by Isaac Hooke
"They'll be setting up a roadblock somewhere ahead," Ethan said. "Turn around and head to the black site ASAP. And update Eight-Blue on the situation, would you?"
As she retrieved the sat-phone Ethan returned his attention to Iqbal. In Arabic: "Tell me how this little operation of yours works."
"I receive diamonds once a month and distribute them to the Romanian ringleaders in our employ, as appropriate."
"What happens to the bitcoins they send you?"
Iqbal shook his head. "They don't send them to me. The money is handled by someone higher up. I simply receive a message when a transaction is made, telling me which of our Romanian ringleaders to pay. I do not know who sends the message. We do everything through I2P."
"You can send a message back, of course, in case of problems?"
Iqbal hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. I can send a message. With my laptop. It's at my apartment."
"Good. So tell me, you don't actually report to anyone?"
"No," Iqbal said. "I run the Romanian operation by myself."
Ethan pursed his lips in disbelief. "By yourself."
"It is the truth. Al Sifr believes in compartmentalization. Each collector must operate independently, and has no knowledge of any of the other collectors, nor anyone else in the organization."
"Where do the diamonds come from, then?" Ethan asked.
"Once a month I receive a shipment of wine from a vineyard. The diamonds are hidden inside secret panels at the bottom of the shipping cartons. Not all of the Romanian ringleaders use bitcoins, so I have the vineyard invoice me for the shipment and I wire them all the cash I have on hand, using a different alias and Western Union location every month. I break the transactions into smaller amounts, if too big."
Vineyards. An interesting choice. Russians and Chinese were buying up vineyards throughout France, Italy and Switzerland because of the ease of money laundering via trade-based schemes such as false invoicing that misrepresented the price, quantity or quality of the goods. This allowed the launderers to move money while avoiding taxes and tariffs, bypassing any capital movement limits imposed by the source and target countries.
Wine was a prime target for such schemes, as its price was never the same, making it easy to explain over- or under-invoicing. By setting up multiple holding companies and structures involving tax havens—similar to the tax-avoidance schemes practiced by the Googles and Yahoos of the world—and then creating a legal French or Italian company whose majority shareholders were comprised of these shell structures, it became virtually impossible to determine who actually owned the vineyard.
"You have an address for this vineyard?" Ethan said.
"No," Iqbal said. "Well yes, but it changes every month. It's fake."
"What about an address for the Western Union location you send the cash to?"
Iqbal shook his head. "Not only do I send the wires from different Western Unions, but to different locations and aliases as well."
"As orchestrated over I2P," Ethan said.
"That's right."
Iqbal said he received his shipment of weapons, including the RPG launcher, from the unknown vineyard, too. He explained that the wine cartons were delivered every month by an unmarked truck. Ethan got Iqbal to describe the truck, guessing that the same vehicle was used to distribute diamonds and weapons to Al Sifr's money collectors throughout Europe, but the description proved generic, applicable to countless transport vehicles.
Iqbal gave him the address to his apartment and repeatedly claimed that he lived alone. Whether that was true or not, Ethan hoped a search of the place would yield something actionable. The laptop Iqbal used for I2P was a good start.
But before they could visit the apartment, first Ethan and Bretta had to dump the vehicle.
13
Still driving the Alfa Romeo, Ethan and Bretta linked up with Jerry in a small town thirty kilometers southeast of Râmnicu Vâlcea, where the temporary black site was located. They hadn't encountered any more police, luckily, though they knew officers were out there looking for them. Jerry confirmed as much when he described the calls going out over the police radio.
In front of the black site the armored Audi A8 was parked beside a Smart car and a backup support van, this one a white Dacia Dokker. The mother's Mercedes-Benz was also there, though covered in a tarp.
The black site itself was a warehouse that had once belonged to a meat packing plant. Inside, lots of chains with hooks on the end hung from the ceiling, with some floors and walls permanently stained in blood. The place was rank, too. Black sites like that usually had a positive psychological effect on any prisoners brought in—the sights and smells alone could break men.
