Supernotes (19 page)

Mandarin Oriental Hotel, Bangkok, Thailand

February 2007

“They're going to rule the world, my friend. There's not a fucking thing we can do about it.”

John Bauer moves his head, very slightly, to indicate the small group of people a couple of sofas away. Businessmen meeting for a pleasant drink at the hotel bar after a day of work.

Happy hour with colleagues. All of them Chinese.

“Take a good look at them. Wherever they are, they feel at home. But not like us Americans. They cause no ruckus. They're all sobriety and good manners, smiling and stealthy. They'll stick you in the back and you won't even notice.”

Bauer raises his glass of bourbon in a toast, and Kasper does likewise with his flute of champagne. Outside, the lights of Chao Phraya and the metropolis evoke a sleepless, frantic world, a world of perpetual motion.

Not far away, in the streets of Bangkok's Chinatown, the celebration of the Chinese New Year is in full swing. The Thai capital is teeming with even more tourists than usual.

“It's the Year of the Pig, 2007 is,” Bauer remarks. “The Fire Pig. A particularly lucky year, they say, because it comes only every sixty years or so. The Chinese call it ‘the golden year.' People born this year will have an easy life, it seems.”

The American stops talking and sniggers a little. Then he says, “I must ask the Chinese what kind of year 1947 was for them. Not a golden year, I'm sure of that.”

Kasper smiles, humoring the apparently autobiographical reference. And he recalls what Clancy told him a few days ago, when he suggested this meeting with Bauer in Bangkok: “For the thing they've got, they need a non-American who thinks, speaks, and moves like an American. I told them I'd talk to you about it. You can see for yourself if it interests you. Assess it and then decide.”

Kasper's been there nearly an hour, but John Bauer has yet to mention
the thing.
For now, he's holding his cards close to his chest.

Kasper doesn't know a great deal about Bauer, but what he knows seems like enough. He arrived in Southeast Asia during the Vietnam War, and like many other Americans, remained in the region after the American defeat. He worked for the CIA, that's for sure, but Clancy didn't elaborate very much on Bauer's role. In any case, he wasn't an operative during those years. “Not in the traditional sense,” Clancy explained by way of summary.

A man of strategies and connections, John Bauer. A real spy, probably. Decisive, crafty, few doubts.

These days he sells himself as a security and antiterrorism expert. And sells himself very well, to all appearances. He works throughout Asia for American para-governmental agencies, like Blackwater and others that collaborate on national security. He has his own organization: men and transport.

At the moment, the Chinese question is apparently pretty important, because Bauer won't let it go. “They're good, those guys. The subjects of the Celestial Empire,” he mutters sulkily to his bourbon. “We ought to learn from them. I say that again and again to our friends in Washington, but you know how they are, they breathe a different kind of air. Nobody who hasn't ever been to the East, who's never lived among these people, can understand. But you understand what I mean….”

“I think so,” Kasper nods. “Wherever you turn, you see the Chinese calling the shots in this part of the world. Maybe all over the world, by now…”

“Exactly right. Take the Mediterranean. They've landed in Piraeus and Sicily, and I don't mean a few of them; entire communities have settled there. They're buying Africa up one piece at a time, entering into agreements with those crap regimes: I'll give you industries and know-how; you'll give me raw materials. As for human rights, there's no debate because we all think about them the same way. Know what I mean?”

He tosses back the rest of his bourbon and puts the glass on the low table between them. He makes a gesture of measured vagueness. And starts in again: “Here in Thailand, too, they have incredible influence. The poor prime minister they kicked out last year, his ancestors three, four generations back are
Chinese.
Not everyone knows this. He remains in exile, but you can be certain things are going to get pretty turbulent in Thailand in the next few months.”

“Is that a prediction?”

“It's more than a prediction, my friend. It's how the Chinese are: they withdraw, they disappear, and when you least expect it they come down on you as ferociously as they possibly can. We should fucking
learn
from them. What do you say we go and get something to eat?”

