Doubleshot

TWO

SUICIDE MISSION

AS THE SUN HAD RISEN OVER NORTH AFRICA TWO WEEKS EARLIER, THE plaintive morning call to prayer had floated out over the rooftops of Casablanca. Mixing verses from the Koran and a traditional beckoning for religious Muslims to offer the first of five obligatory prayers to be performed each day, the melancholy voice was one of the few things that the people of Morocco’s largest city could count on. While the new king and the government did their best to keep the population content, the country was suffering from vast unemployment and, as a result, crime. This was especially true in the larger cities such as Casablanca, Rabat, and Tangier. Casablanca, far from being the exotic and romantic locale for the famed Humphrey Bogart film, exhibited an odd conflict of traditional Moroccan culture with the trappings of a modern, metropolitan business center. The latter was winning, even though the city’s poor and needy were evident on every corner. Wherever there was money to be made in the face of outright poverty, a criminal element naturally gestated.

Even so, the awe-inspiring Hassan II Mosque, towering over the city like a benevolent sentinel, served to remind the people that Morocco was well ahead of its Muslim neighbors in terms of economic stability and that all was right with the world. In a way, the mosque represented a blending of the modern Muslim world’s idealism and its desire to exist on an equal basis alongside the West.

The ambitious leader of an organization that held its meetings not far away from the great monument shared this view.

As the religious faithful hurried to mosques and those who held honest jobs commuted to their places of employment before the early morning rush of business, the worst of Casablanca’s criminal element were also preparing for the new day. Several very different businessmen and women gathered to begin their day’s work in a hightech conference room decorated in reflective sheet metal. It was not an ordinary meeting room in that it was located two hundred feet below street level, beneath the old Central Market, which ran the length of a city block along Rue Allal ben Abdallah. The room was part of an immense, private, underground complex that extended northwest nearly a mile from the Market to the old medina, the centuries-old section of town that consisted of narrow, winding passageways where shopkeepers sold produce, arts and crafts, clothing, and souvenirs.

The complex had been built in the mid-nineties by a consortium represented by a powerful Arabic law firm. As most of the construction was below ground, very few Casablancans knew of its existence. In fact, the only two entrances to the complex were well hidden behind seemingly innocent stalls in the market and medina. A loading lift was also located in the market behind what appeared to be a rubbish skip. Much of the vast structure was empty. Workers inhabited perhaps a fifth of it, while supplies and weapons occupied another fifth.

The consortium that owned the property was made up of three banking firms—one located in Morocco, another in Switzerland, and one in Monaco. An offshore oil corporation with assets all over the Mediterranean and in North Africa was also a major shareholder in the property. Silent partners based in the Middle East and France were involved. Mostly, though, the funding came from a private individual who was now calling a meeting to order in the darkened, chilly steel chamber that was the conference room for the international criminal organization known as the Union.

“Are we all here?” Le Gérant asked.

The others casually spoke in the affirmative. As usual, Le Gérant was sitting in shadow, wearing dark glasses. Today he wore an Armani suit that fitted snugly over his rather large frame. This meant that today’s meeting would be strictly business. Le Gérant would stick to a memorized agenda, keep things moving along briskly, and discuss the all-important money issues.

Sometimes he wore a traditional jellaba, a gownlike garment with a hood. Although no one could pinpoint exactly why, the meetings were always different when Le Gérant dressed in Moroccan clothing. His considerable charismatic powers were somehow more intense when he embraced his mother’s ancestral Berber culture. Those in his presence felt an elusive aura of self-confidence and enlightenment, and this had a significant effect on his powers of persuasion and leadership. Meetings became lessons in philosophy or Union ideology, and money was never discussed. One commandant had said that Le Gérant became more “mystical” when he wore the jellaba.

Le Gérant never used or took notes. Everything was in his head. Always. He pulled sophisticated facts and figures from the air. He never needed to be reminded of anything. Anyone who had the privilege of meeting him always came away impressed by his profound intellect.

He was usually fair and generous with the Union’s profits. The other people in the room, the cercle fermé, were all millionaires thanks to their work for the Union. Each man or woman was a commandant responsible for a geographical area somewhere in the world, and employed anywhere from fifty to several hundred people, depending on the needs of the district. It took a lot of money to keep several hundred people happy and the Union was able to provide stability. That kept the commandants loyal.

