The Molotov Box

The Molotov Box

Published by Daniel Johnson at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Daniel Johnson

Prologue

Overcast skies hid the setting sun, bringing early darkness and almost bearable temperatures to the dusty freight yard. In the distance the sound of heavy machinery could still be heard as the second shift prepared a stack train for its departure to California but the area around the little man in the tan suit appeared to be deserted.

Belatedly the man wished that he had left his jacket in the back seat of the cab waiting by the guard shack at the yard entrance, but now it remained on simply because it was one less item to worry with. A hot breeze was toying with his carefully constructed hairdo and he had to try to drape the thinning, overlong locks back across the top of his head using only the edge of a sleeve because his hands were full.

He was carrying a briefcase and consulting a page of instructions as he wandered the barren alleys between the rows of steel containers waiting their turn at new destinations. He had walked a long way from the entrance and his breathing was labored as he counted to himself.

…Trojka, Chetverka, he mumbled in Russian as was his habit, and then paused.

There should have been five lines of the boxes stacked from one to three units high before he came to the one he was looking for. But there was a red Maersk forty-footer facing him broadside and there appeared to be two columns lengthwise behind it. Did that count as one row or two?

He caught a glimpse of white around the edge of the red container and walked another few paces. There was the Molotov Transport name and logo on a smaller box, a twenty-foot container with a jagged tear the size of a manhole cover near the corner closest to him. The little man looked around him as he stuffed the makeshift map back in his pocket and slowly approached the freight container. There was still no one else in sight.

The breach was in the shadows from the fading light so he removed a small flashlight from the briefcase and examined the hole in minute detail. Already he could see that the damage was not as bad as Ivan had feared. Obviously the secret could not have been compromised by this. Only the thin metal skin of the box had been mangled by the accident. He saw cardboard boxes through the opening so he knew someone would already have noted the discrepancy with the shipping manifest but that could be explained away.

One of the reinforcing ribs and a corner brace had been dislocated a few inches, but they were not separated from the structure. It should be possible to have the hole patched with a sheet of plywood and simply ship the box back to the warehouse where they could either repair it and place it back in service or retrieve its special cargo and destroy it according to the wishes of his employer. Ivan should have taken his advice and just arranged for a swift transfer. There was no need for this trip at all. He breathed a sigh of relief. There were some arrangements needed for the shipment but he should still be able to catch the late Delta flight home.

The man in the tan suit had always been disdainful of the Americans and their obsession with electronic toys, but after seven years among them it was second nature for him to pull out his cell phone at every whim. He wanted to report the good news immediately to Miami. His finger was touching the first digit when he heard a metal-on-metal noise and stopped.

It had come from less than thirty meters away. Still grasping his phone and briefcase, he peered around the red container and saw an opening in the side of another light colored box where, according to his knowledge of these vehicles, there should have been none. As he watched, a man wearing a black t-shirt and jeans emerged from the portal, dropped quietly to the ground and closed the opening behind him with the same metallic sound. Their startled eyes met a moment later.

Black Shirt began to walk toward him with a halting, uncertain gait, smiling a little and looking around him as he came. Tan Suit reached into his coat pocket for his wallet. Who was this person? He hoped this would not become a problem - not that kind anyway. Bureaucracies he was well prepared to deal with alone but Sergei and Piotr were back in Florida where their physical skills could do him no good. But no, as far as he knew, only four – the real inner circle, it prided him to think - were aware of this particular secret. Neither Sergei nor Piotr was numbered among them.

That is an unusual home you have there, Tan Suit said in what he hoped was a casually friendly voice, but it seemed to have the opposite effect as the smile left Black shirt’s face as if it had been slapped and he paused for a moment and looked around again.

Tan suit put the briefcase down for a moment so that he could extract the proper credentials.

I am authorized to be here, he said, reaching into a pocket and reflexively smoothing his few strands of hair again for the new acquaintance. Black Shirt began moving toward him again. What is he doing here? wondered the man in the tan suit. Was he watching the Molotov container? Does he know somehow?

