Brimstone p-5

by Douglas Preston

  "Here we are," Mandrell said, stepping into one of the cubicles. It looked just like all the others: a desk with an overhanging credenza, a computer workstation with attached speakers, a few chairs. A young woman with short blonde hair sat at the workstation, typing.

  "This is Agent Sanborne," Mandrell said. "She's monitoring the phone of Jimmy Chait, Bullard's right-hand boy here in the States. We have agents in adjoining cubicles logging the phones of another half dozen of Bullard's associates. Agent Sanborne, this is Sergeant D'Agosta of the Southampton P.D. and Special Agent Pendergast."

  Sanborne nodded at them in turn, her eyes widening at the name of Pendergast.

  "Anything?" Mandrell asked her.

  "Nothing important," she replied. "There was some traffic a few minutes ago between Chait and another associate. Seems they're expecting a call from Bullard any time now."

  Mandrell nodded, turned back to D'Agosta. "When was your last tap, Sergeant?"

  "It's been a while."

  "Then let me get you up to speed. Everything's done by computer these days, one workstation per phone number being monitored. The phone line goes right through this interface, and the conversation's recorded digitally. No more tapes. Agent Sanborne, who'll be transcribing the line sheets, can work the transport controls either by keyboard or foot pedal."

  D'Agosta shook his head. It was a far cry from the low-tech setups he'd worked as a new jack cop in the mid-eighties.

  "You mentioned Chinese?" Mandrell said. "Are we going to need a translator?"

  "Unlikely," Pendergast replied.

  "Well, we've got a man standing by, just in case."

  The cubicle fell silent as Mandrell and Sanborne hovered over the screen.

  "Vincent," Pendergast murmured, taking him aside. "I've been wanting to tell you. We've made a very important discovery."

  "What's that?"

  "Beckmann."

  D'Agosta looked at him sharply. “Beckmann?"

  "His present whereabouts."

  "No shit. When did you find out?"

  "Late last night. After I called you to request this wiretap."

  "Why didn't you tell me before?"

  "I tried calling you as soon as I heard. There was no answer at your hotel. And your cell phone appeared to have been turned off."

  "Oh. Yes, it was. Sorry about that." D'Agosta turned away, feeling a flush begin to spread over his face.

  He was spared further questioning by a sudden beeping from the workstation.

  "Call's coming in," said Agent Sanborne.

  A small window appeared on her screen, filled with lines of data. "Chait's getting an incoming," she said, pointing at the window. "See?"

  "Who's it from?" D'Agosta asked.

  "The number's coming up now. I'll put it on vox."

  "Jimmy?" came a high-pitched voice over the computer speaker. "Jimmy, you there?"

  Sanborne began typing quickly, transcribing the call verbatim. "It's his home number," she said. "Probably his wife."

  "Yeah," answered a deep voice with a thick New Jersey accent. "What you want?"

  "When you coming home?"

  "Something's come up." There was a faint roar in the background, like the rush of wind.

  "No, Jimmy-not again today. We've got the Fingermans coming by this afternoon, remember? About the winter rental in Kissimmee?"

  "Fuck that. You don't need me for that shit."

  "Go ahead, take that tone with me. You're right, I don’t need you for that shit . What I need is for you to stop by DePasquale's and pick up a few trays of sausage and peppers. I don't have a thing to serve."

  "Then get your ass in the kitchen and cook something."

  "Look, you-"

  "I'll be home when I get home. Now get the fuck off, I'm expecting a call." And the line went dead.

  There was a brief silence broken only by the click of keys as Agent Sanborne completed the transcription.

  "Delightful couple," said D'Agosta. He motioned Pendergast aside. "How'd you find Beckmann, anyway?"

  "With the help of an acquaintance of mine-an invalid, actually-who happens to be extremely good at tracking down troublesome nuggets of information."

  "'Extremely good' sounds like an understatement. Nobody's been able to locate this guy. So where's this Beckmann at?"

  But they were again interrupted by another beep from the computer. "We've got another one," said Sanborne.

