Ducks on the Pond
NOVEMBER 28TH, 2017, Zurich, Switzerland, four years and four months later (present day).
The white Mercedes AMG GLS63 SUV had been parked in the lot of the Zurich International Airport private terminal for a little over forty-five minutes as its occupants patiently waited for a particular jet to arrive. This was, of course, a common occurrence in Zurich, as it was a major financial hub, and CEO’s, CTO’s, and CFO’s passed through on a daily and, sometimes hourly, basis. This particular vehicle, however, didn’t have an important executive, or even a driver waiting for an important executive, and instead was occupied by six members of a deadly Al Qaeda hit team.
There were many sleeper cells across Europe, but this one, originally from Saudi Arabia, had been patiently waiting nearly a month for the moment when it would be activated for its next mission. The call had come ten hours earlier, about two hours after their intended target’s plane took off from the island of Martinique, and now they were finally going to see the man they had been ordered to kill. They heard the great high pitched whine of the Boeing 787 Business Jet’s engines before it rolled into view and came to a stop a short time later. The efficient ground crew then secured the jet’s tires with blocks and brought over the boarding stairs, which allowed one of the pilots to step outside and greet the Swiss airport representative with a handshake before having a brief exchange of words. Finished talking, the pilot headed back inside, and several minutes passed before a woman appeared in the doorway. She was utterly beautiful and looked like a supermodel with her long hair, light blue eyes, and curvaceous figure. The men in the Mercedes were transfixed by her beauty, and if their intel had been more thorough, they’d have known that her name was Bridgette Vandenberg, and she was the girlfriend of their target. Of course, all of that was mostly meaningless, for they were here to kill a man and anyone who was unfortunate enough to get in their way, the woman included, would be nothing more than collateral damage.
“Do we get to fuck the girl before we kill her?” the man in the driver’s seat asked the man beside him.
“That will depend on where and when we do this,” he responded.
“Then let’s hope it goes down somewhere nice and private,” he said, which inspired a round of laughs from the other men in the car.
At that moment, their target appeared in the doorway. His name was Adrien Babineux, and he looked like a movie star with his angular jaw, deep blue eyes, and shaggy mop of dark brown hair that hung well past his ears. Along with his looks, he had the demeanor of a man who was used to living at the top of the food chain, which made sense, as he was from an old aristocratic French family. He’d therefore started out life wealthy, but, unlike most children of privilege, spent his immediate after-college years in the French Military where he’d served as a naval commando. Also unusual was the fact that he actually managed to increase, rather than deplete, his family’s net worth by expanding their holdings into even more lucrative ventures that included technology companies, aerospace, mining, a Caribbean resort island, and the manufacture and sale of arms—the last endeavor being the inadvertent reason for the presence of the Saudi hit team. Babineux had been dealing arms for quite a while, but had only added terrorists to his list of clients in the last couple of years. That business choice, unfortunately, brought him under the scrutiny of the Central Intelligence Agency, who, with the help of a former agent named Tag Finn, recently thwarted Babineux’s plans to supply the weapons for one of the largest terrorist attacks since September 11. Now, his clients had no weapons and were officially out well over a hundred million dollars in precious gems, and so they were desperately looking to exact some retribution against the man who they believed was responsible.
Babineux and Bridgette, completely oblivious to the presence of their deadly antagonists, stopped at the bottom of the ramp and exchanged a rather long, passionate kiss. A moment later, a crew member brought their baggage down the ramp, then all of them walked over to a charcoal grey BMW X6 M that was parked just beyond the wing. The crew member loaded their baggage in the back while Babineux and Bridgette climbed into the front of the vehicle, started the car, then headed off towards the nearby airport access road.
“Follow them, but make sure you stay back a safe distance,” the man in the passenger seat of the white Mercedes said.
