Baksheesh (Bribes)

by D S Kane

  The masked woman faced the two brides. “Don’t let these idiot boys ever try to rule your homes. They know so little about women.” And with that, she left to deliver more drinks.

  The masked man came by and also offered his good wishes.

  When it was finally her turn, the short, masked girl faced Shimmel. “Remember that you’re still my godfather, Avram.” She touched Wing’s shoulder. “And should you ever need a really good hacker to help you, I’ll be ready to travel for you.” From the tray that she held, she offered Wing skewered shrimp marinated in hoisen with minced ginger root and sesame seed oil. “These are so good. My mom made them.”

  * * *

  Wing took a taxi from the airport directly to the office. He waited for the elevator doors to open, his suitcase dragging behind him and holding his notebook computer case in his other hand. He smiled at Judy, but she waved him down. “Hi. What’s up?”

  Judy tugged at his sleeve. “That Brit is back. I have him waiting in the conference room for you.”

  He nodded. “Thanks. By the way, those gifts you got the Shimmels, and me and Sylvia are stellar. I see you didn’t stay in California any longer than you had to.”

  She shook her head. “Nah. Those Left Coast people are a bunch of fruitcakes.”

  Wing laughed as he opened his office door and dropped his luggage within. He took the notebook computer with him to the conference room. Sommers looked raggy. His suit emitted a pungent odor, his beard was gone, and his skin around his eyes was much darker than William remembered. “You look like shit. Smell like shit, too.”

  Sommers reached into his suit pocket, and the very movement of his hand, sweeping open his jacket, caused Wing to hold his nose. Jon handed a thumb-drive to him. “It’s the recording of the off-balance-sheet accounts for the Bank of Trade. Took over a week to decrypt the files. Too bad you weren’t available. You could have done it in a couple of hours. But it’s a layered encryption and all I could manage was the first two layers. Now it’s all yours.”

  Wing simply nodded. “And you want me to break it open.”

  Sommers grimaced. “As fast as you can. I’m sure there may be something else pending. How soon?”

  Wing examined the chip. “Before the end of today.”

  Sommers waved his hand. “I’ll wait in your conference room.”

  * * *

  Sommers left the building as the sun set on K Street. Streetlights winked on. He walked purposefully to the Metro, scanning his path and the area, using store reflections to view those behind him. With the final delivery of the intel arranged, he just might have to disappear and retire forever, and just in case, his new identity would be Michael O’Hara and his new home would be Singapore.

  He was on his way back to New York, to resume work at the bank. But just in case he wasn’t safe there, he had in his pocket a ticket on a Singapore Airlines flight, paid for by Michael O’Hara. Now all he had to do was get in a taxi to Reagan and leave this wretched place, the capital city of the best liars. Back to the bank. Back to his boring normal life.

  * * *

  His brother had been missing for too long for it to be anything other than a grave that held him. Vladimir Pushkin placed the telephone receiver back in its cradle. There was no news about Nikita Tobelov, and his successor had been already appointed. It was time to think about the consequences of the intelligence his brother had. The path to the President of Russia must be buried. Who knew what it might have divulged?

  He knew Mastoff was in a hospital, in a coma, near death. If the man recovered well enough to answer questions, he’d pose a problem of monumental proportions for Russia. He considered sending a team to end the man. It might not be clean, and it could cause repercussions, possibly even a war. No, not right now. That one could wait.

  His brother was probably treated by experts to force him to talk, but there was nothing he could do about it now. The question was, who did he confess to? Was it the CIA? NSA? Mossad? MI-6? Some other intelligence group? This he’d need to know so he could prepare a plan to defend his country as well as himself. Who else knew anything substantial? The only others he could think of were the senior management of the bank handling the transactions. Bank of Trade. Were they as secure as they touted themselves to be? No institution was bulletproof. And then there was that damn consulting company Nikita had toyed with. What was their name? Swiss Shroud? Swiftshroud? Swiftshadow? He made a note to call his friend Uri Spenkov, who’d replaced his brother in Vladivostok as soon as he had a free moment.

