Spy Zone

by Fritz Galt

  “Let me drop a few pearls on you, now. Pull up a chair. This guy’s a nut case. In fact, his whole family’s screwy. Alec Pierce is a ballsy version of your worst fears in the Agency. He’s young. Well, he’s about thirty-five. He’s handsome. He’s resourceful. He’ll find a way to embarrass the Pope. But he’s James Bond. He operates by his own rules. In other words, he’s a maverick. He’s unpredictable, and he’ll change the nature of an assignment to suit his needs.”

  “Does he run drugs on the side? Extortion?”

  “He’s not one of those. Here’s an example of what I mean. We tell him to find out about some Dictator’s sexual habits. He comes back wearing the mistress’s panties on his head, and the Dictator has fled his country in front of a lynch mob all stirred up by one Alec Pierce.”

  “Listen, I’ve just spent the past five years in Moscow, so I haven’t met the man. Where’s he been lately?”

  “Let me see. On my watch, he’s joined the Bosnian Serbs, screwed the mistress of a Hong Kong power broker and faked his own death on Lake Geneva. In short, you don’t know where he’ll turn up next, or what he’ll do.”

  “And what’s the end result of his improvisations?”

  “Well, to date, I can’t argue with his success rate. But you don’t know how many gray hairs, Senate inquiries and lost funding he has cost this Agency.”

  “In the meantime preventing war, disease and pestilence?”

  Hugh shook his head somberly. “Exactly. We thought an assignment to some God-forsaken island in the middle of some lost sea would keep a lid on him. It appears I’m wrong.”

  “On the positive side, we do know where Alec Pierce is,” Casey piped up. “The embassy’s security officer reports that he’s taken a vacation to the Comoro Islands.”

  “The Comoro Islands? Where are they?”

  “They’re located west of Mauritius between Madagascar and the mainland.”

  “Oh yeah. I’ve heard of them. Isn’t that where some other mercenary overthrew the government?”

  “Yes, it’s a very unstable place. In fact, at any given time of the four islands in the chain at least two are independent from the main island. It’s a very confusing situation.”

  “And dangerous, I’d expect.”

  “Believe it or not,” Casey said, “it’s a tourist destination for Europeans and Africans.”

  “What, watching the natives blow each other to bits?” Hugh allowed himself a smile. “Don’t tell me he’s lounging on some exotic beach sizing up the broads while we have a coup on our hands in Mauritius.”

  “Well, actually, we have no embassy in Comoros, so Alec also covers Comoros. He may, in fact, be there on business.”

  “Ha. I don’t believe that for an instant. Nevertheless, it is plausibly deniable. I do like that.”

  “Deniable to whom, may I ask?”

  “To Congress. Who else?”

  Chapter 10

  Slumped in a wicker chair on the Taj Mahal Hotel’s veranda, Natalie waited for the travel agent to reissue her plane ticket to the Maldives.

  After Mick’s alarming call the previous day, she had put on hold her plans to move to New Delhi. Screw the New Initiative. It could wait a month or two while she returned to the Maldives to care for Mariah.

  She ran her eyes impatiently over the morning’s headlines in the Times of India.

  “Bin Laden Declares Jihad on India.”

  She snapped to attention. So Osama bin Laden was still at it, the bastard. Always picking another fight.

  In the article, the al-Qaeda network reaffirmed its jihad against Americans and Zionists and, for the first time, added India to its short list of targets.

  A photo showed bearded young militants, presumably in Afghanistan or Pakistan, shouting triumphantly before a burning Indian flag.

  Natalie wrenched her attention away from the paper and gazed at the hotel’s immense kidney-shaped swimming pool. In the lapping waves, she allowed her thoughts to briefly return to her future mission in Delhi.

  She would be dealing with the highest officials in the Indian Foreign Ministry. The legalistic wrangling over Kashmir and nuclear weapons treaties might be the farthest thing from their minds that morning as they contemplated a potential new wave of bombings across their land.

  Through the damp morning haze and the stunning headlines dictated by terrorists, she saw new leverage for America.

