Sheep Dog and the Wolf

by Douglass, Carl;

  “So, you’re going to become a hermit?”

  “Not at all. I am just going to immerse myself into the world of academia. We’ve been friends for a long time. I want you to wish me well, and help me get on my way.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “I am, Conrad. I want you to be able to take the company wherever it needs to go without dragging me along as an anchor.”

  He got out of his chair behind the desk and said to the COO, “I’m done. I have the papers filled out requesting the board to release me and to appoint you. It’s time for you to take the seat of authority officially. Come around to this side of the desk and see if the chair fits.”

  They shook hands, smiled in amusement at the little changing-of-the-guard ceremony, and Conrad settled into the chair.

  “Fits you well, my friend. Don’t screw it up.”

  Over the next two days, the change was finalized, and Hunter received $245 million from his stock options. He distributed the money to his new set of banks and instructed stock and commodities brokers recommended to him by each of his new banks to make conservative investments under half a dozen different names. Hunter himself retained only three-quarters of a million dollars in checking and savings accounts in his own name in the Commercial Federal Bank in Denver and an identical sum in the American Savings Bank in Honolulu.

  To complete his transition, he put his Denver house up for sale at a price that could not be passed up by any bargain hunting house buyer. He entrusted the entire transaction to his real estate broker who made the sale in less than a week. With the proceeds, Hunter paid cash for a small house offered from a short sale by a bank in Bell Gardens, California that he found on the internet. The rest of the money from the sale of his house in Denver, he donated to the Mormon Church humanitarian department because he was convinced by his late son’s descriptions that the church did the best work for the least cost; and no one profited from his donation except the poor around the world who were served by the church.

  On his tenth day in the United States—as he did every day—Hunter checked his special encrypted e-mail account and found a message for the first time since he returned. He entered the decryption key under his desk and read, BUSINESS CONFERENCE AT THE RED OFFICE ON THE FIFTEENTH AT TEN. That obscure message told Hunter that he should sit in the lobby of the Salt Lake City Marriott Hotel on the tenth of September at 1500 hours. He was to carry a red package so that he could be identified. No reply was expected or sent. He had sixteen days to get his affairs in order before the meeting.

  Hunter flew to Los Angeles under his own name, ran up some restaurant bills, bought a Spartan houseful of cheap furniture for his new house, and established utility and telephone hook-ups with payments by his own credit card and future billing to be made by automatic withdrawals. He was the proud owner of a rundown home on a rundown street in a rundown neighborhood. He took every step to ensure that his name was thoroughly connected to 1856 Bell Gardens Drive, Bell Gardens, California. All transactions were conducted by telephone and on-line. No person ever saw his face or would be able to tie an identifiable person to the name of the owner and bill payer.

  He then flew to Salt Lake City on Southwest using the photo ID of one of his bagful of CIA aliases and got a room in the Grand America Hotel at 555 South Main Street for one night under still another alias. The next day—the tenth—he took a cab to Temple Square to pass as a tourist in the famous Mormon Church historical site located near to the Marriot. He walked around the beautiful grounds for an hour, then made his way to the Red Rock Brewing Company for a late lunch where he paid cash. He walked from the small restaurant back to the Salt Lake Marriott. Along the way, he stopped in a store and bought a straw Panama hat with a bright red hat band. He arrived at the Salt Lake Marriott City Center Hotel on 220 South State Street twenty minutes early and found a comfortable leather chair in the lobby from which he had a view of the whole large room. He slouched the hat down over his brow and pretended to be asleep.

  Twenty-five minutes later—with one eye open—he saw a familiar figure saunter through the main entrance of the hotel and walk casually to the newspaper and magazine shop across the lobby from where he was sitting. Hunter looked all around the room to see if there were other agents, but could not see anyone suspicious. At fifteen past the hour, he got up and circled the room past the shop and walked on towards the hallway leading to the elevators and conference rooms.

