First Strike

by Jeremy Rumfitt

  Ambrose saw Libitch was ashamed of what he’d done.

  “What was it?” Libitch asked. “Horse or hash?”

  “Who approached you?” Bowman spoke for the first time. “You have a name?”

  “In this business nobody gives a name, at least not a real one; just a wad of cash. They came here to the house, just rang the bell and barged their way in. Even roughed-up the help. Dinah May was very upset.”

  “The maid?” Ambrose looked genuinely concerned.

  “She threatened to quit, but I talked her out of it. Dinah May’s been with me since my wife died. Couldn’t get along without her.”

  “Can you describe the guys?”

  “Middle-eastern dudes. Nicely pressed white linen trousers. Short-sleeved cotton shirts. Wrap-around gold-rimmed shades. This was July remember. One had a Saddam type moustache and manicured hands. Kept toying with a string of beads. Spoke perfect American, no trace of an accent. Had a sidekick with him who didn’t speak at all. Big sonofabitch packin’ something heavy under his jacket. Woulda topped me I’d said no.”

  “You made a police report after the event? When the container went missing?”

  “Sure. Always do. Cops looked into it. Came up with a big fat zero.”

  “Who handled the police enquiry?”

  “Guy called Danny Russo.”

  “Was Russo in on the action?”

  “No, not this time,” Libitch affirmed. “Sometimes he is. Sometimes he isn’t. Depends on what’s involved. This one was just too easy. Didn’t need no help.”

  Bowman and Ambrose left Libitch alone with his cigar and his conscience. They were half way down the drive when they heard the shot through the open study window, followed a moment later by the sound of Dinah May screaming at the top of her lungs. One long loud wailing note that came straight from the gut. A distant memory of Bessie Smith floated across Bowman’s mind.

  ***

  Police Lieutenant Daniel T. Russo was more than happy to oblige. A short, fat, amiable man with soft chubby hands and a belt too tight on his ample gut, he lay back in a swivel chair with his boots up on the desk. He addressed the black man with thinly disguised disdain.

  “Kinda late, aren’t ya, son?” ‘Son’ was intended as a put-down. “That was way over a year ago. DEA usually moves faster’n that.”

  “At the time it must have looked like a straightforward police matter,” Ambrose explained patiently. “Simple theft. Manifest said fruit and veg. No need for the DEA to get involved.”

  Russo shifted in his seat as if he was passing wind.

  “Couldabin. Shouldabin. Stuff gets lifted off the docks is likely to be drugs don’t you think, son. ‘Less you believe it really was fruit and veg? Me, I think they went to too much trouble for some cans of beans.”

  “So what happened next?”

  “We investigated. Came up with zilch. You ask me, I’d say it was an inside job.”

  Russo was still sore at not sharing in the spoils.

  “Stuff is parked right next to the gate. The lights go out. The alarm system is on the fritz. Just one specific container disappears out of a whole shipload. What would you think, son? Let’s see if you can work it out.”

  “You have any paperwork?”

  “Paperwork? Sure. ‘Nuf paperwork to wipe your nigger’s ass.”

  He opened a drawer in a large metal filing cabinet marked “Unsolved”, flicked through the hanging files, pulled out a buff folder and threw it on his desk.

  Ambrose stood up to leave, taking the folder with him.

  “Hey!” Danny Russo yelled. “You can’t take that.”

  “Oh yes I can,” Ambrose smiled patiently. “I’ll make sure you get it back though.”

  Russo’s stocky frame blocked the doorway.

  “I can’t have some young buck from the DEA walk in here and remove police files without authority. What the fuck is going on here?”

  He made a grab for the file.

  “You want me to call Internal Affairs, Danny Boy?” Ambrose enquired politely. “Tell ‘em ‘bout you and your pal Paco?”

  Russo staggered round the desk and collapsed into his chair. He went pale.

  “And by the way, Danny Boy,” Ambrose continued. “Unless you’re a whole lot older than you look, you’re definitely not my father.”