  India and America could join forces in fighting their new, common enemy.

  As taxis beeped assertively beyond the hotel’s tall, whitewashed fence, she envisioned FBI agents sharing information with the Indian Home Office. She could visualize Indian police arresting newly exposed traitors in their midst, right there on the streets of Bombay.

  The U.S. State Department’s Coordinator for Counterterrorism was a personal friend. Charged with mostly policy-making responsibilities, Bronson Nichols was also responsible for improving counter-terrorism cooperation with foreign governments.

  She closed her eyes and allowed herself to dream. She could offer all these good things to India if they agreed to give Kashmir autonomy.

  Then the nagging reality returned. What use was peace if Mariah was no longer there to enjoy it?

  As Abu stood outside Bombay’s cargo terminal, workmen were installing a new airport sign overhead.

  In bold white letters against a blue background, the new sign read: “Welcome to Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport.”

  Abu snorted. Hindu extremist elements in Bombay had found a way to exalt their past by erasing the old names of the city. First it was street names and park names, then the official name of the city from Bombay to Mumbai.

  Now it was the two airport names, formerly Sahar and Santa Cruz Airports. Shivaji was a 17th Century Hindu ruler much beloved for having staved off the Moghuls to build the Maratha Confederacy.

  “They can’t stave us off with a mere hoarding,” he muttered to himself, turning his back on the billboard and watching his men load the carpets onto a flatbed truck.

  Then he hailed a cab to take him home.

  He told the driver to let him off at the cavernous fresh goods bazaar called Crawford Market. His Indian wife’s home was located a short walk north of the market in an area once dubbed Native Town by the British.

  He walked through the warren of alleys. With each mechanical footstep, another violent memory flashed through his mind.

  He had thrown a grenade at riot police at one street corner. He had hidden behind a certain window and watched an Indian Army tank blockade the alley.

  Bright red blood had spurted from the white robes of his fellow Muslim youths. The army had spared no bullets in quelling the unrest.

  He had been a passionate lad then, directed by blind rage. Aside from the gangsters, leadership among the Muslims in India was wholly non-existent. Perhaps his own life history would become the stuff of legend.

  He stopped by his parents’ house, but didn’t enter. A decade earlier during the riots, he had learned that a wealthy Brahmin clan had fled their bungalow. Abu and his brother Rajiv immediately occupied the house and claimed it for their parents. Bombay’s laws favoring squatters’ rights prevailed, and the courts never challenged their claim.

  He didn’t enter the two-story house because he knew only the staff would be there. His parents hadn’t been back for years, as they lived on Portugal’s southern coast, the Algarve.

  Instead of walking through the open front door, he kick-started his Yamaha motorcycle on the porch. A moment later, he roared out the gate in a cloud of smoke, scattering pedestrians on the street.

  He arrived at the home of his wife’s family. The truck was already there, and the workmen were unloading the carpets.

  “Careful. Don’t drop them.” Abu shouted at the ragtag crew.

  In bare feet, they carried the long rolls directly in the front door and past a bevy of cloaked women and staring children. A mattress lay in the far corner of the front room. There, Abu’s father-in
-law sat up and began his customary tirade.

  “You told your wife that you were in Pune. You’ve been gone for two months. Where have you been?”

  “I’m fighting against injustice, Father,” Abu explained over his shoulder.

  “Fighting injustice in the gay bordellos of Karachi.”

  “No, dear Father-in-Law. In fact, I’m spearheading a complex project. Only when it is complete will you know Allah’s freedom.”

  “Project? What project? Allah doesn’t fund engineering projects.”

  “It’s not an engineering project. I have undertaken this endeavor so that once and for all our miseries will be tackled. Someday you’ll hear of the Moghul Project, and you will understand completely.”

  “That is a very funny name, Moghul Project. The Moghuls took over most of India. Nobody could do that again.”

  “Not unless they use a very deadly disease.”

  The old man looked disapprovingly at him. “Look at your clothes,” he said. “You dress like a foreigner.”

