Shattered Legacy (13 page)

Special Agent Andrew Lowell had heard some interesting stories about the DRMO, but he had never heard of an American corporation actively using the agency to make illegal technology purchases.

“This could be a big one,” admitted Special Agent in Charge Arthur Holland, as he straightened his suit jacket and grinned. He was in his late fifties, tall and lean, with thinning hair the color of chestnut. “I hope you can help me solve this one quickly. I want to wrap up as much as I can before I get my gold watch next month.”

Holland walked with a slight limp, an old field injury that he never talked about. He and Lowell had worked several cases years ago, and the two were still close.

Two hours earlier, a small area on the West Side waterfront was cordoned off with government vehicles and yellow police tape. Now the street was open, and traffic was returning to its normal volume. Agents Lowell and Ramirez followed Holland down a trash-strewn alleyway.

“So what's the deal, Art?” Lowell nudged Ramirez in the arm and grinned. “This better not be a murder. Dead bodies make me squeamish.”

The wrinkles around Holland’s eyes deepened as he smiled. “Nothing like that. I thought this might tie in to your investigation of that space company.”

“And what do know of my investigations, Arthur?”

“Just a little.” The older man gave Lowell a long, speculative look. “Want to fill me in?”

Lowell remained stone-faced. He knew that the older agent did not really expect an answer.

The three passed several agents wearing black jackets with yellow FBI letters emblazoned across the back. The place smelled of oil and grime. They stopped before a large metal door set between two overfilled dumpsters. The back entrance to the abandoned garment factory was rusty and battered, except for the clean torch marks where agents had cut open the lock.

Holland adjusted his latex gloves and placed his hand on the doorknob. Before he opened the door, he glanced back. “You guys know anything about government surplus auctions?”

“What about them?” Lowell asked.

“Before any weapons - like a machine gun, for example - can be auctioned off to the public, they have to be modified, right?”

“Yeah,” Lowell replied. “A machine gun would have to be chopped into pieces before the DOD will sell it for scrap.”

Holland kept his hand on the doorknob and pressed for more information. He looked at the agents in turn. “And very sensitive military electronics are destroyed before they would be sold as scrap, right?”

Lowell shrugged. “It depends. Simply removing critical components will de-mil some items, such as military radios. The radios may still work, but no longer have military-level capabilities.”

Ramirez nodded at the entrance. “Something important in there?”

Holland turned the handle and shoved open the door. The hinges screeched in protest as the door opened into darkness. The three agents stepped inside and waited a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the dim light. There was not much to see. The factory was barren, the tools and machinery having been removed long ago. Daylight glowed through the grimy paned windows running along the ceiling three stories up. Dust motes sparkled in the rays of light. Steel support beams threw crisscrossed shadows across the cement floor. Together the agents crossed the room, their footsteps echoing loudly throughout the empty space.

Holland glanced back again. “How would it be possible for sensitive electronics to get through the DRMO and become available at public auctions?”

Lowell shrugged. “The system's biggest vulnerability is in the coding,” he explained. “Someone could take advantage of equipment miscoding. More likely, they would have someone on the inside helping them out. A few years back some experts figured that almost half the equipment codes assigned to material were either wrong or too lenient. Poor coding is usually how full-blown military equipment reaches the auction block. The whole auction process is screwed up.”

“And they've never bothered fixing the system.” Holland shook his head. “Well, anyway, gentlemen, I think this will
definitely
make your morning.”

With a theatric flourish, Holland lifted his arm and pushed open the door before them.

They entered a garage, smaller and somewhat cleaner than the main factory area. There were no windows. Suspended fluorescent lights cast harsh light over a white, unmarked van parked in the middle of the floor. Two agents were inspecting the wheels. Several others were inspecting the large retractable door on the far wall, dusting it for fingerprints.

“What's this?” Lowell asked as they approached.

