Counterfeit (The Jim Slater series Book 2)

by Stanley Salmons

  “I said, ‘Don’t bother!’ and I put my clothes back on and left. I was mad as hell. Men don’t usually do that to me.”

  I could believe that.

  “Chrissie, when you left, where was the champagne?”

  She frowned slightly. “Must have been where we left it, in the living area.”

  “And this business meeting. Do you know where it took place?”

  “No idea. To be frank, I didn’t give a shit. I don’t take that from any man,” she continued, and then, in a note of quiet complaint, “I was wet already.”

  Her eyes lingered on me, and the pink tip of her tongue appeared briefly between her lips.

  The room seemed stiflingly warm. I managed to find my voice.

  “So you didn’t see him again after that.”

  “No. This morning I was having breakfast in the hotel when the rumours started to fly around. Then the lobby filled up with cops. I got out fast.”

  “Weren’t you afraid it would look like you were running away?”

  She flipped a hand. “I was registered with the hotel and the organisers, for Christ’s sake! They knew where to find me. Look, I need a drink.” She got up. “Can I get you something?”

  “No thanks, I’m driving.”

  She left the room.

  I shook my head slowly. Her life was such a collage of acts and poses that I wondered whether she herself knew when she was dissembling and when she was telling the truth. If it was a problem for me it was going to be a problem for her, too. It would be that much harder for anyone to believe her story, whether it was true or not.

  I thought about the business with the hands. Everything she did had a reason. Maybe she’d sensed my resistance, decided it would yield to a little physical contact – and the implied invitation to consider what the rewards might be for playing my cards right. Well it hadn’t worked. Or had it? Was my attitude to her softening? It had crossed my mind to advise her to change her perfume. I dismissed the thought, knowing I could be accused of tampering with the evidence, but the fact it had occurred to me at all was unsettling.

  Why? Hell, I’m not made of stone.

  She returned and sat down holding a highball glass with what looked like a mixture of orange juice and ice. She took a good mouthful, swallowed, and sighed.

  “Mmm, that’s better.” Her eyes flicked to me. “It’s a Screwdriver. Sure you won’t have something? Plain juice, maybe? Or water?”

  “Yeah, quite sure, thanks.”

  Her lips twitched. “Afraid of being poisoned?”

  There was a moment’s pause.

  I raised an eyebrow and said slowly, “What made you think Mark was poisoned?”

  She sipped the drink, looking at me over the top of the glass, then lowered it.

  “What else could it be? The papers said it was death from natural causes. That was crap – he was in the peak of condition – but they wouldn’t say that if there’d been some sort of violence. So it had to be something he drank.”

  “Or ate,” I said.

  “All right. But we all had the same to eat and I didn’t feel ill.”

  I waited in silence until she was staring down into the empty glass. She swirled the remaining pieces of ice around in the bottom for a moment or two, then leaned forward, cradling the glass in her hands. Her manner had changed.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong, General,” she said in a small voice. “Am I in trouble?”

  I grimaced. “Chances are, the Feds will want you for questioning. But they’ll need strong evidence to hold you. Just tell them the truth or they’ll tie you in knots.” I got to my feet. “I’d better be going.”

  “I’ll get your jacket.”

  She came back with the tunic and I put it on. It was warm and still a little damp.

  I opened the door. The rain had eased. I turned to her.

  “Goodbye, Chrissie. And good luck.”

  She reached out and gave my forearm a little squeeze.

  “So long, General.”

  30

  The departure lounge at JFK was overcrowded, as usual. My flight back to Raleigh-Durham was on time but the gate hadn’t been assigned yet, so I decided to phone Howard Reinhardt while I was waiting. I weaved between the passengers who were wandering aimlessly around the lounge and located a quiet spot behind a pillar.

  “Howard? Jim Slater here.”

  “Oh, hi there, Jim. How’re you doing?”

  “I’m fine. Listen, do you know of a guy called George van der Loos?”

  “Oh, sure. Old established family. Big group of companies. He’s been on a few government committees over the years. What about him?”

  “I just found out he was involved in some sort of business negotiation with Russians a couple of years back. Wondered if you knew what it was about.”

  “Well, there won’t be anything on record unless some sort of deal was reached: a merger or acquisition. I can take a look. What’s your interest?”

  “Just a feeling I have. He’s on the Board of Cuprex – you remember? – the company Leon Vlasov was so anxious to acquire. The CEO, Mark Ridout, was murdered last night. It kind of set me asking myself who exactly these Russians were that George was dealing with.”

  Howard gave a soft whistle. “I see-ee. May be something in his file, let me get it up… This was two years ago, you say? That’s funny, the file isn’t that recent. Hold on a moment.”

  I waited, positioning myself so I could keep an eye on one of the departure screens. When it refreshed I saw my flight had moved up one line and the gate had been allocated. That was okay; there was still time.

  A couple of minutes passed, then I heard Howard suck his breath in through his teeth.

  “Jim, you there?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I told you van der Loos had been on government committees before. I just checked to see if he’s involved in the current negotiations with the Russian Union. He is. In the trade talks.”

