by Ian Maxwell
“Sweet Baby Buddha… Sweet, sweet baby Buddha… Sweet Baby Buddha… Anna? Petrova? President?”
“Xiannian,” looked up Anna Petrova as the Chinese Premier was ushered into her office.
“Oh thank you baby Buddha… it’s you… Madam President…”
“So… you seem to have come to your senses.”
“Yes Madam.”
“So what did the Americants say about your Russian problem?”
“They… they accused me of cutting out the cartels and dipping into the DEA’s profits.”
“Haha DEA… classic.”
“Madam what do you want? Anything. Please tell me. Triple the price for gas? Sure… pipeline to Sakhalin? Absolutely… anything Madam anything….”
“For starters stop selling the damn trains. That’s all we want.”
“Done. But that’s it?”
“Yes. Stop peddling your cheap ass trains. Get to work on those pipelines. That’s really all.”
After assuring Xiannian for five more minutes, the Kremlin bundled him back into the beat up Camry and shooed him away to Beijing.
Langley, Virginia
Sarah McAllister rushed into Jim Borland’s office in Langley.
“Xiannian just announced a major gas deal with Russia. The dimwit even offered to build a pipeline from Sakhalin to Beijing, via Sapporo.
“Sapporo as in…”
“Sapporo, Japan. What’s gotten into that man? And why are the Russians doing all this? And again why Sapporo?”
“Well that confirms our suspicions. The Chinese just aren’t hard enough. A lack of toughness – badass-ness – hardness – cojones-ness… or rather cojones-less-ness.”
“Yeah thanks. I get the idea Jim,” said Sarah hastily, “But why this game of Russian Roulette? Crashing a plane carrying a train that’s filled with cocaine…? Jesus.”
“Sanctions.”
“Please. We sanction them and they take off their shirts and ride ponies. That’s what they do. But this… this new MO just doesn’t make any sense.”
Sarah continued to pace Borland’s office.
“Wait. What about our assets in Moscow our moles?”
“Nothing. The SVR and the FSB assumed that Petrova was just lipstick on the pig for the previous regime. So they mollycoddled her and kept her out of the loop. I guess they went too far and she flipped out.”
After twiddling her Blackberry, the Undersecretary of State sighed, “Ok fine. What about the drugs?”
“We pulled everything the NSA could lay their hands on and so far we have nothing. That Antonov 225 took off from Guangzhou with the train and nothing but the train. We have video footage, eyewitnesses and a ton of paperwork to prove it.”
“Are we sure there were no drugs on that plane? I mean Guangzhou is close to the Golden Triangle and Kunming… both restive.”
Jim Borland replied flatly, “Absolutely nothing.”
That left only one option and Sarah was afraid to broach it. “So… where does that leave us?”
Jim voiced it, “An old fashioned switcheroo…”
“The Russians switched planes… switched the only AN-225 in existence with a phantom AN-225?”
“Yep.”
Sarah digested the switcheroo theory before moving along, “Ok let’s get back to the drugs.”
“Well the cocaine was synthetic. As in factory made. Not grown in Burma or Thailand or Afghanistan.”
“So Chinese factories?”
“tl;dr it’s Japanese.”
“Whaaat? Give me the whole story, Jim”
“Well, turns out there are a ton of perfectly good yet abandoned factories all over the Fukushima Prefecture. Not dangerous, just stigmatized.”
“So?”
“So, the Japanese government decided to throw a bone to the unemployed factory workers… by giving them the technology and permits to manufacture synthetic coke.”
“Ughh. Is that even possible? I mean to make cocaine synthetically?”
“They are the Japanese. They can do anything when not wanking off to tentacles.”
“Fair enough, but what about… umm… taste… if five Latinos aren’t wasted per pound, I can’t really appreciate the product… I guess I am a purist…. I mean I am not… but there are people in DC who are…”
Jim Borland reassured her, “The Yakuza forced their way into the distribution. So it may not be five guys per lb., them being efficient and all, but maybe a leg or an arm per pound.”
“Seems pretty radical.”
