by Ethan Jones
“That’s pretty good,” Carrie said. “Now, Prince Al-Taweel has an official report to support his assertion.”
Justin frowned. “Why, his words weren’t enough to convince the Qataris?”
Flavio shrugged. “There’s bad blood between the two countries and the two princes weren’t exactly friends. Many people became suspicious that the yacht sank under dubious circumstances, at the exact time when a number of a Saudi company directors were on board negotiating a deal with the prince.”
“But they lost their lives as well,” Carrie said.
“Yes, but that doesn’t stop their suspicions.”
“Has anyone suggested or claimed this was more than an accident?”
“No, not yet,” Flavio said. “But the Qataris have a lot of money. The prince’s family has started their own investigation. They’ve hired an international company that specializes in capsizing and sinking investigations, primarily for insurance purposes.”
Carrie frowned and looked at Justin. “What are the chances of this company finding any of the bodies?”
Flavio shrugged. “It’s difficult to tell. Considering the depth, the storm the day after the sinking, and nearby currents, I’d say it’s a waste of money. But desperate and suspicious people are inclined to do everything they can.” He shrugged again and flipped to the next page in the folder.
Justin said, “Before we move on, Prince Al-Taweel is extremely unlikely to tell the truth to anyone. He’s deeply involved in this affair. He may try to minimize his involvement to that of simply organizing a business meeting, but he actually knew what he was doing and what the consequences could have been.”
Flavio gave Justin a sideways glance. “What do you mean ‘he knew the consequences’? Surely Prince Al-Taweel had no idea a gunfight would erupt on board the yacht, and that the gunfight would cause it to sink?”
“No, but he knew who he was sending in with his team. The prince could have anticipated what might happen. And no one among the Qataris and the late prince’s family will believe that Prince Al-Taweel was that short-sighted. On the contrary, they’ll easily believe he organized this entire affair to get rid of the Qatari prince, for whatever reason—personal, business, or a combination of both.”
Flavio nodded. “All right, so that front should be watertight. Now, have you heard from Egorov?”
Justin shook his head. “Not since the last time we talked, three—no, four days after the yacht incident. She thanked me for taking her seriously and following up on her intel.”
Flavio snorted. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but she may be one of the few Russians I know that was straightforward with us.”
Justin shrugged. “She had a good reason: survival.”
“And we don’t know all the other aspects of her dealings with the bagman, Prince Al Khater, and his cronies,” Carrie said with a certain amount of skepticism. “What Egorov told us about herself puts her in a good light, of course.”
“Whatever it is, it’s not our problem any more. With the Qatari prince gone, I’m sure there will be a dozen or so smugglers trying to take his place. Perhaps they’ll learn something from the fact that even the greatest of them all can come crashing down, but I doubt it.”
Justin nodded. “Considering the history of the Middle East and the Gulf region over the last three millennia, I doubt much will change because we removed a weapons dealer. But we do what we can.”
“Even if we saved one kid whose leg will not be blown off because of a grenade smuggled by a warlord, I think we’ve done well,” Carrie said.
“Do you think Egorov will contact you again?”
“I doubt it,” Justin said. “Now that Prince Al Khater is gone, whoever was selling him weapons made in Russia can sleep better. That loop is closed. And the Cyprus financiers, the United Bank of Cyprus, and whoever was laundering money, they’re off the hook.”
“You really think that, Justin? You don’t think they’ll still go after Egorov and try to tie up that loose end?”
“They might, but as you said, sir, it’s not our problem any more.”
Flavio offered a small smile. “Yes, if Reza had delivered the promised intel, we could have gotten to the root of this weapons traffic.”
“Yes, about Reza. I’ve tried to get in touch with him, but it has been impossible. A couple of his friends have told me he has been relieved of his duties with the Islamic Revolutionary Guard,” he said in a low voice filled with regret as a deep frown creased his face. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Reza is no longer alive . . .” His voice trailed off.
“You shouldn’t blame yourself if the worst has happened,” Flavio said. “Reza knew the risks involved when he agreed to help you. Besides, we don’t know with absolute certainty whether Reza was genuinely trying to help you, or was setting you up.”
Justin nodded. “Yes, and I’ll have to live with that uncertainty.”
“On the topic of things we may never know for sure, I’ve received some interesting intel about a development in Israel. Remember I was telling you, Justin, about my suspicions that Mossad was playing a double game?”
“I do remember.”
“Well, it seems those suspicions were confirmed. Mossad initially was absolutely ready to get rid of Prince Al Khater. Then, after the convoy attack, they changed their mind.”
“Yes, what happened?” Carrie asked.
“Well, I just learned that on the same day, Mossad ran an operation deep into the Syrian side of the northern Golan border. A team of assassins took care of a notorious arms dealer who was thought to be sending weapons from the Syrian conflict to Israel’s enemies, Hamas and Hezbollah. Guess who that dealer was working with?”
