The Red Syndrome (27 page)

"What about the directors that you suggested? Who are they?"

"Respectable local individuals that we arrange."

"Are all types of corporations allowed in the Seychelles?"

"No. The business of the company cannot be in banking, insurance,
reinsurance, or trust."

"But bearer shares are allowed?"

"Of course."

"Okay," said the man, "let's do it."

I spent the next twenty minutes getting the pertinent details, and the
transaction was completed.

"Good job," said Sunil. "Let's go and have dinner. You've certainly
earned it."

Another week went by. One late afternoon, after work, I was strolling
along Market Street examining the local art displayed on stalls when I
suddenly had the feeling I was being watched. The street was bustling
with shoppers and tourists. I couldn't see anyone tailing me, but my instinct told me someone was there. The adrenaline surged, and I told
myself, Let's see what he wants. I continued walking but made a sudden
right turn into a side street. While walking, I glanced into a store's
window and saw a young man, probably twenty-five, with Indian features, looking in my direction. When I returned to Market Street, he was
still behind me by some sixty or seventy feet.

I had to be certain that he was indeed following me for whatever
reason. So I applied the first rule of countersurveillance my Mossad
instructors had taught me: Make sure you're being followed and that you're
not imagining things, but-just as important-don't tip off the opposition
that you've spotted them. I crossed the street, he crossed the street; I made
two left turns, he made two left turns. I crossed the street, he did as well.
I turned around and walked back, so did he. It was obvious that he wasn't
a pro; I'd spotted him right away. Okay, my friend, I said to myself, let's see
how good you really are; so far you're failing. I pulled from my pocket a
bunch of scuba diving brochures I'd collected during my stroll. I surreptitiously tore off one partially printed page, tore off the printed part, and
held it on the top of the brochures. I crossed the street again and "accidentally" dropped the torn blank part of the paper in the middle of the
road just as I saw a bus coming. The man waited for the bus to pass then
bent to pick up the paper off the road. When the bus passed I was out of
sight, lost in the crowd, although close enough to see his puzzled look
when he realized that he'd lost me. Taking a detour, I entered my apartment building through a side entrance. I couldn't see the young man, or
anyone else for that matter. I called Sunil but I got his voice mail. I hung
up. However, my .22-caliber pistol was my partner that night.

Sunil called in the morning, and I told him about the previous night's
episode. "I don't think I should come to the office," I said. "I don't know
when I became a target or if it started only last evening. I shouldn't contaminate the office as well."

Sunil listened attentively and questioned me how I spotted the follower
and how I got rid of him. As it happened, he'd been about to tell me that
he thought I was ready to move on to the next step: trying to contact
Zhukov. This incident only served to speed up the inevitable.

That night I was on the plane to Marseilles.

From the airport I took a cab. The weather in Marseilles was calm. The
Mediterranean breeze cooled the hot air but also brought high humidity.
Flocks of screeching, squawking seagulls were squabbling over scraps
thrown overboard by a bearded fisherman gutting fish, while other
seamen were unloading crates of colorful, giant shrimp. My cab was
maneuvering in the busy avenues where the large population of North
Africans was visible. Although physically tired after the long flight, I was
mentally alert. I checked into my hotel and, using the approach I'd been
told to use, I immediately called Zhukov in New York. It went against all
my training to call a target directly from my hotel room, but in this case
we wanted Zhukov to be able to trace the call back to me.

"Mr. Zhukov, this is Neil McMillan, I'm calling from France."

"Yes." Although he rumbled just one word, his heavy Russian accent
came out strongly.

"I'm a financial consultant, with particular expertise in offshore corporations. I have important information that I need to discuss with you."

"Look," he said, audibly bothered and perhaps a tad cautious, "if you
are selling something, talk to my accountant."

This was the make-or-break point: I had to steer him back on course
or the conversation would end in ten seconds or less. "Mr. Zhukov, this
has nothing to do with selling anything. I'm talking about a security
problem. It concerns the Seychelles. I don't think you'd like me to discuss
it over the phone."

