by Ty Patterson
That pleased the patriarch. He liked continuity. He wasn’t resistant to change, but change had to be managed so that tranquility and continuity weren’t lost. Continuity. He rolled the word on his tongue. He didn’t like the English word. He liked the word in his native language better. But regardless of language, the word was important, especially for him.
The patriarch ran an empire, a fiefdom that went back two centuries. He was a direct descendant of the clan that had founded the fiefdom. Some people called the fiefdom a gang. The patriarch accepted that definition. A gang was easier to define. It stuck in people’s minds. But what the patriarch ran was more than a mere criminal gang.
It had several criminal activities that were thriving in several countries. Prostitution, assassination, drugs, extortion. The gang had a hand in all of those. But the empire was more than illegal enterprises. It was a business that had interests in construction, in the stock market, in banking, electronics, gambling, automobiles, entertainment, and shipping. Its market value was several billions of dollars. The sheer breadth of the empire’s activities humbled him when he thought about it.
Sure, the empire, or the gang, or the fiefdom, whatever name the media gave it, had criminal activities. It was brutal, vicious, and bloodthirsty when it had to be. But it wasn’t violent for the sake of violence. It wasn’t like those Russian or East European gangs that used violence to cow people down. Maybe the patriarch’s ancestors had used violence in that manner, but under his reign, brutality and killing were just another set of tools to achieve an objective.
The empire ran on a strict unwritten code. Honor. That code wasn’t unique to the empire. Honor and face were fundamental to his country. Parents instilled those values in their children. Those children grew up, became adults, and passed on those same values to their offspring. However, his people had taken honor to a different level.
Those who joined his empire left behind their families and friends. Their primary allegiance was to the empire. They forsook all other emotional bonds. They still had friends, families, lovers, but if they had to sacrifice those relationships for the empire, they would.
Honor and face maintained continuity in his kingdom, and that brought him to his current situation.
The patriarch was seventy-five years old. He had an ascetic-looking face, clean-shaven, a full head of hair that he dyed jet black each week. The wrinkles on his face accentuated his presence and personality. He was lean and fit, and he ran ten miles each day, followed by an intense workout.
However, there was no denying that he was old. And that meant it was time to hand over the reins to someone else. There were only two contenders for that position—head of the empire.
One was his eldest son, and the other was his youngest. Everyone in his fiefdom knew that one of those two would take over the business and criminal empire. No one objected. No one challenged. It was accepted. It was how the empire clan had been founded and how it had grown. Only direct descendants of the clan could rule the empire.
The patriarch’s dilemma was who to select. The older was the more mature of his two sons. There was no denying that. He was thoughtful. He considered all eventualities before making any decision. He was less inclined to use violence. He was more like a modern-day corporate executive. The empire would be in safe hands under his stewardship.
The younger son was very different from the older. He was charismatic. He was impulsive. He drew people to him like a magnet. He was fascinated with the older ways. He readily identified with honor and face, whereas the older one didn’t have much regard for those values. The younger son would increase the empire’s membership, which was sorely needed.
The police had waged a war against the fiefdom over the years. They had arrested the street soldiers and closed down the neighborhood gangs. Membership was falling as the youth in the country had more opportunities open to them, not just those provided by the gang.
The younger son could restore that falling membership. Young people would be drawn to him, seduced by his personality and his commitment to honor and face. However, he was reckless too. His occasional rash decisions could threaten the various businesses.
There was a third option open to the patriarch. He could appoint both sons as joint heads. They would have to work together, of course, and manage their personalities. The more he thought about this option, the more he liked it.
How to test his sons, though? How could he confirm which of the two would be the best choice? Or if he selected both, how could he know for sure that they could work together, harmoniously?
It was then that he had hit upon his idea.
He summoned both sons and told them he was going to test them with five tasks. They would have to work together on each task. After all the tasks had been completed, he would make a decision. He, and he alone, would decide who his successor would be. Maybe it would be the older son. It could be the younger one. Or it could be both.
He waited for their objections. There were none. They were eager to hear the tasks.
‘Kill Avichai Levin’s daughter.’
His sons knew all about Avichai Levin. The Director of Mossad had been responsible for the death of their youngest brother several years ago, in California. Levin hadn’t acted alone. That operation had been a joint one, along with the intelligence agencies of several other countries.
The patriarch’s youngest son had been overseeing the Californian business when the joint task force had raided its premises. That business was in the entertainment business, but not the kind of entertainment one went to watch in mainstream movie theaters. It produced and distributed snuff films.
The youngest son and his men had opened fire on the joint task force. They had retaliated. Several rounds had struck the youngest, and during the hostile encounter, the premises had been set ablaze. The son had died in the fire, and his body had never been recovered.
The patriarch had lost not only his son, but also face in that one event. His desire for vengeance had never died over the years, and the series of tasks was the perfect opportunity to redeem the clan’s honor.
