20:13 (Madrid Time)
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Viktor Graschev’s villa, Puerto Real
Spain
Viktor Graschev closed the line he had opened on his smart phone with a frustrated punch of his left index. A deal that had promised to make him rich enough for him to go in real retirement had turned completely sour in a matter of days, for reasons he still didn’t fully understand. First, there had been this stupid decision by the ISIS, supported by Prince Al Rashid, to send a contingent of ISIS fighters aboard the Heraklion, to ‘help escort the shipment of weapons’. That had certainly proved quickly to be a dumb move, with those Islamist fanatics attacking the Russian special forces soldiers Moscow had sent from the outset to escort the weapons. Then, all radio contact had been lost with the Heraklion after its departure from Cyprus, as it was approaching Syrian and Turkish territorial waters. Viktor still had no explanation for that loss of radio contact, but he certainly suspected that foul play had been involved there. But by whom? Then, the whole scheme had literally blown up, with the news that the Heraklion had been sunk by an Israeli airstrike off the coast of Lebanon. That piece of news had in fact come rather late and in small bits at a time, as if the Israelis had something to hide in this case. After four days of contradictory news reports that involved mostly speculations at first, the BBC, which had excellent sources in Cyprus and Lebanon, had published just this morning a new report that claimed that surface-to-air missiles had been fired at Israeli planes from the Heraklion, prompting the Israelis into bombing and sinking the cargo ship. That report also alluded to the fact that the Israelis had suffered some stinging losses in that encounter, but had not been able to give definite details. Viktor was however not surprised by the allegation that the Israelis had suffered losses: after all, the Igla-S missile was the most advanced model of portable surface-to-air missile system to ever been produced in Russia, with the batch sent on the Heraklion being actually fitted with the latest counter-countermeasures algorithms developed to date. But who could have fired those missiles at the Israelis? Only the Spetsnaz soldiers guarding the shipment knew that those weapons were aboard. Of course, the ISIS fighters that had boarded the ship in Cyprus had also known about them, but they had been all killed by the Spetsnaz by the time the Israelis bombed the ship. Or had they really been killed to the last? What if one or more ISIS fighters had survived and had then hidden on the ship, unbeknown to the Spetsnaz soldiers? They could then have possibly sabotaged the radios and killed the remaining Russians before stupidly firing at the Israeli planes and provoking a lethal response by them. Right now, that was the most plausible scenario that Viktor could think of that would explain what had happened in the Eastern Mediterranean. Whatever had truly happened then, the consequences for Viktor had certainly been negative. While he still had in his secret bank accounts the twenty million Euros he had received as a first advance on his personal fees for this deal, the non-delivery of the weapons had meant that the remainder of his promised fee, fifty million Euros, had not been paid. Another negative consequence had been the threats against him that had followed from some very pissed off ISIS leaders, who had bet big time on that shipment of weapons to reverse their winding fortunes in Iraq. As a result, he was going to have to spend more of his precious money on personal protection. Lastly, he now had to contend with an angry and fearful Prince Al Rashid, who was doing his best to deflect all the blame on Viktor for that fiasco, which had cost 800 million Euros to the collection of Saudi billionaire princes and Turkish high level officials secretly supporting ISIS. It was not that Viktor actually feared that vain and arrogant Saudi prince, but rather the possibility that Al Rashid would now do something really stupid that would expose him to the unhealthy attention of the Spanish authorities. Already, the Greek maritime shipping company to which the MV Heraklion had belonged was being put under investigation by Interpol following the ship’s sinking by the Israelis. It was only a question of time before Viktor himself would receive the visit of Interpol agents. He was however confident that they would find nothing to put against him: the whole deal had been too well hidden, particularly on the Moscow end of it, and there was nothing left in Viktor’s warehouse that could incriminate him. Still, that fiasco was proving to be a giant pain in the ass for him right now.
