The Warriors Series Boxset I Page 21

  These weren’t ordinary shades.

  Broker had taken a pair of Ray-Ban Aviator shades and had outfitted them with the tiniest pinhole cameras looking rearward. The cameras projected tiny images on the inner lenses, images that the eyes could read easily. The cameras projected in either video or still mode by flicking a tiny switch on the hinge of the shades.

  Broker made the operatives easily once he reached East Thirty-Fifth Street. He ambled into a café and nursed his caffeine fix as he thought. They were well dressed, but not expensively dressed so not from a hotshot security company and neither were they from rent-a-cop. He went through the assignments on his plate currently, and whilst all of them carried a significant risk, he didn’t think any of those assignments had led to these tails. They could be onto him because someone was interested in knowing why he’d met the National Security Advisor, but Broker was reasonably sure who these tails were and why they were following him.

  He walked out of the café and looked in the direction of the tails. One of them was reading a newspaper, or pretending to read, in front of a salon, and the other wasn’t visible. Broker was sure he was hanging well back, maybe as far back as Thirty-Eighth Street, the two in radio communication constantly. Broker went back into the café, picked up his half-finished drink, and walked in the direction of the tail. He approached the tail and made eye contact and held it till the tail looked away. Broker noticed the barely discernible tensing in his body. The tail pulled the newspaper closer to his face and pretended to read. Broker stopped about ten feet away, leaned against a lamppost, and sipped his drink, keeping his eye on the tail.

  He knew what would happen next, and sure enough, the tail half turned away from him, and Broker saw his lips move. Calling out to his counterpart and control, no doubt.

  The black Suburban came by twenty minutes later. It rolled up a few feet from Broker, and a figure stepped out, followed by a couple of others behind him from the rear.

  Broker knew him well.

  Deputy Director of the FBI, Isakson.

  Chapter 9

  The two tails were FBI agents put on him by Isakson, Broker guessed. He kept quiet and let Isakson approach him.

  ‘We meet again, Broker,’ Isakson greeted him.

  ‘The General said you would call, but I had a feeling you wouldn’t. When nothing came from you in the last couple of days, I had to act, and hence these two.’ He indicated the two agents.

  ‘You realize they were tailing you noticeably so that you could spot them,’ Isakson continued after a slight pause when Broker still kept silent.

  ‘What do you want?’ Broker asked him finally after Isakson had run out of what passed for small talk, for him.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘We have talked. All of five seconds. Five seconds too much. We’re done now.’

  ‘Broker, we need your help. I wouldn’t have reached out via the National Security Advisor if it wasn’t important.’

  ‘Say your piece.’

  ‘Not here. Let’s go to Federal Plaza.’

  Broker thought about it for a moment and gave a short nod. He got into the second row of seats, and the agent sitting there moved to the rear, joining the other two. It was a silent ride back, and Broker made no attempt to break the uncomfortable silence.

  It was Isakson who had requested this; it was he who had to make all the moves.

  Broker turned down Isakson’s offer of a coffee when they reached Federal Plaza and sat silently in an expansive office bearing Isakson’s full title on the door, waiting for Isakson to get to it. Isakson took his time, helping himself to a drink from an expensive-looking coffee maker. My tax dollars at work, Broker thought silently.

  ‘How have you been?’ Isakson asked him politely when he had seated himself.

  Broker waved him away impatiently, but still didn’t say anything.

  ‘I know what you think of me, and if I was in your shoes, I’d probably think the same. But I couldn’t have acted any differently in those circumstances,’ Isakson said, referring to the hostage situation in which Zeb was killed.

  Broker took a deep breath and interrupted Isakson. ‘Let’s not go there. You have fifteen minutes to tell me what you want to tell me. You’d better make best use of those fifteen minutes.’

  If Isakson had kept Zeb and Broker in the loop and worked with them, as Holt was sucking up to the FBI, the rescue attempt would have turned out differently; Zeb would still be alive. But Isakson did everything by the book and didn’t see life any other way.

