Fatal Exchange (Fatal Series Book 1)

by Russell Blake

  “You hear that, Cliff? He just needs to place some trades.” The first agent was smiling at his partner. They both ignored the request. “Do they still hang traitors, or do they use the chair—fry them like in the fifties? The little sponge on the head? What was that movie—The Green Mile?”

  “I think they’ve moved to lethal injection. I don’t really remember. It’s so hard to keep up these days,” the first agent responded conversationally.

  Gordon sat stewing in the back seat, alternating between panic and fury.

  This couldn’t be happening. Things like this didn’t happen to people like him.

  The car pulled into traffic. Mondays in Manhattan could be gridlock. It was likely to be slow going.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tess woke up and took a shower, and spent some time applying a little makeup and putting gel in her hair.

  This was a big occasion, after all. It wasn’t every day that you became a multi-millionaire.

  Yesterday she’d taken some time and gone to Bloomingdale’s, bought a conservative dark gray two-piece suit with a white blouse and a pair of business-like black pumps. She figured she’d present as conservative an image as possible since she’d be meeting with lawyers and government agents, and afterwards with the funeral director.

  She paused and assessed her reflection in the mirror. She saw a businesswoman ready for the next corporate meeting, or an attorney prepared for contract negotiations. She decided to pull her hair back, lending a more severe look to her profile. The tattoo of the sun wasn’t visible, a loose ponytail cinched further down her neck covering it. She felt confident. It was fun to play dress-up sometimes.

  Tess hailed a cab and went to her father’s bank, and went through the ritual at the hand scanner. Once in the vault she quickly removed the box, pulled out the sack of bills that was responsible for so much misery, and replaced the container into its slot. She’d bought an oversized purse yesterday in anticipation of today’s requirements; the sack fit easily inside.

  Fidgety in the cab to Simon’s offices, she checked her watch. The blue of the lapis dial glinted in the sunlight, and she realized she already took the watch for granted. She made a mental commitment to never, ever do that again. She was very fortunate, and every day she was breathing she’d make a point of remembering how lucky she was.

  She exited the taxi at ten-forty, and entered the elevator along with several business people. Simon’s offices were in midtown, in one of the skyscrapers that defined the New York skyline. She got off on his floor and followed the numbers to his suite. An older, conservatively dressed receptionist greeted her, and she registered two armed Brinks employees sitting in the lobby area. A portly man in his sixties in an impeccably-cut suit came out of the back and took her hands.

  “Tess, I presume. What a pleasure. Please, come back into our conference room. Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? Water? A soda, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine. It’s a pleasure to meet you, too. I noticed the armed guards. Is that for me?”

  “Yes, I thought it would be better if we had a bonded company take possession of the cash immediately. I’d never forgive myself if you were robbed leaving the building. This way Brinks is on the hook for it the second they sign the receipt. They’ll deposit it at the bank of your designation.” Simon had thought of everything. She wondered how the clerks at her branch would react to a three-million-dollar cash deposit into her savings account.

  “Probably not a bad idea, Simon. How should we do this?” Tess asked.

  “Their attorneys will have a document for us to sign, and I’m sure they’ll want to know all about you and how you came into possession of the cash. Just tell them the story as best you can. You don’t have to be afraid of anything. The deal’s all worked out.” Simon oozed reassurance.

  They discussed the will reading while they were waiting, and at exactly eleven the phone on the conference room desk beeped. Treasury was there.

  Larry and David entered the conference room along with an older, wizened gentleman carrying a thin briefcase—the attorney, no doubt. The two younger men both carried larger briefcases, and David also had a currency counter. The Treasury attorney introduced himself and re-stated their agreement, then produced two documents in triplicate for them to sign. They did, and then he asked to see the bogus cash. Tess pulled the paper bag out of her oversized purse and plopped it on the table.

  The three Treasury men looked at the stacks of hundreds inside. David removed the currency counter, plugged it into the wall, and started loading the bills into it. In less than ten minutes they were done. David and Larry placed the two briefcases onto the table and opened them, revealing neatly stacked rows of new hundred-dollar bills.