They transferred Iqbal over to Jerry, who had his men bring him inside. The prisoner protested the entire time. "The interrogator promised I would be protected! I told him everything already!"
Jerry smiled at that, revealing his teeth. He wouldn't be very happy about losing two operatives back at the park. "That wasn't the interrogator."
"He wasn't?" Iqbal glanced at Ethan in confusion.
"Nope," Jerry said.
"Then who is he?"
Jerry's grin deepened. "The cook."
They left Iqbal tied to a chair beneath a hook and under observation by two guards.
Then, after removing the plates from the Alfa Romeo, Ethan and Bretta wiped the car down and abandoned it in a farmer's field several kilometers down the road.
The pair loaded into the waiting van and began the drive back. The Smart car from the black site tailed them.
It was late evening by then, and getting dark out.
"We have to go back to Râmnicu Vâlcea," Ethan said from the cramped rear area of the van. "And make a visit to Iqbal's apartment."
"Did you black out the Peugeot's plates?" Jerry said from the front passenger seat.
"Maelstrom did, yes."
"That leaves us some time before the police track down the serial number from the trunk or door."
"Don't think it will matter even if they do. Our friend Iqbal used a fake ID when he registered the car. He told me that, among other things, during the drive."
"All right." Jerry turned toward the driver. "Slight change of plans: we're going to the prisoner's apartment. The address, Copperhead?"
Ethan gave it and then sat back to enjoy the ride. Well, enjoy perhaps wasn't the right word. There wasn't much legroom at all in the rear area. Though it was only Ethan, Bretta, and one other analyst, firstly it was a Dacia Dokker, not the biggest model of vans around. Secondly, the analyst's desk took up half the space with its multiple laptops and display screens. The analyst himself was wearing a virtual reality headset that made him look like some diver with a painted-over mask. Why he needed all those screens when he had that headset, Ethan didn't know.
The windows of the mobile command center utilized smart glass: currently, the opacity levels of the rear windows were set to full, completely blocking the outside world.
There was other tech in use that hadn't been released to the general public yet. For example, he noticed the four monitors were wireless. As was the virtual reality headset.
"WiGig?" Ethan asked the analyst at the desk.
"That's right," the analyst said. Though he was immersed in his virtual environment, apparently he realized Ethan was talking to him. "The monitors and headset are connected via the Wireless Display Extension protocol for HDMI, while the headtracking data from the headset is sent to the laptop via the Wireless Serial Extension for USB 3.0. The WiGig Bus Extension for PCI Express is used to communicate wirelessly with two desktop-caliber GTX 980 graphic cards in SLI configuration."
"You get all the latest and greatest toys before anyone else," Ethan said. "Our intelligence dollars at work."
Normally a sarcastic comment like that might have elicited a laugh, but the analyst's face remained completely sober. As did Jerry's. Ethan had an inkling of why.
"Did you collect the bodies of the operatives in th
e van?" he asked Jerry.
"There was no time," Jerry said. "We got the hell out. We'll have to send the cleaners in to extract the bodies of Jake and Dilon from the morgue."
Ethan thought of the young operatives who'd escorted the Yellowjacket and his men to the van. "Jake and Dilon."
"Jake Ryerson," Jerry said. "And Dilon Smith. Good men. Outstanding operatives."
"I'm sure they were." Ethan sighed. More innocents who died on his watch. Not to mention Andrei and the bodyguards. Though they were criminals, they didn't deserve to die the way they had. Ethan knew he couldn't save everybody, but their deaths still stung. He could only imagine how heartbroken the mother must have been, watching her son die like that.
He returned his mind to the situation at hand. "The Romanian investigation team will find our shell casings in the woods and on the streets. They might find bullets embedded in the Peugeot, too. And what about all the damaged surveillance equipment in the van you left behind?"
