All The Big Ones Are Dead

by Christopher A. Gray

  Tom had been a perfect example. He had been committed to their relationship for all of three months. Then over the next three he gradually pulled away. Julie suspected him of cheating. Tom denied it, claiming that he was reconnecting with friends. When Julie broached the subject of breaking up, Tom presented only a very weak plea to be given another chance. Part of her had hoped he would demonstrate a true resolve to salvage their relationship, but she realized ending it was for the best. Tom did not argue the point.

  John was awkward, but he seemed to have the strength of character and integrity that Tom had lacked. When they went on a walk recently Julie could see that John was trying to open up to her, and it opened her own eyes to the possibility of dating an intellectually and emotionally mature man who genuinely wanted a relationship with her. Julie laughed to herself when she recalled the first time John had opened a door for her. He had pulled the door into his own head. She knew he was still nervous around her and she thought it was wonderfully sweet. It was also a sign that he wanted to do things for her and be solicitous about her. He had blushed, rubbing his forehead, and then laughed it off. He was becoming more relaxed and confident around her.

  It was a crowded day in the park. Some tourists had stopped on the path to chat among themselves. Julie moved to go around them, towards an older gentleman wearing an overcoat. She figured she could just get by the group without colliding with the slow moving gentleman.

  Perfect, Trask thought. The inconsiderate tourists were forcing Julie nearly into his the path. Julie was wearing a long-sleeve cotton shirt with a flannel vest. The needle would easily penetrate the shirt material covering her arm. Trask would pretend to stumble and bump into her. He would drop his cane and use his right hand to take hold of her right wrist, while injecting the poison just below her elbow.

  He took his hand out of his pocket, clutching the pen. Just as he began his fake stumble, one of the tourists, a big man in his forties let out a hearty laugh and stepped backward directly into Julie’s path. She had no time to react and so bumped into him. The man immediately turned to her and apologized enthusiastically.

  “Sorry luv,” he said in a north England accent.

  “No harm done, thank you.”

  The man was between Trask and Julie. The opportunity had evaporated. Trask gritted his teeth in hidden fury, and out of spite was about to stick the man with the poison, but decided against it in case he might need it later. Julie continued on her way as Trask resumed his methodical walk to his primary targets.

  ***

  “Which brings me to a delicate subject, Jules. My Interpol contact has suggested, and I agree with her, that you have your team set my servers up with a new firewall. Separate, in fact, from the rest of the university’s machines. No connection whatsoever.”

  “I can’t do that without clearance from Corelli. I’m not sure that he’ll want to take time away from my group for—”

  “It’s already been discussed. Sorry for the end-run Jules, but you were unreachable this morning.”

  As Julius grumbled a barely audible reply, John looked up to see an older man shuffling their way. He would have paid him no mind if not for the determined looking woman quickly closing in on him from behind. Her right hand was in her shoulder bag.

  ***

  “Goodbye then, Mr. Tudor,” Bishop said after a full two minutes had passed, shaking his head at Jorge’s posturing. He could see Jorge’s face alternately flushing and then growing pale. “It is a particularly unfortunate time for you to be associated with ivory poachers, terrorists and financing of enemies of the state.”

  After a short pause to let the declaration sink in, Bishop stood up.

  “Mr. Tudor, you will be taken to the roof of this building. These security operators will escort you by helo to a private airfield in New Jersey. The security operators will load you onto a small, long-range jet and escort you to a designated covert facility outside the United States. We will not meet again. I wish you luck, Mr. Tudor. Take a good look around you right now, before your head is shrouded. This is most likely your last view of anything in the U.S. It is unfortunate that your final image is so... grim.” Bishop nodded at the team leader and left the room.

  “Tudor,” the team leader said in a rasping voice, as the door snapped closed. “I am number one. The other operator is called number two. He will kneel beside you to unlock the shackles. Do not twitch. Do not speak.” He paused until Tudor nodded.

