The Spy Devils

by Joe Goldberg

  “That is the good news?” Li Chu said, applying a little more pressure on the trigger.

  “Not at all, but you had to expect this, of course.” He kept his eyes on Li Chu. “You can lower your weapon.”

  Chen saw the box of cake and made an approving face. He reached down, picked up the last piece, and took a bite. He nodded, then waved the cake in front of him. “A little dry, but still delicious.” He set the remaining cake back in the box.

  Li Chu kept his face calm, and his gun raised.

  “I still have not heard the good news.”

  “Oh, yes. I spoke personally with the president, who agreed with me that you should not be recalled to Beijing. He continues to see value in your work silencing the enemies of China, as I do. The Standing Committee is not aware of it, but he has overruled their decision. He and I have other plans for you and the remaining members of your group.”

  “I have my own mission.”

  “The Spy Devils. Yes, I spoke to the president about that. He would also like them eliminated. Teach the American CIA a lesson, too.”

  Li Chu lowered his gun, but he didn’t tuck it back in his waistband. He walked toward the table, picked up the beer, finished off the contents, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. His facial expressions changed as his mind ran the thought process.

  Is this real? He could be lying, but why? I need to get the Spy Devils. This might be my only chance. If he is lying, I will kill him.

  “What do you need?”

  “I need you in Ukraine.”

  “Ukraine? Why would we go to Ukraine?”

  “There has been an incident. Two MSS officers have been killed. They were retrieving an important piece of equipment—a case—from an American business asset. They were successful, we believe, but they were ambushed and killed. The equipment is lost.”

  “It is not my concern.” He walked to the window and stood to one side. The sky was turning to dusk. The lights of the city and night market were beginning to glow.

  “The Silk Road Belt relationship between China and Ukraine is very important to the president. We must establish the trade and infrastructure networks connecting Asia with Europe and Africa to offset Russian aggression. Retrieving the case increases the goodwill between our governments. It will help China.”

  “I do not care,” Li Chu said, his face emotionless, as he casually waved his gun in his hand like a baton.

  “I have reason to believe the Spy Devils are also looking for this device.”

  Li Chu pushed away from the wall and took a quick step toward Chen.

  “The Spy Devils are in Ukraine?”

  “Are, or soon will be. That is what my intelligence sources have reported. More information will be waiting for you in Kyiv.” Chen stood. He knew the discussion was over. “The emergency account remains open. And remember, you report to me. Only me.” Chen pulled an envelope from his inside suit pocket. “Here are the logistics. Get to Ukraine immediately.”

  Li Chu’s mind was utterly fixated on revenge against the Devils. He would get his vengeance.

  “I will need more men,” Li Chu said.

  “I can arrange that.” Chen extended his arm. They shook hands.

  “Yes, thank you, sir.” Li Chu bowed and helped the man unlock the doors.

  “Good luck with this mission,” Chen said as Li Chu closed and re-latched the door.

  This is for me. My mission, not yours. I will kill the Devil.

  Two cars pulled up on the street outside the apartment. A guard opened the back door of the second car. Chen got in.

  Chen understood why Li Chu didn’t care about China’s initiatives. He didn’t care either. Helping China had never interested Chen. In fact, he joined the MSS specifically to do the opposite.

  It started as a youth in the 1960s during the last horrible days of Mao’s Cultural Revolution. In 1989, when the army cracked down on the Tiananmen pro-democracy protests, he was a low-level officer in the MSS. That was when his eyes fully opened to a country built for the suppression of political and religious freedom.

  It took planning, perseverance, and two anxious years of frustration, but Chen finally convinced an American intelligence officer that he wanted to spy against his country. Then another year of vetting and polygraphs followed. Finally, Chen became a double agent on behalf of the United States.

  More years followed as he rose through the hierarchy of the MSS.