  "Incoming or outgoing?" asked Mandrell.

  "Incoming. But the number must be blocked, I'm not getting any data on it."

  There was a brief squeal over the speaker. "Yeah?" said Chait.

  "Chait," a voice responded.

  D'Agosta immediately recognized the gruff tone: it sent a thrill of hatred coursing through him.

  Chait recognized it, too. "Yes, Mr. Bullard, sir," he said, his tone abruptly growing servile.

  "Bullard will be using a satellite phone," D'Agosta said. "That's why you can't get a fix."

  "Doesn't matter." Mandrell pointed to a string of numbers on the screen. "See that? It's the cell site of Chait's phone. It's the cellular node his phone signal's coming from, lets us determine his present location." He reached into the credenza, pulled out a thick manual, began leafing through it.

  "Everything set?" Bullard asked.

  "Yes, sir. The men have all been briefed."

  "Remember what I said. I don't want any apologizing. Just do as I say. Walk it through, by the numbers."

  "You got it, Mr. Bullard."

  Mandrell looked up from the cell site manual. "Chait's in Hoboken, New Jersey."

  "Everything's go," Bullard said. "The Chinese will be there on time."

  "Location?" Chait asked.

  "The primary, as discussed. The park."

  Mandrell grasped D'Agosta by the arm. "Chait just changed cell sites," he said.

  "What's that mean?"

  "He's moving." Mandrell thumbed through the manual, looking up the new site. "Now he's in the middle of Union City."

  "Mass transit wouldn't move that quickly," said Pendergast. "He must be in a car."

  Bullard was speaking again. "Remember. They'll be expecting a progress report in exchange for the payment. You know what to give them, right?"

  "Right."

  Pendergast pulled out his own phone, dialing quickly. "Chait's on his way to a meeting. We've got to get a unit dispatched, triangulate on his location."

  "I'll be expecting a report immediately after the meeting," said Bullard.

  "I'll be back to you within ninety minutes."

  "And Chait? No fuckups, you hear?"

  "No, sir."

  There was a click; a hiss of static; and the computer beeped once again to signal the connection had been broken.

  "Cell site's changed again," Mandrell said, looking at the screen.

  D'Agosta turned to Pendergast. "Within ninety minutes, he said? What the hell does that mean?"

  Pendergast closed his phone, slipped it back into his pocket. "It means their meeting will take place before then. Come on, Vincent-we haven't a moment to lose."

  { 35 }

  D'Agosta blew past the exit helixes of the George Washington Bridge and merged onto the express lanes, driving like hell. As the New Jersey Turnpike divided and the traffic began to thin a little, he seated the emergency bubble onto the dash, turned on its flasher, and began cranking the siren. Veering west onto I-80, he stomped hard on the pedal. The big engine of the pool sedan responded and they were soon rocketing along at a hundred miles an hour.

  "Refreshing," murmured Pendergast.

  The secure car-to-car frequency crackled into life. "This is 602. We've got a visual on the target. It's a TV van with a satellite dish, call letters WPMP, Hackensack, moving west on 80 near exit 65."

  D'Agosta pushed his speed to one twenty.

  Pendergast unhooked the mike. "We're just a few miles behind you. Hang back in another lane and keep out of sight. Over."

  Everything had c
ome together with remarkable speed. Pendergast had initiated a federal tail on Chait's cell signal, requisitioned a government vehicle, and put D'Agosta behind its wheel. The West Side Highway had been mercifully free of traffic, and it had taken them only ten minutes to clear Manhattan.

  "Where do you think we're headed?" D'Agosta asked.

  "Bullard mentioned a park. For now, that's all we know."

  Out of the corner of his eye, D'Agosta noticed that, despite the speed, Pendergast had unbuckled his seat belt and was crouching forward. Now the agent was scratching his nails on the floor mat, rubbing his palms rapidly against it. D'Agosta had seen the man do strange things before, but this beat all. He wondered if he should ask, decided against it.

  "Target leaving freeway at exit 60," the radio squawked. "Following."

  D'Agosta slowed. Another minute, and he peeled off at the same exit.

