Supernotes

by Agent Kasper

  He laughs in delight. Kasper smiles, nods, and thinks back on Bauer’s admiration for Chinese stealth and sobriety. That feeling has evidently expired.

  “The North Korean embassy in Phnom Penh is really something special. The Cambodians have a close relationship with the North Koreans. Extremely close, as I think you well know.”

  “I’ve heard about it,” Kasper confirms.

  “The Cambodians make nice with the Chinese through North Korea, seeing as Pyongyang is essentially a Chinese protectorate. And that’s the way the wind’s blowing, no fucking doubt about it: the wind of the Celestial Empire’s blowing all over Asia. Ask India and Japan. They’re watching Beijing’s moves with growing apprehension. And North Korea is completely inside the Chinese orbit.”

  “The picture’s clear.”

  “Our friend Hun Sen surrounds himself with North Korean bodyguards. His private residence adjoins the North Korean embassy. And there’s a real feeling of neighborly solidarity. Hun Sen personally maintains constant relations with the Pyongyang government. Are you aware of that?”

  “I am,” Kasper nods.

  “Good. Now, what we’d like to ask you to do is to make friends with the North Koreans in Phnom Penh. Really good friends.”

  Kasper refrains from an ironic remark and continues to nod automatically, like a conditioned reflex. But nodding doesn’t necessarily mean “It can be done.” On the contrary. For one thing, he has little experience with North Koreans. Diplomats and officials from every country represented in Phnom Penh hang out at Sharky’s. Even the Chinese. But not the North Koreans.

  Kasper mentions this to John Bauer.

  “I know,” the American replies. “They’re closed up and spiny, like pissed-off hedgehogs. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe you’re going to be able to do it. But you’re the only one who can even make an attempt. We can’t so much as think about using one of our own. That would go bad quick.”

  “Why me?”

  “Why not?” Bauer smiles, pours some more California chardonnay, and invites Kasper to another toast. “Why not?” he repeats, speaking in the tone of the unflappable co-conspirator.

  They drink, and the few seconds of silence bring back the echoes of the spreading revelry not far from the great hotel. Then Bauer returns to his subject: “You’re not an American, but it’s as if you were. You’re good at infiltration. Your record speaks for itself, but they don’t know anything about it. As far as the North Koreans are concerned, you’re an Italian adventurer, out seeking your fortune. And you’re certainly not the only adventurer in that fucking city. Nevertheless, you’re something special: ex-military, professional pilot, aircraft expert. Now, we know they’re looking for consultants. Their air fleet sucks. Their airline, Air Koryo, is so shabby it’s been banned from all Western skies.”

  “Because of the UN embargo, probably,” Kasper observes.

  “Not just that. Since 2005, our government’s been choking their financial transactions. We’ve shut them completely out of the international banking system. As for the embargo, it mostly concerns military supplies. Obviously, China and Russia thumb their noses at it and sell them everything. But the best airplanes in the world are manufactured in the West, and nobody’s going to sell them any of those. Now, however, they’re trying to get around the problem. And that’s where you come in. I advise you to work up a proposal that can overcome a lot of distrust. The ambassador’s an electric individual, real ambitious but also intelligent. And shrewd, above all. He takes great pains to collaborate with the central government….If I were you, I’d work on that.”

  “What’s the objective?”

  “We don’t give a shit about the planes themselves. But planes cost a pile of money, and if you want to fuck the UN over, you can’t buy them in a normal way. And you can’t even pay for them in ‘convenient monthly installments’ like a car. So the question is, how are they going to pay for them? We have our own idea about that.”

  “Namely?”

  Bauer smiles and gazes at him as if, after a promising prelude, they were now ready for the best part of the opera.

  —

  The photographs are in the two envelopes Bauer takes out of his bag. The images aren’t very high quality. But they show that the Americans—these Americans—aren’t improvising anything. They’ve been on the case for a while.

