Supernotes

by Agent Kasper

It really does seem like another planet, Kasper thinks. A planet without a breath of air.

  —

  They’ve been sitting for more than an hour. Airplanes have yet to be discussed.

  The commercial attaché and the military attaché are with them in the ambassador’s office. For weeks, these two men, together with Kasper and the senator, have explored the possibilities of closing the deal. Now, sitting on either side of the ambassador, the two seem to be made of plaster.

  The ambassador is a man in his forties with bright darting eyes and slow, studied movements. He speaks through an inexhaustible smile, rolling through a succession of the most disparate topics: art, European capitals, Italian wines, international football. He speaks perfect English, with a noticeable Boston accent. At one point he gestures to a painting on the wall to his right: “That’s a Caravaggio, an authentic Caravaggio, believe it or not.”

  Kasper’s willing to bet it’s a piece of rubbish, but his lips are sealed.

  “We won’t talk about what it cost,” the ambassador goes on. “As you know, when it comes to certain passions, we’re prepared to bleed ourselves dry. Isn’t that true?”

  “Our passions make life more bearable,” Bun Sareun says authoritatively.

  “That’s exactly right, my dear senator.” The ambassador nods, lingering for a moment on Kasper’s vigilant eyes. “They tell me one of your passions is weapons. You’re an arms expert, they say. And then there’s flying and parachute jumping. And even Muay Thai…People say you’re a man of action.”

  “Action but also thought. Maybe I think poorly, though,” Kasper says jokingly.

  “In any case, a thinking man.”

  “I try to be.”

  “And so you thought you could be useful to my country.”

  “I thought I could make money with airplanes, Mr. Ambassador. If in doing so I can also be useful to your country, then I’ll be very happy for you.”

  “That’s what I call straight talk,” the ambassador says, a highly amused expression on his face. “And how many planes would you like to sell us?”

  “I don’t sell. I respond to your needs. Your associates and I have identified a few models that will suit all your possible requirements. I’ve followed up on those choices, and I estimate that—”

  “I know all this,” the ambassador interrupts him. “Two Airbus 320s and a 330. The contract has stipulations regarding maintenance and the training of personnel. You see? I’ve done my homework. How much will all this cost us?”

  “A hundred and thirty.”

  “I see. I assume that includes a discount?”

  “Yes, a very large discount.”

  “Your associates have been able to verify the cost at the source,” Bun Sareun interjects.

  The plaster men nod, almost imperceptibly.

  “All right, all right…” The ambassador sighs. “That’s a lot of money, but okay,” he adds. “However, it must leave no trace.” The ambassador turns and yields the floor to the commercial attaché, who’s only too ready to step in.

  “There must be no transfers of money that could be linked to the future use of these airplanes,” the attaché says. “We can’t do bank or wire transfers.”

  “And we can’t write checks,” the smiling ambassador says.

  “So what’s left?” Kasper asks.

  For the first time since they entered the room, the only audible sound is the air-conditioning.

  “We can pay cash,” says the ambassador. “The whole amount, in cash.”

  “Cash,” Kasper says slowly. “Have I understood correctly?”

  “You have.”

  “One hundred and thirty million dollars in cash,” Kasper repeats, feigning the proper level of surprise.

  “There’s no other way,” Bun Sareun agrees. “Of course, arrangements will have to be made.”

  Arrangements, obviously. But what kind? Kasper tries to picture such an enormous mass of banknotes.

  “I can tell you that a large briefcase holds a million dollars in hundred-dollar bills,” the ambassador remarks didactically. He looks around, examines for a moment the impassive faces of his collaborators, and turns back to his two guests. He allows himself a brief outburst of laughter. “But at this point, my dear gentlemen, the real question is, which one of us is going to have to purchase a hundred and thirty large briefcases?”

  Kasper’s a step away from the finish line. A little too close for his taste. He therefore stops everything cold.