  “Three million dollars, Ms. Gideon. I’m deeply sorry about the loss of your father. I was informed of the whole situation over the weekend, and it’s terrible that so much sorrow was created over these bills.” The government attorney seemed genuine.

  Tess looked at the cash. It was so much money, and yet it was just so much paper; it really didn’t seem worth killing over. Simon used the intercom and requested that the two Brinks men be shown to the conference room. They used the counter to verify the amount and took possession of the two briefcases, exchanging them for a receipt. Tess gave them her account information and told them where she wanted it delivered, however they indicated they’d prefer if she made the actual deposit, and arranged to meet her at the bank in two hours.

  And that was it.

  The government men shook hands and departed as silently as they’d arrived, no questions, no admonishments, nothing but a simple exchange and business as usual. It seemed anti-climactic.

  Sometimes that’s how real life was.

  Simon invited her back to his office, where he dialed her sister’s number and put her on speakerphone. He read the will, which took fifteen minutes, and you could tell Chrissy was both surprised and delighted she was getting so much money, but was also trying to figure out whether it was worth it to go after the watch shop. They heard her husband in the background whispering to her. Simon cut her off at the pass.

  “Chrissy, you should know this will was prepared two years ago, in my presence, and represents the legitimate last wishes of your father, who was of sound mind at the time we drafted it. If you’re unhappy about any area of it I apologize, but that’s the way your father wanted it. Are there any questions?” Simon had done this before.

  There was a long pause on the other end. Muffled discussion. Eventually, Chrissy came back on the line.

  “How soon until we receive our share?”

  The remainder of the call was about the logistics of payouts. Tess wasn’t surprised her sister hadn’t bothered addressing her. Fine. Good riddance, she supposed.

  Simon offered to take her to lunch, but she declined and asked for a rain check. They still had the watch shop to dispense with, and that was her next project: to find an appraiser and give Simon a number. They agreed he’d receive a three-hundred-thousand-dollar discount if he purchased it. She suspected he would, and was happy—she liked him.

  Tess said her goodbyes and went down to the lobby. She called Ron, who answered his cell on the second ring.

  “Do you have time for lunch?” she asked.

  “Actually, I do. Where do you want to meet?”

  She named a restaurant by her bank; that way, she wouldn’t have to rush if the service ran slow. He told her he’d be there in fifteen minutes.

  When he walked into the restaurant he glanced around, and then Tess tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, and his mouth fell open.

  “I clean up pretty well, huh? Don’t just stand there, let’s grab that table by the window,” Tess said, and then took his hand and guided him over to it. He was still astounded by her business look; he hadn’t been able to respond except for some monosyllabic noises. He got hold of himself and they considered the menu, glancing at one another occasionally.

  “Ron, I just
swore on a stack of bibles and at risk of serious prison time to never tell anyone what happened today, but I feel like I can trust you. Can I trust you?” she asked.

  “You can, Tess. You should know that, I hope.”

  “I do. I just wanted to hear you say it.” Tess proceeded to recount the story, omitting the part about Stu.

  “Wow. That’s quite an adventure. So you’re filthy rich now?” He stopped as the waiter appeared, and they ordered. He resumed. “You’re the only person I’ve ever heard of who got the better end of a deal with the government.”

  “Apparently I’m absolutely filthy dirty rich, Ron. I don’t feel any different, though. Should I?”

  Ron regarded her. “I’m afraid I’m the wrong guy to ask, Tess. I don’t have a lot of experience with obscene wealth. If I were you, I don’t know what I’d feel right now. You’ve had a hell of a week.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year.”

  They enjoyed lunch, both immersed in their thoughts. He was still trying to figure her out, but was beginning to see that could be a lifelong project.

  ~ ~ ~

  Two Zodiacs plowed their way through the confused seas at a good clip. They were thirty-three-foot inflatables, with black fiberglass hulls and flat black topsides designed to deflect radar; each one carried ten men and an operator.

