The Zoo Job

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  “Do as he says,” Polonia said to the soldiers through clenched teeth. To Eliot, he added: “You will not leave this country alive.”

  “Ain’t the first time I been told that. Ain’t even the first time I been told that in this house.” Louder, he said, “Ms. Kroy, come on. Let’s go.”

  Nodding, Sophie walked toward the door. “Sorry we couldn’t do business.”

  Sterling said, “I don’t think you’ll be doing any kind of business in Malani again, Ms. Kroy.”

  When they got outside, the same two soldiers were on duty, and they raised their weapons at the sight of Eliot, Sophie, and the limping general, but the latter cried, “Stand down!” right away.

  “Smart move, General.”

  There were four Escalades parked outside—the one Eliot had come in as well as three more—plus the Focus he and Sophie had rented.

  “Bloody hell, you get a bulk deal on those?” Sophie asked.

  Making sure he was standing in a position so that Polonia’s body was still between him and any shot that the soldiers could take, Eliot took the Beretta off Polonia’s temple and used it to shoot out one tire each on the four Escalades.

  Sophie got into the driver’s side of the Focus while Eliot maneuvered himself to the passenger side. He opened the door, and said, “Start it up.”

  Nodding, Sophie turned the ignition key and put the car in drive, her foot on the brake.

  Then Eliot threw Polonia to the ground, cried, “Go, go, go!” Sophie hit the accelerator, and only then did Eliot close the door.

  The soldiers immediately started firing their MP5s as Sophie drove down the winding driveway, but they lost their target in fairly short order, and wouldn’t be able to pursue on wheels for a few more minutes.

  While Eliot ejected the mag from the Beretta and tossed it out the window, Sophie said, “Hardison!”

  “Already on it,” came the hacker’s voice in their ears. “Which passports you got with you?”

  “They’re back at the hotel, and we can’t stop there,” Eliot said.

  Sophie shot him a look. “Yours, maybe. I’ve got Sarah Jane Baker and Katherine Clive.”

  “I thought Katherine was dead,” Hardison said.

  “Well, technically, but—”

  “Let’s go with Sarah, since she won’t actually set off any warning bells. I gotta move, I gotta meet up with one of the zoo board here in Worcester. Eliot, you—”

  Eliot shook his head. “I got my air marshal badge, so I can get on.”

  “All right, good.” Eliot could hear Hardison tapping away at the keys on his little computer. “Okay, Soph, you’re on Vista Atlantic Flight 22, a red-eye to New York, which leaves in an hour, then a commuter flight up to Boston out of JFK. And before you start pissin’ and moanin’, the next direct flight to Boston’s not till tomorrow, and I’m bettin’ General Polonia’ll be shuttin’ down the airports by then tryin’ to find you two.”

  “Hardison, if he—”

  “Don’t worry, right now, there’s no cell reception anywhere in the vicinity of Mbenga’s mansion. And he got rid of the landlines three years ago to save money. So you should be good for a while.”

  “He owns a Rembrandt, and he’s pinching pennies over phone lines?” Sophie shook her head.

  “You’re welcome,” Hardison said in his snotty, you-don’t-appreciate-me voice. “Now I gotta go, you two a’ight?”

  Eliot was about to give a very tart response, but Sophie cut him off. “We’re fine, Hardison, thank you. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  After Hardison went offline, Sophie said, “So much for keeping an eye on Sterling.”

  “The son of a bitch just sold out a middle-management functionary in order to do a favor for a dictator.”

  “And he exposed a mole in Interpol. Likely the same higher-up who was trying to sink his case.”

  Eliot snarled. “Probably was after the mole the whole time. Now we’re on the run from an entire army, and he gets his arrest and brings down a corrupt cop.” He slammed the dashboard. “Dammit!”

  They drove the rest of the way in annoyed silence. Eliot, however, did come up with a seven hundred and fifteenth way to kill Sterling.

  NINETEEN

  NOW

  Sal Tartucci was actually having a good day, right up until Debbie said there was someone from the FBI to see him.

