Along with the briefcase with nuclear codes, the president of the country is given a special 'top secret' folder.  This folder in its entirety contains information about aliens who visited our planet.  Along with this, you are given a report of the absolutely secret special service that exercises control over aliens on the territory of our country...

- Dmitry Medvedev, Prime Minister of Russia
 
This message was last edited by the GM at 22:21, Mon 18 May 2015.

Calatrava Cafe, Yarra River Promenade
Melbourne, Victoria
21 April 2015
0943 hrs local (2343 hrs Zulu)

On his fifth day in Australia, Andrey Vasliyev slouches at a corner table in a riverside cafe, nursing a cup of coffee and poking at something called an avocado smash.  To outward appearances - appearances he's taken pains to cultivate - he's wholly absorbed in something finance-related on his tablet, the very picture of a businessman with neither time nor inclination for small talk.

From his table, Andrey has an acceptable view of the gray-shrouded promenade and its light scattering of Melburnians in rain gear.  More to the point, he has an excellent view of another table twenty meters away in the neighboring Riverside Café, where Tri Budi and Sakarno Suharto are engaged in conversation with a Middle Eastern man and two Aboriginals.

Andrey has his doubts about Sakarno Suharto.  He has no doubts whatsoever regarding the thing calling itself Tri Budi, having given it a surreptitious scan with his iPhone's Flir One thermal imager four days ago as it waited in Darwin International Airport's taxi queue.  He's also seen Tri Budi's face before - and what lies beneath it, too.

Six months ago, Tri Budi was vaguely on Andrey's radar as a minor money-launderer in Jemaah Islamiyah, a Southeast Asian Islamist terrorist organization.  Now he (or it) is the financier for JI operations.  Sakarno Suharto is ostensibly his bodyguard but rumor says Tri Budi has learned to take care of himself.  Their tradecraft is crap, though, a fact that Andrey has been exploiting for the past week.

Andrey doesn't know the Aboriginals - yet - but the Middle Easterner is almost as interesting as Tri Budi.  His scarred face came across Andrey's virtual desk at the same time that the Russian's network in Indonesia was unraveling.  He's Mas'ud Attar, a man of quiet but urgent interest to several NATO intelligence agencies.

The meeting is breaking up.  The Indonesians exit the cafe and turn west, disdaining their jackets' rain hoods.  Attar and his Aboriginal associates wait a few minutes, then likewise exit, walking east past Andrey toward the Kings Way bridge.

Andrey took another sip of his coffee and feigned disappointment at the figures he was staring at on the tablet. He shook his head and sighed to himself, the whole while snapping photos of the gathering with the small digital camera concealed in the pack of cigarettes resting on the table.  He watched as the strange gathering began breaking up so he tidied up, putting his tablet away and finishing his breakfast.

He wasn't worried about losing sight of them while he collected himself. In the days leading up to this meeting, he'd already knew where Tri Budi was staying and would likely return.  He was, however, fairly concerned with the company he was keeping. In his initial research, once Leo (his South African hacker “friend”) told him the money ultimately led to Australia, he'd found that the Aboriginals weren't typically involved in terror activities… and the presence of Mr. Attar also gave him pause.

His server approached the table, and without raising his eyes, Andrey waved him off “Please, the check” the slight German accent betraying him to be a foreigner.  The server returned with his check and a phone “Mr. Autenberg? Telephone for you.”

Andrey smiled warmly to his server and took the phone “Danke”

“Autenberg… Go.” his brow furrowed and he nodded “Ja, ich sehe . Wie wir diskutiert. Das Geld ist gut... Ich bin nur nicht sicher, über die neue Mitarbeiterin. Seien Sie vorsichtig." <Yes, I see. As we discussed. The money is good... I'm just not sure about the new employee. Be careful.>

Andrey smiled again and handed the phone back to the server along with cash for the bill “Danke, and please, keep the change.”

