Helldiver: The Alex Morgan Interpol Spy Thriller Series (Intrepid 4)

by Chris Allen

  The cab driver eventually took him along the Boulevard President Wilson where he saw the sign above an arched entrance that said FESTIVAL DE LA MER, his destination. He told the driver to stop about fifty yards short of the place, got out, paid the fare and then spent the next thirty minutes to all intents and purposes meandering around the general area of the pentagon formed by Boulevard President Wilson, Boulevard Edouard Baudoin, Avenue Maréchal Joffre and Avenue G. de Maupassant. He still had plenty of time up his sleeve, so to give his counter-surveillance measures the look and feel of those of a genuine tourist, he took a brief stroll along the promenade of Boulevard Edouard Baudoin. He stopped for coffee to enjoy the views of Golfe Juan, the site of Napoleon’s return from exile and the commencement of the infamous “Hundred Days” before his defeat at Waterloo, and then worked his way back via Avenue G. de Maupassant toward the RV.

  *

  Inside Festival de la Mer, Masterson asked for a table on the outdoor terrace so he could maintain a view of the approaches to the restaurant and not be easily overheard and, as a bonus, he could enjoy the sunshine. Satisfied with the table, he ordered a bottle of rosé as he perused the menu. Traveling as much as he did and living out of a suitcase far too often, Masterson always made a point of enjoying his meals. It was one of the few luxuries he could enjoy when his profession required him to be constantly on the move. Feeling like something substantial, he liked the look of the filet de bœuf grillé, croustillant de pommes de terre truffé and decided that he’d order that when she arrived. Based on past experience, he expected she’d probably opt for seafood, which he generally considered to be cat food and avoided like the plague. By the time the waiter returned with the wine, Masterson saw his contact emerge from the Kiwi Saint Tropez store and then unhurriedly cross the road at the pedestrian crossing. She was wearing a white T-shirt under a loose-fitting patterned blouse with tight white jeans and ankle-strapped sandals. She was about five feet eight, tanned and toned, and moved with grace and confidence. Her hair was dark brown and cut in a messy bob, which he guessed was popular for young women. Whatever, it all worked.

  “Uncle!” she said in perfect educated French, which was no surprise because she was, according to Mickey Sheridan, French. Although Masterson often thought he heard traces of an English background in there somewhere, along with an occasional slice of America. They’d kept French as their default language during all their meetings. Masterson stood and they embraced briefly, kissing on each cheek as they established the pretence of close familial connection.

  “How lovely to see you again,” she said.

  “Hello, my darling.” Despite himself and his habitually strict adherence to the stoic detachment demanded of his profession, he still found her bright blue eyes mesmerizing. “I couldn’t miss the opportunity to come and see you. You look as beautiful as ever.”

  He remained standing as she sat down and then followed suit, both of them smiling amiably and falling into general chatter about family, weather and what she’d been up to. They maintained it for some time while the wait staff saw to their orders. He went with the beef while she, as expected, ordered the filet de daurade grillé, ratatouille à l’ancienne. She was happy to start with a glass of the rosé he’d recommended. When they were finally settled and their conversation had run the gamut of innocuous pleasantries, purely for the benefit of any inquisitive ears, they got down to business.

  “OK, Dominique,” he said. “What’s the latest? The General is eager for progress.”

  “There’s been a lot of activity since the last one went down.”

  “You mean 712?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Helldiver is still in Hawaii, which I’m sure you already know, but we received word late yesterday that he’s returning here soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Can’t be sure. Apparently they’re going to spend some time aboard the Gemini before heading back here. I expect they want to lie low after the attempt on their lives. Do we know who it was yet?”

  “Headquarters say Malaysians, most likely,” he replied. “Whoever it was, they didn’t really think it through. What about the recruiter, Salazar – any news on him?”

  “Only that he is meeting Helldiver in Hawaii and – don’t quote me on this bit – I believe he may have a couple of recently recruited pilots in tow. Based on the last occurrence, before we knew what they were doing I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if this latest trip to Hawaii doesn’t turn out to be a rerun of the last time they hosted pilots – ahead of 712, where Helldiver and his wife wine and dine their latest kamikazes before sending them off to their great sacrifice in the name of you know who.”

  “Which means we have even less time than we thought. If the last one is anything to go by, we could be looking at just a couple of weeks before they bring down another.”

  “Exactly. That’s what unsettles me most of all about this. I’m constantly asking myself: Am I missing anything? Can I do more?”

  “You’ve been doing everything you can, Dominique, and more; but I must say, on the basis of this latest information and the high probability of an attack occurring much earlier than anticipated, we need to ramp things up a few notches ASAP. That means you’ll need to be more aggressive in terms of fighting for information, which inherently involves a much greater risk potential for you actually being caught. Are you up for it?”

  “Of course. I’ve not come this far to let things fall over now. I’ll do whatever needs to be done.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a moment,” he said. “From here on the critical element is information, and we’ll need it fast, like as soon as you have it. Meanwhile, right now, if there’s anything, even the slightest whisper of an idea or a conversation you’ve overheard that you think might be valuable, let’s have it.”

