by Geoff Wolak
* * *
The chairman of The Lodge smiled widely and stood up, report in hand. ‘By God, he’s done it!’
‘Done what?’ a man asked, one of just four men at the table.
‘Sweet Jesus!’ the chairman added.
The men glanced at each other, waiting for the revelation.
The chairman placed his hands on the table and rested his weight on them. ‘You know that secret Swiss banking group, the one we’ve been trying to get inside for sixty years. Well, Beesely just joined them.’ He detected some shocked looks. ‘Not only that, it looks as if he’s persuaded them to let him trade their combined funds.’
Henry drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking hard.
2
That afternoon, Johno sat on a chair in a field, a strong blindfold over his eyes, an air-pistol in his hand. He listened intently. Twenty yards away, agents were watching with interest as the chosen man inched along, trying to sneak up on Johno without getting shot. Money changed hands, bets were laid and payoffs made, as Jane sat on a small mound with her friend Sarah from the kitchen, also English. They were having a picnic.
Franz was doing well. Three other agents were nursing bruised body parts, having been hit by the air-pistol. He took a slow and measured step.
Johno listened intently, raising the pistol. Franz grinned, Johno’s aim a good thirty degrees off. Johno fired with a ‘click’. Missed. ‘Bollocks!’
He reloaded, Franz taking the opportunity to take two large strides before halting. Again Johno listened intently, turning his head like a ship’s sonar. Franz stepped on a snail with a crunch. Johno aimed and fired, catching Franz in the knee, a scream let out. Johno ripped off the blindfold as a cheer came from the onlookers, Franz within six yards, the closest so far. Money reluctantly changed hands.
‘Best so far, mate. Next!’
Jane offered Sarah some salad.
‘You don’t eat much,’ Sarah noted.
Jane glanced up at her briefly from behind a large pair of sunglasses. ‘I’ve never eaten much,’ she quietly admitted.
‘Ever been married?’ Sarah delicately probed. She knew very little about Jane, their conversations had always tended to be about anything other than private or personal matters.
Jane coughed out a small laugh. ‘No.’
‘Never met the right one?’ Sarah delicately broached.
Jane admitted, ‘Never met any … one.’
‘Bad luck with guys?’ Sarah ventured sympathetically.
‘No luck. I never bothered with any man.’
‘What ... ever?’
Jane shook her head. ‘I had an illness when I was thirteen...’ She shrugged.
‘God, I’m so ... sorry.’
‘Not your fault,’ Jane offered. ‘Just how it is, that’s all.’
Sarah studied the large black pools that were the sunglass eyes. She sighed. ‘I had an abortion when I was sixteen, before I came over here.’
‘Did your parents know?’ Jane asked.
‘My mum did, helped arrange it. It was at the time when she was thinking of leaving my dad, so after I was better we came here.’
‘Do you see him?’
‘My father? Sometimes, he’s not so bad now, better than he was. He calls sometimes, cards at Christmas, you know.’
‘My step-dad was murdered,’ Jane revealed.
‘God!’
‘When I was twelve. They never caught who did it.’ She forced a nervous laugh. ‘Pity. I wanted to thank whoever it was.’
Sarah was shocked. Squinting in the bright sunlight she probed, ‘Not a great dad then?’
Jane glanced at her briefly before turning back to the field’s activities. ‘The worst.’
‘How long have you worked for Mister Beesely?’
‘Almost twenty years,’ Jane said, brightening. ‘My mum was left a house in London, so we moved when I was eighteen. I went to college for a while, then she got a job for the Ministry of Defence, I did part time work there. Beesely needed a secretary when he was in the country, so a friend of my mum’s got me an interview. I got the job because that guy - friend of Beesely’s - knew mum. Well, that’s what I thought at the time.’
‘What do you mean?’ Sarah asked as she peeled a boiled egg.
‘Mister Beesely arranged for me to work for him, special like. Fixed it all up.’
‘Because he knew that guy?’
‘No, because he’s my real dad,’ she quietly admitted.
‘What?’ Sarah gasped. ‘Mister Beesely is your father?’
Jane nodded. ‘You aren’t supposed to know.’
‘I’ll ... not tell anyone.’ Sarah considered it carefully. ‘So he had you work for him, because he’s your biological father, and you never knew?’
‘No, not till last week.’
‘Last week?’ Sarah asked in a strong whisper.
Jane nodded. ‘He revealed it when Otto came over. Up ‘til then I just worked for him, but always knew he was too nice to me. He always fixed everything like I was his daughter, not like I worked for him.’
‘Why didn’t he tell you before?’