  A dull flush spread across Isakson’s face, but he held his temper.

  ‘We suspect a traitor in the FBI, and we need your help in finding him or her,’ he said bluntly.

  Broker leant back in his seat and allowed it to sink in. ‘And why do you think you have one?’

  Isakson laughed humorlessly. ‘Broker, we’re not as incompetent as you make us out to be. We can connect the dots when operations get sabotaged, or when a tightly controlled takedown returns empty-handed because the assholes got wind of it.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Let me start at the beginning.

  ‘The crime scene in New York has changed for the better over the last couple of decades. As you might well know, it peaked in the early nineties and then has been reducing each year. Not many people believe that crime is so low and seek various explanations when they see the statistics. The simple reason is better policing, better procedures and systems, such as the adoption of CompStat – a management process for improved policing – have led to crime reducing over the years.’

  He paused to stand up and walk around in his office. Broker noticed it was bare. No family photographs, no awards, no photos with important people, no posters, no slogans, nothing. There was just one creased poster on a wall – Sherpa Tenzing Norqay atop Mount Everest, the date printed at the bottom: twenty-ninth of May in nineteen fifty-three.

  ‘Organized crime,’ continued Isakson, ‘also declined. There were many Mafia prosecutions in the late nineties. The clashes between the Bloods and the Latin Kings diminished. Everything was good. And then, five years back, a new gang turned up.

  ‘The thing with gangs is that most of them are based on some ethnic affiliation or some shared story. Bloods in New York had their origins on Rikers Island. Latin Kings have mostly Hispanic members.

  ‘This new gang has no ethnic affiliation. They have black members, white, Hispanic, East European, Asian… The shared story they have in common is military service. Many of their members have served in the US armed forces, South American forces, or NATO forces. Many are mercenaries who have seen action in Africa or Europe or the Middle East… obviously these guys are not your Pentagon four-star material. They are the dregs, the scum, court-martialed bastards. Several of them are deserters, some discharged from their forces under a cloud.’

  ‘You’re talking about 5Clubs, aren’t you?’

  Isakson nodded grimly and leaned against the window overlooking the street below, thick glass separating sound and silence.

  ‘Their service experience gives them an advantage over every other New York gang. Organization and discipline. These guys just cut through the other gangs like a warm knife through butter and took over a sizeable part of the city in just five years. Oh, and they’re ruthless too. One Latin Kings’ chapter had its entire management wiped out one evening… their heads were adorning the gate of one of their offices.

  ‘Small businesses are acquired overnight. If a garage owner defies them, his wife and daughter are raped in front of him. And then shot. The hapless owner is left alive. As you can imagine, they’re in every conceivable illegal trade. Drugs, girls, gambling, protection, human trafficking… you name it, this gang owns a significant piece of it.

  ‘And that’s not all. Their genius lies in their invisibility. When you mention gang, Joe New Yorker immediately thinks of the Mafia or Latin Kings or Bloods… this gang has managed to stay out of the mainstream consciousness, yet they are the single,
most organized, successful gang in the city today. They have managed to stay invisible by doing their dirty business most professionally. Even the ruthlessness hasn’t captured the public because they relied on us – the FBI, the NYPD – to hush up the gory details. And the fuckers were right about that. Why would we want to make public that organized crime, on a downward trend for so many years, has shot up again?’

  Broker allowed impatience to show. ‘All this is most interesting, but what does it have to do with me? Or with you, for that matter?’

  Isakson nodded. ‘This gang came to our attention because of the scale of their operations and the speed of their growth. The FBI went after this gang, and we used all our intel to bust them, but the funny thing was that most of the time we went to no-shows… a deal was supposed to go down; we put everything in place – people, wheels, tech – the deal never happened. The few busts we made were small; the guys we got were strictly small-time street dealers, nothing to connect them to the gang.’

