The Extraditionist (A Benn Bluestone Thriller Book 1)

by Todd Merer

  And would it affect me?

  Unquestionably, the government would think so. But could they prove it? I replayed things in my mind’s eye.

  The multiple trips to court Bolivar had orchestrated were part of the normal process, perhaps a bit unusual, not at all incriminating.

  Bolivar had asked me if the vans were escorted, and I’d replied that escorting was random. That conversation was private, so no problem there.

  Then there was Bolivar’s sudden insistence on continuing today’s proffer, in reality an attempt to prolong his stay at the courthouse, to be on the late bus back, the one that had been targeted. Both Scally and Cano could testify that I’d tried to assist him, but that just meant I’d done what my client had asked, so no real problem there, either.

  Most frightening of all was Andrey asking me when Bolivar would be in court, and my reply that it would be late afternoon, which could be construed as assisting the escape conspiracy. Still, no problem there; even if Andrey flipped, it was his word against mine.

  I paced my office, waiting for Traum.

  An hour passed, then two. I kept checking my device for a news story update, but the details remained unchanged. I tried calling Traum but got a recorded message saying he was unavailable.

  Another hour passed. Another. He showed up just before midnight, chewing on a toothpick and reeking of Chinese food.

  “For Chrissake,” I said. “You keep me waiting while you stuff your gut?”

  “Relax, Benno. I was waiting for the real dope. I’m not allowed to eat?”

  “Whatever. Just tell me what happened.”

  “Rush hour,” he said. “Traffic on the BQE and the Gowanus dead still, like a parking lot. When the jail van finally reaches Sunset Park, it’s getting dark. It takes its regular route on Second Avenue along the waterfront. No people, no cars. All of a sudden, a pickup tears ass through a light and blocks the van from going forward. Another pickup comes from out of nowhere and blocks the back of the van. Trapped. No escorts for the van this trip. Before it can radio for help, its windshield is blown out. The driver buys it right away; the shotgun’s hit bad.”

  Traum paused. I wanted to ask him what, if anything, had happened to Bolivar, but I didn’t. We both knew that was all that mattered, but I didn’t want to acknowledge it.

  “The prisoners behind the cage were freaking. Some guys shitting bricks, thinking it’s a hit on them. Others thinking they’re Vin Diesel, busting out. They all shut the fuck up when half a dozen commando types in ski masks start opening the van with auto shears. Professionals, right?”

  I shrugged.

  Traum smiled. His teeth were gapped, and when he smiled, he reminded me of Ernest Borgnine, not Ernie the good guy, but the Ernie that nearly killed Sinatra in From Here to Eternity.

  “Stop playing with my head, Traum. What else?”

  “Bolivar wasn’t on the late van. He was on the morning van.”

  I was still worried. I didn’t care who Traum’s sources were, but if he’d asked them about Bolivar’s whereabouts, it potentially led back to my involvement.

  He grasped my concern. “Relax, Benno. The friend of mine who tells me things let me have a look at the inmate court list for the day was all. He didn’t have a clue as to who I was looking for. Besides, none of the inmates got away.”

  Without realizing it, I’d been holding my breath. Now I exhaled.

  “The shotgun guard got off a shot before he croaked. Killed one of the attackers. My source in the medical examiner’s office said the dead guy had jailhouse ink from some gulag camp. A hammer-and-sickle inside a barbed-wire star. I checked the tat out. Was all the rage in a camp called Murmansk-54. Want to know the dead guy’s name?”

  I kept my face still, my eyes heavy-lidded.

  “Rodchenko. First name, Andrey.”

  I shrugged.

  “This Andrey guy had the same tattoo as Natty Grable. And Evgeny Kursk. Kursk’s come a long way since his jailbird days. Became one of them oligarchs. Mining, timber, a fleet of fishing boats that operate in the north Pacific, the import-export company name of Murmansk-54. Same name as the camp. Same outfit that paid you for Bolivar.”

  I hadn’t mentioned my fee source to Traum. He waited for me to say something. When I didn’t, he said, “Natty’s gasoline-scam case? The one your pal Plitkin is his lawyer for?”

