The Diamond Dust on Dragonfly Wings: A Jeffry Claxton Mystery Novel

by Michael Yudov

  The plan was complex, and effective, so they just stuck to it. The key component of their tactics that separated them from the run-of-the-mill bank robbers was that each job required significant financing. Much more than would be usual, even counting the high side of usual. The investment far exceeded the average take from a routine bank robbery. And then there was the issue of an inside informant. None of the jobs could have been done without one.

  This is where it starts to get interesting. The R.O.I., or return on investment to use financial terms, was extraordinarily good for them, and for this type of crime. Normally, when you hold up a bank you take your best guess as to when the money’s there in the kind of volume that justifies the robbery in the first place, unless, of course, you have some insider knowledge. An informant, or in other words, the inside man. Or Woman.

  If a robbery nets anything over one hundred thousand dollars U.S., it was planned very well, or they had inside help. When it netted over one million U.S., someone knew for sure. It’s amazing how little cold hard cash your local bank keeps on tap these days. What with digital currency and Automatic Teller Machines, the likelihood of bagging the big one by robbing banks at random was practically nil.

  The least these guys had made in one take over a count of nine jobs that was a cool one-point-three million dollars, U.S. currency. The overall accumulation to date was a staggering amount reaching a total in excess of nineteen million dollars, American. That was one big pile of moolah in Canadian dollars too.

  It was also a whole lot of inside people. Too many, in fact. It not only wasn’t probable: the general consensus was that it wasn’t possible. Not without being uncovered by the type of investigations that had surrounded each and every one of these robberies. The link had not been made, and it stood out as a glaring problem. Until the methodology of this group could be cracked, chances were that the only way they would be stopped was the old-fashioned way. Responding to alarms when the robberies took place and hoping to take them down, dead or alive, whichever worked. In order for that to take place, someone had to set off the alarm. Before that could happen, there had to be knowledge of a robbery in progress. They were pretty smooth most of the time, smooth enough to be long gone before the bank had any inkling of wrong-doing. Tough problem.

  The problem was that was only the financial side of the worries the banks had. These people weren’t just armed and dangerous, they were a murderous lot from start to finish. In the nine jobs attributed to them to date, they had managed to kill seven people. This was not only vile; it was unnecessary according to the police reports accompanying the murder cases. That meant that the victims knew something the police had not suspected at the time like who the robbers were maybe, or maybe the robbers were just particularly mean.

  So far, no matter how much digging was done, there were no ties uncovered to existing terrorist groups, and no realistic demands were made in any consistent manner. After the first eight months had gone by, Interpol was willing to define their work as strictly criminal, not political. But it’s hard to get off of that kind of list once you’re on it.

  Then the white hats received their first potential break. The black hats made a mistake. They expanded their sphere of attack to include Toronto. And they killed three people. That fell under George’s jurisdiction. That was the kind of thing that made George mad.

  This led neatly into the next section of the file outlining the Toronto robbery, and the evidence that tied the ‘Invincibles’ to it. I remembered it fairly well, as this sort of thing didn’t happen often in Canada, never mind Toronto, and it had been an ugly mess. About six months back, now. That would explain the timing on Georges involvement. The worst part had been the killings. There were three armoured truck guards found dead after the fact. In the end, it had been surmised that two of the guards had been in on it and had killed their confederate and in turn been killed by the ‘Invincibles’.

  It was in the follow-up investigation that George had gone mad turning over every stone twice, searching for the link, and getting nowhere fast just like Interpol.

  Then there was magic. That one little clue that brings on a torrent of questions turning into a flood of possibilities. The recent additions to the follow-up file read like the blinding flash of a lightning bolt in your eyes, like when the storm lets one go so close to where you’re standing you can feel it crackle as it passes you, smell the ozone in the burnt air, your hair stands up straight as if you’d just grounded yourself to a Van De Graaff generator, and time stands so still you’d swear it was moving backwards. That had happened to me once when I was just seventeen or so. I was strolling through the dark and lightning flash of a thunderstorm up on Mount Royal, about three o’clock in the morning. The stunned look never left my face for a week. Talk about high.

