Washington D.C.
Chapter 1
You would think that such a day would tremble to begin . . .
CLARICE STARLING'S Mustang boomed up the entrance ramp at the Bureau of
Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms on Massachusetts Avenue, a headquarters rented
from the Reverend Sun Myung Moon in the interest of economy.
The strike force waited in three vehicles, a battered undercover van to lead
and two black SWAT vans behind it, manned and idling in the cavernous garage.
Starling hoisted the equipment bag out of her car and ran to the lead vehicle,
a dirty white panel van with MARCELL'S CRAB HOUSE signs stuck on the sides.
Through the open back doors of the van, four men watched Starling coming. She
was slender in her fatigues and moving fast under the weight of her equipment,
her hair shining in the ghastly fluorescent lights.
"Women. Always late," a D.C. police officer said.
BATF Special Agent John Brigham was in charge.
"She's not late - I didn't beep her until we got the squeal," Brigham said.
"She must have hauled ass from Quantico - Hey, Starling, pass me the bag."
She gave him a fast high five. "Hey, John."
Brigham spoke to the scruffy undercover officer at the wheel and the van was
rolling before the back doors closed, out into the pleasant fall afternoon.
Clarice Starling, a veteran of surveillance vans, ducked under the eyepiece of
the periscope and took a seat in the back as close as possible to the hundredfifty pound block of dry ice that served as air-conditioning when they had to
lurk with the engine turned off.
The old van had the monkey-house smell of fear and sweat that never scrubs
out. It had borne many labels in its time. The dirty and faded signs on the
doors were thirty minutes old. The bullet holes plugged with Bond-O were
older.
The back windows were one-way mirror, appropriately tarnished. Starling could
watch the big black SWAT vans following. She hoped they wouldn't spend hours
buttoned down in the vans.
The male officers looked her over whenever her face was turned to the window.
FBI Special Agent Clarice Starling, thirty-two, always looked her age and she
always made that age look good, even in fatigues.
Brigham retrieved his clipboard from the front passenger seat.
"How come you always catch this crap, Starling?" he said, smiling.
"Because you keep asking for me," she said.
"For this I need you. But I see you serving warrants on jump-out squads for
Christ's sake. I don't ask, but somebody at Buzzard's Point hates you, I
think. You should come to work with me. These are my guys, Agents Marquez
Burke and John Hare, and this is Officer Bolton from the D.C. Police
Department."
A composite raid team' of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, the
Drug Enforcement Administration SWAT teams and the FBI was the force-fit
product of budget constraints in a time when even the FBI Academy was closed
for lack of funding.
Burke and Hare looked like agents. The D.C. policeman, Bolton, looked like a
bailiff. He was about forty-five, overweight and yeasty.
The Mayor of Washington, anxious to appear tough on drugs after his own drug
conviction, insisted the D.C. police share credit for every major raid in the
city of Washington. Hence, Bolton.
"The Drumgo posse's cooking today," Brigham said.
"Evelda Drumgo, I knew it," Starling said without enthusiasm.
Brigham nodded. "She's opened an ice plant beside the Feliciana Fish Market on
the river. Our guy says she's cooking a batch of crystal today. And she's got
reservations to Grand Cayman tonight. «'e can't wait."
Crystal methamphetamine, called "ice" on the street, provides a short powerful
high and is murderously addictive.
"The dope's DEA business but we need Evelda on interstate transportation of
Class Three weapons.
Warrant specifies a couple of Beretta submachine guns and some MAC 10s, and
she knows where a bunch more are. I want you to concentrate on Evelda,
Starling.
You've dealt with her before. These guys will back you up."
"We got the easy job," Officer Bolton said with some satisfaction.
"I think you better tell them about Evelda, Starling," Brigham said.
Starling waited while the van rattled over some railroad tracks. "Evelda will
fight you," she said. "She doesn't look like it - she was a model - but she'll
fight you. She's Dijon Drumgo's widow. I arrested her twice on RICO warrants,
the first time with Dijon.
