Chasing clay, p.25
Chasing Clay, page 25
part #3 of The DeWitt Agency Files Series
We watch a dark SUV roll through the warehouse’s double-gated east entrance. It backs into place beside the other cars. Three guys get out, walk in formation to the back door. George shoots pictures. The three stop at the door; the guard lets them in.
George says, “Two knocks, then one, then two more.”
During the minute that bit of action happened, I checked my phone three times for a reply from ICE. Nothing. I text the door signal to Montooth’s number in case somebody’s paying attention. For all I know, they’re in some bar watching baseball.
Just shy of eleven, a weathered white panel truck turns right onto Ninth from southbound Pine Street. It trundles toward the warehouse, stops, then carefully turns into the driveway. The driver backs it into the loading dock like he knows what he’s doing. The dock’s roll-up door opens, throwing a rectangle of light over the truck’s cargo box. A guy wheels out an appliance dolly while another guy opens the cargo doors. A minute later, the dolly has a crate on it and is headed inside.
I text, Delivery happening now. R u there?
Another crate comes out. Then another.
My phone pings. It’s a text from Montooth: Hold. Does that mean “stay there” or “hold, please”? Do I get Muzak next?
George says, “Well?”
“I’m on hold, or ‘ignore.’ It’s like I’m calling the cable company.”
The loading-dock door slides down, cutting off the lightspill.
Then, nothing. The guard outside the back door sparks up a cigarette.
Thirty minutes. “Come on, guys,” I mutter for the eleventy-seventh time. “Don’t fucking blow this.”
An hour. I’ve paced the Winnebago’s aisle almost enough to wear out the carpet. The loading-dock door opens. The same dude with a dolly loads two crates into the truck.
Are they leaving? Did ICE just punt this? I ask George, “Can we block them if they leave?”
“Are you bulletproof?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
The truck leaves the loading dock, pulls into Ninth Street, then parks in front of the warehouse. I try to telepathically short out his fuel pump. What’s he doing?
Ninety minutes. The loading dock closes. The light outside the warehouse’s back door dies. A yellow Ryder panel truck chugs past us toward Ninth. It swerves right, then backs down Ninth to the white truck. It stops a few feet away.
Coulson? Are Bandineau’s new pots in the white truck?
The two drivers meet on the sidewalk, just two dark shapes in the orange streetlight wash. After a few minutes, they crack open their cargo boxes.
Something moves in front of the broken-down junkyard across the street from them. At first I can’t make it out. Then it hits the edge of the streetlights: a line of federal ninjas spreading out around the two trucks.
Out back of the warehouse, another ninja has the guard flipped on his front and trussed up like a turkey. More ninjas melt out of the dark.
A block north, a conga line of cars and vans with flashing blue-and-white lights roars south.
The cavalry’s here.
.
Chapter 41
16 DAYS LEFT
Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents got more than they bargained for last night when a raid on a West Oakland warehouse uncovered nearly fifty kilos of pure heroin…
Even though I’m seriously sleep-deprived, I’m pretty stoked about the raid. It’s on all the local morning news shows and even made it to KNX, L.A.’s all-news radio station. Along with the heroin, Talbot’s guys got Coulson and ten members of what ICE describes as an “international narcotics-smuggling syndicate,” plus the usual cash, guns, and fast cars.
Better yet? Montooth texted me somewhere around two a.m.: Is this it? and an attached close-up of a Nam Ton pitcher.
I texted, Thats it. R we good?
Were good.
Yes! I slept better than I have since last Monday’s visit with Savannah.
Now all I have to do is get Allyson to get the client to send me to Thailand so I can draw the line between WCZ in Arunothai and some archaeological dig in Myanmar.
No problem. Right?
Except it doesn’t happen.
All that happens Wednesday is that I go home. My work phone never gets more than a foot away from me, even in the bathroom, not that it helps. I’m grumpy with Chloe and I can’t eat. When I started this, I didn’t think I’d come this close to the end and get stuck. Now I have to imagine it, and it’s frustrating as hell.
The Thursday morning call I get isn’t the one I’ve been expecting and hoping for. It’s from Savannah. “Have you heard?” She sounds worried.
