The Inside Man Read online

  The

  Inside Man

  M. A. Rothman

  Copyright © 2019 Michael A. Rothman

  Cover Art by M.S. Corley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  CONTENTS

  Before the Senate Committee on the Judiciary

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Author’s Note

  Addendum

  For the innocent victims, may you find peace.

  Before the Senate Committee on the Judiciary

  March 6th, 2019

  Testifying: Tim Ballard

  …

  Human trafficking is real, it’s tragic, and I am grateful this Committee is willing to learn more and to understand more about this horrific practice…

  …

  At the DHS, I spent 12 years as a special agent and undercover operator for Homeland Security Investigations. For 10 of those years, I was combating sex trafficking on the southern border and became one of the country’s foremost experts on the issue of trafficking through years of undercover work, research and investigation.

  …

  Part of the job … is to recognize and fight human trafficking. To understand just a little about the issue it is important to understand that there are an estimated 40 million modern-day slaves worldwide with children making up an estimated 10 million of these victims.1

  …

  The US is also one of the wealthiest nations in the world, creating fertile ground for child traffickers who are trying to get their product to this lucrative illicit market.

  The State Department has reported that roughly 17,500 people are smuggled into the United States annually, many of which are women and children that are forced into the commercial sex trade.2 About 10,000 children a year suffer the horrors of commercial sexual exploitation in the United States.3

  1 – Guardian, Feb 25, 2019

  2 – Trafficking in Persons Report, US Department of State, June 14, 2004

  3 – Indianapolis Star, Feb. 1, 2018

  Chapter One

  “Pizza delivery.”

  The familiar voice broadcast through a hidden speaker in the small security office. A yellow LED on one of the security consoles flashed, indicating someone had sent an “open” command to the front gate.

  Yoshi Watanabe checked the surveillance monitors that overlooked the sprawling apartment complex. One of the video feeds showed the north security gate sliding open, allowing the Domino’s delivery person onto the property.

  There was nothing unusual about a pizza delivery. Ten p.m. was a little later than normal, but not overly late, and Yoshi recognized the delivery man’s voice—he’d heard the same voice several times a week for nearly a year. But this time, there was something about the way the driver had spoken that caught his attention.

  Had the man’s voice quavered just a bit?

  The hairs on the back of Yoshi’s neck stood on end.

  He scooted his chair closer to the monitors and scanned the images for the delivery car. There were nearly two dozen different motion-activated video cameras dotted throughout the property, but it took only moments to find the Honda with a Domino’s emblem on its side, parked in front of Building 3. There was no one in the driver’s seat, yet a plume of exhaust came from the back of it.

  Yoshi shook his head. “That’s how you get your stuff stolen.”

  But then he spotted a gray blob lying next to the car. He zoomed in several times, and the gray blob suddenly turned into a person with bright-red hair.

  It was the Domino’s delivery guy. No doubt about it.

  His heart racing, Yoshi flipped through Building 3’s other cameras. He caught a man wearing a ski mask racing from one of the apartments, a child’s limp body draped over his shoulder.

  He checked the feed: first floor. And the man had run out of the third apartment from the end.

  Yoshi’s breath caught in his throat.

  Apartment 1C.

  That wasn’t just any child. That was the granddaughter of Shinzo Tanaka, the leader of one of Japan’s largest crime syndicates.

  “No!” he yelled impotently at the screen, waking the other security guard.

  “What? Who?” The bewildered guard was still blinking the sleep out of his eyes as Yoshi raced from the security office.

  Sprinting across the courtyard toward the security gate, Yoshi grimaced when he heard the two-ton gate begin to move. He arrived in time to see the back of a late-model Honda fishtailing away from the apartment complex, the exit gate yawning open behind it.

  Gritting his teeth, Yoshi spun on his heel and raced toward Building 3.

  He was greeted by one of the security guards. “Yoshi? What’s going—”

  “Shut up and call the police. There’s been a kidnapping! Building 3, apartment 1C.”

  A chill raced up the middle of Yoshi’s back. If they had gotten away with the child ... what had they done to her mother?

  ###

  Ryuki Watanabe took the first available flight to Tokyo after his brother, Yoshi, called with the news. Ryuki had been instrumental in getting Yoshi placed at the apartment complex to watch over the girl, yet he couldn’t let his brother take the blame. The kidnapping of Tanaka’s granddaughter was Ryuki’s responsibility.

  Now, late in the evening in downtown Tokyo, he waited alone in a conference room on the top floor of the Tanaka Building. He’d hoped that this day would never come, yet he felt unusually calm as he sat at the conference-room table waiting for the chairman to arrive.

  He shook his head as he panned his gaze around the room. He preferred the traditional decorations of his Japanese ancestry: low-profile tables around which people would sit seiza-style, hanging scrolls with Japanese calligraphy, and silk-embroidered art. But Tanaka favored a Western style. The room smelled of the twenty black leather high-back chairs, and the long table they encircled was made of black wood that gleamed with a heavy polish. Ebony, perhaps.

