Inside Mobile Control One, Seaver transmitted the signal for all platforms to switch their cameras back on.
Alejandro darted over to the pallets covered by the overspreads. After taking the nine-millimeter submachine gun out of the overnight, he knelt on one knee and lifted up the bottom of the overhang to see what looked like gold bars. Using the gun barrel, he scraped off a thin layer of gold paint to reveal the bluish white metallic dullness of lead. I bet they keep shipping this junk all over the world, he thought.
He hurried up the steps onto the balcony. Gallons of gold paint and cases labeled “Zircons” were stored there. Leaning over the railing of the balcony, he surveyed the warehouse. The spooky quiet of the vast space made him uncomfortable. The walls were all brick except for the west one, which appeared to be plasterboard that had been painted black. There were pyramids of wooden crates along the entire width of that wall.
He climbed back down to the main floor. Walking down the aisle between the racks, he surveyed the merchandise stored in the shelves. He stopped at a row of pandas and began prodding the furry toy animals, trying to feel what was inside. The stuffing felt lumpy. He turned one panda on its back, checking out the seam. It appeared to be stitched flush. Trying to pull it apart, he was startled when the Velcro seam ripped apart to reveal packets of white powder. He didn’t need a testing kit to figure out he’d found the Cleopatra Gold. He took down a doll and tore off its head; it was packed with heroin.
He opened the overnight and took out a handful of stainless-steel containers that looked like hockey pucks. They were filled with Pyranol, an incendiary that ignited for only a few seconds but produced extremely high temperatures, heat intense enough to burn through a half inch of steel in two seconds.
He began placing the Pyranol disks on the shelves next to the stuffed animals. That done, he reached back into his overnight, took out a handful of igniters, and began inserting them into the detonation holes in the container’s faceplates. He went around connecting the wires extending from the igniters to eight digital timers. When the timers reached the preset time, the circuit would close and the current from the battery would fire the igniters. The ensuing fire would spread quickly, burning with enough intensity to melt all the racks and vaporize the heroin. Checking the time, and seeing that it was 3:25, he decided to set the timers for 4:05. Seaver was supposed to unlock the sliding door at precisely four o’clock. That would give him just enough time to snoop around and see if he had overlooked any goodies.
Pizzaro kept his eyes on the Jeep Cherokee in the two side mirrors throughout the van’s circuitous ride through the city.
Fiona’s instincts told her something had gone dreadfully wrong, and she was scared. Unarmed, she felt naked, totally exposed. She recalled the parting words of her close-combat instructor: “When all else fails, run.” She glanced at the back door.
“It’s locked, chica,” Pizzaro said.
Sal Elia was trapped in the gridlock of Park Avenue’s northbound lane one block away from the Waldorf Astoria. The traffic lights were out of sync, and there were triple-parked limousines lined up in front of the famous hotel, forcing the traffic to squeeze past slowly. Horns blared and tempers flared as Pizzaro’s van inched its way through and sped across Fiftieth Street.
Elia could do nothing but creep along with the rest of the traffic, frustration gnawing at him. He hated these secret one-man jobs. He should have at least half a dozen other vehicles on this tail. He was shocked when he saw Pizzaro’s van draw up to the curb between Fiftieth and Fifty-first and stop.
Smart bastards, he thought, an ironic smile forming in the corners of his mouth. They’re waiting there to see if they’re being followed; I’ll have to drive on past them. He inched the Jeep up, next in line to enter the bottleneck.
The clouded back window of one of the triple-parked limousines purred down, leaving a six-inch opening. Jasmine leaned her delicate shoulder into the stock of a small-bore rifle as her finger tightened around the trigger. Her eyes focused on the cross hairs of the sniperscope, zeroing in on the side of Elia’s head.
Let’s get going, Elia was thinking at the moment the bullet tore into his head.
Jasmine thumbed the window control to Up and leaned back against the cushioned seat. Che-Che was sitting beside her. “It’s done,” he said into his cellular telephone. “I’ll meet you at the warehouse.”
