by Chris Allen
Morgan worked his conflicting emotions out in the gym for a solid two hours in the afternoon before taking a swim in the hotel pool and getting ready to meet Reigns, which included his first shave in well over a month. Now that he was with her and taking in the details of a new mission, that one elusive element that had been bugging him over the months of his self-imposed exile from Intrepid had finally fallen in his lap: more than anything else in his life Morgan knew that he needed a purpose, a reason to do the things he did; something bigger and more important than himself. Being a soldier and an Intrepid agent gave him that purpose.
“Salazar’s background initially got him on an Interpol watch list,” Reigns continued, “particularly because of his role in identifying and recruiting commercial pilots at that time. However, despite a lot of covert attention being directed toward him and his associates, he was squeaky clean. Interpol and the FBI found nothing to indicate that he was doing anything other than legitimately working with the airlines to recruit their pilots. So, with worldwide law enforcement resources already stretched to the limit, attention was directed elsewhere and he fell off the radar and into the background.”
“When was that?”
“About 2005.”
“And so what got everyone interested in him again?”
“All these recent air disasters, for one. Fresh eyes started looking at the major players operating in that space and, lo and behold, Salazar’s name cropped up. This time he was connected to a number of pilots who had been crew members on the planes that went down. He was immediately back to being a prioritized person of interest and returned to the top of the watch lists. His travel going back over the past five years was scrutinized and it was confirmed that during the past two years he’d been traveling back and forth between his home in Spain, Oahu and Antibes in the south of France.”
“What’s in Antibes?” Morgan said, although the answer came to him just as Reigns was answering.
“That’s where your man, Helldiver, has his main residence. Hiding right out in the open in a château located in the heart of billionaire and movie star territory.”
“Château de la Lavande,” Morgan replied. “I’ve heard it mentioned. I see the circumstantial connection but I’m guessing we have more than that, right?”
“Correct. Salazar was placed under surveillance by our people. Therese St. Marie has been leading the teams for well over a year; you remember her?”
“For sure. Therese had my back in Albania when we were after the Serbs. I still call her Aunty.” He smiled. “She’s great.”
“Well, she coordinated a protracted, round-the-clock global surveillance operation with the objective of proving unequivocally that contact between Salazar and Zolner was occurring. About a year ago, they hit pay dirt. Not only was Salazar identified visiting Zolner’s residence in France, but he was also a regular on Zolner’s yacht, the Gemini, operating out of Oahu. So—”
“With the connection established, the boss infiltrates me into the Zolner security machinery.”
“Correct, but not before infiltrating another agent into the center of the Zolner empire at the main residence in France.”
“Another agent? Who?”
“A woman named Dominique. She’s a shared asset, not just one of us. Sheridan’s keen to keep each component of this one very much compartmentalized to avoid the risk of any operational cross-contamination, so all I know is that she’s Europol but being run by Intrepid. You’re to make contact with her if you get to the residence with Helldiver.”
“OK, so where are we at right now? Anything from this Dominique?”
“Yes, and that’s exactly why I was sent out here to activate you,” she replied. “We believe Helldiver is preparing another attack. Salazar is the key. As far as we know, and his actions support this view, Salazar is not aware that he’s under any kind of scrutiny, which makes him easier to follow and therefore the weak link in Helldiver’s personal security arrangements. We know that Salazar has already been actively on the lookout for a new pilot in readiness for the next attack. He’s based out of Singapore and has been observed meeting with a number of possible candidates, all of whom we’ve identified as being in some way sympathetic to the extremist philosophy.”
“Yeah, the scorched earth philosophy,” Morgan said, the bitterness evident in his tone.
“Exactly. Latest information from Dominique suggests that Helldiver and his people are already in the advanced stages of planning. We – and when I say we I mean you, too, Morgan – have to find out the who-when-where and, whatever it is that they’re doing, stop it before they bring down another plane.”
