Operation stealth seed, p.25
Operation Stealth Seed, page 25
68
It was already dark and had begun to rain—a full-blown summer thunderstorm—and they were drenched by the time they got down six flights of stairs and across the open courtyard. There was no door at the entrance to the street, just a tall, wrought iron gate, and as he reached to open it, Nick thought he saw a speck of red light swimming through the white spatter of rain strafing the sidewalk. He yelled, “Incoming! Get down!” and dove to his right, pulling Vanessa back from the lamplight and onto the ground.
But it wasn’t a flashback. Gunfire tore across the concrete and climbed up the gate, spitting off hot sparks and ricocheting from the tiled walls and vaulted ceiling. The staccato thwack and whine of automatic rifle rounds echoed in the passageway and Doherty was hit. The impact turned him around and he fell, face forward, already losing consciousness before he landed and sprawled out, one arm pinned under his body.
Nick dragged him out of the light, had some trouble unholstering his Beretta from under the sling that held his left arm, but pulled it free and returned fire, though he could only guess at where the assailants were positioned.
Doherty was still breathing, but his eyes had rolled back into his head and he seemed unaware of his surroundings. Nick turned to Vanessa who had gotten back on her feet and was leaning against the bank of brass mailboxes.
“Are you all right?”
“I wasn’t hit, but I’ve been better.”
“Okay, I need you to call 911. Tell them it’s a 10-13, there’s an officer present, and if they ask for it, give them my name and badge number.”
She nodded, looked eager to help, then annoyed, angry. “Damn it! I can’t. Left my cell in the car.”
“It’s all right, you can use mine.”
He reached into his jacket pocket, but it ripped, and when he looked down he saw that a ricochet had torn through it and his cellphone was a blasted mess.
“Looks like we’re not going to get any help unless one of the good citizens hereabouts calls it in.”
He bent down, raised his pant leg to unsnap the ankle holster and came up with a Glock 26 9mm, which he handed to Vanessa.
“You know how to use one of these?”
She grinned. “I grew up in West Texas. I could shoot before I could ride a bike.”
“Great. This one’s locked and loaded. It’s got ten in the clip and one in the chamber. I returned their fire so they know there’s a weapon in here and I don’t think they’ll come storming across the street, but if they do…”
She nodded. “I won’t shoot till I see the whites of their eyes!”
Tamas had poured himself the last of the Tokaji when he heard the unmistakable staccato of an M-16 on full auto. Given the gravity of what he’d just hacked into, he was not surprised.
He got on the phone and called 911. He told them he’d heard assault rifle fire down on the street and gave them an address. They asked him if he was in danger, if he was on the street, if there were others in danger, and who was he, and could you spell that for me please, and was he sure it was gunfire he heard, and did he see who was shooting, on and on until he just hung up, went to the bedroom closet and took out his SKS carbine with ten rounds already in the stripper clip. He climbed up to the roof, walked around to where he’d heard the shots and peered down into the blinding rain.
There was another short burst of rifle fire off to his left, then a third and he could see that the muzzle flashes were daggering from the street-side windows of a Lincoln Town Car parked near the corner of 77th Street and Cherokee Place. A man wearing camo fatigues climbed out of the back door, stood on the sidewalk and fired toward the entrance of the building over the roof of the vehicle. His head and shoulders were visible and unprotected. Brerenyi worked the bolt of his SKS, slid a round into the chamber, released the safety and rested the barrel on the tiled overhang of the roof. He let his breath all the way out, lined up the shot and slowly squeezed it off. The shooter’s head twisted and he fell out of sight behind the Lincoln. Berenyi pulled away from the edge of the roof as another shooter got out of the passenger door and fired back.
Nick came out of the 78th Street entrance of building two and flattened himself against the tan brick facade. If the attackers knew the area, one or more of them would be coming from 77th up Cherokee Place and around on 78th to get in behind them the way Nick had just come out. As he stood there wondering what to do next, there was more gunfire from 77th Street. Two short bursts, then a single shot. He thought that might be Vanessa, but it didn’t sound like his Glock, more like a rifle round, and it puzzled him. It was followed by a third burst from an M-16. He waited for a full minute but nothing else happened. He saw no one and heard nothing but thunder and the driving rain.
