by Sean Blaise
And it had never happened again. Although John had at first attempted to have a repeat performance, Ingrid had in no uncertain terms shut him down. It had been a once in a lifetime event he knew. He also knew that Ingrid would never lose that kind of control with him again. John often wondered what had brought about that evening, but he never was able to explain it. He was just glad it had happened.
Chapter 6
The light was dim inside the poker room. Heavy cigar smoke coasted around the table in tall wisps, lazily floating over the cards in the middle of the table. The high roller poker room in the Casino of Monte Carlo was legendary with some of the highest stakes in the world. Getting a seat at the table was nearly impossible. Nearly.
Pierre was elegantly dressed, with a purple tie sticking out of his otherwise jet-black suit. He was well-groomed and had an air of sophistication to him that matched his environment. This was what he was truly gifted at, fitting in. He was a master chameleon.
The poker game was beginning to bore him. The money was not his own and although he was responsible, he also knew that any losses would be covered by the agency. But much to his superior's pleasure, he was up nearly one hundred and fifty thousand euros for the agency. Perhaps it was a good time to ask for a raise, thought Pierre.
One of the uniformed butlers came in and touched his slender shoulder gently. Nothing was spoken, although to the casual observer it appeared as though a message had been passed. It was a predetermined gesture, signaling his removal from the poker game. Finally, his sixteen-hour marathon poker session was over. He smiled handsomely to all the players, feigned exhaustion, and a desire to meet a lady and he left the chips and bundles of cash on the table. There was no need to count them, or even worry about the nearly three hundred thousand dollars on the table in front of his seat. It would be delivered to the safe in his hotel room with armed escorts as soon as he left the table.
He walked past the armed guards at the private entrance and exited the old opera house front doors. Sprawled in front of the doors, were millions of dollars of automobiles, from the antique Jaguar XK120C to the black Bugatti. The one Bugatti, considered the fastest and most expensive car in the world at over two million dollars, was protected with two Lamborghini's as bumpers. Pierre smiled at the excess; it was Monaco at its finest.
He turned right down the cobbled walkway and immediately felt the beady gaze of the gorgeous girls waiting expectantly at the cafe across from the casino entrance. There wasn't a fashion show in the world with more models in once place than that cafe. The ladies sitting in front of that casino were human lottery tickets and they were hoping to find their winners. Pierre unfortunately lacked the time to give the hungry ladies the attention they craved. He would have to make time after the meeting. Pierre looked at his watch and quickened his pace.
At the end of the walkway, he turned left and walked down the steep ramp to the entrance of the Buddha Bar. It was a favorite meeting spot of his supervisor, Frances, due to its dark, gloomy interior. As well as the curtains over every booth. This was a place to do what you wanted without a care in the world about being seen. When service was required one merely pulled the golden bells inside the booths and gorgeous female servers in genie costumes would part the curtain to give you whatever you desired.
The smell of hookahs was heavy in the room. Pierre nodded at the bartender who pointed him toward a covered booth. This was not his first time.
Pierre pulled open the red velvet curtains and saw Frances crouched against the plush velvet seat. He closed the curtains behind him and sat down across from Frances. Frances looked more out of shape than normal, Pierre thought. Frances had a fat doughy physique that was revolted by the mere idea of exercise. In contrast Pierre was lithe and cat-like. He almost stalked when he walked, seemingly calculating each movement with precise care. The two men could not have been more different.
Nothing was said as Frances removed a file from his briefcase and laid it on the table.
"I trust you have it?" Frances asked.
"It was easy enough. He is a sloppy poker player," Pierre said.
Pierre was currently tracking down a known Croatian arms trafficker. Weeks previously, in the woods of some far-off locale, an agent of French intelligence had paid the Croatian with marked bills for a boatload of rocket launchers. It was believed that the Croatian was washing his money in Monaco via the casino, and it was Pierre's job to get some of the marked bills. As they spoke, the money was removed from the poker table and carried to Pierre's hotel room. There the Interpol team was painstakingly cataloging the serial numbers of the bills. All that was required was a match, and the Croatian would be promptly arrested. This case was all but closed.