‘The killing cannot be traced back to us,’ he told his sons. They nodded. That was obvious.
* * *
The patriarch smiled as he continued watching from the window. His sons had pulled it off. Spectacularly. Beheading Levin’s daughter in New York? That must have been the younger son’s idea. The older one would never entertain such a brazen act. He would have preferred a sniper.
No, this had the younger son’s fingerprints on it.
But how had the older son contributed? And how would his sons ensure the killers couldn’t be traced?
He went to his desk and got his executive assistant to call his sons. It was debriefing time. And then he would issue another order.
He observed them for a moment when they arrived, bowed, and stood silently, waiting for him to speak. Discipline, good habits, respect for elders, they had it in them. He swelled with pride but kept an impassive face as he looked at them.
Both brothers were in suits. Older one was in a pinstripe, a red tie on a white shirt, black shoes gleaming, while younger was in a tan suit. He was tie-less. His first shirt button was open, giving him a rakish air. If they all had been American, his younger son would probably have flung himself on the couch and cheekily asked, ‘What’s up, Pops?’
They weren’t American. His sons wouldn’t speak unless he broke his silence.
‘I saw the news. Well done. Tell me everything.’
Younger turned to his elder with an air of deference, and his older son started.
Both had planned the killing. Initially, the older had wanted go in a different direction. He had wanted to hire a sniper. It would have been a clean kill. However, younger had persuaded him to go down the flashier way.
They had lost their brother in a blaze of fire. Younger wanted to make a statement with the girl’s killing. Not one that would lead a trail back to them, but it had to be as spectacular a
s the fire. Younger brother had been very persuasive, the older one acknowledged with a smile.
The patriarch didn’t return the smile. ‘Don’t you think it was a risk, killing her like that? Now the police will know it wasn’t an ordinary killing. How many countries use swords?’
‘No, Papa,’ the younger answered. ‘There’s no risk. Don’t forget, Islamic terrorists use swords. They behead people. And if the cops look beyond that, we have left clues.’
‘Like what?’ the patriarch demanded.
‘The killers are Vietnamese, from the gang we know, in LA.’ The patriarch knew the Los Angeles gang. There were very few organized criminal enterprises in the world he didn’t know of.
‘Brother,’ the younger one continued, ‘arranged their hiring. We verified them, and only then gave them the contract.’
The patriarch considered that for a moment. He didn’t insult his sons by asking them if they had taken care in arranging the meetings. Of course, they would have. They each handled business units worth several hundreds of millions. They knew all about planning and responsibility. And in any case, it wasn’t the first time they had arranged killings.
‘Still, the killers can be found. Levin is a dangerous enemy. The Mossad is the world’s best intelligence agency for a reason.’
Older son bowed his head in acknowledgment. ‘We have factored that too, Papa.’
The father listened expressionlessly while his son explained how. He nodded in approval. ‘That will work.’
‘In addition,’ younger son cut in, ‘the cops will get an anonymous message. That the Vietnamese gang were involved. There’s history there.’
The patriarch smiled briefly. That was a smart move. Yes, there was history. The Vietnamese gang had helped a terrorist group that had bombed civilian targets in Jerusalem. One day, a year ago, Mossad killers had acted. They had infiltrated the gang leader’s house in LA and had assassinated him. The Israelis had deliberately let it leak that they were behind the killing—as a warning to other gangs that no one was beyond the reach of Mossad.
The Vietnamese gang had been riven with rivalry after that, but a new leader had emerged who had vowed vengeance on the Mossad. The gang would be at the top of the list of suspects.
Having the Mossad and the American cops go after the Vietnamese had another bonus. While the patriarch’s gang did business with the Vietnamese, it was an uneasy relationship. They were primarily rivals who occasionally worked together. If the cops shut down the Vietnamese, the patriarch could grow in LA.
‘Your travel?’ the patriarch asked. ‘It can be tracked.’
‘No, Papa. We used false papers and traveled commercial.’
‘There are cameras at airports.’
‘We both wore prosthetic noses, ears and cheek pad fillers, Papa. We can’t be recognized.’
The patriarch’s stern face relaxed as he regarded his offspring. They had done well. The older’s careful planning and the younger’s flamboyance had resulted in a spectacular kill.
But one task was too early to make a decision on.
‘Your next assignment will be in France. Kill Mandel Leclair’s daughter.’
He didn’t have to tell them who Leclair was. They knew.
Leclair was the head of the French secret service.
Chapter 3
Zeb adjusted the cuffs of his rarely worn suit and waited for the rest of his crew to assemble in their office. The office was enormous and unlike the stereotypical security firm’s office.
This one had multicolored couches, rugs, throws, and wall hangings. A basketball hoop was mounted on one wall. An archery board with bows and arrows was in another corner. A small golfing strip was near the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlooked the street.