  Abu stood up straight in his business suit and placed a hand over his heart. “Faith is here,” he said. “Not in clothes.”

  A young woman shrouded in a black sari peered out from the kitchen door. Only her darting brown eyes were visible.

  “Good morning, Rizwana,” Abu said, acknowledging his wife as he squatted to unroll a carpet.

  His young son clung to her skirt, and Abu paused to embrace him. His daughter, a slightly older girl, sulked behind her mother. Abu shot the young girl a smile.

  “Set those down lightly,” he bellowed as the laborers carried in the last carpet.

  He carefully unrolled one of the carpets until it lay across the entire floor. The last few feet revealed eight long, unmarked boxes.

  “What are those?” the old man shot out from his position on the mattress.

  Abu grabbed two boxes and rose to his feet by the doorway. “Guns,” he said simply.

  “I don’t want them in my house. Do you want the police to raid us?”

  Abu ignored the tirade. “I’ll take two guns,” he said, and tucked the boxes under an arm.

  Then he turned and left on his motorcycle.

  “Where’s the cabana?”

  A beefy American dressed in an unbuttoned batik shirt stood near Natalie’s chair.

  “Excuse me?” she said, turning around.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I was talking to myself. I’m trying to find the pool boy.”

  Natalie lifted her sunglasses. “You don’t happen to be Congressman Butler.”

  “In the flesh,” the man said, and beamed, his barrel chest thrust forward with pride. “Call me Fred.”

  Natalie stood and extended a hand. “I’m Natalie Pierce from the American Consulate.”

  Suddenly they were interrupted by another voice.

  “Dad,” a young woman called from the door of the veranda.

  “That’s my daughter,” Fred Butler explained.

  An attractive, if gawky, blonde crossed the tile patio.

  “Keri,” Fred called out. “Here’s another one from the consulate.”

  Natalie was preparing to introduce herself to Keri when Fred announced, “And here’s Linda, my wife.”

  A fifty-ish woman with a tennis tan approached. Natalie gave her a firm handshake and introduced herself. “If there’s any way I can help you—”

  “Matter of fact there is,” Fred said, and turned to his wife. “You tell her, honey. I’m gonna find me the changing room.”

  “Stores,” Linda Butler whispered confidentially. “How do I find the stores?”

  “What kind of stores?”

  “Let’s start with furniture.”

  Natalie painted a smile on her face and patiently ran down a list of furniture stores, both repro colonial and antique. Bombay had vast warehouses of British furniture brought from China to India during the colonial days.

  “Okay, now for carpets,” Linda said.

  Natalie winced. She hated to steer people toward the products of child labor, but people were going to buy the rugs anyway, no matter what she said. She had to admit, the carpets were simply beautiful. She told Linda the name of a reputable dealer. “Tell him the consulate sent you,” she advised.

  They traded more store names for several minutes until Fred returned in swimming trunks, followed by a train of young men in white uniforms. “Do you tip these guys or what?”

  Natalie smiled. “You must have. They smell more coming.”

  “Jesus, I can’t even wipe my ass without someone helping me.”

  “Apparently not,” she said.

  “Take this. Spread it between yourselves,” Fred said, handing a fistful of rupees to the nearest attendant. “This is to get yourselves lost.”

  The men bowed, Fred attempted a half-hearted bow, and the men silently left.

  “I’m off,” Keri said lightly.

  “Where to?” Fred asked.

  “To see the sights. I’ll be back.”

  “Do be careful, dear,” Linda said. “I don’t think it’s wise to just launch yourself into the back alleys.”

  Keri had already turned to leave and didn’t seem to hear the advice.

  “Shopping,” Fred whined, shaking his large, neatly trimmed head of hair with exasperation.

  He turned back to Natalie.

  “I didn’t catch the name of your consul general.”

  Abu pulled his motorcycle up to the Taj.

  Amidst the stream of cars and taxis stopping under the portico and jockeying for position on the street, he saw a lone man across the street on a small motor scooter. Abu could not see his face under the helmet, but he did recognize the serpent tattoo on the man’s arm.