  "Target proceeding north on McLean."

  "They're heading into Paterson," D'Agosta said. He'd never actually set foot in the city, though he'd passed it on the freeway countless times: a red-brick working town whose best days were probably about a hundred years gone. It seemed like a strange destination.

  "Paterson," Pendergast repeated speculatively, wiping his dirty hands on his face and neck. "Birthplace of the American Industrial Revolution."

  "Birthplace? Looks more like death's door to me."

  "It's a city with a vigorous history, Vincent. Some of the historical neighborhoods are still quite beautiful. However, I'm banking on the fact that those are not where we're headed."

  "Target leaving McLean," the voice on the radio said. "Heading left onto Broadway."

  D'Agosta tore up McLean Highway, using the siren to punch his way through two red lights. To their right lay the Passaic River, brown and sullen in the autumn light. As he turned onto Broadway, shabby-looking and decrepit, he killed the siren and snapped off the flasher. They were close now: very close.

  "Sergeant," Pendergast said abruptly, "head into this strip mall on our right, please. We need to make a quick stop."

  D'Agosta glanced at him in surprise. "We don't have time."

  "Trust me, we do."

  D'Agosta shrugged. The operation was nominally FBI and Pendergast was in charge: Hayward had made sure of that. The lead car was FBI and he himself was Southampton P.D., which would offend nobody. Interstate police rivalries would be kept at a minimum. At the appropriate moment-when it was too late for a bunch of unbriefed town cops to screw things up-Pendergast would call in the locals.

  The mall was a collection of dingy, glass-fronted stores set back from a parking lot heaved and cracked by time. It was half abandoned, and D'Agosta wondered just what the hell Pendergast was up to. Here he'd made good time, and now the agent was squandering it.

  "There," Pendergast said. "At the far end."

  D'Agosta sped up to the last storefront. A yellow Dumpster stood out front, pitted and scarred with age. Even before the car had stopped, Pendergast was out, running into the store. D'Agosta swore, punched the steering wheel. They were going to lose five minutes at least. He was used to Pendergast's inexplicable behavior, but this was too much.

  "Target heading into East Side Park," came the cool voice from the lead car. "There's some kind of event going on. Looks like model rockets or something."

  D'Agosta heard shouting and saw Pendergast trotting out of the shop, a bundle of clothes slung over one arm and a couple of pairs of shoes clutched in the other. Moments later a fat woman came bursting out.

  "Help!" she bellowed. "Police! I hope you're proud of yourself, robbing the Salvation Army. Shithead!"

  "Obliged, ma'am," Pendergast said, crumpling a hundred-dollar bill and tossing it over his shoulder as he jumped into the backseat. D'Agosta laid on the gas, leaving a streak of rubber and a cloud of smoke.

  "I daresay that was no more than a two-minute detour," Pendergast said from the rear of the car. Looking into the mirror, D'Agosta saw he was peeling off his jacket and tie.

  "Two minutes is a long time in this business."

  "I'll have to send the Salvation Army people a little something to make up for my lack of manners."

  "They're heading into East Side Park."

  "Very good. Drive around the park, if you please, and enter from the south. I need a few more moments."

  D'Agosta drove past the park-a wall of greenery to his left, rising above a concrete retaining wall-and made a left onto Derrom Avenue. Despite their proximity to seedy, sorry-looking Broadway, the houses here were remarkably large and well tended, relics of the days when Paterson had been a model city of industry.

  Pendergast intoned from the back:

  "Eternally asleep,

  his dreams walk about the city where he persists

  incognito."

  D'Agosta glanced again in the rearview mirror, almost jamming on the brakes in surprise when he saw a stranger staring back at him. But, of course, it was no stranger: it was Pendergast, transformed by some almost miraculous process of disguise.

  "Have you ever read Paterson by William Carlos Williams?" the vagrant in the backseat asked.

  "Never heard of it."

  "Pity:

  " Immortal he neither moves nor rouses and is seldom

  seen, though he breathes and the subtleties of his

  machinations

  drawing their substance from the noise of the pouring

  river

  animate a thousand automatons."

