The Red Syndrome (25 page)

"Maybe, but only as it pertains to their intentions, not their abilities,
since we don't know if the method described in the messages was genuine.
At a minimum, it could be a ploy to mislead or scare us. Therefore, as I
have already said, we work under the assumption of worst-case scenario."

"And Zhukov went along with it?" Somehow it didn't sit well with what
I had read about the man in his FBI file, although this was just my gut
suspicion.

"As I said," repeated Brian patiently, "he may have been unaware of the
true purpose. Even mobsters have some rules, particularly when they live
in the area targeted for a major terrorist attack. They could be corrupt and
ruthless, but they are not stupid and do not wish to commit suicide. Slow,
pleasurable suicide through overeating and drinking is more their style.
Zhukov probably planned many more meals, many more bottles of vodka, many more extortions, many more days to count his fortune. No. He was
not suicidal, just shortsighted."

"I read his FBI file. You should see his standard of living. He could
teach a course on luxury living to any Saudi sheikh who has the cash and
is looking to improve his already lofty standards." It was time to cut to
the chase. "So what's in the plan?" I asked, sounding too enthusiastic.

He picked up my tone and grinned. "At the end, we want you to provide `asset-protection services' to Zhukov and his clientele, particularly to
the Slaves of Allah."

"Why would they hire me? An unsolicited approach on my behalf
would seem highly suspicious."

"You are not supposed to know anything about the extracurricular
activities of the Slaves of Allah. You are an expert on money laundering,
aren't you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "So be one."

"Sure, discovering and hunting down money launderers, not acting like
one."

"Well, do it in reverse. We'd establish you as an expert in asset protection. Trust me, the legend we designed should smooth your entry into
Zhukov's money business. Once there, you'll have to find the way, with
our remote assistance, to involve yourself in his contacts with the Slaves
of Allah."

"And how do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Build my credentials as an asset protector."

"We install you as a consultant in a Seychelles financial services firm."

"Would they retain me, with no questions asked?"

"Yes, there will be no problem," he said with a smile.

"No problem? What do I say about my qualifications? Service for the
U.S. Department of Justice in fighting them? Or you mean I should portray myself as a rogue U.S. agent switching sides?"

He smirked. "We thought of that option, but we can't use it here. We
can't allow any connection to the U.S. government. We own the
Seychelles firm," said Brian shrewdly. "You have just been hired."

"Ahh," I said, digesting the information. A clever move. Get into the business of money laundering to catch the perpetrators. "Has the business
been long established?"

"Long enough. A few years. We are well rooted there. An office, a small
staff, a Web site, color brochures. We are legitimate."

"You mean a legitimate business doing illegitimate money laundering?"

"Sort of."

"So every client with dirty money who hires you ends up with his name
turned over to his country's police?"

"No, definitely not. That would undermine our own business, which is
built on reputation," he said with a straight face, and then smiled. "We
keep only the big fish and throw the small ones back into the ocean. We
are not interested in sardines. The income tax evaders, the crook bankrupts who stash away money from their creditors, and the husbands with
big money contemplating a divorce ... we keep their information on
record; maybe we'll have some use for it in the future. What we're really
interested in is the big-time mean guys whose activity could suggest a
threat to our national security."

"Okay, so I'm a consultant. I think I could handle that."

"You'll get a few days' worth of instruction from our company's local
manager, and then we can place you."

"You haven't answered me: How do I make contact with Zhukov?"

"First, you'll travel to the Seychelles. Get a suntan. Work in the office
for a few days. When you feel you're ready, Sunil Bharat, the company's
manager, will give you further instructions."

"When do I leave?"

"Tonight. Here are your travel documents." He handed me a folder.
"From here to Newark, continuing on another flight to London
Heathrow, you'll still be Dan Gordon. In London you'll be met at the
gate by Sheila -"

11
- who'll recognize me," I finished, forgetting how much I hate it
when people do that to me.

"Right. She will escort you through UK immigration, proceeding to
collect your luggage. Once past customs and outside the terminal, give
Sheila your American passport. She'll give you a new passport and your airline tickets to the Seychelles. She'll also make the final inspection of
your luggage. You'll leave Heathrow about three hours later."

"Not that I mind spending time in a tropical paradise, but I need to
know if it will be a long stay. I have two children. I can't just vanish."

"Don't worry. They're grown up and used to your long absences."

I had many more questions, but Brian interrupted me. "I need to go
now. Here's additional info on the Iranian-sponsored groups. I'll return
in about two hours to take it back." He gave me a thick folder; before
leaving he added, "Please don't leave this room."

The folder had approximately two hundred pages of text, tables, charts,
and photos of leaders of major terrorist organizations. I was so immersed
in reading it that only after several knocks on the door did I realize somebody was trying to attract my attention. Brian had returned just as I was
done reading.

"Here's your stuff." He put a duffel bag with my clothes on the floor.
"Take any notes?" he asked as I handed him back the folder.

"No."

