by Geoff Wolak
‘So near the airport.’
‘Yes.’
‘District 5 is northwest, airport is twenty kilometre southeast.’ I waited as she blushed. When she went to stand I blocked her, a wave at the FBI. When my girl went to leave I grabbed her by the hair and sent her into her mate, Nicholson shocked, the lads looking over.
The FBI sprinted to us. I told them, ‘They’re fakes, working undercover.’
The ladies were grabbed, bags grabbed to some loud protesting, an FBI badge removed from one of the bags and shown to me.
I closed in on the ladies. ‘I doubt you had permission from the White House to try and spy on me, so expect some shit.’
As they were led away I called Franks, who was on the slot machines, and he came running, hotel security wondering what was up. ‘I just had two female FBI agents try and get close. Look into it quickly.’ I pointed at the ladies.
He walked after them as the manager approached. ‘Problems, sir?’
‘Two undercover FBI ladies.’
Angered, and puzzled, he walked after Franks and towards the ladies.
Franks was back fifteen minutes later. ‘They say that they’re here for rich Russians, which does happen.’
‘Bollocks. Their Russian was crap, their cover story was crap, and they’d be killed quickly by a rich Russian, so dig deeper – and quickly. Someone might know that me and my men are here, a risk.’
He walked back to the FBI men, his phone out.
Ten minutes later the senior FBI agent approached. ‘Those ladies are with us, we checked them out.’
‘Their Russian language skills were crap, their cover story crap, and that’s not how the FBI send lady agents off to get themselves killed – is it.’
‘No. Colleague of mine, she had a Russian grandmother, perfect accent, years in study on a backstory before they let her loose.’
‘So who let those two loose?’
‘I have calls in to high places, we’ll find out.’
The lads were all now intrigued, some bizarre theories floated, and our FBI liaison returned half an hour later. ‘Both those ladies have been arrested. The agents they claim to be are off sick, and from Portland!’
I waved over the manager when he passed. ‘Those FBI ladies were fakes, so … are you about to be hustled or robbed?’
He glanced at the FBI liaison. ‘A team of fake cops robbed a cash truck a year back; if you want a big pot of cash, you need to be inventive these days. I’ll have the local task force alerted before we move any cash, extra men on. How’d you spot them?’
‘I speak Russian, and I work undercover; I know a good story when it’s being fed to me.’ Grinning, I pointed at the FBI liaison. ‘Have him checked out, just in case he steals some cutlery.’
‘I know his face,’ the manager told me. ‘He took over from Special Agent Polosi last year.’
I looked past them. ‘Oh gawd, here comes trouble.’
They turned to see Salome walking over with a suitcase on wheels, no bra on and her boobs swaying side to side in a loose top.
‘Who’s she?’ the FBI asked.
‘Israeli.’
The lads clocked her, Sasha grinning at me. She drew level.
‘Salome, what a pleasant surprise.’
She glanced at the FBI and the manager. ‘You have finished your other work?’
‘Yes, some time off for the team.’
The manager shot her a few sentences in Hebrew, surprising me, but it soon seemed that they were getting along. He handed her some chips to lose on the tables before he headed off.
‘I don’t have a room yet,’ she told me as Sasha closed in.
Sasha told her, ‘You can have my bed, I get another room.’
I gave him a pointed finger. ‘You will stay put.’ I handed her two thousand dollars. ‘Get a nice room.’
She took the money and shrugged. ‘When are you leaving?’
‘Not yet, but we just unearthed some spies pretending to be FBI.’
‘Yes?’ she puzzled. ‘What for?’
Sasha cut in, ‘Did you send them, to keep an eye on him?’
She shot him a look.
‘We approached them, not the other way around, so … I don’t think they are here for me and my men. And you, you came all the way from New York to see me...’
‘I was in Los Angeles for a few days,’ she informed us.
‘And you knew where we were … how?’
‘Your name in the computer. Sloppy, you need a fake ID. Where is Tiny?’
