Blood and Ashes (27 page)

‘Hicks was planning a coup?’

‘That’s what my contact told me. Except it turned out that Hicks was more interested in attacking the banking system than the government.’

Hit them where it really hurts, I thought. ‘Which was when you supplied the information and Hicks was arrested.’

‘That’s right,’ Don said. ‘My
friend
was pissed at me of course; he suspected that I was the one behind Hicks’ capture. But he was a forgiving soul, so as long as I paid him a few grand he promised to go away.’

‘And you gave in to his demand.’

‘It suited me,’ Don admitted. ‘Cracking that case was the making of me, gave me everything I needed. I was grateful and paid him.’

‘When Hicks escaped from prison, this man found out that he wasn’t dead. He didn’t come back to warn you as an old friend, he was after more money?’

‘I didn’t believe him. As far as I was concerned Hicks was dead and gone; what threat was he to me or my family?’

‘Then Brook died.’

Don’s eyes grew teary. ‘Then Brook was
murdered
.’

The words of the email made sense now. How many more must die or who will you lose next? Something along those lines. The message was really asking, ‘How many are you prepared to lose before you pay me?’

I said, ‘You sent for me, even after you paid him. You didn’t trust this man.’

Don shook his head wearily. ‘I sent for you, I only got back in touch with him after you turned me down. Remember how you walked away from me? Well, I transferred the cash to him then – fifty thousand dollars. I wasn’t to know that you were going to change your mind, was I? Maybe if Hicks’ men hadn’t approached you at the Seven-Eleven then you’d have got in your car and headed back to Tampa.’

I couldn’t deny that Don had a point. ‘So what was this man offering in return? He obviously didn’t give a damn about you or your family. What was the money for this time?’

‘Information on Hicks’ latest plot.’

‘Did he send it to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘So where is it, your computer?’ The FBI had already trawled through Don’s computer and had come up with nothing of significance. There wasn’t even a history of the alleged emails.

Don tapped his head. ‘It’s all up here, Hunter. We used the draft email facility between our computers and deleted as we went. There’s nothing but what I’ve retained up here.’

‘This man—’

‘Jim Lloyd,’ Don interjected. ‘You know what he is now, so you may as well know his name.’

‘OK. This Lloyd, do you trust his information?’

‘I’ve no reason to doubt him. He wants Hicks stopped as much as I do. He’s frightened that Hicks has figured out who supplied the info that originally betrayed him, and that harm will come to his family as a result. He told me his daughter is part of Gant’s crew and he was terrified of what Hicks would do to her.’

Sonya Madden. I thought of what Vince had done to the girl and that Lloyd’s fears had come true, albeit in a roundabout manner.

‘Yet he was more interested in extorting money from you than getting his daughter out of harm’s way.’

‘I think he was planning on using the cash to take his daughter somewhere safe. He wanted out of Manhattan, that was for sure. That was another reason he wanted Hicks stopped. He says that Hicks forced him into bartering a deal with some old contacts of Lloyd’s out in the Far East. He said that if Hicks’ plan works out there’s no way he wants to stay in New York.’

‘Tell me Hicks’ plan.’

Don told me.

Holy shit, Walter wasn’t that far away from the truth, only it was much worse than he or Arrowsake had even anticipated.

I was running when I met Rink and Vince returning from the cafeteria. The extra shot of caffeine would have been good, but I just snatched it from Vince’s hand and slung it in a waste bin. They followed me, pounding towards the waiting helicopter, Vince asking what the hell was going on. Over my shoulder I said, ‘The deal’s still on, Vince. You bought the coffee, so I’ll tell you everything Don said. But I’ll tell you on the way to New York because we haven’t a single second to spare.’

