Baksheesh (Bribes)

by D S Kane

  What about buying help? He’d read about Blackwater, but they were tied into the Fed. What about a different firm? Was there one that had no fondness for his country’s policies? He pulled his cellphone from his suit pocket and googled “mercenaries.”

  He found a reference that looked promising and clicked on the site at http://www.globalsecurity.org/military/world/para/mercenary.htm. It showed a list of over sixty mercenary companies. He clicked on one of the links. Many looked good but one was especially promising: http://www.beni-tal.co.il/ from Israel. He viewed their page but then realized that he might have to go there to get their help. No, local would be safer and faster.

  At the bottom of the page listing the merc companies was a reference to The Swiftshadow Group, based in Washington. He remembered their CEO, a woman named Sashakovich. But, according to the news, she was dead now from a head shot. Murdered by some Arab guy. Didn’t the company have a love-hate relationship with the Fed?

  He found himself reacting before he’d even thought about it. Their website showed they had a hacker function as well as a paramilitary force. Yes, they’d be perfect. Their Director of Computer Hacking was William Wing. His picture showed glasses so thick it made his eyes look like they were inside tiny fish bowls. He felt instant trust from this fellow geek. Below his brief biography was an email address.

  Tyler sent Wing an email:

  I need immediate help. I’m an individual, not a government. I know intel that seems to have me marked for death. And I have no cash. Can we work out some arrangement where I work for you to pay for your protection? My expertise is in banking and financial systems and my most recent employer is the Fed. Reply ASAP, this email address.

  —Sam Tyler

  He’d need a new set of burner cells. The one he held now was traceable back to him. He reformatted memory of the cell, removed its battery, removed and crushed its microSD flash memory card and SIM card, and left the mess in a waste container near one of the other fast food places in the mall. He walked toward one of the cellphone providers located in the mall.

  * * *

  William Wing was sitting at his computer when it beeped, signaling an incoming email. His fingers were on automatic pilot, flying from his research to his inbox, and in under a second his eyebrows arched as he read Sam Tyler’s message. His reply took under thirty seconds to key and send:

  Tyler—

  We can help you. Travel in disguise. Use assumed names. Go by bus to Washington. Use a pay phone at Union Station to alert me when you arrive. I’ll send a protection team to collect you. By the time you arrive Swiftshadow will have a safe house ready. Eager to hear what you know.

  —William Wing

  He raced from his office to Cassie’s. “Guess what just happened?”

  Her head lifted from her arms. “What?”

  “I think we just got a break on SafePay. Not sure yet and it’ll take a week. But I have a feeling the email I copied you on leads to a really big clue.”

  * * *

  Guarded by Michael Drapoff, the large middle-aged man with greasy dark hair sat heavy in a reception chair by Judy’s desk. His face was covered in three days of reddish-gray beard, and he flinched with every noise in the office. The man turned the pages of Soldier of Fortune magazine. He mouthed the English words printed in a story on career opportunities in Central Africa. A broad grin spread on his face as he wormed his way through the article. Turning the page, he stared at an advertisement. He mumbled, “What is this new howitzer? Is not like ones we developed before fall of SU.” Drapoff didn’t answer, keeping his right hand on the modified Ruger semiautomatic in his shoulder holster.

  * * *

  As William left Cassie’s office, her landline rang. Judy Hernandez. Cassie picked it up to keep the noise from exacerbating her budding headache.

  Judy’s voice was pure sunshine, sounding as if she was beaming a hello. “Morning, Cassie. We have a guest? He won’t tell us who he is, but he’s unarmed. Michael’s watching.”

  Cassie pulled the receiver a bit away from her ear. “I’m too tired to move.” She remembered her race to the submarine from Maui when assassins attacked her at the hotel where she was vacationing. She felt more exhausted now. Was this person a leftover from the Boston Massacre? “Have Michael bring him in, and have him point his weapon at the man’s head from a distance of about three feet. No chances on this one.”