“Jesus,” he whispered, half to himself. “I still can’t quite get my head around the ‘why.’ Why is a person like Zolner behind all this, and what is the objective? I mean, it’s got to be more than just straightforward extortion. Threatening these targeted countries – all of which are Islamic states – through their national airlines just seems pointless. It has to be something much more significant.”
“That’s our biggest dilemma. The motivation for the attacks isn’t apparent, yet. What I do know is that we have to stop the next one. The agent in France has been tasked to find out why they’re doing it. They’re throwing everything at this, Morgan. The General’s final words to me before I left London were that we were leaving no stone unturned.”
“So, what’s next for you, Reigns? I don’t expect they’ll let you swan around Hawaii in that bikini of yours for too much longer.” He smiled.
She smiled back. “Singapore is next. I’m following up on Salazar, starting with the crew of 712. Apparently Singapore cops have turned up something so I’m going in as Interpol liaison to check it out. I may find something that’ll help you.”
A few moments of silence fell as they finished their meals and drinks, each contemplating the tasks ahead. Reigns spoke first.
“And so here we are, Morgan; you and me in Hawaii, and a set of new mission objectives currently sitting on Sheridan’s desk back in London with your name all over them. People are relying on you, not just back in HQ but also the agent, whoever she is, currently operating within the French end of Helldiver’s operation and, if you think about it, potentially hundreds more innocent people who may still fall victim to these assholes unless they’re stopped.”
“I guess I can’t refuse then, can I?”
“Not really,” she replied, sipping her Corona. “And, if I remember correctly, you never were any good at saying no to me. P.S. I’m glad you shaved.” There was that look, the one with which she had so easily wrapped him around her little finger not so long ago.
“I’m glad you noticed,” he replied. “So, are we still under surveillance or have you called off your dogs?”
“I called them off hours ago. It’s just you and me, Morgan; right here, right now.”
“Then, what about you and me getting out of here, right now?”
Reigns stood and signed the docket to put their meals on her room account, then she walked around to Morgan and whispered in his ear.
Morgan stood immediately and said, “OK, but only if you promise to be gentle with me.”
“Don’t worry,” she replied. “I won’t hurt you.”
CHAPTER 13
Oahu, Hawaii
Rodenko sat in the passenger seat of the SUV. It was a new one, a gray Toyota. The cops, if they’d been tipped off, would be looking for the Cadillacs. Beside him at the wheel was Muller, their best driver, and in the back were Kazloŭ and Delemović, two of his biggest guys, who weren’t averse to getting their hands dirty. And this was going to get dirty.
They’d been parked in the shadows about a mile away from the apartment block where the Malaysian, Tengku, lived. Tengku was a mid-ranking diplomat in the Malaysian consulate and had been the appointed emissary between the Malaysians and Zolner. Of course, the Malaysians had absolutely no idea who they were dealing with. Their attempt to take Helldiver out was a line they should never have c
rossed.
They moved closer to the apartment block, parking in a side street that was well covered by a surrounding garden area with plenty of trees and plenty of darkness. Rodenko, Kazloŭ and Delemović were all dressed differently but practically; the only thing they had in common was that they were all wearing baseball caps, innocent enough at first glance, but the brims would shadow their faces and obscure their features on any of the apartment block’s CCTV cameras.
They entered separately spread over a fifteen-minute period. Rodenko was first through the main foyer and Kazloŭ and Delemović followed, accessing the building via the underground carpark, using codes that had been identified during previous surveillance of the premises. Muller stayed in the SUV. In the foyer, Rodenko took the elevator to the fifteenth floor and then, using the fire stairs, made his way back down to the fourteenth. Kazloŭ and Delemović would do the same. Kazloŭ had a trolley and Delemović was carrying a large, flat, rectangular bag. When they had all arrived on fourteen, Kazloŭ and Delemović hung back a little farther along the corridor while Rodenko approached the door. He removed his baseball cap and then the spray jacket he’d been wearing, revealing a navy blue open collar shirt, which, on a cursory check through the fish-eye lens in the door, was designed to suggest that he was something he was not. He took a quick final look along the corridor in both directions, nodded to the others, who were poised just six feet to his right, then gave two sharp raps on the door. A few seconds elapsed and then he heard movement just inside.