The freight container behind me and its cargo belongs to my…

He was juggling the wallet and cell phone, while trying to display his identification properly for the stranger. The stranger said nothing and didn’t halt until he was within arm’s reach, much too close for such a casual encounter. It caused Tan Suit to halt his fumbling and look up into the new face. Even in the failing light, he could see that it was craggy and tan with an expression now of annoyance, perhaps confusion. The eyes in the dark face blinked several times as if trying to fight off the onset of a migraine.

Tan suit opened his mouth to begin explaining again but he didn’t get very far.

Without any preamble or hint of warning the silent man in the black t-shirt struck several scientifically accurate blows in succession. For Tan Suit, there was only the blurred suggestion of motion, too fast even for pain. His knees suddenly folded beneath him like overcooked cabbage rolls. Before he could collapse, a powerful arm encircled his throat and breathing became impossible as he felt himself lifted bodily until he had a brief but panoramic view of the darkening sky. All the little man in the tan suit had time to experience was profound bewilderment; that and the flashing realization that the secret he had come so far to protect wasn’t as important as he had thought.

Chapter 1

Gaby had just settled into a mindless but efficient routine of sorting e-mail into working folders when the muffled voice of her boss reminded her of the other reason she wanted to quit.

Hey, Bah-nahd! he brayed in his flat Boston accent from the adjacent office.

Tony Metcalf was Gabrielle Bernard’s supervisor at the FBI. Among other annoyances, the man steadfastly refused to use the correct French pronunciation she preferred and had requested. Gaby didn’t really know if he owned a dog, but if he did, and didn’t care for it much, she imagined that this was the tone he used to call it.

Special Agent Bernard took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh at the video screen. She resisted the impulse to respond to this petty bit of rudeness with an answering bark of her own, but just barely. Finally she rose from her chair and walked around the corner into the open door of Counsel General attorney Paul Kramer, her office neighbor.

In some departments, evening shifts were just beginning but after six o’clock in this particular corner of the FBI headquarters building most of the chairs were empty and the mood was casual. Like the one Gaby occupied, this windowless office was so small that even with the back of his chair against the wall, Metcalf could rest a knee on the edge of Kramer’s desk as he slouched in one of the visitor’s chairs. He had loosened his tie and the collar of his ever-present white oxford cloth shirt but his attitude was as taut as ever.

Metcalf was a veteran of the Bureau who had risen the hard way. Over twenty years before, a freakish bit of luck and a kidnapping case in south Boston had allowed him to make the transition to the most respected law enforcement agency in America, but he was still an outsider. He was respected but not liked among his colleagues and consistently feared as a political rival. He was too short, too under-educated, too ambitious, too ethnic-looking and too accommodating to authority when it was expedient to his career. He just did not seem to fit the mold his peers liked to embrace, but he had managed by street smarts and ruthless tenacity to rise far enough that he no longer had to care about any but the very highest placed opinions at the Bureau. He was reputed to be very difficult to work for and he relished the reputation.

Gaby engineered a pale smile and said, Yes, Assistant Director Metcalf? You bellowed?

Kramer’s face flickered a grin but Metcalf chose not to hear any sarcasm.

Sit down, the AD said, indicating the remaining unoccupied seat.

Agent Bernard, he began, I need another legal opinion. It’s a jurisdictional problem.

That seems to be what I’m here for, she sighed, dropping into the other chair.

Gaby was doing a lot more lawyering than she had anticipated upon joining the Bureau as an agent. She made no secret of her desire for what she considered more suitable duty, but she was certainly an attorney by training and a good one.

Let me run a scenario by you, Metcalf said.

Gaby nodded and stole a look at Paul Kramer. He was playing with a paperweight on his desk that had the FBI insignia encased in a glass hemisphere. He didn’t seem to be aware that anyone else was present at the moment.

A murder takes place in Memphis Tennessee, Metcalf began. It happens in a freight yard. The victim is a foreign businessman, or seems to be. The method is very violent, very efficient, but involves no weapons. The body is left partly inside a freight container of some kind – a truck or whatever. Now, for reasons of my own, I want the Bureau to take over the investigation and for the operation to be run from Washington. What’s the best way for me to do that?

