by Brad Taylor
Monte Carlo, in the principality of Monaco, had a reputation as a rich man’s playground, and to some extent, it was deserved. Situated on the French Riviera just up the coast from Cannes and Nice, known for the Monaco Grand Prix, Princess Grace, and the famed Monte Carlo Casino, it had its fair share of celebrities sailing into the harbor on yachts that cost more than the income of most countries, but at its heart, it was just a city. With a density rivaling Hong Kong in persons living per square inch, it couldn’t possibly live up to the hype it portrayed, because, while that same density ranked as the highest number of millionaires in the world, the majority of people living and working inside its borders were not lucky enough to be anointed citizenship, and scraped a living by catering to the wealthy.
We spilled out of the cab like a clown car, and the bellman asked if he could take our luggage. I would have said hell no, because that sort of thing just aggravated me, but Veep, the youngest person on our team, beat me to the punch, saying, “Yes, that would be great. We’ll be in four separate rooms. Is that a problem?”
Of course the bellman said no, because it meant four separate tips for a load of luggage I could have carried myself.
We entered the opulent lobby, full of marble columns and impeccable granite floors, and Veep said, “I never stayed at a hotel like this on spring break.”
I scoffed and said, “Oh, bullshit. The president’s son never stayed at a place like this? You seemed to know your way around outside with the bellman.”
Nicholas Hannister had earned his callsign, Veep, when his father had been the vice president of the United States. Now his father was the most powerful man in the world, and I was still trying to get the son to forget his heritage and just become a member of the team. Four months ago, he would have shut up and taken the jab, afraid to say anything. Now he gave it back, which I considered a little bit of a breakthrough.
“I said on spring break. You know, when you get a break from college and have to pay your way to get the babes? Oh, wait. I forgot. You never went to college. But surely you’ve seen YouTube videos.”
That would have been an incredible insult from any other man, but from my team, it meant nothing. I was Good Will Hunting and they all knew it. Especially in our chosen profession.
I saw Jennifer flash her eyes in anger, not liking what he’d said, actually taking offense at what was meant for me. She’d earned her college degree the hard way, six years after initially dropping out to marry an abusive husband, and had learned that a piece of paper didn’t equal intelligence.
She blurted out, “He has a degree. He worked hard—” and I grabbed her hand, shutting her up. Yeah, I had a degree, but he was right. I’d never been a full- time student. But that was irrelevant, and Veep knew it, not the least because the first time we’d met was behind the barrel of a gun when I’d saved his life.
I said, “Touché, little millennial. Touché.”
Jennifer relaxed, and Veep smiled, understanding the subliminal jab. I had the babe.
Round card score: Pike Logan.
We walked to the reception desk, and the final man on our team, Brett Thorpe, said, “No offense, Koko, but this beats the hell out of that hotel in Eze.”
Jennifer ignored the use of her callsign, which she despised, instead looking around the lobby in a mock study. She arched an eyebrow and said, “Yeah, but there’s no church here to work on,” then saw an advertisement on a wall and grinned, saying, “But there is a spa. And like Knuckles said, money is no object to the Taskforce.”
Jennifer and I were partners in a company called Grolier Recovery Services, which ostensibly facilitated archaeological work around the world. In reality, it was an elaborate cover organization used by the United States government to facilitate penetration of denied areas to put some threat into the ground. Knuckles, Veep, and Brett were all members of special operations or the CIA, but were acting as “employees” of the company, and as such, every once in a while, instead of getting into gunfights, we had to actually do some archaeological work.
With a degree in anthropology, and a true love for history, Jennifer really enjoyed these trips, but I always found them exceedingly boring. Even so, I understood why we did them. If you wanted to portray a real company, you had to have more than a web page. You had to have a history of doing what you professed you did, to include a network of contacts in that business world and a track record of success. Especially when trying to get through customs in a country that was less than hospitable to the United States.
And it didn’t hurt to keep Jennifer happy. That kept me happy.
We’d been in the French town of Eze, a medieval village just outside of Monaco that had changed little since the Crusades. Well, the buildings hadn’t changed, but the proprietors certainly had. Pedestrian only, built on a mountain with narrow stairwells that tested the hearts of the elderly tourists, Eze looked exactly like it had seven hundred years ago, except now it was full of art galleries and perfume shops.
Near the top of the mountain village was a church that was being renovated with the help of an American university. Called the Notre Dame de l’Assomption, it was younger than the surrounding area—having been built in the eighteenth century—and during the renovations, the university had found a graveyard. A much, much older graveyard than the church. Since the village had bounced between Italian and French provenance, a three- way fight had ensued as to who would get to excavate the find, with both France and Italy claiming the bodies, and the university claiming the discovery.
We had been contracted by the university to help with the dispute, as such things were a Grolier specialty. It would have been easy work, too, giving Jennifer a chance to really enjoy some old bones, but we’d only been incountry for four days when our commander, Kurt Hale, had called, telling me to get the team to Monte Carlo for a situation that had to be resolved right now.