"This last time she was carrying a nine-millimeter with three magazines and
Mace in her purse and she had a balisong knife in her bra. I don't know what
she's carrying now.
"The second arrest, I asked her very politely to give it up and she did. Then
in D.C. detention, she killed an inmate named Marsha Valentine with a spoon
shank. So you don't know . . . her face is hard to read. Grand jury found
self-defense.
"She beat the first RICO count and pled the other one down. Some weapons
charges were dropped because she had infant children and her husband had just
been killed in the Pleasant Avenue drive-by, maybe by the Spliffs.
"I'll ask her to give it up. I hope she will - we'll give her a show. But -
listen to me - if we have to subdue Evelda Drumgo, I want some real help.
Never mind watching my back, I want some weight on her. Gentlemen, don't think
you're going to watch me and Evelda mud - wrestling."
There was a time when Starling would have deferred to these men. Now they
didn't like what she was saying, and she had seen too much to care.
"Evelda Drumgo is connected through Dijon to the Trey-Eight Crips," Brigham
said. "She's got Crip security our guy says, and the Crips are distributing on
the coast. It's security against the Spliffs, mainly. I don't know what the
Crips will do when they see it's us.
They don't cross the G if they can help it."
"You should know - Evelda's HIV positive," Starling said. "Dijon gave it to
her off a needle. She found out in detention and flipped out. She killed
Marsha Valentine that day and she fought the guards in jail. If she's not
armed and she fights, you can expect to get hit with whatever fluid she has to
throw. She'll spit and bite, she'll wet and defecate on you if you try to pat
her down, so gloves and masks are SOP. If you put her in a patrol car, when
you put your hand on her head, watch out for a needle in her hair and secure
her feet."
Burke's and Hare's faces were growing long. Officer Bolton appeared unhappy.
He pointed with his wattled chin at Starling's main sidearm, a well-worn Colt
.45 Government Model with a strip of skateboard tape on the grip, riding in a
Yaqui slide behind her right hip.
"You go around with that thing cocked all the time?" he wanted to know.
"Cocked and locked, every minute of my day," Starling said.
"Dangerous," Bolton said.
"Come out to the range and I'll explain it to you, Officer."
Brigham broke it up. "Bolton, I coached Starling pistol champion when she was
inter-service combat three years straight. Don't worry about her weapon. Those
guys from the Hostage Rescue Team, the Velcro Cowboys, what did they call you
after you beat their ass, Starling? Annie Oakley?"
"Poison Oakley," she said, and looked out the window.
Starling felt pierced and lonesome in this goat-smelling surveillance van
crowded with men. Chaps, Brut, Old Spice, sweat and leather.
She felt some fear, and it tasted like a penny under her tongue.
A mental image: her father, who smelled of tobacco and strong soap, peeling an
orange with his pocketknife, the tip of the blade broken off square, sharing
the orange with her in the kitchen. The taillights of her father's pickup
disappearing as he went off on the night-marshal patrol that killed him. His
clothes in the closet. His square-dancing shirt. Some nice stuff in her closet
now she never got to wear. Sad party clothes on hangers, like toys in the
attic.
"About another ten minutes," the driver called back.
Brigham looked out the windshield and checked his watch. "Here's the layout,"
he said. He had a crude diagram drawn hastily with a Magic Marker, and a
blurry floor plan faxed to him by the Department of Buildings. "The fish
market building is in a line of stores and warehouses along the riverbank.
Parcell Street dead-ends into Riverside Avenue in this small square in front
of the fish market.
"See, the building with the fish market backs on the water. They've got a dock
back there that runs all along the back of the building, right here. Beside
the fish market on the ground floor, that's Evelda's lab. Entrance here in
front, just beside the fish market awning.
