Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (57 page)

 
          
“
Lake
brokered several large aircraft deals for
buyers all over the country. At first blush they all checked out—aerial
fire-fighters, corporate planes, parts, that kind of thing. But one buyer
didn’t know it was
Lake
who was brokering the deal, and he told me
some stories about
Lake
—about how he was in debt up to his chin,
about how he was sure to get caught in some money-laundering scheme someday. I
checked further. Turns out
Lake
’s
financial fortunes changed right after Cazaux’s attack on
Memphis
.” “Changed? I thought you said he was
already in debt.”

 
          
“I
did,” Lassen explained. “He was bankrupt, worse than bankrupt. But two days
before the attack on Universal Express,
Lake
writes this complicated and outrageous
stock option deal, in effect betting that Universal Express stock is going to
drop in value, and I mean
really
drop—he wants to trade hundreds of thousands of shares of stock.”

 
          
“
Lake
had that kind of money just lying around?”

 
          
“You
don’t need a lot of cash to do one of these options deals,” Lassen said. “Four
or five million was enough to get the ball rolling.”

 
          
“Where
could he get that kind of cash?”

 
          
“You
won’t believe it,” Lassen said. “He borrows the money from McSorley, Brennan
McSorley—the president of Universal Equity Services, with whom he used to do
business—they had a falling-out some time back. Talk about balls—
Lake
makes a bet that Universal Equity stock is
going to take a hit, using Universal’s money! It’s like betting the ‘Don’t
Come’ line with your mother rolling the dice.

 
          
“Anyway,
two days after
Lake
makes this option deal, Cazaux blows up
Universal Express. Universal stock falls through the floor.
Lake
now owns all this stock for pennies on the
dollar, and he turns right around and sells it when the stock recovers.
Lake
is now rolling in money—something like
seventy million dollars’ worth.”

 
          
“Maybe
I’d better open an account with this guy,” Harley said.

 
          
“Maybe
not, Debbie,” Lassen said. “
Lake
is
flush now, but instead of going back to stocks and bonds, he goes into aircraft
leasing—big aircraft, cargo aircraft. One of the planes he buys is from this
place in
Atlanta
, where those two FBI guys were killed in
that hangar. Another one of his planes is shot down over
Fort Worth
. And guess what—one of the unexploded bombs
recovered from the Foil; Worth bombing matches a military lot-number of several
cluster bomb units stolen from a Nevada Navy arsenal several days prior.”

 
          
“Christ—
Harold
Lake
and this Ted Fell are the bankers for Henri
Cazaux?”

 
          
“It’s
looking that way,” Lassen agreed. “But apparently Fell had a change of heart—I
guess working with a psychopath like Cazaux will do that to a man, no matter
how good the money is. So
Harold
Lake
dropped a dime on Henri Cazaux, eh,
Admiral?”

 
          
“The
phone call was made from
Lake
’s
private office in
Manhattan
,” Hardcastle said. “I turned the information over to Judge Wilkes and
the FBI before I came out here. As usual, I haven’t heard a thing. What about
other aircraft that
Lake
and Fell purchased, Agent Lassen? Have you
kept track of them?”

 
          
“Unfortunately,
I dropped the aircraft line when they checked out in my initial investigation,”
Lassen replied. “When I matched
Lake
with
the
Fort
Worth
plane, I tried going back to pick up their trails. One I found—it’s one of the
smaller bizjets, going through an avionics refit up in
Newburgh
. So far I haven’t found the rest yet. They
still might be legitimate.”

 
          
“And
they might not,” Hardcastle said. “We’ve got to find those planes.”

 
          
“
Newburgh
might be the place to start,” Lassen said
eagerly. “Maybe we can take one of your awesome birds up there. They’re surely
a couple of mean-looking choppers.”

 
          
“Sounds
good,” Hardcastle said. He had his aide Marc Sheehan radio for a CV-22 PAVE
HAMMER to pick them up on the hastily prepared helipad on the front lawn. While
Sheehan was on the radio, he received another message and gave it to
Hardcastle, who turned to Lassen and Harley and said, “Guess what, guys? Judge
Wilkes herself is on the way. She wants everyone to stop what they’re doing and
wait until her and her team check in on the scene.”

 
          
“Well,
I think things have just ground to a halt here,” Lassen said. “FBI’s in charge
of a terrorist incident, not the Marshals or Secret Service.”

 
          
“Do
you have enough to arrest
Lake
or
Fell, Agent Lassen?”

 
          
“Definitely,”
Lassen replied. “You gave me the caller ID with
Lake
’s number, telling us about Cazaux in this
place—that makes him a witness. I’ve circumstantially linked
Lake
with the aircraft used in two of the
bombings.”

 
          
“Then
I’d suggest you go pick him up,” Hardcastle said. “We can explain things to the
FBI later. Besides, you have to make room for Judge Wilkes’ chopper.”