Justin smiled. “Prince Al Khater.”
“Correct answer. Once those ties were severed, Mossad probably felt comfortable to stop the pursuit of the prince, knowing we would finish the operation.”
Carrie shook her head. “They could have shared the intel with us.”
“Yes, and the operation could have been easier. But Mossad came around and helped us with the yacht’s security system.”
“Still, it’s upsetting that they’re not open with information, resorting to deception.”
“We’re used to or should be used to it by now. Although, I agree, not knowing the full picture endangers our efforts.” Flavio closed the folder and put it aside. Then he swiveled on his chair and reached for a new red folder from the stack. “Your next mission involves SAS. Our British friends have lost something and are looking for our help in retrieving it. In one piece, if possible.” He slid the folder toward Justin.
He picked it up and looked at the first page while Carrie read it too. He frowned after he finished skimming through the first paragraph and glanced at Flavio. “Is this . . . this is not a mistake, is it?”
“No, apparently not. That’s what SAS believed happened. We don’t know the reason, or when exactly it took place. But that’s what they’d like us to find, and that’s why I’m dispatching you and Carrie to London.”
Carrie smiled. “London, here we come.”
Justin shrugged. “London in March. I don’t know. Rain, cold, fog.”
“Compared to Syria or the Gulf, I’ll take London any time,” Carrie said.
Flavio nodded. “True, but don’t get too comfortable. Following the trail might well take you to the Gulf.”
Justin nodded back. “Yes, but first, let’s enjoy her Majesty’s country.”
Author’s Note
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The Corrector - Book 1
Chapter One
Military Base #9341
Vorë, 17 km northwest of Tirana
Albania
Javin Pierce stared down the barrel of the Beretta 92FS pistol inches away from his face. This was not the first time the covert operative had looked at the business end of a gun. It was definitely not going to be the last time. He could wrestle the pistol away from the cocky colonel and wipe the smirk off his face in a split second. Before he could ask “What happened?” the officer would be lying on the floor with a broken jaw. Or worse, a broken neck, depending on Javin’s operational objective.
He drew in a deep breath and shrugged. His cover was that of a lost tourist, who had ventured by mistake inside the military base. When the patrol had apprehended him—as per Javin’s plan—he had feigned panic and had tried to justify his presence. “I got lost officer, I just . . . I took the wrong turn and . . . yes; I ended up inside the base. Sorry. Very sorry.”
As expected, the patrol did not buy his excuse. They had thrown him in an old UAZ-469—the Communist answer to the American Jeep, which the Albanian army still used—and had brought him to the command post, deep inside the base. Javin had almost enjoyed a guided tour of the base facilities, one of the targets of his mission.
“Speak, before I blow your head off,” the colonel spat out his heavily accented words, saliva flying out of his mouth.
They were in a small, dimly lit interrogation room that reeked of mold and urine. Javin was sitting on a rickety wooden chair, with his elbows placed on a metal table bolted to the coarse cement floor. The colonel was standing to Javin’s right.
“I . . . I understand your frustration, sir,” Javin said in a low, weak voice. “As I told your patrol, I’m a photographer. I was taking pictures, and I got lost.”
He wanted to give the impression of submissiveness, mixed with a healthy dose of fear. He had no illusions the colonel would let him go free. The middle-aged colonel was eyeing Javin like a snake preparing to devour a fat mouse.
It did not matter. Javin’s escape plan was already in place. All he had to do was wait for the phone call. Javin had lost track of time when the officers had stripped him of all his valuables—camera, cellphone, wristwatch—suspecting he was a spy, which he was. Now, if he could hold on and avoid a good beating, he was more than happy to do so.
The colonel held the pistol tight in his hands. “You’re telling me you didn’t see the signs warning you to stay away from the base?”
Javin shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”
“You just decided to go through the fence, right?”
“Yes, sir. There was a large gap, so . . . I . . . I thought this was a farmer’s field that would lead me to the top of the hill. As you can see from the photos in my camera, I was trying to get a good shot of the full moon behind the olive groves.”
“I don’t believe you.” The colonel shook his large bald head. “You’re lying to me.”
“Why would I do that, sir?”
“Because you’re not a photographer. You’re a spy. You’ve come here to take pictures of the base.”
Javin frowned, then ran his fingers through his neck-length brown hair. “Your officers searched my camera. They found nothing of that sort. Only pictures of landscape and animals. That’s because I’m a freelance photographer.”
