends. She’s very nice, though. You could have been a little nicer to her yourself, Jules.”

  “Sorry. Lot on my mind, as you well know. How’s your rebuilding going?” Julius asked as they sat down on the bench.

  ***

  Bishop was again sitting across from Tudor, staring silently at his prisoner. For his part, Tudor had become voluble enough though still uninformative. Bishop was using a slight scowl. During two previous sessions in the room he’d tried a number of facial expressions on Tudor, but only this one was having the desired effect. Bishop’s hunch about Tudor’s patience was also paying off. Each absence from the interrogation room was longer than the previous one, and Tudor was displaying a distinct inability to zone out and merely wait patiently.

  “I’m in the United States,” Tudor bit off the words, though he continued to speak quietly. “I will not stand for this. No matter what you accuse me of. I will not be renditioned or tortured or anything else. I am an American citizen on American soil. I cannot tell you what you want to know, because I don’t know anything. I’m nobody. I’m just an owner of a small shipping company. You know it.”

  “What I know,” Bishop replied, still speaking mildly, “is that I do not like to show my hand too early in a poker game. If you force me to bring evidence to this table, I will. But,” Bishop said the word as he leaned forward at Tudor, “if you force me to do so, I will be far less pleasant about it. Speak to me.”

  “I have nothing to tell you.”

  “Mr. Tudor,” Bishop said, leaning back in his chair, “I am authorized to offer you complete immunity, extended witness protection, and a variety of other perqs and security guarantees in return for your full and immediate cooperation.”

  “Lawyer!” Tudor said for the fortieth time, louder than he’d intended. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  In a pre-arranged move, Bishop turned toward the one-way glass and just stared at it. The observer waited a few seconds, then loudly rapped twice.

  Bishop feigned a sigh, almost sadness, as he turned back to face Tudor.

  “Mr. Tudor,” Bishop said as he stood up, “your cooperation is needed. That is why the immunity offer to you is so impressive. But you have been difficult. Additional persuasion to obtain your cooperation is obviously needed. You are therefore going to be charged under the federal terrorism statutes. You will then be transported to a secure facility outside the continental United States in a cooperating country that is less squeamish about more aggressive interrogation methods. Do you understand everything I just said?”

  Bishop had been watching Tudor carefully during the short speech. He saw everything he’d hoped for: widening eyes, dramatically increased tension, paleness, and a slight tremor in Tudor’s left shoulder.

  “You can’t—!” Tudor started to say, but Bishop cut him off.

  “I can,” Bishop said, almost off-handedly. “I have crystal clear digital video recordings of you securing various shipments in Marseille. I also examined the contents of one of the crates.” Bishop was speaking as though he was browsing a phone book looking for a particular number. He sounded as though he really had somewhere else to be right at that moment, as though Jorge Tudor was just another item
on a long checklist. Bishop looked up and past Tudor as the rear door opened again. Two grim-eyed security officers wearing black tactical gear, suppressed MP5SD submachine guns on slings, and full head masks entered the room and took up flanking positions facing Tudor from both ends of the table.

  Jorge was stunned into silence. The revelation about the Marseille warehouses was unexpected. They’d all believed that Marseille had gone off perfectly.

  “Let’s begin with something simple,” Bishop continued conversationally. “I am interested in the source of the shipping manifests, and especially in the U.S. Customs pre-clearance documentation attached to the shipment you picked up at the secure storage facility this morning.”

  Tudor was staring at the table top, thinking about interrogation, rendition, secret detention and a variety of things that were starting to make him feel nauseated. He was unwilling to say or do anything that would jeopardize his current position. He did not trust his interrogator. In fact, he had no doubt that he could never trust any of the people who now seemed to be in control of his life. Dominican controlled him through a barely veiled threat of harm to his parents should Jorge fail to cooperate in every way with Dominican. His business and the associations that came with it controlled him. The interrogator sitting across the table controlled him.

  More important, all of the bad decisions he’d ever made during the course of an adult life thus far controlled him. He was there, in the room at that moment, for no other reason than the fact that he’d decided one day, years before, that he wanted to take risks, make a lot of money, and be some sort of arch criminal. It didn’t seem to have worked out too well.

  “Let me make this simple for you, too,” Jorge replied, finally in a shaky voice. “Anything I do or say here to help you will get me killed or it will get people I deeply care about killed. So get me a lawyer or leave me alone.” It was a statement that felt to him very close to a final bluff or a final stonewall or a final something or other. He believed that he had to appear obstinate even in the face of an interrogation that had hints of ugliness he’d never experienced before.

  “I beg you to reconsider your position, Mr. Tudor,” Bishop said in a deliberately distracted, vacant tone. He wanted to sound as though he was pleading for Tudor not to endanger himself by resisting any further. “The alternative is likely to be unpleasant. The alternative is likely to result in a very negative outcome for you. Here, now, in this place, you can negotiate my help. That’s something that you’ll find to be highly valuable.”

  Jorge just stared back as Bishop spoke again.

  “This cannot end well for you in any event. Cooperation on your part will greatly ease the consequences. I see that both of your parents are still alive?”

  Jorge stiffened momentarily and had to force himself to control his breathing and not panic.

  “They are,” he replied. “What about it? And where’s the lawyer I’ve asking for?”

  “No lawyer for you, Mr. Tudor. Are your parents well? I ask because I no longer have both my parents. It comes to all of us in time, but I’m pleased that you have both of your parents.”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you ever want to see them again?”

  “You’re threatening them?”

