Текст книги "Greed"
Автор книги: Dan O'Shea
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
CHAPTER 36
Al Din watched the exodus of office workers. Impressive, like watching a nature documentary on the migration of great beasts, a relentless stream of capitalists and their minions, pouring from the doors of the office towers, heading to the elevated trains, to the commuter trains, to the tens of thousands of cars that were jammed in the Loop parking garages. Herds of pedestrians as far as he could see.
Each one of them a perfect delivery vehicle.
Al Din watched from a chair in the window of a Starbucks on Madison near Michigan, a messenger bag at his feet, three of the devices inside, the adhesive attached, ready to be placed. He had placed two yesterday. He checked his watch, took a final sip of his coffee, and then stepped out the door into the flow of commuters to flag down a cab. The cab would drop him right at the door to the target location, and the cameras at the target would go down in seven minutes. He’d make sure the cab ride lasted until then. He could have walked, but it would be best not to turn up on any cameras between here and there in the meantime.
After today, he would have five devices in position. The sixth device was still locked in its case in his hotel room. Should activating the devices prove his best course, then the five would be more than sufficient. Tens of thousands dead at a minimum, even if the Americans responded effectively. Hundreds of thousands dead potentially if the devices worked as Heinz had planned.
So Al Din would keep the sixth device in reserve. What was the name of the American children’s game? Show and tell? He might need the last device for that. Once he decided which side he was on.
CHAPTER 37
Lynch put his book on the nightstand, Devil in the White City. He was just reaching to turn out the light, when his phone buzzed. He picked it up and checked the screen. Liz. Clock on the phone said 12.42am.
Lynch answered. “How’s LA?”
“Jesus, these people, Lynch,” she said.
“That’s what you said about Washington.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not in Kansas anymore. Can’t even see it from here. They want to make the book into a thriller. I told them it was a news story.”
Lynch let out a little snort. “Was kinda thrilling, the way I remember. I got shot a couple of times.”
“Yeah, well, this movie shit ain’t happening, not if they can’t play this a little straighter.” Pause. Something harder coming up. “Got a call from Dickey Reagan.”
“Saw him the other night,” Lynch said.
“Took him to the Wild game.”
“We call it the Hawks game down here.”
“Got those tickets for me, didn’t you?”
Lynch went to say no, figured BS it, defuse things. Then he figured they didn’t face this it would just eat them up anyway.
“Yeah,” he said.
He heard her exhale into the phone. “Jesus, John, why didn’t you say something? I could have pushed this back a day maybe, moved some shit around.”
Could have done that anyway is what Lynch thought, but there was a difference between not lying and being an asshole.
“Not that big a deal,” he said. “Just a whim, figured I’d surprise you.”
“I do appreciate the thought, John.”
“I know.”
Another long pause. More of those than there used to be.
“Look, I’m flying out of here tomorrow. I could stop over. Be late probably, but maybe grab dinner, spend the night anyway?
Felt like scraps to Lynch, felt wrong, didn’t want to say that either.
“If it works out,” was what he said. “I’m drowning in this Stein thing anyway, so I can’t promise anything.”
Pause again.
“Yeah, might work better when we can plan it out. Things should settle down in a few days. Guess I should get home anyway.”
She had a place in New York now.
“Yeah,” Lynch said. “You got enough shit on your plate. Look, it’s late. I’m not on LA time. I’m dragging here.”
“I know,” she said. “Sorry about the time. Soon though, right?”
“Sure,” Lynch said. “Soon.”
He put the phone on the nightstand.
CHAPTER 38
Shamus Fenn sat in his room at the Peninsula, plowing through a bottle. He’d blown takes all afternoon. They’d been shooting a scene along the lakefront – his lover leaving him over all the blood on his hands, tricky emotional stuff that needed his focus. Instead, all he could think about was all the places that fucker Hardin could shoot him from. Jesus, a sniper? Really?
So what were his choices here? Call this Lynch back and roll over on Corsco? Right. Then what? Witness protection? Get a job as a fry cook in Omaha? Where the hell was Shamus Fenn supposed to hide?
