Текст книги "Greed"
Автор книги: Dan O'Shea
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CHAPTER 6
Lynch was on his way into the office when McCord called him on his cell.
“Wasn’t expecting to hear from you yet,” Lynch said.
“No shit,” said McCord, mumbling through whatever he was eating. “Got done with you at what, eleven? I was over at the other scene until after two. But I got something you need to hear. That second stiff, looks like another .22. Haven’t chopped anybody up yet, and like I said, I’m not real optimistic on a good ballistics match with anything out of Stein’s noggin, so you might have to wait until we get the metallurgy back before we can make the tie for sure. But two guys getting popped with .22s half a mile from each other and maybe thirty minutes apart? Thought you might want to know.”
“Has to be the same guy,” Lynch said. “Can’t picture any of the gangbangers over on the west side using a .22.”
“Nah,” said McCord. “Anything smaller than a nine, they’d be afraid their pricks would shrivel up.”
“What can you tell me about the second victim?”
“You’re gonna love this,” said McCord. “Guy’s name is Membe Saturday. Refugee at some sort of shelter some nuns are running. Guy’s pretty much off the boat from Africa. Missing a hand, if that helps. Looks like somebody took it off with an ax a couple years back. Guess he was standing out front, taking the air, when somebody put three through his forehead.”
“Three again?”
“Yep.”
“Leave any brass?”
“Nope.”
“Makes him a calm motherfucker. Picking up the casings in the United Center bathroom, fine. Those had to be right there. But taking the time to find your shells out on a public sidewalk?”
“If it’s an automatic. Could be a revolver,” McCord said.
“Probably not. We’re thinking he had a pretty good suppressor at the UC, and suppressors don’t work so hot with revolvers – you get some sound out the back end.”
“True, and it looks like the guy still had the suppressor on his piece. This Saturday guy, he was right outside the shelter. You got three shots, and nobody heard anything. Oh, and the three shots? Got a three-inch grouping right in the middle of the forehead. The gate on the fence around the shelter’s yard locks and it wasn’t open, and this Membe guy dropped straight down right in front of the porch, so the guy was shooting from twenty feet, and shooting damn quick to get all three into the guy’s head before he went down. So it’s not some spray-and-pray job. Guy can shoot some.”
“Swell. Any cameras?” Between red-light cameras, police surveillance cameras in high-crime areas and the private security feeds that have been given access to the city, Chicago was the most photographed city in the world.
“Got a red-light box at the end of the block. Might be close enough to get you something, provided anybody ran the light at the right time.”
“You tell Starshak?” Starshak ran Lynch’s squad. If they were looking at the same guy that did Stein, then the second shooting was going to get assigned to Lynch.
“Gonna, soon as we hang up.”
“So,” Lynch said. “We got a shooter, gets himself in Stein’s box somehow, gives him the triple tap, then walks up the street and goes all OK Corral on some refugee.”
“Looks like.”
“Any thoughts?”
“Mostly that it seems fucked up.”
“Helpful,” Lynch said.
“Sure,” said McCord. “Trustworthy, brave, all that other shit, too.”
Lynch called Starshak, caught him up. Bernstein would be buried in paper going through Stein’s business, so Lynch jumped on Ogden and cut down to Madison toward the shelter. Just like his school days. Off to see the nuns about some trouble.
The shooting had taken place in front of an old three-flat on Madison a few blocks west of the United Center. Place was well maintained – small, neat lawn out front behind a waist-level wrought-iron fence. Madison used to be skid row from the Loop west, but it had been gentrified now, most of the way out to the United Center. West of the stadium, though, it was still a rough neighborhood. Buildings on either side of the shelter were pretty run down. Somebody had put some money into this one, though, and the way upscale was creeping west, the nuns would probably clean up on it somewhere down the line. Of course, you only had to check out the property values on Holy Name and the Cardinal’s residence off Rush Street to know that the church understood real estate.
Lynch looked up the street at the red light camera covering the intersection. Two houses up. Probably not the right angle to get anything on the sidewalk, but it might have a shot of the cars parked on the street this far back.
