Designation Gold

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Designation Gold Page 25

by Richard Marcinko


  My friends, Shakespeare had a phrase for the sort of dumbass reasoning Lantos was lobbing in my direction. He called it “chop-logic.” I call it absofuckinglute craziness. “The world has changed,” I said. “There’s no way you can put things back the way they were.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” Werner Lantos said. “I am speaking to you of developments that have been sanctioned at the highest levels of your government. The very highest.”

  “Like who?” I wanted to know the names of the cocksuckers who were doing this. Not that he’d tell me, but I had to ask the question anyway.

  He shook his head coyly. “Captain, you know I cannot reveal such a thing. But I can assure you that I have met with a very top-level representative of your government. This is not a trial balloon. This is policy.”

  That, friends, is impossible. Now, I can’t vouch for what goes on in Moscow. But in Washington, every single element of American policy is scrutinized, investigated, and studied by two of the three branches of government. The administration may make policy, but that policy is paid for by money allocated by the legislative branch. Remember all of this from your social studies classes? It’s called “checks and balances.” And that is what I spelled out to Werner Lantos.

  Lantos set his knife down and tapped a syncopation on the tabletop. “Technically you are right,” he said, his fingers picking out the tune that must have been playing in his head. “But there is another branch of government as well, although very few choose to recognize it. That branch is comprised of the professional infrastructure.” He retrieved the knife and resumed his breakfast.

  “Politicians come and politicians go. But the system, Captain, remains in place. You tend to think of them as faceless bureaucrats—they work at the State Department, the CIA, the White House, the Department of Defense, and elsewhere in your government. But it is they who actually implement policy decisions that can profoundly influence what goes on. And I believe that some have chosen this path because it is in their interest—and they believe the country’s as well—to do so.”

  “You are talking about a very broad conspiracy.”

  The knife came down hard on the table, splattering bits of egg yolk on the marble. “I am talking about nothing of the kind, Captain. This is not a conspiracy—it is policy that is being made at the highest levels of government. No, I am talking about a weltanschauung—a worldview—that is more enlightened, rational, and lucid than yours.”

  “You are talking about subversion,” I said. “Full stop. End of story.”

  “As I have said, Captain, you tend to see things in absolute terms. But from my point of view—”

  It was time for the kind of simple, declarative, monosyllabic sentence favored by UDT chiefs and Frogish mustangs like Roy Boehm and me. “Your point of view is fucked,” I said. “Your ‘theory’—as you put it—is that my friend Paul was murdered because some people have the crazy idea that the world is better off with two superpowers, not just one.”

  Lantos nodded. “You are oversimplifying, Captain, but yes, that is my theory. Now, let me add that the murder of your friend Rear Admiral Mahon was truly regrettable. But he—like you—managed to insinuate himself into the middle of a situation he did not understand. He, however, obviously did not enjoy the same level of operational experience that you have had. That deficiency, I believe, proved fatal.”

  “Paul was a warrior,” I said. “Warriors die. But his family was murdered, too. My first godchild was killed.”

  Lantos nodded. “Truly a great tragedy,” Lantos said, his reptilian face displaying a look of concern. “But that has been remedied, has it not?”

  I didn’t understand what he was getting at and told him so.

  “It is simple,” he explained. “With the death of the vor v zakonye Andrei Yudin, the book is finally closed. Andrei killed your friend and his family. Andrei was dealt with—and the death of your godchild was avenged.”

  So Lantos had ordered Andrei killed to placate me—perhaps ease me off the case. Well, he’d been mistaken. I put my War Face on. “You’re wrong. The book is not closed at all.”

  “What?” The color drained from his face. His complete lack of expression told me the sonofabitch really was shocked.

  Now that he was primed, it was time to give this asshole a SEAL wake-up call. “Andrei Yudin’s death didn’t bring closure,” I said. “Oh, Andrei Yudin may have killed Paul and his family—murdered my godchild. But he—his people—only pulled the trigger. He was taking orders.” I fixed Werner Lantos with my most Roguish War Face. “My book will be closed only when I work my way all the way up the fucking chain of command.”

