Fatal Exchange

by Russell Blake

  They had little idea of what to expect other than what the worker had told them. They knew a security man watched the monitors on the printing rooms twenty-four hours a day, but had no idea what communication capability he had. Two men were dispatched to deal with him, and the rest awaited the signal he’d been neutralized. A few minutes later they heard a muffled explosion, and then a click in their earpieces. He was down.

  They entered the printing areas, where eight technicians were working, and one of the team told them in halting Burmese to stop what they were doing and get onto the floor. They complied, not surprising since all the intruders were wearing officer uniforms and were heavily armed. The workers were systematically bound using plastic ties intended for that purpose.

  The technicians in the clean room similarly offered no resistance.

  In one locked area of the building, adjacent to the clean room and the production facility, sat pallets of hundred-dollar bills, literally hundreds of millions of bogus dollars. One of the team memorialized it all with a small digital camera. Further down the warehouse length was the paper production facility, which wasn’t being operated that night. The whole operation wasn’t that large.

  The men removed the explosive devices from the backpacks and placed them in strategic locations: one for each press, several for the paper production equipment, one for the security room, and two for the computer and generator rooms. An incendiary device was positioned near the piles of cash, ensuring fire would engulf the pallets. The total destructive capability of all the explosives was enough to lift the building off its foundations and collapse the walls, roughly the same as if a group of Scuds had made direct hits.

  There would be nothing recognizable once they were detonated.

  The technicians were herded outside into the rain, and directed to an area several hundred yards from the building. Four members of the team secured their legs, ensuring they wouldn’t be able to run.

  So far, the entire operation had taken just under twenty minutes.

  The team returned to the boats and one man stood on the dock as they prepared to head out to sea. In his hand he held a small device that looked like a controller for a model airplane, which it was similar to in some ways. He got a nod from the boat operator and depressed a button.

  The building literally tore apart—the sides distended, the roof blew off, and an orange pillar of flame rose skyward into the night.

  Pieces of debris and machinery described arcs as they flew through the air, thrown from their positions inside, their trajectories unimportant but spectacular to behold.

  The man on the dock descended into the waiting boat and they pushed back out to sea, throttles wide open, hitting upwards of forty knots as the craft bounced over the waves.

  They wanted to be well clear of Myanmar water within thirty minutes, so it was going to be an uncomfortable ride, but no one complained. The last thing anyone wanted was for an inquisitive helicopter or patrol boat to spot them and call out the dogs.

  Right now surprise was on their side, and they used it to their advantage as they raced through the harsh wet night.

  * * *

  The Chinese Ambassador was enjoying his late lunch with the Assistant Secretary of State. He knew there would be some sort of an overture, but he was unclear on what it would be. They’d agreed to look at the trade imbalance issues and there were ongoing talks over the rampant piracy that went on in China—but these hardly warranted a one-on-one.

  They sat on the patio of a very exclusive club, which had several private rooms available for high-level discussions in discreet surroundings. The U.S. diplomat savored his coffee, checked his watch, and apropos of nothing, broached the meeting’s real topic.

  “There are always situations in our respective geographical areas of influence that can act as critical flashpoints. Sometimes, even our trusted allies can disappoint us with ill-conceived campaigns,” he began.

  “China is always interested in stability and in enhancing our relationships in positive and mutually beneficial ways.” The Ambassador spoke excellent diplomat-ese, a unique and universal language where one said absolutely nothing using as many words as possible.

  “Let me frame a hypothetical for you. If China discovered South Korea had embarked on a counterfeiting scheme to print fake yuan and flood the market, destroying China’s currency integrity, how would China react?” The U.S. diplomat took another sip of his coffee.

  “That’s an interesting hypothetical. I suppose our stance would reasonably be that by attempting to counterfeit our currency, they would have declared war on us, or at the very least be guilty of terrorism and criminal conduct.” The Ambassador was careful in his wording; he didn’t know where this was going, and didn’t want to step over any lines.

  “The U.S. would take the identical stance, and would of course assist China in any way we could to rectify the situation in a non-disruptive manner agreeable to China.” The U.S. diplomat liked the way it was going so far. He admired the Washington Monument in the near distance. Eventually the Chinese Ambassador would have to say something.

  “Is there a danger you are attempting to warn us about?” The Chinese Ambassador had to ask the question. Had to.

  “Hypothetically, if it was a questionable regime like Myanmar counterfeiting U.S. dollars and preparing to release them into the world markets, how would China respond, or better yet, how would they expect the U.S. to respond?” Now there was a question. The trap was sprung; the Ambassador had to answer.

  “That would be a very difficult situation for China, as we are fundamentally opposed to Western military intervention in our region, but of course we also couldn’t condone that behavior.” The waffling began.

  “So in that instance, you wouldn’t consider it an act of war or terrorism, but if it was South Korea you would? Interesting.” He wanted to nail him, make him say it.

  “That’s not my position. I am simply saying it would put China in a very awkward position.”