  “Right, and…?”

  “Well, Ted Zander’s chairing that committee. You know Ted – Secretary of Commerce?”

  “Yeah, we’ve met.”

  Ted Zander had been at the briefing I gave at the Department of Defense. I thought I’d presented a pretty damning account of Vlasov’s attempt to assassinate Mark Ridout out in Tanzania, but it hadn’t cut any ice with him. He was falling over himself not to upset the Russians by taking diplomatic action.

  Howard went on:

  “Ted should have asked me for an update on van der Loos. That’s the proper procedure. I wonder why he didn’t follow it.”

  “You said van der Loos has been on committees before. Maybe Ted felt he knew him well enough.”

  “It’s our job to assess security risks, not his. If van der Loos had dealings with the Russians in the last two years I’d say that was relevant, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Okay, thanks, Jim. I need to look into this. I’ll call you when I have something.”

  *

  The flight came into Raleigh on time and Wendell’s driver, Joe, was waiting for me. He drove steadily and had the good sense not to try to engage me in light conversation. Although it wasn’t raining any more the tail lights of the cars in front were doubled in the glistening road, and the edges of our headlight beams flashed on bits of paper and plastic wrappers lying around on the verge. They’d obviously had the storm here as well but it must have blown through.

  In less than an hour I was back in my quarters on the base. I tossed my overnighter on the bed and glanced at my watch: ten-thirty. Late, but not too late. I put a call through to Abby’s room on the internal line. There was no answer. It looked like she hadn’t got back yet. It was frustrating; I wanted to know how she’d got on tracing the Russians’ movements.

  I strolled over to my office in case she was there. She wasn’t, but on my desk I found several sheets of paper. The one on top was headed: Flight plans, RA-1037ZG. I picked it up.

&n
bsp; The Mirovoi Industries jetliner had taken off from Sheremetyevo International Airport, Moscow. The first destination was Almaty International Airport, Kazakhstan. There were nineteen on board.

  That’s an awful lot of people. Gerasim Vlasov had two bodyguards. Allow him two or three more, plus a secretary, plus another six for flight crew and cabin staff – and that’s being generous – it still only comes to thirteen. Why so many?

  Next was departure from Almaty; destination Indira Gandhi International, Delhi. That was where we’d seen him in the café. Then the flight out of Indira Gandhi International. The departure time on the list agreed with the moment I’d seen it roll out for take-off and noted the registration. Destination Bhubaneshwar.

  Where the hell’s Bhubaneshwar?

  I brought up my desk screen and searched. Bhubaneshwar was on the east coast, still in India, but closer to Kolkata.

  I glanced down the list. The other destinations were in Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, the Philippines, and China, always with the same number on board. Nine flights in all, the last ending back in Moscow.

  I set it aside and looked at the two remaining sheets. The first was the printout of suspect companies which Dayo had given us. I noticed that some of them had been underlined. The second sheet was covered with notes in a round, girlish hand – Abby’s writing.

  I frowned, looking back and forth between the two sheets. Then I saw what Abby had done. She’d gone through the nine destinations on the flight plans. Any time she’d found a destination near one of the factories on Dayo’s list of suspects, she’d put a ring round it, with a leader line to notes.

  There was a ring around Delhi:

  Nissim Laboratories (fake Quinoxocarb?), Mahendragarh, c. 60 miles.

  Okay, that was the one we knew about already.

  There was another ring around Bhubaneshwar:

  Sharma Pharmaceuticals (fake Zynotox?), Dhenkanal, c. 40 miles.

  Two more destinations on the list were ringed in a similar fashion. All four companies had been underlined on the other sheet.

  Eight destinations outside the Russian Union, and four are close to labs which are probably producing counterfeit drugs.

  What about the other four? Are they unconnected with this drug business? That’s hard to believe. More likely they’re just near labs that haven’t yet made it onto Dayo’s list.

  I put the sheets back on the desk, closed the screen, and wandered back to my room.

  I hadn’t unpacked my overnighter yet. I threw the dirty clothes into the laundry chute and then, out of sheer habit, repacked with clean, quick-drying stuff and zipped it up. I didn’t even think about it; my mind was elsewhere.

  Abby had done a brilliant job on those flights. I really wanted to say that to her. I shook my head. Technically she was under my command and I ought to know where she was at all times. In practice I’d never treated her as a junior officer. I’d known from the start I couldn’t keep her on a tight leash – it would have ruined our working relationship. Except now it was more than a working relationship. A lot more.

  Something must have been there right from the start but for some strange reason I could never bring myself to admit it. Then we’d had that night in Delhi and it seemed like my whole world had changed. As I relived those moments the sense of excitement and self-discovery came to me all over again. I wondered now how I’d got up the nerve. If she’d been a lieutenant in the SAF I’d have had no more thought of getting into bed with her than with my own mother. But Abby came from a different service and somehow it didn’t seem improper. Not that these things even registered at the time; I simply let my feelings overwhelm me. Well, I couldn’t undo it now and I wouldn’t want to.

  I parked my overnighter on a chair. I was aching to see her again. Where was she?