"Good. Please go outside and take a cab to the Newport News airport.
The ride will take a few minutes. Your plane leaves in an hour." He
offered me a firm handshake. "Good luck. I'll be talking to you sooner
than you think. The equipment you'll need will be given to you before you
enter your area of operation and actually penetrate Zhukov's organization. We don't want you to travel internationally with these toys. You'll
also receive agent authentication stuff- documentation and pocket litter
that support and confirm your legend. Good luck."

I opened the door and left. So many things were left open. How would
I penetrate the organization? How would I communicate with Brian? I
had spent only a week in thorough training and had only received a fourhour overview on Iran's role in promoting terror. I had doubts it was sufficient from an operational point of view. I compared it with my training
at the Mossad. Before we left for an overseas rendezvous with potential
sources or confronting the opposition, we received far more rigorous and
detailed instructions. The CIA couldn't be that shallow, not to say unprofessional, so I hoped the rest and the best was still yet to come. I hoped.

slept most of the twelve-hour flight from London to the Seychelles
and woke up as the cabin crew lifted the window shades . Outside was
the approaching hazy view of Victoria. When the doors opened, a
blast of hot and humid air swiftly replaced the plane's stale air, with its
typical end-of-journey odors of clogged bathrooms and fresh toothpaste.
The temperature outside was over ninety degrees. I reset my watch four
hours ahead from London time, and walked across the tarmac to the
modest terminal.

"Mr. McMillan?" A short dark-faced man in his fifties, sporting a Panama
hat and a beige cotton jacket, approached me. It took me a few seconds to
realize he was addressing me by my new name, my new identity: Neil
McMillan, Canadian businessman specializing in asset-protection services.
Divorced; beautiful blond ex-wife, Pat, and two sons: Alec, ten, and
Christian, eight (I had the snapshots to prove it); Pat, Alec, and Christian
were conveniently out of Canada on a three-month tour of Europe. Just
hired by Transcontinental Money Solutions, Limited, of Victoria,
Seychelles, to provide financial services to its customers. Ambitious,
opportunistic, not above playing fast and loose with the law. A full battery of identification: Ontario-issued driver's license, credit cards, passport, of course. They'd never told me the kind of character McMillan
was. Was I expected to be shady? Obviously. But how might McMillan
behave differently from me, the fast-moving, unbureaucratic Dan
Gordon? Did I have a different persona? Or maybe I was chosen because
I fit the character of the imaginative McMillan. I didn't know whether to
be offended or flattered.

"Yes, and you are?"

"Sunil Bharat. I'm pleased to meet you," he said with a clear Indian accent. We were outside the terminal and in his car within fifteen minutes. The back of my shirt was already wet. I was not dressed for the
equator. Sunil drove on the left side of the winding road through the
bustling streets of Victoria. "Let me give you a quick description of this
place. The Seychelles are located north of Madagascar and about a thousand miles east of Mombassa, Kenya. There are one hundred fifteen
islands in the Republic of Seychelles. This capital city Victoria is on
Mahe Island, the biggest, which has a population of about twenty-five
thousand. The island is small, only one hundred seventy square miles.
The Seychelles were ruled by the French, starting in the mid-1700s. Then
forty-some years later the English took over until it became independent
in 1977. The population here is a mix of African descendants of slaves and
whites of French descent. They are plantation owners and are called `the
big whites.' There are also a few hundred Brits, who are called `spoiled
English' because of their untidy dress." In one minute he had given me
the whole history.

"This is Fifth June Avenue," said Sunil as we passed the Victoria bus
terminal to commemorate the 1977 revolution. At the Bicentenary
Monument roundabout he turned; after a few blocks he stopped next to
a red-roofed, two-story white building.

"This is your home. Your apartment is on the second floor. The ground
floor is occupied by a family that takes care of the house. They're loyal to
us, but obviously don't know who we are or why we are here. So be careful
as you would with all strangers."

"Sure," I said; field security was in my genes. I felt the burden of the
long day dawning on me.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow at nine thirty. We'll go to the office and get
some work done."

I entered the apartment with the key Sunil gave me. It was spacious
and nicely decorated. A light breeze came off the ocean as the evening
approached. I inhaled it deeply into my lungs as greedily as a heavy
smoker lighting a cigarette after many hours of abstaining. With the
warm ocean breeze also came a mixed scent of coffee, rum, and flowers.
From a distance I could hear rhythmic music and the murmur of the ocean waves. I slipped into the wide, soft bed and was asleep before my
head hit the pillow.

A knock on the front door woke me at eight in the morning. I opened
the door in my shorts and saw a beautiful young woman. She could not
have been more than twenty years old. "Good morning, sir, your breakfast is ready. Would you like to have it on your terrace?"

She didn't wait for my answer, wheeling in a coffee cart with freshly
squeezed mango juice, three slices of pineapple, and a bowl of thick
yogurt with honey. I ate the meal slowly, looking alternately at the Indian
Ocean behind the casuarina trees in bloom, the coconut trees, and the
curvaceous young woman who stood silently at the corner of the room.

I had seen casuarinas in Australia, Israel, and now here. I like them:
hardy, leafless trees with many toothed sheaths that bear a woody fruit
looking much like a nut. Around the base of the tree I could see the fallen
nuts and sheaths interconnected by their toothy edges.