by Arno Joubert
She smiled, seemingly amused. “Captain Alexa Guerra, French Foreign Legion.” She looked at him, squinting in the sun.
“Bullshit.”
Alexa frowned, questioningly.
“There are no women in the FFL. Never have been, never will be.” Neil prepared to jump back in the water. “Let's not waste each other’s time here, Miss Guerra.”
She grabbed his arm firmly. She was strong. “You are mistaken, Neil.” He turned to face her. “And please call me Alexa.” She released his arm. “I was the first female recruit to pass the Legion’s initiation test.” She smiled, leaning back on the board. “It helped that my dad was the Legion general’s best friend.”
Neil studied her. “Bryden’s your dad?”
Alexa nodded.
Neil thought about this and the puzzle clicked into place. “B.B. The inscription on the knife.” He leaned forward. “He tried to kill me, you know.”
Alexa laughed. “No he didn't.” She splashed some water onto her shoulders. “He doesn't 'try.' If he wanted you dead, you would be.”
Neil grinned. “It would be nice to meet your old man.” He wet his hand and wiped his neck. “Somewhere he’s not trying to murder me, anyway.”
“Oh, you’ll meet him, don’t worry,” she said, grinning mischievously. “He has a score to settle with you.”
Neil groaned. “Is this about his broken finger?”
“Not exactly,” she smiled. “His daughter thinks you’re cool. And he is protective over her, especially when it comes to older men.”
“Aha,” Neil said. He started liking this girl more and more. “You married?”
“No, why?”
“Why is your surname Guerra?”
“When you join the French Foreign Legion, you may rescind your original citizenship and take on a new persona. Your past is erased, and you receive a brand new French passport.”
“Why?”
Alexa shrugged. “You get to start over.”
“OK, I’ve heard about this,” Neil said scratching his chin. “Why did you need a new identity?”
“To stay alive,” Alexa answered. “That’s as much as I’m willing to say right now.”
Neil splashed some water over his back. The sun was beating down on them, and he fell backward into the water.
“Race you to the beach,” Alexa shouted, paddling hard.
Neil hauled her in and overtook her, but she beat him by catching a wave and surfing back to the beach.
Maputo, Mozambique
Perreira crouched next to the grave and propped a white daffodil in front of the gravestone. He stood up and tugged at his collar, letting out some of the heat.
These visits had become a monthly ritual. He eyed the gravestone. It had an inscription written in Portuguese.
Here lies Maria de la Vosta Perreira. Born 1916, passed on in 1962. She had a heart of gold. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
Perreira sucked his teeth. He had come up with the caption on the stone. The bitch had a heart of gold, all right. It had been hard and cold.
He kissed his hand and touched the urn plastered into the headstone. His father’s ashes. The vessel was small and inconspicuous. Like his father’s personality had been when he was still alive.
Perreira had loved his father. They played soccer in the evenings, went fishing over weekends, went for morning jogs at the break of dawn. He had been a brilliant boxer, a title contender; he won thirty of his professional bouts.
And the man had never lifted his hand against his wife.
One morning while preparing their breakfast, his father had told him his mom was having an affair. She was still in the bedroom, sleeping off her previous night’s hangover. His father had come home early from work, caught her red-handed. Perreira hadn’t known what to say while his father wept like a child.
She had never respected him, talking to him as if he were a piece of scum, always ridiculing him in front of friends. And the man had accepted with a smile, like she was joking.
Perreira saw what it had done to him. His father worshipped his mom, looked after her, spoiled her. But then, one morning, his life had changed forever.
He remembered walking back home from school. A crowd had gathered outside their home and people were staring into the windows of their home, jostling for position. An ambulance had pulled into their driveway, a police car with flashing blue lights parked behind it.
Perreira had been met by a police officer at the gate. His mom was sitting at the breakfast table, eyeliner smudged and messy, resting her head on her hand. She didn’t look up when he entered the room.