The office was where Zeb’s team worked. It was also where they relaxed. It had been decorated by the twins, Meghan and Beth Petersen, whose vibrant personalities were reflected in the décor.
The Agency had been established to go after terrorists, international criminal gangs, and any other threats to national security. Clare, the only female director the Agency had ever had, had overhauled the clandestine unit once she headed it. She reported only to the president and knew that he didn’t want yet another covert counterterrorism outfit. There were enough of those in D.C. and its surroundings.
She’d dismantled the Agency, reassigned all its agents to their parent units, and started from scratch. Near-zero administration footprint. Lean. Very responsive. Able to operate anywhere in the world. Those were her requirements when she was looking to restructure the unit. The problem was, the moment she took on operatives, there was accompanying administration.
She could work with a private military outfit. That was another operating model. That would give her deniability and came with very little administrative overhead. There were already a few covert units who worked in that manner. However, that model didn’t appeal to her. She wanted her own operatives, whom she could trust. She wanted control.
She also wanted deniability and didn’t want paperwork.
She spoke to other intelligence heads. Directors of other covert divisions. She came away dissatisfied. None of the existing or proposed models appealed to her. All the models came with internal politics, something that she hated with a passion and didn’t want to see in the Agency.
The answer came one evening when she was dining with her closest friend, Cassandra. Cassandra and she had studied together and worked in the same political machine that was D.C. Cassandra was in the State Department and knew where her friend worked. The two respected each other’s opinions and often used their meetings to sound out ideas.
Midway during their conversation, Clare had noticed the tall, lean man lounging against a lamppost outside the restaurant. He had an air about him. Passersby gave him a wide berth. He had brown hair, cut short. Clean-shaven. Alert eyes. He rested against the post, utterly relaxed, and even across the distance, she could make out his alertness.
‘That’s my brother, Zeb Carter,’ Cassandra had said, following her gaze. ‘He’s the most lethal man I know.’
Clare had looked at her, intrigued. Her friend wasn’t the type to make over-the-top comments.
‘What does he do?’
‘He was with the Special Forces. Now he’s a security consultant. Has his own firm in New York. It’s small, just him alone, but he’s never out of work.’
‘Chasing the money, no doubt,’ Clare commented dryly.
Cassandra shook her head. ‘Nope. Zeb has made some good investments. He has his own apartment in New York. Money isn’t something he lacks. Nor is it a driver for him. He has a code of honor. He only takes those assignments and clients that appeal to that code. I’ve said too much already.’ She laughed and changed the topic.
Clare had looked up Zeb’s file that night and what she’d read had astounded her. The operative had been to the most dangerous hot spots in the world. He had been involved in all kinds of missions. Counterterrorism. Recovering stolen nuclear warheads. Busting mercenaries.
He was highly commended. His awards and medals filled several pages. Her eyes stayed on one particular award—the Congressional Medal of Honor, for his actions in Iraq.
There were several mentions of deep-black missions, and the file was heavily redacted. Clare had the highest security clearances, however, and she could access those portions too.
There was that bit about what had happened to his wife and son. She read through the details thrice, looking away frequently, blinking her eyes rapidly. How did he come out of that? Any other man would have broken.
She made a note to ask him and then shook her head unconsciously. If he’s the kind of man I think he is, he won’t answer. And it would be an insult to ask him. I’m just glad he’s on our side.
I want him, was her last waking thought.
Zeb had heard her politely when she’d visited him in New York, and had turned her down. ‘I am honored, ma’am, but I don’t work well in large
groups. Politics. Egos. I’ve had enough of those.’
I want him even more. ‘There will be none of that in the Agency. You hand-pick the operatives. A small number—’
‘Who will they work for, ma’am?’
‘The Agency, of course.’
‘That’s the problem, ma’am. You can’t have zero admin and have your own operatives.’
She’d used all her persuasion, but he was unmoved. She returned to D.C. disheartened. Went to her office. Addressed the piles of paper. Spoke briefly to the president. Went home and, when she checked her phone, found a missed call from Zeb.
‘I have a proposition, ma’am,’ he said when she returned his call. ‘I’ll continue to work in my firm. I’ll recruit the operatives, but they’ll work for my firm. The firm’s in effect our cover. We’ll work on the firm’s business when there are no active missions. That’ll reinforce our cover. All the logistics for missions will be routed through the firm. It will be plausible. The firm works on many sensitive cases. There’s frequently a need to go hot.’
Hot as in going armed, into high-risk, highly volatile situations. She puttered around her kitchen as she thought swiftly.
‘What about conflicting interests?’
‘There are none, ma’am. The firm’s the Agency, in effect. You’ll know who the firm’s corporate clients are and will have final say on whether we take on or drop any client. You’ll call the shots. The firm is just a legend.’
She didn’t take long to arrive at a conclusion. ‘Welcome aboard, Zeb. Start putting your team together.’
‘I know who I want, ma’am.’
