Baksheesh (Bribes)

by D S Kane

  Execute him, posting his head on an ancient battle spear with a sign reading, “Murderers must be beheaded, in accord with the Koran and Mohammed’s law.” Crucify his body upside down next to the spear holding his head.

  Then attach to his body photographs of the people he’d had murdered by black operations initiated and paid for by the Bank of Trade. One hundred seventy-three victims during the bank’s twenty-three-year existence. Men who’d tried to thwart the bank’s objectives, their wives and children as well, so no vendetta of retribution was possible.

  It was a given that Muriami was somewhere inside the palace, less than two miles away. Also a given that Muriami had seen the choppers coming and had begun preparing for a fight. And likely that he’d have as many as three thousand foot soldiers to expend defending himself. No, this wouldn’t be a surprise attack. Shimmel expected aggressive resistance.

  His plan incorporated these assumptions. It was simple and dangerous. Not based on a football play, as were so many of the operations in the textbook he’d written. This one was based on something he’d seen in one of George Lucas’s Star Wars movies.

  Shimmel pressed the earbud button again. “Team One, leave now. Team Two, get ready for action, in”—he looked at his watch—“two hours and forty-five minutes.”

  * * *

  Major Jacques LeFleur led twelve men toward the seaward flank of the palace, using the oasis as cover for Team One. His team members wore the clothing of the gardeners working the palace grounds, but the fabric of their shirts and pants was treated with liquid armor, capable of stopping a .45-caliber shell. They carried ceramic handguns and ammo, and ceramic short sabers hidden within their robes. It was all Mossad technology, on loan to Shimmel from Yigdal Ben-Levy.

  Before they’d left, Shimmel told LeFleur, “I’m counting on your team to reach their first objective within two hours.” It took ninety-four minutes for Team One to reach the fringe garden outside the palace doors. LeFleur’s obsidian complexion was a distinct advantage for night missions, but it was late afternoon and his dark skin was way past toasty. Under the shade of a palm, he touched the earbud on his helmet. “Team One at the ready-point for objective two.”

  The general seemed calm. “Good, Major. Initiate phase two but go no further than first midpoint until I confirm. Shimmel out.”

  “Oui, General.” He pointed to the palace’s side door and gave his team hand signals ordering them to walk through and go to their individual midpoints, then wait for their next instructions. LeFleur pointed to the comm hidden within the folds of his headscarf. And then to his ear, signaling the mercs to touch the buttons turning on the mini-buds embedded in their headscarves.

  The men walked casually forward, joking to each other in Arabic. They carried the gardening tools they’d brought with them from the copters. These tools contained single-shot .45-caliber firearms, embedded in the “wooden” shafts.

  General Shimmel followed their movements, their positions reflected within the heads-up displays of his visor. The blueprint schematics of the palace were also there. As the mercs entered and continued on the path within, their progress was continuously mapped for Shimmel.

  As the last of them reached their control midpoint, LeFleur called Shimmel. “Ready for phase two, part two.”

  Shimmel nodded to himself. So far, the plan was working. “Excellent, Major. Hold tight until I confirm.” He turned and viewed the assembled mercenaries. “Team Two, it’s time. Commence frontal assault.”

  The thirty-eight mercenaries made enough noise for over a thousand. Complemented by a powerful sound system, the single tank they’d commandeered sounded like a mobile squad, with any number of squeaky tread wheels moving along the desert floor. The mercs were spread out over a large area, creating an illusion of being a much larger attacking force than they were. The tank showered the palace with shells as the ground force rained explosives using grenade launchers and automatic weapons. To ensure that the occupants of the ancient fort took them seriously, their snipers picked off all who raised their heads above the turret walls.

  Shimmel pressed the Bluetooth transmit button on his helmet. “Major LeFleur, assault is in progress. I’m sure you hear it now. Is there defensive activity within the fort, Jacques?”

  “Oui, much confusion. Shall we proceed?”

  “Yes. And may God protect you.”

  He heard LeFleur transmit instructions to his men inside the fort. “Proceed with your phase two assignments. Transmit progress as you go.”

