Джон Сэндфорд - Ocean Prey [calibre]

Lucas leaned into the table, and said, “Here is where we’re at.”

And he told them. When he finished, Colles said, quietly, “Then we’re about to bring the sonsofbitches down.”

“Yes. There’s a problem, though. The FBI guys have been working this case since last summer and now we’ve got a lot of these Mafia guys in our sights. I’m afraid they’ll jump too fast and we’ll miss the top people—the top people in New York and New Jersey.”

Thompson: “What should they be doing? The FBI?”

“They’re following the heroin instead of following the money. They want to grab the guys handling the dope, but the top people won’t get close to it—what they will get close to is the money. We have to let Sansone’s men deliver the heroin to their distributors and watch the cash come back. We need to grab one of those distributors, turn him, have him pass his cash to Sansone.”

“Is that likely?” Colles asked.

“Probably, if we pick the right guy,” Lucas said. “We’ve been researching them for more than a month, we know who most of them are. We’ll pick a guy who’ll be looking at three strikes, life in prison, and offer him witness protection and a clean bill of health if he turns.”

“How will you work the money? Mark the bills or something?” Thompson asked.

Devlin chipped in: “They won’t mark the bills, they’ll xerox them. There won’t be any markings on the cash, but we’ll have every single serial number on a stack of used bills of all different denominations. That way, it’s undetectable.”

“What do you want from us?” Colles asked.

“I’m on my way to Washington to talk to a deputy director at the FBI. I’m going to ask him to have a come-to-Jesus talk with his boys. He’ll probably agree to do it, but if I recommend that he speak to a U.S. senator about it . . . then our chances are even better.”

“If you insist on doing it your way, isn’t there a possibility that the heroin will make it into circulation?” Colles asked.

Lucas nodded. “Yes. A hundred and ten kilos, that’s almost two hundred and fifty pounds, is on its way north. They’ll probably cut it with fentanyl to give it more kick and a higher price, and some junkies could die. On the other hand, there’s a hundred tons of heroin coming in from Mexico alone, every year. Literally, a hundred tons. This is a lot of dope in one batch, but on the national scale, it’s a drop in the bucket. If we put a whole Mafia gang in prison, that sends a message. To everyone.”

Colles thought about that, peering at Lucas and Devlin, then leaned back, picked up the briefcase he’d put at the side of the chair, looked down at his plate and the half-eaten enchilada on it. “Tell your FBI guy to call me. I’ll encourage him to go for the whole enchilada.”

Lucas nodded: “Thank you.”

Lucas and Devlin left MIA on the three o’clock flight and got to Louis Mallard’s house in Georgetown at seven o’clock, and inside, found Mallard waiting with Jane Chase. Lucas introduced Chase and Mallard to Devlin. Chase said, “You’re going to be fucking with the FBI again.”

“Only with your complete cooperation,” Lucas said.

“Yeah, that’s likely,” Chase said.

“Let’s hear it,” Mallard said. He was in his early sixties, approaching the end of his career; he was a solidly built man, a lifelong bachelor the love of whose life had been a woman agent shot down and killed in St. Louis. “Anybody need a drink? No? Then . . .”

Lucas gave him the same pitch he’d given to Colles, and when he was done, Mallard got up and wandered around his living room, looking at the watercolor landscapes that lined the walls. Chase said to his back, “Louis: we really need to leave the decision up to the New York AIC. He’s on the ground there . . .”

“He’ll want the sure arrest and a big pile of heroin to show to the newsies,” Lucas said. “A one-day PR victory that’ll get his face on TV and nobody’ll remember next month. We need him to hear from you guys. That we want the whole bunch of those assholes, not the distribution.”

“Let me sleep on it,” Mallard said.

Lucas shot him an annoyed look, exhaled impatiently. “You may be getting a call from Senator Colles, from Florida, you know, the guy who runs the Homeland Security Committee,” Lucas said. “He’s the guy who brought me down to Florida. He’s taken an interest.”

Mallard smiled, but wasn’t amused. “You sandbagged me, didn’t you, you motherfucker?”

“Louis . . .”

“I told you, Louis,” Chase said. “I said Davenport wasn’t going to come plead with you, that there was going to be a rock inside the request.”

“Yes, you did, and I would have been a little disappointed if there wasn’t a rock.” To Lucas: “Where are you guys staying?”

“The Watergate.”

“I used to have an apartment there,” Mallard said. “They allow dogs.”

“That’s great, Louis,” Lucas said. “But what are you going to do?”

“I’ll talk to Colles and then to you tomorrow morning . . . probably not much before noon. Are you going on to New York?”

“Yeah. Early train, unless you need us here to answer questions.”

“I don’t think so. Your argument’s clear enough. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Chase got up and walked to a liquor sideboard, as if she’d done it before, glanced back at Mallard, and asked, “Tequila?”

“A small one, I think. Lucas? Andres?”

Lucas shook his head and a second later, Devlin did the same.

As Chase poured the liquor, she said to Lucas, “I’m not pissed off at you anymore, Lucas. Don’t trust you to do the right thing, but I never did trust you all that much.”

Lucas said, “I try to do the right thing. Not always the court thing.”

“We’re supposed to be a country of laws,” Chase said.

“And what we are now is a country of special interests and influence,” Lucas said.

“Don’t argue with him,” Mallard said to Chase.

“You’re taking his side?”

“Only because he’s right,” Mallard said, taking the short glass of straight tequila from Chase. “Though I still resent being clubbed like a baby seal.”

“Odd how you get clubbed like a baby seal and you still manage to become the most important professional cop in the United States,” Lucas said.

On Mallard’s porch, waiting for an Uber, Devlin said, “Well, that went well. We sandbagged one of the most influential guys in the Justice Department and you get in a fight with Jane Chase, who looks to me like a big-time nut-crusher who might be banging the most important guy. I’m thinking of crawling under my bed and not coming out until it’s all over with.”

“A little secret, Andres. When we—Bob and Rae and I—fuck with the FBI, there’s a little thrill that goes around the Marshals Service,” Lucas said. A bug that was circling the porch light collided with his forehead, and he brushed it away. “People know about it. If you’d planned to transfer to the FBI, that wouldn’t help. But if you plan to stay in the Marshals Service . . . people will speak well of you. The director will know your name and might even ask about your kids, even if you don’t have any.”

“All right.” Devlin hitched up his pants. “Though my long-term plan is to spend five more years in the service, get a solid vesting in the retirement plan, learn everything I can about how cops and prosecutors work, then go to law school and become a defense attorney working the federal courts and get really fuckin’ rich.”

“Good plan. In the meantime, you want the people in the service to speak your name in awe.”

“Do they speak your name in awe?”

“I expect they do,” Lucas said. “Especially since the people who work with me fly business class and stay in separate rooms, usually in suites.”