‘Still in Panama.’
‘No one injured in Mexico?’
‘No.’
‘And the planes shot down?’
‘I’ll brief you sometime soon. In the meantime, get a white wine – but not an Israeli white wine.’
She squinted at me. ‘How’d you know I don’t like Israeli wine?’
‘Because no one likes Israeli white wine.’
She couldn’t hide her grin as she ordered a drink. ‘We send it to Jews in Europe. They feel obliged to drink it to help us.’
Later, as Salome chatted to some of the lads, Rocko asked, ‘You and the Israeli bird…’
‘No, no nothing between us.’
‘Tasty bird,’ he hinted.
‘Have a go if you like, but watch out for the mean right hook.’
‘There’s a street nearby to find girls, and a bar that the waiter told us about.’
‘Be careful, and stick to groups, they’d rob you blind.’
A smash, and we all looked, a man not happy with a slot machine. He walked towards us at the bar as security closed in, and he was a big man, a bushy black beard. He took down the first guard with a jab, a kick to the knee of the second guard. I jumped up, the gap between us just ten paces or so.
I pushed people away and closed the gap, blocking his path. He stopped, sizing me up.
‘Y’all wouldn’t stand there like that unless you knew what y’all about. So, fella, ya fancy your chances?’
‘I’ll give you odds of a hundred to one.’
He moved for a kick, a feint, but I could see his hips were not in the right position, his right hand coming up, a second feint, but I grabbed his wrist with both hands and dragged him off balance and past me. He rolled away like a professional. Like a wrestler.
I was now where he had been stood, and he was in my former position. And he was smiling. Right up until Salome whacked him on the head with a bottle, sending him down and out.
‘I had it covered,’ I told her, getting a shrug as security grabbed the man, as well as their wounded colleagues.
The manager appeared, radio buzzing. He finally faced Salome. ‘We’ll need a statement.’
‘No,’ I told him. ‘She’s Mossad.’
He huffed out a huge breath, muttering something in Hebrew, but she just shrugged, our wrestler dragged out, calm reclaiming the bar.
‘Rooftop bar,’ I told her, leading her away, case and all.
‘Get a room, you two,’ Sasha shouted, the lads laughing.
From the front desk she checked in, a room found and paid in cash, and we dumped her case in it, soon in the lift and up to the quiet rooftop bar, and enjoying the view in a cool breeze, fresh drinks bought and put on my room.
‘So, you had some spy work here?’ I began as I took in the fountains below.
‘No, my father wanted me to see a few relatives. We have a large family farm, part owned by a few people, and he wants to sell it. He needs their signatures.’
‘Is he putting his affairs in order?’
She frowned at me. ‘He’s not sick. At least … he has not said anything.’
‘And would he?’
‘No, probably not, he keeps things to himself.’
‘Then maybe you should spend some time with him whilst he’s still around.’
She studied me for a moment. ‘You miss your father?’
‘More now than when he was alive. I took it for granted that he would be there, then
one day he was gone – no final chat. We were not close, but I would prefer to have him alive.’
We sat.
‘Tell me about Mexico.’
I smiled. ‘How romantic of you to think about work. Here we are, under the stars in Vegas, and you’re all work, work, work.’
‘You show no interest in me,’ she complained.
‘That’s because we need to work together, and I wouldn’t risk your life if we were … close, romantically.’
‘And if we were not working together…’
‘You’re a good looking lady, and I live in a hole in the ground getting shot at most of the time. It does not take much to satisfy me, so you would not need to be a real catch to be with me.’
‘So … Mexico,’ she nudged, and I gave her the story over a few beers, some of the lads coming up to look at the view before heading back down.
She finally said, ‘You think more about the politics than the fighting.’
‘Fighting … is always politics manifesting itself into the physical instead of the verbal; they say that war is political rape. If I shoot a terrorist, then I am legally killing a man for believing in something different to that of my government.’