Evelda will have the watchers out while she's cooking the dope, at least three
blocks around. They've tipped her before in time for her to flush her stuff.
So-a regular DEA incursion team in the third van is going in from a fishing
boat on the dockside at fifteen hundred hours. We can get closer than anybody
in this van, right up to the street door a couple of minutes before the raid.
If Evelda comes out the front, we get her. If she stays in, we hit this
streetside door right after they hit the other side. Second van's our backup,
seven guys, they come in at fifteen hundred unless we call first."
"We're doing the door how?" Starling said.
Burke spoke up. "If it sounds quiet, the ram. If we hear flash-bangs or
gunfire, it's `Avon calling.'" Burke patted his shotgun.
Starling had seen it done before - "Avon calling" is a three-inch magnum
shotgun shell loaded with fine powdered lead to blow the lock out without
injuring people inside.
"Evelda's kids? Where are they?" Starling said.
"Our informant saw her drop them off at day care," Brigham said. "Our
informant's close to the family situation, like, he's very close, as close as
you can get with safe sex."
Brigham's radio chirped in his earphone and he searched the part of the sky he
could see out the back window. "Maybe he's just doing traffic," he said into
his throat microphone. He called to the driver, "Strike Two saw a news
helicopter a minute ago. You seen anything?"
"No.
"He better be doing traffic. Let's saddle up and button up."
One hundred and fifty pounds of dry ice will not keep five humans cool in the
back of a metal van on a warm day, especially when they are putting on body
armor. When Bolton raised his arms, he demonstrated that a splash of Canoe is
not the same as a shower.
Clarice Starling had sewn shoulder pads inside her fatigue shirt to take the
weight of the Kevlar vest, hopefully bulletproof. The vest had the additional
weight of a ceramic plate in the back as well as the front.
Tragic experience had taught the value of the plate in the back. Conducting a
forcible entry raid with a team you do not know, of people with various levels
of training, is a dangerous enterprise. Friendly fire can smash your spine as
you go in ahead of a green and frightened column.
Two miles from the river, the third van dropped off to take the DEA incursion
team to a rendezvous with their fishing boat, and the backup van dropped a
discreet distance behind the white undercover vehicle.
The neighborhood was getting scruffy. A third of the buildings were boarded
up, and burned-out cars rested on crates beside the curbs.
Young men idled on the corners in front of bars and small markets. Children
played around a burning mattress on the sidewalk.
If Evelda's security was out, it was well concealed among the regulars on the
sidewalk. Around the liquor stores and in the grocery parking lots, men sat in
cars talking.
A low-rider Impala convertible with four young African-American men in it
pulled into the light traffic and cruised along behind the van.
The low-riders hopped the front end off the pavement for the benefit of the
girls they passed and the thump of their stereo buzzed the sheet metal in the
van.
Watching through the one-way glass of the back window, Starling could see the
young men in the convertible were not a threat - a Crip gun-ship is almost
always a powerful, full-sized sedan or station wagon, old enough to blend into
the neighborhood, and the back windows roll all the way down. It carries a
crew of three, sometimes four. A basketball team in a Buick can look sinister
if you don't keep your mind right.
While they waited at a traffic light, Brigham pulled the cover off the
eyepiece of the periscope and tapped Bolton on the knee. "Look around and see
if there are any local celebrities on the sidewalk," Brigham said.
The objective lens of the periscope is concealed in a roof ventilator. It only
sees sideways. Bolton made a full rotation and stopped, rubbing his eyes.
"Thing shakes too much with the motor running," he said.
Brigham checked by radio with the boat team. "Four hundred meters downstream
and closing," he repeated to his crew in the van.
The van caught a red light a block away on Parcell Street and sat facing the
market for what seemed a long time. The driver turned as though checking his
right mirror and talked out of the corner of his mouth to Brigham. "Looks like
not many people buying fish. Here we go."