Deciding that a dip in his pool would dissipate some of his stress and worries, at least temporarily, Viktor left his private study and went to his adjacent bedroom, where he changed into a pair of swimming trunks and put on a robe and a pair of plastic sandals. Grabbing as well a large beach towel and his smart phone, which he put in a pocket of his robe, he then went down the main staircase of his villa, setting foot in the lobby and walking to the back of his residence. His chief bodyguard, an ex-Spetsnaz officer, seeing him go towards the swimming pool, preceded him outside and looked around for any sign of threat. Viktor waited for a moment inside the rear door of his villa, understanding that Fedor’s job was now more essential than ever. On his bodyguard giving him a nod, Viktor stepped out on his rear patio and took off his robe, putting it and his beach towel on top of one of the long chairs set by the side of his swimming pool. He then went to the edge of the swimming pool and bent to dip one hand in the water, testing its temperature: it was just right. Satisfied, Viktor went to the low diving board and climbed on it, then took three quick steps and jumped up. The shock of the sudden temperature differential between the water of his pool and the hot ambient air made Viktor forget for a moment his worries. Propelling himself back to the surface of the water, he then stayed on his back, floating face up while pedaling slowly with his feet. Fedor, who had stayed by the side of the pool to keep watch, suddenly saw his employer’s head explode like a ripe melon, projecting blood and brain tissue in the water. Maybe a second later, as he was about to shout the alarm, he heard the distant report of a rifle shot. His trained ears made him look at once in the general direction from which the shot had rang. His eyes concentrated at once on the trees to the South of the villa: the sniper must have been hiding in there. Fedor never heard the second shot, a bullet hitting him in the forehead and blowing open the back of his head before the sonic bang reached his ears.
Four hundred yards away, Erik put the safety back on his scope-equipped FNH SCAR-H 7.62mm automatic rifle, then climbed down from the tree that had served as his nest for the last two hours. He walked quickly among the trees while keeping an eye out for any possible witness to his deed. While it was unlikely that anyone would be in this patch of woods at this hour, Erik never left anything to chance. If someone was indeed unfortunate enough to see him, then he would have no choice but to kill that witness. It was something he would truly regret, but many necessary things in life often turned out to be regrettable. He knew that fact too well from his own personal past experience, both as a Navy S.E.A.L. officer, then as a C.I.A. clandestine agent. The best he could do to avoid such hard choices was to be careful and to plan well in order to minimize the possibility of innocents being caught in the middle during his missions. After a 200 yards walk, Erik arrived at the spot where Dean was waiting for him in their rented car. His partner gave him a questioning look, to which Erik spoke while putting his rifle back in its protective leather bag.
‘’The job is done: Graschev and his head bodyguard are now in Hell. You can call Ian and tell him that he can now empty Graschev’s secret Swiss bank accounts.’’
‘’With pleasure!’’ Replied Dean before grabbing his encrypted radio. Since they had already intercepted and copied the account numbers and access codes of the secret bank accounts used by Graschev, emptying them by transferring their content to other bank accounts was going to be child’s play for Ian Dorset, their team’s analyst and computer guru. Those twenty million Euros would then go to a special, clandestine C.I.A. fund used to provide for the needs of C.I.A. agents and informants forced by circumstances to adopt new identities and retire in anonymity for their own safety and that of their families. Some of that money would also be used to provide for the families of agents who had died on missions that could not be acknowledged publicly and had thus disappeared in the eyes of the regular world. With no proof of death, the insurance companies used by the families of the dead agents always refused to pay their life insurance policies, thus often leaving the families in dire financial situations. Unfortunately, serving your country often proved to be a thankless task. Once his call to Ian was made, Dean looked back at Erik, who was now taking place in the front passenger seat.
‘’We’re going to Madrid next, I presume?’’
‘’Yup! We have a few more rotten bastards to take care of there.’’
Dean had started the engine and was about to back out of their hiding place when he spotted a car coming down the same dirt road he had driven on earlier, which connected to the trail he had used to get to his present place. Keeping his eyes on his rear view mirror, he gave Erik a quick warning.
‘’Incoming car down the dirt road!’’
Twisting his head and half turning in his seat, Erik also saw the car, a gray Volvo station wagon, as it slowed down while approaching the junction with their dirt trail.
‘’Shut the engine and get out to hide in the bushes, quick!’’
Dean didn’t have to be told twice and exited the car at a crouch, but took the time to lock the doors before joining Erik behind a dense bush to observe the Volvo, which was now turning onto the dirt trail.