  The photos from one of the envelopes show places in Phnom Penh that Kasper knows: the North Korean embassy, the Pyongyang Restaurant, an exclusive bordello. The pictures from the second envelope are rarer goods: satellite images of parts of the city, and faces for Kasper to remember.

  “This is the North Korean ambassador,” says Bauer, showing him a three-quarter view of a cultured-looking forty-year-old man. “We’re interested in him, and we’re interested in his workplace.”

  “The embassy,” Kasper murmurs.

  “Exactly,” Bauer declares, showing him some satellite views. “This is Hun Sen’s residence, and this, right next door, is the North Korean embassy. Large quantities of dollars come streaming out of here. We want to know where they get them from. We’re convinced we know who’s running the show, and it’s them, but…”

  Bauer’s gesture is just vague enough.

  “Them?”

  “The Chinese. Who else? There’s nothing they can’t counterfeit if they think it might be useful.”

  “Counterfeit…” Kasper lowers his voice. “What dollars are we talking about here?”

  “Fake dollars—fake but real. ‘Counterfeit dollars,’ to use a very common but only partly correct term. Supernotes, if you prefer.”

  “Supernotes,” Kasper says slowly.

  “Supernotes by the truckload, it’s said,” declares John Bauer, nodding and closely watching Kasper. The American’s jaw now seems a little squarer, his eyes less smiling. “Come on, you know very well what we’re talking about. You’re familiar with supernotes. You came across them two years ago.” He bursts into laughter, the best fit of the evening. “Or rather, you tripped over them.”

  —

  So here they are again, America’s intelligence men, ready to change hats as often as necessary. CIA, FBI, NSA, or some other important acronym.

  But in the end, the objective is always the same, it’s never called into question: the security of the United States and its allies against the Great Enemy.

  Whether new or old makes no difference.

  There’s always an Evil Empire to fight against. With all conceivable means.

  “The end is noble. The means, as we know, are debatable.” So says John Bauer, embracing Kasper and bidding him farewell after their meeting. He’s given Kasper twenty-four hours to decide whether or not to accept the assignment. Should he do so, he’ll have access to an appropriate expense account. It’s quite obvious that Bauer’s expecting a yes.

  —

  Kasper walks amid the nocturnal throngs of Bangkok.

  Laboriously, he tries to find a passage through the crowd.

  Painstakingly, he tries to find a logical path through his memories.

  Ian Travis was his first potential lead to the source of supernotes back in 2002. Then Milan in 2005. That request had come to Kasper from Bob Zelger, an American and an ex-CIA man, but Kasper had never actually met him. The link between them had been established, as usual, by his friend Clancy. It’s two years later, and once again the subject is supernotes. There’s no Zelger this time, but there’s Bauer.

  What do those two have in common, aside from their Company affiliation? Kasper’s connection to them is the same in both cases.

  Uncle Clancy.

  Kasper glances at his watch and figures Clancy’s already sleeping by this time. But even if he’s awake, this isn’t a conversation to have on the telephone. When he talks to Clancy, he wants to be able to look him straight in the eye.

  His flight to Phnom Penh is scheduled to take off in six hours. An eternity.

  —

  “Zelger and Bauer co
uld be the same person. So what?”

  “Could be, or are the same person?” Kasper barks.

  “Okay, let’s say they’re the same person.”

  Clancy strokes his white beard and looks at his friend as if they were discussing which bottle of wine to open for dinner. His tone is just about right for that, with an added soupçon of peevishness.

  “And you couldn’t have told me that before I went to Bangkok?”

  “It’ll seem strange to you, but I didn’t make the connection. And besides, excuse me, but what would have changed if I had? It wasn’t Bauer who arrested you in Milan two years ago. The tip he gave us was accurate. You could have stopped that Bischoff guy, him and his suitcase. You could have turned him over to your ROS friends and been a hero. Shit, maybe they would have given you that famous medal….”