The light changed and at 2:57 P.M., exactly three minutes before zero hour,
the battered undercover van stopped in front of the Feliciana Fish Market, in
a good spot by the curb.
In the back they heard the ratchet as the driver set the hand brake.
Brigham relinquished the periscope to Starling. "Check it out."
Starling swept the periscope across the front of the building. Tables and
counters of fish on ice glittered beneath a canvas awning on the pavement.
Snappers up from the Carolina banks were arranged artfully in schools on the
shaved ice, crabs moved their legs in open crates and lobsters climbed over
one another in a tank. The smart fishmonger had moisture pads over the eyes of
his bigger fish to keep them bright until the evening wave of cagey Caribbeanborn housewives came to sniff and peer.
Sunlight made a rainbow in the spray of water from the fish-cleaning table
outside, where a Latin-looking man with big forearms cut up a mako shark with
graceful strokes of his curved knife and hosed the big fish down with a
powerful handheld spray. The bloody water ran down the gutter and Starling
could hear it running under the van.
Starling watched the driver talk to the fishmonger, ask him a question. The
fishmonger looked at his watch, shrugged, pointed out a local lunch place. The
driver poked around the market for a minute, lit a cigarette and walked off in
the direction of the cafe.
A boom box in the market was playing "La Macarena" loud enough for Starling to
hear it clearly in the van. She would never again in her life be able to
endure the song.
The door that mattered was on the right, a double metal door in a metal
casement with a single concrete step.
Starling was about to give up the periscope when the door opened. A large
white man in a luau shirt and sandals came out. He had a satchel across his
chest. His other hand was behind the satchel. A wiry black man came out behind
him carrying a raincoat.
"Heads up," Starling said.
Behind the two men, with her long Nefertiti neck and handsome face visible
over their shoulders, came Evelda Drumgo.
"Evelda's coming out behind two guys, looks like they're both packing,"
Starling said.
She couldn't give up the periscope fast enough to keep Brigham from bumping
her. Starling pulled on her helmet.
Brigham was on the radio. "Strike One to all units. Showdown. Showdown. She's
out this side, we're moving.
"Put 'em on the ground as quietly as we can," Brigham said. He racked the
slide on his riot gun.
"Boat's here in thirty seconds, let's do it."
Starling first out on the ground, Evelda's braids flying out as her head spun
toward her. Starling conscious of the men beside her, guns out, barking "Down
on the ground, down on the ground!"
Evelda stepping out from between the two men.
Evelda was carrying a baby in a carrier slung around her neck.
"Wait, wait, don't want any trouble," she said to the men beside her. "Wait,
wait."
She strode forward, posture regal, holding the baby high in front of her at
the extent of the sling, blanket hanging down.
Give her a place to go. Starling holstered her weapon by touch, extended her
arms, hands open.
"Evelda! Give it up. Come to me."
Behind Starling, the roar of a big V8 and squeal of tires. She couldn't turn
around. Be the backup.
Evelda ignoring her, walking toward Brigham, the baby blanket fluttered as the
MAC 10 went off behind it and Brigham went down, his face shield full of
blood.
The heavy white man dropped the satchel. Burke saw his machine pistol and
fired a puff of harmless lead dust from the Avon round in his shotgun. He
racked the slide, but not in time. The big man fired a burst, cutting Burke
across the groin beneath his vest, swinging toward Starling as she came up
from the leather and shot him twice in the middle of his hula shirt before he
could fire.
Gunshots behind Starling. The wiry black man dropped the raincoat off his
weapon and ducked back in the building, as a blow like a hard fist in the back
drove Starling forward, drove breath out of her. She spun and saw the Crip
gun-ship broadside in the street, a Cadillac sedan, windows open, two shooters
sitting Cheyenne-style in the offside windows firing over the top and a third
from the backseat. Fire and smoke from three muzzles, bullets slamming the air
around her.
