by Brad Taylor
Yasir wasn’t an evil man, at least not in his eyes. He’d seen distasteful things—had commanded distasteful things—but he did what he had to do to survive. He was no different than a German guard at Auschwitz. While the West called such men evil, in his mind he understood. What was the guard to do? Commit suicide?
He’d ingratiated himself to the regime, rose through the ranks of Syrian Air Force intelligence—a modern-day Gestapo with all that entailed—doing what was necessary to succeed. It had cost the lives of many, many men, women, and children, but it wasn’t at his own hand. All he’d done was follow orders. Round up a family here, capture the grandparents there—all on the orders of the regime. He didn’t personally do any of the heinous things he’d seen. There were other men who could execute the dirty tasks. Men who enjoyed the work.
The distinction would be lost on him, but in truth he was the banality of evil. He was the German administrator who made the trains full of human cattle run on time. The German housewife who smelled the smokestacks but still delivered milk to the soldiers at the camps. Yasir was the inevitable weakness of the human condition.
And he would feel the pain of that weakness soon.
The ferry motored out from the dock of the quay, passing by a giant geyser of water sprouting from Lake Geneva. Called the Jet d’Eau, the fountain sprayed five hundred feet into the air, reminding Yasir of a gushing wound, the water tirelessly seeking the sky before inevitably falling back to earth. He reveled in the fact that it was only water, letting him forget about the horrors he’d seen done to the men in his prison. It was beautiful, and he took it as a sign of his chosen path.
The boat sliced through the lake, disrupting the calm on the surface and leaving a churn in its wake. Soon enough, they were docking at the Quai du Mont-Blanc on the western shore.
Yasir exited, walked past the food stands up to street level. He checked a map, got his bearings, and then strode north about a hundred meters. He saw an archway and took it, walking into a courtyard that was once pristine, but now held a shabby, faded feel, the landscaping bordering on overgrown, with decrepit bicycles chained to the iron grates surrounding the individual trees. He looked around the businesses occupying the lower terrace of the yard, ignoring the travel agencies and tour companies flying Swiss flags, the storefronts bursting with brochures. He saw a single oak door with a brass plaque next to it reading GAUSTURE HOLDINGS.
He pulled out his phone, cycled through the apps on the surface, and found what he’d been given. He clicked on it, seeing a key appear. A bar code with a Bluetooth button. Waiting on him to initiate.
He stared at it, wondering if he was walking into a trap.
The instructions on his cell had been precise—to the point of being overbearing. There was to be no face-to-face meeting as he’d done in Monaco. Not that he wanted one. He’d met killers in his time—in fact, had commanded them in the cauldron of the secret prisons—but the North Koreans were untethered from even the low constraints in which he’d operated. Their second meeting—when he’d lied about dropping his phone in the toilet and thus destroying the data that had been given—hadn’t been pleasant. The only ones who had shown up were the security men, and they’d let him know in no uncertain terms that his life was predicated on success. President Assad didn’t tolerate slipshod performance, which is why Yasir was still alive, but the Koreans were on another level.
He’d arrived in Geneva knowing he was about to meet a team of killers. Men who—unlike him—were brainwashed into believing everything their “dear leader” directed them against. If they hadn’t been, they would never have been allowed to leave the Hermit Kingdom.
Switzerland was one of the few countries on earth—outside of the usual Axis of Evil—that allowed the North Koreans to roam about freely. Known as a neutral country, and a member of the Neutral Nations Supervisory Commission, Switzerland had a history of dealing with rogue states, and that history lent itself to Switzerland being used by those same countries.
To be sure, the United States leveraged the hell out of that status, as it had served a good purpose since the end of World War II. When the US wanted to talk to North Vietnam, it was done through Switzerland. When the US embassy was seized in Iran, it was Switzerland that was the go-between—a role the country still carries out on the United States’ behalf. When America wants to talk to North Korea, it’s Switzerland that broaches the issue. As a result, Switzerland had become one of the sole European playgrounds for nations that had been eschewed on the world stage. Kim Jong-un himself had attended a university in Bern, and there were multiple other organizations that facilitated exchanges.
Besides being the founding location of the United Nations, Switzerland had a unique body called the Geneva Centre for Security Policy. Designed to foster security cooperation and peace throughout the world, it necessitated that those from countries that had—to put it mildly—less than stellar humanitarian reputations be allowed to attend.
A contingent of ten officers from North Korea had been attending the center since 2011. And those officers had not been vetted by anyone except North Korea. Yasir was sure the team he was meeting had been slotted in those positions within the last few weeks, and that he was meeting not a team of regular North Korean officers, but Kim Jong-un’s private band of merry killers. The same ones who had been responsible for murdering Jong-un’s half brother in Malaysia with nerve gas.
Besides that small detail, this meeting would allow Yasir to get free from the Assad regime. He’d been given a significant amount of money to pay for the Red Mercury, but the Koreans would only see about two-thirds of it. He’d already siphoned off his cut. That, along with his upcoming payment from the CIA, would be enough to set up his retirement. If he could live long enough to see it.