‘’Who the hell could be coming here at this hour?’’
‘’I don’t know but I hope that they don’t see our car: it is not as well camouflaged as I would wish right now.’’
The two agents anxiously watched the Volvo through the vegetation as it approached on the dirt trail at slow speed.
‘’It looks like this bozo is looking for a place to hide, like us.’’ Said Dean while keeping his eyes on the car. To his relief and that of Erik, the newcomer turned off the trail and drove the Volvo to a spot between two trees before he could pass in front of their own car. A man and a woman soon got out of the station wagon, with the man retrieving a large bag from the back seat and saying a few words to the woman before disappearing with her through the woods towards Graschev’s villa. Erik shook his head slowly, nearly amused.
‘’First us, then the Iranians, now them: Graschev is decidedly a popular man around here. That guy spoke in Hebrew to the woman, by the way.’’
‘’The Mossad{13}?’’ Said Dean, a bit surprised. ‘’Why them and why this late?’’
‘’The Israelis lost one patrol boat, two fighter-bombers and two helicopters in the encounter at sea with the Hezbollah and the MV Heraklion, barely five days ago. In fact, I am surprised that they have not reacted more quickly to investigate the Spanish link with the MV Heraklion and its cargo of missiles.’’
‘’Hum, you’re right! I wonder if they are here to spy on Graschev or to kill him.’’
‘’Either way, they arrived a bit late. Let’s leave discreetly while we can and before the police shows up.’’
‘’Wait! I still have at least one GPS tracker bug in the car. Let me mark their car first.’’
‘’An excellent idea, actually. I will cover you while you install the bug.’’
Hiding the GPS tracker, which was equipped with a magnet at its base, inside the right rear wheel well of the Volvo took less than a minute to Dean. Going back to their own car, the two C.I.A. agents got in, with Erik grabbing the GPS tracker’s receiver unit out of Dean’s equipment bag before sitting in the front passenger seat.
‘’I have a clear and strong signal from the bug. You can now drive out of here.’’
‘’With pleasure!’’
Starting his engine, Dean then backed out of their hiding place and drove on the dirt trail, joining with the dirt road 200 yards away and turning on it to return to Highway CA-32, heading back to Naval Station Rota. As they got on the highway, they saw three Spanish police cars pass at top speed in the opposite direction, their gyro lights and sirens on.
‘’Looks like Graschev’s surviving bodyguards called the police after all.’’ Said Dean. ‘’I wonder how they will explain to the police what happened and why.’’
‘’Simple: they may just claim that some organized crime group had tried to muscle in on Graschev’s import-export business and that he told them to fuck off. That’s what I would say anyway. I wonder how our Mossad friends will react to all this.’’
‘’Oh, I am sure that they will have some pungent words in Hebrew to describe the situation.’’ Replied Dean, grinning.
19:08 (Madrid Time)
Friday, June 12, 2015
Apartment building, Calle de la Cruz
Madrid, Spain
Maria Franco was nearly sick with worry as she unlocked the door of her apartment and entered, closing and locking the door behind her. She had learned about Graschev’s murder through the morning television news, like her boss at the American embassy, Ronald Atkins. Atkins, while not grieving one second for the dead Russian, had been perplexed by that murder, wondering aloud to Maria about who could have done that deed and also swearing about the way Washington was keeping him in the dark lately. Now rightly afraid that the ones who had killed Graschev could follow the trail between him and herself, Maria had left her work at the American embassy as soon as she had been able to. Now back in her home, the secretary sat heavily in her sofa facing the television and used the remote control to switch on the set, intent on watching the latest news. After watching in vain for fifteen minutes and not seeing any update on Graschev’s murder, she gave up and went to her small kitchen to prepare her supper, but left the television on. She nearly jumped to the ceiling when her telephone rang ten minutes later. Anxiously checking the caller identification window of her telephone, she felt relief on seeing that it was her occasional lover and boss and picked up the handset.
‘’Yes!’’
‘’Maria, this is Ronald.’’ Said Atkins on the line, sounding seriously shaken. ‘’I have some bad news to pass on to you.’’
Maria tensed up at once at those words, now expecting the worse.
