Page 116 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

Ashes to Ashes

Dust to Dust

77

June 13

Tuesday

SPECIAL AGENT ARMSTRONG COLDMOONrested on a couch in the security office of Miami International Airport’s north terminal, his eyes half-closed. Outside, it was still dark: the sun wouldn’t rise for another hour. The five-o’clock arrival would ensure, he had hoped, a quiet setting for the arrest. But the idea wasn’t working out. The mile-long concourse of the north terminal, with its nearly fifty boarding gates—the central hub for international tourists coming into Florida—was already filling up. He listened to the sounds of passenger chatter from beyond the closed door with rising apprehension. The man couldn’t be armed, but he still might cause a ruckus.

When Coldmoon had suggested they meet at a remote airfield in South Dakota—the guy had a private plane, and this would keep the arrest low profile—Armendariz had pushed back. Why not take an American Airlines flight into Miami, as his private jet was not overseas rated? He didn’t mind flying commercial, he said. Perhaps he felt safer in a crowd. Coldmoon wasn’t thrilled to make the arrest in such a public place, but Tom Torres had lent him two plainclothes agents who’d taken the same flight, just in case Armendariz had some trick up his sleeve. And again, by arresting him in the secure portion of the terminal, it was guaranteed he and any bodyguards with him wouldn’t be armed.

But that was ultimately of little importance. It was his first big-time international case, and it had gone perfectly. The sting operation worked better than he’d anticipated. Coldmoon had figured he’d have to remain in character, undercover, for a couple of days, schmoozing with Armendariz while the wealthy antiquities collector took his measure as they enjoyed horseback rides, tasting wine from his winery, and whatever else billionaires did for entertainment. But what he hadn’t anticipated was just how eager Armendariz had been to acquire the Winter Count. They’d talked over lunch, had a few drinks…and then they’d shaken hands. Armendariz wanted to see the Winter Count right away—he was practically salivating over it. He told Coldmoon to fly back to the States to prepare for the transaction, and he would follow in two days—after pulling together the $2 million purchase price. If it was as promised, the money would be wired and he’d fly the artifact back to the hacienda to join the rest of his collection.

The beauty of it all was that this transaction, at least, would be legal. Witko was the legal owner, there was a clear (if phony) provenance from Crazy Horse himself, and there were no export restrictions. And Armendariz was so eager to acquire it, he showed no qualms about flying to the States—the most crucial part of Coldmoon’s plan.

Coldmoon was astonished at how little Armendariz fit his mental picture of a murdering, grasping, billionaire collector. The sense of menace Coldmoon had felt when he arrived at the palatial hacienda was, he soon realized, mostly in his own mind. Beyond the armed men at the gates, he’d seen no other weapons and few bodyguards. Armendariz himself had been the opposite of crude or intimidating. He was garrulous, hospitable, and carried himself with a kind of Old-World dignity and charm. If anything, the man reminded Coldmoon more of an intellectual—a professor, maybe, or a journalist—than a wealthy, ruthless criminal. He apologized for his eagerness to see their transaction concluded. He didn’t drag Coldmoon to visit a garage full of gleaming supercars, or show off rooms stuffed with gilt furniture, and there were no blonde bimbos hanging around a pool. He did take Coldmoon to his museum and showed him a number of truly splendid Lakota artifacts—but Coldmoon had been disappointed not to see the famous pipe or Ghost Dance shirt. The man was clearly being cautious that way.

One of the local FBI agents, sitting at a nearby desk, interrupted his thoughts. “Landing in ten.”

“All units in place?”

A pause. “Six airside, four more beyond the security perimeter, just in case.”

“Good.” Coldmoon reached for the cup of coffee beside the couch, then thought better of it. He’d ingested enough caffeine over the last seventy-two hours to give a tree sloth tachycardia. But, given the target’s eagerness, this had been the only way to work it: straight flight back to Miami and spend the next twenty hours with the local field office coordinating the grab.

It was on the flight back to Miami that he’d figured it out. Armendarizwasan intellectual. Would some bloodthirsty cartel boss be likely to collect Native American artifacts? And, other than raising some political hackles in his adopted country, he seemed to keep a low profile—at least, that’s what International Operations had told him, which was where Coldmoon got almost all of his intel. He’d asked Coldmoon many questions about his family, his great-great-grandfather, and his life growing up on the Rez. He seemed genuinely interested. Coldmoon found it hard not to like the guy…until he reminded himself he was a murderer, thief, and cultural expropriator.

Cultural expropriator.Coldmoon himself understood the collecting impulse. As a kid, he’d accumulated every Madball he could find—just about the only toy you could buy on the Rez because they doubled as baseballs, sick-looking things that hurt like a motherfucker if you got hit with one. There were a dozen or so different kinds, and he vividly remembered a time he would have done just about anything, legal or otherwise, to get his hands on the Oculus Orbus. But these people like Armendariz…intellectual or not, he didn’t care about finally honoring the treaties and returning the Black Hills to the Lakota, or helping bring jobs to the Rez. No, his type was all about spending millions on things they didn’t create, had no connection to, and that rightfully belonged back with the Lakota themselves.

He checked his watch. “Flight status?” he asked the guy at the desk.

“Wheels down, taxiing.”

“All right.” He looked around the rest of the room. “Let’s get busy.”

He stood, put on his jacket, snugged his Browning into the small of his back, then headed for the door and out into the fresher air of the terminal. Thank God: as was usually the case, the security office smelled like old socks, BO, and scorched microwave popcorn.

The concourse was even busier than he’d feared. Coldmoon followed the small procession—two local agents, two TSA security officers, and two Miami plainclothes police—down the wide concourse, through security control, past the duty-free shops and the Skytrain access, to an unmarked door. Opening this, they descended one flight to the international arrivals and customs zone for Concourse D.

Multiple voices were sounding over the airport’s speakers, and ahead in the distance Coldmoon could see large bunches of people coming in their direction—just deplaned and headed for customs. His own small group made its way around the customs barrier, then took up a three-point position at the spot where pedestrian traffic slowed to form lines. Coldmoon looked around, satisfying himself with the layout. Not far away stood the two ICE agents who would be making the actual collar. He’d have plenty of time himself with Armenderiz—later.

He took a deep breath and tried to savor the moment. This was a big op—and he was in charge. His overwhelming feeling was an eagerness to get his man in the bag.

…And then, just like that, he turned and saw Armendariz, his tall, elegant figure clearly visible among the crowd. He was wearing another formal Spanish suit, black hair still immaculate after the long flight. In one hand was a leather carry-on, a dark coat slung over his forearm. He did not appear to have bodyguards with him, but if he did they were the responsibility of Torres’s people, not Coldmoon.

Armendariz, approaching now, saw Coldmoon, and his face lit up in a smile. “Mr. Witko!” he said, holding out his hand in greeting. “Buenos días!”

Coldmoon stepped forward, smiling and grasping the hand that was offered. He held it firm as the two ICE agents came up. When he saw the rest taking backup positions, he let go.

“Ramón Armendariz y Urias,” said one of the agents, a Hispanic woman with short mahogany hair, “you are under arrest for homicide and grand larceny, among other felonious offenses.” As she spoke, the other ICE agent smoothly slipped a pair of cuffs on the astonished man and snugged them tight.

Armendariz blinked in complete surprise, looking oddly vulnerable, like a sleeper who’d just had his bedcovers ripped violently away.

“Specifically,” Coldmoon added, “for the suspected murders of Grayson Twoeagle and Eugene Mancow.”

For a moment, Armendariz looked at the small circle of somber faces surrounding him. Then they returned to Coldmoon. “Armstrong?” he asked. “What is this?”

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