by Cole Reid
“She’s there waiting,” said Marti.
“Thank you,” said Mason. Marti walked back toward the door to the stairway and let the door close behind her. Mason knocked twice on the door Marti pointed out.
“Chessmaster,” said Mason. Mason’s codename was followed by an electronic buzz sound that meant the door was unlocked. Mason pushed through the door while Xiaoyu got the feeling to wait. Mason held the door noticing the shadow behind him wasn’t moving.
“It’s alright,” came a husky voice, “He’s still catching on.” Xiaoyu took a tentative step forward then another, putting him in the doorway of the room. Mason stood in the room next to a woman seated at an antique circular wood table.
“His instincts are kicking in,” said the woman through smoked vocal chords, “He knows this place isn’t what it seems. Come on in Reagan, my bark is as bad as my bite but I’m not goin’ to bite. Not today. I save that for the weekend.” Xiaoyu stepped in the room to see a salt-and-pepper-haired woman with almost orange eyes. Her full figure was accentuated by a small green upholstered chair. She played at Marie Antoinette as she sipped espresso. Unlike Marie Antoinette she had survived into her fifties.
“Rainman, Mistinguett. Mistinguett, Rainman,” said Mason, “The mother of Caprice.”
“And your codename I can’t remember,” said the woman, “Asshole is it? I remember it having a Double-S.” Mason smiled.
“What’s in a name?” said Mason.
“Introduce a woman with a codename?” said the woman looking at Mason shaking her head.
“You can introduce a woman by her codename,” said Mason, “Just not a lady.”
“You really wanna start with me in front of him?” said the woman. Mason took a step back.
“Smart boy,” said the woman, extending her hand toward Xiaoyu, “Georgia Standing.” Xiaoyu shook her hand simply.
“You’re wondering is this a gallery or something else,” said Georgia, “It’s both. Downstairs is 100% business. Upstairs is a bit more indulgent. We own the building, pay our bills and French corporate tax. There’s nothing suspicious about an art gallery in Paris, makes for a good safe house. We can order so many things. Plastics. Cellophane. Piping. Wire. Plaster. Chemicals. Tools. And we say it’s for an art project. We can also cover our agents. Think about it. If your cover is an architect, they can check and see if you’re licensed. See where you studied, where you worked, when you passed your exams, on and on. That’s a huge paper trail we’d have to create just to keep our agent in play. That’s expensive. But if you say you’re a painter or sculpture. We’ve got you covered. All the works sold downstairs are sold under cover names. It makes our agents that much more legit. They’re artists that have actually sold works to private clients. How to break that cover? It could be done, but it’d be expensive. We train our agents well. You’d have to invest a lot of time and money to discover one of our spies. So you can forget Wall Street. Our industry is more about money and economics than any other business in the world. I’ve seen guys sacrifice themselves for us to set their families up in the US. For one reason, economics. The US still has better economics than anywhere else in the world. It’s an immigrant country and the world’s busiest business market. You can accomplish just about anything with a green card and $100,000 to start you off. We cut deals like that many times.”
“What’s my deal?” asked Xiaoyu.
“I like you,” said Georgia, “No fucking around. You could teach something to this one.” Georgia motioned toward Mason.
“I asked Georgia to review Mitchum’s files,” said Mason, “She’s the best there is.”
“Don’t you call me Georgia after that codename stunt,” said Georgia, “Call me Senior Officer Standing. Reagan, you can call me Georgia.”
“See Reagan that’s lesson one of counter-intelligence, play the sides against each other,” said Mason, “That’s what she’s trying to do to us now. But we’re no rookies.”
“Lesson number two,” said Georgia, “Always keep the target thinking he knows more than he actually does. When he thinks he’s outsmarted you, he’s really out-dumbed himself.” Mason shook his head.
“Tell him what’s on the menu,” said Mason.
