“Welcome,” said the owner of one such mega-mansion to his three guests from the Chinese embassy.
A nondescript translator from the embassy spoke softly and quietly. “The ambassador says that he is honored to be here.”
Ambassador Kang then introduced his shy friend—Feng Biao.
Leonid Minin beamed. “Come in. This way . . . please.”
The eyes of the ambassador, the ambassador’s friend, and the translator widened as they walked past a knee-high sculpture that resembled a giant Lego toy brick except that it was made of pure gold.
Russia’s biggest arms dealer enjoyed watching guests react to his 115,000-square-foot abode with five floors of living space and two floors of parking garages. He was going to do his best to not ignore the ambassador but he needed to close the deal with Feng Biao—the seller—because a buyer in Yemen had already wired him $ 95,000,000 to fill an order for a Russian nuclear backpack with a working trigger. Operation Flaming Pearl would pay off handsomely for Leonid Minin.
The Ukranian merchant of death and his guests moved to the living room where they engaged in small talk over caviar and champagne. Fifteen minutes later a striking woman entered the room. She was dressed all in black. Her smooth skin, strong features, and swept back platinum hair belied her 62 years of age. The handsome woman bowed and said in deft Mandarin:
“Hello. My name is Tatiana von Gersdorff. I am Mr. Minin’s private curator. Please come to an exhibition room where he wants you to see a few pieces from his private collection to show you how much he loves China. Mr. Minin is a friend of China. He appreciates China and its great people and culture.”
The men followed her to another room where the private curator had placed two treasures on a table.
Tatiana von Gersdorff was a recognized art expert in Asian antiquities. The stylish widow had worked at Christie’s for decades and last served at Sotheby’s as the head of Chinese Ceramics and Works of Art. She pointed at a Ming Dynasty 18k gold tripod vessel that her client had bought in 2008 for $ 12 million dollars and said:
“This gold masterpiece displays two dragons that are chasing flaming pearls. The craftsmen decorated the vessel with turquoise . . . pearls . . . rubies . . . chrysoberyl and sapphires. It’s an extremely rare piece because only eight gold artifacts exist from this period.”
The ambassador picked up the gold pot and spoke softly. The translator said:
“I have never seen such exquisite beauty. Congratulations Mr. Minin.”
Leonid bowed. “China has a special place in my heart.”
“Thank you,” said the ambassador through the translator.
The arms dealer wanted to shout and say that they should get down to business and nail down the commission that the ambassador should be paid for bringing his friend—the seller—to the middleman. Leonid Minin desperately wanted to deal. The buyer’s $ 95 million payment was burning a hole in his pocket. He was confident that his clever plan would soon get the ambassador to declare the price at which he could be bought.
Tatiana von Gersdorff paused and glided over to the next item.
“This lovely piece is from the Qianlong dynasty. The moon flask is made of blue and pink enamel with white porcelain. The front and back have a pair of swooping phoenix dragons that confront a flaming pearl. Mr. Minin purchased it for fifteen million U.S. dollars.”
Leonid Minin stood up. It was time to execute his clever plan to find out the size of the commission due to the Chinese.
“Mr. Ambassador,” said Leonid Minin, “I’ve been thinking of selling these two pieces because your country has many billionaires who would enjoy these two masterpieces. They belong with your people and not with a Ukranian peasant like me. Do you know what someone would charge me in your country to help connect me with a buyer? . . . What would be an appropriate commission?”
“Ten percent.”
Minin gulped. He felt like punching the greedy bureaucrat. But greed was one of the fixed costs of doing business as an arms dealer. Leonid Minin knew that he would have to compensate the ambassador. But the arms dealer felt sick at the thought of having to pay 10% to the diplomat and his bosses in Beijing. “Thank you for the useful information. . . . Gentlemen . . . how about lunch? . . . We prepared many types of fondue for you and Mr. Feng to sample.”
