All The Big Ones Are Dead

by Christopher A. Gray

  “Yes. He is. And he’s also all mine.” Bishop said it so quietly that Tudor, Diane and the observer listening to the feed, had to lean to hear him. “Do you know where he roosts or not? Information of that kind is a strong hand if you have it. Now’s the time to use it, Jorge.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jorge said, genuine regret in his voice. “No. I wish I did.”

  Bishop nodded, then extended his hand to Jorge, who shook it after lifting his shackled hands as high as he could.

  “Goodbye, Jorge,” Bishop said, as he stood up and headed for the door. “Good luck. I doubt we’ll see each other again.” He nodded to Diane as she entered the interrogation room to take over.

  “So, Mr. Tudor,” Diane said she sat down, smiling and tapping the tabletop for attention. “We’ve got an hour to record information and then get you cleaned up for your meeting. Would you like something to eat while we talk?”

  Chapter Twenty Two

  “I do not want to harass a defenseless old woman, unless your people are sure that Trask is still somewhere in the five boroughs, or at the very least still somewhere in the continental U.S.,” Bishop said. His voice was taut and definitely darker in tone than he normally allowed. The situation was unique, and he was not happy about several of the possible outcomes running through his mind at that moment. He’d just gotten off the 6 train at East 77th Street. He could have ridden up to East 86th, but he wanted the extra few blocks to air himself out. It was a brisk late afternoon, and the sun was getting low in a mostly grey sky. There was going to be a frost overnight.

  “Trask is in the city. All the agencies are dropping a net over Manhattan and the Boroughs. Everybody is cooperating like it’s Christmas, Hanukkah, Eid and Kwanzaa all rolled into one. Trask off the leash has everybody scared. NSC is involved too. NSA has tasked a very large team. Nobody wants Trask and all his dirty laundry on the evening news. Local constabulary is not in on the party though, because if NYPD finds him first, they’ll be dining out on him for months. Trask would immediately holler about an agency kill order on him, and then everybody else will be dining out on the revelation of a covert CIA kill operation on U.S. soil.”

  “How’s the citizen?”

  “Professor Logan? He’ll be fine according to the latest update. Trask drove a blade all the way through Logan’s left forearm Witness accounts vary as usual. Logan needed emergency surgery. Lots of sliced muscle and other soft tissue. Cracked the ulna and chipped the radius too. I’m no longer monitoring that. Linder’s team is doing overtime and we’ve got all we can handle.”

  “We do.”

  “We’re deep into this, Bish. On U.S. soil. Surveillance, detention, a mission track that led us here. That’s all manageable. Finding out that Tudor has nothing but himself to offer verges on being a blown op.” Rector paused to let the words sink in for both of them. “If we step into this any deeper and Trask turns out to have nothing in the way of hard evidence either, the op will be blown big time. If we get caught with you fully operational in NYC, there’s no chance the Director, Interpol or anybody else will cover us. Neither of us will make it as far as the men’s room.”

  “That is true.”

  “That is true?” Rector replied, laughing. “That’s your final response, partner? Okay. Then this is your case officer asking if you’re ready to do this again? This can only end one way. There’s no high-risk arrest and detention here. You know it. If this has to work tonight, there’s no time to arrest Trask and haul him down to the detention facility and try to crack him. You have to corral him wherever you find him and find out where his surveillance on Dominican and himself is stashed, if he’s got any. The only way this ends is with Trask on a slab. Any other outcome ends in a lot of wreckage and a completely blown op.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “I need more than a one word response.”

  “I understand, Alexei,” Bishop said, as his fast pace brought him to the corner of Park Avenue and East 82th St. Up ahead he could see the long canopy with its brass posts in front of the entrance to the great old apartment block he was heading for. “Here are the assurances for you and whoever else is monitoring our comms. I assure you that whatever evidence David Trask has collected to protect himself will be obtained. David Trask will then immediately be permanently retired. The Director provided the order with the full knowledge of the outcome. Now is not the time for operational review. It’s either go, or no-go.”

