Baksheesh (Bribes)

by D S Kane

  He might try going into an alleyway or down into an underground garage. Was there enough distance between him and the Zil to keep them from seeing where he’d disappeared to?

  The weapons were worth hundreds of thousands in US dollar. Losing the shipment would mark him for death with his own gang members. It would also leave him penniless even if he managed to escape. He expected to make about five percent of the value in pure profit.

  He took a skidding turn into an alleyway, turning off his headlights as he finished the corner. Then he abruptly turned right and found another alleyway between two underground garages. He stopped the bus and grabbed a grenade launcher from one of the cases he’d opened during his inspection of the arms shipment.

  He exited the car and ran to the alleyway entrance where he prepared to meet the Zil that had doggedly followed him.

  He gently lowered his aging body into the snow until he was prone, with the launcher pointed down the street. He waited patiently, listening for the Zil’s characteristic tinny engine. The noise got louder. The Zil turned the corner and slowly moved toward him down the icy alleyway.

  The car abruptly skidded to a stop. Its rear doors flung open and two men burst outside into the frigid night. They scanned the alley and one pointed at the spot where he waited. They must have detected him, a dark shadow on the gray snow in the alley. He aimed the grenade launcher and gently pressed the trigger. It erupted, spitting flame and emitting a grenade that blew its way down the alleyway. He saw the car explode in a red ball of flame, and grinned with gratitude. Certain what would have become of him if he’d missed, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Misha picked himself up and went back to the bus, replacing the grenade launcher in its case. He drew his Kalashnikov AK-74 automatic out of his shoulder holster. Cautiously, he advanced on the smoking debris of the twenty-year-old Zil. Its doors had blown off. The two men he saw trying to leave the car both lay sprawled on the road. He recognized the first one as a member of a competing mob, still alive but gasping for breath. There was blood seeping out of his mouth. Misha said, “Do svidaniya, moy drug,” and put a single bullet between the man’s eyes. The other man was already dead. Misha fished the ID from the dead man’s wallet. He examined it and cursed. The man was a Moscow city police detective.

  Misha was unable to focus, his thoughts driven in many directions at once. He hadn’t felt this disheartened since he’d been abandoned when the KGB was disbanded. When he became a “merchant,” trading goods and services between gangs was fun. He loved the thrill of capitalism and wasn’t afraid of losing money occasionally. And he enjoyed working the fringes of society. But this was his largest single transaction ever, and he knew that he wouldn’t be able to cover it from his own funds if the deal went south. Worse, even if he wasn’t identified as the murderer of the police detective, he knew that he’d certainly be hunted by the rival gang whose thugs had cooperated with the police.

  His worst fear had always been that he would be detected, tracked, and assassinated, either by a gang or by the police.

  He suddenly felt very cold and dusted the snow off his coat. He couldn’t return to his apartment. Ever. He wondered why a competing mob was working with the police. He’d have to have to leave Russia tonight. But first, he’d need to deliver the weapons and get paid. The cash would fund his exit

  He pushed himself behind the wheel of the bus and tried starting the engine. It coughed and sputtered but didn’t catch. He stopped reacting to his situation and concentrated, slowly regaining focus. He tried once more to start the engine, this time focusing on the sounds that the engine made. On the fourth attempt in under two minutes, the engine turned over and he cranked the engine hard before backing out of the alleyway. Driving to the intersection very slowly, he carefully watched to see if there were other police cars waiting before he turned the corner. Breathing a sigh of relief, he headed for the highway.

  In just under an hour, he was at the gate to the warehouse run by his client gang. The guard asked him, “Any trouble?”

  Misha replied, “Nyet. Very quiet tonight.” He drove the bus into the warehouse where two gang members emerged from the back room, alerted by the guard. Together, they unloaded the weapons, stacking the unopened crates by the wall.

  When they unpacked and opened the small crate, Misha noticed two aluminum boxes with carrying handles, looking similar to suitcases. They were the most expensive items in this delivery, and the sources of his greatest profit ever.