Earlier that day, he’d checked into his hotel on the outskirts of the old town, spending less than thirty minutes in the room. He pulled back the curtain for light, seeing a park fronting the eastern bank of the lake, walkers and bikers scurrying to and fro, none worrying about being killed just by being in the open.
I could live here.
He’d smiled at the thought, then refocused on his mission. He pulled out a map and traced a route to his designated meeting site, the Cathedral of St. Pierre.
The North Koreans had stipulated only one marker in between his hotel and the church, a street called Passage des Degrés-de-Poules. It was just south of the church, and only about a seven-minute walk from his hotel. He checked his watch, fidgeted in his room for twenty minutes, then left.
He’d nodded at the concierge and exited out the revolving door onto the main avenue fronting the park. He walked for a hundred meters, then hooked into an alley, moving fast through it until he reached the next road to the west. He saw an open area lined with coffee shops and scuttled to the first one, taking a seat and eyeing the alley. He didn’t think the North Koreans knew where he was staying, but he certainly wasn’t going to make it easy for them if they did.
After five minutes, Yasir felt a little foolish worrying about surveillance, and continued on his way. Eight minutes later he saw that the North Koreans were way ahead of him.
22
It turned out the North Koreans had no need to follow him, because Passage des Degrés-de-Poules wasn’t a street. It was a narrow tunnel in the side of a building. A long dark stairwell that led up to the courtyard of the church. He grimaced, knowing that he’d walked right into their surveillance bubble. He was being watched, and the watchers would be looking to see if he was alone—either from his allies or enemies.
He entered the tunnel, seeing the light at the top of the stairwell, and realized it was a perfect kill zone. He hesitated, looking behind him. He saw nothing—but then again, he wouldn’t expect to, if they were good. And he knew the North Koreans were good.
He took the stairs three at a time, running toward the daylight like a soul seeking heaven. He brok
e out into a courtyard, his lungs on fire, startling a couple walking the grounds. He put his hands on his knees and did nothing but breathe for a moment, waiting on a bullet.
None came.
He stood upright, thinking, This is the last one. The last time you have to risk your life.
The mantra went through his head over and over as he circled the gothic spires of St. Pierre Cathedral. He reached a sign proclaiming an archaeological site before the main doors to the chapel, and licked his lips. This was it. Commit, or go home.
He opened the double doors, walking down the stairs. The cathedral had been built on the ashes of the creation of Geneva, dating back to the fourth century. The very heart of the city was buried underneath the granite of the church. It had been excavated and subsequently turned into a museum of more than three thousand square meters of underground tombs and narrow hallways delineating the history of the city.
It was an area that could be completely controlled by a surveillance team, with only one entrance and one escape. Meaning he’d be trapped if the surveillance team decided to go kinetic. It wasn’t a place he wanted to enter alone. But he had his orders.
He walked down the stairwell, entering a lobby with a caretaker manning a desk. As instructed, he paid for a headset, and then began his tour, walking from one point to another, the old stone, wells, and skeletons describing the advent of the city of Geneva from the Celtic era through Roman times. He fought the urge to glance around him, wondering if he was being watched in the claustrophobic confines.
Eventually, as he’d been warned, he entered a small room with four benches and a wide-screen television. He noticed two people in the rear, but as instructed, ignored them. He took a seat on the bench at the front, pulled out his cell phone, and tapped the application with the wire transfer for the money. He punched the next number on his headset, and watched the movie on the television, staring rigidly ahead, but not assimilating anything that was coming through the headphones on his ears. Five minutes later, the movie was over. He glanced at his cell phone, seeing it was now upside down on the bench. Someone had moved it. He whipped his head to the rear, and realized he was alone.
He picked the phone up, tapped the screen, and saw a new application had been added. A commercial one from a specific bank, with a Bluetooth key. He checked his wire transfer, finding it empty. So they’d taken the money, but they didn’t know he’d told his command the price was much higher than what the North Koreans had dictated. He went into his account, seeing that 750,000 US dollars still remained. That, with the money he would get from the CIA, would be enough to get him the life he wanted.
He dug into the hidden BIOS of the phone, powering up the program he’d originally received, and found new instructions for a bank on the other side of Lake Geneva.
He put the phone in his pocket and left the museum, ignoring the rest of the tour, glancing left and right and not feeling safe until he was back in the daylight. The man at the counter took his headset, sensing something was wrong. Yasir caught his look and ran a hand across his brow, finding sweat. The man asked if he was okay, and he said yes, but he didn’t feel that way. He felt he’d come within a hair of dying.
He’d run many intelligence operations, and he knew what he’d just experienced was one of the best he’d ever seen executed. It was pure, giving the North Koreans every opportunity to eliminate him had he been deemed a threat, and giving him no opportunity to protect himself or even identify his enemy. They may have been a pariah state, but apparently they could operate within Switzerland with impunity.
He’d gone back to the hotel, locked his room, and spent the night staring at the door. Waiting for someone to knock. It never came.
