by Joe Goldberg
He moved on, riding the humpback of his salary and stock options, win or lose, to the luxury tables in The Bellagio in Las Vegas, Monaco’s Hotel de Paris and Casino de Monte, The Venetian Macao Resort Hotel, among some.
MacLean was a “whale,” both figuratively and literally—a category above those known as a “high roller.” A whale wagered large amounts of money, win or lose, and was treated lavishly by the ultra-competitive casinos. MacLean liked swimming with whales. The lifestyle. The attention.
But he was drowning.
He was unaware that his financial issues had placed him on an MSS watchlist of corporate targets of interest. The list of names included those with access to U.S. trade secrets or employed at MSS-targeted U.S. companies. If recruited, they could be leveraged to obtain proprietary corporate information, government plans, or classified technologies.
The more common name for it was economic espionage.
Penetrating Kirkwood, the American technology giant had been a priority for Chinese intelligence for years. They were an engineering colossus, with countless patents and secret government contracts. MacLean was an opportunity for success. He was worth the effort.
MacLean saw nothing inappropriate when he received a message in his LinkedIn account from Professor Zhan, the Distinguished Professor of Economics at the Shanghai Academy of Social Sciences, the SASS, a Chinese think tank and research institution. He was asking if the Kirkwood CFO could find space in his busy schedule to travel to Shanghai. They were eager for him to address the SASS faculty and students on corporate finance topics.
They would cover his expenses, plus an additional thirty-five thousand dollars as a speaker’s fee—to start.
This request did not seem unusual. MacLean had visited China many times over his career. He felt he had a grasp of their culture and their need to remain competitive after a century of the West ruling the globe. Wasn’t a strong China a good thing? Having a closer, personally profitable relationship was a win-win, right?
After a week of wining, dining, and prostitutes, the pitch took place on MacLean’s last evening in China. Instead of large dinner parties, or receptions in his honor, Professor Zhan suggested they dine alone.
Actually, not entirely alone. After they sat at a secluded corner table in the dimly lit restaurant, Professor Zhan suddenly stood and bowed. MacLean turned to see a man about his age, dressed perfectly in a dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie. He had black-and-gray hair combed from left to right. The corners of his thin-lipped mouth briefly held a smile.
“Nínhǎo! Hello! It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the man said, at first bowing, then extending his hand.
MacLean heaved his body to a standing position as he finished chewing his piece of crispy duck.
“Hello,” he replied, looking at the professor.
“George, I was asked to make time for this man to talk to you.” Professor Zhan gathered up his phone and offered his seat to the man.
The man sat in the chair vacated by Professor Zhan. “Let me introduce myself. I am Deputy Minister Chen. I am very pleased to meet you at last.”
“Really? That is very flattering. What did you want to meet about?” MacLean tried to find something in the face that could spark some recollection.
“I will honor you with being direct. We have several separate, but related efforts, you and I. We both want good relationships between our countries. You want to maximize the success of your company. True?”
MacLean rolled his body back against the back of his chair and considered the man.
“True. I—I can’t argue with that,” he agreed, stifling a burp in his throat.
“I will continue to be direct. Does your employer know of your financial situation? What would happen to you if they knew? Or if it were to appear in the media?
“What do you mean? I—that is ridiculous.” MacLean started to stand.
“Mr. MacLean, please sit,” Chen said politely, but firmly. “I can help you.”
MacLean sat back down. The chair creaked.
“Good. Let me explain my comments. China wants to advance its manufacturing technology and be globally competitive soon. Greater access to the China market would help your firm and you. I want you to go back to America and obtain information to meet that goal. In return, we will pay you. Generously. Regularly. You can, therefore, relieve the financial burden you are currently suffering from and,” Chen looked at MacLean with a thin-lipped smile, “protect your well-earned reputation.”
“You want me to be a spy for China?” MacLean whispered to his lap, then raised his eyes to Chen.
Chen’s thin-lipped smile revealed as much emotion as the cooked duck.
“I want us to work together to solve our problems, Mr. Maclean.”
“George,” MacLean said.
“Yes. George. Thank you. This means we share on a regular basis—as associates. You share some information, things you normally would see in the course of your day. Then, we will transfer our deepest and generous gratitude to a secret bank account in your name in return.”
With drops of sweat beading on his forehead, MacLean reached out and grabbed the man’s hand.
“How much is generous?” he asked, after a minute had passed.
“We can discuss—”
“Pay off my debt. All of it. And one hundred thousand dollars a month.”
Chen’s face showed that he was pleased with the way the conversation was moving.
“We can help with your debt over the next six months. I see no reason why this could not be a long and beneficial business opportunity. Let us start at fifteen thousand dollars. If the relationship develops and access is useful, we can discuss more.”
The recruitment of George MacLean was complete.
18
Adapt to Circumstances
Belgrade, Serbia
“Nikola! Did you know you are dead?” Bridger laughed, turning an iPad and holding it up to the metal bars.
Nikola looked at the bright red multimedia home page of Blic Online, Serbia’s most popular tabloid news portal. As he read, his expression stayed impassive.