  His only ally might turn out to be the Chinese. He’d met Xian Wing a few years ago, after the border war in the Bloodridge mountains a few years ago. Would the Chinese be interested in forming a new alliance? What if he could make the United States appear to be an enemy to both their countries?

  Pushkin scribbled notes on a pad and rose from his desk. He had another meeting and he was already late.

  CHAPTER 42

  May 19, 4:57 p.m.

  Former President’s home,

  outskirts of Kansas City, Kansas

  Three Secret Service men from one of the teams protecting the former President stood at the gate to the compound and placed their hands inside their jacket pockets, ready for anything that might happen. The kept their eyes glued to the giant of a man standing before them. One of them pointed his hand at the man. “State your name and your business here.”

  “Oui, monsieur. I was sent by the agency. I am a chef. I was asked if I would come here. To cook for your people until the chef of the house recovers.”

  The leader of the team pressed the button on his earbud and spoke, his hand obscuring his mouth. When the reply came back, he spoke again, then removed his hand. “Show me your identification.”

  The overlarge man reached inside his pocket, and ever so slowly, removed his hand, gripping papers. He handed them to the man who’d asked for them.

  When the team leader seemed satisfied, he nodded. “All right. Come with us. We’ll hang onto the papers.” He led the chef through the fence and down the walk to the house. “Jones will take you to the kitchen. Cook our man dinner. If he likes it, we’ll have you stay the week. But when the regular chef is healthy enough to return to work, all you’ll get is a small severance. Is that clear?”

  “Oui. Very clear. It’s what they told me at the agency. But maybe there’s a chance for a longer assignment, if the chef doesn’t return. No?”

  “Yeah, sure. Possible. But we expect Deep Thought’s next stop to be a federal prison. His trial is going slowly, so maybe you’ll get a couple of months in. If you really think you want to feed him, you’d better cook something special for our guy.”

  The chef’s face remained unsmiling. “Ah, oui.” After a pause, he faced the Secret Service man. “Is that not the code name for the former President?”

  “You bet it is.”

  * * *

  Gilbert Greenfield had known the end was near for his career and life as he’d known it. Bad timing. Just a few days more and he’d hoped to watch his bank accounts swell as the United States fell into its death knell. But now he’d have to leave the country as fast as he could. He grabbed his go bag from behind his office desk and headed toward the elevator, tapping the jacket pocket containing air tickets in the name of Ellbert E. Friend.

  He knew that in times of governmental overthrow, the public tended to run amok and seek out former government officials for special “retribution.” But he’d be unavailable. One hour to the airport, one hour going through security and waiting at the gate, and an hour in flight until he was out of reach from the authorities and the ransacking mobs.

  * * *

  Corporal Simon Pascal searched the kitchen for ingredients that would tantalize the taste buds of the fussiest eater. Shimmel spent hours prepping him for this. It would be the toughest meal he’d ever cooked. The food would have to be delicious, of course, but some of the flavors needed to be especially intense to cover the flavor of the Haldol cocktail modi
fied with ricin. Even more important, it had to mask the flavor of a powerful dye Mossad supplied. The dye would highlight the neural flesh surrounding the Bug-Lok that Greenfield had somehow gotten the former President to ingest.

  To ensure this worked, he needed to create a meal filled with heavy, deep flavors. He looked through the fridge and found something perfect for masking the poison. Dark chocolate. After feeding the man foie gras, Beluga caviar to hide the dye, and a duck breast in orange sauce, saffron Arborio risotto, the slightly-off flavor of the dessert would go unnoticed.

  He assembled the ingredients for a sauce to put on the foie, cherry preserves, and port wine. Then simple toast points and chopped raw onion for the fish eggs. The main course was the easiest to prepare and fast to cook. While everything was simmering, he mixed three separate chocolates at a mild melting temperature: dark, milk, and white. Dropped the poison into the dark and constructed a tower of strawberry slices with the three shades in between. Then he went to the kitchen computer and prepared his printable menu.

  Pascal hummed as he completed preparing dinner for the former President. The condemned man would truly eat a hearty meal.

  When he’d finished plating the food, he called the Secret Service detail on the house phone. “Monsieur, the dinner is ready. Shall I stay here for the remainder of the evening in case he wants something more?” He listened to the agent’s muffled voice conferring with their team leader. “Ah, oui, then, I shall prepare to leave. I assume you will send an escort?”