The driver followed his leader’s orders and waited until two cars had passed before pulling out onto the mildly busy airport access road. Unbeknownst to the Saudis, however, there was yet another surveillance team interested in Babineux, though this one was sitting in a silver Range Rover parked discreetly in the back corner of the private air terminal. Its occupants were a man and woman, and they were even more deadly and capable than the Saudis, for they both had previously been in the employ of the CIA. Now, they both worked for a rather mysterious entity, though anyone looking into their current occupation would find that were employees of a rather large German corporation.
The woman in the silver Range Rover watched as the Saudis took up pursuit of Babineux’s vehicle, then she picked up her iPhone, clicked on the preprogrammed number, and waited for the person on the other end to answer before speaking.
“Babineux has landed, and the Saudi team is on his tail,” she said.
She listened to the other person for a moment, then hit the end button and looked over at her partner who was eagerly waiting to hear their new orders.
“So, what do they want us to do?” he asked.
“Hang back and stay in town so that we can take up surveillance of Finn and Agent Vonde when they arrive.”
“What about the Saudis?”
“Another team will take over in the interim.”
“Do they really think that’s a good idea?”
“Yeah, because then you and I will have all of our ducks in a row before we take any action.”
The man smiled.
“I suppose it makes sense, as we’ll be able to kill two birds with one stone—so to speak.”
“Exactly,” the woman said, smiling back at him.
Twenty minutes later, Babineux, Bridgette, and the team of Saudi killers were all on Highway 3, driving along the shores of Lake Zurich. Traffic had thinned, so the Saudis were hanging back a bit farther, but it appeared as though their targets were completely oblivious to their presence having not performed a single countersurveillance maneuver. Every halfway decent covert operative would have performed at least two U-turns in order to weed out any tails, but such was not the case today. Babineux, quite to the contrary, spent very little time checking his rearview mirror, and instead focused on the road ahead, navigating the various twists, turns, and tunnels until putting on his turn signal to merge onto Highway 28, which would take them up into the mountains and eventually to the resort city of Davos. The sun was out, and the two lovers were acting like a couple on a proper holiday as they held hands, listened to music, and gazed out at the beautiful snow covered Alps. Nearly an hour later, they made the final turn for Davos, and Bridgette abruptly looked over and regarded Babineux with a hint of worry in her eyes.
“Adrien, are you sure everything is going to work out?”
“Of course. This will be nothing more than a lovely little European vacation. We’ll start out with some skiing in Davos, then, by this time next week, we’ll be down in southern France sipping Champagne at my family estate.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” he said, as they leaned together and shared a brief kiss before turning their gazes back to the road ahead, oblivious to the danger that loomed behind.
CHAPTER THREE
Just Plane Silly
SOMEWHERE OVER THE Atlantic Ocean (Two days later).
It was six fourteen p.m., and I had been flying for about an hour since leaving the Caribbean Island of Martinique. I was about four thousand miles from my home in northern California, and I was drinking a mineral water and feeling only mildly hung over as I gazed at the image of a beautiful woman in a
travel magazine. It would have been a rather pleasant moment had it not been for the unmistakable pressure in my lower abdomen that was an obvious harbinger of an imminent bowel movement. Strange, I had gone to the bathroom long before getting on the plane, but my intestines apparently had a different travel itinerary. I generally made it my personal policy never to do anything more than urinate or fornicate in a plane lavatory but, thankfully, I wasn’t flying commercial at the moment. Instead, I was riding in extreme luxury on a private jet on my way to Switzerland, and I had a new and exciting job working, in a roundabout way, for my former employer—the CIA.
To make matters even more interesting was the fact that I was in the presence of my best friends from my time in the military. To my right was a stunningly beautiful woman named Lux Vonde—a former love interest and Navy pilot who was now a deep cover operative for the CIA. Beside her sat her husband, the current Deputy Director of the CIA, and his name was Cornelius Wallace, though I called him Corn. Across from us on the other leather sofa, casually sipping a gin and tonic, was John Matheson, the vice president of the United States, and, while most people referred to him as Mr. Vice President, I called him Sasquatch, a nickname I coined nine years ago while rescuing him from his downed helicopter in the mountains of Afghanistan.