"Security?"

I'd gotten his interest, but it would keep him interested for only a few
more seconds: The spark had to be turned into a blaze. "It concerns certain Australian companies moving money."

Apparently I had, because he immediately responded.

"What do you want?"

"As I said, I'm a financial consultant with an asset-protection operation in
the Seychelles, and I recently came across something interesting: a certain
activity in a Seychelles bank. I don't think it was meant to be so visible."

"I have no connection to any Australian companies or the Seychelles,
so you must have the wrong person. Did my name come up there?"

Bingo. Forget the denial; the latter part of the sentence revealed his
concern. He was the right person all right, but obviously he couldn't concede that to a complete stranger.

"I'm sure you'd rather we didn't discuss it now," I repeated for the third
time. "It'd be better if we met."

"Let me get back to you. Where can I find you?"

"I'm in Marseilles, France, at the Promenade Hotel." I gave him my
numbers.

All of a sudden it felt like my old days with Mossad. Calling sources,
pretending to be Joe, waiting in vain for a contact to call, trying to think
two steps ahead of your enemy, when sometimes you didn't even know
who or where your enemy was.

From a pay phone outside the hotel I called Brian and Eric at the number
I'd received and reported that an initial contact had been made. I was told
to follow the plan.

Once my business was concluded, I hesitated for only a moment before
calling Laura. When it came to Laura, I had to concede that my lust outweighed my logic. I knew I was violating protocol but couldn't help
myself. Just a small onetime violation of the rule, I promised myself, the
same excuse I use when I devour forbidden food, wiping out weight loss
achieved after days of strict dieting.

"Dan, where are you?"

"In Marseilles."

"I hope you mean Marseilles, France, and not Marseilles, Illinois."

"Let me take a look," I said. "Yeah, the steaks here are small, so it must
be France."

"Having a good time?"

"Sort of, but it could be better."

"Oh?"

"Feel like a short French Mediterranean vacation?"

She didn't even hesitate. "Sure, you mean now?"

"Why not?"

"On or off duty?"

"Why categorize it? Just come."

"Let me make a few phone calls first. Where are you?"

I gave her my numbers. "I'm registered as Neil McMillan."

I crossed the street back to my hotel and returned to my room. It was
getting dark and I started thinking about going out to dinner. But all of
a sudden I felt the weight of my weary body. I sprawled out on my bed
and fell asleep immediately. French food would have to wait.

The phone rang. I had no idea where I was or why, or what time it was.

"Dan?" came Laura's pleasant voice, "I think I can make it. But it'd have
to be private. My visit, I mean. I don't think Hodson would appreciate me
joining your assignment without his knowledge. So I simply asked for a
few days off."

"As long as you get here quickly. Have a schedule yet?"

"Yes, I'm leaving tonight and expect to arrive at Marseilles tomorrow at
noon. I'll take a cab to the hotel."

"Great, see you tomorrow." I put my head on the pillow and fell asleep
again in no time.

The piercing ring of the damn telephone woke me up again. Automatically I picked up the bulky white receiver.

"Mr. Neil?" The man spoke with a heavy accent. Russian, probably.

"Yes, this is Neil McMillan. Who are you?"

"Never mind. You called my boss."

"Who's your boss?"

"You know. He told me to arrange a meeting. He will meet you in New
York next Monday afternoon."

"I can't. The meeting must be in Marseilles."

"I said my boss wants you here."

"I can't enter the United States. The feds would like to talk to me, but
I'd rather talk to you guys."

"You mean they're on to this matter?"

What a language barrier could do. "No. I simply don't want to talk to
them; they want me for something else. So I'm staying away from the
United States for the time being."

"Are you an American?"

"No, Canadian. Could we meet here in two or three days?"

"I have to talk to my boss," he said and hung up.

An hour later he called again. "Okay," he said. "Where do you want to
meet?"

"I suggest the Promenade Hotel where I'm staying."

"We'll be there on Thursday, three days from now. If this is some kind
of a joke, you should know we have a limited sense of humor."

