Targets of Revenge (29 page)

“No,” the Director said, getting to his feet as if he just recalled there was a train he had to catch. “You have my total confidence and I trust you will do what needs to be done in the proper manner.”

“Thank you,” the DD replied, having also stood. Then, without another word, he headed back to his office to try to track down Sandor and find out what the hell he was up to.

D
AN
L
A
B
ELLE ARRANGED
to meet Bergenn and Raabe at the Mansion on Turtle Creek, located in uptown Dallas. The Mansion is a stylish complex featuring a renowned restaurant with an adjoining cocktail lounge that is understated and elegant, the walls lined in polished wood awash in muted lighting, the ambience reserved. It provided an ideal spot for a private discussion, the exorbitant cost of drinks ensuring that none of LaBelle’s subordinates would be inclined to stop by. He was waiting at the bar, nursing a glass of club soda, when the two agents arrived.

The teleconference in Byrnes’s office did away with the need for formal introductions. After shaking hands LaBelle led them to a table off to the side, where they took their seats and ordered drinks.

Raabe asked, “Is your office a mess or are you just embarrassed to have the likes of us visit?”

LaBelle laughed. “Even in this age of interdepartmental cooperation there’s no way to eradicate petty jealousies.”

“We’re stepping on toes by getting involved here, is that it?”

“Stomping is more like it.”

“Too bad,” Bergenn said. “Our DD gave us orders to tread lightly. I guess we’re screwing up already.”

“Nah.” LaBelle shook him off. “It’ll be fine. Fact is, we can use the help. It’s just that the guy you’ll be going after has been our public enemy number one for some time.”

“And you boys want to be there for the kill.”

“Something like that.”

“We talking about Sudakov?” Raabe asked.

“No, I’m talking about Jaime Rivera. He’s the kingpin in moving goods from Mexico into the States.”

“That’s why your agents might feel we’re poaching.”

LaBelle nodded. “Rivera specializes in the transportation end of the business, getting the product from Mexico into the U.S. In the past three years we’ve done everything we can to stop him, but it’s like fighting a phantom.”

“We’re here to help.”

“Understood, and I wish I had more to tell you. We don’t have so much as a photograph of the man. He moves his operation around more often than I change my socks. He obviously puts the fear of God in his people, because the ones we’ve captured haven’t given us anything that’s brought us so much as a step closer to the guy.”

“Maybe you haven’t gotten to anyone high enough in the food chain.”

“One of our concerns, certainly. The amazing thing is how Rivera seems to anticipate every move we make to intercept his shipments. We think we’re close to grabbing a major haul and end up with an empty container or truck or what have you.”

They became quiet as their waitress arrived with three beers. When she walked away LaBelle continued.

“Once in a while we get lucky. You hear about that shipment of marijuana we grabbed coming out of Tijuana a few weeks ago?”

The two agents nodded. “Something like eight tons,” Raabe said.

“Not quite that much, but a banner day for us here. We’re convinced it was one of Rivera’s cargos.” He stopped to take a long drink of his draft.

“Any leads from that?”

“No,” LaBelle said with a frustrated shake of his head. “None of the runners we took into custody had a thing to say about the man in charge. The best we got was an admission from one of them that he’d rather rot in prison than give up the big boss. Said his people would get to him wherever he was, and he wasn’t going to trust us to protect his ass.”

“When we deal with Al Qaeda we’re dealing with extremists willing to die for their cause. Sounds like you’ve got the opposite problem.
These people are afraid of dying and they know there’s a limit to what you can do to them legally.”

“Welcome to my world.”

“What about the guy Sandor brought back from Venezuela? His people must think he died in the boat explosion. That would leave him safe from their reach.”

“He’s likely off their radar, it’s true, but he’s a bit player, as we already discussed. Our people have begun interrogating him in Washington. He wants to make a deal, but he doesn’t have enough information to trade for a Big Mac.”

“Bottom line this for us.”

