No Remorse (8 page)

“He told me as much. But he was waiting until he came to inspect the facility we’ve built here to tell me the details.” Khalid stopped at the end of the jetty and turned to face Ibrahim. “Why hasn’t father mentioned these threats when I’ve called?”

“He believes his phones are monitored. And there is another reason he sent me to you.” Ibrahim lowered his voice. “He wanted me to warn you personally that there may be a traitor on your staff.”

Mac stepped out onto the balcony of his room at the Negresco, overlooking the palms along the Promenade Des Anglais, beside the pebble beach and the Mediterranean Sea of Nice, on the Côte d’Azur. He handed Wisebaum the signed confidentiality agreement. The contract of engagement was inside on the table, still unsigned.

“More paperwork here than enlisting in the army. You realize that just because I agreed to leave the army doesn’t mean I’m just going blindly along with some group I know nothing about. Even if you’re government, I’m not penning my name to any contract until I know what I’m signing on for,” he said. He had no reason to trust Wisebaum, given the circumstances.

Wisebaum put on his round glasses. “Of course. And just for the record, Mac, I counseled against having you on my team. Nothing personal. Loose cannons are… loose cannons.”

As if to emphasize the point, a squealing of tires came from the street and Mac braced for the crash that didn’t come. The men glanced at each other and chuckled. Wisebaum headed back inside and he followed.

“So why am I here?” Mac asked.

Wisebaum’s shoulders lifted a fraction. “For the chance to prove me wrong, for a start. You have… certain skills we could benefit from. Your field and weapons capabilities. And your olive complexion is easy enough to pass off in a crowd in the Middle East, where we mostly work. Your personality—slightly on the introvert side, I think. And the best spies are introverts, according to the experts at the Company. Anyway, the Director feels you have the qualifications he’s looking for to train our guys, who’re mostly a bunch of shiny pants.”

“So you
are
CIA.”

“Was.” Wisebaum checked the confidentiality agreement and witnessed the signature, then tossed the document into his briefcase. Sat down on the chair by the bed. “Okay, listen up. One of the first actions of the new Administration was to issue a Presidential Order establishing the Agency for Seizure of Terrorist Assets—ASTA. Our mission is to punish people who support terrorism by seizing their assets. The usual way is through DOJ and the courts. Takes forever, costs a fortune. Then you’re lucky if the assets haven’t been stripped. We don’t wait. ASTA takes money directly from bank accounts. That’s why we’re based outside the States, in Montreal. US laws don’t apply.”

“You’re stealing from people who finance terrorists?”

“Well, obviously they’re not going to pay willingly.”

“Isn’t that illegal, even in Canada?”

“When have we ever worried about what Canada thinks?”

Mac shrugged.

“Our targets use numbered accounts and Islamic banking. We’re authorized by the President to take up to twice what we can prove they’ve contributed to terrorist activity. We transfer it from their accounts to ours.”

“Like a tax collector.”

Wisebaum nodded. “You got it. There are three hundred fifty-seven targets on our hit list. Many of the names were on a hard drive in Bin Laden’s house in Abbottabad. But there’s still a lot of work to find their bank accounts and steal their funds. Since we began earlier this year, we’ve already recovered more than $150 mill. from just six targets.”

“And how did you get involved?”

“I was brought over from CIA. Made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. We’d been developing software for some years designed to breach firewalls and exploit network vulnerabilities. We mixed it with some code from an older program called PROMIS. We call our suite of applications TRAKCEPT, for track and intercept.”

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 ASTA 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.

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 maneuvering 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 feet. Brightly colored 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 feet. 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 maneuvered 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 colored 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 theater 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, celebrities, 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 ninety feet 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.

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.