“You are if you keep trying to work my nerves,” said Georgia, “We have a ghost, Reagan, an informant that we don’t know. Looking at Mitchum’s files he made several periodic transfers to a bank account in Sarajevo. That’s textbook baiting. You keep the informant on the line by steady streams of cash. It’s an attitude adjustment. The more the informant can rely on the cash the more reliable they’ll be. They know if they screw you the well runs dry. Steady deposits are always better than lump sum payments. We never deal in absolute numbers unless it’s necessary. Recurring deposits gives the impression the cup runneth over. Let them get greedy, once again see Wall Street. Greed is as good a motivation as any.” Georgia paused to take a sip of espresso.
“This project falls under an umbrella that the President initiated after last year’s events in New York. We’re tracking sub-market weapons. A lot has happened while you’ve been with our facility in Guam. Your cover will be as an ex-French marine and intelligence officer,” said Georgia, “Because of that we will continue in French. Your appearance is because you are Algerian-French and your mother was Vietnamese. She was brought back by your father after France left Vietnam. She was a bitch and you hated her. You were born right here in the City of Lights. Your father was Jean-Marie Metayer, who was also French military. We use him because he was one of our identities for one of our agents. You joined the navy at his behest. You were released a year later on permanent medical leave with a back injury. You live off of your medical pension. It’s not enough to afford the life you want so you got into the munitions game. Now you and a former colleague smuggle munitions away from the French military supply chain. You’re sole interest is the cash. The military never paid enough so you’re making up for it. You must understand you serve no cause. You’re not political so avoid political conversations. You will need to know about the French political system in anycase.” Georgia reached down to grab a white folder that had gone unnoticed on the floor.
“What is this?” asked Xiaoyu in a Paris accent almost good enough for Paris herself.
“All things relevant,” said Georgia.
“You’ll need to memorize everything in there because it is who you are once you’re in play,” said Mason in Americanized French.
Xiaoyu looked at the folder. The word VAUDEVILLIAN was written across the front in all caps with a black ballpoint pen. Xiaoyu knew the type of pen; his mind had been taught to recognize the tread. The pen was extremely common in the world at large. Knowing the pen didn’t help. It could be bought almost anywhere.
“What is VAUDEVILLIAN?” asked Xiaoyu.
“The project name,” said Mason, “I told you we taught your mind to move weight. You’ll see how much heavy-lifting you can do when you go through that. The photos, names and details need to be like clockwork in your head.”
“Don’t share too much information,” said Georgia, “Remember you’re a businessman. Only the cash is important to you. They can like you; they can hate you. It doesn’t matter as long as their cash is green.”
“How will I know Valgani?” asked Xiaoyu.
“We gave you everything we know from Mitchum’s files,” said Georgia, “That’s why memory is so important. It may be the tiniest detail something you overhear, some place mentioned that will allow you to put two things together.”
“What does your instinct tell you?” asked Xiaoyu.
“About what?” asked Georgia
“Valgani,” said Xiaoyu.
“Of course,” said Georgia, “During the Cold War we could get Soviet officials to spy for us because they were lured by the promise of life in the West. The ones married to the ideology or the system, well you didn’t waste time on those. They were still useful because they were predictable. But you focus on those with
shaky faith. You recognized them by asking yourself what you would look like if you were a Soviet officer with shaky faith.” Georgia paused for a sip of espresso.
“I told myself if I were a Soviet officer struggling with issues of faith, I’d struggle at other issues of faith as well. We’d follow a married Soviet officer and find he was taking a mistress or frequenting prostitutes. A lot of them were living two lives. But can you guess what was the easiest way to recruit Soviet spies. It wasn’t about catching them out of uniform; it was about watching them in uniform. Look for the ones with wrinkles in their coats, with a bit less shine in their boots, or a half-hearted salute. If I saw a Soviet officer with a loose string or lint at a cocktail party I knew I had my man. The fact that they weren’t really fond of the system seeped through at the weakest spots, the seams. Like the seam between husband and wife. Always look what’s coming out the seams,” said Georgia pausing to read Xiaoyu’s eyes.