"I need your help on this," Frances said with bitter distaste. He removed a photo of a dead man from the manila binder and slid it across the table. The man was brutally murdered, sporting a long-serrated gash, like a hideous smile where his neck used to be. His hands were ruined, some fingers were broken, and even more, were missing. This man had done something upsetting to someone, Pierre thought.
Pierre stared at the photo as he reached inside his suit and pulled out a heavy, black, granite pipe. He removed a leather satchel of tobacco from his breast pocket without taking his eyes off the photo and slowly filled the pipe. He heard the impatient and exasperated body movements of Frances, and he reveled in making the man wait. He studied the photo carefully as he struck a match and lit his pipe.
"I find the injuries to his hands peculiar," Pierre said.
"Explain," Frances said quickly. He was no fool. He knew that Pierre had a far superior intellect. But he also knew that given the leeway, Pierre would take a fortnight to draw a conclusion. And he had the feeling that time was not a luxury they could afford.
"Well of course I can't be sure, but look closely at his hands. All of the fingers of his left hand are smashed to pieces, as if they were placing them on a flat board or a rock and hitting them with a hammer. They are devastated, no doubt; and would have needed to be amputated at some point. But, with time and bandages, he could have hidden these injuries. Meaning, to me, in the beginning, his torturers might have wanted him to travel."
"Interesting," Frances said, cursing himself silently for not having drawn such a conclusion.
“We also know our attacker is right-handed, as are most of the world, so that is little help."
"And you guess this why?" Frances asked coldly.
Pierre gave Frances an enigmatic smile. He enjoyed watching Frances struggle to put the pieces together that so easily appeared in his own mind. Although Frances was his superior, it was not his knack for the facts that had elevated his career; but, rather, his natural born ability to bury his face in his superior's rumps.
"It is natural, if I am facing you to torture you, that I should start to my farthest right, which is, of course, the pinky of his left hand. It is the only logical answer."
"Go on," Frances said.
"His right hand is most curious. All the fingers have been severed. It was as if, at this point, they no longer cared whether he was able to travel or not, or even whether or not he would live. No, once they began removing the thumb, they had grown frustrated, they knew he probably did not have the information they desired. They had already decided to kill him at this point, but they wanted to make sure he wasn't holding out."
"What is your conclusion?"
"He knew something, perhaps what he was selling, perhaps who he had sold it to. But he lacked the specifics, otherwise they would have taken him with them. In my best guess, he didn't have the information they wanted, or a way to get it. Perhaps it’s a schematic, a diagram, emails, locations or something of that nature. Something you cannot possibly remember in full. But you would know what you had in general, which is useless if you no longer have it. Hence, you are beaten, and tortured, until they are sure that you can help them no further. Then you are killed."
"And who did it? From the nature of the injuries?" Fr
ances asked, not wanting to interrupt Pierre's contemplative processes.
Pierre took a deep pull on his pipe as he sat back from the table and leaned against the cushion as much as his perfect posture would allow. "I've seen this style before, in Iraq, Afghanistan, Chechnya. It is barbaric and ineffective for information gathering unless extreme time constraints are in effect; but, even then, it is sloppy and full of nonsense information. A man, after all, will say anything to prevent you from removing his fingers." Pierre said with a dramatic wiggle of his digits.
"This is no professional agency. Mossad, MI5, CIA, and the KGB frown on these methods, preferring cocktails of drugs, sleep deprivation, and psychological warfare to this. Besides, you know, it's illegal for us." Pierre said with a sly smile.
Frances had already had enough of Pierre's games. He tired of Pierre more quickly every time he saw him. But he was a necessity, and he had pushed Frances's career up higher than even he had dared hope with his successes. Frances bit his tongue till it nearly bled and let Pierre continue.
