Chapter 5
The Maker's Mark
Minsk, Belarus
0155 Local Time
Steam curled from Bond's mouth as he stood in the shadows of the parking garage opposite the bright lights of the Belaya Vezha Casino. Just down the road, a crowd gathered around a parked ambulance. A loud, two-tone squeal filled the air. A Minsk police car sped down the street and came to a stop beside the ambulance. A uniformed officer and plain clothes man got out and hurried through the crowd into the lobby of the hotel. Bond stamped his feet to keep warm and ran the last few minutes over in his head. A man, a very strong and proficient one, had tried to kill him in the lift. Had it not been for a stray bullet and quick thinking on Bond's part, he may have met his end in the lift. He reached out and gingerly placed a hand on his face. It was tender to the touch. The swelling around his cheeks had started, the pain he felt around his left eye indicated there was a black eye forthcoming.
There came a chirp from his pocket. His mobile ringing. Bond slipped it out and looked down at the screen. The special phone had a half-dozen numbers programmed in it for Bond to use for cover identities, but the line being rung was the phone's main one. The encrypted line's number was known only to a select few personnel at Six.
"Yes," he asked as he answered.
"Good evening, 007," the cheerful voice of Q replied back at him. There was a soft hum underneath his voice as he spoke. The encryption program Q and Bond both used would distort their voices to the point that any electronic eavesdroppers wouldn't be able to make sense out of their conversation. "And I hope it is a good one, or at least worth it. They called me in from home to help you."
"Sorry to pry you from a special night with your online girlfriend..."
"Destiny understands," the young man said with an exaggerated sigh. "I'm married to my job first and foremost. She understands. Bit of a workaholic herself, always busy at the Pink Hippo, the club she dances at. Now, about these Euros you sent me... How certain are you that they're counterfeit?"
"Almost certainly. A casino owned by the head of a counterfeiting ring. It's the perfect cover for passing off phony bills."
"Yes, and these bills are perfect... almost. They're the right size and shape, have proper watermarks, and it's made of the proper paper. Check your screen."
Bond pulled the phone away from his ear and looked as an email from Q flashed on the screen. He opened it and saw a close-up shot of multi-colored watermarks. Printed on the miniscule fibers over and over again was the flag of the European Union, twelve stars in a circle.
"What am I looking at?"
"The maker's mark," replied Q. "A microscopic trademark recently introduced. Every Euro printed in the last six months has these on them. The problem with these bill in particular is the issue date on the side reads 2010."
"Then they are phony."
Bond's casino hunch had paid off. Lukashenka was counterfeiting the bills. Had he engineered the raid in Hamburg? No, thought Bond. No, that was much too professional and well-run for a man like him. Lukashenka may have been the big fish in the small pond that was Minsk, but in the lake of Europe he was just another two-bit guppy gangster. Someone was using him and his people. Was it the woman and her giant friend? Had she sent the killer after him?
"Yes they are fake," Q said to bring him back to the moment at hand. "The only problem is that currently, the maker's mark is only used in bulk shipments to and from countries in the Eurozone. The governments are the only ones with the technology to see the mark. Don't think many restaurants keep an electron microscope handy to run bills through."
"Right," he said as he saw movement out the corner of his eye. "I'll call you back if I have something else."
"Who needs Destiny when I have you, 007," Q said dryly. "As always, I await your every beck and call."
Bond hung up and tucked the phone in his pocket. Natalia appeared out of the shadows in front of him. Her long, red hair pulled back in a ponytail and her fabulous dress and figure were hidden underneath a red wool-pleated trench coat. Her hands were in her pockets, steam rising from her mouth. Natalia's eyes surveyed Bond, taking in the damage to his face and neck. Wordlessly, she reached out and touched Bond's swollen left cheek with a gloved hand. Bond's mind lingered on the soft caress of her hand. For a hardened field agent like Natalia, Bond was only a bit surprised to find she had a gentle touch.
"Ouch," she said with sympathy.
"You should see the other fellow. I gave him the-"
"Yes, yes, insert dark comedy pun here," she said dismissively before tucking her hand back into the jacket pocket. "I think Lukashenka is printing his money in the basement. He had cameras trained on every square inch of the casino, save for the basement."
"Where is Lukashenka now?"
"Sleeping it off," she said playfully before holding up her wrist, showing Bond the special bracelet on her left arm.
"Oh, but I can't make puns," Bond said wryly. "We'll go back to his office and from there we can figure out how to get to the basement."
---
Natalia and Bond walked across the catwalk hung above the casino floor. The sentries at the catwalk entrance had let them pass after some brief convincing from the SHIELD agent. They had already saw her go up with Lukashenka, and they had seen Bond gambling earlier in the night. Bond looked down as they walked towards the office. Even if it was the middle of the night, the gambling was in full swing below. The Belaya Vezha was open 24/7, but this was a weekend night.