Jerry nodded. "They'll be able to figure out some sort of intelligence apparatus was involved. We'll try to steer the detectives down a different path, though, make them think we were highly-equipped mercenaries hired by Andrei for protection. We'll have some eyewitnesses come forward and paint a picture of what happened: a jealous rival hired a mercenary to attack Andrei; when he was killed, Andrei's team set off in pursuit and captured the assassin."
Ethan exchanged a look with Bretta. She shrugged.
"The story needs some work," she said. "But it's a good starting point."
At the apartment building, they posted operatives in the back in case anyone tried to escape by the fire exit, while another man stayed behind to guard the main entrance.
The support team picked the lock to Iqbal's room and cleared the place. If there had been anyone else living with Iqbal, they were long gone by then.
The team proceeded to ransack the apartment.
Ethan noticed the couch in the family room had a well-used look to it, making him wonder if someone had been sleeping there. He pointed it out to Jerry, who nodded.
"Noticed the same thing myself," Jerry said as he removed the cushions one by one and tore them open with a knife.
Ethan walked to the window and parted the curtain. "There's another apartment building right across the street."
"What are you thinking?" Bretta said, joining him.
"If someone else had been living with Iqbal, that would be the ideal evac spot. A temporary safehouse that could be used in emergencies to observe the apartment for intruders, and flee if anyone actually came." He turned toward Jerry. "We should assume Iqbal had an accomplice who escaped."
Jerry nodded. "That's an assumption I'd make. We'll learn who it was later, when we break the prisoner fully."
"So that means the I2P contacts we get from his computer will be useless," Bretta said.
"Most likely," Ethan agreed. "The first thing any good accomplice would do is alert his brothers-in-arms, even if they were virtual."
"That also means the truck from the vineyard won't come to make its monthly deliveries." Bretta folded her arms. "We might have already reached a dead-end."
"Let's see what the apartment search yields before we jump to any hasty conclusions," Ethan said.
One operative found a satchel of diamonds in the bedroom closet, while another discovered a shoebox full of cash and wire transfer receipts in the den.
Jerry handed Ethan the shoebox. "If there was an accomplice, he sure left in a big hurry."
Ethan studied the receipts. They were all sent to different aliases, as Iqbal had said. But there was something else.
"These addresses are clustered in the southwest of France," Ethan announced.
"That doesn't tell us anything," Bretta said. "The vineyard could be on the opposite side of France, or a different country entirely. Italy. Switzerland."
"Maybe," Ethan said. "But we're talking logistics, here. It would make sense for the vineyard to be close to the wire transfer locations. Cheaper, less manpower. Iqbal said Al Sifr liked to compartmentalize his operations. Why have two cells handle the receipt of the cash and dispatch of the diamonds, when one would easily suffice? Especially when a lot of that cash was incidental, with most of the funds coming in the form of bitcoins."
"All right," Bretta said. "Let's assume Al Sifr had a single cell handle the receipt of Iqbal's money, somewhere in the vicinity of those Western Union locations. We get Sam to pull a list of private vineyards in the southwest of France. We look for those companies whose majority shareholders are shells, and whose lands reside within, say, fifty kilometers of the center of the cluster. We initiate surveillance on those vineyards, calling in support teams throughout Europe to help."
"Sounds like a good start to me," Ethan said.
The team finished its search of the apartment a few minutes later, and stowed the diamonds, receipts, and computers they found in the van. Two operatives stayed behind in the Smart car to monitor the apartment when the van left.
Ethan helped unload the equipment at the black site while Bretta updated Sam on the sat-phone inside.
Bretta met him and Jerry on the way out. "Looks like we're going to France."
"Good luck you two," Jerry said.
"You never know, The Swan might call you in to help," Ethan said.
Jerry chuckled. "Doubtful. I think she'd agree it was best if we stayed here, in the off-chance the delivery truck decided to make an appearance. We'll call The Swan if we learn anything new from Iqbal."