  Maybe she’d gone to Washington to follow something up with Stefan. Well, I’d find out sooner or later.

  I yawned and indulged in a luxurious stretch. It had been a long day and the bed suddenly seemed very inviting. I kicked off my shoes and my fingers reached for the top button of my shirt—

  And then I froze.

  I should have paid more attention to those flight plans!

  The fatigue of a few moments earlier had vanished. I put my shoes back on, grabbed the overnighter, and hurried back to the office.

  As soon as I got there I crossed to the desk and snatched up the papers, leafing quickly through them to the flight plans. Vlasov’s itinerary had started in Moscow last Tuesday. We’d seen him at Delhi on the Wednesday. It was Sunday today. Their tour wasn’t over! That was where Abby had gone: she’d flown out to intercept them at one of the remaining destinations! If she could photograph Gerasim Vlasov with another drug CEO the evidence would be even more compelling.

  I raised my eyes to the ceiling.

  Abby, why the hell did you go it alone?

  It was obvious. She didn’t know when I’d be back and if she hung on any longer the plane would be landing back in Moscow and she’d have lost the opportunity. Of course, she could have consulted me but she didn’t because she knew I’d try to stop her. That was probably why she’d switched off her cell phone. She hadn’t even left me a note.

  I had to get out there before she ran into serious trouble. Where was she headed?

  I examined the flight plans again. The Vlasovs were in Malaysia today, but she could never have made it there in time. That left two destinations where she could conceivably intercept them: the Philippines on Tuesday and China on Wednesday. So which was it?

  I picked up the sheet of notes again. The destination in the Philippines was General Santos International Airport, and it was one of those with a ring around it. A line led to a note:

  Ventran Pharmaceuticals (fake Orocyclin?), Koronadal, c. 40 miles.

  There was no such annotation against the one in China.

  That settles it. The Philippines. How soon can I get there?

  I fired up the desk screen and looked at the flights. A few moments later I stepped outside my office and accosted the first soldier I saw.

  “Sergeant?”

  He turned, eyebrows raised. I didn’t need to look at his name badge.

  “Do me a favour, Chris, go down to the car pool and take out a vehicle. Something fast. I’ll meet you at the gate. Quick as you can.”

  He took off. He knew better than to ask questions.

  I hurried to the gate and the car drew up within minutes. I got into the back. I wasn’t in the mood for fraternising and I needed time to think.

  “Do you know the way to Raleigh-Durham?”

  “Highways, or countersurveillance?”

  Did he think this was an exercise?

  “Highways, of course. And step on it. My flight closes in fifty minutes.”

  “Got you.”

  I saw him thumb both turbos to full boost and we took off at a rate that would have done justice to a fighter aircraft. There were other cars on the road, but no one got in our way for long. I had little opportunity to think; I was too busy being either flattened into my seat or rocked from side to side by Chris’s overtaking manoeuvres. It was hair-raising but I kept my mouth shut; I needed to get on that plane.

  He slowed down a little as we approached the airport, looking out for speed checks and police cruisers. Being stopped now would lose any time we’d gained and I was pleased I didn’t have to tell him that. I looked at my watch.

  If I could make this flight it would get me to Chicago in time to catch an overnight flight from there to San Francisco.

  He drew up at departures. I was out of the car almost before it stopped moving.

  “Nice driving, Chris,” I said. “Now be a good boy and observe the speed limits on the way back, won’t you?”

  He grinned and threw me a casual salute. “Have a good trip, Colonel.”

  I entered the terminal and ran for the gate.

  31

  Thanks to Chris’s inspired driving I was in time to board at Raleigh-Durham, heade
d for Chicago. At O’Hare I caught the overnighter to San Francisco. My aim was to get the 7 am flight from there to Manila. It was a direct service and there was a connecting flight to General Santos. I’d be running it close, but by any other route I’d arrive too late.

  It was all going according to plan until we began the approach to San Francisco. At that point the captain told us a thick sea fog had rolled in from the Pacific and blanketed the town and airport. He’d go into a holding pattern but unless conditions changed soon we’d have to divert to another airport. I sat there biting my lip and tapping my feet as we made circuit after circuit over a featureless expanse of grey cloud. Then there was a change in engine note. The captain again:

  “Cabin crew to landing positions.”

  It looked like the fog had thinned and they were going to grab the opportunity to land. As we descended the mist beaded and streaked across the window. For minutes on end I could see nothing but grey beyond it. Then suddenly the air cleared, the runway was below us and we were touching down. The air brakes came up, the engines roared in reverse thrust, and we slowed, then taxied off the runway.

  The aircraft came to a halt, the engines wound down, and the moment the seat belt sign disappeared I was on my feet. I ran into the terminal and checked the departures screen for the gate in case they’d commenced boarding already. Instead of times there was an unbroken column of the word “Delayed” in red letters. The fog had closed in again.

  My shoulders sagged. I found a seat in the departure lounge, fidgeted there for a few minutes, then started to pace around. With a pang of guilt I realised I hadn’t phoned Harken yet. He was entitled to know what was happening.