  “I’ll have to check on this and get back to you,” he says. “A hundred and thirty million dollars is not a simple matter.”

  The ambassador doesn’t blink. “That seems fair to me. And, if I may ask, how do you plan to proceed?”

  “I have to figure out where I can launder that much cash. Where I can put it. I have to get some guarantees. I hope you understand.”

  “I absolutely do. We’ll await your proposals. See you soon then.”

  Senator Bun Sareun shows no surprise, not even after they’ve left the North Korean embassy. He reassures Kasper. “It’s a mountain of money, but I know someone who can help us. Some banks here are used to receiving large quantities of cash.”

  The only person who doesn’t understand why Kasper called a halt to the proceedings is John Bauer. “Fuck,” he says. “You almost reached the goal and then stood still. Why would you do that? And don’t give me any bullshit about the enormous pile of money….”

  “It’s not that,” Kasper replies, holding the telephone away from his ear.

  “Then what the fuck is it?”

  “Too easy.”

  “Too easy?”

  “You know these people. In my place, in that same situation, what would one of them have done? That’s what I asked myself.”

  “And?”

  “Every day, huge amounts of capital are moved around the world electronically. That’s one of the areas where Asia’s on the cutting edge these days. But our friend the ambassador and his men think in terms of cash. They’re sitting on a pile of supernotes, and it’s crucial for me to avoid giving the impression that I suspect it. Not even remotely. So I reacted the way one of them would have reacted. With normal caution. With the right amount of skepticism. I’m taking my time.”

  “What a crock of shit. We could have traced that money by now and found out where it’s coming from. We had ’em hooked, and you let go.”

  “According to you. Me, I’m waiting for their next move.”

  “And suppose that ‘move’ doesn’t happen?”

  “Have faith. It’ll happen.”

  —

  The North Koreans’ next move measures 52 × 42 × 17 centimeters.

  A shiny gray aluminum attaché case with reinforced corners.

  It arrives at Kasper’s home eleven days after the meeting in the embassy.

  The courier is Hok Bun Sareun.

  The senator places the case on the dining table and asks, “May I open it?”

  “If it’s not a bomb,” replies Kasper.

  The senator smiles and opens it slowly.

  The packs are green, neat, and perfectly aligned.

  Each pack is made up of a hundred hundred-dollar bills: $10,000.

  The attaché case contains a hundred of those packs, stacked and serried: $1 million all told.

  “It’s not my birthday yet,” Kasper says, laughing.

  “It’s not a gift. It’s a little down payment. And it’s also an invitation to verify that they’re not fake.”

  Kasper picks up five of the packs at random. He closes the case, leaves the room, and places the case on the top shelf of his bedroom closet. Then he returns to the senator and asks, “Are you coming with me?”

  Bun Sareun spreads his arms. “How could I possibly say no?”

  “Which bank do you suggest?”

  “Up until not so long ago, I would have said the Banco Delta Asia of Macao. But the Americans have had it in their crosshairs for the past few years. We can go t
o the ACLEDA. I know some people there we can talk to about large deposits. I’ve seen it done on many occasions,” Bun Sareun declares. “People arrive at the bank with bags, actual bags, of banknotes they want deposited to their account.”

  “A hundred and thirty million dollars in hundred-dollar bills would fill a truck,” Kasper objects.

  “The ACLEDA has room for trucks too.”

  —

  They’re perfect. They’ve passed every test and have already been credited to his account.

  Authentic banknotes, but printed in a place that’s not the U.S. Mint. And therefore false? No. Different. But real.

  If the Chinese are behind all this, then the picture becomes clear. This is the war of the third millennium. No bombs, no cannons. Mountains of clandestine currency.

  Why conquer the world when you can buy it?

  A few weeks have passed since that first deposit. And things have advanced considerably.

  Once again, the North Korean ambassador receives Kasper and the senator. The visit is as cordial as before, but this time there are no digressions. It’s an operational meeting: the aircraft delivery process, the methods of payment.

