Covert Action

Epilogue

Before they left the Meno villa, Garrett and AKR had a good look around. In the basement they found a well-stocked wine cellar, carefully assembled by François’s late father. They took four cases altogether and packed them into the back of the van for the drive back to Charles de Gaulle Airport. The wine, they reasoned, would be a good complement to the African beer Tomba’s men brewed at the Kona facility. Three of the cases went into the Gulfstream, and one they gave to Special Agent Walter O’Hara, over his protest.

“Hey, I’m a Mick from New York,” he said, “I drink beer.”

“Give it a try,” Garrett urged. “A little grape never hurt anyone, even an Irishman.”

That evening, after a very long day, O’Hara inspected one of the bottles — a Petrus Bordeaux, the same as what François Meno had taken with him to Africa. He splashed some in a tumbler and took a gulp. Not bad, he thought, but it’s not beer — maybe it needs to be colder. He poured out the remainder of the glass, set the bottle on a shelf in the refrigerator, and took out a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. The next day he took an unopened bottle of the Bordeaux to work and gave it to his secretary. He recalled that she was always going on about wine.

“Merci,” she cried, cradling the bottle as if it were a newborn. It caused such a stir in the office that O’Hara did some investigation. It seems that a single bottle of Petrus 1996 Pomerol Bordeaux, if you could find one, went for around five-hundred dollars.

Dr. Elvis Rosenblatt took the vaccine to the Pasteur Institute in Paris, where he and a Franco-American medical team closely examined the work of François Meno. The politicians of France and the United States often find themselves at cross-purposes, but the virologists from the CDC and the Pasteur Institute get on quite well. Two days later, the three unused syringes of genetically altered smallpox arrived from Saudi Arabia. It would take some time for conclusive tests, but it appeared that Meno had indeed developed an effective vaccine for his pathogen.

A portion of this vaccine was sent to Saudi Arabia for the would-be bio-suicide bombers. They had been taken to an isolated medical facility under Saudi control and quarantined. Those at the Pasteur Institute thought all would be given the vaccine, but only half were inoculated. The half who did not receive the vaccine experienced the same fate as those unfortunate test subjects in Africa. Those who received the vaccine recovered fully. As soon as they were pronounced fit, they were promptly beheaded.

It was not until Tuesday morning that Abu Musab al-Zarqawi learned of the disaster outside of Riyadh. He was still in Iran, still safe, yet he knew that it would only be a matter of time until the persistent Americans caught up with him as well. Nonetheless, he left the house by way of the back door and was helped into a waiting van. It was on to yet another safe house.

At Charles de Gaulle International Airport, Steven Fagan and Dodds LeMaster immediately boarded the Gulfstream and took off, chasing the sun west across the Atlantic. They were met at Andrews Air Force Base by Jim Watson. From there Steven and Watson were driven to a private room at an exclusive Georgetown eatery. They were joined by Armand Grummell and Joseph Simpson. It was a rare meeting, one that in all probability would not be repeated. In keeping with the character of these men, they exchanged a brief round of congratulations, but beyond that, refrained from talking business. That would be handled through unofficial channels at another time. Most of the discussion centered around international politics, national security affairs, and the inability of the Redskins to make the play-offs — again.

“By the way,” Simpson said to Steven in passing, “what happened to your lead computer technician, the one you think so highly of. Didn’t he fly in with you?”

“He did,” Steven replied. “With the help of Jim Watson here, we were able to get him a temporary clearance to the National Security Agency and drop him off at their headquarters at Fort Meade. He said there was a matter there that needed his attention.”

The French authorities were waiting for Meno when the van returned to the airport. He was immediately taken into custody. After his broken nose was set and he endured a crude bout of dental reconstruction, he was placed in a cell to await trial. A week later, Meno concluded that another day of bland food, prison attire, restricted movement, and lack of privacy was unacceptable. France did not believe in capital punishment, so he faced a lengthy imprisonment, if not a life sentence. The French also wanted no unpleasantness in their jails, so lethal objects were kept out of the cells. But Meno, as he had so capably demonstrated in his medical career, was a resourceful man. That evening he quietly removed his trousers, placed his neck through the fly and tied the legs to an upper rung of the barred cell door. In this manner, he managed to hang himself, albeit slowly.

