Rising Phoenix (11 page)

“When can I expect my crates to arrive in Norfolk?”

As Lech translated, Mikhail produced a full-sized clipboard from behind his back. His brow creased with concentration as he silently ran a finger down the grease-streaked papers.

“December fifth,” Orloski translated.

“Fine. I have traveler’s checks amounting to three thousand dollars with me. I’ll give him the other two upon delivery.” Lech looked doubtful, but translated as Hobart spoke.

Mikhail shook his head furiously. He and Orloski argued for almost five minutes in Polish. Mikhail seemed to be winning.

“Lech,” Hobart broke in. “Tell him that he gets an additional three thousand if they’re on time.”

Orloski smiled and started in on their heated conversation again, every once in a while shooting a glance in Hobart’s direction. Finally the debate ended and Mikhail yelled something to the group of men behind him. For a moment Hobart thought that they were going to be physically thrown off the dock.

“He has agreed to your terms,” Orloski said happily. “It wasn’t easy, but I finally convinced him that you are an upstanding member of the American academic community. You would be surprised at Mikhail’s respect for higher learning.”

The group of men hurried past them and began pulling the crates off the truck.

“Mikhail would like to know where he can reach you.”

“He can’t. I’m going to be on the road for the next month,” Hobart lied, leaning against the truck. “I was hoping that I could stay in touch with you, and you could let me know when my assistant should meet the ship.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Orloski replied. “We’ll discuss it on the ride home. And you can describe to me what it is like to live in North Carolina—I hear it is a wonderful place.”

Hobart walked toward the truck, glancing back one last time at the crates being moved across the dock. Leaving them there with no receipts, not even a handshake, was tying his stomach in knots.

Hobart snatched his last suitcase off the conveyor and headed toward the glass facade of the Baltimore-Washington International Airport. He started to jog as he passed through the automatic doors, his heavy luggage throwing him slightly off balance. The plane had been almost an hour late arriving, having sat on the runway in New York for what seemed like a lifetime. Bob Swenson was expecting to meet him in ten minutes.

He gunned his Jeep up 295, and in fifteen minutes was only a few miles from the warehouse. It had been nearly two weeks and five thousand miles since he’d left his hunting cabin. It felt like two years.

As he pulled up to the rented warehouse in Canton, little had changed. The only noticeable difference in
the building was the new front and loading dock doors, and the tasteful but sturdy-looking bars on the first-floor windows. Venetian blinds had been installed inside, and were closed.

He jumped out of the car and walked up to the new front door. A small metal box, painted the color of brick, was discreetly bolted to the door frame. He rapped on the door. Swenson let him in almost immediately.

The outer office had been completely renovated. A fresh coat of white paint covered the walls. Two antique sofas sat on plush beige carpeting. A small tree grew in the corner, enjoying the light filtering through the blinds.

“How was your trip?”

“Productive.”

“Good. You ready for a tour?”

Hobart checked the bottom of his suitcase for dirt, then laid it on one of the sofas. “Sure.”

Swenson led him into the back office. It was furnished in the same style as the reception area, though a large desk stood in the place of the sofas. A new-looking computer took up most of the top. A map of the United States was framed over a small love seat opposite the desk. Colored pins were stuck in New York, Chicago, Washington, D.C., Los Angeles, and Baltimore. A plaque on the desk was engraved with the words JOHN SEVEREN, PRESIDENT, CLIPPER CITY ANTIQUES AND ODDITIES. A crystal tray held business cards with the same inscription.

“Looks pretty good.”

“Yeah, they just finished. I’d rather deal with ten
pissed-off coke dealers than one Baltimore contractor.” He sat down behind the desk. “I’ve barred all the windows and replaced the doors with steel. We’ve got motion detectors in the reception area, the office, and the warehouse. All the windows and doors are wired.” He threw Hobart a key chain. “The small key opens the panel on the keypad out front—you probably noticed it as you came in the door.”

Hobart nodded.

“The large gold one opens the front door. You can’t open the loading dock from the outside. The two silver keys are to the apartments upstairs. You’ve got the one on the second floor. The boxes you wanted me to pick up at your house are in the bedroom.”

