Steve Abbott - Devil's Gambit

“Recognize him?” Don Evans, a three-year veteran of the Cape Town operation, looked over at Frank Weston, his partner.

“Andrew Verkatt.”

“Sure?”

Frank had been part of Cape Town a lot longer, ten years. “There’s only one Andrew Verkatt. He’s been dealing with this lot for a couple of years now. First time I’ve ever seen him here though. They usually go for covert meets. Must be some kind of emergency to drag all of him down here. Better get a time log going.”

Evans moved to punch the time and date on a keyboard nearby. “Okay, done.”

Weston looked over at a still image of Verkatt frozen on one of the video monitors. “Yeah, that’s him. I’d recognize the fat bastard anywhere.”

One of Mr. Park’s aides moved Verkatt through the seedy, run-down front office and into a more luxurious main office at the rear of the building. Park sat behind a modern computer desk, watching a display of Korean characters scroll rapidly by. The scrolling stopped and the computer let out a long beep. Park read the message and grunted to himself. He turned off the monitor with a flick of his wrist and turned to face Verkatt.

Park was small and lithe, dark skinned, even for a Korean. He favored Verkatt with a reptilian smile and stood to shake the South African’s hand. Verkatt made himself comfortable in the high-backed chair in front of Park’s desk.

“Mister Verkatt. So glad that you could make it on such short notice.”

“I’m sorry, we have not yet met. I thought I would be dealing with the other Mister Park.”

The current Mr. Park shook his head with remorse, “I am afraid he was recalled.”

Verkatt covered his worry well. “I see.” He clapped his hands together, “Well let’s not let that stand in the way of our business.”

Park nodded, “Pyongyang needs the requested units sooner than expected. Can you deliver?”

Verkatt, never one to miss an opportunity to exploit a situation, made a point of considering the question with a grave look on his face. “It will be more difficult. Difficult requires greater risk, which of course requires more money.”

Park had been briefed to expect no less from Verkatt. The current message on his screen authorized him to make any transactions necessary to secure Verkatt’s services. Odorous as the man was, he did, after all, get results. “I would expect nothing less for your trouble. How much more will be required to complete all phases?”

“Forty million US, in equivalent Deutsche Marks, to be deposited to this account, within the next forty eight hours.” Verkatt handed Park a card with the address of a bank in Luxembourg and the account number. Park took it and placed it on his desk.

“It will be done at once.”

Verkatt gave a slight nod of his head to show trust, where there was none. “As soon as the deposit is verified, I will be in touch through the normal channels. A meeting like this again puts us all at risk. I prefer to work through cutouts.”

Park bowed his head slightly, “As do I, but orders are orders.”

Verkatt rose to leave. As far as he was concerned, their business was completed. But Park was not yet finished. For all of his smooth and dangerous demeanor, he was still no more than a party man.

“How soon will we have them?”

Verkatt turned slowly, “Give me three days to find out.”

“We will be waiting.”

“Of course. As soon as I know, so will you.” Verkatt left the office. One of Park’s aides closed the door behind him. The aide turned to Park with raised eyebrows. “He is arrogant.”

The reptile crossed Park’s face again, “Men like him always are, but he gets results. We can stand his arrogance for the time being.”

The two MI6 men watched Verkatt come out of the warehouse. The multiple lenses of the phony junction box followed his progress down the street to his parked rental car. The license and rental agency were noted. The car would be rented by one of the Pretoria watchers before the rental cleaning staff had a chance to destroy any evidence. A team would then dust the car for Verkatt’s fingerprints and search for any other evidence of his meeting. Frank Weston was curious. Verkatt dealt almost exclusively in nuclear materials. Nobody in the Pretoria operation had heard any rumblings from inside the South African National Intelligence Service. The service was still widely penetrated by MI6. If there were any hints of pending sales through back door channels, they were being very quiet about it. Now that they were part of the world stage in a big way, they were doing everything in their power to keep that side of things out in the open. To have a creature like Verkatt meet out in the open like this, the Koreans must already have a mission running. Frank voiced his doubts to Don.

“He looks far too pleased with himself. Don’t the Koreans usually deal out of the Belgian Congo?”

Don nodded, “Usually this place is just for emergency meets and supplying cheap TV’s and VCR’s for the party faithful back home in the fatherland.”

“Well he’s in on something and from the way he’s smiling, it’s worth big cash to him. We’d better send this lot on. The Colonel is going to want to know about this.”

Don pulled the time-coded tape out of one of the machines. The current label for the day was applied to its face. To avoid the kinds of questions that intelligence agencies don’t like to answer, the cover for their office was that it produced industrial safety films. This tied in nicely with the amount of audio and video equipment stacked everywhere. The tape was then put in a bubble wrap envelope marked with the prominent logo of a major express delivery service. Most of these delivery services were as secure as and faster than the old ways of transportation. This one would go out on the next truck in about an hour.

“Shit!” Benjamin Johnson pulled back hard on the flight yoke of the aging DC-3. His starboard wing just missed the top of an oak tree that had shot up out of the ground without warning. Sweat flowed freely over Benjamin’s body. Flying at low level during the day was hard, but doing the same at night without terrain following radar? Well, most seasoned pilots considered it suicide. The French night goggles he wore screwed up his depth-perception which made matters even worse.

Creaks and groans echoed through the DC-3 as its frame strained under the terrible flying conditions. Benjamin just hoped his contact was waiting for him at the landing zone, not the local police. If he and the rest of the crew were caught with their illicit cargo, he would become another statistic in an area noted for its numerous plane disappearances. The airframe might be old but it was tough. Thousands of Allied troops had ridden into Europe to be dropped on D-Day into France. The shape was basic, a stubby nose with good vision sat in front of a strong forward placed lower wing with a port and starboard engine. The tail was nearly as tall as it was wide, which gave excellent stability in the lousiest of condition. There was a reason, DC-3s were still flying sixty plus years after the last one had been built.

Benjamin’s present employment situation was the culmination of numerous flights for his government in foreign lands, under Air America and other shell aviation freight companies’ protective covers. A few bad scandals and the current government’s official policies on covert operations had “severely curtailed his upward career mobility,” as he liked to put it. An excellent old hand at flying in and around the Golden Triangle, work had been no problem. Besides, the pay was much better than he ever got in service to his country. It was worth the increased risk. Hell, it wasn’t like this was the first time he’d run drugs. His eyes scanned the horizon. The landing zone had to be around here somewhere.