by Ian Walkley
Mac decided that since he hadn’t a clue what question to ask after this technobabble, he’d be better off changing the subject. “So I’m a contractor, not an employee.”
“Deniability, Mac. What we’re doing isn’t strictly by the books, as you can see. You do something to embarrass the US Government and you’re on your own. But you’ll see on page eighteen that the salary and bonus arrangements are very attractive. Note the twenty thousand sign-on perk. That should help ease the pain. And, you’ll be relieved to know that we don’t want you to kill anyone. Just help us get evidence on designated targets. Tomorrow there’s an operation here in Nice I need you for. Next operation, I’ll be partnering you up with one of the other team members.”
Mac didn’t speak for a moment, as if weighing his options. But truth be told, there wasn’t much wriggle room here. Not if he wanted to stay out of jail.
“And I can take time between operations? Do my own thing?”
Wisebaum’s forehead creased slightly. “That’s the benefit of being a contractor. But you must be available when I need you.”
Mac nodded as he scribbled his signature and recorded his bank account details.
“Look, Mac, I’m only going to tell you this once. Don’t mix up your work for AST A with anything else you might decide to do. Know what I mean? Do that, and you’re back where you started. Understand?”
“Noted. So who’s my first target?”
Wisebaum adjusted his glasses and sipped his coffee as he waited for the laptop to boot up. He opened a folder full of photos and began a slideshow.
“This is Bogdan Brazhlov. A Chechen Muslim. The number-one importer of cocaine and heroin into Russia. Has links with the Triads in Hong Kong and even the Italian Mafia. Heavily involved in prostitution and extortion in London and on the French Riviera. His father was a general who was killed in Afghanistan back when we were funding the insurgency in Charlie Wilson’s war. Brazhlov blames America, so he’s backing the Taliban to avenge his father’s death. The suicide bombs and roadside IEDs are mostly funded by Brazhlov. The Taliban sells him heroin in return. He’s booked into the Chanticle Hotel next door for a week from tomorrow.”
“So what are my rules of engagement?”
“Rules of...? Let me be clear about one thing, Mac—I don’t want you playing soldier. Your job is helping my team take down Brazhlov. You’ll meet them tonight. But remember, I’m running this show, not you. Understood?” Wisebaum reached out to shake.
“Sure.”
He smiled and shook the hand proffered. But it seemed to Mac like a bullshit gesture. He had always been a team player. But Wisebaum didn’t even want him on his team, and being a team player for almost seventeen years in the Army had gotten him where he was today. It was about time he looked after his own interests for a change. After being dumped in the shit by the shiny-asses at the Pentagon, it seemed entirely fair that he use the substantial resources of the US Government to achieve what he wanted.
So for now he’d play along. At least ASTA would give him funds and the flexibility to allow him to continue the search for Sophia and Danni.
~ * ~
14
Khalid, under guidance from the first officer of the Princess Aliya, Captain Jergah, steered the submarine away from the megayacht and tilted the joystick forward to take the craft down. The cabin was constructed of clear acrylic Plexiglas so passengers could see everything underwater, and as they cruised out to the headland, a shimmering curtain of sun’s rays pierced the crystal water, unveiling a magnificent forest of giant kelp that swayed rhythmically with the ebb and flow of the waves.
Despite the tablets he had taken to calm himself, Khalid was finding it difficult to appreciate the beauty of the undersea forest as he concentrated on manoeuvring the craft. He remembered only too well what it was like to drown. The pulse pounded in his neck and surged hot inside his skull as his mind went back to when he was strapped to a table and American interrogators poured water on the towel covering his face. Choking, gasping for air, the trickles of water catching in the back of his throat and panic before they took away the towel. Then they started all over again. Unimaginable terror—except for him it had been real.
Using a technique Sheriti had shown him, he took shallow breaths. It helped, but not much. After ten minutes, he turned the sub towards the precipitous cliffs of the half crater that rose almost vertically out of the water for a thousand metres. Brightly coloured reef fish darted into shadows of coral as they passed, and a pod of spinner dolphins meandered by closely, as if curious at the alien vessel.
“Almost there. I will take over now if you wish, Highness” Captain Jergah suggested.
Khalid nodded, and Jergah lurched the submarine down and switched on the two powerful spotlights to light a wide arc ahead. Just before a rocky wall, the sub turned sharply left. They were in the tunnel. Khalid gasped as the craft bumped against the side, showering pebbles and sand in a soupy mix that cut visibility to a few metres. Past the bend, the force of the ocean eased. A sheer rock wall loomed in front of them.
“We’ve reached the staging area,” Fanning explained, as Captain Jergah pushed two small levers. Two metal arms shot out and slotted into holes in the wall. The submarine shuddered and stopped. “The submarine is now secured by powerful electro-magnets. Now watch the camera at the stern.”
As they watched, a gigantic metal grate shot up from the floor, ramming against the ceiling of the tunnel, blocking escape and preventing anyone following from gaining access to the staging area.
