by Mark Leggatt
“Really?” Montrose settled back and stretched his legs. “Well, I don’t think that’s gonna last. Not when I tell you what I’ve got planned.” The door locks clunked. Relax, it’s automatic. “The blond guy in the hotel. He escaped and took a taxi to your address. Your son. You can’t protect him.”
“My . . . The gentleman in the hotel?” He waved his hand dismissively. “He is nothing in this. But first, I want to apologize for my earlier reticence. You must understand, there are issues of national importance involved here. For your nation, I should say, not mine.”
You’d be shit at poker. Now I know he’s your son. The missing photo gave it away.
“National importance? I don’t think we’ve included drug dealing in our balance of exports. That’s private enterprise. Or an illegal, vicious and murderous trade that preys on millions of people.” Montrose thrust a finger towards the old man. “That’s your son. Not my country.”
“Please, let me be clear. My son only plays a bit part in this drama. Yes, he was in the hotel, and he was meeting the men you shot. But this is not about drugs. I’m afraid that this is, rather sordidly, all about money.”
“Tell me something I don’t know. Like, what’s his name? And where is he?”
“I suggest you put that thought from your mind, Mr. Montrose. Let us deal with the more important issue at hand. I have been authorized to impart certain information, to give you an understanding of what happened last night.” The old man slowly cleared his throat, closing his eyes with the effort, then composed himself. “You are aware that the heads of government in Europe, and your Secretary of State, are involved in a major trade deal. One of the men you killed was a senior representative at the trade conference.”
“You’re shitting me.” This has got to be the mother of all excuses. “Go on, I can’t wait to hear this.”
“I understand you followed these men from Naples to Rome, after a surveillance operation was cancelled.”
Was that why they cancelled the Naples gig? Trade delegates? “Who told you all this?”
“I am party to quite sensitive information, Mr. Montrose. But let’s be clear. The cancellation of your surveillance in Naples had nothing to do with drugs. The man you injured is an importer of entirely legal goods. The surveillance was cancelled to stop anyone witnessing the Government of the United States paying a bribe to a trade delegate. It’s as simple as that. My son was at the hotel in Rome to facilitate the transfer of funds. Once we have them under control then these people will be sidelined. But for now . . .” He shook his head. “They still hold the whip hand.”
Some dead Pakistanis wouldn’t stop them. They’d just bribe the next one in line. Waiting with their hands out for some fat greenbacks.
The old man brought out a linen handkerchief and dabbed away tiny bubbles of spittle at the corner of his pale lips. “There is a window of opportunity to have the US achieve unparalleled control in Afghanistan. One they could not hope to achieve through military means.”
Afghanistan? What the fuck?
“The potential for wealth is huge. I must declare an interest, of course, as I am a major investor, which is why I am involved. We can bring peace to the Afghans through capitalism, rather than the end of a rifle. I often think it’s your country’s greatest export. You can bring their country into the twenty-first century. And they will have no need for opium when the oil is flowing. Think of it as a fifty-first state. The US will build industrial bases there and fight the drug war at its source, with American hardware. Empire building, possibly, but the benefits in trade and winning the drug war will be immense for the US.”
Holy shit. The suits in DC must be licking their lips. The Europeans have been trying to control Afghanistan for the last century. And got their asses kicked every time.
“The oil and mineral reserves in Afghanistan make Alaska look like loose change. There is a multi-billion dollar oil deal underway between your country and Afghanistan. And my son was the conduit for a bribe. Kickback, I believe is the colloquial term.”
Montrose let his head rest back against the leather. Jesus, all the soldiers. And all the civilians. Was that what the war on terror was all about? Destroy the Taliban and then let the oil companies roll in? Hell, why not? We did it in Iraq with Saddam. “And you’re saying your son was organizing a kickback?”
“The Afghans are, to be polite, slightly backward in their business practices. My personal opinion is that the country is run by thugs. Their Government is controlled and funded by drugs. But that is about to change.”
