by Brad Taylor
None of this would have mattered a whit to Dexter, except Mossack Fonseca was the same company that he’d used with the Saudis more than a decade before. When the first leak had occurred, he had lived in terror for a month, consumed with the fear that his association with Tariq and his father would be outed—along with Dexter’s long-held suspicions that they’d had a hand in 9/11.
It had not. Even given the enormous scope of the leak, Dexter’s shell company had remained ensconced inside Mossack Fonseca’s digital fortress, protecting him from discovery. But now there was supposedly another leak on the way, and Dexter had much, much more to lose than he’d had fifteen years ago.
Although he’d never spoken to Tariq again—afraid of confirming his darkest fear and convinced that any communication would be monitored by federal authorities—he had taken the contract in Saudi Arabia, and it had proven lucrative.
He learned that having a contract begat more contracts, and he began to expand his business, branching out from simple aviation services to full-spectrum military industrialist titan. He had defense contracts encompassing everything from providing interpreters to SOCOM in Uganda to electronic perimeter security at a US consulate in Mali.
In short, he was now a player, and with that power came a duty to prevent this new leak from bringing everything down. He’d worked too long and hard, developing influence both in the halls of Congress and in the halls of the Pentagon, and in the ensuing years he’d learned to play hardball better than most. It was why he was successful.
He leaned forward and punched an intercom button, saying, “Janice, has Johan called you about being late?”
Before she could answer, he caught a movement at the door, then recognized his head of security, Johan van Rensburg.
Dexter said, “Where the hell have you been?”
Speaking with a light Afrikaans accent, Johan said, “I just got in. I was delayed at JFK and had to spend the night.”
“I thought you were coming in two days ago.”
“Couldn’t get out of Jordan. You told me to make sure the work was done before I came home.”
Dexter’s latest venture was a contract from Jordan’s King Abdullah II Special Operations Training Center, providing armorer support to the various courses run there, with an eye toward increasing beyond that into the security realm itself.
Created jointly between the United States and Jordan in 2009, KASOTC was the only Special Operations training facility of its kind in the Middle East, with ranges and mock-ups that rivaled anything in Europe or the United States, and it was used by multiple countries on an invitation basis. Run solely by ex-operators from various countries, one could just as easily run across a Brit formerly in the SAS as an American from US Army Special Forces. It was where Dexter had initially met Johan, and had convinced him to leave his current contract as a CQB instructor with KASOTC and come work for Icarus Solutions as the head of Dexter’s fledgling security division.
A former member of South Africa’s famed Reconnaissance Commandos—the Recces—Johan had left the military after the turmoil in his country in the early nineties. He’d bounced around from job to job, most on the African continent at various hot spots. He’d fought with Executive Outcomes in Sierra Leone, Sandline International in Liberia, and, most recently, at the behest of the Nigerian government against Boko Haram. He’d eventually tired of getting shot at and decided to go the route of training instead of operations, landing the job at KASOTC.
Unlike the Hollywood portrayal of SOF supermen, Johan wasn’t a bulked-up Arnold Schwarzenegger, but more wiry, with ropes of muscle clinging closely to his frame and what looked like a permanent tan baked into his skin. Dexter didn’t know all he’d done, but he’d heard enough from rumors, and he knew the scars on Johan’s body hadn’t come from playing rugby.
Johan said, “What’s the fire? Why’d you call me back?”
Dexter pointed to a seat and said, “I’ve got an issue. Something that could cause significant problems with Icarus.”
Johan sat down and said, “Okay.”
Dexter toyed with a paperweight biplane, realizing he would need to measure his words carefully. Dexter worked in the “defense industry” as a manager of aviation assets, but all of his employees were support. He had no real “security” experience at the sharp end of the spear. Johan was the only man he knew who could prevent the leak, but in so doing, Dexter would be placing significant trust in him. Giving him knowledge that could be used against Dexter in the future.
There was also the problem of Johan’s willingness to execute. He was a hard man, no doubt, but he’d shown a perverse sense of honor. Johan was a cynical killer on the surface, but underneath, he believed. He would not do anything against his personal code of conduct. And that code was written in stone.
While thinking of how to present the problem, Dexter had had a stroke of genius. He remembered a conversation he’d had with the South African when he’d initially hired him: The man hated traitors and considered organizations like WikiLeaks to be enablers of the theft of national secrets. On top of that, he absolutely despised the press for perceived transgressions against South Africa, and that had continued on into his mercenary days.
One night, after a few beers and a single question from Dexter, Johan had become apoplectic, ranting like a madman. To the point that Dexter had felt fear. The Panama Papers bore none of those taints, but it was similar in technique. All he had to do was spin it the right way.
Johan said, “Well?”
Dexter formulated his words but couldn’t look him in the eyes. Johan had a way of peeling back the soul, as if he were mentally flaying you, and it was unsettling. Dexter was sure he’d falter if he locked eyes with the man.
He continued playing with the paperweight airplane, saying, “Do you remember the Panama Papers last year?”
