Retrieval

by Ethan Jones

  “What’s his name?”

  “Not IDed yet.”

  “So let’s call him Marley.”

  Tom gave Javin a sideways glance. “Bob Marley is the only man with dreadlocks you know?”

  Javin shrugged. “No, I know others…”

  “Who?” Claudia gave him a puzzled look.

  Javin thought about it for a moment, then smiled. “Justin Bieber, he wore blond dreadlocks for a while…”

  Tom rolled his eyes and spread out his palms. “How do you know about Justin Bieber?”

  Javin shrugged. “I don’t know. Must have seen his face on the subway or on the side of a bus somewhere.”

  Claudia said, “You’re not listening to him, are you?”

  Javin groaned. “Too old for that.”

  “All right. Let’s go with Marley. So he dined with Schmidt, and they signed some papers. According to my asset, Marley was quite angry and vocal at times throughout the evening, but Schmidt was able to calm him down. Marley spoke German with an English accent, but, of course, my asset couldn’t make out what they were talking or arguing about.”

  “What’s the amount in the account?”

  Tom shrugged. “Getting that information proved to be trickier than expected. As of last month, it was about five million dollars. The records show that someone makes a deposit every Saturday. The bank’s closed, but Schmidt makes special arrangements, since this is an important client. Over the last month, there were four deposits, each for a million dollars. The other million was placed in smaller increments over the course of six months.”

  “They were checking to see if the transactions would raise any alarms,” Claudia said.

  Tom nodded. “Yes. And no alarms so far. The next deposit is in two days. Not sure about the exact time, since the system has logins at different hours.” He tipped his head toward the folder. “A couple are early in the morning, the others in the afternoon.”

  “So we have to be there, waiting for him as of the opening hour,” Claudia said.

  “Yes. I already have someone keeping an eye on Schmidt at all times. We know where he lives, who his girlfriend is, where he goes to the gym—”

  Javin said, “Wait, this man works out?” He pointed at the first photograph.

  “I said he goes to the gym. Maybe he likes the milkshakes there, or ogles the women who exercise…” Tom shrugged.

  “Okay, what do we know about Marley?” Claudia said.

  “Not much. My asset lost him when leaving the restaurant. But he was in the company of three other men. Big, muscled men, probably armed.”

  “So, how are we going to find him?”

  Tom reached for the tablet, flipped it around, and showed it to Claudia. “We can’t go to Marley, but we’ll have him, or whoever deposits the money, come to us.” He tapped the screen of the tablet, then zoomed into a map. “Here’s Schmidt’s apartment on Rue Schaub, a few blocks away from the Russian Consulate.”

  Javin glanced at Tom, who made a hand gesture for Javin to relax. “I checked, Javin. No connections to the Russians. Just happened to be in the same neighborhood.”

  “Russians don’t just happen…” Javin said.

  “I thought Canadians were on better terms with Russians than we Americans, and less paranoid.” Tom shrugged.

  Javin could not tell if Tom was serious or half-joking. “If you said you’ve checked, I trust you.”

  “Good. So we’ll get into Schmidt’s apartment. He has a high-security alarm system, but it will only take a moment to disarm it. We get in and get to Schmidt, who hands us everything he has about Marley.” Tom sat back on his armchair.

  “You really think it’s going to be that easy?”

  “No, I expect complications, but nothing we can’t handle. Schmidt will try to deny his involvement, dodge our questions, resist. Once we present him irrefutable evidence, he will cooperate to save his skin.”

  “Are you going to torture him?” Claudia asked.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, although we’re going to use strong persuasion,” Tom said. “Look, it’s not like we’re going in blind here. Look at the pictures and the bank records. Schmidt has met Marley, and has accepted money into this account, which is linked to a shell corporation registered in the Caymans. If we went the legal route, it would take weeks, if not months, and possibly lead us nowhere. Even if we get the name of the person, or persons, behind the account, by the time we get to them, they’ll withdraw the funds and disappear. That’s not what we want, right?”

  “I wasn’t complaining; just asking a question.”