He broke into a run, sprinted east to the end of 78th Street and across Cherokee Place into John Jay Park, which ran south all the way to 76th. Using the trees and iron benches for cover, he worked his way down to where the park extended west, about twenty yards, along 77th. There were four handball courts in that corner and as he came around one of their concrete walls, he immediately recognized the silver Lincoln Town Car. It was parked on the corner where 77th dead-ended into Cherokee Place, across and to the right of the entrance that had been strafed with rifle fire. Nick checked his clip. He had nine rounds left. If he could get a clear line on the Lincoln that should be enough. He crouched and duckwalked around the concrete wall till he had a better view through the park entrance flanked by the wrought iron fence and a border of waist-high shrubbery.
Someone in combat fatigues was standing on the sidewalk, leaning against the passenger door and aiming an assault rifle with a laser scope up at the roof of the apartment building. Nick put two rounds in his upper back, but he didn’t go down. Fuck! I should have known. Body armour! Nick thought as the Blackwater contractor turned and sprayed the park. Bullets tore through leaves and twigs, dinged and sparked off the fence and skimmed off the concrete wall above his head. Nick rolled onto his back and shot the man in the neck. The M-16 kept firing erratically till the clip was empty and the shooter slumped against the car, then slid down onto the sidewalk. But not before another shooter bolted out of the back door, firing a handgun as he came. He vaulted over the wrought iron fence and sprinted into the park. Nick recognized the big, heavily muscled mercenary who’d survived the firefight in the supply yard.
It was hard to see through the rain, but Nick thought he saw him disappear behind the concrete wall of the other handball court. Nick ran across the open space and flattened himself against the edge of the wall, then, very slowly, inched around till he could see the other side. There was no one there. He started to pull back, but before he had moved more than a few inches he felt the muzzle of a gun behind his left ear. A large hand gripped his right wrist and a voice rasped, “Release the weapon, slowly.”
Nick let him have the Beretta and Clay Noireau stepped back but kept the FNP-45 aimed at Nick’s head. He was smiling.
“They let you cops run around with fancy Eye-talian popguns? Thought you had to carry Glocks or SIG Sauers.” He shook his head. “Don’t know what the NYPD is coming to. No discipline.” He released the clip and it fell to the ground. He kicked it off the court into the grass and threw the pistol over some trees into the swimming pool. He stepped out into the open court and lowered the -45 to his side.
“You been a real pain in the ass, Cortese. I oughta just off you, but that would be too quick. So, what I’m gonna do, I’m gonna take you apart. One piece at a time.”
He laid the FNP down on the ground and kicked it behind him. Then he set up in a combat stance. Noireau was six-five or -six and built like an ox. He was still smiling.
“Let’s see what the pussy psycho’s got.”
As he spit out the words, Nick spun and kicked. He was aiming to crush his nose, which would make his eyes tear up and blur his vision for a moment or two, but the sling kept him off balance and it went high, hit Noireau forehead and bounced away. But it stopped him long enough for Nick to turn and land a straight right on his jaw. It had no effect. Noireau grinned and shot out a doubled jab to set up his right but Nick came in under it and stabbed the stiffened fingers of his right hand into the big man’s Adam’s apple. He felt some cartilage give way and backed off just in time to avoid a leg kick, which he countered with a chop to the nose.
Blood streamed from Noireau’s left nostril and he cursed. He was no longer smiling. He snarled, “Fuck this!” bent at the knees and pulled a Ka-Bar with a seven-inch blade from an ankle sheath. He lifted the knife in a high feint, then brought it quickly down and up in an underhand strike. Nick caught Noireau’s wrist and held it. But the man was incredibly strong and Nick had only one good arm. He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep the knife from piercing his ribs for much longer. He let himself fall backwards pulling Noireau with him. As his back hit the ground, he lifted his knees and threw the heavier man over his head, releasing his grip on Noireau’s knife hand. But as he did, the blade sliced across the heel of his palm.
