The shadowmaker, p.2
The Shadowmaker, page 2
This was Henry’s domain—the hub from which he planned daring heists and managed the international sales of his spoils. It was the one place where he felt most at home.
He sauntered across the concrete floor with more vibrancy than usual. Today, he knew, three very special pieces of artwork were set to arrive from Montreal. It was a shipment he’d been patiently anticipating for weeks.
The museum job had been Darius’ idea—an ambitious heist that would ultimately net them a quarter of a million dollars.
For the next several hours, he paced the loading dock, answering phone calls and texting associates, until a large tractor-trailer turned the corner of Krog Street and backed into one of the bays. The driver got out and hustled back to the loading area, where he stepped onto the platform and unlocked the cargo doors. He opened them with flare as a forklift rushed inside and pulled the first pallet from the truck.
A few members of Henry’s team began unraveling the thick layer of packing wrap, which revealed a bulky metal turbine that had been stripped from an airplane engine. Henry stepped to the pallet with measured excitement. His eyes examined it carefully and, after a brief pause, he reached his arm into a ventilation shaft. His fingers grasped the tip of a plastic tube as a devilish grin swept across his face.
The forklift continued to retrieve pallets from the trailer, one after the other, each loaded with random, useless airplane parts. A small group of men gathered around and began rifling through the assemblage of rusted metal until the other two paintings were located and removed.
Henry now stood with his hands on his hips, gazing down at the three plastic tubes laying in front of him. He wouldn’t dare open them—a command that chewed away at his curiosity.
For the next hour, a small team repacked the three tubes into barrels of grain and loaded them onto a tractor-trailer, this time destined for the port of Savannah. From there, the paintings would be transferred onto a cargo ship and sent to Portugal, where a buyer anxiously awaited.
As the semi pulled away, Henry gazed out at the debris field around him, a collection of greasy machinery and other large, unrecognizable lumps of metal.
“What do you want to do with all this stuff?” a young worker shouted.
Henry inhaled with a sense of accomplishment. “Get it to the scrap yard,” he instructed. “Darius will flip out if he sees this mess.”
With that, he ambled across the warehouse to the boiler room. The small victory had stirred his appetite. Through the darkness of the tunnels, he navigated back to his office at Scranton and Brooks, where he slipped through the lobby and out onto Irwin Street. A two-block hike took him to his favorite microbrewery, a local hipster joint clinging to the fringes of society with wildly named menu items and a socially awkward staff.
Henry found a stool at the bar and ordered a cheeseburger and fries and a cold beer. Afterwards, the Ružaro lieutenant made his way back to his office, only this time, he opted for the scenic route through Old Water Tower Park.
The sky above him closed in with the onset of clouds and a looming storm. With his three prizes now safely on their way across the world, Henry returned to the lot behind Scranton and Brooks and climbed into his Maserati.
He arrived home just after two o’clock. He changed into a t-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts and hit the gym downstairs, followed by a light jog through Winn Park.
That evening, Henry rewarded himself with a few drinks at Club Trinidad. Perched high above the dance floor in a private booth, he watched the dazzling display of miniskirts and glow sticks. It was Thursday night, and between the velvet ropes and flashing strobe lights, Buckhead’s most beautiful were out in full force.
By one in the morning, he’d seen enough. With a brush of his expensive navy-blue suit, he left the raucous club and returned home. He poured a nightcap and stood on his balcony overlooking Piedmont Park and the lights of the city’s surrounding enclaves.
Nights like this often reminded him of his humble beginnings. He’d arrived in Atlanta at a young age, with little memory of his parents. He often fought desperately to remember them—the way they looked, the way they sounded. But nothing ever came. Henrick Lucian Sirola had been orphaned, scooped up by his aunt and uncle, then brought to the United States along with several other families from the village of Krasno. Thousands had fled that year, escaping the Homeland War in search of a better life.
