by David Wind
“Alone?”
He shook his head. “Three of us work it, I’m the primary.”
“And you’ve been able to narrow the trafficking to Rice?”
“The name has been around for a while, but no one knows the man. From what we’ve uncovered, Rice is the head of this organization. We’ve scooped up a lot of low-level people, but none gave us Rice. The closest we came was last year when we set up a sting, using several children as bait. The agent running the operation refused to deal with anyone except Rice.”
He paused; a strange expression crossed his face and then disappeared. “It went down the way it was supposed to, until the time Rice was due to show. We used a safe house for the meet.” He took another drink. “The team’s backup was split between two cars parked at a safe distance and three men in the woods behind the house.” His eyes hardened. Low light reflected from them like the glint off a knife blade. “Three of Rice’s men were in the house with two of our own men. The deal was they would meet Rice, who would bring the money, and turn over the children who were supposed to be in the house.”
“Rice was due at eleven. At eleven and one second, the house blew up, killing everyone inside.”
“How far in advance did you give him the address?”
“Three hours. We told him at eight o’clock. We’d been in the house since noon. There was no way he should have been able to know. But he did.”
“And you have no idea how?”
“I have ideas, but that’s all.”
“What do you have on Rice?”
“A lot of rumors and some guesses. The most significant of them tells us Rice was a former CIA agent by the name of Paul Wilkes, who’d worked the Asian theatre. He was one of their top men—a NOC—a deep cover black operations agent who delivered some of the best intelligence they’d ever gotten on the Chinese. But a few years into his tour, rumors began to reach us of his involvement in the heroin trade and in human trade—selling Thai and Indian children.”
“The CIA launched an investigation. Wilkes disappeared on his next mission. A month later, the CIA learned he’d been killed by Chinese agents. The body was never recovered.”
“Convenient.” I took a drink of club soda. “And the CIA accepted this?”
“What do you think?” he asked, his words weighted with disgust. “The eighties weren’t the best of times for the CIA. Wilkes’ death worked a lot better than having to arrest their agent and bring him home and expose a possible scandal.”
“What makes you think he wasn’t killed?”
“My director of operations.”
I studied him, waiting for him to go on. When he spoke again, his voice was low and intense. “My director is a former CIA section head. Paul Wilkes was one of his agents. When Homeland Security was formed, he was asked to move there from the CIA. He was the one who made the connection. He told me there were too many similarities between the operations in this country and what the Company had discovered on Wilkes’ operations in Thailand.”
The way Rice had been handling me made sense now. Rice was a professional, and by all appearances, he ran his organization the same way the CIA would run a covert operation. After hearing how Rice had ‘handled’ the last trap, I knew I’d been right in not giving him the address of the theatre.
“If you know who he is, why haven’t you gotten him yet?”
“Because all we have is the assumption that Rice is Wilkes. No one has ever met Rice, and if my boss is right, then Wilkes, or Rice if you want, has changed his name and appearance and no longer holds any resemblance to what he looked like in the eighties. Given what happened at the safe house last year, we can assume he has a line into Homeland Security.”
I knew the pipeline– the politician who Rice had been protecting these past twenty-five or so years—but it was a card I wasn’t ready to play yet. “You have no idea where he is?”
“Would I be here with you if I did?”
“When did you put eyes on me?”
“Sammy Warez was on our watch list. When he was arrested, it kicked up a flag. Your name was on the arrest report.”
“You’re not answering my question.”
“Be patient. We knew Warez was part of Rice’s operation—low level, but part of it.”
“And that warranted your attention on me?”
He shook his head. “No, but we’ve had Joey Parodi under observation because of his connection to the Contes and to Rice. The Looker’s Club was one of our hot spots. After your incident there, we got interested in you.”
“So you’re the one who put the muscle on the FBI to have Gina Torrelli sidelined.”
He laughed. “Yes.”
“You think that’s funny?”
“Perhaps Agent Torrelli and your assistant would like to join us?”
Yeah, he was good. I gave him a ‘tell me more’ look, and he complied.
“I said I checked out your background. It was a very thorough check. From what I learned, you don’t leave a lot to chance. You have a tough persona, and seem to act rashly, but that’s an act. You plot out everything and tilt the odds in your favor whenever possible. I do the same thing. Twenty minutes after we talked, I had a man in here.”
No matter what he’d found in my background, he’d underestimated me. “You didn’t read what was between the lines of my files. The tough has never been an act. By tomorrow morning you will have Gina Torrelli reinstated, with apologies from her boss and from yours or I tell you to fuck off and walk.”
Malcolm’s eyes went hard. “I don’t like to be given orders.”
“And I don’t give a damn if you like it or not. You take care of this or we’re out of here and you lose Rice.”
He blinked then. “And you have him?”
I didn’t say anything: he read my face.
“She’ll be reinstated by tomorrow, you have my word.”
I motioned over Malcolm’s shoulder for Gina and Femalé to join us. When they did, Gina brought her own chair and sat next to Malcolm and across from me. Gina glared at Malcolm, and I was happy not to be in his position.