Lynch thought on that for a second. The way the parking worked at the United Center, you could get crammed in pretty good. You had to get out in a hurry, you might be stuck. So, if you’re a pro, you probably look for a spot on the street. You make the hit, walk out, find your ride and get gone. Maybe the shooter parked up this way, this Membe guy did something to make him nervous?
Pictures from the red-light camera would be time-stamped, so at least they could see whether a car had left around the right time.
Lynch rang the bell. A short, slim woman answered. Light hair, no makeup that Lynch could see. Strong face, one that had been outdoors a lot. Mid-forties Lynch guessed. Khaki slacks and a plain beige crewneck. She wore a simple wooden cross on a leather thong around her neck.
“You’re with the police,” she said. Not quite an accusation, but not happy either. Hint of an accent, Scottish from the sound of it.
“I’m Detective John Lynch. I’d like to ask you a few questions about last night.” He held out his badge case, showed her his creds.
She looked at them, then closed her eyes for a moment, like she was pushing back something.
“I’m Kate Magnus. I run the shelter for the order.”
She stepped aside, walked him into the house. Lynch caught just a glimpse of a huge man off to the right, probably six foot six, hulking, black as coffee. The man glared at him, half hate, half fear. Bad combination. Then the man ducked around a wall, out of view. Lynch followed the woman down a hall and into a small room with a beat-up metal desk, chair behind it, a wall of filing cabinets and a single guest chair. Tiny as she was, neighborhood like this, house full of refugees, Lynch thought the woman would be nervous, but there wasn’t a whiff of that. She sat behind the desk; Lynch took the single chair.
“Our residents come from places where any man with a gun is a man to be feared. We had several policemen here last night, for a long time. The residents are still pretty upset. We will talk in here. If you want to speak with any them, I will ask that you make sure that your weapon is out of sight.”
“Fair enough, Sister,” said Lynch.
She shook her head. “Not Sister. Just Ms Magnus.”
“Sorry. With the cross and the order and all, I assumed.”
“Dangerous habit in your profession, isn’t that, detective? Assuming?” A little dig in her voice.
“Touché,” Lynch said.
“I’ve been with the order since I was twenty. It does good work for good reasons. So far as the cross goes, I have no problem with what it should stand for. Some of the theology behind it, well…” Her voice trailed off and she looked to the side a moment, then looked back. “Vows should mean something. I couldn’t take them.”
Lynch thought he heard some history behind that, but that wasn’t what he was here for and he had a feeling he’d heard as much as he was going to anyway.
“What can you tell me about your residents?” Lynch asked.
“What do you know about Africa?” she said.
“Big place, lots of countries, pretty screwed up. Mostly what I learned looking at maps at the zoo when I was a kid and watching the news. Not sure I should generalize about the whole continent.”
“Ignorance of the world is an American luxury. When you have everything you need at home, you don’t need to know about anywhere else. Most Americans only learn about a country after we decide to invade it.”
“Cynical point of view.”
She looked up at Lynch, studied his face a moment. “I’ve lived in Africa for most of the last fifteen years. People here, they know about Somalia maybe, Rwanda if they’ve seen the movie. Over there, in most of the places I’ve lived, for most of the people I knew, that movie never ends.”
“Dangerous place for a woman,” Lynch said.
She bristled at that. “Dangerous place for anyone.”
She had a fire in her; Lynch had seen it before. Some social workers, teachers at some of the inner-city schools, some nurses he knew, even some cops. Some of them, they see enough, and it hits critical mass, it burns all the happy out of them, all the hope, but they keep doing the work, keep throwing more despair inside, hoping someday it will be enough. Probably why she was so small; fire burned so hot nothing stuck, nothing lasted. Just the fire. Lynch could see where she could believe in the cross, believe in the pain, in the sacrifice, just not in the God behind it anymore.
“What can you tell me about Membe Saturday?” Lynch asked.
“Our residents are all refugees from West Africa, primarily Liberia and Sierra Leone. Our order has a very active mission presence there. While the civil wars in these countries have calmed, there is still tremendous tribal violence. For various reasons, all of our guests would have been killed if they remained. We help them secure political asylum and try to help them start new lives here. The man who was killed last night, Membe Saturday, was from Liberia. He had only been with us three weeks.”
“I remember Liberia. That Taylor guy, right?”