“My Serbian is a little rusty, but—” Bridger tapped the screen advancing the photos. He stopped at an image of two photos side by side. One was a close-up ID photo of a stiff uniformed Nikola looking directly at the camera. The other was of a sheet over a body in the street. “I think this says you are dead. Right here.” Bridger ran his finger along a capitalized banner headline. “Want me to read it?”
“No, that is not necessary.” Nikola turned and sat on his cot. He was locked within a row of floor to ceiling bars that ran the safe house basement's fifteen-foot width. The stone floor and walls kept the windowless room cool. Besides steep steps to the upper level, only two wooden chairs occupied the area outside the bars.
“Ah, come on. I’ll read it. Um…blah, blah…here…‘the man was identified by anonymous sources as Nikola Vulin, a former member of the Serbian Armed Forces and founder of Vulin Security.’” Bridger looked at Nikola, who was sitting like a stone. “We made sure when we leaked that. Don’t worry, there isn’t any mention of Serge. Why complicate things?”
“You are very generous,” Nikola said with obvious sarcasm.
The man in the cell impressed Bridger. This is a soldier. Loyal. Tough. Professional. He would make a good Spy Devil, Bridger thought.
Bridger put the iPad on one of the chairs. He picked up a book-sized piece of folded white butcher paper.
“There is simply no doubt that Pekara Trpkovic bakery shop has the best burek in Serbia. If not all the Balkans. Recipes handed down through the hundreds and hundreds of years.” He stuck his hand between the bars and held it out to Nikola. “The lines are just brutal there, but I know Boris, the head baker. Nice fellow. He lets me slip in the back to avoid the wait.” Bridger waved the package at Nikola, who stood, walked over, and took it from him. “I prefer the beef, but this is a plain cheese burek—I wasn’t sure of your d
ietary habits.”
Nikola reached out and took the paper. He unfolded it and took a bite into the flaky dough of the traditional Serbian pastry.
This was a test. Nikola had passed—so far.
Nikola accepted the breakfast pastry. He didn’t pause, sniff, or examine it. This reaffirmed to Bridger that Nikola was a professional. It showed an understanding of the situation. A professional knew if Bridger wanted to drug or kill him, he would have done it already.
“It should be warm,” Nikola said with a mouthful of food. He turned and sat back on his cot.
“Yes. I agree, but we all must adapt to circumstance.” Bridger pulled one chair closer to the bars and sat.
“You went to much trouble to put me in here.” Nikola waved his arms at his cell. “You faked your death. Sent the photos to Serge from my phone. You faked my death. I do not see the police here. Or BIA.”
“Oh, my friend in Serbian intelligence wants you after I am done—bet on it. They helped get you here.”
Bridger waited for Nikola to react. He didn’t. He just stared straight at Bridger.
“You are the Bridger—from the famous Spy Devils?”
“That is true.”
Nikola examined Bridger’s face. Finally, he took his eyes off of Bridger and looked around the room.
“What do you want of me?”
“Nikola, you are a professional. I won’t insult you with tricks, pain, or drugs. Serge thinks you killed me. He certainly has seen the news and thinks you are dead. I would be happy to set you free when we are done with you.”
“I think that is not a good thing. You have made that very dangerous.”
“Nikola, you are a smart man. I agree with your assessment. When Serge finds out you are alive, and we will make certain he does, he will kill you on the spot. He won’t be able to trust you. Where have you been? Who have you talked to? You know the drill.”
Nikola rolled the empty butcher paper into a ball and tossed it toward a bucket in the corner of his cell.
“You have alternatives for me. I tell you what you need to know, and I get to go,” he said, as he brushed crumbs from his pants.
“It is a real pleasure, Nikola. You are making this easy. I suggest you leave the country. As an experienced practitioner, you certainly have a getaway kit hidden somewhere. New IDs. Money. Passports. Weapons. Your Swiss bank accounts have sufficient funds for you to live well.”
Nikola didn’t answer at first, then nodded.
“I thought so. So, all you need to do is tell me all about the deal Serge is about to complete. Most urgently, I want to know where the meeting is and when. You are free the moment we are done. In fact, for the trouble and inconvenience we have put you through, I have opened a Swiss account in your name for one hundred thousand dollars. All yours,” Bridger brushed his hands together.
Nikola sighed and looked at him again.
“It could be many places,” Nikola said. Bridger knew this was his test to see how his jailer would react. Bridger was prepared.
“I just want to do this the easy way. You get out, get richer, and that keeps us from running around listening and surveilling. Alternatively, I could keep you locked in here,” Bridger sat forward and kicked an iron bar, “and let you starve to death where your body will rot away and get eaten by rats. Or, we tell Serge where you are when we are done. He comes in and shoots you. Your body will rot away and get eaten by rats right here. Maybe he saves the bullets and decides to burn the whole place down, right on top of you.
“Doesn’t matter to me how he does it.” Bridger shrugged his shoulders, sat back in the chair, folded his arms, and smiled at Nikola.
Nikola stood and held out his hand.
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Fair enough,” Bridger said as he shook Nikola’s hand.
