Rising Phoenix (38 page)

“I got this one, man,” Newberry said, grabbing Carey’s rock-hard right arm. He reached into his jeans and pulled out a wadded ball of bills, making a show of carefully peeling off a ten dollar bill and laying it on the bar.

Carey leaned close again and started back into his story. Newberry only half listened. He had too many things on his mind to give the conversation the attention necessary to hear every word over the background noise. Somebody fed a few quarters into the jukebox and it blared a distorted version of an unidentifiable country song, making the conversation even harder to follow.

Undercover operations were hard. Though he didn’t know Carey well, he liked him. Despite his imposing figure, Carey was known to be about as violent as a baby seal. His story related to problems that he was having at home with his son. He was afraid that he’d fallen in with a bad crowd. It was a story that Newberry had heard hundreds of times during his years as a cop. He turned his eyes away when the concerned father speculated on the possibility that his son was using drugs—and how dangerous that could be these days.

Carey wasn’t the only friend he had made in his three-plus months at the warehouse. He had been to people’s homes for dinner, watched their children play in the Little League, lost money at drunken late-night poker games, and helped them move. A professional liar. His old boss used to say he had a real flair.

A woman backed into him as the bouncers continued to herd people through the door with disinterested glances at their driver’s licenses. His beer sloshed over and splashed into his lap. Less he would have to drink, he reflected, taking a measured sip of what was left in the bottle.

This assignment was better than most, he remembered, still half listening to the increasingly incoherent discourse from the next bar stool. At least he wasn’t setting up to arrest one of the people he had come to know so well. The thing he hated most about undercover work: the inevitable end—the arrest. Instead of a feeling of triumph, he always saw himself reflected in the eyes of the suspect. A betrayer.

“I gotta go, man,” he said apologetically, leaning heavily on Carey’s leg. “I’m way too lucked up.”

“You all right, Phil?”

Newberry stood. “Yeah. I just need some fresh air and a bed, you know?”

Carey gave him the thumbs-up. He knew.

Newberry grabbed a small black backpack sitting at his feet and made his way across the bar with practiced unsteadiness. He waved clumsily to a knot of men playing pool and continued staggering toward the door. They shouted a few good-natured insults and turned back to their game.

He took a hard right as he left the bar, breathing in the cool New York air. It wasn’t exactly the mountains, but it tasted just as sweet after six hours of nursing drinks in The Rat. He slipped the backpack on and tightened it around his waist. The illuminated dial of his watch read 12:13
A.M.
as he passed through a narrow, trash-strewn alley.

The warehouse was only about a ten-minute walk from the bar, but his indirect route increased the time to almost a half an hour. As he approached it, he rolled his head on his neck, checking for any effect from the vodka shot. None was apparent—undoubtedly the liquor had been absorbed by the cheesesteak and fries he had wolfed down right after work.

He paused next to a large Dumpster overflowing with the by-products of waterfront commerce and scanned the street for almost five minutes. Satisfied that its daytime inhabitants were nestled into their beds, or propped up in a rickety bar somewhere, he
pulled off his bright blue sweatshirt and stuffed it behind the Dumpster.

Padding quietly across the dimly lit street in dark jeans, black turtleneck, and black hightop basketball shoes, he became aware that he wasn’t nervous at all. When Hobart had okayed this operation, his stomach had leaped into his throat, making it difficult to finish the conversation. His head had been spinning when he replaced the receiver.

In the days since then, he had been mesmerized by the news reports. Every night he threw a bag of popcorn in the microwave, popped the top off a beer, and rested his tired body on the sofa. The rest of the night was spent surfing the channels, watching myriad reports on the CDFS’s actions from every possible perspective. He had come to three conclusions.

One: If you had cable you could find some kind of related story twenty-four hours a day.

Two: The public was getting more and more behind them.

Three:
It was working.

Fear and apprehension had given way to pride and a sense of purpose. There had been endless rhetoric from the politicians about taking back America from the drug pushers—and now
he
was doing it.

