by Brad Taylor
In short, he was now a player, and with that power came a duty to prevent this new leak from bringing everything down. He’d worked too long and hard, developing influence both in the halls of Congress and the halls of the Pentagon, and in the ensuing years he’d learned to play hardball better than most. It was why he was successful.
He leaned forward and punched an intercom button, saying, “Janice, has Johan called you about being late?”
Before she could answer, he caught a movement at the door, then recognized his head of security, Johan van Rensburg.
Dexter said, “Where the hell have you been?”
Speaking with a light Afrikaans accent, Johan said, “I just got in. I was delayed at JFK and had to spend the night.”
“I thought you were coming in two days ago.”
“Couldn’t get out of Jordan. You told me to make sure the work was done before I came home.”
Dexter’s latest venture was a contract from Jordan’s King Abdullah II Special Operations Training Center, providing armorer support to the various courses run there, with an eye toward increasing beyond that into the security realm itself.
Created jointly between the United States and Jordan in 2009, KASOTC was the only Special Operations training facility of its kind in the Middle East, with ranges and mock-ups that rivaled anything in Europe or the United States, and it was used by multiple countries on an invitation basis. Run solely by ex-operators from various countries, one could just as easily run across a Brit formerly in the SAS as an American from US Army Special Forces. It was where Dexter had initially met Johan, and had convinced him to leave his current contract as a CQB instructor with KASOTC and come work for Icarus Solutions as the head of Dexter’s fledgling security division.
A former member of South Africa’s famed Reconnaissance Commandos—the Recces—he’d left the military after the turmoil in his country in the early nineties. He’d bounced around from job to job, most on the African continent at various hot spots. He’d fought with Executive Outcomes in Sierra Leone, Sandline International in Liberia, and, most recently, at the behest of the Nigerian government against Boko Haram. He’d eventually tired of getting shot at and decided to go the route of training instead of operations, landing the job at KASOTC. Dexter wasn’t privy to most of his past, but he was capable, no doubt, a fact that was belied by his ascetic appearance.
Unlike the Hollywood portrayal of SOF supermen, Johan wasn’t a bulked-up Arnold Schwarzenegger, but more wiry, with ropes of muscle clinging closely to his frame and what looked like a permanent tan baked into his skin. Dexter didn’t know all he’d done, but he’d heard enough from rumors, and he knew the scars on Johan’s body hadn’t come from playing rugby.
Johan said, “What’s the fire? Why’d you call me back?”
Dexter pointed to a seat and said, “I’ve got an issue. Something that could cause significant problems with Icarus.”
Johan sat down and said, “Okay.”
Dexter toyed with a paperweight biplane, realizing he was treading on ground that he didn’t want to plow. Afraid of what would come out. Dexter was a manager of aviation assets—things that flew. He had no experience in the real world of war, only the machines that dealt the death. He worked in the “defense industry,” and, while that could possibly get him on TV as an expert, he knew he had no real claim to such a title. All of his employees were support—mechanics, logisticians, armorers, and the like. He had no real “security” experience at the sharp end of the spear. Johan was the only man he knew who could prevent the leak, but in so doing, Dexter would be placing significant trust in him. Giving him knowledge that could be used against him in the future.
There was also the problem of Johan’s willingness to execute. He was a hard man, no doubt, but he’d shown a perverse sense of honor. There was no telling where he would side on this. He was ruthless to a fault, but only for things he deemed worthy. Dexter wasn’t sure job security would measure up. Johan was a cynical killer on the surface, but underneath, he believed. He would not do anything against his personal code of conduct. And that code was written in stone.
Then Dexter remembered a conversation he’d had with the South African when he’d initially hired him: The man hated traitors, and considered organizations like WikiLeaks as enablers for the theft of national secrets. On top of that, he absolutely despised the press for perceived transgressions against South Africa, and that had continued on into his mercenary days. One night, after a few beers and a single question by Dexter, Johan had become apoplectic, ranting like a madman. To the point that Dexter had felt fear. The Panama Papers bore none of those taints, but it was similar in technique. All he had to do was spin it the right way.
Johan said, “Well?”
Dexter formulated his words but couldn’t look him in the eyes. Johan always had a way of peeling back the soul, like he was mentally flaying you, and it was unsettling. Dexter was sure he’d falter if he locked eyes with the man.
He continued playing with the paperweight airplane, saying, “Do you remember the Panama Papers last year?”
5
Johan said, “Yeah. Some fuck stole a bunch of proprietary information and gave it to journalists. What about it?”
“I told you about how this company was founded. About the first contract in KSA. You remember that?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it was predicated—and I’m not proud of this—on a bribe to a certain Saudi contact. I did it, and now I’m where I am. You are where you are. No more running and gunning. A nice job with a hefty salary.”
“What was the bribe for?”
