Counterfeit (The Jim Slater series Book 2)

by Stanley Salmons

  I could see where Bob would want to extract the maximum political capital out of the mission. That would be why Helena Brooke-Masters had been invited. I didn’t know what Ted Zander’s interest was; perhaps that would emerge from the discussion. I’d kept my report crisp. These people have a limited attention span.

  “And the soldier who was wounded?” she asked.

  “Sally Kent? We got her to the nearest civilian hospital. They did what they could, but as soon as she was stabilised I arranged for her to be transferred to a US military hospital – the Regional Medical Center at Landstuhl. Charlie – that’s Sergeant Holcroft – went with her and flew back from Germany.”

  She nodded attentively, slim fingers resting on the table. I returned to my seat.

  Bob seemed to sense that it was the right moment.

  “I think you’ll agree, Helena, that we’re seeing once again the value of having a highly trained force that can accomplish a task like this efficiently and discreetly.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Trouble is, Wendell,” Bob continued, turning to Harken with a puckish smile, “you may have done yourself a disservice. You dealt with this militia using just six men, which means they were outnumbered four to one. People will start to think those odds are normal for the SAF. They’ll want the budget downscaled accordingly.”

  Harken scowled. “It was only intended to be a token presence,” he grumbled. “A precautionary measure to bolster security in case of trouble. As it turned out, they couldn’t avoid contact. They acquitted themselves well, but they took one serious casualty.”

  “How bad?” Bob asked. “Will she be fit for service again?”

  “I think so. That Center has a lot of experience with tissue-engineered scaffolds and debridement and cell growth accelerators. Of course, once she’s recovered she’ll have to train up to our standards of fitness all over again. You can’t rush these things.”

  Brooke-Masters inclined her head. “Do convey our best wishes to her.”

  She picked up her document case. She seemed to be preparing to leave.

  “Ma’am?” I said.

  “Yes, Colonel?”

  “May I ask if you’ll be raising this at a diplomatic level?”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “With the Russian Union, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  Ted Zander flashed an anxious look at her.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. It seems the Mirovoi delegation was attacked, too, so they could hardly be held responsible. It must have been an unfortunate coincidence that the militia decided to strike that particular lodge.”

  I looked at her in disbelief. “I think that’s highly unlikely.”

  “But you said—”

  “I said the Russian’s vehicle was destroyed, but I didn’t see any bodies. I think it was a set piece.”

  “Well, that’s your opinion, Colonel, but with respect, it’s pure conjecture.”

  “It’s not just the location of the attack, ma’am, it’s the timing. The Russians left and that militia came in close on their heels while the American team were still in the building. As coincidences go, that’s a little too much to take. And have we heard protests from the Russians about their delegation being killed or kidnapped? They’re keeping kind of quiet about it, don’t you think?”

  Zander intervened. “If I may, Helena? We’re really grateful for the action you and your people took, Colonel. But even if we accept that this was a deliberate attempt to assassinate the negotiators from Cuprex, it’s still a matter of commercial rivalry. It may be worth taking it up with the FBI, but it’s not a diplomatic issue.”

  I was about to say something but I didn’t want to ruin things for Bob. Instead I expelled my breath noisily.

  Bob frowned. “I do think Slater has a point, though, Ted. We very nearly lost some pretty key American citizens out there.”

  “The bottom line is, Bob, we didn’t. And you’re making the assumption that those militiamen were hired by Mirovoi Industries.”

  “You heard what the Colonel said. It sounds reasonable to me.”

  Brooke-Masters took up the exchange. She put her elbows on the table and placed her fingertips together.

  “Look,” she said. “Let’s be clear about what’s at stake. We’re involved in delicate negotiations with the Russian government. It’s taken a whole heap of work over a long period but we’re getting somewhere at last. Ted, here, is drawing up the trade agreements. Of course, it’s vital we get that part right.”

  Zander nodded vigorously. Brooke-Masters continued:

  “But there’s even more: non-aggression treaties, demilitarisation of space, cooperation on international crime and terrorism, combined political pressure to end conflicts in the Middle East, the Indian subcontinent, Africa.” She eased back, palms face down on the table. “I’m not saying we can work miracles but what we can do is break down the polarisation of attitudes that reinforces differences instead of resolving them. This country needs a strong alliance with the Russian Union; it’s the only way we can counter commercial and political domination by the Chinese bloc. Now am I going to put all that at risk? Am I going to make a diplomatic incident out of something that involves no actual loss of life on our part, and what appears to be a loss of eight lives on theirs? I don’t think so.”

  My hackles rose. With rare exceptions – like Bob, and President Nagel – I’ve never had much time for our elected representatives; too often all they represent are their own interests. I was supposed to exercise restraint but I couldn’t hold back.

  “And violation of human rights in formerly independent territories of the Russian Union, like Georgia, South Ossetia, and Abkhazia? Are they going to be up for discussion too?”

  Her mouth tightened. I knew I’d struck a nerve.