  “Just as the South Korean scenario would put the U.S. in a very awkward position. But we would also recognize that our ally, in a volatile strategic region, had stepped over an important line, and would do whatever was necessary to rectify the situation.”

  “I think I am not so good at hypotheticals,” the Chinese said. Suddenly his English was deteriorating.

  “Nonsense. You’re a brilliant diplomat. We’re just examining two sides of the same coin, and considering whether there’s a double standard, or if both of our countries would behave similarly,” the U.S. diplomat said.

  “I prefer to stay in the world of actuals, my friend.”

  “Perhaps China should ask what they would do in both of those situations. We know what we would do. It’s an interesting exercise, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, perhaps China should ask those questions. I wonder if asking our assets in Myanmar would be productive?” The Chinese was probing. What had those stupid peasants been up to, and what could China do to short-circuit it before it caused a major problem?

  “My feeling is that unless China was prepared to deal with the problem directly, it might be in its best interests to consider the hypothetical confidentially.” Translation: Stay out of this.

  “Even though we share borders and some common interests, we cannot know everything all our neighbors are involved in.” In other words, we know nothing about this. “We would naturally be most relieved if any hypothetical simply resolved itself.” Ahhh. There it was. If the U.S. could “resolve the problem” quietly and without creating a situation, China would be relieved.

  “We would adopt the same view with respect to South Korea. They are valued and trusted allies, but if they embarked on a universally condemnable course of action we would be most relieved if any situation was resolved quietly.” The U.S. diplomat had made his point and could rest assured the lines would be burning between the embassy and Beijing following their get-together. That way, if there was any fallout or damage control to do, Chi
na had received advance warning and understood the U.S. wasn’t acting aggressively.

  Both men enjoyed the view and had a second cup of coffee in silence.

  * * *

  The Finance Minister was awakened by a phone call at 6:00 am. He groped for the handset, nearly knocking it over in the process.

  “Hello,” he muttered groggily.

  “We have a disaster. A car will pick you up in fifteen minutes. The currency facility was destroyed about an hour ago.” It was the Defense Minister.

  “How? Who did this? No one knew about it.” The minister was trying to understand what had taken place.

  “We don’t know. We’re still trying to figure it out. I have a helicopter waiting to take us there so we can view the damage first hand. Fifteen minutes.”

  The minister shook his head. His hands were shaking and he felt surreal. This wasn’t possible. The plant destroyed? It was inside Myanmar, on a relatively remote area of coastline, well hidden from prying eyes. It was inconceivable anyone could have reached it and caused the kind of damage the defense minister was describing.

  He dialed Gordon’s number while he pulled on his uniform. The receptionist told him Gordon was unavailable. When he pressed, she indicated he wasn’t in today. He hung up. Tried his cell phone, got voice mail.

  “Gordon, we have a serious, serious problem. I’ve just been advised that our plant has been destroyed. I need information and we need to sell all the options, now. Call me as soon as you can.”

  The car pulled up and the minister went out into the rain, the humidity and heat already unbearable.

  Chapter 35

  The sun reflected off the sidewalk, making the street shimmer from the heat waves and the odd car morph into something otherworldly. The afternoon rush hour had been underway for fifty minutes, although Tess’s street didn’t see many vehicles.

  The two Asians were back, across from her loft at the little coffee shop. Morning and afternoon had come and gone and the two men were getting bored, the taller one popping Percodan like they were Tic-Tacs. His mouth still felt like he’d been kicked in the jaw. The pain pills were making him sleepy, and he was having difficulty staying sharp as the day wound down. He wondered if they had somehow missed the girl.

  They had time, but the constant throbbing from his tongue wasn’t doing anything for his mood or his focus, and he’d had enough fruit juice to last a lifetime.

  They might as well have rented the table they occupied.

  The smaller man was smoking his thirty-second cigarette of the day with apparent gusto, occasionally rubbing his shoulder when a twinge of pain seared through the muscle. It was a filthy habit, the taller man thought—although he enjoyed a smoke himself, now and then. But two or three packs a day. That was really just too much.

  Finally, a bicyclist approached, riding slowly up to the loft.

  Let the games begin.

  They had discussed it, and agreed they’d wait until she got settled in and then jimmy the lock and deal with her inside, at their leisure. As evidenced last night, the smaller man was an adept lock-pick.

  Tess locked her bike to the pole, and then took her helmet off, shook out her hair, stretched. She wanted to make sure anyone watching would see her. She didn’t dare go into the house, in case they’d broken in and were waiting for her. She was pretty sure they hadn’t, but that could be a mistake that cost her life.

  She got a call on her cell, as planned, and answered it. Duff’s voice emanated from the earpiece.

  “Time to get going,” he advised.

  Tess pretended to have an animated discussion, shaking her head, looking at her watch. She walked down the street, still apparently talking, and the two men stood up, slowly, and followed at a distance as she made her way towards the waterfront. Duff’s voice cut into her phony soliloquy.