He was taken to a female social worker and she led him outside. His dad had committed suicide, shot himself in the head. She didn’t want to leave him with his mom, who was incapable of looking after him. And she didn’t want him anyway.
Miguel Perreira, at the age of sixteen, was taken into foster care. The foster parents in Mozambique didn’t do it for the love of children. They did it for the government grants. They received nine hundred meticais for every kid they took in. Perreira shared a room with seven other kids. Food was scarce. Foster parents spent the money on themselves; none of what they received trickled down to the children.
He had hated his life. His so-called parents. He ran away, joined a gang, then learned to fend for himself. He had never seen his mom again. He despised all women.
He sobbed and made the sign of the cross. Why, he didn’t know, probably out of habit. He pushed himself up, then spat on the tombstone. Bitch.
He trudged away. He would never be as weak as his father had been.
Neil and Alexa strolled leisurely on the beach toward the hotel’s beach bar. They sat with their feet in the sand on low reed chairs. Alexa ordered drinks and brought them to the table. Neil thanked her and took a sip of beer, observing the people glancing their way as they trundled past their table, probably trying to figure out who the movie star was sitting opposite him.
He shifted his gaze to Alexa. “So what is this all about, then?”
She traced the rim of her glass with her finger. “My entire life I've needed to live undercover.” She shrugged and looked up. “Seventeen years ago, my dad and Bruce broke up a smuggling ring. They were sick bastards. They’ve been hunting us ever since.”
Neil frowned, scratching his chin. “Hold on a sec, I thought Bruce was your dad.”
Alexa nodded. “He is. He adopted me when I was seven.” She took a sip of her cocktail. “A man named Miguel Perreira killed my dad,” she said, studying his face.
Neil nodded slowly. “I knew Perreira.” The pieces clicked into place. “Captain Zachary Cohen was your dad?”
Alexa sat back and gazed out over the ocean, a faraway look in her eyes. “Perreira shot him in cold blood. Bruce has been looking after me ever since.”
Neil patted her arm awkwardly. “I’m so sorry, Alexa.”
Alexa breathed deeply and squeezed his hand. “That’s why we need your help.”
“Why me?”
“You know what they did.” Alexa held his hand in a white-knuckled grip. “You worked for them.”
Neil studied her face for a while. “OK, so Bruce wants them taken care of and then you guys get your life back? Is that the gist of it?”
Alexa removed a manila folder from her shoulder bag. “Read this,” she said and pushed it toward Neil. “General Laiveaux has someone on the inside. They’re involved in arms deals, money laundering, you name it.”
Neil pulled out a thick wad of papers filled with neatly-typed text. The report was titled “The Dalerians” and marked as top secret. He briefly scanned through the contents. It contained detailed observations on the group’s underground activities, names of those involved, safe house locations, and their daily movements. A lot of stuff. He put the report back; he would read it later. He looked up. “Why doesn’t he take care of this himself?”
Alexa sipped her drink then licked her bottom lip. It was one of the sexiest things Neil had ever wi
tnessed. “They’ve gotten involved in something which Bruce hates: they're slaughtering rhinos and poaching game. They’re doing it deliberately, trying to get him out in the open.” She shrugged. “He’s outnumbered.”
“Who else is involved?”
“We don’t know. That’s what we’re supposed to find out.”
Neil swigged his beer. “And I guess Bryden thinks I could help—a hired hand?"
“Bruce has been following your career closely. He knows you're on the straight and narrow, and he knows why you were dishonorably discharged.” Alexa looked at him imploringly. “I think he hopes you would agree what Perreira and Callahan are doing isn't right.”
“It isn’t,” Neil said. “I think he’s more than capable of taking them out on his own.”
“It’s not that simple, Neil. He doesn't want to get just Perreira and Callahan; he wants the entire organization wiped out. He doesn't want a trace of them left.” She took his hand. “Please, we need your help.”
