by Todd Merer
This was pure fantasy. I didn’t respond.
“And maybe even take her down.”
“How?”
He grinned. “You like that part, huh? It works like so . . . you know about Kandi’s previous discovery problems?”
I knew, all right. Everyone knew. The government had been fined and Kandi personally sanctioned for several relatively recent, deliberate failures to provide discovery. At one point, it was rumored she was being fired, but apparently, the powers that be decided chastisement was punishment enough.
“The night of Bolivar’s weed seizure?” he said. “A local cop name of Pimms called the feds in. Pimms’s version of events is very different from what Kandi’s case is going to be.”
I was growing interested.
“Pimms didn’t file an incident report because all he did was notify the feds, plus the thing went down on the Fourth of July, and he wanted to go home and enjoy the rest of the holiday.”
“No report? You spoke to Pimms?”
“Nah. Pimms is worm food.”
“When? How’d he die?”
“Seeing conspiracies, are you? There’s plenty of them but not including Pimms. Guy dropped dead three years ago. Heart attack.”
“If he’s dead and there’s no paper, what’s the use?”
Traum smiled. “Being an old-timer, Pimms made notes in a flip pad. Kandi’s got the pad, only she ain’t going to give it to you. Reason being, there’s things in it that blows her case out of the water. Trieant’s a law-and-order judge, but if there’s anything he hates more than bad lawyers, it’s bent prosecutors. He finds out Kandi violated discovery rules, he’ll go after her.”
“And declare a mistrial, putting the case back to square one.”
“Wrong. Because you don’t rat Kandi out until after the verdict’s in. Which is going to be an acquittal—”
“What are you talking?”
“Because you’re going to destroy Scally when you cross him. He’s going to admit lying. Trust me on that.”
I didn’t trust Traum on anything. It sounded too wacky to be true. But if it weren’t true, he wouldn’t be paid. “Just how do I destroy Scally on cross?”
He fired the cigar, blew smoke. “The fix is in.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Didn’t expect you to. But it’s true. Hit him hard about his pressuring Bolivar’s old crewmates to tailor the same story, and he’ll cave right in.”
“How do you know that?”
“I just know.”
“From Scally?”
“Next question.”
I hated this conversation, but I was hooked. If Scally tanked and I could prove Kandi concealed discovery, then both their careers were history. Kandi wouldn’t know until after it happened, but why would Scally self-destruct in advance?
As always, Traum knew my thoughts. He rubbed his fingers together: Money.
It figured. Scally was near retirement age. Maybe he no longer cared about his image—not if it meant getting a part of the cut. And maybe he liked the idea of fucking up Kandi. I recalled the way she’d disparaged him.
“How do you know Kandi will withhold Pimms’s memo pad?”
“You know she’s hardwired to do whatever it takes to win. Especially when it comes to you. Besides, she and Scally are simpatico on it. They agreed. Only his fingers were crossed. So their agreement ain’t shit if our agreement is on. I’m gonna go easy on you. Pay Scally out of my share. You and me, we’re still fifty-fifty. You don’t even have to speak to him until you cross him.”
I wasn’t going verbal on this. Traum caught my drift. He took off his coat, unbuttoned his shirt, dropped his pants. Taped to his thigh was a small device I recognized as a voice scrambler that would render our conversation inaudible.
“Agreed, Benn?”
I nodded but wasn’t agreeing to anything. No way I’d split the score down the middle. If things happened as promised, I’d be in the catbird seat come to parceling money.
“And now the big question, Benno. What’s with the gold?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But I was surprised that Traum had a line on Jilly’s massive gold purchase. Had Borg spit it out along with his broken teeth?
Traum gave me a long, hard look. “The girl who bought the gold. Where is she?”
I told him I had no idea. He glowered, chomped on the stogie, and left.
I stood at the window, wanting to see if anyone was waiting for Traum. No way he’d gotten so educated by his lonesome. He had to have a partner, a worker, someone.