  “There’s a new face at the château. An older man, maybe late sixties, possibly even older. Eastern European. He visited recently before Helldiver left for Hawaii and returned again two days ago. I’ve only been privy to snippets of conversations between Helldiver and this guy on the last visit, but my take on his accent is that he’s most likely another Russian. Physically he looks quite good for his age, although the face definitely shows the years. Hard life, you know. And there’s a military kind of bearing to him. Formal. Upright. Powerful even. He was welcomed to the inner circle immediately, almost reverently, and I’ve never seen Helldiver embrace anyone before, but he definitely embraced this guy. I got the impression he was family.”

  “But from what we know about Zolner, his father, General Igor Zolnerowich – a former KGB operative – was killed about ten years back. Shot in the head in some sort of interagency reprisal. Rumor had it that it was done by the Russian Security Service on the orders of someone in the hierarchy settling old scores. Zolnerowich was one of the old school Communists who didn’t like it when the wall came down and everything changed.”

  “Well, if it isn’t a family thing there is definitely the business end,” she said. “Because the old Russian is involved in something big with Helldiver. On this visit he’s pretty much kept to himself in the suite of rooms prepared for him. Unfortunately my duties as Helldiver’s executive officer restrict me to only their legitimate, public business interests. Getting access to their closed-door meetings, even their private rooms at the château, is still proving impossible.”

  “Maybe we should kit you out to bug the place?”

  “It’s a possibility. They sweep the place for tech pretty regularly but not routinely. Rodenko, the head of security, sees to it. They’d pick up a bug in a flash if the timing was out.”

  “Well, we may have to risk it. I’ll see what I can arrange and you’ll have to find a way of getting access to those closed-door sessions, at least to the rooms ahead of the sessions, and you have to do it soon. You need to be at the table, remotely or otherwise, especially with this new player, the old Russian, on the scene and Helldiver potentially getting ready for another attack.”

&nbs
p; They chatted with the wait staff as their meals were laid out before them and their wine glasses were refilled. Masterson felt they were getting somewhere, he just had to let Dominique explore her thoughts some more, away from the pressure of being undercover in the château. He wanted to keep the meeting relaxed and conversational so she could guide herself through her observations without feeling she had to deliver. It was the best way to handle an agent like her. She’d been under for almost a year, working her way in from the outer layers of the Zolner empire, and until recently she had been Intrepid’s only asset on the ground. Every time he met with her, Masterson was even more impressed. Apart from being one of the smartest women he’d ever known, she had guts, there was no doubting that, and in this game you needed them. The General had chosen well when he’d picked her for this job.

  “What about the wife,” Masterson began when they were alone again. “What’s her level of involvement like? Last time you mentioned she’d started off slow in the early days but over time she’s become very hands-on in terms of his business dealings. That still the case?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “She is definitely the Hillary Clinton in their relationship. If anything, over the past six months she has exerted even more influence over him. She chairs some of those closed-door meetings when he’s not around and, when he is, she’s still in on all of them. It’s interesting given they’ve only been married a year or so. She’s very much a part of his decision-making apparatus.”

  The wife was definitely worth a lot more attention. Masterson’s thoughts instinctively returned to the old Russian. There was something there. The military bearing. Powerful. Another old school Communist? On the basis of his age it was a serious possibility, but what was the connection between the old guard and a Russian oligarch like Helldiver? Strategy. Motive. He thought of Russia’s recent attempts to so publicly unnerve NATO, putting a shiver across Europe.

  “What’s the relationship like between Kristina Zolner and your old Russian? Noticed anything? Could that be the family connection?”

  “I wondered about that initially, but the more I saw of her interaction with him on the most recent visit, I got the impression she was almost deferential, which, trust me, is not like her at all. She’s a formidable woman. But this guy brings out a submissive side that I’ve not seen in her around anyone else.”

  “Remind me – her nationality; didn’t we have her pegged as Eastern European, too?”

  “Originally the popular view was that she was Turkish, mainly because that’s what the Zolners have suggested in the media, along with a history connecting her with one of the wealthiest families in Turkey, and that she is an heiress of some description. Very clever manipulation of a very distant ancestry as it turns out. Anyway, I handle their passports with reasonable regularity these days because I’m now responsible for arranging their international travel and so on. She was back here about a week ago before she joined her husband in Hawaii. She often comes and goes while he’s away. When she asked me to arrange her flights to Oahu, she mistakenly took a blue passport from the drawer of her desk, but then realized she had as she handed it across to me and snatched it back, replacing it with a red one, the Turkish one that she usually uses. Yesterday I finally managed to get clear of the other household staff and accessed Kristina’s private office. I picked the lock on her desk and found the passport. She’s actually Armenian. Her full name is Khristya Elena Bedrosian. Date of birth: twenty-three April, 1978. Place of birth: Yerevan, Armenia. Perhaps that might assist in tracing her background a little more accurately than what’s on offer in HELLO magazine or Harper’s Bazaar.”