  “Look, Colonel, you can’t solve everything by going at it head-on. Where there’s prosperity the question of human rights doesn’t arise. Where there’s poverty and hardship the people rebel, and governments often take a hard line in putting them down. The trade deals we’re negotiating will bring benefits to everyone. As the money flows into these countries problems like that will subside.”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, with heavy sarcasm. “I’ve seen how well that works in Africa.”

  Brooke-Masters ignored the comment. She picked up her document case and got to her feet. Everyone followed suit. She turned to Harken and myself and inclined her head. Her tone was cool.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, for the report. There’s no need to say that your services to this country are greatly valued.”

  “I’ll remember that when we come to the next budget round,” Bob quipped. “Helena, Ted, thanks for coming. I’ll see you out.”

  “No need, Bob,” Zander said. “We know the way.”

  As Bob followed them to the door I turned to Harken.

  “Were you planning to go back today, Wendell?”

  “No chance, I’ve got a whole series of meetings lined up here. You’ll have to mind the shop for a bit, I’m afraid.”

  Bob came back to us and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Great job, Jim. Sorry about the, er...”

  I grimaced. “You tried, Bob.” I got up. “You don’t need me here any more, do you?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Okay. I’ll leave you guys to it.”

  *

  If my report had strengthened Bob’s position it was probably worth the effort but, as he’d tacitly acknowledged, in other respects it had been a waste of time. I wasn’t hugely surprised. When things are working perfectly these people can always manage to wreck it by throwing ill-considered legislation at you; when you want something done, they’re so busy looking at it from every angle they can’t reach a decision. So I was glad I’d already initiated some inquiries of my own.

  Outside the DoD I took a taxi to the new J. Edgar Hoover Building, where Max Keller had set up a meeting with one of his former colleagues at the Bureau.

  I reported at recept
ion. They made a phone call and did the usual security checks, then called over a guard to escort me to an office on the fourth floor. I knocked and went in. It was a small room, minimally furnished, in complete contrast to the conference room I’d just left. Max was already there, getting to his feet.

  “Hi, Jim. This here is Howard Reinhardt. He used to work for the Securities and Exchange Commission. He’s one of our best company people. Howard, this is Colonel Jim Slater.”

  He extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you, Colonel.”

  “Jim,” I said.

  He smiled. “Have a seat.”

  Howard seemed young and the open-necked shirt and polyjeans were certainly more casual than I’d seen on any other agent. If they tolerated it here, you could bet he was worth his salt.

  “Max filled me in on what happened,” he said, as soon as we were settled. “Sounds like you guys did one hell of a job.”

  “I guess we came out of it pretty well.”

  “What did the CEO say?”

  “Ridout? Nothing. Leastways, not to me. Max?”

  Max grimaced. “Not a word.”

  From what Max had said, that wasn’t unexpected. Agreeing to meet there in the first place had been a colossal error of judgment on Ridout’s part; he just didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t need his thanks, but it wouldn’t have hurt him to ask about Sally. Even Bob Cressington and Helena Brooke-Masters had the good grace to do that.

  I came back to Reinhardt. “The bottom line is, Howard, Cuprex’s top people went out there to negotiate and they were damn near annihilated. Stuff like that shouldn’t happen. I was hoping we could nail the bastards responsible.”

  “Yeah, that’s what Max said. To be honest, it’s a tricky proposition. The Bureau gets involved in transnational cases where organised crime is involved, but I wouldn’t say this fits. That’s not all, though. It seems to me your case hinges on whether that militia group acted independently or whether they were paid to do it by the Mirovoi people. The whole sequence of events suggests they were paid, but getting independent proof of that would be one hell of a task.”

  “I thought you’d say that. Thing is, one of my team got shot up during the encounter so I’m not inclined to just let it ride.”

  Howard nodded grimly. “I can understand that. How can I help?”

  “Well, this guy Vlasov, the CEO of the Russian outfit. Do we know anything about him?”

  “Leon Vlasov? A little, yes. We accessed the file earlier when Max and I were talking about it.”

  “You have a file on him?”

  “Sure do. He’s highly placed: runs a big, successful conglomerate and advises the Russian President on trade matters – I gather they’re personal friends. The government’s in wide-ranging talks with the Russians right now and someone like that could affect the outcome, so we were asked to check him out. Do you want to come round here so we can all see?”

  Max and I pulled our chairs round to join him. Howard had a screen standing on his desk, but there was also a second, smaller screen built into the desk top. He saw me looking at it.

  “Multitouch,” he said. “It covers most operations but I can bring up a full keyboard if I want one.”

  He tapped an icon and the usual rows of keys appeared.

  The technology was familiar enough. I was just wondering why we’d fallen so far behind at Fort Piper.

  “Here we go. There isn’t a lot.”

  The folder on the screen opened at a large photograph. I pointed.

  “That’s him – the fat man who showed up at the lodge.”

  Max said, “Just what I thought, but I couldn’t be sure. I don’t suppose you have that video recording with you, have you, Jim?”

  “No, but I took off some stills. They’re on this.” I held up my phone.

  “You want to put them on here?” Howard said.

  My phone made the connection to his computer and he accepted the transmission. Then he split the screen and displayed the two faces, side by side.

  “It’s not Vlasov,” Howard said.