  The far door opened, and Shinzo Tanaka strode through the doorway. The man was in his mid-sixties. Bloodshot eyes betrayed a depth of emotion beneath his otherwise stone-like expression. Two bodyguards followed one step behind him, closed the door, and effectively blocked the exit.

  Ryuki felt a surge of anxiety as he waited for his long-time boss to speak. As Tanaka’s second-in-command, Ryuki had known the man for nearly a quarter century, yet he’d never seen him look as haggard as he did this evening.

  “Ryuki.” The elder’s gravelly voice was heavy with emotion. “How ... how did this happen?”

  “I’m sorry.” Ryuki bowed his head as he nervously traced the outline of the knife in his front right pocket. “It all happened very quickly. The man broke into the apartment, the child’s mother was knocked unconscious, and the child was taken, all in less than a minute. The American police are inv
olved, and I have our people looking into it as well.”

  Tanaka’s face darkened as he pressed his lips into a thin line. “You promised me that my granddaughter would be safe in America.”

  “I did.” A cool sense of resignation washed over Ryuki as he bowed before his boss. “I’m prepared to give a most sincere apology.”

  He drew from his pocket a knife, a packet of gauze, and a pristine white silken cloth, then laid them all on the table. He placed his left fist on the middle of the cloth with his pinkie extended, and bowed his head with a deep sense of regret. This was his first time ever disappointing the man. He prayed it would be his last.

  Gritting his teeth, he picked up the knife, flipped open the razor-sharp blade, and sliced heavily across the last knuckle of his pinkie.

  The knife sliced through the fibrous tendons, and he felt them snap like rubber bands. He tightened his core and barely suppressed a grunt of pain.

  When the deed was done, he used his right hand to bundle the severed tip of his finger in the white silk. His head still bowed, he gave the grotesque offering to Tanaka, who grimly accepted the apology.

  The wound flared with heat, and Ryuki wrapped the injured finger with a gauze impregnated with a clotting agent. With a fresh cloth, he cleaned the blood from the table.

  Tanaka pulled out a chair and sat across from him. “Ryuki, we must find my granddaughter. She’s my son’s only child.”

  Ryuki felt the man’s pain even through his own. Tanaka had already lost his son—killed in the US in a drive-by shooting—despite having kept him from their life, just like Ryuki had sheltered his brother. And now the man feared he would lose his granddaughter too.

  “I will get more of our people on this,” Ryuki said.

  Tanaka leaned forward and slid a note across the table. Ryuki retrieved it with his right hand.

  “I’m giving you permission to reach out to the Italians in our American territory,” Tanaka said. “There is one there that I’d trust with this.”

  Ryuki cringed at the slight. The implication was that he himself had fallen out of trust, at least with regard to Tanaka’s granddaughter.

  “Before approaching him,” Tanaka continued, “get permission from his superior. Promise whatever you need to acquire his help. I’ll cover the expense.” He stood, and the bodyguards opened the conference-room door. “Take the next flight and arrange this with the head of the Bianchi family from New York City.”

  Ryuki stood as well, and Tanaka placed his hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Bring my granddaughter safely back to me, Ryuki. She’s my only living heir.” His tone brooked no argument. “Nothing else is more important.”

  Ryuki bowed, and Tanaka gave him a light shove toward the exit. “Go!”

  As he strode quickly down the hallway, Ryuki unfolded the paper and looked at the English name scrawled on it.

  He pressed the button calling for the elevator and wondered who Levi Yoder was.

  ###

  Levi woke to the pre-dawn sounds of New York City rising from several stories below his Park Avenue apartment. With a luxurious stretch, he yawned and stumbled out of bed. It was just before five a.m., earlier than he normally liked to wake up, but as he padded out of the bedroom, he couldn’t help but smile at what he saw.

  Standing next to the wall-mounted bookshelves, bathed in the warm glow of an antique Italian lamp, was a statuesque woman in her early thirties. She was wearing nothing but one of his button-down shirts as she thumbed through a thick three-ring binder of old medical journals she’d pulled from a shelf. She had straight shoulder-length black hair and mocha-colored skin, both of which contrasted beautifully with the white shirt.

  Last night was the first time he’d brought Madison to his apartment—an apartment owned by the Bianchi family, one of the largest of the New York Mafia families. It was a baby step into his secret world.

  “You’re up early,” Levi remarked.

  Madison looked up at him in silence for a few long seconds. A smile creased her delicate features.

  “What?” He frowned as he looked at himself and then back at her.

  “You’re just cute. I didn’t think anyone still wore pajamas to bed anymore.” She tapped a finger on the binder. “You’ve got a strange collection of books. Is reading medical journals a hobby of yours?”

