Wood's Wall

by Steven Becker

  Cesar looked around and saw the crate of diving weights. He stuffed weights into the clothing of the first woman and carried her to the seawall. Once there, he pushed the body off the edge and watched it sink. Then he repeated the procedure with the other woman, dumping her beside her friend, promising the snapper and crabs a few good meals.

  He went back inside and turned the lights off. A dark house would attract less attention. The door locked behind him as he went for the truck. He set the lead box on the seat beside him. Ignoring Jose in the back seat, he pulled out of the driveway.

  ***

  Mac had slowed the boat as soon as they were out of gunshot range. Mel was on deck now, staring at the two men in shock.

  “Can you have a look at his finger?” Mac asked quickly. He spun in the direction of the splash.

  “You got anything for the pain?” Trufante whined.

  “You’re not getting crap until you tell me what the hell is going on here. What just went in the water?”

  Trufante went back over the events of the hours since he left the house. Mac and Mel listened intently, glancing at each other as he spoke.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Mel looked at Trufante. “And you,” she looked accusingly at Mac. “You played right along. You seriously need to find another hobby than cleaning up his messes.” Another splash interrupted her.

  “They must be dumping the bodies of those two women. No surprise there — the guy wasn’t going to leave those two girls for the cops to find.”

  “He needs a doctor. Those bastards took his finger off to the knuckle.” Mel said.

  “No doctors. If we take him to the hospital, the police will be involved. Three people just got shot — two at my place.”

  “And involving the police would be wrong how?” Mel asked.

  “Not yet. Finding that plutonium is more important than answering all their questions. We’ll lose hours messing with them.”

  “Just call Jules. She’s the sheriff here - and a friend. She’ll know what to do.”

  “OK,” he said grudgingly. “But I’m still going after the box.”

  “I’ll call Sue. She’ll take care of him.” Mel’s reflexes took her hand to her back pocket, where her phone would have been if she wasn’t covered with only a towel.

  Mac saw her search and looked at Trufante. He shrugged. “Mine’s upstairs.”

  “You’ve got that sat phone for emergencies,” Trufante held up his digit. “I’d call this one.”

  Mac went down to the cabin and came back with a black plastic case. He opened it and started up the phone. A quick call to information and he had the number for Fishermen’s Hospital. They stared at each other in silence as the waited for Sue to get on the line. Once she answered Mac handed the phone to Trufante.

  15

  Pete watched from the neighbor’s house as the truck pulled out of the driveway. He’d heard gunshots and saw the larger man limping out, obviously wounded. His first reaction was to go inside and see if anyone needed help - but then he’d lose the truck. Lights had come on in some of the adjacent houses. Assuming they’d call the police he ran back to his car. Caught up in the adrenaline rush of the night and loyalty to his friends, he decided to follow. He quickly started it up and followed the black truck, with his own lights out, as it pulled out onto US1 heading south. Pete had to wait for several cars and a truck pulling a boat to pass before he could turn. He turned on the headlights as he pulled out and turned left. The black truck was still visible, obeying the speed limit.

  He had no trouble following the truck on the two-lane road to Key West. They crossed the Stock Island bridge and turned right onto Business 1 South. Pete followed, staying as close as possible. It was hard to keep enough distance to remain invisible and still not miss any lights. One red light and they were gone. They stayed on North Roosevelt and then turned onto Truman Street. Several blocks later, they took White. Cross traffic was heavy, here, and Pete had to wait out a dozen cars before he could turn.

  The truck was out of sight when he finally made the turn. He cursed to himself, angry at losing them as he drove slowly, craning his neck in both directions as he passed street after street. He was growing discouraged when his phone rang. The number came up with a 305 area code.

  “Hello.”

  “Pete, is that you? This is Joanie. The bartender told me you were looking for me.”

  “Hey, how are you?”He put the phone on speaker and set it in his lap as he continued to crane his neck at each intersection.