  My case. The Brazil deal, The Crassberg Group, AG., Ted Dawson in Brazil, his brother killed in Toronto. His brother’s bank robbed in Toronto before that. Every single bank robbery had been effected at a bank where The Crassberg Group, AG, had been conducting business relevant to the Brazil deal. Within forty-five days of initiating talks with the Crassberg people, they’d been hit. Nobody had been looking for that kind of connection. George had it all laid out with times and dates. He even had a chart defining the timing. There was a small hole in the theory: two banks that didn’t have records showing the trail George wanted to see. That was where he was going. And this was what George was talking about, ‘Read the file’, he’d said. I was already into it up to my eyeballs. And as long as there was even a hint of terrorist involvement, true or false, the spooks would be on it too. Ted Dawson was even more important than I had realized. He must know something, and it was entirely believable that he would be killed on sight to keep what he knew. That meant that he had a lot of reasons not to trust anyone who came looking. That’s why I had Therese with me. The only chance we stood of bringing him in protected was Therese. He would fight to the death otherwise believing nothing and fearing everything. A piece of cake. Which reminded me, I was getting awfully hungry.

  I finally looked up from my reading. Therese was sipping another juice and leafing through yet more magazines. Godsen was poring over some files of her own. As I got up from my seat, the steward came down the little hallway from the galley pushing a cart of food and drinks. I stumbled as we hit a small air pocket, reoriented myself, and set out for the table across from where Godsen was sitting. It was taller than the others, and my guess was that it would do nicely for breakfast. As I sat down, Godsen looked up from her papers, checked her watch, and rose to join me.

  ‘Steward’ pulled up alongside of us as she was sitting down, and he looked to Godsen for direction.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Yes, fine, Wilson. Coffee, please. And for Mr. Claxton…” She deferred in my direction.

  “Yes, Wilson. Coffee please. And do me a favour, Colonel, it’s ‘Jeffry’. We’re far too cozy here to be overly formal. Speaking of cozy, when did George come up with the idea that you and I would make a swell team, exactly?” Wilson poured coffee and she observed the procedure while she thought that one over.

  Now that’s what I can’t stand about spooks. When you say ‘It’s a nice day today’, they stop and mull over the implications before answering.

  She decided that it was safe to acquiesce. “I believe that’s acceptable, Jeffry.”

  “Thank you, Colonel.” I busied myself sugaring my coffee and waited to see if she would get me to drop the ‘Colonel’ bit. She didn’t. Stubborn. I was sure nobody addressed her as ‘Colonel’ regularly.

  “That’s quite alright, Jeffry.” She did her own coffee. Hmm. Maybe if I reminded her?

  “Umm… my question?”

  Wilson the steward had finished ladling out the grub for our table and had gone on to Therese’s. It actually looked pretty tasty for airplane food. It smelled good too.

  “Which one was that, Jeffry?” I was getting bugged. I couldn’t help it.

  “Look lady, the
re are only two of us at this table. It doesn’t take a Nobel Prize in Astrophysics to determine who you’re talking to when you speak. It’s not necessary to say my name every time you do. And,” I glared over my coffee cup at her. “you know perfectly well which question. I’ve been here before, as you seem to know. If we have to do this, and from what I understand so far, I agree we do, then let’s do it with as little rancor as possible. Then we might actually be effective.”

  This time I got a smile for my effort. “That sounds fine. So, I’ll start with the answer to your question.” She pursed her lips and gave a faraway look for a moment or two. “I’d say it was about forty-eight hours ago.” She turned her attention back to her breakfast. Pancakes and syrup, with brown toast.

  “All right, and what part of his presentation sold you on it?”

