First Strike (23 page)

“You want his address?”

“Home address will do. I won’t bother him at the office.”

***

At 9.45 next morning Bowman steered the white Vette convertible into the driveway of a spacious mansion overlooking the water in Annapolis, a few minutes’ drive from the Naval Academy. Fifty miles south of Baltimore on the Chesapeake Bay, Annapolis, the State Capital of Maryland, is the most handsome colonial town in America. The mansion was genuine Georgian, as authentic as any house of its period in England. Its manicured lawns swept down to the water where a forty-foot schooner lay bobbing at anchor. Bubbles from the aeration system that kept the ice at bay drifted slowly around the keel, like balloons at a birthday party. Old Glory fluttered unselfconsciously from a flagpole. In the driveway were a seven series Beemer, a faithfully restored 1930s Duisenberg and a brand new Range Rover. A heavily built young man in rubber boots and waterproofs meticulously soaped the Beemer. He glanced over at the pimpmobile, then at Bowman and finally at Ambrose. He smiled but didn’t speak and disappeared into the garage.

Ben Ambrose pressed the bell. For a while nothing happened, then an elderly black maid in a spotless uniform and starched white apron opened the door and looked up at the black face, slightly shocked. Her lined and weathered face held a quiet dignity that reminded Ambrose of his mother.

“Is Mr Libitch at home?” Ambrose enquired politely.

“Depends who’s askin’.”

The maid was unsettled by the idea of a black man calling at the master’s house. It had never happened before. Not in the fifteen years she’d worked there.

“Tell him I’s a friend of Mas’er Trujillo.”

A slight southern drawl had crept into Ambrose’s voice, uninvited. The old woman reminded him of home, the scent of black-eyed peas and collard greens coming from his mother’s kitchen.  She said,

“Please step inside.”

Ambrose and Bowman did as they were asked.

“Just wait right there.”

She indicated a spot on the marble floor only she could see and disappeared into the house.

Bowman looked admiringly around the beautifully appointed hall. The furniture and ornaments were all meticulously in period. Within a minute the maid reappeared.

“Follow me, please.”

She turned on her heel and led the way across the lobby, down a long corridor and into a study lined with books. Behind a desk sat a portly, middle-aged man in brightly coloured casual clothes puffing on an illicit Havana cigar. He had the moist eyes and heavily veined cheeks of a recovering alcoholic. He didn’t rise when they entered but looked up at Bowman and said,

“Who the hell are you?”

Cigar ash spilled down his cashmere cardigan.

“He’s from England,” Ambrose interjected, as if this were answer

enough. Libitch seemed to accept that it was.

“And who the fuck are you?”

Libitch reluctantly addressed to the black man.

“Or are you from England too?” It was probably a joke.

“Me?” Ambrose chuckled. “No, not me. I’m with the DEA.”

He flashed his badge.

“Jesus Christ.”

Libitch chomped on his cigar. His cheeks changed from ruby to crimson and he began to sweat. He brushed ash nervously from his cardigan.

“Nice place you have here, Henry.”

Ambrose went to the window and looked out at the dinghies tacking across the icy bay where naval cadets in bright yellow oilskins were mastering the intricacies of sail. Ben stood there for a while then turned to Libitch and said,

“You marry a rich lady, Henry?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your wife, Henry. Is she rich?”

“My wife died fifteen years ago,” Libitch growled.

“Sorry to hear that, Henry.” Ambrose was suitably chastened. “But I was just wondering how much money you make. You see, we’re both public servants with more or less the same level of seniority, except you’re older than me and you’re with Customs and I’m with the DEA. Details like that could make a small difference. Now, I make $85,000 per and I reckon you can’t be on much more than…let’s say $120,000 max.”

Libitch saw at once where this was leading. He didn’t want to go there. He crushed his cigar in the ashtray and put his head in his hands. After a while he said,

“OK, OK, OK already. Tell me how much you want.”

Ambrose began to pace about the room.

“You’ve been taking kick-backs, haven’t you, Henry? That’s against the rules. You know that.”

“I’ll testify,” Libitch protested but his defences had already crumbled.

“I’ll need protection.”

“I’m not interested in you testimony, Henry. Not yet anyway. We’ll come to that later. You see, I made an arrangement with Mr Ortega.”