  “Good, just got off work. What’s up?”

  “I was hoping you were free, but now I’m out for a while.” He thought about their night in Key West, and remembered Trufante’s disappearance from the bar. “Hey, you know where Tru went in Key West for that stuff?”

  She hesitated. “You going to bring me a present? That would be cool.”

  “Sure. You know where the guy lives?”

  “I’ve been there a couple of times.” She gave him directions.

  Relief spread over him. “Thanks, I’ll call you back in an hour,” he said and disconnected.

  He backtracked, following her directions, and found the address she’d given him. To his surprise, the truck was in the driveway. He decided it was safer to park several streets over and walk, and found the truck still in the driveway when he arrived.

  With no idea what to do now and thinking about the lie he would tell Joanie when he got back, he walked up the neighbor’s driveway. Staying out of sight, he worked his way towards the open window on the side of the house.

  He crouched under the window, hoping to hear something to explain the craziness. In the last two days he’d found and lost a fortune in drugs. He had no idea where Dan or Jeff where. He’d seen the girls and Trufante go into the house - and not come out. Gunshots, drugs … he was overwhelmed. There were voices now.

  “Got it.” He could see two shadows through the window. Someone was on the phone. “Yeah, they got into a couple of packages, but I got most of it back.” The man paused, then nodded. “The other one, too. Had to do a little work to get that one.” The man listened for a minute and answered, “There are still a few loose ends. I’ll make the drop, then go back in the morning and clean things up.” Another pause, and then, “OK, name’s Ibrahim, got it. Where do I find this dude?”

  ***

  Ibrahim rolled up the prayer rug and massaged his leg. There was a massive scar down the front, where the shark had bitten him. He had matching wounds on his side and arm. The shark attack had almost ended his life, but had actually saved him. Without the attack he would have gone after his friend and accomplice, Behzad - may he be in paradise, and likely would have ended up there as well. The two men were discovered in a plot to detonate a nuclear bomb found offshore. His phone buzzed and he looked down and saw an incoming email message.

  He went to the computer and logged into his Hotmail account, but the message was nothing. Just a ruse for the NSA robots. He opened the drafts folder and read the note then, smiling, deleted it. The terrorist cell used the draft folder to communicate. That way there was no real communication for the NSA to follow. No meta data to accumulate.

  He went to the kitchen to make some tea and, while the water was boiling, popped two pain killers and waited. The pain from his wounds was often unbearable. Allah might not approve of the medication, but he couldn’t function and do God’s work without them. He longed for the end of his pain, and the utopia of paradise.

  “Soon, Ibrahim,” he told himself gently. He poured the water into a cup, added a tea bag and stared at it. With a look of submission he went to the cabinet over the refrigerator and took out a quarter full bottle of brandy. He drank from the bottle. He needed the alcohol to mitigate the pain while the pain relievers took effect. He followed this pattern more than he prayed.

  He waited, anxious for the phone to ring and the pain to disappear, although he knew it wouldn’t. As if Allah had answered his prayer it rang. The phone was
a burner, a prepaid untraceable cell phone. He expected the man on the other end used similar precautions but kept the conversation inert anyway. Meeting arranged, he sat and drank his tea, dreaming of an end to his pain and the virgins in paradise. For the thousandth time, he reviewed the new plan, and thought about what he’d do when he gained possession of the plutonium. Then he picked up another cell — one of the three he currently used — and dialed a number in Dearborn, Michigan.

  16

  Jeff drove like a demon, making the eight-hour drive to Tampa in five, a full two hours quicker than his best time. He almost wished he’d been pulled over, so he could tell someone what had happened. He’d thought of stopping at every exit and telling the authorities what had happened, but was terrified of losing his wife. His mind was racing and his body ached from sitting so long, unable to release the tension in his muscles. He replayed the scene from the house over and over - still not understanding it. It happened so fast, he was having trouble understanding what had happened and why. But before he knew it, he was home. He pulled into his driveway and sat there, decompressing from the drive. Director of the Army Retirement Services at MacDill Air Force Base, he was a civilian employee in charge of payroll and pensions. His position allowed access to money and he’d come up with a plan. There was a good chance he could even get away with it. He plotted the sequence of events necessary to funnel off the money.

