CHAPTER NINETEEN
Agent Mosi Azikiwe waved his team forward. Weapons at the ready, the six men followed him into the warehouse where the crates from Spain would be offloaded. He directed them to secure hiding places behind other cargo waiting to be picked up. Once everyone was in place, he pulled out his mobile phone and contacted his superior. He confirmed the team was ready and asked if the plane carrying the fake cargo was on schedule. It was due to arrive within the next half hour.
After just a few years at Scotland Yard, and although he was only thirty-five, Azikiwe had advanced rapidly in Interpol, having received commendations for several major arrests made under his command. His team was loyal and had observed both his bravery and his concern for their safety.
He had been shown the manifest naming the security firm whose supposed armored trucks were scheduled to transport the gold. An identifying mark had been made on two of the crates to be unloaded, specifying to the agents that each contained just enough gold to qualify the heist as a major crime. Once the crooks had touched, moved or opened even one, the arrest could be made.
The agents passed the time without conversing, each with his private thoughts. Agent Azikiwe was no different as he contemplated the possible outcomes of the confrontation to come. It was his habit to create a backup plan for any unknowns he could imagine. Although his agency policed the world, so to speak, he felt his work carried an element of patriotism to England, his adopted country. He was an idealistic man who had not allowed himself to become jaded by his early exposure to the sordid side of life. Having come from Africa with his parents at a very young age, he was by all counts an Englishman. Yet he still remembered the poverty and violence he saw before his family fled to the UK.
Agent Azikiwe checked his watch again and saw that a half hour had passed. He called to the men, telling them to be alert, that it wouldn’t be long. Just as he finished speaking he heard the sound of a plane engine approaching. Keeping his eyes on the entrance he carefully stepped backward toward where his men were hiding.
“Showtime, lads! Look smart!” he shouted as he joined a pair of agents behind several pallets stacked high with bags of mortar.
The plane taxied to a stop just inside the hangar, one of several at Heathrow where arriving cargo was warehoused after being processed. Before the passenger-crew door opened, the large cargo-hold door dropped open slowly. Workers jogged into the hangar and pushed over a mobile staircase to rest against the plane. The crew opened the door and disembarked. Agent Azikiwe came out from behind the pallets and told the crew to exit quickly toward the closest terminal for their own safety. Those flying the plane had been told at takeoff there would likely be an attempted crime and to follow whatever instructions they were given. The three men and two women making up the crew obeyed the agent’s order immediately and were soon out of sight. The workers left the mobile stairs against the plane and followed the crew outside and toward the terminal.
The Interpol team waited silently for the whole thing to play out. Within a few minutes an airport worker, driving what looked like an electric baggage carrier, approached the warehouse entrance from the vehicle side. Two slow moving trucks followed, both chassis either perfect imitations of armored trucks or reclaimed versions of the real thing. The company name appeared on the sides: An ornate silver logo with black letters stated ‘Security First.’
The truck being driven by Linus Finch pulled up to the opening and stopped. He gave the once-over to the whole area, intent on spotting anyone who might be working there and thus able to observe his actions. The second truck paused slightly behind, leaving Linus to take the lead. He turned the vehicle in a way that enabled him to back into the building, all the way through to the plane’s cargo door. The other driver positioned his truck in the same way, and within a couple of minutes they were climbing out, ready to take possession of the crates. Linus looked around, expecting someone to appear with a clipboard, demanding signatures—something. And some help would have been nice. He wondered where everyone was, why the cargo door was left open with such a valuable cargo inside. But that was fine with him, and all the easier. Maybe they wouldn’t have to shoot anyone.
Linus motioned to Fergus McDonald and the two drivers to get out. Azikiwe’s team watched as the four men got out of the trucks and stood in a group to assess the situation. Two of the men were wearing some sort of uniform, but the two younger men were shabbily dressed in jeans and hoodies. Although the team couldn’t hear what was being said, the body language was easy to read. One of the uniformed men was clearly in charge. He was giving orders and motioning the three others to get up into the cargo hold and begin to unload the crates marked for the museum. The Interpol team was chomping at the bit and anxious to leave their hiding places to apprehend the motley crew, but their superior signaled them to hang back. He knew that unless they were caught in the act of opening the crates and handling the gold, the charges would be minor—at worst, attempted robbery and trespassing. They were going for the major felony that attempting to steal such a treasure would impart.
Linus stood beside the open cargo door, its lowered ramp a direct invitation for the men to enter and help themselves. Interpol had made arrangements to place the crates containing gold at the front, the decoys just behind. After one more scan of the hangar all four men climbed into the cargo hold. The agents couldn’t see clearly what was going on inside the plane, but soon two crates appeared, each being carried by two of the men. One crate was put on the ground, the other set inside the truck. Both were stamped with the name of the museum in Madrid. Linus reached inside and pulled out a crowbar, his avarice taking control of his judgment. He had to see the gold. He motioned the two drivers to get back up into the hold and bring the other two crates down. Once the gang of thieves touched the valuable contents, Agent Azikiwe would motion his men forward and hopefully apprehend all of them without shots fired.
