RW14 - Dictator's Ransom

by Richard Marcinko

  “Maybe he counted from the east side,” said Trace.

  I was just about to send her to check when I realized that I had counted the creature at the start of the bridge, which was more elephant than lion. Before I could get to the beast in question, a group of kids swarmed over me, jabbering in Chinese. I tried to put them off by saying I was a tourist and only spoke English. That didn’t even slow them down—they quickly switched to English, speaking better than most dishwashers and lawn guys back home.

  “Hey, mister, you take picture with us. You be famous.”

  “Good for vacation, mister.”

  “You Number One Tourist, Joe. Give us five dollars.”

  “Listen, kids,” said Trace loudly. “See that guy at the far end of the bridge? That guy owns a candy factory, and he’s looking for some kids to test new candies. Tell him George sent you. I’m sure he’ll hire you.”

  They were off in two seconds. The money, cards, and ID were under the paw, as promised. We grabbed a cab and went into town, where we bought some Western clothes. Then we went prowling outside the tourist area, looking for hotels. What we saw wasn’t very appetizing—the better-looking places were brothels, and even they looked like they were crawling with cockroaches, insects as well as humans.

  “Instead of hanging around town for the night, maybe we can catch a flight,” said Trace finally. “It’s still early. If they’re looking for anyone, it’ll be Yong Shin Jong and an ancient Chinese veterinarian, not you and me.”

  She had a point, and after a further survey of the seamier side of town, we made our way to a better section and grabbed a cab. Our false IDs had open tickets on Japan Airlines; we booked into a flight leaving for Tokyo in less than three hours.

  After passing through the customs check—you have to smile to leave China—a stone-faced official appeared and waved us off the moving sidewalk.

  “Doesn’t look like he’s directing traffic,” whispered Trace.

  “Yes.”

  “Should we run?”

  “Nowhere to go.”

  “Bullshit then?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The man walked over to us.

  “You,” he said, pointing at me. “Where is your passport?”

  Two equally unsmiling men with submachine guns came over and stood behind him. I handed over my passport. He held it up close to my face, then pulled it back.

  “Good forgery,” he said.

  “Think so?”

  “Your name is not Harold Bishop.”

  “Most people call me Harry.”

  “I would say you are Richard Marcinko.”

  “Really? Richard Marcinko? Who’s he?”

  The man pulled a well-thumbed copy of Red Cell from his pocket, holding up the cover near my face as he had the passport. I wouldn’t have minded so much if it hadn’t been a cheap bootleg Chinese edition—no royalties.

  “You got me,” I told him.

  “You sign for me?” asked the man.

  “I need a pen.”

  He produced one, then told me how to draw his name in Chinese characters. Five minutes later, we were in the line at the departure gate.

  It pays to have fans all across the world. A few fifty-dollar bills, American, tucked into the signature page of a personalized book don’t hurt either.

  [ III ]

  YONG SHIN JONG said the Chinese were protecting him,” I told Fogglebottom when I arrived at our embassy in Tokyo the next day. “Why didn’t your people know that?”

  “The CIA is not ‘my people,’ ” said Fogglebottom, looking over at Jimmy Zim, the CIA officer.

  “I said it was a possibility,” said Jimmy Zim.

  “Who is Polorski working for?” I asked. “You?”

  Jimmy Zim frowned. I frowned back.

  “Polorski does not work for the CIA,” said Jimmy Zim. “You should have checked his background.”

  If he’d been an employee, we certainly would have done an extensive check. But I didn’t hire him blind either: before Trace started taking lessons from him, we had a friend in the FBI investigate his background. He was Polish, and in America legally. Interpol had nothing on him, and a contact in the Polish military confirmed that he had the equivalent of an honorable discharge.

  That was a fair amount of checking for someone who was just teaching a friend to fly helicopters. The mistake had been trusting him beyond that.

  “What is his real background?” I asked Zim.

  “Maybe we should get a drink,” Jimmy Zim suggested. It was the first intelligent thing he’d said since we met.