  He shrugged, walked over to Madison, and kissed her on the cheek. “Good morning to you, too. Hopefully, you’re good with eggs, because that’s the only breakfasty stuff I have in the fridge. I’ll go make us some ham and cheese omelets.”

  Madison huffed loudly. “Levi, don’t ignore me. What’s with all this medical stuff? It seems like odd reading material for someone to have unless, well, you know—you’re a doctor.”

  Levi grabbed a carton of eggs from the refrigerator and spoke over his shoulder as he prepared breakfast. “Well, I’m obviously not a doctor. You know about how I had cancer a dozen years ago? At the time, the docs all said it was a terminal case, yet obviously I managed to cheat death. But I eventually realized that I didn’t come out of that time in my life totally unscathed.”

  “What do you mean?” Madison now stood at the entrance to the kitchen, and she sounded concerned. “Are you saying the cancer has come back? You haven’t relapsed, have you?”

  “No, nothing like that. It’s hard to explain. Back then, so many things had happened at once: my wife died in a car accident, I had terminal cancer, and I was struck with a debilitating fever that really knocked me out. And then, suddenly, all on its own, the fever broke and my cancer went into remission. And other things were different too.

  “The world seemed to be filled with more colors than I’d ever noticed before. The sounds that had always been there, in the background, were more obvious to my ear. Hell, even the smells of the city were stronger and more distinct. At first I wrote it all off as a strange side effect of the cancer. But after a while, some ... other things ... became hard to ignore.”

  “Like?” Madison rested her chin on Levi’s shoulder, watching as he deftly cracked eggs into a mixing bowl. He felt the warmth of her pressed against him and wondered how much he could say without her thinking he was nuts.

  “Well, it was little things. Like I could remember random facts without even trying. For example, I could tell you that the restaurant two blocks north of here had chicken piccata on its Daily Specials menu ten days ago, and it was $10.99. The only reason I know that is because I was walking past the place and saw the sign. I can tell you the license plate number of the Uber driver who brought us here. Hell, I know the ticket stub number for the opera that I attended with a friend of mine two weeks ago.”

  Madison took a step back. “Are you serious?”

  Levi poured the beaten eggs into a pair of hot skillets. “Yup. That’s one of the reasons I started combing through those books, trying to figure out—”

  “Why didn’t you just go see a doctor?” Her voice took on an excited tone. “Are you seriously saying you can remember everything you’ve ever seen?”

  Levi nodded as he sprinkled chopped ham and cheddar cheese onto the half-cooked eggs, and carefully flipped each of the omelets onto themselves. “Pretty much. Go ahead. I know you’re dying to test me.”

  Madison reopened the three-ring binder, which was an assembled collection of old issues of the American Journal of Medicine, and flipped through the pages. “Okay, this one’s from October, 2015. It’s an article about fevers of unknown origin—looks like you bookmarked it. What’s it say just above table one?”

  With a flick of his wrist, Levi flipped both omelets over and sprinkled a bit more shredded cheddar cheese on top. In his mind’s eye, he recalled the image of the green-hued medical journal and mentally turned the pages to the appropriate article. It had been one that had particularly intrigued him. He recited the text word for word:

  “Petersdorf also classified fevers of unknown origin by category, that is, infectious, maligna
nt/neoplastic, rheumatic/inflammatory, and miscellaneous disorders. Fevers of unknown origin also may be considered in the context of host subsets, for example, organ transplants, human immunodeficiency virus, returning travelers.”

  He looked over his shoulder as he turned off the stovetop’s flame, and Madison stared open-mouthed at him.

  “Holy shit, that’s amazing. Why haven’t you become a doctor or something?”

  Levi laughed as he grabbed two large dishes from the cabinet and slid a perfectly cooked omelet onto each of them. “It doesn’t exactly work like that. Just because I can remember things doesn’t mean I understand everything I’m reading. I’ve got other books on those shelves about electronics, physics, and other subjects. So yeah, I can tell you what a resistor or a capacitor is, but I don’t know beans about what to do with them. Well, maybe I sort of do, but not really.”

  “So basically you have a photographic memory.”

  Levi shrugged. “I guess. In those journals I learned that photographic memory—they call it eidetic memory—it’s not really something adults have. Sometimes a real small percentage of young kids might have it, but it goes away before adulthood. The only instances of eidetic-like memory in adults were associated with people with some form of traumatic brain injury. And I didn’t have anything like that—at least not that I know of.

  “I don’t know, maybe the fever, or the cancer, or both, did a number on me. Anyway, the memory thing does come in handy sometimes, but it’s not exactly a key to being a genius. I’m far from it.”

  He sprinkled a few finely chopped scallions across the omelets and motioned toward the dining area. “Let’s get you fed. You’ve got a long day ahead of you.”

  Madison’s gaze followed Levi into the dining room. “Levi, you’re really full of surprises. I’m sorry, I should be helping—”

  “Nonsense, you’re my guest. Grab a seat. I’ll go get some orange juice.”