by Jeff Buick
It was precisely on the top of the hour when Fleming entered the park and scanned the rows of metal tables for Trey Miller. He spotted the ex-CIA operative sitting next to the stone railing overlooking the grass. Miller was late forties and resembled a host of other similar-age white men in Manhattan. His off-blond hair was cut short, but not military, and he wore camel-colored dress pants and a dark blue shirt. He was average height, between five-ten and six feet, and carried little extra weight. The one feature that set Trey Miller aside from the slew of stock traders and book publishers that roamed the streets were his eyes. Incandescent blue and unblinking. They took in every detail - every potential threat - every weakness. They missed nothing. They were the reason Miller had survived twenty-one years in covert ops.
Fleming's shoes tapped out a steady cadence on the concrete as he cut past a group of men setting up a piano adjacent to the bar. Fleming glanced at the sky. Blue, without a trace of clouds. A good day to risk a bit of outdoor music. He reached Trey's table and sat without offering to shake hands.
"Hello, Trey."
"Bill."
Trey Miller was one of the few people who were thick enough with Fleming to call him by the shortened version of his first name. Their history was an interesting one, including how they met. When Miller left the CIA in 2005, he took an extensive mental dossier of names and places, and most importantly, incidents, with him. The agency was aware of the depth of knowledge Miller possessed and had to make a decision whether to kill him or leave him to flap in the breeze. Cool heads prevailed and they decided Miller wasn't the kind of man to kiss and tell. After a year of silence, one of the division heads decided to link Miller with William Fleming - a reward of sorts for keeping his secrets locked away. After all, Fleming was a man who paid well for professionalism and anonymity. Those were two things he could always expect from Trey Miller.
Miller had been firm at their first meeting. He didn't kill people anymore. He caused them some distress perhaps, but didn't kill them. Fleming had agreed and so far they had managed to stick to the rules. Miller handled sensitive issues for the billionaire, many related to Fleming's sexual appetite. Shutting up women who decided to chase the golden egg by blackmailing Fleming was a regular occurrence. Not that it really mattered if the details hit the trash mags - Fleming was single and could sleep with whomever he chose. Nonetheless, it didn't look good. So Miller dug up dirt on the women and their families, packaged it nicely and sat down with them over coffee. The results were predictable. They backed off and Bill Fleming went on to the next woman. Fleming's indiscretions were a good source of revenue for Trey Miller.
"What's up?" Miller asked.
Fleming leaned back against the metal chair. It was still cool, the sun had yet to clear the buildings and begin heating the park. "I have something interesting for you."
"I figured as much. Moscow in August isn't the usual gig."
"A Russian mobster, Dimitri Volstov, cheated me on a deal. Tens of millions of dollars. I'd like to repay the favor."
Miller eyed the man sitting opposite him. There were two ways this could play out. One was to feign ignorance about Volstov, the other was to be honest. He chose honesty. He always did with Fleming.
"Volstov isn't tied in with the Russian mafia," he said.
A touch of color showed in Fleming's face. "Not now," he said.
Trey didn't argue the point. He knew of Dimitri Volstov and the simple truth was, the man had never been allied with organized crime. He was one of the oligarchs who fed on the breakup of the Soviet Union. A well-connected businessman who was allied with other billionaires like Roman Abramovich and his circle of friends. Trey knew they were a lively bunch with their fingers in everything from steel mills to world-class football teams, but they weren't the mob.
"He stole money from me," Fleming hissed, leaning forward.
"Maybe. Probably. But that doesn't make him part of the Russian mafia. He owns the controlling share of Murmansk-Technika, which is a perfectly legitimate business operating out of Russia."
"Why is it so important that you correct me on this, Trey?" Fleming asked, settling back in his chair.
"Because if he was in the mob, I wouldn't touch this. Not a chance."
Fleming's eyes narrowed slightly, his interest piqued. "Why not?"
Miller shrugged. "If I cross paths with the Russian mafia, someone is going to die. It could be a few of them, it could be me. But people would get killed. And I stopped doing that. Remember?"
"Of course. The one rule you brought to the table." Fleming smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "The Russian mob, they scare you."
"Damn right. I'm telling you, Bill, people will die if you stir up that nest."
"All right. Back to Volstov. Will you deal with him?"
"He's on my list of approved Russian billionaires. What do you need done?"
Fleming ignored the sarcasm. It was refreshing in a way. No one else dared to talk to him like Trey Miller. "Volstov is the promoter for the U2 concert coming to Moscow on August 25th. I want you to ruin the concert. Take it apart. Embarrass him."
The ex-CIA man looked out over the park. He watched a couple throw a blanket on the grass and lie down next to each other. They sipped on coffee in paper cups and talked. The scene was banal to the point of making him sick. He glanced back at Fleming.
"Volstov is well-respected. He's competent and organized. He'll bring those qualities to the table with the concert."
"Probably," Fleming said. "But he's not a concert promoter. This is all new to him."
"Still, he'll surround himself with a good team. My guess is that he'll pull this off and the concert will be a resounding success."