LaBelle nodded. “Whatever Sandor found in Venezuela, you can be certain a shipment of cocaine from that region would be heading for Mexico. It’s the perfect transit point since the enforcement there is about as airtight as a screen door. They bring it by sea or fly it in on a private plane. From there they move it by ground. Then they load it aboard a ship heading north or pack it on trucks and use their network of tunnels to get it across.”

“We know the problems you have covering the border. Tell us about the shipping option.”

LaBelle nodded. “It’s our worst-kept secret that the ports in this country are as vulnerable as hell. No telling where they might try to send one of those double-hulled boxes on a container ship. There are more ways to hide dope on those things than you can imagine.”

“They load it in Mexico?”

“Just look at a map of the Mexican coastline. Their choices are endless. And they don’t even have to make the transfer inside the harbor, they can do it out at sea.”

“Far enough out that they’re beyond any patrol boats?”

“Of course. We use satellite surveillance, but try spotting a single maneuver like that somewhere out in the Pacific or the Atlantic, especially at night. It only takes a few minutes and then the delivery vessel is gone.”

“But you’ve got the entire crew on the cargo ship witnessing the exchange,” Raabe said.

LaBelle let go with another of his easy laughs. “Man, you have
just put your finger on the biggest problem we face. There is simply so much money in narcotics, you can afford to pay off everyone and their brothers. Anyway, when the crew gets to port they’re not responsible for knowing what’s in the containers. They go ashore and leave it to Customs to do random inspections. The Coast Guard helps and Homeland Security has placed radiation scanners in a lot of our major harbors, but they’re not going to detect cocaine. Or anthrax, for that matter. A large container ship holds up to three thousand containers. We receive over six million containers a year in this country. Just think about the expense and logistics of tracking and examining each one. We actually spot-check less than five percent of the goods that arrive, and only around two percent are opened and physically inspected.”

Raabe was painfully aware of those statistics. “What about the ship’s manifest that lists the number of containers aboard? Wouldn’t someone notice the discrepancy?”

“These people are evil but they’re not stupid. They shove off with a container filled with nothing but junk. When the delivery shows up they use the crane to hoist the decoy and drop it overboard, then load the new one.”

“Beautiful.”

“The other way is to come in by plane, fly the stuff right into some private airstrip in the States, or even a flatland where they have a truck waiting. It’s fast, effective, but risky. We have our best shot at stopping the air transports with radar and satellite. And they lose a plane in the process,” he added with a grin.

“That it?”

“Those are the headlines. Obviously a lot of variations on those themes are possible.”

“So you think the way we get to the shipment from Adina is to find this Jaime Rivera, or at least infiltrate his operation.”

“That’s my take. One of the biggest problems we have in a situation like this is that Venezuela is a hostile country.”

“So we’ve heard.”

“But how much have you heard about the way the South Americans hang together when it comes to the narcotics trade?”

“We’re listening.”

“You remember when the Colombian government captured Walid Makled Garcia?”

“Venezuelan businessman, working out of Bogotá,” Bergenn said. “Suspected of involvement in cocaine trafficking.”

“Suspected? He was a loudmouth, openly claimed that some of the top officials in the Venezuelan government were on his payroll. We wanted a shot at him, could have helped us fill in a lot of blanks. So what did the Colombians do? Instead of turning him over to us they sent him back to Venezuela, claimed he was wanted there for murder and they had to honor the extradition. Nice way to cover their asses for letting him operate right there, in the middle of their capital. And the best part was that the Obama administration still gave Colombia the free-trade agreement they wanted while Chavez gave Colombia the economic concessions they were after.” He shook his head in disgust. “When you’ve got corrupt government officials in the mix, finding a way to ship narcotics into the U.S. is that much easier.”

“I’m guessing not much has been heard from Señor Garcia recently.”

“Not much, no.”

Craig Raabe lifted his glass and had a long drink of beer. “All right,” he said, “where do we start?”

