[center][b]Jock Sturgeon Part III: The Touch[/b][/center] [b]Lost Haven Financial District 9:34 AM[/b] Sean Dunmoore knew right away that the two men coming into his office were cops. It was in how they carried themselves. Like they owned the world and they were doing him a favor by being here. He'd been around enough of them to know exactly how they acted and how they looked down their nose at guys like him. "Mister Dunmoore," the cop in the lead said. He was tall with silver hair and a Roman nose. His suit was nice, but definitely off the rack. Too much for a city cop. His partner, shorter and bald, wore a similar cut suit. "FBI," said Sean. "Am I right?" "Special Agent Marks," said the one in front. Both men pulled out ID cards and flashed them at Sean. "My partner is Special Agent Robb." Sean stood up from behind his desk and pointed a finger towards the two men. "Unless you've got a warrant I want you the fuck out of here!" "We're here to help you," Robb growled at him. Before Sean could utter another word, Marks plopped a manila folder on his desk. "Read it and weep," said Marks. "Literally." Sean picked it up and looked inside. There were photos, black and white surveillance glossies of Jackob Blomkamp on the street. Other photos showed the same man, but dressed differently. Time stamps in the corner dated the photographs as haven been taken over the last two years. "The man you know as Blomkamp is a con artist," said Robb. "And damn good one, too. He's been in Lost Haven for at least two years now, pulling scams on stockbrokers and hedge fund managers all over the city." "Bullshit," said Sean. "I'm as plugged into the financial scene as anyone, better than most. How come I haven't heard about it?" A soft chuckle came from Marks' throat. He said, "If you were taken by this guy for a cool hundred grand, would you advertise it all over town?" "That's how he gets away with it," said Robb. "The people he rips off are too embarrassed, or maybe too scared, to come to us. He ties people up in vaguely shady business enterprises and runs away with their money." "What did he sell you on," Marks asked with raised eyebrows. "Dutch land grants?" "African diamond," Sean mumbled. "You're a smart guy," Marks continued. "I'm sure you had already seen through his bullshit. A guy comes out of the blue with a can't miss, pseudo-legal business enterprise. He butters you up with compliments, strokes your ego while he appeals to your greed. I bet you've already did some homework into his company, yeah?" "Yeah," Sean nodded. "It's not on any Department of Commerce lists for diamond or jewel importers." "See," said Robb. "And I bet he'll have a perfectly good excuse as to why that is when you meet him this afternoon." Sean raised his eyebrow. "You know about that?" Marks clucked his tongue. "We know about it all, Sean. Like I said before, we've been on this guy for a while. And we're closer. Closer than we've ever been. I know you've had trouble with the Bureau before, but that was with a different division. We're different. We want to put him away. And we need your help." Sean nodded slowly before gesturing to the two chairs in front of him. "Take a seat. Let's talk about this." ---- [b]Little Ulster 10:24 AM[/b] "Sturgeon, give me one good reason I don't kill you." "There's no money in it." Irish Tom Cafferty looked at me from over the rim of his pint glass and nodded. "Fair enough, yea." Irish Tom is, you guessed it, Irish. Ex-pat, ex-IRA, ex-con, ex... something else snappy. He's also one of the rare hitters for hire in Haven that is both affordable and good at his job. You know, for the blue collar man who wants to arrange a murder. "You ever do any work for the Ambulance Chaser?" I asked as I grabbed a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar. It was early morning still, but the bar was open and had enough people inside to justify staying open. I'd been here a few times before and knew the crowd that came and went were among the criminal fraternity of Lost Haven. It stayed open twenty-four hours to accommodate the crooks who worked nights and got plastered in the early morning. "Here and there," Irish Tom said with a belch. "His money spends like the rest of 'em so I take it." "How did you know it was him if he works with cut-outs?" "Bloody envelopes," he said after a deep swig of his beer. "Only one who does it. He always puts the money in them envelopes like the Russian dolls, bigger envelopes with smaller ones inside and cash inside each one. I always get the last envelope with my cash and the target inside of it." "Yep. You're the lethal pot 'o gold at the end of the lawyer's criminal rainbow. Jerry Lonnegan was your usual contact on these jobs, right?" Irish Tom gave me a long, hard look that could have set me on fire if he had a magnifying glass. "He told me, Jerry, I mean. He said he handed off an envelope to you last week. The Ambulance Chaser was stupid enough to write all his contacts down and someone stole it. He hired me to find it." If Irish Tom's scowl was hard before, this new look was fossilized. The pint glass he was holding cracked from the grip he was giving it. I imagine he was picturing that glass as the Ambulance Chaser's head. "The guy who stole it got whacked last