They've just finished their meal when the American finally comes to the point. No more fascinating geopolitical theories. He's interested in talking about Cambodia. And about North Korea.

And there it is, the pièce de résistance.

“North Korea?”

Bauer gazes at him with a strange smile on his face. “Does that surprise you? It's a rogue state, right?”

“That's the definition you all have given it,” Kasper replies.

“Right. These days, as you know, the list of rogue states has been basically reduced to Iran and North Korea. At one time or another, the club included Syria, Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistan, Cuba, Libya. But now some of them have reformed, others we've bought, and still others we've invaded….”

He laughs in delight. Kasper smiles, nods, and thinks back on Bauer's admiration for Chinese stealth and sobriety. That feeling has evidently expired.

“The North Korean embassy in Phnom Penh is really something special. The Cambodians have a close relationship with the North Koreans. Extremely close, as I think you well know.”

“I've heard about it,” Kasper confirms.

“The Cambodians make nice with the Chinese through North Korea, seeing as Pyongyang is essentially a Chinese protectorate. And that's the way the wind's blowing, no fucking doubt about it: the wind of the Celestial Empire's blowing all over Asia. Ask India and Japan. They're watching Beijing's moves with growing apprehension. And North Korea is completely inside the Chinese orbit.”

“The picture's clear.”

“Our friend Hun Sen surrounds himself with North Korean bodyguards. His private residence adjoins the North Korean embassy. And there's a real feeling of neighborly solidarity. Hun Sen personally maintains constant relations with the Pyongyang government. Are you aware of that?”

“I am,” Kasper nods.

“Good. Now, what we'd like to ask you to do is to make friends with the North Koreans in Phnom Penh. Really good friends.”

Kasper refrains from an ironic remark and continues to nod automatically, like a conditioned reflex. But nodding doesn't necessarily mean “It can be done.” On the contrary. For one thing, he has little experience with North Koreans. Diplomats and officials from every country represented in Phnom Penh hang out at Sharky's. Even the Chinese. But not the North Koreans.

Kasper mentions this to John Bauer.

“I know,” the American replies. “They're closed up and spiny, like pissed-off hedgehogs. As a matter of fact, I don't believe you're going to be able to do it. But you're the only one who can even make an attempt. We can't so much as think about using one of our own. That would go bad quick.”

“Why me?”

“Why not?” Bauer smiles, pours some more California chardonnay, and invites Kasper to another toast. “Why not?” he repeats, speaking in the tone of the unflappable co-conspirator.

They drink, and the few seconds of silence bring back the echoes of the spreading revelry not far from the great hotel. Then Bauer returns to his subject: “You're not an American, but it's as if you were. You're good at infiltration. Your record speaks for itself, but they don't know anything about it. As far as the North Koreans are concerned, you're an Italian adventurer, out seeking your fortune. And you're certainly not the only adventurer in that fucking city. Nevertheless, you're something special: ex-military, professional pilot, aircraft expert. Now, we know they're looking for consultants. Their air fleet sucks. Their airline, Air Koryo, is so shabby it's been banned from all Western skies.”

“Because of the UN embargo, probably,” Kasper observes.

“Not just that. Since 2005, our government's been choking their financial transactions. We've shut them completely out of the international banking system. As for the embargo, it mostly concerns military supplies. Obviously, China and Russia thumb their noses at it and sell them everything. But the best airplanes in the world are manufactured in the West, and nobody's going to sell them any of those. Now, however, they're trying to get around the problem. And that's where you come in. I advise you to work up a proposal that can overcome a lot of distrust. The ambassador's an electric individual, real ambitious but also intelligent. And shrewd, above all. He takes great pains to collaborate with the central government….If I were you, I'd work on that.”

“What's the objective?”

“We don't give a shit about the planes themselves. But planes cost a pile of money, and if you want to fuck the UN over, you can't buy them in a normal way. And you can't even pay for them in ‘convenient monthly installments' like a car. So the question is, how are they going to pay for them? We have our own idea about that.”

“Namely?”