B
OB
F
ERRIELLO WAS
less than thrilled to receive Bill Sternlich’s call. It would be an understatement to say his experience with Jordan Sandor had not been among his favorite memories in nearly twenty years on the police force. It would not be an overstatement to say he hoped never to see the man again.

All the same, Sternlich was a solid contact in the media, and there were times when a New York City narcotics detective could use that sort of friend. So he agreed to meet with Sandor, but refused the invitation to have a drink or engage in anything else that might suggest this was a social reunion. He knew Sandor well enough to know whatever he wanted was all about business, and he was fine to keep things that way. He invited him to stop by headquarters in Brooklyn.

Ferriello’s small office was on the second floor of a decades-old precinct house not far from Court Street. He had been coming to work here for so long that he lost sight of what a grimy, haggard appearance the place had. The walls had not been painted since Ferriello was transferred here more than ten years before, and were plastered with torn administrative notices, old and new wanted posters, and an array of different sized and colored papers containing information on cases, both pending and cold. The metal filing cabinets were gray and dented. His metal desk was also gray, a solid, heavy rectangle that was also dented. His chair was comfortable, gray metal with a vinyl-cushioned seat and a back that tilted on strong springs, the casters allowing him to roll around the linoleum floor. The two guest chairs
were less inviting, institutional uprights with hard seats and curved backs of wooden slats that encouraged short meetings.

“Sit down,” he said when Sandor was shown in by one of the uniformed officers, who then did an about-face and pulled the door closed behind him.

Sandor stood there for a moment, but it was clear that Ferriello was not getting out of his seat. “What, no team hug?”

Ferriello stared up at him. “Last time we met I ended up having to take a four-week leave to recover from my injuries. Not to mention the time I had to spend with my superiors dodging questions I couldn’t answer because your bosses in Washington told me to dummy up or else. So I’m not in the mood for your warped sense of humor and I’m not interested in a long discussion, if you catch my drift. You stand or you sit, that’s up to you. Just tell me why you’re here so we can get this over with as quickly as possible and you can get the hell outta my office.”

Sandor nodded, then lowered himself into one of the chairs facing his host. “You left out the part about my saving your life.”

“I’ll give you that, even if you’re forgetting that you weren’t supposed to put my life in danger in the first place.”

“You’re a narcotics detective with the NYPD. Your life is in danger every day.”

“Not from a terrorist lunatic trying to blow me to pieces.”

“As you would say, I’ll give you that, but we got the job done and that’s what counts.”

Ferriello took a deep breath and exhaled as if he were blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. “All right, enough of this bullshit. You didn’t come here to reminisce, I have no official orders to sit with you, and I only agreed to meet because Sternlich is a straight shooter and wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important. So what do you want?”

“Ronny Sudakov.”

“Ah.” He gave Sandor an appreciative nod. “Still aiming high, I see.”

“We have reason to believe he’s involved in moving a large shipment of cocaine into this country.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“The shipment I’m interested in is either contaminated with anthrax or is being used to conceal anthrax so it can be brought into the States.”

Ferriello let out a low whistle. “And why would a player like Sudakov contaminate his own goods?”

“He wouldn’t, I agree. He’s either being paid a huge amount of money to do it or, more likely, he’s unaware that the shipment is part of a terrorist plot. Either way, not good.”

“Either way, not good for the home team, you mean.”

“Exactly.”

“What do you want from me?”

“The way I understand this business, a shipment arranged by Sudakov is probably going to end up with the Russian boys in Brighton Beach. True?”

“As you say, probably.”

“I want you to give me a rundown on how that works. Then I want you to get me to the top dog over there.”

Ferriello could not help himself. He paused for a moment, then burst out laughing. “You really are some piece of work, you know that? What do you think, those scumbags are my friends? That I can just make a call and set up a friendly dinner to discuss their latest shipment of dope? These people are stone cold killers. They’ll shoot you in the head just to see if their gun is loaded. They’ll tie you up, cut your fingers off one at a time, then shove them down your throat and choke you with them.”