Noireau rolled and got to his feet. Nick was already up, in combat stance, with one arm in a sling and a hand that was dripping blood. He moved only when Noireau moved. They circled each other. Noireau feinted, swiped at Cortese, dodged and lunged but missed. Nick knew he had to keep focused on the other man’s eyes, not on the K-blade. His only chance was to anticipate one of Noireau’s moves and kick the knife away. Even then it was not an even match and he knew it.
Through the downpour he heard something move to his left, in the grass near the kiddie swings. At first, he thought it might be one of the mercenaries. He kept circling, away from Noireau’s weapon hand, then a voice cut through the sound of the rain.
“Put down that goddamn knife. Put it down! Now!”
It was Vanessa and she was behind Noireau. He turned halfway so he could still see Cortese. He smiled when he saw her emerge from the shadows of the trees that lined the sidewalk on that side of the handball court.
“Oh,” he said, “it’s you. The Texas belle. Hey, I got no beef with you. Get back in your Mercedes and fuck off.”
She shook her head.
“I know who you work for. You killed my husband, you prick.”
“Look, lady, I’m kinda busy right now. Why don’t you just go sit on one of those benches over there. I’ll get to you when I’m finished with this sorry excuse for a soldier.”
“I’ll get to you a lot sooner than that if you don’t drop your weapon and get down on your stomach with your hands behind your back.”
Noireau laughed, a loud, contemptuous burst that sounded like real surprise.
“Whoa, heavy talk, very heavy. Tell you what. You put down that peashooter and wait your turn, or I’ll have to come over there and take it away from you. After that we’ll do a little dance and it won’t end up with wedding bells, darlin’.”
He took a step toward her, with the knife held out menacingly in front of him. He was smiling an arrogant, male, combat soldier’s smile. It cracked into another laugh when she fired once, over his head.
“Good. Very good. You remembered to take the safety off.” His voice turned ugly. “Now put that fucking thing away, or it winds up in your cunt.”
“One more step. There are a lot of places I can shoot you. But I don’t want to shoot you, asshole, I want you to go to jail.”
He stood there, sizing her up. Her eyes were very clear, very deep and very blue. He shrugged. “You’d better shoot to kill, girl, if you know how, and if you have the stuff, which I doubt. Even if you hit me once, or twice, I’ll be on you faster than you can blink and then you’re dead meat, so just give it up, right now.”
Vanessa backed up one step, then two, she almost tripped on the edge of the sidewalk, but regained her balance just as Noireau began his rush. Then he stopped, flipped the knife so he was holding it by the blade as he raised it behind his ear and started the throw. She fired one shot. It took him over the right eye and shattered his skull.
That’s when they heard the sirens. There were two of them coming from different directions. Nick wondered what Baxter Chase would have to say about this one. And as the sirens came closer, he felt an overwhelming urge to track down Jeremy Baine, let him know what it felt like to have his life torn apart, do serious damage to his living quarters and all the high-end accessories he almost certainly surrounded himself with, then break a few ribs, mess up that smug, well-groomed face he remembered from the TV interview, and get blood all over his expensive clothes. He turned to Vanessa, touched her on the arm that held the gun.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded. “Yes, I’m fine, but I really didn’t want to kill him.”
“I know, but he was armed, he attacked you, and he was trying to kill a police officer, so there won’t be a question about that.”
“And how are you, Nicola, you’re bleeding.”
“It’s just a flesh cut, no serious damage, but…uh, can I ask a favour?”
“Of course.”
“I need to talk to Jeremy Baine. Do you know where he lives?”
Vanessa hesitated. She started to ask a question but decided not to. Then she said, “He has a place out on the Island, in the Hamptons.”
Nick waited for her to give him the address, but she looked thoughtful for what seemed a long time before she said, “Believe me when I say I know how you feel, truly, I do, but do you think this is a good idea?”