“Really? With one sack of cash? I don’t think so. That would be business as usual.”
“In a way, yes. Washington has been forced to play their game. Bribes are unavoidable. It’s how the Afghans do business. Of course, it would be better for a foreign national to pass on the bribe, in case Washington was compromised. I understand the foreign corrupt practices in your country are especially harsh. In this case, since I have friends in your government, they asked us to provide a service. It’s what we do, Mr. Montrose. We are the middlemen. We keep the wheels of industry rolling for your government when they cannot be seen doing it themselves. We are your allies.”
And Spinks is the circus master. No wonder the hotel was cleaned down. The press would have had a field day if they found out about a bribe.
The old man cleared his throat. “Afghanistan and the US are on the brink of a historic agreement. Do you see the potential here? You see the scope of what’s involved? Control of one of the world’s biggest oil fields. One that the Chinese are desperate to get their hands on. This is about the future wealth of the United States. There is an economic war raging, Mr. Montrose, and you’re losing it. Your country is twelve trillion dollars in debt. Ten percent of that is owed to the Chinese. And China is in ascendancy. They are buying up even more US Government debt. If their growth is not checked you’ll soon be dancing to their tune. The picture does not get much bigger than this. If they are not stopped then you will be taking your fiscal policy from Beijing. That is the future of your country.”
“The Chinese? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I am deadly serious. China has a lust for oil. Their whole economic plan is dictated by it. They scour the world for deals. Angola, Nigeria, the Gulf. The US are promising the Afghans the technology to deliver huge wealth in their country, something that the Chinese cannot match. But for the moment the Afghanis are wondering whether it’s such a good idea after all. One of their trade delegates, and a close relative of several Afghan Government ministers, is mown down in a hotel by an American agent.”
Guess that’s my pay rise fucked. “Yeah. Shit happens. Let’s get back to your son. What’s his name again?”
“As I said, my son was merely a simple courier. I admire your tenacity, Mr. Montrose. It is a quality of your countrymen that will see you win the economic war with the Chinese. But you have the wrong target. It is not my son. You may find these bribes immoral, but we are dealing with a corrupt regime. You have to do what it takes. It was described to me as ‘pay to play’. Now, please, leave us to get on with it. We hold the future of the US economy in our hands.”
I need a little bit more than this, my friend. I have a nagging feeling you’re blowing smoke up my ass. Montrose slipped the old Blackberry from his pocket.
“Hey, I think we can survive without any Afghan oil. We’ve got enough of our own.” He fired up the Snooper app and let his hand drop towards the door pocket.
“Certainly, you could survive without the oil. But you cannot hope to survive if the Chinese have it. You would be handing them the rope to slowly strangle your economy. I give it twenty years, Mr. Montrose, and then you will no longer be in control of the dollar.”
I’ve always hated economics. This could be a ton of horseshit and I’d never know. One way to find out. “I want to see him. Your son. I want to hear what he’s got to say.”
“I can ask, Mr. Montrose, but you must understand, my son
is rather nervous after your last encounter. He believes you would have arrested him.”
Arrested? I was going to shoot him in the face. Turns out he was Spinks’ bitch.
“I’m aware of exactly who you are, Mr. Montrose. If you were a simple policeman, I’d have you dealt with out of hand. But, as you are someone whose organization is an integral part of this deal, I’m sure we can have confidence in your discretion.”
You mean you’re telling me stuff that I could find out for myself, or spinning me a line and passing it off as a big secret? Montrose grinned. “You sure about that?” What can they do? Kick my ass out of the CIA?
The old man nodded slowly. “May I say the alternatives do not bear thinking about. You would be exposing yourself to grave danger.”
Montrose sat forward in the seat. “Is that a threat?” The car rumbled over cobblestones and turned into a main boulevard.
“There are many ways to skin a cat, Mr. Montrose. My advice to you, if you will accept it, is to do exactly what Mr. Spinks says. To the letter.”
Out the window, he glimpsed the Tiber, shards of sunlight dancing on the dark water.