  The waves were cresting at six to eight feet, wind blowing at twenty knots, and a sustained rain fell from the moonless sky. At their current rate, they’d reach the target within fifteen minutes—on schedule for a four o’clock landing. The satellite images had revealed three large piers in reasonably good shape, and the plan called for each boat to tie up at a different dock and offload the crew.

  Every member of the team had night vision goggles, and all were dressed in black wet-weather gear, underneath which they wore Myanmar army uniforms. The large seas were rough to take at thirty knots, and everyone’s lower backs were feeling the pounding from the small summer storm’s surges.

  There’d been no evidence of any patrol boats, although it would have been hard to see any given the limited visibility—actually, it would have been hard to spot a tanker at a hundred yards in the downpour and the dark. They were fortunate it hadn’t been a clear moonlit night, although that was a mixed blessing given the chop and the deluge.

  All men were sharpshooters with sniper ratings along with fluency in demolitions and assault, and two spoke rudimentary Burmese—enough to give a few orders in the language. The team was equipped with flash- and noise-suppressed M4 assault rifles and Czech-manufactured 9mm pistols.

  All were Asian and under orders to communicate exclusively via hand signals once they reached the target. Each had a small earpiece in place so that they could communicate remotely via a series of clicks once they landed. Their faces were grimly determined, set, prepared for the assault only minutes away.

  The twin noise-deadened diesels hummed silently, underwater exhaust outlets diminishing any hint of their operation. The captains were using GPS, radar being out of the question given the return signal it would create. Sonar was also out, as they didn’t want to alert any stray submarines to their presence.

  The men were given the signal from their operators and saw a dark coastline approach out of the rainy murk, with the dim glow of some illuminated buildings vaguely visible in the distance.

  The team prepared the lines as the operators throttled down and eased toward the piers, and once alongside, secured the two boats to the pilings of the docks with grappling hooks. Another set of hooks flew up onto the docks, and once their grip was confirmed the men silently climbed the attached webbing. It was pitch black out, except for the main building and one smaller structure in the distance—the barracks they’d been briefed about.

  Once on land, they moved silently toward the main warehouse. They’d discarded their slickers and now were wearing the uniforms and overcoats of the Republic of the Union of Myanmar. Eight of the men carried large backpacks containing explosives to be used once the facility was secured.

  The forward scouts used their night vision to ensure no sentries were posted on the water side of the compound, even though the satellite images had shown none in the last forty-eight hours. The guards were standing in two sandbagged areas near the building entrance, three per outpost, with four floaters continually making perimeter rounds.

  The front-runners stopped once the team was a hundred yards from the two bunkers, which were open and had tarps stretched across them to protect the men inside from the worst of the elements. They could make out men playing cards beneath the tarps, none holding their weapons.

  Three men from each group split off to locate the floaters. They’d been instructed to take them out first, before hitting the bunkers. After roughly ten minutes a series of clicks sounded in the earphones. One click, and then a few minutes later two and three clicks, and then a series of four.

  The floaters were neutralized.

  The snipers each took a target, previously agreed upon according to their positions, and listening for a series of clicks, fired simultaneously on the third click. The rain muffled any sound, and the six men in the bunkers expired in unison, never knowing what hit them.

  The squads moved quickly toward the building, and six members of the team took the places of the guards, ready to shoot in case anything required them to speak. The rest of the men entered the building.

  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—hundreds of millions of bogus dollars. One of the team memorialized it all with a small digital camera. Further down the warehouse’s length was the paper production facility, which wasn’t in operation that night. The whole plant 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.

  They herded the workers outside into the rain, and directed them 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, just under twenty minutes had elapsed.

  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 tore apart—the sides distended, the roof blew off, and an bright pillar of flame rose skyward into the night like an orange fist.

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

  The man on the dock desc
ended into the waiting boat and it pushed back out to sea, throttles wide open, hitting upwards of forty knots as the craft shredded through the waves.

  They needed 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.