The Looters (33 page)

“But not all the others are moving back and forth in front of that warehouse. Look, that’s the third time it’s gone down the street.”

Coby stood up. “I know what she’s doing. The same thing she did in Malaga when she checked out the boathouse. She wants to make sure the stuff’s in the warehouse and then call in the feds.”

“Stocker’s in the warehouse.”

“Yeah, with cutting-edge surveillance equipment. He always was a nut on gadgets. He has to know that she’s driven by several times.”

“What should we do?” Gwyn asked.

“We have two choices. Abandon the millions of dollars in merchandise we risked our lives for in Baghdad… or hope we can pull the stuff out before the feds get there.”

“And Madison?” Gwyn said. “What if it becomes a choice between the girl or the money?”

“Hell, that’s a no-brainer. I can get another girlfriend.”

As they broke up, Gwyn nudged Coby in the ribs. “You can sell that shit to the others, but not to me. You want to get in and save her from Stocker.”

Coby grinned. “Let’s just say that the money
and
the girl would be the best scenario. Let’s try calling her and see if she answers.”

Chapter 51

My cell phone rang and I leaned closer to see the incoming number.

Coby.

I ignored it as I drove by warehouses on the Brooklyn waterfront. I was tempted to answer the phone and warn Coby they ought to make a run for it because I was going to call the police as soon as I located the hoard, but I decided to ignore the call. If I didn’t locate the hoard, I’d have to return to the yacht and pretend I had just gone for a ride.

Driving by several brick warehouses on Brooklyn’s East River waterfront, I came across a good candidate for the storage area of the antiquities.

Caffrey Wholesale Regulator Company
was barely visible on a sign arched over big metal barn doors guarding the front entrance of a wharf warehouse.

I drove by slowly, hoping to appear nonchalant as I did. Finding the water tower advertising a brand of candy from yesteryear was infinitely easier than finding the right warehouse. I’d only gotten a glance at the picture Coby had obtained over the Internet. And things looked different from ground level than from a picture taken by a satellite circling the Earth. I was certain I was in the right area, an access road along blocks of warehouses.

The Caffrey warehouse had a couple things going for it. Being abandoned topped the list. Every building on the street was waiting for a wrecker’s ball and an enterprising slumlord to turn it into high-end artsy “factory” condos with twenty-foot ceilings and exposed plumbing, but only one appeared unoccupied. I got a closer look at that one because it didn’t have a tall wall surrounding it.

I drove by the surmised warehouse several times, because I only had a clear view of the second story.

Decades of abuse by the elements had left the place with broken windows and rust stains on just about everything metal. The building itself appeared sturdy, built in the days when labor and materials were cheaper. All the outside trim, stairways, and doors that I could see, even the window trim, were metal. Building warehouses battleship style with brick and steel was a technique from another era. The brick was blackened from the days of coal and acid rain.

“Perfect,” I said aloud. Brick and steel would be my choice for storing priceless antiquities.

Night was rapidly falling and I needed to make a decision whether to call in the FBI. Not that I planned to be around when they arrived. I’d make the call as I was leaving the city. But time was of the essence. Stocker could be moving the stuff—or already have moved it. By now he might know Neal had ratted on him.

What if the police were watching the warehouse just as they had been watching Lipton’s when I walked in? I’d really be screwed—caught red-handed. Panic gripped me, taking away my breath. The only way to cover myself was to let Nunes know I was here to locate the stuff for him.

I sat in the car and stared at the cell phone mounted on the dashboard. I vacillated back and forth.
Should I or shouldn’t I call Nunes?
I was sure the Caffrey warehouse was the right place.

I pushed the scroll button and hit send when Nunes’s number came up. He answered on the first ring.

“This is Nunes.”

I started to say something, but nothing came out. I was tongue-tied.

“I recognize the number,” Nunes said, breaking the silence. “Where are you, Ms. Dupre?”

Shit!