  “Tudor, stand straight up out of the chair. Do not twist or turn.” Tudor did so, slowly to unbind his knees. He had been sitting for more than two hours without a break.

  “I, uh, need to use the toilet,” he said. “I’ve been locked in here for a while.”

  “You’ll be allowed to use the Head on the aircraft.”

  Number one stared at Tudor until he nodded understanding.

  “Tudor, number two will attach restraints to your wrists. Hands in front. Do not struggle. Do not resist.” The team leader waited while number two attached a new set of handcuffs.

  “Tudor, number two will now cover your head with a security shroud. Do not resist or twist your head.” Again the team leader stared at Tudor until he nodded understanding. Number two covered Tudor’s head in a lightweight shroud, cinching lightly around his neck. The material was soft and Tudor realized he could breathe easily, but the shroud put him in complete blackness.

  “Tudor, number two will grip your elbow and direct you to walk out of the room. Think only about the pressure number two is exerting. Follow his directions. Do not speak or make any noises. Nod your head if you understand.”

  It was a process designed to subjugate the detainee, placing him completely under the rigid control of the security team. Deviations from the simple, compartmented instructions, were met with slaps to the back of the head, alarmingly painful pinches on the skin of the back, or a cuff to the ear. The security operators did not care who Tudor might be. The operators were selected for the jobs specifically because they were incurious. A prince or a pauper, the detainee’s identity was uninteresting. The security operators ate, slept and breathed prisoner transport and itched for combat. They were very good at their jobs.

  The security elevator located at the end of the long hallway that traversed the center of the facility was capable of stopping at any floor in the building from the underground parking garage all the way up to the roof. At that moment it was programmed to stop at only three floors: the loading level, the interrogation facility, and the top floor to provide access to the helipad two flights of stairs higher up on the roof.

  Jorge Tudor did not fully believe what was happening to him. Bishop had been implacable, calmly insistent, apparently detached. Tudor had been sure that at some point Bishop would hit him or start screaming threats. It hadn’t happened. Bishop just kept calmly asking for information about his smuggling operation, his connection to Marc Dominican and his connection to half a dozen others in the Cameroon-Marseille pipeline. Bishop was as coldly impassive as the two security operators were frightening and distracting, constantly issuing sharp, concise orders for simple things.

  It was not until Tudor heard the rapidly approaching thup-thup-thup-thup of a helicopter that the finality of his situation completely sunk in. A cold claw wrenched at his stomach, driving fear as deeply into him as anything he’d ever felt. As the helo touched down on the pad, one of its runners skimmed a short distance on the hard surface, making a sudden and startling screech. Jorge Tudor wet himself.

  “I want!” he said, jerking his elbow in the grasp of number two, yelling over his embarrassment and the howl of the helo turbine spinning down to lower revolutions, “to talk to the interrogator.”

  The demand was exactly what the team leader was waiting for. He noticed the wet front of Tudor’s pants but said nothing, maintaining professional detachment. But a good con game was only as good as the follow-through, so number one and number two did not break out of their roles.

  Number one took
two steps, stood behind Tudor and slapped him hard on the back of the head.

  “Do not speak!” number one ordered.

  “Stop hitting me!” Tudor pleaded. “I have information the interrogator needs. I do not want to get on that helicopter. For god’s sake, believe me. The interrogator will want to hear what I have to say.”

  In response, number one said nothing. He looked at number two and twitched his head in the direction of the helipad control room. Number two dipped his head slightly, slung his MP5, then removed a flexible wire leash from his belt. He looped it through Tudor’s handcuffs and then locked the leash to a stanchion at the top of steel stairs where the three of them were standing. Number two walked over to the control room and disappeared inside. Number one had his MP5 trained on Tudor, staring at Tudor’s hands and feet, apparently waiting for the slightest move.