  “So Guru Swamiji has called on the Dawood gang,” Abu said to himself.

  Abu had used members of Don Dawood Ibrahim’s gang on occasion. Much like the huge army of unemployed on the streets, the Dawood gangsters that were so ubiquitous in any city in India were always available to help. His own payment in weapons to henchmen of the Dubai-based gangster usually suited their needs and made for a cozy business relationship. He wondered what currency Swamiji paid for Dawood’s services that day.

  He rode his Yamaha up to the man and cut the motor.

  The man nodded and flipped up his visor. Under the helmet, Abu saw a skullcap, two narrow eyes and a scruffy beard.

  “Greetings, Kumar,” Abu said, recognizing him as a friend from his youth.

  “I see that we are in the same business, Abu,” the voice echoed from the helmet. “What is the hit?”

  “No hits today. Just a quick pick up.”

  “Then why did you bring these?” Kumar asked, indicating the two long boxes under Abu’s arm.

  “Mere protection.”

  Kumar’s eyes shifted across the street. “Who’s the target? Must be a fat cat.”

  Abu slipped the photo out of his wallet. He unfolded it to reveal Keri Butler.

  Kumar waggled his head indifferently. “I haven’t seen her yet.”

  “Good. Now tell me where the car is.” In scanning the crowded streets, Abu hadn’t seen anyone else he could identify from the Dawood gang.

  “Third taxi in line.”

  Abu nodded with a smile. The police could never trace a getaway car that was as common as a Bombay taxi.

  “Do your job,” Abu said, and shook Kumar’s hand.

  Then he pushed his motorcycle up to the third taxi in line.

  Two men sat in the front seat. Abu nodded to them and handed a box through the open window on the left side of the car. The passenger, a huge man with a stout, shaved neck, took the box and reached for the other.

  “That’s mine,” Abu said.

  “Swamiji promised us two.”

  “I’m joining you.”

  On the far end of the seat, the driver said, “Who are we grabbing?”

  Abu showed him the photo. The driver lifted his eyebrows above his reflective sunglasses, and the passenger fl
ashed a row of pure white teeth.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” Abu advised. “She’s valuable cargo.”

  The smile disappeared quickly, and both heads turned toward the revolving glass door of the Taj.

  Keri Butler had just stepped out.

  “Hi, Peter,” Keri said, spotting him under the hotel portico.

  Peter Sloan, the young vice-consul, greeted her with a formal handshake.

  “This isn’t official business,” she said. “You can relax with me.”

  “Great,” Peter said, loosening his tie. “Where would you like to go?”

  “How about there?” Keri suggested, pointing across a sea of cars to the Gateway of India.

  “Naw,” Peter said. “Too touristy. Too many beggars there.”

  “Okay then, where to?”

  “Let’s stroll down some back streets,” he suggested.

  She patted her purse. “I brought some money.”

  They headed along the front of the hotel that faced the blue expanse of the bay. She admired the enormous houses and apartment buildings, now in shabby disrepair, that graced the Bund.

  “This was quite a city once,” she remarked.

  “The English left a lot behind. All this architecture for one thing. Mostly Gothic Revival.”

  “And that, too,” Keri said, stepping over some bodies sleeping on the sidewalk.

  “Yeah, they left that, too.”

  Then Peter pointed down a side street.

  “Take my arm,” he said.

  She took it.

  She enjoyed the hustle and bustle of Bombay’s streets, the four-wheeled fruit stands with their spoked wheels, the long hand-pulled lorries, the honking cabs, the pedestrians weaving in and out of each other on the sidewalk like an intricate dance, the colorful, flowing saris fluttering behind women, the handsome faces.

  She wouldn’t get bored on this trip. She didn’t see big city egos or feel like street smart hawkers were trying to con her. People went about their business and seemed oblivious to tourists. With so many people in India, Keri wondered if most people weren’t strangers anyway.

  Peter led her from one narrow street to another. He dipped into shops, showing her silk pouches, scarves, leather goods and native women’s dresses. She nodded and smiled, but had no real interest in purchasing anything.