  Seconds later her door opened again. Cassie looked up and smiled. “What a surprise! Uncle Misha. What are you doing in Washington?” Then, as an afterthought, “Michael, don’t you remember him? You met him at my parents’ house in Half Moon Bay about five months ago.”

  Drapoff took a closer look. “I guess, yes. The beard confused me. Want me to stay?”

  “No, he’s harmless. Wait outside, please.” As the door closed, she pointed to a seat. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Cassie, what happen to face? Looks like medium-range bullet wound recently repaired.” When she nodded, he continued as if he hoped she wouldn’t lose interest. “I want job with your esteemed company. Russia not any longer good for me.”

  A bit of energy surged into her unexpectedly and she felt whole for the first time since being shot. “What happened to you there?”

  He shook his head, the smile vanishing, replaced by a sneer. “Tobelov. I think he wants me dead after you stole two of his submarines. The money we negotiated for sale wasn’t enough for the greedy bastard and he worked deal with Moscow police and rival gang to terminate me. Vengeance. Not sure, of course, but that’s what I think.”

  Cassie pulled up a screen on her desktop computer. The roster listed all her personnel, broken out by skills within divisions. The two divisions, Mercenary Operations and Hacker Operations, each had multiple openings, and she sorely needed to fill them.

  She faced him, thinking. There never had been anyone in the organization responsible for acquisition of supplies and weapons. Her palms came together under her chin as she thought, brows crinkled in waves on her forehead. “My most immediate need is something you could field perfectly, but it would be rote work, pretty dull stuff. Interested?”

  “Da. I am now homeless and jobless. When you realize the true nature of my skills, you will find better ways to use them. Until then, da.”

  “You’re now Director of Weapons and Materiel Acquisition.” She stood and held out her hand, but before he could rise to shake it, she was overcome with dizziness. She sat back down again. And rose more slowly. They shook. Cassie sat back again and spoke into the phone. “Judy, please find Misha Kovich an office with a desk, a phone line and a computer. Show him around. He’ll be joining our permanent staff.”

  As he left her office, she closed her eyes until the room stopped spinning.

  * * *

  Judy Hernandez’s phone buzzed on the reception desk. She called out “Swiftshadow Group. How can I help you?”

  “My name is April O’Toole. I’m an investigative reporter working on a story about the President’s upcoming trial for treason. I understand your deceased founder, Cassandra Sashakovich, was the one who originally discovered what he was doing. Listen, I talked to her when she was being hunted in Maui. She said she’d help. So, is there anyone there who can enlighten me further? Anyone I can talk with who will go on record?”

  Hernandez’s jaw went slack and she found herself unable to make a sound.

  “Hello?”

  “Uh, well, uh, can I please place you on hold for a bit? I’ll try to find out who I should direct your call to. Okay?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Hernandez rose from her seat and walked the fifteen steps to Shimmel’s office. He’d arrived back earlier that day and was still hung over with jet lag. “Uh, General, I have someone on the line. I think you’re the one who can best handle this. A reporter, wanting info on the Ben-Levy leaks.” When Avram’s brows rose in panic, she added, “Her name is April O’Toole and she thinks Cassie is dead.”

  He
drew himself erect and nodded. “Yah, send me the call on my landline.” In less than five seconds, there was a beep from his phone and he picked up the receiver. “Avram Shimmel.”

  The voice he heard was distinctly sultry for a reporter. But not intentionally so, more the tone of someone who loved her work. “Mr. Shimmel, I’m a reporter. April O’Toole. I was the one who discovered just how deep the knowledge of your deceased founder actually went. I received copies of the evidence that someone else sent to the Congressional Oversight Committee. Congressman Thomas Dillworthy got them and is bringing and investigating the charges.”

  “Ach, yes, Ms. O’Toole, I understand. But what are you asking of me and Swiftshadow?”