He didn't like using new assets in territory that was unfamiliar to him but circumstances didn't leave him a lot of options. Hoffman was a decent agent though easily distracted but hopefully Andrey wouldn't need to rely on him much longer.  He needed an extra set of eyes on this Attar fellow. This op had already strained his resources. However he was hoping that whatever it was he uncovered here would be worth a very pretty penny to the right interested party.
This message was last edited by the player at 04:52, Mon 18 May 2015.

Something about Attar's Aboriginal companions is off in a way that tweaks Andrey's intuition.  As he begins gathering his belongings into his satchel and coat, he casually turns his head to watch the trio walk past.  Their gait is normal but their reactions are half a beat off, delayed-action disruptions in the otherwise smooth flow of pedestrian traffic.  Their faces hold the particular blank expressionlessness of shock - or various pharmaceuticals.  They're keeping station on Attar well enough as the Iranian forges ahead but there's no apparent awareness of their surroundings.

Farther down the promenade, Hoffman's man emerges from a jewelry store and pauses under an awning to fumble with a cigarette.

Andrey was tempted to wave off Hoffman but he needed eyes on Attar and he knew this was at least a 2 man job if he didn't want to get made.  Ideally he'd be working with a larger crew - someone to direct traffic while the rest of the team tailed and trailed in shifts. But he didn't have a team (and after what happened in Jakarta, he wasn't likely to put together another one anytime soon) - it was just him and some local color has-been who owed him more than a few favors.

Committed to the task at hand, he donned his hat and, giving Hoffman the signal, ran his right index finger along the brim, side of the ear towards his face. Let's do this he thought and stepped into the street towards his Toyota, chosen specifically because it was arguably the most common car in Australia. He sat, fiddled with the radio nobs and, as Mr Attar and his companions pass, attempted to get a read on them with his Flir One.  Once they moved past, he inserted his earpiece and checked his mic with Hoffman "Don't follow too close - if you get made you won't just be burnt, you'll be fried to a crisp... that being said, stay cool. The Natives seem to have the SA of rocks."

"Roger" came the muttered reply from Hoffman.

Vasliyev's mind wandered briefly (and involuntarily) back to Jakarta and his first encounter with Tri Budi. If this Mr Attar was anything like Tri Budi, Hoffman wouldn't live long to regret his indiscretion... or, perhaps he would. They'd made his agents suffer before they finally killed them.  Adi's face was... Knock it off Vasliyev - stay on task.

The ubiquitous Corolla makes a fine hunter's blind.  In his mirrors, Andrey tracks Attar and his companions - and, behind them, Hoffman, nonchalantly strolling and smoking.  As the trio passes, he lets the radio settle onto BBC World Report and brings up the Flir One.

The Aboriginals are thermally normal for adults in autumn rain.  A warm angular mass presses against the dark-cold fabric of the taller man's jacket.  From the silhouette, it's some sort of service handgun, worn long enough to warm to body temperature.

Mas'ud Attar is another story.  He's all blues and purples, every square centimeter of his exposed skin reading within a few degrees of the ambient temperature.  As he passes the Toyota, Andrey notes black striations through his fingers and a matching black ovoid in the side of his lower jaw.  Whatever's on or just below his skin is cold, colder than the surrounding flesh and air.

Half a block down, Attar and his associates slide into a Ford Transit.  TransOz Shipping, the van's rear doors proudly declare.  Hoffman continues past them without an apparent care, unlocks his Hyundai, and pulls out into traffic.  "Ready to shuffle the deck," he reports over the radio.

After a brief pause, the delivery van slides away from the curb and heads north across the Yarra River.  Andrey starts his own car and begins the delicate dance of multi-car tailing.

Even though Vasliyev anticipated the results, he couldn't suppress a slight involuntary shiver. Memories of Jakarta welled to the surface...

--
Jakarta, Indonesia
6 weeks ago

Adi's message was frantic and violated standard protocol.  Normally, if an asset went off the rails like that he'd have someone else in-country look into it and, if necessary, sever all ties. If you couldn't practice even basic tradecraft then you weren't worth the trouble, he'd always reasoned.  The problem was, his other contact Dwi Su, had gone black 2 days before... that and there was a certain desperation that, rather than warn him off, drew him in.