5
Johan said, “Yeah. Some fuck stole a bunch of proprietary information and gave it to journalists. What about it?”
“I told you about how this company was founded. About the first contract in KSA. You remember that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it was predicated—and I’m not proud of this—on a bribe to a certain Saudi contact. I did it, and now I’m where I am. You are where you are. No more running and gunning. A nice job with a hefty salary.”
“What was the bribe for?”
Dexter shifted the conversation, saying, “I used a shell company from that law firm in Panama. The first leak—before I hired you—was huge, but I wasn’t in it.”
Dexter pointed at the computer screen and said, “There’s a second leak coming, and there’s a good chance I’ll be in it. If that happens, at best, I’ll be crushed for the relationship by the prima donna politicians all looking for a score, and worst, arrested for illegal contract negotiations and insider trading.”
He paused, wanting to see if Johan was on board, risking a glance across the desk. He couldn’t tell one way or the other. The man’s face was stoic, his shaggy blond hair partially covering his eyes. Dexter sagged back in his chair and said, “If that leak goes, I’m out of a company. And you’re out of a job.”
Johan leaned forward, brushing his hair aside and giving Dexter his full, uncomfortable attention. He said, “What do you want me to do?”
Dexter said, “Well . . . I know who the reporter is that’s going to meet the leaker, a sorry sack of shit like Snowden and Manning. I was hoping you’d meet the leaker instead. Convince him it wasn’t in his best interests.”
Johan picked an M&M’s candy from a bowl on the desk, popped it into his mouth, and said, “I could do that, I suppose. One less waste of flesh walking the earth, but it’s not without risk.”
“I understand. I’m prepared to pay you a great deal. This bribe I did can’t see the light of day. Ever. It was nothing on the grand scheme of things, but it’s everything to u
s.”
Johan popped another M&M and said, “You keep saying that, but I’ve worked this side of the fence for a while. Bribes happen all the time, and you have leverage with the American establishment. Maybe it’s better to let it out and fight it on the publicity front. My way is dirty.”
“No. That won’t work.”
Johan straightened and said, “Why? You have the ear of sitting senators and half the generals in the Pentagon. Unless there’s something more. What was the bribe for? Who got it?”
“It’s not the bribe. It’s the fact that it’s Saudi Arabia. Ten years ago, that would be nothing. Now, with the Islamophobia rampant in the United States, I’ll be crucified. I can’t count on support from the Pentagon or Congress. Especially after the administration released those classified pages from the congressional inquiry into 9/11. The ones dealing with Saudi complicity in the attacks.”
“Okay. Once again, what do you want me to do?”
“Interdict this ‘Agent Zero.’ Get his data and destroy it.”
Johan considered the mission, then said, “You want him dead. Is that it?”
Dexter hadn’t thought about that, the question startling him.
Johan said, “Let’s face it, if I meet him as the journalist and I get his information, and it doesn’t get exposed, he’s just going to try again.”
Dexter said, “Yes. I see your point. I suppose you couldn’t just convince him?”
Johan barked a sharp laugh and said, “I could for the five minutes we were together, but once he’s gone—and safe—he’ll reconsider. He understands the risks. He’s made powerful enemies with his release, which means he has courage.”
Dexter nodded, realizing what Johan had said was true. The Panama Papers had exposed corruption from the highest levels of foreign governments to the biggest bosses of organized crime. Whoever Agent Zero was, there were plenty of people who wanted him dead. Which made the decision easier. With that many enemies, nobody would connect a lone defense contractor to the action.
Dexter said, “I don’t want the information out. Period. You do what you think is best. You’ll be well rewarded.”
He withdrew an envelope and laid it on the desk, saying, “This is the information on the reporter who’s going to meet him. Don’t ask me how I got it. Just understand that it cost a significant amount of influence and money. You talk to him, find the meeting site, then assume his place.”
Johan took the envelope and opened it. He glanced at the first page and said, “International Consortium of Investigative Journalists. Washington, DC.”
“Yes. I’ll pay for the airfare and hotels, of course. And a handsome bonus when it’s done. I’d like you to leave tomorrow.”
“What about the journalist?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I can’t just ask him for the source and expect him to gladly give it to me. And once I leave, he’ll contact this Agent Asshole and tell him to flee.”
Dexter instinctively knew where the question was headed, but he didn’t want to face the decision. Johan saved him from the problem.
He stood and said, “Don’t worry about it. I fucking hate reporters. All a bunch of lying shitheads with rainbows and noble causes. They destroyed my country, then destroyed my employment in Africa, first with Executive Outcomes, then every other company I worked for. Now they’re trying to destroy me again.”
He pocketed the envelope and said, “I’ll do him for free.”
6
The sign read, BLAISDELL CONSULTING PARKING ONLY. FOR INQUIRIES, ENTER THROUGH MAIN ENTRANCE ON 10TH STREET. I pulled the rental car in front of the gate to the underground parking deck and pressed the button on the intercom because I didn’t have a badge to wave in front of the card reader.
It buzzed, and a female voice said, “Can I help you?”