Starling dived between two parked cars, saw Burke jerking in the road. Brigham
lay still, a puddle spreading out of his helmet. Hare and Bolton fired from
between cars someplace across the street and over there auto glass powdered
and clanged in the road and a tire exploded as automatic fire from the
Cadillac pinned them down. Starling, one foot in the running gutter, popped
out to look.
Two shooters sitting up in the windows firing across the car roof, the driver
firing a pistol with his free hand. A fourth man in the backseat had the door
open, was pulling Evelda in with the baby. She carried the satchel. They were
firing at Bolton and Hare across the street, smoke from the Cadillac's back
tires and the car began to roll. Starling stood up and swung with it and shot
the driver in the side of the head. Fired twice at the shooter sitting up in
the front window and he went over backward. She dropped the magazine out of
the .45 and slammed another one in before the empty hit the ground without
taking her eyes off the car.
The Cadillac sideswiped a line of cars across the street and came to a
grinding stop against them.
Starling was walking toward the Cadillac now. A shooter still sat in the back
window, his eyes wild and hands pushing against the car roof, his chest
compressed between the Cadillac and a parked car. His gun slid off the roof.
Empty hands appeared out of the near back window. A man in a blue bandana dorag got out, hands up, and ran. Starling ignored him.
Gunfire from her right and the runner pitched forward, sliding on his face,
and tried to crawl under a car. Helicopter blades blatting above her.
Someone yelling in the fish market, "Stay down. Stay down."
People under the counters and water at the abandoned cleaning table showering
into the air.
Starling advancing on the Cadillac. Movement in the back of the car. Movement
in the Cadillac. The car rocking. The baby screaming in there. Gunfire and the
back window shattered and fell in.
Starling held up her arm and yelled without turning around. `HOLD IT. Hold
your fire. Watch the door. Behind me. Watch the fish house door."
"Evelda." Movement in the back of the car. The baby screaming in there.
"Evelda, put your hands out the window."
Evelda Drumgo was coming out now. The baby was screaming. "La Macarena"
pounding on the speakers in the fish market. Evelda was out and walking toward
Starling, her fine head down, her arms wrapped around the baby.
Burke twitched on the ground between them. Smaller twitches now that he had
about bled out. "La Macarena" jerked along with Burke.
Someone, moving low, scuttled to him and, lying beside him, got pressure on
the wound.
Starling had her weapon pointed at the ground in front of Evelda. "Evelda,
show me your hands, come on, please, show me your hands."
A lump in the blanket. Evelda, with her braids and dark Egyptian eyes, raised
her head and looked at Starling.
"Well, it's you, Starling," she said.
"Evelda, don't do this. Think about the baby."
"Let's swap body fluids, bitch."
The blanket fluttered, air slammed. Starling shot Evelda Drumgo through the
upper lip and the back of her head blew out.
Starling was somehow sitting down with a terrible stinging in the side of her
head and the breath driven out of her. Evelda sat in the road too, collapsed
forward over her legs, blood gouting out of her mouth and over the baby, its
cries muffled by her body. Starling crawled over to her and plucked at the
slick buckles of the baby harness. She pulled the balisong out of Evelda's
bra, flicked it open without looking at it and cut the harness off the baby.
The baby was slick and red, hard for Starling to hold.
Starling, holding it, raised her eyes in anguish. She could see the water
spraying in the air from the fish market and she ran over there carrying the
bloody child. She swept away the knives and fish guts and put the child on the
cutting board and turned the strong hand - spray on him, this dark child lying
on a white cutting board amid the knives and fish guts and the shark's head
beside him, being washed of HIV positive blood, Starling's own blood falling
on him, washing away with Evelda's blood in a common stream exactly salty as
the sea.
Water flying, a mocking rainbow of God's Promise in the spray, sparkling
banner over the work of His blind hammer. No holes in this man-child that
Starling could see. On the speakers "La Macarena" pounding, a strobe light
going off and off and off until Hare dragged the photographer away.