Noble Sanction

by William Miller

  Gwen pushed the switch and then put the phone on speaker. “Secure.”

  Wizard said, “Jake, Albert Dulles here, give us a sit rep.”

  “I’m with Eliška now,” Noble told them. “She’s our assassin, all right. Tried to use me as a pin cushion.”

  “You and the assassin are on a first name basis?” Wizard asked.

  “We’re not Facebook buddies, if that makes you feel any better,” Noble said.

  That information did not appear to make Wizard feel any better. He said, “Does she know who hired her?”

  “No, but we’ve got a lead.”

  Gwen frowned at that turn of phrase.

  Wizard took the cigarette from his mouth. “Did you say we?”

  “Long story,” Noble said. “Any luck figuring out what Fellows was working on?”

  Wizard relayed about his meeting with Ron Hinson and about the counterfeits. He said, “But it got kicked up the chain of command. That’s why we didn’t find it sooner. He was no longer assigned to it when he died.”

  Noble said, “So Fellows got killed over a case he wasn’t even working on?”

  “Looks that way,” said Wizard. “Has Cermákova got anything that will lead us to her employer?”

  “We’re on our way to meet a contact that might have more information for us,” Noble told them. “I’ll let you know when I have something to share.”

  He hung up before they could ask any more questions. Wizard stood there smoking. After a long silence, he remarked, “War makes strange bed fellows.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Where is this friend of yours?” Noble wanted to know.

  They were at a newsstand in the main concourse of Prague Central Station, pretending to read magazines. A large LED board showed arrivals and departures. Aloud speaker announced the train to Budapest, first in Czech, then English and German. A burger joint next to the newsstand was twisting Noble’s stomach in knots. The tempting aroma of beef and simmering onions beckoned to him. A Jimmy Buffet song popped into his head. Prague was a long way from paradise, but the smell was close. He was seriously debating dinner when a pair of security guards in blue and yellow vests ambled past.

  Eliška buried her face in a newspaper. “He’ll be here.”

  She was dressed in a Rolling Stones T-shirt and a short leather jacket. A pub cap covered her short blonde locks. None of it matched, but at least she wasn’t walking around in bra and underwear.

  They had piecemealed the outfit together as they passed through Wenceslas Square. Noble had swiped a pair of denims while Eliška distracted the woman running the stall. They worked well together, taking cues from each other without having to exchange a word. Eliška lived on the fringes—thieving was second nature to her—and sleight of hand had been part of Noble’s counterintelligence training at the Farm. Eliška had swiped the jacket from the back of a chair at an outdoor café and Noble haggled for a knock-off handbag while Eliška lifted the shoes. Once she was dressed, they had taken the underground to the train station and spent the next hour and a half waiting on her contact.

  Noble put down a copy of Prague Times and picked up a celebrity gossip magazine. The fat man behind the counter watched them with open hostility. His expression said, “Buy something or get lost.” Noble ignored him and muttered, “I don’t like this. He’s late.”

  In the world of covert intelligence, when in doubt, walk away. An informant showing up late could be as simple as traffic, but it could mean your cover is blown. Better to err on the side of caution. Noble stood there, eyes staring at the gossip rag without really seeing, fighting the urge to walk out. His training told him to abort, but he might not get another crack at Eliška’s informant.

  The same pair of security guards happened past less than five minutes later. Noble flipped the magazine closed, stuffed it back on the rack, and took Eliška by the elbow. “Let’s go.”

  She tossed her newspaper on the counter and allowed Noble to drag her away. He led her along a tiled hall and up a flight of stairs to the number 4 platform where a train was just pulling into the station. Noble shot a quick glance over his shoulder. The security guards were twenty meters back. They had just reached the top of the steps. Noble cursed under his breath.

  “Are they still behind us?” Eliška asked.

  “Yep.”

  She echoed his curse.

  The train slowed to a stop with a chuffing of air brakes. Passengers spilled onto the platform. Noble and Eliška mixed with the crowd waiting to board. He had to bend his knees to keep his head level with the crowd. While they waited, Eliška rested a hand on his shoulder and leaned in close, like a lover whispering in his ear. She used the motion to watch the station cops over his shoulder.

  Noble asked, “Did they spot us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Coming this way?”

  “Do you even need to ask?”

  The last passenger stepped off the train and the crowd surged forward. Noble and Eliška climbed aboard and made their way along the line of cars. They shouldered past a knot of people stowing luggage and jockeying for seats, passing the two cops hurrying in the opposite direction. They went forward three cars, exited the train, and went right back down the same flight of stairs they had come up.

