Hannibal (2 page)

Through the open back doors of the van, four men watched Starling coming. She was slender in her fatigues and moving fast under the weight of her equipment, her hair shining in the ghastly fluorescent lights.

“Women. Always late,” a D.C. police officer said.

BATF Special Agent John Brigham was in charge.

“She’s not late—I didn’t beep her until we got the
squeal,” Brigham said. “She must have hauled ass from Quantico— Hey, Starling, pass me the bag.”

She gave him a fast high five. “Hey, John.”

Brigham spoke to the scruffy undercover officer at the wheel and the van was rolling before the back doors closed, out into the pleasant fall afternoon.

Clarice Starling, a veteran of surveillance vans, ducked under the eyepiece of the periscope and took a seat in the back as close as possible to the hundred-fifty-pound block of dry ice that served as air-conditioning when they had to lurk with the engine turned off.

The old van had the monkey-house smell of fear and sweat that never scrubs out. It had borne many labels in its time. The dirty and faded signs on the doors were thirty minutes old. The bullet holes plugged with BondO were older.

The back windows were one-way mirror, appropriately tarnished. Starling could watch the big black SWAT vans following. She hoped they wouldn’t spend hours buttoned down in the vans.

The male officers looked her over whenever her face was turned to the window.

FBI Special Agent Clarice Starling, thirty-two, always looked her age and she always made that age look good, even in fatigues.

Brigham retrieved his clipboard from the front passenger seat.

“How come you always catch this crap, Starling?” he said, smiling.

“Because you keep asking for me,” she said.

“For this I need you. But I see you serving warrants on jump-out squads for Christ’s sake. I don’t ask, but somebody at Buzzard’s Point hates you, I think. You should
come to work with me. These are my guys, Agents Marquez Burke and John Hare, and this is Officer Bolton from the D.C. Police Department.”

A composite raid team of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, the Drug Enforcement Administration SWAT teams and the FBI was the force-fit product of budget constraints in a time when even the FBI Academy was closed for lack of funding.

Burke and Hare looked like agents. The D.C. policeman, Bolton, looked like a bailiff. He was about forty-five, overweight and yeasty.

The Mayor of Washington, anxious to appear tough on drugs after his own drug conviction, insisted the D.C. police share credit for every major raid in the city of Washington. Hence, Bolton.

“The Drumgo posse’s cooking today,” Brigham said.

“Evelda Drumgo, I knew it,” Starling said without enthusiasm.

Brigham nodded. “She’s opened an ice plant beside the Feliciana Fish Market on the river. Our guy says she’s cooking a batch of crystal today. And she’s got reservations to Grand Cayman tonight. We can’t wait.”

Crystal methamphetamine, called “ice” on the street, provides a short powerful high and is murderously addictive.

“The dope’s DEA business but we need Evelda on interstate transportation of Class Three weapons. Warrant specifies a couple of Beretta submachine guns and some MAC l0s, and she knows where a bunch more are. I want you to concentrate on Evelda, Starling. You’ve dealt with her before. These guys will back you up.”

“We got the easy job,” Officer Bolton said with some satisfaction.

“I think you better tell them about Evelda, Starling,” Brigham said.

Starling waited while the van rattled over some railroad tracks. “Evelda will fight you,” she said. “She doesn’t look like it—she was a model—but she’ll fight you. She’s Dijon Drumgo’s widow. I arrested her twice on RICO warrants, the first time with Dijon.

“This last time she was carrying a nine-millimeter with three magazines and Mace in her purse and she had a balisong knife in her bra. I don’t know what she’s carrying now.

“The second arrest, I asked her very politely to give it up and she did. Then in DC. detention, she killed an inmate named Marsha Valentine with a spoon shank. So you don’t know … her face is hard to read. Grand jury found self-defense.

“She beat the first RICO count and pled the other one down. Some weapons charges were dropped because she had infant children and her husband had just been killed in the Pleasant Avenue drive-by, maybe by the Spliffs.

“I’ll ask her to give it up. I hope she will—we’ll give her a show. But—listen to me—if we have to subdue Evelda Drumgo, I want some real help. Never mind watching my back, I want some weight on her. Gentlemen, don’t think you’re going to watch me and Evelda mud-wrestling.”