  “Not my pal.”

  “The case against Natty’s falling apart. Witnesses disappearing, that kind of stuff. The government’s practically giving the case away. Time served, straight probation. But Natty and two illegal Russkies who couldn’t make bail are going to trial. Weird, no? Weak case or not, who knows what a jury might do? Natty and his boys are risking a twenty-year downside, just to demonstrate that they’re honest. Why?”

  “Maybe Plitkin’s stretching things out to make a few more bucks. None of my business. Or yours.”

  “Maybe. You never know. Mind if I smoke?”

  “Yes. Even unlit, your stogie stinks.”

  “You’re hurting my feelings. Here’s another maybe-coincidence. Murmansk. During World War Two, icebreakers worked around the clock to keep the city open because it was the principal import point for supply convoys from the States. The route was called the Murmansk Run. A tough go. The U-boats made sure a lot of sailors never made it to Murmansk.”

  “That was then. What’s it have to do with now?”

  “Seems the principal export port to Murmansk was the Busch Army Terminal. In the middle of which is—”

  “The MDC. I don’t see any connection.”

  “Me neither. See, coincidences exist.”

  “Where you going with this?”

  “Coincidences. You made a big score from these people. I want to do the same.”

  “My business is none of yours.”

  “I want to protect you, Benno.”

  “I don’t need protection.”

  “Wrong. You may have a problem in your future. Guess which AUSA got tasked with the escape investigation?”

  I didn’t bother guessing. From Traum’s demeanor, I knew it was Kandi. He took out a Zippo and lit the cigar.

  “Put it out,” I said.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, blowing smoke. “Listen up, now. Scally’s also working the escape. He’s crazy, comes to Bolivar. Not because the case is unfinished business. He don’t give a rat about that. Something else. That night, six years ago, when Scally made the seizure out on Long Island?”

  “What about it?”

  “Scally’s partner at the time was a guy name of Mongello. The two of them were working with a joint task force based on Long Island. They were waiting on an informant for a coke bust, but word came that it wasn’t going to happen until after the Fourth. So the local guys went home to be with their families, but Scally and Mongello weren’t family types. They were more into drinking brewskies, and maybe getting lucky with a waitress. That’s what they were doing when DEA told ’em to assist the local cop who stumbled over the weed. Which they did. They seized a boatload of weed, but the bad guys got away. Mongello heads back to the motel while Scally secures the load. When Scally gets back to the motel, Mongello’s brains are splattered all over the wall.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “Coroner’s report found nothing suspicious about the circumstances, concluded suicide as the cause of death.”

  “Fed offs himself, that’s big news. How come I never heard about it?”

  “Blue wall of silence. DEA don’t like showing its dirty laundry.”

  “All this is interesting, but it’s not switching on any light.”

  “Not yet. That’s what you’re going to need me for. To switch on the light because, trust me, you don’t want to be in the dark, not with what’s maybe coming down the pike. So, be a smart guy. Give me ten grand against my hourlies.”

  Traum’s fee was $150 an hour, plus expenses. When I’d first put him on the research into Murmansk-54, I’d written him a check for $5,000.
“No way you’ve even billed out what I already paid you.”

  “Sure I have. See, a situation like this, I don’t bill for quantity. I get paid for quality. Know what I mean?”

  “No, I don’t. And I’m not paying you another dime.”

  Traum shrugged, gave me another gap-toothed smile as he leaned over my desk, and ground out his cigar atop my lucky horseshoe.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Next time I’m here, have an ashtray. And I will be here. And you will pay me. And you’ll thank me to boot.”

  “Get out.”

  “Good seeing you, too.” He stood, stumbled, looked down. “Nice bag. Must’ve cost a fortune. Then again, you can afford a fortune.”

  I was fuming. Fortune? My briefcase was quality, but old and battered. Traum’s remark sounded like the opening gambit in a game of extortion.

  He paused on his way out the door. “Have a nice day. While you can.”

  “You threatening me?”