  He examined the cases, wondering whether they contained bio weapons or suitcase nukes.

  But before he could approach the cases to open the latches and peek inside, one of the gang members marched to the van and motioned for him to follow.

  The gang member in charge of the warehouse touched the hot barrel of the used grenade launcher in the last carton. “What about this one? Did you use it to light up something?”

  Misha smiled. “Just testing to see if they work. I selected this one at random. They work. They all work, as usual.” In place of a reply, one of the gang members handed him a small paper bag. He opened it and counted the money inside: $142,000 in US dollars. He said, “Thanks for your business” and got into the bus.

  In the warm warehouse, the engine started easily and he drove out past the guard. He stopped the bus several blocks away, leaving the engine running. His hands were shaking.

  He would need identity documents to exit Russia, very fast. He remembered the name of a forger in the center of the city and drove off in the direction of the woman’s little Moscow apartment.

  His life in Russia was over. Behind him, a rosy dawn crested over the snow, and opened a new day.

  * * *

  Nikita Tobelov studied the reports on his desk. He stroked the graying Van Dyke beard decorating his chin. He wondered how Kovich escaped. There’d be a news report about the gunfight soon, if they’d even had one.

  But proof that Kovich was alive was right in his hand. The invoice was signed at the point of delivery by both Kovich and one of Tobelov’s lieutenants.

  Tobelov was now the proud owner of two Cold War suitcase nukes, each capable of a very dirty ten-kiloton explosion.

  He wondered if he could squeeze the intended customer for more? Cash or favors, either would do. He’d had that exact thought a few months ago when Sashakovich purchased the subs from him and he’d reneged, telling her that he wanted over twice what he’d originally told her he’d sell them for.

  The Muslim fundamentalists would pay anything for these suitcase bombs, he was sure of it.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the number in Tehran.

  CHAPTER 9

  December 13, 10:46 a.m.

  316 Alvarado Street, Monterey, California

  Sam Tyler sat at table in the darkest alcove of the Starbucks in Monterey on Alvarado Street, a place where he felt safe. A few winter tourists came and went, but with his back to the wall near one of the exits, he wasn’t bothered by the tiny probability that something bad could happen.

  He’d plugged his laptop into a wall outlet. Since his seat was in a corner with no window nearby, no one could see what he did.

  Chain-drinking several sugar-laced coffee drinks, he was knee-deep in SafePay’s code structure now, comparing it against the specifications for bank endpoint changes that Mockingbird had delivered to him. Most of the changes were routine, and he assumed that Vice President-elect Mastoff had new banking preferences. Probably just favors owed to those banks for campaign contributions. And yet, there were several interesting changes that he couldn’t understand. Why were some of the endpoints for bank accounts in northeastern Russia, at the saltwater port of Vladivostok at the end of the Trans-Siberian Railway?

  But his question was a momentary shift in focus. He immediately returned to the endpoint changes. Over two hundred of them. It would take almost two days to complete, and at his per-hour rate of five hundred dollars, that meant that he’d clear eight thousand dollars for two sick days off h
is real job as a systems network manager for a small California bank.

  * * *

  Cassie returned to the office in Washington for the first time since being wounded. By the time she reached her desk she felt exhausted. Sipping coffee through a straw failed to yield the energy she needed. Her head fell into her hands. She sniffed the coffee, but instead of feeling invigorated, it left her nauseated. Finally, she walked to the office door and shut it, returning to her chair. She closed her eyes. Just for a few seconds, maybe a minute. And fell asleep. She woke to a knock on the door. She forced her eyes open. “Come.”

  William Wing smiled through the open door. “Hey, Cassie, good to see you back. Uh, you don’t look so good. Kinda pasty at the edges.”

  She arranged a smile on her face. Her voice was a husky whisper. “Come in, William. Take a seat. Tell me what’s happening here.”