Bauer smiles and gazes at him as if, after a promising prelude, they were now ready for the best part of the opera.

The photographs are in the two envelopes Bauer takes out of his bag. The images aren't very high quality. But they show that the Americans—these Americans—aren't improvising anything. They've been on the case for a while.

The photos from one of the envelopes show places in Phnom Penh that Kasper knows: the North Korean embassy, the Pyongyang Restaurant, an exclusive bordello. The pictures from the second envelope are rarer goods: satellite images of parts of the city, and faces for Kasper to remember.

“This is the North Korean ambassador,” says Bauer, showing him a three-quarter view of a cultured-looking forty-year-old man. “We're interested in him, and we're interested in his workplace.”

“The embassy,” Kasper murmurs.

“Exactly,” Bauer declares, showing him some satellite views. “This is Hun Sen's residence, and this, right next door, is the North Korean embassy. Large quantities of dollars come streaming out of here. We want to know where they get them from. We're convinced we know who's running the show, and it's
them,
but…”

Bauer's gesture is just vague enough.

“Them?”

“The Chinese. Who else? There's nothing they can't counterfeit if they think it might be useful.”

“Counterfeit…” Kasper lowers his voice. “What dollars are we talking about here?”

“Fake dollars—fake but real. ‘Counterfeit dollars,' to use a very common but only partly correct term. Supernotes, if you prefer.”

“Supernotes,” Kasper says slowly.

“Supernotes by the truckload, it's said,” declares John Bauer, nodding and closely watching Kasper. The American's jaw now seems a little squarer, his eyes less smiling. “Come on, you know very well what we're talking about. You're familiar with supernotes. You came across them two years ago.” He bursts into laughter, the best fit of the evening. “Or rather, you tripped over them.”

So here they are again, America's intelligence men, ready to change hats as often as necessary. CIA, FBI, NSA, or some other important acronym.

But in the end, the objective is always the same, it's never called into question: the security of the United States and its allies against the Great Enemy.

Whether new or old makes no difference.

There's always an Evil Empire to fight against. With all conceivable means.

“The end is noble. The means, as we know, are debatable.” So says John Bauer, embracing Kasper and bidding him farewell after their meeting. He's given Kasper twenty-four hours to decide whether or not to accept the assignment. Should he do so, he'll have access to an appropriate expense account. It's quite obvious that Bauer's expecting a yes.

Kasper walks amid the nocturnal throngs of Bangkok.

Laboriously, he tries to find a passage through the crowd.

Painstakingly, he tries to find a logical path through his memories.

Ian Travis was his first potential lead to the source of supernotes back in 2002. Then Milan in 2005. That request had come to Kasper from Bob Zelger, an American and an ex-CIA man, but Kasper had never actually met him. The link between them had been established, as usual, by his friend Clancy. It's two years later, and once again the subject is supernotes. There's no Zelger this time, but there's Bauer.

What do those two have in common, aside from their Company affiliation? Kasper's connection to them is the same in both cases.

Uncle Clancy.

Kasper glances at his watch and figures Clancy's already sleeping by this time. But even if he's awake, this isn't a conversation to have on the telephone. When he talks to Clancy, he wants to be able to look him straight in the eye.

His flight to Phnom Penh is scheduled to take off in six hours. An eternity.

“Zelger and Bauer could be the same person. So what?”

“Could be, or
are
the same person?” Kasper barks.

“Okay, let's say they're the same person.”

Clancy strokes his white beard and looks at his friend as if they were discussing which bottle of wine to open for dinner. His tone is just about right for that, with an added soupçon of peevishness.

“And you couldn't have told me that before I went to Bangkok?”

“It'll seem strange to you, but I didn't make the connection. And besides, excuse me, but what would have changed if I had? It wasn't Bauer who arrested you in Milan two years ago. The tip he gave us was accurate. You could have stopped that Bischoff guy, him and his suitcase. You could have turned him over to your ROS friends and been a hero. Shit, maybe they would have given you that famous medal….”