  There was a long pause. Bishop knew what was happening. Rector was being questioned by the highest authorities in the chain of command. Is Bishop fully operational? Is Bishop prepared to fully execute the order? How sure is he that Trask has crucial evidence? Does Bishop understand the consequence of his actions on U.S. soil if the op goes sideways? Does Bishop understand how important it is for Trask to be silenced afterward? Bishop continued his fast pace, a minute ticking by, then another. There was still silence on his comms.

  “It’s a go, Bish,” Rector came back. “Good luck. I’m out for five now, not a second more. Reconnect when you enter the building.”

  Bishop terminated the comm first this time. He was absorbed by the recon of the approaches to the building and he was close enough to want to avoid any distractions.

  As he walked north, the stately presence of 979 Park Avenue was unmistakable. The festooned green awning was trimmed in twisted bronze chain and supported by heavy brass posts. It seemed almost a throwback to the early 1900s, but the building was somewhat older than that. Of all the mansions, apartment houses and elegant addresses on Carnegie Hill, 979 Park Avenue was perhaps among the more storied. If the last twenty years had been less kind to the old place, the elegance had become more dated than shabby. The entrance was still well maintained, heavy brass doors polished and detailed, the doorman and concierge liveried well, attentive and keeping a careful eye on all visitors and approaches.

  Each story was at least twelve feet high, maybe fourteen. That much Bishop could estimate as he walked underneath the canopy, through the door courteously held, and up the wide, marble and brass stairs to the concierge’s reception desk. The exterior front walls of the building and the interior of the reception lobby in which he found himself were dotted with CCTV cameras.

  “I’m here to visit Mrs. Trask in eight oh two,” Bishop said, offering his CBP cover ID for the concierge to enter in the log.

  “Customs and Border Protection?” the man said, as he noticed the words on the ID. “Any problem I should know about before you go up?”

  “I am following up on a matter that Mrs. Trask’s son inquired about recently. It’s a confidential matter,” Bishop replied.

  “I’m not sure she’s able to have a visitor without her son present. She’s, uh, she’s not always well enough for visitors.”

  “David suggested I come by now,” Bishop said, tapping the outside of his jacket as a hint that he had something to deliver personally.

  “Oh, well, up you go then,” the concierge said, losing interest almost instantly. “Second elevator on your left in the middle of the Grand Hall. Turn right when you get off the elevator at eight.”

  The elevator doors opened almost immediately in response to the button press, and Bishop stepped into an ultra-modern lift fitted out with the latest annunciators, a variety of accessibility features, vertical and horizontal grab rails, and a densely carpeted floor. The door swished shut when he pressed the button for eight. The car ascended in absolute silence, without the slightest tremor to indicate it had started rising.

  Bishop used the ornately sculpted bronze knocker to rap on the massive apartment door. He was focused on the entrance to the apartment, but the three-meter hallway ceiling and three-meter width dwarfed him. He felt out of place on a visit to an old woman living in an enormously expensive old family apartment in one of the notably historic and formerly very exclusive old buildings in the city. Bishop could adapt to any situation, but the mother of the man he was tracking was behind the door he was facing and the situa
tion felt vaguely disquieting.

  “The door is open,” he heard a call come faintly through the carved, gilded annunciator panel mounted on the wall to the left of the door.

  He tried the huge knob in the center of the door, but it didn’t budge. It seemed nothing more than cast bronze, ornate and decorative. Then he noticed the large ring around the escutcheon. An annulus? It looks very old and very real. Hundreds of years old. Baroque or even older. Old money bought all sorts of antiquities.

  He tried rotating the ring clockwise and it moved easily, unlatching a very large locking bolt. The door moved easily after that, quietly, on perfectly balanced, massive old tarnished hinges that each looked almost half a meter long.

  There was no one visible in the dimly lit vestibule.

  “I am in the sitting room,” came the voice again, this time recognizable as that of a tremulous older woman. “Please come to me here.” Then Bishop heard two sharp raps.