‘’What is happening, Ronald?’’
‘’I…I was just called in the Ambassador’s office. Basically, he announced to me in rather dry and terse terms that I was being recalled to the United States immediately. He also told me that you have just been fired from your job at the embassy. I tried to plead your case but the Ambassador wouldn’t budge or even tell me why you were fired. I somehow suspect that all this came from Washington and that our liaison has been discovered.’’
‘’My…my job, gone?’’ Could barely stutter the young secretary, feeling blood rush to her head and becoming dizzy. ‘’But, how could they do that? I have been working at the embassy for over five years and always did a good job there.’’
‘’I know, Maria, but I believe that the quality of your work was not a factor here. It had to do about our liaison, in my opinion. You will have to come to the embassy tomorrow to pick up your things there and get your official letter of termination. Unfortunately, you are officially being fired and won’t get any letter of recommendation from the embassy to help you get a new job.’’
‘’But, that’s unjust! How am I going to find a job now with such a black mark on my curriculum? You know how bad the job market is right now in Spain.’’
‘’I know, Maria, and I am sorry for you but there is nothing I can do for you. I myself expect to be fired once I am back in the United States.’’
‘’And your wife? Does she knows about our liaison?’’
‘’No! In fact, she still doesn’t know that I am being recalled to the United States. I still am trying to find a way to put it to her in a gentle way. Again, I’m sorry, Maria.’’
Atkins then hung up, leaving a shaken Maria holding her handset for a moment. Tears then came to her eyes and she put down the handset before starting to cry. From a fairly comfortable life with a good job, helped with the money she had received periodically from Viktor Graschev for spying for him at the American embassy, she now saw her future basically crumble to dust. With a firing notice now in her dossier, she was never going to be able to find another decent job as a secretary and was likely to join soon the numerous ranks of the unemployed in Spain. She was probably going to lose her apartment and her car in the weeks to come, when she would be unable to pay her monthly bills. Not once did she think about the two agents that had worked from the American embassy and that had been captured and tortured to death by Graschev due to the information she had passed to the Russian.
21:12 (Madrid Time)
Saturday, June 13, 2015
Calle Cuchilleros, downtown Madrid
Dean passed by the luxury Mercedes sedan that was now parking near the front entrance of an old-looking Madrid restaurant and himself parked a few spots further down the street. Erik, who was watching the Mercedes in his side mirror, spoke up a few seconds later.
‘’Prince Al Rashid is now coming out of his car. He is wearing a dark blue suit with sky blue tie. Al Rashid is now walking into that restaurant. I hope that their dress code is not too strict for you to get in there and follow him.’’
Dean grinned at those words.
‘’Are you kidding, partner? You happen to be working with the best dressed agent in the service.’’
Erik gave an amused look at Dean, who was wearing one of his customary dark suits with white shirt. He was also wearing for this job a pair of micro camera-equipped spectacles with polarizing lenses.
‘’True! Go see if they will let you in: hopefully it will not be fully booked yet.’’
‘’Don’t worry: I will make myself convincing. I will have my hidden camera on and working, so that you could watch Al Rashid with me.’’
Erik nodded once his head before Dean stepped out and walked towards the restaurant, which was named ‘Sobrino de Botin’. Erik then got out as well and took place in the driver’s seat. While he was not a true virtuoso of car driving like Dean, he was a more than decent driver and had followed special driving courses with the C.I.A.. Taking out of the glove compartment a small electronic tablet tuned to the frequency of Dean’s hidden camera, he activated briefly his radio microphone.
‘’Hacker Boy, this is Sparrow: Stryker is following our target inside the ‘Sobrino de Botin’ restaurant. You can watch his camera view on channel three.’’
‘’Got that!’’ Answered nearly at once the analyst from his hotel room not too far from Erik’s location. Erik then settled in for what promised to be a fairly long wait: Spaniards tended to take their time when having supper, on top of eating supper much later than the rest of Europeans or the Americans.
A maître d’ welcomed Dean with a smile at the entrance to the dining room and spoke to him in Spanish.
‘’Do you have a reservation, sir?’’
