Counterfeit (The Jim Slater series Book 2) Read online

  Counterfeit

  Also by Stanley Salmons

  ALEXEI’S TREE AND OTHER STORIES

  A BIT OF IRISH MIST

  THE TOMB

  THE CANTERPURRY TALES

  FOOTPRINTS IN THE ASH

  NH3

  THE MAN IN TWO BODIES

  THE DOMINO MAN

  COUNTERFEIT

  Stanley Salmons

  Copyright © 2016 Stanley Salmons

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Stanley Salmons to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  ISBN: 1537214489

  ISBN-13: 978-1537214481

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For Paula, Graham, Daniel, and Debby

  Stanley Salmons was born in Clapton, East London. He is internationally known for his work in the fields of biomedical engineering and muscle physiology, published in over two hundred scientific articles and twelve scientific books. Although still actively contributing to the real world of research, he maintains a parallel existence as a fiction writer, in which he can draw from his broad scientific experience. He has published over forty short stories in various magazines and anthologies. This is his sixth novel

  Acknowledgements

  I’m grateful to my wife Paula, sons Graham and Daniel, and daughter Debby for their feedback and suggestions. My friends in the Liverpool-based writers’ group Wordsmiths listened patiently to successive chapters and John Sayle, Neville Krasner, and Paul Dearden in particular provided invaluable critical comments. Special thanks to Graham for his expert advice on aviation issues, and John Sayle for guidance on hand-to-hand combat.

  GLOSSARY

  A-team Operational Detachment Alpha, a 12-man team

  Camo Camouflage

  Claymore An antipersonnel mine

  DEA Drug Enforcement Administration

  DoD United States Department of Defense

  IED Improvised explosive device

  Incoming Incoming fire

  Infil/exfil Infiltration/exfiltration

  LZ Landing zone

  NAFDAC National Agency for Food and Drug Administration and Control (Nigeria)

  OR Other ranks

  RFID Radiofrequency identification

  RPG Rocket propelled grenade

  SAF Special Assignment Force (fictional Special Operations Force of the US Army)

  SAS Special Air Service (Special Forces unit of the British army)

  SEALS United States Navy Sea, Air and Land Forces (Special Operations Force of the US Navy)

  tab March or jog with heavy equipment over difficult terrain

  USPHSCC United States Public Health Service Commissioned Corps

  VTOL Vertical Take-Off and Landing

  XO Executive Officer (Second-in-Command)

  PROLOGUE

  If there’s one job I dread it’s going to see the next of kin after they’ve been given bad news. In the larger US Army units they’d delegate the job further down the ranks. We don’t operate that way in the SAF; we treat it as part of the CO’s responsibilities. But General Harken was in Washington, so as second-in-command it had fallen to me. Despite my misgivings I think I’d have volunteered for this one anyway.

  I suspected David was from a well-to-do family, but even so I wasn’t prepared for what greeted me as I drove up to their home on North Shore, Long Island. I stopped the car at a pair of high wrought-iron gates and lowered the window to let the laser-sentry scan me. A metallic voice said:

  “State your name.”

  “Colonel James Slater.”

  Somewhere a computer was comparing my biometrics with the ones on official record, probably bookmarked when I made the appointment, because it took only a few seconds to make the match. The gates swung open slowly and I eased the SUV hydro through onto a long drive flanked by poplars. It was cool Spring weather and the lawns on either side were nodding with drifts of daffodils. The remnants of a late snowfall sat like molten glass between the flowers, although it had vanished everywhere else. I topped a slight rise and my eyes were drawn to the great white mansion ahead of me. Gravel crunched under the tyres as I drew up to the entrance. I switched off the engine and took a moment to button my collar and position the knot in my tie before I opened the door and emerged into the keen air. At the top of a double staircase a butler was already waiting.

  “Colonel Slater? Please come this way.”

  It wasn’t a fake English accent, and I should know. He gestured with white-gloved hands towards the open twin front doors. I trotted up the steps and entered a marble-tiled hall. A broad, carpeted staircase swept in a graceful curve to a gallery above. It all had the impressive grandeur of a great museum and, like a museum, I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live in it. I felt like I was stepping into a time warp, back a century or two from the 2050s. I paused, looking up and around, wondering what it would take to maintain a place like this. I half-expected to see cracks in the ceiling or poorly restored patches in the decorative carvings on the plaster walls, but everything was in immaculate condition.

  Behind me the butler closed the doors with a gentle thud that echoed through the cavernous interior. He led the way to another set of double doors, knocked discreetly, and announced me. I brushed my hands down over my dress blues to straighten out any creases – normally the kind of gesture I'd only make if I were about to be interviewed by a very senior officer – and went in.