Natalia opened the door marked "Private" and led Bond inside to Lukashenka's office. She made a beeline for the desk while he surveyed the room. It matched the rest of the casino, cheap with the outer appearance of ornate. Bond's eyes drifted towards the sofa, but stopped when he saw the crime boss.
"Natalia," he said softly. "When you said you took care of Lukashenka..."
He walked towards the man and looked down. He sat slumped on the sofa, his neck at an unnatural right angle. His eyes bulged wide open, his face frozen in a twisted look of pain.
"I did not do that," she said from behind Bond. "Someone must have been in here since I left."
The door leading into the office swung open. They turned and saw a short, fat man in a suit. He yelled something in Belarusian when he saw Lukashenka's dead body. He fumbled with something at his side, a gun Bond assumed, but he stopped when a soft pop echoed through the room. He clutched at his fat neck before falling backwards and hitting the floor.
"That is what I did," Natalia said, her gauntlet raised like a gun. "He was supposed to sleep until the morning."
Bond turned back to the dead body and bent down. His neck was black and blue from severe bruising. The picture started to become clear to Bond when he saw the large size of the marks on Lukashenka's neck. "The Russian," he said to Natalia. "The Baronesses bodyguard. The size of these marks on his neck, that's the only man who could make marks like this."
"I found out how to get to the basement," she said from the desk. "Come, let's go."
"Yes, but first."
Bond stood and walked over to the sleeping thug. A quick pat down revealed a snubnosed.38 revolver with six shots and an extra moonclip with six more shots in the man's jacket. Bond tucked the .38 into the empty shoulder holster. It fit in roughly the same space, but not as smoothly as the Walther. The man also had a keycard clipped to his right breast pocket. Bond pocketed the keycard and moonclip before nodding at Natalia.
---
The guard's footfalls echoed off the black and white linoleum floor of the casino's gray-painted corridor. This back passage led to the Belaya Vezha's most important room: the count room. There, the total of the night's take would be counted and calculated. Rubles, dollars, euros, pounds, and lira were all counted and then added to the casino's hordes of cash. On a given night the casino took in nearly a hundred thousand Euros in gambling wins, which translated to a small fortune in rubles. Two guards patrolled each end of the corridor, two guards monitored the counters in the counting room, and a guard was positioned at the door that led to the basement. As heavily protected as the count room, the guards were also instructed to let not one soul through into the basement unless they were personally escorted by Lukashenka. The workers and the rest of the men who operated out of the basement entered through an access tunnel that led to an opening a block away.
Stifling a yawn, the guard turned a corner to the next leg of the hallway. He stopped in his tracks as a small, strong hand drove itself into his face palm first. The blow sent him up against a wall. He saw a redheaded woman in a red dress in front of him, a black-haired man in a suit and tie standing behind her. He began to sound a warning to the rest of the men standing sentry, but the woman drove two quick fists into his solar plexus. He gasped for air and slid to the floor. The last thing he saw before the black void of unconsciousness was the heel of the woman's left pump rushing towards his face.
"Two down," said Natalia.
Bond nodded and looked around the hall before glancing at his watch. The steel Omega Seamaster continued to emit its electronic distorting pulse at five second intervals. Any cameras or other recording devices would be disabled long enough for Bond and Natalia to pass by without detection. Safe in the fact that the watch was still working, Bond motioned forward down the hall. She stepped over the unconscious sentry spread out on the floor and held her right arm out, ready to use the tranquilizer darts if trouble showed up. For Bond's part, he kept his right hand up and ready to pull the confiscated revolver if it came to that. They passed by a closed-door with warnings written on it in both Russian and Belarusian.
"Count room," she said without looking at it. "More guards are probably inside."
Without a doubt, thought Bond. They pressed on, coming to another bend in the corridor. There were voices coming from down the hallway, low and at ease. Natalia pressed against the wall and listened in on the back and forth of the conversation. "Just idle chit-chat," she whispered. "Talking about the weather and sports."
Bond wished that he could see down the corridor at what was waiting for them there. There were two voices, yes, but there could be three or four men standing watch over whatever it was they had been assigned to. And even if there were just two, they may both be armed with automatic weapons. Bond's stolen .38 and Natalia's trick jewelry would be no match for the rapid fire of a Kalashnikov.
"Uh-oh," she said softly. "They're talking about the guard I knocked out. He was due to check in a minute ago. They're wondering where he is... Damn. Now they're talking about calling someone to look into it."
Bond scratched the back of his right ear and ran through options in his head. Their options, which were already limited in the narrow space of the hallway, were becoming steadily more restricted. Now, Bond could only see one feasible option. It wasn't ideal, but considering the circumstances and their mission nothing short of Bond having an assault rifle of his own would make him comfortable with what he was about to do.