  “But—but—” The vein on Lantos’s neck began to pump overtime.

  It occurred to me that maybe I could give the sonofabitch a heart attack right now. “Listen up, cockbreath,” I said, “I don’t give a rusty fuck about your goddamn point of view, or your fucking theories. But let me accept them—just for the sake of argument. Okay. That means your fucking weltanschauung got my friend and his family killed. That makes you guilty.”

  “But my theory—” Lantos sputtered.

  I put my nasty Slavic nose right up into his face. “Fuck your theory. We both know it’s bullshit. You can talk all you want about ’harmony’ and ’equilibrium.’ But you and I know you’re not really talking about harmony or equilibrium. That’s a fucking smoke screen. You’re talking about money—lots of money.”

  He started to protest. The goddamn neck vein started throbbing again. I cut him off. “Just like you said, you’re a businessman. So it’s all business—zapodlo—to you. Same thing I told Andrei back in Moscow, remember: it’s all zapodlo.”

  I had things to do. It was time to say “Sayonara” to this pus-nutted, limp-dicked, no-load motherfucker. “See you in hell, Werner—which is where I’m going to put you.”

  Now, there are a couple of personality traits I should explain to you about people like Werner Lantos. Most assholes like Werner cannot stand two things. (That’s not quite true—they can’t stand a lot more than two. But these are significant, and can be used to provoke them.)

  First, folks like Werner cannot stand being verbally assaulted. And second, they cannot tolerate having themselves befouled. Remember all those custard pies and other gooey goodies tossed at pompous swells in top hats in the old Laurel and Hardy movies? Well, there was a significant sociological point being made: he who wears a boiled shirt tends to take his appearance seriously. Me, I like a great food fight every now and then. But someone like Werner Lantos would rather get shot than soiled.

  Ergo, I stood up as if to leave, picked up my plate of eggs, and turned it over directly onto Werner’s four-hundred-dollar shirt, two-hundred-buck tie, and the bespoke Italian threads that cost more than most people make in two months. The bodyguard closest to us tried to intervene. Too late—I dropped him with an elbow to the side of his head. A second security man closed on me, his hand reaching inside his jacket pocket as he approached.

  I stepped in close to take the offensive, grabbed the arm in question, pulled it in my direction, then took his wrist and folded it sharply forward, breaking it. I ignored his screaming, slipped my hand inside his jacket, extracted a blued Walther .32-caliber pistol from his shoulder holster and palmed it, pointing it vaguely in Werner Lantos’s direction to forestall any further action by his goon detail.

  There was murder in Lantos’s eyes. He half-rose, my breakfast eggs dripping nicely down the front of his custom-made suit, and screamed unintelligible syllables at me.

  I backed away, the pistol still pointed in his direction. The security detail was frozen in position. A table caught me in the thigh. I knocked it askew, stepped carefully over a rectangular white flower box, and backed onto the sidewalk.

  My peripheral vision caught movement to my left. The driver of Lantos’s Citroën coming at me. I ducked and whirled, catching him across the cheek with the side of the pistol, knocking him sprawling onto his hands and knees.
Far down the Champs, I saw the blue flashing lights of a police car trying to fight its way through the traffic. I did a one-eighty, and saw a second black-and-white sedan heading in my general direction, siren hee-hawing and lights flashing.

  How had les flics been summoned so fast? I didn’t know and I didn’t care—cops were trouble I didn’t need. I started across the Champs, dodging and darting like a fucking broken-field runner as the traffic moved around me in fits and starts. As I ran, I dropped the magazine out of the Walther and let it fall to the ground. Once I’d made it to the opposite side of the broad avenue, I concealed the pistol in my big hand, worked the slide to eject the chambered shell (it, too, fell to the ground), then pulled the front of the trigger guard down and forced it to one side, which released the slide lock.

  As I walked away from the sounds of sirens, I clandestinely fieldstripped the Walther, separating it into its component parts and wiping each one clean with my handkerchief to obliterate any trace of fingerprints. The slide assembly went into a trash container on the corner of Rue Washington. The spring got dropped into a mailbox outside the PTT next to the Chamber of Commerce just off the Rue Balzac. The frame was jettisoned into a storm drain on Avenue Friedland.