Fear was also a major factor in keeping the cercle fermé faithful to Le Gérant. If for any reason he believed that someone had cheated him or attempted to do something behind his back, he became furious. He could extract a confession easily and punishment was, as a matter of course, swift and merciless. Commandant Jimmy Powers had seen a man’s throat cut in this very room.

The twenty-six commandants were required to take notes and be prepared with any documentation Le Gérant might require. Their leader was very strict, even compulsive, about the appearance of everything. He insisted on cleanliness and order. He dictated what kind of pens and paper would be used in the conference room, and what coffee was served and in which cups. He liked everything to be in its place. A desk light was essential at every station at the table, because Le Gérant kept the room so dark. The commandants, although they were used to them, never liked these policies and wished Le Gérant would change them. Why should they matter to him?

After all, Le Gérant was blind.

A servant entered the room with a tray full of tall glasses filled with hot mint tea. A Moroccan tradition, the tea was served with mint leaves floating in the narrow glass, and each person had the option of adding sugar or not. It was yet another part of the ritual Le Gérant insisted upon.

Jimmy Powers disliked mint tea intensely. It was something he put up with, though, for he had to admit that the Union had brought him more wealth and interesting things to do than the founding Union boss, Taylor Harris, could ever have hoped to offer. He had been wise to stick with Le Gérant after Harris was killed in Oregon. The original Union broke up after that, but Le Gérant’s reformed Union rose from the ashes. While the original Union made a show of being an organization of mercenaries willing to perform any paramilitary task for the right price, Le Gérant transformed the group into something far more serious. Once Le Gérant had outlined what the new Union could do for him, Jimmy Powers turned coat as well and left America for Morocco. He had been there for three years, acting as one of Le Gérant’s most trusted commandants.

Julius Wilcox, the other American charter member, was the ugliest and meanest-looking commandant at the table. He had a particularly gruesome scar above his right eye, a hawk nose, and greasy, slickedback gray hair. He was, perhaps, the Union’s most accomplished executioner. He, too, was happy that he was working for Le Gérant rather than the temperamental Taylor Harris.

Powers scanned the faces of the other commandants. He had never made a point of getting to know any of them personally—it was against the rules. He did, however, know who each of them was and which districts each controlled.

One of the men who intrigued him was Nadir Yassasin, a black Muslim from Morocco … or perhaps Mauritania … he wasn’t sure. Yassasin was known as the Union’s “strategist.” If anyone could be called Le Gérant’s right-hand man, it was he. Powers had been promised that he and Yassasin would work together very soon.

The other commandants were from other areas of the globe—Great Britain, France, Spain, Belgium, Germany, Russia, Israel, Argentina, Taiwan, Japan, Australia, Sudan, Lebanon, Syria, Egypt, Libya, Algeria, and the United States. Collectively, they controlled thousands of Union members worldwide. In the six short years of its existence, the Union had grown into a powerful, deadly force that kept Interpol, the CIA and FBI, MI5 and MI6, Mossad, and other law enforcement agencies on alert for any information pertaining to the capture of Union leaders. The organization’s accomplishments were impressive. The Union were responsible for several audacious terrorist attacks, political upheavals, high-profile blackmail and extortion cases, murders-for-hire, drug smuggling, prostitution, and arms dealing. The only major failure had occurred within the last two months: the one involving the disastrous Skin 17 project. Powers knew that this had been a thorn in Le Gérant’s side since that fateful day in the Himalayas.

As green and black olives were served with the tea, LeGérant decided it was time to begin. He spoke in English, with a French accent.

“I am happy to report that several of our latest ventures have been successful. Thanks to people working day and night in our communications department, we have penetrated nearly every intelligence agency in the world. If we are not already inside them, then they are not worth bothering with.”

The group applauded politely.

“Mr. Wilcox, could you please inform everyone of our financial status?”

Wilcox sat up and cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, here we are,” he said, thumbing through his notes. “Total income for the last fiscal year was twelve billion dollars in U.S. funds.”

The group applauded once more, this time a little more enthusiastically.