  We didn’t leave the embassy, just the floor. The ambassador had a private study, which the deputy ambassador was glad to make available after Jimmy Zim explained the situation to the CIA’s chief of station. Fogglebottom was invited to find something else to do, an invitation he accepted with a frown. Zim and I settled into a pair of thickly padded leather chairs, the CIA officer with a Scotch, me with a double dose of Bombay Sapphire.

  According to Jimmy Zim, Polorski was a member of a particularly nasty strain of the Russian mafiya—not that there are any strains that go around buying Barney dolls for your kids. The group included former Russian para-troopers, some special ops guys, and mixed in Georgians and Poles, an unusual feature that indicated its size. Organized along business as well as military lines, the group specialized in selling banned weapons and other items to African and Middle Eastern countries. There had apparently been contact between Pyongyang and members of the enterprise some months before.

  “We think it’s possible they’ve worked out a deal to trade Yong Shin Jong’s life for one of Korea’s nukes,” said Jimmy Zim.

  “Hmmmph,” I said, sipping my drink. Zim claimed to have dug out the background in the past few hours, since hearing from me and Fogglebottom what had happened. But I had my own suspicions. One of them was that Polorski had come to America specifically with the idea of infiltrating my organization somehow. He might have tried getting into Yong Shin Jong’s compound himself, then decided to let Dick do it, convincing Sun or even Kim Jong Il to hire me as bird dog.

  The alternative was that he’d come over without any plan and just lucked into a jackpot. But I didn’t believe in that much luck.

  The real question was how much the CIA had known about Polorski beforehand. Zim hemmed and hawed when I asked, giving me some bullshit about late translations on intercepts, too many foreigners to track, human error—all the usual crap you hear from the Christians in Action when they’re not playing straight with you, which is eighty percent of the time. Given the CIA’s track record, it’s entirely possible he was telling the truth—that they had had no idea who Polorski was until he screwed me. But it was certainly a question I’d’ve liked to ask my good friend Admiral Jones.

  “We want the nuclear weapon that Polorski’s going to trade for Yong Shin Jong,” said Jimmy Zim. “If that’s what they’re up to.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Can we count on your help for this?”

  “I wouldn’t,” I told him, putting my drink down and walking from the room.

  [ IV ]

  I WASN’T WALKING INTO the sunset, or giving up on finding Yong Shin Jong. No way that was going to happen, if only because Trace was sure to want to observe the quaint Apache custom of castrating her lying lover, tying him to an anthill in the middle of the desert, and pouring honey on him while the buzzards circled above. She’d follow Tall, Dark, and Dogmeat to the ends of the earth if she had to, and frankly, so would I. But for the moment I didn’t see any point in working too closely with Jimmy Zim. Not only didn’t I trust him, I didn’t like him. In fact, I was in a pretty pissed off mood at everybody, including Disney, whose outrageous admission prices to their Tokyo Park put a major dent in my operating budget when I arranged to meet my Russian friend Ivan15 there.

  Ivan is a member of the Russian FSB—that’s the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti, the foreign spy service once known as the KGB. He’
s “covered” in Tokyo as a diplomat, a pretense that fools absolutely no one. He and I have had our various encounters over the years, and while I trust him as far as I can sneeze, he’s an impeccable source of information about the Russian mafiya, a subject that he will discourse on for hours if he’s in a good mood. And the best way to put Ivan in a good mood is to take him to Disney World.

  There’s probably something Freudian about his attraction to Mickey Mouse, but I’ve never analyzed it too carefully. When I met him on line to the Jolly Trolley, he was grinning from ear to ear—Goofy had just waved at him. I did my best to feign interest in animated characters and amusement rides, while gradually working the conversation around to Ike Polorski. Ivan recognized the name immediately—you could see the flicker in his eyes—but we boxed around for another half hour or so, riding the Jolly Trolley twice and even visiting Minnie’s House, before he finally admitted that the FSB had listed him as a “person of interest” within the past two months. This apparently translated as someone they would shoot first and interrogate later. Polorski had sold weapons to a Chechen group that had subsequently used them to blow up a school full of children in southern Russia.

