Daughter of War

by Brad Taylor

  The charter for the Taskforce was limited to designated substate groups on the State Department’s Foreign Terrorist Organizations list, something that was updated continually. The Taskforce was a scalpel against such assholes, but our boundaries ended with them. We didn’t do state organizations, even if they sponsored such groups. The United States had plenty of others who did that, like the CIA and the intelligence organs of the Department of Defense.

  Which begged the question of why we were chasing a North Korean pretending to be a billionaire South Korean on the shores of the Côte d’Azur.

  4

  Yasir al-Shami wandered past the Monaco Cathedral, seeing a line of people snaking inside, and decided to take the opportunity to check his backtrail. He’d picked the outdoor eatery to highlight anyone who might be interested in him, and all he’d seen were a couple of kids and two policemen blowing whistles, but he’d learned through a lifetime of clandestine operations that just because you didn’t spot a tail didn’t mean there wasn’t one. It always paid to double-check.

  He entered the line, then began to file past the tombs of previous rulers of Monaco. The line moved slowly, voices hushed, eventually circling at the front of the cathedral and heading back out on the far side, each person stopping for an extra beat at Princess Grace’s final resting spot, allowing him to study anyone suspicious who might have entered after him. A single male, a couple that didn’t fit, anyone acting like him and showing more interest in the line of people than the graves.

  He saw nothing and exited back into the sunshine, sure he was clean.

  He continued east, casually strolling and blending in with the other pedestrians. Eventually, he reached a long five-story building that seemed to be built into the side of the cliff, the southern facade slipping two floors below the land he was on, going all the way down to the ocean. A sign out front proclaimed MUSÉE OCÉANOGRAPHIQUE DE MONACO. The national aquarium of Monaco, the oldest continually operating aquarium in the world, and one made famous by Jacques Cousteau. Yasir cared not a whit about any of that, preferring to eat his fish on a plate with some lemon instead of watching them swim, but it was the designated meeting site.

  He paid to enter, and ignored the multitude of tourists pressed against a giant Plexiglas wall, staring at the sea creatures beyond. He looked at a map hanging on a column, found an elevator, and rode it straight to the roof.

  He exited, looking for the terrace restaurant, but finding instead a thirty-foot-tall metal sculpture of a shark held up by its tail, its mouth agape with gleaming metal teeth as if it had just been caught, tourists in front taking selfies. He turned around, and saw the restaurant on the western side, tables spread out and pay telescopes being used to gaze out along the coastline.

  He scanned the crowd, not looking for a signal as he ordinarily would have done. No signal was needed. He was looking for an ethnicity. At a far table, he saw an Asian man in a suit, another standing behind him.

  He walked over and pulled out a chair, saying, “Song Hae-gook, I presume?”

  The man behind the seated Asian rapidly advanced, and the seated man held up a hand, saying, “Yes. Yasir al-Shami?”

  Yasir nodded and said, “You picked a strange place to conduct business.”

  “I portray what a rich man would do. I’m not going to meet you in a dark alley like the slime you deal with in Syria. And I can control access here.”

  Another Asian security man exited the elevator and joined them, saying something in Korean. Song nodded and said, “You’re clean.”

  Yasir realized Song had deployed countersurveillance, protecting the meeting. The fact allayed his concerns about the location, and the skills of the man across the table.

  He nodded and said, “Glad to see the professionalism.”

  Song laughed and said, “If you remember, in the past it was my people who taught Assad’s intelligence agencies how to operate. Which means we taught you.”

  A member of the elite Air Force Intelligence Directorate—which had very little to do with Air Force intelligence—Yasir had never been instructed by a North Korean, but he had no doubt that what Song said was true. That had been before his time. Before the civil war, and before North Korea’s leader, Kim Jong-un, had used two females to kill his half brother with nerve gas in Malaysia. North Korea’s intelligence agency had proved its ability to penetrate another sovereign country, plan an operation, and execute it successfully.

  Yasir said, “My leadership appreciates what you have done for them in the past, and what you’re willing to do now.”

  Song said, “Straight to business. I like that. Are you prepared to pay the agreed price?”

  Surprised, Yasir said, “No. Not here. I was told I was but the conduit. You would pass me the information I needed to meet someone else. You understand, we have to check what you’re giving us. Make sure it’s real.”

  “And how are you going to do that? Breathe it in? No. You’ll trust us. As you must.”

  “We can test it. That’s not hard at all. I have the equipment.”

  Song leaned back and said, “You can test for the agent, but how will you test for the fact that it expires? Pour it on the ground and watch the pedestrians?”

  Yasir said, “So it’s real? You’ve created Red Mercury?”

  Song laughed and said, “You Arabs. Always looking for a myth. No, it’s not the fabled ‘Red Mercury.’ It’s just a nerve agent that kills without remorse, and then kills itself.”

  Yasir let the insult slide, the prehistoric part of his brain wanting to punish the man for the insult. He said, “That’s what we want. So what’s next?”

  Song said, “Why? Why do you want that? My command wants to know.”