Corsco’s mouthpiece had told him Tony was pissed. Fenn doing the Oprah thing, pretty much putting his hand up and saying he had a beef with Hardin the same day Corsco’s guys were trying to kill the guy on his dime. OK, that had been a dumb move. Fenn could see that. But there was nothing to be done about it now. Good news was this drug lord was after Hardin, too. Got Corsco off the hook, the lawyer said. Got Fenn off the hook. All they had to do was sit back and wait. But Fenn’d had no idea that Hardin was some kind of killing machine.
Fenn had called Corsco earlier, Tony pretty much laughing at him. Telling him he was a big pussy. Telling him this Hardin had a full-time job not being dead, didn’t have any time to think about Fenn. Telling him Hardin probably thought Tony’s guys had been working for Hernandez anyway.
But Fenn wasn’t sold. If this cop could put it together, then Hardin could put it together.
A knock on the door. Fenn almost shit himself. He ignored it. Another knock. A woman’s voice calling out.
“Mr Fenn?” Little giggle.
Fenn padded to the door, looked through the peephole. He was in a suite at the end of the hall, the door looking all the way down to the elevators, so he had a clear shot. Nobody out there but a couple of hot-looking chicks, a blonde and an Asian. Fenn had a thing for Asians.
“Yeah?” he said through the door.
“Tony said maybe we should stop by? Thought maybe you might be a little tense? No hard feelings, he says.”
Fenn thought a minute. He’d had to keep his pants zipped, at least by his standards, during this whole abuse thing.
“And he sent a present.” The girl was holding up a little baggie of powder.
And he sure as hell couldn’t chance hitting any of his usual connections for some blow. What he needed, probably. Put some mayo in a little girl sandwich, do a few snorts. Tony was right. This fucker Hardin had his hands full anyway.
Fenn opened the door.
Lynch looked at the clock when he heard the phone. Jesus, 4.17am.
“Yeah?”
“Get your ass up, Lynch,” said McCord. “I’m down at the Peninsula. Your buddy Fenn just OD’d.”
CHAPTER 39
“You ever hear of a Dr Mark Heinz?” One of the Google jockeys at Langley on the phone for Munroe.
“Nope. Should I have?”
“Probably not. One of the germ herders down at Fort Dix back in the Eighties. Been out of the game for a bit. Did his twenty, then left for some big pharma gig. But he’s on the list of people to watch. Bottom of the list, but he’s on it.”
“And?”
“And he just turned up dead.”
That got Munroe’s attention. “Where and when?”
“Week or so back, far as we can tell. Guy had a ranch down near Santa Fe. Looks like he fell off a horse, hit his head on a rock. That’s the local ME’s take, anyway.”
“Got a reason we don’t like it?”
“Got an accidental death featuring a guy on the bad bugs list the same week you’re looking for some kind of Muslim mischief, so there’s that. Also, this ranch of his, it’s not like Ted Turner’s place or anything, but this thing had to set him back some. And the house he built, at first glance, that wasn’t cheap. Maybe he made a killing in the pharma game, I don’t know, we haven’t taken his books apart yet. But this guy, he came into some serious dough somewhere, and it wasn’t his pension from Fort Dix. Just feels like he’s worth a sniff.”
That was the free radical in this thing – what did the ragheads plan to do with the money once they got it? But, if what they had planned had anything to do with this Heinz character, and if he was already dead, then things might be further along than Munroe thought. Because if Heinz didn’t fall off a horse, somebody’d just given him the loose-end treatment.
“Get somebody down to New Mexico,” Munroe said. “See what they got. The autopsy especially. I need to know if this guy really fell off a horse. And talk to the AG; get whatever kind of Patriot Act mojo you need to turn this Heinz fucker inside out. I want a line on every cent this guy’s ever made or spent. And look up his Fort Dix buddies; see what his deal was down there.”
Time to make a decision here. Shut down this Hardin play and put the full court press on al Din in case something bigger was already in motion, or stick with the plan?