  He moved forward, pacing his long strides slowly enough to ensure he got a good look into each carved doorway arch he passed on each side of the wide, central, master hall. He passed sculpture on pedestals and decorative Sheraton tables. Elaborately framed paintings hung on the walls, but little detail could be seen because the crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling offered only the dimmest illumination. The second room on the right was just as dark as the master hall, but for a Tiffany table lamp throwing a yellow pool of light that revealed someone sitting, hands resting on the worn, walnut arms of a Queen Anne chair. Bishop checked the corners as he entered the room, but there was no one else present. He had paused several times in the master hall to listen carefully to the sounds of the enormous apartment. He’d heard nothing but age and silence and the ticking of a mechanical clock.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Trask,” Bishop said as he stopped a couple of meters from her, and bowed his head slightly in respect.

  For a moment, the old woman said nothing. She sat erect, but the sturdy cane leaning against the lamp table suggested some infirmity. Despite her physical stillness, she was examining Bishop with eyes that shifted between him and the surrounding room. She blinked every few seconds.

  “What is the weather like today?” she inquired, pleasantly, reaching for her cane.

  “The day set as it should, Mrs. Trask. The sun warmed the day quite well, but now in November the setting sun allows the breath of winter to intrude.”

  “So it does, sir. You may presume that I don’t get out as much as I used to.” She rapped the tip of the cane twice on the floor.

  “My name is Bishop,” he said, inclining his head in a gesture of formal greeting. He glanced at the cane, then brought his eyes up to meet Mrs. Trask’s gaze. “Michael Bishop. Thank you for seeing me.”

  At the mention of his name, the woman’s eyes fixed on him. She turned to her right slightly and stared for a moment at one of the swirling colors of the beautiful lamp shade. Bishop realized she was drifting in and out of awareness. He was also aware of a peppery odor in the air. It permeated the room. It smelled of great age and hinted at the gradual loss of personal dignity.

  “Mrs. Trask,” Bishop said, speaking firmly but in a moderate tone, “I have come talk about your son. Will you speak with me about David?” She rapped the cane twice on the floor.

  She looked away from the lamp, glanced up briefly, then turned her head to the left to stare. Bishop could make out the presence of tall bookshelves of polished wood, many nearly the full height of the room, lined with books of all shapes and sizes.

  “Have you come for me?” she asked suddenly, her pale fingers gripping the chair arms as though she could resist real force. “Have you come for me now?” Rap-rap.

  “No, Mrs. Trask,” Bishop said, frowning and taken aback. “I have come for your son.”

  “I think,” she said after a pause, “that he is not yours to take,” she replied, coughing slightly and reaching for a crystal glass of water on the lamp table. “Not yours,” she said again, after sipping from the glass.

  “He has committed crimes for which he must be held to account, Mrs. Trask.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes at Bishop as she continued to stare hard at him. She had taken hold of the top of her cane.

  “NO!” she screeched, lifting the cane higher and hammering the end twice into the floor. “He will account to God alone for his sins!”

  Bishop searched her face for some sign of rationality, but her eyes were fixed on him. Is this some sort of act? A crazy-woman ploy to try and protect her son?

  “His sins are his business and his responsibility, Mrs. Trask,” Bishop said quietly. “Perhaps God will have something to say about it, but I doubt God has any interest in David. Or in me.” Rap-rap.

  “He told me you would come. He told me your name...” she trailed off. “You are Michael.”

  “I am, as I introduced myself,” Bishop replied.

  “Then you admit your intent?” she yelled at him, breathing heavily. “You admit it! Admit it to me? Say your real name… Taxiarch Archangel Michael!” Rap-rap.