Chapter 35

Port Authority officials were as numerous as fleas on a junkyard dog here. They could arrive at any second to check out the men standing on the dock overlooking Newark Bay towards Staten Island. Carswell Hicks wasn’t worried, though, because many meetings were conducted here on the waterfront. This was the principal facility for container ships serving New York City and Jersey was a buzz of activity at all times of the day or night. The port was a boiling pot for races from all over the globe, so it wasn’t unusual for whites to be mixing with Asians, and their meeting would raise no more suspicion than any other mongrel grouping of men would. Looking closely a Port Authority cop might notice the tenseness between the men, but when deals were being struck, sometimes for billions of dollars, a little uneasiness could be forgiven.

Nevertheless, Hicks didn’t have time for any distractions, the worst of which would be a nosy cop. He wanted to get this done and over with but it was necessary to ensure their privacy first. He’d set some of his people at strategic points around the port, on the lookout for anyone who might disturb them. Those he was meeting doubtless had similar men keeping watch.

Keeping things low-key he had brought only his two minders with him. Both hulking men had the look of boxers gone to seed, but their conservative suits and hairstyles weren’t as obvious as the tattoos and bald skulls of the others that Hicks had at hand. They served their purpose well: they were intimidating, but didn’t look like they hated anyone for any specific reason, and wouldn’t offend their North Korean friends with a racist slip of the tongue that Samuel Gant, for example, couldn’t rein in.

‘Which of you is Kwon?’

As was agreed the Koreans had come in a similar small number. Hicks didn’t know their names beyond the codename supplied in Jim Lloyd’s introduction message, and couldn’t care less. All he was interested in was doing the deal and then getting back to Manhattan. Things were moving along and he didn’t want to stall the momentum by making small talk among the rankness of rusting containers and diesel oil.

The man who came forward had the high forehead and long chin, the epicanthic fold that turned down the outer edges of his eyes, that defined the Korean racial trait. His suit was well cut and his shoes glossed to a high sheen and judging by his easy grace he was no stranger to a martial arts studio. He was handsome enough that he’d pass for a chop-socky movie star, Hicks decided, but so what? He was still a gook whichever way you looked at him.

‘I am Kwon.’

Jesus, Hicks thought, he even sounds like a chop-socky flick. The only thing that spoiled the image was how Kwon’s lips worked in sync with his words: that never happened in the kung fu movies he’d seen. At least the Korean’s codename was fitting for an action star, Kwon being a catch-all translation of ‘hand’ or ‘fist’. In any other circumstance it would be laughable, but, other than that he was a delivery boy, Hicks decided that Kwon was inconsequential and didn’t deserve the consideration he’d already given him.

He nodded at the men behind Kwon. ‘I don’t see any sign of the product you promised.’

Kwon raised his chin, staring down his nose. He was an inch or so taller than Hicks. ‘I don’t see the money.’

Money was an intangible commodity when it only existed in cyberspace; the days of suitcases stuffed with cash transferred between couriers were a thing of the past. Who wanted the trouble when a press of a button was so much easier? Hicks held up a mobile phone. ‘I have a man poised to deposit the agreed amount into an account of your choice. Once I see the product, I give him the go-ahead. You have the facility to check that we have made good on the deal, I take it?’

Kwon indicated one of his colleagues who took out a BlackBerry and jabbed buttons. That done, Kwon made a swooping gesture with his arm asking that Hicks follow. The two groups didn’t converge, but moved along the dock alongside each other. Conversation was unnecessary as well as unwelcome.

Metal containers, stacked three or four high in places, formed a series of corridors that stretched into the hazy distance. Company names and loading directions stencilled on the cargo containers were in more languages than could be counted and further proof to Hicks to what extent his nation was turning into a sink-hole for the world. Distractedly he wondered how many of those containers had brought aliens into the country, smuggled past the immigration authorities in the same manner as his product had arrived here. Out of the hundreds of containers, Kwon led them unerringly to a particular one. As they approached, the door swung open slowly and a fourth Korean emerged carting with him a large silver box with snap-locks. The box looked extremely heavy, even for the muscular man who carried it.

Hicks peered both ways along the corridor they stood in. He could hear the dull roar of machinery from a distance, and somewhere a man shouted to another, but there was no one nearby. He looked up, checking that a helicopter wasn’t hanging in the sky with a camera trained on them. The low clouds billowing overhead made that almost impossible.