But al Din wasn’t acting like he was running a terror op. The Stein shooting, the business down on the South Shore? Everything pointed at him chasing the diamonds. If he had what he needed to complete his op, he wouldn’t be putting his head up like that, wouldn’t be chasing Hardin around.
Besides, al Din had been in town for a week. If he had come to Chicago to start an epidemic, then Munroe wouldn’t even be here now. The boys in the biohazard suits would be here filling body bags. Munroe would be somewhere else filling up more with whoever was responsible.
So, for now, he’d stick with the Hardin play. Worst case, and he was wrong? Then he’d run with the same story, but this time, instead of tying Iran, the cartels and Al Qaeda to a financing deal and a couple of murders, he’d tie them to a city full of dead people. Screw a long weekend with drones and the SEALs. Sure, he’d decapitate the cartels, but he’d also get Washington to pull the trigger on invading Iran and carpet-bombing Waziristan.
So, either way, several thousand potential civilian corpses aside, it was a win-win.
CHAPTER 40
“He gonna be able to talk to us any time soon?” Lynch was checking with the doctor at Northwestern. In the background, Fenn was laid out on an ER gurney, tubes running in and out of him, ventilator pumping away.
“You’ll be lucky if he ever talks to anybody,” the doctor replied. “Him just staying alive is touch-and-go right now. Then we have to see how much brain function he has left. Going to be a few days, anyway.”
“Looked like he’d been snorting,” Lynch said. He’d seen the rim of powder on Fenn’s nostril. “Don’t see ODs off that usually.”
“With the stuff they brought in with him, you would,” said the doc. “Absolutely pure. If he’s used to tooting street junk, I’m not surprised this shorted him out.”
“OK,” Lynch said. Something to think about. “Gonna leave a uniform. Not sure this was accidental. Also, once the word gets out, you’re gonna have press up the wazoo.”
The doc shrugged. “Not my problem. They’ll have him admitted or down in the morgue by then.”
Lynch called McCord, who was processing Fenn’s room. “Got anything?”
“Been drinking, it looks like,” McCord said. “Got through half a bottle of Knob Creek, so that would help him along.”
“Was he alone up there?”
“Fucking hotel room,” McCord answered. “We’ll dust it, but we’ll get a million prints. He was nude when they found him. If he croaks we can check and see if he got his rocks off anytime recently. Bernstein’s talking with the security guys, but no cameras in the hallways up here, so the best we’ll get is maybe some lobby traffic.”
“Tell Bernstein to have IT run all the faces against anything with Corsco’s name on it,” said Lynch.
“Will do.”
Before Lynch could even put the phone back, it buzzed again. Starshak.
“Yeah?” Lynch answered.
“You guys done there?” Starshak said.
“Close,” said Lynch. “Not much to go on. You got somebody from public affairs teed up? Gonna be a shit storm.”
“Yeah. Got a mouthpiece on the way down. Fill him in. Then you and Bernstein get your asses down to the Federal Building. We have a meeting. Very mysterious.”
CHAPTER 41
Seephus Jones leaned against the window of the commuter train, half awake. Up past three laying pipe with one of his baby mamas, this commuter crime shit killing him. Meant he was moving up in the world, though.
Seephus wasn’t wearing his usual. Had a pair of Dockers on, polo shirt tucked in, pants all the way up like some white fucker or goddamn Obama or something. No bling. Stupid computer backpack thing. Course the bag had a kilo brick of blow in it, delivery for the dudes out in Aurora. That and his nine.
Delivery thing was Hernandez’s idea, that’s what his crew boss told him. Stick some brother in a tricked-out sled, baggy ass jeans, have him drive out to white Irish land with his lid on sideways, tags hanging off it, he was just asking to have some Bubba cop from Naperville popping his trunk just for styling on his roadway. Also, Seephus had to admit, most of the brothers weren’t exactly Rules of the Road types, fucking stoplights and shit. Get too many busts coming out of traffic stops.