"But if I had to guess, I would say Arab, North Korean. Possibly some South American drug cartels. The Colombians and the Mexicans still enjoy this kind of rough play. Although considering our current location, they are a doubtful choice."
Pierre took the photo of the man's corpse in his hands once more. The victim’s face was pudgy and pale, mid- to late-fifties. The man was no soldier or spy. How had he gotten so caught up to get himself killed?
"He doesn't appear to be a fighter, after the first finger I bet he said all he had known." Pierre looked at Frances now, it was his turn to ask the questions.
"Who was he? And why is he important?"
Chapter 7
Frances gave Pierre an appraising look as if he was wondering how much information to convey about this case. He relished in his superior knowledge of the new case for as long as he could, knowing that soon, it would be Frances, not Pierre begging for answers.
"Our dead chap with fewer fingers than he used to have, has the name of Louis Dubois. He was a clerk, for De Gaul, fairly high-level up. Had the clearances, and the know-how to become a facilitator of sorts. He worked for most of the companies you use every day, HP, Microsoft, IBM, mostly finding out the answers to regulatory hurdles in the EU for international businesses. From all accounts, he was quite good at it."
"A company wants to open a factory in Germany, and he finds out which country magistrate the company needs to grease to get it done," Pierre said.
"Precisely. All of his work was legal, as far as we can tell at the moment. He used known contacts, in European Union agencies, to find out very valuable information for big companies. He found ways to surmount most of our bureaucratic systems’ red tape."
"No doubt he was highly paid," Pierre said.
"He was paid quite well. Some of which he decided to pay taxes on, most he did not. By our estimates, he made 1-2 million a year with his contracts."
Pierre whistled.
"So, we know he wasn't in this for a small score. This was something big, something that caused him to take risks he would not otherwise take," Pierre said.
"Precisely. He had to have a big deal going down for him to get killed over. Naturally, we want to know what it was."
Frances reached into his alligator skin briefcase and produced another picture. It was an older man, with a big snow-white beard and blue eyes. It appeared to be a mug shot, but was not; rather, a close-up from a hidden camera somewhere.
"He is?" Pierre queried, pulling the picture closer.
"Mr. Dubois’ final employer as far as we know. Alexi Popovich, a Russian oil tycoon, last year’s Forbes’s #3 man. Like all Russian businessmen these days, his early days are questionable, he probably robbed like most of them; but for the past 15 years, he has been a model of society, big philanthropist, and oil magnate. He owns half of the Siberian fields, and rumor has it he is in the process of buying a refinery in Yemen."
Pierre's slender eyebrows lifted as his eyes sparkled with curiosity. Frances wondered whether he had them plucked.
"Alexi is an avid treasure hunter: lost galleons, treasure ships that sort of thing. He had a vessel built at great expense for the task, with a helicopter pad and everything. It has been here in Monaco quite often, you may have seen it, the Ivana."
Pierre had a moment of recognition. "Ah, yes, I remember. At the Grand Prix? It had a Eurocopter on the stern if I remember correctly.”
"Correct. He owns a Grand Prix team, sponsored by his charity, I believe."
"What was our dead Mr. Dubois working on for this Russian?"
"Luckily for him, he doesn't have to say."
"It seems like you assume already that Mr. Popovich is not our man?"
"Nothing is impossible, but I think he has far too much to lose to be involved in petty murder, not to mention torture."
"And who is this man?" Pierre said pointing at the other photograph on the table.
"Dmitry Sergniovich, a former member of the Russian Army as was Alexi. Both served in Chechnya. He is Alexi's right-hand man, been with him since the Army. He is the last person to see our victim alive and the five million dollars in our dead man's account was delivered by Dmitry."
"Sounds like a lot of money moving around. Surely, we can detain Mr. Popovich on these grounds," Pierre said.
"No, that is out of the question. Not only because Alexi has an army of lawyers larger than the Hague, and better at International law, but because he declared the purchase on his company balance sheet. He did this by the book. It is no different than if he purchased another yacht," Frances said.