“Yes, who is it?”
“Mr. Tengku, I’m Officer O’Loughlin from HPD, sir. I’ve been tasked to check in with you following an incident that occurred yesterday.”
There was a momentary pause followed by a rattling chain and a latch being turned. The door opened.
“Yes,” said Tengku from the open door. “How can I help you?”
Tengku cast a wary eye over Rodenko’s clothes, quizzically noting the trainers, jeans and spray jacket and cap.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry, sir,” said Rodenko. “No need to be alarmed, I’m off-duty. I live nearby, so dispatch asked me to check in on you when I finished my shift. You can call my precinct if you’d like; I can wait here. Just seeing if you’re OK, is all, and if there’s anything you need.”
Tengku visibly relaxed. “That’s very kind of you, officer. As you can see I am completely fine. In fact I’m very tired, so I was planning on turning in.”
“Well, that’s great, sir,” Rodenko replied amiably. “Just one thing. You may not be aware, but we have an unmarked squad car downstairs in the street. So if you need anything at all, there are cops within reach. I can point out the car if you like. You’ll be able to see it from your balcony.”
Tengku paused for a moment, clearly uneasy, but Rodenko’s easy, unthreatening manner had the desired effect – the man relented and stood aside for Rodenko to enter, then led him through the apartment. Rodenko allowed the door to hang ajar behind them. By the time they’d reached the center of the living area, Kazloŭ and Delemović had entered. Kazloŭ’s trolley bumped the door, the unexpected noise causing Tengku to turn. The sight of not one but three men now inside the apartment startled him. He opened his mouth to protest. Rodenko struck with the side of his right hand directly at Tengku’s throat, stifling the sound and inducing a choking sensation as his vocal cords went into trauma, restricting the airway. But Rodenko had pulled the strike just enough to stop Tengku attempting to yell for help while giving them the seconds they needed to bring him under their control as they prepared to remove him from his apartment.
Kazloŭ closed the front door. Delemović laid the rectangular bag on the floor and loosened a series of ties that had bound it together. The bag was actually a large sheet of heavy-duty plastic and concealed a cardboard box, which he began to fold out. It was low and squat, but big and durable enough to contain a washing machine. Which is exactly what it had been made for.
Rodenko ensured that the semi-conscious Tengku was still breathing, then bound and gagged him. With the help of the others, Rodenko prepared Tengku for the box, wrapping him tightly within the black plastic sheet, allowing only his head to remain free. Then they lifted him into the box, closed it, positioned the tongue of the trolley under it and, using a number of long canvas belt ties, secured the box to the trolley.
Less than five minutes later they were back in the SUV and driving out of the underground carpark, the washing machine box shoved into the back.
They drove back to the house at Diamond Head and straight into the multi-vehicle garage that was attached to it. Once the roller door had shut again they opened the back of the Toyota. By now Tengku had come to and was wriggling around and moaning inside the box. Rodenko and the others dragged the box from the vehicle, allowing it to topple and fall hard onto its side on the concrete floor. Tengku let out a groan, shuffled some more but then settled. Delemović opened the box and Tengku’s face appeared, his nostrils flared and whistling as he desperately drew in fresh air. Delemović tore away the gag. Vomit and bile instantly streamed across the black plastic that was wrapped around the prisoner.
“What are you doing to me? My government will not stand for this.”
Rodenko and the others didn’t say a word, not even to each other. Instead they dragged Tengku from the box, cut him out of the plastic sheet and removed the bindings around his ankles, then got him to his feet and shoved him, stumbling, out of the garage down the stairs to the basement, where an area had already been prepared. The far corner of the basement was empty but for another large sheet of black plastic, a heavy wooden chair, a large black flag embossed with white Arabic characters fixed to the wall directly behind the chair, and a small digital camera on a tripod angled toward the chair. The scene was lit by the stark, impersonal glow of the fluorescent tubes set into the ceiling above. Tengku was coherent enough to see it and know exactly what it represented.
