“Yes, I appreciate your reasoning. However, let me remind you that the money was given to you to sanitize, not to speculate with,” Sergey warned.
“Until this happened, it wasn’t a speculation.”
Sergey sighed with exasperation. “Enough of this. We expect our money back, Max. All of it. No excuses.”
“The stadium owners can’t make the adjusted payment terms. But their insurance policy is paid current, and will more than cover their liabilities once…should disaster strike.”
“Our man is working on that.”
“Very well, then. This is merely a bump in the road. They will happen, as you well know.”
Sergey paused and then his voice softened. “Tell Svetlana hello for me.”
“Your sister always loves hearing that. I will.”
Sergey hung up and shook his head as he stabbed the power button on the burner cell phone. Max was a moron. If Sergey’s sister hadn’t married the fool, he would have already been dead.
Sergey was one of the more powerful of the new breed of Russian who’d emerged following the collapse of the Soviet Union – one who thought globally rather than nationally, and whose financing and business ties owed more to transnational criminal syndicates than savvy negotiations or any particular acumen. At forty-nine, he was anonymous, operating from the shadows, allowing the more visible oligarchs to dominate the spotlight while he quietly made a fortune supplying them with whatever they needed – whether it was enforcers in Brooklyn or mercenaries in the Congo or laundering money generated in Mexico, Sergey’s value was in his contacts and his reach.
But fifty million dollars transcended family ties. If Max’s scheme to make things right failed, the group for which Sergey was laundering the funds would still want their money back – minus his ten percent fee, of course – and that was real money, even at Sergey’s level.
Max had written a second mortgage denominated in francs to the stadium’s owners, but when the Swiss had let their currency float in the market instead of pegging it to the euro, the interest payments had increased thirty percent overnight, putting the group into effective default. They’d tried workarounds, but in the end the collective had served Max formal notice that he’d have to pursue them through the courts, which would take years, and with still no guarantee he would see most of the money back.
An unplanned wrinkle, to be sure.
The only bright side to any of the failed transaction was that the insurance company, a multinational that insured sporting arenas among its many other commercial properties, had a clause that covered the stadium in the event of acts of war or terror.
From that point on, it had been a simple matter of planting the correct seeds with the madmen who, like Sergey, acted at the fringes of society, and assisting them in finding the appropriate expertise with which to carry out their scheme.
That thousands would ultimately perish so Sergey’s moron brother-in-law could pay him back the money he’d “borrowed” instead of washing as he should have didn’t bother Sergey in the least. The world was, and always had been, a brutal place, and bad things happened with regularity.
If he could profit from one of them, so much the better. The religious zealots, the wronged nationalists, the disenfranchised victims of oppression would always be plotting evil. His acting as an intermediary was no different from his masters funding both sides in any of a half-dozen conflicts. He was merely brokering know-how to those who wished to lease it. At its heart, one of the oldest professions in the world. Like the European bankers who had kept Europe at war for centuries so they could loan money to the royal families for their armies of mercenaries, without discriminating between one camp or the other. He couldn’t control events past a certain point, but he could increase his wealth.
He’d gotten the idea for the terror strike watching the New York banks during the financial crisis – the insurance company that had written insane policies backing derivatives contracts that were designed to implode had been bailed out by the American taxpayer, and the investment banks who had knowingly screwed the insurer were rewarded with full payouts on the policies.
Even Sergey had been impressed with the ingenuity of that maneuver, which was saying a lot.
When he’d researched the concept more, he’d discovered that when the Americans’ twin towers had been destroyed, the owner of the property had just obtained a new billion-dollar policy a few months before that unhappy event.
History had a way of repeating itself, and he saw no reason he couldn’t take a page from the Americans’ book to save himself forty-five million dollars of headache. Of course, he could write a check for that amount, but the game was not to lose massively, it was to snatch victory from the jaws of adversity – and Sergey was the best at that game. He’d profited short-selling the American airlines when a little bird had whispered to him that planes were going to hit towers soon, and he would profit again when a bunch of goat herders propagated the biggest terror attack in history, this time on UK soil. Besides the insurance payout, he’d been quietly selling options on the stock market that would quadruple in price if the travel and entertainment sectors nosedived within a week – a virtual guaranteed outcome of a dirty-bomb strike.
He gazed through his picture window, at where the spires of the Kremlin towered over Red Square, and smiled. Life was a game of chess, and he’d just effectively contrived a checkmate move out of what had initially looked like certain defeat.
Not a bad day’s work.
Chapter 21
Manchester, England
Maya disembarked from the train and scanned the platform for her contact. She’d been told to look for a man in his thirties wearing a dark overcoat and hat, carrying a burgundy eel-skin briefcase. The crowd thinned as the final passengers made their way into the station, and she saw him: tall, a vaguely annoyed expression on his face, his chin held high; the picture of an arrogant businessman awaiting a meeting.
Maya approached him and uttered the code phrase. “Damned trains can run slow,” she said in unaccented American English.