Mitchell was another story. With the pathogen and the vaccine in the laboratory spaces of the Pasteur Institute, he again proved his worth in helping to analyze the pox and accelerate the production of more vaccine, just in case. His contribution was evident to all, yet he had unquestionably participated in a great crime. Johann Mitchell had gone to Africa for the money; his wife had a heart condition that only a heart transplant could correct. But in the socialized German medical scheme of things, she was deemed too old — available organs were slated for younger recipients. Ironically, she had died while he was in Zimbabwe. Now the French didn’t want him, and he had no desire to return to Germany. He was a superb internist, but he would never practice again, at least not in public practice. It was Steven Fagan who came up with the idea, and it was immediately endorsed by Rosenblatt, Garrett, AKR, and even Janet Brisco. There was no physician on staff with IFOR on Kona, and it was becoming increasingly inconvenient to take men to the clinic in Waimea for medical treatment. A resident doctor at the training facility would be most useful. As it was, Mitchell probably knew more than he should about the workings of IFOR.

When the matter was put to Mitchell, he readily agreed. Subject to final approval by Joseph Simpson, IFOR now had a staff physician. While he was completing his work at the Pasteur Institute, a package arrived for him from a Mr. Bill Owens of Guardian Services International. Enclosed was a passport and birth certificate for one Franz Suhadolnik, a German-born, naturalized American citizen. The passport photo was a good likeness of Johann Mitchell. Also enclosed was a first-class ticket on Delta Airlines from Paris to Honolulu.

Pavel Zelinkow did not sleep all that well on the Monday night following the Sunday delivery of the pathogen to Riyadh. His rest was not helped by news of the airport closures in Saudi Arabia. He could only assume that, while things had come apart in Africa, and all was not as it should be in the Saudi Kingdom, these difficulties had not materially affected the delivery of the product. There was no news of any terrorists being taken into custody.

He rose at the usual time Tuesday morning and resisted going to his computer until his espresso was fully prepared. It was with a great deal of trepidation that he turned on the machine and brought up the main menu of the Arzi Bank AG in Zurich. He logged onto the site and tapped in his personal ID code. The computer hesitated, but only for an instant, and there it was: $30 million!

Zelinkow closed his eyes, sighed, and then went to work. He had an established protocol for moving the money from Arzi Bank AG through a dozen offshore banks and private banking arrangements. Per his preprogrammed instructions, the money came and went through these financial institutions, the funds running their route like a border collie on an agility course. At each stop, a fee was charged, and the character of monies changed — euros became pesos, yen became rubles, and the amounts were forwarded in differing denominations. At each stop, the money became a little cleaner and a little harder to trace. The process would take several hours. When the $30 million, less fees, arrived at its final destination, it would be as clean as freshly fallen snow.

Zelinkow pushed back from the computer and permitted himself a broad smile. It was done. With these funds, he would never again have to take another contract, and certainly never have to soil his hands with business as dirty as that just concluded. He quickly changed into some walking clothes and, with visions of attending private parlor concerts by the now-retired Luciano Pavarotti, to the tune of ten thousand dollars a head, let himself out of the flat. After a short walk he was seated in his favorite bakery, trying to decide between a cannoli or a biscotti. He finally selected tiramisu and another cup of espresso and settled in behind the Italian edition of the Paris Mondo Times. He turned quickly to the entertainment section and tucked into the tiramisu.

Few people, including Pavel Zelinkow, knew to what lengths the Americans, in prosecution of their war on terror, had gone in tapping into the international financial markets. Dodds LeMaster was one of the few. He now sat at a console deep in the bowels of the NSA with three scopes in front of him. The lanky Englishman perched on his stool in an agreeable slouch. Periodically he rubbed his hands together in front of his face, like a fly on a bowl of potato salad. There were no certainties in this business, but he felt he had a chance. One of the screens held the same presentation as that in the office of Martin Klein at the Leeward Bank on Nevis in the Caribbean. For LeMaster it would be a waiting game, and he was prepared to wait as long as it took. The clearance LeMaster had been given came from very high up and allowed him total and unrestricted access to all NSA computing capability. He had the run of the place. Otherwise he would never be allowed to bring a stack of tuna on rye sandwiches, several bags of barbeque chips, and a cooler filled with Dr. Pepper into the pristine, antiseptic NSA computer control center.