  “Three things. I gave Ann her first lesson on computer networking security before she left on her Boston trip. She’s a natural. Picked up everything I taught her and went past my instructions. She’s a very impressive talent. And, next, we found something that will interest you. Possibly a new form of intelligence transport. And third, there’s someone here to see you. Someone I’ve never seen before, but he says he knows you. Which do you want first?”

  “First, thanks for teaching Ann. And please keep it up. So she’s got an aptitude for computers. Neat. Ah, give me the intel. What did you find and why is it interesting?”

  Wing smiled so wide she could see his recent dental work. “I found a dead drop nested deep within an online computer game. Interested?”

  * * *

  William Wing sat at his desk, his fingers furiously pounding the keyboard to complete his research. On the screen were over fifty different avatars he’d created. He began clicking at them and the piece of computer code he developed started moving each one off his screen and into the game. He watched them all in separate windows, following the Muslim fundamentalist avatars he’d decreed to be his friends, wherever they went.

  He’d been at it for a solid day and a night without any sleep. He had a bit of stubble growing on his face, and the light over his head reflected his visage back as the screen shifted scenes. He chuckled, seeing how unbecoming the patchwork of beard was on his face.

  The pace of events kept him from leaving to visit the restroom for the last four hours. It was dizzying and he could feel a headache growing behind his eyes. Damn! It was too much for one person.

  No doubt about it. He needed additional staff. Either that or lose his sanity. He opened his email program and sent Cassie a terse email requesting she hire three more bodies. Then back to following the avatars.

  It was over twenty minutes before her reply arrived.

  William—

  Go ahead and find staff. Have them vetted by Judy and then consult me before making any offers.

  —Cassie

  Wing frowned as he read the screen. More work! He needed staff to take work off his shoulders, and the time it took for him to find and hire them meant his workload would increase. Double damn!

  He headed for the alt.hackers binary newsgroup and posted a message. It was cryptic enough so that only hackers would understand it:

  Bored? Got stuff that might help. It’s a golden path. If you know CryptoMonger then you know how. Your future depends.

  It took less than an hour before he started receiving private replies. William created and opened a folder on his computer called “candidates.doc” and began adding and editing its contents. Several were new additions, possibly untrustworthy, but he’d kept their records and now, he added some notes. He continued working on the Alternate Identity Project while he accumulated candidates. At this rate, in less than two days he’d accumulate enough folks to find a decent selection of hackers who could fill all three positions. He sent Cassie an email marked “URGENT—Need for Staff—Candidates attached.” He included seven résumés out of the forty-seven he’d saved.

  Cassie responded, setting a meeting with him for ten minutes after he sent the email.

  He almost sprinted to her office and knocked on the closed door. Without waiting, he opened it. “Ready? Oh, and you look much better. Almost human.”

  She faced him and smiled. Her voice sounded like paper being slowly torn. “Still don’t have much stamina. It’s coming back slowly. I can do half a day, eat a quick bite, nap for an hour and do the remainder of the day. Six hours is my limit. So, I’ve read through your list. The top three on your list are the best. I approve. Hire them ASAP. One thing, though. The top candidate’s nickname. Elizabeth “Butterfly” Brown. What’s “Butterfly” mean?”

  Wing’s grin split his face. “She’s known as ‘Betsy the Butterfly.’ Or ‘Butterfly Brown.’ No one knows why but I think it has to do with a hacking procedure she concocted that a few people have picked up on. It’s the trick I used to decrypt the Houmaz files you sent me during the nuclear bomb threat in Washington. Uh, Cassie, she was once my girlfriend. We parted about a year ago, but we’re still friends.”

  Cassie nodded. “No problem. Okay. Go get them.”

  William smiled and sauntered back toward his office. He stopped at the reception desk and smiled at Judy Hernandez. “Hey! How are you today?”

  Judy’s expression changed immediately. She seemed to be filled with suspicion. “I know that look. You want a favor.”

