by Todd Merer
Ianucci was torn. “Richard, I can’t . . .”
Richard laughed. “Forget it. He’s harmless.”
Uncle said nothing as they led him away.
The Pagoda was messed up. Broken doors, shattered glass, trashed cabinets. Derek and his boys were there.
“What do we do?” Derek asked.
“Whatever I say, period.”
“Something you should know,” said Derek. “Albert Woo’s dead. Took two days to ID him because they cut half his face away.”
The dead snitch explained Richard’s decision to bust Uncle now. I had not an ounce of pity for Albert. In fact, it was good knowing he wasn’t going to be what I’d assumed was the government’s main witness against Uncle.
I looked at my watch. It was 1:00 a.m. I told Derek, “Contact every politician, every important person that Uncle knows. Get signed letters attesting to your grandfather’s good character. Make a list of his bank accounts and any property holdings.”
Derek nodded sullenly. “Why?”
“Bail,” I said. “Get moving. Uncle will be arraigned this afternoon. Meet me at two o’clock, 500 Pearl, fifth floor, Magistrate’s Court. Bring as many of his supporters as you can.”
When I left the Pagoda, I ducked into a noodle shop and went into the men’s room, where I ditched my pistol beneath an overflowing can of crumpled hand towels. If Ianucci had searched me, I’d have been busted.
The next morning I went for a run, then showered, shaved, put on a court suit, and went to 500 Pearl. The fifth floor was as familiar to me as the back of my hand. On one end were the new-arrest pens, where pretrial service interviews were done. In the middle of the floor was the Magistrate’s Court, where new arraignments were made. On the other end was a private suite of offices, where rats regurgitated. Over the years I’d accompanied many clients along the route: arrest to court to rat room.
I saw lawyers I knew and guys I knew were lawyers. Some nice, some nasty; some sharp, some dull. I’d worked with hundreds of lawyers but never been friends with any. The weird truth is that I dislike lawyers; maybe that was why sometimes I didn’t like myself. I needed to find another life. Maybe become a monk; spend my days cross-legged atop a mountain.
Acting on my advice during his pretrial interview, Uncle only stated his personal details, including his congestive heart problems and his substantial net worth . . . or, at least, the part of it that was legal.
I went to the clerk’s office and requested Uncle’s charging instrument.
The clerk gave it to me. Had it been a criminal complaint, the evidence would have been laid out in a timeline affidavit signed by Ianucci. But Uncle had been arrested on an indictment, a three-page bare-bones statement simply citing the criminal statutes he was alleged to have broken. I’d guessed right about no heroin, but there were a host of other allegations: wire fraud, extortion, money laundering, to name a few. Enough to upgrade the charges to a RICO indictment, a conviction that carried a twenty-year minimum sentence.
Richard’s decision, I was sure. Putting the pressure on Uncle to flip on his coconspirators. I doubted Uncle had an inkling Dolores even existed, but the possibility of his cooperating didn’t bode well for Duke or Stella. There was a hidden link between them, I was sure.
Derek showed with his letters and financial documents at 2:00 p.m.
By 3:00 p.m., Magistrate Court was filled. Derek and several dozen Chinese, young and old, sat in the spectator seats. Richard and Ianucci sat at the government table along with a line AUSA, a serious young woman named Lacy Goode. I sussed her out as a newbie flattered to have been selected to prosecute a major case. Could well be that Richard had selected her, thinking because of her inexperience, he’d have no difficulty calling the shots. As for Ianucci, despite the often bitter rivalries among different federal agencies, he clearly was pleased to be working with a heavyweight CIA guy like Richard. It was also clear that he was as dirty as Richard.
The presiding magistrate was Leah Weyser, whom I’d known since she was a young AUSA like Goode. A stickler, but fair.
The arraignment took less than a minute. On behalf of Uncle, I waived a reading of the indictment, entered a plea of not guilty, and requested an immediate bail hearing.
“Very well,” said Weyser. “I’ll hear from the government.”