  “It wasn’t a very hard sell. Quite frankly, I’d determined about two months ago that the kind of information George had come up with was the entry point to this case. The details of all of the various dealings of each bank in question are listed out in chronological order in my report. You have a copy of it somewhere in that folder I believe.” Godsen paused to dip a forkful of flapjack into the pool of syrup on her plate. “The problem was that until we had a more than tentative link, it was a direction to go in, but not necessarily the right one. Without valid cross-linking, we had only a theory. You’ll see what I mean when you read it.” She picked up another forkful of flapjacks and did the dipping routine.

  Godsen was starting to sound like George, ‘read the file, read the file’, sheesh, I put down my fork and washed my mouthful of eggs and toast down with a sip of coffee. I reached up and pushed the call button. Wilson showed up like magic. “Wilson, there’s a carton of Camel cigarettes in my bag, would you get them for me please?” Wilson gave a quick look to Godsen, and before she could say anything I piped up. “It doesn’t matter what the Colonel says, Wilson. She may be in charge, but I’m The Second here. Now, and in the immediate future, and for the duration of this trip. And when I want a cigarette, barring the use of oxygen in the room, or snipers in the neighbourhood, I’ll have one. I just want to make that perfectly clear.” He switched gears very smoothly, I have to admit.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Godsen didn’t even raise an eyebrow. She was onto the toast and syrup now, and it seemed to take her full concentration.

  I turned my attention to the file. It wasn’t that large, and Godsen was right. It made for great reading, but you couldn’t nail anyone in a court of law with a really good read. There were five corporations that had had dealings with most of the banks on the list. Most, but not all. There were four banks that had not had recent dealings with any of the five corporations listed, but had been robbed by the same group, or a group that wanted everyone to think they were the same as the other guys. The M.O. fit to a tee. To top it all off, two of the corporations on the list had one more confirmed dealing than the Crassberg Group had. It was pretty clear by this point that the connection that had presented itself with the advent of poor John Dawson’s demise was a key missing link, and that had triggered all of this brouhaha that I was now a part of. Without it the theory was still guesswork. Inspired guesswork, to be sure, but guesswork nonetheless. It was a fairly impressive piece of detective work to have put it together without the Dawson connection to Crassberg, tenuous as that connection may be. My respect for the ‘Colonel’ went up a notch. Credit where credit is due, my grandfather always used to say, followed by ‘blame no one but yourself when it goes wrong’, which I had always thought was a bit over the top. Until I grew up and discovered accountability.

  Wilson came back with my Camels. I thanked him and opened the carton, pulling out two packs. One for the left-hand inside lower pocket of my jacket, just right for a spare pack, and one for my shirt breast pocket. When I smoked I never went anywhere far without my carton, and I always carried two packs. One that I smoked, and one backup. I threw the carton onto the lounger behind me and got up and sat down beside it. Pulling out my little Zippo, I lit the smoke and took a deep drag, never taking my eyes off of the file I was reading. I let the smoke dribble out slowly, through my nose as well as my mouth. It’s amazing how well your body remembers addictions, and how well and quickly it adapts again.

  Godsen ordered more coffee for both of us, and finished with her sugar fix, came over and sat down in a chair across from me. She had left her files on the table, so it appeared that we were in for a chat. I put down the papers I was going over for the second time and gave her a look as I took another drag on my cigarette. I waited.

  She opened the talk. “Well then. Do you still feel as antagonistic as you did before breakfast?”

  I thought about that for a few seconds. I was back in the game, and it was catching. “No. But that doesn’t mean that I think this was handled properly with reference to me.”

  “I understand your reticence to enthusiastic endorsement, Jeffry. The fact remains though, that after the phone call Therese received from Ted, it had to be assumed that you were being monitored, in order to get to her. You were publicly… somewhat publicly, hired on the case by Citebank, and that made you a man to watch if you were on the other side, don’t you agree?”

  “As you well know, I can’t disagree with your logic up to that point. I strongly protest the way it’s been handled from that point until now. Why wasn’t I told about the connections established by my case? In particular, if I was going to be a part of the team going into the field on this operation. A little preparation would have helped.”