“That’s right, radical is what the Japs have become. After thirty years of economic stagnation… I guess they just don’t give a fuck.”
Chapter 22
Laguna Beach, Greater Tijuana Area
Fifty year old Ramon Estrada sat by the pool at a motel, as a bunch of unsavory ladies paddled about. He tried to relax despite the circumstances. The last 24hrs had been catastrophic. He had had to hide his assets and abandon Mehico.
Senor Estrada was the head of the 9th largest cartel in Mehico. Unlike the big guns he prided himself in being a boutique operator. His business had almost zero violence, certified Six Sigma. His clientele were eclectic. He abhorred the word Drug Lord and imagined himself as a mere facilitator… a lowly consiglieri… a mid-level manager.
Unlike the big dawgs in his industry, he never got into turf wars or even attempted to gain territory. In fact under his leadership his cartel had slipped from the 7th to 9th by volume. Under normal circumstances, he would have been chopped up and fed to iguanas at the San Diego Zoo. Instead, Senor Estrada had been commended.
Senor Estrada unlike other cartel heads, was special man. He was a different man. Senor Estrada was the head of the Federale Cartel. Federale as in the Mehican FBI… yep, that Federale. After growing tired of protecting the cartels and earning pennies on the dollar, the Mehican Federale had decided to float its own outfit… the eponymous Federale Cartel.
Within eighteen months since its inception, the Federale Cartel had literally out gunned the other dawgs and risen to become the 4th largest cartel in peninsular Mehico. They had also gained control of the lucrative Mehico City, which had once been free for all.
Better equipped, better connected and still joined at the hip to the Federale, the Federale Cartel had soon threatened the Big 3. A few skirmishes had resulted in devastation for the big 3. The heroin addled foot soldiers had been blown away by the DARPA equipped Federale Cartel. The writing was on the wall… the Federale Cartel would easily decimate every other cartel in a matter of months.
The remaining cartels had displayed righteous fury and accused the Federale of nepotism. They had then got a couple of DC lobbyists to pressure the Mehican government to rein in the Federale Cartel. Plus, being the 4th largest cartel also brought unnecessary media attention from networks that needed hit pieces to stuff the void between celebrity butt implants.
Eventually under DEA pressure, the Mehican government, realizing the ‘error of its ways’ had lashed out at the Federale and accused it of racketeering, laundering and threatened it with outright disbandment. The Federale after realizing its own ‘error of its ways’ and apparent conflict of interest, spun off their brainchild into an autonomous outfit, whereby the Federale Cartel would stop competing with the traditional cartels.
As a peace offering the Federale Cartel’s operations were drastically reduced and limited to a few safe niches. These included city officials, public officials, the army, police and mid-level bureaucrats. The target demographic was anyone with a steady job and an ounce of dignity. The new Federale Cartel went for the sweet spot.
Despite the spinoff and assurances, the other cartels had become paranoid, particularly the Sinaloas and Zeta Zoneses.
Thus, when the train with the dragon tattoo came crashing down with five hundred tons of synthetic cocaine, the cartels assumed that the Federale Cartel had played them and were now procuring cocaine from the Chinese. Apparently ‘Made in China’ made a lot of things.
The Zeta Zones were initially suspected of procuring this shipment. But then Zeta’s head had offered seven of his finest bitches to the Sinaloa to prove the Zeta’s innocence. “Free bitches? Jesus H Christ. The Zetas ARE innocent… amigos,” the Sinaloa Weekly had proclaimed.
As hell broke loose, the Federale and its Federale Cartel came under attack. As the Federale bravely went at the cartels, the Federale Cartel ran. The rank and file had made a beeline to the United States. The three hundred or so FC men had caught a Delta redeye to JFK. Being a part of the Federale family had a lot of perks.
Despite the bloodbath the origin of the drugs remained a mystery. Looking for a scapegoat the Federale had turned on its own Executive Estrada. Sensing the trouble, Ramon Estrada had hopped into his Toyota Tacoma and driven all the way to Laguna Beach. Once across the border, to maintain a low profile he had checked into a Motel 6.