“May I rely on you, Mr. Montrose? Can I tell the powers-that-be you are on our side?”
They must be crapping themselves. “Yeah.”
“I understand your cooperation will be very valuable to your career. Men who appreciate the importance
of these operations are trusted with more challenging roles.”
Are you gonna give me a reference? You fu . . .
“Where would you like the driver to take you?”
I need to think. Montrose slumped in the seat. The old guy’s son was luckier than he could ever imagine. Christ, I nearly killed him. “Wherever. Here’s fine.”
The old man rapped on the driver’s privacy window with his cane. “We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Montrose. I understand the difficulties the shooting has caused you. I wish I could help in some way, but there is nothing I can do. There will be no record of the incident at the hotel.”
Plus ça change. But there’s a big fat record on my personal file from a trick cyclist. “Oh, you can still help. Your son. I want to see him and I want him to meet someone.”
“Mr. Montrose, outside of the negotiations team, only you are party to this information. We cannot . . .”
“It’s a psychiatrist.” The guy who thinks I’m making all this shit up. And the guy who could ruin my career. “He’s CIA affiliated. He knows what happened in the hotel.”
“Mr. Montrose, the intentions of your country would be best served by you returning to the US. Perhaps when all this has blown over . . .”
No chance. If I step away now, I’ll never get near them again. Spinks will make sure of that. “You could say this is kinda important to me, yeah? Quid pro quo. That’s all it would take. Then I’m outta your life forever.”
The old man nodded as the car slowed to a halt. “I think it will be very unlikely, but I will see what I can do.”
Deputy Director Spinks sat wedged behind his desk, one hand wiping his face with a stained handkerchief and the other feeding peanuts into his wet fleshy lips. He hit the refresh button on his email, but there was nothing. The office chair strained under his bulk as he leaned back to find a stream of air from the air-conditioning vent above.
There was no news from Langley. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the cool air drift over his face. If it took this long, the authorization request was going higher than God. Why the hell had Montrose been bundled over to Europe? What did he find?
The door swung open. Spinks stood up and pointed a fat finger towards Ferguson. “Tell me you’ve got him.”
Ferguson closed to the door and hurried over to the desk. “He was talking to a woman, sir.”
Spinks advanced from behind the desk. “Have you got him?”
The words tumbled out of Ferguson’s mouth. “A car pulled up at the house, sir. Montrose got in and we lost him.”
Spinks stood open-mouthed. “You lost him?”
“Yes, he talked to a woman on the street, outside a cafe, then took off in the back of a car.”
“A woman? Real good-looking chick? Reddish hair, short skirt?”
“Uh, yes, sir. We have her under surveillance and we’re looking . . .”
“Jeez, no! Leave her alone. She’ll rip you apart like a rag doll and the rest of the pussies in your team.”
“You know who she is, sir? If she’s a threat to Montrose, we can . . .”
“A threat to Montrose? Ferguson, you are thicker than shit sticking to a bear’s ass. If he’s gonna start wasting people in hotels then he’s gonna make some enemies and these guys . . .” He tilted his head back around and held out his palms, his features relaxing. “Hell, I don’t need to do this. Why didn’t I think of this before? You say he left in a car?”
“Yes, sir, a stretch Mercedes, then the team lost him.”
“Who cares? That asshole Montrose has just dug his own grave.” He punched a fist into the air. “You know, there might be a day when I get concerned about a nosey, do-gooder IT neckbeard disappearing off the face of the earth. But let me tell you, today ain’t that day.”
“But sir, we should . . .”
“Shut up.” Spinks picked up the thin folder from the desk. “Shred this. Cancel the call to the Director, then get me the Ambassador. And forget Montrose. He no longer exists.”
CHAPTER 8
Where the hell am I?
He strode towards the fast traffic at the end of the street, his chin tucked onto his chest, and stepped onto a broad boulevard bordering the Tiber. In the distance rose the dome of the ancient papal fortress of the Castel Sant’ Angelo. Behind would be Saint Peter’s, and the Vatican. He brought up the map on his iPhone. Via Giuseppe Zanardelli.