  “You’re right. That’ll be extremely helpful,” he replied, memorizing all of it. “Who knows, that connection to the Russian may just be staring us right in the face.”

  “You got one of those famous hunches of yours?” she asked with a smile.

  “I prefer to consider them informed intuition,” he replied. “Playing a hunch is far too Raymond Chandler for me. Hell, you’re probably too young to even know who Raymond Chandler is!”

  “I know who Raymond Chandler is,” replied Dominique. “He wrote all those detective books my granddad used to read when he was a young man. Older men still like to read them, right?”

  “Whoa! I guess I had that one coming!” Masterson laughed. “But seriously, this deferential thing you mentioned about her attitude toward the old Russian – could be something there, especially given the timeframe of their respective appearances on the scene. Keep an eye out for any angles that may connect them. And if you can, try to get a picture of him, ASAP. Meanwhile, I’ll feed this info about her back to London and they can get their people working on it. You got anything else?”

  “No, that’s it. If anything changes I’ll let you know.”

  “OK. If a person like Helldiver can maintain such a positive public profile while still covering his tracks so effectively on the non-public side … well, we all know he doesn’t deal in small change. So, proceed with caution. If he’s into what we all think he’s into, then he’ll be prepared to do just about anything to make sure it stays under the radar.”

  “You think I should be worried? More than usual, I mean?”

  “No, not worried. You can’t afford to worry in this business. Just be cautious, particularly if you’re going to get in on those meetings. And while we’re on that subject, I have some of my own news for you.”

  “Out with it then.”

  “Well, if all goes to plan, you should be getting backup around the time that Helldiver arrives from Hawaii.”

  “Backup? What do you mean?”

  “That’s as much as I know and as much as I’m allowed to tell you. They’ve infiltrated another agent into the Hawaiian end of this thing and it’s very possible he’ll be returning here with the Zolners. So, keep your ear to the ground and your eyes peeled.”

  “Will my orders change once this new person arrives?”

  “A fair question. From my viewpoint, no. I expect they’ll keep you doing what you’re doing, and the new guy will be their person to shake things up a bit on the operational side. Coming at it from two angles. Whoever it is, I’m sure they’ll make contact with you when they hit the ground. After all, there’s no point in us having the two of you spying on each other, now, is there?”

  “OK, if they must. I just hope whoever it is knows what they’re doing when it comes to dealing with people who operate at this level; you know, when money is no object. They’re very different from us mere mortals. In every way.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m sure the General wouldn’t be sending in some wet-behind-the-ears rookie. He’ll send someone with experience who’s not afraid to take them on. Until then, all I need you to do is take care of yourself. You got that?”

  She nodded and smiled bravely back at him, but Masterson wasn’t buying it. He felt there was something about the introduction of another agent that had her spooked.

  And for the life of him he couldn’t work out why.

  CHAPTER 12

  “After 9/11,” Reigns began, “anyone with even the slightest leanings toward extremist Islam who was either already a pilot or in the process of becoming one, came onto the radar of international authorities. One of these guys was a former Skyhawk pilot of the Fuerza Aérea Argentina by the name of Carlo Alfredo Salazar. He flew missions against the British during the Falklands War in ’82 and, notwithstanding the fact that he is one of only one percent of the Argentine population who practice Islam, he was identified as being supportive of extremist action against the US in 2001 and was subsequently flagged when it became known that he was working as a pilot-recruitment consultant to a number of major international airlines around the time of the US invasion of Iraq in 2003.”

  “Jesus. I reckon this is the guy I saw leaving Helldiver just as I was being ushered in,” said Morgan.

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday. They’d been watching the CNN coverage repor
ting on the missing plane and the cyclone just as I arrived.”

  “Makes sense,” Reigns said. “Our team has been monitoring Salazar here in Hawaii, too. He was followed to the Zolners’ house out at Diamond Head yesterday. No doubt he and Helldiver were checking in after 712.”

  Morgan shook his head in disbelief and took a swig from his Corona. He and Reigns were sitting in the Kuhio Beach Grill at the Waikiki Beach Marriott where Reigns was staying. They’d parted company earlier and spent the rest of the day separately. It was important to maintain the appearance of two people who’d just met and who had decided they’d liked each other enough to follow up with dinner. It also gave Morgan time to digest the fact that he’d been on the Intrepid books the whole time he’d thought he was unwinding and trying out a new life. He’d taken the opportunity to process the full extent of the anger, frustration and utter powerlessness he felt at having been manipulated so systematically. However, when all was said and done, he knew that the General – and Sheridan for that matter – had little choice: they had to get someone on the inside. If Morgan had had even a whisper of the truth about Helldiver, he knew that Rodenko and his team would have eventually smelled a rat. They needed to get Morgan in with a completely clean slate as far as Helldiver was concerned. They’d had no choice.