Newberry pressed his back against the warehouse and looked up. From this angle, it looked like a mile to the third-floor windows—the first ones not guarded with bars. He slipped along the wall, stopping at a squared-off alcove in the exterior wall. The warehouse wasn’t just a box—it was from an era when all structures were held to a certain standard of aesthetic
beauty. The incut corner, in which he now stood, was adorned with creative brickwork, leaving two-inch ledges every few feet. Newberry tightened his pack one last time, and started his ascent.

By carefully placing his feet on the small ledges and moving them up one leg at a time, he didn’t expect to have any problem getting to the third-story windows. He had been practicing this technique in his garage between a couple of two-by-sixes set up specifically for this purpose. Technically, it should be much easier on the actual building. The ledges were sharper and bit into the bottom of his shoes, and the alcove was quite a bit deeper than six inches, making the balance easier. For some reason, though, it seemed much harder.

He was looking straight ahead. The dark alcove made the brickwork in front of him look blank. Finally he dared a look up—he felt like he had been climbing forever. The act of leaning his head back made a surprisingly drastic change in his equilibrium, and he jammed a foot back to keep from reeling over into space. His heart raced and his entire body tingled from the adrenaline forced into his system. He wanted to take a few moments to collect himself, but the burning in his forearms and calves made him press on.

His estimate hadn’t been far off. Another five feet brought him to the foot-wide ledge under the unprotected third-floor windows. He steadied himself and carefully shed his pack, pushing it onto the ledge. Finally he pulled himself up and sat, feet dangling, on the narrow ledge. He remained there for some time, catching his breath, oblivious to his exposed position. The night was calm, and he could see the flickering
lights of New Jersey in the distance Ships moved lazily across his field of vision, looking like constellations against the black water.

Realizing that eventually someone was bound to walk by and think he was a jumper, he scooted slowly left, pushing the backpack in front of him. It was less than ten feet to the first window. He twisted precariously on his narrow seat and pushed hard on it. It didn’t move. He pushed again, wondering for a moment if he had disabled the lock on the wrong window. It wouldn’t be hard to do: The old warehouse’s design made it difficult to judge interior versus exterior features.

He pushed one more time and it opened with a dull crack. He slid in belly first and poured out onto a metal catwalk. Pulling the pack through after him, he hurried for the stairs.

It was dark. The only significant light came from the streetlights filtering through the windows and the second-floor office, a square box perched improbably on the second-floor wall. The Venetian blinds were closed, but glowed white with the interior light. The sound of muffled voices floated through the dusty air. He slowed his progress on the metal stairs, making no sound at all.

Reaching the bottom floor, he rushed expertly through the maze of towering crates to the far corner of the building. He was forced to slow his pace slightly, as the pathways became narrower and the turns sharper. Finally he was stopped by a chain-link gate. He took off the pack and pulled out a pair of bolt cutters, making short work of the lock. He stuffed it
into his pocket and pulled a matching one from the pack, hanging it on the dangling chain. When they came to open the gate in the morning, their key wouldn’t turn. They would be confused for a few minutes and protest that the key had worked fine the day before. Finally they would cut it off and forget all about the incident.

Newberry padded silently into the cage and weaved through its contents, stopping at a box that looked like an old army footlocker. It opened easily after a few nails were pulled. The light was too dim to see into the box, so he reached in. His hand caressed a hard rectangular plastic bag, covered with some kind of textured tape. Duct tape, he guessed, as he pulled the first brick out.

He sat down on the floor, making himself as comfortable as possible, and reached into the open backpack, pulling out a bundle of drinking straws. The ends of each straw had been carefully sealed with masking tape. He pulled his turtleneck over his nose and mouth and punched a small hole in one end of the brick lying in front of him. Then he pulled the tape off one end of a straw and forced it into the brick until it hit the plastic at the other end. Upending the brick, he pulled the tape off the exposed side of the straw and pulled it slowly out. It worked just as Hobart had promised, distributing the poison in a deadly cylinder through the middle of the brick. When the brick was divided and the cocaine cut, the orellanin would be evenly distributed.