  “Oh, my bad, then. Must have been something in your tone I misunderstood.” Tom offered a small grin.

  Javin said, “All right. Let’s go over the steps, one after the other, how this is going to take place. Saturday is in two days, and we only have tomorrow to nab Schmidt.”

  “All right,” Tom said. “But before we do that, I want to order some food. I thought I’d wait for you before getting a bite to eat.”

  “I’m starving,” Claudia said.

  “Sure, let’s eat,” Javin said.

  Tom stood up. “What do you want?”

  “Surprise us,” Claudia said. “But lots of meat, okay?”

  “Where’s the surprise there?”

  “In the type of meat you’re bringing.”

  “How about you, Javin?”

  “Same.”

  “All right. No complaining if you don’t like it…”

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” Claudia said.

  Javin just nodded.

  Tom leaned over his laptop and locked the screen. Then he picked up his tablet and walked out of the room.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Titanic Hotel and Spa

  Erbil, Kurdistan

  When Tom returned, he brought what looked like a feast for at least six people. He rolled in a cart filled with plates covered by silver domes with ornate handles and placed it near the table.

  “Where’s the waiter?” Claudia asked.

  “I’m the waiter, and I’ll take your tip now.” He held out his hand.

  “Really? They just handed you the cart?”

  “Yes. How else would I bring all of this up?”

  Javin shrugged. “We could have ordered room service...”

  “Yes. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to get poisoned...” Tom sat in his armchair. “Let’s dig in before it gets cold.”

  Claudia lifted one of the covers. The scrumptious aroma of freshly grilled chicken kabobs filled the room. “Mmmmm, smells so good.”

  “Wait until you’ve tasted them,” Tom said. “They just made them, under my own eyes.” He began to lift the other covers, revealing a large bowl of seasoned rice, a platter of stacks of lamb kabobs, and a third one full of beef koftas, or meatballs. “How’s that for a surprise?”

  “Tom, you’re the best.”

  Tom smiled and nodded.

  Javin tipped his head toward Tom. “Who was poisoned?”

  He frowned as he looked at Javin. “One of the guys from another section. Aleppo, not two months ago. Poor guy survives bombings and ambushes, then walks into a restaurant. The cook is the brother of an ISIS thug who was executed for his brutalities. So the cook poisons the agent’s food. He’s dead in half an hour.”

  “Did they get the cook?”

  “Oh, yes. One of the agent’s friends was a rebel fighter. He died too. His family went after the cook’s family. Brothers, cousins, everyone.”

  “That’s horrible,” Claudia said.

  “It is. And it has made me wary of food.”

  Javin gave the rice in front of him a suspicious look.

  Tom noticed the look. “But this one is completely safe.” He took one of the unused spoons and scooped up a large portion. He stuffed his mouth and chewed it quickly. “See? I’m not dead.”

  “Not yet. It takes a while...”

  Tom shrugged. “Do as you want. More for me.” He
dug into the plate in front of him.

  “I’m joking.” Javin picked up one of the lamb kabobs. “Now, let’s talk about the Schmidt op.”

  “What’s there to talk about? Once in Geneva, we make contact with the asset, follow Schmidt—if he’s not already in his apartment—and make him talk.”

  “We thought of a few complications while you were gone,” Javin said after he finished chewing the first of the lamb kabobs. “What if Marley’s people are surveilling Schmidt?”

  “My asset hasn’t noticed any surveillance, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there. It will become a problem if Marley’s people decide to intervene.”

  “Yes, we can’t have Schmidt die before he gives us the intel,” Claudia said.

  Tom nodded. “All right. I’ll talk to my asset. Tell him to be extra careful and get another guy or two to help, so that they’ll remain unnoticed.”

  Javin nodded. “Yes, and they’ll need to be ready in case we do get interference from Marley or his crew. Another issue is if we do get to Marley, but he doesn’t know about the money.”

  Tom shrugged. “We have ways to make him talk.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but what if he really doesn’t know?”