  “Because according to you I’m aching for a medal, right?”

  “Let’s say that’s the impression you give. I could be wrong.”

  Kasper shakes his head and mutters, “Incredible.” He doesn’t want to quarrel with Clancy, but he’s already doing it. Clancy’s coolness gets under his skin, makes him feel naïve. And a man in his line of work can be anything except naïve.

  He looks around. At this hour of the morning, Sharky’s is almost empty. There’s just a couple of drunks from the night before, back for a morning beer.

  Kasper turns back to Clancy, who’s sitting placidly in an armchair with the Phnom Penh Post in his hands.

  “How many other identities does your friend Bauer have?”

  “Interesting question,” Clancy says, raising his eyes from the newspaper and gazing at Kasper with what now looks like an amused expression. “How about you? How many identities do you have at the moment? How many have you had in the past thirty years?”

  “What do I have to do with it?”

  “We’re all in the same profession, more or less. It seems to me changing identity is normal.”

  “You told me he wasn’t an operative.”

  “Operative or not, what difference does it make, in the end?”

  “Fuck you, Clancy! You sent me to talk about a job with a guy who had me thrown in jail two years ago….”

  “Think, for a change! Whoever had you thrown in jail was probably trying to keep supernotes out of the story. If the Finance Police in Milan had stopped Bischoff too, it would have become clear that you were there for a good cause. Can we really blame Bauer for the fact that while you were being handcuffed, Mr. Bischoff was able to leave the scene undisturbed?”

  “So in your opinion, I ought to accept this new proposal?”

  “Do what you want. I just arranged the contact for you, nothing more. And look, let’s be clear: from this moment on, I don’t want to hear anything more about this project. Keep me out of it. I’ve got my own shit to deal with.”

  —

  Kasper hangs up the phone and tries to put his thoughts in order, tries to envision the steps he’ll have to take. He’s just informed John Bauer that he’ll give it a try. First, he’s got to get on the trail of the North Korean ambassador. He doesn’t even have so much as a notion of where to start, but he didn’t mention that to Bauer. Instead, he declared that something was bothering him, something he couldn’t ignore. “What you said was true. I have already tripped over supernotes. And I fell on my face. I don’t want this time to turn out like two years ago in Milan.”

  “Well, that surely isn’t up to me,” replied Bauer, Zelger, or whatever the hell his name was. “Make the right moves and you’ll come out fine. I know you will.”

  And that was it. Nothing else.

  It was obvious that Bauer was already preparing to wriggle away. He and Clancy must certainly have been in contact, but even if they weren’t, they’re products of the same school and have learned the same lessons: don’t hold on, let go, and especially, when necessary, forget and eliminate. Cancel. Bury.

  It’s the first lesson they teach you, and now Kasper feels a little foolish for not having learned it yet.

  —

  The show’s about to start, and a sudden silence descends on the hall. Five girls, all dressed in red, are now on stage. They have lovely voices, their movements are gracious and well coordinated, their smiles belong on tourist posters. The songs, unfortunately, are what they are: the meowing laments handed down by North Korean tradition. Like the costumes and the images projected on the screen in the back of the room.

  Woods, lakes, and spectacular skies. Places in the motherland, in the common memory. The distant paradise where Kim Jong-un toys around with nuclear bombs.

  By this point, Kasper’s familiar with the whole production. He’s been frequenting the Pyongyang Restaurant for more than two months. At least he enjoys the food, and lavish tips ensure he is treated with great cordiality. On his third visit the restaurant manager came over to his table. The ritual bow, the expression of one who wants to start a conversation. Which he did, making a few concentric circles before coming to the point: “If I may ask, what is an Italian like yourself doing here in Phnom Penh?”

  “I’m a spy.”

  The manager burst out laughing. Kasper laughed with him.

  “You Italians,” the manager said. “So nice. Such liars.”