Lacy Goode spoke briefly. “Your Honor, this case has been under investigation for years. The government possesses a massive number of intercepted conversations that clearly indicate criminality. More important, there is testimony from a close associate of the defendant, more than enough to prove the case beyond a reasonable doubt. Many of the predicate acts include violence. Moreover, the defendant is financially independent and ostensibly possesses dual citizenship: he is a naturalized American but has never renounced his Chinese citizenship. Should he flee to China, there exists no extradition treaty to bring him back. Therefore, he fails to meet the bail standards concerning both risk of flight and danger to the community.”
“Mr. Bluestone?”
“First and foremost, my client is a very sick man. He needs to be cared for at home. There’s no way the Federal Bureau of Prisons can provide adequate care.”
“That’s why we have hospital prisons,” said Weyser.
Ianucci chuckled. A small sound that pushed my button. My rule of thumb is never to say things I can’t back up but—the hell with them all—this was an exception to that rule, and my reply was a doozy:
“Your Honor, the government claims this was an ongoing, long-term investigation supported by a lot of evidence, so it seems strange that only now has my client been indicted.”
“Happens all the time,” said Weyser impatiently. “Government’s discretion.”
“Actually, maybe it’s not so strange,” I said. “Considering the fact that certain members of law enforcement are committing a fraud on the court, for they not only allowed but abetted what they now claim was his criminal activity.”
Goode leaped to her feet. “That allegation is offensive—”
“Mr. Bluestone has the floor,” said Weyser. “But before he continues, I want to warn him that I will not tolerate baseless accusations against government employees. Meaning he’d better be prepared to prove his statements.”
I glanced at the government table. Goode was furious. Ianucci’s face flushed with anger, but I saw worry in his eyes. As always, Richard was cool.
I had no idea as to whether I could back up my words, but no turning back now. I’d already ridden into the valley of death. So I played my ace in the hole.
I said, “Although the government refers to a ‘close associate’ of my client who provided testimony, I have reason to believe that person is dead. And that the government is aware of this, and is now deliberately misleading the court.”
I heard Ianucci frantically whispering to Goode, but to her credit, she motioned him to be quiet. For a long moment, no one spoke. My thoughts were bifurcated. On the one hand, I’d taken a risk by letting Richard know I was potentially dangerous to him; on the other, I was elated at having thrown down my gauntlet at his feet, warning him that this dog had some bite.
Weyser stood. “Ms. Goode, tomorrow morning you and I shall meet ex parte so you may respond to these allegations.”
Ex parte meant I was excluded. I said, “I’d like to be present.”
“I’ve already ruled. For today, that’s enough.”
Black robe swirling, Weyser left before I could reply. Ruled? Enough? I’d been shut down because some candy-assed magistrate was nervous about presiding over a case involving government illegalities.
I glanced at Richard, who let his blank gaze lock on to mine without moving his head. Reminded me of a cobra again.
More than one. Ianucci looked as if he wanted to kill me.
CHAPTER 36
I went to the marshal pens to speak to Uncle before he was taken to a cell in the MCC. While waiting for him in a small attorney-client visit space, I thought about Stella, who�
�d first enticed me into the scenario. As beautiful as she was screwed up, she needed someone to watch over her. I was only a temporary trustee, but now I knew she had Derek, whom I found myself liking. He had been smart enough to put our differences aside and accept that I was running his grandfather’s defense.
The door behind me suddenly opened.
Richard entered. “You’re a real fart smeller, pally,” he said. “You have no idea of what’s going on, yet you run off at the mouth. Truth is, you don’t have to worry about me . . . yet. You still got plenty of things to do, starting sooner than you think. Do them right, and you live, maybe even get a taste of green. Do them wrong, and—”
He reached over and twisted my nose. Just a pinch but so excruciating, my nose felt afire. Then he let me go and slapped my face hard. Flashing his capped grin, he left.
Talk about shock and awe. Unbelievably, Richard had been allowed entry to the strictly monitored interview area, meaning he carried even more weight than I’d feared. Which in turn meant that sooner or later, I was going to pay—perhaps with my life—for upsetting his applecart. Mental note:
Move on him before he moves on you—
A door opened, and Uncle appeared on the other side of the screen. Through the mesh, his pixelated face was gray, as if he were an old back-and-white cartoon.