  Now, as Deputy Minister, Chen was one major intelligence achievement and political maneuver away from being appointed The Minister of State Security. He needed Li Chu operational to complete his part of the deal to get the case. If it cost Li Chu and the rest of Bureau X their lives, that was acceptable. The other side was risking more—much more.

  He dialed his mobile phone and waited.

  “Yes?” answered a voice with a New England accent.

  “He is going.”

  “Good. Does he know they are there?” May Currier asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. Move to the next phase.”

  “You know he is very upset,” Chen said. “This could be very hazardous for all involved—and you agree?”

  “Yes,” she answered after a millisecond of hesitation. “Yes, I do.”

  28

  Quadrangle Investment Group, LLC

  Kirkwood Industries

  Over the months, George MacLean convinced himself he would stop spying for Chen and the Chinese.

  The core of his successful espionage for China was built upon MacLean introducing Kirkwood officials to Mourning Dove Investments as a means to help Kirkwood with new business. Mourning Dove was one in a matrix of Chinese government-backed entities that used seed money, startup, early-stage, buyouts, and growth capital investments to penetrate markets worldwide.

  Kirkwood International Industries became a valued customer.

  Mourning Dove Investment’s direct connection to the Chinese government was an open secret. By extension, that meant Chinese intelligence services were active in its business operations as well—and the business of its partners.

  Sam Kirkwood and the senior leadership liked the idea of Mourning Dove playing a lead role in Kirkwood’s business expansion. It immediately paid dividends to the corporate bottom line. With Mourning Dove acting as lead investor, the company made inroads into the African and South American markets. New revenues quickly flowed into Kirkwood.

  The stress and guilt of being a traitor kept building in his substantial gut. Six months in a white-collar prison started to look better than a lifetime of spying. But the money issue could not be ignored. With two expensive ex-wives to pay off monthly to finance their wish to never see him again, mounting debt, and razor-thin credit lines, he was up against the wall. MacLean tried more than once to kick his gambling habit, but it never worked. Not even close.

  He was trying to also kick the habit of the payments from Chen, which, if he included some extras provided for good work, were totaling nearly half a million dollars. Tax-free. On top of his real salary and perks, it had been a good deal. He was as addicted to the Chinese money as he was to the poker tables.

  When the chance to cut ties with the Chinese landed on his desk, he couldn’t believe his luck.

  It was almost too easy.

  “We have been approached by a company for the purchase of a nationwide KirkComm2400 secure industrial communication system. Top-end stuff,” Jessup, the Chief Legal Officer, started with all the excitement of someone reading the instructions on the side of a shampoo bottle. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. “It would be the largest single contract in Kirkwood history. We need you to look it over and bring it home.”

  “Really? Who? Where?” MacLean asked.

  Tom MacBride, Chief Strategy Officer, spoke up. “LeonidOre, a mining and steel operation in Ukraine. It is owned by Viktor Bondar. They are a new client. It gives us an opening into the growing Eastern European market.”

  “I have dealt in that area a few tim
es over the years,” MacLean said. “Russians. The stans. Ukraine.”

  “Good. That will help,” Jessup said.

  “We need you to make the deal. I reiterate this is a large, actually the largest contract of our new product line and is coming at a critical time. Perhaps more accurately, it is just in time,” Jessup said with a tone of candor. “George. We need this deal. You know that better than any of us.”

  He did. To ensure success, MacLean personally led the negotiations. In a move rare for deals of this size, he agreed to vendor-finance the entire one-billion-dollar contract to secure it. Expecting the usual negotiation give and take, he was surprised and delighted when Bondar accepted his terms. MacLean completed the deal in a lightning-fast two weeks. It was a stunning victory.

  MacLean was hailed as a winner.

  As he had agreed since Chen's recruitment, he provided the Chinese every piece of information. That included the technical specifications and trade secret information of the proprietary KirkComm2400 secure communication system. He received a nice two hundred fifty thousand dollars bonus from Chen.