19
Chanel N°5 Parfum Grand Extrait
Kyiv, Ukraine
Having been labeled a loser by his family and friends the entire forty-two lonely years of his life, Pavlo sat in his apartment and channeled his considerable skills to worlds where an utterly alone male could relate: The internet. Computers. Hacking. Trolling adult dating sites. Pornography.
It started with computers—the refuge for a child seeking isolation from the terrifying world surrounding him. Computers didn’t tease him for being smart. Didn’t nickname him “The Fat Rabbit” because his appearance featured a round frame and large ears or the impression he was always about to run scared. Computers didn’t bully him daily during school. Didn’t lock him in a dark closet when they came home stinking of cigarettes, beer, and women every evening. Didn’t beat him with a belt or scream that he was a worthless mistake.
Technology put power in his fingertips, unlike anything he had ever imagined.
Apple and Microsoft were his parents. HP and IBM were his siblings. Google. The deep and dark webs, TORs. Software holes—they were his best friends.
At the Ukraine Standard Bank, he had found a human family in Viktor and Ira Bondar—Ira mostly. She recognized and accepted him for what he was—a genius. So, when Ira Bondar—she is so beautiful—called him at noon and told him to meet her at his office, he didn’t have to move. He was usually there.
One of the happiest memories of his life was the day eight years ago when Mr. Bondar rescued him from a wasted existence as a part-time technician in the bank’s computer support center. Pavlo was given his own basement office and all the equipment he would need for any task he was asked to complete. Pavlo would work directly for Ms. Ira. He was overjoyed, and Ms. Ira gave him many secret projects over the years.
She recognized his powers. She needed him. He would do anything for her. Anything.
Through eyeglass lenses so smudged with fingerprints it was hard to see out the other side—he waited. A wall of technology hummed behind him. Four massive flat-panel monitors glowed in front of him.
He made himself presentable by covering his meaty frame that looked eight months pregnant with a dark pair of pants and a gray shirt. He spit into his pale hands as he stooped to see his reflection in a monitor, trying to flatten his rat’s nest of brown hair.
Pavlo was ready when she arrived that afternoon. His body petrified harder than a fossil when he unlocked and opened the gray metal safety door of his basement hideaway.
She looks as if she has just stepped out of a piece of cameo jewelry.
He did not know that Ira had spent her time since her father poisoned Vlasenko at breakfast regaining her composure. It wasn’t only her vanity that caused her to spend an hour reapplying her makeup—red lips and nails—and picking out the right Nicolas Ghesquière designed Louis Vuitton dress—a tasteful dark blue knit.
Pavlo did not know or care, for that matter, that she was manipulating him.
“Oh, Pavlo. Thank you for being here!” She strolled toward him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and pecked at his stubble-covered cheek. She stepped back, leaving a trail of Chanel N°5 Parfum Grand Extrait in a cloud by his face.
The blood ran from his head, leaving him dizzy.
“Ah…umm…errr,” was all he could force out of his lungs. As always, his hands started to quiver whenever he experienced the thrill of being in a room with Ira.
She maneuvered around the perimeter, looking at the machines, brushing her long slender fingers across a keyboard and the back of his chair. The scent of her perfume trailed behind her every step.
“I could never understand how these machines work.”
“That’s why you have me!” He couldn’t contain his pride.
“Yes, yes, it is. We are fortunate.”
“How may I help you?”
“We very much need your help with this.” She walked by him and placed a large dark bag on his computer table. He hadn’t even noticed it. He unzipped the bag and removed an oddly-shaped silver briefcase.
He had not seen anything like it. The briefcase had what appeared to be various unmarked security systems across the top
. An alphanumeric keypad. Some sort of biometric scanner. Or was it two? Three?
“This is very unusual,” he said.
“Can you get it open?”
“Yes,” the sounds shot from his mouth before knowing if he could.
“You are always here for me.” She moved to within smelling distance. “You cannot talk about this to anyone. You cannot take it out of this room. Understand, Pavlo?”
“I’m…I…no one.” His mouth was dry.
She moved past and picked up a random sheet of paper and pretended to look at it. Then she stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. It felt to Pavlo like she was looking directly into his heart.
“I wanted to thank you again for taking care of the American money so expertly.” Honey dripped from every word. Red lips pursed.
“You are most welcome. It was not too difficult,” Pavlo said, letting some pride stick to his words.
Pavlo found the process of making hundreds of millions of dollars vanish intellectually stimulating. It required details on international banking regulations and the kinds of financial minutia that even a genius like Pavlo didn’t possess.
Kirkwood Credit Corporation transferred the first five hundred million dollars of digital cash from the JPMorgan Chase New York main branch to the Bondar-owned bank in Cyprus through bank clearing systems in two equal installments. In Cyprus, the banker passed the funds through a dedicated server to a clone at the Ukraine Standard Bank in Kyiv. Once data was extracted, the network was disconnected. The computer was broken into pieces and tossed into the bank’s furnace.
Pavlo knew more than most that nothing electronic was ever secure, and his ability to hide the business of the bank was a testament to that. The cyber capabilities of the American, Russian, and Chinese intelligence services, private companies, and even the basement-dwelling hacker-sphere were dangerous. No Bitcoin in “the cloud” wealth was allowed on his private networks.