  “Only in the psychological sense, and to be honest, it wasn’t until about 1:00 AM this morning that you were confirmed for the team. You can thank George for that. He can be very persuasive when he wants to be.”

  I pointed vaguely in the direction of her briefcase and files.

  “Was my classified jacket part of the ‘persuasion’?”

  “Yes. After I’d read your background I had a different spin on things. I think we can be effective together. The only thing you have to remember is that I’m leading the operation, and we’ll get along splendidly.”

  “I see. And when I get to the point where I think you’re going wrong?” I let that one hang out there in front of both of us.

  “In that case, you give your opinion. Then I decide what we do. If that doesn’t work for you, you do know how to use an international airport, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t quit in the middle of a job. I may get a bit difficult at times, but I don’t walk on someone I work with. There are rules that you don’t find in the manuals, even if you’re the one who wrote them.”

  “If I can be candid for a moment?”

  “Sure, go right ahead.”

  “That was written in between the lines in your file. It’s something I was counting on.”

  “Hmm…” I could see that she had thought most of this through at least once. I gave in gracefully with a sigh. “Fair enough. How long do we have before we land? I assume we’re landing in Zurich?”

  “Yes. About six and a half more hours I believe.

  “What do you say if I catch up on my sleep for a couple of hours, then we can sit down to it again. Map out your plan, my input, what’s up, what’s down, like that?” I needed a few hours’ sleep, and I doubted I would get it after we landed.

  “That sounds fine. Your cabin is the first door on the left.” She checked her watch. “I’ll give you three hours, then I’ll send Wilson to wake you. I think this is going well so far, don’t you?” She smiled, seemingly pleased with herself. There was a lot I didn’t know about her, but there was a lot I could tell just from her attitude at this stage, and it wasn’t all good, but I didn’t argue. That could come later.

  “That’s fine, yeah. Have Wilson bring my bag, will you?” I got up and walked down the little hallway, turning in at my door.

  The room was nice, not lavish, but nice. Very similar to a cabin on a train, although more well-appointed. There was a bed big
enough for me to stretch out on, just. A small chair beside the head of it, and a small round-top writing table beside the chair, with pencil and notepad. A luggage table with straps to hold your valise down during turbulence was set just to the left of the door, and a wall mounted telephone was right next to the chair. The forest green and other shades of plants of the world’s motif was continued in here, and the broadloom was the same as the outer lounge area. The bed ran along the hull of the plane, and there was a port/window affair in the wall above it. The port had the cover closed at the moment. I pulled my back-up gun and holster out of its hiding spot and tossed it down on the bed along with my briefcase. Then I covered the gun with my jacket, undid my shoulder holsters and shrugged off my Colts. I laid them gently on the bed beside the briefcase, loosened my tie and sat down in the chair. Wilson came in as I was lighting up again. He strapped my case to the luggage table as I spoke.

  “Wilson, good man, thank you. Tell me something, how long have you been with the Colonel?”

  He answered without turning his head. “I’m sure the Colonel has the relevant files, sir.”

  I got bugged again. What the hell. It wasn’t necessary that I be liked, only that I be obeyed, and that only counted in the field.

  “Do you come into the field with the Colonel this trip, Wilson?”

  I stood, and moved the couple of paces to where he was standing, putting us more or less eye to eye. Less from his perspective being somewhat shorter than me maybe by four inches. He stood his ground while I gave him the once-over. He looked fit, fairly lean, with a pleasant face. Dark sandy hair, cut short and parted to the side. Brown eyes, well-fitting clothes, with sensible shoes, brogues in fact. All in all, a pretty good medium. No distinguishing marks outstanding. He could be helpful in the field. I could change his whole appearance with a change of clothes. He’d make a good pass-through man. Someone who walked by the person or place you were watching, and reported back to you without raising suspicion on the part of the watched because he looked like a different person every time you passed him through.