  “He might be a small fish, the delivery boy,” Claudia said.

  Tom shook his head. “No, he’s signing papers with Schmidt, who’s taking him to high-class restaurants. By the way, Schmidt paid for their meal… No, he’s our man.”

  Javin said, “All right. So, Schmidt leads us to Marley. And we learn about who owns the account. Then what?”

  Tom picked up one of the chicken skewers. “It will depend on what we find. All leads seem to point to someone closely tied to the governor and/or Commander Zweiri. Once we have a name, or a few names, we can unlock this mystery.”

  “Yes, and I hope this brings us closer to the ISIS fugitive.”

  “I don’t know if or how much he’s involved, but I wouldn’t be surprised. At the peak of its reign, ISIS was making close to $3 million a day, mostly from selling oil from Iraq and Syria on the black market. At a time when oil was $100 a barrel, ISIS was peddling it for as low as $30. And we haven’t even started to talk about what they pillaged from the people they killed, or the bribes they extorted, the ransom from kidnappings, the sale of ancient artifacts they supposedly destroyed, and so on and on … The war sent many people from rags to unfathomable riches.”

  Javin nodded. “Yes. The temptation is enormous. I don’t justify anyone who takes bribes, but I can see how it happens. Officials aren’t paid in months or are paid peanuts, while criminals build hotels and mansions all over the world.”

  “It’s a mess, and it will remain like that for a long time,” Tom said in a resigned voice and filled a bowl with rice before sitting back in his armchair. “Now, let’s enjoy our meal, shall we?”

  “Sure. What’s for dessert?” Claudia asked.

  “You’ve barely touched anything,” Tom said.

  “I’ll eat more, Mom. But I want dessert first.”

  “This one.” Tom pointed at one of the smaller domes.

  “Yes, baklava,” Claudia said in a voice full of excitement as she lifted the cover to reveal four diamond-shaped pieces of baklava, the rich crispy pastry filled with chopped walnuts and dripping with honey. “I was so in the mood for baklava.”

  She picked up one of the pieces and took a small bite, careful not to let the honey drip on her black shirt.

  “There are also kadayif squares,” Tom said, referring to the dessert made with finely shredded phyllo dough, sprinkled with melted butter and nuts; he pointed at another dome on the lower level of the food cart.

  “Another one of my favorites,” Claudia said. “Thanks again, Tom.”

  He smiled and nodded.

  Javin thought about picking up one of the baklava pieces too. He had a sweet tooth, and loved the way the Kurdish cooked. Maybe once I’m done with this plate. He thought about the upcoming operation in Geneva, but then pushed that nagging anxiety to the back of his mind. Right now, things are going very well. Enjoy today, Javin. Tomorrow will have enough worries of its own.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Rue Liotard, Two Blocks South of Rue Schaub

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Javin glanced through the windshield of the blue Renault SUV at Schmidt walking at a hurried pace about fifty yards away. He had just come out of Park Geisendorf, where he had spent ten minutes meandering apparently aimlessly through the trees. Then he had sat on a bench, where he spent another five minutes staring at his phone. Javin was not sure if the target was trying to determine if he was being followed, if he was waiting to meet someone at the park, or just enjoying a stroll in the fresh evening air after a long day at the office. The rain had stopped, but a thick blanket of clouds was stretched across the skies.

  “Do you think he’s heading home?” Claudia asked from the front passenger seat.

  “I hope so. The longer we follow him through the city, the greater the likelihood of him or someone else noticing us.”

  “Someone else? You still believe Marley has him under surveillance?”

  “I would. If I were trusting him and his bank with millions of dirty money.”

  Claudia nodded. “I wish I knew what he was doing in the park.”

  “It doesn’t matter. But you can ask him.”

  “I will.”

  Schmidt was a few steps away from his black Mercedes-Benz coupe, when Tom’s asset appeared next to the park’s entrance. He was a blond man in his early twenties, thin and tall, like a basketball player. He glanced at a board to the right, advertising a couple of movies, then pulled out his phone and took a couple of pictures. Then he casually began to walk toward the coupe.