The largest, most secure, and most remote money-laundering and electronic offshore banking facility in the world is on the South Pacific island of Nauru. This little speck of phosphate lies south of the Marshall Islands; its nearest and most famous neighbor is Tarawa, some four hundred miles east-northeast. Rich phosphate deposits were discovered there some hundred years ago, which made Nauruans and their little island nation dazzlingly wealthy. But the mining activity devastated the island, and mismanagement squandered much of the once-large Nauruan trust fund that had been amassed with money from phosphate ore. Ninety percent of the twelve-square-mile landmass is an arid wasteland of mining tailings. The thirteen thousand residents depend on imports for food, fuel, building materials — everything. In the face of declining phosphate revenues, the world’s smallest republic turned to another industry: offshore banking and offshore corporate registration. Laws were written expressly to make legal what was illegal in most of the banking capitals of the world.

Nauru is isolated and secure. There is a dock to accommodate phosphate ore carriers, and a single airport, which handles but one flight a week. The “bank” is a low three-thousand-foot-square cinder-block building in the Yaren District near the airport that houses the computers; the “bankers” are computer technicians. The roof of the low building is populated by an array of dish antennas. The doors have stout locks, but there is no other physical security; there is no need on such a remote island.

While Garrett Walker and Akheem Kelly-Rogers were cruising the Caribbean, the USS Kamehameha (SSBN 462) silently approached the island of Nauru. The big nuclear submarine carried two small wet submersible SEAL delivery vehicles, piggybacked behind its sail. Well offshore in deep water, the big nuclear mother sub launched one of her SDVs, which made its way in close to Nauru. Under cover of darkness, four Navy SEALs bottomed their mini-sub and anchored it just outside the reef that surrounds Nauru. They swam the rest of the way on scuba and crossed the beach near the banking facility. With them was a skilled CIA technician and several bundles of electronic equipment. The SEALs easily defeated the standard door locks and entered the bank. The technician worked for most of the night while the SEALs kept watch. They left before dawn, leaving no physical trace of their visit, but within the data-processing infrastructure of this electronic financial conglomerate, some subtle and important changes had been made.

The technician who did the work was like an astronaut; he represented the visible component of a brilliant and dedicated team of engineers and scientists who had worked long and hard to develop the software patch that the technician had just installed. For the SEALs, it was an interesting but routine mission. They did it professionally and without complaint, but to a man, they wanted to be in Afghanistan or Iraq, where the real fighting against terrorists was taking place.

Dodds LeMaster watched from his perch at NSA while the international banking community rose to meet the new day. The volume of money transfers varied from country to country, but they were generally completed before 10:00 A.M. on a business day, as the flow of money followed the sun around the globe. Some banks, like the one on Nauru, never slept. Suddenly LeMaster uncoiled from his slouch and eased the half-eaten sandwich to the console.

“Well, hallo, luv,” he said as his fingers raced over the keyboard; his face was as animated as a child’s on Christmas morning. “Gotcha!” he said aloud. “Make one more move, and you’re mine.”

The communication algorithms and decoding technologies were sophisticated and very, very fast. And there was a little bit of luck involved, not the least of which was a certain Russian’s affinity for French music. LeMaster tagged the four transfers totaling close to $30 million as they entered and left the Leeward Bank on Nevis. When the funds, in different denominations and different currency, arrived on Nauru, he was able to deflect them to a bank account in the Caymans registered to LeMaster Trading Partners, Ltd. These funds then, through an even more complex series of laundering transfers, made their way in the form of a bequest to the Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation. But for a brief moment in time, Dodds LeMaster had been a very wealthy man.

Pavel Zelinkow carefully wiped his hands before taking out his Blackberry handheld. He dialed his account tied to Nauru and punched in his PIN. The account was empty. Can’t be! He dialed again, and got the same result. A cold feeling crept up his spine, replacing the warmth of the tiramisu and espresso. Could it be happening again?! Two more inquiries to banking accommodation addresses only confirmed the fact. His funds were gone. Then he heard the growing wail of sirens. He watched helplessly as several police cars and unmarked sedans, which meant the Detective Division of the Polizia di Stato, raced by the bakery in the direction of his flat. For the second time in as many years, it seemed, the Grand Game had taken a turn against him.

With some reluctance he took out his cell phone, sighed, and punched in the number he had hoped never to have to dial. There was a short ring, then a busy signal, followed by a dial tone. The call triggered a relay that activated a solenoid, letting acid into a small glass chamber with a thin wire. The wire quickly gave way, breaking the circuit and firing the primer charge. It was not a large explosion, designed only to scatter flammable material about the office. Within seconds the whole flat was in flames.