Fergus hovered over the crate as Linus began to pry open the lid. The wood easily snapped loose and they pulled it off, tossing it aside. Raffia packing material had been used, and both men began to dig through it, scattering it on the floor. Linus was the first to touch something solid. Using both hands he slowly lifted the treasure from its resting place then held it aloft, turning it, obviously unsure of what the carved gold box would be used for. Just as he started to open it the agents appeared from their hiding places and advanced on the perpetrators.
* * *
Lyle Brett pulled his rental car onto the shoulder of Heathrow’s southern perimeter road. He stopped where there was no hedge growth, giving him a decent view of the cargo hangars, then settled in to wait. At the instant he could see his trucks pull out and away he would make haste to the preset location where once he was there to supervise, the valuable cargo could be fully unpacked and evaluated. So far everything in London had gone as planned, but he was disconcerted by the fact that Lenny hadn’t checked in. He knew better. Lenny was supposed to be glued to his phone, to be ready when it was time to eliminate the women.
Considering it was Lyle’s first crime, he was in deep and he knew it—was even proud to be taking what he believed was a minor risk. He congratulated himself, deciding he had a real talent for this sort of thing. In all areas of his life he had always preferred to keep things simple when it came to cleaning up loose ends. Loose ends had to be tied up, and Londoners disappearing on a trip to Spain was perfect. He couldn’t have planned it better himself. How nice of them to take that vacation. No way to trace anything to him. His uneasiness grew as he peered through binoculars at the entrance where the trucks had backed in. He saw no activity and the moments dragged. If he stayed parked on the shoulder much longer someone was bound to stop and ask if he needed help. Worst case, it would be airport security police.
* * *
Linus and his cohorts had temporarily lost sight of their need to make a quick getaway. They were engrossed with the ancient box, its rich gold color gleaming brightly as it caught the light from
a flickering fluorescent tube overhead. The men passed it around, seemingly spellbound by its beauty, their gaze so single-minded that they failed to hear the agents approaching. With guns drawn, the agents moved to surround the four men, who startled and turned away from the crate. Fergus had been taking his turn holding the box and quickly tossed it back into the crate before beseeching Linus with his eyes. It was a what-do-we-do-now expression, for which he received no reply. Linus was paralyzed on the spot with his jaw dropped open and eyes expressing terror.
Agent Azikiwe ordered the four to lie face down and put arms behind them. They complied and were handcuffed. When asked who was in charge, Linus was mute; however, Fergus was quick to offer assistance. Linus was dragged to his feet, all the while denying that he was the group’s leader. Regardless of his declaration agent Azikiwe took him aside, out of earshot of the others, and said the window for a reduced charge would close very quickly and was dependent upon what he could offer as means to apprehend his boss. After only a few minutes of questioning, he sang loud and long, naming Lyle Brett as the brains behind the caper. He gave up the location where they were to bring the gold, and suggested that Lyle could be watching from somewhere close to the cargo building. One agent was left with the four handcuffed suspects, who had been secured to the heavy mobile staircase still resting against the plane.
* * *
The waiting had been interminable and the anxiety had caused Lyle Brett to break out in a drenching sweat. He was afraid to get out of his car for a better view of the building, and if he did, he would have to put on the car’s emergency blinkers. That would draw attention. His meticulous brain could not accept that something might have gone wrong. He paused to check the map on his tablet screen and wondered if they had been forced to leave by an exit he hadn’t considered. He could continue on that road and get a view of the rest of the building, maybe see if they had been forced to exit from the tarmac. But that didn’t make sense. Lyle checked his watch again before letting out a string of profanities regarding Lenny’s failure to contact him from Spain as planned. He carefully pulled into the light traffic and drove on until he was opposite the short side of the building, where there were several oversized garage-type doors. One was open. There was an exit that would take him to the parking lot on that side, and he gave in to the temptation to pull in and take a closer look.
Agent Azikiwe gave the order for three of his men to return to their vehicle then drive the perimeter road and parking lots to look for whom he referred to as ‘Brett.’ During the questioning he had also managed to get a description of the man. The other three agents would stay with him to wait for the valid security trucks to come for the gold. Linus and the others were ordered to sit on the floor in a circle, backs to each other. Now there was nothing to do but wait.
After about a quarter of an hour the sound of screeching tires broke the silence. It ended with what was obviously a collision. Azikiwe feared for his men and ran toward the nearest exit to the parking lot. There he saw the agents’ car stopped just behind a Prius that had crashed into the cab of a truck being loaded with building supplies. The front end of the Prius looked like an accordion; the driver having hit the truck at high speed. His agents got out of their vehicle and surrounded the crushed Prius, ready to arrest the driver, Lyle Brett. They had spotted him in one of the parking lots and had approached slowly. He had seen them and took off, back onto the perimeter road, where the agents gave chase. They had ended up back where they started. A van had crowded the driver off to the left, forcing him to exit again.
