by TR Kenneth
Outside his office, he watched Genevieve play on the docks, once more feeding the swans. He and the little girl had shared much. Her cancer fight had moved him. Now he was her compatriot. A warrior like she was.
But he was losing his war.
There was little denying it. He knew he had a rally or two left, but after that, he would be done. He would take to his bed and cease to be.
The notion astounded him. It didn’t seem possible to no longer be. He was a force in this world. He had fought and struggled to gain everything he had. But in spite of his outraged denials, deep down, he knew it was coming. He was reaching his end. And when he lay snuffed out, the rest of the world would continue to laugh and drink and be merry.
His gaze settled upon Angelika who handed the bits of bread to Genevieve, the wind off the lake whipping her hair seductively.
Because of his affliction, he would never know the joy of her. He would die never achieving intimacy with the one woman who utterly fascinated him. He would surrender his life and be forced to leave her to other men. The world, in fact, he would be forced to leave to other men.
With a quiet, deadly rage, he acknowledged he no longer had patience for ruined plans. He didn’t give a fuck whether his bomb was sold and paid for. What he’d been counting on by that profitable blast to Barvikha was payback. When the bomb was detonated, he was going to send out the information in the documents he now held in his hands. That opportunity was gone now. Yes, he might have the chance at another bomb, but he doubted it. The best he could do now was create the chaos and instability he felt inside, and spread it like burning napalm across the world.
He looked down at the papers. They were meant to be destroyed after his perusal. But he had not destroyed them. It was the flight plan of the Global 7000 over Barvikha. Also, the specifications of the bomb, and the new bomb door placed in the belly of the craft.
There was also the printout of a payment from a Cypriot bank account from a certain company that had a very renowned family name.
It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to put the facts together.
He thought of the Russian president glaring at these documents, infuriated that his beloved oligarchs had been annihilated by a more furious American greed. Portier had been counting on the Russian president’s one surefire reaction: retaliation. Right where it would hurt. Washington, DC. And the best, most delicious part? Sadler’s beloved Potomac would become nothing but a ruined, abandoned suburb of Chernobyl.
Apre-moi, le deluge.
Portier was going to send the documents. Potomac might stand, Russian presidents might use discretion, but that vulgar asshole in DC would be ground into borscht and caviar by a smarter, more nefarious foe once “Vlad” was informed of the rat he had in his cage.
He would think of another fitting end for Sadler later. It wasn’t what Portier had planned, but it offered cold satisfaction, at least.
He summoned his personal high-security courier back to his office. Placing the documents in a sealed pouch, he handed them over, and said, “Three hours to Moscow. See that the president gets these tonight. I want top anonymity on this and top priority.”
The courier, well trained, nodded.
“Tell him this is courtesy of ‘a friend.’”
“Yes, sir.”
Portier watched the courier exit. He could now enjoy the day with Angelika and Vieve. His last damned trip to Bali was tomorrow.
Then he would be done.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
STAG ARRIVED IN Bali the day before. He was now ready for his trip to Singapore. The taunting alligator briefcase from Wuhan was at his side, his safety deposit box had been emptied out, and everything was now stowed. He was going to make his last and final sale.
He’d instructed Portier and the board to meet him at the Singapore Airlines lounge in Bali an hour before boarding. He wanted to show them the letters. They’d agreed. Portier more grudgingly than before. But still willing.
The thought of Angelika and her daughter gnawed at him. She was on the inside and anything he could do to help her would just put her in greater danger. Portier would bring her with him to Singapore. There, at least, she would have less security than at the house in Zug.
He studied the Wuhan briefcase. It was beautiful. As well made as the finest Parisian leather goods. He felt smarter just holding it in his hands. No wonder Portier was glued to his.
He put it in a black duffel bag, unzipped, and got into the cab for the airport. The day in Bali was breezy and clear. Perfect day for flying the short job to Singapore.
“Airport,” he said to the cab driver.