Andrey had always believed he was a cautious man. His recruiter had admired that about him - even in the initial days of courtship before he'd joined the GRU, he'd been wary, skeptical... careful. So why was his instinct telling him to move on this? It didn't matter - he was in Indonesia now and he needed to connect with Adhi for this proposed crash meeting.

The time came and went for the meeting and Adhi never showed, nor did he make the fallback meeting.  Andrey reached out to known associates and the story was the same from all of them: Adhi hadn't been seen in a few days and it'd been at least a week since anyone had seen or heard from Dwi.

Vasliyev circled Adhi's block a twice to be certain he wasn't being tailed before parking across the street from the building.  It was times like this he really wished he'd spoke the language... but what the hell did he need to know Indonesian for when he had assets in country? He shrugged to no one in particular and climbed out of the car and made his way in.

What he found inside caused him to wretch involuntarily. It's not that he was unaccustomed to death - he served during the first war in Chechnya and witnessed first hand the horrors of combat and the ways in which it can ravage the human body.

Adhi had been tied to a chair and he recognized the method of interrogation that must have employed. He observed how the ropes bit tightly into his wrists and ankles as he must have struggled greatly.  Vasliyev also noted that they employed more than just their fists with their questions - Adhi's bare torso a ruin of cuts and burn marks.  But it was his face, or what was left of it, melted by some strange caustic material that caused Andrey to have such a violent physical reaction.

Andrey pulled himself together and quickly searched the room. He knew that he didn't have nearly enough time or help - an apartment, even a small one, would take at team of 3 at least 4 hours to properly search and he wasn't certain that this place wasn't under surveillance. That being said, he couldn't just leave without at least giving it a quick once-over.  As soon as he began, he realized that whoever had been here before him had already been through the apartment so the likelihood of finding anything was diminished even further.

Perhaps it was blind luck or chance (though later he'd realize it was neither) he found an envelope sealed in plastic and sunk to the bottom of the toilet tank. Inside were grainy photos and a poorly written up dossier for one Tri Budi and an alleged rendezvous with Dwi.

Dwi? Had that faithless dog sold us out?

--

Snapping out of his reverie, Andrey once again focused on the task at hand. As much of a pain in his ass Hoffman had been up til now, he was grateful to have him - tailing someone without being noticed is much easier with a team than trying to do it solo.  "TransOz Shipping..." he muttered to himself.  This played into what he knew about Tri Budi's investing into intermodal shipping but brought him no closer to knowing what they were shipping - materials, people... others?
This message was last edited by the player at 01:09, Fri 05 June 2015.

The delivery van proceeds north and west into one of the industrial strips that borders Melbourne's rivers.  The two cars slide through the steps of the trailing ballet: turning away, racing ahead on parallel streets to tail from the front, turning lights on and off.  There's no sign of detection, further reinforcing Andrey's analysis of his quarry's inferior tradecraft, even as his reverie keeps him from slipping into complacency.

Dynon Road becomes Hopkins Street at the bridge over the Maribyrnong River.  The Transit turns south, maintaining a casual speed before sliding into a gated car park adjacent to an anonymous transshipment warehouse.  As Andrey cruises past, playing the lost businessman intent on his phone's mapping app, he glimpses the van executing a neat three-point turn and backing toward a still-rising overhead door.  A knot of four men is turning away from their work at the front of a semi-tractor, also bearing the TransOz livery as well as the marks of a recent violent collision.

"Wonder what that's all about..." Andrey remarks to himself, observing the collision damage. Also, taking note of numbers and dispositions of those at work.

"Hoffman - nice work. We'll do lunch soon" intoned into his bluetooth. If things went well here he'd rally with Hoffman in a few days at the designated rally point and Hoffman would get what he really wanted from Andrey.  This wasn't the first time he'd had to leverage an asset hard but it was the first time in at least 5 years that he'd had this much direct contact and had this much on the line.