  He became aware of a man’s foot falls behind him, and he tensed slightly.

  “Pardon me,” Oliver Prentiss said as Hunter stood facing the elevators, “Do you know how to get to Red Rock Gardens at the University of Utah?”

  Hunter looked around, and seeing no one else, said, “Sorry, I don’t.”

  He did not look at Oliver’s face.

  Very softly, Oliver said, “Ride up with me. I have a room where we can talk without being noticed.”

  They entered the elevator and did not speak to each other. Hunter followed Oliver to his room, then they spoke. “I take it you’ve had a busy few months, my friend,” Oliver said.

  “Did you get the newspaper reports from Yemen?”

  “I did. I can add a bit to what is known about that. The Yemenis have admitted that Dr. al-Faisal was assassinated and have rounded up three local al-Qaeda suspects to take the blame. All three admitted during questioning that they killed her to prevent her from betraying the cause of jihad. The Saudis are furious, but only with the Yemenis so far. Nobody has suggested that any U.S. person or organization was involved. The removal of the leaders at their meeting has not been handled quite so openly. Officially, there was a fire, and several citizens were killed. Identification of the bodies has not been made as of this time because of the intensity of the fire. The situation is under investigation. Our man in Sana’a tells us that the locals told him privately that something like thirty high ranking al-Qaeda operatives were in the fire. Whatever, al Qaeda in Yemen is in a world of hurt.

  “You obviously covered your tracks well. We haven’t a scintilla of evidence that anything happened that could involve us. We have records of a few Europeans coming and going from the Aden airport during that period, but none of them fit your description.

  “There is one other thing that might interest you. Seems that there was some kind of mishap in Riyadh around that time. Nothing has made it into the media; and the local gendarmes are not forthcoming with any information; but apparently more than a hundred important Saudi dignitaries and some visitors from Iran and Palestine got food poisoning and died within a day of a big banquet in the Al Faisaliah Hotel. I don’t suppose you would be knowing anything about anything like that would you, Hunter?”

  Hunter said nothing. Several awkward minutes passed.

  “No, Oliver said, “I don’t suppose you do. I am confident that you know that the soil of the Kingdom is sacrosanct. We don’t conduct operations there, and this occurrence will just serve as a reminder that we leave them strictly alone, no matter what we may privately think they are doing. The Saudi ambassador sought our help to see if we could find out anything and to run some toxicology. Since all of the victims were buried within twenty-four hours of their demise as is the Islamic custom, and the very efficient hotel cleaned all of the dishware within two hours of the incident; the FBI has very little to go on except for a calling card with a well-known al Qaeda name on it, the significance of which is obscure.

  He showed Hunter a copy.

  “Mean anything to you?”

  “He’s the putative leader of al Qaeda in Yemen so far as I know. Otherwise, I don’t know anything much about him. Maybe he thought the Saudis set up a hit on in Yemen against the Saudi and Yemeni al Qaeda agents. Who knows?”

  Oliver sat quietly for a moment a reply forming in his brain. He thought better of it and continued his previous thought.

  “The Saudis, for some reason, found it necessary to question the president and Secretary Southem about the possibility that The Company mig
ht have been somehow involved. The president and secretary were troubled that the ambassador should even feel a need to ask, but were able to deny any connection adamantly. I have to say that such a fortuitous occurrence has not caused any great dismay around my patch, but any future accidents or coincidences would cause the secretary of State to demand an intense investigation. The DCIA wouldn’t like that. I don’t think you and I would like to have that happen, eh, Hunter?”

  “I’m sure not. Let’s hope that no coincidences take place that could falsely suggest our involvement.”

  He said it with a perfectly straight face.

  “Well, we’re both busy. I have here a folder with seven assignments. You can take it with you, but I don’t have to remind you, I’m sure, that no one but you can ever see the contents of the folder.”

  Hunter nodded.