Holland stuck his hands in his pockets as he gazed at the vehicle. “We’d been tracking this van for a few weeks. We suspected that it was part of a drug ring transporting methamphetamines across state lines. Yesterday, we tracked it to a warehouse from Patterson, New Jersey, where it made a delivery pickup. This morning, when it came back here, we made our move. You won't believe what we found.”

They moved behind the van and peered inside the open back doors. The rear hatch was stuffed with unmarked cardboard boxes. An agent handed Holland a flashlight.

“Check this out.” Holland grunted as he pulled back one of the heavy boxes. He yanked open the top, shined the light inside, and pulled out a large circuit board wrapped in protective bubble packaging. He handed it to Lowell.

“You know what that is?” Holland asked.

Lowell turned the board over in his hands, examining it in the light. “Should I?”

“It's the programmable circuit card that controls the on-board weapons systems of an F-22 Raptor fighter jet.” Holland regarded the other agents with arched eyebrows. “This is highly-sensitive hardware, hot as hell in the underground market. The Chinese or North Koreans would pay a fortune for this.”

Lowell handed the board to Ramirez. “And you're telling me the van is full of this stuff?”

“More or less,” Holland replied. “We've only been through a few boxes. We're going to move the vehicle to a secure location for a full inventory.”

“Was anyone found with the truck?” Lowell asked.

“The driver bailed and got away. We have agents canvassing the area. We think he's just a mule, though. I doubt we'll get anything from the prints, but you never know.”

Ramirez handed the package back to Holland. “What's the connection between this and our case?”

Holland reached into his jacket pocket and removed a clear plastic bag containing several forms. He handed it to Lowell.

Lowell held the bag to one side so Ramirez could read it with him.

“Son of a bitch,” Lowell muttered a few moments later.

It was a delivery registry from the transport company. The manifest included a proper catalogue of the electronic equipment. The letterhead in the second registry was from the Defense Logistics Agency. The destination for the delivery was listed as a Templar Enterprises facility in Queens.

Ramirez made the connection only an instant after Lowell did. “This is terrific,” he blurted.

Holland snatched back the evidence. “Not exactly,” he said. “We ran the serial numbers. What's listed on this registry is different from what is in these crates. They don't match. In other words, what Templar apparently bought through their outside buyer is not in this van. We don't know where this stuff came from.”

“Can you trace the original dealer?” Lowell asked.

“We’ve traced everything back to half a dozen separate dealers, all reputable. That’s when the trail gets cold. The only link we have is that Templar is listed as the final supply destination. It would be hard to believe that six independent dealers could be working together.”

“Frankly,” Lowell said, “it would be impossible to believe.”

“It gets even better. Nothing in the manifest indicates that the cargo was actually shipped from a DRMO office. In other words, this military equipment doesn’t exist anywhere in the supply line.”

As the agents considered that problem, Ramirez's cell phone beeped. Frowning at the interruption, he unclipped the phone from his belt and snapped it open. He crossed the room to an empty corner.

Holland turned to Lowell, “It may be a while before we make a positive ID on all the parts. Can I assume you'll be my liaison on this?”

“Yeah. I'll need to take this up with our boss, but I'm sure I can get things moving on my end.”

“Wait until we check the entire shipment.” Holland gave his old friend a knowing grin. “I mean, you wouldn't want to jump into this with guns blazing.”

Lowell responded with a matching smile. “Would I ever, Arthur?”

“We gotta go,” Ramirez called out, the phone still at his ear. “We just missed our chance to check out Samson Tyler’s place. It’s been torched.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Merrick drove up onto the second floor of the municipal garage off lower 3
^rd
Avenue. She parked her white, nondescript van away from the stairwells and elevators, where there were fewer vehicles and a better lookout view. Her hair was brown again and pulled back in a ponytail. She was dressed in casual street clothes, a brown leather jacket and wide sunglasses. Her Glock 30 was holstered safely out of view.

Two minutes later, another white van, identical to her own, drove up the ramp. It pulled into an empty space on the other end of the level and shut off its engine.