‘And what side do you take in the Middle East, and the Palestinians?’
‘Your founding fathers were idiots.’
She straightened, offended.
I continued, ‘You should have pushed the Arabs across the Jordon River, some money in their hands, a smile and a wave – send us a postcard and don’t be mad. Instead you tried to govern them, stupid. Israel is like a husband and wife getting divorced, punching each other, then sharing the same house and hoping for the best.
‘Each new American and European administration tries to find a way for husband and wife to reconcile and live together, yet we all know how impossible it is for divorced couples to reconcile – even for the sake of the kids.
‘The solution to the Arab-Israeli conflict is to recognise that there is no solution, just a new dressing on an old wound that will never heal. And the Palestinians, they’re staying in the house just to spite you, which is not what’s best for their future or what is best for the kids. They need to admit defeat and move on, but they won’t – the words are too hard to speak.
‘So it will go on for the next hundred years, death and misery, well-meaning politicians offering new ideas on how the furniture can be moved around to make things better, and that the divorced couple should respect each other, a hug before bedtime.’
‘You sound like my father.’
‘And how would you fix it?’ I pressed.
‘Like you, I can see no solution.’
‘Yet you risk your life all the time for your half of the house, so you’re just as stupid as the rest of your population and your politicians, fighting a war that can never be won.’
‘And why do you fight?’
‘Most of the time my fight is just, a group of hostages – or some mean people trying to take the oil from the poor villagers without paying. I benefit from a clear moral choice much of the time.
‘But if the Red Indians here wanted to set off bombs and kill police officers I’d have an issue with shooting them; this is their land – by your standards.
‘But unlike your founders, the Americans massacred the Indians and stole the land, so at least you’re better than they were. Or not … if you consider the long term suffering caused by the sharing of the land of Israel. You put your Indians into reservations with high walls, and they’re still in those reservations. ’
‘You don’t agree with our right to the land?’
‘If we altered the world’s borders back to how they looked two thousand years ago … the world would be a very different place, the Romans running most of Europe. Still, the Romans gave us concrete, and straight roads, so Europe would probably look quite nice. Traffic would be less of an issue and I think crime would be low.’
A couple came in and sat, and I clocked them from the corner of my eye.
‘The couple,’ Salome quietly noted.
I nodded. ‘Stand then sit.’ I stood, she stood. I leant in and kissed her, surprising her, a good grope of a boob before I picked up empty glasses and headed to the bar. ‘Get the manager, and security, right now, and my FBI detail from down stairs – I’m a major in the British army.’
The bar staff glanced at other guests from under eyes as a radio call was made, and it seemed that they were not only trained for this - but used to it.
I sat back down, four security guards stepping out two minutes later and hovering near the bar, soon the FBI appearing and rushing to me.
I looked up. And pointed at the couple. ‘Fakes.’
With the couple now looking worried the FBI stepped across and flashed badges, pistols taken out. Words were spoken, more words, a badge shown, followed by more words. The man stood, soon wrestled down, his lady fleeing – straight into Salome’s leg, a nice face hitting a hard floor, a bloody nose seen as she was grabbed.
Franks stepped in with Dick and stood near us as they studied the scene of man and woman being handcuffed, the manager appearing.
I stood and faced the manager. ‘Something is going to happen tonight, and you won’t like it.’ I faced Franks. ‘Get the cavalry here before the shooting starts.’
Worried, he grabbed the lead FBI agent and was insistent in his tone and choice of language.
I faced the manager. ‘You need every guest checked with the FBI, then every room searched, before you’re knee-deep in bodies.’
‘And these people..?’
‘Might be here for me.’
He rushed out, radio to his mouth. I got a fresh round of drinks and sat, wondering just what was going on. ‘The two pairs of spies were amateurs,’ I told Salome, thinking out loud.
‘Against us, yes, but no one else would have suspected them.’
‘So … maybe they’re not here for me, just a very odd coincidence.’
