Illicit Trade

by Michael Niemann

  Vermeulen was tempted to swing again, but didn’t. The close combat rules for sticks were the same as for bayonets: you don’t swing, you stab. The man expected a swing and raised his hand to grab the bat. Vermeulen used the opening to ram the end of the branch into the man’s gut. The rotten wood broke into two pieces. The man doubled over. But not for long. Without a weapon, Vermeulen had to resort to using his hands. That meant stepping forward. The man was prepared. His right hook connected with Vermeulen’s ribs like a grenade. He stumbled backward.

  The man followed with a roundhouse. Vermeulen dodged that one by stepping back. The momentum pulled the man toward him. Vermeulen took a step forward and head-butted the man against the bridge of his nose. The man stumbled back. His heel struck a rock under the leaves. He fell. Vermeulen grabbed the rock. The man rose again, and Vermeulen threw the rock at his head. It knocked him out cold.

  Vermeulen rubbed his forehead. It felt as if he’d run into a wall. He searched the man, found a billfold, car keys, a handkerchief, a spare magazine for the pistol, and a bundle of zip ties. The zip ties were not like the plastic cuffs police carry, but still useful. He rolled him onto his belly and tied his wrists and ankles. The handkerchief served as a temporary gag. Eventually the guy would spit it out and start yelling. Hopefully that would be after Vermeulen had dealt with whoever else had come along with the Broker. There were at least two of them. As if on cue, a voice sounded from the edge of the woods.

  “Hey, Andrej. Where are you?”

  In the failing light, Vermeulen crawled in a circle through the leaves, feeling for the gun.

  “Come on, man! I don’t want to play hide and seek.”

  Vermeulen widened his circle. The dampness from the leaves was seeping through the knees of his pants. By now he had to look like a hobo. The sounds of someone stumbling through the woods in the dark came closer. He kept searching. At last his right hand found the cold metal of the gun.

  “Andrej, don’t be an asshole. Where are you?”

  The voice was too close. No time to develop a strategy. Vermeulen had to rely on surprise. He crept away from the body and stood behind an old oak. The light was fading fast.

  The second man almost fell over Andrej’s cuffed body. He teetered at the edge of the hollow, then bent down and shook his partner.

  “Andrej, what happened? Where’s that dude?”

  There was more rustling. He was probably feeling for an injury. Vermeulen took his chance, ran forward, and hit the man with his best rugby tackle. It wasn’t as hard as in the old days, but it did the job. The guy rolled onto his back. Vermeulen jumped on top of him, clamped his hand over the man’s mouth, and pinched his nose with his other hand. The man bucked like a crazed bronco but couldn’t throw off Vermeulen. He struggled, grasping, kicking, bucking. It wasn’t enough. Lack of oxygen did the rest. The legs stopped kicking and the arms fell to the ground as the man passed out.

  Vermeulen rolled the body over and tied it up with the remaining zip ties. He found a pistol in the man’s shoulder holster and stuck it into his jacket pocket.

  That was when his phone rang.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  “Hey, man. Where the fuck am I? What’cha doing driving me into the woods and leaving me? Where’re you at?”

  “Listen, Jackson. I just got you out of a load of trouble, so pipe down. I’m in the middle of something. Sit tight and I’ll be with you before long.”

  “How did I even get here?”

  “How much do you remember?”

  “I got through customs and that’s about it.”

  “Do you remember the two guys who were more or less dragging you through JFK?”

  “Nah. Oh … wait. Yeah. Two guys. Right. They poked me with something.”

  “Yes, they injected you and brought you to the doctor’s office. I followed them and got you out.”

  “Wait, I thought you were in Australia or something.”

  “Austria. I got back this morning. My flight was late. I saw you on the concourse.”

  “Shit, man. Really?” Jackson said. “Thanks. I mean it. You got me out from under the knife, you know that?”

  “Yes, I figured.”

  “So where are you now?”

  “Close by. At the doctor’s home. Listen, I’ve got to deal with the Broker. Wait in the car, please.”

  “Don’t you need any help? That woman is serious trouble.”

  “You’re in no condition to help. So sit tight. Don’t stumble into this mess. They’ve got guns.”

  Vermeulen ended the call. Hopefully the mention of guns scared Jackson enough to stay out at the car. He needed Jackson. Jackson was the only one who had actually been recruited. He was the only evidence for the case against the doctor.

  There was only one problem. Who would listen to his case and arrest the Broker and her gangsters? Not the local police. The Rosenbaums had already gone back on their deal. They’d convince the local cops that Vermeulen was an intruder. The FBI had jurisdiction in a case like this, but he didn’t know any agents. Where would he even call? Headquarters? The Newark office? Once he called, he’d have to explain the whole story, and then what? Tell them to come and arrest the suspects? It didn’t work that way. By the time they made up their minds, the Broker would be long gone. No, he had to get the Broker. Once she was tied up like her guys, he’d have leverage with the Rosenbaums, and then he’d have a case.

  Vermeulen ran across the garden and around the wing of the house to the sliding door he’d smashed. The room was lit up. The maid was picking up large pieces of glass, putting them in a trash can. Her movements were slow. Bending and straightening were clearly painful. The door from the guest room to the corridor was closed to keep the cold out.