  “Not your business. We’ll pay what you asked, but we don’t need to tell you why.” Yasir smiled and said, “You have a problem with the sanctions. They’re crippling you. The money is all that matters.”

  Song said, “Yes, we’re looking for separate income streams, but make no mistake, we’re not willing to sell what you call ‘Red Mercury’ just because. If we were, there are a hundred terrorist groups who are willing. We chose you, and with that choice comes some forewarning. We need to know.”

  Yasir had been given clearance for the answer, but now grudgingly didn’t want to provide it. But that wouldn’t play well if he returned empty-handed. This conversation would be relayed, he was sure. He said, “We’re giving it to the White Flags. You’ve heard of them?”

  Song scoffed and said, “Yes. The rebirth of ISIS. The ones now fighting yet again in Iraq and Syria. What will that do? They’re your enemy. Are you crazy?”

  “Yes, we fight them, but we also talk to them. They are good for the regime. They make it so that we are the bastion fighting terrorism. Now that ISIS has been driven into the ground, they are becoming the main insurgent group, and if we can make them look like the terrorists they are, we solidify our credibility.”

  “You have contacts with them?”

  “Yes. We always have. They’re recruited from ISIS and the Nusra Front.”

  Song nodded, thinking through the ramifications. He said, “So you intend to use the weapon in Syria. And you don’t want to taint the ground it’s used upon because you intend to reclaim it. You only want to show the world how bad the White Flags are, using a weapon that can’t be traced back to you. Am I reading that correctly?”

  Yasir was startled at how quickly Song had ascertained their plot. Yasir himself had created the plan, and had thought it extremely clever.

  He said, “Yes. That’s what we’re going to do. The White Flags will use it against a US Special Forces outpost, killing them, and then we’ll side with the Americans, demanding to help eradicate the terrorists. The outcry in the United States will only be good for us. We are on the way to victory, but we need to get the United States to either join us or withdraw. Either way, this will w
ork.”

  “And how will you control the weapon once it’s transferred?”

  “That’s our problem, but make no mistake, the White Flags trust me. I’ve helped the man in charge in the past, when he was in the Nusra Front. They’ll do what I say. The chance to kill a bunch of US Special Forces will be too good to pass up. Those bastards have been killing the Front for years.”

  “And the Americans? How will you control them?”

  Yasir smiled and said, “I have contacts there as well.”

  Song arched an eyebrow and said, “What’s that mean?”

  Yasir said, “You only get so much intelligence. Have I passed the test?”

  Song remained silent for a moment, and Yasir knew he was considering leveraging the weapon for more information. Yasir cut it short. “That’s all I’m saying to you. Take it back to your people, or end this whole transaction. I came here to buy a weapon, and that’s it.”

  Song sat for a few more seconds, then seemed to come to a decision. He said, “You have an iPhone Ten? Yes? Like it was directed?”

  Yasir held up his cell and said, “Yes. Although I don’t know why this phone matters.”

  “Give it to me.”

  He passed it across, and Song handed it to the man behind him. Yasir watched the security man manipulate the phone, going through menu after menu, then insert a device into the lightning port. Five seconds later, he handed it back.

  Song said, “Turn on your AirPort.”

  Yasir did, looking at Song expectantly. His phone dinged, asking him if he wanted to open something with an extension he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t a picture or a document.

  Song said, “Accept it. It’s your next instructions, and it’ll be embedded in your phone. Nobody can find it.”

  Yasir did, then said, “So now what?”

  “Now you go to Switzerland. The weapon is held there. The passcode I just sent has your instructions for the next step. The men you’ll meet will match your phone with theirs. And then, of course, you must be prepared to pay.”

  Yasir said, “Switzerland?”

  “Yes. Don’t question. Just follow the instructions. We’ll leave here first. Remain in place for thirty minutes.”

  Yasir nodded, and Song stood, saying, “I believe you are what they said you’d be, but don’t mess this up. The men in Switzerland are under deep cover. You compromise them, and we’ll come find you like we did Kim Jong-nam. The only difference will be they won’t have to decontaminate your death location.”

  Yasir set the phone on the table and smiled. “Stop with the threats. You aren’t the only ones who know how to operate. I’ve lived in a cauldron for seven years with people trying to kill me. All you’ve done is eat potatoes trying to stave off a famine.”

  Song scowled at the slight, whirling around and leaving. The two men with him glared, and Yasir gave it right back.

  5

  Jennifer came out of the bathroom dressed to the nines, and, man alive, she was a heartbreaker. Wearing a slinky black dress, a string of pearls, her blond hair somehow magically being up but still spilling around her neck, she looked like she did this for a living on the pages of a fashion magazine.

  She bent over, putting on her heels and giving me a shot of her cleavage. I wasn’t sure if that was intended, but I certainly appreciated it. It had taken me about half as long to get ready, because all I had to do was put on a black suit with a black tie. No bow tie. I’m not that damn pathetic.

  She stood back up, looked at me, and said, “You sure we shouldn’t repeat the Caymans? No offense, but you don’t look like a debonair guy.”