He sat back and watched the slums appear on his trip to Denpasar.
The courier presented the sealed pouch to the president in private. Russian to the core, the president sat behind a gold-ormolu desk with a desk set of Fabergé, no doubt a gift from a grateful oligarch who bought it from the shop, A La Vielle Russie, on Fifth Avenue. Of course, it had landed there in New York after it was pawned from the last revolution.
The Russian Circle of Life.
Dismissing the courier, he slit open the pouch with a pair of malachite-handled scissors.
He looked down at the papers, reading them once, twice, three times. And in different order. After digesting their meaning, he held a long, enraged silence.
Then he picked up the phone to call his generals. He ordered the highest defense condition that was one step down from a full-out nuclear strike. The Russian equivalent of DEFCON 2.
In Russian, it was officially called: Danger of War.
Stag’s newest GoFone went off. It was the direct line to Duffy.
“He bought tickets for Angelika and the girl. He’s not meeting them in Singapore. They’re here with him in Bali.” Duffy’s voice came through loud and clear.
Stag frowned. He rubbed his jaw in frustration. “I’ll scrap it then.”
“You do that and your death wish will be fulfilled. They’ll take their chances and see you dead first.”
He wanted to punch something. The best-laid plans … “I’ll play it out. If I can warn her off the plane, then I’ll go forward. If not, I’m scrapping.”
“We won’t have a second opportunity.” Duffy’s voice was deadly serious. “There’s no good evidence on Tarnhelm for trying to sell the bomb. They’ll continue as always if we do nothing.”
“If Angelika and Genevieve are going on the plane, I’m scrapping. Got it?” he said with more ferocity than necessary.
“Got it,” Duffy conceded. “Stag?”
“Yeah.”
“Try and get out of this alive?”
The Bali SilverKris Lounge was empty of patrons when Stag got there. The only thing to do after Portier and the rest of the board arrived was head through security and get on the plane to Singapore, but somehow, some way, he had to make sure Angelika and her daughter didn’t go with them. He was stumped as to how. He’d never been great at improvising. His writing career bound him to research and study, not winging it, but now, with this whole adventure, he was a Ph-fuckin-D at it.
Portier, looking gray, arrived alongside Rikhardsson. Both men balefully took seats and accepted champagne from the obsequious Singapore Airlines hostess. Right behind them, Angelika, holding Genevieve’s hand, accepted champagne also. Leaving the men to their business, she and Genevieve went to the windows to watch the planes.
The Singapore Airlines SilverKris Lounge was a separate room from the Premiere Lounge used by other airlines. It was exclusive, but small. Stag watched from his perch by the bar while Portier took a chair, placing the infamous Hermès briefcase on the floor. Stag went over and took the seat beside him and made a show of unzipping the ungainly black duffel and clawing though the contents to get at a pad of paper and pen. After knocking Portier’s alligator case several times, Stag tucked the duffel alongside it in the floor space between the two men’s seats.
“Sorry,” Stag said, accepting his own champagne with relish. He sure
as fuck wasn’t going to drink it, but let them figure that out, he thought.
Portier refused to even look at him.
Sadler and Zellner entered shortly and took seats in the opposite cluster of chairs.
No one said a word.
Then the fuss came. Portier stood and demanded anxiously where the restroom was. He grabbed his briefcase and followed the hostess to the set of Balinese-carved teak doors to the rear.
Stag looked at his watch, wishing that he’d had the nuts to buy the fake Tourbillon also. Anything to irritate Portier.
They had fifty minutes to go.
Anxiously, he looked down at his notebook and began scribbling some notes. If he kept busy, it might take his mind off the death stares of the men surrounding him. When he decided to take a break, he stepped toward the set of floor-to-ceiling windows where Angelika and Genevieve were.
They didn’t speak a word. Stag held his notebook to his chest, making sure she could see his large block letters.
DO NOT GET ON THAT PLANE.
His only reassurance that she got the message was a slight nod, then she took Genevieve’s hand and walked away.