  The ricin-tainted desert would take several days to finish the ex-President. He walked to his rental car outside the compound’s gates and got in. Drove twelve miles to his small hotel room.

  He thought, I’ve just cooked for a President of the United States. What an honor. He took the cellphone from his jacket. He dialed a number and waited for Shimmel to pick up. “I have ended the ex-President. I poisoned him. Death by chocolate. I laced it with a Haldol cocktail. A waste of a great preparation.” He smiled as he shook his head.

  “Stay for another day before you leave. Use the same facial mask. Burn it after you check out of the hotel and dump the ashes before you travel back to us. And congratulations.”

  * * *

  Sunset was turning a gray dusk when Greenfield exited the office building’s lobby. He walked toward the curb, intent on hailing a taxi. A man wearing a fedora and a Burberry called his name. “Mr. Gault. What are you doing here?”

  Bob Gault’s face remained passive. “Come with me. Now.” He pulled one hand from a pocket of the Burberry and showed he had a handgun pointed at Greenfield’s chest.

  A van pulled to the curb and its rear door opened. Gault pulled the other hand from the trenchcoat’s pocket and opened the door. “We’re going on a short trip. Get in.”

  “Where to?”

  Gault smiled. “I expect that’s what you’ll soon know. In the car or die on the street.”

  Greenfield slid into the van’s rear and Gault entered and closed the door. There were several others, two in the front seat and one more besides him and Sommers in the back. He heard the driver say something in a foreign language. Hebrew. Shit! I’m being taken by the Mossad.

  Greenfield was about to curse when Gault whispered to the driver. Greenfield recognized a single word: “Sashakovich.”

  Greenfield found himself screaming.

  * * *

  Yigdal Ben-Levy sat in the back of the armored limo as it started and stopped in the rush-hour traffic of Washington, DC. His brief visit to the Russian Embassy had led to an extended discussion where nothing had been resolved.

  He coughed and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. A small spot of blood, bright red, remained where it had touched his mouth. Time to see a doctor. The pressures of his job did nothing good for his health, but he swore he would never back off.

  After all, the events of the last sixteen years had all been caused by him. And they’d taken a heavy toll.

  He remembered the evidence supplied by Mossad operative Lester Dushov that the Syrians were building nuclear bombs. He’d asked Abel Sommerstein—Jon Sommers’s father—to steal intelligence from the computers of Sir Charles Crane of MI-6 to confirm that conclusion. Abel’s wife, Natasha, worked as a software and hardware project manager for the Ness Ziona, and she’d developed a worm that could be delivered by attaching a USB drive to a computer for just a second. Then the operative could collect the thumb-drive and leave behind some “smart dust” scattered in the room where the computer resided. The smart dust would collect the contents of the computer and transmit them to the Mossad by hacking into the nearest local area network. Abel took the new tech Natasha had developed with him when he visited MI-6 where he was assigned as a trade liaison.

  After they’d confirmed the Syrians’ intentions, Abel had requested that the Mossad allow them to return home to Tel Aviv, but Yigdal had refused. He needed to learn about the Russian mafiya’s plans to sell off Soviet-era weapons to fund their government, and he hoped that the United States had shared intelligence about that with their British partners. Perhaps Sir Charles had that information in his computer. Or perhaps another one of their intelligence officers?

  But after Israeli jets had pounded the Syrian nuclear research facilities into dust, the head of MI-6 had demoted Sir Charles twelve years earlier, when MI-6 had determined that the intelligence leak leading to the destruction of the Syrian nuclear research facility had come from Sir Charles’s computer. Sir Charles had vowed revenge on the Mossad and the Sommersteins. He’d told the Syrians that the intelligence leaks were due to a hack on MI-6 computers committed by the Sommersteins, and the Syrians had assassinated them, leaving Jon Sommers a twelve-year-old orphan.

