Deadfall

“Trafficking, like Mercer just told you. If we’re right—if this is an area that the task force needs to explore—we’ll pass the information on to those prosecutors and detectives as soon as we leave here.”

“The focus of the investigation, as of now,” Mercer said, “has been on old cases, on criminals the district attorney has prosecuted, on grudges from his past. But the three of us think we shouldn’t overlook his interest in wildlife conservation, and the fact of how dangerous your work really is.”

I wanted to ask Dr. Liebman what he thought about American hunting preserves, but he hadn’t seemed to warm to us yet.

“Is it legislation that’s needed?” I asked.

“There are laws, Ms. Cooper,” he said. “Years ago, something called CITES was established. It’s the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species. By now there are scores of countries signed on, at least to talk the talk.”

“Then is it enforcement?”

Liebman was holding the small monkey figurine between his thumb and forefinger. “In many places it is indeed a lack of strong enforcement efforts,” he said, “but at the heart of it all is the need to stop the demand for the products. As long as people want the animal parts—rarely the animals themselves, Detective Wallace—as long as there is a demand for the parts, the slaughter and the trafficking will go on.”

“So, the ivory markets,” Mercer said, “and the traditional medicines.”

“Have you explored the cyberworld?” Liebman asked.

“I hadn’t thought about that,” I said.

Some of my colleagues were experts on cybercrimes, including the most sophisticated areas of encryption—areas in which Google and Apple spent fortunes trying to deny government agencies like ours the right to break the codes to investigate cases. Maybe Battaglia was working with guys in that bureau who ought to be brought into the investigation.

“This black market thrives on the Internet,” he said. “You ignore it at your peril.”

“Talk to us about ivory,” Mercer said. “About elephant tusks.”

“Everyone’s favorite subject, Detective,” Liebman said. “You’re thinking too common, really.”

“How does the ivory get out of a small village in Africa?” Mercer said. “I understand that there’s a poacher and then a middleman.”

“It has become far more difficult,” he said. “The Wildlife Conservation Society, for example, uses dogs at some of the larger airports. South Sudan, for example, and Entebbe. In Mozambique and Kenya.”

“Dogs?”

“Yes, Mr. Wallace. They’re trained to sniff ivory—and pangolin scales and the like—by the same people who train dogs to sniff for land mines and explosives in combat zones.”

“How well does it work?” I asked.

Liebman reached to a bookcase shelf behind him and produced a small photograph in a frame. The picture was of a springer spaniel with floppy ears, playing with a toy while standing beside a small pile of ivory tusks.

“They’ve only been in operation since last year,” he said, “but so far they’ve been a great success. Four to six busts a month, which results in seizures worth millions of dollars.”

“That’s good news,” Mike said.

“Yes, although it has pushed the traffickers in another direction,” Liebman said. “One that is much harder to control.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The illegal trade has shifted its modus operandi to moving cargo by boats instead of planes,” he said. “The entire eastern coastline of Africa—and its ports—now houses the points of departure for rhino horns and ivory tusks and all else. The massive ports—like Mombasa—are far larger and much harder to patrol than the airports. A handful of spaniels can’t get the job done.”

“So ships?” Mike said. “Not planes.”

“Container ships.”

“Carrying what?”

“Meant to be carrying cargo of all kinds, across the Indian Ocean,” Liebman said, “to Asia.”

“Then the ivory, or whatever, is buried in the cargo.”

“The ivory, Detective Chapman, is packed in with the heroin, which is why wildlife trafficking has become such an integral part of organized crime operations,” Liebman said. “We’ve all been drawn into the heart of darkness—into Africa’s heroin highway.”





TWENTY-SEVEN


“Heroin and Africa?” Mike asked. “That doesn’t make sense. That’s not where the dope comes from.”

“Perfect sense, actually,” Liebman said. “With all the conflict surrounding Afghanistan—the source location you’re thinking of—the preferred route for getting pure heroin to Europe, and even to America, is through East Africa.”

“Really?”

“We’ve learned, at our organization, that more than seventy thousand kilograms a year are smuggled through that region—the southern route, as it’s now known,” he said. “The drug lords capitalize on nonexistent security in many of the poorest regions on the African continent, and on porous borders through the countries there as well.”

“What about at sea?” I asked. “What happens when these shipments are intercepted?”

“Nothing at all,” Liebman said, replacing the photograph and picking up the carved monkey again. “Seizures at an airport can be prosecuted, as you know. But when the maritime patrols intercept drugs or even arms in international waters, they can’t even detain the smugglers.”

“What do they do to them?”

“Simply dump the contraband at sea, Ms. Cooper, and let the criminals sail away.”

“That’s insane,” I said.

“We know that,” Liebman said. “It’s part of a treaty signed by thirty countries in Africa, Europe, and Asia.”

Liebman stood up and walked to the office door. Attached to the back of it—facing us—was a map of the Eastern Hemisphere.

With his long, thin finger, Dr. Liebman traced a line from Mombasa across the Indian Ocean. His first stop was the Arabian Peninsula. He jabbed Dubai with his forefinger.

“It all depends on demand, like I say. The crown prince of Dubai likes to post photos of himself on Instagram, holding his pet lion.”

“Pet?” I asked.

“Exotic pets are a huge status symbol in the Emirates, Ms. Cooper. A rare white lion—the kind the prince favors—might set him back one hundred thousand dollars,” Liebman said. “It’s the favorite trading place for cheetahs, too.”

“The Egyptian pharaohs kept cheetahs as pets,” Mike said. “Makes me crazy to think of the fastest land animal on earth kept on a leash.”

“Oh, they’re driven around in Bentley convertibles or on the front of a speedboat, too,” Liebman said sarcastically. “Not a bad life, unless you understand that their habitat loss has nearly driven them to extinction.”

“How do they get to the boats?” I asked.

“They’re smuggled through the war zones of Somalia across the sea to Yemen—where cheetahs are the least of anyone’s problems—and on to the oil-rich countries of the UAE, for a king’s ransom.”

“The animal that needs space to run,” Mike said, “winds up in a cage in a royal palace.”

“So I must ask you,” Liebman said, “did Paul Battaglia have enemies in any of the Arabian countries?”

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