  Shimmel had assigned the thirteen soldiers in the team to find Khalid Muriami. The team comprised several smaller groups: four small-arms experts who had extensive experience in martial arts, three experts in automatic weapons, two with expertise in tactical operations, two experts in interrogation, one sniper, and one communications expert. The four small-arms specialists divided into two teams and each took a tactical manager and an expert in interrogations with them. The comm specialist and sniper waited by their point of entry to the fort, just in case.

  The first sub-team headed up the staircase to the second story. They checked each room, one by one.

  The second sub-team had a tougher job, conducting the room-to-room search on the ground level. Every member of this group spoke Arabic. They were prepared for challenges by foot soldiers in the fort who’d never seen them. Their script was written for the captain to tell the foot soldiers, “We’ve just joined from Yemen. Our duty is to keep infidels from reclaiming the fort.” That might satisfy a challenge. Shimmel watched on his helmet cam as they entered the next large room. No one looked like the photo of Muriami they’d seen.

  The first sub-team met far fewer people, and those they saw were moving fast to defend the fort. As they passed a window, their team leader, Captain Halid Sambol, saw a defending soldier cut down by Shimmel’s infantry snipers.

  The five mercs reached a carved teak door with inlaid jewels and Islamic ivory inlays depicting holy scenes from the Koran. One of them nodded to the others. The door was unlocked. Sambol opened it and each merc marched in as if they’d been sent. Their target stood alongside the window, watching the battle below.

  Khalid Muriami wore a checkered black and white kafiya covering his head and a white robe. He turned and faced the men. “Why are you here? You should be fighting the infidels.”

  Sambol bowed slightly. “We must take you to a safe place before their main force commences its attack.”

  Muriami raised his fingers to his chin and stroked his beard. “Ah, yes, I suppose that would be the prudent thing now.” He smoothed the front of his robe. Where will we be going?”

  Sambol said, “There is a hidden tunnel below the palace.” He pointed to the door.

  Muriami nodded. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  The day was bright and warm, common in December in Monterey. Sam Tyler had dressed in clothing that matched that of the wall of tourists visiting stores on Cannery Row. He stood motionless across the street from the bar. He pretended interest in the consumer electronics goods displayed in the store window. Using the window reflections, he watched people come and go for ten minutes. Forty minutes early for his clandestine assignation, he scanned everyone and everything. It was something in his bones. Semper paratus. “Always ready.” But that was so long ago. He was out of practice and feared he’d miss something.

  Sly McFly’s opened for lunch at 11:30 a.m. and Tyler took one final look before crossing the street and entering the bar. Inside, he scanned the room, scrutinized the locations of the exits, and took a table between the door to the kitchen and adjacent to the hallway to the restrooms. As he sat, the bartender nodded to him.

  The man chewed gum as he handed Tyler a menu. “The shrimp creole is fresh.”

  Tyler nodded and handed the menu back. “Virgin Mary and sourdough toast, no butter.” He’d been at Sly’s many times before, and always for the blues music on Wednesday nights. Except for the few meetings arranged here at noon, that is. He knew
the term fresh had many connotations, but none of them held meaning here.

  The bartender shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Tyler watched the windows and the exits, waiting for his handler. He flinched with every sound.

  How had they found him? Why did they want him? What event had triggered their interest and research?

  The minutes seemed like hours. And then, the front door opened slowly. An ugly, thin, older woman of average height walked inside and scanned the bar. Her face was thick with makeup, and Tyler was certain it was to disguise her real appearance. She stopped searching when her eyes found his table, and she cautiously approached. “No heat this summer.” She waited in front of him.

  “If you want heat, try Fresno in July.”

  Their pass phrases exchanged, she sat. He could tell she was well over fifty. Sam gulped. His voice was just above a whisper. “What happened to Stamler? Why isn’t he here?”