‘Didn’t want people to know in case they might come after me.’
‘Ah. With his type of work that makes some sense. But other people like him, people in Military Intelligence, they must have normal families.’
‘Stuff that Beesely did was never normal; gone for months on end, always a lot of strange looks and rumours. Police came for him twice. The one thing he isn’t… is like other people I saw in the MOD. My mum always said he was into some odd stuff.’ She forced a quick, nervous laugh.
‘So you worked for him all these years and never knew? Wow. Still, he looked after you, stuck by you. That’s more than could be said for my dad. I never got any money after we came here.’
‘Beesely always made sure I never had any problems. And Johno. He got arrested once, he punched a man who stole my bag.’
‘Beesely?’
‘No, Johno. Nearly killed the man.’
‘What happened?’
‘The jury all heard about the Falklands War and the SAS and stuff. Ten minutes after they ... you know, went to talk about it, they came back and said not guilty.’
‘Lucky. Did Johno not marry?’
Jane shot Sarah a look, visible even through the large sunglasses. ‘He’s got more problems than me. Spent a year getting over being shot in Kosovo. He’s afraid to show all them scars to girls so he likes to go with prostitutes without taking his clothes off. He can’t spend the night with a girl because of the nightmares, he has to be drunk to sleep soundly.’
‘Don’t go telling me too much,’ Sarah nervously suggested. ‘Get me into trouble.’
Earning your keep
1
The Serbian delegation was due to land soon, on the small private airstrip at Zug. Their Ambassador to Switzerland had arrived by helicopter, the man had been kept deliberately alone on the flight. It had been suggested that the helicopter bring the Swiss Government as well, but Beesely had a plan.
The Swiss Government contingent had arrived by car an hour ago for ‘talks before talks’, Beesely having ordered the training camp cleared of most staff, the guards to be smartly dressed and discreetly in the background; those Swiss Ministers were now being entertained by Beesely in the top floor restaurant. The restaurant tables had been moved to create a ‘conference’ venue so that everyone would be sat facing each other.
Burke and his CIA team were hidden in a hut, Johno and the SAS crew huddled in another a few yards away. As were close to four hundred men dressed in camouflage clothing and wearing black ski masks. Four Black Hawk helicopters, of the US Rhine Army Medical Corps, waited in a field two miles from the airport, the crew quickly changing clothes and slapping green and black water-based paint onto large red-cross signs.
Otto stood waiting in the small airport lounge, politely talking about nothing much to the Serbian Ambassador. It turned out the man’s grand
father was German.
Beesely’s phone rang, and he excused himself from the company of Ministers Blaum, Delgarcia and others. ‘Beesely here.’
‘Five minutes, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Holding the phone at arms length and looking over the rims of his glasses he pressed red, followed by the big green button. Bringing the phone to his ear again he said, ‘All stations, five minutes. Go.’
Johno stepped out and blew his whistle. Three blasts.
Feeling his phone vibrating, Otto informed the Ambassador that his countrymen would be landing in five minutes.
Black Hawk rotors started to turn. Crewmen put on black ski masks and attached ropes to the sides of the helicopters.
Burke pointed a finger at the door. Berets were donned, boots shined on the backs of legs.
It was a perfect day, no clouds and little wind as Otto stood waiting with the Serbian Ambassador. He held a hand over his eyes and squinted to the east as the Serbian delegate’s plane, a small Russian commuter aircraft – a three engine Yak 42, descended towards the runway. A red carpet had been laid out for the visitors, backed by a row of four black Range Rovers, and an executive minibus that could hold ten passengers.
The small jet touched down smoothly, Otto pressing a button on his phone three times without anyone noticing. The plane slowed, not needing much runway, then taxied around, marshalled for the last hundred yards by a ground controller dressed in bright orange. All was going well, the sun beating down, a few flies buzzing about. Two ground-handlers waited with large wooden chocks for the aircraft’s wheels; they looked warm and uncomfortable inside their overalls and ear defenders.
Then Otto considered that he and the Ambassador were stood a little too close to where the aircraft would halt and said as much, leading the man back a few steps. The door on this aircraft opened on the front left, Otto now watching with Swiss precision interest as the pilot lined up with the end of the red carpet. The aircraft slowed as it advanced towards them, its engines whining, some slight adjustments to speed and direction evident.
The plane missed its mark and braked hard, its nose dipping. The red carpet now lay under the wing, crumpled and held down by the aircraft’s wheels, small black circles of oil appearing. The Ambassador turned to Otto, who quickly jumped in with, ‘No problem, this happens all the time, difficult for the pilot to judge up in the cockpit.’ The Ambassador forced a smile.