Only there was nothing funny about it.
“My heart,” he said.
I alerted the marshals that my client needed medical assistance. Half an hour later, medics arrived. As they wheeled him into an ambulance, he crooked a finger at me. I leaned over his face. Through an oxygen mask, his voice sounded like Darth Vader’s brother.
“The White Tigress and the Green Dragon,” he said. “No forget.”
I said I wouldn’t. Then he was in the ambulance, taking him from MCC to Bellevue Hospital’s penal wing. I watched the ambulance disappear into Chinatown, its siren dwindling.
My device pinged. A text from Duke:
IMPORTANT YOU COME NOW.
Christ, I was a human emergency room. First Uncle, now Duke. Oh well, that’s life. Mine. Ten minutes later, I was in my new Jag, zooming from the city. I feared Duke had summoned me because of Stella. Had something happened to her?
Richard. It had to be his doing—
Again my device pinged.
Another text, this from an unfamiliar number, although no doubting who’d sent it, or its obvious meaning:
WE WANT THE THING THAT HAT SITS ON.
Missy’s convoluted verbiage got me wondering. Why hadn’t she said man instead of thing? It gave the lie to my latest conclusion, that Lucky was a monk, a living man. Uncle must’ve been drunkenly fantasizing.
And so I reversed my thinking yet again.
Lucky was not a man. Lucky was a thing.
Also known as the Ming Treasure.
CHAPTER 37
A USN warship. The present.
The cabin’s inch-thick metal walls were covered with a polymer that blocked electronic transmissions. Fresh air came from an interior recycling machine; the space had no ducts, electrical outlets, or other conduits, and it lay deep within a complex of larger, similar rooms, all of which were off-limits to everyone but those possessed of top-secret clearance. The room was a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, or SCIF.
A spy room.
Most of it was taken up by a gray government-issue table. The shirts of the six men at the table were patched with perspiration. Their combined breath and body heat made the room stifling. Two of the men were US Navy: a rear admiral and a ship’s captain named Starski, who sat as stiffly as an Annapolis midshipman on graduation day. Three others were civilians: one from the State Department, one from CIA Langley, and the president’s personal envoy.
The sixth man, who sat atop the table, had the floor.
It was Richard. His demeanor was different here—no brashness or smirks or off-color jokes—it was absolute military.
“Summing up, gentlemen,” said Richard. “I alone make all decisions. I act directly on behalf of the president of the United States.”
This was true. He’d bypassed CIA and gone directly to the White House, convincing an insecure president who liked acting macho around fighting men that the upcoming show needed to be run by a single individual. The president invited Richard to a round of golf. After the eighteenth hole, he and Richard spoke in the clubhouse. The prez drank Coke. Richard followed suit. “Make mine a Diet, please.”
The president had soundly beaten Richard and was pleased. His perfect grin got Richard to wondering if they had the same dentist. He’d said, “I like you, Richard. Do right by me, and I’ll do right by you. It’s called loyalty.”
Richard looked around the room. “Any questions?”
There were none.
“Nevertheless, I repeat . . . The chain of command stops at me. If I say go, you go. Stop, you stop. Shoot, you shoot. Any questions?”
The man from State looked skeptical about a CIA singleton being granted absolute power over a situation that was a flash point that—literally—could jeopardize mankind’s future. But he was a career veteran who knew not to query above his pay grade. He said nothing.
The president’s personal envoy said, “I can confirm the orders come directly from the Oval Office. The president hopes force will not be necessary. Supposedly, negotiations between the parties are nearing fruition. However, if not . . .”
“The navy will have an opportunity to put its new toys to use,” said Richard.
The rear admiral chuckled, but Captain Starski remained silent, although his expression said it all: he didn’t like a civilian overlord in his domain.
There was a long moment of silence as the men in the SCIF brooded over the fact that two nuclear-armed nations were on the brink of war. Then Starski said, “Are our orders in writing?”