There was a time when Starling would have deferred to these men. Now they didn’t like what she was saying, and she had seen too much to care.

“Evelda Drumgo is connected through Dijon to the Trey-Eight Crips,” Brigham said. “She’s got Crip security, our guy says, and the Crips are distributing on the
coast. It’s security against the Spliffs, mainly. I don’t know what the Crips will do when they see it’s us. They don’t cross the G if they can help it.”

“You should know—Evelda’s HIV positive,” Starling said. “Dijon gave it to her off a needle. She found out in detention and flipped out. She killed Marsha Valentine that day and she fought the guards in jail. If she’s not armed and she fights, you can expect to get hit with whatever fluid she has to throw. She’ll spit and bite, she’ll wet and defecate on you if you try to pat her down, so gloves and masks are SOP. If you put her in a patrol car, when you put your hand on her head, watch out for a needle in her hair and secure her feet.”

Burke’s and Hare’s faces were growing long. Officer Bolton appeared unhappy. He pointed with his wattled chin at Starling’s main sidearm, a well-worn Colt .45 Government Model with a strip of skateboard tape on the grip, riding in a Yaqui slide behind her right hip. “You go around with that thing cocked all the time?” he wanted to know.

“Cocked and locked, every minute of my day,” Starling said.

“Dangerous,” Bolton said.

“Come out to the range and I’ll explain it to you, Officer.”

Brigham broke it up. “Bolton, I coached Starling when she was interservice combat pistol champion three years straight. Don’t worry about her weapon. Those guys from the Hostage Rescue Team, the Velcro Cowboys, what did they call you after you beat their ass, Starling? Annie Oakley?”

“Poison Oakley,” she said, and looked out the window.

Starling felt pierced and lonesome in this goat-smelling
surveillance van crowded with men. Chaps, Brut, Old Spice, sweat and leather. She felt some fear, and it tasted like a penny under her tongue.
A mental image: her father, who smelled of tobacco and strong soap, peeling an orange with his pocketknife, the tip of the blade broken off square, sharing the orange with her in the kitchen. The taillights of her father’s pickup disappearing as he went off on the night-marshal patrol that killed him. His clothes in the closet. His square-dancing shirt. Some nice stuff in her closet now she never got to wear. Sad party clothes on hangers, like toys in the attic
.

“About another ten minutes,” the driver called back.

Brigham looked out the windshield and checked his watch. “Here’s the layout,” he said. He had a crude diagram drawn hastily with a Magic Marker, and a blurry floor plan faxed to him by the Department of Buildings. “The fish market building is in a line of stores and warehouses along the riverbank. Parcell Street dead-ends into Riverside Avenue in this small square in front of the fish market.

“See, the building with the fish market backs on the water. They’ve got a dock back there that runs all along the back of the building, right here. Beside the fish market on the ground floor, that’s Evelda’s lab. Entrance here in front, just beside the fish market awning. Evelda will have the watchers out while she’s cooking the dope, at least three blocks around. They’ve tipped her before in time for her to flush her stuff. So—a regular DEA incursion team in the third van is going in from a fishing boat on the dock side at fifteen hundred hours. We can get closer than anybody in this van, right up to the street door a couple of minutes before the raid. If Evelda comes out the front, we get her. If she stays in, we hit this streetside door right after they hit the other side. Second
van’s our backup, seven guys, they come in at fifteen hundred unless we call first.”

“We’re doing the door how?” Starling said.

Burke spoke up. “If it sounds quiet, the ram. If we hear flash-bangs or gunfire, it’s ‘Avon calling.’” Burke patted his shotgun.

Starling had seen it done before—“Avon calling” is a three-inch magnum shotgun shell loaded with fine powdered lead to blow the lock out without injuring people inside.

“Evelda’s kids? Where are they?” Starling said.

“Our informant saw her drop them off at day care,” Brigham said. “Our informant’s close to the family situation, like, he’s very close, as close as you can get with safe sex.”

Brigham’s radio chirped in his earphone and he searched the part of the sky he could see out the back window. “Maybe he’s just doing traffic,” he said into his throat microphone. He called to the driver, “Strike Two saw a news helicopter a minute ago. You seen anything?”