I assume you are asking only about the jurisdictional part, Gaby said. Once the Bureau is involved, you can pretty much horn in wherever you please, no?

True, Metcalf agreed.

Okay, then. Gaby was staring at the fluorescent lights over Kramer’s desk, deep in thought. By the time she lowered her gaze she had several ideas.

You said foreign. Not a diplomat, I take it?

Hardly.

What do you mean by that? This guy was connected?

Probably.

No problem, then. RICO statutes will allow you…

No, Metcalf was shaking his head with impatience. Kramer was beaming at him and Gaby surmised that this was the answer he had already provided her boss.

Don’t want to use it in this case, Metcalf continued. Anyway we’re almost positive that his murder is not Mob related – and if it is, that won’t help our - strategy.

Gaby paused, wrinkling an otherwise unlined brow in thought.

Any other organizations? I assume he wasn’t associated with terrorists or white supremacy groups – that kind of thing?

No, no chance.

Okay then, tell me about the freight yard. Is it used by more than one carrier?

Yeah, I think so.

Does it handle intermodal freight as well?

What the hell is intermodal freight? Metcalf asked.

You know. Those big boxes they put on trucks and then move to rail cars for long hauls – or ships for international destinations.

I guess so. Maybe they do handle that kind of stuff. So what?

"Well, it’s pretty weak but Title 49 might work. It includes investigative powers for the Secretary of Transportation but that really bears more on code violations than criminal activity. You would have to show a connection between the crime and a conspiracy to violate one of the Title 49 statutes. Even then you might have to go in with an ICC inspector.

The most supportable argument is one where you assert jurisdiction based on an assumption of a conspiracy to interdict interstate commerce at this particular location. There’s a pretty good chance that one or more of the carriers represented at this yard is a subcontractor for the US Postal Service. That would improve your premise and also give you an excuse to push the local Bureau office out of the way, but as I said, it’s pretty weak. Even so there shouldn’t be much trouble about it. You know as well as I do that you would get no significant pushback from locals anyway and the burden placed on you for this kind of judgment is almost non-existent.

Metcalf turned to Paul Kramer with a satisfied look.

I told you she would come up with something better.

Kramer grimaced. As an employee of OCG he reported to a different Assistant Director and was not required to be intimidated.

It’s not ‘better’ just different. You could accomplish the same thing by identifying the guy as organized crime and investigating the murder that way. It is true you know. Why would you want to complicate things?

The old man wants this low key all the way. I’m not sure we want to do it at all but the last thing I want is to call up the Memphis PD and tell them they’ve had a mob hit that they should ignore just because we say so. The Attorney General’s office would be sure to hear about it. Bernard’s way is better. You’re just pissed off because I’ve got better lawyers working for me than you’ve got in OCG.

Kramer used a word to Metcalf that was not commonly heard in the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

Next time feel free to bypass my department and consult your own, he added.

Kramer said it in a joking way but it was obvious that he really was irritated for several reasons, not the least of which was that he was one of the allegedly inferior OCG lawyers in question.

Gaby felt obligated to redirect the conversation and she had some lobbying to do anyway.

I don’t suppose this is a job you could give to me?

Don’t make me laugh, Bernard, Metcalf replied. No way you’re ready for a field assignment. It’s one thing to do the supporting research and quite another to run a proper field investigation. You got management issues and interagency issues besides the plain old street cop stuff. It takes brass balls to do it right and you don’t have the credentials.

Metcalf smirked in a way that told her that his choice of metaphor was no accident. Gaby kept her composure only with conscious effort. The irony was that she knew Metcalf took this kind of liberty with her because he knew that she had too much pride to bring him up on harassment charges. It would be an admission of weakness – that she needed statutory support for something she couldn’t control on her own. Also, even though there was no stated policy about it, a woman who blew that kind of whistle would be marked for the rest of her career. They wouldn’t dare fire her of course and in fact she might even get a promotion out of it but the kind of field investigator role she was looking for would be forever lost.

