Matt Hilton - Blood and Ashes

Kwon indicated one of his colleagues who took out a BlackBerry and jabbed buttons. That done, Kwon made a swooping gesture with his arm asking that Hicks follow. The two groups didn’t converge, but moved along the dock alongside each other. Conversation was unnecessary as well as unwelcome.

Metal containers, stacked three or four high in places, formed a series of corridors that stretched into the hazy distance. Company names and loading directions stencilled on the cargo containers were in more languages than could be counted and further proof to Hicks to what extent his nation was turning into a sink-hole for the world. Distractedly he wondered how many of those containers had brought aliens into the country, smuggled past the immigration authorities in the same manner as his product had arrived here. Out of the hundreds of containers, Kwon led them unerringly to a particular one. As they approached, the door swung open slowly and a fourth Korean emerged carting with him a large silver box with snap-locks. The box looked extremely heavy, even for the muscular man who carried it.

Hicks peered both ways along the corridor they stood in. He could hear the dull roar of machinery from a distance, and somewhere a man shouted to another, but there was no one nearby. He looked up, checking that a helicopter wasn’t hanging in the sky with a camera trained on them. The low clouds billowing overhead made that almost impossible.

‘I’d care to check the product before we do the deal. I’d hate to hand over two million dollars for an empty box.’

‘You Americans are so untrusting.’ Kwon’s sneer should have been enough to seal the deal, but he was right: Hicks didn’t trust the Korean one bit.

‘Show me.’ Hicks held up the cell phone, his thumb poised over the send button.

Kwon rattled off something in his native tongue and while Hicks had spent time in the Far East, he was only familiar with Vietnamese and that was unlike the language Kwon spoke. The man lugging the box set it on the ground. He unsnapped the locks and opened the lid. Sweat broke along the Korean’s hairline, all the proof that Hicks needed. Still, he leaned close enough to see the padded interior of the box and the product it protected.

‘Would you like to open one of the packages?’

Kwon was standing smugly, with his arms crossed on his chest.

‘No. I’ll take your word for it that they’re good.’

‘Excellent decision,’ Kwon said. ‘Then we have a deal?’

Hicks thumbed his phone. ‘Do the transfer.’ He looked back at Kwon. ‘The account number?’

Kwon told him and Hicks relayed the details through the phone. The Korean with the BlackBerry watched the screen then nodded almost imperceptibly to his boss. Kwon turned his gaze back on Hicks. ‘It’s all yours.’

The fourth Korean shut the lid and snapped the locks in place. He stepped back, appearing glad to be rid of the box. Hicks stood aside for his minders who between them hauled it off the ground like an overladen picnic hamper. Both men frowned at the weight, but said nothing.

Deal done, Hicks had no more time to waste. He walked away, following his minders, Kwon and his men as insignificant to him now as any other insignificant race.

‘Hey, Yankee!’

Kwon was wearing a supercilious sneer when Hicks turned back. It seemed that racism was a two-way street. Hicks thought about shooting Kwon and his entourage, shutting them in their container and shipping them back home. But who knew? He might want to do business with them again.

Kwon said, ‘Where is your famed hospitality? We are in town for a few days. Won’t you show us the sights, my friend?’

‘I’m afraid that I wouldn’t be very good company, Kwon, so you boys are better off on your own.’ Hicks turned away, adding, ‘But if you want to see the sights, I’ve some advice for you: get it done today.’

‘The Bloody Angle continues to live up to its name,’ said Special Agent Vincent as he took the Lincoln town car out through Bowery and on to Chatham Square, then eased it into the meagre traffic heading down Park Row.

Sitting in the back of the government car, I wasn’t surprised by the revelation that Carswell Hicks had beaten us to Jim Lloyd, but I could have done with a look around the Vietnam vet’s apartment without having to take Vince’s word that it was a dead end. That had proved nigh-on impossible. When we’d turned up at Doyers Street, the NYP was already there in force, and the street had been taped off to keep back the ghoulish onlookers. Vince had flashed his badge and got through, but we had been left to twiddle our thumbs in the Lincoln. Rink, who could normally sit still enough for birds to alight on him, was fidgeting so much that he’d finally clambered out of the car and gone off in search of nourishment. He arrived back with barbecued spare ribs and spicy General Tzu’s chicken wings, plus a couple waxed cups of Java. I took the coffee but declined the food. My appetite was a non-starter. Now that Vince had brought us up to speed on the mess they’d found Jim Lloyd in I was glad there was nothing substantial in my stomach. It wasn’t the bullet holes that disturbed me, it was the fact that Lloyd’s pet chihuahua had abandoned all loyalty to its master when it grew hungry. Greyfriars Bobby, it wasn’t.

Park Row was a restricted area, the road running down behind the civic centre and court houses on Federal Plaza, and we were hailed over by a private security guard. Vince flashed his badge at the guard, who glanced suspiciously in the back at us. Perhaps the guard thought that we were prisoners of the fed, but for the fact Rink was mid-chew on a BBQ rib. He just shook his head, then waved Vince through. Rink waved back with the pork bone.

‘Christ, Rink, those things stink,’ Vince said. He cracked a window, and also thumbed up the A/C unit.

‘Wait’ll my guts start working on them and you’ll know what really stinks. Sushi I can take, but Chinese food always has the same effect on me.’

‘Too much information,’ said Vince, and opened the window fully. ‘Just promise me that you’ll behave when we meet with Walter.’

‘Walter cracks them off like any man. I’m sure he’ll understand.’

Vince made a sound of disgust. ‘Jesus! Hunter, can’t you do anything with your buddy?’

I opened a window.

‘Thanks, that’s a great help…’

I swore under my breath. ‘Don’t you think you’ve more to worry about than Rink letting one slip, like the whole of fucking Manhattan going to hell in the next few hours?’

The fury of my words drove an uneasy silence through the car. Even Rink was surprised at my anger. ‘Hey, take it easy, buddy.’

I scrubbed my hands through my hair. ‘Yeah. OK. Sorry.’

I felt ashamed at the outburst. Vince and Rink were merely venting their fear through banter; I’d done the same a thousand times in the past. It was just that I’d fouler things in mind, and they demanded full attention. All we knew was that Hicks was planning a major attack somewhere in the metropolitan area of New York, which in all likelihood would be as devastating as the events that occurred on 9/11. The problem was that we had no idea about where, when or how the strike would take place, only that it would be soon and with catastrophic consequences. I wished we’d managed to speak to Jim Lloyd before his dog snacked on him: up-to-date details would have helped.

I was still mulling things over when we entered a private chamber in a nondescript office across Broadway from the Woolworth Building. Ironically, we were less than a stone’s throw from Ground Zero.

Walter was waiting for us, his Adirondacks costume replaced by a Western-style suit, pale blue with contrasting black stitching: the Boss Hogg look. He was chewing furiously on the end of a cigar like it was one of the ribs Rink had so recently polished off. Three laptop computers were glowing on the desk in front of him, their muted light turning Walter’s face the same colour as his suit. From this angle, I couldn’t make out what was on the screens but guessed that Walter had a direct line to his Arrowsake commanders, and maybe others. I wondered if the President had been filled in with the details yet.