The Belgian Bagman (Justin Hall #11)
Page 1
Thank you for purchasing this novel
from the best-selling Justin Hall series.
Sign up for
Ethan’s New Release
Announcements
and never miss a book!
THE BELGIAN
BAGMAN
BOOK ELEVEN IN THE JUSTIN HALL SERIES
ETHAN JONES
To God and my family.
Thank you for your wonderful love.
Table of Contents
Front Page
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Bonus - Entry Point Chapter One
Bonus - Entry Point Chapter Two
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Bagman:
An agent who pays spies and bribes authorities
Prologue
January 7
Bank of Belgium
Brussels, Belgium
“This is the last time I’m giving you such sensitive information.” The young man’s hand shook as he handed over the small thumb drive. “It’s getting extremely dangerous.”
The old man brushed the right side of his salt-and-pepper moustache, then picked up the device. “You’re paid handsomely for a reason. And that reason, in case you’ve forgotten, is your access. You’ll leave when your job is complete, and when we no longer need that access. Not a minute sooner, and not a minute later.”
The young man shook his head. “You don’t understand. This—”
The old man waved a dismissive hand. “I understand very well. I didn’t get to where I am without doing the dirty work.” He waved his arms around his spacious office overlooking Square du Bastion and the Royal Palace of Brussels to the north. Then he pointed at the corner of his dark mahogany desk. Tawfiq al-Gailani, Executive Manager, was carved in capital letters in a gold-plated name sign. “I didn’t become top manager by avoiding danger. I jumped right in, dashed where others turned around and ran like scared dogs.” Al-Gailani leaned forward in his seat. “I grabbed and took what I wanted.” He made a swift gesture of reaching and taking with his right hand. “This is how it works. You want to get to this, right, to have all this?” He waved his arms again.
The young man nodded. “Yes, of course,” he said in a low, uncertain voice.
“Then go back to your office. Act normal, but as always, keep your eyes open. You’ve been trained for this. And this is Brussels, Europe. Remember Mosul? Baghdad? You’ve seen worse; we both have seen worse and have survived.”
The young man nodded. “Yes, yes, but this is different. Back home, we knew the enemy. ISIS. Shiite militants. American and other foreign dogs. But here . . .” He shrugged. “Anyone could be watching me.”
Al-Gailani’s small brown eyes searched the young man’s face. “Have you seen anyone following you?”
“No.”
“Anything strange at your office?”
“No, no.”
“Outside your house?”
“Nothing, but I have this strange feeling, like someone’s watching me. You know the NSA tracks phones, emails, all digital communications.”
Al-Gailani nodded. “Yes, yes, I know. That’s why we meet in person, in our offices, to discuss clients’ business.” He tapped a few folders spread across his desk. “But you have no evidence, concrete evidence that an intelligence service or the police have eyes on you?”
“No, but I wouldn’t want to wait for that confirmation. The December incident, when the police intercepted the truck bomb and—”
“Shhhh, don’t even mention that fool’s name. I’m glad he’s gone, and nothing will tie him to us and our operation.”
“Right, but what if the police discover the other associates?”
“Then, we’ll deal with it,” al-Gailani replied in a frustrated voice. “For now, let’s stay focused and deal with the Russian emergency.”
“Yes, about that.” The young man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Lenkov Oil is expecting their money transfer. One hundred million euros by the end of the week.”
“Is that why Egorov is in town?”
“Yes.”
“And we don’t have that money.”
“No, not even half.”
Al-Gailani cursed Lenkov Oil and Egorov. He drummed his fingers along the edge of the desk. “Let me handle that. I . . . I will come up with something.”
“Escrow accounts or trust funds.”
Al-Gailani cast a stern gaze at the young man. “I told you I will handle it. I didn’t ask for your opinion.” The thought of blackmail crossed his mind, but he was not going to share that with the low-ranking operative.
The young man nodded slowly and looked at the floor.
“What else have you heard about the counter-terrorism force investigation?”
“It’s a full-blown operation. Special forces are working with the State Security Service and other intelligence agencies. They’ve called for help from the CIA, MI6, and the CIS.”
Al-Gailani studied the young man’s clean-shaven face. “The Canadian Intelligence Service? And this information is accurate?”
“Yes, yes. My associates are very good. All sorts of intelligence operatives are swarming in and around Brussels. They’re getting closer.”
“Do they know about Egorov?”
“If they don’t, they’ll soon find out. That’s why we need to leave—”
“I will handle it. We’re not going anywhere. And you need to calm down, okay?” Al-Gailani’s voice turned cold and firm.
“I will try.”
“No, you will do it. There’s no trying.”
The young man nodded.
Al-Gailani said, “Anything else? Something specific?”
“No. I will download the transactions and the account numbers of the Russian, American, and Iraqi companies and put them on another USB drive.”
“Good. But don’t come to my office tomorrow. I will send someone to pick it up.”