The rear admiral silenced Starski with a glance, then said, “The navy’s ready, willing, and able.”
Richard looked at his watch. “It’s presently twelve forty-five hours on L-Day minus ten . . . synchronize your watches, gentlemen.”
The men did so, grimly.
“We cast off at oh three hundred hours on L minus five,” said Richard. “That’s all for now.”
When the others were gone, Richard dry-swallowed three pills, his customized blend of amphetamines and relaxants that would sustain him for the day. Then he left the SCIF, navigated a maze of long, narrow corridors, got into an elevator, and pressed the topmost level button.
The elevators slid open to the bridge of a ship. Beyond its forward windows was the awesome sight of the prow of the USS Corregidor—known in the service as a “commando carrier”—a spanking-new Wasp-class amphibious assault ship: 843 feet long, armed to its alloy teeth. Phalanx batteries of multibarreled Gatlings capable of unleashing three thousand rounds per minute of radar-guided M61 Vulcan 20mm cannon shells. Dozens of long- and short-range cruise missiles. A squadron of vertical takeoff Harrier fighter jets; another mixed squadron of Sea Stallion and Apache attack helicopters.
It was a baby aircraft carrier.
In fact, it had been named after the original USS Corregidor, CVE-18, a Casablanca-class escort flattop that had been in the thick of the South Pacific campaigns, decommissioned during the postwar era. Richard knew that history, as well as each and every millimeter of the present vessel. He drew a deep breath of salt air, exhaled, grinned. He was both master and commander.
Goddamn. He’d actually pulled it off.
Bolstered by his previous string of successes in conflicts all around the world, Richard had insinuated himself into the latest hot spot: the Chinese-American dispute. As was his habit, he’d embedded himself in the place through which all information funneled. He alone knew all of the players and all of their intentions.
The president had recognized this. He’d said, “Many Indians but only one chief, right?”
“Well put, sir,” Richard had replied. “But, with all respect, this situation is n
ot a time for dilly-dallying over a proper response. The only response is an instantaneous ass-kicking. Think of Grant at Shiloh.”
The president, ignorant of Grant, let alone Shiloh, had said, “Go get ’em, son.”
At the memory, Richard felt light-headed. Like his childhood fantasy figure, the Roman governor Richardus, he was possessed of the power of life and death.
Now, from the deck outside the bridge, Richard watched supplies being loaded from a wharf to the Corregidor, his thoughts wandering. He thought of Dolores. He thought of Missy. He thought of Stella . . .
Then, from his pocket, he took a plastic envelope holding a two-square-inch piece of something that looked like dried leather, marked by blue stenciling. The sight stirred a memory, and he smiled.
Upon learning of Uncle’s impending arrest, Albert Woo had panicked: without the information he’d been stealing from Uncle, he had nothing to offer Richard. To calm his anxieties, he’d washed several Xanax down with rice whiskey. Stoned, he’d felt the need to remind Richard: “Accessing the numbered account requires both of us.”
“Indeed it do, Albert,” Richard had said. “But I got to tell you, I’ve been thinking . . . how do I know you really have the first seven numbers?”
“Of course, I do.”
“Prove it.”
“I deliberately haven’t memorized them so no one can force me to give them up.”
“Don’t game me, Albert.”
“I had them tattooed.”
“Where?”
“Where no one can see them.”
“Where?”
“Inside my cheek.”
“Smart,” Richard had replied. “Very smart.”
Now Richard watched as munitions cradled in steel netting were loaded aboard the Corregidor. He was impatient to cast off and jump the starting gate. Gain the element of surprise by arriving at the transfer point first. Make sure all went well, then reap the harvest he’d sowed:
Collect $25 million for delivering Lucky to the Reds.
Quit the CIA. Live in luxury with his wicked China girl.
Richard had a thing for Chinese women. He loved their smooth skin, hairless but for a wisp below, their instinctive intelligence. In that order. He’d thought that Jeannie, the wife he’d lost on 9-11, was the most beautiful and brightest Chinese woman he’d ever known, but that changed the moment he’d met Missy Soo.