“But then you take someone like Aldrich Ames. For him it was about money. He sold secrets to the Soviets. Ames was purely a broker. A broker has to have access to something you want and are willing to pay for. Ames was a sloppy-drunk and spendthrift and needed cash to fund his debts. He got some of our best sources killed, by spilling secrets for coin. For him it was just a business deal. His reasons were very personal and financial in nature. My guess is Valgani’s reasons are personal but idealist in nature. He sees the kind of people they sell to and knows it will do more harm than good.”
“That’s Valgani?” asked Xiaoyu.
“As best as I can tell you,” said Georgia.
“And how do I get supplies to Sarajevo to trade?” asked Xiaoyu.
“It’s all in the file,” said Mason, “Believe me I worked on everything. Let it come together.”
“Why not answer his question, Mason,” said Georgia.
“It’s coming by freight,” said Mason, “Two-hundred FAMAS rifles have been vacuum sealed and buried in a freight train car filled with gravel. The rifles are buried at mid-level to avoid too much pressure. The number of the car and everything else are in the folder for you. Good Luck.”
• • •
Adria Airways flight JP115 with service from Paris to Sarajevo with a stop in Ljubljana left the following Wednesday. Xiaoyu ended in Sarajevo an hour before the sun did. He was instructed to take a taxi to the Grad Rijeka Deluxe Hotel—five stars. Xiaoyu checked into the hotel giving a French passport with a two-month old picture of Alain Metayer. Xiaoyu didn’t like the picture or the name, but if he had refused Chessmaster’s offer he would have been a nameless face. Pretending to be a Frenchman for a while was better than being a permanent number in the Hong Kong Prison System. The hotel had been repaired and remodeled on the outside, but the inside was different. New carpets were hard to get in Sarajevo so dusty pre-war ornaments lay dying on the floor. The hotel tried to make a play for the classic era, when Sarajevo was the fastest developing city in Europe. Although the city was on pace to reclaim the title, trying to relive past glory was a mistake. The hotel made Xiaoyu feel awkward. Despite his heritage, it would have done the same to anyone. From the Byzantine chandeliers to the nude potbellied woman carved at the base of the front desk lamp, the place seemed stuck in time. The same oblong sense of nostalgia vibrated through his first-floor room. It felt like traveling through time in a malfunctioning time machine. Xiaoyu lied on top of the paisley-patterned duvet feeling more or less at home. He had lived much of his life in a hotel room. It was no way to live, but familiar was familiar.
After a sixteen-minute wait, reception phoned saying a call from Filip Grebo was for Xiaoyu. Xiaoyu requested the call be sent to his room. He hung up the phone and half a minute later the phone rang again. Xiaoyu answered the phone identifying himself as Mr. Metayer. Filip Grebo identified himself through a non-thick non-thin Bosnian accent. There was a café by the river that had great coffee and aperitifs. Filip suggested they meet there to get acquainted. Filip offered to give Xiaoyu directions. Xiaoyu said the name of the café was all he needed. He told Filip he could find the place on his own.
The Black Bread Café was on the south side of the Miljacka River. Rust colored umbrellas distinguished each table against the beige stucco façade of the building. Filip drank black coffee. Xiaoyu had plain tea, also black. Both men kept their jackets on as insurance against the chilly autumn air. In between the two of them was a small basket of namesake black bread which substituted biscotti at the café. The bread was hard with a slight bitter but sweet accent—perfect as a coffee biscuit. Alain Metayer was French, even though Xiaoyu wasn’t. But Filip didn’t speak French. After the requisite Bonsoir comment allez-vous, Filip continued in English. Filip was tall enough to be tall, a good six centimeters taller than Xiaoyu. He had dark hair, heavily receded on each side. He remained unshaven with meandering hairs wanting to form a goatee. A metallic stud was embedded in his left earlobe. He wore a dark wool jacket and grey T-shirt with blue jeans. Brand new red and black trainers cared for his feet. Filip explained the nature of his work with the company and his background in mechanics. He also confirmed the company was headquartered in Vienna. Xiaoyu told him the arrangement. A train would arrive in Sarajevo in two days with a two-hundred count shipment. If the deal went off without issue, Xiaoyu promised future business. While Xiaoyu was all business Filip was older and more personable. He invited the waiter to the table and ordered a glass of Prosecco for himself and Xiaoyu, insisting business was best discussed with alcohol in the system. Both men assumed the other had retainers watching, both were right. Two tables away were a man and woman—well dressed—as if on a date. It wasn’t an accident that one shared a name and both shared blood with Filip Grebo. Xiaoyu’s retainers were miles away and miles above. A satellite over the Mediterranean Sea monitored the signal coming from the chip in Xiaoyu’s brain. It dialed up three sister satellites to relay data about Xiaoyu’s whereabouts and confirmed, before sending the results to a computer at a textile distribution company in Zagreb, Croatia. The company was a cover for a monitoring station where Mason Keig was staring at a screen. Xiaoyu’s signal wasn’t the only one relaying from Sarajevo on the screen.