  Oliver took the next hour to flesh out the material in the folders to explain why the items in the folder were on the cancellation list.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  October

  Rob McCreary sat comfortably at his desk in the Teamster’s Hall of Local 723 of the Borough Employee’s Union of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters. It was quarter past one; and he was still full from a large dinner, compliments of NYC. He was installed only two weeks earlier as the eighth president of the local, and was the first African-American to hold the reins of a Teamster Local in New York. He was responsible for 28,551 New York teamsters, a responsibility that had been a long time in coming. McCreary had worked in one position or another for the union for the past forty-two years.

  He had been effective, very persuasive, and able to get along with the rank and file and the five families of New York, who were as much a part of the union infrastructure as the series of Jimmy Hoffas who had served as presidents of the union. He knew every facet of union life and business. More importantly, he was well aware of where all of the skeletons were hidden and knew that his union pals knew that he knew. The most current general president of the nationwide union, James Riddle Hoffa IV, had presided at McCreary’s installation as president and had given the new president of the local an effusive fifteen minute introduction to the members of the local and the new board who had already known the man for decades. It was a moment that McCreary still savored as he sat in his chair.

  McCreary had just moved over from his office at 447 West 18th Street from the old Citywide division headquarters and was still in the process of settling in. He wished his dad was still alive to see how far the son of a courthouse janitor had come. He had just finished a speech to the New York City Labor Council in which he castigated Wal-Mart for letting America down by lowering wages, forcing good paying American jobs overseas, and cutting costs with total disregard for the values that have made this nation great. Wal-Mart, McCreary said, needlessly exploits illegal immigrants and women, breaks child labor laws, and forces workers to work in an unsafe environment. He knew he had established himself with his forceful and emotional presentation; and he was satisfied with himself. It was a good public start. He had received a standing ovation from the largely Democrat council, and had received personal congratulations from every member of the council and from the mayor, himself.

  However, all was not roses. Sitting across from him was a brutish looking Italian in a $1,200 suit, a $200 tie, and $800 shoes. Guido “Crazy” Castellani, held the title of Supervisor of Employees in City Housing, a position which paid him three-quarters of a million dollars a year and for which he did nothing but convey messages from his real superiors and receive a check. For McCreary, the ever-present shadow of Cosa Nostra that lingered behind the scenes of the union had always been a major thorn in his side. Over his forty-seven years as a teamster and forty-two as a union boss at one level or another, McCreary had come to an uncomfortable, but safe accommodation with the Diportello Family. He had seen six different Capo di tutti capis come and go along with their underbosses. Crazy was just the latest. But Crazy was the worst. He had taken the Local into an area that McCreary could not condone and wondered if he could live with. Underboss Crazy Castellani had come once again to siphon off funds from the local’s pension funds. McCreary hated him, and was beginning to hate himself for having to give in.

  “Hey, paisan, congrats on the new digs. Don Forenzi sends his regards. Here’s a little token of his esteem.”

  He nearly choked at using the word for countryman or brother to this schwartzer.

  Crazy handed McCreary an unmarked envelope. McCreary did not open it, but told the underboss thanks and waited for the man to get down to the real business of the afternoon.

  Crazy was not offended by the rudeness of McCreary’s silence. You couldn’t expect better from them.

  He said, “Look, my friend, our deal is done. The stuff is all in the Braiden Building on 23rd, and some of the family’er gonna have a meet with the rag heads on the week end. They are bringin’ in a boat load of clean cash for the goods, and they are even gonna have some union guys do the hauling to the docks. The stevedores’ll put it on their boat; and that’s the last of it for us and them, unless they wanna do another sweetheart deal. They got money runnin’ outta their ears, and we got connections. It’s good business. You keep the faith, paisan; and we’ll all die rich.”