  I kept moving north, and west, checking for anyone on my tail, until I reached the Parc de Monceau. There, I dropped onto a bench, caught my breath, and listened carefully for the sounds of pursuit. Five minutes later, I knew I was in the clear.

  Chapter 14

  MY MORNING’S ENCOUNTER MADE ME REALIZE IT WAS TIME FOR some form of self-defense supplies. Yes, I know Avi would probably provide me with weapons. But with Mr. Murphy around, I’ve learned never to take anything for granted—and besides, I hate to go around empty-handed. I wandered the side streets around the Avenue des Ternes until I found a small hardware store, walked inside, and browsed. It took me just a few minutes to find a six-inch screwdriver with a stout, hand-turned wood handle and a well-made, German stainless steel shaft. Then, I discovered where the patron kept the sharpening stones. As quietly as I could, I worked the tip of the blade against a medium stone until I’d given it a chisel edge.

  I paid twenty-seven francs fifty centimes, declined the offer of a bag, slipped the screwdriver inside my coat, and left. On the street, I made some discreet adjustments. The screwdriver fit securely and imperceptibly, slid down inside the left side of my trouser waistband and held in place by my belt.

  Armed and dangerous, I checked the address I’d written on a piece of scrap paper at the Cercle, and headed toward the restaurant.

  Avi was late to lunch by almost an hour. I waited, content to nibble the half baguette in the bread basket down to the crumbs, drink a nice, cellar-cooled carafe of Chenas down to the last eighth-liter (and was just ordering a second), when he finally showed up, apologetic, rumpled, and sweaty. His face reflected anxiety. I filled his glass with the last of my wine. He waved it away, asked the patron for a half-liter bottle of Evian water, and drained the whole thing thirstily as soon as it was set on the table.

  I waited until he’d drunk his fill, then asked him in French, “Problèmes, Avi?”

  He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. “I think I picked up a tail,” he said. “Outside the embassy. It’s taken me the better part of two hours to shake ’em—but I think I did—haven’t seen anything suspicious in half an hour.” He shook his head in disgust. “You’d think I’d know better than to go within half a kilometer of the place.”

  “But you do know better.”

  “Yeah—but our asshole chief of station obviously doesn’t. The ben zona insisted on a meeting in his office. ’I command your presence, blah-blah-blah. No place is more secure, blahblah-blah,’ he tells me. Well, shit—no place may be more secure, so far as he’s concerned, but no place is more easily surveilled, either, so far as I’m concerned.”

  Avi was right. The Israeli Embassy in Paris—I’ve been there and I know—is located on Rue Rabelais, a narrow side street just off the Champs-Élysées. The ornate, dingy gray six-story structure has been totally isolated—even the office buildings and apartment houses opposite the embassy have been evacuated. The street itself has roadblocks at each end and is patrolled by squads of submachine-gun toting police officers in combat fatigues. Their weapons are always locked and loaded. Their trigger fingers are always indexed—ready for action. Every car that passes through the roadblock to park in the narrow strip in front of the embassy building is searched. Not just cursorily, either. Trunks and hoods get raised. Mirrors go underneath. Seats get pulled out. They are serious about it.

  The security is effective, too. There hasn’t been a single incident in the Rue Rabelais for more than a decade now. More than a dozen potential tangos have been identified and snapped up before they could act. Twice, someone managed to slip explosives underneath a diplomat’s car—but they discovered ’em in time and the pair of potentially dangerous incidents were averted.

  But all that isolation means that French intelligence has its work made easy when it comes to identifying Israeli intelligence personnel and other interesting characters who may show up at the embassy from time to time. Cameras in the vacant buildings zoom in on every visitor and employee. Teams of watchers deploy nearby, ready to move. And those are the friendlies. Israel’s adversaries are as well aware as the French of the embassy’s tactical situation. And so all of the potential hostiles, too, gather nearby.