  “How recent is your photograph?” Max asked him.

  “Very recent. They’re not the same." He looked at me, then pointed to the screen. "The man you saw is younger, fuller in the face. And the hairline’s slightly different.”

  “So who the hell is he?”

  “Vlasov has a younger brother, Gerasim. He keeps a low profile – you never see the two of them together. Some say he’s a kind of enforcer, does Leon’s dirty work. There may even be a mafia connection, though nothing criminal’s ever been proved. This is not in the file, by the way; it’s stuff I got from asking around. We have no recent photos of Gerasim but I’d lay a bet this is him.”

  I turned to Max. “Do you think Ridout realised he was negotiating with Gerasim, not Leon?”

  “Probably not, he hadn’t met either one before. And look at the two of them – you’d have to know, wouldn’t you?”

  “Well,” I said. “If you’re right about Gerasim, a nasty little operation like this would be right up his street.”

  Howard nodded. “Yep, but proving it is something else. If he’s still alive, that is. Max said you found their vehicle all burnt out.”

  “Yeah. Just that I’m not convinced he was in it at the time.”

  6

  I had to get back to Fort Piper, but I wasn’t too unhappy about the ways things had gone. I’d rattled the politicians’ cage a bit, and now I had a useful contact in Howard Reinhardt. I left him with all my stills of the fat man we believed to be Gerasim Vlasov, and in turn he put a secure number on my phone so I could contact him directly if something fresh came up. The whole business still bothered me but pretty soon I didn’t have the leisure to think about it.

  Almost from the moment I hit base I found myself frantically fielding phone calls while trying to deal with a mountain of paperwork. I appreciated, not for the first time, how much Harken normally shielded me from the day-to-day demands of being CO.

  The phone sounded yet again. I reached for the button and heard the anxious voice of Sergeant Bagley, Harken’s aide-de-camp.

  “Colonel, can you take a call from the Director of the Drug Enforcement Administration. I’ve told him the General isn’t here but he’s rather insistent.”

  “All right, put him through.”

  There was a click, and a voice barked: “Harken?”

  Bagley had already told him Harken wasn’t here. I gritted my teeth and managed to stay in control.

  “General Harken is away. This is Colonel Slater, Acting CO. Can I help you?”

  There was an audible sigh. “Oh, I suppose so. This is Paul Henrickse, Director of the DEA. That’s the Drug Enforcement Administration, in case you didn’t know.”

  “Thank you, I did know.”

  “I’ve got a job for you. Phone me back on a secure line.”

  My patience ran out. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Henrickse, you’re not in my chain of command. I suggest you contact the Department of Defense and make your request there.”

  “But… but you’ve worked with my Department before!”

  “Yes, and I’m sure we’ll do so again, but through the proper channels.”

  “Goddammit, I don’t have time for red tape. This is extremely urgent.”

  “In that case I have a suggestion, sir. You set up a holoconference with me. Then we can discuss this face to face and I’ll decide whether there are any grounds for making an exception.”

  He could hardly object to that on security grounds – holotransmissions are just about impossible to intercept – but it put the onus on him to set it up.

  “This is preposterous. I don’t like your tone, Slater. Harken will hear of this.”

  “It’s Colonel Slater. And General Harken will certainly want to know about an attempt to subvert his authority. Now I’ll hand you back to Sergeant Bagley and he can give you the conference settings in case you’d like to
make use of them. Goodbye.”

  *

  David van der Loos came into the office and hovered uncertainly at the desk.

  “You asked to see me, Colonel?”

  “Yes, David. Have a seat.”

  He sat on the edge of the chair, fidgeting a little. Even after working closely with me on the African mission he always seemed anxious when I said I wanted to see him.

  “What was Washington like?” he ventured.

  “As Washington usually is. Each one grinding his own political axe.”

  “Are they going to raise the incident with the Russians?”

  “No. They don’t want to upset them.”

  “That’s outrageous!”

  “Save your outrage. These guys are working with a bigger picture. Our job is to focus on being good soldiers.”

  It was uncomfortably close to something Harken had once said to me when I was a Captain. I winced at the thought and set it aside. We had work to do. I rested my elbows on the desk and clasped my hands together. He waited expectantly.

  “I’ve just been in holoconference with a guy called Paul Henrickse. He’s the Director of the Drug Enforcement Administration.”

  After our altercation on the phone I didn’t think he’d come back to me, but he had. That told me, even before we’d started, that it was genuinely urgent. A mental picture of Henrickse lingered in my mind: bald head, shiny snub nose, and flushed cheeks – a piggy little man. No doubt some of the high colour was indignation at being forced to do things my way. Even so, he was more civil, now that we were speaking face-to-face. I dragged my mind back to the present.

  “David, what do you know about the Colombian drugs trade?”

  “Is there one? I thought the US helped them clean it up years ago.”

  “Yes and no. The operation put a stop to the cultivation and the manufacture but it never really solved the distribution. The supply on the street hasn’t dried up, so those guys must have been getting the stuff from abroad, probably Asia via North Africa. Up to now the DEA haven’t managed to pin down the routes into the US. It seems they’ve had a lucky break.”