"Stay low," he said to Natalia. He pulled the revolver from his shoulder holster. "I stay upright, gun drawn to get their attention. You tag them with two darts and send them to dreamland."
"Okay," she said. Even if her face would not betray her uncertainty, Bond could hear the apprehension in her tone.
Taking a deep breath, Bond ventured out into the hallway, the gun raised chest high. Twenty yards away, there were two men in front of beige metal doors. They were dressed in black suits and white shirts with no tie. They each had MP5s slung around their shoulders. The sight of Bond standing in front of them threw the two men into a stunned silence for at least two seconds. When they realized what they were seeing was real, they began to move towards their weapons. There was a flash of movement below Bond. On her knees, Natalia slid across the linoleum and fired four shots from her gauntlets. Both men recoiled from unseen blow and twirled sideways. One of them smashed against the wall and slumped to the floor while the other one fell flat on his face.
"Excellent shot," Bond said as he helped Natalia up.
"Even better bait," she replied with a smile.
His gun still out, Bond led the way down to the doors. He stepped over the sleeping men while Natalia picked an MP5 off one of the unconscious bodies and slung the strap on her shoulder. With his left hand, Bond pushed open the metal door and went through the threshold into the basement. The noise was the first thing he noticed. The loud and constant din of heavy machinery. The sight was something else altogether. The door opened up to a short row of stairs that led to a wide open space that was empty, save for a dozen printing presses, work stations, and forklifts. A long catwalk encircled the area from above, an office with glass windows sat just off the metal walkway. Dozens of men busied themselves with the work of the presses and hauling pallets from the presses to a group of bay doors on the other side of the room. The pallets were, Bond noticed, stacked with euros.
The noise was so encompassing, no one had heard them entering. Bond turned to Natalia and motioned up towards the catwalk. She nodded and followed him to the stairs that led upwards. From the height, the noise of the machinery was softer and allowed them to speak to each other without shouting.
"How much do you think that is?" she asked.
Bond looked down at the pallets and did some quick and rudimentary addition.
"Billions, maybe more if they're only printing the five hundred bank-note."
They slowed as they approached the office. The glass windows showed that no one was visible inside. With the gun down by his waist, Bond went through the doorway into the office. He deactivated the pulse on his watch when he saw the computer resting on a desk. Beside the desk, on a pile of aging notebooks and scratch paper, was a square object that appeared as if it was the motherboard of a computer. Two cables ran from the object and plugged in to the computer's USB ports.
"Watch the door," he said to Natalia as he slid behind the desk.
A quick search of the desktop and files showed that it was an ordinary computer with no incriminating files. It wasn't until Bond activated the E drive, kicking the motherboard beside him on, that he found what he was looking for. Images flashed on the screen, pictures and stills of the different Euro banknotes from every conceivable angle. After the euro, the US hundred-dollar bill went through the same procedure, pictures of it that showed the various watermarks and security devices that prevented counterfeiting.
"We have it," he said, looking up.
"Good," said Natalia. She kept her eyes outwards, scanning the catwalk and the workers below.
Pulling out his phone, Bond synched his wireless tooth mic with the phone and connected with the number he was to dial as an absolute necessary. There came three rings, then a voice picked up.
"Universal Export," said the bored voice of Walter McCaskill, MI6's current night duty officer.
"Yes, I'm wondering if you happen to import any of those wonderful Manchester apples?"
The keywords were the last two in the sentence. Manchester apple. MA. Mission Accomplished.
"No, sir," said McCaskill, his voice taking on interest. "But if I can have your name and number, I'm sure we will get back to you soon."
"Of course. My name is Beach, and my number is 007-" Bond paused slightly, making sure McCaskill got the designation. "-55 625880."
"Thank you, Mr. Beach. Someone will certainly get back to you soon."
The line went dead. M or Tanner would be calling within the hour, wanting his full report. Bond tucked the phone into his jacket before he stood. He pulled the large drive from the USB ports and held it in his hands.
"Remember," said Natalia. "If things go bad, destroy the hard drive. Better to have it ruined than back in enemy hands."
They hurried across the catwalk and were on the stairs down to the floor when they stopped, the shaking of the catwalk above distracting them. Bond turned and saw the Russian standing at the landing above them, a ruthless grin on his face. Below them, the Baroness came into view. She wore black combat fatigues and combat boots, a tiny pistol in her hand. Behind her, more men with guns were approaching the foot of the stairs.
"Hello," she said sweetly. "Mind telling me what you're doing here?"
"Well," he said, raising his hands in surrender. "I figured if I couldn't f*** you, I'd at least f*** you over."