Portier was back, in an even more foul temper than before. He glared at Stag when he made a show of moving his black duffel in the narrow space between their chairs to make room for the Hermès. He further glared when Stag bumped the case with his duffel when he re-wedged it into the narrow space between them.
But Portier didn’t have long to focus on Stag. It took less than ten minutes before the pressing need to empty his bladder came over him once more. Prostate’s revenge.
Portier stood, angry and distracted, looking for his briefcase.
Stag handed it to him. Ironic courtesy. From the young to the old. From the living to the dead.
Portier snatched it away and fled to the Bali-carved doors.
Stag shrugged and turned back to fiddling with his untouched champagne. A long time passed in silence. Finally, Stag excused himself. Mumbling that he would give Portier the ultimate courtesy and leave him alone to use the SilverKris men’s room in private, he announced he would use the public john down in the terminal. He grabbed up his duffel and departed. He was back in the lounge before Portier returned from his trial in the private restroom.
Stag could almost feel sorry for him. Portier’s normally cool brow was beaded with sweat. His face was even more gray.
Almost sorry for him. Almost.
Their hostess announced their flight was ready to board and that they would be escorted through security.
Stag stood, clutching his duffel.
He didn’t look at Angelika.
A private staircase led down to the security lines at the gates. First class had its own security line—streamlined and obsequious for the privileged few. Each ticket holder had his own personnel. Stag’s was waiting for him, ready to take his carry-on with white-gloved hands, while the Tarnhelm passengers were escorted next in line.
Stag placed the duffel on the conveyer belt.
Immediately, his duffel caused suspicion. His nerves on fire, he watched as he was tagged for extra security and two men took him aside to hand-examine his belongings.
Behind him, he heard Angelika’s voice. “I forgot my makeup case in the lounge upstairs.”
“Let them get it for you.” Portier referenced the overflow of Singapore Airlines attendants for the first-class passengers.
“Oh, they won’t know where it is. I won’t be a minute. Come along, Vieve.” She held out her hand to the little girl.
“Leave Genevieve with me,” Portier said. “They can get her settled, and we’ll meet you on the plane.”
If Angelika had any reluctance, she hid it with an iron will. She looked back at Genvieve pointedly, then turned to go up the stairs.
“But I have to go to the bathroom! Now!” the little girl mewled.
“Come along then, but we have to hurry,” Angelika said, again holding out her hand.
Genevieve ran up to her. Angelika threw Portier a look that said, “Kids!” and they quickly disappeared up the stairs to the lounge.
Stag felt a tremor of relief surge through him. He wouldn’t put it past Angelika to have trained Genevieve to do that should they ever be separated. Now one big problem was solved.
Exasperated, Portier handed his briefcase to the white-gloved attendant who carefully placed it on the conveyor belt.
The two German shepherds at the regular security line began barking. Curious, two security guards walked the dog up to the first-class line. The dogs grew frantic at Portier’s briefcase.
Portier was taken aside.
A uniformed security officer asked Portier to open the case. He placed his code into the locks and opened it.
The dogs barked furiously when the guards began pointing to the contents of the briefcase. It was twenty pounds of cocaine, just enough to mimic the weight of a lead lining in another custom briefcase made by Hermès of finest American alligator.
When the guard shoved the Ziploc bag in Portier’s face, Stag got a glimpse of dawning on Rikhardsson’s eyes.
It was the same gauche Ziploc bag Stag had apologized for on their initial meeting. When he’d passed the silk strip around to the board, high in the air on the original Singapore Airlines flight. It was the same bag he was careful not to touch as he allowed them to slip it into the manila envelope. So now all their fingerprints were on it. And Portier was traveling on the same tickets they were.
Stag finished with his security check and began to walk toward the jetway. He paused under the big red sign that greeted visitors to Bali:
WELCOME TO INDONESIA! DEATH PENALTY FOR DRUG TRAFFICKERS!