  Luckily, Charlie was out to lunch when that happened, but Dorian was in her office, and the CFO was staring daggers at him as the federal agent—a lanky African American with facial hair and a toothpick out of the side of his mouth—came into the Elm Capital offices.

  “How you doin’?” the agent asked, holding out a hand as he approached Sal’s office door.

  Sal pointedly didn’t return the handshake and stood in the doorway. “What is this, Agent—”

  “Oh, sorry, my bad.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a leather case that opened to reveal a badge on one side and an FBI ID with the man’s picture and his name. “Special Agent Allen Thomas—just need to ask you a few questions, no big. Can I come in?”

  “Okay, fine, so what is this about, Agent Thomas?” Sal didn’t like this, the FBI just coming out of nowhere, especially after what happened to Andrechuk last week.

  “Just some routine questions, Mr. Tartucci, about an associate of yours, Mr. Declan McAllister.”

  At that, Sal breathed a sigh of relief. Elm had been managing some of Andrechuk’s funds, and the news that he’d been siphoning off pension money had made Sal very nervous. Dorian had assured him that everything was okay, that Elm hadn’t done anything wrong, and that the feds would probably leave them alone, but when this guy showed up . . .

  However, Dec had nothing to do with AA Investments, so Sal stepped aside and indicated the interior of his office. “C’mon in, Agent Thomas.”

  Thomas sat down and took the toothpick out of his mouth. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Tartucci.”

  As he sat down, Sal said, “I gotta tell you, though, Dec ain’t an ‘associate’ of mine. I mean, we grew up together, but—”

  “So you’re denying a connection between Mr. McAllister and your work on the board of directors of Brillinger Zoo?” Thomas immediately took out a notebook and started jotting down notes.

  Sal swallowed. “Uh, no, I ain’t denying anything. I’m just sayin’ that we ain’t associates. We’re friends.”

  “Right, so you and your friend haven’t been associating with a person of interest in an international investigation of violations of the Endangered Species Act of 1973?”

  “Um . . .” Sal swallowed again. He knew that Dec had never been a hundred percent in compliance with that act, but he also knew that it was all in the service of saving endangered species. That was why he himself had agreed to help out. “Look, Dec wouldn’t go breakin’ the law.”

  “Never said he did. All I asked was if you were aware if he was associating with—”

  “A person of interest, right.” Sal shook his head. “Like I said, he’s my friend. I don’t know everybody he associates with, but I can tell you that the odds’re pretty good that one of ’em might happen to be a person of interest in your case, ’cause he deals with wildlife and stuff. I mean, we’re both involved with the zoo—though I gotta tell you, personally, I think that the zoo model’s outdated.”

  “Right. So, to be clear, you don’t know a thing about Mr. McAllister’s meeting tomorrow with Armageddon Santiago?”

  Sal blinked. “Who?”

  “You don’t know who Armageddon Santiago is?”

  “Should I?” The name rang no bells with Sal at all. And he was pretty sure he’d remember somebody with the first name Armageddon.

  “Guess not. Okay.” Thomas put the notebook away and then got to his feet. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Tartucci. I�
��m sorry about this, I’m just tying up some loose ends.”

  Frowning, Sal asked, “Loose ends? Whaddaya mean?”

  “I’m moving on to a different branch of the Bureau, so I gotta dot all my t’s and cross all my i’s, kna’mean?” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. “Listen, if you hear anything about Mr. McAllister meeting with Santiago, do yourself and him a favor and call this man.”

  Sal took the business card and looked at it. “Special Agent Taggert?”

  “He’s a good man. He’ll hook you up. Thanks for your time, Mr. Tartucci.”

  “Yeah, sure. Don’t mention it.” Sal watched the federal agent walk through the bullpen and out the main door.

  He stood staring at Agent Taggert’s card for a few seconds.

  Then he sat down at his computer and did an Internet search on Armageddon Santiago.