“Once the sub has anchored to the wall, this grate shuts before the entry hatchway will open,” Fanning said. “Upon leaving the fortress, it opens only after the hatchway has fully closed.”
“Just get us in the fortress,” Khalid said, fighting the discomfort threatening to overwhelm him.
Jergah pushed a third lever and pointed to the ceiling above where the hatchway began to roll back. When it was fully open, pumps blasted water out the ballast tanks and the sub rose to the surface.
Finally, inside! Khalid climbed out quickly, hungrily sucking in the thick air. Basalt pillars the height of a ten-story building reared up behind the dock, towering over piles of rubble from the excavations. Two guards greeted him as they manoeuvred a small crane beside the dock to unload a crate of equipment the sub had carried.
Fanning continued his commentary. “Apart from the security tunnel to the resort, we have blocked off all external access points, other than the ventilation shaft and power and gas lines, which are well-hidden. Being concrete, the buildings will last for centuries. There’s sufficient gas for twelve months’ emergency power, and food and water for twelve months’ occupation by up to thirty people. Even so, we’re only using ten percent of the cavern, it’s really a giant lava tube.”
“You must know the cavern intimately, Bill,” Khalid said in a lighthearted voice.
“Every inch, I’d say.” Fanning laughed and walked on ahead.
Khalid exchanged a knowing glance with Ziad. That is the problem, Bill. You know too much.
After checking Khalid’s luxurious quarters, which had full internet communications, they came to the cellblock. Inside were five cells, each with three double bunk beds. Khalid went into the first cell and ran the cold water tap, splashing his face.
“Consistent with the specs in your design,” said Fanning, “the cells have been designed for ease of cleaning and for calming those who may have anxiety after being confined in the fortress for long periods. We designed the coloured tiles to stimulate the brain and be more restful than plain white would have been.”
“Very nice, Bill. Quite relaxing patterns.” And one day soon, you and your family will be able to enjoy them.
Beyond the cells was another operating theatre to supplement the two above ground. Dr. Xi had suggested they construct this in case they needed to harvest organs in secret, while the resort above continued to operate as a legitimate facility. The rich—movie stars, celebriti
es, politicians—would pay millions to come to this beautiful place for their organ transplants, most not aware that their new healthy, compatible organ had just been removed from a living donor.
“Very good. Now the vault.”
“The vault extends thirty metres into the rock,” Fanning said. “Enough room to store four containers of cargo.”
“You’ve done your job well, Bill.”
“And you can rely on me to ensure it remains a closely guarded secret.”
Khalid nodded. “Of course, Bill. That is the key to your continued work with us. Now let us return. Through the tunnel to the resort this time. The inspection is deemed satisfactory. The handover is approved. As is your four million dollar bonus.” Grinning, he held Fanning’s hand as they walked.
Bill Fanning was indeed an outstanding engineer. But Khalid had no intention of paying a bonus.
~ * ~
15
Kalyptos, situated on a narrow cobbled street one back from the Nice wharves, seemed as authentic as any Greek restaurant Mac had been to. Whitewashed brick walls adorned with paintings of semi-naked nymphs cavorting with centaurs. Three musicians with stoic grins sitting on round stools, playing Greek classics. Faded blue-and-white checked tablecloths. No doubt later they would be smashing plates and dancing the Zorba as the ouzo took effect.
Mac had entered less than a minute after the others. Only one couple stood between him and the team, but they still hadn’t noticed him. Amateurs.
He was trained in making quick assessments of individuals, and he studied Wisebaum’s three companions. One of them would be his partner on their next operation. He needed to make sure it was the right one. One guy was a short, Italian-type, chain-smoker, looked intense, while the other also had latin features and wore a ring on his right hand. He moved his shoulders and was expressive with his hands, rather feminine mannerisms The woman looked like a country girl living in the city, judging by her engaging smile, casual manner and tight jeans. She moved with the grace of a gazelle. Prey, not predator. Easy on the eye, but that was more a disadvantage in the field, where it was important not to stand out. She should be back in the office. She and Wisebaum were engrossed in a flirty conversation, and he wondered if they were in a relationship. Mac figured he’d go with the effeminate guy, if the choice was left to him. He’d fit in well in the Middle East, where men were used to holding hands and other physical contact that was anathema to many western males.
“I see those Rambo types all the time at the gym, strutting about, checking out their abs in the mirror, a hero in their own minds. Big insecurities, little dicks.” The woman held up two fingers and pulled a face.
Wisebaum gave a meaty laugh and touched her arm a little too long. Either they were an item, or he’d like them to be. The woman hadn’t responded in kind, so she was either naive or just using him to get ahead.
Mac suddenly realised she must have been referring to him. She apparently knew he was a soldier, which she shouldn’t, and it appeared she didn’t want to work with him. Fine. The feeling was mutual. He had no desire to hold the hand of a pretty computer nerd from head office. She’d attract all sorts of problems.
