The Spy Devils by Joe Goldberg (top rated books of all time .TXT) 📕

can, therefore, relieve the financial burden you are currently suffering from and,” Chen looked at MacLean with a thin-lipped smile, “protect your well-earned reputation.”

“You want me to be a spy for China?” MacLean whispered to his lap, then raised his eyes to Chen.

Chen’s thin-lipped smile revealed as much emotion as the cooked duck.

“I want us to work together to solve our problems, Mr. Maclean.”

“George,” MacLean said.

“Yes. George. Thank you. This means we share on a regular basis—as associates. You share some information, things you normally would see in the course of your day. Then, we will transfer our deepest and generous gratitude to a secret bank account in your name in return.”

With drops of sweat beading on his forehead, MacLean reached out and grabbed the man’s hand.

“How much is generous?” he asked, after a minute had passed.

“We can discuss—”

“Pay off my debt. All of it. And one hundred thousand dollars a month.”

Chen’s face showed that he was pleased with the way the conversation was moving.

“We can help with your debt over the next six months. I see no reason why this could not be a long and beneficial business opportunity. Let us start at fifteen thousand dollars. If the relationship develops and access is useful, we can discuss more.”

The recruitment of George MacLean was complete.

18

Adapt to Circumstances

Belgrade, Serbia

“Nikola! Did you know you are dead?” Bridger laughed, turning an iPad and holding it up to the metal bars.

Nikola looked at the bright red multimedia home page of Blic Online, Serbia’s most popular tabloid news portal. As he read, his expression stayed impassive.

“My Serbian is a little rusty, but—” Bridger tapped the screen advancing the photos. He stopped at an image of two photos side by side. One was a close-up ID photo of a stiff uniformed Nikola looking directly at the camera. The other was of a sheet over a body in the street. “I think this says you are dead. Right here.” Bridger ran his finger along a capitalized banner headline. “Want me to read it?”

“No, that is not necessary.” Nikola turned and sat on his cot. He was locked within a row of floor to ceiling bars that ran the safe house basement's fifteen-foot width. The stone floor and walls kept the windowless room cool. Besides steep steps to the upper level, only two wooden chairs occupied the area outside the bars.

“Ah, come on. I’ll read it. Um…blah, blah…here…‘the man was identified by anonymous sources as Nikola Vulin, a former member of the Serbian Armed Forces and founder of Vulin Security.’” Bridger looked at Nikola, who was sitting like a stone. “We made sure when we leaked that. Don’t worry, there isn’t any mention of Serge. Why complicate things?”

“You are very generous,” Nikola said with obvious sarcasm.

The man in the cell impressed Bridger. This is a soldier. Loyal. Tough. Professional. He would make a good Spy Devil, Bridger thought.

Bridger put the iPad on one of the chairs. He picked up a book-sized piece of folded white butcher paper.

“There is simply no doubt that Pekara Trpkovic bakery shop has the best burek in Serbia. If not all the Balkans. Recipes handed down through the hundreds and hundreds of years.” He stuck his hand between the bars and held it out to Nikola. “The lines are just brutal there, but I know Boris, the head baker. Nice fellow. He lets me slip in the back to avoid the wait.” Bridger waved the package at Nikola, who stood, walked over, and took it from him. “I prefer the beef, but this is a plain cheese burek—I wasn’t sure of your dietary habits.”

Nikola reached out and took the paper. He unfolded it and took a bite into the flaky dough of the traditional Serbian pastry.

This was a test. Nikola had passed—so far.

Nikola accepted the breakfast pastry. He didn’t pause, sniff, or examine it. This reaffirmed to Bridger that Nikola was a professional. It showed an understanding of the situation. A professional knew if Bridger wanted to drug or kill him, he would have done it already.

“It should be warm,” Nikola said with a mouthful of food. He turned and sat back on his cot.

“Yes. I agree, but we all must adapt to circumstance.” Bridger pulled one chair closer to the bars and sat.

“You went to much trouble to put me in here.” Nikola waved his arms at his cell. “You faked your death. Sent the photos to Serge from my phone. You faked my death. I do not see the police here. Or BIA.”

“Oh, my friend in Serbian intelligence wants you after I am done—bet on it. They helped get you here.”

Bridger waited for Nikola to react. He didn’t. He just stared straight at Bridger.

“You are the Bridger—from the famous Spy Devils?”

“That is true.”

Nikola examined Bridger’s face. Finally, he took his eyes off of Bridger and looked around the room.

“What do you want of me?”

“Nikola, you are a professional. I won’t insult you with tricks, pain, or drugs. Serge thinks you killed me. He certainly has seen the news and thinks you are dead. I would be happy to set you free when we are done with you.”

“I think that is not a good thing. You have made that very dangerous.”

“Nikola, you are a smart man. I agree with your assessment. When Serge finds out you are alive, and we will make certain he does, he will kill you on the spot. He won’t be able to trust you. Where have you been? Who have you talked to? You know the drill.”

Nikola rolled the empty butcher paper into a ball and tossed it toward a bucket in the corner of his cell.

“You have alternatives for me. I tell you what you need to know, and I get to go,” he said, as he brushed crumbs from his pants.

“It is a real pleasure, Nikola. You are making this easy. I suggest you leave the country. As an experienced practitioner, you certainly have a getaway kit hidden somewhere. New IDs. Money. Passports.