Her hand was cool, but not soft and plump like any woman’s he had ever touched. Her grip was firm. “How many targets?” he asked, trying to ignore her mesmerizing eyes. He knew he was going to help them. She didn’t leave him with much of a choice.
“Six. Excluding the henchmen.” He almost flinched as Alexa leaned back in her chair, letting go of his hand. It felt like there was an electric current running between them, like one of those contraptions Tesla had made. “Bruce will go after Perreira, he wants us to take care of Callahan. They have a couple of captains and lieutenants doing their dirty work. He wants them taken out as well.”
Neil whistled softly. “That’s a lot of people. Whom do they represent?”
She shrugged. “We don’t know. Shipments are coming in through the Mozambican border, then through South Africa and on to the United States.” She put her hand on the envelope. “Everything we know is in here.”
Neil nodded. “How are you getting your intel?”
Alexa smiled, and Neil took a swig from his empty beer bottle, trying to ignore those eyes. “I guess you'll have to ask Bruce about that. You aren't hired yet.”
“Talking about hiring, what does the mission pay?”
“We thought you would do it for free,” Alexa answered with a playful grin.
The electricity between them fizzled out. He understood now. They were planning on using him, like Roebuck, Callahan, and Perreira had used him all those years ago. “For free?" Neil asked, grabbing his car keys from the table and standing up. “I don't think that's going to work for me.” He signaled the barman for the bill. “I didn't receive a retirement package, remember—dishonorable discharge?” He needed to get out of here.
Neil put on his dark glasses and turned to leave. He headed up the beach toward the road. He saw Alexa toss a couple of dollars on the table, then jog toward him. He smiled. At least he had gotten something positive out of this whole experience: a beautiful woman had never paid his bill and then run to catch up with him before.
As he approached the road, he noticed a tall lanky figure climb out of a Volvo and amble toward them. The man took off his dark glasses and extended a hand.
“Hi, Neil,” Bruce Bryden said, smiling. “Good to see you again. You haven't changed at all.”
Neil looked up at the tall man. He stood with his hands hanging by his side, relaxed. He squinted his eyes in the sun; he wore a day-old grey stubble on his leathery face. His hair was still clipped short, but the black was gone, replaced by salt-and-peppery tones.
“I need to be paid for the job, Bryden. I know what you are planning is the right thing to do, but I have a life as well.” He paused, glancing up at the older man. “I’m not going to be used again.”
Bruce chuckled. “Ah, the payment. A small detail.” He gazed over Neil’s shoulder. “I assume Alexa hasn't briefed you on the bank account?”
Alexa stepped past Neil. “He wouldn't let me finish, Dad.” She said, folding her arms over her chest and looking cross.
“Bank account?” Neil asked.
Bruce nodded. “We have access to the organization’s Mauritian bank account. They call themselves the Dalerian Institute.”
“We've transferred some money to our own account, which they didn't notice,” Alexa said.
“How much?” Neil asked.
“Oh, not much, less than two thousand dollars,” Alexa answered, putting on her dark glasses.
Neil put up his hands. “What I mean is, how much is in it?”
“Five hundred and eighty million,” Bruce answered.
“Dollars?” Neil asked surprised.
“Euros,” Bruce said. “And it’s growing as we speak. Compound interest is a bitch.”
Bruce Bryden switched on his laptop and studied the email he had received from General Laiveaux. The attachment contained a scanned copy of an affidavit written by Sergeant Neil Allen. The letter was dated April 13, 1992, and was addressed to Major Daniel Roebuck, Neil’s commander at the marines.
Major Roebuck,
I hereby request an investigation be launched due to the suspicious activities of agents Owen Callahan and Miguel Perreira.
Today an Israeli captain, Zachary Cohen, was murdered by these men.
Furthermore, I have gathered evidence that Colonel Weinstein was being blackmailed by these men as well. He committed suicide today.
I would appreciate a meeting with you and a military investigator to discuss the details of the information I have gathered.
