by Sam Powers
“And if someone wanted to buy a Makarov PM or two from one of your friends, how much would it be? Just out of curiosity.”
“I believe they would be available for ten dollars each. A clip for each will be five dollars more. Ammunition can be had at the hundred-load for five dollars.”
In a sense, Brennan thought, Angola was like Somalia, but with more buildings and overt manners. Life was still the cheapest commodity, and weaponry went for less than European cigarettes.
“And an AK?”
“Twenty dollars for the gun, ten dollars for a standard clip, fifteen for an extended. Ammunition is two hundred for five dollars. Again, there is much more of it than for the small caliber for the Makarov, which is why the former is so expensive.”
Brennan nodded towards the Ilha. “I’ll tell you what, my friend: how about I buy you dinner, and we talk a little more. You help me out for the next couple of days, I’ll make it worth a whole lot of AKs worth of actual dollars. How does that sound?”
The man smiled broadly, leaned over his seat and slapped Brennan with a hand-clasp and shake. “Mister, I believe we are in business.”
The weapons dealer was situated in an old colonial neighborhood not far from the airport called the Alvalade. The streets were lined with villas from Portugal’s heyday, Cristiano explained, plaster in shades of pastel, faded and dirt-stained from time and neglect. Most were fronted by palm trees. As with much of the city there was debris and garbage everywhere; giant dumpsters could be found every third of fourth block but were generally overflowing, the smell so bad they had to roll up their windows as they passed.
For the most expensive city on Earth, Brennan thought, it looked an awful lot like every other Third World outhouse. And for a country no longer at war with itself, there were plenty of soldiers, too. As the car navigated the pothole-ridden streets, it seemed like every tenth person was in army fatigues and carrying a weapon. The locals were a mix of obliviously happy but malnourished – generally, the kids – and worn down; the male adults wore faded dress shirts and trousers with sandals, underweight, eyes hollow and joints stiff. The local women seemed generally healthier than the men, most wrapped in colorful kangas: multi-colored, single-sheet wrap-around dresses. Every so often, Brennan would see a pair of women walking side by side, balancing large jugs or platters of fruit on their heads.
The driver pulled up outside a whitewashed concrete wall, which featured a wide, solid-metal double gate. Just beyond it, Brennan could see the second floor of a white stucco home, impressively large even by modern standards. They got out of the car. The driver pressed a buzzer button beside the gate. “Hey Francisco, it’s Cristiano. I have a customer for you, a good one.”
There was no reply, and they stood there for a few seconds, the driver crossing his arms and smiling sheepishly, obviously worried about whether he’d get a response. Then they heard footsteps, followed by the thick clang of a heavy bolt being drawn back. The gate swung open and a short, dark-haired man eyed them over, before nodding to go inside. Cristiano led the three across a small courtyard area, then up the concrete side steps to the expansive home’s main floor. The door led directly into another small courtyard, this time inside the house proper. It was open to the night sky above, and people were lounging around on beach furniture, drinking cold beer and talking. Brennan counted nine, mostly women.
A large Latino guy in a white shirt and white cotton pants with the cuffs rolled up was entertaining two ladies at the same time from his lounger, the sun glinting off his mirrored aviators. “Hey Cristiano!” he yelled as they walked in. “Good to see you my little friend!” He said something to the two women – and kissed one woman’s hand – and they both moved across the courtyard to talk to others. He got up and came over to meet his new customer; Francisco was a beefy guy with a strong hand shake and a collection of gold jewelry. “Introduce me to your guest.”
The young African driver grinned widely. “This is Tom. He needs to arrange some protection, and maybe would like to shop your wares a bit, yes?”
Francisco winked at Brennan. “That can easily be arranged. Would you like a beer?” He leaned over and opened a cooler chest by a nearby director’s chair. “Nice and cold.”
Brennan nodded and Cristiano followed suit. Their host uncapped the two green bottles and handed them over. “Come, let me show you what we have,” he said. He moved to the far side of the courtyard and slid back a glass patio-style door, leading them into a big, air-conditioned living room. At its far end, a set of stairs with glass panels under the railing led to a lower level. He flicked on a light switch as they followed him.
The basement was open concept. One entire half of the room was covered with display cases and weapons hanging from the walls. “Now what can I get for you?” Francisco asked. “Maybe an M60 copy with a handy, aftermarket flame-thrower attachment?” He walked over to the wall and took the weapon down. “This thing chews through brick walls, eh?”
Brennan shook his head. “I don’t think we need to go that heavy. Is everything you have Russian?”
The arms dealer shrugged his shoulders. “It’s what’s out there, for the most part. I can get things in for you on special order but it would be very expensive. But then, that’s why it’s a buyer’s market; if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t get past the gate, my friend.”
“What I could really use is an MP-433 Grach with a suppressor, and a vest.”
Francisco exhaled heavily. “The Grach? No problem. It’s a new gun, so it will cost you a hundred. The vest is another matter. They are in heavy demand and short supply. Can you wait until tomorrow?”
“Possibly. I also need to round up some intel; nothing official or illegal.”