The man’s eyes locked on hers. “It’s worse on the ones from the north,” he said, his pronunciation upper-crust British.
She nodded slightly. “I’m Maya.”
“Yes, I know. Come on. My car’s outside. Name’s Jeff.”
He didn’t wait for her or offer to help with her bag, instead turning sharply and making his way for the terminal. She followed him, wondering if he was still in character, or really was a haughty prick. Once they arrived at his car, she got her answer.
“Toss your bag in the boot. I’ll get you settled at the safe house and brief you on your duties,” he said.
“I already read the file.”
“Things have changed while you were traveling. Our London office made contact with the British services and warned them, judging by the blueprint you discovered, that the imam was likely up to no good. But based on the feedback, they didn’t seem as impressed as headquarters was with your intelligence.”
“An Islamic extremist suspected of being a terrorist had detailed plans for one of their largest venues, which was found at the same location he was torturing one of our agents to death, and they question its legitimacy?” she demanded incredulously.
“Welcome to England. Scotland Yard and MI5 are mostly bureaucrats, and the Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre isn’t much better. I doubt they could find Bin Laden if he had a seat in Parliament.”
“Then why are we dealing with them?”
He glanced over to her as she fastened her seatbelt. “Because, my dear, it’s their country and their population at risk. It’s rather their job, not ours, to police it.”
“But you’re saying they’re incompetent.”
He shrugged and twisted the ignition key. “Not my problem. There are protocols. Channels. I don’t make decisions at that level.” He looked at her again. “You’ll be working with me while you’re here. For me,
actually; I’m a senior field operative, and I’ve been ordered to keep you out of trouble.”
“That’s very gracious of you,” Maya said, maintaining an even tone.
“Our role in this operation is to act as backup surveillance, nothing more. This is officially a UK problem, not an Israeli one.”
“I see. And you agree with that?”
“It’s not my job to agree or disagree. My job is to do as I’m told, which is also yours. I trust that’s clear?”
“Perfectly.” Maya reminded herself that she would have to work with Jeff for as long as she was in Manchester. It would do her no good to alienate him. He obviously felt that his British counterparts were bumblers, and his attitude conveyed that he didn’t have particularly high regard for her, either. The best way to get respect, she’d found, was to earn it, so she would bite her tongue and keep her head down. “What’s on the agenda besides bringing me up to speed?”
“To be determined. Our liaison has a meeting this evening with everyone involved, and based on that, we’ll understand better how to proceed.”
“No disrespect, but these animals killed one of ours in the most horrific manner possible. I was there. They chopped his fingers and toes off and burned him with a torch just for their warm-up act.”
Jeff’s annoyance seemed to deepen. “I know that. But this chapter is a British one, not an Israeli one. Our organization will determine when and how retribution occurs, not us. We’re agents, not analysts.”
Maya switched her approach. “Is there any chance of going to the meeting?”
Jeff laughed humorlessly. “We try not to advertise that we have field agents in one of our ally’s countries. They seem to interpret that the wrong way. So no, we’re not going to the meeting. Consider us like children at a dinner party – best if neither seen nor heard.”
Jeff drove in silence and Maya watched the gray buildings rush by. Compared to Dhaka, Manchester was the cleanest and most welcoming city in the world, but even coming from that perspective her impression was of an industrial town of minimal prosperity. The pedestrians looked unhappy and cold, and the vehicles were run-down and old, mostly economy sedans that had seen better days.
The safe house turned out to be a row house in a working-class suburb. Jeff pulled into the garage, lowered the door with the crank, and shut off the motor. He was out of the car and opening the trunk before Maya had even had a chance to open her door, and she silently hoped that this wasn’t predictive of their every interaction, because if so, her time in England was going to be unpleasant.
“You have the house to yourself. There are two bedrooms upstairs. Take the rear one,” Jeff said as he opened the connecting door to the house and stepped inside. Maya retrieved her bag and trailed him into the house, which was small but clean. Jeff had taken a seat in the living room and was texting on his phone, so she carted her things upstairs, put the bag on the bed, and after freshening up briefly, made her way downstairs.
“So what do we do now?”
“I talk, and you listen.” Jeff proceeded to give her a rapid-fire account of the known hostiles in Manchester, and then broadened the scope to all of England. His monologue lasted twenty minutes, and by the time he finished, she was reluctantly impressed. He might have been insufferable, but he clearly had a razor-sharp mind and amazing recall.
Almost as good as hers.
“Did you get all that?” he asked condescendingly.
“Yes.”
“Care to repeat back to me the bits about Manchester’s details?”
“I didn’t realize there was going to be a test.”
“Take your time.”
She recited verbatim his entire speech about the city’s peccadilloes, and when she was finished, fixed him with a blank stare. He smiled for the first time since she’d met him and slowly clapped his hands.
“Well. Full of surprises, I see. I’ll remember not to underestimate you,” he conceded.