The dignitaries were formally greeted by Otto before being loaded into the Range Rovers, the final two men exiting the aircraft pointing and laughing at the red carpet. Otto tried to appear as if he had not seen them, pressing his phone four times as they boarded the vehicles.
Where the airfield track joined the main road, pairs of dismounted motorcycle police in bright orange uniforms stood lined up, giving priority to the cavalcade. A mile along the road they neared the lake and, as a matter of strange coincidence, two ‘ribs’ - black inflatable dinghies - were speeding up the lake, six soldiers in each wearing black ski masks. They could not have been missed, the Foreign Minister glancing at the Intelligence Chief. Then the dull drone of helicopters grew unmistakable, the passengers glancing out and peering skywards.
Around the next bend the convoy drove parallel to a large field, four Black Hawks hovering. Ropes reached down to the ground some sixty feet below, soldiers rappelling down at speed, dropping into the prone position ready for simulated weapons firing.
The Foreign Minister was concerned. ‘American! Delta Force?’
Otto pressed his phone five times, turning to the Ambassador, who had been watching the display with great concern. ‘They are American medics, here for exercises - mountain rescue. They come every year.’
‘They look like commandos.’
‘Really?’ Otto strained to see. ‘I must confess, I do not know the difference from one uniform to another.’
The Ambassador seemed totally unconvinced. The convoy passed through the woods and they climbed towards the castle, Otto crossing his fingers and hoping that this day would end well. They turned off the main public road and into the camp, the gates now hosting four police motorcycles on either side, the convoy passing through without being stopped.
The Foreign Minister studied the gate, and its security complement, as they passed through. ‘This man Beesely takes his security seriously.’
A squad of a hundred men in black uniforms and ski masks jogged down the side of the road in tight formation, four abreast. On the opposite side the same thing. Alongside the road stood another hundred doing star jump, thankfully without their ski masks on this hot day, the guests taking it all in. At the next bend a block of men underwent rifle drill. Opposite them stood Burke and his team, American uniforms; Green Berets. They were stood in the road, the drivers having to slow and ease around them, Burke and his men shouting loud orders with distinct American accents.
‘Green Berets!’ The Intelligence Minister stated, noting the distinctive cap badges.
In Otto’s lead vehicle the Ambassador grew concerned. ‘You have quite the small army here. And more Americans?’
‘We have the main training facility here for our counter-terrorism teams and hostage rescue teams. The bank has many rich clients and, should they be held hostage for ransom, we may be tasked with a rescue for them, almost anywhere in the world. We have teams in Belize in South America this week. The Americans offer us assistance in jungle medicine and what they call, let me see, combat medical first aid.’
‘So, more medical staff.’
Otto forced a quick, polite smile.
Further along the compound road, and now in sight of the castle, the convoy’s progress slowed, Johno and his gang in the road. All were suitably attired in British camouflage clothing and SAS berets, sporting MP5 sub-machine guns. The vehicles slowed to a crawl, all the drivers lowering their windows.
Johno strolled up. ‘Good day, Mister Otto,’ he offered, checking the faces of each man in the vehicle.
‘You are British?’ the Ambassador politely enquired.
‘We’re not at liberty to say, sir.’ He walked to each vehicle in turn, talking to each driver and checking all the faces, the convoy finally waved on.
‘Serving British SAS,’ the Intelligence Minister noted.
The Ambassador turned to Otto, tipping his head. ‘More... medical staff?’
‘No, they are the private security of Herr Beesely. They are British SAS. They also teach at the counter-terrorism school.’
2
Peering down through the restaurant windows, Beesely now noticed the first vehicle of the convoy park up in front of the drawbridge, just a sprinkling of guards to greet them. ‘Our guests have arrived,’ he announced, turning on his heel. ‘Should be up in just a minute or two.’
Otto and the Ambassador stood waiting at their vehicle, joined a minute later by the rest of the Serbian delegation.
‘Your headquarters … is a castle?’ the Intelligence Chief asked with a cheeky grin.
‘No, these are the guest quarters and meeting rooms. Just for show,’ Otto informed them. He stamped his left foot. ‘Our headquarters are six hundred metres under our feet, stretching out into the lake for one kilometre.’
The visitors stopped dead, looking for any signs that Otto might be joking.
Otto explained, ‘It was an old copper mine, from the year 1890, I believe. It was converted to a nuclear bomb shelter in 1962, thereafter turned it into a facility. It is more bomb proof than Cheyenne Mountain according to the American engineers who have looked at it.’ He wished now that he had a secret camera, wondering what the resolution of the cameras on the drawbridge might be like. The expressions on their faces were quite extraordinary, he considered.