He and Darius had been recruited in their early teens. They learned at a young age how to brew the perfect cup of coffee and avoid getting hit by cars while delivering packages on skateboards. It wasn’t long before they graduated to stealing motorcycles and credit cards. Along the way, they were trained in espionage and tradecraft, as well as hand-to-hand combat, a skill they’d honed in nightclub parking lots during their early twenties.
Henry’s career had blossomed over the years. There wasn’t a vault or museum in the world that could keep him out.
He downed the last of his drink and slithered to his bedroom, where he passed out against the mattress.
Hours later, the sun broke through the window and forced his eyes open. Through a light hangover, he rousted himself from bed and slipped into a pair of blue slacks and a white shirt.
He left his apartment on foot and walked several blocks to a small diner. Tucked in a booth in the far corner, Darius sat idly, sipping his coffee.
“Dobro jutro,” Henry greeted as he sat down.
“And good morning to you,” his friend replied. “Why do you always do that?”
“Do what?”
“Speak Croatian. It’s weird.”
“Don’t let my Aunt Sara hear you utter those words,” Henry warned.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare. How’s she doing these days?”
“She’s doing great,” said Henry, his eyes glued to the menu. “So what are we having?”
“I already ordered for us.”
“Cool. Now tell me what’s going on with this new project.”
Darius shook his head. “Do you ever just chill out? Can we at least enjoy some breakfast first?”
“No,” Henry coldly replied. “So what’s the deal?”
Darius paused as the waitress brought two plates of fresh fruit and croissants. She refilled their coffee with a pensive smile before drifting away. “Anton’s on to something big,” Darius quietly revealed.
Henry leaned over his plate. “What the hell is it?”
“I don’t actually know all the details yet. Everybody’s being super hush-hush about it.”
“Oh c’mon. You expect me to believe that?”
“Seriously. I don’t know anything about it.”
“Fine,” Henry conceded. “Specs?”
“No. But listen to me; based on the type of buyers we’re lining up, I think it’s something serious. I won’t know for sure until I get my hands on it.”
Henry sat back and cast a discerning glare across the table. “Well, thanks for bringing me in. Sounds like fun. What else is Anton cooking up these days?”
Darius shrugged. “You know him, he’s juggling a few ops right now. Nothing too crazy.”
“The guy never slows down.”
“Nope.” Darius set his fork down and reached for his coffee, gazing at Henry over the rim of his mug.
“What?” Henry asked. “I know that face… what is it?”
“Don’t get pissed off at me…”
“Oh great. Let me guess; you’re sending me to Dubai, aren’t you? Are you pairing me up with someone? Who is it, Carlos? Please don’t tell me it’s Carlos.”
“No,” Darius replied. “But also, yes. And no.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“No, you’re not going to Dubai. Yes, I’m pairing you up with someone. And no, it’s not Carlos.”
“Is it Bender?”
“Worse.”
“C’mon, dude, I’m tired of playing. Just tell me.”
Darius took a deep breath. “It’s Isabell.”
Henry sat frozen in his chair. He blinked several times in disbelief before diving back into his breakfast. “It’s too early to be fucking with me,” he growled.
“I wish I was. I’m sorry, man. Anton’s orders. She’s the only decent tour guide we have available right now.”
“She’s my ex-girlfriend! Why would you do that to me?”
An awkward hush fell over the diner. Darius nodded and smiled at the curious patrons now eyeing them with contempt.
“You promised you’d never do this to me,” Henry hissed.
“She was already on board, bro. You asked to get involved… so here we are.” Darius took another pull of his coffee. “One big happy family.”
“This is bullshit,” Henry groaned under his breath. He took a final bite of croissant and stood from the table. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“Don’t be mad. Are you still in?”
“Of course I’m in. I’ll see you tonight,” he shouted over his shoulder as he exited the diner.
CHAPTER 4
A black Suburban followed him to the corner of Peachtree and Twelfth, then continued past, northbound through Inman Park, then Emory Village, and into the suburbs. Twenty minutes later, the SUV pulled into the FBI field office just outside the city. Special Agent Miles Brennan made his way up the stairs to the second floor and pushed through the bullpen. Before he could make it to his desk, David Tisdale caught his attention.