  Tonight is a special occasion. His friend Hok Bun Sareun, a Cambodian senator, has organized a meeting with the commercial attaché from the North Korean embassy. At nine o’clock sharp.

  Senator Bun Sareun is influential and energetic but cautious. During the Pol Pot regime his family took refuge in the United States, where he earned a law degree and burnished his cosmopolitan credentials. After his return to his country, he devoted himself to politics and was elected to parliament. He has a reputation as a moderate man with important international connections. Their first meeting took place at the foundation of the Island of Brotherly Love’s branch in Phnom Penh. The senator was one of the first supporters of the new Cambodian section and was quickly appointed to its board of directors.

  When Kasper spoke to Bun Sareun about his general plans for doing business with the North Koreans, the senator quickly spotted the essential details. “Boeings or Airbuses of recent manufacture. Can you really procure such aircraft?” the senator asked.

  “I absolutely can. Everything in order, with an international certificate and every kind of after-sale service,” Kasper replied.

  “But Western sellers can’t do business with a country that’s got the whole international community against it.”

  “Our supplier will sell to an ad hoc corporation.”

  “So we’re talking about a triangulation.”

  Kasper furnished him with all the necessary information. This is an industrial sector Kasper knows well, and a kind of work he’s done before.

  Transactions involving military aircraft are regulated by bilateral agreements between countries, agreements that are difficult to circumvent. But for the buying and selling of aircraft designed for civilian transport, the margins are wider. If a purchaser has liquid and immediately available financial resources, it’s possible to acquire any passenger transport aircraft in the name of and on behalf of a leasing company specifically established for that purpose in an offshore country.

  “Airbus 320s can be found for fifty million dollars and up,” Kasper explained. “We’re talking about very recent machines.”

  “But those are European airplanes,” the senator objected. “Produced in the West. And the Americans are the primary supporters of the embargo….”

  “There’s a document called the End-User certificate, covered in part 744 of the Export Administration Regulations. In theory, this certificate is supposed to guarantee that the aircraft won’t be converted into a weapon of mass destruction or acquired by a rogue state. In reality, it’s easy to get around those restrictions through multiple changes of ownership. The controls become watered down until they’re practically invisible.”

  “So it can be done then,” Bun Sareun said, summing up.<
br />
  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “How much are you thinking about charging them?”

  “That depends on what they want. And it depends on whether they have money to invest.”

  “Oh, they’ve got the cash, you can rest easy on that score. It’s just…Where do I stand in all this?”

  “What is it you have in mind, Senator?”

  “Ten percent. Does that sound fair to you?”

  Kasper nods. It’s extremely fair, for a Cambodian kickback.

  —

  Three months have passed since that dinner at the Pyongyang Restaurant.

  After a series of meetings with the commercial attaché, Kasper has obtained appointments with other North Korean diplomats. He’s passed all of their exams with flying colors.

  And now the big day has arrived.

  “Well, here we are,” says Hok Bun Sareun. “Finally.”

  The senator hasn’t missed a single meeting. He’s acted as a liaison officer and a mediator, and even as a master of ceremonies, at personal expense. Today he’s about to put the crown on an operation that will be talked about for a long time.

  Besides, 10 percent of this transaction is a major incentive to exercise diligence, and in addition to the money he will earn, his personal prestige will increase in the eyes of an ally highly regarded in Phnom Penh.

  The process of checking their identity papers takes a few minutes. Kasper and the senator wait in silence while soldiers carry out the necessary verifications. An abrupt military salute indicates that their way is clear. The ambassador’s expecting them.

  The North Korean embassy is a sober but elegant two-story villa, a perfect example of French colonial style. The satellite images Bauer showed him didn’t do it justice, Kasper thinks.

  They walk a few dozen meters through a formal garden to the main entrance.

  Kasper moves at a deliberate pace, glancing around the whole time. There are probably video cameras everywhere, but they’re not in sight. No sign of any human activity. Not a sound to be heard. Even the morning breeze has suddenly expired.