  There was a moment of silence and Shimmel could hear her take and exhale a deep breath. “I know what, when, where, and how. But I don’t know why. Specifically, the what is that the government was funding terrorism. The when started with the President’s administration. Where is someone in the West Wing. And how, well, how is the most interesting part so far. How is a funds-transfer system called SafePay. And that’s where Cassandra Sashakovich came into the picture. What I’ve heard is she was offered the opportunity to help work on that system. My sources tell me SafePay took tiny amounts of cash out of the tax-collection system and sent them to an account somewhere to pay for acts of terrorism by jihadists. But none of that answers the why. Why was the government funding terrorism?”

  “Who are your sources, Ms. O’Toole?”

  “I never give up my sources, sir. What I still don’t know is why the President risked his legacy and his freedom, maybe even his life. I was hoping you could help me here. Did Ms. Sashakovich discover why the administration funded terrorism before her untimely death?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know. But I may be able to connect you with someone else who could. Give me your contact information and I’ll forward it on.”

  “Uh, sure, I guess.”

  When he finished jotting the intel on a pad, he terminated the conversation and called William Wing’s extension.

  CHAPTER 12

  December 23, 10:46 a.m.

  The Swiftshadow Group headquarters,

  2099 K Street NW, Washington, DC

  Judy Hernandez knocked on William’s closed office door. Wing yelled, “Enter,” and looked up from one of the three computer screens that crowded his desktop. “Hi, Judy. Whazzup?”

  “There’s someone here to see you. A very strange person. He—I think it’s a “he”—says his name is Sam Tyler. But, well, he’s wearing a dress. And carrying a blonde wig. Very strange. What do you want me to do?”

  Wing smiled, then his face split wide into a grin and he began laughing uncontrollably. It went on for over a minute until he winced and quieted. “Please show him in. I’ve been expecting him. And please get Butterfly Brown in here to meet with Tyler.”

  She nodded. “Sure.” And with that, she was gone, replaced in seconds by a tall, willowy man whose gender wasn’t in doubt despite his flowery dress.

  Wing’s jaw dropped. “Wow! Well done, Mr. Tyler. Great disguise.” He extended his hand.

  Tyler shook it. When Wing pointed to one of the two office chairs across from his desk, Tyler sat. His jaw opened and he started to speak when there was a knock against Wing’s door frame.

  “Hi, Mr. Tyler. I’m the Butterfly.”

  Tyler’s brows arched. “What? You’re a butterfly?”

  “No. I’m Betsy the Butterfly Brown.” She frowned. “I guess you’re not a hacker or you’d have heard of me.” She sat in the chair next to him, clearly disappointed. “William shared his intel about you with me. We’re both glad you came.”

  “What intel?”

  She grinned. “We’re hackers. We can find out anything if it’s on a computer. But there are things you know and we don’t. Specifically, the people and the facts they haven’t entered into any electronic device. Air-gapped information.”

  Wing sat silently, a smug grin on his face as he watched Tyler for the dawn of acknowledgement that never came.

  Then Tyler’s face turned a frown. “You, you can hack into the Fed?”

  Wing laughed. “Duh! Of course we can. If you didn’t know that, why did you even contact us?”

  Tyler’s head shook. “I’m desperate. I thought that between my computer expertise and yours, maybe we could fix my problem. And your mercenaries could protect me from the Fed.”

  The Butterfly nodded. “Yeah. Of course we can, but we’re a bit in front of you. We’re offering you more for less, so don’t complain.”

  Wing said, “Start by telling us what your role was and how SafePay was designed. Specifically the security measures employed by the system to hide itself from ROW.”

  “What’s ROW?”

  “Rest of the world,” offered Brown.

  “Okay.” Tyler handed a thumb-drive to Wing. “My call sign is Midnight Rider. On the drive are my work products and emails between me and my handlers. Also an MP3 file recording. A conversation with my new handler. For two years I worked with a man whose call sign was Stamler. But for the last month it’s been a woman with Mockingbird as her call sign. As you delve through the documents, you’ll see references to both of them. Not many. They hate it when their call signs are embedded in emails or show up as the ‘From’ or ‘To’ party.”

  Brown held up her hand. “Okay, okay. We’ll scan the MP3, the emails, and other documents on the drive. Are the endpoint bank accounts identified in the docs?”