“You did?”

Libitch started to laugh. Tears welled up in his moist milky eyes.

“Jesus Christ! You sonofabitch! You had me goin’ there for a minute. You really had me goin’.”

He lit another Monte Cristo and shunted the box across the desk at Bowman.

“This is much more serious than you think,” Ambrose continued.

“What is?”

Libitch recovered the humidor and locked it away in his desk drawer.

“What’s more serious?”

“Henry, have you ever come across an Irishman called Declan O’Brien?”

“No,” said Libitch truthfully.

Ambrose believed him. He looked across at Bowman who seemed to believe him too.

“Henry?” Ambrose tried a different tack. “You haven’t been dealing with the Arabs, have you?”

Ambrose could not believe a fellow American would do that, no matter how greedy. Not after 9/11.

Libitch went pale.

“Once,” he spoke in a whisper. “Just the once, I swear. About a year ago. Way before 9/11. Never heard from the bastards before or since.”

“You want to tell me about it?”

“July 22 2001 a cargo vessel docked at Locust Point. The Jersey Lilly. Registered in Panama. But it took on cargo at Beirut. The manifest said canned fruit and vegetables. I was to fix it so the containers were parked in one particular spot in the bonded area on the docks while they waited to clear Customs. Right next to the perimeter fence. That was it. Just park the containers in a given spot and have a guy tamper with the lights and disable the alarm system. ‘Course I understood why. They cut through the fence at night and stole one of the containers.”

Ambrose saw Libitch was ashamed of what he’d done.

“What was it?” Libitch asked. “Horse or hash?”

“Who approached you?” Bowman spoke for the first time. “You have a name?”

“In this business nobody gives a name, at least not a real one; just a wad of cash. They came here to the house, just rang the bell and barged their way in. Even roughed-up the help. Dinah May was very upset.”

“The maid?” Ambrose looked genuinely concerned.

“She threatened to quit, but I talked her out of it. Dinah May’s been with me since my wife died. Couldn’t get along without her.”

“Can you describe the guys?”

“Middle-eastern dudes. Nicely pressed white linen trousers. Short-sleeved cotton shirts. Wrap-around gold-rimmed shades. This was July remember. One had a Saddam type moustache and manicured hands. Kept toying with a string of beads. Spoke perfect American, no trace of an accent. Had a sidekick with him who didn’t speak at all. Big sonofabitch packin’ something heavy under his jacket. Woulda topped me I’d said no.”

“You made a police report after the event? When the container went missing?”

“Sure. Always do. Cops looked into it. Came up with a big fat zero.”

“Who handled the police enquiry?”

“Guy called Danny Russo.”

“Was Russo in on the action?”

“No, not this time,” Libitch affirmed. “Sometimes he is. Sometimes he isn’t. Depends on what’s involved. This one was just too easy. Didn’t need no help.”

Bowman and Ambrose left Libitch alone with his cigar and his conscience. They were half way down the drive when they heard the shot through the open study window, followed a moment later by the sound of Dinah May screaming at the top of her lungs. One long loud wailing note that came straight from the gut. A distant memory of Bessie Smith floated across Bowman’s mind.

***

Police Lieutenant Daniel T. Russo was more than happy to oblige. A short, fat, amiable man with soft chubby hands and a belt too tight on his ample gut, he lay back in a swivel chair with his boots up on the desk. He addressed the black man with thinly disguised disdain.

“Kinda late, aren’t ya, son?” ‘Son’ was intended as a put-down. “That was way over a year ago. DEA usually moves faster’n that.”

“At the time it must have looked like a straightforward police matter,” Ambrose explained patiently. “Simple theft. Manifest said fruit and veg. No need for the DEA to get involved.”

Russo shifted in his seat as if he was passing wind.

“Couldabin. Shouldabin. Stuff gets lifted off the docks is likely to be drugs don’t you think, son. ‘Less you believe it really was fruit and veg? Me, I think they went to too much trouble for some cans of beans.”

“So what happened next?”

“We investigated. Came up with zilch. You ask me, I’d say it was an inside job.”

Russo was still sore at not sharing in the spoils.