When I finished third in my class at the academy, the instructors made a point of telling us that anyone who graduated was more than prepared for any job in the FBI – even the five of us that had no balls, brass or otherwise.

Metcalf rolled his eyes.

Don’t go all Carrie Nations on me, Bernard. All I’m saying is you’re not ready. Patience.

Carrie Nation was a temperance worker not a suffragette, Gaby said.

Metcalf made a rude sound, but she wasn’t letting go.

Is there an assignment in this or not?

Metcalf said, As a matter of fact it’s a kind of high profile gig. So what?

Then give it to me. You know I deserve a shot and I’ve been asking forever.

I already told you my position, Bernard. Besides, I’m not making the assignment on this one. There’s a stack of qualified personnel files on my desk right now and you’re not in it. I’m going to deliver to the DD in the morning, he’ll make a pick and that will be that. Besides, I can tell you I’m recommending Cannon for the job.

Cannon? You’re kidding. What are you trying to investigate, steroid use?

While you were smoking dope at Radcliffe, Cannon was becoming the youngest cop in Baltimore to make detective before he joined the Bureau.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Jesus, Tony. He’s been filling out forms, counting reps in the gym and kissing your you-know-what to get an assignment, that’s his contribution here.

What the hell do you think you’ve been doing? he asked. Gaby rejected the first two or three responses that came to her as being too incendiary.

Besides, she said, Are you afraid you’ll get cold without his nose inserted?

Watch it, Bernard!

Okay, then at least put my folder in the stack. That’s not asking too much.

Metcalf shrugged with a facial expression that was just as insulting as anything he had said out loud. Gaby sighed and looked over at Paul Kramer who was eyeing his paperweight again.

What’s all this about, anyway – the case, I mean? she asked her boss.

Like I told you, it’s a murder.

A murder we would normally never notice. And…?

The Deputy Director has reasons, I’m sure.

You’re not going to tell me.

Actually he hasn’t told me everything yet. You obviously don’t have a need to know any of it, but it seems to be some kind of international thing.

International? In Memphis?

Metcalf got up from his chair and walked slowly to the door while Gaby fumed.

Then how about my transfer? Gaby asked.

Metcalf just looked at her.

If I need anything else from you on this, I’ll let you know.

As he left, he gave the doorframe a high five for emphasis and said, I’ll talk to you later, Paul.

Gaby closed her eyes and waited until he had rounded at least two corners before swearing softly. She knew that kind of language was a bad habit, but didn’t really work hard at overcoming it because she mistakenly thought it made her seem tougher.

When she opened her eyes Paul Kramer was staring directly into them. It made her uncomfortable. She began to apologize for swearing but the name Kramer had used for her boss a minute before was much nastier.

He smiled.

Don’t worry. If you really want that kind of assignment, you’ll get it. It’ll just take a little longer, that’s all. What you ought to do is change your mind and come over to the Office of Counsel General with us. That’s where you really belong. Or even somewhere else in the Justice Department. You are a hell of a lawyer. You won’t find that kind of – uh – barrier over here.

Thanks, Paul. And that ‘better lawyer’ comment he made – I never said anything to him that could be…

Kramer waved her explanation away in dismissal.

I know that. He just likes to rattle cages, that’s all. Maybe he doesn’t like me either. I can live with it.

’Either’? So it’s that obvious? Do you understand why he doesn’t like me?

He looked a little embarrassed, but Gaby just waited.

Oh, Metcalf likes to play the tough guy, that’s all. I wouldn’t take it personally. The louder he talks, the less certain he is. That’s why he’s comforted by Cannon, but it’s not personal.

I think it’s very personal. He came down here to ask a legal opinion and then called on me when he didn’t like your answer. He has to know I’m smarter than Cannon on his best day. It’s not an arm-wrestling contest. So what’s wrong with me?

Not a thing… Kramer began, a little too quickly and with a little too much emphasis.

Now a slight blush added to his look of discomfort. He was staring at his paperweight again.