Her eyebrows went up a fraction, her face loosened a little. Lynch guessed he’d scored some points, not being a complete dumbass.
“Charles Taylor, yes. An amoral thug. He overthrew the government, headed up a group called the RUF. When you meet our guests, you’ll notice that many are missing at least one arm. Lopping of limbs is an RUF trademark. Many of our guests were also forced to work in the diamond mines. The famous conflict diamonds – blood diamonds. It’s how the Taylors of the region pay for their wars. The men are forced to work in the mines essentially as slaves. If they are caught trying to keep a diamond, they lose a hand, if they aren’t killed.”
Lynch nodded. “You mentioned tribal violence. These guys here all get along?”
“We don’t allow trouble of that sort here.”
“You’ve got all these guys, different tribes, suddenly they get over here and make nice?”
“We don’t allow trouble, Detective. And none of our guests have guns.”
“Did you see or hear anything unusual last night?”
“No.”
“Anything strange about Saturday’s behavior?” Lynch asked. “He seem agitated, frightened?”
“All our residents are frightened. They’ve been abused by armed men in power their entire lives. They’ve seen family members killed, their wives and daughters raped. They have suffered these horrible mutilations. And most have never been more than a few miles from their homes before. They come here, they’re in a completely foreign environment. We work to help them acclimate, but a newcomer like Membe, he’s always frightened, always agitated. Anyway, I went through all of this with another detective last night. Do I really need to cover all this ground again?”
“Did you hear about the shooting at the United Center last night?”
“Of course. A rich businessman is murdered and it leads the news. I couldn’t find any coverage of Membe’s murder at all.”
“There is some evidence that indicates that Saturday and the victim at the United Center were killed with the same weapon,” Lynch said. “I think the killer may have parked on the street near here – maybe Saturday just saw the wrong guy at the wrong time. Was there anyone parked out front last night?”
“On any night they have an event at the stadium someone is always parked out front.”
“Any cars that seemed out of place?”
“Not to me. But I don’t know much about cars. Not aside from what I needed to know to keep the thirty year-old Land Cruiser we had in Kenema running.”
“Anything special about Saturday?” said Lynch. “Anything that might have followed him over from Africa?”
“I’m not familiar with the details of his life there, Detective, beyond what he has shared with me in the past few weeks. He saw his family murdered, which would be unusual here, but it’s commonplace where Saturday was from. He was accused of stealing a diamond, so his hand was cut off. Also commonplace, I’m afraid.”
“You must have some records, though. I mean for the political asylum, there has to be an application, paperwork?”
“We don’t have those here. There is an attorney downtown who helps us with that. Doug Telling. He’d be able to get you any paperwork from that process.”
Lynch buttoned his coat to hide his gun, and then talked with the residents. The huge man Lynch had seen on his way in followed the whole time, always hanging back by the wall, the same frightened, hateful look in his eyes. Only one of the men spoke English, a guy who was sitting on the stairs, the only one that seemed comfortable; had a smart-ass air to him.
“Did you know Membe Saturday?” Lynch asked.
The guy shrugged, smirked. “No more Saturdays for him. Kissi pussy, shoulda stayed home, made baskets.”
The huge man came off the wall shouting, lunged toward them; the man on the stairs shouting back, some African dialect. Magnus jumped in front of the big man, her head barely coming up to his chest, put both her hands up, pushed him back, lit in to him in, Lynch assumed, whatever language he had been speaking. The man looked down, ashamed, turned back to the wall.
She turned, snapped at the man on the stairs.
“Go to your room, Isaac.”
“You gotta show off for your police boyfriend, eh?” the man said.
She just stared him down. Slowly, he got up, went upstairs.
“Thought you said you didn’t have that kind of trouble here,” Lynch said.
“That wasn’t tribal,” she said. “Isaac is an asshole. Besides, I said I don’t allow it. I don’t.”
“You have to jump in like that a lot?”
“It happens.”
“Good way to get hurt,” Lynch said.
She held his eyes a second, hard. “It happens.”
Lynch just nodded. They went through the building, talked to the rest of the residents, Magnus translating. Nothing. One resident with jaundiced eyes and a skeletal face kept following Lynch around with a strange smile, making a gun with his fingers and shooting it at Lynch over and over again.