As he emerged from my building and walked toward Madison, a man stepped from beneath the awning of the café across the street. He looked up at my window, hesitated, then followed Traum. The man seemed familiar—olive skin, stocky, jeans and sneakers—and then I recognized him.
Scally’s partner, DEA Special Agent Nelson Cano.
CHAPTER 77
That night I couldn’t sleep. My volcano nightmare had returned with a vengeance I felt when I closed my eyes: a molten, roiling monster, and me crying, Run, run, run . . .
Instead of sleeping, I watched my bedside clock blink toward midnight. Toward another day. Another day closer to the trials . . . Bolivar’s and my own.
As unlikely as it had first seemed—given all the givens—Traum’s offer was plausible, even if a long shot. Traum must have a source. A hidden partner. Scally was the obvious choice. In fact, Traum’s credibility cratered if he wasn’t in cahoots with Scally. Which was most probably the sad truth because Traum being hooked up with Scally didn’t compute. If they’d bonded, then Scally would give Traum a wide berth.
But Traum was being tailed by Scally’s sidekick, Cano.
Possible Traum’s information came from someone else?
Ping!
An e-mail at midnight? A problem; had to be. But the mail was generated from a familiar site. Radio Free Bogotá:
Fellow citizens, the moment is critical. The drug lord known as Sombra is negotiating his surrender with the United States. Should this happen, his cooperation will not only implicate drug kingpins but also the corrupt Colombian government officials and military and police who are their partners. If this happens, our nation will be transformed. Sombra’s choice determines his own future. If he does not surrender, his earthly days are numbered. If he cooperates, the implications are enormous. Powerful people will fall. The blood of those involved will be spilled, but perhaps our society will be saved. Citizens, pray that Sombra chooses life, not death. Viva Colombia!
Trust Laura to do the unexpected. She and Sombra’s DTO and the Russians, jointly, were making it crystal clear that if Sombra cooperated, those associated with him would be potential victims of violence. In a rare weak moment, Bolivar had told me that would happen if he lost the case, but I hadn’t told anyone. So why, and to what purpose, was Laura messaging the possibility?
Unless it was not a message, but a signal. To me. Win and live.
My clock blinked: 12:01 a.m.
June 10, another day closer.
CHAPTER 78
The first day of summer was rainy and cool. Because Kandi had my personal investigation on hold until after Bolivar’s case was over, I’d put it out of mind. But as Bolivar’s trial neared and he considered the possibility it could be lost, I feared he’d be so desperate to cooperate that he’d implicate me in the escape attempt, a scenario Kandi would happily accept.
Never had I been more conscious of time. How slowly each moment passed; how fleetingly it was gone. I was torn between equally horrible opposing thoughts: the waiting so excruciating I wished the trial were tomorrow; the possible trial outcomes so ominous I wished it could be postponed forever.
Billy called. “You was right, Benn. The public-defender lady is good. The only evidence they got is Haunty and the other lying bitches. There’s nothing gonna happen until the trial. I can hardly wait.”
“That’s the spirit,” I said. “I’ll be there for yo
u. Hang in there, buddy.”
Barnett Robinson called.
“Benn, we need to talk.”
Since Rigo was dead, I couldn’t imagine what Robinson wanted to discuss. Whatever it was, he was a serious man, and I sensed something substantive lurking.
“Sure,” I said. “Say when.”
“Two this afternoon.”
Turned out the meeting was in the International Narcotics Bureau conference room, and in addition to Robinson, four others were present:
One was Robinson’s boss, the INB chief with whom I’d negotiated a deal for Fercho—which got me wondering if the meeting presaged another attempt to probe Fercho’s knowledge of General Uvalde’s corrupt activities.
The three other men were not introduced by name but by title:
A DEA agent with the Special Operations Division—SOD—an acronym indicating that the meeting was heavy . . .
An attaché with the Russian UN mission—which I took to mean he was a spy, which in turn made me wonder if his presence concerned Kursk, meaning the meeting was even heavier . . .
