All The Big Ones Are Dead

by Christopher A. Gray

  “Mr. Tudor,” she said flatly, “you’ve been over and over the document, undisturbed, for over half an hour. Either we get on with it now, and I mean right now, or I take if off the table.”

  For his part, Jorge was just stalling out of fear. He was smart enough to know that the moment he signed the document his life was going to change forever. Some of it would be good and some of it would be bad, but it would all be very different. There was no going back. He was caught. So he signed.

  “What do you want to know first?”

  “The trick with the Customs seal and pre-clearance documents. How was it done?”

  “In my freight and import office, you’ll find a computer. Ignore the two laptops. Look at them at your leisure, but you won’t find much of interest. It’s the desktop machine you want first. There’s a black box connected to it via a serial cable. The box is sitting on top of the computer case. Marc Dominican’s attack dog, David Trask, gave me the box a few months ago. It contains hardware that is embedded with IP masking and deception firmware, among other things I don’t understand. The box was put together by a programmer working directly for Dominican. Some sort of hard luck Columbia student. Immigration problems, from what I understand.”

  “How did you find out about the exact origin of the black box?”

  “Courier. Dominican uses his own people for local courier duty and for a variety of his international transactions. The courier I see regularly from Eurocath told me that he’d actually talked to the programmer. A kid. I mean a university student. Alood or Amood or something like that.”

  “Abood,” Diane said. “Salim Abood?”

  “That’s it. That’s the name.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “He’s—?”

  “Dead. Yes. That’s what I said. Killed by David Trask. We think. Very messy and very public and nobody at the scene could describe Trask properly. Public CCTV picked him out. High end facial recog established a match. We ID’d him then.”

  Jorge was silent. He was thinking that despite his earlier fears, he’d be better off in this detention facility after all.

  “How does the box work?”

  “I go to the U.S. Customs commercial business web site, then turn on the box. It has a toggle switch on the front. From what I can tell, the box then connects to a Trojan previously embedded in Treasury servers. The end result is that I get a connection inside Customs servers that looks precisely like an existing workstation on their network. I can generate any sort of paperwork I need, have seals and pre-clearances made up and delivered or provided for pick up. I’ve used the box seven times. It has worked perfectly every time. As far as I know, there’s never been an alarm or a suspicion.”

  Mystery solved, Diane thought, except for how the malware and the box actually work. A table mic was feeding a bank of digital recorders. Her earpiece was feeding everything Tudor was saying to DeCourcey and anybody else who had the security clearance. She knew it, but she was still startled when a strong male voice came online to ask a question.

  “Inspector Linders,” Alexei Rector stated clearly, “I’m Bishop’s case officer. Can you please talk to Tudor as soon as possible about David Trask? Specifically, ask if Tudor has ever been to Trask’s house in Spuyten Duyvil.” She had looked down at the table top when Rector started talking, so she took a moment to think about her line of questioning before looking up again at Jorge.

  “A courier delivered the black box?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Not David Trask? It seems like such a crucial piece of hardware.”

  “You don’t get it, Inspector Linders. Mr. Marc Dominican rules by coercion. Somebody he needs, or whose skill set or experience he needs, falls on hard times or gets into serious trouble? Marc is there. With money, support, favors and more money. Medical expenses big enough to drive someone to suicide? No problem. Marc makes the bills disappear. Legal trouble? No problem. Gambling or addiction trouble? No problem again. Marc makes everything right. The price is only your loyalty and fealty. And then there’s the threat that after saving you literally from the brink of disaster and putting your life back on track better than it ever was, he’ll throw you back into hell unless you allow him to own you one hundred percent. So even the courier who delivered the box probably owes Dominican. Everyone who works for him is deeply indebted to him in every way that counts. The only people Marc employs are those he can permanently bind to him.”

  “So you’ve never spent time with Trask? Never been to where he lives?”

  “No. Only his mother’s apartment. Massive old pile on Park Avenue. Still nice, but it’s seen better days.”

  “How long were you in the apartment?”

  “Long enough to find out that his mother is not well and getting worse. I was there long enough to notice that the place is an armed fortress. Trask and I brought a private shipment up to the apartment. I do not know what was in the medium size crate, but it was heavy. I’d say close to a hundred and fifty kilos. It had to be maneuvered through a narrow doorway into a room that seemed to be full of weapons in various states of repair and modification.”

  “What kind of weapons? Can you describe some of them?”

  “I was in the room for all of a minute, most of which was spent grappling that heavy crate off the dolly and onto a pallet. I didn’t see much. There was at least one LAW in a wall rack, a short rack of RPG launchers, but I didn’t notice any actual rockets. There was a Barrett sniper rifle; recent issue, I think. I’ve never handled one, but I’ve seen them in, uh, the movies. And I noticed a Czech sniper rifle, one of the CZ700 series that littered the Balkans when I did business in the area a number of years ago. There was more. A lot more. It was an arsenal. Like I said, I was in the room for barely a minute.”

  “You catch that?” Diane said, keying her own mic.

  “Yes,” Rector said. “Work your way to Spuyten Duyvil.”