  Jorge Tudor had suddenly relaxed. Wetting his pants had actually calmed him. The grudging, barely cooperative response of the security operator offered a tiny bit of hope. He might not have to get on that helicopter. In fact, Jorge was responding exactly as expected. A small minority of non-terrorist detainees actually made it up to the roof before cracking. More often, they cracked when the masked security operators were hauling them out of the interrogation room. Jorge had done slightly better. All he really wanted to know now was whether or not he could extract some guarantees about the nicely painted witness protection that the interrogator had promised.

  ***

  The phone on the desk in the observation room buzzed. It was the line from the helipad control center.

  “This is Bishop.”

  “Your guy wants to talk. I gave him the usual delay, embellished with a clip to the back of the head.”

  “What’s his condition?”

  “The blacked out UH-60 transport helo did the trick. He wet himself. That relaxed him. Got him to think straight.”

  “Thank you. Nice work. No change in protocol. Use your judgment about when to bring him back in, but not longer than ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” the operator replied and hung up.

  “Tudor has cracked. We’ll see how wide in a few minutes. He’ll want guarantees about witness protection, he’ll want lots of things. The little performance we put on will get more real if he decides that he’s somehow gained a measure of control. For now, he’s weakened.”

  “More real? You mean you can really rendition him?” Linders asked, her voice rising in surprise.

  “Yeah,” Bishop replied absently, as he turned to look through the glass into the interrogation room. “To a secure facility in Florida. A location near the Everglades. It’s set up to look like a detainee prison in Panama. Everybody who has ever been detained there, except for the hardcore fanatics, has cracked quickly. It’s miserable. Interrogation is relentless. There have been a few incidents.”

  Linders looked at Bishop. But his back was turned and he was concentrating on the security door through which Tudor would re-enter the room. The facility housekeeper would remind them of that before they were allowed to leave the facility. All Bishop wanted right at that moment was a good, long look at Tudor’s face and body language when the security operator marched him back into the interrogation room and shackled him again.

  Upon Tudor’s entrance, Bishop saw what he wanted. Jorge Tudor was defeated, but there was a glimmer of determination left that Bishop knew was all about self-preservation. That was confirmed the moment he sat down across the table from the detainee.

  ***

  Kwok slowed down and waited for a woman pushing a child in a stroller to pass ahead of the man before she spoke.

  “Sir, please turn around,” Kwok said sharply. “You sir, in the olive overcoat. Please stop.” The man kept walking, seemingly unable to hear agent Kwok’s commands. The closer Kwok got to the elderly gentleman, the more uneasy she became. His gait was small, but it did not appear weak despite the obvious limp.

  John recognized the woman as the one who a few days ago had interfered with his attempt to ask Julie out. It instantly dawned on John that she was one of the agents that Diane had spoken of. She had been assigned to protect him. He wondered why she was approaching the old man.

  Kwok put her left hand on the man’s right shoulder to get his attention. It was a tactical move designed to make it harder for the average right-handed person to reach for a weapon. Unfortunately for Kwok, David Trask was not an average criminal. He twisted his upper body towards her while using his left hand to withdraw a slender dagger from the top of his cane. He thrust the eight-inch blade at an upwards angle into Kwok’s left ribcage, piercing her heart. She had time for one quick breath, and one thought of regret at her failure to protect Logan as she looked into Trask’s cold eyes.

  As Kwok fell to the ground, Trask turned to glare at Julius, his next target. John and Julius were now standing, staring at Trask in horror. Trask began to move, but the dying Kwok still had a firm grip on the sleeve of his trench coat. That small delay allowed John to take a step back. Without taking his eyes off Trask, John reached blindly to his left and touched Julius’ shoulder. “C’mon!” he said. But neither of them moved. They were both frozen in disbelief at what they had just witnessed. Trask wrenched his arm free from Kwok’s grasp and moved towards them.