  What made MacLean proud was not only the completion of the deal. Or the adulation. Or personal satisfaction. Or even the big one-time bonus. No. He was smiling because a sentence written deep into the contract, added after Walter signed-off, declared that Ukraine Standard Bank would transfer a monthly “finders and facilitation fee” of one hundred fifty thousand dollars to Quadrangle Investment Group of Delaware.

  MacLean was certain no one would discover that Quadrangle Investment Group, LLC, was a shell company he formed over a year ago. Sam A. Rothstein was identified as Chair and CEO. Someone might investigate that name and discover, quite curiously, that Sam A. Rothstein was the name of Robert DeNiro’s character from the 1995 gambling crime drama Casino. If they asked him, they would learn that Casino was his favorite movie. An original poster, signed by the three stars of the film—DeNiro, Joe Pesci, Sharon Stone—hung on his office wall.

  The dark money would be transferred to Quadrangle and passed through to his personal bank account. Hidden money into a fake hidden company into his real pockets. It was a sweet deal.

  MacLean made one rare miscalculation. He did not foresee the Bondar deal immediately going sideways when LeonidOre failed to pay on Kirkwood Credit Corporation's loan. As bad as that was for Kirkwood’s financials, to MacLean, it was a disaster. It meant no monthly payment to Quadrangle Investment Group.

  His escape plan money lifeboat was sunk before it sailed.

  Then one night, Chen showed up on his doorstep. MacLean was busy resting in his lounge chair finishing off his second extra-large Big Mac meal.

  “I have a most important mission for you,” Chen said.

  MacLean wanted to barf up his dinner, but instead, he took a suck through the straw of his empty McDonald’s drink and asked, “What is it?”

  “Have you heard of a project code named Hillcrest? In your KRT division.”

  “No.” The large beverage was empty, but he kept shaking the ice as if that would free up some liquid.

  “We know very little, also. That is why we would like you to obtain the technology and bring it to us.”

  “Are you kidding? I just can’t walk in and say, ‘can I borrow that top-secret technology. I promise to bring it back.’” He sucked air through the straw again, sending a scratching plastic noise into the room.

  “Yes, you can,” Chen reminded him.

  MacLean knew Chen was right. He had the keys to the store. But Chen kept asking him to unlock more of Kirkwood’s secrets with every demand. It wasn’t the turning over of the secrets that bothered him. He just didn’t want to be ordered around anymore by the smiling little man who controlled his very existence.

  By virtue of his position, MacLean was placed on the small list of executives with access to information about Kirkwood Research Technologies. The man leading KRT, Gilbert Street, seemed amiable enough when he requested updates on contracts.

  “I suppose I can, but—”

  “Plans are in motion for you to access and deliver Hillcrest.”

  “What plans?”

  Chen explained MacLean’s role in getting and delivering Hillcrest. With each minute, the greasy hamburgers in his stomach rose, as did his resolve.

  “Those are the plans,” Chen said when he was done. “Any questions?”

  “No,” he said, jumping up and tossing the empty drink on the floor by his chair, “but this is my last job for you. I am done. Get it? Last one!”

  “As you wish.” Chen smiled, turned, and left MacLean standing alone in his house.

  29

  The Hint of Coriander

  Off the coast of Cyprus

  “Wake-up.”

  Oleksandr Bondar did not stir when the words were whispered into his ear. He couldn’t see, then he felt cloth against his face. He couldn’t move his hands, then he felt the tape pinning them uncomfortably behind him.

  “Get up!” The words sounded louder this time. They felt like they were inside his head. They were accompanied by a sharp kick in the ass.

  Oleksandr jerked, then felt a gentle rumble on the side of his face when it bounced on the floor. The rumble wasn’t the spinning, disorienting sensation that he regarded as normal after a night of partying. His head was still heavy with constant reggae and salsa beats. Even with his head covered, and his eyes closed, bright flashes of light seared into his brain.