All along, Stag knew he’d need a bigger force than Tarnhelm to take the bastards down, and he alone was no match for it. But a little research and some thought, and he realized he’d found one. If the Indonesian government had told the Australians, their closest and most powerful neighbor, to take a hike in order to punish the Bali 9 according to their laws, then Stag didn’t give Portier and the gang on his ticket much chance. Sure, their money might vacate a death penalty for them, but he didn’t count on it. Not when they might serve as an example. The one thing the majority-Muslim Indonesia was sincere about was drugs on their soil. Besides, even if they could battle the government, they would all be stuck in Indonesia’s infamous Hotel K prison for years. It was a de facto death sentence for Portier.
It had all gone true to plan. The Wuhan case was beautiful. Exact. And made to his specifications, detailed right down to the high security locks that whatever, no matter what code was put into it, the case would open.
When Stag had gotten downstairs to the public restroom on that last moment before the flight, Duffy had been there to receive Portier’s precious briefcase. More than once, Stag was sure someone had seen him switch the cases during the handoff, but no one noticed a cheap black duffel. They were the black holes of the earthbound. Stag had left the duffel conveniently unzipped next to the Hermès in the obscured space between the seats. When Portier was anxious to go to his next trip to the bathroom, it was easy enough to reach down and hand Portier the Wuhan case. After he had left, Stag stashed the Hermès inside the duffel. In order to be the first through security and maximally distance himself from the clusterfuck that was going to ensue when security got their hands on Portier’s goods, Stag had needed to get rid of the Hermès, so before the flight he’d handed it to Duffy underneath the stall of the public restroom, all by designated plan, and then went back upstairs to the lounge.
Now it was done. NATO would find the contents of the briefcase immeasurably useful.
And he would get the story of a lifetime for a journalist.
He thought of Duffy waiting for him now in the limousine at the entrance to the airport. Stag took the duffel that now held nothing more than an iPad and some clothes, and swung it to his side. He exited security and walked slowly away from the fray as security officials and police went running by.
Angelika would surely be in Duffy’s car by now, waiting for him with Genevieve, grateful she had not been caught up in Portier’s security check.
Angelika Aradi. The mystery woman. The sphinx. The woman who wore her travails like art. He’d had sex with her, and she’d saved his life. Wasn’t it now maybe time for a first date?
He didn’t know if she’d want to. After all, there was going to be no second twenty-five-million-dollar payment. And being the bum he was—though he knew Holly forgave him—he could honestly say he blew his entire Settlement on cocaine.
But, broke and crippled as he was, he was going to take the chance and ask her out anyway. Hell, why not? He’d persisted when Holly had turned him down. And that had been the best thing he’d ever done, no matter how it had ended. And there was one thing everyone had to know about him by now.
He was a determined gimp.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Reinhard Tristan Eugen Heydrich (1904–1942) was a main architect of the Holocaust. In his short life, he was the active agent behind the Jewish pogrom known as Kristallnacht; he was the instrumental machine behind the Night of the Long Knives whereby the assassination of Ernst Röhm led to the rise of the elite of the Reich: the SS. He created the Einsatzgruppen to follow behind the German army and shoot political enemies—even including women with their babies in arms—because first and foremost the political enemies of the Reich were Jews.
By 1941, before the introduction of death camps, half a million Jews had been exterminated by Heydrich’s Einsatzgruppen—it was called the Holocaust of Bullets. Under Himmler, Heydrich formed the SD, the Sicherheitsdeints, which provided intelligence to the SS and the Reich. All the German security services were united in one unit called the RSHA, the Reich Main Security Service, of which Heydrich became the Director. The RSHA included the Gestapo and the ICPC, now known as Interpol. Heydrich chaired the Wannsee Conference, which streamlined the process that moved Jews to the east for extermination. His organizational skills and attention to minutiae struck fear into even Hitler himself, who wondered what secrets Heydrich might know about him and in the end use against him to gain power.