The four of us had recently reunited during the course of my last job, which had entailed rescuing Lux from the clutches of a dubious French aristocrat turned arms dealer named Adrien Babineux. She was on his oddly named Soft Taco Island to thwart his upcoming arms deal—a deal that would have supplied the weapons for the largest terrorist attack since September 11. Lux’s operation was compromised, however, and she was captured, but I was able to rescue her, and together, we sabotaged his deal and brought everything to a mostly happy conclusion—mostly, because Babineux, being a clever bastard, managed to escape at the last minute and, worse still, took Lux’s little sister Bridgette with him. But, it was by no means a kidnapping for the beautiful young she-devil had fallen madly in love with the charismatic Frenchman and had become a willing co-conspirator in the entire affair. Now, the two were off on the run together, and my exciting new job was to go to Switzerland and bring them in, but it was critical to avoid using the Agency’s usual assets because of Bridgette. As the sister of one of their senior agents and the sister-in-law to the Deputy Director, her betrayal was extremely embarrassing and something they preferred to handle privately. As for Babineux—well, he was very likely going to be the single greatest intelligence asset in the war on terror. After two years of personal dealings with Al Qaeda, ISIS, and their many splinter groups, he would have names, dates, and enough details to give even the most stalwart CIA officer a massive boner.
Conducting a snatch and grab operation in a foreign country, however, was always challenging, but the belief was that, when news spread of the failed Soft Taco Island weapons deal, Babineux’s former clients would come looking for revenge. The two love bugs would be in imminent danger and, therefore, more than willing to come dancing back into the CIA’s open arms in exchange for protection. That meant all Lux and I had to do was find them and fear would do the rest of the work. That was the theory, anyway, though I always found that theories had a funny way of biting you in the ass when you took them out into the real world.
So, here I was, back in the game in spite of the fact that I had walked away from the Agency five years ago and vowed never to return. This time, I could at least take solace in knowing that I was an independent contractor and getting paid with the hundred million dollars in terrorist jewels left over from the arms deal I had sabotaged. The jewels were mine to keep as long as I managed to bring in Babineux and Bridgette. It seemed like an unlikely arrangement, but, in the age of increased congressional scrutiny, it was, apparently, a lot easier for the Agency to give away, rather than hide, the acquisition of such a valuable stash. That was fine with me, because I had just dumped my last paying client before this entire affair began, and I was desperately in need of a serious influx of funds if I hoped to keep my houseboat afloat. It kind of felt like winning the lottery—if the lottery commission had the option to kill you at any moment and take back the money. I was, therefore, taking it all one day at a time and keeping a watchful eye over my shoulder. It had only been a week since I left my quiet existence as an underpaid private investigator in Northern California, but it felt like a lifetime.
The pressure in my abdomen was growing stronger so it was time to go—literally. I decided to use my own bathroom instead of the one in the lounge and excused myself, leaving my traveling companions behind as I headed to my cabin, where I would have the privacy I preferred when dancing with my porcelain mistress. I normally did my business in the morning, and an evening dump was an unusual occurrence, but the excitement of the Caribbean apparently had my insides all aflutter. I was back in the same guest room I had stayed in on the trip to Soft Taco Island, and everything was just as it had been before—the only exception being my substantial stash of pirate booty. Beside the mini fridge in the corner was a case of twelve bottles of Soft Taco Island Rum and the bag of precious terrorist jewels. The rum I could use, but what in the hell was I going to do with the jewels—much less a hundred million dollars worth? It’s not as though I could go down to the local jeweler or put them on eBay. I needed actual currency to make my house payment, and all I had was a bunch of pretty colored rocks. Typical. At least Lux promised to introduce me to a well respected jeweler once we reached Zurich, and he would supposedly help me liquidate some stones, and allow me to open a Swiss bank account and finally send off a check for my mortgage.