When dawn had broken, he’d taken the ferry to the courtyard, and now stood outside, wondering if it was another possible trap. But he knew he could never have the life he wanted if he didn’t follow through. If Bashar al-Assad didn’t kill him, he was sure the North Koreans would. And as much as he feared Assad, he feared the Koreans more.
He walked up to the door, rang the bell, and waited. A prim, older woman answered, saying, “Yes?”
“I’ve come for a safe-deposit box. I need the contents.”
He waited for her to ask for identification, or an account number, or some other proof that he’d been here before. Instead, she simply smiled and said, “Of course. May I see the key?”
He tapped the Gausture Holdings application on his phone, and the bar code appeared. She scanned it. Her device blinked green, and she said, “Yes, yes. Follow me, please.”
He entered a plain lobby, the room devoid of pictures, the only thing in sight a desk with a computer. Behind the desk were four oak doors. She said, “You have room three. Do you know how to use the key?”
And he realized that she dealt with people all the time who showed up without knowing what they were supposed to do. Meaning she dealt with the shady side of the Swiss banking laws. He said, “Not really.”
She opened the third door, and he saw a small anteroom, with four large safes set into the wall. She said, “It’s simple, really. I’ll activate the security code, then leave you alone. All you need to do is synch your Bluetooth key to the safe. It’ll be called Gausture One, Two, Three, or Four. I don’t even know which one you have. Once it’s synched, just press the button on your phone, and the safe will open. Okay?”
He was amazed. He said, “Sounds good.”
She fiddled with a device in her hands and said, “It’s on. You have one minute before it resets. If you can’t get your key to work, come back outside.”
She left the room, closing the door behind her. He synched the Bluetooth without issue. He pressed the button, and the second door from the right opened. Inside, he saw a backpack. He pulled it out, finding two cylinders that looked not unlike coffee thermoses.
His Red Mercury.
He shouldered the backpack and left the room, thanking the woman for her help. He exited to the street, walking to the ferry again, smiling, the fear falling away. His plan was working. His terrorist “friends” should be safely in Zurich, but they offered no threat. He knew exactly how to deal with them. He’d need to set up a meeting to transfer the weapon, but first he needed to solidify his last bit of retirement with the United States.
He pulled out his special flip phone, the one given to him by that ass in the CIA, and dialed a number.
23
David Periwinkle heard a vibration and stopped typing. It came again, and he turned from the computer, cocking an ear. The rattle filled the room. He touched the phone in his pocket, but didn’t feel the vibration. Realization dawned on him, and he frantically jerked open the second drawer of his desk, seeing the burner flip phone sliding back and forth, the front screen illuminated. He snatched it up, punching an intercom button on his desk, saying, “Get in here.”
He flipped the phone open and put it to his ear.
“Yasir?”
He heard laughter, then, “Yes. Who else would this be? Are you giving this number out to many men from Syria?”
The door opened, and a ginger-haired man of about twenty-five stuck his head in. Periwinkle pointed at the phone to his ear, then back at the man in the door. He nodded, then slowly let the door close.
Periwinkle said, “Sorry. You never know if someone has taken the phone from your dead body.” He paused, then said, “How is your sister?”
The case officer leaned forward, waiting on the answer. He heard, “She’s still trying to get her degree. Still studying.”
Periwinkle relaxed. If he’d heard She’s quit school, he would have known Yasir was under duress. He said, “So what do I owe the pleasure of this call? If I remember right, you decided to cut us off. You cut me off. I figured your friends in Syria were worth more than your friends in the United States.”
Periwinkle had run Yasir for two years, gleaning high-level intellig
ence from the Assad regime, and then, inexplicably, Yasir had stopped all contact. Periwinkle had chalked it up to the spy game, and had devoted his time working other assets. Then, one month ago, Yasir had surfaced again, promising a load of intelligence that would dwarf anything the United States had on the Syrian regime. That promise had come with a bill that was very steep, and so far, Periwinkle had seen nothing.
Yasir said, “David, David, that was never the case. You know my life is precarious. I have never let you down.”
Periwinkle chuckled and said, “Shit, Yasir, most of the intelligence you’ve given me was good, but it was always too little, too late. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were selling me old information just to get the money.”
Yasir said, “I can promise you this isn’t old. What is it you people want above all else? What would make your intelligence community happy?”
Periwinkle felt his pulse increase, but didn’t betray it on the phone. “Yasir, I don’t have time for games. Talk to me or disconnect. I’ve already hung my ass out way too far for you. I should have just let you get rolled up in Monaco and then gotten the information.”
“That would have been a mistake, because I didn’t have the information a few days ago.”
Periwinkle waited. When he heard nothing else, he said, “What the fuck is it? I’m about to hang up.”
“I have the locations of every single chemical facility the regime owns. Every one.”
Periwinkle said nothing, considering the breadth of what he was being told. Chemical weapons had been the bane of the United States since the start of the Syrian civil war. From one red line to another, Assad had continued to use the weapons, dodging missile strikes and confounding all who tried to remove them.
