The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [85]
The Turkish captain wearily shook his head. His khaki shirt was black with sweat stains that ran nearly to his belt. The cramped bunk room smelled like a horse stable.
“I told you name. Star of Panama Company,” he said again, emphasizing syllables with spit. “Star of Panama Company.”
“Yeah. The Star of Panama Company owns the ship. But not the cargo. Not the heroin, Captain Rowzi. We already went through all this crap. It’s on the bill of lading.”
“Captain Rowzi,” Inspector McManus broke in. “Captain, we legally searched your vessel, and we found uncut heroin. We also found perfectly legal pottery, cigarettes, machine-made rugs, specie. All that cargo is in jeopardy now. All of it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The round, bullish shoulders of the ship’s captain sagged further. His neck had almost disappeared.
“Know nothing of drugs,” he repeated.
Stefanovitch looked at the Customs inspector first, then at Captain Rowzi again. “Tell him, Inspector. I think he deserves to know. The owners ought to know, too. The owners of the cargo.”
“In accordance with provisions of the RICO Act,” McManus said to the freighter captain, “I’ve ordered my officers to destroy your vessel’s shipment of goods. Everything on board. All of the cargo. Everything you’ve brought to New York.”
Captain Rowzi couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Were these policemen insane? Entire ship cargoes were never destroyed. His eyes nearly fell out of his face. Such dangerous, unbelievable English words were being spoken: heroin… destroy…cargo.
“No! What I tell owners?”
Stefanovitch leaned forward in his chair. The stench of garlic and sweat coming from Rowzi was overwhelming in such close quarters.
“You can tell Mr. St.-Germain and his friends that under federal law there will be no restitution for any of their losses. Tell them that this is all legal. It’s the fucking law… Our law. And this is just a start.”
Stefanovitch started to leave the captain’s quarters, but he paused and turned back.
“And tell him that Lieutenant Stefanovitch said hello. We’re old friends. Old, old friends, Mr. St.-Germain and myself.”
81
AT EIGHT-THIRTY that night, Stefanovitch pushed himself between crowded dining tables inside the Lotos Club on East Sixty-sixth. The Lotos Club had originally been opened as a gathering place for people in the literary arts. Nowadays it was a favored locale for business meetings, lectures, and lavish parties for executives.
That evening, the main-floor dining room was filled with men and women gathered for one of the hundreds of honorariums that plague New York every night of the year.
Up on the dark wood podium, Alexandre St.-Germain was addressing the room. He saluted the honoree, but also multinational businesses in general, a subject he was well versed in.
Stefanovitch temporarily parked his wheelchair beside one of the tables. He listened to the Grave Dancer talk.
He also watched—both St.-Germain and the other so-called business leaders. He wondered how many of them were legitimate in their multinational business dealings. Were any of them in the Midnight Club? They all looked so above it all; so beyond reproach; so perfect in every way.
Finally, Stefanovitch began to push himself forward again. He tried to clear his mind, refusing to second-guess himself about what he was doing here tonight.
He was flashing painful scenes from Long Beach on the night of the ambush. He was remembering things about Anna; how she had died that night in March.
When he got close to the speaker’s rostrum, Stefanovitch raised his voice above the din in the room.
“St.-Germain!” he called. “I have a warrant for you to appear before the grand jury. It’s in connection with violations of the Continuing Criminal Enterprise Law. I’m serving you here, with all these very reliable witnesses present.”
Conversation around the room ceased immediately. The waiters stopped serving dinner. Silverware froze halfway