 
          
“Gotcha,”
Lassen said. He waited until the big white- andorange PAVE HAMMER touched down,
then plugged his ears against the noise and trotted off. No sooner had the
aircraft roared off out of sight than a small blue-and-white Bell JetRanger
zoomed into view, circled the landing zone until a small smoke marker was set
out for them, then rapidly touched down.

 
          
Judge
Lani Wilkes, Director of the FBI, was the first off the JetRanger, and she was
ready to explode with anger. Two agents followed her off, both armed with Uzi
submachine guns. She didn’t wait for the screech of her helicopter’s turbine
engine to subside before laying into Hardcastle: “You’re coming with me,
Admiral. You and Agent Harley and Agent Landers there and anyone else who was
responsible for this raid.”

 
          
William
Landers, still wearing his body armor and still carrying his H & K MP5
submachine gun, asked, “Would you like a briefing on the operation before we
depart, Judge?”

 
          
“Shut
up, Bill,” Wilkes interjected. “You know damned well that SOG was involving
itself in an FBI-directed investigation, yet you proceeded without my
authorization. I’m responsible for all the casualties here, and I can assure
you, I’m going to rake you over the coals for each and every one of them.
Hardcastle, where was that . . . that
thing,
that tilt-rotor thing of yours going?”

 
          
“It
doesn’t belong to me, Judge Wilkes,” Hardcastle - replied, yawning. “It belongs
to the Navy. We borrowed it for this operation.”

 
          
“This
operation
?. . . This
massacre,
you mean!” Wilkes shouted.
“Where the fuck was that aircraft going?” “Following up on the tip we got this
morning.”

 
          
“We
checked those offices in
Manhattan
. They look like they’ve been evacuated.”

 
          
“We
think we know where
Harold
Lake
and Ted Fell might’ve gone,” Deborah Harley
said. “Agents of the Marshals Service are going to check it out.”

 
          
“I
told everyone to stay put,” Wilkes seethed. “The
FBI
is in charge of this investigation, Hardcastle. You’re
interfering. You’re not authorized to conduct any arrests or investigations
without my office’s authorization. I’m going to bust all—”

 
          
“We
think we got Henri Cazaux, Judge,” Hardcastle announced.

 
          
Wilkes
stopped in midsentence, staring in complete shock first at Hardcastle, then at
Landers and Harley, and finally at the line of body bags in front of the
mansion. “Where is he?” she asked skeptically, her voice a weak gasp. “Show
me.” She turned to one of her aides and said, “Get a P and P satellite ID unit
in here and secure this area. Get everyone out of that house.
Now! Move it, move it!”

 
          
Wilkes
followed Harley and Landers over to the body bag with the bullet-shattered body
of Henri Cazaux inside, and Landers explained how they made their
identification. “It’s not confirmed,” Landers reminded her, “but from my
operational notes, one of the bodies we recovered could be him. He was trying
to escape in a motorcycle along with three others; we got one of the other
riders. Two escaped. State Police and the sheriffs are out looking for them.”
He then explained what happened to the fourth rider, and gave a thumbnail
sketch of the raid itself.

 
          
When
he was finished, one of his agents handed Landers a note. “We ID’d the woman
killed in the raid,” he said. “Jo Ann Rocci, a.k.a. Jo Ann Vega, address,
Newburgh
,
New York
.”

 
          
“That’s
where the Marshals are headed to see if they can find
Lake
and Fell,” Hardcastle said. “This place and
Newburgh
look like Cazaux’s entire
U.S.
base of operations.”

 
          
“I
hope congratulations are in order,” Wilkes said as she examined the body, then
ordered it to be zipped up and guarded, “but you still violated my procedures.
I expected no less from you, Admiral Hardcastle, and I’m very disappointed with
the Secret Service and the Marshals for letting themselves be led around by the
nose by you, Admiral. Well, this will be your last cowboy stunt, Hardcastle, I
promise you. We have a debriefing at the Justice Department, all of you. The
Bureau takes charge of these bodies and this crime scene as of right now. Let’s
go.”

 
          
Stewart
International
Airport
,

           
Newburgh
,
New York
That Same Time

           
The roadblocks were still in place,
but all cars were no longer being stopped and searched. The limousine driver
simply showed the bored rent-a-cop an airport pass, and they were waved in.
Things had definitely calmed down here at
Stewart
International
Airport
, and the commuter flights were flying
again.

 
          
To
Harold
Lake
, it made perfect sense—Henri Cazaux
abandoned
Newburgh
, so why not use it? So what if it had State
Police, Army, Air Force, and FBI swarming all around it? Evading the
authorities was Cazaux’s headache, not his. The presence of all these uniformed
men gave
Lake
great peace of mind.