  McCreary was not all that enthusiastic about dying rich. He’d seen too many teamsters fly too close to the Cosa Nostra flame to retain any adolescent illusions—like Jimmy Hoffa, the first—to take just one glaring example. He had had this dumped on him by his predecessor, Lucas Broadman, who had all but run his office from the capo’s restaurant by the City of New York PS 13O on Baxter and Mulberry in Little Italy. Way too cozy for McCreary. It was one of those “step into my parlor said the spider to the fly” kinds of deals. However, he, himself, and accepted three envelopes from the underboss, and had personally let the gangsters use the vacant building. He could hardly extricate himself at this point just because his patriotism was affronted by helping those al Qaeda A-rabs get more guns and ammo to kill Americans. Oh, they said it was for the Taliban in Pakistan, as if that made any difference; and none of the arms would be used against Americans. Sure. McCreary was disgusted with himself, but not enough to turn down the money, and certainly not enough to get on either the Teamster’s or the Diportello’s black list. Besides, it was not like he was going to be shooting any American soldiers himself.

  Castellani helped himself to one of McCreary’s congratulatory cigars, lit it up, and blue a cloud of aromatic blue smoke into the union leader’s face. He pushed his chair back on its back legs and let out a self-satisfied sigh of contentment.

  “Hey, paisan, lighten up. Not to worry; we got it all under control. There’s not a soul outsidda us and a few guys from the outfit that I trust, that knows a thing. Relax a bit. Think about all that nice money. It’s easy street. Trouble? Fagetaboutit.”

  McCreary did not have time to think about it. A black man wearing a union jacket and a black wool cap walked into the office without knocking.

  McCreary started to say, “Hey, buddy…” but he only got out the “hey”.

  Eleven 9 mm bullets spat out of a silenced handgun and perforated the union leader and mafia capo’s chests before either could react in any meaningful way to the shooter’s presence. The killer took two steps forward and fired one more round into the space between the mafia boss’s eyes, then took two more and administered an identical coup de grâce to McCreary.

  The assassin placed a calling card and a printed invoice on McCreary’s desk.

  He quietly said, “I don’t like folks who supply terrorists,” and walked briskly out of the office.

  At 1420, NYPD sergeant Alphonse Ivory Mathews called in his report to dispatch. The best he could determine from the only witness willing to talk was that a lone gunman, an African-American male, had walked into the Olivieri Men’s Club on Baxter Street and mowed down every person in the place with a machine gun. As far as he could tell, “Crazy” Castellani, the Diportello
number one capo’s entire crew had been wiped out in less than half a minute. Castellani didn’t seem to have been the club. He did not add that it looked like the old Valentine’s Day massacre in Chicago. He did say that it had every appearance of being a gang hit, and dispatch needed to get the word out that they were probably going to see a lot more gang violence in the next few days. When he hung up, among the debris, he found one thing that seemed out of place, a calling card with what looked like Arab writing:

  Sergeant Matthews had no idea what to make of it. He’d leave that to the crime scene investigation unit. He was going to have his hands full dealing with the mafia wanna-bees that he was going to visit as soon as the CSIU got there.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Of Brooklyn Heights—considered to be part of Boyle Heights, Los Angeles—it was once said that “all roads lead to Brooklyn Heights”. Before that, when the area still belonged to Mexico, all roads led to the same area, then known as Paredon Blanco [White Bluffs]. The neighborhood sits on the east side of downtown L.A. bordered on the west by the Los Angeles River; Indiana Street on the east; Mission Road and Valley Boulevard on the north; and 1st Street on the south. The heights—once a district peopled by the rich—lies on the east bank of the river and comprises the bluffs for which the district is named. The muddy land below was called simply, “The Flats” and was occupied by the poor.

  The massive East Los Angeles Interchange is located in Boyle Heights allowing access to the Golden State (I-5), Hollywood (The 101), Pomona (SR 60), the San Bernardino (I-10), the Santa Ana (I-5), and the Santa Monica (I-10) freeways. The Arts District is on the north; the Business District is on the west; the community of Commerce is on the Southeast; and to the east lies the sprawling largely Latino city of East L.A.