  The room I entered was as large as the entire ground floor of the house I’d once rented in Springfield, Massachusetts. It was furnished in a period style with a panelled ceiling, antique furniture, huge oil paintings, and a polished oak floor, in the centre of which was a magnificent oriental rug. A large fireplace on one wall was partially obscured by a Japanese screen. Light streamed in through generously draped floor-to-ceiling windows, silhouetting the two people at the far end who had risen to greet me. I crossed over to them.

  “Mr. and Mrs. van der Loos. Thank you for seeing me at this difficult time.”

  The man stepped forward. “No one calls us that, Colonel,” he said. “It’s George and Sandra.”

  As we shook hands, he bent slightly and peered at my campaign ribbons.

  “Ah, the Distinguished Service Cross,” he said.

  “You know your ribbons, sir.”

  “No, I cheated. I looked you up after you contacted us. Come and sit down.”

  His wife perched herself neatly on the sofa, back straight, head held high. She was thin, painfully so. Above the neckline of her dress the skin was stretched blue-white over sharp collar bones. In spite of her fragile appearance there was something steely and unyielding about her. George van der Loos was more relaxed. He sat casually, half on and half off the arm of the sofa, and from his easy manner I guessed that he moved in wider social circles than his wife did. Through the windows I glimpsed an elegant garden with a fountain and statuary. Everything about this place breathed money and privilege. David had neglected to tell me his family was American aristocracy. I took the armchair facing them.

  They waited for me to begin. I cleared my throat.

  “Mr. and… George and Sandra. Officially I’m here on behalf of the United States Army – and the Special Assignment Force in particular – to express our sorrow on the loss of your son. It’s more than that, though. David was also my colleague and fellow officer. I liked him and admired him. My grief can’t possibly compare with yours, but I’d like you to know that this is a personal loss for me, too.”

  I noticed Sandra’s mouth t
ighten. George gave me an appraising look.

  “You’re an educated man, aren’t you, Colonel?”

  The question caught me by surprise. “I went through university, got a degree, yes.”

  “In England.”

  He’d spotted my accent.

  “Yes.”

  “What made you join the army?”

  I detected the faintest stress on “you”. I could imagine that given a choice the army would have been the last career they’d have mapped out for their son.

  “I did Geography. It gave me an interest in the wider world. I joined the army to see more of it, first the paras, then the 22 SAS. Then we had a joint mission with the Special Assignment Force and I decided to stay on. I’ve been with them pretty much ever since.”

  There was more, a whole lot more, but it was no concern of his[1].

  George nodded.

  Sandra said, “Would you like some tea, Colonel?”

  “That’s very kind, but I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble.” She was already ringing a small, silver hand bell. The butler appeared so quickly I wondered if he’d been listening at the door. “Jason, we’ll have tea in here.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  George said, “I remember that business in Africa you took care of. Sex and drug trafficking, wasn’t it? And you dismantled the whole thing. It was all over the news.”

  “The mission wasn’t untypical. The media coverage was – our missions are usually covert. That one rather put us in the public eye.”

  “The public saw you as heroes. Some people wanted part of it. Was that why David signed up to the SAF?”

  “A lot of people applied after that. David was one of the best.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  I smiled. “I’m sure you know the answer to that better than I do. David set himself very high standards. No sooner had he overcome one hurdle that he’d be looking at the next. He wouldn’t have joined just any outfit; it had to be the best. The SAF is an elite force. It tackles assignments that are challenging from a military point of view but also politically delicate. It calls for good judgment as well as the ability to fight. He had both.”

  There was a silence, broken by the appearance of Jason, who was carrying a large silver tray. He placed it on a low table between the sofas and set out bone china cups, saucers, and plates. Finally he put an elegant silver stand in the centre, with what looked like a sponge cake, already neatly sliced.

  “Would you like me to pour the tea, ma’am?”

  “No thank you, Jason. We’ll manage from here.”

  He nodded and withdrew. She held up the milk jug.

  “I’ll make yours English style, shall I, Colonel – milk first?”

  “I’ll take it any way it comes, ma’am. And believe me, I’ve had it every way it comes.”

  She gave me a brittle smile, added milk to all three cups, then poured the tea.

  “You’ll have a piece of cake.”

  It was a command rather than a question.

  “Thank you.”

  I saw she wasn’t taking any cake for herself and felt uncomfortable about accepting mine. Then George put me at ease by transferring a slice to his own plate.

  I took a sip of tea and, noticing George cutting a small piece of cake and piercing it with his pastry fork, did the same, narrowly avoiding the gaff of picking it up with my fingers. We don’t have too much use for pastry forks in the army.

  I now regretted accepting the offer of tea; the situation had become ludicrously genteel. I’d made a few visits to bereaved relatives before but never one like this. Most times I would be trying to find soothing words for a woman whose face was wet with tears, her husband grimly holding onto her hand, probably to reassure himself as much as her. It was far from comfortable, but I was even less comfortable with the atmosphere in this room. It seemed almost surreal. These people had lost their son and they were behaving as if it were a polite social occasion. It was a careful façade, of course. In their circles to grieve openly would be considered lacking in refinement.

