THE MISFIT UNIT: 6) ZUDEX INTERNATIONAL

My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy

11.

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 four 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. 

But although Michael Zudex "of Hungary" 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—a Ukrainian—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 request an interview, 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 New York Times’ bureau in London notified the U.S. Embassy that he was missing on assignment; that a crime may have been committed against a 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 Groner’s newspaper trumpeted his mysterious disappearance on page one—the notification 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.”

12.

In just under two months, Richard Thornington had grown to relish his lifestyle.  No clock to punch.  No ass to kiss.  Not that he'd ever kissed any.  But it didn't stop the senior bureau-crappers from planting their asrses in his face anyway, expecting him to brown his nose.

Now Thornington did what he wanted, whenever he wanted, however he wanted, as part of Jeff Dalkin’s Rooster Regiment. And he'd discovered that Santa Barbara was a wonderful backdrop for free wants. 

At the dawn of the 21st century, information could be accessed by high-tech gizmos from just about everywhere.  And Thornington had made himself very proficient at using such gadgetry.

On this particular morning, Thornington sits outside Pierre LaFond's in the Upper Village dressed in his favorite attire— a tracksuit and sneakers (ah, if his mates at MI5 could see him now)—perusing the morning papers on his iPad over a latte beneath 66- degree sunshine.

But it isn’t a caffeine infusion that suddenly causes Thornington's heart to thump. 

It is a story in the New York Times about their reporter, Jason Groner, who disappeared in the South of France while investigating a company called Zudex International.

Although it is not Thornington's style to rush anything, least of all morning coffee, the Englishman gulps his latte, connects to Jeff Dalkin by  phone—and schedules a rendezvous 30 minutes hence.