Pizzaro’s van sped away from the curb.
Alejandro’s attention had been drawn to the warehouse’s black wall. The more he looked at it, the more he realized that it somehow threw off the dimensions of the building. He decided to take a closer look. Lugging his overnight with him, he walked over and squeezed in alongside one of the crates. Casting his eyes down the aisle separating the crates from the wall, he figured that there was about a three-foot space between them.
To his right, four pyramids over, there was a wooden door concealed behind the boxes. He ran over to it and pressed himself between two stacks of crates to reach the door. It was a hollow door with cheap hardware, and it was unlocked. He opened it. There was about four feet between the brick wall and the plasterboard.
Stepping into the space, he confronted a steel fire door; on it was a cipher lock with a handpad. No way I’m getting past that, he thought. He bent down in the cramped space and took out the television camera that had a fiber-optic cord with a video lens set into its tip. He switched on the tiny television monitor and began snaking the cord underneath the steel door. Sweat rolled down from his armpits. He wiped his forehead dry with one arm, checked the time, and saw that he still had twenty-seven minutes until detonation.
Judith Stern had been working in her office inside Whiggham Associates when Pizzaro’s telephone call came. After listening to him, she slammed the phone down angrily, opened her alligator pocketbook to make sure her automatic pistol was inside, and hurried from her office, cursing “those stupid fucking Latino assholes.”
Burke was at his desk, trying to keep his mind on an Unusual Occurrence report he was reading from the duty captain of the Seven-eighth Precinct, about a shooting that had gone down earlier that morning involving two members of one of his Buy and Bust teams in Brooklyn. He felt immense satisfaction when he read the paragraph that explained how after the arresting officers identified themselves to the suspects, the three mutts reached for their TEC-9s and were shot dead by the undercovers. Three less scumbags, he thought just as Captain Dave Katz came bursting into his office.
Too Tall Paulie’s eyes fixed on his XO’s ashen face. “Shit,” he muttered. He’d seen that expression too many times over these past years. “Who?” he asked in a barely audible voice.
“Sal Elia was ambushed in front of the Waldorf. He’s dead.”
Burke’s lips trembled and he buried his face in his hands.
Katz brushed his own eyes dry, sucked in a deep breath, and asked, “Do you want to go to the scene?”
Too Tall Paulie’s hands fell to his desk. With a tone of awful calm, he ordered, “Get me Romano on the line.”
Alejandro stared with openmouthed fascination at what he was seeing on the tiny television screen. Mountains of money were stacked on pallets, filling the concealed space behind the fire door. He felt as though he were dreaming. During all his years working in the slime pool he had heard stories about the legendary money warehouses, but never had he seen one.
Moving the lighted probe under the door, going from one green mountain to another, he thought that there was just no way any criminal justice system could withstand the corrupting seduction of so much money.
Putting his mouth down to the transmitter pen in his shirt, he whispered, “The back of the warehouse is packed with their money.” He was snaking the cord farther inside the concealed room when he heard the outside accordion door being rolled up. He quickly checked his watch: there was plenty of time left before Seaver was due to let him out. He hurriedly pulled the snake out from under the door and stuffed the television monitor into his
knapsack. “Don’t come rushing in,” he radioed to Seaver. “Maybe they’ll just be here a few minutes.”
“Bullshit,” Seaver said, listening to the transmission, while he watched more of Pizzaro’s men climbing out of the van.
Alejandro hunkered down behind the crates, his hand firm around the nine-millimeter’s pistol grip, his finger flexed on the trigger. He slid the selector to three-burst rounds and noticed that his hand was shaking. He told himself to be calm, then brushed his arm across his brow, wiping away the sweat running into his eyes. He looked at his watch; eighteen minutes until detonation. Hiding behind the crates, making himself as small as he could, he peeked out and watched the dopers coming in.