With the United States government, everything was a damn crisis. We never seemed to be able to see past our own headlights, constantly surprised when something happened that had been brewing for years. This crisis was a little bit unique, though, because Kurt had brought in two different teams to deal with it—something that rarely happened.
Brett said, “Am I supposed to pay for my room, or is this taken care of?”
I said, “It’s taken care of.”
We walked as a group to the checkin desk, all of us taking in the marble surroundings and feeling a little underdressed. The reservations were under my company name, because there was no way that we could reserve a room as “Top Secret Commando Unit,” even if the funds were coming from the Taskforce through multiple cutouts.
In short order, we went to our separate rooms, where I immediately hooked my laptop to a VPN to see exactly what the state of play was.
Jennifer moved her things around, getting settled, while I checked messages. I could tell she was a little antsy, but I assumed it was because of being pulled from our contract. I was wrong.
I closed the laptop and said, “Nothing new. Only handle we have on the guy is his reservation tonight at the restaurant, and then at the casino.”
Jennifer came out of the bathroom and said, “That’s it?”
I said, “Yep, but it can’t be that hard. How many Koreans do you think are running around here? He’ll stick out like Brett.”
Brett was African American, another small population here in Monaco.
She said, “I’d like a little more than a name and nationality to go on. The target isn’t a member of an FTO group, and why two teams? If it’s just a simple Alpha mission? Something more is in play, and we’re being kept in the dark.”
While I didn’t believe Kurt Hale would keep something from me, she did have a point. It was true our mission was only Alpha, but we’d already been given authority for Omega if we thought the guy was dirty, meaning it was my choice. My decision. Like the fact that two separa
te teams were operating in Monaco with two separate covers, it was unusual. As was the target.
The charter for the Taskforce was limited to designated substate groups on the State Department’s Foreign Terrorist Organizations list, something that was updated continually. The Taskforce was a scalpel against such assholes, but our boundaries ended with them. We didn’t do state organizations, even if they sponsored such groups. The United States had plenty of others who did that, like the CIA and the intelligence organs of the Department of Defense.
Which begged the question of why we were chasing a North Korean pretending to be a billionaire South Korean on the shores of the Côte d’Azur.
Chapter 4
Yasir alShami wandered past the Monaco Cathedral, seeing a line of people snaking inside, and decided to take the opportunity to check his backtrail. He’d picked the outdoor eatery to highlight anyone who might be interested in him, and all he’d seen were a couple of kids and two policemen blowing whistles, but he’d learned through a lifetime of clandestine operations that just because you didn’t spot a tail didn’t mean there wasn’t one. It always paid to double-check.
He entered the line, then began to file past the tombs of previous rulers of Monaco. The line moved slowly, voices hushed, eventually circling at the front of the cathedral and heading back out on the far side, each person stopping for an extra beat at Princess Grace’s final resting spot, allowing him to study anyone suspicious who might have entered after him. A single male, a couple that didn’t fit, anyone acting like him and showing more interest in the line of people than the graves.
He saw nothing and exited back into the sunshine, sure he was clean.
He continued east, casually strolling and blending in with the other pedestrians. Eventually, he reached a long five-story building that seemed to be built into the side of the cliff, the southern facade slipping two floors below the land he was on, going all the way down to the ocean. A sign out front proclaimed MUSÉE OCÉANOGRAPHIQUE DE MONACO. The national aquarium of Monaco, the oldest continually operating aquarium in the world, and one made famous by Jacques Cousteau. Yasir cared not a whit about any of that, preferring to eat his fish on a plate with some lemon instead of watching them swim, but it was the designated meeting site.
He paid to enter, and ignored the multitude of tourists pressed against a giant Plexiglas wall, staring at the sea creatures beyond. He looked at a map hanging on a column, found an elevator, and rode it straight to the roof.
He exited, looking for the terrace restaurant, but finding instead a thirty-foot-tall metal sculpture of a shark held up by its tail, its mouth agape with gleaming metal teeth as if it had just been caught, tourists in front taking selfies. He turned around, and saw the restaurant on the western side, tables spread out and pay telescopes being used to gaze out along the coastline.
He scanned the crowd, not looking for a signal as he ordinarily would have done. No signal was needed. He was looking for an ethnicity. At a far table, he saw an Asian man in a suit, another standing behind him.
He walked over and pulled out a chair, saying, “Song Hae-gook, I presume?”
The man behind the seated Asian rapidly advanced, and the seated man held up a hand, saying, “Yes. Yasir alShami?”
Yasir nodded and said, “You picked a strange place to conduct business.”
“I portray what a rich man would do. I’m not going to meet you in a dark alley like the slime you deal with in Syria. And I can control access here.”
Another Asian security man exited the elevator and joined them, saying something in Korean. Song nodded and said, “You’re clean.”
Yasir realized Song had deployed countersurveillance, protecting the meeting. The fact allayed his concerns about the location, and the skills of the man across the table.
He nodded and said, “Glad to see the professionalism.”
Song laughed and said, “If you remember, in the past it was my people who taught Assad’s intelligence agencies how to operate. Which means we taught you.”