  “Very nasty human being,” said Ivan. “Horrible man. Do not trust.”

  What a surprise. Usually you find Girl Scouts in his line of work.

  “I put you in touch with Colonel Setrovich, antimafiya force,” said Ivan.

  “He likes Disney, too?”

  Ivan frowned, then shook his head.

  “Can I trust this colonel?”

  Another frown.

  “If your interests are similar, you may work in parallel,” said Ivan. “But trust—that is something I would be surprised to find anywhere in Russia these days.”

  WHILE I WAS having fun in Tokyo, Doc and the others were resting up and getting their bearings in South Korea. After escaping the Chinese fighters, they had landed near Kunsan on the coast. After hearing that we were OK, Doc and Lo Po started working on tracing Polorski. But even with the help of our navy connections and Lo Po’s friends in the Chinese military, the chopper’s course and whereabouts remained a mystery. The U.S. uses a number of “platforms” to keep track of traffic in and out of North Korea via China, and at least according to everyone Doc spoke to, no helicopter or unscheduled truck traffic had made the crossing.

  “He could have slipped into one of the food convoys,” said Doc. “He’s had plenty of time.”

  “Maybe. But if they’re setting up some sort of swap, I doubt he’d trust Kim or Sun well enough to simply go over the border like that. He’d have a more elaborate plan.”

  I told Doc to see about tickling some of our South Korean friends and to keep working the phones. In the meantime, Lo Po and his people were returning to Shanghai, where he had other pressing business. I thanked him with the usual terms of endearment, as well as a promise to return the many favors I owed him as soon as possible.

  “Remember old Chinese saying, Dick.”

  “What’s that, Lo Po?”

  “Payback is a bitch.”

  Back home, Karen was doing a fine job of handling Red Cell’s business, with a little help from Danny Barrett, my vice president in charge of kicking ass. Matthew Loring had determined that the computer e-mails we’d been bombarded with had been the result of an e-mail advertising campaign gone bad. The owners of the Chinese restaurant responsible for the campaign had pretended not to speak English when he called to ask them to do something about it, so he’d written a reverse computer virus that would attack the sender’s servers and stop the attack.

  And in his spare time, he’d tracked down some more of Yong Shin Jong’s accounts—including two with hedge funds in Singapore that were not recorded in his name.

  “Large accounts,” said Karen. “Fifty million dollars apiece. They were opened about four months ago, and haven’t been accessed since.”

  That gave Kim Jong Il one hundred million reasons to call his bastard a bastard.

  IT TURNED OUT that I had met Russian FSB Colonel Setrovich about a year and a half before, when I had traveled to St. Petersburg for a conference on international tourism. He’d been with a group of FSB officers who had tried to convince me that vodka was superior to gin; it was a losing battle, but they fought a good fight.

  “I think I may still have that hangover,” he confessed when I finally reached him. “But, enough fun. I understand you are interested in Ike Polorski.”

  “Very interested in him,” I said.

  “He is man I would personally like to cut open his stomach, pull out his liver, and force it down his throat,” said the colonel. “I have real love for him.”

  Colonel Setrovich was busy trying to squeeze information from some former mafiya associates who were living in semi-exile in the cold Russian northeast. But he would be back in his office in Khabarousk, a city about a thousand miles from Tokyo, the next day, and suggested we meet there around five.

  “We may be able to find this Polorski,” said Setrovich. “Or his friends. We show him Rogue Warrior–style love, yes?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “And then we will renew our debate,” he said. “Vodka better than gin. You see.”

  As soon as he hung up, I dialed Karen.

  “How do I get ahold of Matthew Loring?” I asked. “And how good do you think his Russian is?”

  MATTHEW’S RUSSIAN WAS nonexistent, but he was fluent in the language that counted: computerese. Colonel Setrovich might or might not be forthcoming when we met, but I figured his computer would be. The plan was simple—while the colonel and I traded drinking songs, Trace and Matthew would sneak into his office, fire up the computer, and see what they could find.

