Supernotes (20 page)

“Because according to you I'm aching for a medal, right?”

“Let's say that's the impression you give. I could be wrong.”

Kasper shakes his head and mutters, “Incredible.” He doesn't want to quarrel with Clancy, but he's already doing it. Clancy's coolness gets under his skin, makes him feel naïve. And a man in his line of work can be anything except naïve.

He looks around. At this hour of the morning, Sharky's is almost empty. There's just a couple of drunks from the night before, back for a morning beer.

Kasper turns back to Clancy, who's sitting placidly in an armchair with the
Phnom Penh Post
in his hands.

“How many other identities does your friend Bauer have?”

“Interesting question,” Clancy says, raising his eyes from the newspaper and gazing at Kasper with what now looks like an amused expression. “How about you? How many identities do you have at the moment? How many have you had in the past thirty years?”

“What do I have to do with it?”

“We're all in the same profession, more or less. It seems to me changing identity is normal.”

“You told me he wasn't an operative.”

“Operative or not, what difference does it make, in the end?”

“Fuck you, Clancy! You sent me to talk about a job with a guy who had me thrown in jail two years ago….”

“Think, for a change! Whoever had you thrown in jail was probably trying to keep supernotes out of the story. If the Finance Police in Milan had stopped Bischoff too, it would have become clear that you were there for a good cause. Can we really blame Bauer for the fact that while you were being handcuffed, Mr. Bischoff was able to leave the scene undisturbed?”

“So in your opinion, I ought to accept this new proposal?”

“Do what you want. I just arranged the contact for you, nothing more. And look, let's be clear: from this moment on, I don't want to hear anything more about this project. Keep me out of it. I've got my own shit to deal with.”

Kasper hangs up the phone and tries to put his thoughts in order, tries to envision the steps he'll have to take. He's just informed John Bauer that he'll give it a try. First, he's got to get on the trail of the North Korean ambassador. He doesn't even have so much as a notion of where to start, but he didn't mention that to Bauer. Instead, he declared that something was bothering him, something he couldn't ignore. “What you said was true. I
have
already tripped over supernotes. And I fell on my face. I don't want this time to turn out like two years ago in Milan.”

“Well, that surely isn't up to me,” replied Bauer, Zelger, or whatever the hell his name was. “Make the right moves and you'll come out fine. I know you will.”

And that was it. Nothing else.

It was obvious that Bauer was already preparing to wriggle away. He and Clancy must certainly have been in contact, but even if they weren't, they're products of the same school and have learned the same lessons: don't hold on, let go, and especially, when necessary, forget and eliminate. Cancel. Bury.

It's the first lesson they teach you, and now Kasper feels a little foolish for not having learned it yet.

The show's about to start, and a sudden silence descends on the hall. Five girls, all dressed in red, are now on stage. They have lovely voices, their movements are gracious and well coordinated, their smiles belong on tourist posters. The songs, unfortunately, are what they are: the meowing laments handed down by North Korean tradition. Like the costumes and the images projected on the screen in the back of the room.

Woods, lakes, and spectacular skies. Places in the motherland, in the common memory. The distant paradise where Kim Jong-un toys around with nuclear bombs.

By this point, Kasper's familiar with the whole production. He's been frequenting the Pyongyang Restaurant for more than two months. At least he enjoys the food, and lavish tips ensure he is treated with great cordiality. On his third visit the restaurant manager came over to his table. The ritual bow, the expression of one who wants to start a conversation. Which he did, making a few concentric circles before coming to the point: “If I may ask, what is an Italian like yourself doing here in Phnom Penh?”

“I'm a spy.”

The manager burst out laughing. Kasper laughed with him.

“You Italians,” the manager said. “So nice. Such liars.”

Tonight is a special occasion. His friend Hok Bun Sareun, a Cambodian senator, has organized a meeting with the commercial attaché from the North Korean embassy. At nine o'clock sharp.

Senator Bun Sareun is influential and energetic but cautious. During the Pol Pot regime his family took refuge in the United States, where he earned a law degree and burnished his cosmopolitan credentials. After his return to his country, he devoted himself to politics and was elected to parliament. He has a reputation as a moderate man with important international connections. Their first meeting took place at the foundation of the Island of Brotherly Love's branch in Phnom Penh. The senator was one of the first supporters of the new Cambodian section and was quickly appointed to its board of directors.

When Kasper spoke to Bun Sareun about his general plans for doing business with the North Koreans, the senator quickly spotted the essential details. “Boeings or Airbuses of recent manufacture. Can you really procure such aircraft?” the senator asked.

“I absolutely can. Everything in order, with an international certificate and every kind of after-sale service,” Kasper replied.

“But Western sellers can't do business with a country that's got the whole international community against it.”

“Our supplier will sell to an ad hoc corporation.”

“So we're talking about a triangulation.”

Kasper furnished him with all the necessary information. This is an industrial sector Kasper knows well, and a kind of work he's done before.

Transactions involving military aircraft are regulated by bilateral agreements between countries, agreements that are difficult to circumvent. But for the buying and selling of aircraft designed for civilian transport, the margins are wider. If a purchaser has liquid and immediately available financial resources, it's possible to acquire any passenger transport aircraft in the name of and on behalf of a leasing company specifically established for that purpose in an offshore country.

“Airbus 320s can be found for fifty million dollars and up,” Kasper explained. “We're talking about very recent machines.”

“But those are European airplanes,” the senator objected. “Produced in the West. And the Americans are the primary supporters of the embargo….”

“There's a document called the End-User certificate, covered in part 744 of the Export Administration Regulations. In theory, this certificate is supposed to guarantee that the aircraft won't be converted into a weapon of mass destruction or acquired by a rogue state. In reality, it's easy to get around those restrictions through multiple changes of ownership. The controls become watered down until they're practically invisible.”