“Twelve years of service, not a negative report in my file, and you had me sidelined because of your investigation instead of coming to me?”
“It was out of my hands,” Malcolm stated.
“That’s bullshit,” she snapped angrily.
When Malcolm didn’t respond, I stepped in. “Let’s table this for now, we have other issues.” I turned back to the Homeland Security agent. “Why hasn’t Homeland Security been able to trace Wilkes? There had to have been assets and family.”
“There were, and everyone involved in the investigations from the CIA to us are satisfied he’s never been in contact with anyone from his life prior to joining the CIA.”
“So you’ve been chasing a ghost for years and haven’t gotten any closer than having him kill two of your agents. Does that sum it up?”
“Yes, it sums it up,” he said, his eyes going to the forgotten glass in his hand.
I got it then, what had happened. “One, or both, of those agents was your friend, yes?”
His eyes flicked up. He hesitated for a moment. “One of those agents was my brother.”
I took it in and held it close while surprise showed on both women’s faces. “Then you know how I feel about my friend’s death.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.
“Yes, but Scotty Granger’s killing wasn’t Rice’s style.”
“I agree. Rice is too professional. I believe it’s the politician he has in his pocket—that’s who I want.”
Malcolm’s face remained stoic, but the sharp flair of his nostrils told me I’d struck pay dirt.
“He’ll give him up. But it won’t be easy,” the agent conceded.
“Maybe, maybe not, but there’s another way: if no one knows what Rice looks like, there’s a damned good chance it’s because his face is known on a different level. I need Rice’s face—the rest of him….” I shrugged, “is y
ours.”
Understanding rippled across Malcolm’s features. “I get Rice; you get what you need at the same time.”
Femalé started to speak, but stopped at my warning glance.
“How is Rice connected to the Conte Family?” Gina asked. The question was one I should have asked earlier.
Malcolm studied Gina. “We believe when Rice—Wilkes—was in Thailand, he made the connection with the Contes and began to supply them with high-grade heroin. In turn, they supplied him with protection for his other ah…endeavors.”
“He’s still supplying them with drugs?” Gina asked.
“The organization he started in Asia is. We assume he still runs it.”
“Are you telling me there’s more money in children than in heroin?” My voice echoed my doubt.
“More? Who knows? We’re talking a lot of money, but there’s more to it than that. My boss told me the CIA learned Rice had a predilection for young girls. He’s made more money than you can imagine. He has power and wealth; but it’s the power ruling Rice’s actions.
The money has taken a back seat. He has the power of life and death over all those children, and he’s got the power of a god over his customers. He can give them the most important things in their lives: young children. Or, he can take away what they crave above all else.”
“And you’re helpless to stop him, which feeds him even more power.”
“Yes,” Malcolm admitted.
“Here’s the deal. I give you Rice, after I get what I need. You stay out of my way until then.”
“When will then be?”
“Tomorrow.”
Malcolm studied my face. “The best agencies in this country have spent over two decades on Rice. Now you’re telling me the three of you can do this. I don’t think so.”
Femalé raised a single eyebrow. “You’re cute for a white guy, but you don’t know dick about the street. Rice is the street. He knows the side streets and back alleys. He knows you’re pretty much stuck on the main streets: you can’t help it, because it’s way you were raised. But Gabe learned the hard way, and if you want to win this game—want Rice, you want to do what Gabe says.”
Like I’ve been saying all along, Femalé’s seventy-five percent of Storm Investigations, and she was doing her job well. “It’s your call,” I told Malcolm.
He didn’t think long on it. “When and where?”
“I don’t know you or your people; what I do know, is the last time Rice agreed to a meeting, you lost two agents. We both know how and why. When the time comes, I’ll let you know the where and when. You just be ready to move. Gina gets reinstated to full duty, you get Rice when I’m done with him and everyone is happy.”
To Malcolm’s credit, he didn’t spend any time thinking it over. “What do you need?”
I called Charlie over and ordered a scotch to replace the club soda I’d been playing with. When she left, I said, “This is how it will work.”
Chapter 56
Sitting on the stage, staring at the rows of empty seats brought a rush of memories of the times before Elaine’s death when life was simple and my ambition was on becoming a director. But life is never that simple, because reality has a way of sneaking up and knocking you down when you least expect.
I pushed the old memories deep inside, where they belonged. The theatre was silent, but it had a life of its own. The building was seventy years old and, like an old man, had its quirks. Little noises, never heard when people were around and talking, became amplified: The sound of a low draft rustling the hem of a stage curtain; the padding of a rodent in the crawlspace above the stage mixed with the hum of electricity powering the lights.
But there were no human sounds. Femalé, manning the camera in the balcony was out of view. Gina was to my left, seated cross-legged on the orchestra pit floor, her back to the wall: You would have to bend over the edge to see her, which Rice wouldn’t because I would never let him get that close.
