The Butcher's Bill (The Linus Schag, NCIS, Thrillers Book 2)

by Martin Roy Hill

  "What was that guy saying?" the second guard asked. "Sounded like gibberish."

  The black guard, who enjoyed listening to reggae himself, shook his head. "He said he understood my directions and that I'd been very helpful. That's not what's weird, though."

  "What then?"

  "He asked me if I enjoyed his music."

  "So?"

  "There wasn't any music playing," the guard said.

  ☼

  Schag stared out at the night beyond the window of his room at the Gateway Inn, massaging his shoulder and testing its range of motion again. The pain from the movement encouraged him to take another sip of Scotch, and he was once again thankful he wasn't on a dry Navy ship. Offshore, the oil tanker still swung at anchor, her deck lights dancing on the waves lapping at her sides.

  After Riley left the hospital, Schag had visited Parker in his room. Painkillers left the young agent drifting in and out of consciousness, and Schag didn't stay long. He took a taxi to the police impound yard and recovered his rental car, where it was towed after homicide detectives finished their investigation at the cemetery. Then he returned to his hotel room.

  He still could not understand Tom Riley's reluctance to get involved in any of the investigations that seemed to be growing around Bill Butcher. Sure, he could understand the manhunt for Bill was a job for the local agencies, but there were other federal agencies lending them assistance. While Riley could argue the murder of Gavin was a local matter, the subsequent ambush of two of his own agents gave NCIS the nexus, or the connection to the crime, that it needed to claim jurisdiction. It was arguable Gavin's impersonation of an NCIS special agent with the apparent intent to blackmail Lieutenant Commander Clarke—or at least neutralize her role in the search for Butcher —also gave the agency the nexus it needed. Schag had known senior agents before who shied away from controversial cases, but Riley seemed determined, even eager, to keep his hands clean of anything dealing with Bill Butcher, and that raised the hackles on Schag's neck.

  A knock on the door stirred Schag from his thoughts. He glanced at his watch. It was a little after ten-thirty. Late for a social call. Moreover, he didn't know anyone in town who would want to be social with him. Stepping to the door, he removed the small, rolled-up piece of tissue he always placed in the peephole of hotel doors—most people didn't realize those peep holes were two-way—and looked out. All he could see was a shoulder and long, black dreadlocks.

  "Who is it?" he called.

  "Taxi for Mista Schag, mon."

  "I didn't call a taxi," Schag said.

  "No, mon, Mista Riley—he called. Said he want to see you but you all busted up. Couldn't drive, mon."

  Schag shook his head, barely able to understand the man's accent. Normally, Schag would never open the door to a stranger unless he had his pistol in his hand. On the other hand, he was on a protected Navy base—a base with nuclear submarines and the security force to protect them. He opened the door.

  "I'm sorry but I don't und—"

  A black man with shoulder length dreadlocks and dark glasses stood in the doorway. He held a savage-looking .45 caliber automatic pointed at Schag's stomach. His mouth parted in a big toothy smile.

  "Don't you want to let an old friend in, Lin?" the man asked.

  Schag recognized the voice and the smile.

  Bill Butcher.

  CHAPTER 19

  THURSDAY

  Naval Base Point Loma

  San Diego, California

  2245 Hours

  SCHAG BACK PEDDLED INTO THE room. Butcher, his gun still aimed at Schag, followed him inside and closed the door. Butcher removed the dark glasses, revealing blue eyes that quickly scanned the room. Satisfied they were alone, Butcher turned to Schag.

  "Well, how do I look," he said. "Not bad for a dead man, eh?"

  Schag gestured to the black makeup on Butcher's face and hands. "A little charred, perhaps."

  Butcher puzzled at the remark, looked as his hands, chuckling once he understood the reference to the cabin fire.

  "Yeah, well, the cops are looking for a big, bald white guy," he said. "It was this or a Hispanic, and Yolanda always said my Spanish accent was crap."

  "You got on base disguised as Rastafarian cab driver?"

  Butcher shrugged. "The cab I stole added some validity."

  "How'd you know I was here?"