“Heard what?”
“They arrested Jim and Lorena and raided the gallery.”
Holy. Shit. If she reached through the phone and slapped me with a badger, I wouldn’t be as surprised. It takes a few moments to find where I dropped my voice. “Um… who arrested them? ICE?”
“No, the DEA.” She takes a shuddery breath. “I was there. Or, I was almost there. I was walking down the street to meet with Lorena and I saw what looked like every DEA agent in the world go in there. I just stood there, I… I couldn’t think. They were in handcuffs. I… what if they come for me?”
It didn’t sound like Carruthers was interested in Savannah as anything other than a pinup. I wish I could tell her that. “Have a lawyer?”
“Of course I… uh, no, not this kind.” She sounds more lost than I’ve ever heard her. “Maybe someone in his firm. This is awful! It isn’t about that thing in Oakland, is it?”
She really sounds rattled. I feel for her; I know what it’s like to see people you know get carted away in cuffs. “I’m sure it is. They’ve got a straight line from the heroin to Achara. I guess the DEA wanted to grab them before they tried to get away.”
“Get away? To where?”
“Southeast Asia, for one. They’ve both been there, they probably know people. Lorena’s already got the wardrobe. We’ve got no extradition treaty with Vietnam, Cambodia, or Myanmar.” Yes, I was looking. It’s always good to know your options.
“But that’s crazy! They wouldn’t…” Long pause. “Oh, god. Should I go bail them out?”
“You can’t yet. They have to go to initial arraignment and have bail set. The U.S. Attorney will claim they’re flight risks, so they may not get bail.”
“How do you know all this?”
You spend time in the system, you learn. “A banker once tried to skip the country with a wad of my money. Look, you can’t do anything for them right now. There’s a process they have to go through.” I get a bright idea. “DEA’s probably not very interested in them. The USA will probably corner them into talking, see who they tie into this.” Probably not what she wants to hear. “Just go to work, or go home, or whatever will take your mind off it. Making yourself sick won’t help them.”
She breathes hard into the phone for a few seconds. “Can I come see you? I don’t want to be alone right now.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
I gentle my voice as much as I can. “I’ll be home in a couple days. Until then, call if you want to talk. I’m sorry you had to see all that.”
Sniff. “I am too. See you soon.”
There’s nothing on the news yet about the DEA bust at Achara. It doesn’t make a lot of sense as an operation unless the feds can prove intent to distribute. As a bureaucratic play? Look at us, we’re busy too! That I can understand.
I call Olivia to tell her what happened and to suggest that Allyson should warn the client. It might shake loose the go-ahead to send me to Thailand so I can close the project. I hope.
My work phone doesn’t ring again until I’m in the middle of dinner with Chloe (Healthy Choice entrees—it’s hard to do better when all you have is a hot plate and a microwave). “Can you talk?” It’s Allyson.
I trot into the back yard. This could be either very good or very bad. “What’s up?”
Allyson clears her throat. “The DEA took the client into custody this afternoon.”
Shit.
I collapse into a plastic lawn chair and stare at the ratty cypress trees lining the cinder-block wall. Can this possibly get worse? “Have you talked to him?”
“No, but I have spoken to his solicitor. The client has terminated the project.”
Noooooooooooooooooooooooo…
“The solicitor told me that the client said, ‘If this is how they treat me, then to hell with them.’ I’m not certain when, or even if, I’ll have a chance to intercede with him.” She waits for me to say something, but I’m too stunned. “I’m really very sorry, Matt. I know what this meant to you. I’m personally quite put out by this—the client has several thousand euros of our billings in his hands and I’ve no idea if he intends to pay them.”
“Not the same.”
“I understand that.”
My lemon-pepper fish starts fighting to get out. I hang my head between my knees and breathe deep. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to finish the project and get my early termination and become an independent adult again. Being so close to getting off probation in the next couple months, then suddenly having it stretch out a year again…
“Mr. Friedrich?”
“Yeah. Have you talked to Talbot?”
“He’s neither taking nor returning my calls.” Allyson sounds peeved. “I imagine he’s occupied just now.”