“No.”

“He better be doing traffic. Let’s saddle up and button up.”

One hundred and fifty pounds of dry ice will not keep five humans cool in the back of a metal van on a warm day, especially when they are putting on body armor. When Bolton raised his arms, he demonstrated that a splash of Canoe is not the same as a shower.

Clarice Starling had sewn shoulder pads inside her fatigue shirt to take the weight of the Kevlar vest, hopefully bulletproof. The vest had the additional weight of a ceramic plate in the back as well as the front.

Tragic experience had taught the value of the plate in
the back. Conducting a forcible entry raid with a team you do not know, of people with various levels of training, is a dangerous enterprise. Friendly fire can smash your spine as you go in ahead of a green and frightened column.

Two miles from the river, the third van dropped off to take the DEA incursion team to a rendezvous with their fishing boat, and the backup van dropped a discreet distance behind the white undercover vehicle.

The neighborhood was getting scruffy. A third of the buildings were boarded up, and burned-out cars rested on crates beside the curbs. Young men idled on the corners in front of bars and small markets. Children played around a burning mattress on the sidewalk.

If Evelda’s security was out, it was well concealed among the regulars on the sidewalk. Around the liquor stores and in the grocery parking lots, men sat talking in cars.

A low-rider Impala convertible with four young African-American men in it pulled into the light traffic and cruised along behind the van. The low-riders hopped the front end off the pavement for the benefit of the girls they passed and the thump of their stereo buzzed the sheet metal in the van.

Watching through the one-way glass of the back window, Starling could see the young men in the convertible were not a threat—a Crip gunship is almost always a powerful, full-sized sedan or station wagon, old enough to blend into the neighborhood, and the back windows roll all the way down. It carries a crew of three, sometimes four. A basketball team in a Buick can look sinister if you don’t keep your mind right.

While they waited at a traffic light, Brigham pulled the
cover off the eyepiece of the periscope and tapped Bolton on the knee.

“Look around and see if there are any local celebrities on the sidewalk,” Brigham said.

The objective lens of the periscope is concealed in a roof ventilator. It only sees sideways.

Bolton made a full rotation and stopped, rubbing his eyes. “Thing shakes too much with the motor running,” he said.

Brigham checked by radio with the boat team. “Four hundred meters downstream and closing,” he repeated to his crew in the van.

The van caught a red light a block away on Parcell Street and sat facing the market for what seemed a long time. The driver turned as though checking his right mirror and talked out of the corner of his mouth to Brigham. “Looks like not many people buying fish. Here we go.”

The light changed and at 2:57
P.M.
, exactly three minutes before zero hour, the battered undercover van stopped in front of the Feliciana Fish Market, in a good spot by the curb.

In the back they heard the ratchet as the driver set the hand brake.

Brigham relinquished the periscope to Starling. “Check it out.”

Starling swept the periscope across the front of the building. Tables and counters of fish on ice glittered beneath a canvas awning on the pavement. Snappers up from the Carolina banks were arranged artfully in schools on the shaved ice, crabs moved their legs in open crates and lobsters climbed over one another in a tank. The smart fishmonger had moisture pads over the eyes of his
bigger fish to keep them bright until the evening wave of cagey Caribbean-born housewives came to sniff and peer.

Sunlight made a rainbow in the spray of water from the fish-cleaning table outside, where a Latin-looking man with big forearms cut up a mako shark with graceful strokes of his curved knife and hosed the big fish down with a powerful handheld spray The bloody water ran down the gutter and Starling could hear it running under the van.

Starling watched the driver talk to the fishmonger, ask him a question. The fishmonger looked at his watch, shrugged, pointed out a local lunch place. The driver poked around the market for a minute, lit a cigarette and walked off in the direction of the café.

A boom box in the market was playing “Macarena” loud enough for Starling to hear it clearly in the van; she would never again in her life be able to endure the song.

The door that mattered was on the right, a double metal door in a metal casement with a single concrete step.

Starling was about to give up the periscope when the door opened. A large white man in a luau shirt and sandals came out. He had a satchel across his chest. His other hand was behind the satchel. A wiry black man came out behind him carrying a raincoat.