‘I’d care to check the product before we do the deal. I’d hate to hand over two million dollars for an empty box.’

‘You Americans are so untrusting.’ Kwon’s sneer should have been enough to seal the deal, but he was right: Hicks didn’t trust the Korean one bit.

‘Show me.’ Hicks held up the cell phone, his thumb poised over the send button.

Kwon rattled off something in his native tongue and while Hicks had spent time in the Far East, he was only familiar with Vietnamese and that was unlike the language Kwon spoke. The man lugging the box set it on the ground. He unsnapped the locks and opened the lid. Sweat broke along the Korean’s hairline, all the proof that Hicks needed. Still, he leaned close enough to see the padded interior of the box and the product it protected.

‘Would you like to open one of the packages?’

Kwon was standing smugly, with his arms crossed on his chest.

‘No. I’ll take your word for it that they’re good.’

‘Excellent decision,’ Kwon said. ‘Then we have a deal?’

Hicks thumbed his phone. ‘Do the transfer.’ He looked back at Kwon. ‘The account number?’

Kwon told him and Hicks relayed the details through the phone. The Korean with the BlackBerry watched the screen then nodded almost imperceptibly to his boss. Kwon turned his gaze back on Hicks. ‘It’s all yours.’

The fourth Korean shut the lid and snapped the locks in place. He stepped back, appearing glad to be rid of the box. Hicks stood aside for his minders who between them hauled it off the ground like an overladen picnic hamper. Both men frowned at the weight, but said nothing.

Deal done, Hicks had no more time to waste. He walked away, following his minders, Kwon and his men as insignificant to him now as any other insignificant race.

‘Hey, Yankee!’

Kwon was wearing a supercilious sneer when Hicks turned back. It seemed that racism was a two-way street. Hicks thought about shooting Kwon and his entourage, shutting them in their container and shipping them back home. But who knew? He might want to do business with them again.

Kwon said, ‘Where is your famed hospitality? We are in town for a few days. Won’t you show us the sights, my friend?’

‘I’m afraid that I wouldn’t be very good company, Kwon, so you boys are better off on your own.’ Hicks turned away, adding, ‘But if you want to see the sights, I’ve some advice for you: get it done today.’

Chapter 36

‘The Bloody Angle continues to live up to its name,’ said Special Agent Vincent as he took the Lincoln town car out through Bowery and on to Chatham Square, then eased it into the meagre traffic heading down Park Row.

Sitting in the back of the government car, I wasn’t surprised by the revelation that Carswell Hicks had beaten us to Jim Lloyd, but I could have done with a look around the Vietnam vet’s apartment without having to take Vince’s word that it was a dead end. That had proved nigh-on impossible. When we’d turned up at Doyers Street, the NYP was already there in force, and the street had been taped off to keep back the ghoulish onlookers. Vince had flashed his badge and got through, but we had been left to twiddle our thumbs in the Lincoln. Rink, who could normally sit still enough for birds to alight on him, was fidgeting so much that he’d finally clambered out of the car and gone off in search of nourishment. He arrived back with barbecued spare ribs and spicy General Tzu’s chicken wings, plus a couple waxed cups of Java. I took the coffee but declined the food. My appetite was a non-starter. Now that Vince had brought us up to speed on the mess they’d found Jim Lloyd in I was glad there was nothing substantial in my stomach. It wasn’t the bullet holes that disturbed me, it was the fact that Lloyd’s pet chihuahua had abandoned all loyalty to its master when it grew hungry. Greyfriars Bobby, it wasn’t.

Park Row was a restricted area, the road running down behind the civic centre and court houses on Federal Plaza, and we were hailed over by a private security guard. Vince flashed his badge at the guard, who glanced suspiciously in the back at us. Perhaps the guard thought that we were prisoners of the fed, but for the fact Rink was mid-chew on a BBQ rib. He just shook his head, then waved Vince through. Rink waved back with the pork bone.