“Grolier Recovery Services here to see Kurt Hale.”
I heard her shuffling around for a minute, checking clipboards and probably calling offices, and understood why. Nobody from the outside firms of the Taskforce ever came to the headquarters—but then again, none of the other outside assets were run by Operators.
Truthfully, I very rarely came to the headquarters in Washington, DC, precisely because we wanted to maintain a separation between the cover organization of Blaisdell Consulting and my own firm, Grolier Recovery Services. Just like criminals at a CSI crime scene, every time we touched, we left a little clue behind. Something someone could potentially use to unravel exactly what it was we did. It was the reason I’d conducted a surveillance detection route just to get here. Precautions, precautions, precautions.
Once a year or so, Kurt decided to have me up to headquarters just to get a feel for what had changed. Keep me in the loop with all the other shooters who were running operations. Only a few short years ago I’d still been on active duty, sheep-dipped from an Army Special Mission Unit into the Taskforce. Grolier was the only civilian company that actually conducted missions, an honor not afforded anyone else. Well, I called it an honor, but the truth of the matter was, I got results. Period. As such, I was a little bit of an outlier. All the other civilian companies—aircraft leases, boating companies, trucking firms, whatever we needed for operations—were strictly support.
Without another word from the speaker, the gate rose, and I entered. Jennifer saw all the spaces were numbered and asked where the visitors’ parking was. I chuckled. Unlike me, she’d never been in the military or intelligence community and, as a result, had spent precious little time inside headquarters and truly was a civilian.
I said, “No visitors’ parking in here. The Taskforce never gets visitors. Each space is reserved.”
“So what are we going to do?”
Right next to the glass doors providing entry to the building was a free spot, marked KURT HALE, CEO. I said, “I’m taking the boss’s spot.”
She shook her head and dialed her phone. I parked and heard her say, “We’re here.”
Then: “Okay. Standing by.”
She said, “I didn’t tell him where you parked.”
“He’ll figure it out.”
Thirty seconds later, the glass door opened and a man dressed like he was going to a We Are the Eighties reunion came out. He held it open, waving us in.
I exited the car, saying, “Retro, Kurt’s got you running errands for him now?”
He smiled and said, “Knuckles ain’t around, so I guess it’s me.”
Jennifer said, “Kurt’s not going to mind where we parked, is he?”
“Beats me. I don’t have a parking spot, so power to the people.”
I said, “Where’s Knuckles? You guys are on training cycle.”
We went through the door to an elevator, him waving his card and punching in more numbers, saying, “Yeah, he’s been tasked as a sponsor for a new hire. Leading him around, getting him settled.”
Which was surprising. Knuckles was my second-in-command, so I should have been consulted on any new hires to the team. As the team leader, I wasn’t about to say anything to Retro and decided to just act like I knew what was going on, waiting to see Kurt Hale.
We exited the elevator and walked down a broad hallway, past offices full of people left and right who would glance at us, then turn back to work.
Retro knocked on an oak door, then opened it. Just inside was George Wolffe—the deputy commander of the Taskforce and an old-school CIA paramilitary officer.
He ignored me and said to Jennifer, “Well, well. Koko made the trip too.”
She surprised him with a stone face, saying, “Yes, I did. I am, after all, half owner of GRS. Why wouldn’t I come?”
With his use of her callsign, Jennifer immediately thought he was patronizing her. She was always self-conscious whenever we did anything with people outside of our team, because she knew her position as a female team mem
ber was precarious and, in some circles, hated. Jennifer had been inside the headquarters only a couple of times in her entire life, but George certainly knew all about her. First female operator was a hard one to miss, and, unbeknownst to her, he had been the deciding vote to let her try. He meant no harm, actually thinking he was giving her a compliment. He looked at me for support.
I said, “Welcome to my world. She hates that damn callsign. I’m thinking of changing it to Fluffy Rabbit or something.”
He stuck out his hand, giving as good as he got, saying, “Well, Koko, I’m sorry your callsign is a talking gorilla. Mine is the Wolf. I didn’t get it for my name.”
She quickly realized her mistake, breaking into a grin and taking his hand. She said, “I didn’t get mine because I look like a gorilla. Knuckles gave it to me.”
He swung the door wide and stepped aside, saying, “I know, I know. We all suffer for our sins.”
We entered a simple office that could’ve been found anywhere in DC, with the exception of the wall adornments. All of them were the last vestiges of some sorry asshole who had tried to kill Americans. A piece of metal from a Hellfire strike, a pressed kaffiyeh tinged with red, three pages of a manifesto describing the end of civilization as we know it, now hanging as a wall plaque in the office of the man who’d prevented just such a thing.
On the phone, Kurt Hale saw us enter and waved us to a couple of seats. He said a few words and then hung up. The air was silent for a moment, until I said, “Well, sir?”
He rubbed a hand through his hair, staring at the phone, lost in thought, then turned to us, switching from whatever was said on the landline to me. He said, “Hey, my favorite team leader. Glad you could come on such short notice. We have a problem.”