Or he’s cleaning up loose ends. “Give me his number.”
“Why would he talk to you directly? He wants the insulation the client and I provide.”
“He owes me. I handed him that bust. He didn’t have to do a fucking thing except show up.” I haven’t thought through a word of this. I probably should, but damnit… “He told me he needs to know where the source is. I can still do that as his CI.”
“How? If you work for him directly, you won’t have the agency’s resources to draw on. I sincerely doubt the government will finance your trip to Thailand.”
So do I. “Maybe he can pay you to run me. Cut Mellin out of it. You’ve worked for governments before, right?”
“Of course. It’s not my favorite arrangement. It exposes the agency to more scrutiny than I care for.” Pause. “I have an idea. It may not lead to a solution, but it’s a different avenue of approach. Wait for my call.”
As I rip out a text to Montooth—Get yr boss 2 talk 2 my boss SOS—I wonder how often agency clients cancel their projects, and whether they survive the experience. Not that I care much about Mellin’s survival right now.
I wish I had a plan for this.
I don’t.
.
Chapter 42
14 DAYS LEFT
My work phone rings at 4:18 a.m. Olivia says, “A car will be at your home at 5:30. Be ready for it.”
She hangs up before she hears me say, “What the fuck?”
The town car takes me to Allyson’s jet at Santa Monica Airport. It drops me at Oakland International’s Kaiser Air in the middle of a flock of other business jets. A Latino guy in a black suit leads me through the cold, breezy morning (glad I wore the hip-length Barbour Bedale field jacket I bought for my last project) to a black Audi Q7 SUV idling in the parking lot. He opens the rear driver’s-side door for me.
Allyson’s in the back seat. “Please get in. We have a schedule.”
The SUV sweeps out of the lot as soon as I climb in. I ask, “Where are we going?”
“It’s not far.”
“That’s not what I was asking. Why am I here? What’s happening?”
She considers me for a moment. She’s wearing what looks like a black, long-sleeved Armani knit sheath, except the wide color-block stripe running down the full length of the front is scarlet rather than the standard aquamarine. Does Armani do custom? “I’m meeting with Agent Talbot in twelve minutes. I need you here in case he wants to talk to you directly.”
Talbot? That sounds mildly encouraging. “Is he gonna sponsor the rest of the project?”
“I haven’t asked yet.” She watches the airport’s rental-car lot roll by. “I’ve proposed another solution—that he rescue the client from the DEA’s clutches with the understanding that the client continues the project to its conclusion.”
Not an entirely crazy idea. The feds swap witnesses and suspects like a bad cold. I testified in cases investigated by ICE, the IRS, ATF, and the DEA back when I was trying hard to stay away from prisons full of knuckle-draggers. Talbot will have to duke it out with Carruthers, but when we were together in the conference room three weeks ago it seemed like he was used to that.
“Does he sound interested?”
“He didn’t dismiss it out of hand.”
We’re on a busy frontage road sandwiched between the airport’s outer fringes and a choppy inlet. We turn right at the entrance to the Bill Osborne Model Airplane Field, pass through a gate I suspect isn’t supposed to be open, then stop behind what looks like the fenced-in remains of an old incinerator. Nobody will see us from the road. Not a bad place for an execution if you need that kind of thing.
I ask, “How long will I be up here?”
She doesn’t even look at me. “Have you something better to do?”
“I need to meet my PO at three. You don’t want me to miss that.”
Allyson swivels toward me. “You’re right, I don’t.” Her lips purse. “If this works as planned, it will be much easier for me to assign projects to you. You’ll be able to move about more freely. I hope that idea doesn’t distress you.”
It doesn’t. More work = more money = my debts go away faster. Another excellent reason to keep at this.
A midnight-blue Crown Victoria with tinted windows and federal plates backs past us a few minutes later and parks facing us behind the incinerator. Allyson sighs, loops her purse strap over her shoulder, then pushes open her door. “Stay here. I’ll signal if I need you. If I do draw you into the discussion, I need you to bring Mr. Hoskins’ attitude with you. Is that clear?”