  Since he had taken ownership of the yacht three days ago, his new possession had not left the marina. Most of his time was spent on a combination of drinking, taking drugs, and indulging in the Limassol nightlife pleasures with Katya. This particular day started and ended at the Guaba Beach Bar, just a few miles up highway B1 east of the marina.

  Oleksandr was in heaven. The beach bar was where the chic and wannabe chic went to party from early morning to the next early morning. Oleksandr did precisely that, paying out thousands a day for the fun that fueled his otherwise boring life.

  “I said, get the hell up!” Demon grabbed the listless Oleksandr and, with little effort, lifted him off the wooden floor of the main lounge and tossed him four feet onto a trash-covered white L-shaped couch. Oleksandr bounced off the overstuffed cushions and landed on the floor between the couch and a low teak rectangular coffee table.

  “Who—” A sharp sting of electricity on his shoulder made him jerk straight up, landing him back on the couch.

  “What—” Another shock sent his body rotating along the couch like a top until he hit the other arm of the furniture. His breath was short, his skin was covered in sweat, and he felt nausea in this throat. He tugged his hands, but they would not give.

  “Stop. Please.” It was a different voice. Calmer, with a tone of authority similar to the way his father always spoke to him. “Sorry about that, Oleksandr. I promise he won’t do that again. Understand?”

  Bridger directed the command over his shoulder to Demon, who was holding the long black tube of the Devil Stick tightly in his right hand.

  “Mr. Nice Guy. Mr. Pussy,” Demon said under his breath, as he positioned himself against the bulkhead. His muscles and Devil Stick were primed to strike.

  Bridger watched the rhythm of Olek’s hood billow in and out with each hyperventilating breath. Bridger decided, for no particular reason, that he didn’t like Olek.

  The feeling started after they arrived on the boat and talked to Captain Andre and the crew an hour before. They didn’t like their new boss, either.

  Bridger found Olek already unconscious and lying motionless on the floor. His shoulders were rolled forward, turning him into a human comma. He was dressed in white linen pants stained with the night’s activity. No shirt. No shoes. His face was chalky white with gray and red rings circling his eyes. Dark veins in his neck and arms stuck out in jagged patterns.

  To his utter disappointment, Bridger was dressed somewhat the same—beach bum style baggy white pants, sun-bleached blonde hair under a yellow sun viso
r, and Tommy Bahama flowery shirt.

  “Sorry about the hood and securing your hands like that. I know it is disorienting, especially in your diminished state, but it is necessary. Now Olek, can I call you Olek?” He didn’t skip a beat waiting for an answer. “Olek, we don’t have much time.” He used his nice voice. “It’s late and we have a busy day. We need to have a little chat,” Bridger said with a short tone of compassion like a father explaining to a child why it was necessary to obey and take out the trash.

  Bridger wished he could use the gas to interrogate this kid, but he couldn’t wait for it to take effect. This worried him. Speed was an enemy as dangerous as many of their targets. Speed caused hazardous patterns. Speed led to shortcuts. But the lack of time necessitated getting the intel he needed from the body crumpled in front of him right now.

  Demon had begged to stuff the kid in a shoebox and ship it to Bondar, who Bridger figured would appreciate the schooling his son received. Lucky for Oleksandr, Bridger needed him in one piece—for now.

  Bridger started wandering around the lounge. The kid had turned it into a dump. It smelled of cigarette smoke, sweat, food, and saltwater.

  “This is a nice boat you have here. The design and decorating are spectacular. It must have cost you millions. I figure fifty for the toy. Add a few more for the crew, registration, and the marina.”

  “Fuck you,” the words were slurred with contempt. Olek was trying to reposition his body on the couch.

  “Captain Andre was nice enough to provide a tour when we came on board,” Bridger continued in an informative tone. “By the way, just between you and me, the Captain is not your biggest fan. Neither is his crew. They were more than happy to help us and are nice enough to take us out on this pleasant cruise.”