  “I just spotted them. They started walking down the street on the opposite side of you. Back a hundred yards. Let me call you back, I want to give the crew the heads up.”

  “Okay, Duff. Let’s stick with the plan. Make sure it’s only the two of them, okay?”

  “You got it. So far it is. I’ve got someone at the shop and he’s hanging to see if anyone scrambles from there. That would be the only other place they’d be watching. We’ll know for sure in five minutes.”

  “Call me back soon, please? This is nerve wracking.”

  Tess continued chatting into the phone even after Duff disconnected and walked at a moderate pace towards the river, checking her watch occasionally.

  She made it one block, then two, and then her phone vibrated again.

  “No one at the watch shop, and the boys are ready for action. The bad guys are about seventy-five yards behind you; they crossed the street a minute ago. Good luck, Tess.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. Catch you soon.”

  Tess walked up one more block and then paused at the mouth of an alley. She looked at her watch again, pretended to look up the block as though waiting for someone, and then ducked into the small side street.

  * * *

  The Asians were stumped. They hadn’t noticed the man on the bike a block behind them talking into a wireless phone headset.

  They watched as Tess approached an alley in an ominous-looking deserted area—abandoned warehouse territory. She appeared to be scouting the street for somebody and when she didn’t see them, she abruptly disappeared from view.

  Now they had a problem. They had no idea where the alley led; for all they knew, it fed out to another street and she was already gone.

  The smaller man rapidly went over their alternatives and the taller agreed they had to go in after her.

  Their cell rang. A singsong voice barked a short instruction in Burmese.

  “Terminate the mission. Now. Get to the airport, fly to Canada, then return home immediately from there.”

  The shorter man informed his partner, and the two exchanged venomous glances. It was frustrating to have their mission abruptly ended so close to their goal. But sometimes that’s how the ball bounced, and they knew to follow instructions without hesitation, and to the letter. Survival often depended upon it.

  They made their way back up the street, retracing their steps until they hit a main artery, where they hailed a cab and disappeared.

  * * *

  One of the men standing with Tess got a call from Duff, who told him the Asians had spent a few moments at the mouth of the alley, answered a phone call, and then abandoned their pursuit and hightailed it out of the area. Everyone was puzzled—it had been a perfect plan.

  They waited until it became obvious there wasn’t going to be any confrontation that day, and then dispersed, with several of the group accompanying Tess back to her loft, just in case. There was no evidence of surveillance. It was just plain weird.

  * * *

  Tess opened the door to her loft. She didn’t know what had happened, what had tipped the Asians off—but that wasn’t Rufi’s fault, and he’d still want to collect his fee. She called Duff, and they agreed to get together tomorrow and she’d deliver the rest of the cash. Rufi had earned his commission.

  Tess didn’t feel comfortable staying at her place. It was always possible the Asians would return, and she supposed she might never know with complete certainty that she was in the clear. Just as she didn’t know what had spooked them or why they’d suddenly aborted their hunt, she also didn’t know whether hers was a temporary reprieve or whether she’d always have to be watching over her shoulder. She didn’t want to think about that right now. Staying with Ron made her feel safe, and that was as far forward as she was prepared to plan for the moment.

  She finished stuffing her backpack, locked her deadbolts, and exited the building.

  * * *

  Gordon’s attorney came into the holding cell and sat down at the small table Gordon was resting his elbows on. He sighed and looked hard at Gordon, who was still wearing his suit while he waited to be formally charged.

  “They’re dead se
rious about hitting you with treason, Gordon.” No ‘hello,’ no ‘how are you holding up.’

  “That’s absurd. They have no basis. They’re dreaming.”

  “Well, speaking with the Attorney General it seems like they have a basis. Their position is that you’ve conspired with a foreign power to subvert the U.S. financial system by counterfeiting and distributing fake currency, and further did so knowing the foreign power was using classified data to do it. They have your phone records and are also looking at charging you with conspiracy to commit murder, as you apparently were the last caller to speak to a certain currency dealer murdered shortly thereafter.” The attorney was not looking upbeat.

  “Look, they can claim all they want, but they couldn’t have any proof. It’s all conjecture.” Gordon had thought it through.

  “They have numerous calls to the foreign ministry of Myanmar, Gordon.”

  “So what? I haven't ever accepted or managed any money that came directly from Myanmar.” Technically true; Gordon was conveniently overlooking several of his large hedge fund investors based suspiciously close to the Myanmar government's financial sphere of influence.

  “And they have recordings of some very damaging phone calls wherein you discuss the plot with a co-conspirator.”

  “Nonsense. I know you can spin those calls any way you want, maybe get them tossed out based on illegality—they aren’t allowed to just record conversations, are they?” Gordon asked.

  “Since the Patriot Act everything has changed, Gordon. I don’t think I’ll be able to get them tossed, but then again I haven’t heard them. Oh, and they have a witness who will testify against you.” The attorney had sallow cheeks, and looked ill.