The arm’s dealer was nodding but he looked suspicious, which Brennan expected. “Sure, sure…. Of course if depends what kind of intel you’re looking for. You want to know what movie is playing at the Miramar? I can do that. You want Dos Santos’ cell number? That’s punching above my weight.”
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Tread carefully, my friend. Cristiano, what’s this about?”
“I don’t know, Frankie… he didn’t mention information, just weapons.”
Brennan held up both palms. “Like I said, it’s nothing government.”
That seemed to calm the arms dealer somewhat. “Then I guess it depends what you want and how much you can spend to get it. I know some people who know some people.”
Brennan handed the picture of Andraz Kovacic. “This guy may have been in and out of the country, maybe even a long time ago. I think he left something behind here and I need to find it.”
Francisco’s eyes widened with surprise. “You don’t want much, do you? Why don’t you put a bullet in my head yourself right now?”
“So you know him.”
“Yeah… well, not personally. But I know people who know people, like I said. But this is interesting; I haven’t seen or heard of this guy in … maybe four years?”
“Can you find out if he’s still around?”
“Sure. But expect a serious bill for this, my friend. We are talking five figures.”
“For five figures, you take me to him.”
“Or,” Francisco said, “you can go fuck yourself with the negotiation bullshit. You have nothing here, no cards to play. I have the info and the connections. So, for ten thousand I get you a confirmation if he’s alive. For another ten thousand, I get you a meeting.”
It would just about drain his resources, Brennan knew. But he didn’t have an option. “Half upfront, half on completion,” Brennan said. “Needless to say, the people I work for will be incredibly upset if you don’t produce.”
“I like my head where it is, my friend,” Francisco said. “I’ll tell you what: the pistol is on me. The vest, you get tomorrow. The information, within the week.”
24./
March 3, 2016, ATLANTA, GEORGIA
Christopher Enright had been Addison March’s assistan
t for three years. It wasn’t the meteoric Washington career he’d expected out of Yale law, but he handled his tasks with efficiency and skill, and he knew March appreciated it. His boss was about to run for President; and that meant that Enright had as much riding on the next few months as the veteran politician.
So he urged caution as they took the elevator up from the parking garage to the News Network’s fourteenth floor studio.
“I just think that two days after Christmas is an inopportune time to do any heavy lifting when it comes to interviews, senator,” he said. “The public’s collective mind is still focused on the holidays, getting visiting family out of their hair, bargain shopping… that sort of thing.”
March snorted at the suggestion. “The public’s collective mind could fit on the head of a pin and leave enough room for a dance number. But if it will put your mind at ease, Christopher, I will refrain from attacking POTUS and focus instead on that buffoon John Younger.”
March’s ego worried Enright; he expected it from any politician, in varying degrees. But in March’s case, his lengthy success record both in business and politics had rendered him immune to self-criticism or introspection. The fact, for example, that John Younger had had every bit as much success both personally and professionally would seem to discount him being a buffoon. Underestimating your opponent was never good in an important race, Enright thought.
It was that kind of lack of foresight that made him think sometimes that he was backing the wrong horse. In economic policy, there was little real difference between the two de facto nominees; both were intrinsically indebted for political fundraising reasons to the financial sector. Foreign policy was where they differed, with March scoring big points among frustrated lower income voters by playing the race card, arguing that floods of Mexican and Central American migrant workers were driving down wages among the poorest. At the same time, he favored tariffs on Chinese products to help rebuild the American middle class manufacturing sector.
Younger, meanwhile, was a “new age” Liberal, soft on corporate malfeasance and sheer capitalism, but demanding of social change that reflected the latest research, of programs like Success by Six to help young, poor parents cope and of improved rehabilitation programs for those convicted of crimes. His softhearted approach scared Enright half to death; the modern world was a serious place, he thought, full of seriously bad people. The John Youngers of the world didn’t have the mettle for it.
So despite his reservations about March’s style and his occasional hotheadedness, Enright had stuck with him. And of late, March’s shots at Younger for being soft on security had been scoring with the pollsters. They were up four points from a week earlier, still trailing, but just barely.
“They’re going to go hard on this suggestion from Sen. Reid that you’re being hypocritical over China because of your own overseas investments,” Enright reminded him. “You’re good on our key messages there?”
“I know, son, I know,” the Tennessee veteran said. “For the benefit of that public you’re so smitten with, I will once again point out that owning chocolate farms in South America is not the same as destroying the American middle class with cheap Chinese imports.” March hated this part of the campaign, the kowtowing to the least informed.
“It plays well with your base, Senator,” Enright said. “Remember, without the tax revolt crowd, the old guard would still be shutting you out.” The Republican old guard had made a lot of mistakes, Enright thought; but the biggest was losing sight of the average everyday voting Republican, the blue collar guy who believed in the same things they believed, even if not much of the wealth was trickling down his way. The guy with principles.