The agent joined his men at the scene of the crash. One of the agents had just finished calling for an ambulance, but clearly there was no hurry. Without a seat belt Brett had been thrown hard against the windshield. The car burst into flames before the body could be removed. There would now be a delay before the forensics team could complete crime scene protocol. A van arrived shortly to take the other men to jail. He called his superior to report that all was secure. He always felt great satisfaction when he could report there were no shots fired.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ben stood outside the ambulance doors, watching closely as the emergency medical technicians zipped the unidentified dead man into a body bag. He stepped aside as the body was transferred and strapped to a collapsible gurney, lowered from the vehicle and wheeled quickly through the double doors of the sala de emergencias. Ben’s sense of regret for the part he played in a man’s death momentarily overshadowed his anger about the man’s role in the kidnapping. Yet he couldn’t ignore the fear on the man’s face when confronted. There was no doubt in his mind that the man was complicit or he wouldn’t have tried to escape, but there was more below the surface. How he was involved could remain a mystery.
The adrenaline that had enabled Ben to give chase was spent. He felt drained and could no longer ignore the now familiar pain in his shoulder, nor the difficulty he had opening his jaw. In fact he ached from head to toe, having just survived a fight for his life with the man who had pursued him in London. He paused by the entrance, deep in thought, realizing that impulsiveness and anger had driven him to chase another man to his death. In order to live with that memory he would have to find out who this man was and why he was there.
Ben’s introspection was interrupted by the sound of a police van screeching to a halt beside the ambulance. Two uniformed officers got out and started toward him. A middle-aged man with a nervous demeanor was walking behind them. He had pulled his boina low over his forehead in a failed attempt to protect his identity. He scanned the surroundings as if expecting paparazzi to leap out at him. When they reached Ben, one of the officers asked in Spanish if he was the man who had ridden in the ambulance from Calle Estefata. Ben asked him to repeat in English, and haltingly he did so. The man pushed forward and pointed at Ben, confirming verbally that he was the one who chased the poor man into the path of the bulls. Ben suddenly realized that he could be in serious trouble. There was no point in denying it, yet there was much to tell about the reason he had given chase and about the man’s culpability in the kidnapping of his sister and former wife.
One officer pulled out his handcuffs and circled behind Ben, who asked if he was under arrest. The other officer shook his head no then motioned his partner to put the handcuffs away. He spoke to Ben again in Spanish. Ben understood enough to know he had to go with them to the station, so he gestured toward the vehicle and said, “Vamonos.”
Ben was desperate to find Ana and his parents, see Olivia, and find out if Valerie was alive. But since there was no way he could communicate effectively with the officers, he thought it best to comply. It was a short ride to the Comisaría located closest to Calle Estafata. It was there he had met Annunciata and sought help from Inspector Gonzalo Macias. As they walked Ben through the entrance he strained to see whether Macias was in his office behind the glass partition. Relief washed over him when he saw the inspector sitting on the edge of his desk talking on the phone. The officers led Ben to the counter, where the man on duty prepared to take his information and schedule him for questioning. Ben couldn’t wait. He spoke as well as he could, asking if the officer spoke English. The officer indicated that he spoke a little—a must, he said, considering the trouble tourists get into.
“Please listen … Escucha por favor,” Ben said, hoping to show his sincerity by attempting to speak the officer’s language. “Inspector Macias… I know … Conozco … I spoke with him yesterday about what has happened. Por favor, let me see him.”
The officer scrutinized Ben’s bloodied face and disheveled appearance suspiciously as he picked up the phone to page the inspector. Ben shifted from one foot to the other and self-consciously rubbed his shoulder. His bruised jaw had become swollen and there was dried blood on his face and clothing. Inspector Macias leaned forward to put his call on hold and answer the page. When Ben heard the officer speak to the inspector he interrupted. “Tell him it’s Ben McKinnon, the man who talked to him about his sister’s disappe
arance.”
The inspector heard Ben’s voice in the background and immediately got up from his desk. He came through the door with his arm extended for a handshake. When he was close enough to get a good look at Ben he asked, “Dios mio! Were you mugged?”
“No sir,” Ben answered. “I was in a fight for my life … and my sister’s.”
“Come with me.” The inspector’s tone had turned serious and he took Ben’s arm, leading him into the private area where his desk was located.
Ben sat down carefully and with a slight groan. Inspector Macias asked if he needed medical attention. He declined and said there were more important things to deal with. The story of what had transpired since they last met unfolded quickly as Ben recounted the details of what had occurred up to the time he arrived at the hospital. Macias had to remind Ben that English was his second language and he should slow down. Protocol dictated that he reprimand Ben for conducting his own investigation, pursuing the kidnappers and chasing a man who could have been armed.
Ben countered with the fact that no one at the station would take him seriously and he knew there wasn’t a moment to lose. The inspector reluctantly admitted regret for not having been of more help. He was convinced it was fate—‘suerte,’ as he put it—that Ben had overheard the woman reporting what she thought was suspicious activity in the little house. The inspector made it clear that after he read the police report there would be more questions for Ben to answer. After all, a man had died.
Good Deed Bad Deed : A Novel Mystery Page 29