  He stepped inside the room. She gasped, her eyes wide. He clamped his hand over her mouth.

  “Shhh, quiet,” he said. “Don’t scream. You understand me?”

  She nodded.

  “Here’s the deal. The woman and the men are gangsters. They are working with Dr. Rosenbaum. I’m with the police. I’m trying to arrest them. I need your help.”

  She nodded again.

  “I need you to be quiet. You hear me?”

  Another nod.

  “Are you going to scream?”

  She shook her head.

  He released his hand slowly.

  “What’s your name?” he said.

  “Rosita,” she said. “I want no trouble, mister. Please.”

  “You’re undocumented, aren’t you?”

  Rosita nodded. “Please, don’t report me,” she said. “I have two kids. They are American citizens, but I’m not. They are still little. If I get deported, who will look after them?”

  It sounded just like the stories Alma had told him.

  “Don’t worry. But I need your help. How many came with the woman?”

  “Two men. They had guns.”

  The Broker’s crew was small, just as he’d expected. His mood improved. With her muscle taken care of, the Broker would be easy.

  “Okay. You’d better leave. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but it’s best you don’t get mixed up in it.”

  Rosita nodded again, dropped the broom and dustpan, and stepped outside. She knew how to get away without being seen.

  “Oh, one more thing,” he said. “Do you know about Unidad Latina?”

  “Yes.”

  “Contact Alma Rodriguez. Maybe she can find someone who can help you. You know, get the right paper.”

  Rosita crossed the patio and disappeared in the dark.

  Talking with Rosita reminded him that he did know one of the feds. Fred Sunderland at Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Of course. He could call him. The man had to have connections to the FBI.

  Vermeulen opened the door to the hallway. Voices sounded from the library. He stepped back into the room, closed the door, and racked the slide of the Beretta. Never assume anything about an unknown gun. A cartridge flew onto the carpet.
He released the magazine, inserted the round, and pushed the safety down.

  Back in the corridor, he proceeded carefully. The mumbles grew louder. The Broker was talking. Mitzi Rosenbaum said something. Vermeulen stayed close to the wall until he reached the end of the corridor. Around the corner was the library with its unread books. Across was a large leather sofa occupying a back corner of what had to be the living room.

  “What is taking so long?” he heard Mitzi say. “Your men should have caught him by now.”

  “Are you sure there is no way out from your yard?” the Broker said.

  “Yes, on one side is the lake and on the other side are neighbors and a tall fence. They have the most awful Great Danes. We had to put the fence in to keep them from prowling on our property.”

  “Then they should be back shortly. Although I’ve learned Vermeulen can be resourceful.”

  “What does that mean?” Rosenbaum said.

  “Only that he isn’t a pushover.” The Broker let that linger for a moment as if to point out the difference between Rosenbaum and Vermeulen. “But Gergi and Andrej are armed and Vermeulen is not. So it’s not really a contest.”

  “There’d better not be any shooting in the garden,” Mitzi said. “The police would be here in a minute and we’d never hear the end of it from the neighbors.”

  “If there’s shooting, the neighbors are going to be the least of your worries.”

  “What does that mean?” Rosenbaum said for the second time, his voice pitched even higher.

  “Forget it. It’s not an issue. There won’t be any shooting. Gergi knows what’s at stake.”

  Vermeulen heard steps coming closer. He pressed against the wall and raised the Beretta. A woman’s arm in a black sleeve appeared in his field of vision, then a shoulder. The Broker. She stopped.

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” Mitzi said.

  The Broker turned back to Mitzi. “Don’t worry, I’m always ….”

  Later, Vermeulen wondered if their physical proximity had sent invisible signals back and forth. There was no other way to explain why the Broker sensed that Vermeulen was standing around the corner. Or that Vermeulen knew she knew.

  He spun into the library, pointing the gun at her. She reached inside the black linen jacket she wore. He lunged toward her. Giving up on her gun, she shot a fist at his solar plexus instead. He danced sideways. Her fist missed, and she stumbled forward. He flung his arm around her throat and pressed the Beretta against her temple.

  “It’s time to start worrying,” he said.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  The Rosenbaums stared at him, flabbergasted. Vermeulen pushed the Broker into the library. The Beretta in his hand had given her enough of a shock. She walked willingly.

  “I ought to have you all locked up and the key thrown away,” Vermeulen said. “But I’ll give you one more chance to redeem yourself. Come here, Doctor, and give me a hand.”

  Rosenbaum didn’t move.

  “Listen. I don’t give a damn how good you are with your scalpel. All I know is you killed Abasi, and that’s enough for me to see you go down.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Rosenbaum said. “He didn’t follow my instructions.”

  “Oh, shut up. He was probably doped. How could he have followed instructions? What I say to the FBI all depends on how you act now. Help me and I’ll reconsider.”

  Rosenbaum stepped forward.

  “I have zip ties in my left pocket,” Vermeulen said. “Take one out and put it around her wrists.”