Estrada was well aware of the tendencies of all parties involved – the Federale, the DEA, ICE, CIA, Cartels, FBI, ETC. – all bad.
After chilling for a bit, he planned to escape to Andalusia in Spain.
A failed actress or perhaps a cage cleaner at the San Diego Zoo smiled at him. She wasn’t bad looking but for some reason melded with the motel’s depressing decor. Ramon Estrada lifted his Budweiser at her. She seemed to have high cheekbones. Sweet.
Kremlin, Moscow
“Madam, are you sure about this scumbag?” prodded Primakov.
“The Japanese are having trouble with their supplies and chains… something to do with Yakuza clans… apparently product is piling up,” the most powerful woman on the planet replied, “Plus Foreign Minister Yamazaki thinks a face that’s familiar to the DEA would mean more business.”
“Sure… yeah, but can’t we just lend them one of our Chechens. They know this kind of stuff… they might be Chechens but they are still Russians.”
“Minister Yamazaki was adamant. He doesn’t need henchmen. He needs someone with business acumen… someone who has a sense of… knowing where the puck is going to be… Estrada’s dossier states that at one point he was running the 4th largest cartel in Mexico. And when things went south, he successfully navigated the quagmire and repositioned the Federale Cartel as a boutique cartel. Trust me, this guy is a winner.”
The idea of acquihiring a D-List Drug Lord for the Japanese didn’t sit well with Primakov. “Ok. But what about diplomacy? What about the Mexican and US governments. There might be consequences.”
“Dude, grow a pair. What are they going to do? More sanctions?”
“At least we should make him an offer. Maybe, make this thing into a defection instead of an abduction.”
“It says in the dossier… that he spoke to some maid in Andalusia to tidy up his villa. This guy has no plans of returning to Mexico… or even the trade. And that will be a huge loss for all parties… Just grab him already.”
Laguna Beach, Greater Tijuana Area
“Hola… thirst?” said Ramon Estrada.
“I am” offered the probably failed actress.
“Would you like a Corona or a Bud Lite?”
“Hmm, sure.”
Tatiana got out of the pool and wrapped herself in a towel. She ruffled through her bag and brought out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Ramon.
After casually inspecting the cigarette for telltale signs, Ramon Estrada lit one.
“Ramon.”
“Tatiana.”
LAX Airport, Los Angeles
Three hours later, Tatiana and Ramon Estrada were strapped into an Aeroflot, aimed at Moscow. Ramon was having a roofied riot.
Chapter 23
Kiev, Ukraine
31 year old Airline-Consultant-Indian-at-Large Pulikesi stood up and stretched. Standing at his Soviet era steel desk, he made a casual 180 degree sweep of the office floor. Unlike Bay Area tropes, this was a Stalinist-Brutalist set piece. There were no bicycle racks, coffee machines or lava lamps. Judging by the ancient steel furniture and ominous lighting, someone suggested that it had once been the Kiev franchise of the Lubyanka. But after the first 176hrs on the job, the forty two Ukrainians and the Indian couldn’t care less about the prehistory of their office space.
Being the leader of the team, Pulikesi commandeered an entire 7ft by 7ft iron table while the forty two Ukrainians huddled and exterminated bugs like it was 1941. Pulikesi and his team of software engineers were doing their best to salvage the Albatross, a brand new airline management system.
Lunch had been cabbage, cucumber, sauerkraut and fried chicken. It was four in the afternoon and they had been at it for three straight hours. Pulikesi was itching for a smoke.
“Ilya,” he called out to his Ukrainian counterpart and pointed outside. Ilya nodded and took a morbid look at the bug list before getting up.
Like many bad things, the Albatross had come out of an innocuous building on the outskirts of Berlin. The purported goal of the Albatross software was to replace American airline systems with a pro-European system that would integrate Russia and the FSU with the EU.
To showcase collaboration, cooperation and good will, the Albatross development had been splayed across several stakeholder nations. The blueprint had been developed in Berlin, while the actual magic happened in Kiev. Trials were carried out both at Amsterdam Schiphol as well as Moscow Vnukovo.
