12.
Jeff Dalkin recognizes Ralph Serafina the moment he enters The Daily Grill on Wisconsin Avenue.
Serafina is wearing an
expensive European suit contrasting Dalkin's distinctive American look: Hot Dog on a Stick baseball cap, polo
shirt, blue jeans and sneakers.
Serafina
had arrived with no idea what to expect.
He certainly did not expect Bruce Willis stooled at the bar, beckoning
him over. He hesitates, looks around.
Dalkin
waves the CIA maverick in.
"Bruce
Willis?"
Dalkin
smirks. "Long story. Main thing, I need your help on a
project."
"A
movie?"
Dalkin
shakes his head. "No. Agency—ass-wipes—business.”
"Yeah." Serafina grins. "Most of them are ass-wipes."
"I
hear you're something of a fast-tracker," says Dalkin.
"Really?" Serafina knows this to be true, but takes a
stab at modesty in front of a man he believes to be a movie star.
"Just
what I need," says Dalkin.
"Not because it means you're smart, but because I want someone
whose career I can have a hand enhancing.
And what I got in mind is a definite career-enhancer." Dalkin winks.
"If, of course, you take the assignment, Ralphy. Drink?"
"Sure. I'll have one of those." Serafina points to Dalkin's martini
glass.
"My outfit,” whispers Dalkin, “is in
California."
"Of
course." Serafina nods. "That
makes sense. Hollywood?"
"Nah." Dalkin shakes his head. "Santa Barbara. Last place anyone would expect."
"What
does it do?"
"We do some very intriguing things. But it's so sensitive, so secret, I can't really lay it out until I know you're on board."
"I understand," says Serafina. "But for the purpose of making a decision, can you at least give me a hint?"
Dalkin
looks both ways. "Sure, why
not. You were posted in Switzerland,
right?"
"Yes."
Dalkin leans in, forehead to forehead
with Serafina. "You probably had
some experience with the SVR teaming up with the Red Mafia."
Serafina nods. "Money-laundering," he whispers. "Switzerland's national industry."
"Exactly. But it goes way beyond Switzerland. The bastards are everywhere."
"I
know.”
"That's
what we're doing. We're doing it
undercover, with autonomy from headquarters.
And we're doing it better than anyone in the U.S. government—golly-glomping
goo-goo butts."
Serafina
squints. "No hassles from
headquarters?"
"No
hassles from no one. We do exactly what
we want, whenever we want, wherever we want, however we want. We're not assessed, monitored, constrained,
restricted or even bickered about. We're
on our own to do it our way."
"With
you in charge?"
"I'm more of a facilitator," says Dalkin. "I've chosen you because I'm looking for self-starters—a few select operatives who don't require supervision."
"Please don't be offended," says Serafina. "But how could you, a movie actor—not an intelligence professional—be facilitating such an important mission?"
Dalkin
nods, smirking. He sips his martini. "Excellent question. Truth is, I'm not
Bruce—willie-wankstain—Willis."
"You're
not Bruce Willis?"
Dalkin
shakes his head.
Serafina
considers this in awe. "Then how
come you look exactly like Bruce Willis?"
Dalkin
shrugs. "It's actually the other
way around. That dumb-fuck actor looks
exactly like me."
"Are
you Willis's twin brother?"
"No."
"Does he know you exist?"
"Yeah. It pisses him off."
"Why?"
Dalkin smirks. "Sometimes the tabloids report my doings as his doings. Like when I tip the parking valet a quarter. He gets called as cheapskate. Or when my Tourette's gets out of hand."
"You have Tourette's?"
Dalkin
nods. "Certain words set me
off. Like F-F... flatulating
fornicators—FBI. See? And the names of ethnic food."
"Cool."
"Actually,
the hotter the food, the... damn!"
"What's
wrong?"
"It's
the word actually. It's actually
back again, just when I thought I'd actually had it licked. It's the damn Brit—lizard-licking
limey."
"What
Brit?"
"We
have a Brit—lizard-licking limey—working with us. Actually, from MI5."
"Anybody
else?"
"You." Dalkin pauses. "If you're actually in."
"When
would I start?"
"Immediately,"
says Dalkin. "I'm headed back to
base tomorrow. I'd actually like you to
join me."
"I
see," says Serafina. "How much
time to have to think about it?"
"I
actually need a decision by the time our martinis are drained. Oh, and by the way—when we travel?"
Serafina
cocks a brow.
Dalkin
winks. "First class."
13.
Although
Michael Zudex resided in Monaco, the Mediterranean principality known for its ultra-secure
streets, he would not so much as visit Davidoff for his favorite Cuban
cigar—the Monte Cristo Number Two—without first ensuring that three of his
bodyguards were shielding him from possible danger.
Zudex
was the ostensible owner of Zudex International, a collection of import-export
enterprises headquartered in Monte Carlo.
In
fact, Zudex International was a front for the SVR, Russia's foreign
intelligence service.
Although
Michael Zudex "of Hungary"—born Yuri Ponomarenko, in Moscow—was only
the nominal owner of Zudex International, he had made himself very wealthy by
aligning the company of his adopted name with the Red Mafia.
On
the surface, Zudex traded in furniture and kitchen appliances. Remove the veil and the true money-spinners
at Zudex International were contraband weapons and heroin.
Two Zudex employees in the Ukraine who thought they were smart enough to blackmail their boss now rested upon a Mediterranean seabed, two miles offshore.
Michael Zudex could put on good manners when the occasion warranted, but his temperament could not be so easily altered. New riches had bestowed a new arrogance upon Zudex. And now, in Monaco, he believed himself beyond reproach, even from his SVR masters. But Zudex took no chances with his personal security.
It
was this very arrogance and dislike of taking chances that led Zudex to an
extreme decision on how to handle a pesky reporter from The New York Times.
Jason
Groner from the Times’ London bureau
had been researching Zudex International's various trades. Somehow or other, Groner had managed to cultivate
a source inside the Zudex organization.
His subsequent inquiries—monitored by Zudex security operatives—suggested
that Groner was onto them. And when this
reporter suddenly appeared in Monaco to demand an interview with the boss, Michael
Zudex agreed through his secretary to meet Groner aboard his yacht, berthed in
the port of neighboring Cap d'Ail.
The
reporter turned up on time for a late afternoon rendezvous.
Zudex
did not. He remained in his office,
where secretaries and assistants could see him.
Meanwhile,
four Zudex goons arranged for Jason Groner to meet two Ukrainians.
At the sea bottom.
Three days after hearing nothing from Jason Groner, colleagues at the Times’ bureau in London notified the U.S. Embassy that he was missing on assignment; that a crime may have been committed against this U.S. citizen.
The Legat’s office relayed their report to FBI headquarters in Washington D.C.
Due
to the sensitivity of this situation—not least because The New York Times
trumpeted their reporter's mysterious disappearance on page one—it quickly
worked its way up to the desk of R. James Cloverland, the FBI assistant
director for national security.
"Zudex,"
Cloverland snaps at a subordinate.
"Find out what we know about a Michael Zudex and Zudex
International."