  Agent Turner’s earpiece was still active. He had crossed Madison Avenue before he had heard Kwok’s voice address the man. When the man didn’t answer her, Turner had a bad feeling. He reversed direction and started to walk, then jog back towards the park. When he had heard Kwok’s sharp intake of breath he feared the worst and sprinted full out, dodging cars and pedestrians as he ran. The entire team had started breaking position at the same time.

  It only took Trask four rapid strides to reach Julius, transferring the dagger from his left hand to his right as he went. Julius stepped back and to the side, but he was too slow. He let out a short cry as the dagger pierced his chest. He instinctively clutched with both hands at Trask’s wrist and tried to push it away, but Trask was far too strong, putting the weight of his body into the knife as it severed Julius’ aorta.

  All of this was occurring at a speed nearly incomprehensible to an inexperienced civilian like John Logan. He was terrified, but realized he needed to help his friend and so reached out to the man’s left shoulder to pull him off Julius. He only succeeded in pulling the man’s trench coat part way off, down to his waist. As Julius collapsed to the ground Trask pulled his overcoat up and turned to his last target, Logan.

  At the sight of the blood-coated dagger John took several steps back. As Trask sprang forward John thought he was about to die, but he raised his left arm at the last second. He felt a burning pain as the dagger pierced his forearm. As John stumbled backward he heard the sharp report of a gunshot, and he saw the man stagger back.

  “Logan, get down!” John fell to the ground as another bullet hit Trask in the chest, sending him down. Trask had the breath knocked out of him but his vest had done its job. A woman screamed, half-crouching protectively around a child, as he sat up and drew his weapon to fire a volley at Gauss, who rolled onto the grass twenty meters away in an effort to avoid any more shots. Trask got up and sprinted down the path in a strange hop-step caused by the lancing pain in each stride. He was heading directly at the woman and child. Gauss had him in his sights but didn’t pull the trigger. The terrified mother and her child were directly in the line of fire.

  “All units, we have an agent and a civilian down! Trask is headed to the path north of the seventy-ninth traverse park exit, towards Fifth Avenue. He’s armed and dangerous. Get the son of a bitch!”

  John sat up and stared disbelievingly at the dagger impaled through his forearm. The scientist in him reminded himself not to remove or touch it, to avoid doing any more damage. Best to wait for the ambulance, he thought. Julius! John felt cold as he looked over to see the unmoving body of his friend.

  “Take it easy, Logan, lay back. You’re going to be fine. I’m agent Gauss, a
ssigned to protect you.” John hardly heard him as he saw another man, his gun drawn, race to the body of the female agent a few meters down the path. The man knelt beside Kwok and started rapidly searching her body, looking for a wound, an entry point or an exit point.

  “Did you see Trask?” Gauss asked the man, who did not respond. “Turner! Did you see Trask?” Turner finally looked up at Gauss.

  “No,” he said. He was shaking as he sat beside the lifeless body of Agent Chantal Kwok.

  ***

  “I want protection for my parents first,” Tudor said without waiting for any sort of opening from Bishop. “Leslie and Sarah Tudor, forty-one Perth Road, South Setauket on Long Island. The man I work for is wealthy, connected, and his main method is extortion on threat of harm or exposure of serious personal matters. Without protection for my parents, first—and I mean right now—there’s nothing more to talk about.”

  Bishop said nothing. He just nodded. The observer, watching Bishop carefully, understood the movement.

  “That nod was for you, Inspector Linders,” he said, touching her sleeve to get her attention. “I suggest you select a local team and move it into place without delay. I suggest you use direct channels, not supervisory channels. It is unclear at this time that we are completely secure. If you have to leave the facility, I will connect Bishop’s case officer to you in order to keep you informed about developments here.”

  Linders heard nothing the observer said. Her mobile had buzzed a moment earlier and she was listening to a call from Max Gauss. She sat down hard on one of the heavy metal chairs in the observation room.

  “Inspector Linders,” the observer said, a bit louder. “Did you hear what I just said?”

  “I have a problem,” she replied, looking icily as the observer. “Tell Bishop to hold for a moment.”