“Brennan, a minute please!” the special agent-in-charge called from across the floor.
Miles kept his eyes on the worn carpet and continued to his cubicle, where he set his belongings on his desk. “Sure thing, be there in a sec.”
Every morning was the same: upon his arrival, Tisdale would bark at him from across the bullpen, ordering the agent into his office with some melodramatic story about Atlanta’s escalating crime problem. Everything was a crisis.
Miles wondered what today’s cataclysm was. He maneuvered through the maze and popped his head into Tisdale’s office. “What’s up?”
“Come in. Close the door.”
David Tisdale was a tall, lumbering Black man with a stern gaze and a thick mustache. He was in his early fifties, Miles guessed, but didn’t look a day older than forty-five. The special agent-in-charge had three pre-teen daughters and a bad habit of bringing his parental anxieties to the workplace.
Miles closed the door as he ran a hand through his messy brown hair. His black suede jacket tightened against his back as he stood at attention.
Tisdale glanced down at Miles’ stained gray slacks. “When’s the last time you took a shower? Or washed your clothes?”
Miles had to think about it for a moment. “Monday. No… Tuesday.”
Tisdale rolled his eyes. “Any updates on our Korean friends on the north side?”
“Same old, same old,” Miles replied. “I’m still running down some footage from the crime scene, should have a lineup ready by the end of the week.”
“Good. I’ve got a new assignment for you.”
“Give me a break, David. You know I’m already juggling—”
“Don’t worry, I’m not piling any more work onto your plate,” Tisdale assured. “We can pass some of these other cases off to the team, but you’ve been specifically requested for a new operation.”
“A new operation? Requested by who?”
“Come with me.”
Tisdale slapped a manila envelope into Miles’ chest as he walked by. He paced out of his office and through the bullpen to a long, dark hallway. It was an area of the building typically reserved for interviews and closed meetings. Miles followed closely behind, doing his best to pull documents from the envelope. Ahead of him, Tisdale shouldered into one of the doors lining the hallway.
Two strangers waited inside. Miles noted their suits—they were expensive and professionally tailored. These men weren’t with the bureau.
“Miles, I’d like to introduce you to Jonathan Harwick from NSA and Antonio Garza from DCIS,” Tisdale announced with little enthusiasm. “Agent Harwick is heading up a new task force and has enlisted our help.”
Miles eyed the men with caution.
“Special Agent Brennan, we’ve heard a lot about you,” the NSA man greeted. His hair was perfectly combed into position and his face, while clean-shaven, was sallow and pitted.
Miles raised an eyebrow and mustered a smile. “That’s great.”
“Agent Brennan has extensive experience with all the major crime organizations active in the area,” Tisdale promised.
“We’re excited to have you,” Harwick granted. “Officer Garza has been running an operation over at DCIS that has overlapped with an ongoing NSA surveillance program. With the help of the FBI, we thought it would be a good time to combine our resources and assemble a joint task force.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Miles offered. “I certainly hope I can be of assistance, but who exactly are we targeting here?”
Jonathan Harwick set his hands on his hips and gazed across the room. “We’re opening an investigation into the Ružaro crime organization.”
“I see. So you’re here to steal my sources and information, right?”
“It’s not like that, Miles,” Tisdale interrupted. “We’re going to be rolling our investigation in with the new task force. This isn’t about stealing intel, this is operational. We need you on board.”
“Give me a break,” snapped Miles. “I’m happy to turn over everything I have, but there’s no reason for you guys to waltz in here and hijack my investigation.”
“Let’s not get territorial here,” Tisdale said, attempting to diffuse the situation. “The Ružaro crew is the biggest thing you’ve worked on in years. This is your chance to take them down… once and for all.”
Miles darted his eyes at the NSA agent. “You sure you guys want me on this? Have you seen my file?”