Javin had already emailed the pictures he had taken of the weapons cache. His camera was equipped with an encrypted wireless connection that erased all traces of any activity at the tap of a button. Albania had become the preferred smuggling route for channeling weapons from the Balkan wars and the Kosovo conflict to the Middle East and North Africa. The condemning evidence of the base’s involvement in trafficking weapons to fuel the wars in Syria and Iraq was already safely stored in the servers of the Canadian Intelligence Service, Javin’s agency.
The colonel lowered his Beretta just an inch. He cursed Javin, then he said, “That’s because you deleted those pictures when you were caught.”
Javin cocked his head. “When your officers detained me, they called at me to freeze. I did so. I had no chance to get to my camera. Ask them, if you don’t believe me.”
“I’ve asked them already. You knew you were going to get caught, so you deleted them.”
Javin nodded. “Okay, so if that is true, then let me go. I made a mistake, a small, honest mistake of trespassing. My deepest, sincerest apologies—”
“You’re a smooth talker, but it’s not going to get you out of this mess.” The colonel moved his pistol away from Javin’s face and holstered it. “Let’s start again.” He walked back to his chair and sat across from Javin. “What were you doing in my military base?”
Javin shook his head and tightened his hands into fists. He disliked this part about his role as a corrector. Acting like an animal caught in a trap, showing fear, submissiveness, weakness. Javin was dispatched when covert operations went sideways. His objective was to correct things, to bring them back to their original state, or at least, as close as possible to that state. This was the part he loved, and he was extraordinarily good at it. Sneaking in and out of the country, leaving no traces, or misleading the people looking for him.
In this specific case, the pair of agents assigned the task of gathering the evidence had been detected while they were still in action. The botched operation had almost cost their lives. They were forced to abort the mission, leaving behind a few wounded Albanian soldiers and a long trail of suspicions.
So the CIS had sent in Javin.
“Come on, I’m waiting here,” the colonel said.
Javin nodded and mustered a smile. “Sure, let me tell you again what happened.”
Before he could say another word, the colonel’s cellphone rang. He pulled it out of the front pocket of his khaki green jacket and glanced at the screen. The colonel gave Javin a puzzled gaze, blinked in surprise, and answered the call: “Yes, commander.”
Javin stifled a small smile. It had to be the call he was waiting for.
The colonel listened for a moment as a dark frown began to spread across his broad forehead. “No, no, of course, no, we haven’t laid a hand on him. He’s . . . yes, he’s here.” He listened for another moment, then stood up and walked toward the door. “Yes. But . . . eh, sir, do you think that is—”
Javin nodded to himself. Considering how the colonel is squirming, it had to be my guy.
The colonel shook his head. “I . . . I understand, sir. Yes, we’ll wait for you.” He ended the call, then cursed the commander. He made an angry gesture with his fist, then turned around. “How does my commander know about you?”
Javin offered a blank look. “I . . . that was your commander?”
“Yes, and he ordered me to refrain from laying a hand on you. How does he know you are here?”
Javin shrugged. “I don’t know. One of the officers must have—”
“And why does he care about you, if you’re a simple, lost tourist?”
“The commander is probably thinking of the big picture. Tourism dollars are very important for Albania. Once the story g
ets out that a tourist has been detained illegally and without any evidence, the country’s image will be—”
“The commander has never cared about tourists or the economy, only how to stuff his own pockets. Why the sudden interest in you?”
Javin shook his head. “I’m as puzzled as you are, sir.”
The colonel held Javin’s brown eyes, then searched his face. The piercing look seemed to search Javin’s thoughts. A moment later, the colonel shrugged. “Well, whatever this is, I don’t like it. It stinks.” He slammed his fist on the table, then stood up. He pounded hard on the door, and when one of the officers opened it, the colonel stormed out.
Javin drew in a deep sigh of relief. A few minutes, and I’ll be out of here. I have enough evidence, and we’ll stop at least this part of the traffic.
He nodded and his lips formed a small smile. He rubbed his chin. Yes, this part of the op is done, but my assignment is far from over.
Chapter Two
Military Base #9341
Vorë, 17 km northwest of Tirana
Albania
Forty-five minutes later, the small door of the interrogation room was thrown open. Commander Pandi Gogollari entered the room, followed by the colonel, who was still fuming. Gogollari had a relaxed look. He was in his early forties—ten years older than Javin, who had just turned thirty-one the previous month—and nowhere close to Javin’s excellent physique, which was thanks to the corrector’s strict, almost religious-like regiment of hour-long workouts every other day. Gogollari’s bulging belly and receding hairline, along with the weather-beaten face, made him look much older.
He stepped closer to the table and extended his hand to Javin.
He stood up and gave the commander a strong handshake. “I’m deeply sorry about your treatment, Mr. Pierce. My country is known for its deep-rooted hospitality. This is by no means a way to treat a guest of my country,” he said in slightly accented English, in a voice full of sincere regret.