  “And what about Trask’s place in Spuyten Duyvil?”

  “He’s got a place in Spuyten Duyvil? Okay. Probably another fortress.”

  “You think that same courier has ever been there?”

  “Could be.”

  “What’s the courier’s name?”

  “Harold. I don’t know his last name. Small company called SwiftFleet.

  “We’ll track him down while you’re at your appointment. Time to get ready, Jorge.”

  ***

  “Netherlands Avenue, Bish. You get the address?”

  “The text’s clear. I’m in the car.”

  “I’m monitoring the Tudor interrogation. He says the mother’s place and the Netherlands Avenue house are heavily fortified and full of weapons. Firearms mainly, but I’d bet there are entry traps too. You’ve got your Glock and not much else. Gun up from the weapons box in the trunk of your transport.”

  “No. I don’t think so. And I’ll be leaving my Glock behind too.”

  Rector was silent. He’d been expecting this.

  “When I had Trask in my sights the last time, it was because I was completely focused on weapons that I ended up blowing the op. That crowded market was at the edge of a civil war zone, but it was still a market. Mothers, kids, regular people, stall keepers, shopkeepers, a couple arguing the price for a hundred grams of spice. Never should have based the op on a kill shot. Now, here I am in New York, heading for the Bronx. Spuyten Duyvil. Marble Hill. Peacetime. Not Karachi. I’m not going to strap up. I’m not going to endanger the neighborhood. Make sure that your monitors know that. The Director should know that I take this seriously. This op requires more...” Bishop was searching for the right word. “More sophistication.”

  “Ground support?”

  “No. Nothing. Just me. That’s how it has to be. If Trask is there, he’ll be monitoring. He’s wary. He’s far too experienced to operate without surveillance out to at least a two block radius. He’s paranoid and he’s got skills. I’ve been looking at the local map. If you want to set up a support box, that’s on
you. But put them no closer than Lower Johnson, The Parkway, two hundred and thirtieth, and Johnson Avenue up near Irwin. No closer.”

  “They’ll be there. No closer. State your plan of attack.”

  “I’m going to knock on the door.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m doing the Leipzig routine.”

  “You are not doing the Leipzig routine.”

  “I am. The very same.”

  “If I recall correctly, and I do, Leipzig did not end as well as we’d hoped.”

  “But the routine worked. That’s all that matters.”

  “My knee still hurts sometimes from your routine that worked,” Rector replied, a slightly testy edge in his voice.

  “Exactly,” Bishop agreed, “which is why I’d rather do this alone and direct.”

  “Wait one.”

  Bishop was trying to imagine the tense argument taking place between an assortment of directors and senior officers at that moment.

  “Director Cole for you,” Rector said, as Bishop heard the rustling of another comms line being activated.

  “Very interesting, Bishop. You planning on making yourself a target?”

  “No, Director. I plan on letting Trask believe that I’ve got nothing on him. That I’m there, unarmed and unsupported, purely out of frustration and a belief that he knows I’d never ruin my career over an op on U.S. soil. Trask will never, ever believe that any of this is authorized.”

  “Stop recording,” the director ordered, then after a pause. “For the record, Bishop, your authorization extends only as far as the first dead or wounded civilian. If you think, when you are on scene, that you can with an absolutely high expectation of success put down this savage, do so. But absolutely not until you find out if he’s got the evidence we need to validate this entire op. If your situational assessment does not provide an absolutely high expectation of success, then just pass the time of day and walk away. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Start recording. What is ‘The Leipzig Routine’, Bishop?” the Director asked.

  “Not your concern, unless you’d like to get into the operational details of a previous op that produced good intel for months. Not really the sort of review you should be associated with right now, Director Cole. Don’t meddle with the field ops and the analysts and all that?”

  Cole dropped his conference line connection, and Bishop was left to wait for a completely empty few minutes. The street was busy with traffic, but the evening rush hour had ended. Bishop watched the apartments they passed, the store signs, the shop windows. The driver was very good. Smooth. Gentle acceleration, but quick responses to light changes. They were in the quiet cocoon of the vehicle. It was a moment between tensions, a sudden and unexpected rest. The driver knew it and kept silent. The vehicle came to a smooth stop for a red light. The driver eased off on the brake pedal just before a full stop, so movement ended without any perceptible bump but the sensation of momentum continued. It was supremely relaxing, and Bishop closed his eyes.

  “It’s a go, Bish,” Rector said, coming back online suddenly and jolting Bishop out of his idling state. “They’re leaving it up to you. Announcing into the feed that you were leaving your Glock behind seemed to have the desired effect. You sold it. They bought it. We’re secure again, by the way. Just us.”

  “They bought it because it’s true.”

  “Good grief, Bish. The Leipzig routine? For real? Trask is a loner. It might not fly when you try to recruit.”

  “For real. And it will fly. Everybody likes a party. Find a bakery for me, close by. I need the cake.”

  Chapter Twenty Four

  “Shaving kit in here somewhere?” Bishop asked the driver.

  “Lower right compartment.”

