Saber Down

by Harrison Kone

  Affré didn’t respond but took the document and placed it on the scanner. Within seconds, the document would reach Switzerland.

  “May we leave now? The shipment will be waiting for us,” Silva asked Affré. His tone dripped with sarcasm. Affré withheld an answer and instead lifted his hand toward the door. Silva pushed past Mather-Pike and exited the plane. The large man exhaled. Without realizing it, Mather-Pike had held his breath during the entire exchange. He offered Affré a nod well done before following his employer out of the craft.

  Affré glanced at the ceiling before rubbing his face. Why had he not done this earlier?

  Fear.

  The harsh reality was that Affré was afraid. He was still afraid. Silva carried himself in such a way that showcased his apathy for the rule of law. Affré recalled the woman at the bar in Dubai. He had acted without regard for the ramifications, not because he hadn’t considered them, but because he held the influence and power to subvert the consequences.

  He wasn’t as ruthless as many with whom Affré was acquainted, but he held his own. What made Silva so intriguing was his rise to power. He didn’t inherit a global empire but built it from nothing. He had amassed his wealth through smart dealings with both legitimate and illegitimate businesses, and Affré believed Silva had only entered into the black market from sheer boredom. At first, he had dealt in black market jewelry, then art, and finally weapons. The only major criminal enterprises he hadn’t entered involved drugs and human trafficking, but Affré could see that weapons stirred Silva’s spirit and generated the sense of adventure, risk, and reward that he so desperately sought.

  Silva had hired Affré nearly five years ago, and everything had gone smoothly until Silva had drowned Marco Capra, the man Mather-Pike had replaced. Affré had grown close to Capra during their tenure together, and the Italian was the best fighter Affré had ever seen until he went toe to toe with Silva. If Silva was going to die, it had to come from the barrel of a gun. The Frenchman wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger himself, but the events he witnessed that day on the banks of the Nile paralyzed him.

  It was absurd. Affré had fought in the Middle East as a Legionnaire and faced immensely dangerous situations while with the DGSE. Perhaps his experiences confirmed within him his own mortality. He hadn’t expressed it, but he revered Mather-Pike for his ability to drive forward and cast the risks aside. He would be lying if he said he would have crossed Silva regardless. Without Mather-Pike pushing him, he might have found himself floating face down among the reeds of the Nile.

  Affré paused at the top of the stairs leading to the tarmac. The heat stifled him. Already, Affré’s sweat glands opened up, saturating his chest and back. The heat proved unbearable, especially while wearing body armor.

  A black, Mercedes-Benz G-Class SUV sat idle at the base of the stairs on the private landing strip. Affré watched as Silva took his usual position behind the driver’s seat and Mather-Pike the seat next to him. The Frenchman’s hands caressed the Five-seven pistol on his hip before he descended the stairs toward the waiting SUV. Now, only one thing remained, and he hoped his trust in Mather-Pike was not ill placed. Everything had to look right. If one detail was off, their fortune and freedom would vanish forever.

  • • •

  Zürich, Switzerland

  Henri Wolf rapped his pen against the wooden desk as he waited for the printer. As a junior associate at Ziegler & Rohr Financial, Henri hardly qualified, or was even permitted, to touch accounts like Francisco Silva’s without prior authorization, but the temptation proved too great. He glanced around, not nervously, but with an aura of excitement. He had to admit that the risk stimulated his normally drab life, and if he pulled this off, he would wave goodbye to Ziegler & Rohr from the back of a half-million-dollar sailing yacht.

  When Henri received the call from Romuald Affré last week about the job, he had been hesitant, but as soon as the Frenchman had revealed his cut, Henri jumped at the opportunity. The Swiss had questioned Affré on how he planned to obtain Silva’s signature for the beneficiary update, but he had cut Henri off. The more Henri thought about it, the more he was glad the Frenchman had. It was better he didn’t know. To Henri, updating the beneficiary information meant Silva had to die for him to receive his payout. The less he knew, the better. Then again, did he really care about Silva’s life when three million dollars lay on the line?