"Sure thing Autenburg. Drinks on you" and with that Hoffman signed off.

Now I just need to find a good place to watch he thought to himself and scanned his surroundings for access to an elevated position.  The Tri Budi had nearly gotten the drop on him in Indonesia and he wasn't about to let that happen here. No matter where he tucked himself away, there needed to be a way out and a backup to the way out.

The thing had been insanely fast and incredibly resilient. He was grateful that it had appeared to be fairly single-minded in its pursuit and not particularly aware of its surroundings. The directional charge in the abandoned car did a fantastic job throwing into the secondary charge he'd planted, dropping a wall on it.  Thinking back, he'd been rather lucky that he was able to recover what he did from what passed for its corpse.

Andrey double-checked his camera gear, his flash bangs and hand-held strobe and worked his way into position.
This message was last edited by the player at 15:30, Sat 06 June 2015.

Andrey continues down the block and turns into a defunct warehouse complex nestled against the western flank of a massive industrial complex.  As he exits his Toyota, a sickly-sweet organic smell assails his nose - it's clearly some sort of food processing plant.  From across the Maribyrnong River channel, the clash and clatter of the port's cargo handling operations drowns out any lesser sound.

The warehouse's padlocks are little more than a speed bump for the ex-GRU agent.  He pulls the Corolla into the structure, leaving it angled for a swift exit.  A few minutes' checking reveals multiple gaps in the fence between the warehouse and the industrial complex, good for evasion on foot.

The building's structure seems sound but its shell is in poor repair.  A position on a catwalk - originally access to the machinery of an overhead crane - yields an excellent vantage point into the TransOz yard.  The door has closed, cutting off view of the Transit, but the group at the semi-tractor has returned to its work.

Andrey's seen (and caused) a few collisions in his time.  Seen through the compact binoculars from his kit, the truck's damage reveals the signs of a high-speed encounter with another vehicle.  The left front quarter is twisted and cracked, streaks of dark green paint have transferred to the truck's red and white surface, and the fuel tank is dented.  The four men - all Aboriginals, with a better view - are removing the damaged body panels.  They're not doing a very efficient job of it, though.  Their movements are stilted and uncoordinated, their faces blank.  A scan with the Flir One reveals they're all thermally normal.

Work continues for about half an hour, then all four men turn toward the building in unison.  Walking briskly, they enter it and vanish, leaving their work half-done.  A few minutes later, the roll-up door opens again and two vehicles roll out.  In the lead is a generic gray sedan with the four men who were working on the semi-tractor.  Close behind them comes the same Ford Transit from earlier.  Mas'ud Attar is driving.  Beside him in the front seat is... Mas'ud Attar.  Both vehicles turn north on Whitehall, speeding back in the direction from which Andrey followed the Transit earlier.

Andrey isn't certain he saw what he thought he saw and checked the front seat of the Transit a second time. Did Ma'sud Attar have a twin brother? He's certain he didn't read anything in his jacket to suggest that. Then again, Tri Budi had been blown halfway to hell in Jakarta and yet, here he was, laundering money in Australia. It seemed that whatever these things were, they only had a handful of skins to choose from.

With this revelation he made a mental note to reach out to a former Kapitán Ilya Grigoriev regarding his work in Chechnya in 2007 - if the rumors were true about what they faced there then perhaps this Ma'sud or Tri Budi were one of the faces that the Peculiar Elements wore.  Those channels were pretty icy these days but it might be worth the risk.

Time to move he thought to himself.

Once he was certain that no other vehicles were coming out, made his way down and around, casing the outskirts of TransOz looking for physical security - cameras, patrols, etc and slipping his way in towards the damaged truck - first for a peek inside the cabin (anything in the glovebox aside from the manual?) and, if a trailer is hitched, a look around there as well.

Barring any unusual discoveries in the truck, his intention was to pick through the office itself once he was satisfied that he could break in without tripping whatever alarms they may or may not have set.

The small convoy rolls out of view, heading north at a brisk pace.  Andrey gives the compound another ten minutes before descending from his hide and crossing the street.