“The distribution of the money will occur by the end of this month,” Wilcox continued. “You are all aware of your percentage. If you have any problems, see me.”

“And recruitment?” Le Gérant asked.

“Up fifteen percent,” Wilcox replied. “The payroll indicates that we now employ over ten thousand people worldwide. Like McDonald’s, we’ll soon have a Union franchise in every major city.”

Some of the commandants laughed.

“Very good,” Le Gérant said, obviously pleased. It couldn’t be said that he didn’t have a sense of humor. “I believe our efforts to escalate the war in the former Yugoslavia were what put us back on track after the failure of the Skin 17 project. We have our strategist, Mr. Yassasin, to thank for that.”

Again, there was applause. Yassasin merely nodded. He was always given the most “impossible” jobs and always managed to pull them off with finesse. Besides being an expert in computers, electronics, physics, and disguise, Yassasin was a master planner. Like a chess champion, he could predict every possible move and countermove in any job he undertook.

“Which brings us to new business,” Le Gérant said, shifting the tone of his voice to something more akin to that of a disapproving parent. “The Skin 17 failure cost us much more than the money we invested in it and the lives of the operatives we lost. We had promised to sell the formula to the Chinese. Not making good on that promise left us with bad credit in the Far East. All of the markets in Asia have dried up, and we’re having difficulties keeping up our operations there. This is seriously affecting our business, not only in the Far East, but everywhere. When the word got out that the Union slipped up on a major job, it made our clients less enthusiastic about working with us. It damaged our image and reputation. We must work on repairing that damage.”

Le Gérant finished his mint tea, then paused to light a cigarette. He never once moved his head as he performed these simple tasks with his hands. His sense of touch was highly amplified to compensate for his lack of sight. Some commandants believed that all of his other senses overcompensated for his disability. It was said that Le Gérant could hear a mouse flitting about in a room on the other side of the complex and that he could smell whether a person was telling the truth or not.

“As you no doubt know, a famous ex-matador in Spain is stirring up trouble with the British. Has everyone seen the latest news? Domingo Espada is very busy with his little revolution that he’s organising just north of us. Now, I’ll be quite open here, and I trust that nothing I say will leave this room. Domingo Espada, the head of a considerably successful Spanish mafia, refused to join the Union when we first invited him. He has considerable influence in areas we would like to penetrate, such as South America. Ladies and gentlemen, Señor Espada has come back to the Union and offered us an intriguing project for which he will pay a considerable amount of money. Aside from the monetary considerations, Espada has agreed to help the Union access those areas in which we have no influence. His personal organization controls them now.

“Of even more interest to us is the fact that Great Britain is the target of Señor Espada’s proposal. Espada has had long-standing issues with the U.K. for political reasons. As you all know, the failure of the Skin 17 project was largely due to the interference by Britain’s MI6. Their SIS and Ministry of Defence made fools of us, and I do not take kindly to that.”

Jimmy Powers shot a glance at the commandant for the district that included Great Britain. The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“One agent in particular,” Le Gérant continued, “a Double-O, was the man most responsible for the project’s failure. Therefore, Espada’s proposal is of great interest to me because it may give us the perfect opportunity to exact revenge for Britain’s unforgivable meddling in our business. I would like to see this British agent suffer the tortures of the damned for as long as possible, then die a humiliating death that will make world headlines.”

Le Gérant paused, taking a couple of drags from his cigarette before extinguishing it in the ashtray in front of him. He knew exactly where it was sitting without feeling for it.

“Espada’s plan is really quite insane. It’s a suicide mission. When I first heard about it, I told him quite frankly that no one would walk away from it alive. He said that he was willing to die for the cause. But, if we can pull off his proposal, the Union will be the most powerful criminal network in the world. We will be able to demand any price from any country for the merest threat. The name ‘the Union’ will be so feared that we will have more influence on the world’s economy than the New York Stock Exchange. Therefore, I have decided that Señor Espada’s suicidal project is worth attempting. And we, my friends, will walk away from it alive.

“What I would like to do,” Le Gérant continued, “is to kill two birds with one stone. We will agree to help Espada, for the money, of course, but at the same time, we will exact revenge on Great Britain.