  No, no he did not.

  The printer spat the paper out, and Henri carefully laid the document in his portfolio and breathed deeply. He mustered all the charisma he possessed. If he failed, at worst, he would be fired, at best, he would remain a junior associate for the next ten years. Honestly, he didn’t know which one was worse, but it didn’t matter. He was confident he would succeed.

  He left his small, shared office and headed for the main elevator. Hugo Kormann personally managed Silva’s financial affairs, and, fortunately, was a partner for which Henri closely served as an aide. No doubt that was why Affré had reached out to him. Henri smirked as the elevator doors opened. It paid to be in the right place at the right time, literally.

  The Swiss followed the familiar route to Kormann’s office and, wearing his widest grin, knocked on the frame of the open door.

  “Henri!” the tall, thin man greeted. He wore a white smile, and Henri didn’t know which was whiter, his teeth or his hair. Still, Kormann’s youthful persona was undeniably genuine. At this point in the senior partner’s career, Kormann focused more on pouring into the next generation of financial advisors and, in turn, only handled a few accounts. Those few accounts, however, made up over thirty percent of the company’s astronomical revenue. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have some paperwork that needs your signature,” Henri said. Kormann furrowed his brow. It was an unusual situation for a junior associate to approach a senior partner with that type of information. Normally, Kormann would have sent for Henri to do all the legwork first.

  “You do? Very well. Let me see,” Kormann instructed, holding out a clawed hand. His youthful demeanor could do little against the arthritis that nearly crippled his body. His hands had remained fixed in the same position for nearly five years. Henri handed him the portfolio. Kormann glanced over the single document. “What is this?” he demanded, removing his spectacles after reading the print.

  “I just got off the phone with Mr. Romuald Affré. He told me that he attempted to contact you, but was unable to connect,” Henri started.

  “I’ve been in my office all day,” Kormann countered.

  “He did sound spotty over the phone, perhaps they are in the air.”

  “Spotty?” Kormann repeated for clarification.

  “He didn’t appear to have a strong signal.”

  “Ah.” Kormann again glanced over the document. “Still, this is very unusual. I have never heard of this foundation,” the old man said as he read the new primary beneficiary.

  “Mr. Affré stated that Mr. Silva has requested this change to save the elephants should he pass. He does, if I’m not mistaken, care deeply for the environment,” Henri explained.

  “That he does,” Kormann replied. This was the first time Silva had requested a beneficiary change. The notion puzzled the financier, but there was no reason Silva could not, at any time, propose that change.

  “I can look up the organization for you if you would like,” Henri said.

  “No, his signature is here, and everything seems to be in order. It’s just a strange order of things for you to bring this to me. Forgive my skepticism, but normally I would be informing you and directing you or one of my other associates to handle the sending and receiving.”

  “I understand, sir,” Henri responded. Kormann’s hand gripped the gold-plated pen and moved toward the paper. It wobbled in his grip as he hesitated. Henri’s stomach flipped as Kormann’s hesitation endured. “Shall I inform Mr. Affré of your hesitation?” Kormann’s gaze shot upward and met Henri’s. Was that fear?

 
“No, not at all,” the old man answered. He scribbled his illegible signature on the appropriate line and held out the document for Henri. “We shan’t keep Mr. Silva waiting. Have this processed immediately,” Kormann instructed.

  “Right away, sir,” Henri replied as he took the document. He handled it as if it was made of gold, as if a single crease or fold would void its validity.

  As he left the office, Henri had never before worn a smile so wide in all his twenty-six years. His work was over, and all he had to do now was wait.

  33

  Port Tawfiq, Egypt

  The setting sun painted the sky with wide strokes of red and pink. Various high-rise apartment complexes lined the coast, and numerous boats bobbed in the golden sea. The SUV parked at the base of an office complex under construction, and the three men exited. Maloof rounded the front of the vehicle to stand next to Shaw.

  “The construction is mostly complete except for the top floor. It should provide you with a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the port and surrounding area,” the Egyptian explained.