The FAMAS rifles were second generation and more expensive than first generation. They referred to the rifles as laptops. Filip asked what generation were the laptops and Xiaoyu raised two fingers; raising two fingers also raised the price. Filip didn’t make much noise over the price because Xiaoyu was very forthcoming. He told Filip that the laptops were all used but refurbished. Even though all had been used before, none of them had been in work place environments, only training. Work place meant combat zones. The fact that the rifles were coming from schools meant the buyer was willing to pay more for them. How much, Filip couldn’t say. Filip wasn’t the buyer. The buyer Xiaoyu would meet later. Filip changed the conversation away from business once again. He asked Xiaoyu about his background—like business topics—Xiaoyu stuck to the script. French military. His father. Back injury. Decommission. He answered with hesitations like referencing still memories, unlike remembered data. Talking about his father seemed to pain him like talking about the parachute accident that caused his decommission.
The file on Alain Metayer came to life as did Xiaoyu. His senses were dulled by his own story. Talking about the Triads wouldn’t have made sense to him. It was past tense. Telling the story of Alain Metayer was more interesting. No agent, green or gray, would have told the story better. Georgia herself might have believed Xiaoyu was a half-Vietnamese Frenchman if the story wasn’t her creation to begin with. The tale itself was so unstoried, Filip believed most of it. Under different circumstances he would have believed all of it.
Filip and Xiaoyu shared one last cigarette and Prosecco before toasting to Filip’s hospitality. Xiaoyu shook his host’s hand and strayed back in the direction of his hotel. Xiaoyu had been purposefully taciturn, forcing Filip to draw the answers out of him. He was precise with details but not wordy. He drew the conversation out to fill and k
ill time. As he walked back to his hotel room he remembered the last customers sitting out on the terrace, Filip, himself and a man and woman sitting within earshot of the table. With Xiaoyu dragging out the conversation, he still couldn’t out last the couple at the adjacent table. They were there to stay. If the man and woman had a mutual interest, they would have left the café much earlier. Although not ex-military like his counterpart—Alain Metayer—Xiaoyu had been under orders before. He knew the expressions. Xiaoyu kept Filip at the table because he wanted to. The man and woman stayed because they were ordered to. Xiaoyu’s steps were slow and sure. He walked comfortably and without hesitation. There was no need for looking over his shoulder, not yet.
• • •
The key turned like a tight screw. Closing the door behind him Xiaoyu stood in darkness. He told himself he was more comfortable in the darkness than anyone else would be. If Filip knew he was lying, he would have ended their business relationship the same night. Xiaoyu’s mind had always worked better in darkness. The darkness was more expansive so his mind could be also. He thought about Mason, the Chessmaster. In the darkness, the picture of Chessmaster was made clearer. His mind was a machine. He wasn’t arrogant or egotistical like Xiaoyu’s first impression. He was a person of pure calculation. He enlisted Georgia’s help because she had more experience and the relationship between the two was close. Xiaoyu knew it was closer than he could guess. But Mason wasn’t trying to prove anything to Georgia. She was a counter-intelligence maestro and he liked the music. He didn’t try to display his talent by operating alone in the cold. He pulled Georgia in to pick her brain and increase the operation’s success. With no ego, it was a no-brainer.