  Rosenbaum reached into the jacket pocket for one of the ties.

  “Now put the skinny end into the opening, from the bottom.”

  “I know how to use zip ties,” Rosenbaum said.

  “Good for you.” He turned to the Broker. “Stick out your hands, palms together.”

  “You’ll be sorry,” the Broker said. “If you think this ends here, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  “Of course it doesn’t end here. It ends when the jail cell is locked behind you. So put your hands out.”

  “Or what?” she said.

  “Or I shoot you. You know Mr. Kurtz in Vienna, don’t you? He’ll never use his hand again. I think you’d want to avoid that.”

  She stuck out her hands and Rosenbaum looped the zip tie around her wrists.

  “Now tighten it,” Vermeulen said.

  Rosenbaum reluctantly tugged at the skinny end of the tie. When it was tight enough to prevent her hands from slipping through, Vermeulen put the gun in his pocket, grabbed the broker’s wrists, and gave the plastic strip another good yank. It zipped as tight as the wrists allowed.

  “Have a seat,” he said, and gave her a little push.

  She plopped awkwardly into the low chair. Before she could recover, Vermeulen knelt down, grabbed her feet, and tied another zip tie around her ankles.

  “You don’t know who you’re up against,” the Broker said.

  “I’m not worried. I’m going to deliver you to the FBI. They have a whole task force on human trafficking.”

  “And how are you going to get me there?”

  “I assume you didn’t walk here.”

  “You’ll have to get the keys from my men.”

  Vermeulen pulled the keys from his pocket. “Way ahead of you.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Tied up in the woods, ready for the police to arrest them.”

  That shut the Broker up.

  “You two, behave,” he said to the Rosenbaums. “This is going to end soon, and you can still end up in a cell next to the Broker. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

  Mitzi took a chair next to Rosenbaum. She looked defeated, but below the strain, Vermeulen could see anger. He hoped that it was anger about the way her husband had led her into trouble. He took out his phone and dialed Sunderland’s number. Sunderland answered on the fourth ring.

  “Is that you, Vermeulen?”

  “It is. I’m back from Vienna.”

  “Did you stop the letters?”

  “Well, that wasn’t the primary purpose of my journey, but yes, I did manage to stop them.”

  “Some UN employee did it?”

  “Yes. Listen, I need your help. The visa scam was part of a trafficking scheme to harvest kidneys from poor people. The Vienna end of that operation is already locked up. And I’ve rolled up the Newark end, too. Could you call the FBI for me? I’m sure you have connections.”

  “You’ve what?”

  “I’ve found the people who ran the organ trade here in Newark.”

  “What do you mean, you’ve found them?”

  “I’ve got them right here. Cuffed, ready to deliver to the authorities.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In Millburn, New Jersey.”

  “Millburn?” There was a pause. “Give me the address.”

  Vermeulen recited it.

  “Wait where you are,” Sunderland said. “You’re right. I do know the right person at the FBI. Don’t call the local police; they’ll just get shooed away when the feds show up. I’ll call them now. Their team will get there as fast as possible.”

  Sunderland ended the call before Vermeulen could say anything else. Not that there was more to say. Sunderland had reacted quickly and exactly as he’d hoped. But that was the rub. In all the dealings he’d had with the man, he’d never been cooperative. Maybe he’d come to appreciate the larger picture Vermeulen had drawn for him a week earlier.

  He turned back and faced the library. Rosenbaum and his wife were whispering something. He didn’t really care what they were talking about. He was more concerned about the hint of a smile playing around the broker’s mouth. What did she have to be happy about? She knew her crew was out of commission. Unless she had more goons hidden away somewhere, this would be the end of her career as a human trafficker.

  His phone rang again. He turned toward the corridor to answer. It was Jackson.

  “What d’you want now?” he said.

&nb
sp; “Man, I’m getting bored. How long is this going to take?”

  “You could practice some patience. I’m almost done. Hang in there. The feds are on their way to collect the Broker and her gang.”

  “The feds? I don’t know if I want to be around when they arrive. Medicare is a federal program, you know.”

  “You are the prime witness. I need you ….”

  He heard the pad of feet on the carpet behind him. He turned. All he saw was Mitzi swinging a heavy candelabra, then the side of his head exploded like a Roman candle.

  Chapter Sixty

  The pain seeped into Vermeulen’s consciousness like a toxic cloud. His brain pressed against his skull like an overinflated balloon. The thumping sound echoing in his ears turned out to be his own heart, pumping blood. There was a tingling in his hands. He tried to move them but couldn’t. Something cut into his wrists. He opened his eyes and saw a white ceiling and bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. His hands were tied behind his back. He remembered the candlestick and Mitzi. Damn. He rolled to his other side and saw the Rosenbaums and the broker sitting around the table. A sight worse than the pain.

  Mitzi saw the movement. “He’s awake again,” she said.

  “Welcome back,” the Broker said. “Funny how quickly circumstances change.”

  “And they’ll change again once the FBI arrives,” Vermeulen said. “There won’t be any deal for the Rosenbaums. I can promise that.”

  “You’re in no position to promise anything. And the FBI won’t be coming.”