  The first hit he got was for the abstract of a magazine article about Armando Alejandro Díaz de Santiago, who took on the nickname “Armageddon” when he appeared on some cooking reality show or other. The Web site had only the first few paragraphs of the article, with the rest only available to the subscribers of 21st Century Chefs magazine. Sal didn’t buy those magazines, as they very rarely contained anything to do with food. His papa and his nonna were the best cooks he’d ever had the privilege of eating with, and they were a helluva lot better than these so-called gourmets.

  The article also had a picture. Sal had never seen anyone with such scary-looking eyes. He wondered what a chef was doing as a person of interest in an Endangered Species Act case.

  Before he could read further, his cell phone rang. Grabbing it out of his jacket pocket, he saw that the display said DEC MCALLISTER.

  “Hey, Dec.”

  “Sal, I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to cancel this weekend—or at least put it off till Saturday. That okay?”

  Normally, Sal wouldn’t think anything of this, but having this phone call come only a couple of minutes after the FBI was asking about him got his hackles up. “Uh, I guess. What’s up?”

  “I need to take a meeting with someone. It’s a chef that’s coming in from Malani. Might be a good new venture for me.”

  “What, restaurants?”

  “Something like that, yeah. Gotta go—so you wanna just come up Saturday?”

  Sal shook his head. “Uh, yeah, that’s fine. I guess. Sure. Yeah.”

  “Okay. You all right, pal?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. See ya Saturday.”

  After ending the call, Sal stared off into space for a moment. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

  He wasn’t sure why he didn’t tell Dec about the FBI. Then again, cell phones weren’t exactly the most secure form of communication. He’d ask Dec about it on Saturday when he went up to Vermont.

  Turning back to his computer, he clicked on the next article about Santiago, this one dated just yesterday: a case against Santiago was dropped due to lack of evidence. He was accused of killing animals that were endangered and serving them to private clients.

  Suddenly Sal found himself nauseated. He couldn’t imagine that Dec would get involved with somebody like that.

  Then his eyes widened. The case against Santiago was in the African nation of Malani. And the article stated that Santiago was departing Malani for good after “this terrible ordeal” and “pursuing a business opportunity in New England.”

  The blood drained from Sal’s face.

  HALF AN HOUR AGO

  Declan McAllister had just finished reading through the week’s magazines and was now going through the news feeds online. He always did this to start out his day, wanting to know what was happening in the world.

  The magazines had been interesting enough, particularly the latest issue of 21st Century Chef—though he wondered why anyone would go by the nickname “Armageddon”—and The New Yorker—which he read mostly for the cartoons, which were hilarious as always.

  Online, he mostly read up on how the Palmerston Beavers were doing—he’d lost interest in Major League Baseball back during the strike of 1994, but he loved following minor league ball. They’d managed to beat the Lehigh Valley Iron Pigs 4–3. There was also a nice “where are they now?” article on Roy Chappell, a former catcher for the Beavers who’d apparently left baseball altogether. McAllister had always thought him to be overrated, but still, the article was a fun read.

  Then another article caught his eye. He wouldn’t even have noticed it if he hadn’t read the piece in 21CC, but the name Armageddon Santiago jumped out at him. He read the piece about Santiago considering leaving Malani, where he’d lived for years, after being accused of killing animals that belonged to endangered species and preparing them for a “select clientele.”

  His phone rang then. Peering at the display, he didn’t recognize the number, though it had a 617 area code, indicating Boston.

  “Declan McAllister,” he said, after pressing talk on the phone.

  “Yes, Mr. McAllister, hello. My name is, uh, Theodore Williams. I wanted to talk to you about a, uh, a business opportunity.”

  McAllister was sorry he bothered taking the call, and wondered how this jackass got his number. “I’m sorry, Mr. Williams, but I—”

  “I got your number, uh, from Mr. Salvatore Tartucci? He and I have had some, uh, associates in common.”

  “Okay.” Now McAllister was interested. Sal wouldn’t have given out his number to just anyone. “And what is this opportunity?”