  Tyler nodded. “Absolutely. They had me update them two weeks ago.”

  William smiled back. “Well, that’s most of what we need. Butterfly, could you get this going?” He handed her the thumb-drive and she left Wing’s office. “We have a safe house ready and waiting for you. I’ll have a team of mercs escort you there. Three will stay with you as bodyguards.”

  Tyler nodded, rising from his seat.

  * * *

  Tobelov wondered how to get the man’s attention. His ultimate target wouldn’t spend any time talking to Nikita if he even thought he was head of the Russian mafiya’s Eastern Region. Tobelov could try to convince the man’s handlers that he was a Russian diplomat. Maybe it would work. And if he could hold the man’s interest for even one minute, that might be enough for him to make his proposal.

  His brother had told him where the next President of the United States resided until his inauguration. Tobelov picked up the phone.

  * * *

  Amos Mastoff looked at the calendar on the hotel suite’s desk. One more month and he’d hold the capital of the planet in his hand. Just enough time to complete his plan. He’d need to appoint a Vice President. And he needed to meet with Greenfield before he had the man executed. Who could he count on to do the job? Who would he choose to replace the man? Someone without a track record, to be sure.

  A draft of his inaugural address lay on his desk. So much to do. But there was one thing that could wait no longer. Someone named Tobelov had called while he was in the shower. The message said he was speaking on behalf of the President of Russia. Now he’d return the call, but not to Tobelov. To the Russian leader…

  While unsure if this was just a friendly introduction, something told him it was more. He’d want to know what this was all about before he traveled to Washington to meet with Greenfield.

  A few minutes later, Mastoff swallowed hard, holding the phone. “Mr. President, this is Amos Mastoff, Vice President-elect of the United States.”

  There was the barest trace of an accent in the man’s voice. “Yes, yes. I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance. So sorry about the President-elect’s fate. We will surely have to meet after your inauguration.”

  “Of course, Vladimir. May I call you Vladimir?”

  “Da. And may I call you Amos?”

  “Of course.” He almost choked on the words. The Russian President was an acknowledged atheist. Mastoff couldn’t believe he’d be forced to work with a man who was less than a pagan. “Is
there anything I can do for you, or is this just an introductory call?”

  “Just congratulations on your election.”

  It was now or never. Mastoff took his time, carefully measuring out every word. “Yes. Thanks. Uh, there is something I’d like to speak with you about.” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I’m told that you have a new nuclear non-proliferation act to propose. Who are the additional parties to be included?” He prayed he’d get the answer he needed.

  “We are adding Russian corporations that currently warehouse the warheads. Also additional devices, including some nearly ancient suitcase nuclear devices.”

  He grinned. “Ah, very interesting. Can you give me the contact information for the heads of the Russian corporations? I’ll hand the list off to my chief of staff to set up meetings between one of our diplomats and your folks.” Yes, it might work. He prayed it would. Of course, his chief of staff could do more than just set up appointments. For this task, his chief was the head of the intelligence agency. Gilbert Greenfield.

  “But of course. And I can have one of my senior staff handle arrangements on our side. His name is Nikita Tobelov.”

  Mastoff almost dropped the phone. He’d already received a call from Tobelov. There was something wrong here. But there was nothing he could do now to find out more. “Good, Vladimir. And thanks. We’ll be in touch soon. Do svidaniya.”

  * * *

  Gilbert Greenfield’s office phone rang and his assistant picked up. He could hear their conversation and drew himself erect in preparation for the inevitable.

  His phone buzzed and he picked up the receiver.

  “Director Greenfield, it’s the, uh, the…”

  “Yes, Janet, I overheard. Mastoff. Send the call to my secure Bug-Lok cellphone.” He scowled as he plucked his cell from his pocket. Then he practiced a smile to produce the friendly tone he hoped he’d have until the new President was sworn in and he was relieved from his job heading the agency. “How can I help, Mr. Vice President-elect?” He had to spit out the man’s title, and it left a bitter taste in his mouth.