He knew it wasn’t, but he was past caring, until he started to think about what would happen after he beat Baine to a pulp. It wasn’t a pretty picture. It would cost him his job. He’d have to do jail time, and everything Vanessa Lang had done to help him would be wasted.
Besides, he was an NYPD detective, not a gangland thug. He gave her a weak smile.
“Good question, Vanessa. Thank you. That’s the second time tonight you saved my butt.”
69
The next morning Nick called Claire as soon as he got to the office. He wasn’t sure what to tell her, whether it was safe to come back or if she should stay a bit longer. The big black man Vanessa had killed was clearly the leader of Baine’s Blackwater mercenaries, and Doherty had thwarted the CIA’s plan to depose Baku by saving the wheat crop. An invasion now would not only be an act of naked aggression without the humanitarian excuse provided by famine and riots and rumours of corruption, it would also face fierce resistance from Baku’s presidential guard who would not be distracted helping the police restore order to a disintegrating regime. But even though his master plan was in ruins, Baine could still be dangerous. He might decide someone had to pay for his failure.
She answered her cell on the third ring.
“Nico! Are you okay? I was beginning to worry.”
“Yeah, I’m fine, except for a flesh wound in the shoulder. We’ve made serious progress on the case. I think it’s safe to come home now, today if you want.”
Silence. Then she said, “We’re on speaker. Terry wants to talk to you.”
“Hi, Pops. Glad you’re okay. Did you get shot or what?”
“Yes, I did. I got shot in the left arm, the fleshy part, above the elbow.”
“Wow! Did it hurt?”
“Sure did, hon, but it’s better now. All stitched up and sterilized and bandaged. I’ve even got a sling, a blue one.”
“Cool. So, I hear the coast is clear and we can come back to New York.”
“Right.”
“Okay. Well, I guess…the thing is, Claire and I have decided we’d like to stay here and hang out, till next weekend.”
It was not at all what Nick expected and he waited a beat before he answered. He wanted to see them, but he was also elated that they were getting along so well. And the case was far from over.
“No problem, hon. Glad you’re enjoying your new status as Manhattan exiles.”
Terry laughed. A bright, musical sound. “We’re not exiles, Dad, we’re runaways, and we love it!”
They chatted for a few minutes longer and when they rang off Nick felt the weight of the job return. The first thing he had to do was finish the report he’d started before he left to meet Vanessa Lang at The Cherokee. And he’d have to write up another one about what happened there, though that was clearly a continuation of the firefight at the supply yard in the Bronx. It took an hour-and-a-half. He wondered if there would be more violence, and if anyone else would be killed before it was over.
After he filed the reports, he called the hospital to check on Eddie Mifflin and Sean Doherty. Mifflin was in intensive care but Sean’s condition was listed as stable, though he wasn’t well enough to have visitors or to talk on the phone. It wasn’t good news, but it wasn’t as bad as it might have been.
Nick put it out of his mind and began working on a summary of the evidence they had against Baine. Vanessa would courier a copy to Senator Alvin Tillis. He already had the Operation Stealth Seed files but wanted to carry as much weight as possible when he met with the intelligence oversight committees and the attorney general.
The clearest and most damaging evidence of what Baine had done in Mawabi was contained in the files they’d recovered the previous evening. But the authorization for funding was signed by Kenneth Lang. Baine could claim he was just following orders. He’d still be chargeable as an accessory, but not for the murders of Lang, Tomlinson, Ramirez, Duplessis and Rhea Carson, or for attempts on the lives of several police officers, Sean Doherty and Vanessa Lang. There had to be some way to prove he was responsible for those crimes. The strongest link was Malcom Duplessis. The wire tape implicated Baine as the one who hired him, but it was damaged and didn’t reveal who he was hired to impersonate or what else he was hired to do.
Nick thought for a moment, then picked up the phone and called Lazlo Kaprisky at the Bellevue morgue. He answered on the second ring.
“Hey, Nicola, how ya doin’? Heard you got shot.”
“Yeah, left arm, not too serious. And we took down the whole goddamn Blackwater goon squad, so I’m feeling okay, but a little good news about Duplessis would make me feel a lot better.”