“No! No! No!” he screamed, trying to push uselessly against Kazloŭ and Delemović, his shoes slipping upon the polished concrete floor. “No, I am a Muslim! I am a Muslim. You cannot do this to me. It is against God’s law!”
Still Rodenko, Muller, Kazloŭ and Delemović said nothing. None of them were Muslims. Tengku was thrust down upon the chair and tethered to it. Another gag was produced, shoved into his mouth and the ends were tied behind his neck. Once he was fastened to the chair and groaning through the gag, eyes full of terror, Kazloŭ and Delemović looked at Rodenko. This was where the dirty work started. Rodenko nodded and the two men gave Tengku the beating of his life. The chair rocked and blood gushed, with barely a sound to be heard but for grunts of exertion from Kazloŭ and Delemović and the occasional groan from Tengku.
After about a minute, Rodenko indicated that Tengku had had enough. Tengku’s head fell forward onto his chest.
Kazloŭ and Delemović crossed the room, clambering out of their overalls, then changed into black clothes that had been carefully selected to convey a very specific message. They pulled balaclavas down over their faces. Kazloŭ slung a Kalashnikov around his neck and Delemović picked up a Makarov pistol. When they were ready they presented in front of Rodenko, who checked them down to the finest detail. Satisfied, the two of them took up their designated positions either side of the barely conscious Tengku, the flag suspended behind them. Muller took up his position behind the camera.
“OK,” said Rodenko, finally breaking the silence. “Let’s get this done.”
CHAPTER 14
The Red Lion, Whitehall, London
“Dominique is working as fast as she can, Mickey, and I think she’s done pretty well for us so far,” said Masterson. “She knows the stakes.”
“I know, but we need more. If she’s right and they are close to initiating another attack then we must get ahead of their game. If we don’t, hundreds more people will die and we’ll be no better off than we are right now.”
Masterson and Sheridan had found a quiet slice of the bar, sitting at a window on the
Derby Gate side. Masterson had just arrived from Paris. It was late afternoon, the peak hour hadn’t quite set in on Whitehall yet and they were halfway through their first round of scotch.
“So, how did you go with that name I sent through?” Masterson asked.
“Actually, that’s the only gem in all this whole mess,” replied Sheridan. “Dominique hit the goddamn jackpot uncovering that name. Khristya Elena Bedrosian, aka Kristina Zolner, is much more than just some heiress and wife of a billionaire.”
“Let’s have it then,” said Masterson. He took a long pull of his scotch.
“Khristya Bedrosian is a former officer of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR.”
“Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki,” Masterson said in perfect Russian. “The successor to the KGB. Changing the name hasn’t changed anything. Still the same machine.”
“You got that right. Bedrosian was recruited from university in the late nineties and by 2002 was operating within their counter-espionage directorate. From what we’ve gathered so far, she was eventually selected for covert operations and we understand she was specifically involved in a program which involved the targeting and deliberate blackmail of foreign diplomats and businessmen operating in Russia around the time that the Putin administration started turning on their oligarchs and jailing people like Mikhail Khodorkovsky.”
“A honey trap,” said Masterson. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Because when you’ve been in this game as long as we have, nothing surprises you,” said Sheridan. “The only thing is, around 2010 we hit a dead end. The trail runs stone cold and we can’t find a thing on her from then onwards until around 2013–14, when she suddenly re-emerged as Zolner’s fiancée, a woman allegedly of Turkish origin and heiress to a huge fortune.
“But it doesn’t stop there. In her SVR days, she was the protégé of Vasily Latushkin, now General Vasily Latushkin – current director of the SVR, a position which is personally appointed by the Russian president. He’s an identified hardliner with loyalties to some seriously old-guard Communist Party types – which fits right in with Putin’s Russia – not the least of whom was one of General Davenport’s old foes, a general by the name of Zolnerowich.”