A few moments later, a middle-aged man exited the truck and started down the aisle. He was tall, dressed in blue jeans and a green T-shirt that fit tightly over his muscular build. His Mets baseball cap shaded a face that had the expression of one who was neither concerned nor interested in his immediate surroundings. Merrick smiled to herself, knowing that cool persona was only a facade. Alan Lanton was a shrewd buyer with a vicious paranoid streak.

Though his head never moved, Lanton’s eyes darted about, taking in everything around him. He casually walked past the other vehicles and approached Merrick's truck.

“Merrick,” he said, climbing inside and settling into the passenger seat. He looked her up and down and said with a soft, raspy voice, “You don't usually make the deliveries yourself.”

“My regular driver is unavailable.”

Lanton raised an eyebrow, regarding her with ice-blue eyes. When he spoke, his voice was equally cold. “Having problems with the help?”

Merrick smiled just a little too broadly. “Nothing to worry about, Alan.”

“Oh, but I
do
worry, being how our fortunes are so entwined.” Lanton slowly removed his hat, revealing a crop of short black hair. He whipped a handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped his brow carefully from left to right. “What happened to the previous delivery?”

“Total loss.”

Lanton stared at Merrick for a long moment, and then acknowledged the fact with a simple nod. She knew the buyers he had lined up would be disappointed. It was regrettable, but she had good reason to abandon the delivery.

“The cargo was fighter electronics and military-grade communications equipment,” Merrick said. She paused when she noticed Lanton's apparent lack of interest. Then again, why would he care about her problems? The man only paid on delivery, and Merrick absorbed the loss for any missing shipments. Explanations were irrelevant.

“I’m sure our operation has not been compromised,” Lanton said, though it sounded more of a question than a statement.

“Not at all.”

That was a lie. Merrick had no doubt that the parts on her captured truck would be traced back to Templar Enterprises. With the government wising up to her activities, Templar's usefulness was ending rapidly, the proverbial goose having laid its last golden egg.

“This is my last delivery,” she said. “After today, we’re done.”

He stared at her. “You’re not just talking about this job, are you?”

She shook her head. “I’m out.”

“You’re really giving this up? For good?”

“I’ve made my money.” She could tell from his skeptical expression that Lanton didn’t believe her. Six months ago, she had been riding high on several concurrent operations. Her network of contacts and insiders was working perfectly, greased by bribes and the occasional threat. The money was coming in faster than she knew how to launder it. Now things were different. It was time to quit while she was ahead and retire to a quieter, less complicated life.

“You’re leaving behind a hell of a mess.”

Merrick gave her old associate an easy smile. “Remember when things fell apart at that military contracting firm in Texas? We shut everything down in a week without a hitch. To this day, they have no idea what happened. I’ll cover our tracks. We’ll be fine.”

Lanton glanced at the side mirror as a car passed behind them. “How deep are the feds into Templar?”

He was taunting her, letting her know that he knew about her problems, even if she was not yet willing to admit them. Merrick masked her annoyance behind a brittle smile. “Templar Enterprises has other problems besides me.”

“So I hear. But I’d still like to help you shut this operation down.”

“I don’t want your help,” Merrick replied flatly. “I don’t
need
your help, Alan. Stay out of this.”

Lanton looked at her carefully and inclined his head.

“This wasn’t a complete washout,” she said, changing the subject. “Do you want to see what I’ve brought?”

“Impress me.”

The two turned around. The back seats were missing. The rear of the truck was filled with a dozen large, unmarked boxes.

“This should make you happy,” Merrick said. She reached back and lifted the top from the nearest box so Lanton could peer inside. “There are over three dozen control boards, including the specialty items you requested.”

“Excellent.” Lanton nodded in mild satisfaction. With that, the two exchanged vehicle keys and exited the van. Lanton walked around and entered the driver’s side door. He lowered the window and adjusted the seat as the engine turned over. “By the way, there's a little something extra for you in the other van.” He held up a hand. “No need to thank me. Consider it a parting gift.”