The CIA office was about twenty minutes west, across the river. Time to check in. The boss would be ecstatic. They’ve got me lined up for a trip stateside and the Langley Funny Farm to get me out of the way. No wonder they didn’t want anyone to know why Blondie was at the hotel. And without that, the damn psychiatrist thinks I’m just a crazy shooter. Langley were going to let me hang. Unless the old guy tells the psychiatrist that his son Blondie was the third man. That’s all it would take. That’s all he had to know. This is gonna be fun. Damn, I could call him. Tell him I’ve got a meeting with a ghost. Nah, that pleasure can wait. I want to see the look on his shiny face.
He turned west and joined the tourists heading for the bridge. His grin widened. Blondie was a go-between? Spinks figured he could use some patsy rather than a CIA spook. He didn’t figure it turning out like the Alamo. Blondie must have damn near crapped himself when it kicked off in the hotel. I’ll bet his old dad is calling him now, trying to coax him out of his bedroom. Telling him no bad men are coming to take him away.
He dialed the number of the old Blackberry, hoping it wouldn’t make too much noise rattling around in the door pocket of the limo. Time to be a fly on the wall. Maybe he’s giving the good news to Spinks. He heard the road noise of the limo, then a voice.
“I think we can draw this to a conclusion, Herr Kessler.”
The old man. So who’s Kessler?
“The Americans are always stupidly sentimental. They think life is one Hollywood soap opera, each outdoing themselves to prove their patriotism. You only have to mention that they can help their country, and they become all misty-eyed. It makes me sick.”
He can’t be talking to Spinks. Who the hell was he talking to?
“Your security staff have been very helpful, Wolfgang, they passed on your message, and I’m sure we no longer have to be concerned about Montrose. He did want to meet my son, though I’m loath to indulge Montrose’s fantasy. Whatever we do, we must ensure Kurt is out of the country before the Cosa Nostra come calling for their money. Once he has the merchandise from your bank, he can bring the funds back to Rome.”
A cold shock ran through his spine. The Cosa Nostra? This has
nothing to do with an oil deal, the lying piece of shit. They’re just drug-dealing scum.
The rasping noise of a scooter came towards him. Dammit, I’m broadcasting. He frantically searched for the mute button. The line popped and fizzed and then cut. His fingers shook as he searched the contacts list of the iPhone. Kurt − the son? And Wolfgang Kessler? Maybe the money man.
“Interpol Crime Desk, who’s calling?”
“This is Connor Montrose. You know who I am.” Time to kick over the hornet’s nest.
“Of course, Good morning, Mr. Mont . . .”
“Listen to me. I want a European Arrest Warrant
for . . .” Dammit, I can’t send out a warrant for some guy called Kurt. “For Wolfgang Kessler. He’s in Rome, right now. He’s owns a bank. Check the name. Charges are major narcotics and money laundering. Get it sent to the top. Call me back.”
The old guy wanted me away from the apartment so that his son could head for the border. He felt the anger surge through him. I need a gun. They better hope Interpol find Kessler the banker before I do.
Spinks eased the his waistband down and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He checked the map on his screen. Everything was in place. The Afghans were on their way to the conference. The VP was secure and waiting for the arrival of the money men.A beep sounded and an email flashed up on his computer.
Fwd: European Arrest Warrant − Wolfgang Kessler
He launched himself forward, slamming down his fist and scattering the nuts across the desk. He grabbed the phone and punched a button. “Get in here!”
A moment later Ferguson entered the room and stood in front of the desk.
“You know what he’s done? Your friend Montrose?” He pointed a finger at the screen. “There’s an arrest warrant out for Kessler!”
“Who? Sir, I . . .”
“You had one chance to bring Montrose in and you let him go!”
Ferguson shuffled from one foot to another. “But sir, you said the woman . . . I tried an armed arrest in the hotel and he ignored me. I can’t just shoot him!”