  Kasper has identified two institutions where he can deposit large amounts of money in increments. He’s negotiated with the bank directors and agreed upon their commission. They’ll take 1.5 percent when the money comes in, and another 1.5 percent when it goes out.

  The North Koreans must pay in full in the course of six months, after delivery and flight tests have been concluded. No delays or hitches; the flow of money to the offshore company must be steady. And secure.

  The North Koreans are satisfied and compliant. The deal is practically closed.

  And so all is well. Provided no one does anything funny.

  “I understand that you want to be reassured about our solvency,” the ambassador says to Kasper. “I’ve discussed this with Senator Bun Sareun, and we agree that in the future there will be other opportunities for us to do good business together. Now, therefore, if you’ll be so kind as to follow me…”

  Kasper and the senator follow the ambassador and his collaborators. They leave his office and walk along a corridor, down two flights of stairs and through a reinforced door already standing open to the basement of the diplomatic residence. The lights go on automatically.

  This isn’t possible, Kasper thinks.

  There they are. Stacked on wooden pallets and wrapped in thick protective plastic covers.

  Cubic meters of money.

  Hundreds, thousands of those ten-thousand-dollar packs.

  How many times in the past several months have they talked about this, he and Bauer, and tried to imagine the thing itself? And what words have they used to describe the hypothetical, enormous quantity of money?

  Mountain, truckload, boatload, heap…All absolutely inadequate to value the hypnotic spectacle of those pallets and their loads of banknotes, stacked as high as a man.

  Supernotes. Direct from the dollar factory.

  “What a marvel!” the senator exclaims.

  “Where does all this money come from?” Kasper whispers.

  “I’ll tell you outside,” Bun Sareun mutters.

  The ambassador invites them to take a few banknotes. “From anywhere you like,” he says. “You can have them verified too.”

  They leave the embassy with about a thousand dollars to submit to the bank’s verification process. But Kasper already knows that the professionals and the currency detectors will determine that the banknotes are perfect.

  Now Kasper understands why Victor Chao had all that special money. He understands the hints he dropped through the fog of alcohol and cocaine. It’s his Chinese compatriots who, through North Korea, are flooding the world with supernotes. And the North Korean embassy in Phnom Penh functions as a distribution center. The North Koreans get to keep a healthy percentage, and the Chinese trustees—Victor Chao, for example—manage the principal outflow. Laundering and investments all over the world.

  Kasper talks about this with John Bauer.

  They meet in Bangkok, in the restaurant of the Landmark Hotel. Kasper gives Bauer a detailed report but doesn’t tell him about the basement in the embassy. At the last moment, he decides that piece of information isn’t necessary. All the rest, however, seems to confirm the American’s own theories. Kasper gives him a few sample supernotes in an envelope.

  The former CIA man appears deeply impressed. And pleased. “You’ve done a top-notch job. And I’m glad that you’ve arrived at the same conclusions I came to. We believe something like this is happening in Iran and Pakistan too, and this will encourage us to make some moves in those countries.”

  He asks Kasper to submit a detailed and documented report. “An excellent operation,” Bauer repeats. “This news is going to come as quite a shock to our mutual friends in Langley. It should get them up off their asses.”

  Kasper reflects on the fact that a year has passed since their first encounter in Bangkok, when Bauer offered him the supernotes job. Now, at the end of February 2008, he can declare himself satisfied: he’s invested time and money, but he’s finally reached a proper conclusion. He can go back to Phnom Penh with his head held high.

  But he hasn’t finished. He must complete the operation as planned, because not doing so would be equivalent to blowing his own cover. When he explains this to Bauer, he agrees. Kasper’s going to get those three planes. He’ll pay Bun Sareun the stipulated sum. And then he’ll send a report to the top brass at Italian intelligence, even though they will already have been brought up to date by their colleagues in the Eighth Division of the external intelligence service.