night. He was tortured to death first, I'm thinking that whoever you killed found out about The Ambulance Chaser and his contacts, hired the thief for those contacts, and is now getting revenge. Jerry took the hint and got out of town. You might want to do the same." Irish Tom grunted. "Anyone comes for me, I'll be waiting with my gun and a bottle of Jameson." I admired Irish Tom. A lot of people complain about how they were born in the wrong decade or time or whatever, but in Tom's case it was true. He was an Irish killer who belonged in the wild west as a gunslinger. I sometimes thought the same about myself. I would have been right at home in the court of some European king in the 1600's, pretending to be a long lost relative and grifting him for every piece of gold. I could have made millions. "Before you get too many sheets in the wind, Tom. How about you tell me all you can about this hit you did last week. And let's hurry it up, I gotta become a South African diamond executive in a half hour." ---- [b]Le Cigare Volant 12:10 PM[/b] Sean saw Blomkamp's mouth moving, bits of crumb were attached to his lips from the fine French meal the two men had just partaken of. But while Blomkamp spoke, Sean wasn't paying attention to anything he said. His thoughts were still on the meeting with the FBI agents. They laid out their plan clearly, including the trap that would be set here at the lunch meeting. Yes. It was perfect. "Mr. Dunmoore," Blomkamp said with a puzzled look on his face. "Are you listening?" "Yes," said Sean. "Your board of directors agreed to my counter proposal and will go into business with me to sell off their diamonds." "Correct," Blomkamp said with a smile. "It's a matter of logistics. You see--" Blomkamp, or whatever his name was, continued to talk but Sean was starting to tune him out. Instead of his words, he focused on the man. It was so obvious that he was a phony from the start. The mustache looked like the fake that it was, his clothes seemed a bit disheveled. He was far from the put together executive Sean had met yesterday. Was there a difference, or had Sean just been blinded by the money to pay attention to what he saw? "I had one question," Sean interrupted Blomkamp mid-sentence about customs regulations in maritime Africa. "I am curious. I did some research into you, Mr. Blomkamp, but it seems as if your company is not listed among known diamond importers and exporters of Africa. Care to explain?" "Ah, yes." Blomkamp laced his fingers together and sighed. "You see, sir... I have to come clean. My company has only existed... for two weeks." Blomkamp took off his glasses and wiped at the sweat on his forehead. Jesus, thought Sean, this guy is really good. "The truth is, Afrikaans Tool and Mining is... what you would call a shell company. Yes. The diamonds are real, but who I work for is not that fictional company, but instead the president of South Africa himself. This plan to smuggle diamonds out of the country and sell them is part of his plan to secure monies for him and his family in the event of an uprising that needs him to flee the country. There. I've said it." Yes, thought Sean, you sure had. The FBI agents were right. A story that would conveniently explain away the paper-thin nature of his company, and a story that Sean could not verify. It's not like he could call the president of South Africa, could he? "Here," Blomkamp handed Sean a cell phone. "President Zuma is on the line. Speak to him." Sean had to suppress a laugh when he heard the man on the other side of the phone. Somebody doing a piss poor imitation of Blomkamp's more believable South African accent introduced himself as the president and explained that he was happy to work with Sean and looked forward to a long and prosperous business arrangement before they quickly ended the call. "How much do you need to start with?" Sean asked after handing the phone back to Blomkamp. "Estimates are from two to five hundred thousand US dollars. Can that be arraigned?" "Yes," Sean said with a grin. "Easiest thing in the world to write you a check." "Cash," Blomkamp said with a frown. "It needs to be cash, sir. Cashing a check here or in South Africa will leave a paper trail." "You getting busted at the airport will lead to a bigger paper trail," said Sean. This was part of it, the FBI agents said. Don't be too eager to say yes. Raise questions and make him work for it. If Sean went along too easy he might become suspicious. Blomkamp smiled. "I have diplomatic immunity, so they will never search my luggage when I fly home. No need to worry about that." "Fine," said Sean. "Let me call my broker and accountant, see how much cash I can get my hands on and we'll do the deal." "Very good," Blomkamp said with a bow of his head. "The more the better, sir. Guards and custom officials do not come cheap." "I doubt they do." The two men shared a laugh, Blomkamp at the mild joke and Sean at the fact that their entire conversation had just been recorded thanks to the wire taped to his chest. Blomkamp ordered two glasses of champagne and the two men toasted. "To the success of our task," said Blomkamp. Sean clinked glasses with him and laughed before adding his own toast. "To both of us getting just what we deserve."