  “Just telling you like it is. We’re friends. Who knows? We may even turn out to be partners.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Traum left me in a funk. The fact that he’d so easily figured Bolivar as the object of the prison-break attempt meant others would, too. In my business, image is everything, so I was automatically on a hot seat. Especially with Kandi running the investigation. Add to that Scally taking this personally because of his partner’s death . . .

  I wondered how Traum found out about that. Had to have been through someone close to Scally.

  Such as DEA Special Agent Nelson Cano.

  And how did Traum know the source of my fee? Did Cano have a contact in my bank? Or, more likely, a way to access my banking records? Maybe Traum had another person for that.

  No matter which, it was troubling.

  I flushed Traum’s cigar butt and washed my horseshoe. Stood to leave—and tripped, then regained my balance, mouthing a curse at my briefcase, the one Traum had mockingly admired.

  Only he hadn’t been mocking it at all.

  Because it wasn’t my old briefcase.

  This bag really did cost a fortune: green crocodile with heavy brass hardware. I opened the case. On the inside flap, a gold-leaf inscription read: Raphael Borg, Esq.

  I remembered Borg fleeing my office, but not him leaving behind his bag. Set the way it was—leaning against the other side of my desk, partially obscured by a chair—I hadn’t noticed it. Now I wondered why he hadn’t called to ask for it. Had he thought he’d lost it somewhere else? Either way, I figured I’d call him and say I had the bag, and while I was at it, ask a few indiscreet questions about Jilly.

  I found Borg’s card and picked up my phone but paused, remembering to do unto others as they would do unto me. If the case were locked, I’d call Borg. If not, I’d have a look inside, maybe learn a little more about Jilly’s world—and by extension, that of Bolivar, the Russians, and Sombra.

  The case was unlocked.

  Inside it, a file and a sheet of Borg’s stationery. Nice paper, heavy stock, cream colored. Handwritten on it was a single line:

  One million shares at $850 per share = $850,000,000.

  Inside the file were copies of stock certificates from a company: Murmansk-54 Imports, Inc. The shareholder owning one million shares was Jillian Chennault.

  Copies of two other documents were in the file. One was a bill of sale from a precious-metals company confirming the transfer of five tons of gold to Jillian Chennault. The second was an invoice from a company called Metalworks.

  I looked up the price of gold and ran some numbers. Five tons of gold was worth approximately $150 million. An investment advised by Borg? That transaction plus the $850 million in stock totaled $1 billion—

  Ping!

  I had an e-mail from Traum. No message, just an attachment. I opened it and saw a headline:

  CELEBRITY LAWYER FOUND DEAD

  The circumstances were mysterious. The death had occurred some time ago, but the body wasn’t discovered until the neighbors complained about the odor coming from the lawyer’s luxurious downtown apartment. The police refused comment, but unnamed sources confirmed the cause of death was a gunshot wound “inconsistent” with suicide.

  The lawyer was Raphael Borg.

  CHAPTER 50

  I had no doubt the unnamed source was correct: that Borg’s death was not suicide but homicide. Poor Borg. Despite his drug-fueled paranoia, he had been right: people wanted to kill him. Colombians and Russians.

  The sum of the parts was obvious: the killers were Bolivar’s people, or Natty’s crew, or both. But no matter which, they were mere cats’ paws. The power wielding them had ordered the hit on Borg.

  Sombra or Kursk.

  Why? I had no idea but was certain of one thing: somehow Jilly had a part in the big picture.

  Big, as in $1 billion.

  And here I was, holding the bag that proved it.

  Whoever killed Borg would not be pleased that I had it. But my giving the file to the police would serve no purpose other than entangling me in the circumstances.

  I put the papers back in Borg’s briefcase. From my armoire, I took a knapsack left by some forgotten Mr. Green. I wiped my prints from the briefcase, then put it inside the knapsack. I rummaged in the armoire and found a pair of five-pound weights I’d often vowed to exercise with but never had. I dropped them into the knapsack and buckled it shut. Then I slung it over my shoulder and left.