Female K2 administrative staff, now dressed in traditional Swiss costumes – long grey skirts, white blouses with black waistcoats - lined the drawbridge and ushered the men inside through the courtyard, through the Great Hall and to the lobby area. Four at a time were sent up in the li
ft, the young lift attendant now replaced by a guard in a suit. Beesely and the Swiss delegation warmly greeted all of the Serbians in turn, ordering them drinks.
After close to ten minutes of greetings and idle chat standing up, Beesely began nudging delegates towards their allotted chairs. Each delegate’s position on the table had been marked with a formal nametag, which included a full job title: Minister, Ambassador, etc. The munitions exporter did not quite understand his title, his tag replaced by Johno: ‘Dodgy Weapons Dealer’.
When everyone had finally seated themselves Beesely walked around to the top of the table, Otto sitting to his immediate right. Still standing, Beesely called, ‘Gentlemen.’ The room fell silent. ‘Gentlemen. I would like to start by making it clear that my seat here, at the top of the table, does not mean that I am in charge of this meeting.’ With that he sat and poured himself some water, adjusting his paper and pen.
‘May I welcome you all here to Schloss Diane, a name given to this fine old castle by its late owner. As you have probably gathered, this castle is just symbolic, a hotel with rooms and restaurants. My headquarters are ... elsewhere. Castles were traditionally seen as imposing, and this one is in no way intended to intimidate anyone.’
The Intelligence Chief leant forwards. ‘And what about the military camp outside? Is that not meant to intimidate anyone?’
‘Certainly not. And may I add that it is not a military camp, we are a civilian organization with some ties to the Swiss military and police.’
‘And what ties might those be?’ the Intelligence Chief probed.
Before Beesely could comment, the Swiss Interior Minister, Blaum, answered, ‘We are a small nation, with limited resources, so the counter-terrorism and hostage rescue teams run by the International Bank of Zurich are lent to us, should we need them.’
‘And what about foreign military involvement?’ the same man added.
The Minister Blaum frowned his surprise. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We saw American and British soldiers outside, American helicopters!’
Minister Blaum explained, ‘There are a few American medical helicopters here with their medical staff. They come with German and French teams for medical exercises in the mountains.’
The dull drone of rotor blades quickly grew louder.
The Intelligence Chief stood up, a false smile spread from ear to ear. ‘Perhaps these are the American medical helicopters now?’
Several of the Serbians joined him at the window, along with all the Swiss Government representatives, leaving Beesely sipping his water and glancing at Otto from under his eyebrows. Four Black Hawks flew South West down the lake, no more than a hundred metres from that particular window, large red crosses on white backgrounds glistening in the sun. Medics with red-cross tunics sat in the doorways, waving.
‘Yes, that is them,’ Minister Blaum pointed out as he turned and sat back down.
The Serbians did not look pleased, more annoyed, with a hint of confusion thrown in. After all, they could not have been completely sure of what they saw earlier.
‘Gentlemen,’ Beesely called, getting them to settle again.
‘What about the British and American foot soldiers we saw?’ the Intelligence Chief pressed, pointing a finger angrily in a direction that he obviously thought led to the compound, not the toilets he was actually targeting.
Beesely glanced at the toilets with a puzzled expression. The Swiss Interior Minister looked as if he was about to field this question as well. ‘May I?’ Beesely cut in, Minister Blaum easing back. ‘Gentlemen, we have both British and American former soldiers here, advising on tropical medicines, and some British counter-terrorism experts. They are private contractors, not sanctioned by their various governments.’
‘That I can confirm,’ Minister Blaum offered.
His Serbian counterpart did not look convinced.
Beesely cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen, if I may.’ It finally fell quiet. ‘I have requested your presence here today with the kind assistance and co-operation of the Swiss Government, in the hope that we can resolve some issues that are of importance to us all. First, Herr Gunter is dead. This banking group and its associated companies are under new management, I am now the head of the group. And may I be emphatic in stating that I do things differently to Herr Gunter, not that I ever met him.’
‘You never met your step-brother?’ The Serbian Ambassador puzzled.
Beesely held up a finger. ‘Brother-in-law. And no, I never met him.’
‘Your takeover here seems very … quick and seamless,’ their Foreign Minister pointedly remarked.
‘I have good staff. The place runs just fine without me.’
The Intelligence Chief folded his arms. ‘And also strange that you are connected to the British Secret Service.’
‘Connected? Why, my dear chap, I was a senior official with British Intelligence for forty years.’