  Wing smiled. “No. Well, maybe. Cassie told me to have you vet some job candidates before I schedule any interviews. The top five ought to net me three who are hirable. But, listen, the one I want most is this one. Brown. If you find anything out about her that might cause you concern, talk to me before you go running to Cassie. Okay?”

  Judy shook her head. “Jeez. I already have myself scheduled to oblivion.” She looked at him, then down the hall toward Cassie’s corner office. “Okay. Guess I have no choice. It’ll take me most of the rest of this afternoon. I’ll send you an email before I talk with Cassie.”

  He nodded. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  * * *

  Cassie was awash with staffing requests: Wing’s three, and quite a few from Shimmel. She pulled the staffing folder from her desk drawer and took a sip of coffee through a straw. She reviewed her available manpower and noted that she needed to replace the three mercenaries who had died saving her life during the successful attempt to rescue her from the contract hitters in Maui two months ago. Avram Shimmel left her an email requesting this as “URGENT,” just as William had. Shimmel listed five candidates to choose from. Once again she picked the top three, and once again, the best one was listed first on Shimmel’s list.

  And, once again, she had a question: “What’s he want with a poisoner?” She scanned the résumé for details. The man’s name was Simon Pascal, born in Côte d’Azur, near Gascony, in southwest France. Worked as a chef in several small restaurants, before his wife died in the Al Qaeda explosions in Madrid when they were on holiday. He’d traveled to Afghanistan where he was convicted of poisoning one of the Al Qaeda leaders. Sentenced to a public beheading just before the United States evicted the Taliban many years in the past. Escaped and became a merc. Over twenty confirmed kills, all in close combat, all in the Middle East. Not to mention several other terrorist poisonings. Oh, and here was the gem: he was taught by Lester Dushov at Ness Ziona during an extended assignment as a stringer for Mossad.

  She smiled. If this was what Avram wanted, well… She’d set up the appointment for him. Avram was scheduled to return in two days. Give him one day to accommodate his jet lag. Say, the afternoon of December 15?

  * * *

  Wing had Judy do all the dirty work acquiring his three new staff members. He brought her a box of chocolate and twelve long-stem roses but she looked daggers at him when he gave them to her. “Yeah” was all she said as she turned away and returned to her desk.

  William had them all scheduled for interviews on the same afternoon. He met with each as they showed up. Betsy “the Butterf
ly” Brown was the first one; he needed her intellect and creativity as soon as possible. Yesterday would have been too late.

  When Judy showed Brown into Wing’s office, he rose and shook her hand. “A pleasure to see you again.”

  “Same.” Her brown eyes remained riveted on him, as if she was examining some dangerous viper. A thin, tiny woman with raven features, a long hooked nose, and black short hair, she wasn’t quite five feet tall and less than ninety pounds. She wore no make-up. She nearly snarled, saying, “It’s been over a year since you disappeared from my life. Last I heard, you were hacking IE.”

  Industrial Espionage had been a very profitable hobby for Wing. He nodded. She wasn’t pretty, but had a predatory grin he found attractive. They were a matched pair, neither was good looking and neither saw physical attributes as the other’s compelling element. He sensed her competitiveness. It was all about intelligence, he thought. And curiosity, too. “What convinced you to come in from the cold?”

  She finally unlocked her eyes from his and looked around the office. There was nothing here to indicate what Wing did or how he was driven. “So, William, what awaits me if I join Swiftshadow?”

  “We need someone with your talent. I need my successor. You could be the one.”

  She looked around again, pivoting her hips to take in everything there. “No. Not yet. Tell me what would I be doing? First assignment?”

  How much should he tell her before she even agreed to work for him? He hesitated and she got up.

  From the doorway, she nodded. “I understand. Until I agree that I’m staying here, you aren’t telling me anything. But, William, I’m too good to let get away. I already know what you’re doing and what you need. Believe me, I’m very good at what I do. Took me about ten minutes last night, hacking into your Swiftshadow Group.” She smiled. “You’re looking for help finding the folks using Alternate Existence as a dead drop. Right?”