She nodded. “Most that do, don’t get the chance to twice.”
“Yes, I’m conversant with your history. Regrettably, or perhaps not, you’ll find this rather dull compared to jungle shoot-outs and firefights in terrorist dens.”
She returned his smile, her emerald eyes flashing. “Let’s hope so. I could use some mindlessly dull duty.”
He eyed her, his expression softer than minutes before, and she thought to herself that this might work after all.
Chapter 22
Birmingham, England
Outside another warehouse five hundred kilometers away from the one where the Iranian physicist was putting the finishing touches on his makeshift weapon of mass destruction, Abreeq was sitting in a stolen car, waiting for his local contact to arrive. A dependable accomplice who had worked with Abreeq before, he was chartered with the logistics of getting the device into the stadium.
Abreeq looked at his watch in annoyance and glanced at the rearview mirror. A police car was prowling down the block – not necessarily cause for concern, as Abreeq had switched license plates on the car after liberating it, but unsettling given the timing. He debated getting out and hoofing it, but opted for lying flat on the front seat, out of sight.
Seconds ticked by. He heard the cruiser’s engine pull alongside, slow, and then rev as it continued on its way. He exhaled loudly and sat up, his heart racing at the false alarm. He’d planned for every conceivable eventuality, but he knew from harsh experience that you could never foresee everything, and disaster could come from the most unlikely direction. He thought of it as the first law of entropy: chaos and random chance were the only constants.
An inquisitive cop in a desolate stretch of industrial park was one such random element. This time, Abreeq had been fortunate. But it was a reminder that anything could go wrong at any moment, and that he could never let down his guard.
Five minutes later, a battered pickup truck pulled into the drive, and his man Kasra got out while the driver waited for him. Abreeq stepped from the car and Kasra nodded to him as he neared.
“It is an honor to have you take a personal interest in such a trivial part of your grand design,” Kasra said as he unlocked the gate and swung it wide. The truck pulled in and they moved into the compound, and Kasra locked it again.
“There is nothing trivial about any piece of this. Everything must work together like a well-oiled machine, or we risk failure.”
“Have no fear. We’re on schedule and will be ready,” Kasra assured him.
“That is good. Show me.”
“Of course. Come.”
The warehouse grounds were quiet. They went to a steel door next to the loading area and Kasra knocked twice, paused, and then knocked once again. Moments later a swarthy man in jeans and a sweatshirt opened the door, his face marred by streaks of grime. He nodded to Abreeq and stood aside.
Kasra led him past a half-dozen automobiles in various stages of dismantlement, body panels leaned against the chassis and engine parts in neat piles nearby. At the end of the building stood a paint booth, and next to it, the object of their interest.
A young man barely out of his teens was sanding the fender of a large delivery truck, preparing it for painting. Bondo had been applied to the fender to change the shape, and the sanding was throwing up a light cloud of fine dust. The young man glanced at Kasra, who barked at him in Arabic. “Take a break.”
When they were alone, Abreeq walked around the truck until he reached the storage bed. He eyed the box compartments neatly organized into ten per side, and stopped at one that was a different color – black, the interior of the compartment lead.
“This is where it will go,” Kasra said.
Abreeq crouched and inspected the space. “There can’t be even the slightest area that is irregular, or radiation could leak through, and everything we’re working for will be for naught.”
“We have taken great care to melt lead along the joints to safeguard against that.”
&nb
sp; “And the doors?”
“To be installed after we paint the vehicle. But you have my guarantee that it will be airtight.”
Abreeq straightened and, after a last look at the truck, nodded.
Kasra shifted from one foot to the other, his attention fixed on the far roll-up door. “But the device should be shielded so it won’t be emitting radiation, correct? Otherwise we would all be exposed when loading it aboard.”
“Correct. This is overkill, but I would rather be safe than sorry. If somehow it is damaged in transit, even the tiniest amount would set off the alarms. Think of this as an insurance policy.”
“We have a handheld Geiger counter we will check it with.”
“That is prudent.” Abreeq moved closer to Kasra. “And the driver?”
“It is my cousin Hamid. I have promised him that we will provide for him in Portugal after this is over. We know he will ultimately be identified from the security cameras, so he must leave the country.”
“That is fair. And we will have other ways for him to be of use, even there. This is only the beginning, my friend.”
“It is about time.” Kasra led him to where a stencil was positioned on a work table, waiting to be applied to the doors. The logo and name of a popular beer brand were perfect, and would ensure the truck was invisible amidst the stream of delivery vehicles that would be arriving throughout the day of the match.
Abreeq nodded his approval and glanced around the warehouse.
“How much do these men know?”
“Only bits and pieces. I haven’t told them anything – exactly as we agreed. All they know is that we’re making special modifications for a customer.”
“And after the event?”
“They are loyal. They will not ask questions. Everyone I trust has lost family to the infidels.”
“I will hold you personally accountable.”
Ops Files II--Terror Alert Page 11