He was into his third brick when he heard movement behind him—actually, he felt it more than heard
it—a stirring in the still air. Turning, he was blinded by a striking match. The hissing of the flame was deafening as it cut through the silence.

The match was held to the end of a cigarette, illuminating a familiar face.

“I’m Mark Beamon,” the figure said, shaking out the match, leaving them once again in darkness. Newberry couldn’t see a thing. His pupils had contracted violently in the face of the unexpected light. That had undoubtedly been the plan. Beamon’s eyes had been closed when he lit the cigarette.

Newberry’s mind raced. He once again became aware of the weight of the gun under his arm. Beamon seemed to read his mind.

“Don’t do it, son. You know us FBI guys—we never fight fair I got at least three guns aimed at your head.”

Newberry carefully weighed Beamon’s words. From what he knew of FBI tactics, he concluded that it wasn’t a bluff. He looked one last time toward the gate, and freedom, as his eyes finally began to readjust to the gloom. Then he kneeled down and laced his fingers on top of his head.

“T
ea?”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Tom Sherman said, holding the cup steady as Jameson poured. He took a couple of sugars from a silver tray and leaned back, stirring. The President finished his tea ceremony, pouring cups for the attorney general and FBI Director, who Sherman knew hated tea. He watched as Calahan politely took a sip and smiled approvingly.

“I thank you all for coming so early. I’m pretty booked up during the days.” The antique clock on the wall read 5:05
A.M.
“So I hear you’re the expert on the CDFS, Tom.”

“That’s not entirely true, sir. Mark Beamon is more in tune with the details of the investigation.”

“Yes, well, Bill apparently didn’t want to subject me to your Mr. Beamon, and suggested that I be briefed by you instead. I assume that you’re up to the task.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hear we’ve had a major break in the case.”

“Yes.” Sherman drew the word out longer than necessary. His tone was hesitant.

“You don’t sound sure,” the President observed, reaching for a cookie. The others took the cue and grabbed a few for themselves.

“It’s true that we did capture one of the CDFS’s operatives—but he isn’t talking.”

“He won’t talk?” The President enunciated the words carefully, as though Sherman was an idiot. Undoubtedly just the effect he was shooting for.

“I’m not sure you understand the situation, Tom,” the President said. “We have to stop these people. You have my authorization to make any kind of deal you have to.” He looked smug, as though this was some kind of revelation.

“We’ve offered him complete immunity to prosecution and a place in our witness protection program,” Sherman said. “He’s not interested.”

A confused look came over the President’s face. He leaned forward and set his empty cup on the table. “This guy’s gonna go to prison when you’ve offered to let him walk? I don’t understand what you’re telling me.”

I wouldn’t expect you to, you political hack.

“He believes in what they’re doing, sir. In his mind, he’s a captured soldier. A patriot putting America back on track.”

The President looked around at the other two men in the room. “A little cocky for a mass murderer, isn’t he?”

“Maybe,” Sherman replied, though the question clearly had been rhetorical. The President let it pass, but the look he gave Sherman would have filled most bureaucrats shoes with sweat.

Sherman couldn’t bring himself to care. He had twenty years in and more money than he could possibly ever spend. The picture of him fly fishing on a quiet river surrounded by willows was destroyed when Jameson began speaking again.

“So after one day, you’ve decided that there’s no way we can make him talk.”

Sherman reached for another cookie. “You haven’t asked me anything about this guy, but let me tell you about him anyway. He was a cop for ten years in Atlanta. Apparently he quit to take this on. His former supervisors have nothing but good things to say about him. Honest, smart. His record’s spotless. He knows exactly what’s going to happen if he ends up in prison. They’re not crazy about cops, but I expect they like the CDFS less. He’s a tough guy, but I doubt he’ll last two days.”

“You sound like you respect him,” Jameson goaded.

“I don’t feel one way or another. He’s willing to put himself on the line for what he believes in.”