“Who?”
“I . . . I’m not sure. I’ll see who’s available.”
“Why . . . why can’t you meet me?”
Al-Gailani gestured toward his computer’s monitor set at another desk opposite the window. “My day’s full. Meeting after meeting. But have it ready at the end of the day. Someone will meet you at the regular place at 4:15.”
“4:15 at the coffeehouse three blocks from my office.”
Al-Gailani shook his head. “Yes, isn’t that ‘the regular place?’”
“Sorry, my . . . my mind is getting fuzzy.”
“Refocus and think straight.”
“I’ll try . . . I’ll do it.”
“All right. Be gone now.” Al-Gailani dismissed the young man with a small hand wave. Then al-Gailani stood up and walked to the window. His eyes followed the young man as he hurried down Boulevard de Waterloo and headed toward the Louise metro station. He may be scared, but he’s right. Belgian authorities are closing in. It’s getting
too hot. It’s time to leave. Al-Gailani grinned and brushed his moustache. Time for me to leave, and to leave him behind. He has served his purpose. Time to cut off all ties linking him and his associates to me. But not before I get my hands on the flash drive with the account numbers.
He grinned again, then walked to the corner of his office. He put on his heavy felt coat and headed out the door. Time to talk to a man about an elimination.
Chapter One
January 9
Antwerp
Twenty-seven miles north of Brussels
Justin Hall cast a sweeping glance at the large square in front of Antwerpen-Centraal, the main train station in Antwerp, Belgium’s second largest city. Passengers hurried in and out of the award-winning stone-clad building with a huge dome; its fantastic architecture was fit for a cathedral. A thin blanket of snow had fallen overnight, covering the square and most of the sidewalks. From behind the glass of Eetkaffee Monico café, Justin’s eyes followed a young woman walking a beautiful chocolate Labrador retriever who was prancing and running, and leaving large paw prints in the snow.
“Do you think they’ll come here again?” asked Carrie O’Connor, Justin’s partner in the Canadian Intelligence Service, who was sitting on a barstool next to him.
“I hope so. Intel showed the cell’s plan to do another recon of the area,” he whispered and sipped his coffee. “And from what we’ve observed so far, it seems they’re headed this way.”
“But we have no idea what happened overnight. What if the cell received new, different orders?”
“There were no phone calls. No coded emails or other online coms.”
“What about the couple who arrived past midnight? They could have brought a message from the Syrian.”
Justin shrugged, then rubbed his chin. “Yes, but we don’t know that. We’ll operate under the original plan that Yazigi and Aboud are still gathering intel, and they’re coming here.”
Carrie sighed and reached for her teacup.
The Belgian police had identified two Syrian immigrants, Moussa Yazigi and Sami Aboud, as sympathizers of the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria or ISIS back in November. The two young men had been seen in online videos praising ISIS massacres and sharing terrorism propaganda on their social media. While they had stopped short of inciting violence and calling for jihad in Belgium or Europe, the police had kept a close eye on them, suspecting Yazigi and Aboud could be more than just naïve or disappointed Muslims. And a week ago, online chatter had indicated that “the Syrian”—a still unidentified militant group leader in Syria—was planning to deal a heavy blow to Belgium. The Syrian’s move was supposed to retaliate for the Belgian government’s decision to rejoin the international coalition of forces operating in Iraq.
Considering the recent arrests after the police had intercepted a truck full of explosives in Brussels and online videos threatening terrorist attacks in other Belgian cities, the government had called for the assistance of foreign intelligence agencies. Belgium had already been struck in March 2016, a series of attacks that killed thirty-two people at the Zavantem Airport and a metro station in Brussels. Justin and Carrie worked in Vienna, Austria with the CIS Europe Clandestine Section and had been deployed to Belgium to assist the local authorities in thwarting the next terrorist hit.
Justin took another sip, then tapped his phone’s screen. An earbud was connected to the phone, which linked him to Dolina. She was another ECS operative who was following the two suspects, along with the other surveillant, the newest addition to their team. Her name was Karolin Bayer, and she was Justin’s girlfriend. He had been worried about Karolin working alongside him because of any perceived conflict of interest and, more importantly, because he was concerned about her safety. Justin’s operations routinely included gunfights, car chases, and overall extremely dangerous situations. Karolin was not ready, and, even if she were, Justin would not want to put her in harm’s way.
So he had trained Karolin for a few days, teaching her basic surveillance skills, and then had insisted she work closely with Dolina, one of the ECS’s best surveillants. In this way, he could put some distance between himself and Karolin, which he hoped would keep her safe. But this distance was growing smaller and smaller, as the suspects were driving along Kipdorpbrug and heading toward the train station.
Dolina’s voice came into his earpiece. “Suspects turning onto Breydelstraat and heading south.”
“Copy that,” Justin whispered.
Carrie straightened her earbud’s wire. She was listening and following the same conversation.