"Unless we cause things to go wrong," Fleming said.
Slowly, Miller's head bobbed up and down. "I can probably do that." He was quiet for a few seconds, then said, "I'll need help. At least one person here and an entire crew on location in Moscow. That gets expensive."
"Money is no object."
Miller smiled broadly. "That makes things so much easier. Especially with such a tight time frame. August 25th is only twenty-six days from now."
"How much do you need?"
Trey pulled a small pad of paper and a pen from his pocket and jotted down a few notes and numbers. After the better part of thirty seconds, he said, "Let's start with seven hundred thousand. I'll probably need more, but I'll pay it out of my own pocket and bill you later."
"I'll wire you an even million." There was a long pause, then, "I don't want this traced back to me."
"Absolutely no chance."
"Excellent," Fleming said. He stood and looked down at Miller who didn't bother standing or offering his hand. "If you send me an e-mail in the next few hours, you can expect the money this afternoon."
Trey nodded. "I'll call you if I need anything, but I highly doubt that will happen."
Fleming turned on his heel and strode back across the concrete to West 40th, where a Navigator was waiting for him outside the Bryant Park Hotel. Two men in well-cut suits who had followed him into the park and watched while he talked with Trey Miller, slipped into a dark-colored car behind the Lincoln. A careful observer might have noticed the slight bulge in the men's jackets under their left arms. Fleming took his personal safety seriously. The vehicles pulled away from the curb and melded into the sea of yellow cabs.
Inside the Navigator, Fleming allowed himself a rare smile. Trey Miller was an asset without a tangible value. The man's ability to take on any task and find a solution was brilliant. He made a mental note to call his contact inside the Central Intelligence Agency - the man who had introduced him to Miller - and convey his thanks. Again. It wouldn't be the first time. Perhaps a week at his villa in St. Tropez would be a nice touch. His phone rang and he checked the call display. It was Jorge Amistav.
&nbs
p; "Good morning, Jorge," he said. "What can I do for you?"
"Good morning. I received the three and a half million and forwarded the necessary amount to my contact. The merchandise is being crated in Germany and is being tagged for delivery to Kandahar. I e-mailed the info to you. I'll advise you when it arrives so you can send your invoice to the Pentagon."
"Is that all?"
"That's it for today."
"Good work. Thanks for calling." Fleming killed the line.
Thirty-five million dollars for a single arms shipment. More money than almost every person on the planet made in his or her lifetime. His for knowing the right people and having a paltry five million dollars in cash lying about. God he loved money. He loved what it bought. The respect it commanded. Money didn't care who owned it, and a lot of it had found its way into his accounts. Now he lived by the golden rule.
The person with the gold ruled.
It was his variation on an old adage. One he liked much better than the original.
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Chapter
9
Day 5 - 7.31.10 - Morning News
Kandahar, Afghanistan
Venturing into the streets of Kandahar was an adventure, even for the men who wore the traditional long pirhan tonban and carried a gun concealed beneath the flowing robes. For an eleven-year-old girl, with her little sisters in tow, it was insanity.
Halima peered out the tiny window that overlooked the city from their deteriorating room on the top floor of the abandoned apartment building. An endless mass of squat mud houses, few higher than two stories, stretched out toward the desert mountains that framed the distant horizon. A handful of kites fluttered above the labyrinth of twisting alleys, adding color to the bland, brown palette. Today she had to leave the security of their house and visit the market to buy fruit and vegetables. Her father had entrusted her with two US dollars, most of his pay from the previous day, with the understanding that she would barter with the merchants and bring home enough food to last for at least a week. Her hands shook as she tucked the money inside her loose shirt. So much money. Her father had worked so hard for it.
"Aaqila, Danah," she called. "It's time to go. Are you ready?"
Her younger sisters were dressed and anxious to get out of the house. To them, the streets and the market were an outing. Something to anticipate and treasure. At seven and five years old, they were too young to truly understand the danger. It was everywhere. The dusty streets were breeding grounds for insurgents and Taliban, and soldiers from the International Security Assistance Force were never far away, their automatic rifles tucked against their chests as they watched the foot traffic suspiciously. Bombed-out buildings lined the roads - piles of mud bricks that were houses at some time before the war. Unexploded shells lay under the rubble, a constant threat to children who foraged through the ruins searching for hidden trinkets. Landmines were always a problem, but more in the countryside and villages outside Kandahar than in the city itself. Still, one had to be cautious.
"Let's go," Halima said. She adjusted her headscarf and straightened Danah's as well. She tucked two ratty canvas bags under her arm. If it was a successful trip, they would be full on the return home.
They navigated the staircase with care. There was a stone wall on one side and a steep drop to the courtyard below on the other. Errant pieces of broken bricks made their footing treacherous. Halima had offered to clean the stairs, but her father had told her that if she did, scavengers would suspect someone was living in the building and climb up to see if there was anything of value on the upper floors. She understood all too well. In the last place they had lived, men with guns had kicked in the door and taken their food. The leader of the gang pushed his pistol against the side of her father's head. The way he held the gun - the look in his eyes - Halima knew he wanted to pull the trigger. But he didn't. The memory of her father after the men had left, hugging her and her sisters and crying, would never leave.