  “Wyatt, what do you think?” Shaw asked.

  “It should work,” he replied. Maloof proceeded forward, and the two Marines followed. Wyatt glanced over his shoulder but didn’t notice anyone or anything out of the ordinary. Again, he pushed the nagging sensation away.

  The three men took the elevator to the highest completed floor then took the stairs the rest of the way. The trio emerged onto a construction site, and the robust breeze from the sea whipped around them.

  “You can see to what I was referring,” Maloof stated.

  “Yeah,” Shaw replied. He moved across the exposed area, produced a pair of binoculars from his backpack, and surveyed the port. Their perch offered them a clear view of the twin piers that extended out into the Gulf of Suez. “Ozark, we’re in position,” Shaw said, his earpiece picking up his voice.

  “Good copy, Philo,” Natalie replied.

  “You’re positive this is the place?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Natalie confirmed. He trusted her answer and watched Wyatt unzip his duffle. The sniper assembled his M110A1 sniper rifle by fixing the upper and lower receivers together and ratcheting on the suppressor. Shaw crouched and unzipped his backpack and produced the upper and lower receivers of his MK18 carbine. In similar manner to Wyatt, he threaded on his sound suppressor and found a quick sight picture through the low-powered, variable optic. Maloof watched with interest as the two Westerners checked over their weapons.

  “Alright Ozark, we’re settled in,” Shaw informed Natalie.

  “Good copy,” Natalie replied. “Sage will be on comms once we have proper target identification.”

  “Roger that,” Shaw replied. “Now we wait,” he said to Wyatt. The sniper had settled in behind his rifle. “Maloof, you going to join us?”

  “Yes, of course,” the Egyptian replied as he fell prone next to Shaw. The group remained several meters back from the edge of the building. The unfinished level lacked its floor-to-ceiling windows, making the position a perfect perch to canvass the entire pier. Darkness settled on the sea, and the trio waited.

  • • •

  “How long to rendezvous?” Silva asked.

  “We’re nearing the port now, sir,” came Affré’s quick reply. Silva leaned to gaze out the windshield. He couldn’t deny the scale of the operation. It was larger than any previously undertaken, and it had showed in his stress level. It was that initial stress that gave Affré the confidence that Silva would sign the beneficiary form without contacting his financial advisor, Hugo Kormann.

  A smile cracked across Silva’s face as they approached the security checkpoint leading onto the twin piers at Port Tawfiq. Affré slowed the SUV to a stop and conversed with the guard through the open window. The arm soon raised, and Affré sped into the port.

  “There she is,” Silva noted as they neared the vessel that carried his merchandise. Affré parked, and the Spaniard stepped out onto the pier. A man, dressed casually except for his body armor, gun belt, and carbine, approached Silva with an extended hand.

  “Mr. Morgan,” Silva greeted, “I trust everything went smoothly.”

  “It did, sir. No trouble with the import. We’re ready to proceed on your command.”

  “That is good news, Mr. Morgan,” Silva stated. He checked his watch and glanced at Affré, who gave him a nod. Silva’s stress gave way to the cool and calm demeanor that usually rested on his countenance. He returned Affré’s nod. Morgan turned and, rotating his fingers in the air, signaled to the rest of his team to begin transferring the product to the waiting trucks. Silva stood with his hands on his hips and watched the massive cranes at work.

  The Spaniard found it odd that even now thoughts of Miranda swirled in his mind. He admired her strength and her beauty; something in her eyes simply captivated him, not to mention her body that he desperately desired to see atop him. His encounter with her had appeared too coincidental. He could have sworn that she worked for some government agency, perhaps CIA.

  He felt his actions were justified given the recent happenings in Yemen, but surely the United States hadn’t connected him to that event. He hadn’t heard from Al Amiri about any such developments, but then again why would the Yemeni contact him for anything other than business? Al Amiri was one of the world’s most wanted terrorists, certainly he would have heard something if the United States or anyone else found him.

  Was he being too paranoid?