I’m not sure that’s the best approach, but I’ll deal with that when I get a chance to read the situation. “I get it.”
She marches to Talbot’s car and ducks through the passenger’s door. People dressed like her probably don’t sit in that seat often. The SUV driver’s already busy with his phone, so I have nothing better to do than watch Allyson and Talbot talk and wish I had some coffee.
Even if Allyson can get Talbot to buy off on her idea, there may not be enough time to make it happen. He’ll have to get Carruthers onboard, then the USA. That’ll take time even if they don’t put up a fight, which is unlikely. Will Mellin go for it? It wouldn’t be the first time a bruised ego makes an exec do dumb things, like refuse to cooperate when he’s ninety percent of the way to fulfilling his immunity deal with the feds.
I check my phone. Mellin’s arrest is all over the news this morning, along with a truly unflattering picture of him sandwiched between two linebacker-sized DEA agents. They also picked up Cort and three other semi-well-known collectors. The DEA spokesman says the agency will make an announcement later today.
Allyson and Talbot are still in the Crown Vic and aren’t trying to strangle each other yet. That’s a good sign, right?
But what happens if Talbot doesn’t buy it, or can’t do it?
I try not to think about that.
“Hey.” The driver nudges my shoulder. “She wants you.”
Allyson stands behind the Crown Vic’s passenger’s door, waving in short, sharp movements.
She meets me halfway between the cars. She’s looked happier. “Agent Medina says the DEA won’t let the client go before arraignment, which is scheduled for next Tuesday.”
If I was close enough to a tire, I’d kick it. “So much for the easy way.” Then I pick up on the name. “Wait. Medina?” The dark DEA agent who sat in on my interrogation. “What’s he doing here?”
“I gather he’s representing his agency on behalf of his supervisor.”
I wonder if Carruthers is in the doghouse. “Did you ask Talbot about hiring the agency?”
Her jaw sets. “Yes. He’s… shall we say, highly skeptical. He wants you to tell him exactly what you intend to do and how long you expect it to take. You do have a plan, I assume?”
“Yes, I do.” No, I don’t.
She points to the car. “Tell him. Be persuasive.”
“Sure. Um, Ms. DeWitt?” She stops in mid-turn. “Can I sit in front? I get flashbacks when I sit in the back of a Crown Vic.”
She glares at me but stalks past the open front door.
Talbot’s got a navy tie under his black ICE windbreaker. Medina’s slumped in the back seat, swaddled in a DEA windbreaker and a long-sleeved black tee. Both men do a double-take as Allyson climbs into the back seat.
Talbot thumbs over his shoulder. “You’ve met Medina.”
The DEA agent nods. I say, “We go way back.”
Talbot snorts. “I take it you know what’s happening?”
“DEA’s being difficult.” I ask Medina, “What’re you guys looking to charge the collectors with?”
Medina growls, “Not your problem.”
Talbot: “The narcs are torqued off that we got the fifty-kilo heroin bust and they didn’t. Now they’re stomping on our dicks to look like they’re not asleep.”
Medina: “Hey, watch that shit.”
“If you’ve got a better explanation, I’m all ears. No?” Talbot shrugs. “Okay. Friedrich, tell me how you’re going to find the source for the Nam Ton pots.”
I take a moment to try to herd my stray thoughts together. I need to get this right. This is like the ultimate sales job. I can do this. I can do this.
“Okay. First I need to visit the WCZ warehouse in Arunothai to see if there’s anything useful there. You still need to connect them with that end of the pipeline, right?”
“Right.”
“Next, I enter Myanmar wherever I can in that area. The closest official border crossing may or may not be open. Did you get my report about the Nam Ton River?” He nods. “Good. Now, looking at the terrain, I’m focusing on a ten-mile stretch of the lower Nam Ton that starts about twenty-two miles north of the border and goes to just past Wan Mè-kin. It’s forest and mountains above that, so there’s nowhere to plant crops. I follow the river over those ten miles until I find the excavations. They should be hard to miss given the volume of wares coming out of there. Once I find it, I shoot the GPS coordinates and make a run for the border.”