The yard's security is elementary: two cameras under the warehouse's eaves, angled to catch vehicle traffic through the gates.  The fence is in disrepair, helped along by an aggressive tree whose spreading roots have uprooted two of the support posts.  Andrey slips through a gap in the chain link and makes his way to the big Kenworth.

The rig has a lived-in quality (and funk), the detritus of a regular driver who spends more nights in the sleeper cabin than at his nominal home.  The logbook tucked in the door pocket confirms this.  The vehicle's last run began on Australia's northern coast, in Darwin.  Oddly, the route isn't the most direct one that Andrey's mental map (and Google Maps) would expect.  Rather than running down the main highway to Adelaide, it curves east and south through such evocatively-named towns as Mount Isa, Bedourie, Birdsville, and Tibooburra before arriving in Melbourne.  It's a most inefficient way to run a railroad.

Sorting through the driver's personal effects reveals two more items of interest.  The first is a Globalstar satellite phone, still with the new-electronics aroma.  By itself, it wouldn't be unusual for a driver crossing the Outback to have such a device, but a licensing sticker on the case reveals it was built for the Indonesian market.  Andrey flicks through the device's memory, quickly jotting down the call history and the four numbers in the contact list.

The second item of note is an AKS-74U, a chopped-down assault rifle well known to Andrey.  It's hidden behind a false panel in the sleeper compartment along with a greasy canvas bag containing six extra magazines.

The rain starts up again as Andrey tucks away his phone.  He's about to dismount the truck and head toward the building when movement catches his eye.  Reflex freezes him in place as two men - the two who arrived with Attar, and who he now realizes he failed to account for - exit the building.  They don't appear to have noticed Andrey in the shadows of the truck's cab.

For all the shit he'd been heaping on their tradecraft, Andrey can only mentally kick himself for making such a basic mistake. Failing to keep track of all the players on the board is an amateur mistake and one that he may regret.

He knew from experience that most people when pressed into this position will panic. They'll think about the price of failure, the cost of getting caught with your hand in the cookie jar and they'll start wishing they'd brought a gun or perhaps think that that weapon he'd uncovered was a good idea. Those people made poor agents. They spook easily and can't be counted on to keep their cool. Andrey kept his cool.

He watches, and it doesn't take long for him to realize that they didn't step outside to catch some overconfident spy in over his head. Their chief concern had been nicotine or rather, the lack of it in their bodies.  They light, draw and occupy themselves thoroughly with the simple ritual of the smoke break.

I believe I've seen enough here... now kindly fuck off back inside so I can get the hell clear he muses carefully hunkering down into the cab.

Andrey maintains his position, letting himself sink back into the sleeper cabin as both men turn in another direction to shield their cigarettes.  They seem disinclined to leave the shelter of the overhang for a patrol, glancing around casually.  They are distinctly more alert than before, though.  After an interminable five minutes, they flick their butts into the parking lot and disappear inside the building.

The Russian freelancer gives them another few minutes before moving.  He's about to exit the truck when a small black box fixed to the dashboard catches his eye.  Smiling to himself, he snaps a photo of the truck's GPS transponder ID.  Then he lets himself out the way he came in, vanishing into the rain.

Back in the relative safety and anonymity of his Corrolla, he reviews his take while considering his next move.  The Globalstar's call history yields a mix of Indonesian and Australian numbers.  A quick series of Internet searches shows several of the Australian numbers as TransOz dispatch centers in Darwin, Alice Springs, and Melbourne.  The only other one that's publicly listed is a Middle Eastern restaurant on Bond Street in downtown Melbourne.

"Hmmm, I wasn't hungry but shwarma and rice could really hit the spot." Andrey said to himself and put the car into gear.  He had a lot to think about - a lot of moving pieces and he still wasn't sure how it all came together. The shell companies, the money, the mosques, the conservationists... He had theories, sure, who didn't when handed a preponderance of information, leads, evidence... but there were still elements that eluded him. Pieces of the puzzle he hadn't gotten his hands on yet - where was it all going?