  —

  The senator arrives at Kasper’s house with two bottles of Krug. “It’s time to celebrate,” he proclaims.

  Hok Bun Sareun is in orbit. He talks about future deals. The airplane business is a good one, but why limit themselves to it? Kasper agrees. They laugh when Clancy comes in, says hello, and quickly withdraws, leaving them to guzzle their champagne by themselves. Whitebeard said from the start that he didn’t want to be involved in the supernotes case, and he’s stuck to his word, even to the point of being unpleasant about it.

  They offer boisterous toasts. To the North Koreans, first of all, and eventually even to the unpleasant Clancy.

  Kasper can still see those pallets with their cubic meters of dollars, arranged in orderly stacks. Such an image is not easily forgotten. Bun Sareun concurs. “The night after the first time I saw them, I couldn’t sleep a wink,” the senator confesses. Then he adds, “You should get yourself a nice basement like the one the ambassador has.”

  “To tell the truth, that wouldn’t be bad,” Kasper replies. “Unfortunately, I don’t have such a good relationship with the Chinese comrades.”

  “Right, the Chinese comrades…” The senator sniggers. “But wait, what do the Chinese have to do with this?”

  “Well, the North Koreans surely aren’t doing all this by themselves.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And so?”

  “Let me understand you. You think the North Koreans are getting that money from China?”

  “Where else?”

  “The Chinese have nothing to do with it.”

  “Bullshit. Don’t give me that.”

  They laugh uncontrollably because right now the border between reality and bullshit seems like such a fine line, so hard to make out.

  But then the senator turns serious. He takes out his fountain pen and tears a page from the little notebook he always carries. He puts the paper on the table and writes “CHINA,” followed by a question mark. “Given how far we’ve come,” he says, slowly and emphatically, “tell me why I would say one thing to you and mean another.”

  “The dollar factory isn’t Chinese….”

  The senator shakes his head. “The Chinese may well know all about it. They very likely do, in fact. But no…they’re not behind the dollar-making machine.”

&
nbsp; He takes out his elegant fountain pen again and returns to the sheet of notebook paper. With two short, quick strokes, he strikes out the H and the N of “CHINA.” He raises his eyes and stares at Kasper with a little smile, and then he strikes out the question mark too.

  “What does it spell now?”

  —

  Kasper knows who to talk to about printing fake but perfect dollars. An affable young Bank of America executive from Texas, an expert in financial and currency matters, who also happens to have run up a hefty tab at Sharky’s.

  Kasper proposed they come to an understanding, which proves most instructive.

  The Texan tells him that making false plates would be difficult, but not impossible. U.S. banknotes are printed on intaglio machines produced by the Swiss multinational KBA-Giori and presses made by the German company Koenig & Bauer AG. These machines are sold all over the world. But the real trouble is getting the paper right. It’s 75 percent cotton and 25 percent linen, embossed paper with distinctive characteristics, specific kinds of ink. And then there are special security features, watermarks and so on, all of them decisive factors that make it possible for detection instruments to spot the fakes.

  The consultation arrives at a pretty simple conclusion: if a hundred-dollar bill is examined by the most sophisticated instruments and passes all tests, it can’t be fake. It is, therefore, authentic. And to be authentic, it has to have been printed on the correct machine, on the genuine paper, with the regulation inks and the exclusive security features.

  Kasper tries to reflect on what he’s seen and heard.

  He understands that the truth is right there, within reach of his hand.

  The only possibility leaves him breathless. The U.S. Bureau of Engraving and Printing does not have two money-printing facilities, but three. And the third one is located in North Korea.

  Who could set up an American mint in another country? People accustomed to moving men and things about casually. People not obliged to give explanations.

  People in American intelligence. Whatever acronym they may use. Whatever hat they may put on for the occasion.

  Surely, if Bauer had imagined anything like this, he would never have commissioned the investigation. Now Kasper must notify him. He must tell him everything.