With that the Intelligence Chief unfolded his arms. ‘So this large Swiss group with direct links to the Swiss Government is now run by anti-Serbian British Intelligence!’
Minister Blaum objected, so too his colleagues, the Serbian Ambassador trying to calm his countrymen.
Chaos ruled for almost a minute, Beesely glancing at his watch. He finally tapped the table with his glass. ‘Gentlemen, please.’ He waited. ‘My Serb friends, you are doing the good people in this banking group a great disservice. They are Swiss, and their loyalty is to Switzerland and its independence. Nothing I may do is going to change that, and you would be foolish to think that I could simply walk into the bank and try and make its staff sit up and follow orders from London. They would not, they are not, nor will they ever be required to. And if we keep to this antagonistic approach we will be here all day and achieve nothing.’
‘Then state what you want!’ the Serb delegate labelled as ‘Dodgy Weapons Dealer’ barked. His words might have been louder if he had noticed the insult.
Beesely took a breath and a sip of water. ‘What I would like, gentlemen, is firstly to apologise for the way in which the late Herr Gunter … treated some of your countrymen.’ He waited for it to sink in. ‘Furthermore, I wish to mend relationships, both for the sake of Swiss neutrality, and for the sake of this banking group.’
The Serbians glanced around at each other.
Finally their Ambassador delicately broached, ‘Serbian funds, of private companies, appear to have … disappeared from several Swiss banks, including this bank.’
Minister Blaum straightened, clearly horrified. ‘We have received no such formal complaint!’
Otto leant forwards. ‘They were accounts used by criminals, also by Serbian Intelligence and some pro-Serbian political groups in Europe which have been outlawed. Herr Gunter interfered with them. Since the funds could not have been explained to a Serbian court, there was no challenge to them.’
Minister Blaum nodded his understanding and sat back.
Beesely raised a hand to silence them, then raised his phone. ‘Beesely here. Unlock all the frozen Serbian accounts. Immediately.’ He put the phone away. ‘Gentlemen, consider that a first step. And, by the way, we will be paying interest on that money at the appropriate rate.’
The Serbians did indeed look surprised.
‘Moving along, gentlemen, I would like to point out that we have concrete proof of illegal actions by most of the persons relating to those bank accounts. Photographs, fingerprints, video taped conversations, signed confessions and witnesses. Should we send that to the world’s press then you, gentlemen, would have a problem. You would even have a problem with your own press and courts.
‘But I am not going to do that. It would serve no useful purpose other than to harm our new friends’ interests. The way in which Herr Gunter dealt with the problem was to compound one criminal act with another. Which is why we are here, to bring an end to it.’
‘You are serious?’ their Intelligence Chief challenged.
‘Yes, my friend, I am seriou
s. If you are prepared to unwind the problem from your side then we are more than happy to do it from our side. That is not a sign of weakness on either side, we simply find it prudent to concentrate on our business interests - those that make us money - and not on conflict. Furthermore, we will enter into negotiations to offer venture capital to Serbian projects that may benefit your people. We are also interested in acquiring land in Serbia and developing business partnerships.’
Ten minutes later the Serbians, with their heads spinning, stood up and began talking amongst themselves in small groups, Otto and Beesely making sure everyone had way too much food, and, more importantly, way too much drink.
Otto approached Beesely and led him subtly away from the crowd. Suitably out of earshot he said, ‘I confess that I do not understand your strategy here.’
Beesely smiled at his offspring, nodding, then gazed out of the window. ‘You remember the story of the shoe salesman?’
‘Yes, he died in front of you.’
‘And imparted some wisdom to me that has been with me for quite some time. He did not just talk about shoe sales, or the psychology of people and their footwear buying habits. He also discussed many other things as he sat there dying. One was how to deal with bullies and enemies, a useful topic in my chosen career.
‘He told me that, when the need arose to make friends with an enemy or a bully, make sure that you carry a big stick - and that your stick is bigger than theirs. Then, once you have either beaten them down, or shown that you could, offer them a truce.’
Otto followed Beesely’s gaze out through the window. ‘Gunter would have just tried to kill them.’
Beesely took a breath and sighed. ‘And lost the opportunity for us to crack open Serb Intelligence and see what these bastards are really up to.’ He faced Otto with a smile.
‘Le Fox,’ Otto whispered. ‘Your new unofficial title.’
3
Negotiations became a friendly chat; people walked around, peered out of the windows, sampled the food, huddled in groups or sat with bits of paper and made notes.
An hour after the meeting started Beesely got his signal, the first joke cracked by a Serbian. Easing away from the warm bodies he raised his phone. ‘Mission complete.’