  The deal in Yemen had breathed greater life into his arms business. Soon, as he figured, his net worth would exceed half a billion. He could only thank his new supplier for his continued rise. He credited the enticing merchandise with drawing Isaam Al Amiri’s and now Hamas’ interest. The arms dealer grinned as he looked to the future.

  Today: small arms and light weaponry.

  Tomorrow: heavy weapons systems.

  The thought of dealing in tanks and jets quickened Silva’s spirit. The entire notion added a new complexity and exhilaration to his booming business, and that, more than anything, drove his ambition. Perhaps soon, governments would come beckoning for a taste of America’s military capability.

  Strangely, his mind shifted back to Miranda. Confusion assaulted him. Why was she, when such exciting business developments unfolded, constantly on his mind? Was his subconscious trying to tell him something, warning him? Or were his loins speaking? He couldn’t deny the desire he had for her, but she was just another woman. Would it pass? He hoped so.

  • • •

  “Ozark, this is Philo. We’ve got movement. Standby for visual confirmation,” Shaw stated into the comms.

  “Good copy, Philo, awaiting confirmation,” Natalie replied. Shaw gazed through his binoculars and focused on the black Mercedes as it pulled onto the first of the two piers.

  “I’ve got armed combatants,” Wyatt noted as he peered through his riflescope enhanced by a night-vision device. “Count, fifteen tangos,” he added. The group of armed men descended from the cargo ship onto the pier.

  “I see them,” Shaw confirmed. He fiddled with the binoculars and activated a live feed to Natalie and his command.

  “I’ve got visual,” Natalie confirmed. Viewing her monitor, she focused on the individuals broadcasted through the feed, and her anger rose as she beheld Francisco Silva. “Target confirmed and on site,” she said.

  “Good copy, we see him,” Shaw replied. Wyatt’s index finger fondled the trigger as his sights fell on Silva. He wanted nothing more than to drop him where he stood, but his better judgement cooled him. He removed his finger from the trigger and sighed. Shaw knew Wyatt’s feelings too well. He fought hard against the urge to command Wyatt to shoot Silva. He was certain his friend would obey without a second thought.

  “The operation is a go,” Natalie confirmed, “Alpha and Bravo teams are refueling over the Red Sea.”

  “We’ve got another vehicle incoming,” Shaw quickly added. He turned to Maloof, “your men?” The Egyp
tian intelligence officer shook his head. The trio watched as a second, larger SUV rolled onto the pier and came to a stop some distance from the first. Five men exited and took up positions in a line between their SUV and Silva’s. “Ozark, I think we may have a buyer on site,” Shaw said. A sixth man exited the vehicle, and Shaw focused in on his face.

  “Good copy, Philo, I’m running his identity now,” Natalie replied, “stand by.”

  • • •

  Silva turned to greet the newcomers and offered them a friendly wave. The six men approached deliberately with their hands on their weapons. Their leader, wearing dark clothing, with his black hair slicked back, led the pack and extended his hand to Silva as he neared.

  “Good evening,” Silva greeted as he clasped the man’s hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Farrah.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Silva. My father sends his regards,” Ghassan Farrah stated. “I wish to convey how excited we are to secure this business relationship.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Silva replied. He presented Farrah with a confident smile.

  “May I inspect the merchandise?” Farrah asked. Silva smiled again.

  “In one moment. There is a pressing matter that I must see to first,” Silva replied. He turned, ignoring Farrah’s wary and dissatisfied gaze. “Mr. Morgan!” Silva called. Morgan approached. “Now is the time.”

  “Certainly, sir,” Morgan replied.

  34

  “His name is Ghassan Farrah. He’s the son of Eyad Farrah, the leader of Hamas’ Al-Qassam Brigade,” Natalie explained upon finding a match for the buyer’s identity. “I’m sure Mossad would be very interested in this development,” she added. Shaw took in the information as he watched the exchange between the two men.

  “Excuse me, I need to piss,” Maloof stated. Shaw came off his binoculars and issued a quick, approving nod. Maloof slid backwards before rising and heading down the stairs.

  “What do you make of this?” Wyatt asked.