The affidavit was signed by Neil Allen, with his military tag number beneath his name. A man of few words, Bruce thought. A red word was stamped on the bottom of the page.
Reviewed
Below was another black stamp.
Not Referred
Bruce stood up and opened a window, allowing the warm breeze to circulate through the room. He looked down at the terrace. The pool shimmered like a gleaming tanzanite, illuminated from below by an LED light. Jazz music drifted toward his window as cutlery clinked and soft voices murmured in a relaxed conversational tone.
He picked up his phone and punched in a number. “Hi, Dad.” It sounded like Alexa was in a bathtub.
“You hungry?”
Mossad Headquarters
Tel Aviv, Israel
Frydman’s phone rang. He glanced at the number. It was Eric Glist, his software security specialist.
“Good day, Major Frydman. I’ve found something strange, and I thought I should let you know,” Glist said, sounding excited.
“Go ahead.”
“Well, I’ve installed an added layer of security on our PC’s. It is able to detect viruses through advanced heuristic algorithms, state-of-the-art,” Glist said.
Frydman sighed. “Isn’t our current antivirus software good enough? I don’t want more programs slowing our systems down.”
“Our current antivirus software is fine for known viruses, sir. But it won’t detect anything brand new or undiscovered.”
“OK, so what did you find?” Frydman asked.
“A rogue piece of code on all the PCs in my division. It’s called Becky22. It doesn’t seem malicious. Once a user stops working for more than five minutes, the program starts utilizing one hundred percent of the PCs CPU.” He paused for effect. “When the user returns to his workstation, Becky22 goes into the background and uses no resources.”
Frydman opened a window on his PC and scanned the active applications. At the bottom of the list, using no CPU or memory, a program called Becky22 was sitting dormant.
“Yes, I’ve got it too. What does it do?” Frydman asked.
“I have no idea sir. I’ve contacted our antivirus vendor to build us a removal tool. They’ll probably be able to shed some more light on the payload and functioning of the virus.”
“OK, I need the info ASAP,” Frydman said.
“Yes, sir,” Glist answered and hung up.
“Becky22, we meet again,” Frydman whispered.
The following morning Eric Glist k
nocked on Frydman’s door. He entered, greeted Frydman, and slapped down a wad of papers on Frydman’s desk. He was a short, spectacled guy, slightly overweight. He had grown his beard in a short goatee, the way the hacker types usually did. Frydman was surprised that the man wasn’t sporting a ponytail at the back of his balding head.
Frydman pulled the papers closer. “Your findings?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Frydman waved him to a chair. “Summarize it.”
Glist sat down, took a pen from his breast pocket, and started clicking.
“I’m not sure where to start.” He shot Frydman a perplexed look. “It isn’t a virus in the true sense of the word; it doesn’t cause any damage, per se. I would call it a considerate rogue application.”
Frydman nodded.
“It doesn’t interfere with your work, and it limits its data usage to five megs per day, as long as you don’t interfere with it.” Glist clicked his pen profusely.
“Please stop that,” Frydman said irritably. “So what does it do?”
Glist shrugged. “It searches. The variables are encoded. I managed to get the hexadecimal values, but I haven’t transcribed them yet.”
“Give them to me,” Frydman said and opened his laptop. He opened a hex transcription application and looked up. “Go.”
Glist started reading random alphanumeric combinations. Frydman nodded. He continued and read out several more strings of characters.
“Perreira,” Frydman read out. “Next one.”
Glist read out the next sequence of strings.
“OK, that one I’ve heard of. It says Callahan.” His fingers rattled over his keyboard. He searched the staff database and came up with six hits. His chair creaked as he leaned back. “I remember him, he was a senior field agent who had turned against us.” He folded his hands over his stomach “A Mossad agent, Bruce Bryden, terminated him.”
“Well, those were the variables that pop up the most. There are some variances on these names as well,” Glist said.