“We’ve seen your record,” Harwick confirmed. “And I honestly don’t care about any of that garbage. Your file also reveals a decorated career—a Silver Star in Iraq, top of your class at Quantico, and you’re one of the best field agents in the bureau. I can assure you there wasn’t any hesitation on our part.”
Miles blinked at the candor, then searched for a good reason to say no. But there wasn’t one. “Yeah, okay,” he finally muttered. “We’re good.”
Harwick nodded with appreciation. “The task force will be made up of myself, Officer Garza, Special Agent Tisdale, Agent Brennan, and a small team of NSA analysts. We’re very anxious to get started.”
“What’s the objective?” asked Miles as he took a seat next to Garza.
Agent Harwick opened his intelligence brief and cleared his throat. “Anton Krunoslav,” he began. “As you all know, the Ružaro crew is one of three clans that make up the international syndicate known as Čopor Vukova, which loosely translates to Pack of Wolves. Their leadership council resides somewhere in the Balkans, most likely Bucharest. But at the moment, Ružaro is our only focus since they’re the ones operating in the United States.”
“Any plans to move on to the other two—Demiri and Laskaris?” asked Tisdale.
“Not at the moment,” confirmed Harwick. “Now, Anton Krunoslav has been in charge of Ružaro for more than thirty years. He’s an ethnic Croat, born in Šibenik, emigrated to the US in ’91 with several other members. He assumed leadership shortly thereafter. Operations are currently run right here out of Atlanta. However, Krunoslav also likes to spend a lot of his time in Miami.”
“He’s never returned to Croatia?” asked Garza.
“Croatia gained its independence in 1995,” Harwick answered. “He’s been back a total of three times since then. Twice in ’97 and a short trip in 2001.”
“Why not since?” the DCIS officer pressed.
“Because he’s wanted for war crimes,” Miles interjected. “He took those trips under a fake passport, but that became harder to do after 9/11, especially for a world-class celebrity like him. But it doesn’t matter; modern technology has allowed him to manage ops all over the world without ever stepping foot out of the country.”
“War crimes?” Garza repeated as he flipped through his brief. “There’s no indication of that. There haven’t been any formal charges.”
Miles took a heavy breath. “Horrible atrocities were committed during the Croatian War of Independence. Krunoslav was targeted by the Serbs for assassinating their officers. He was also wanted by his own Croatian generals for murdering civilians. With the fall of Yugoslavia, the new Croatian government did its best to erase any criminal charges that would have reflected poorly on their own army.”
“What about the international tribunal?” Garza wondered.
“They had bigger fish to fry,” replied Miles. “Krunoslav and a lot of other low-level officers slipped through the cracks.”
Harwick nodded in agreement. “We have reason to believe he’s currently being sought by SOA. Croatian intelligence. There’s an extradition treaty in place between Croatia and the US, but SOA won’t share any of their intel with us and they haven’t asked us to turn him over. Which means he’s free to operate here until we can charge him with crimes on American soil.”
“That shouldn’t be hard,” Garza scoffed.
Miles pressed his elbows onto the table. “In addition to being wanted for war crimes, SOA wants him for dozens of murders, not to mention extortion, racketeering, and grand larceny. The rub is, most of those crimes are being committed in Croatia, so living here gives him plausible deniability. All they can do is arrest his lieutenants working overseas, and believe me, those guys aren’t cooperating.”
Garza closed his notebook. “I didn’t see that in any of the reports either.”
“That’s because it’s not in any of the reports,” said Miles. “Listen, this is an organization unlike any you’ve ever run across. Anton Krunoslav’s reach is immeasurable; he owns judges and members of Congress, and anybody else you can think of. His officers practice countersurveillance better than most intelligence agencies, and their network of communications and planning is remarkably sophisticated. These aren’t a bunch of Italian thugs running numbers out of the pool hall, or Mexican cartels smuggling coke over the border—those are fucking Boy Scouts compared to the Ružaro clan. We’re dealing with a legitimate international organization made up of assassins, thieves, and spies—all with the technology and resources to back it up.”