~ ~ ~
The heatless sun failed to warm the northern latitudes. Sadly defeated the celestial orb began to retreat behind the Jura Mountains. The city lights of Geneva’s bankers and moneyed residents would soon glow in the twilight of the gods. In a few hours Mammon would again sleep the restless sleep that no sacrifice could satisfy.
Billy Buchanan piloted his boat towards the Port of Choiseul in the town of Versoix. He passed the harbor for more than 350 boats and slowed down and cruised another 1,000 feet north to a J-shaped pier built on boulders. This docking facility south of Mies was big enough for 25 boats. But it was almost empty during the winter season.
The former soldier sat on a deck chair. He brooded about the strange and unknown world that had taken him so far away from North Carolina where his wild Scotch-Irish ancestors had settled in the remote mountains of the New World to escape the Old World and the foreign entanglements that George Washington warned about.
What world had carried him from the lovely hills and forests of Mitchell County to the stark desert plains of Iraq where civilization was born 7,000 years ago in Mesopotamia?
What world sends a man from Spruce Pine to war with backward tribes in the distant and terrible mountain redoubt of Afghanistan?
What arrogant hubris forgets that Afghanistan suffered its first and only military defeat some 2,330 years ago under the blood-drenched hands of Alexander the Great and his wandering Greek armies?
~ ~ ~
At noon the American took out his scope and sighted the house of his target. He easily found the building—2,617 yards away—by searching for a green light at the end of the dock where the target kept his speedboat. Although the building was 21.8 football fields away, the size and splendor of the target’s mansion surprised Billy Buchanan. He had surveyed it before but the enormity and luxury of the palatial residence assaulted his sense of proportion.
The sharpshooter wondered how the long and winding road of life had brought a poor country boy from the Appalachian Mountains to this blue lake playground for the richest 0.1% of the world’s population.
What strange world imported him to take aim at the Croesus apex of the economic pyramid?
Despite his impressive surroundings Billy Buchanan was sure of his success in the land of the Golden Calf. He was not aiming for some impossible dream. He only needed to thread the needle on a wall and window that were a mere 1.4869318 miles away. He had done far more difficult shots in Iraq and Afghanistan. His bullets would fly clean and free over the water and find their target where the lake curved northeast to the right.
At 12:35 PM Billy Buchanan set up a rectangular tent on the pier. The tent matched the color of the pier and it was to serve as his blind. He then dropped two orange cones on the pier about 50 feet away from the tent. In between the cones he placed a small yellow sandwich board that warned pedestrians in French and German:
DANGER!
STOP!
MEN AT WORK.
~ ~ ~
By 12:50 PM Geneva time Jake Van Rensselaer had rampaged through his memories in a frenzied search for the identity of the probable target or targets of Billy Buchanan. The search was an impossible task. At any one time Jake Van Rensselaer ran 30 or more agents and informants throughout the world.
Who is it? . . . Who’s in danger?
Jake Van Rensselaer tried to concentrate. But he was distracted by his anger. He hated the man whom he had called “Billy the Hillbilly” in the dark corners of dusty tents and canteens in Afghanistan.
A thought hit him.
Leonid Minin is meeting today with the North Korean.
The CIA spy realized that Buchanan was going to attack one of his
most important informants.
Jake Van Rensselaer screamed. Curses flew out of his mouth while he ran down the hallway to reach a secure communications terminal where his telephone call would be encrypted and relayed through several untraceable stations. His hands shook as he entered the secret codes and passwords to get into the CALL-KLEEN system.
A few seconds later he put on a headset and dialed the number. While the telephone call went through the system Jake Van Rensselaer thought about the ten years that he had spent turning Leonid Minin into an informant.
The Ukranian had became a prime CIA collaborator when he provided information that led to the 2008 arrest in Thailand and 2010 conviction in federal court of his competitor—Viktor Bout. In exchange the CIA convinced the White House to drop Leonid Minin from the sanctions blacklist maintained by the Office of Foreign Assets Control (OFAC) of the U.S. Department of the Treasury. Leonid’s business received another very profitable boost when the White House ordered the Attorney General to quash all pending indictments of Leonid Minin for his illegal arms deals and shipments around the world. Of course Leonid Minin’s bribes had played a helpful role with key players at the White House and the Justice Department.