“I’m going to find the stuff that was stolen.” I blurted it out and hit the disconnect key.
Sonofabitch.
I hoped I hung up before he could have traced the call, but I had no idea what kind of electronic wizardry the FBI might have up its sleeve.

Stupid. Why didn’t I check out the warehouse first to make sure it was the place, then get away and call him from the freeway? Now I had to move fast to make sure I was right.

Caffrey’s old warehouse pinged with me, but I had to be a hundred percent sure. My freedom—hell, my life—depended on it.

The only way I’d get a good enough look to risk calling Nunes back was to walk up to the big double gate for vehicles and look through the crack where the two barn door—size gate-doors met. A small door for walk-in entry was to the left.

After driving by the warehouse repeatedly, I decided it was time to put up or shut up. I made one more pass and then drove down a block and around the corner and parked in front of a warehouse that had been converted into self-storage units.

I got out and walked back to the warehouse. Ominous dark clouds were hurrying nightfall. I quickened my pace.

I bent over and peered through the big crack at the gates. All I saw of significance through the narrow slit was another set of rusty barn-size metal doors, these leading into the warehouse itself, and a set of rusty iron steps that led up from the side of the building.

None of the pieces from the Iraqi museum were lying about advertising themselves, but the solid old building seemed perfect for storing the stuff. An empty wooden frame on the wall was the same as the one down the street holding a For Rent sign. The place must have been rented, but I couldn’t detect business activity.

Not much to bet my life on, but my gut was telling me this was the place where the pieces were stored.

I wondered if I could see more by opening the people-size door to my left. I moved over to it and tried the handle. It turned easily in my hand. The rusty hinges squeaked as I pushed the door open. I stuck my head in and saw the movement out of the corner of my eye.

A hand grabbed my hair and jerked me inside as another hand came up to smother my scream.

Chapter 52

Nunes called FBI technical support immediately after Madison Dupre hung up. He gave the cell number and time of call to a communications tech.

“Can you find this cell phone?”

Nunes stayed on the line while the tech checked the number with the carrier. Two common ways were used to locate a cell phone.

Many phone companies were equipping their cell phones with GPS chips. If Madison’s phone had a GPS chip, the phone’s exact location could be tracked by satellite.

Another method was by triangulation: tracing a signal from the phone as it registered at communications towers. When a cell phone was on, it periodically signaled its location to phone company communications towers. By measuring direction and power of the signal to towers, an approximate location of the phone could be determined.

GPS tracking was fast. Triangulation was much slower and its accuracy depended on how many towers were getting the signals and the strength and direction of the signals. Sometimes police choppers and vehicles on the ground with tracking equipment had to be employed to complete the triangulation.

GPS especially was important because many 911 calls came in by cell phone, sometimes by a person held prisoner in the trunk of a moving car.

Nunes had once worked on a case where the FBI tech support helped pinpoint where a suspect was at the time of a shooting. The suspect had made a Mafia hit and almost immediately used his cell phone. Through triangulation, the techs were able to locate down to a few feet where the killer was standing when he made the call.

One famous cell phone tracking case involved a Unibomber suspect who was tracked to Nevada even though his phone service provider company was back east. Because his phone was on when he arrived in Las Vegas, the phone sent a message to Vegas communications towers that was transmitted back to the carrier.

The tech came back on the line. “She has a GPS chip. She’s in Brooklyn. I’ve got the address.”

Nunes took down the address and hung up. His instincts told him that something big was up. His partner was out interviewing a lead. Nunes grabbed another agent and got to his car.

He thought about calling Madison Dupre back but resisted the impulse. It would only bring her cell phone link to the FBI to her attention, and she might shut the phone off.

He was puzzled about what she was up to now.

At least she was still alive.

Chapter 53

The hand that smothered my scream gripped my throat and lifted me off my feet.

“Make a sound and you’re dead.”

He put me back onto my feet. Still clutching a handful of my hair, he pushed the door shut.