  "I figured you be staying at a Gateway, so I called each one asking to talk to you until I found the one where you were checked in. Then I called the main gate, told them I was you, and that you were expecting a taxi to take you to the airport."

  "Are you going to keep that cannon pointing at me all night?" Schag asked.

  "Do I need to?" Schag shook his head. "Good. Then I'll put it away as soon as you assure me you don't have a cannon available to point at me. Do you?"

  "My service pistol is in the desk drawer," Schag said, turning and pointing to the desk where his laptop sat.

  "And that pea-shooter you keep as a backup?" Butcher asked.

  "Same place." Schag said, pulling up his pants legs to reveal his ankles.

  Keeping Schag covered, Butcher eased over to the desk, slid the drawer open, and peered inside. Both of Schag's weapons lay inside. Satisfied, Butcher closed the drawer, stuck the .45 in his waistband, and tugged off the wig.

  "If that's a bottle of whiskey on the dresser over there, I could sure use some."

  Schag moved to the dresser and poured two stiff drinks. When he turned around, Butcher was pulling the remnants of his fake beard from his face. With the wig and the beard gone, only the middle portion of his face was dark with makeup. He looked like an over-grown raccoon. Schag couldn't stop from laughing, which made Butcher grin. The wide grin only added to his raccoon appearance, making Schag laugh harder, and causing him to slosh the drinks.

  "Give me my damn drink before you spill it, Lin," Butcher said. He took the drink and walked into the bathroom. After washing his face and hands, he went back into the room and found Schag looking at him, the laughter replaced with a look of sorrow. "What?"

  "Yolanda is worrying herself to death over you, Bill," Schag said. "You know that?"

  "Of course, I do," Butcher said. He dropped into a chair and took a long swig of Scotch, closed his eyes, and sighed. "I didn't start this, Lin," he said, looking up. "I didn't bring this on."

  Schag studied his friend for a while, noticing the lines on his face were deeper, and his crisp blue eyes a little duller, wearier. It looked as if Bill had aged ten years since the last time Schag saw him.

  "Then who did, Bill?" Schag said. "Start at the beginning."

  Butcher pursed his lips, then nodded.

  "It started back in Iraq," he said. He sipped his Scotch and looked at Schag. "Remember when we had dinner in Bahrain?" Schag nodded. "I told you about the money, right?"

  Schag nodded again. "The eight or nine billion in cash that disappeared. You were on a joint task force investigating its disappearance and you all were told to drop the case."

  "And that didn't make sense, Lin," he continued. "We were losing thousands of dollars in equipment and supplies each month. We knew much of it went to the insurgents. We'd find their dead and wounded wearing our bandages and our plastic explosives in their IEDs. How could we be certain that missing money didn't go to the insurgents, too? Eight point nine billion would buy an awful lot of AK-47s and ammo, not to mention an Abrams tank or two."

  "Did it?" Schag asked.

  "No fucking idea," Butcher said, shaking his head. "I heard about some guy from D.C. who supposedly was sent out to find out what happened to the money. Met him a couple times. He said he found some of it stashed in a bunker in Lebanon. Lebanon!"

  "Did he retrieve it?"

  "Never had a chance. A short while later he was in a helo that went down. Killed everyone aboard. The official verdict was a mechanical malfunction. But I saw the accident investigators' notes, and according to the eyewitnesses, the helo blew up in mid-air."
<
br />   "Shoulder-fired missile or rocket-propelled grenade?" Schag asked.

  "If it were, why not just say so in the report?" Butcher said. "I mean, we were in a combat zone."

  Schag sat back, looking at Butcher. "You're saying it was a bomb?"

  Butcher paused a moment before answering, collecting his thoughts.

  "I can't say for sure, Lin," he said. "But it was sure damned convenient for whoever took that money."

  "And no one ever followed up?"

  Butcher shook his head.

  "But you did."

  "Yep."

  "And what happened?"

  "Got my leash yanked—hard," Butcher said. "I tried to keep it on the down low, unofficial. But word got back to our offices in Bahrain, and they read me the proverbial riot act."