  Bishop suddenly fell a chill in his spine. If she’s acting, she’s doing a very good job. He was uncomfortable in the room, and the rap-rap of the cane was disturbing. From the time he was a young boy, Bishop had been told who the Archangel Michael was supposed to have been. He had sometimes wondered at why he’d been given the name of the leader of God’s armies against Satan. As a child, the tales and the Sunday school classes had left him thirsting for even more stories. As he’d grown beyond Old Testament, New Testament and the reading of the Sura his parents had encouraged as a way of broadening his thinking, he had begun to grow suspicious of the blind faith expected of true believers. He began to see the limitations of faith. He began to search for other, less restrictive ways of examining and understanding the world around him. He’d never forgotten his catechism, though. They came in handy from time to time.

  “I care not for any man’s sins, Mrs. Trask,” he said, louder. “Or any woman’s sins.” He bowed his head slightly again but looked into her eyes as he did so.

  “Now war arose in heaven,” she replied staring off to one side, quoting Revelation from memory. “Michael and his angels fighting against the dragon. And the dragon and his angels fought back, but he was defeated, and there was no longer any place for them in heaven. And the great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world—he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him.” Rap-rap-rap.

  “Your son is nothing so elemental as a minion of Satan, Mrs. Trask. Nor has he ever done battle as a force for good or evil. He’s just a murderer. An assassin paid to perpetrate violence for money.”

  The old woman looked confused for a moment.

  “But you are a messenger?” she said faintly after a moment. “You are the Taxiarch. You carry his name?” Then she smiled alarmingly and fluttered her eyes at Bishop. “If you show mercy, he would worship you.” With that, Bishop could see that the expression on her face had changed again, and she seemed momentarily calmer. Not senility. Not Alzheimer’s. She’s schizophrenic, he thought. Fine then. Let’s see where this goes.

  “At this I fell to his feet to worship him,” Bishop replied, dropping his voice as deeply as he could, quoting Revelation 19:10 right back at her, “but he said to me do not do it for I am a fellow servant with you and with your brothers who hold to the testimony of Jesus. Worship God! For the testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy.”

  Her eyes started blazing again, darting back and forth faster than before, her mind searching for some reply that might make the avenging archangel relent before her.

  “Where is your son, Mrs. Trask?” Bishop said, taking a step toward her. “Mercy is up to God, not me. I will arrest him, or I will kill him. The choice is his alone.”

  In answer, she hissed at Bishop, snapped her stare away from him, then squeezed her eyes shut.

  “I will never te
ll you where he is. I will never say. I must not. He is beyond your reach. Your wrath will never touch my son.” She spit the last words out, and began rocking her body very slightly back and forth. Rap-rap-rap.

  At the third rap, Bishop spun around in the room. Dammit, she’s not crazy, he thought, as he felt an adrenaline buzz starting to rise, she’s rapping her cane to sound an alarm. He stopped his turn and stood stock still in the dimly lit room. The murky vapors of an old woman’s dwindling life seemed to whisper to him from the darkened corners.

  He dropped to a crouch, and stilled himself again, listening intently. Mrs. Trask watched him, silent herself. Rap-rap. But no one came. Bishop checked his watch and let two full minutes pass before standing. Mrs. Trask had closed her eyes. He took one step in her direction, and she opened her eyes at the movement.

  “Then I saw the beast and the kings of the Earth,” Bishop intoned, still staring at her, willing her to look at him, “and their armies gathered together to make war against the rider on the horse and his army. But the beast was captured, and with him the false prophet who had performed the miraculous signs on his behalf.”

  She moaned once, almost inaudibly, as he spoke. She continued rocking her body back and forth, one hand raised to her brow.

  “You are not him,” she said. Rap-rap. “You are not him, you are not him. You are not Saint Michael. You are not the killer of Satan’s armies.”

  “No, Mrs. Trask. I am not.” She looked up at him then, her eyes widening.

  “I am not, Mrs. Trask,” he said again. “I am… something much worse.”

  “Be silent you… you… horror,” she hissed, her voice rasping from the strain. Rap-rap-rap. In the dim light, the knuckles of her hand squeezing the top of the cane looked waxy and darkly veined. Her hand was shaking from a tremor.