In addition to her other qualities, Gaby Bernard was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. She was not unaware of the fact, and clearly neither was Paul Kramer. Moderately tall at just under five-foot nine, and blessed with finely chiseled features, deep chestnut toned hair and dark, expressive eyes, Gaby was immediately noticed wherever she went. Flattering though it was, she often found the attention inconvenient. It had begun to occur to her that it might even be career limiting.

You know what I mean, Paul, she said with some embarrassment of her own.

I guess so, he said, with a relieved expression. Everybody in the Bureau isn’t like Tony. And even he might come around given time.

Yes but will I still be working here by then? Gaby sighed.

She put her hands on the arms of her chair to get up and seemed to change her mind abruptly.

Paul, can I ask your opinion?

Of course you can. Sure, Gaby. You know I’ll be happy to help if I can.

She nodded toward the wall their two offices shared.

In there on my word processor is a letter of resignation that I wrote up thirteen days ago. I told myself that I would give it two weeks to see if either my situation or my attitude changed, but tomorrow is the end of that and I feel worse than ever.

Kramer looked pained. He wrinkled his face and shifted around like the chair had suddenly become hard.

It would be a shame if you did that, Gaby, really it would.

We’ve talked before, Paul. You know I didn’t come to Washington to practice law. I didn’t have to leave New Orleans to do that. In fact my father’s corporate practice would be high adventure compared to the kind of nit-picking bureaucratic nonsense I do every day.

The last syllable was crossing her lips when the ironic look appearing on Paul’s face reminded her that she was talking about his job as well.

Sorry. What I mean to say is, it’s a perfectly fine career - challenging public service and all that but it’s not why I became an agent. I’ve asked for field work at every opportunity for the last nineteen months. I feel like I’ve paid my dues but I’m not getting any closer. Am I just being unrealistic? What do you think?

Well, for one thing I’m pretty sure you’re not quitting.

Oh? And why is that? she asked. Gaby interpreted his comment to mean that she was bluffing somehow – that this was only a display of childish petulance and her defenses went up immediately. Paul could sense it and he smiled at her hard expression.

That’s why! That’s it right there. You’re too competitive. I think you’re just the kind of person who can’t give up until you’ve won the game.

Is that what you think of me, that it’s just some shallow contest of wills?

But, I didn’t mean anything bad…

Paul couldn’t maintain a steady gaze and looked down at the desktop again. He was a decade older than Gaby’s thirty years but tended to be boyish and embarrassed when she was around.

Okay, in a way, it is a contest. But I don’t think there’s anything shallow about you, Gaby.

What then?

Even though he uses your legal advice on procedure, he’d love it if you would quit and you know it. That’s why you’re not going to do it.

Gaby rose from her chair.

Don’t take anything I said negatively, Gaby. I certainly didn’t mean it that way. You asked my opinion.

No, I understand.

It’s just that because of several factors it would take something unusual - a really lucky break to do what you’re trying to do within the Bureau. Either that or a lot of patience. You really need that big break.

Gaby moved to the doorway wondering which factors he meant exactly.

I was taught to make my own breaks, Paul.

She realized that she had made him the object of some misdirected anger and softened for a moment.

But, I’m sure there’s a lot of truth in what you say. Thanks anyway, Paul.

Gaby also sensed that Paul was working his way up to asking her out again so she quickly added, See you tomorrow, and swung out of his doorway and into her own. She was in no mood for an office romance and besides; she had other things on her mind.

What was it he had said? It would take something ‘really unusual’.

Gaby closed the office door and went immediately to the phone but when she picked up the receiver she paused with her index finger halfway to the keypad. She pinched her lower lip softly between her front teeth as she hesitated. She could get Karen to do it, she was sure of that. In addition to being the civil service version of a free spirit, Karen Elias was her best friend in the Bureau and more significantly at the moment, the administrator on the fourth floor where the offices of both Metcalf and Deputy Director Fallon were. It wasn’t at all fair to ask something like that. Selfish. Unconscionable. Something really unusual.