Hobart fished his keys out of his pocket and added the new ones to the ring.

“So when do we get the mushrooms?”

“They tell me December fifth.” Hobart took a piece of paper out of his wallet and tossed it on the desk. “Give this guy a call and tell him you’re working for Professor Stapleton. He’ll let you know if the shipment’s going to be on time. It’ll be coming into Norfolk.”

“Where’re you gonna be?”

“Bogotá. I’m flying out in a couple of days.”

Swenson’s eyes moved across the piece of paper. “No problem, I’ll take care of it.”

“How’re our guys doing?”

“Better than we expected, actually. I got them all their IDs within a couple of days and they’re all on location. The guy in New York has a lead on a warehouse owned by Anthony DiPrizzio. Word on the
street is that he ships a lot of stuff through there. He’s trying to get hooked up with a job. Miami’s actually set up a bogus trucking company and is putting the word out that they don’t much care what they ship. They seem pretty sharp.”

“They are,” Hobart replied. “I figured we’d send our best two guys to Miami. Should be some opportunities to hit big shipments.”

Swenson nodded his agreement and continued. “Let’s see … The guy in D.C. has set himself up as a supplier to street dealers. Not a real sexy operation but he says he’s done some deals already. Chicago set up a lab and is making designer stuff—speed and acid mostly. They say they’ll probably start doing deals in about a week. The guys in L.A. are setting themselves up as midlevel operators. They say things are moving along but that it could be a couple of months before they get things really rolling.”

“How are the finances holding up?”

“Pretty good so far. The warehouse cost us a few bucks, and your last-minute plane tickets are a hell of a lot more expensive than I thought, but we should be okay. Look, I’ve got a full report for you on the computer. Let me reel it off the printer and you can go through it tonight. The shredder’s out in the warehouse.”

Hobart sat quietly as his associate punched at the keyboard. Swenson gave a sharp push on the front of the desk, sending him and his chair rolling to the printer which had just come alive. “Oh, I almost forgot, the security code on the door is HEAT. The one on the computer is TIME. I think words are easier to
remember than numbers. He pulled the pages off the printer and handed them across the desk. “Why don’t you go check out your apartment and get some sleep.”

The apartments hadn’t been renovated to the degree that the office had. The carpet was clearly new, and there was a new coat of paint on the walls, but the appliances, cabinets, and bathrooms were vintage 1970s Baltimore. On the positive side, the rooms were spacious and well lit, and the furniture was comfortable, if not luxurious. Even better, his partner had stocked the refrigerator with food and beer. Hobart screwed the top off of a Budweiser and settled onto the sofa. The TV remote was on the coffee table and he used it to flip to CNN. Settling back, he scanned the report in his hand. It was headed CCAO, Clipper City Antiques and Oddities.

Swenson had used clever euphemisms for their operation, and the report ended in a cash flow statement and balance sheet. Hobart had no difficulty understanding the real contents of the pages, but anyone picking it up would read a rather confusing antique company financial report. Clever. He was lucky to have Swenson on board.

He took a last gulp of beer and headed for the shower. It was early, but he knew that he should get sleep when he could. Things were going to start moving pretty fast.

“Howdy, ma’am,” Mark Beamon said with a deep Southern drawl.

The young woman sitting at the desk in front of
him leaned forward to get a better look at the ornate silver plates adorning the toes of his boots. Then she leaned back, taking in the enormous ten gallon hat perched on his head.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I’m the new deputy marshal in town. Marshal Beamon.”

You’re Mark Beamon?” She jerked to her feet.

Beamon pulled a long piece of hay from his pocket and began chewing it. “I shorly am. And you’re Christie—my new secretary, right?”

She stuck out her hand. “Welcome to Houston, Mr. Beamon.”

“Mark, please.” He pointed behind her.

“So is this my office?”

“Yes, sir. Let me give you the tour.” He followed her into the small office. She stood in the center of it and spread her arms wide. “Here it is.”

Beamon tossed his hat at a picture of the President, attempting to hook it on the edge of the frame. Both the picture and the hat fell to the carpet.