  "How did they find out?" Schag asked. "You were in Baghdad. They couldn't have had that much oversight."

  Butcher shrugged and sipped his drink.

  "A spy," he said.

  "What?"

  "Some of us had suspicions there was a mole in our system, either there in Baghdad or somewhere higher up. We'd be conducting an investigation and suddenly the suspects would disappear. We'd plan a raid on some place where we suspected black marketeering was going on, and when we launched the raid, the place would be empty. It happened repeatedly, like someone was tipping them off."

  "And you think the mole tipped off regional headquarters in Bahrain?"

  "No, no, not like that," Butcher said. "I think the people who stole the cash tipped off the mole."

  Schag sat back and digested what Butcher had said. If whoever stole the cash had tipped off the mole inside NCIS, then the mole had to be working for them. Not only was the mole informing on investigations, but blocking them, too. It was something that sounded too familiar to Schag.

  "Tom Riley was your supervisory agent, wasn't he?" Schag asked.

  Butcher nodded. "Why?"

  "What do you think of him?"

  Butcher shrugged. His mouth turned down in thought, and he shook his head.

  "I have no grief with him," he said. "He's political, a ladder climber, but that's not unheard of in the agency."

  "But he'd be the one who pulled your leash, right?"

  "Yeah, but . . ." Butcher paused, understanding where Schag was going. He shook his head. "No, I don't think it was like that, Lin. He's not a bad guy. He's fair. And he didn't have the power to kill the original task force investigation. That had to come from much higher up. In fact, he was as pissed off about it as I was. When he came down on me later, he was just following orders. They told us to stop, and he was just making sure we did. That's the kind of agent he is—by the book, make no waves. But like I said, that's not unusual in the agency."

  Butcher's opinion of Riley was the same as Schag's. Career climbers like Riley never took chances, never risked a rebuke. They attended the right parties, shook the right hands. There were people like that in every large agency or corporation. Hell, they were in the military, too. In truth, Schag felt relieved to hear Butcher dismiss his suspicions.

  "Okay, let's get back to what's been happening to you," Schag said.

  "I followed Riley's orders until I got back from Iraq," Butcher continued. "I was working out of the Northwest Regional office then. I just couldn't stop thinking about that money, about who took it, where it went. It was like a little voice whispering in my ear. You ever hear things like that, Lin?"

  Schag tensed, remembering Lieutenant Commander Clarke's description of agueloquine psychosis. "You mean like a hunch?" he said. "Like a voice in your head alerting you to something before it happens?"

  "No," Butcher said. "More like someone actually speaking to me, but there's no one there. I'd hear this voice saying, 'Look here' or 'Look over there,' and then I'd have to go look. I couldn't stop myself. I kept looking, digging into the financial record of contractors working in Iraq, checking their tax returns, their financial statements. Every spare minute I had, I kept looking."

  Schag remembered what Yolanda told him about Bill's obsession, but he didn't think this was the time to mention it. "Then what happened?"

  A triumphant grin spread across Butcher's face.

  "I found the son-of-a-bitch who stole the money."

  CHAPTER 20

  THURSDAY

  Naval Base Point Loma

  San Diego, California

  2330 Hours

  BILL BUTCHER REMOVED HIS RIGHT boot. Reaching inside, he pulled back the inner sole and removed the micro-disk he had placed there earlier. He flipped it to Schag as if it were a coin.

  "Your laptop read those?" he asked. Schag nodded. "Then let's put it in."

  They both crowded around the desk as the laptop read the tiny disk and opened its directory. Dozens of folders crowded the screen. Schag clicked on the first folder. It opened to reveal more folders inside. He looked at Butcher.

  "I've been a busy boy," Butcher said, smiling proudly. "Go back to the beginning." When Schag complied, he pointed to a single file standing alone. "Click on that."

  The file blossomed into a spider diagram. At the center was a circle inside of which was the name "Gordias LLC." Dozens of lines reached out like tentacles from the center circle to touch other circles. Inside each of those circles appeared another business name. From those circles, more lines stretched out to touch additional circles with names, and lines from those circles touched others. It looked like so many victims stuck in the grip of an intricate spider web.