  Don’t just take my word for it, either—the next time you’re in Paris, take a little walk and see for yourself. Follow a route that starts at the glitzy café at the corner where the Avenue Franklin D. Roosevelt and the Rue Jean Mermoz come together at the Rond Pont des Champs-Élysées.

  Take a leisurely stroll up Rue Jean Mermoz to the Rue du Faubourg-St. Honoré. Take careful note of the customers in the trio of small restaurants that face the entrance to the Rue Rabelais. Then continue on, pausing at the intersection of the Faubourg to look back. Then turn right, go one block, turn right again on Avenue Matignon, pass the checkpoint, and continue to the Champs. Sit at the café, have a coffee or two, then do it all over again. You’ll see ’em if you look hard enough—they’re arrayed like birds on power lines. Two-, three-, and four-person teams. French countersurveillance units in unmarked cars. Algerians on motor scooters (the better for the thick Paris traffic). Flat-footed Russians. You’ll see Egyptians, Libyans, Syrians, and Iraqis—even the occasional Brit or American team, scouting the opposition. It’s like a fucking spooks’ convention.

  I signaled for more bread and wine. “So what did the asshole have for you?”

  “Nothing I didn’t know already—which makes me even more upset. He just wanted to bring me in to demonstrate that this is his turf and he’s in charge, and nothing happens without his permission.”

  From the sound of it, the Mossad’s Paris chief of station had gone to the same operational schools as the big bad BAW from Moscow, Bart Wyeth. The prospect of which was truly frightening, given my morning encounter with Werner Lantos and the prospect that Bart the BAW was working for the opposition.

  I gave Avi a full sit-rep of the morning’s activities, recounting in detail my impromptu meeting with Werner Lantos.

  He laughed when I told him about my breakfast on Werner Lantos’s chest. Then his face grew serious. “He’s dangerous,” Avi said.

  “So am I.”

  “But you are also principled.”

  “Only when I deal with principled people. Believe me, Avi—I’ll take this asshole down.”

  “He has a lot of protekzia.”

  “More than you think.” I told Avi about Lantos’s CIA connection.

  Avi’s reaction was a long, low whistle. “It makes perfect sense,” he said. “So, what do you want to do?”

  “I want my lunch, and another bottle of wine,” I said. “After all, I didn’t get to finish my breakfast.”

  Avi cracked what was no doubt the first smile of the day for him. “Ti Z’dayeen,” he said, telling me to
fuck myself in Hebrew. “First we’ll eat. Then we’ll plan.”

  So we ate, and we plotted—and I won a hundred francs from myself. The Israeli Cultural Center on Avenue Marceau was indeed the nerve center of AMAN’s clandestine activities in Paris. More specifically it was also where the office of AMAN’s three-man Russian-Mafiya working group—all were victims of the explosion—had been located. And guess what? There had been a series of attempted break-ins over the past three months.

  Now, here is a piece of tactical information for you: if you can isolate the pattern of action being directed against you, you can then take steps to anticipate and counteract it.

  Let’s do just that. First, let’s look at the current list of victims and see if we can discern a pattern. There was Paul Mahon, his family, and the Navy driver. Next came Andrei Yudin and several of his malevolent byki. Most recently, two American Army majors, two Israeli captains, and a lieutenant colonel became victims of violence. There have been other victims as well—French nationals at USOECD, and Israelis at the Cultural Center. But they had been what we call in the War business unintended collateral damage.

  What did the real targets have in common? The first element was simple: they all had some connection to the Russians, and the Russian Mafiya. Now, what else did the pattern tell us? It indicated that all the nonmafiya victims were investigating mafiya connections, with the growth of Russian intelligence and military activities as part of their assignments.

  So much for pattern. The next part of the equation, then, was anticipating the bad guys’ next moves—and initiating counteraction.

  Well, I have a theory about that, too. It is that you do not sit around and wait for something to happen. You must take the initiative—you must force events to happen. Indeed, as the sixteenth-century Samurai warrior Kojiro Okinaga taught his many students—among them, incidentally, was an ambitious thirteen-year-old named Miyamoto Musashi—“The Warrior provokes his adversaries into action before they are ready, because by doing so he will almost always gain the advantage over them.”

 

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