"But what did he purchase?" Pierre asked.
"That is the question we need answered, isn't it?" Frances asked.
"But if he paid Mr. Dubois, there was no reason to smash all his fingers into pulp was there?"
"Precisely," Frances said, pleased with himself that he had drawn the same conclusion as high and mighty Pierre.
"But as our last witness to our victims’ demise, Dmitry is still a man of interest. I must speak to him," Pierre said.
"He boarded a flight to Yemen three days ago, to meet his Alexi who is currently there. They have boarded the yacht Ivana bound for the South Pacific as far as we can tell. And we have no grounds to ask them to come to shore; but I will place a call to his office and request an immediate conversation".
"Am I to assume this is my case now?" Pierre asked as he pulled the files closer.
Chapter 8
Malik sat in the back of the pickup truck with the three other dockworkers as it rolled down the bumpy dirt road towards the marina gate. The armed security checked their IDs thoroughly and gave each worker a rough pat down before using a mirror to check the bottom of the car. An excited, barking dog sniffed around the car, before finally giving his handler the OK. After another look at the workers, the gate finally slid back, and they entered the port.
Malik was glad they were in. Not that he had anything to worry about getting caught with. The device was so small he had worried about losing it before he ever got to use it.
The pickup pulled up outside the gleaming white yacht and the men started jumping out. It was enormous to Malik. He had seen similar yachts before, but none that had the look of the Ivana. At 265 feet, Ivana had sleek long lines and resembled a naval destroyer. Unbeknownst to Malik, the Ivana’s design was based on a Russian naval survey and submarine destroyer that had never been built. The design had been scooped up by Alexi for nothing.
The lights on the vessel were already on, and there was movement everywhere. "Yallah Shabaab," Malik's boss Hammad called after him, trying to get him to move quicker.
Malik jumped out of the back of the pickup and walked towards the dock’s edge. Hammad pointed towards the bow line and Malik turned and walked quickly towards the very foremost line on the dock.
Up on the bridge wing station, a young-looking officer was at the controls of the giant vessel. He watched Malik with an eagle eye, and Mali
k felt a ridiculous sense of apprehension. There is no way he knows, thought Malik, as he lowered his eyes and ran forward towards the line. The man on the bridge wing spoke quickly into a radio and a deck officer yelled at Malik, "take it off.”
Malik spoke English perfectly, but the officer’s hand gestures were unmistakable, in case he didn't. Malik nodded his understanding and quickly bent over the line. He placed his back towards the officer and struggled with the line. Someone on the Ivana finally lowered the line and he was able to drag the eye of the line over the large, iron bollard.
With the greatest alacrity he could muster in his stooped state, he pulled the small device out of his pocket and spread open the now loosening strands of line. The device, the size of a quail egg, slipped easily into the heart of the line, and Malik quickly closed the line tight again. With a flourish, he lifted the line free and began to walk it back towards the deckhand who was pulling the lineup. He dared not get the line wet, although he had been assured the device was waterproof. Malik wanted to minimize the risk to the one thousand U.S. Dollars he had been promised for his services. The less water the better he figured.
Malik had no clue what the device did, although he was fairly certain it was a tracker of sorts. All of the lines were cleared one after another, and the Ivana slowly began to move off the pier towards the open water. Malik pulled out his cell phone and sent a text to the pre-arranged number.
"Khalas," was the one word he sent. It meant "done".
Chapter 9
As the last line fell free of the pier, John began to move the Ivana sideways. The Ivana’s huge twin propellers began to churn, and the 980-ton vessel lurched ahead. She had two enormous six thousand hp Caterpillar diesel engines, coupled to high efficiency, low drag racing propellers that were directly from Russian navy submarine designs. The seven blade screws reduced the sound signature of the vessel, which was critical when operating sonar equipment which they used to find sunken shipwrecks. The Ivana was capable of over 26 knots of sea speed, on her main propulsion units alone.