When it is revealed that the Union was behind the catastrophe that Espada wants to instigate, the entire world will bow to us. It will solidify our place in history.”

“How do you plan to do this?” Powers asked.

Le Gérant smiled and said, “I detect excitement in your voice, Mr. Powers. Is this something you’d like to work on?”

“I’ll do whatever you want, Gérant.”

“Fine. I’ve asked our strategist to come up with a plan. And I’d like you to serve as his eyes and ears, since you’re so good at that sort of thing.”

A chance to work with Yassasin! Powers was pleased.

Le Gérant turned to Yassasin. “Would you like to tell us about it, Nadir?”

Yassasin leaned forward so that the desk lamp cast an eerie light on his face.

“The plan is already in progress,” he said. “In fact, it began shortly after the collapse of the Skin 17 project.”

The others sat up, alert, waiting to hear what the strategist had to say. Everyone was thrilled that they were about to participate in another Nadir Yassasin project. He was the most respected man in the room, other than Le Gérant.

“One of Domingo Espada’s closest colleagues and confidantes is a woman named Margareta Piel. We need her help, so we have offered her membership in the Union. She works for Domingo Espada in many capacities and lives at his private ranch in Spain. She is well known in Spain as an equestrian instructor and performer, but she has quite a dark side. She’s a vicious homicidal maniac. Her skills at stealth, theft, breaking and entering, seduction, and murder are top quality,” Yassasin continued. “Her nickname is Mantis Religiosa, or ‘Praying Mantis,’ because it is rumored that she disposes of her lovers after she has had her way with them.”

“My kind of gal,” Julius Wilcox said. There were some chuckles, but Le Gérant abruptly snapped, “Silence!”

After a pause, Yassasin continued. “She will be an integral part of the plan. Whether or not she turns against Espada remains to be seen, but I think she is enticed by the financial possibilities of being a member of the Union.

“I have also enlisted one of our top mercenaries; he had been working for us in Africa. He’s Welsh, a man by the name of Peredur Glyn. He was a former football hooligan who was convicted of murder a few years ago. The Union helped him escape from prison in the U.K. and he has lived underground ever since, working for us. He’s in excellent physical shape and he’s a formidable killer. Most important, he possesses the necessary physical attributes that will suit our plan perfectly.”

“Has he agreed to the fee?” Le Gérant asked.

“He has agreed to the payment of a half-million U.S. dollars,” Yassasin confirmed. “Besides, he feels that he owes us a service for helping him get out of prison.”

“Good. Tell us about the remodeling and reconditioning.”

“Glyn went through the remodeling well over a month ago, and it was more successful than I had hoped it would be. He is now currently undergoing reconditioning and training.” Yassasin smiled. “We won’t have a problem with him. He is a very gullible man. Very susceptible to our techniques. Not very bright, but eager to please. In two weeks’ time, Glyn will be ready. Everything is in place for the plan to proceed. We will be on a very strict schedule.”

“Very well,” Le Gérant said. He looked at the commandant for Great Britain. “What is the latest on attempts to replant an operative inside SIS? It was unfortunate what happened to that girl at MI6 … what was her name?”

“Marksbury,” the man answered. “Forget her, she was insignificant. We are still working on replacing her. These things take time.”

“Perhaps you need to step up your efforts,” Le Gérant suggested with the slightest hint of menace in his voice.

The commandant swallowed hard and continued. “But, Gérant, with all due respect, you are aware that our primary operative in the U.K. has been in place for two years and continues to provide us with valuable information on MI6 personnel.”

Yassasin spoke up. “And this operative will continue to play a part in our plan,” he said, cutting through the tension with equanimity. “As you know, the information that was furnished to us was the catalyst for the scheme. When we learned that our target was on an extended medical leave since the events in the Himalayas, we felt that the opportunity was too good to pass up. He is still currently off duty and therefore extremely vulnerable.”

Le Gérant nodded. “Will the commandants in charge of the British, Spanish, and North African districts meet me in precisely one hour in my office. We must commend Mister Yassasin, for he has come up with a truly ingenious and highly imaginative plan, albeit a risky one, to exact revenge on Great Britain, as well as eliminate the Union’s number-one enemy—James Bond of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”