  He paused to allow that to sink in. ‘We wondered – shit does happen, but not as regularly as that – but we were nowhere close to pressing the panic button.

  ‘This went on for about eighteen months, and then we decided to change tactics. The NYPD and the FBI have a Joint Organized Crime Task Force, JOCTF, that goes after gangs, and 5Clubs was already on their plate, but we created a smaller cell, calling it 5JTF, within that task force to go after just them, headed by me. We figured the 5JTF, with an exclusive focus, backed up by resources of the JOCTF – more resources, more feet on the ground, different perspectives – would lead to better results.

  ‘We started building a more complete picture of the gang, with all that additional muscle. What we found was this gang ran like a commercial entity, each chapter head had the freedom to get into or out of any business they wanted. A conglomerate of illegal activity, business principles being applied with military efficiency.

  ‘Then we started getting results. Thugs, admittedly low level, but higher up the food chain than the ones we’d arrested before. But these thugs didn’t talk. Or rather, they didn’t talk enough. Many of them were bailed or our charges thrown out on flimsy reasons. The gang had expensive lawyers on retainer, and we suspected they might have had a few judges in their pocket, but we never pursued that angle. Too much on our plate as it was.

  ‘The tech route was deployed in parallel, phone taps on suspected gangbangers, remote surveillance – data analysis, cause-and-effect stuff; hell, we also threw in wheels-and-feet surveillance – kitchen sink, bathtub, the works – and for all that, we got pretty much a big fucking fat zero in return.’

  He backtracked. ‘That’s not strictly true. We got some names, big names, more flesh on their organization structure, background on their gang leader, a shadowy East European, but just not enough meat to the bone, nothing in comparison to what we had on the Mafia, the Russian mob, and the other gangs. And to top it off, we could prosecute very few of those we arrested.’

  ‘The others got bail?’

  ‘Nope. Most of them got killed when in custody.

  ‘These fuckers have the reach and the efficiency to get into our jails and have them killed within twenty-four hours or at the most forty-eight hours of being arrested. The Mafia, Latin Kings, Bloods, none of them could execute their own guys as regularly as this gang did. They were mocking us, the NYPD and the FBI, with those kills. Demonstrating that we could do jackshit to them.’

  Isakson shook his head almost in admiration. ‘We finally started getting some traction, long enough though it took, when we started talking to Interpol.

  ‘They were hunting a former commander of the Kosovo Liberation Army, a mercenary who they believed had fled to the United States. Interpol had issued an arrest warrant for war crimes for this fucker and had proof of those crimes, which they laid out for us. Torture, summary executions, rape, burning children and women… this scumbag had done it all. Even the Kosovo Liberation Army distanced itself from him, and there were rumors that he was to be eliminated quietly. Evidently he got wind of this because he disappeared. Interpol traced his flight to the United States on false papers, and there is a record of his arriving here in New York ten years back, and then he disappeared. Bureaucracy and red tape between Interpol and the FBI resulted in this guy walking into the country under the guise of an American citizen and then disappearing.’

  He ran his hand over his head tiredly. ‘Once we got these details, we let loose our computers, and sure enough, the two stories met. The timelines matched, the snippets of info we squeezed matched, the ethnicities of some of the hoods tallied to this guy’s. This guy is New York based, but never lives in one place. He moves from safe house to safe house, borough to borough, almost every night… has been living like this ever since he came to this country. Interpol said this was second nature to him. He lived like that in the KLA too. This guy is now a US citizen under a false identity, and running the most successful criminal empire in New York.’

  Isakson paused and reflected for a moment, the room quiet but for the ticking of a clock on his desk. He shook his head in reluctant admiration. ‘His gang has close to three hundred fuckers operational in each borough of the city and in a couple of counties in New Jersey. He’s also muscled in on the illegal border traffic out West. You know, between Mexico and Arizona, Texas and California, running drugs and aliens.’