  D'Agosta shook his head and muttered to himself. He drove a few blocks, made another left, and entered the park beside a statue of Christopher Columbus.

  East Side Park was an overgrown hillock of grass and the occasional shade tree, closely hemmed in on all four sides by houses. A lane wandered around its periphery, and D'Agosta eased the car onto it, passing a variety of pudding-stone outbuildings in various stages of disrepair. Concrete benches with green-painted wooden slats lined the roadway. Farther along, the lane veered in toward a height of land, which was crowned by a fountain surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence. Several cars were parked along the curb here, including their own lead vehicle, making the already narrow road almost impassable. Ahead, D'Agosta could see the TV van. It had pulled onto the grass between a brace of tennis courts and a baseball field. On the field itself, a small knot of kids was shooting off model rockets, supervised by half a dozen parents. A man with a television camera was standing by the van, filming the event.

  "This is an exceptionally well planned meeting, Vincent," Pendergast said as they drove slowly past. "They're meeting in the middle of a park. No chance of being ambushed. And they're surrounded by noisy children and the roar of rockets, which will defeat any long-range electronic surveillance. That man with the camera is their lookout, with a perfect reason to be staring every which way through a telephoto lens. Bullard has clearly trained his men well. Ah, pull over a minute, please, Vincent: here come the Chinese."

  In the rearview mirror, D'Agosta could make out a long black Mercedes, absurdly out of place, cruising slowly up the park drive behind them. It pulled onto the grass across the tennis courts from the van. Two big men with shaved heads and dark glasses got out, looking around carefully. Then a third, smaller man exited and began walking across the grass toward the van.

  "What dreadful lack of subtlety," said Pendergast. "It appears these gentlemen have been watching too much television."

  D'Agosta eased the car forward, coming to a stop near the exit back onto Broadway. The hill fell away here and the trees were more numerous, blocking their car from view.

  "Too bad I'm in uniform," he said.

  "On the contrary: being in uniform, you will be the last one they suspect. I'm going to get as close as I can, see if I can learn more particulars about the meeting. You buy a donut and coffee over there"-he nodded to a dingy coffee shop across Broadway-"then wander into the park. Take a seat on one of the benches by the baseball diamond, where you'll have a clear line of fire should anything
untoward occur. Let us hope, with these children around, that nothing of the sort occurs-but be ready for action regardless."

  D'Agosta nodded.

  Pendergast gave his eyes a vigorous rubbing. When his grubby hands fell away again, his eyes had lost their clear, silvery hue. Now they belonged to a tippler: uncertain, watery, red-rimmed.

  D'Agosta watched Pendergast get out of the car and amble back up the rise. The agent was wearing a brown sport coat of dubious material, a faded stain between the shoulders; double-knit slacks a size too large; a pair of shabby Hush Puppies. His hair was several shades darker than usual-just how the hell had he managed that?-and his face was in need of a wash. He looked exactly like a man who was down but not quite out, clinging to a few shreds of respectability. And it wasn't just the clothes: his very gait had changed to a vague shuffle, his body language tentative, his eyes darting this way and that, as if prepared to ward off an unexpected blow.

  D'Agosta stared another moment, marveling. Then he exited the car, bought a coffee and a glazed donut in the coffee shop across the street, and headed back into the park. As he crested the little rise and approached the diamond, he could see the shorter Chinese man getting into the back of the television van. His large companions were hanging back about forty paces, arms crossed.

  There was a whooosh as a model rocket went off to scattered cheers and clapping. All eyes turned skyward; there was a pop and the rocket came drifting back, floating beneath a red-and-white-striped miniature parachute.

  D'Agosta eased himself onto a bench across the diamond from the van. He slipped the lid off his coffee, pretending to watch the rockets go off. This was strange: the would-be cameraman was now calling the kids together, apparently to film them. D'Agosta wondered if the cameraman was Chait, Bullard's main man in New York. He decided otherwise: Chait was no doubt inside the van with the Chinese honcho.