The fourth man I had met before. Richard, the “analyst” who’d attended Fercho’s proffer. His continuing presence reminded me of Josh Waldman’s warning about other agencies being involved in my investigation. I reassessed Richard as CIA or some other intelligence outfit so deep cover, it was nameless.
The silence was pregnant. I said, “Five against humanity.”
“What the fuck?” the INB chief said.
“Benn’s sense of humor,” Robinson said. “It comes out when he’s curious.”
“You’re so right, Barnett,” I said. “Say, did you hear the one about the agent who goes into this bar and asks the bartender . . . ah, fuck it. So. What’s going on?”
Robinson said, “As you previously opined, we have in fact concluded that Rigo was murdered—poisoned—by his Colombian attorney, Felipe Mondragon.”
It wasn’t exactly a news flash. I allowed a nod.
The SOD agent said, “You’re not upset?”
“Rigo was my client. Not my friend.”
The INB chief said, “That’s all you’ve got to say?”
I didn’t like the vibe. I was being viewed as either a witness to, or as a member of, a conspiracy.
The SOD agent said, “When’s the last time you saw Mondragon?”
I wasn’t about to admit I’d been present when Mondragon was killed, nor would I lie to a federal agent, which is a felony. Now was a good time to say I didn’t want to answer any more questions. But doing so would confirm I had secrets that would define me as a person of interest in their investigation. I consulted with the best lawyer I knew—me—then, said, “In Colombia, possibly.”
“Possibly?” the chief snorted. “What did you speak about?”
I shrugged. “Gossip in the biz. The weather. Sports.”
The SOD agent said, “Just two guys talking shit.”
“I guess that’s one way of putting it,” I said.
Robinson stood. “Benn? A moment alone?”
I followed Robinson from the conference room to his office overlooking Police Plaza, its walls lined with the requisite ball caps—DEA, FBI, ICE, ATF—gifted by agents in the wake of successful prosecutions. He sat behind his desk.
“I’m going to speak frankly. Please don’t respond as I don’t want to complicate things. The government is aware you recently received a large fee by way of bank wire. Nothing illegal about it on its face, but we are very interested in the entity that sent it. To be clear, we’re not targeting you, but we do expect you to be helpful.”
Helpful? To whom? I didn’t want to be truthful or kiss ass, nor did I want to lie, or refuse to answer. Instead, my response was the ever-useful non sequitur, “I see.”
“Help us in regard to the principals who paid you.”
“In which event I get to keep the money?”
“We’re aware your fee was on behalf of a client over in the Eastern District, and we understand that any help you give us cannot compromise his circumstances.”
“I keep the money?”
“Should your Eastern District client cooperate in our investigation, we would communicate to our colleagues in the Eastern District that they be generous at the time of his sentencing.”
“My money?”
“I’m sure there’s a solution all sides can agree on. That’s if you stop stonewalling.”
“I’m not stonewalling. Fortifying myself against the bullshit. You mentioned this once before: SDNY dismissing an EDNY investigation if my client does the right thing.”
“Rigo died before—”
“Now it can happen if I do right? AUSA Kauffman won’t be a happy camper.”
“Washington tells the districts what to do. This investigation comes out of Main Justice, as I’m sure you’ve noticed by the presence of the SOD agent.”
“Him, and your analyst. And the Russian.”
Robinson didn’t reply, and I knew I was right: the analyst was CIA; the Russian, his counterpart. But why? I flashed on Murmansk-54.
“Spell out the cooperation you expect from my client,” I said.
“No need. He knows what we expect. Everything.”
They know Bolivar is Sombra. I needed to reassess the possibilities. “I’ll have to have a heart-to-heart with my client. I’m assuming this is a big deal, right?”
“You assume correctly, Benn.”
“Then it can’t be decided quickly. Too many unintended consequences may come into play. I’ll need to discuss this at length. Difficult under the circumstances. His trial is a distraction.”
“We’ll give him until trial to respond.”
“A lot to consider in just fifteen days.”