CHAPTER 7
Bobby Lee watched the blonde walk into the lobby of the Deloitte building at Wacker and Monroe through his hack into the Chicago emergency command center. He’d built a facial recognition match into his software after he’d targeted her at the Route 59 Burlington station a couple days back. She looked like that blonde chick Tiger Woods used to be married to, and that was some hot poontang. He’d heard people saying how they didn’t understand how Tiger could step out on that, but Bobby Lee understood. It was the power of strange. World was full of nookie, man. And the nookie you got, that shit don’t never take your mind off the rest of it.
Bobby had been part of the team that helped set up the Chicago video surveillance system – one of the most sophisticated in the world. Thousands of cameras – on light poles, on buses, private security cameras networked in. It was on the news now and then, but he figured most Chicagoans just didn’t get it, didn’t understand that a lot of them were on camera every time they stepped outside. Or inside, for that matter, if they were anyplace public. Bobby understood it – hell, that’s why he’d moved out to Naperville. That Big Brother eyes-in-the-sky shit gave him the willies.
But Bobby knew an opportunity when he saw one, and he just might be the best freaking systems guy in the world. The Chicago surveillance gig had been his last as a wage slave. He’d built a shitload of back doors into the code, and those gave him run of the system. That’s when he’d gone private. He’d figured there’d be people who’d pay top dollar for access. He’d figured right. And then the City had come calling. Bobby’s dad had been a black GI in the waning days of ’Nam. His mom had been a Saigon mattress girl with enough sense to understand that the only good thing likely to come out of the war was a ticket to the States. So Bobby had come squalling into the world in the VA hospital in Chicago, and he’d grown up to understand the racial algebra in the City. Fuck that “Cablinasian” shit Tiger got away with. You got any black in you, then you’re black. And that means you’re a minority. And that means minority contracts. So when the Chicago PD needed vendors for maintenance and upgrades for their ever-growing video system, Bobby tossed his hat in the ring. With his experience in the system already, he came out with the big prize. Money was decent, workload was minimal, and it kept him wired in to the max. It also meant he could cover his tracks. After a big job, the type that might get people thinking, he’d close up whatever wormhole he hacked in through, bury his tracks under a pile of code, and set up a shiny new way in somewhere else.
Damn, this blonde was hot. He checked his database – couldn’t remember whether he’d hacked anything at Deloitte yet. Yep. Took a bit, but he found the file for employee IDs, ran his JPEG of the blonde against the images they had for their security cards, and up she popped. Courtney Schilst, senior in the tax practice. Fifteen minutes after she’d walked in the door he had her name, salary, cell number, her IP address and where she lived – an apartment just east of 59, a shade north of Fox Valley. Ten minutes after that, he was into her Facebook and Twitter feeds, scrolling through, looking for a hook. Courtney didn’t know it yet, but inside a week, two at the outside, she’d be another notch on Bobby’s belt. Boy had to have a hobby, right?
A warning ping from one of his monitors. Search he was running for Tony Corsco. That Nick Hardin guy, some reporter or something who’d flown in from Africa in the last couple days that Tony wanted run down. A little bit of trouble – the guy had to have at least two sets of ID because none of the hotels or car rental places had popped up a Hardin, but the airlines had. So Lee had his arrival time and the photo from Corsco. That was all he needed. He tracked Hardin from the gate to the Hertz lot, got the license plate on the rental. Some holes in the system between the airport and downtown, but Lee had fed the plate number into his system and set up an auto search. Cameras all over the city had been bouncing all the license plates they picked up off the number, and now he had a hit. The car was in the Grant Park garage, toward the north end, so this Hardin guy, he could be at a few places down that way. Got the Swissotel, got the Fairmont, got the Hyatt maybe. Fuck that shit. He’d give Corsco the car and the location, and if Corsco came back looking for more, then Bobby’d put him back on the clock.
Bobby Lee didn’t do charity work.
CHAPTER 8
At least he was in Saigon, thought Munroe. That was the good news. Or Ho Chi Minh City, whatever the locals were calling it these days.
