The operation wound up with a lot of moving parts. A lot of things that could go wrong…
Guys from the NYPD, the FBI, the DEA, and the INS were lying in wait for the Caucasus Queen down at the docks.
Guys from the NYPD and the FBI were set up at Walcott’s building, waiting for Madatov to show up. John Robson was there, too, posing as the doorman. He’d volunteered for the job. All he had to do was sign Madatov in, then follow him up in the elevator. It was a small price to pay for the satisfaction of seeing Walcott, expecting an enormous delivery of cash, getting arrested with Madatov, who thought he was there to buy photos of the trafficked women’s bedrooms.
My team had drawn the short straw. We had guys from the same agencies that were present at the docks, but all we had to do was watch Madatov’s building. We were divided between an undercover van and a requisitioned apartment, partly as early warning, and partly as backstop. Neither role carried much weight. If we saw Madatov leaving, fine. But he could go to Walcott’s building from elsewhere. Or the rumors of the hidden exit from his place could be true. On top of that, the new batch of women wouldn’t get close to our location. They wouldn’t even make it off the dock. We just had to wait, miles away from the action, in case someone slipped away or a new player emerged. Then, as a hollow consolation, we were supposed to bag Madatov’s security guards at the very end of the operation. They’re such small fish that I was surprised anyone would bother, but I guess the FBI casts a very fine net.
We waited, and waited, until something did go wrong.
My phone rang.
“Paul, we have a major problem.” It was John Robson. “Walcott’s dead. He had a heart attack. The asshole!”
“Wait one.” I checked the app for my Bulgarian bank. “The transfer was made, so I guess he’s not a total asshole. What do you guys want to do?”
“We’re looking at two options. The first is to bust Madatov when he walks through the door. There are some warrants out for him, but they’re old and the Feds don’t think anything serious will stick. For the second option, I need to check something with you. As far as you know, did Madatov and Walcott ever meet? Or did they do all their business through Madatov’s lawyer?”
“According to George Carrick, who worked with both of them, Madatov went reclusive before Walcott came back to the States. So they won’t have met. Why?”
“Because if that’s the case, Madatov doesn’t know what Walcott looks like. Meaning I could sit in for Walcott. I could wear a wire. I know Azerbaijan just as well as he did, in case Madatov wants to shoot the breeze or set any traps. And I have the phone here, with the blackmail photos on it.”
“What about the doorman? You’re supposed to be him.”
“I’ll make a sign saying Back in Five Minutes. That’s no problem. The Feds are on board, too. We just need the NYPD to sign off. And I’m told that has to come from Atkinson’s captain.”
I explained the situation to Atkinson. He put in the call, but his captain was reluctant to make the decision on the spot. He wanted to pass it further up the chain of command. Which for us meant more waiting. And waiting.
A black town car pulled up outside Madatov’s building. One of his mistresses emerged from the doorway. She was wearing some designer’s take on a motorcycle jacket, paired with a tiny black leather skirt. Despite the height of her heels she seemed to glide along the pathway rather than walk, and she folded herself into the passenger seat with effortless grace. The car pulled away with a squeal of its tires, then Madatov’s garage opened. A shiny blue minivan nosed out and eased up the driveway. I could see Madatov’s second mistress behind the wheel. She had on a tan trench coat and a pair of dark, oversized sunglasses.
Atkinson’s phone rang six minutes later. It was his captain. He gave the green light for using a ringer in place of Walcott, so I relayed the news to Robson. And went back to waiting. For close to another hour. Until instead of plain wrong, something went weird.
Atkinson’s phone rang again. He talked for a couple of minutes, then hung up.
“That was Kanchelskis, at the dock.” Atkinson drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I don’t get what’s going on. The Caucasus Queen came in early because of the tide, or some nautical thing, so they got a jump on the search. They went all over the ship. Twice. There were no women, anywhere. They’re positive. Then a minivan—the one we just saw—showed up. And there were women in it. Six, plus the driver. They’re all arrested, but none of them’s talking. Except the driver, who asked for Madatov’s lawyer.”
The women had been taken to the dock. Not collected from it. Meaning they weren’t being smuggled in. They were being smuggled out. And they hadn’t been driven by Madatov. They’d been driven by one of his mistresses. The one who’d gone to take care of that piece of business right after the other had jumped into a town car and taken off. In a hurry. Like she had another burning matter to deal with…
I dialed Robson’s number. There was no answer.
“Atkinson, start the engine. Move!”
“Why?” He reached for the key. “Where are we going?”
“Walcott’s building.”
“What about Madatov?”
“He’s not in the equation anymore. His mistresses have taken over.”
“What?” Atkinson pulled away fast, but without letting the tires squeal and draw attention. “Where’s this coming from?”
“I’m just putting the pieces together. It’s why no one’s seen the guy recently. He hasn’t become a recluse. He’s dead. And his recent victims? The reason there were no break-ins? And no defensive wounds? It’s not because they knew Madatov and let him in. It’s because they didn’t perceive the women as a threat. And now that they’re in charge, they’re not bringing new girls to the United States. They’re taking the old ones home, to Azerbaijan. And they think Walcott is threatening their operation with the blackmail demand. They don’t know it’s bogus.”
“And they don’t know it’s not Walcott who’s at the rendezvous.” Atkinson leaned harder on the gas. “It’s Robson.”