  "Ever hear of Gordias, LLC?" Butcher asked. Schag shook his head. "Know the myth of Gordias?"

  "As in the Gordian Knot?" Schag said.

  Butcher nodded. "Gordias was a poor Macedonian farmer who rode his ox cart into the kingdom of Phrygia. The Phrygians had lost their king, and an oracle told them the first man to enter the kingdom would be their new leader. Gordias was that man. Gordias's old ox cart stood in the palace for years, tied down in place by his son with a knot impossible to untie—the Gordian Knot."

  "Like this diagram," Schag said, nodding at the picture on the laptop screen. "This represents business relationships among . . . must be a hundred different companies."

  "One hundred and twenty-three," Butcher said. "And that's just upper levels."

  Schag knew that drug cartels used multiple layers of businesses—some real, some only on paper—to launder their profits. Even legitimate corporations used layers of businesses to hide profits from the IRS. However, he had never seen anything this elaborate. Like the Gordian Knot, an investigator could go around and around all these holdings and never find the end.

  "Cartel?" Schag guessed.

  "Define cartel," Butcher said. Schag looked at him, and Butcher shook his head. "No drugs that I could find. But let's say the business practices of Gordias, LLC, aren't much different than a cartel's."

  "Are these real companies?"

  "For the most part, yes," Butcher said. "Some might bend the definition of 'real,' but they're not false fronts the way you're thinking."

  "And Gordias owns them all?"

  "Owns them, runs them, or controls them," Butcher said. "Let me start at the beginning. Gordias is both an investment group and a business management group. It offers companies long-term management services for a fee. That's called a fee stream. They take that fee stream to a bank—always one of a half a dozen banks Gordias always does business with because it has management services contracts with them, too—and they leverage the fee stream against a Standing Letter of Credit. That's as good as cash. They use that letter of credit to buy or invest in another company. They sign management services contracts with those companies, which produces another fee stream, and that is used to get still another letter of credit, and so on. All along the way, they seed these companies with their own handpicked personnel so even those companies they don't own in full or in part answer to their demands. Take those six banks Gordias always uses. Gordias doesn't own them, but it does pick who runs them."

  "So, they
are basically buying companies without risking any of their own money, right?" Schag asked.

  Butcher slapped Schag on the back.

  "You go to the head of the class, Lin," he said. "They take out a letter of credit for, say, ten million bucks. They invest half of that in buying some company and the rest goes to various fees that filter back to Gordias as profit. Slick."

  "How'd you figure all this out?"

  Butcher slapped Schag lightly on the back of his head. "I didn't get my master's degree on a football scholarship, Lin," he chided.

  "This is all real clever, Bill, but I don't see anything illegal about it," Schag said. "Corrupt and greedy, yes, but not necessarily illegal. What's it got to do with you and Gideon?"

  Butcher reached across the table and pointed to a small circle with even smaller type at the bottom left corner of the screen.

  "Can you read that?"

  Schag adjusted his glasses and squinted at the screen. "Gideon?" he said. "They own Gideon?"

  "At least in part," Butcher said, nodding. "It's hard to tell sometimes how much of a company they own. But Gordias had its tentacles wrapped around damn near half the contractors we used in Iraq and Afghanistan."

  Schag studied the screen, thinking. He still didn't see what Gordias had to do with all that had happened over the past few days. Butcher seemed to sense Schag's thoughts.

  "Gideon is Gordias's own private army," he explained. "Gordias uses its influence to get Gideon contracts with our government and others. But Gideon also does all of Gordias’s so-called security work."

  Schag's years as a Wall Street lawyer gave him an insight to how large corporations worked. "You mean strong-arm work," he said. "They're Gordias's henchmen."

  "I told you their business practices weren't much different than a cartel's," Butcher said. "Anyway, a few days ago, Gordias sent two of Gideon's apes after me."

  "After you?" Schag asked. "As in a hit?"

  "They were supposed to make it look like suicide," Butcher said, nodding again. "I took care of them before they could execute their plan, the fucking amateurs."