Munroe took a pull on his drink, looked out the window into the wee small hours of the Asian morning. He liked Saigon. The whole Vietnam thing was supposed to be this big black mark, America’s lost war, but for a young kid just learning his way around the sharp end of things, there wasn’t a better place to be, not back in the late-Sixties. The food, the Eurasian girls, the French panache, road trips to the bush to pick up a few VC scalps, back to the Caravelle by dark for drinks with the journalists and the guys from all the other embassies who were supposed to be aid officers or attachés, but who were all doing the same bad shit Munroe was doing under cover of whatever flag flew over their compounds. Happiest days of his life.
Thrill pretty much wore off by 1975 when he rode the second-to-last chopper off the roof of the embassy, but by then he had enough scalps on his lodge pole, VC and otherwise, to write his own ticket. Which worked out great, because it was right around then that the Church Committee went public with how the Agency had been very naughty and hogtied Langley with a mess of Marquess of Queensberry rules. Hogtied them just about the same time that the Cold War balance of terror started breaking down into a multilateral, asymmetrical clusterfuck where any yahoo with a little scratch in his pocket could stick it up Uncle Sam’s ass with anything from a WMD to an airliner full of Koran thumpers.
Just when playing outside the lines got more necessary, it got more complicated. Munroe’d gone one way, a lone wolf Langley could sic on problems that required his brand of discretion.
Sometimes, though, the masters needed a blunt instrument. For that, they had Tech Weaver. He’d taken his group private, set up InterGov.
Munroe and Weaver had both still been on Uncle’s payroll, of course, but they were off the grid, untraceable line items bouncing around the federal budget with only one mandate – make sure the bad guys understood that Uncle Sam still had teeth.
Weaver’d been ex-military though. Problem with those guys, they got that chain of command thing in their blood; always need an org chart. When you screwed the pooch, org charts left a place for people to start digging. Weaver’d screwed the pooch big time in Chicago a year or so back. Screwed the pooch so bad, the president ended up putting a bullet through his own head. People started digging.
Now Weaver was dead and InterGov was history – well in that form, anyway. Which meant Munroe was busy.
Another sip at his drink. Better than four decades since his salad days, but Munroe still liked the Caravelle. Conversation at the bar was a little different – it was all thirty-something entrepreneurs talking labor costs and transfer pricing. Little smile at that. Anybody still saying America lost the war? The whole point of the exercise was to keep Vietnam out of the Commie column. You wanted to find a Commie around here anymore, you had to chopper up to the I Drang valley and start digging for bones. Get a couple Vietnamese talking nowadays, and they made your average Iowa Rotary Club member sound like Leon Trotsky. These guys took to capitalism the way their fathers took to black pajamas and AK-47s.
Other than hardly anybody spoke French anymore, Saigon was pretty much the same. Still liked the food, and if you knew how much to slip to which concierge, you could still get hot-and-cold running Eurasian girls sent up to the room with all the fixings.
So Munroe was in Saigon. That was the good news.
The bad news was he’d only sent the girls home about two hours ago, it was three in the morning and his phone was ringing. He looked at the screen. Station chief out of from Lagos. That meant the chatter they’d picked up out of Freetown about a mess of diamonds going missing had checked out. Diamonds with an unsavory pedigree – Al Qaeda by way of Hezbollah. And that meant his Saigon sojourn was over. Munroe hit the talk button.
“This diamond bullshit’s not a fire drill?” Munroe asked.
“No. The situation is fluid and some of the information is conflicting, but the best estimate is at least fifteen ounces.”
Munroe paused a moment. Fifteen ounces meant at least nine figures retail. That meant the ragheads were up to something big.
“We sure it’s not Mossad?”
“They’re pissed. Had to talk them down. They thought it was our operation.”
Be a lot easier if it was Mossad, thought Munroe.
“I assume you have heard about Stein?” the man on the phone asked.
“Yeah.”
“There is something off a video feed from Chicago you should see. I am sending it to your phone.”
Munroe’s phone dinged and he opened the message. Screen capture of an olive-skinned guy in a topcoat.
“Al Din,” Munroe said. “He did Stein?”
“Looks that way.”
“But the noise on your end is that the diamonds are still in the air?”
“Yes. And al Din is still in Chicago.”
Munroe thought on that a second. Al Din was freelance, so theoretically he could tie to anybody, but for the last few years at least he’d been running almost exclusively out of Tehran.