  “What’s Schmidt still doing outside his car?” Claudia said.

  “Not sure.” Javin said and leaned forward. “If he was waiting for someone, this is their last chance to meet him, before he takes off.”

  By now, the asset had reached the crosswalk. He looked both ways, spending perhaps a second too long as he glanced toward Schmidt, then crossed and continued onto the other sidewalk.

  “Come on, get in,” Javin said.

  “Javin, relax,” Tom’s voice came into Javin’s earpiece. “Give the old man his time.”

  Tom and his partner, Loger, were in a white Audi sedan parked up ahead of the Mercedes-Benz and around the corner, on Rue de la Poterie. Depending on the direction that Schmidt was going to take, Tom and Loger were going to be “the eye,” always maintaining visual contact with the target. Javin and Claudia, who had been the eye up to this point, were going to become “the tail,” bringing up the rear. If Schmidt was paying attention and keeping track of the vehicles behind him, he would now see a new car in his rearview mirror.

  The asset kept walking on the sidewalk across from the coupe. He had parked his gray Fiat Tipo sedan a block away, opposite Tom and Loger’s Audi. If Schmidt were able to make out the two surveillance teams, the asset would slip in as the last resort.

  Schmidt cast a last sweeping gaze around the sidewalk, then gave a final look at the park. He glanced at his wristwatch, then shrugged and entered the coupe.

  “He was waiting for someone,” Javin said.

  “Looks that way,” Claudia said. “But who?”

  “Maybe Schmidt is ensuring no one’s following him,” Loger said in his thick German accent.

  Javin said nothing. He waited until Schmidt’s Mercedes-Benz had merged with traffic, before turning on their car. “Javin, are you going?” Tom’s voice rang in Javin’s earpiece.

  “Yes, just don’t want to be too obvious.”

  “He’s turning left.”

  “Yes, I can still see him.”

  Javin allowed for a taxi to slide into the space between him and the Mercedes-Benz as they drove along Rue de la Poterie. He expected Schmidt to turn left, then make an immediate right, so that he could head toward his apartment. He did turn left, but then went strai
ght, and, at the next intersection, made a right turn.

  “Where is he going?” Claudia asked.

  “Javin, what’s going on?” Tom said.

  “Target’s turning right on Antoine-Carteret.”

  “Why?”

  “Not sure.”

  The Mercedes-Benz slowed down as it came to the next intersection, then Schmidt pulled the steering wheel to the left. The taxi continued straight, so now Javin and Claudia were right behind the coupe. The black wrought-iron fence crowned with concertina wire in front of a thick hedge of the Russian Consulate came into view. “I think I know where he’s going: to the Russians.”

  “What?” Tom said.

  Claudia said, “I don’t think so.”

  “He’s slowing down,” Javin said.

  “Yes, because there are people crossing the street.”

  The Mercedes-Benz came to a complete stop as a group of three teens wearing dark pants and hoodies, with hands deep in their pockets made their way to the sidewalk opposite the consular building. Schmidt turned his way toward the entrance, and his eyes lingered there for a few moments longer than necessary.

  Javin said, “There, he’s checking out the consulate’s gate.”

  Schmidt swung his head in the other direction, then he looked down and seemed to be fumbling with something in the console between the two seats.

  “Or maybe he’s just looking around, since he’s stopped anyway.”

  Javin glanced at the consulate’s gate. He noticed nothing strange there, but then he was not expecting someone to come out and meet with Schmidt or give him a package. Still, the mere fact that the target was driving here could be a signal or have a specific meaning. Javin noticed a couple of security cameras mounted on a streetlight pole next to the entrance. “Cameras. Keep your head down.”

  “Copy that,” Tom said.

  Javin found it unexpected for Schmidt to drive by the consulate office. His apartment was exactly on the opposite side. I’m missing something here. But what is it?

  The teens crossed to the other side, and Schmidt started the Mercedes-Benz. He continued straight for a couple of blocks, then turned right on Rue des Asters.