“So it can be done then,” Bun Sareun said, summing up.

“That's why I'm here.”

“How much are you thinking about charging them?”

“That depends on what they want. And it depends on whether they have money to invest.”

“Oh, they've got the cash, you can rest easy on that score. It's just…Where do I stand in all this?”

“What is it you have in mind, Senator?”

“Ten percent. Does that sound fair to you?”

Kasper nods. It's extremely fair, for a Cambodian kickback.

Three months have passed since that dinner at the Pyongyang Restaurant.

After a series of meetings with the commercial attaché, Kasper has obtained appointments with other North Korean diplomats. He's passed all of their exams with flying colors.

And now the big day has arrived.

“Well, here we are,” says Hok Bun Sareun. “Finally.”

The senator hasn't missed a single meeting. He's acted as a liaison officer and a mediator, and even as a master of ceremonies, at personal expense. Today he's about to put the crown on an operation that will be talked about for a long time.

Besides, 10 percent of this transaction is a major incentive to exercise diligence, and in addition to the money he will earn, his personal prestige will increase in the eyes of an ally highly regarded in Phnom Penh.

The process of checking their identity papers takes a few minutes. Kasper and the senator wait in silence while soldiers carry out the necessary verifications. An abrupt military salute indicates that their way is clear. The ambassador's expecting them.

The North Korean embassy is a sober but elegant two-story villa, a perfect example of French colonial style. The satellite images Bauer showed him didn't do it justice, Kasper thinks.

They walk a few dozen meters through a formal garden to the main entrance.

Kasper moves at a deliberate pace, glancing around the whole time. There are probably video cameras everywhere, but they're not in sight. No sign of any human activity. Not a sound to be heard. Even the morning breeze has suddenly expired.

It really does seem like another planet, Kasper thinks. A planet without a breath of air.

They've been sitting for more than an hour. Airplanes have yet to be discussed.

The commercial attaché and the military attaché are with them in the ambassador's office. For weeks, these two men, together with Kasper and the senator, have explored the possibilities of closing the deal. Now, sitting on either side of the ambassador, the two seem to be made of plaster.

The ambassador is a man in his forties with bright darting eyes and slow, studied movements. He speaks through an inexhaustible smile, rolling through a succession of the most disparate topics: art, European capitals, Italian wines, international football. He speaks perfect English, with a noticeable Boston accent. At one point he gestures to a painting on the wall to his right: “That's a Caravaggio, an authentic Caravaggio, believe it or not.”

Kasper's willing to bet it's a piece of rubbish, but his lips are sealed.

“We won't talk about what it cost,” the ambassador goes on. “As you know, when it comes to certain passions, we're prepared to bleed ourselves dry. Isn't that true?”

“Our passions make life more bearable,” Bun Sareun says authoritatively.

“That's exactly right, my dear senator.” The ambassador nods, lingering for a moment on Kasper's vigilant eyes. “They tell me one of your passions is weapons. You're an arms expert, they say. And then there's flying and parachute jumping. And even Muay Thai…People say you're a man of action.”

“Action but also thought. Maybe I think poorly, though,” Kasper says jokingly.

“In any case, a thinking man.”

“I try to be.”

“And so you
thought
you could be useful to my country.”

“I thought I could make money with airplanes, Mr. Ambassador. If in doing so I can also be useful to your country, then I'll be very happy for you.”

“That's what I call straight talk,” the ambassador says, a highly amused expression on his face. “And how many planes would you like to sell us?”

“I don't sell. I respond to your needs. Your associates and I have identified a few models that will suit all your possible requirements. I've followed up on those choices, and I estimate that—”

“I know all this,” the ambassador interrupts him. “Two Airbus 320s and a 330. The contract has stipulations regarding maintenance and the training of personnel. You see? I've done my homework. How much will all this cost us?”

“A hundred and thirty.”

“I see. I assume that includes a discount?”

“Yes, a very large discount.”

“Your associates have been able to verify the cost at the source,” Bun Sareun interjects.

The plaster men nod, almost imperceptibly.

“All right, all right…” The ambassador sighs. “That's a lot of money, but okay,” he adds. “However, it must leave no trace.” The ambassador turns and yields the floor to the commercial attaché, who's only too ready to step in.

“There must be no transfers of money that could be linked to the future use of these airplanes,” the attaché says. “We can't do bank or wire transfers.”

“And we can't write checks,” the smiling ambassador says.

“So what's left?” Kasper asks.

For the first time since they entered the room, the only audible sound is the air-conditioning.

“We can pay cash,” says the ambassador. “The whole amount, in cash.”

“Cash,” Kasper says slowly. “Have I understood correctly?”

“You have.”

“One hundred and thirty million dollars in cash,” Kasper repeats, feigning the proper level of surprise.

“There's no other way,” Bun Sareun agrees. “Of course, arrangements will have to be made.”

Arrangements, obviously. But what kind? Kasper tries to picture such an enormous mass of banknotes.

“I can tell you that a large briefcase holds a million dollars in hundred-dollar bills,” the ambassador remarks didactically. He looks around, examines for a moment the impassive faces of his collaborators, and turns back to his two guests. He allows himself a brief outburst of laughter. “But at this point, my dear gentlemen, the real question is, which one of us is going to have to purchase a hundred and thirty large briefcases?”

Kasper's a step away from the finish line. A little too close for his taste. He therefore stops everything cold.

“I'll have to check on this and get back to you,” he says. “A hundred and thirty million dollars is not a simple matter.”

The ambassador doesn't blink. “That seems fair to me. And, if I may ask, how do you plan to proceed?”