And a temper, I said to myself. "No, it's not a joke. I'm serious, and so is
the matter."

It was too easy. Too easy. Although I managed to have it my way, I felt
uncomfortable. I wished I could analyze it with David, or Benny. I
needed their counsel. Why did Zhukov agree to my dictate? Was the
matter I'd brought up so important for him that all of a sudden he'd
become a lamb rather than a raging bear? Or maybe the consent to my
terms signaled something else I wasn't aware of yet? It bothered me.

I forced myself out of bed and went outside to call Eric and Brian to
report, but they weren't available. I left a message.

When I returned to my room, there was a message to call Dr. Jean
Pierre Arnaud. Dr. Arnaud is the signal that I had been contacted by Eric
and/or Brian. I went outside again. Never use a tracks-leaving cell phone
in such circumstances.

"Hello, Mr. McMillan," said Eric. I'd expected Brian's friendlier voice.

"Hello, Dr. Arnaud," I said, a bit surprised at the sudden formality;
did Eric suspect that someone was listening? "My plans have changed,
and I expect to be very busy soon. Could we arrange my appointment
immediately?"

"I need to make some arrangements at the clinic. I'll call to tell you
when we can schedule an appointment."

I went to the bar to have a drink and within minutes, a hotel employee
gave me a note: "Dr. Jean Pierre Arnaud had a cancellation, so he can see
you this afternoon at four at his clinic."

The clinic was located in a wide street, but the entrance was inconspicuous. I buzzed the button on the building's main door and the door
opened. I took the clunky old elevator to the third floor. The sign on the
door read DR. JEAN PIERRE ARNAUD, ONCOLOGIST.

I rang the bell and a nurse opened the door. The place looked like an
old-fashioned clinic, with high ceilings and tall windows with wooden
shutters painted in white. A strong smell of antiseptics gave the place the
final touch. Still, it didn't strike me as a real doctor's office that patients
visited. In fact, it was used only as a CIA rendezvous site. There wasn't a
receptionist. Other than the nurse, I didn't see anyone.

I followed the nurse to an examination room. There Eric Henderson
was standing next to Brian and another person I didn't recognize. Brian
just nodded at me, smiling.

"Hello again," Eric said in a bland tone.

"Hi," I said, and thought, This eel again.

"This is Martin Levitt, a tech ops officer from OTS, the Office of
Technical Service," Brian said; "and you already know Eric."

"Nice to meet you," I said to Martin.

"So," Eric said. "A meeting in three days."

"Yes. They called."

I wondered how he already knew about the meeting. I hadn't told
anyone. Zhukov's phone must be tapped.

"Fine," said Eric. "Remember, the purpose of the meeting is to install
you as an asset-protection specialist in Zhukov's organization. Nothing
else."

I had the feeling that the last two words were meant to deter me from
any independent initiatives. I nodded, but mentally I didn't agree: It was
my neck and ass on the line, not his. If I needed to go it alone, I would
- with or without Eric's blessing. I'd gotten away with it in the past, and
other than sending Eric's blood pressure to a new high, there'd been no
adverse consequences.

"What I meant to say is that the idea behind the meeting should be
cooperation, not confrontation. Remember, the substance of the meeting
is a dangle operation. We're enticing Zhukov into thinking you're a bona
fide professional. Each of you has an interest in the success of the
meeting. But as always, we'll be nearby. We saved your neck once and
we'll do it again here, if necessary."

That was Eric's not-so-subtle way of reminding me that during our last
joint case, in Germany, they'd sent in the German police at just the right moment - while I was struggling with a colonel from Iranian counterintelligence.

"The French police may not be as efficient as the Germans," I said.
"But at any rate, I think this is a contingency we must prepare for."

"Meaning?" asked Eric.

"If the clients aren't interested in future cooperation, but only in figuring out what I know and how I got it, what then?" I asked.

Brian intervened. "You agree to sell them the information for a hundred
thousand dollars. The fee will also include patching the security leak and
training their people so that things like that would never happen again."