  Her face remained rigid. No movement from her hands as she spoke. “Stay cool, Midnight Rider,” she said, using his call sign. “Stamler’s not available and I am. Call sign Mockingbird.” She reached into her purse and hair fell over her face. He noticed her hands weren’t delicate, more like a man’s. She reached for a menu and used it to cover the movement of her hands below the table. As Tyler watched, she pulled a small envelope out and handed it to him, then swept the graying locks off her face. “Lookit, we don’t have much time. You know how we constructed SafePay better than anyone else. We need you to update it. Your orders are encrypted on the DVD within the envelope. The key is in the usual location of the online computer game Alternate Existence. Report back using the online game’s code, the usual way in the usual place. Do it when your work is complete. After we successfully test the changes, we’ll forward payment to your numbered account. Agreed?”

  There was only one acceptable reply if he wanted to live. “Yeah. Sure.” But now he wondered if she didn’t know his name, only his call sign.

  Mockingbird rose from her seat and left Sly’s just as the bartender delivered the sourdough toast and Virgin Mary. Tyler turned off the voice-recorder function of his cellphone. He took a pen from his pocket and sketched her face on his napkin. Then he opened the envelope and examined the DVD within. Closing it back, he stuffed the sketch inside it and deposited it in his jacket pocket. He dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table and left the bar. He wished he’d been able to use his cellphone to photograph her, but it wouldn’t have worked. Her counter-surveillance techniques were perfect and she’d have noticed. He picked up the glass and brought it to his lips, but didn’t drink. He’d lost his appetite.

  He frowned, filled with dread as he walked outside, into the cold fog, and headed back up the hill to his tiny apartment. To the shoe box in his single closet where, on its bottom, lay a DVD containing the original specifications he’d written for Project SafePay.

  * * *

  Muriami led Sub-team Two down the stairs where Sub-team One met them. The men weren’t stopped by any of the foot soldiers they met, since their revolution’s leader was with the teams. Sub-teams One and Two surrounded their prey and moved toward the door to the desert.

  Muriami tapped Sambol’s shoulder. “I thought you said there was a secret tunnel leading out from below this floor. Why are we leaving the fort?”

  One of the soldiers placed a chloroformed rag over Muriami’s face and, as he struggled before losing consciousness, they dragged him outside. The comm officer radioed Shimmel. “We’ve got the prize, sir. Have the infantry team provide cover.”

  In seconds one of the battle teams that had been attacking the fort frontally moved off to flank and charged to the fort’s back entrance.

  Twenty-two mercs accompanied their unconscious target over the sandy hills and back to the main staging area. Shimmel met them and waved off all but three. The mercenaries began disassembling the camp. He poured ice water on Muriami’s face.

  The Arab gasped into consciousness. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

  Shimmel had two of the others hold Muriami. “You’re finished. We know all about your efforts to take over the Middle East. You have a choice now. We can execute you, and use your body as a signal to show others the dangers of doing what you did. Or, cooperate and we’ll send you off as a prisoner to Israel. What’s it to be?”

  Muriami spat in Shimmel’s face.

  “I expected that would be your answer.” Shimmel wiped his cheek and pointed to the mercenaries. “Prepare the crucifix.”

  While several mercs propped a ten-foot-long wooden pole three feet into the ground using shovels, and packed dirt around it, Shimmel removed a small package from a black box. He pulled a vial and a syringe from the package and filled it. “You won’t like this. One of my friends from Mossad supplied it. You’ll tell me everything I need to know. And nothing can stop that.” He had the mercs hold Muriami’s arm still while he plunged the needle into his captive.

  In less than a minute, Muriami began to shake. His eyes rolled into his head. Shimmel said, “Turn on the video cam.”

  A minute later, he tapped Muriami on the shoulder and pulled the man’s eyelids back. Shimmel asked, “Who are you?”

  The man’s face remained flaccid. “I am Khalid Muriami.”

  The general nodded. “Excellent. Do you know who I am?”

  Still passive, the man’s eyes riveted on Shimmel. “Yes. You are Israeli scum.”

  Shimmel kept his face from showing his hatred. “Tell me. Tell me who gave you the money for the revolution you wrought?”

  It took three hours before Shimmel had emptied the man’s mind of all the intel he had.

  Later that afternoon, they decapitated Muriami as he cursed and shrieked. They nailed his headless corpse upside down on the cross. Shimmel drove the spike that went through the man’s heart. The general pinned an envelope to the spike containing a document that listed Muriami’s crimes against Islam from his days with the Bank of Trade, along with a copy of the DVD of his confession.