  Yigdal felt himself responsible for the deaths of the Sommersteins. He’d hired the best staff to care for Jon, and when the boy had graduated with his MBA from the University of London, Yigdal sent his niece, his only living relative, to find Jon and invite him back to Israel. It had ended badly. Aviva had fallen in love with Jon. Sir Charles threatened to have Jon arrested as a spy for the Mossad and, to keep that from happening, Aviva had agreed to be a mole for MI-6. When the Mossad discovered her betrayal, the Prime Minister ordered her terminated with prejudice. But it was Yigdal’s responsibility to keep her safe. He’d failed on this also.

  Yigdal visited Jon and told him the entire truth of his parents’ death. But Yigdal attributed Aviva’s death to a bombmaker, Tariq Houmaz, who’d been allied with the Muslim Brotherhood. He had offered Jon the chance to seek revenge for his deceased fiancée. Jon accepted, and trained with the Mossad.

  In the process of seeking out Houmaz, Jon had stumbled across the ongoing Bloodridge black operation, a false-flag border war between Russia and China that Yigdal had created to stop the Russian mafiya’s weapons sales to terrorists.

  But, when the Brits informed the Americans what the Mossad had done, it triggered a bout of paranoia among them. One of their intelligence agencies, run by Gilbert Greenfield, requested the Ness Ziona to develop a nano-device that could hear and see what the subject who’d had it inside them heard and saw. The Chinese had a version, called the DeathByte. The Americans’ version was called the Bug-Lok. Now, it was out there. Yigdal was responsible for that, as well.

  Yigdal had also been responsible for the destruction of Cassandra Sashakovich’s life. Every time he’d tried to help her, he’d only made her life worse.

  But now, finally, he’d wiped all Cassandra’s enemies from the earth. Tariq and his brothers Pesi and Achmed Houmaz were dead. One yakuza kingpin, Omasu Maru, dead. The head of the Russian mafiya in Vladivostok, Nikita Tobelov, dead. And now, Gilbert Greenfield, dead, and two American Presidents assassinated.

  He could finally live in peace.

  CHAPTER 43

  June 2, 5:58 a.m.

  Abdul’s Revenge, A Middle Eastern Eatery,

  just off Highway 1, Devil’s Slide, California

  Cassie was awake long before the alarm was set t
o go off. She’d been in bed for hours since the nightmare woke her. It was a different kind of dream, where she was forced to watch scenes of a war unfolding but was somehow unable to move and stop the violence. Something bound her to the spot where she stood. People killed each other, some with weapons, some with their bare hands. She turned her head and saw a man holding puppet strings attached to them all. And when she reached her arm toward him, he shook his head and pulled a curtain closed.

  Now, she moved from the bed and turned off the alarm so Lee could sleep. She had felt troubled since Avram called to tell her every one of her enemies was finally dead. So why was she feeling troubled? She sighed, and decided to talk with the only one who might most likely help her. She pulled on her running clothes and quietly left the building. From their restaurant with their home atop it, it was a ten-minute jog to the plot where Natasha was buried.

  She wasn’t even breathing hard when she got there. The waves pounding the beach fifty feet below the bluff immediately calmed her. “Mama, I’m confused. I have nightmares. Can’t seem to figure out why.”

  “Tell me, kitten.” She spun around and found her father standing behind her. “I see we both are troubled. Tell me what you see in your dreams, and I’ll tell you mine.” He hugged her to him.

  She hugged him back, then nodded. “I see battles and can’t help the ones I feel close to. I seem frozen, unable to move.”

  He nodded stroking his beard. “I think I can help. I’ve sensed your disquiet each time I’ve seen you over the last several weeks. Do you miss Washington and the spy game?”

  She jolted back. “No! Why would I? It took me a year to get away safely from its dangers.”

  He sighed. “Kitten, do you know why we named you Cassandra?”

  She shook her head.

  “When Natasha told me she was carrying you, we ignored the message of your pending birth.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At first we tried to believe we could survive in the Soviet Union as it died, ignoring the reality of its roughshod butchery. But as you continued to grow, kicking inside Tasha’s belly, we realized it would be better to leave there as soon as we could, so you would grow up in freedom. You are a ‘Cassandra.’ You tell the truth but people try to ignore what you tell them, just like Priam’s daughter in Troy.”