‘’No, but I was hoping to find a table still available, preferably in an intimate corner: I am scouting the best restaurants in Madrid in order for Anthony Bourdain to choose places of interest for his next visit to Spain.’’
The maître d’ was obviously impressed by the mention of the well-known CNN culinary critic and globe-trotter and bowed slightly to Dean.
‘’We do have a few tables left available, sir. Please follow me.’’
Dean followed the man to a small, empty table situated near the back of the restaurant, in a part formed by a brick-walled arched extension to the main room, and sat down, accepting the wine card offered by the maître d’. A discreet look showed him Prince Al Rashid, sitting by himself at a table about twenty yards away and presenting his right profile to him. He also saw the sign above the entrance door of the restaurant that proclaimed it to be dating back to 1729. Suitably impressed by that and while keeping a discreet watch on the Saudi prince, Dean reviewed quickly the wine card, finally settling his choice on a half bottle of fine red Bourgogne wine. As he waited for the waiter to bring his bottle, he noticed a small framed picture hooked with many paintings and other pictures on the walls of the restaurant: it showed the celebrated writer Ernest Hemingway, who obviously had come at least once to this restaurant, probably in the 1930s. The entrance of another customer, a young woman wearing a shawl over her hair, made him glance briefly at her as she walked towards Al Rashid, who was now getting up from his chair to greet her with a smile. Dean immediately turned his head away, his heart jumping in his chest, and used the menu list to partially hide his face, while he spoke in a low voice for the benefit of Erik and Ian, who were listening to his hidden radio microphone.
‘’Sparrow, you won’t believe this but Farah just walked in the restaurant. It seems that Al Rashid was waiting for her.’’
‘’Farah? As in Farah Qalibaf? But, how could this be possible? The MV Heraklion blew up under her.’’
‘’I don’t know, but she is here now and is about to sit at Al Rashid’s table. What the hell could she be doing with him?’’
‘’That will be your job to find out, big guy. Do your best not to be recognized by her in return.’’
‘’No shit! I will keep you posted.’’
Luckily for him, there were quite a few other customers in the restaurant and he was partially lost in the crowd. Still, he kept his head down most of the time to hide his face as much as possible, pretending to be studying his menu. A waiter came a few minutes later to take his order. As the waiter walked away, Dean hid his mouth with one hand while speaking in his hidden microphone.
‘’Al Rashid seemingly invited Farah for a date, judging by his manneurisms, with Farah smiling back to him. They certainly don’t seem to be talking business, especially the way Farah is rubbing one leg against Al Rashid’s leg under the table. I am ready to bet that Farah is setting a trap for Al Rashid.’’
‘’Then, if that’s the case, we won’t interfere and will only make sure that Al Rashid doesn’t escape his just reward. If Farah somehow screws up the job, we will then take over from her.’’
‘’Understood.’’
A wine waiter soon brought to Dean his bottle of wine and made him taste it before filling his glass and walking away. Dean noticed that, while Farah had ordered a bottle of mineral water, Al Rashid had ordered some wine for himself, something that made Dean sneer to himself.
‘’A nice hypocrite indeed: ready to support blood-thirsty Islamist extremists in the name of Islam but not ready to obey the restrictions of his own faith.’’
He was however not surprised by that: experience had shown him that many rich and powerful Muslims were often quite liberal when in private about the Islamic restrictions concerning alcohol, the same as some supposedly righteous Catholic and Protestant preachers who abused children or cheated on their wives. Sipping quietly on his wine while discreetly watching Al Rashid and Farah Qalibaf, Dean was served nearly at the same time as them and started eating his food. He didn’t have to fake his contentment, as his roast lamb was truly superb and well worth of a Michelin rating.
Dean was nearly finished eating when Farah got up from her chair after saying something to Al Rashid, who simply nodded his head. Dean suddenly tensed up when Farah started walking towards his table. He then realized that the entrance to the restaurant’s washrooms was situated in his back, down his part of the restaurant. Swearing at his bad luck, Dean covered his mouth with his napkin, as if to wipe it clean, as Farah got near him. She still hesitated for a step while looking down at him. Then, without another look at him or a single word, she walked past him and went into the women’s washroom. Dean was however not fooled for one second and knew that she had recognized him. Thankfully, she had managed to keep control of herself. It now remained to be seen what she would do next. She in fact could be very well be calling some other Iranian agents right now from inside the washroom for all that he knew. He thus called again Erik on the radio.