  ***

  Back at the hotel Ambrose and Bowman examined every scrap of paper in Danny Russo’s file. There was nothing much they could use, the twenty month old trail was cold beyond resuscitation. But there was a precise description of the missing container, external and internal dimensions, colour, make and serial number complete with the bill of lading, and photographs of its identical companions the thieves had left on the docks. Just standard modular shipping containers, much like any others. The only thing that could be useful was the name and address of the intended recipient of the goods. Ambrose picked up the phone and made a call to Danny Russo.

  “Did you ever make contact with the Lebanon Trading Company?”

  “Sure I did, son. Spoke to the top man,” Danny’s tone was defensive. “Guy was pissed off naturally, but not as much as you might think. Probably made a fat profit on the insurance claim.”

  Ambrose thumbed through the file.

  “This guy... whatsisname… Fayed? Was he helpful?”

  Russo was quiet for a while. Then he said,

  “Sure, I’d say he was helpful. Like I mentioned, he was pretty pissed off. But I’d say he was co-operative.”

  Ambrose put down the phone and turned to Bowman.

  “Whadaya think, Alex. You want to go pay this guy Fayed a visit.”

  “Might as well, Ben. Then I can pass the file to Robert Jennings, let the FBI squeeze what they can out of it. Up to now this was just a local matter that got no higher than your friend Danny Russo. The FBI’s had no involvement yet. Chances are Fayed’s shipment was just used as cover, but now at least the Feds can do a nationwide search for the container. At least now they’ll be armed with the serial number and an accurate description.”

  ***

  The Lebanon Trading Company was housed in a large expensive-looking air-conditioned unit on an otherwise shabby industrial estate just north of Baltimore, a short distance from junction twelve of Interstate 95. Bowman parked the pimpmobile in the visitors’ space, right next to a brand new Cadillac Deville in a space marked CEO. Ambrose showed his badge to the receptionist and explained he was making routine enquiries.

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” he assured her, but she didn’t even bat an eye, stuff like that happened all the time.

  It turned out Fayed was between meetings and agreed to see them right away. They rode the lift to the oak-panelled executive suite on the second floor.

  A slightly built, dapper little man in a business suit one size too large stood up to greet them. He had jet-black thinning hair that was probably dyed, a neatly trimmed moustache and perfect manners. He seemed unsurprised that they were there. Maybe Russo had phoned ahead to warn him. Could be an insurance scam that everyone was in on.

  “Gentlemen,” Fayed smiled, “please sit down.”

  He motioned them to upright chairs on either side of the impressive desk.

  “How can I help?”

  “Nice place you got here.”

  Ambrose looked around the large room, cluttered with gilded furniture and expensive looking oriental rugs and drapes.

  “Business must be good.”

  Fayed confined himself to an enigmatic smile, lit up by a single golden molar.

  “Just over a year and a half ago,” Ambrose began, “you had a container stolen from the docks at Locust Point.”

  Fayed nodded.

  “Part of a consignment of canned fruit, apricots if I recall correctly. The police investigated at the time but as far as I’m aware the case is closed. Why? Has something new come up?”

  Ambrose flashed his badge.

  “I’m with the Drug Enforcement Administration, Mr Fay
ed, not the Police Department,” Ambrose explained. “That should tell you something.”

  “So you think the container was used for smuggling drugs?” He raised one tinted eyebrow. “Yes, I can see that. Heroin could certainly be concealed among the packing cases, or between the hollow walls of the container, or maybe even in the cans themselves.”

  “And where would a nice, back-country boy like you get a neat idea like that?”

  Ambrose ratcheted up the pressure by a single notch, but Fayed was prepared.

  “What was the name of that movie? The French Connection? Remember Popeye Doyle? Gene Hackman played the role, played it beautifully. I think he got an Oscar.” Fayed smiled. “That’s it; I must have gotten the idea from the movie. But my company wouldn’t know anything about that, Agent Ambrose. We just buy the merchandise. We don’t pack it. We don’t ship it. We don’t unload it. And it’s cleared through Customs by our agents. What’s more, when this container was stolen it was still in bond. So technically we hadn’t even taken delivery. It was the Port Authority’s responsibility, not ours.”

