Prologue
January 7
Bank of Belgium
Brussels, Belgium
“This is the last time I’m giving you such sensitive information.” The young man’s hand shook as he handed over the small thumb drive. “It’s getting extremely dangerous.”
The old man brushed the right side of his salt-and-pepper moustache, then picked up the device. “You’re paid handsomely for a reason. And that reason, in case you’ve forgotten, is your access. You’ll leave when your job is complete, and when we no longer need that access. Not a minute sooner, and not a minute later.”
The young man shook his head. “You don’t understand. This—”
The old man waved a dismissive hand. “I understand very well. I didn’t get to where I am without doing the dirty work.” He waved his arms around his spacious office overlooking Square du Bastion and the Royal Palace of Brussels to the north. Then he pointed at the corner of his dark mahogany desk. Tawfiq al-Gailani, Executive Manager, was carved in capital letters in a gold-plated name sign. “I didn’t become top manager by avoiding danger. I jumped right in, dashed where others turned around and ran like scared dogs.” Al-Gailani leaned forward in his seat. “I grabbed and took what I wanted.” He made a swift gesture of reaching and taking with his right hand. “This is how it works. You want to get to this, right, to have all this?” He waved his arms again.
The young man nodded. “Yes, of course,” he said in a low, uncertain voice.
“Then go back to your office. Act normal, but as always, keep your eyes open. You’ve been trained for this. And this is Brussels, Europe. Remember Mosul? Baghdad? You’ve seen worse; we both have seen worse and have survived.”
The young man nodded. “Yes, yes, but this is different. Back home, we knew the enemy. ISIS. Shiite militants. American and other foreign dogs. But here . . .” He shrugged. “Anyone could be watching me.”
Al-Gailani’s small brown eyes searched the young man’s face. “Have you seen anyone following you?”
“No.”
“Anything strange at your office?”
“No, no.”
“Outside your house?”
“Nothing, but I have this strange feeling, like someone’s watching me. You know the NSA tracks phones, emails, all digital communications.”
Al-Gailani nodded. “Yes, yes, I know. That’s why we meet in person, in our offices, to discuss clients’ business.” He tapped a few folders spread across his desk. “But you have no evidence, concrete evidence that an intelligence service or the police have eyes on you?”
“No, but I wouldn’t want to wait for that confirmation. The December incident, when the police intercepted the truck bomb and—”
“Shhhh, don’t even mention that fool’s name. I’m glad he’s gone, and nothing will tie him to us and our operation.”
“Right, but what if the police discover the other associates?”
“Then, we’ll deal with it,” al-Gailani replied in a frustrated voice. “For now, let’s stay focused and deal with the Russian emergency.”
“Yes, about that.” The young man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Lenkov Oil is expecting their money transfer. One hundred million euros by the end of the week.”
“Is that why Egorov is in town?”
“Yes.”
“And we don’t have that money.”
“No, not even half.”
Al-Gailani cursed Lenkov Oil and Egorov. He drummed his fingers along the edge of the desk. “Let me handle that. I . . . I will come up with something.”
“Escrow accounts or trust funds.”
Al-Gailani cast a stern gaze at the young man. “I told you I will handle it. I didn’t ask for your opinion.” The thought of blackmail crossed his mind, but he was not going to share that with the low-ranking operative.
The young man nodded slowly and looked at the floor.
“What else have you heard about the counter-terrorism force investigation?”
“It’s a full-blown operation. Special forces are working with the State Security Service and other intelligence agencies. They’ve called for help from the CIA, MI6, and the CIS.”
Al-Gailani studied the young man’s clean-shaven face. “The Canadian Intelligence Service? And this information is accurate?”
“Yes, yes. My associates are very good. All sorts of intelligence operatives are swarming in and around Brussels. They’re getting closer.”
“Do they know about Egorov?”
“If they don’t, they’ll soon find out. That’s why we need to leave—”
“I will handle it. We’re not going anywhere. And you need to calm down, okay?” Al-Gailani’s voice turned cold and firm.
“I will try.”
“No, you will do it. There’s no trying.”
The young man nodded.
Al-Gailani said, “Anything else? Something specific?”
“No. I will download the transactions and the account numbers of the Russian, American, and Iraqi companies and put them on another USB drive.”
“Good. But don’t come to my office tomorrow. I will send someone to pick it up.”
“Who?”
“I . . . I’m not sure. I’ll see who’s available.”
“Why . . . why can’t you meet me?”
Al-Gailani gestured toward his computer’s monitor set at another desk opposite the window. “My day’s full. Meeting after meeting. But have it ready at the end of the day. Someone will meet you at the regular place at 4:15.”
“4:15 at the coffeehouse three blocks from my office.”
Al-Gailani shook his head. “Yes, isn’t that ‘the regular place?’”
“Sorry, my . . . my mind is getting fuzzy.”
“Refocus and think straight.”
“I’ll try . . . I’ll do it.”
“All right. Be gone now.” Al-Gailani dismissed the young man with a small hand wave. Then al-Gailani stood up and walked to the window. His eyes followed the young man as he hurried down Boulevard de Waterloo and headed toward the Louise metro station. He may be scared, but he’s right. Belgian authorities are closing in. It’s getting too hot. It’s time to leave. Al-Gailani grinned and brushed his moustache. Time for me to leave, and to leave him behind. He has served his purpose. Time to cut off all ties linking him and his associates to me. But not before I get my hands on the flash drive with the account numbers.
He grinned again, then walked to the corner of his office. He put on his heavy felt coat and headed out the door. Time to talk to a man about an elimination.