Gripped by fear, I stared at this ferocious-looking man. He was big, bigger than Coby, football player big. Hockey player mean. A skinhead with a two-day black beard and a square jaw, thick eyebrows, and fat lips. What I really noticed was his eyes, eyes that were wild, like those of a feral animal. He had an unkempt look that reminded me of coyotes I’d seen in the Southwest.

I saw him as a vile human being, someone who got pleasure from hurting people and who would kill with no remorse or hesitation. I already knew his trail of bloody murder. “Meaner than a junkyard dog,” was the old expression about people with vicious personalities. That’s who had me by the hair—a big, mean man with the cruel temperament of a rabid pit bull.

He jerked my head back and I let out an involuntary yelp of pain.

“Listen, you fuckin’ cunt.”

His breath stank of rotten meat.

“You make a fuckin’ sound and I’ll kill you.” He jabbed the end of a pistol barrel under my throat. It hurt. “I can pump your ass full of lead and no one will hear with the silencer on.”

He took the gun away from my throat and shoved me forward with the hand on my hair. “What happened to Neal?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know—”

He slapped me hard with his palm. He had the gun in his right hand and hit me with his left. I saw a burst of stars and hit the ground. Grabbing a handful of my hair, he jerked me back to my feet.

“Next time you say something I don’t like, I’ll shoot off a kneecap. And I’ll keep on shooting off pieces until you’re a fuckin’ quad. You understand, bitch?”

I nodded my head that I understood. My teeth ached. The side of my face burned. He was crazy and mean enough to kill me after he got answers to his questions.

“Are the police coming?”

“No.”

He raised his hand to hit me.

“It’s the truth. I never gave the address to anyone.” That was true.

“What happened to Neal?”

“He—he was hurt by Coby and the others. They did things to make him talk.”

Stocker grinned. “My pals don’t take prisoners. And neither do I. Where are the others? Why’d you come alone?”

I answered honestly, because I was sure that anything that didn’t ring true would set off this nut. “I was afraid they wouldn’t turn the antiquities back to the Iraqis. They’re probably looking for me right now. They’ll figure out I came here.”

His grin widened. “I hope they do. A little birdie told me they’re going to come. I have a couple surprises for them. I have the whole dock booby-trapped. I’ll be out of here in another hour. Then the place will go sky-high when my old buddies arrive.”

He hadn’t moved the antiquities. The fact that he was still around meant the pieces were still here. Why did he stay here if he knew the SEALs were coming? And then it hit me: He wanted to attract them. He needed to kill them. Why not have them come here to make it easier? Someone had tipped him off. I wondered who in the group was in on it with Stocker.

He gave me a shove. “Get your ass over there, up the stairs.”

Up the stairs meant going into the warehouse, where my screams wouldn’t be heard.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Hell, no. Your pals are going to.” He roared with laughter.

As I walked toward the stairs I saw the front end of a truck through the partially opened large doors into the warehouse. It looked like a rental truck. He was loading up the goods.

I also understood that now he was through with me. He had his answers. He’d either kill me or leave me as some sort of macabre bait to lure the SEALs and set off his surprise.

Chapter 54

Nunes leaned back in the passenger seat as he rode to the Brooklyn warehouse area in a Bureau SUV with emergency lights flashing. Special Agent Sarah Jones, his partner for the moment, was driving. He got another call from tech support.

“We’ve been studying satellite pictures of the location,” the tech said. “We’ve pinned down the car we believe the phone is in. It’s parked in front of a self-storage complex near the Brooklyn waterline. How would that fit into your estimation of where your suspect could be?”

“It fits perfectly. Are you certain it’s the right car?”

“Satellite imaging shows the car parked in front of the storage complex. There are no other cars parked close enough to be candidates for the signal. And there are no pedestrians. It’s after hours on the weekend and there’s not much vehicle traffic. Factor in that the signal is not moving and neither is the car and it makes us pretty certain the phone’s in the car, a late-model silver BMW.”

“No pedestrians. Any imaging of people at all in the area?”

“No warm bodies, just an occasional car passing by. We haven’t picked up any foot traffic at all around the storage facility.”