  Bishop had to spruce up a bit. The Leipzig routine would not work if he looked too rough when he knocked on doors. His clothing was in good shape, his insulated jacket appropriate for the rapidly cooling evening. But he needed a shaver and a toothbrush to fix things. He’d been going since well before sunrise.

  “You really need a bakery?”

  “Uh-huh,” Bishop replied as he worked the electric shaver, “and right now.”

  “Comms says there are three along the next two blocks. Which one?”

  “The first one.”

  The driver pulled over to the curb and pointed out the bakery. Bishop spent another minute with the shaver, cleaning up some details. He got out of the SUV and sprinted over to the place, but it was all wrong. Nothing but bread. Fifty different kinds. Cupcakes too, and some terrific looking pastries. Not what he needed.

  “Next one,” he said as he got back into the vehicle.

  “It’s just up here,” the driver said pointing at a place halfway up the block on the other side of the street.

  “Get close on this side.”

  Bishop was opening the door while the car was still slowing down. He patted a palm of aftershave on his cheeks and jaw as he glanced back and forth looking for a break in the traffic. He sprinted as soon as an opening appeared and made the other side of the street in a few seconds.

  The front of the bakery looked promising. The woman behind the front counter looked up at him as he came through the door.

  “Help you?”

  “Could be. I think I need a cake. Two or three layers. Chocolate. Round or square, but not too big. And someone to write a message on it. Have you got something?”

  “Sure, of course. Here and here,” she pointed out two cakes in the display case. “Which one would you like?”

  Bishop pointed out a round one with a happy face on it, done up with chocolate icing and a happy face in yellow. “Can you write this on it right now?” he said, writing down three words on an order pad that was sitting on the countertop.

  “Sure, of course. That’ll be forty two fifty.” She looked up at Bishop as he handed over forty five. The woman made change and Bishop just dumped it in one of the ubiquitous donation boxes that populated every store countertop in the U.S.

  “This for a friend of yours?” the woman asked as she handed the cake and the note through to the kitchen.

  “Not really.”

  “Nice thing to do, though?” the woman said, her voice rising slightly.

  “You could say that,” Bishop replied, smiling at her, “but then again, you know some people never appreciate these gestures.”

  “And that’s another thing,” she said, sighing, turning back to the kitchen.

  The cake was nicely lettered, boxed up and tied with a string. Bishop was careful to avoid any bumps and bounces as he sprinted smoothly back across the street to the idling SUV.

  “Let’s go,” he said to the driver. “Drop me at the corner of Kappock and Netherlands. When I get out, make a U-turn and go back the way you came. Do not attempt to track or follow me. Do not fall back as support. Just leave and do not come back. Is that understood?”

  “Understood, but I really don’t take orders from you. I’m FBI and I’ve already got a boss. He’s ordered me to keep an eye on you. I was also briefed that you’re not actually supposed to be here.”

  “Your orders have just been updated. Call this in.” The driver did so and got an earful.

  “Looks like you win this one, Agent,” he said over his shoulder to Bishop. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “What I’m doing is saving your life. You look capable and in control. You may even be better than you look. Just be aware that your experience is not yet broad and deep enough to deal with certain problems. With certain people. That’s my job this evening. Let’s leave it at that.”

  The driver did not reply.

  “Just drop me off and ditch the area as fast as you can, shortest route possible. You don’t want to be anywhere near here if this goes wrong. Remember, you’re not the cavalry.”

  “Roger that,” the driver said. “You won’t see me again.”

  ***

  Trask’s house was a fine, mid
dle-aged brick place, two-story, set back and flanked by similar houses on a block with tall old maples, oaks, chestnut and crabapple trees. Each house had a nice front yard, a side yard and a backyard as well. Plenty of space for families. In late November, the gardens were firmly bedded down for the winter and the leaves were all down. A spruce or pine evergreen could be seen here and there. It was easy to see the lights inside each place. Trask’s too. The living room light was on and Bishop could see movement.

  He approached the neighbor’s place to the south first. His knock was answered by a man in track clothing.

  “Do something for you?” he said to Bishop.

  “I hope so,” Bishop replied. “I’m just back from overseas. Just got out. Regular government work now. Come to see my old partner, Dave. It’s a surprise and it’s his birthday tomorrow. Do you know him?”

  “Birthday? Really?” the man said. “Yeah, I know Dave. Good guy. Fixed my lawn mower in the spring when nobody else could get it going. I saw his lights on last night. I think he’s been away for a while too.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” Bishop said, relief and a straightening of his shoulders well-acted for the neighbor. “Want to sing happy birthday with me on Dave’s front step?” Bishop was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Really? Sure?” the man replied. “I don’t think Dave is the type to have people sing happy birthday.”

  “Seriously,” Bishop said, making his expression quite sincere. “Dave and I had quite a, well, a difficult shared experience over there. We’ve been surprising each other like this every so often ever since. He’ll love it.”

  “I hate to ask this, but I’d really like you to show me a piece of ID. This is a bit, uh, different, if you know what I mean.”

  “Customs & Border Protection?” the man said as he looked over Bishop’s CBP creds. “I guess that makes good use of your training.”