It took less than fifteen minutes to get the senator into makeup for the interview, which was being handled by Richard Glazer, a veteran anchor. March had been questioned by Glazer before and had marginally less contempt for the TV man than for most of his journalist ilk. He prided himself on the fact that he’d been successful enough for long enough in politics that he could predict most of the questions Glazer would ask.
He was right. Again. For the first five minutes of the twelve-minute segment Glazer waxed liberal about the plight of the Mexican migrant and the need for workplace equity, as well as throwing out some softball queries about life on the campaign trail.
And then with two minutes left, Glazer threw him a curve.
“Senator March, there has been a buzz for the last week in the Beltway about foreign money…”
March cut him off. “As I’ve noted before, all of my investments are with U.S. companies who just happen to produce some of their components…”
Glazer interrupted him. “Senator… please… senator, that’s not what I’m referring to. I’m referring of course to the buzz that when you were in private business, you had a working relationship with the Latrobe Corporation, a Texas oil concern that is in part owned by the controversial Jordanian businessman Ahmed Khalidi.”
It was a gross misrepresentation, of course, the senator thought. March had been senior partner in a firm that had done some work for Latrobe, but he personally had no role in it. “Now that’s just inaccurate as all get out, Richard,” he said, trying to sound disappointed. “I would think a veteran journalist such as you would check his facts before making such a statement.”
“Perhaps you could clarify…” Glazer began.
“I will only point out as a matter for the record that while lawyers at my firm did some work with Latrobe many years ago, I personally had no role in that work. So no, I never did work for Khalidi’s company.”
To the side of the set, Enright grimaced. For a veteran, March was so reliant on his charisma with the public that he was exceedingly sloppy. All he had to do was deny it; he had his version and that made it accurate, and that was all that was needed. Instead, he’d not only planted the seed of public doubt by calling it “my firm”, he’d then gone on refer to Khalidi by name. It was a disaster. The communications team was going to laugh him out of the office.
He could almost feel the polls dropping.
March 12, 2016, MONTPELLIER, FRANCE
In his palatial office overlooking the broad public square called Place de la Comedie, Yoshi Funomora had just finished reading the report on his agent’s death. The rest of the ACF board waited on the conference call line.
“Well?” the chairman asked. “I take it your agent failed.”
“He appears to have been killed professionally, chairman. Ms. Malone has friends in the intelligence community. I recommend we liaise with our security contact in the United States and determine what he thinks has taken place.”
The Chinese delegate, Fung, was feeling vindicated. He had been warning his colleagues about Funomora’s incompetence or months. Now, perhaps, he could see him removed and a more amiable colleague from Asia installed in his place.
“Our Japanese colleague would, of course, recommend going to another source for our information, given that his agent has failed miserably, and with fatal consequences. Typical. Perhaps, Mr. Chairman…”
“Perhaps,” said Khalidi, “we could focus on the problems at hand.” For once, he wanted Fung to stow his rivalry with Funomora until the larger issues had been addressed. “Japan, can we be briefed by our American contact?”
“I’ve arranged for it already, chairman,” the stocky politician said. “He’ll be on the line in just a moment.”
A conference call operator said “go ahead, please.”
“Is this line secure?” David Fenton-Wright asked.
He’d been briefing the ACF for nearly two years, an implied bargain in exchange for a future position among the seven. Fenton-Wright’s desire to join wasn’t mere vanity or self-enrichment; he knew the truth about the ACF’s ambitions. Its star chamber-like power came from relationships with top security officials in every developed nation, and from its own rapid response resources. Fenton-Wright had been recruited to aide its mission representing America, and he intended one
day to chair the ACF himself.
“The operator is shut out of the call and our voices are scrambled,” Funomora noted. “Go ahead.”
“Our asset in Europe was behind the Bustamante shooting,” Fenton-Wright said. “But he is convinced that Bustamante was not, in fact, responsible for the sniper. I’ve told him to stay there and off the radar until we can provide further direction. As for the larger issue of the missing package, I’ve told him it’s not his concern, so I would not anticipate any further inquiries in that vein.”
“That is welcome news,” the chairman said. “You do yourself credit.”
“Thank you, chairman,” Fenton-Wright fawned. “I can only hope to be as much help to the Association in the future.”
The Chinese delegate was dissatisfied. “Perhaps our American colleague can inform us as to why there has been no progress in tracking down the sniper?”
Fenton-Wright had anticipated the question. “It is a matter of the shooter having gone to ground, vice-chairman. He stressed the word “vice” to remind Fung that he had the chairman’s support. “However, we continue to follow leads and investigate probability matrices …”
“Probability matrices?” Fung jeered. “Perhaps when the would-be member has decided to take this seriously…”
“I’m sure he has,” Khalidi said, wary of another debate beginning. “And I’m certain our friend will prove his worth once more as the investigation continues.”
“Thank you again, chairman,” Fenton-Wright said. “Your support, as always, is much appreciated.”
Fenton-Wright returned home after eight o’clock. He’d always been a workaholic, even in high school, which he had always assumed was the biggest reason for his success in class and his unpopularity with the other students. It had been a similar story in his various college classes. And he’d never made many friends at the agency, either, for that matter.