Dexter shifted the conversation, saying, “I used a shell company from that law firm in Panama. The first leak—before I hired you—was huge, but I wasn’t in it.”
Dexter pointed at the computer screen and said, “There’s a second leak coming, and there’s a good chance I’ll be in it. If that happens, at best, I’ll be crushed for the relationship by the prima donna politicians all looking for a score, and worst, arrested for illegal contract negotiations and insider trading.”
He paused, wanting to see if Johan was on board, risking a glance across the desk. He couldn’t tell one way or the other. The man’s face was stoic, his shaggy blond hair partially covering his eyes. Dexter sagged back in his chair and said, “If that leak goes, I’m out of a company. And you’re out of a job.”
Johan leaned forward, brushing his hair aside and giving Dexter his full, uncomfortable attention. He said, “What’s that got to do with me? What do you want me to do?”
Dexter said, “Well . . . I know who the reporter is that’s going to meet the leaker, a sorry sack of shit like Snowden and Manning. I was hoping you’d meet the leaker instead. Convince him it wasn’t in his best interests.”
Johan picked an M&M from a bowl on the desk, popped it into his mouth, and said, “I could do that, I suppose. One less waste of flesh walking the earth, but it’s not without risk.”
“I understand. I’m prepared to pay you a great deal. This bribe I did can’t see the light of day. Ever. It was nothing on the grand scheme of things, but it’s everything to us.”
Johan popped another M&M and said, “You keep saying that, but I’ve worked this side of the fence for a while. Bribes happen all the time, and you have leverage with the American establishment. Maybe it’s better to let it out and fight it on the publicity front. My way is dirty.”
“No. That won’t work.”
Johan straightened and said, “Why? You have the ear of sitting senators and half the generals in the Pentagon. Unless there’s something more. What was the bribe for? Who got it?”
“It’s not the bribe. It’s the fact that it’s Saudi Arabia. Ten years ago, that would be nothing. Now, with the Islamophobia rampant in the United States, I’ll be crucified, no pun intended. I can’t count on support from the Pentagon or Cong
ress. Especially after the administration released those classified pages from the Congressional inquiry into 9/11. The ones dealing with Saudi complicity in the attacks.”
“Okay. Once again, what do you want me to do?”
“Interdict this ‘Agent Zero.’ Get his data, and destroy it.”
Johan considered the mission, then said, “You want him dead. Is that it?”
Dexter hadn’t thought about that, the question startling him.
Johan said, “Let’s face it, if I meet him as the journalist, and I get his information, and it doesn’t get exposed, he’s just going to try again.”
Dexter said, “Yes. I see your point. I suppose you couldn’t just convince him?”
Johan barked a sharp laugh and said, “I could for the five minutes we were together, but once he’s gone—and safe—he’ll reconsider. He understands the risks. He’s made powerful enemies with his release, which means he has courage.”
Dexter nodded, knowing what he’d said was true. The Panama Papers had exposed corruption from the highest levels of foreign governments to the biggest bosses of organized crime. Whoever Agent Zero was, there were plenty of people who wanted him dead. Which made the decision easier. With that many enemies, nobody would connect a lone defense contractor to the action.
Dexter said, “I don’t want the information out. Period. You do what you think is best. You’ll be well rewarded.”
He withdrew an envelope and laid it on the desk, saying, “This is the information on the reporter who’s going to meet him. Don’t ask me how I got it. Just understand that it cost a significant amount of influence and money. You talk to him, find the meeting site, then assume his place.”
Johan took the envelope and opened it. He glanced at the first page and said, “International Consortium of Investigative Journalists. Washington DC.”
“Yes. I’ll pay for the airfare and hotels, of course. And a handsome bonus when it’s done. I’d like you to leave tomorrow.”
“What about the journalist?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I can’t just ask him for the source and expect him to gladly give it to me. And once I leave, he’ll contact this Agent Asshole and tell him to flee.”
Dexter instinctively knew where the question was headed, but didn’t want to face the decision. Johan saved him from the problem.
He stood and said, “Don’t worry about it. I fucking hate reporters. All a bunch of lying shitheads with rainbows and noble causes. They destroyed my country, then destroyed my employment in Africa, first with Executive Outcomes, then every other company I worked for. Now, they’re trying to destroy me again.”
He pocketed the envelope and said, “I’ll do him for free.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Brad Taylor, Lieutenant Colonel (ret.), is a twenty-one-year veteran of the U.S. Army Infantry and Special Forces, including eight years with the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment–Delta, popularly known as Delta Force. Taylor retired in 2010 after serving more than two decades and participating in Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Iraqi Freedom, as well as classified operations around the globe. His final military post was as Assistant Professor of Military Science at the Citadel. His first nine Pike Logan thrillers were New York Times bestsellers. He lives in Charleston, South Carolina.
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