  “Ha!” Bishop laughed out loud quite genuinely. “No, not all. We don’t do that here, Mr. Tudor. You’re mistaking me for some random torturer in some far away third-world pit. Get straight with this fact, Mr. Tudor. I’m threatening you and you alone. Once your posing and arrogance and fear has prevented you from cooperating here and now with me, I won’t have another thought about you or your parents. Make no mistake about that. Your file doesn’t show many relatives or close personal relationships other than your parents and an on-again, off-again girlfriend. If one or the other of your parents or the girlfriend are the ones you’re worried about, without your cooperation right now they won’t have any protection from me or any of the agencies with which I’m associated. But we won't confront or disturb them in any way. Can’t speak for your current associates, though. So I’ll ask you one more time. Tell me about the source of the shipping manifests, and especially the U.S. Customs pre-clearance documentation attached to the shipment you picked up at the secure storage facility this morning.”

  There was a hollow feeling growing in the pit of Jorge’s stomach. It was a vacant, weak and fearful sensation. But he had been set up by Marc Dominican for so long to fear his very shadow that he was suddenly unable to posture, bluff or even speak. He just stared at the table and remained silent. Bishop’s direct honesty was beginning to have its effect.

  ***

  Customs & Border Protection agent Eli Turner was scheduled to end his shift. He had been shadowing John Logan for the past four hours, first as support on the outer perimeter while others took the close support role, then he was rotated in to relieve another agent. Standard procedure to minimize the chance of being spotted, either by the person they were protecting, or by the opposition. Today Turner was posing as an awkward-looking tourist, complete with a NYC long-sleeved t-shirt under his unzipped windbreaker, a camera slung over his shoulder, khaki cargo pants with too many pockets, and apparently worn-out running shoes. The shoes were newer than the carefully designed wear marks would have indicated, and gave a perfect fit, for the support and traction necessary should the wearer need to give chase.

  Turner was sitting on a bench in Shakespeare Garden, fiddling with the camera lens on his lap, but behind his sunglasses he was looking at John Logan and Julius Coppola, sitting on a bench on the opposite side of the garden. After Linders had informed Logan of the protection that had been assigned to him, Logan had made an effort to spot the watchers, but he had soon given up. The team was too good at knowing when to stay at a discreet distance, and at blending in. In a place like Central Park and the adjoining streets of Manhattan, it wasn’t difficult for even an inexperienced covert agent to remain undetected, and this team was anything but inexperienced.

  “Turner, Gauss here,” Turner heard in his earpiece.

  “Turner,” he said quietly, hardly moving his mouth.

  “Kwok is on her way to relieve you. She’ll be in position any minute now. Stay on site for a few minutes as Coppola settles in with Logan. Let’s do a smooth transition.”

  “Acknowledged.” Almost on cue, Turner heard Kwok on his earpiece.

  “Sitting on your ass again, Eli? How many hot dogs have you eaten today?” Turner gave a hint of a smile as he heard her voice. Chantal was a good friend and an excellent agent. He wouldn’t admit it, but he enjoyed the banter the two of them shared.

  “I’m a good boy these days, Kwok. Only tofu dogs for me. You, on the other hand…”

  “Yuck. You can keep your tofu. I’m at your two o’clock, have our boys in sight. Saw the barista leave. You can go home for your afternoon nap now, Agent Turner.”

  “Gosh, thanks,” he replied dryly. “See you tomorrow.” Turner saw Kwok sitting on a bench a third of the way around the circular trail. He packed up his paper bag and ambled away at a slow pace.

  Just before she sat down Kwok had observed Logan and the barista. The couple had been in animated conversation, with Julie doing most of the talking. Kwok sighed. She was tired, mostly from the excitement of working ops with Bishop. Kwok wasn’t a green agent, but Bishop—Michael—obviously had so much more and deeper field experience than any of them. It was as if he was born into the job.

  Maybe I was wrong to head Logan off of that girl, Kwok thought. He seems to be handling things well. Kwok surprised herself at the pang of envy she felt. She hadn’t been in a close relationship with anyone since her marriage to another agent ended four years earlier. The image of Michael Bishop entered into her mind. She smiled. He’s certainly a—

  “Kwok, Gauss here. That elderly male is making his way towards our asset. He’s limping noticeably so you can’t miss him. He seems to be lingering in this general area. Do a walk by.”

  “Roger.” Kw
ok got up and walked casually along the path.

  ***

  Trask spotted the barista coming towards him. He cursed silently as he realized he would need to take care of her separately at a later time. But perhaps not. Trask felt for a special pen he always kept in the left pocket of the trench coat. When clicked open a needle emerged, with a single dose of slow-acting poison. One quick, relatively painless jab to a person’s hand or arm, and they would be dead within twelve hours. Logan and Coppola needed to be killed quickly because the longer the men were alive, the more acute their threat to Dominican became. The threat the barista posed was not as immediate. Trask kept his head low to ensure she would not recognize him.

  Julie was still smiling as she walked away from John. For the first time in over a year, she allowed herself to be optimistic and excited at the prospect of a relationship with him. In her high school days Julie had dated jocks, a natural outcome of her fascination with sports and her natural attractiveness. Alpha men gravitated to her, but she quickly learned that many of them lacked something. She only recently fully realized that it was depth and empathy that were missing. A desire to do better in their relationships.

  Not that all the jocks were like that, of course, but the ones she was attracted to put the team and their friends on a pedestal, and many of them developed a sense of entitlement. When the most talented ones did well on the field but let their grades suffer, the grades were magically fixed. Julie had seen it happen like that occasionally in high school. In university it was automatic. Successful football and basketball teams earned big, desperately needed money for universities and colleges. Most of the coaches gave the top tier of players very little moral guidance, only caring that the team did well and their star players were given the star treatment they deserved.