False Flag Page 4

  The language was falling out of favor now. But Kim found it useful. Many of the world’s foremost mercenaries and criminals hailed from the former Eastern Bloc. And the North Korean colonel did plenty of business with men of their kind.

  “How much did you manage to smuggle out?”

  Savrasov looked back at Kim, the fear in his eyes blending with the condescension so beloved by intelligent men. “Enough to kill the world a hundred times over.”

  “How much?” Kim repeated, his tone hard, black eyes glinting.

  “50 milliliters of culture,” Savrasov replied, his voice harsh with that irritation so peculiar to experts in their own field when faced with a layperson. “But it doesn’t matter. A single drop is enough. That’s the beauty of a bioweapon. It grows itself. Replicates dozens of times a day.”

  Kim nodded, satisfied. “Good.”

  Savrasov clutched the metal briefcase. It was a futile gesture. If Kim wanted to take the case from him, he would. This deep into the forest, no one would hear a gunshot. They could bury his body, cover it with a thin layer of snow, and no one would find it for months. Perhaps years. Maybe never.

  “And my money?”

  The superiority in Savrasov’s eyes disappeared now, replaced by a gnawing hunger. The briefcase in his arms was his meal ticket. The million dollars that Kim had transferred into a numbered Cayman Island bank account was only a token of good faith. In this part of Russia, it was enough to live like a king for the rest of the scientist’s natural life. But as Kim knew, Savrasov was done with Russia. He wanted beaches, exotic foreign women and expensive liquor.

  The colonel withdrew a small, ruggedized laptop from a case by his feet. He powered it on and navigated to the webpage of a small private bank based in Geneva. The account held four million dollars in untraceable cash. In a country like North Korea, it was an unimaginable amount of money. And yet it was Kim’s. To do with as he pleased.

  “My friend, I am afraid I am going to have to change the terms of our deal,” he said softly.

  Boris’s eyes widened. First came shock, then rage. He was being cheated! And then the fear returned. Kim watched as the man’s chest, briefly puffed with anger, shrank, as his shoulders hunched over.

  “You promised…” he whimpered. “I did exactly as you asked.”

  Kim spread his arms wide. A cold smile flickered on his gaunt face. He could taste the man’s fear. It was like an elixir to him. Sweeter than the most expensive liquor.

  “And I will give you everything you deserve, Mr. Savrasov. In fact”—he spun the laptop around and showed the scientist the open webpage—“let me demonstrate how serious I am.”

  Kim tapped the return key on his laptop keyboard, and the transaction initiated. He studied the scientist’s pasty, sweating face as the man’s eyes tracked the screen, line by line. Saw the flash of recognition in Savrasov’s eyes as he noticed his own bank account. Then joy and naked greed at once when he registered the amount.

  “But that was the deal?” he said, looking up uncomprehendingly. “Five million dollars, in return for the modified virus. I don’t understand.”

  “I will double it, Boris.” Kim smiled.

  He molded his face into as pleasant an expression as he could manage. He needed the man’s fear—he knew there was no more potent motivator—but he needed to appeal to his greed as well.

  “Double it?” the scientist stammered.

  Kim nodded. “Another five million. A fresh identity, and a brand-new face. Everything you need to disappear in luxury for the rest of your life. But I need you to come with me. I only need you for a couple of weeks. Maybe a month. After that, the money is yours, and you will never see me again.”

  “Where?”

  Kim smiled, shutting the laptop lid. He had his man. And his plan was falling into place.

  “Home.”

  5

  Present day

  President Charles Nash fingered the thin brown manila envelope as he gazed out onto the South Lawn of the White House. He was dressed casually, in a faded plaid shirt he’d had ever since his college days, and a pair of gray jogging pants. It was an outfit his wife had hated. Perhaps that’s why he wore it now.