Juan, the one with the short ponytail and diamond chip in his ear, was the first to enter. Fiona and Pizzaro were next, followed by three other dopers. The door was pulled down with a bang and locked; Fiona felt her knees go weak and a chill creep up her spine.
As he walked over to her, Pizzaro’s expression turned deadly. “Why don’t you explain to me why you joined the Saint George Association and the Policewomen’s Endowment Association?” he asked calmly. Then, without a flicker of warning, he punched her in the mouth, sending her to the floor.
“I don’t know—” She broke off when Pizzaro brutally kicked her in her stomach, bending her double in agony.
Alejandro’s natural instinct was to come out of his hiding place firing; but common sense stopped him. He’d be able to take out Pizzaro and maybe two, or even three, others, but not before one of them killed Fiona. The wise thing was to wait for the explosion. When the dopers were thrown off guard, he could lay down a field of fire from his hiding place. With the sound suppressor and the heat and smoke from the fire, the dopers might not even be able to locate him.
Peeking out from behind his hiding place, he saw Fiona take another kick in the face that slapped her head backward. Hold on, Fiona, he prayed silently.
Two of the crew pulled her up from the floor. Pizzaro grabbed her chin. “You’re a cop.”
“No I’m not,” she mumbled through the blood streaming from her nose and mouth. “I was only a cop for three weeks. They fired me because I kicked one of the instructors in the balls. I told all this to Caswell. Didn’t he tell you?”
Pizzaro punched her in the stomach. “No, he didn’t tell me, because you didn’t tell him.” He started to walk away, turned suddenly, and kicked her in the groin. She collapsed, sagging between two dopers.
“Pull off her jeans,” Pizzaro ordered, taking out a butane lighter and turning up the flame. Grabbing her hair, he held the hissing flame up to her face and said, “I’m going to burn your pussy with this, and then you’re going to tell me whatever I want to know.”
She lashed out with her legs, fighting to prevent them from removing her jeans.
The warehouse door opened and Che-Che and Jasmine came in, followed by four of Che-Che’s bodyguards.
“What is all this?” Che-Che demanded, watching the struggling woman.
“She’s a cop,” Pizzaro said.
“I’m not a cop,” she said, glaring defiantly at her tormentors.
Che-Che went over to her and looked into her eyes. “Maybe she’s telling the truth.”
Pizzaro shook his head in violent disagreement. “Che-Che, they pulled all her records, but forgot about the membership in the cops’ religious and fraternal clubs,” he said.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Che-Che said, watching Juan yank her jeans off, “but I can’t take that chance.” He motioned to Pizzaro to continue his interrogation.
“Want her underpants off?” Juan asked Pizzaro.
“Naw, leave ’em on; I’ll burn my way through. Get her down on her back and spread her legs,” Pizzaro ordered.
Alejandro could wait no longer. He slid the barrel of the nine-millimeter submachine gun along the ledge of one of the uneven crates and began drawing a sight on Pizzaro’s back as the doper slowly moved the flame up between Fiona’s thrashing legs.
“Don’t do that,” Judith called, slamming a side door of the warehouse behind her and locking it.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, telling me what to do?” Pizzaro shouted as she approached.
“I’m your boss, Hector. Kill her if you have to, but don’t do that,” she said, her glacial expression leaving no doubt that she was ready to kill if he disobeyed her.
Pizzaro’s mouth fell open; he looked to Che-Che for orders.
Che-Che’s smile had a hint of delight as he looked at Pizzaro and said, “Do what Judith tells you. She and I got a private thing going.”
Pizzaro quickly recovered his composure. “Whatever you say.”
Alejandro crouched back down, cradling the nine-millimeter submachine gun in his arms, aware of the sweat coursing down his temples and the loud thumping of his heart. Hang on, Fiona. Hang on, he prayed.
Judith walked up to Fiona. “Let her get dressed,” she said, handing her her jeans.
“Thanks,” Fiona said, taking them and turning away from the others while she put them on.