  Fayed noticed Bowman staring at a photograph on the desk. A young woman in a bridal gown had her arm around the waist of a clean-cut young man in a dark suit and Roman collar.

  “That’s my daughter,” Fayed beamed. “Lovely, isn’t she? The priest is my younger brother, Joseph.”

  “So you’re a Christian, Mr Fayed?” Bowman enquired. He could recognise a dead end when he saw one.

  “Lebanese Christian,” Fayed confirmed. “We’re known as Maronites. The oldest Christian sect in the entire world, though we’re among the smallest. There’s about one and a half million of us in the States.”

  “Shit.” Bowman climbed back into the pimpmobile. “A good day’s detective work and yet we’re still no further forward. Unless Robert Jennings can squeeze something more out of Danny Russo’s file and locate that fucking container.”

  ***

  35

  Next afternoon Bowman left Ambrose in Baltimore to work with Paco Trujillo and his network of informants, tracking-down the source of the uncut coke. Bowman drove back to Washington on the Parkway and a little over one hour later he parked the pimpmobile in the basement of the Hoover Building and pocketed the keys. Then he went to the reception desk in the lobby and asked for Agent Moreno. It was 6.30 in the evening but Cal was still at her desk. Bowman fastened the security pass to his lapel and took the lift up to the fourth floor. He was grinning. Today was a special day. A very special day. The twelfth of March was Liam O’Brien’s birthday.

  Agent Moreno’s office was small and crammed with a bewildering array of speakers, consoles, PCs and VDU’s all hard wired to a Cray SV1 buried elsewhere in the building. Copper cladding built into the walls, floor and ceiling insulated the chamber from unwanted electronic noise. Thick strips of black foam rubber lined the walls and gave the windowless enclosure an eerie tomb-like feeling. It looked more like an operations room than a place for transacting business. There was barely room for them both. One entire wall was given over to a giant plasma screen that displayed a map of the continental USA on which every major conurbation glowed.

  Cal was dressed in her usual outfit of logo-free white sweatshirt, beige chinos and steel-capped combat boots. A rubber handled Colt .44 Magnum strapped below her left shoulder completed the stylish ensemble. Cal was wearing padded headphones, fine-tuning an incoming signal on one of the consoles. She barely looked at Bowman when he entered. Just the briefest smile of recognition flashed across her lovely mouth.

  Bowman sat in the only vacant swivel chair with a clear view of her profile.

  “Anything?”

  “Nothing.” She didn’t look at him. “What time is it over there? Must be getting late. Maybe he forgot?”

  “Don’t worry, he’ll call; apparently he always does. Declan knows the Garda Siochana set up a wiretap weeks ago but even that won’t stop him; it’ll turn him on. He won’t be able to resist. You have people standing by?”

  “Sure we do. There’s agents dispersed all over DC and Baltimore. And Miami, just in case.”

  Cal held up a hand for silence and juggled with her headphones.

  “I think I have a signal.”

  She passed Bowman a second set of ‘phones.

  “The bastard’s on the line.”

  Silently she pointed to the map of the USA displayed on the giant plasma screen that covered one wall of her office. The first voice they heard was Declan’s mother’s.

  “Is that you, son?”

  The wall-map re-focused to the eastern seaboard from the Canadian border to Miami.

  “Sure it is Ma, How are you both?”

  “We’re fine, Declan. Fine. Would you be wantin’ to speak to Liam?”

  There was a slight tremor in her voice. Something was making her nervous. The illuminated map contracted to Washington and Baltimore as the dedicated software strove to pinpoint the origin of the signal. Important thoroughfares and specific major buildings were highlighted in red.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Ma? You don’t sound quite your usual chirpy self.”

  “I’ll get Liam for yer, son. He’ll explain. Hold on just a minute.”