So Hernandez says get some of the more dependable dudes, guys got a future, dress ’em up all Cosby-like, stick ’em on the train – mix ’em right in with the commuters. Contact in Aurora picks ’em up at the station, they hook up with the LK dudes – guys that handle distribution for the western burbs – and pack the cash in the bag, hop back on the train downtown. Hernandez wanted them on the train early, reverse commuter runs, that way they got the most traffic to mix in with.
Like having a fucking job, though. Up at goddamn seven in the fucking morning.
But Seephus was cool with it. Meant the crew boss thought he was a player. Meant he got to meet the out-of-town crews, build out his network. Might even mean Hernandez knew his name.
Seephus knew one way to get on Hernandez’s screen for sure – find this Hardin fuck.
Crew boss, he’d passed the picture around, let everybody know this was a major fucking deal. Didn’t say what it was about, just that Hernandez wanted this fucker bad, and that any brother played a part in that, he gonna be one happy nigger. So Seephus had studied the picture good. He was good with faces. Little game he played on the train, watching the people get on and off, trying to remember who goes where. Like the guy up two seat on his right? Guy with that buzz cut white guys like when they start going bald, always got the iPod buds in his ears, always got the laptop open? Got on every morning in LaGrange. Got off at Route 59. Always had a Starbucks cup.
Little tired for it today, though, just leaning on the window, watching the word slide by. Wished he could sleep on the train like he seen so many people do, but he figured he nods off, somebody pinches his bag, he’d end up sleeping on a slab down at the ME’s for good.
And then he saw Hardin.
Hardin was going stir crazy. Spent all the previous day in the damn condo. Him and Wilson eating all their meals take out, couldn’t even get out, take a run, nothing. Made sense, all the people looking for him, but it was sawing on his nerves. Switched on the TV, switched it off again. Did another hundred pushups. Had to get out tonight, make his deal with Lafitpour. That should be scaring the shit out of him; instead, he was looking forward to it.
She had a lot of books, at least. He flipped the coffee maker on, checked out the shelves; saw The Mosquito Coast by Paul Theroux. He’d read a couple of his travel books and liked them, figured he might as well see what the guy could do with a novel. Coffee maker dinged. He poured a cup, walked out on Wilson’s small balcony, sat at the little café table she had out there, watched the train pull in to the station.
CHAPTER 42
Seephus looked up again from the Sun-Times he’d picked up off an empty train seat when he jumped off. Proud of that move. Gave him something to do ’stead of just standing on the platform. Had the disguise on, he knew, but he still felt like the only brother at a Klan rally. Nobody seemed to be paying him no mind, though.
Been like half an hour now. He’d called in. Boss man told him just sit tight, he’d get a call. Couple of trains had come and gone, one going each way, him still on the bench on the platform. Fucker was still up there, though – second floor, second balcony in from the corner.
Seephus’ cell went off: Tupac tone he’d downloaded. Seephus slapping at the phone, trying to shut that shit off, kinda thing get the whiteys looking at you.
“Yo?” He answered.
“Mr Jones, this is Jamie Hernandez…”
Seephus trying to listen through the cha-ching sounds in his head.
CHAPTER 43
Lynch, Bernstein, and Starshak walked into the room full of suits in the Federal Building on Adams. At the front of the room, the new US Attorney, Alex Hickman, was backslapping a handful of brass. Hickman was political as hell, always looking for a camera.
Hickman did the introductions.
Brad Jablonski from the DEA was there, gave Lynch a nod. Hickman’s replacement at the Bureau, little guy named Tate, one of Hickman’s coattail riders. Handful of other suits, just introduced as “out of DC.” Could mean anything. Some gangs-and-drugs guys in from a couple of the larger suburban PDs; Perez, guy from Aurora that Lynch knew; guys from Joliet, Elgin. Wilson, the DEA agent from the last meeting, was in the back.
Hickman hit a switch, dimming the lights, and brought up a PowerPoint show on the screen. It was the same split screen shot Lynch had used, Hardin in his Marine Blues and the cop cam grab.