  I glanced in the mirror of our room, wanting to see Daniel Craig or Sean Connery. While there were some hints of that, it remained only a hint. With my close-cropped brown hair and a jagged scar from a childhood accident threading its way across my brow and into my cheek, I looked more like a Serbian Mafia man. Or a pirate, which is what I preferred to think.

  I said, “No way am I missing out on the casino. It’s the heart of this whole city. No, it’s me. Not lover boy. He’s got his own mission tonight.”

  She was referring to Knuckles and a mission similar to this we’d once done in the Cayman Islands, when he’d been the one wearing the suit. Knuckles was a SEAL, with all that entailed, but he was one handsome man, standing at six foot two, with his shoulders stretching out about a foot on each side over his waist, a face that looked like some cologne model’s, and a head of black hair like a hipster guitarist.

  Then Jennifer got to the heart of it, because that was her specialty. “Is it because Carly is working with Johnny’s team?”

  Carly was a CIA case officer who Knuckles had once dated, which wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but he’d gotten her a shot at selection—with my endorsement—as only the second woman to do so, Jennifer being the first. They were no longer dating, and she’d pulled out of selection. Her choice.

  As much as I wanted to see the casino, Jennifer was correct on why I’d decided to take the role instead of giving it to Knuckles. I didn’t want any old-flame crap to squirrel up our mission. Better to give Knuckles the breaking-and-entering portion, even if I had a scar on my face.

  Even so, I fibbed a little. I said, “Johnny’s team has a completely different cover than ours. We don’t know each other. Carly working with them is irrelevant.”

  Jennifer said, “Why is she even here?”

  I looked at her, wondering if she wasn’t pissed that Carly had quit. Jennifer had put a lot of time into preparing Carly as the only female to pass Taskforce Assessment and Selection, but she had to know that selection was what it was. A cut line.

  I said, “She’s still an operations officer of the CIA Clandestine Service, assigned to the Taskforce. A case officer. She’s the liaison for that CIA guy we have to meet after tonight. The one who said he’d only talk to one of his tribe. And anyway, this mission is right up her alley.”

  Jennifer said nothing, going back to the mirror. I said, “What’s up?”

  She fiddled with her earrings and said, “I can’t believe she didn’t pass. I just wonder.”

  “Wonder if the he-man woman-haters flushed her out?”

  She turned around and said, “Yes. They tried to do it to me. I just wonder if she got on the Volkswagen bus because she wanted to.”

  Leaving selection of your own volition was called Voluntary Withdrawal, or VW. Which had been turned into slang as the Volkswagen bus. I said, “Don’t turn this into a conspiracy. Don’t put this on the guys. You didn’t quit. Selection is there for a reason, and she saw she wasn’t a good fit. She loves being a case officer, so let her do that.”

  She said, “This is going to be awkward.”

  Meaning, she’d spent so much time getting Carly ready that she was afraid to actually see her now. None of us had since she’d quit.

  I said, “No it won’t. We don’t know them. You aren’t even going to talk to her. They’re on a separate cover, with a separate mission. Full stop. Just focus on our task. The end state is recovering the data from the breach.”

  In 2014, China had penetrated the United States Office of Personnel Management, stealing the records of upward of four million government workers. In that breach were the security check documents for our most sensitive members of the US government. Called the SF86 background check, each one was a detailed dossier of anyone who had achieved a security clearance, to include everything up to top secret, sensitive compartmented information. With that data, China could penetrate a host of agents operating in cover—literally just about anyone who had been given a clearance to work clandestinely. It was a disaster of epic proportions that had barely made the news. Since then, the Taskforce had started doing their own background checks, not trusting our very own government, but the damage was done.

  What we’d been told by the Taskforce was that a North Ko
rean posing as a South Korean businessman was attempting to sell the data to a Syrian. Which was the fire we’d been sent to put out. We had sensitive assets operating in Syria, and there was no way we could allow the breach to spread.

  They’d determined that the transfer was going to happen in Monaco, which left the usual assets of the US government in a quandary. Monaco had no CIA station to speak of, and the timeline was short. The director of the CIA—a member of the Oversight Council who controlled Taskforce activity—had actually punted, saying he couldn’t get the mission done. And so we’d been called in.

  My mission was to make contact with the Korean tonight and then follow him until he met the Syrian. Johnny’s team would focus on the Syrian once we identified him. The end state was the prevention of the passing of the information. It could be a dark web address, a thumb drive, or hell, with North Korea, a five-and-a-quarter-inch floppy disk. Either way, we were going to stop it.

  Knuckles and Veep were going to break into the Korean’s room the minute we had eyes on him, ripping through whatever electronics he had and putting surveillance devices in place. Brett was a floater for whatever I decided. Jennifer and I were the primary surveillance of the target.

  Jennifer adjusted her dress, dropping the conversation about Carly. She said, “You know that guy’s been here for two days. Don’t you wonder if we’ve already missed the contact?”

  I said, “We can only do what we can do. We have the anchor tonight. I’m not going crazy because the Taskforce decided this was an emergency.”

  She said, “Your name is on that list, isn’t it?”

  I fingered the Glock on the inside of my belt and said, “Yeah, it is. From my time in the Special Mission Unit. Makes it a little personal.”