  The map now focused on the downtown area of Washington DC. Bowman held his breath. The silence lasted fifteen seconds while the remote array of Cray SV1s sifted several million bits of data, refining the search to an ever more specific area.

  “Is that you, Declan?” Liam was on the line.

  “Who else would it be, old son? Happy birthday, little brother.”

  The map homed in on a compact area just north and slightly to the east of Capitol Hill. Bowman sat forward in his seat.

  Cal tore off her ‘phones and grabbed Bowman by the arm.

  “Union Station. He’s at Union Station.”

  They ran for the elevator. There were dozens of people milling about waiting to go home. The office crowd was getting ready to party.

  “The stairs,” Bowman yelled. “I’ve got wheels in the basement.”

  They were in the car park in no time. Bowman gunned the Vette up the ramp, elated at the power of the 5.7 litre V8 engine. Cal shouted directions, gesticulating wildly with her right hand and grasping her cell phone in the left. By the time they reached Massachusetts Avenue Cal had mustered every available agent in the capital. Three minutes later Bowman pulled up outside Union Station. The forecourt was already teeming with unmarked cars, blue lights flashing, sirens blaring.

  “Description?” Cal yelled at Bowman. “What’s the fucker look like?” Exhilaration blazed from her bright eyes. She was on an adrenalin high.

  Bowman grabbed her cell phone.

  “Short. Fair hair. Blue eyes. Clean shaven.”

  As he handed back the phone Bowman knew the only adjective that probably still applied was ‘short’.

  They hung around Union Station for over an hour before Bowman would admit it was useless. O’Brien had timed his phone call to perfection. He could be on the other side of the city by now, maybe even have boarded a train.

  Cal put out an all points text message on her cell phone instructing the FBI to stand down.

  “What now?” Agent Moreno reassessed the Englishman. Fast driver. Good reactions. Stays cool. Her heart was pumping as she fought to hang on to the high, seeking for some new sensation to sustain it.

  “We could go back to your office? Analyse whatever else is on the tape?” Bowman kept looking at her mouth.

  “No way, Pedro.” Cal hitched her thumbs through the belt loops of her chinos. “We can do that in the morning.” She looked Bowman squarely in the eye.

  Come on you Limey bastard, show me your best move.

  Bowman gazed at her quizzically.

  “You still don’t do dinner, do you, Agent Moreno?”

  Dinner could be OK for starters.

  “I might. If you can think of somewhere interesting to take me.”

  She made it sound like a challenge
/>   Twenty minutes later Bowman parked the Vette one block from Blues Alley at 1073 Wisconsin Avenue, a short walk from his apartment.

  Agent Moreno was impressed with his selection.

  “How’d you know about this place, Mr Bond?”

  Bowman grinned.

  “Everybody knows Blues Alley. Eva Cassidy used to sing here.”

  “That’s right, Mr Bond. She did.”

  Bowman didn’t seem to mind her teasing him. The more Cal got to know the Englishman the more she liked him. Maybe she would tell him her little secret. Maybe not. But he’d be going back to Limeyland pretty soon, so there wasn’t much danger of him taking advantage of it.

  They were shown to an isolated table at the back of the dimly lit room and ordered from the simple menu. It was early still by jazz club standards and the musicians hadn’t showed up yet. The place would not get crowded for at least a couple of hours and they could talk freely without fear of being overheard. Canned music played in the background, a spin-off group from the Ellington band with Cootie, the Rabbit and Duke himself on piano. The waitress brought their drinks and their steaks at the same time and left the couple alone. She could sense the electricity between them. Something stimulating must have happened to spark them off.

  “You have a lot in common,” Cal teased.

  “Me and who?”

  “You and James Bond,” she was smiling at him nervously. “He always gets his man. And he always gets the girl.”

  She seemed somehow jumpy, as though she were being led down a path she hadn’t chosen and didn’t want to follow. Her hand was trembling slightly. When she reached for her glass she nearly knocked it over and only managed to take a little sip. She fanned herself with the menu.