  Ordinarily, I would have expected Trace to give Matthew a hard time. It wouldn’t have been anything personal—she always puts newbies to the test. But something about Loring elicited her maternal instincts as soon as she saw him.

  Maybe it was the fact that his suitcase looked to weigh more than he did.

  “We gotta get Junior something to eat,” she said after we spotted him coming out of the international arrivals area at Tokyo Narita Airport. “He’s going to blow away in the wind.”

  Matthew was thin, though at six-four I wouldn’t call him small. He had a good frame, with wide shoulders and long lean legs; his problem was that he had no meat on his bones. Karen had e-mailed me a picture of him that made him look as if he were in middle school. In real life, he looked even younger. He had round cheeks, huge eyes, and peach fuzz. The background check Karen had done confirmed that he’d graduated college, but if it wasn’t for his height I would have thought he was just entering his teens.

  He spotted me and Trace across the hall and stopped. He blinked those owl eyes of his twice, then opened his mouth without saying anything for a minute. Finally, he managed to blurt, “Mr. Marcinko? Sir?”

  “Call me Dick, kid.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Marcinko.”

  “Oh, that’s cute,” said Trace. She took his bag. “Come on, Junior. Let’s get something to eat.”

  “Um, I’m not really hungry, Ms. Dahlgren. It’s, um, a pleasure to meet you.”

  Trace grabbed his wrist and dragged him to the nearest noodle shop. She forced two full helpings down his throat—think mother bird feeding a baby—before we had to take off for the plane to eastern Russia.

  The flight to Khabarousk (also spelled Kharovsk) took about three hours, counting the time we spent circling the city while the pilot looked for coins to throw into the parking meter at the airfield. During the Cold War, Khabarousk was the headquarters of the Soviet Union’s Far Eastern Military Command, which made it a pretty happening place if you liked thick woolens and surface-to-air missiles. Now it’s even more important as a gateway between China, Russia, and the rest of the world. Japanese and Korean businessmen have invested billions here over the past decade or so, and though the airport remains pretty primitive, the city bears Asia’s most obvious sign of prosper
ity: it’s perpetually covered by a thick haze of smog.

  If you hold your breath long enough, Khabarousk can be almost pleasant. The basic Cold War architecture of gray concrete has been supplemented by older and newer buildings with actual bricks; the main streets in the city center are lined with parks and very wide sidewalks. The sidewalks have to be wide to accommodate the foot traffic; many of the residents can’t afford the inflated bus fare to get to work.

  We found a hotel, swept the rooms for bugs—there were none—then mustered for a quick reconnoiter of the area. Colonel Setrovich’s office was in a six-story 1950s-style cement-sided building a few blocks from the geographic center of town. A fat babushka sat at a desk in the lobby; the doors beyond her were keyed to open with swipe cards. We watched the place long enough to discover that the local employees’ watering hole of choice was across the street, two blocks down.

  “Come with me, Junior,” Trace told Matthew Loring as the clock wound its way to five. “Let’s go get a drink.”

  “I, um, I don’t drink.”

  “Drinking is a job requirement in this company, Junior,” she told him. “The sooner you learn, the better.”

  “AMERICAN BEAR! You are here!”

  Colonel Setrovich’s voice could have been heard over a sonic boom as I entered his office. I extended my arm; he grabbed me in a hug.

  “You son of a bitch, yes?” said Setrovich.

  “The biggest.”

  “You outdrink me last time. Not now. I have practiced.” Setrovich patted his belly, as if its rotund shape was proof. “Come. We have dinner. You pick up tab.”

  He thought this was the funniest joke in the world, and laughed all the way down the back stairs to the parking lot.

  Colonel Setrovich’s black Lada looked about ten years old; the rear quarter panels were dimpled with rust and flaking paint that didn’t quite match the original. Setrovich had to jiggle the key a bit to get it to start. When it did, the engine gave a double hiccup that shook the car as if we were experiencing a 5.3 earthquake. The shake disappeared until the vehicle warmed up, then came like clockwork every forty-five seconds.