Islam might be one big happy bowl of ragheads to your average Tea Party dipshit, but Munroe knew better. Iran was Shi’a, and with Iraq castrated, Iran was looking to consolidate its position as the top dog through the whole Shi’a crescent – Iran, Iraq, Azerbaijan, Bahrain, Lebanon, some real pull in Pakistan. Now you had Hezbollah throwing in with Assad in Syria, and it was hard to pick a dog in that fight. Sure, you had the sane people in the Syrian opposition, secular types you could do business with. But you also had a pile of fundamentalists of the Sunni stripe, and it was starting to look like the yahoos had the numbers. Which meant Syria could well go from the dictator column to the Sunni whacko column – that was the side of the balance sheet that Al Qaeda called home. Munroe was more comfortable with a dictator personally, except now Assad owed his ass to Hezbollah, and that meant he owed his ass to Tehran. Whatever piece of it he hadn’t already whored out to Putin.
So, the diamonds. Lebanese immigrants in Sierra Leone had pretty much run the West African diamond trade since the first deposits were discovered back in the Thirties. These were old school Lebanese guys who, on the Palestinian question, were a lot friendlier with Amal than Hezbollah. But Hezbollah was pretty much the only game in Lebanon these days. When you’re holding a gun to some guy’s family’s heads, muscling in on the diamond trade gets pretty simple. Which would seem to put the West African diamond pipeline in the Shi’a column.
Still, even among the true believers, sometimes money trumps all. When Al Qaeda started looking for ways to move money around after 9/11, after the West slammed the door on all their bank accounts, Hezbollah was happy to play ball. Diamonds became one of Al Qaeda’s favorite financing mechanisms, even if it meant that some Sunnis and some Shi’as had to make nice.
Whether you were Sunni or Shi’a, though, you could still hate the Jews, and when you got to the commercial end of the diamond market, the part in Antwerp and New York, the Jews still ran the market. So Israel was wired into it pretty good. Munroe knew Stein had been working with Mossad to fuck up Al Qaeda’s diamond play, sucking their runners into false buys, whacking them and taking the stones.
So al Din? Could be he was on Al Qaeda’s dime this time, whacking Stein, trying to clear Mossad out of their pipeline. Except al Din was still hanging around Chicago. Not a smart play unless the man had another reason to stay in town. Munroe had played footsie with al Din before, couple of times, and he knew one thing for sure. Al Din had a reason. The guy didn’t do stupid.
And that meant the Stein murder was the opening gambit on a bigger play, one that had something to do with better than $100 million in stones on the move. That was a butt-ton of operating capital. Hell, the ragheads had pulled off 9/11 for box tops and bottle caps by comparison. Something was up. Something big. And there were too many teams on the field.
“OK,” Munroe said to the Lagos station chief. “Three things. First, wake up the Google jockeys at Langley and have them start running scenarios – what kind of mischief could our Islamic friends get up to with nine figures to play with? Could be Al Qaeda boys, could be Tehran. So big-ticket items – loose nukes, whatever. Get ears up in all the weapons markets. Find out who’s flush all of a sudden and we’ll have a chat with them. Second, whoever has the diamonds has to move them, and these stones aren’t papered up. That’s gonna take an inside player somewhere, and that means Johannesburg, Antwerp, Mumbai, Tel Aviv, New York, maybe the Russians – there has to be money on the move, and a lot of it. Let’s find it. Third, Stein was Chicago, al Din’s in Chicago, so I’ll be in Chicago soonest. Get me an asset roster. Anybody we got in the Windy City, on or off the books. And anybody we can lean on. I know that Mayor Hurley and his thugs have that place wired up – I want real time access to every camera and microphone in town before I hit the ground. And let’s see if we can find out who has the goddamn diamonds, shall we?”
“I’m on it,” the man said.
Munroe killed the connection, went to the window, opened it, leaned on the sill and looked out over the city. Three in the fucking morning, but plenty of traffic. New York thinks it doesn’t sleep? Nobody’s stealing a march on these little yellow bastards. Warm breeze, always that scent of nước mắmon the air. An elegiac feeling he had too often these days. Munroe never knew when it was going to be his last time someplace anymore. If this was it for Saigon, he hated to say goodbye.