“Stuff is parked right next to the gate. The lights go out. The alarm system is on the fritz. Just one specific container disappears out of a whole shipload. What would you think, son? Let’s see if you can work it out.”

“You have any paperwork?”

“Paperwork? Sure. ‘Nuf paperwork to wipe your nigger’s ass.”

He opened a drawer in a large metal filing cabinet marked “Unsolved”, flicked through the hanging files, pulled out a buff folder and threw it on his desk.

Ambrose stood up to leave, taking the folder with him.

“Hey!” Danny Russo yelled. “You can’t take that.”

“Oh yes I can,” Ambrose smiled patiently. “I’ll make sure you get it back though.”

Russo’s stocky frame blocked the doorway.

“I can’t have some young buck from the DEA walk in here and remove police files without authority. What the fuck is going on here?”

He made a grab for the file.

“You want me to call Internal Affairs, Danny Boy?” Ambrose enquired politely. “Tell ‘em ‘bout you and your pal Paco?”

Russo staggered round the desk and collapsed into his chair. He went pale.

“And by the way, Danny Boy,” Ambrose continued. “Unless you’re a whole lot older than you look, you’re definitely not my father.”

***

Back at the hotel Ambrose and Bowman examined every scrap of paper in Danny Russo’s file. There was nothing much they could use, the twenty month old trail was cold beyond resuscitation. But there was a precise description of the missing container, external and internal dimensions, colour, make and serial number complete with the bill of lading, and photographs of its identical companions the thieves had left on the docks. Just standard modular shipping containers, much like any others. The only thing that could be useful was the name and address of the intended recipient of the goods. Ambrose picked up the phone and made a call to Danny Russo.

“Did you ever make contact with the Lebanon Trading Company?”

“Sure I did, son. Spoke to the top man,” Danny’s tone was defensive. “Guy was pissed off naturally, but not as much as you might think. Probably made a fat profit on the insurance claim.”

Ambrose thumbed through the file.

“This guy... whatsisname… Fayed? Was he helpful?”

Russo was quiet for a while. Then he said,

“Sure, I’d say he was helpful. Like I mentioned, he was pretty pissed off. But I’d say he was co-operative.”

Ambrose put down the phone and turned to Bowman.

“Whadaya think, Alex. You want to go pay this guy Fayed a visit.”

“Might as well, Ben. Then I can pass the file to Robert Jennings, let the FBI squeeze what they can out of it. Up to now this was just a local matter that got no higher than your friend Danny Russo. The FBI’s had no involvement yet. Chances are Fayed’s shipment was just used as cover, but now at least the Feds can do a nationwide search for the container. At least now they’ll be armed with the serial number and an accurate description.”

***

The Lebanon Trading Company was housed in a large expensive-looking air-conditioned unit on an otherwise shabby industrial estate just north of Baltimore, a short distance from junction twelve of Interstate 95. Bowman parked the pimpmobile in the visitors’ space, right next to a brand new Cadillac Deville in a space marked CEO. Ambrose showed his badge to the receptionist and explained he was making routine enquiries.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” he assured her, but she didn’t even bat an eye, stuff like that happened all the time.

It turned out Fayed was between meetings and agreed to see them right away. They rode the lift to the oak-panelled executive suite on the second floor.

A slightly built, dapper little man in a business suit one size too large stood up to greet them. He had jet-black thinning hair that was probably dyed, a neatly trimmed moustache and perfect manners. He seemed unsurprised that they were there. Maybe Russo had phoned ahead to warn him. Could be an insurance scam that everyone was in on.

“Gentlemen,” Fayed smiled, “please sit down.”

He motioned them to upright chairs on either side of the impressive desk.

“How can I help?”

“Nice place you got here.”

Ambrose looked around the large room, cluttered with gilded furniture and expensive looking oriental rugs and drapes.

“Business must be good.”

Fayed confined himself to an enigmatic smile, lit up by a single golden molar.

“Just over a year and a half ago,” Ambrose began, “you had a container stolen from the docks at Locust Point.”

Fayed nodded.

“Part of a consignment of canned fruit, apricots if I recall correctly. The police investigated at the time but as far as I’m aware the case is closed. Why? Has something new come up?”

Ambrose flashed his badge.