MONTE CARLO
MONACO
ONLY WHEN JIM HALL received the anonymous Facebook message as he had demanded from the Central Intelligence Agency did he realize that his plan had actually worked! He had beaten the system. He had blackmailed the CIA and had gotten away with a forever get-out-of-jail-free card. He went down to the hotel bar and ordered a solitary, celebratory drink, feeling a long-sought sense of transformation, and without a second thought about selling out Kyle Swanson and Lauren Carson.
He played with the ice cubes and picked his teeth with the little plastic sword that speared two olives in the martini. New clothes were a must. He could buy whatever he wanted in the exclusive shops in Dubai, but why bother? It would be more fun, a better experience, to go to the source for his threads. Hand-sewn shoes from a British craftsman, custom-made suits from the best tailors of Europe, fitted shirts in Italy, with money no object. Jim Hall liked that idea.
The message had arrived during the night, and Hall left Dubai the following day, bound for Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris with a first-class seat aboard Qatar Airways. He used a backup passport that allowed him to use another name for customs and legal paperwork, but he did not worry about fingerprints or facial recognition software or retina scans. It did not matter if the authorities tracked him, because there would always be an asterisk on his file that would guarantee that he would not be molested. They would do nothing, and eventually give up.
In Paris, he rested, had a nice lunch, and then purchased a tuxedo from a designer’s studio shop, along with matching black dress shoes, polished to a bright sheen. A stylish haircut at a salon set him back two hundred and fifty dollars. The following day, a high-speed train whisked him south to the Principality of Monaco, the money-soaked independent state snuggled between the mountains and the Mediterranean on the French Riviera. A memory of the beautiful Princess Grace and her fairy-tale romance flitted through his thoughts. Like Grace, he was going to be living the dream.
That evening, the dream would feature Jim Hall as James Bond, and he believed he fit the part better than some of the movie stars who had played the role. Not as good as Sean Connery, but better than most of the others. After all, he was a real spy. He strolled that night along the Golden Square that led to Le Grand Casino de Monte-Carlo, where master craftsmen had created an ornate castle on the outside and a perfection of polished stonework within. He caught a glimpse of himself in his tux and thought he looked good. He moved with ease through the corridors, ignoring the Salle des Amériques, where rich rubes from the States came to play familiar Las Vegas games such as craps. Smiling at the genteel segregation of the Americans from the more cosmopolitan European casino atmosphere, Hall decided to speak only French that night. At a gilded private room for serious gamblers, he paid an additional entry fee and stepped inside.
A waiter in a short white jacket and dark trousers appeared at Hall’s shoulder as he sat down at the roulette table, and Jim ordered a double martini on the rocks, with olives. A thick slab of one-hundred-dollar bills from his new wallet was exchanged for chips.
He let play continue while he tasted his drink and made himself comfortable. The women were gorgeous in colorful gowns, with diamonds at their ears and throats, and the men wore upscale suits, dinner jackets, or tuxedoes. A slender brunette with long hair over her bare shoulders and a low-necked gown the rich purple color of ripe plums was checking him out from the far end of the table. Hall smiled at her.
Hall placed his bet, ten thousand dollars, on red, for a single spin of the wheel. He did so because he had always wanted to do that once in his life. He did so because he could. It did not matter whether he won or lost, it was just fulfilling a whim, and automatically earned him the respect of everyone at the table. He was a player. Hall watched the little ball clatter around the spinning wheel until it slowed and finally caught in a slot. Red! The goddess of gambling was showing him respect. He had won. The ten thousand became twenty thousand, and he let it ride for another spin, when he won again and the money became forty thousand dollars.
That was enough showing off. He stacked the beautiful chips into small towers of colorful plastic and settled down to play for only a thousand per spin for a while. Win some, lose some, and the brunette had taken the seat next to him and placed warm fingertips along his thigh.
Jim Hall knew it was going to go on being this way. He would enjoy his new life in Europe, travel the high roads in Asia and South America, and never have to return to those sandy and hot wastes in the Middle East. A final favor had to be repaid, but that would not happen in Pakistan. Then, out.
PAKISTAN
THE FATHER AND THE son were sharing a small meal, eating quietly until they were done, and the women left them alone. It was not very hot outside, and there was already fresh snow on the highest ridges. For mountain dwellers, it was time to be certain they had acquired everything they needed before the passes were clogged by snow and ice so thick that even a mule could not traverse a path.
Muhammed Waleed, the strongest warlord in the Taliban badlands, was proud of Selim. The attack in Islamabad had brought a horrendous toll of death and destruction, and it was all being blamed on an American Marine assassin, who had now escaped from custody.
“You have accomplished an important task, my son, and you did so brilliantly.”
“Thank you, Father. I felt the hand of the Prophet upon me during the entire operation. All praise be unto him.”
The older man adjusted his robes. The weather had been hot only a few days before, but now there was a faint chill in the early afternoon air. “How do you read the government’s situation at this point?”
Selim gave his father a frank look. “I admit that I was surprised that they did not crumble after the Islamabad incident. The president did not impose martial law, which I had anticipated.”
“Perhaps he held back because of all of the foreign presence in the city. The diplomats would have reported back to their capitals that he had panicked. He would not want that.”
“Yes,” agreed Selim. “Well, no matter. Confidence in his administration was already being shaken by the riots elsewhere, and now, as I read it, the president is hanging on by no more than a slender thread. The generals may not follow his call for any harsh crackdown on the people, and the secret police continue to play their own game.”
The Taliban leader laughed. “Ah, our old friend General Nawaz Zaman. That fox even keeps secrets from himself. He will not intervene in our plans if the price is correct and he is left in power when we take over.”
“He has been useful,” Selim replied. “When the bribe offer was made by the British billionaire for the escape of the Marine, Zaman arranged everything and kept me informed. As a prisoner, the Marine represented nothing but diplomatic and media problems in the future. It is best that he is gone. We have all washed our hands of him. Let Kyle Swanson be a problem elsewhere. Here, he was a distraction that we did not need at this important time.”
“And the condition of our political arm, the Bright Path Party?”
Selim’s dark eyes almost glowed. “Strong and ready. That is why I have come. It is almost time, Father. You must leave this place very soon and prepare to step into public view.”
“I think it is still too early, my son.” There was a hint of warning in the statement.
“Please allow me to explain my thinking, Father. I would never presume to know as much as you, nor to instruct you in the proper thing to do.”
“Speak.”
“The leaders of the Western countries are showing great concern about the situation in Pakistan. I have learned that the president of Pakistan will be invited to meet the leaders of major European countries and reassure them.”
“Where?”
“That has not yet been decided. The United Nations, The Hague, Washington, London, Paris. All are possible, and it makes little difference for our next steps. He will not return from the trip, and his government will collapse.”
Waleed got to his feet and walked to the main window. People in the village below were content and working. Soon he would be ruling the entire nation, out in the open. The other Taliban warlords would fall in line or face his wrath. The West would be forced to accept him.
Selim continued, “The president will be killed while he is away, and you will step forth as the candidate of the Bright Path Party to be elected and bring stability and peace to Pakistan. There will be a token opposition candidate, but anyone else seeking the office would find that life will be very, very difficult.”
“And Jim Hall does the job, wherever it may be?”
“Yes, Father. I have already set him in motion.”