He needed to knock this on the head, and fast.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle et messieurs. This way please,” said the portly maitre d’, directing the group towards an empty table near the window.
Mac stepped out of the queue. “I’m with them.”
Wisebaum spun around. “Mac! Where did you come from?”
“I was invited...I think? Could we have the table over there?” he asked, pointing to the back comer. It offered more protection from the street, a good view of the whole restaurant, and a quick exit through the kitchen.
The maître d’ stiffened. “It’s a little noisy, monsieur.”
“We love balalaika music.”
“Bouzouki,” the woman said. “Balalaikas are Russian.”
“Correct, mademoiselle.” The maitre d’ bowed. He took them to their table and handed them menus.
Mac gave the woman a friendly smile. “I’m Rambo.”
Wisebaum blustered, trying to regain control. “Lee McCloud, this is Tally Francis. Rosco Estuarez, Tony Cabrera. As I mentioned to you, Mac, you’ll be partnered with Tally on the next project, after we’ve completed the current job.”
“Actually, Derek, you said I’d be partnered with one of the team. You didn’t say it’d be the April cover of Sports Illustrated.”
Tony and Rosco looked horrified and glanced at Tally, waiting for her response. Wisebaum had his gaze firmly focused on the menu.
Christ, they‘re scared of her.
She pursed her lips and considered him for a moment, then said, “Actually, I’d have pegged you more as the Soldier of Fortune reader. Or maybe you just like the pictures of big guns.” She smiled and sat down. “Well, I suppose at least you have a sense of humour.”
He leaned across the table and whispered, “Helps, when you have to kill for a living.”
“Have to? Or choose to?”
The other guys on the team were glancing at each other, looking somewhat uncomfortable and uncertain whether to intervene. A bubbly, ginger-haired waitress with piercings in her upper lip and eyebrow arrived and softened the icy glares across the table by taking their orders, returning with Mythos beers for Mac and Tony and a bottle of Kratistos red for the others.
“Were any of you aware of me tailing you?” Mac said.
“Huh?” said Tony.
“You’re not in the office now. You never know where the threats might come from. For example, in a restaurant you should never sit by the window.”
“Kabul,” Tally said leaning back in her chair.
The others looked at her.
“You’ve been in Kabul too long, Rambo.”
“He’s got a point, Tal.” Wisebaum looked sheepish as he unfolded his napkin. “That’s why the director asked me to team you two together on the next operation.”
Mac felt a growing irritation. “Kandahar, actually.” Had they been told of his Special Ops background? That much, at least, should have been kept secret. “So, what have you guys been told about me?”
“Not enough for you to kill us, I hope.” Tally said, laughing with the others. She crossed her arms on the table and leaned towards him. “How’s this sound: Special Ops soldier screws up unauthorised stakeout in Mexico leaving two girls and four cops dead and two American girls missing without a trace. Some red-faced General in Washington needs to get rid of the problem and sends it to us. That about sum it up?”
“Tal...” Wisebaum, stroking his beard, shot her a disapproving frown.
Mac wasn’t going to be provoked, and he held his voice steady. “You’ve just demonstrated how a little knowledge can be dangerous.”
“And now he makes threats.” She finished her wine and heaved a sigh. “Listen, Mac, we’ve tried this before with a soldier. Doesn’t work. All you people know is how to kill.” She refilled her glass and took another mouthful.
The bouzoukis started again, slowly with a rhythmic, metallic twang.
The waitress returned with their orders. “Bon appétit!” she yelled above the noise. Her cheerful Irish-accented French ratcheted the tension back a notch.
“Mmm, this looks magnificent. Let’s not talk shop, eh?” Wisebaum had ordered the restaurant’s specialty dish, astako makaronada—lobster with macaroni—and he attacked its soft white flesh.
Tally persisted with her attack. “Are we supposed to ignore the elephant in the room, Derek? No offense, but just so we’re clear, I think the world would be better off with fewer soldiers and more teachers.”
Tony and Rosco were watching them like it was a boxing match and one of the contenders was about to get knocked out of the ring. Mac sliced his swordfish steak and tried to ignore her. She was quickly getting under his skin. Still, with his training, he knew he could get the better of her. She’d be the one to lose her temper first. And then he wouldn’t need t
o work with her.
“To the glory of war!” Tally held up her glass in a mock salute, and took another gulp.
Mac held his emotions and lifted his eyes to meet her gaze. “No soldier thinks there’s glory in war. What you armchair critics don’t understand is that war is never totally in control. It’s frequently unfair... But then, life’s not fair either, is it? How fair is it that innocent people get killed when a plane’s flown into the building they just happen to work in?”
Tally stopped eating and shot a look at Wisebaum. There was more than a hint of colour in her face.
“Tally’s parents were killed in the North Tower on 9/11,” Wisebaum said quietly.
There was a few moments’ silence. Mac glanced at the others, could see that he’d maybe gone onto shaky ground. He hadn’t been briefed on these people, so how could he be expected to know? It still didn’t excuse her attitude about servicemen and women.