Jake Van Rensselaer stared at the computer monitor and cursed loudly.
It was 12:55 PM Geneva time and his call was being routed to Canada and then to Australia.
He cursed softly. His signal was getting bounced around the world.
India.
Brazil.
Spain.
He wondered if Leonid had already met with Ju Kyu Chang—the Deputy Director of the Machine-Building Industry Department of the Communist Party’s Central Committee. Leonid Minin had explained that the North Korean was traveling to Switzerland to buy ICBM guidance systems under a false Chinese identity. The People’s Republic of China had cooked up the cover as a courtesy to their ally. Minin promised his CIA handler that he was going to sell a defective missile system to Ju Kyu Chang.
This would be one of the greatest CIA operations.
Jake Van Rensselaer would surely get promoted to Deputy Director.
His dream was within reach and yet he did not realize that bad acts in his past would sooner or later catch up with him. Like most bureaucrats he had completely forgotten that the karmic wheel turns slowly but it grinds men, women, and their dreams exceedingly fine.
~ ~ ~
The North Carolina sharpshooter went back to the boat’s cabin. He hefted the bolt-action McMillan TAC-50 sniper rifle. He had picked the .50 caliber beauty from a large selection of weapons because the McMillan bolt-action rifle was extra accurate and it used Raufoss Mark 211 ammunition. Over his right shoulder he hanged a small leather knapsack filled with the deadly Norwegian bullets. He wrapped the gun in a gray cloth and carried it in his left hand. Billy Buchanan looked out the cabin porthole and saw no one in the pier that brisk November afternoon. The falling temperatures had sent everyone indoors.
The sharpshooter left for the pier with his armaments. He entered the blind and sat crossed-legged on the floor. He loaded the rifle and scooted near a long and wide slit that he had cut into the wall fabric. The sniper flattened himself prone on the floor and peered into his $ 2,000 rifle scope—a Leupold Mark 4 specially designed and manufactured for long range military applications.
He looked around to make sure that the blind was completely hiding him and his gun. He began breathing.
The sniper took a deep breath and focused while he held his breath for two heartbeats.
He exhaled.
~ ~ ~
As the luncheon came to an end Tatiana von Gersdorff discretely charmed the ambassador to follow her to a corner of the room where she showed him oil paintings by Gaugin, van Gogh, and Klimt. Meanwhile Leonid Minin remained at the dining table with his guest. The gracious host could not believe his good fortune or how easily he had fooled the CIA into thinking that he was going to be a seller in this transaction. He wondered if Jake Van Rensselaer would ever find out about today’s deal.
“You like the fondue and salad?”
Ju Kyu Chang nodded with vigor.
The arms dealer stared and wondered if the North Korean was ever going to stop shoving food in his mouth. A polite smile flickered briefly on the craggy face of the merchant of death. He spoke slowly for the translator and said:
“Did you bring the trigger?”
Food spilled out of Ju Kyu Chang’s mouth. “Do you have the money?”
~ ~ ~
At 12:58 PM Geneva time Jake Van Rensselaer’s call entered the Swiss telephone system. Leonid Minin’s cell phone vibrated aggressively in his left pant pocket. That phone was only for emergency calls. He excused himself and lifted the phone to his ear. He barely recognized the raspy voice of his CIA friend who said:
“You’re in serious danger. You’re going to be attacked. You need to get out . . . leave wherever you are right now.”
The arms dealer stood up and said:
“I’m sorry. But my wife is very sick. I have to go see her upstairs. I’ll be right back.”
~ ~ ~
Inhale.
The first rule of killing is proper breathing. Without it you can’t concentrate on the target.
Hold your breath for two heartbeats.
Then exhale.