"All right." Ethan offered his hand. "It was good working with you. I'm only sorry you had to lose two good men—"
"No," Jerry said. "I don't want you blaming yourself. I was in charge of them. If the fault is anyone's, it's mine." Jerry shook his palm, squeezing tightly. Then he turned to Bretta and kissed her hand. "The beautiful Maelstrom. I know I won't be the only one who misses your Px4."
"Thank you," Bretta said. "Finally a man who knows how to properly compliment a woman."
"Give 'em hell," Jerry said.
"Always do and always will."
Ethan cleared his throat. "If you two are done flirting..."
Jerry gave Ethan a sheepish look and quickly went back inside the black site. Bretta smiled knowingly, brushing past Ethan to take the driver's seat of the Audi.
Ethan leaned against the headrest as they got under way. He closed his eyes entirely when she turned north onto the DN7 / E81 undivided highway. They planned to alternate in five hour shifts during the twenty-five hour, four-country drive. Bretta had generously volunteered to take three of those shifts, leaving Ethan to drive only two.
"I didn't want to talk about this in front of Jerry," Bretta said. "But... what happened back there?"
"What do you mean?" Ethan glanced at her. "I was joking about you two flirting. I'm not jealous or anything." Well, maybe slightly. But hopefully his playful tone concealed that.
"No," Bretta said. "Not that. I'm talking about after the van exploded."
Ethan straightened. "I still don't follow you."
"You kept shouting men down."
Unsure of what to say, Ethan watched her warily. He'd never zoned out during an emergency before. It set a troubling precedent.
She momentarily looked away from the road to meet his gaze. "Maybe you should tell Sam you need a break."
"I don't need a break."
"PTSD," Bretta said. "It affects the best of us."
"I'm fine. Completely operational. The explosion disoriented me for a moment, that's all. I don't have post traumatic stress disorder." At least, not the kind normal people get.
"All right," Bretta said. "I'll let it slide. This time. But if it ever happens again, you know I have to tell Sam."
Ethan closed his eyes.
"Did you hear what I said?" Bretta asked.
"Yeah," he said curtly.
He had intended to take a nap, but her probing words reminded him of the attack all over again. The explosion kept playing t
hrough his head. The van, engulfed in blistering flames, launching three feet into the air. He imagined Jake and Dilon burning inside, along with the Yellowjacket and his two bodyguards.
Men down.
14
Bucharest, Romania
AHMED AL-AFGHANI sat in his hotel room. He had moved the chair to the window so that he might gaze down upon the city below. Such a strange arrangement of buildings. It was like an alien world compared to his native Afghanistan. Skyscrapers of glass and steel stabbed the sky, while beside them squatted medieval palaces of travertine and marble. And beyond them all, a backdrop of utilitarian, high density apartment blocks.
Bucharest was a European city of high culture and beauty at first glance, but upon a second, more detailed viewing, the luster quickly faded. Pickpockets frequented the public transportation networks. Beggars crowded the intersections. Six thousand homeless, the lowest rungs of Romanian society, lived deep underground in a combined network of sewer and stormwater tunnels. Countless stray dogs roamed the streets, providing employment for the dogcatchers who routinely captured and strangled them to death with garrote loops at the end of poles, usually in front of onlookers.
Ahmed shook his head. He yearned for the simpler days of his youth, when he lived in a village a hundred kilometers to the southwest of Kabul, where no one ever stole from anyone else, and the people welcomed stray dogs with open arms. Well, there were other problems, he supposed. But still, home was often on his mind. Not that he could return. Not yet, anyway. His instructions were clear: lie low in the vast city of Bucharest until further notice.
When Iqbal had texted him that fateful day, Ahmed had been making a diamond drop a short distance outside Râmnicu Vâlcea. He had raced back to the city but hadn't dared return to the apartment. He went to the safehouse across the street instead. There he waited, and when he was convinced no one was watching, he decided to risk entering the apartment to retrieve a certain shoebox. He made it as far as the front lobby of the safehouse when the Dacia van and Smart car appeared across the street, and the men dressed in black emerged. They rushed the apartment.