“Great tour, Chris. Have a seat.” He tested his chair like a bather trying to sit in water that is too hot. Finally he settled into it, satisfied. He looked across the tidy desk at his new secretary. He had checked her out before he came. Top scores from all polled.

“So do I have anything to do today, Chris?”

“Yes, sir. Steve said he wanted to see you as soon as you got in. He should be in his office. Straight down the hall. Last door on the left.”

“How’s his mood?” Beamon asked out of habit.
Director Calahan’s emotional state was always in question. Realizing he wasn’t in Washington anymore, he held up his hand. “Never mind. Do I have lunch plans?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Inexplicably, I was passed over by the Queen for a knighthood. Just Mark, please.”

She smiled. “Okay, Mark.”

“Better.” He rose from his chair and headed for the door. “What say you and I do lunch around noon?”

Beamon peeked his head around the doorjamb of his new boss’s office. “Steve! How you doin’?”

Steve Garrett stood up from behind his desk and walked across the room. They shook hands warmly.

“It’s been a long time, Mark.”

“Five years?”

“It’s gotta be.”

Beamon headed for a sofa in the corner. Garrett closed the office door and sat down on the love seat across from his new ASAC.

“So how’s your first day so far, Mark?”

“Good. I just met Chris—she seems great.”

“Yeah, you lucked out. She’s one of the best.”

There was an awkward lull in the conversation. Beamon wanted a cigarette but resisted. Garrett’s move.

“So where do we stand, Mark?”

Garrett wasn’t going to get off that easy. “Whatever do you mean, Steve?”

Garrett looked down at this thumb and began cleaning imaginary dirt from under the nail. “A high flyer
like you can’t be too happy about being banished to Houston to work for a … conservative guy like me.”

Beamon shrugged. “I’m not gonna bullshit you, Steve. Was this my first choice? Nope. I thought I was due an SAC slot. But Tom Sherman disagreed. Probably for good reason—he’s a lot smarter about stuff like that than me. So here I am.”

Garrett nodded thoughtfully. “And how are you gonna play it?”

Beamon smiled. “Any way you want me to, boss.”

“I’m serious, Mark. Tom tells me you live up to your reputation as the best investigator in the Bureau. But I also hear you can be …”

“Go ahead and say it, Steve.”

“I don’t need a lot of problems, Mark. I’m getting old.”

Beamon’s tone turned serious. “You’re not gonna have any, Steve. Look, I need some latitude to do my best work, I’m not gonna deny that. The whole solemn dignity thing never worked for me. But give me a little rope and I can be a hell of an asset to you. I’m looking forward to working here. I really am. Calahan’s a thousand miles away, and I get to help a bunch of young energetic FBI agents turn into top-notch investigators.”

Garrett frowned. “Try to impart the skills and not the attitude. I can live with one Mark Beamon, but fifty’d be a bit much.”

Beamon laughed and pantomimed spitting in his right palm. He stuck out his hand. “That’d be too many even for me. Friends?”

Garrett stared at his hand with mock suspicion for a few seconds, then reached out and grabbed it.

A
t the request of a pretty Hispanic stewardess, John Hobart put his seat in the upright position for the final approach into Bogota’s Eldorado Airport. He watched with mild interest as her ample bottom swayed gracefully through the narrow aisle, jiggling seductively as the plane shuddered through the Andean turbulence.

He hated flying. It wasn’t that he was afraid of crashing—irrational fear was not one of his failings. It was the inactivity that put knots in his stomach. Most people could put their flying time to good use, but there was something in the white noise that wouldn’t let him think. He could only wait until the wheels touched the ground and the dull hum of the engines faded into the rustling of the passengers reaching for their belongings.

He looked out the window for the thousandth time. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The captain promised a temperature of sixty degrees and a light westerly breeze.

Hobart hadn’t been to Colombia in almost fifteen
years, but little had changed. A cabby dropped him in front of his hotel, still trying to convince him that he knew of places more suitable. It could have been the same man who had chauffeured him around the city in the early eighties.

Hobart stood for a moment on the sidewalk and ran his hand through his newly colored jet-black hair. A combination of sunlamps and dyes had darkened his skin considerably. Contacts turned his eyes brown.