  I found myself wondering how much affection had been shown to the young David when he was growing up. He’d never mentioned siblings. If he had a nanny, which he probably did in a household like this, I could imagine she was his one source of unconditional love. The rest would be a matter of duty, of living up to the family name. I began to understand the pressures that drove him to act the way he did.

  It was difficult to know what to say, so I finished the tea in silence and put down the cup.

  “The army’s anxious to look after its people, and that includes families. We’d like to be as supportive as possible. Is there any way I can help, anything you’d like to know?”

  George pursed his lips. “Only one thing. What happened?”

  What happened…?

  PART ONE

  1

  General Harken and I usually started the day with a mutual briefing in his office. He’d just returned from the Department of Defense. Often as not those visits resulted in a new mission so I half-expected there’d be something interesting to discuss.

  “How’s Bob?” I asked.

  Bob Cressington was Secretary of State for Defense. He’d been supportive of the SAF and he’d done a great job of ring-fencing our budget at a time of severe cuts. We’d been helpful to him in the past, too, so it worked both ways.

  “Problems, as usual.” He put his fingertips together. “Jim, I need you to help out on this one. Have you heard of an American company called Cuprex International?”

  “No.”

  “They extract and refine commercially valuable minerals: copper, silver, gold, and uranium, mainly. They have interests in Colombia, Zambia, Niger, Namibia, and Australia.” He sat forward, leaning his arms on the desk. “A company called Mirovoi Industries wants to take them over. It’s a major Russian conglomerate with a big portfolio in gas, minerals, and shipping. Their CEO is Leon Vlasov, a man with a big reputation and a lot of political clout. Cuprex rejected their offer but they refuse to give up.”

  “Sounds like normal commercial activity. What’s the problem?”

  “Well, there are some strategic concerns. The government would prefer it if Cuprex didn’t fall into Russian hands.”

  “Why not block the deal, then?”

  “They say there are no grounds to. It wouldn’t create a monopoly and Cuprex’s activities aren’t classified. Also it smacks of protectionism and they can’t set a bad example when they’ve been banging the drum about dismantling trade barriers. That’s what they say.”

  I smelled a subtext. “And what do you think?”

  He smiled. “They’re in wide-ranging talks with the Russian Union right now. This issue could be a source of friction and that’s something they’d like to avoid. The way things are, it won’t go much further anyway because Cuprex has a very strong CEO – a guy called Mark Ridout. Before he took over, the company was close to bankruptcy; now it’s a highly profitable multinational. Ridout’s firmly against a takeover and he has huge shareholder support – naturally enough, he’s made people a lot of money. But things could change if something happened to him.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Oh? Is something going to happen to him?”

  “That’s the worry. The two companies have set up a meeting on neutral territory – somewhere in Africa, I believe – and for some reason it’s giving the security guys at Cuprex a big headache. Max Keller is their senior man. He’s ex-FBI and he knows which strings to pull. Bob’s already having his arm twisted by Helena Brooke-Masters.”

  “Remind me.”

  “Deputy Secretary of State.”

  “It’s gone that high? What’s bothering them?”

  “Bob couldn’t say, but he’s arranged for Mr. Keller to come here tomorrow to brief us. Look after it, could you, Jim?”

  “Sure. Any idea what size of force we’ll need?”

  He sighed an
d I realised how tired he was. The constant battles with interfering politicians seemed to be taking their toll in a way military engagements had never done.

  “I don’t want to commit too heavily on this. I’d like to help Bob out, but the budget’s pretty tight and we can’t start mounting a full-scale operation every time a security man has a bad feeling. Vlasov’s a ruthless dealer but it’s hard to believe he’d go as far as assassinating a business rival. I suggest you just beef up their security presence. Use half a troop at the very most. Tell them to keep a low profile.”

  I sucked in my breath. “That’s a pretty small unit. Suppose they do run into trouble?”

  “If they’re heavily outnumbered they’re not to engage. Tough as it is, they’ll just have to observe and report back.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Plenty, but nothing I can’t handle. I have a whole bunch of stuff to get through and this is a distraction.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll deal with it.”

  *

  Max Keller, Cuprex’s Head of Security, arrived the next day. The airport taxi dropped him at the security gate and I picked him up. I’m pretty tall but Max was my equal for height and despite the fine cut of his suit there was no mistaking the build inside it. His hair was greying at the temples now. In all probability he hadn’t been far off retirement when he left the Bureau. We shook hands.

  “Welcome to Fort Piper.”

  “Thanks.” He took a tissue out of his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “Jeez, the humidity here is something else.”

  “We’re hardly into summer. It gets worse later on.”

  “Why’d they have to put you guys in North Carolina? What’s wrong with somewhere nice and dry like San Diego?”

  I led the way to my office. “We mostly operate in tropical countries. Theory is, if we can train in this climate we’ll be fit for anything we meet abroad.”