  Isakson said grimly, ‘Once we got his real identity from Interpol, we ran our databases and got his assumed identity. And then we got lucky. A couple of years back, we caught a chapter hit man red-handed in a shooting. And then offered him witness protection and shit loads of money to start a new life. He started singing.

  ‘Agon Scheafer is the head scumbag, the name the KLA commander now goes under; he’s one of our most wanted. He has five close lieutenants who run the New York chapters.’

  Isakson opened a file and placed six photographs in front of Broker.

  Agon Scheafer was tall, taller than Bear and Bwana, six foot seven, and was huge, built like a tank, with close-cropped dark hair, clean shaven, and no other distinguishing features other than his size. Broker scanned the other photographs of the chapter heads and saw the close-cropped hair, the narrow eyes, and a resemblance to the military bearing.

  Broker pushed the photographs back. ‘You want my help in catching Agon Scheafer?’

  ‘Nope. We can find him ourselves, however long it takes. We want you to identify the rat-bastard mole in the FBI.’

  Chapter 10

  Broker leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands behind his head, utterly relaxed. ‘Tell me about him. The mole. Why do you think you have one?’

  Isakson counted on his fingers, making his case. ‘Eleven deals that the FBI acted on, with intel that we alone resourced and had access to, and eight of those were duds. No-shows. A lot of manpower and effort watching warehouses, street corners, wherever they were supposed to take place, and nothing happened. The three busts we made, we got street dealers who were so low down the food chain that they weren’t worth the hassle.’

  He extended another finger. ‘Another ten deals, this time with the 5JTF, and this time slightly better results, if that’s what you can call them. Four resulted in ten gangbangers arrested, six were the same waiting-for-stuff-to-happen deals. Of the ten arrests, six were killed, two bailed, the remaining two were so low level that they’re worthless and are now clogging our prisons. These twenty-one deals went back almost three years.

  ‘Of the six killed, one was the hit man who gave us Scheafer’s identity.’

  Isakson sat down. ‘One of those deals was through a grade A snitch whose juice had been good to take to the bank. Fifty Ks of smack was to change hands in the Bronx, in a gang-controlled auto garage in broad daylight. We checked with other snitches, other info, chatter that we picked up off the street, social media – you know some of these fuckers use Facebook and that shit – and all said the same. The deal was good to go.

  ‘We did what
your friendly neighborhood task force would do – stakeout, an invisible one, with the NYPD’s Emergency Service Unit, ESU, and a SWAT team from Quantico in attendance. We sent undercover cops to service their cars at the garage that day. Some of us hung around doing what those hanging around do… thing is, that day, if a flea farted in the shop, we were aware of it. Nothing happened. We hung around till the shop closed and then scattered around all night, watching the shop from all ends. Nada. We drew a big fat zero.’

  He paused, expecting Broker to ask questions. Broker didn’t.

  ‘We squeezed the snitch but didn’t get much joy there. The snitch stuck to his story, and we couldn’t do much about it. We put it down to just one of those things.

  ‘This happened a second time, and this time there were no snitches involved. This time we got juice off a phone tap on one of the junior gangbangers. Another drug deal, this time in Brooklyn near a school in broad daylight.

  ‘We followed the same pattern and set up surveillance. Agents carpeted the school and its surroundings. Result was the same. Jackshit.

  ‘By now tempers were flaring, and a lot of fingers were being pointed at me and my management of the 5JTF. Remember, we’re the FBI, and we always get our guy. This was making us smell worse than rotten food and dirty laundry. Worse, it was making the NYPD look bad. Any task force is also a political body, and the usual political shitstorm you would expect in such circumstances was raging, and boy, was it raging hard! And then we had the third deal.’

  Isakson’s voice had gone hoarse from talking. He poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher and offered one silently to Broker, who shook his head.

  ‘I suspected that the mole might be in the NYPD, even though the previous duds were just with the FBI, so I decided to withhold intel from the NYPD and go to a bust without them. That was the next exchange.