But like any ambitious project… or any project, the Albatross soon ran into a myriad of issues like cost overruns, politics, dick moves, pussy footing, visas, pissing matches, currency fluctuations, scope creeps and the inevitable scope reductions. Realizing that the Albatross was shit, the great powers after a lot of hand wringing, decided to hand over the development to the one people who took shit 24x7 and incredibly, shit out passable shit. The Albatross was handed over to the Indians.
Under the stewardship of Bangalore, the thousand plus number of bugs were soon whittled down to just 93. The competent software engineers that they were, the Indians had followed industry best practices and fed the smaller bugs to the larger ones. This guaranteed their million euro retainer. Some of the remaining bugs became so large that they began frying and devouring actual bugs that flew near the servers. In other words, the Indians had delivered.
Consultant Pulikesi played point man between the dudes in Kiev, the dudes in Berlin and the several more dudes in Bangalore. He was the de facto head of this multinational sausage party.
Out of a stable of one hundred and thirty consultants in his Bangalore firm, Pulikesi ranked dead last at 130. He blamed it on work pressure. His peers blamed it on his love of the dried herb. Sixteen months ago, the Albatross job had come down to two guys. 130th Pulikesi and the 129th ranked Cooomar, one of the sixteen Cooomars in the firm. Unfortunately for Pulikesi, 129th Cooomar had precedence and was leaning towards Kiev, thus leaving Pulikesi with the Monrovia job in Liberia… home to the largest Ebola outbreak. The Monrovia job’s billables were astronomical.
After googling Kiev, Pulikesi had become enamored with the city. He discovered three things. One, the law on herbs was cool. Two, Kiev according to the Urban Dictionary had the third highest per capita of belles in the world. Only Rosewood, PA and Wilmington, NC ranked higher. Lastly, the Neo-Nazi fatality rate was negligible when compared to the Ebola.
While Pulikesi troubles hinged on substances, the Cooomar’s troubles were more visceral. It involved gray matter, or the lack of. Like any high functioning substance utilizer, Pulikesi was pretty good at conniving. Thus, over a couple of beers, the 130th ranked Pulikesi had convinced the 129th ranked Cooomar that the Ebola was ‘basi-cally a braggable std… girls love it… trust me’. The next morning the Cooomar had shipped out to Liberia as Pulikesi boarded an Aeroflot to Kiev. The rest as they say was history.
Six months later, out of the blue, the Cooomar had popped up in a company newsletter. The Cooomar, according to the bulletin, had gone to Monrovia for managing the Liberian President’s fleet of Gulfstreams. Three weeks on the job, he had contracted the Ebola duri
ng a back-alley-DNA-swap. Despite all odds, after a brief stay at a French run shithole, the Cooomar had walked out spry and healthy.
Left for dead at the hands of the ill equipped, yet super cute French nurses, the Cooomar had defied logic and renounced all treatment. He had then gone on a liquid only diet of 100% Liberian tap water.
On the third watery day, the Cooomar had resurrected.
The French doctor had cried out, ‘Un Médicalé Miraclé… Oui.”
The Cooomar had survived Ebola the old fashioned way… a self-induced Indian style diarrhea. Whatever the Ebola schemed, it soon found itself outside the Cooomar, often accompanied by swooshing and gushing sounds. According to the nubile French nurse from Médecins Sans Frontières, the Ebola had ‘ran un train’ on him before giving up. She thought his Maverick method deserved a French award.
Being a fellow countryman, Pulikesi begged to differ. Diarrhea as a deterrent? Fuck that shit. It was child’s play. He knew that shit about shit in like middle school. How dumb were the French?
The recovery had been so darn unprecedented that a bunch of US Seals had burst through the seams and bagged up pounds and pounds of the Cooomar’s produce for research. Three weeks later the Americans had a new vaccine.
A month later the largest Ebola outbreak ended.
For Pulikesi, other than the missed spot on the monthly newsletter, things were going swimmingly in Kiev. Obviously the Crimea heist and the circus at the Maidan had come close to killing off the Albatross. But eventually, the American intervention had booted out Russia and put the Albatross under Kiev’s firm control.