“The world was made in six.”
“Good point, Barnett,” I said.
That night I paced the corners of my office, circling the scant Bolivar discovery material spread atop my desk. Fifteen paces this way, fifteen that way, fifteen that way, fifteen back to where I started. I felt as if boxed in a cell in the SHU. The rain had passed, and the city had become heated—bad news because the air conditioning was wheezing ominously. To drown the sound, I clicked on the news on my desktop, half listening as I circled.
“Civil war raging . . . corrupt politician arrested . . . stock market falling . . . crime rates rising . . . new deadly virus emerging . . .”
I sighed. The world was in even worse shape than I.
“Tornado . . . flood . . . heat wave . . . climate change . . .”
I stopped pacing. At the beginning of the Bolivar case, when I’d checked out Murmansk, I’d downloaded and printed a map. I dug it out of a drawer and looked at it now. Saw Murmansk as a small dot on the coast of the Russian Arctic: a speck between brown land and white sea ice that seasonably choked the port . . .
Climate change.
I remembered the news story about climate change I’d been half listening to on the long trip back from visiting Rigo in Prattsville. I swiveled to my computer and searched “climate change in the Arctic,” and there was the story:
The polar ice was receding, and Arctic sea routes were now open year-round.
I searched some more, found a map of future climatic projections. On it, the north Russian port of Murmansk faced blue water 365 days per year . . .
Which meant it could receive cargo—legal and illegal—year-round, which in turn explained the presence of the Russian spy.
The maps were flat, distorted Mercator projections. I needed a sense of dimension to better understand. I took an old globe from my cluttered bookshelf and placed it on my desk. The colored sphere gleamed beneath the desk lamp. I put my finger on Colombia’s Pacific coast, in the Chocó, from which Helmer Quezada had said parasitic-torpedo coke shipments departed.
I moved my finger north in the Pacific along the west coast of the Americas, stopping at Washington’s Olympic Peninsula. Where Bolivar and Jilly had rendezvoused on the same day Sholty Chennault was murdered. I
wondered if Bolivar had stopped in Ozelle on his way north to scout the Arctic coke route. If so, I didn’t think his meeting Jilly was by chance. No, they’d been in touch all along.
My finger kept moving northward as I recalled what Traum had said about Kursk’s acquiring fishing fleets that plied the north Pacific. My finger moved across the expanse of north Pacific called the Bering Sea.
I recalled my mountaintop meeting with Zapata, Paz’s question about the United States’ interdiction capabilities in the north Pacific. My reply that it was between none and minimal, and that no other countries patrolled there at all.
I moved my finger farther north to where the Bering Sea flowed into the Chukchi Sea, then west along Siberia’s northern coast to Murmansk. I recalled Kursk’s boastfully offhanded statement:
We have the opportunity to control emerging markets.
South out of Murmansk, a spider’s web of railways and highways extended to the Baltics and Scandinavia, into the Russian heartland and Eastern Europe, a vast pipelinelike system leading to hundreds of millions of people who only now were Westernizing, consuming, craving . . .
Colombian cocaine.
CHAPTER 79
Sleep provided no escape. I was in the thrall of the volcanoes now. When my head nodded, I jerked awake, consumed with an insidious sense of dread.
Something bad was my way coming.
In my mind’s eye, I replayed the first fateful days of the year: the portents I had blithely ignored on my way to meet the INB chief, my excellent night indulging with the flight attendant, the three new cases that arrived like holiday gifts on a Christmas morning. But the gifts were not what they had seemed. They had become worn and distorted. Unstable, dangerous. I no longer recognized them. All that was clear were my options:
Win and survive.
Lose and die.
This was my state of mind when I went to Bolivar’s final pretrial conference. Val kept the music off. No small talk. In the back of the Flex, I war-gamed plots and consequences.
Cadman Plaza Park was broiling, its turf warm beneath my shoes. Distant traffic hummed, flitting birds sang, children called one another. I felt about to explode.