Tarz, in the theatre’s lobby, awaited Rice’s arrival. I’d called Rice ten minutes ago with the address. Five minutes before that, I’d called Malcolm. What Malcolm didn’t know, was that after leaving O’Brien’s last night I’d talked to Sonny Marks and laid out what was happening, including the addition of Homeland Security.
He’d been angry at first, telling me I’d promised him Rice’s arrest. But after I’d explained that Rice wasn’t Scotty’s killer, he’d eased off enough to agree to back me up should the set-up go sour.
Marks had met us in front of the theatre at seven. Now the detective sergeant and two of his men were hidden in the ticket office. Everything was set, including me.
It was seven fifty-seven—three minutes remained. Running my hand over my jacket, I drew comfort from the feel of the Sig. Its baby brother was holstered at the small of my back.
The small walkie-talkie in my left hand crackled just before Tarz announced, “Car pulling up.”
It was seven fifty-nine.
“Two men coming out,” he said.
I bit down my surprise. There should have been three; Rice had said he was bringing two men, not one. I wondered why. “Let them in. Once they’re inside, make a show of locking the door and then standing with your back to it. You know what to do after that.”
“Letting them in,” he reported.
I went to the second row and placed the walkie-talkie in the crease between the raised seat and the seat back then moved into the center of the aisle. Like the saying goes, life is theatre. Where I stood was important. I had to make sure his face was visible and, to do so, I had to give him the power position, which, psychologically, was the best thing.
He needed to feel in control. I had no idea how tall he was, but with the downward slope of the floor, he should appear taller than me, which would give him the advantage of looking down at me—a power position.
The radio crackled. “One stayed with the car.” Which meant Rice was coming alone.
It felt wrong, but there was no time to think as the door to the left center aisle opened. Rice stepped through, closed the door and started forward. His stride was graceful and athletic, his hips rolled, and his shoulders and arms moved in rhythm. He wore a dark suit and white open collared shirt. When he was fifteen feet from me, I was able to make out his face.
Plain and indistinctive, it was a face you wouldn’t look at twice—the perfect face for a ghost. An average size nose was set symmetrically above a large mouth. Small ears hugged the side of his head; his hair was moderate in length and dark brown. He stopped five feet away. His skin was smooth—too smooth for someone in his mid-fifties or older. His neck gave his age away. A plastic surgeon could do wonders, but the neck always told the truth.
Rice was an inch shorter than I was, but from his position he stood a half head taller. His expressionless eyes were pale grey and bore down at me like drops of molten steel. I remembered Fuhrman’s description: ‘dead cold killer eyes’. He wasn’t wrong.
“If you are finished sizing me up, perhaps we can get on with our business.” He spoke in the same refined voice I’d listened to on the phone and heard in the Looker’s Club.
The way he’d said ‘our business’ irritated me as much as the superior way he talked. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to stop me from finding a killer. Why?”
He met the question without any hesitation. “I suppose you are speaking of Scotty Granger’s murderer? You are wrong.”
“I don’t think I’m wrong.”
“What you think does not matter. The truth is you have become an annoyance, one I want gone, one way or another. How that will happen is your choice. What will it take to have you walk away from this? How much money do you require?”
My goal, before dealing, was to get him talking. “First I’d like answers to some questions.”
“That would depend on the questions.”
“Why was Margaret Ann McNickles killed?”
Rice’s face remained blank. “That was not supposed to happ
en. Warez was told to make the girl disappear. He chose the wrong method. He was supposed to send her away because you were after her.”
“Oh, he sent her away alright…. And you should have known he would. You recruited him and you knew what he would do. It wouldn’t have been the first time.”
“I have never met him, Storm; you should know how this works. No one meets anyone.”
The cool way he said it chilled me; it also told me he took no chances. His entire operation was covert—communistic and cell-like, which was why Homeland Security and the FBI before them had been unable to crack it. It served to reinforce Malcolm’s claim of Rice being former CIA. His words, and the way he’d spoken told me by the end of this deal, I was scheduled to be terminated. Charles Rice, or whatever his name was, wasn’t the type to leave anything to chance.
“What agency were you with Rice, before you went out on your own, CIA?
Rice smiled: his lips were the only feature that moved on his face. “Nice try.”
“If I was able to learn about your operations, how far behind is the FBI?”
“Not your concern. What do you want?”
“Answers. Like, what did you take from Scotty’s apartment?”
This time there was a reaction: A surprised flicker in his eyes. “You did not find–” He stopped himself. “I took nothing.”
I knew I’d missed something important, but I didn’t have the time to figure it out now. “What were you looking for?” I had to take the shot: Real life isn’t like the movies where the bad guy unravels the mystery and ties up the loose ends because he’s got the drop on you and knows he’s going to kill you. Rice didn’t have the drop on me, nor, from the way he was eyeing me, was he ready to lay it all out—but it had been worth the effort.
When he spoke, his voice was like a bored schoolteacher. “Like you have become, Scotty Granger was a thorn in our side. He had spent years looking for missing girls. I believed he had certain information I could not chance falling into the wrong hands. When he died, I looked for it. But I was wrong, there was nothing.”