  Not due back from vacation for another three days, he couldn’t waltz in now, sit down, and start punching buttons. He’d have to at least wait until the morning, fabricate some kind of emergency and show up as if to save the day.

  Sleep eluded him as he knew it would. He tossed and turned for the five hours he actually tried. Around dawn, with a couple hours more to kill, he gave up and went for a jog. Last night he had thought his plan could work, now after the long night he had played devil’s advocate, he tried to repair the holes punched in it as he ran the quiet streets of his suburban neighborhood. Thirty minutes later he was back in the house. He showered, dressed and headed for the base.

  It was easier than he thought to reach the sanctuary of his office. His secretary had the same vacation time, and she would have been the only obstacle. Desperate, he chanced the kitchen, grabbed a cup of coffee, and then shut himself in his office. His palms were sweating as he turned on his computer, ignoring the multitude of emails that had accumulated, and got to work.

  First he opened the screen to enter a new account. Fictitious information started to fill the page as he typed: entering a false name, rank and service history. His personal bank account and social security number were entered in the appropriate fields. He glanced constantly at the door, expecting an MP to enter, gun drawn, at any time. An hourglass spun on the screen as the online form was processed. The screen refreshed, showing the account number of a Colonel Joseph Roberts, retired. He double-checked the information and started fabricating his pension payments. With more time, he could funnel off a thousand a week without setting off alarms. But, with the hours left until they killed his wife, he had to do it in one shot — a hundred-thousand-dollar shot. And he had no idea what kind of oversight they had on this sort of thing, or whether it would raise any red flags. Still, what choice did he have?

  Five minutes later, he checked the screen. The account was funded. He logged off his work computer and went for his smart phone, where he logged into his bank account and checked the balance. The money was listed as pending. Assuming it wouldn’t post until the next day, he headed back to his car. A visit with the bank manager might help make the funds available more quickly. If not he’d just have to be late. It was all he could do.

  ***

  He was almost out the door when a hand clasped his shoulder.

  “Hey, buddy, got a minute?” The uniformed officer’s grip turned him 180 degrees, and they walked together toward the security office. “Why don’t you have seat? The brass wants you for something.”

  Jeff’s hopes plummeted. This was his only shot at getting his wife back. He’d watched the Columbian shoot Dan, and had no doubt he would do so again, this time to his wife. But if his subterfuge was discovered already, there was no way he could save her life.

  He sat in the chair staring vacantly at the wall for what seemed like an eternity, the options running through his head. His only chance was to find a receptive ear and tell his story. As a civilian employee he was not regulated by the UCMJ. The Uniform Code of Military Justice applied to military personnel only. What he had done was a felony in the real world and he feared prosecution there. He worried that drugs were involved, but compared to hijacking one hundred thousand dollars from the government’s pension fund, that was a non-starter. Just losing his job was now a best case scenario.

  He finally came to a solution he could live with: He’d have to tell the truth and insist they keep the girls safe. Then he’d pay whatever penalty the Army cared to enforce.

  “Jeff, come on in,” the officer called him into his office. “You got a story you want to tell me? The Army may not be very good about keeping track of some things, but a transfer of that size? Come on man, someone has to see it.”

  “It was my only hope.” Jeff put his head in his hands, tears forming.

  “Take your time. The colonel should be here in a minute.”

  Jeff panicked, “You’ve got to understand. My wife’s life is at stake. If I don’t get this money to Marathon by tonight, she’s dead.”

  “Hold on, son.” The officer stopped him and pressed a button on his phone. “Get the colonel here, now. I don’t care if you need to shake it for him. Now.” He hung up and glanced at Jeff. “You’re one of us Jeff. Hell, you’ve been handling my retirement for years. You may not know it, but we all know who you are. And we take care of ours.”