I poured a splash of rum in a glass and took a moment to reflect on the previous week. It had been a hell of a good time staying on the luxury yacht Sozo and running around Soft Taco Island, and, now, I couldn’t help but wonder how things were going for my new friends as they motored along somewhere below us on their way to Europe. The Sozo was going to dock in Monte Carlo and would serve as our backup ride to America if the operation ran into any unforeseen trouble. Sadly, Estelle Connor, the Sozo’s stunningly beautiful activities director and my most recent serious love interest, wouldn’t be aboard. After the whole Soft Taco Island adventure, she wanted to take a brief vacation to relax and visit with family that she hadn’t seen in nearly a year. She also wanted to take a little time to think about our relationship and let me iron out any feelings I might still have in relation to Lux. Of course, there really wasn’t much, if anything, to iron out considering the fact that Lux and I had both moved on with our lives—Lux, even more so, having married my former best friend Corn. Sadly, there was neither reason nor sanity when it came to matters of the heart.
I took a moment to look around at my lovely surroundings and realized that it would be hard to go back to the real world of commercial air travel, where all you got on a plane was a complimentary soda and a bag of pretzels. I was experiencing only a small taste of life on the upper crust, but I had to admit that it tasted pretty damn good. I grabbed my book from my laptop bag and settled onto the toilet then scanned the pages until I found my bookmark—a folded piece of toilet paper. I set my eyes upon the words and managed to get half a page read before my personal bomb bay doors opened, and I began my assault on the doomed porcelain city that lay below my anus. I read three more pages and had to wonder why it always seemed so hard to have a decent dump—one free of interruption. Why couldn’t it always be this quiet and peaceful? I took a sip of rum, and the thought occurred to me that I might need to buy a private jet someday just to fly me around while I went to the bathroom. I’d be well out of reach of all the distractions that usually plagued this special time. After all, a good dump wasn’t just a bowel movement—it was as close to the peace and solitude of heaven as some people ever got on this earth, and flying along at thirty thousand feet got me that much closer.
Suddenly, there was a knock on my cabin door, and my sphincter closed down faster than the hatch on a diving submarine. Goddammit. Not even a private b
athroom on a private jet could provide adequate privacy. I tried to yell to whoever it was, but the person couldn’t hear me over the noise of the ventilator fan. Soon, I could feel, rather than hear, footsteps approaching the bathroom door, and, shortly thereafter, there were three sharp knocks followed by Lux’s voice. Fucking triple farts! I was trapped like a pig in a pen.
“Finn. I need to talk to you.”
I stayed quiet, hoping that she might give up and leave, but she knocked yet again on the door, this time more forcefully.
“I know you’re in there.”
“And I know you’re out there.”
“Let me in.”
“No, I’m busy brushing my teeth.”
“Why is the door locked?”
“Modesty, I’m afraid. You see, I brush my teeth in the nude, as I prefer not to risk getting any toothpaste on my clothes.”
“Bullshit,” she said, before twisting the knob, which fortunately held firm.
I made a gargling sound and reached over and turned on the faucet for a moment.
“Nice try, but I suspect that you are actually taking a shit.”
“Go away! It’s none of your business.”
“You are, aren’t you? For Christ’s sake. I thought you would have outgrown your bathroom privacy issue by now.”
“No, definitely not. It’s my burden to bear in this cruel world. Now, go away.”
“OK, fine. I’ll wait for you to come out, and, in the meantime, I’ll have a glass of your rum. So, go ahead and knock yourself out in there.”
“Goddammit, Lux! It’s already bad enough that you’re ruining my special time, so don’t make it worse by drinking all my rum!”
I tried to relax and get back into the zone, but it was pointless. The idea of Lux waiting on the other side of the door, casually plowing through my alcohol stash was robbing me of any real enjoyment of this time, and so, with a heavy heart, I flushed then stepped into the fancy bathtub unit that was conveniently both a shower and a Jacuzzi. Six minutes later, I stepped out into my room and discovered Lux relaxing in the lounger and, there, residing between her delicate fingers was a glass of Soft Taco Island’s finest rum.
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