Pavel Zelinkow rose, left a generous tip on the table, and walked out into the warm Rome morning. He decided to walk, and a half hour later he arrived on the steps of a small, rather ordinary and quite legal Italian bank. From his safety deposit box he removed a briefcase that contained cash in several currencies, credit cards, a flask of fine cognac, a small traveling humidor with four Cuban Churchills, and a passport in the name of Jean-Paul Desmond. He took a cab to the airport and caught a flight to Athens and from there on to Frankfurt, where he changed planes for Buenos Aires.

As soon as the American medical team had arrived at the madrassa outside the Saudi capital, they took possession of the three syringes of genetically altered smallpox. The serum was immediately dispatched by special military aircraft to Paris. When tests at the Pasteur Institute were completed, it was taken, again by special military aircraft, to Robbins Air Force Base near Atlanta. The final leg of the journey to the CDC was by armored car. There, the first man-made pestilence took its place beside what was once thought to be the last remaining strain of variola major smallpox. Those in Riyadh, Paris, and Washington hoped this new addition was the entire remaining stock of the African smallpox, but only time would tell if this were the case.

Graham Burkett sat at his desk in Georgetown studying the balance sheets and cash-flow projections of Outreach Africa. Things were not good. The recent setbacks in Zimbabwe had strained the financial reserves of the foundation and several of the benefactors who supported Outreach Africa had shifted their normal bequests to help with reconstruction efforts following the Indian Ocean tsunami. In a very short time, Burkett concluded, his foundation would have to cut back on their clinical services and that meant more suffering. He was massaging his temples with his fingertips when Florence stepped in, without knocking as usual. She put a file in his inbox and paused as she turned to leave.

“Oh, by the way, Mr. Findley from Citibank called and wanted you to call him right away.”

This sent up alarm bells with Burkett. They were low on funds, but he didn’t think they were that low.

“When did he call?”

“Well, the first time was early this morning, but he’s called back twice since then.”

“And why didn’t you tell me this before now,” Burkett said evenly, trying to keep the edge out of his voice.

“Oh, well, I thought you might be busy,” Florence mumbled, wringing her hands and studying the carpet, “and well, I thought you might not want to be disturbed.”

Burkett sighed. “Thank you, Florence, and please close the door on your way out.”

After she retreated to the foyer, Burkett took up the phone, sighed again, and hit the speed dialer. The receiver felt as if it weighed ten pounds. Kenneth Findley had been Outreach Africa’s banker for some time, and often covered drafts for the charity while donor checks cleared. If we’ve overdrawn an account, Burkett thought, there is no check to clear and cover.

“Ken,” Burkett said when Findley came on the line. He made no attempt to hide his concern. “Is there a problem I should know about?”

“On the contrary, Graham, on the contrary,” the banker replied genially. “Congratulations on the donation.”

“The donation?”

“Why yes, it arrived this morning. Thirty million dollars! Well done. I know you will see that it is put to good use.”

“You are positive it was for us?”

“Absolutely. We don’t make mistakes with that kind of money.”

Burkett was dumbfounded. “But…but who was it from?”

“Hell, man, I thought you would know. The transmission letter just said, ‘For some much needed and noble work’.”

Burkett considered this. “Some much needed and noble work,” he slowly repeated. It had a familiar ring to it, but for the life of him, he couldn’t place it.

In a small, fashionable Paris bistro, two couples sat at the best table in the house and ordered dinner. There was no listing of prices on the menu; everything was outrageously expensive, and the normal clientele so affluent that cost was not even addressed. Garrett poured out the last of a bottle of Dom Perignon, flipped it into the air, deftly catching it by the neck, and in a smooth motion dropped it into the ice bucket, bottom end up. He signaled to the wine steward for another. He and AKR were dressed in slacks, open-collared shirts, and sport coats. Judy Burks and Janet Brisco had made a crusade through a half dozen high-end Parisian boutiques and were dressed to the nines. Garrett raised his glass and was about to speak when Janet touched his arm.

“Maybe we should let the ground commander make the first toast.”

“Madam controller, I think that is entirely appropriate. AKR?”

Akheem Kelly-Rogers raised his glass and, smiling broadly, looked at each of the other three in turn.

“Ladies and gentlemen — fellow warriors — to the Africans.”

“To the Africans!”