  “Well, Mr. McAllister, I happen to know that you applied for and, uh, were rejected for, also, a grant to make your estate a recreational hunting ground.”

  Sourly, McAllister said, “That’s a matter of public record, Mr. Williams.” And he didn’t appreciate being reminded of it. If the damn busybodies in the community hadn’t gotten their backs up and blocked him, he wouldn’t have had to go through all that nonsense to put the Brillinger Zoo under so he could buy the land and the animals.

  “Right, well, let me ask you, Mr. McAllister, would you, uh, be interested in an alternative revenue stream for dead animals on your land?”

  “Excuse me?” McAllister was now about to hang up on this man.

  “Hear me out, please, Mr. McAllister. I mean, look, you wanted to allow people to kill animals on your land for sport, right? They, uh, pay you a great deal of money, and they go onto your property with rifles and things, and they kill the animal.”

  McAllister said nothing, unwilling to confirm or deny.

  Williams continued: “What I’m proposing is the same thing, except the, uh, dead animals are the start of the process. See, I represent one of the greatest chefs in the world, and he’s, uh, he’s between engagements right now. His specialty, however, is the preparation of rare dishes—the rarity being the game animals used in the preparation of same. You, uh, you see where I’m going with this, Mr. McAllister?”

  “Who is your client, Mr. Williams?” McAllister asked.

  “I’m sorry, but he’ll need to remain anonymous for the time being—unless you’re interested?”

  McAllister blew out a breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Williams, but I actually am going to have my hunting preserve. I appreciate your offer, but it’s based on faulty intel.”

  “Oh!” Williams sounded crestfallen. “Well, that’s great for you, at least, Mr. McAllister. I’m sorry I wasted your time. You take care, now, and good luck with your new preserve.”

  “Well, wait a second, Mr. Williams.” The more McAllister thought about this, the more he liked it, especially after what he’d just read online. He called up the article on Santiago again. “As you said, your proposal has the animal’s death be the start of the process—why not have it be the middle?”

  “I’m, uh, I’m sorry, I’m not following you.”

  Smiling, M
cAllister said, “I’m proposing to have my cake and eat it, too, Mr. Williams. People can pay me to hunt on my land and have your client prepare a meal from it afterward. I assume your client is Armageddon Santiago?”

  “I’m, uh, I—” Williams swallowed, and McAllister grinned, knowing he had him over a barrel. “I’m not at liberty to confirm that, Mr. McAllister.”

  “Of course not. But I can tell you that I am interested.”

  “Tell you what, Mr. McAllister,” Williams said. “My client’s flying into Logan Airport first thing tomorrow morning. If you’re willing to meet us there, we can, uh, begin the negotiations.”

  McAllister held up a hand. “Hold on there, Mr. Williams—right now we’re just talking, not negotiating.” That was a lie, of course—this had been a negotiation from the moment he answered the phone—but he didn’t want to commit that far just yet. “But sure, I’ll meet you.”

  They exchanged information, as well as pictures of each other, and agreed to meet at the luggage claim area for Vista Atlantic Airways at Logan the next morning.

  Before ending the call, McAllister said, “Just by the way, Mr. Williams—you didn’t make this offer to Sal, did you?”

  “Oh, goodness no, Mr. McAllister. I could tell right away that Mr. Tartucci was, uh, not the right person to approach with this particular proposal.”

  “Good.” That meant that Williams wasn’t an idiot and did his homework.

  After ending the call, McAllister did a bit more online research into Santiago. The more he read, the more he liked this guy Williams’s idea.

  Unfortunately, driving into Boston first thing in the morning, and likely spending most of the day there, meant he was going to have to put off having Sal over for the weekend. So he called him on his cell.

  “Hey, Dec.”

  “Sal, I’m sorry, but I’m gonna have to cancel this weekend—or at least put it off till Saturday. That okay?”

  “Uh, I guess. What’s up?” Sal sounded distracted.