Gaby hissed out another nasty word to the empty room. At the least she could be fired. She believed she could protect her friend if the worst came but she didn’t want to lose her own job either. Not that way. She might be frustrated enough to quit, but the last thing she wanted was to go back home to New Orleans and try to explain another failure. Making your own luck was not for the faint of heart.

Quickly, like a plunge into icy water she dialed the four digits. She wasn’t surprised that Karen was still on the job when most of the civil servants were at home having dinner.

Hey, it’s me, Gaby said into the receiver.

Karen, I want to ask you something in absolute confidence. I need a favor. It’s very important. It may really be my only chance but I know it’s not fair to ask something like this.

There followed several mutual reassurances after which Gaby said, Would you know how to go about finding my personnel folder?

Chapter 2

Sunshine on swaying palm trees and relaxing vacationers on the beach outside filled the lobby’s curved three-story windows with a picture postcard view. The pleasant vista was utterly wasted on one stocky man dressed in an open collared shirt and his only suit, a dark, heavy number he had worn from La Guardia that morning. He was there to do business. Carl Lucky Lucchesi rarely left the New York area even to ply his trade and until now he had not been called upon to murder anyone in Miami Beach.

Carl, who was called Lucky as a distortion of his surname rather than for any evident good fortune on his part, stood near the entry steps at a low wall of greenery separating the Fontainbleau’s central traffic area from the lobby bar. His eyes darted from face to face in the pastel colored crowd. He expected to meet the head of the so-called Russian Mafia in North America but really didn’t know who he was looking for. Their Godfather would recognize him, he had been told.

He stood next to a potted palm tree surveying faces and ogling a few of the more attractive hotel patrons. If he had had any degree of sensitivity at all he would have been self conscious of some of the looks he was getting from the guests. Instead he just stood as tall as he could and turned from time to time as he rejected the possibilities they presented.

After several minutes of diminishing interest, Lucky saw a tall man with short, wiry gray hair rise and nod in his direction from a table near the window. The man dropped a bill next to his glass and joined Lucky by the entrance. Nearby were two wary figures failing to be unobtrusive in their protective attention to the older man. Neither was quite as tall but similarly thin and sinewy in appearance. They sported light colored jackets whose purpose could only have been the concealment of weapons.

I believe you are looking for me, the tall man said in crisp, unsullied English with a British lilt. When Lucky moved toward him the man offered his hand and said, Mister Lucchesi, it is a pleasure to meet you. Please come with me.

Lucky adjusted his jacket with a shrug and moved with the little entourage into the dining area of The Steak House, just up another short flight of stairs from the lobby. A sign indicated that it was closed for remodeling. Two more tall, thin men with bored, hooded eyes waited for him and by gestures indicated that he was to be searched. It was a thorough job and he submitted without comment. One table by the floor-to-ceiling window had the protective plastic drop cloth removed and the first man waited for him there. Though the glass was tinted, the brilliant day prompted the Russian to don a pair of sunglasses with tortoise shell rims. Lucky didn’t own a pair and he was left with the seat facing the glare.

So, are you the man? Lucchesi asked with some uncharacteristic nervousness and a squint when he was seated. The Russian organization had made itself into a formidable competitor in a relatively short time. Its leader in America would be a powerful individual indeed.

My name is Ivan Balakova. The gentleman you expect will not be joining us, but I am authorized to act for him. I serve as advisor and in many other capacities.

Lucky shrugged his shoulders briefly.

Okay, so you send me a couple grand and a ticket and you get Bruno’s permission to talk to me and maybe we do a job together. So what is it, and why am I the lottery winner?

We have a very simple but important contract in mind. For various reasons we do not want our own people involved further. Also you may be uniquely qualified since you are somewhat acquainted with the target. The fee we have in mind is $200,000.

American dollars? he asked.

Of course.

Look, I don’t do politicians, Mister - ah - Mister B.

Balakova smiled at his difficulty. He repeated his last name slowly, pronouncing each syllable separately.

"And no, Mr. Lucchesi, the object of our attention was an occasional employee of the old Gambino Family, but he is