  Nash knew exactly what was inside the envelope—and yet he could not bring himself to open it. It had arrived a week ago, and it had been sitting on the mahogany coffee table in the White House Residence all that time. He absently wondered why the cleaning staff hadn’t at least put it to one side. At least there, it would be out of sight, and out of mind.

  It was as though they knew what was inside it. Just a short document—the negotiations were amicable enough. Both parties were hurting, but only one wanted to carry on fighting.

  Me.

  The White House butler, Rupert Everett, knocked discreetly and entered the living room. “Sir, you have a visitor.”

  Nash knew exactly who the mysterious visitor was, and why he was receiving him in the residence rather than the Oval Office. He coughed quietly, pushing the darker thoughts out of his mind. “Send him in, Everett.”

  Mike Mitchell was the director of the Central Intelligence Agency’s Special Activities Center. The SAC is what most people think of when they picture the CIA. In reality, most of the Agency’s work is carried out through intelligence gathering and analysis. Though the Agency has thousands of analysts and officers, most of their day-to-day work does not involve kicking down doors and assassinating either cartel kingpins or weapons smugglers.

  The Special Activities Center, by contrast, does exactly that.

  It grew out of the famed World War II clandestine unit known as Office of Strategic Services, and cut its teeth in Korea in the 1950s. Since 9/11, the threats to America’s national security had only come thicker and faster—and the SAC was at the heart of keeping the country safe.

  “Mr. President,” Mitchell said. “It’s good to see you.”

  Nash turned, set the envelope back down on the coffee table with no small sense of relief at the distraction from his own problems, and shook Mitchell’s hand. He gestured at the sofa. “Sit. Can Rupert get you anything to drink?”

  Mitchell shook his head, and Nash dismissed the butler.

  Nash settled back into the opposite sofa, a pale baby blue piece of furniture that was exquisitely comfortable. He took a second to clear his thoughts. Ordinarily, the First Lady would have picked out the furniture. But not in his marriage. In fact, she had never even visited the place, and in all likelihood never would. The White House Residence felt comically large for one man. Five luxuriously appointed bedrooms, three reception rooms, and only a single inhabitant.

  “Mike, thanks for coming,” Nash finally said, aware of a growing tension in the silence. “You get over here okay?”

  Mitchell nodded. “Came through the tunnel from Treasury,” he said. “And drove over in a car without government plates.”

  Nash nodded, pleased. It was no doubt a bit of a dog-and-pony routine—there was no reason to think anyone was tailing the director, but the two men knew a secret that under a dozen individuals in the entire government were privy to: that just six months before, the vice president, Robert Jenkins, had launched a coup that had very nearly succeeded. It would have, in fact, without the actions of one man: Jason Trapp.

  The chaotic events had ended with Trapp eliminating the vice president after the man signed a confession that now resided in the president’s own private safe. It was a secret that—if it got out—would not just bring down his administration, but perhaps the very concept of American democracy itself.

  Charles Nash had authorized the execution of his own vice president.

  It had been necessary—and yet at the same time it was the act of a dictator. Nash grimaced at the thought. There was a reason Mitchell was here alone—a reason that even the director of the Central Intelligence Agency wasn’t read in on this operation.

  They were tying up loose ends.

  “Good,” Nash replied. “Where are we in Hong Ko
ng?”

  Mitchell unclipped a thin black attaché case and slid a glossy photo over to the president. “This is Emmanuel Alstyne,” he said. “Fifty-three years old, worth about eight hundred million dollars, according to his IRS filings.”

  Nash raised an eyebrow. “What’s he really worth?”

  “Just shy of four billion dollars, as far as we can make out. We got his name from the vice president—”

  Mitchell caught himself just in time, as the president’s eyes flashed black with anger. This was far from the first meeting the two men had shared together over the past six months. Nash had made himself very clear: Robert Jenkins was not to be referred to by his former title. He was a traitor who had caused the deaths of thousands of innocent Americans — and he didn’t deserve the respect of the office he had betrayed.