  Jeff leaned forward in the chair, cradling his head in his hands. His world was crumbling around him.

  The colonel walked in the door. “Jeff, you in some kind of trouble?”

  Jeff starred at the floor as he poured out the whole story. A wave of relief passed though him now that it was in the open. He looked up at the colonel, awaiting his fate.

  “Go back to your office and undo what you’ve done. Clean it all up. You’re in luck, I know the sheriff down there in Marathon, served with her for a few years. Think we can probably get her on board, get this figured out. Let me make a call. I’ll come up to your office as soon as I talk to her. Don’t worry.”

  Jeff eased back in the chair and stared at the ceiling for a minute before he trusted his shaking legs to get him out the door.

  ***

  Pete sat motionless in the bushes. His feet and knees had gone numb maintaining his position. It was just past daylight and the house was quiet now. His courage had faded as the sun rose. He was resigned to taking what he had to the police and hoping they’d just let him go when the door opened. He watched as the guy Trufante had called Cesar made for the truck, started up, and pulled out of the driveway. As soon as the headlights swung the other way, he sprinted for his car. Wherever the guy was heading, he hoped he could catch up to him. He knew it wasn’t rational, but he was proud of himself for getting this far.

  The truck’s brake lights were visible at the intersection just as Pete pulled out. He accelerated, hoping to make up some ground, and reached the intersection seconds after the truck turned right onto Truman. He waited out the traffic, now confident he’d be able to follow. The truck turned right on First Street and left on Flagler. Jeff stayed as far back as he could, his lone headlight illuminating the way. Ahead of him, the truck turned right on Government and then into Little Hamaca Park. He parked and waited, watching as a pink scooter approached the truck.

  ***

  “That your scooter? Nice ride,” Cesar said through the open window. A gun rested below his thigh just in case the exchange went awry.

  “A friend’s. You have my package?”

  “Yeah.” Cesar handed the box through the window.

  “You’r
e not worried about being seen here?” the other guy asked.

  Cesar snorted. “Fuck. This is the homeless capital of the universe. The police don’t come near this place after dark.”

  “Suit yourself.” Ibrahim took the offered box and examined it. Satisfied, he put it in the basket of the scooter and pulled out.

  Cesar exhaled as the window closed. He adjusted the air-conditioning to high, realizing that he was sweating. He put the truck in reverse and pulled out, thankful the exchange was done.

  ***

  Pete watched the men from the cover of an overgrown hibiscus bush. He’d left the car out of sight as soon as he saw the black truck pull over and followed on foot. Several homeless people snorted at him as he passed their cardboard abodes, but he ignored them. He saw the drug dealer hand the lead box to the guy on the scooter. Hoping the trail was coming to an end, he decided to follow the scooter.

  17

  Seven Hundred Eleventh Street was a prestigious address, the top floor of the building even more so. Patel stared past the man at the desk and out the office window taking in the view from the thirteenth and top floor, a partial view of the White House in the distance. The flamboyant wealth displayed by these infidels disgusted him. Although his carefully crafted exterior appearance matched the surroundings, he was different inside. Raised Akim Hullah in Saudi Arabia, he had been sent to the United States to attend college years ago. Remaining after law school, he had climbed the ladder at Davies and Associates, manipulating cases as he could, but mostly, biding his time for something bigger.

  He looked at Bradley Davies, founder and managing partner of Davies and Associates.

  Patel knew the history. Davies had parted ways with the ACLU in the 1980s. He’d shared many of their views but was tired of having his cases shot down. Unable to climb the ladder and reach a coveted seat on the board of directors, where he could pick his own cases, he left. A membership organization, the ACLU was more interested in making political hay than money. Davies and Associates was interested in both, often leaning toward cases that were important but had large damages attached to them. It was the best of both worlds.