  I walked a few blocks and found a phone shop, where I purchased a throwaway and some airtime. Then I called the precious-metals firm that had sold Jilly the gold. I told the receptionist I was interested in purchasing a large quantity of gold. She connected me to a man who asked what I meant by large.

  “Upward of ten million dollars.”

  “We can accommodate you. Ingots or coins?”

  “Um, a bit of each.”

  “Come in, and we’ll discuss it,” he said, and told me the address.

  I told him I was on my way, although I had no intention of going there. No way I’d risk revealing myself, but at least I had verified the invoice as real. That left unanswered whether Jilly had purchased coins or ingots. And why.

  I looked up Metalworks, which seemed to be some sort of specialty fabrication firm. I called and asked for a salesperson. When one came on the line, I said, “I’m interested in a special job. A large job. Do you folks have experience working with gold?”

  “We do. In fact, we recently did a very large job, customizing gold for a customer.”

  “Would it be possible to see the finished product?”

  “Sorry, sir, but at the customer’s request, that information is confidential. But if you’d like to come to our factory showroom, we can show you photographs of other jobs.”

  “I’d like that, but I’m kind of busy just now. I’ll call you back.”

  I went to my garage, got the Mini, drove to Brooklyn.

  It’s not easy disposing of something in the city. Too many people, too many cameras. Too few places where disposal is permanent. But I knew of one. I navigated the nearly deserted streets of the old Busch Army Terminal, my route a crazy quilt of squared blocks. I didn’t think anyone was following me, but I was on a mission that inspired elevated security.

  Finally, I turned a corner, and the MCC appeared ahead. I might be recognized here, but my presence in the area was perfectly normal. Lawyers and jails go together like a horse and carriage. It was 4:00 p.m. The jail count was on, and no visitors would be allowed to enter. Perfect.

  I turned into the MCC’s dead-end street but drove past the jail, continuing on for a few hundred yards, parking on the end of the pier jutting into the lower harbor.

  I sat there like any lawyer with time to kill.

  But my eyes were on the rearview mirror. When I was sure no one was remotely near the pier, I opened the door and got out, stood there with one arm propped on top of the car, looking at Miss Liberty. The knapsack dangled from my other arm.

&nb
sp; I gave a casual look around and satisfied myself that the Mini blocked me from curious eyes or cameras. Then I swung the knapsack and released it. It hit the oily, green water, dipped for a moment, resurfaced, then slowly sank.

  I drove back to MCC and entered the lobby.

  “Count’s still on, Counselor.”

  “Jeez, Bonesy, I forgot. And I got another appointment. I can’t stick around until the count clears. Oh well, my client can wait.”

  “They’re good at waiting, Counselor.”

  “Some business we’re in, huh?”

  I drove back to the city, feeling better. Lighter. It wasn’t the loss of ten pounds of weight, rather the realization that Traum’s veiled threat was controllable. Even if Traum had seen Borg’s bag and realized what it was, there was no way he could prove anything. A question of “he says” versus what I say.

  Dumping it had inspired my little ploy of trying but failing to see Bolivar, which had another benefit: Bonesy would remember the joking manner in which I had left, which suggested that I was not concerned about immediately speaking to Bolivar so as to concoct a story distancing ourselves from the escape attempt.

  And if, unlikely as it seemed, Bolivar had not conspired to attempt his own escape, then I had no reason to speak to him now, either. The opposite. Given the failed proffer, best to let him stew in his own juices before opting for the next step, which I was reasonably sure would be another proffer that would hopefully lead to successful cooperation.

  That night I slept soundly.

  CHAPTER 51

  The next day, the pendulum swung once again. When I got to the office, a man was standing outside. Nelson Cano.

  Immediately, I recalled the idea of Cano being Traum’s source of information concerning Scally. Even as Cano opened his mouth to speak, I wagged a finger in his face.

  “Fuck Traum,” I said. “And fuck you.”

  Cano arched a brow. “Take it easy, Counselor. Nothing personal. Just doing my job is all.”

  “Tell Traum he’s not going to blackmail me.”