‘Or you were meant to hurt them, and be seen doing it – caught doing it.’
‘The big man down stairs…’ I wondered out loud. ‘All connected? But why? FBI are here, CIA, there are cameras everywhere. If I hurt someone … there are witnesses. To set someone up … this is a bad spot, security is tight.’ I held my hands wide. ‘It’s Vegas; they’re used to scammers and cheaters. Look at the bar staff, they were not flustered at all.’
I led her back down, and to the bar, warnings to the lads that something was up, but we soon had armed hotel guards dotted around plus local police, soon a van or two full of tactical response teams to worry the guests.
The lead FBI agent came and found me an hour later. ‘We found a body in a van linked to the couple of fake police officers we nabbed up in the rooftop bar. Body is of a junior Saudi diplomat.’
‘Ah … bollocks.’ I stepped away, phone out, and called SIS London. ‘It’s Wilco, in Vegas, America, the Bellagio Hotel. I uncovered two fake FBI agents in this hotel, then two fake police officers, and we just found the body of a dead Saudi diplomat.’
‘A Saudi? Jesus. And you’re still on holiday I suppose?’
‘Yes, some relaxing time around the pool. Update David Finch and the Cabinet Office, as well as the Saudis. I get the impression that someone wants me set-up … and looking bad in front of the Saudis.’
I remained in the bar with most of the lads, those outside the hotel accounted for.
Miller called half an hour later. ‘What the fuck is going on in that hotel?’
I gave him the basics.
‘I got a wake-up call, and the intercepts from the FBI. The fake FBI agents track back to an office in Washington, but not to a known agency, so the FBI are raiding it as we speak. But we also have a phone link to a payphone fishing tackle shop in Toronto, outside Toronto, small village, and it tracks to a former CIA manager who’s been dead ten years.’
‘You might want to check his pulse, because I think he’s still fishing on the weekends and not a rotting
corpse.’
‘Be a shit storm if he is alive, he was certified dead by some high ranking people in the CIA.’
‘Did he work on the X-files?’ I teased.
‘There is no X-files. And that’s FBI in the TV series. If there was an X-files … I would be heading it up.’
‘So what motivates him … and who motivates him. Is he working for … Not So Deep State? Shallow State … perhaps?’
‘You take no pleasure in taunting me, do you, asshole!’ He huffed. ‘I’ll get back to you.’
I made sure that the lads got to bed, hookers allowed in rooms, but we had police at either end of the corridor and the FBI supping coffee below and pacing about.
In bed, Sasha in his bed near me, Sasha began, ‘So what do these people want with you? Or with us?’
‘A rift with Saudi Arabia it seems, me getting the blame.’
‘You have twenty witnesses here..?’ he puzzled. ‘And the CIA would assist you.’
‘The bad boys never knew that when they rushed to get teams here, and maybe second-class teams, body in a van. My name was in the hotel computer, and these hotels check with the police and FBI about criminals, so someone saw my name flash up.’
‘Someone who figured we had been in Mexico, and may end up in some US city near the border?’
‘Well, yes, they could have had a team in Tucson ready.’
Sleep would not come easily, and I stared up at the ceiling as I thought through scenarios.
After breakfast, Miller called. ‘Our friend the dead CIA manager has just been picked up in Washington, but I got a team to him first, so we’ll make him talk – no right to remain silent.
‘His office was raided, all sorts of weird contacts being thrown up. He had a direct line to a dead-stop switchboard in Zurich, and a Cayman Islands bank account.’
‘You have his service record?’
‘I have the summary here.’
‘Any postings in the Middle East?’
‘Five years in Saudi before he died.’
‘He’s working for the Saudis, not against them. They suspect my involvement in the killing of their prince in Zurich.’
‘Did you whack that guy?’
‘No,’ I lied, not about to admit anything here. ‘But he was hit with a Valmet, and he paid for Desert Sands to be shot down, so it all fits nicely for them.’