“I think they’ll park at the garage, like they did last time,” Karolin said.
Justin nodded and smiled. Karolin was a quick study and very meticulous about details. She had not been part of the surveillance until two days ago, but it was clear she had studied the after-action report.
“Yes,” Carrie said. “They could split up.”
“Last time they stayed together.” Karolin’s voice echoed with uncertainty.
“If they split up, they’ll cover more ground,” Dolina explained. “Plus, they’re familiar with the area, since this is their second time, at least as far as we know.”
Justin said, “And one of them may be covering the other’s moves.” His tone grew serious with mounting concern. If the suspects parked at the garage, then went each their own way, Dolina and Karolin would also have to separate and follow them on foot. This was not the first time Karolin was tailing a suspect on her own, but Justin had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Be careful. Both of you.”
“Yes, we will, Justin,” Karolin said in a cheerful tone.
“Copy that,” Dolina replied.
A brief pause, then she added, “Suspects entering the parking garage. We’re moving forward and stopping on Statiestraat.”
“Okay.” Justin said.
He drew in a deep breath and sipped the last of his coffee. Statiestraat was the nearest road parallel to the train station, just a block away from the Eetkaffee Monico café. “We’re getting ready. Switching to radio coms.” He turned off his phone and tapped his earphone, turning on the communication gear.
“Copy that.”
Carrie slid off her bar stool and stood next to Justin. He zipped his black bomber jacket and tightened the scarf around his neck, then he put on his woolen cap. “Let’s go.”
He opened the café’s door for Carrie, then they both stepped outside. Their agency-issued silver BMW was parked half a block away, in case they needed to go in pursuit. Carrie flipped open a large map, and they pretended to study it, to appear as if they were trying to find a certain location.
“Suspects left the garage,” Karolin’s voice came into Justin’s earpiece. “Aboud heading to Statiestraat.”
“Where’s Yazigi?” Justin whispered.
“Still with the car,” Dolina replied. “No, he’s locking up. He’s heading toward the station too.”
“Together?”
“No, they’ve split up.”
“Copy that,” Justin said.
He glanced at Carrie, then further to the right, from where Aboud was going to show up at any moment. He was the more vocal and the more violent of the pair of suspects. Aboud had gotten into fights on the Internet jihadist chat rooms and also at protests. Justin would not be surprised if Aboud had come armed to this operation.
Justin’s hand almost involuntarily hovered over the left side of his chest. His Sig Sauer P229 pistol rested in his holster, ready for action. He could access it with a small, swift hand gesture.
Aboud appeared across the street, walking at a brisk pace on the cobblestone sidewalk. He was dressed in blue jeans, a black-and-blue jacket, and a white prayer cap. Justin’s eyes studied the jacket, as his mind wondered about the possibility of a suicide vest underneath. That was always a possibility when dealing with sworn jihadists. The jacket fit snugly around Aboud’s tall, large frame, and, considering the sixty-yard distance, Justin could not make out any
wires sticking out of the jacket. Aboud’s hands were deep into his pockets, which made it impossible for Justin to notice any trigger devices.
Justin sighed, then tapped the map, as if he was pointing out something to Carrie. Then he said, “Negative on whether Aboud’s wearing a vest. Who has him?”
Dolina replied, “I’ve got him.”
“Yazigi’s mine,” Karolin said.
Justin nodded. He was glad Dolina had assigned Yazigi to Karolin. The second suspect seemed to have been reluctantly dragged into the cesspool of terrorism. The online chatter and wiretaps had painted him as a loner, who had only joined the Brussels cell because of his desire to fit in and to belong to a cause greater than his very small self. Yazigi was a great driver, and perhaps that was his only set of skills.
Aboud suddenly stopped and turned his head. He walked back a couple of steps and seemed to admire one of the cars parked on the side of the road. The car was a fiery red Alfa Romeo convertible, definitely worth a second glance. But Aboud’s eye went further up and to the intersection behind him.
Justin followed Aboud’s gaze and noticed Dolina. She had just appeared on Statiestraat, but was not expecting Aboud to be staring at her. Dolina seemed startled for a split second—as she looked into Aboud’s direction—then she shook her head and turned her back to Aboud and walked to the right and away from the station. “I . . . I think I’ve been made,” she said.
“You positive?” Justin asked.
“Uh, no, uncertain. What’s he doing?”
“Nothing. Still staring in your direction. Maybe waiting for Yazigi.”
“He’s still on Breydelstraat, walking very slowly,” Karolin said.
“Has he made you?” Carrie asked.
“No, hasn’t even turned his head once.”
“Good. Let’s see what Aboud does,” Justin said.
“Copy that,” Dolina said.
Aboud glanced to his left. His eyes seemed to be trailing Dolina. Justin was not sure about that, but he was certain that Aboud was checking to see if he was being followed. All jihadists were instructed to expect surveillance, and some of them were trained on surveillance evasion measures.