‘’Sparrow, Farah just recognized me while going to the washrooms but didn’t really let it show. Be on your guard, in case she calls in for some help.’’
‘’Understood! I will be extra vigilant.’’
About four minutes after going in the washroom, Farah emerged from it and, again ignoring Dean, walked past him to return to Al Rashid’s table. She however discreetly let drop on Dean’s table a small piece of folded paper that the big American then negligently covered with one hand. Grabbing it and lowering it in his lap before unfolding it, Dean quickly read the short message written in English on it.
‘Stay away from Al Rashid: he dies tonight. Am happy to see you again, Stryker.’
Dean reread the second sentence twice, then pocketed the small piece of paper and calmly finished his plate, then asked for his bill. He was walking out of the restaurant maybe fifteen minutes later, with Farah and Al Rashid still eating their meals and exchanging pleasantries. Now on full alert, Dean took only seconds to spot a parked car nearby in which three men sat, waiting while looking at the restaurant. He spoke in his hidden microphone while approaching his car.
‘’I exited the restaurant, with the target and Farah still inside. We have three probable Iranian toughs in a blue Honda Accord parked about thirty yards behind us. Slide back in the passenger seat and let me drive.’’
‘’Got it!’’
The moment Dean was behind the wheel and had closed his door, Erik gave him a questioning look.
‘’How did she look? Was she banged up?’’
‘’I didn’t see any bruises on her face or arms, Erik. For her to survive the Heraklion’s sinking is little short of miraculous if you ask me.’’
Erik reflected on that for a moment before replying.
‘’Well, she seemed to be a tough girl. Let us hope that she also proves tonight to be a competent assassin.’’
They didn’t have to wait very long, Al Rashid coming out of the restaurant with Farah 25 minutes later, both apparently having had a good time. The couple then got in Al Rashid’s Mercedes, which pulled out of its parking spot nearly immediately. The blue Honda Accord Dean had spotted earlier started after the Mercedes after a few seconds, following it from a distance of approximately sixty yards. Dean got behind them in turn.
‘’I bet that they are going to go to Al Rashid’s official residence in Madrid.’’ Said Dean as he kept his eyes on the Mercedes and the Honda and steered expertly through the often frantic downtown Madrid traffic, keeping a safe distance while avoiding to lose sight of his main prey. Erik nodded at his remark while looking down from time to time at their GPS tracker receiver unit, which was getting a steady signal from the GPS bug they had plugged to the bottom side of Al Rashid’s Mercedes.
‘’It seems so, from the direction they are going now. I wonder if…’’
Dean glanced at his partner when the latter hesitated.
‘’What’s wrong, Erik? Did we lose the GPS signal?’’
‘’No! We gained a new signal instead: the Israelis are behind us.’’
‘’What? You’re shitting me!’’
‘’Nope! That Volvo station wagon that you tagged near Graschev’s residence in Puerto Real is now behind us and about to pass us.’’
‘’For fuck’s sake! Talk about a three ring circus! So, we have us from the C.I.A. tailing a Saudi prince who is with an Iranian agent, who is in turn tailed by a car full of Iranian toughs, and now we have a Mossad team bringing the rear.’’
‘’Not for long: here they come passing us!’’
Dean couldn’t help look at the gray Volvo station wagon as it doubled him and sped to a position in front of him, behind the Iranian team’s car.
‘’I saw two guys in the front and one woman in the back.’’
‘’Correct! Drop behind a bit now, in order not to be noticed: I will guide you with the GPS receiver.’’
‘’Right! I wonder how the Israelis learned that Al Rashid was involved with Graschev.’’
‘’My bet is that, following the sinking of the MV Heraklion, some of the contributors to the weapons deal panicked and talked too much, with the Mossad picking up pieces of information leading to Al Rashid. If that’s the case, then I suspect that the Israelis want to kidnap Al Rashid instead of killing him, in order to make him tell them who else is involved.’’
Dean tensed up on hearing that last sente