A member of the elite Air Force Intelligence Directorate—which had very little to do with Air Force intelligence—Yasir had never been instructed by a North Korean, but he had no doubt that what Song said was true. That had been before his time. Before the civil war, and before North Korea’s leader, Kim Jongun, had used two females to kill his half brother with nerve gas in Malaysia. North Korea’s intelligence agency had proved its ability to penetrate another sovereign country, plan an operation, and execute it successfully.
Yasir said, “My leadership appreciates what you have done for them in the past, and what you’re willing to do now.”
Song said, “Straight to business. I like that. Are you prepared to pay the agreed price?”
Surprised, Yasir said, “No. Not here. I was told I was but the conduit. You would pass me the information I needed to meet someone else. You understand, we have to check what you’re giving us. Make sure it’s real.”
“And how are you going to do that? Breathe it in? No. You’ll trust us. As you must.”
“We can test it. That’s not hard at all. I have the equipment.”
Song leaned back and said, “You can test for the agent, but how will you test for the fact that it expires? Pour it on the ground and watch the pedestrians?”
Yasir said, “So it’s real? You’ve created Red Mercury?”
Song laughed and said, “You Arabs. Always looking for a myth. No, it’s not the fabled ‘Red Mercury.’ It’s just a nerve agent that kills without remorse, and then kills itself.”
Yasir let the insult slide, the prehistoric part of his brain wanting to punish the man for the insult. He said, “That’s what we want. So what’s next?”
Song said, “Why? Why do you want that? My command wants to know.”
“Not your business. We’ll pay what you asked, but we don’t need to tell you why.” Yasir smiled and said, “You have a problem with the sanctions. They’re crippling you. The money is all that matters.”
Song said, “Yes, we’re looking for separate income streams, but make no mistake, we’re not willing to sell what you call ‘Red Mercury’ just because. If we were, there are a hundred terrorist groups who are willing. We chose you, and with that choice comes some forewarning. We need to know.”
Yasir had been given clearance for the answer, but now grudgingly didn’t want to provide it. But that wouldn’t play well if he returned empty-handed. This conversation would be relayed, he was sure. He said, “We’re giving it to the White Flags. You’ve heard of them?”
Song scoffed and said, “Yes. The rebirth of ISIS. The ones now fighting yet again in Iraq and Syria. What will that do? They’re your enemy. Are you crazy?”
“Yes, we fight them, but we also talk to them. They are good for the regime. They make it so that we are the bastion fighting terrorism. Now that ISIS has been driven into the ground, they are becoming the main insurgent group, and if we can make them look like the terrorists they are, we solidify our credibility.”
“You have contacts with them?”
“Yes. We always have. They’re recruited from ISIS and the Nusra Front.”
Song nodded, thinking through the ramifications. He said, “So you intend to use the weapon in Syria. And you don’t want to taint the ground it’s used upon because you intend to reclaim it. You only want to show the world how bad the White Flags are, using a weapon that can’t be traced back to you. Am I reading that correctly?”
Yasir was startled at how quickly Song had ascertained their plot. Yasir himself had created the plan, and had thought it extremely clever.
He said, “Yes. That’s what we’re going to do. The White Flags will use it against a US Special Forces outpost, killing them, and then we’ll side with the Americans, demanding to help eradicate the terrorists. The outcry in the United States will only be good for us. We are on the way to vict
ory, but we need to get the United States to either join us or withdraw. Either way, this will work.”
“And how will you control the weapon once it’s transferred?”
“That’s our problem, but make no mistake, the White Flags trust me. I’ve helped the man in charge in the past, when he was in the Nusra Front. They’ll do what I say. The chance to kill a bunch of US Special Forces will be too good to pass up. Those bastards have been killing the Front for years.”
“And the Americans? How will you control them?”
Yasir smiled and said, “I have contacts there as well.”
Song arched an eyebrow and said, “What’s that mean?”
Yasir said, “You only get so much intelligence. Have I passed the test?”
Song remained silent for a moment, and Yasir knew he was considering leveraging the weapon for more information. Yasir cut it short. “That’s all I’m saying to you. Take it back to your people, or end this whole transaction. I came here to buy a weapon, and that’s it.”
Song sat for a few more seconds, then seemed to come to a decision. He said, “You have an iPhone Ten? Yes? Like it was directed?”
Yasir held up his cell and said, “Yes. Although I don’t know why this phone matters.”
“Give it to me.”
He passed it across, and Song handed it to the man behind him. Yasir watched the security man manipulate the phone, going through menu after menu, then insert a device into the lightning port. Five seconds later, he handed it back.
Song said, “Turn on your AirPort.”
Yasir did, looking at Song expectantly. His phone dinged, asking him if he wanted to open something with an extension he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t a picture or a document.
Song said, “Accept it. It’s your next instructions, and it’ll be embedded in your phone. Nobody can find it.”
Yasir did, then said, “So now what?”
“Now you go to Switzerland. The weapon is held there. The passcode I just sent has your instructions for the next step. The men you’ll meet will match your phone with theirs. And then, of course, you must be prepared to pay.”