Two heartbeats.
Inhale.
The second rule of killing is to shoot after exhaling. The killshot is most precise when your body is completely still.
Hold your breath for two heartbeats.
Exhale.
~ ~ ~
The bullet slipped out of the barrel with a muzzle velocity of 2,799 feet per second. Contact with the target would be in less than 3 seconds.
He inhaled and waited for two heartbeats.
He exhaled and waited for two heartbeats and squeezed the trigger.
A second and then a third bullet glided effortlessly after the first-born. In the chilly air he saw the vapor trail of each of the bullets as they wended their way to Leonid Minin’s home. A white plume of concrete dust swirled from the wall.
~ ~ ~
Leonid Minin had just turned to the right of the doorway and taken five steps down the hallway when he heard sounds that he would never forget. The arms dealer would live but he would forever hear the sounds of explosive armor-piercing incendiary bullets that fragmented into hundreds of rabid flesh-tearing monsters. The bloody pyrotechnical nightmare would always chase him in his dreams.
A week later the crime scene investigators finished their grisly work. Cleaning crews arrived from a biohazard remediation company and they spent ten days washing out the blood, bone, and flesh of three men and one woman from the walls, ceiling, and floor where they had met their Norwegian Raufoss angels of death.
Chapter 32/Trettito
LYON, FRANCE: NOVEMBER 21,
OR SEVEN MONTHS AND 12 DAYS
AFTER THE DAY
Rain, sleet, and overcast skies matched the mood of the Norwegian detective. He understood beyond a shadow of a doubt what he needed to do.
The two men met under the tent that covered the sidewalk tables of Le Broc’ Café. The popular eatery with the red facade was usually crowded. But today no one sat near the detectives. Inclement and windy weather had pushed the smarter patrons inside to the second floor. Sohlberg ordered a hot chocolate.
After the waiter left Sohlberg stared long and hard at Laprade. “The curator’s death is not acceptable.”
Laprade eyed the menu. His grimace indicated that he did not like anything on it. The waiter came back a few minutes later with Sohlberg’s drink. Laprade waved the waiter away.
“Sohlberg . . . we’re not responsible. It wasn’t our decision. It was Pierre’s operation. We only gave him the money to stop a nuclear backpack from incinerating thousands or tens of thousands of men . . . women . . . and children here . . . in New York . . . or some other city in the West.”
“But Tatiana—”
“Tatiana von Gersdorf
f knew that Leonid Minin’s money was dirty. All of her super-wealthy clients in Switzerland are crooked pigs. Don’t you understand? . . . You can put all the makeup and clothes and perfumes and jewelry and mansions and yachts you want on a dirty stinking pig but it’s a fact that a dirty stinking pig is still a dirty stinking pig.”
“Maybe. But Leonid Minin is still very much alive and open for business.”
“Not much longer. Someone in French intelligence leaked information to the newspapers that Minin works for the C.I.A. as an informant. . . . Some people in Moscow won’t like the fact that he’s the one who betrayed Viktor Bout and other friends of friends of the Kremlin.”
“Let’s just stay on topic . . . the woman who got killed in Switzerland.”
“What about her?”
“Her accidental murder doesn’t bother you? . . . She’s just like Azra Korbal. . . . What about the translator from the Chinese embassy? . . . Did he deserve to die?”
“Sohlberg . . . innocent and not so innocent bystanders get killed in wars. There’s always collateral damage.”
“That’s why I never work with people who compromise me or my values . . . my standards. And that’s why I’m quitting Interpol.”
“What do you mean you’re quitting? . . .
“We have work to do. Bonhoeffer and Pierre just gave us the tip about the twenty-seven billion euros that are unclaimed at the Sheremetyevo Airport in Moscow. . . . Billions that are tied to Ishmael and his business partners in Russia . . . billions that no one has stepped forward to claim after the Italians blew up Arkady Kovalchuk on his flight to Moscow.”
Sohlberg and the White Death Page 38