“Shit,” Romano said, hanging up the phone. He had just been informed by the front desk that the commanding officer of Narcotics was on his way in to see him.
The door to his office burst open; Burke seemed to fill the entire doorway, rage visible in his flushed expression and throbbing temples. Romano had never seen Burke like this before. The sheer ferocity made him rise slowly out of his seat and ask in a shocked voice, “What?”
“Che-Che just had Sal Elia whacked in front of the Waldorf. Another one of my people is dead because of your goddamn lies.”
Romano began to regain some of his composure. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Alejandro Monahan.” He slammed the door behind him and stormed over to the desk. “He’s either with you, or he’s with Che-Che, and you’re going to tell me.”
“I’m sorry about Elia, but what the hell does that have to do with Alejandro?”
“Elia was baby-sitting Fiona Lee when he was killed.”
“Who the hell is Fiona Lee?” Romano shouted.
“She’s my undercover, who is flying the planes that are parachuting heroin into this city!” Burke shouted back.
Romano sank into his seat, his lips pressed together tightly.
“Sal Elia’s murder means that her cover was blown. If we don’t get to her fast, they’ll kill her, too. I don’t want to lose another one of my people, Joey.”
“Paulie—”
“No more bullshit! Get on that fucking horn to your spies and find out where my Fiona is. If you don’t, I’m going to plant disinformation bombshells all over this town on the nonexistent Special Ops Unit of the NYPD. I’ll send all those ACLU liberals into a feeding frenzy that will make Knapp look like a love-in.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” Romano said uncertainly.
“Try me.”
Andy Seaver was chewing nervously on his tenth cheroot of the day and staring at the monitors inside the recreational vehicle when the radio crackled. “Control to Mobile One, K.”
“Mobile One standing by, K,” Seaver transmitted.
“What is happening? K,” Joey-the-G-Man asked.
Seaver told him that Pizzaro and the rest of the crew had turned up at the warehouse.
“Was there a woman with them?” Joey-the-G-Man asked, and gave Fiona’s description.
“Affirmative, she arrived with Pizzaro.”
“She’s a narc undercover. Her cover’s been blown.”
“You’re so young and beautiful,” Che-Che said, caressing Fiona’s face. “Does Alejandro know you’re a cop?”
“I’m not a cop,” she insisted.
“Of course you are,” he said, walking away from the others and crossing the warehouse to a large cardboard box near the cages that housed stray dogs. He pushed the carton aside to reveal a deep pit that had been dug out below the floor. “Bring her over here,” he ordered.
Pizzaro
and another doper dragged the struggling undercover toward the pit.
Hiding behind the crate, Alejandro inched his way up into a kneeling position, tightening the machine gun’s short stock against his shoulder and sighting in on Pizzaro.
Fiona, both arms gripped tightly by the dopers, looked down into the pit. A brown-and-green anaconda about fifteen feet long was coiled up at the bottom. It lay motionless, silent; its serpentine eyes glowed like dark emeralds.
“Isn’t he pretty?” Che-Che cooed.
“It’s as obscene as you are,” Fiona said, looking away, her eyes darting frantically toward the west wall and the stack of crates lined up in front of it. Suddenly she caught a glimpse of a man staring down the barrel of a submachine gun with a bulbous snout. She quickly looked away, unsure if it was Alejandro but hoping to God it was.
“May I talk to her?” Judith asked Che-Che.
“Yeah. Try and talk some smarts into her.”
“They’ll kill you if you don’t let me help you,” Judith said. “Is it worth giving up your life?”
“I’m not a cop. I can prove it.”
Judith began to say something, but her mouth froze open as her eyes went wide; staring across the warehouse, she had just noticed the exposed igniter wires strung across the storage racks and around the necks of the stuffed animals. Almost as if she’d been dazed by a blow, she walked stiffly toward the racks.
At that moment a thunderous fireball exploded across the warehouse.
Cleopatra Gold Page 29