  “Apologies, Mr. President,” Mitchell said. “Jenkins gave us his name when he confessed. As you know, he was the head of the snake—he controlled everything. But we’ve been hunting various minor players in his conspiracy for the last six months. Emmanuel Alstyne is the last one left. He financed the whole thing. On Bloody Monday, he had short positions in half the NASDAQ, and made almost a billion dollars in just twenty-four hours.”

  Nash had read his briefing book. “You’re sure he’s the last one?”

  Mitchell nodded. “Positive.”

  Nash paused, running his fingers through his hands he thought. He didn’t enjoy these meetings with Mitchell. Not because he disliked the man—Mike Mitchell was the very definition of an American hero. He worked from the shadows, and would never receive public recognition for his vital role in keeping America safe. No, Nash was uncomfortable with the untrammeled power placed in his hands.

  The power of life and death.

  But for this man, Nash knew, there could be only one outcome. He hadn’t just known about Jenkins’ conspiracy—he’d profited from it. The very thought turned the president’s stomach. “And you’re watching him?”

  Mitchell nodded. “That’s correct, sir.”

  “This file Alstyne took with him when he fled. What’s on it?”

  Mitchell grimaced.

  Nash wished he could thank the man. He looked tired, his ordinarily close-cropped brown hair now lank, as if he hadn’t had the time to get it cut. His face was creased with exhaustion, and he had the kind of impenetrable 5 o’clock shadow that only comes out during periods of stress. Nash knew that Mitchell would have shaved before meeting him—it was the kind of man he was. But it didn’t matter.

  “Everything, sir,” Mitchell replied. “It’s a gold mine. Alstyne was a major shareholder in Atlas Defense Systems, and he was on the board. We believe he downloaded blueprints for every hardware and software program Atlas was working on before he fled to China.”

  “And now Chinese state security is sitting on him,” Nash growled. “He’s trying to cut a deal.”

  “Precisely, Mr. President. We believe he intends to trade the contents of that file to the Chinese state in exchange for their protection.”

  “That can’t be allowed to happen.”

  “No, sir,” Mitchell said. “If the Chinese get that information, it’ll be like Aldrich Ames on speed. They’ll get the blueprints for the F-22, the F-35, our next generation drones, aircraft carriers and battle tanks. They’ll learn how to hack our satellites. It will be a generational shift in their capabilities.”

  Nash fixed Mitchell with a glowering stare. “The Chinese must suspect we’ll try and take him out. They would do the same.”

  “We don’t believe they know precisely what Alstyne has. We think he’ll try and trade the information over a number of years in order to ensure his security.”

  “So we have time?”

  Mitchell shook his head. “Not much. Dr. Greaves managed to penetrate the Chinese Ministry of State Security several days ago. They are planning on offering him permanent asylum in three days’ time, after he returns from a short trip to Macau. We have to assume that’s in return for something big.”

  “Then you can’t let him return to China. What’s your plan?”

  Mitchell grinned. “Simple, sir. Jason Trapp.”

  6

  Trapp had done some light background research on Macau on the privately arranged boat over from Hong Kong. The Chinese territory was classed as a Special Administrative Region, just like Hong Kong, and had been ruled by the Portuguese for a hundred and fifty years until it was handed back to Chinese rule just before the turn of the millennium.

  As Trapp stepped off the chartered boat, he tasted the air. It was thick and heavy, heralding an oncoming thunderstorm. He had scarcely avoided being drenched several times over the past few days in Hong Kong and figured his luck might be coming to an end. Already, his once neatly pressed white shirt was beginning to crinkle under the humidity.

  He opened a secure messaging app on his phone and typed a short message:

  Have arrived. Meet you as planned later.

  Trapp had some time to kill. According to his credit card statements, which had been obtained by analysts back at Langley, Emmanuel Alstyne was booked onto a private helicopter transfer from Hong Kong later that evening. Only the best for a man who had done as much as any in an attempt to take down American democracy.