“Gentlemen, meet Nick Hardin…”
Hickman made his spiel, his DC suits chiming in to back him on a couple points. The diamonds, Hezbollah, the Al Qaeda connection. They threw some kisses out to Starshak and Lynch, blew a little smoke up their asses – kudos for spotting Hardin, running all this shit down in just a few days.
A new shot popped up on the screen. A grainy blow-up picture of some guy taken from a long ways off. Olive-skin, dark hair, on the slight side, a little Omar Sharif vibe to him. He was in a sport coat, open shirt, at an outdoor café somewhere, chatting up a looker in a sundress. Lynch noticed one of the suits, one Bernstein had been eyeballing, tightening up just a touch.
“Husam al Din,” said Hickman. “Translates to the Sword of Faith. Intel we’ve got says he’s freelance, pretty much the go-to shooter for fundamentalist Islam.” Hickman looked at the Chicago PD contingent. “Lynch, we’re pretty sure this is your .22 guy.”
“When did you get this?” Starshak said, little edge in his voice.
“Relax, Captain,” said Hickman. “This is brand new. We have a dossier for you guys. We’re sharing everything we’ve got.”
“Where’d you get it?” asked Lynch.
“Except that,” said one of the suits. “We aren’t sharing that.
Hickman made his case on Hernandez, claiming he was after Hardin not for personal payback but because Hernandez was playing ball with the Al Qaeda and Hardin had queered their deal.
“We’ve got two huge criminal organizations, one with substantial amounts of cash that it needs to launder, one with significant non-cash assets it wants to get liquid.” said Hickman. “Fred, you want to give them a quick brief from the Treasury perspective?”
A short, heavyset woman got up, took over the laptop, bounced through a few spreadsheets, banks where they’d found overlap, transaction dates that tied together.
Starshak looked at the woman, then turned to Lynch. “Fred?”
“Probably lying about their names, too,” Lynch said.
Lynch heard a soft snort out of Bernstein. “Smell a rat?” Lynch asked.
“It’s BS. That much money moving around the system, the story would be if it hadn’t crossed trails at one institution or another. Of course there’s overlap. This isn’t proof, it’s spin.”
When Hickman was done, Jablonski piped up. “Feels kind of out there, Hickman. We’ve been working Hernandez forever. Never caught a whiff of anything like this.”
Tate, Hickman’s new Bureau boy, cut him off. “There are other elements of this we can’t share. But if we can put Hernandez and this al Din together, then we can throw the War on Terror net over the whole lot of them.”
Jablonski shrugged. “Good by me. I’ve lost enough people to this asshole. You guys want to take him off and waterboard him for a few days, I’m not crying over it.”
“Anybody else have questions?” Hickman asked in a tone that suggested no would be the appropriate answer.
“Yeah,” Starshak said. “You got a reason I’m not supposed to be worried about some terrorist running around town? Shutting down this money laundry of yours is fine, but I’m kinda wondering about, oh, I dunno, shit blowing up.”
“Our intel is that al Din is here strictly as security, protecting the diamonds on the way in and the cash on the way out.” Hickman didn’t look pleased.
“This the intel we get to know about or more of these other elements you can’t share?” Starshak asked.
“The latter.” Tate again, the head Feeb.
“We’re gonna get something nice and official on that, right?” Starshak pushing it. “Something big enough to cover my ass with if something in town goes boom?”
Hickman smiled. “You’re concerns are duly noted, Captain. And unwarranted.” Little pause for effect. “Hardin is the key, gentlemen,” said Hickman. “The good news is we should have him in the bag tonight.”
Meeting wrapped up, a little milling around, Starshak, Lynch, and Bernstein edging out. Near the door, they were next to the Washington suits. Bernstein said something to one of them in Hebrew. The man turned, opened his mouth like he was going to answer, then just smiled and shook his finger at Bernstein.
“What was that all about?” asked Starshak.
“I used to do the Israel thing with the family every summer. Spent enough time over there to pick up that IDF feel on somebody. I told him to say hi to Pardo for me.”
“Who’s Pardo?” asked Lynch.
“Head of Mossad.”