Aaqila and Danah reached the courtyard and Danah scampered across the uneven bricks. She hesitated at the arched entrance to the courtyard. Halima grasped her sister's hand and they walked into the empty street together. A steady wind blew down the narrow street, whipping the sand and grit from the road and stinging their eyes. They turned away from the wind and headed toward the market, ten blocks to the north.
Their house, south of the Old City in the Shakpur Darwaza Chowk-e area, was one of many that had been destroyed by the fighting between the Taliban and the foreign soldiers. The battles had been so intense that the Afghans moved out, leaving their homes and eking out meager existences in safer neighborhoods. Or leaving Kandahar altogether. Large tracts of the city were rendered uninhabitable for most people. Unless you were one of the unfortunates who had nothing, then a roof over your head in a damaged building was better than a tent in the desert. That's what her father said, and he knew best.
As they approached the corner, a rickety jeep filled with armed men cruised by the crossroad. All heads turned and they stared at the three young girls for a few seconds, then they were gone, leaving a putrid trail of diesel exhaust in their wake. Halima reached down and pulled Danah's scarf over her mouth. Inquisitive brown eyes stared back at her.
She knelt down. "It's not good for you to breathe the smoke," she said quietly. She smoothed the child's windswept hair. "I'll buy you a candy today if you're good."
Danah hugged Halima's arm, then held her hand as they continued down the road to the market. Traffic picked up as they moved north, into the city. Boys on bicycles, bearded men on whiny mopeds and women clad in traditional blue burqas shared the road, dodging smoke-belching vehicles. A foot patrol of ISAF soldiers with red maple leafs on their shoulders passed the girls. One of them smiled and offered candy. Halima thanked the man in Pashto, took three pieces and divvied them up among her sisters.
"They're nice to give us candy," Aaqila said when the patrol had passed.
"That's because you smile and make them feel welcome." Halima clutched Danah's hand a little tighter.
She hated the guns. Not the men who carried them, but the guns themselves. It seemed that everyone in Kandahar was armed. The soldiers. The Taliban. The Afghans who tended the shops and farmed the land just outside the city. Rifles slung across their shoulders. Pistols strapped to their thighs. Bullets draped over their chests. She had never known a day in her life without seeing a weapon. They were as much a part of Afghanistan as the mountains or the desert.
One of her father's friends, a shoemaker in the Old City, had traveled to America to visit his daughter. She sat quietly next to her father as the man told stories of his adventure on the other side of the world. His description of the buildings, the cars, the clothes all fascinated her. The women were so elegant, the men so handsome. She worked up the nerve to ask him a question - whether there were guns in America.
"The police carry guns," he said, stroking her head gently. "But they never use them. They never even take them from their holsters."
She wished Afghanistan was like America.
The streets were crowded now, thick with noisy vehicles and people pushing past each other. They reached the madness of the market and Halima gripped her sisters' hands tightly. Tea boys ran through the narrow alleys and open squares, delivering fresh pots of steaming jasmine and mint to the vendors working in their stalls. Women in ankle-length burqas emerged from side streets, bought their daily vegetables from one of the many merchants, then blended back into the web of alleyways. The heavy odor of mutton hung in the air as orders of spicy karai were spooned onto freshly baked naan bread. In the rear of the stalls, out of the scorching midday sun, turbaned men smoked sheesha pipes and sipped on chai.
Halima scrutinized the produce carefully. He
r father would expect her to buy onions and rice for pulao, and almonds, carrots and raisons to flavor the mixture. Bread was a staple and despite the intense heat, there were many tandoor ovens fired and churning out naan. Getting fresh bread for the family would not be a problem. She walked past at least twenty merchants, watching how they dealt with the other customers. Whether they were polite or belligerent, and if they smiled or scowled when they handed across the vegetables and took the money. She didn't want to deal with a difficult man. She stopped at the corner of two narrow lanes to give Aaqila and Danah a rest. A merchant wearing a pale blue turban and a colorful shalwar kameez was doing a brisk business. For good reason. His fruit and vegetables were the choicest she had seen since they entered the market. Halima approached the stall and stood in front of the bright red tomatoes. The seller looked at her with indifference - until she asked about his prices.
"They are the best in the market," he said. "If you have money."
"I have money." Halima pointed to the onions. "How many can I get for ten Afghanis?"
"Six," the man replied after thinking for a moment.
"Six is not enough."
The merchant eyed her more closely. He scratched the side of his head and crossed his arms over his barrel chest. "How many do you think you should get?"
"Ten," Halima said without hesitation. "And I get to pick which ones."
"You'll take the biggest," he said.
"Of course I will. My sisters and I are very hungry and we need to eat."
The man smiled. "I will lose money if I let you pick the ten biggest."