  By sunset, the mercenaries had left Oman the same way they entered the country.

  CHAPTER 8

  December 10, 6:03 a.m.

  220 East Kirke Street, Chevy Chase, Maryland

  The house was an English Tudor with a slate roof and large back yard. Within, there were three bedrooms and a den. Mercenaries had modified the garage into a two-bedroom addition. And several of them were lodged in the house, in its living room as well as in the garage. They patrolled within the brick and wrought-iron walls of the compound, to assist her bodyguards in protecting Cassie.

  The mercs included two Germans, Horst Frankel and Gretchen Wierstein, staying in one of the garage bedrooms. Each was an expert in martial arts. Sylvia Orley from France was an expert in small arms, and so was Alfonso Gerelli from Italy. Sylvia claimed she “owned” William Wing, and slept with him in the guest bedroom. And the gem of the group was a specialist in interrogation, Jillian McCain from Great Britain. She and Alfonso bunked together in one of the garage bedrooms.

  As rain poured down in the darkness outside, Horst sat at the computer in the den, staring at its screen. He watched as one of the avatars dropped something, and another avatar, standing next to the first, picked it up. The two walked off together and Horst marveled at this. He saw it for what it was: an interesting way to pass instructions or intel between two humans who might be a world away from each other.

  Sylvia bounced down the stairs after wringing William Wing’s body dry through sex. She bore a quiet smirk, sauntered to Horst. “You play a game? Zees computer is for zee business. Not for stupid games. When can I use zees computer? I need to see my bank balance.”

  “Quiet. This is not simple game play for pleasure. I’m doing research.”

  Sylvia stared at the screen, anger on her face. “Eet ees a game. Don’t lie.”

  “No. Watch. See this avatar over here?”

  Sylvia calmed and nodded.

  Horst pointed. “Well, he has just pass
ed an object to the one standing next to him.” Horst moved the cursor over the next figure and a similar name to that of the first was displayed on-screen. “See their names are the same color, different from the rest? They are ‘friends.’” Horst moved the cursor to the figure carrying the object that was passed. “They passed a Microsoft Word document. I think it might be intel. I think they may be using an online dead-letter drop.” He placed the cursor over each of the avatars in turn and labeled them as his own “friend.” “Now I will see them on the map wherever they go and be able to track the others in their network.”

  He turned to smile at Sylvia but she was already halfway up the stairs calling Wing’s name.

  William was almost finished dressing. He looked at his wristwatch. 6:12 a.m. “Yeah, Syl.”

  “I have something for you, Leetle Wing.”

  William glared at her. “Please don’t call me that. It’s a Jimi Hendrix song title.”

  She dragged him by the arm. “In the den, Horst plays zee computer game where real terrorists can do what he calls ‘zee dead-letter droppings.’”

  Wing thought for a second, his brows wrinkling as he popped on his fishbowl eyeglasses. He took the stairs down to the family room two at a time. Horst was moving his avatar to follow two others.

  “Where?”

  Horst continued focusing on the game as he replied. “Ach, it is the MMORPG called Alternate Existence. I’ve played for three weeks now and found these. I believe they are Muslim fundamentalists. Possibly terrorists.”

  * * *

  Misha Kovich drove his 1968 Volkswagen Microbus through the heavy falling snow of a brutal Moscow autumn flash-storm. He focused on the road, trying to keep the bus from sliding or drifting on the black ice hidden under the snow. He tried to ignore the age of the creaking car, its faltering engine, and most important, the car that was following him as he downshifted into a sharp turn. He sneaked a look into the rear-view mirror that was duct-taped onto the windshield. He thought about the four large crates of weapons and the mysterious smaller carton packed into the back of the bus and cursed silently. The car following behind him in the fading daylight looked like a Zil, and that was very bad. Zils were the chosen vehicles of Russian mafiya gangs. They were also the choice of Moscow’s police detectives. Bad, either way. Were they cops? A competing gang? He floored the accelerator on a patch of straight road, heading south out of the city as he planned his next move.