  The thought sickened Trapp. His fist clenched around the handle of a small carry-on luggage case, knuckles white with tension. He consciously forced himself to relax, even though a tumult of emotion was raging through his mind, reflected in the dark, roiling clouds that were forming overhead.

  Alstyne was the last remaining player in the conspiracy that had almost launched a successful coup in America. He was the last man living who had played any role in the death of Ryan Price—Trapp’s partner, and the best friend he had ever had. Theirs had been a deep bond, even by the standards of the special operations community, which tended to foster incredibly close working relationships. Not surprising, when men shared foxholes in the most dangerous hotspots and war zones the world has to offer.

  But the connection Trapp had shared with Price was different. When Trapp first joined the US military, he was on a one-way ticket to the grave, and he didn’t much care how he got there. The bottle, a pill, or a bullet were all much the same to him then. The only question was which one would get him first.

  The term ‘broken home’ didn’t come close to describing the horrors of Trapp’s childhood. The thin scar around his neck, once red but now faded white with the passage of time, was far from the only physical manifestation of the beatings which had been inflicted on him by those who were supposed to protect and care for him.

  Though he was pushed toward the army by a friendly judge who didn’t want to see a young boy’s life unfairly squandered in prison, it was Trapp’s meeting with Price that had truly saved his life. The two men served together for years. Saved each other’s lives. Went through special forces selection together, and were even recruited by the Agency just two years apart.

  And then, that human connection was snatched away from Trapp in the course of just one night, on a mission that never mattered, for ends that he would never understand. Price’s death had almost sent Trapp back into that initial spiral, until just months before, the events of Bloody Monday offered him a chance at redemption.

  No, not redemption. Revenge.

  That was the thought that had driven Jason Trapp to this very moment. He was so close now. He could not fail. And so he pushed the memories back down inside himself. He could deal with them later, but now he needed to focus.

  Trapp’s phone buzzed with a reply, startling him back to the present:

  Understood. Surveillance assets are in place. See you shortly.

  The car from the Ritz Carlton was waiting for him once he had cleared passport control. Since Trapp’s boat had traveled directly from Hong Kong to Macau—both Chinese-controlled territories—his false identity was given only a cursory examination. He was just another American businessman spending the weekend gambling. His
expensive suit made him invisible in a place like this. Every year, Macau took in five times as much gambling revenue as Las Vegas. The place made Sin City look like a sleepy Florida retirement village.

  Not long later, Trapp stepped into the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. His suite was booked on the floor above Alstyne’s, with an adjoining door to the suite containing Ikeda’s surveillance team. He didn’t accept the bellhop’s offer of assistance with his meager luggage, but tipped the man anyway, in case he needed him later.

  The hallway leading to his suite was carpeted in a rich cream material, patterned with startling blue floral spirals. The luxury almost took Trapp’s breath away, and he wasn’t a man who took much interest in interior design.

  Ikeda was waiting inside the suite when he stepped through the door. He raised his eyebrow at her presence.

  “Don’t remember telling reception to give you a key.”

  She grinned. “I didn’t ask.”

  “So what are we looking at?” Trapp said, setting his case against the wall and working the knots out of his neck and back. Traveling was never comfortable—even when it was just a short hop in a million-dollar pleasure yacht.

  “The State Security advance team is already here. Two men. Looks like they’re trying to keep this one under the radar.”

  “What’s your setup?”

  “I’ve got three guys. Two shooters and a guy next door running comms. Bringing any more people in on this might raise some eyebrows.”

  “No, your way is better,” Trapp agreed. “Have you got eyes on Alstyne’s room?”

  Ikeda nodded. Her jet black hair shimmered in the calm mood lighting of the hotel suite, and Trapp was reminded—not for the first time—of quite how attractive she was. Pretty, but in a deadly way—and no doubt pretty deadly, too.