  In two minutes, they were back at the main concourse. Eliška swiped a prepaid burner from a phone booth as they passed. They left the station and made their way through a wooded park with a statue dedicated to American president Woodrow Wilson, then along Opletalova Boulevard.

  Eliška tore the phone out of the clear plastic shell and powered it on. She dialed a number. When there was no answer, she dialed again. There was no answer the second time and Noble said, “I think your informant is compromised.”

  “He’s not compromised,” Eliška said. “He’s a coward.”

  She keyed in a text message that said, I’m just going to keep calling.

  Thirty seconds later the phone vibrated.

  Noble reached over and put it on speaker, a not-so-subtle way of letting Eliška know he didn’t trust her. She shot him a nasty look but spoke into to the phone. “Did you forget about our meeting, Miklos?”

  “I didn’t forget,” he said. “I’ve been picking up a lot of chatter. I think someone is onto me.”

  “You’re paranoid,” she told him. “What did you find out?”

  “Get another source,” he said. “I’ve got better things to do than get killed.”

  “Did you find the American or not?”

  He hesitated before saying, “I did. He’s nobody you want to tangle with. I suggest you let this one go.”

  “You know I’m not going to do that,” Eliška said. “What did you find out?”

  “Not over the phone,” Miklos said.

  “When and where?”

  There was another long pause. Miklos said, “Be at the top of Charles Bridge Tower in one hour.”

  The line went dead. Eliška pocketed the stolen burner. “I told you. He’s just scared.”

  “Something’s not right,” Noble said.

  “You think it’s a setup?”

  “I’m not sure what to think,” Noble told her. “But my gut’s telling me something’s not right.”

  “I’d feel a lot better with a gun,” Eliška said.

  Noble snorted. “I wouldn’t trust you with a squirt gun.”

  “What is a squirt gun?”

  “Shoots water,” Noble explained.

  “What good is that?” she wanted to know.

  “Never mind,” Noble said. “Let’s go. It’s a long walk to the bridge.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “You did real good, Miklos.” Lucas Randall sat with his chair tipped back on two legs and a Marlboro stuck in one corner of his mouth. He had a Sig Sauer P226 handgun resting on his thigh. Navy SEALs had used the Sig as their sidearm of choice for over two decades. It was eventually replaced by the Glock 19, but Lucas preferred his Sig. This particular model ha
d a skeletal frog etched into the slide. The hammer was back and Lucas’s finger rested along the side of the weapon. He snatched the cigarette from his mouth and trailed smoke from both nostrils. “Keep playing your cards right. You might make it out of this alive.”

  Miklos was a scared little man, with a big head perched atop a round body and no neck. His hand shook as he placed the phone down on the kitchen table. Lucas had seen the type before. They want the respect that comes with the uniform but none of the danger. They take jobs in communications or supply logistics. They work in an office and tell everybody they meet that they’re a soldier. Most of them use the uniform to get laid. In a word, pathetic.

  The Czech Intelligence specialist lived in a first-floor apartment in the Nové Malešice district near Radio Free Europe. His place was small but well-furnished and obviously belonged to a bachelor. The focal point was a state-of-the-art video-game system connected to a flat-screen TV. The fridge was empty, except for a bottle of spicy mustard and a carton of curdled milk.

  Tracking Miklos down had proven easy enough. Second-rate intel officers rarely remembered to cover their own tracks. They’re used to collecting info on others. They didn’t stop to think about who might be collecting info on them.

  Eric pressed a Makarov pistol against the back of Miklos’s pudgy neck. The rest of his crew was in the living room, playing video games and drinking beer. They were a collection of German hardcases. Some of them were former soldiers. All of them were ex-cons. They were in it for the money and had no qualms against killing. Veers thumbed back the hammer on the Makarov and said, “He is of no more use to us. Perhaps we should kill him now.”

  A terrified breath escaped Miklos. Eric wasn’t going to waste him, but Miklos didn’t know that. Eric was just trying to scare the little man. It worked. Miklos sat in the chair hyperventilating. His eyes rolled in their sockets and large beads of sweat trailed down the sides of his massive head.

  Lucas watched him sweat. When he didn’t think Miklos could take the pressure anymore, he shook his head. “We won’t kill him unless we have to.”

  “As you wish, Herr Randall.” Eric let the hammer down with a gentle click. He was good. He played the part to perfection.

  “Besides.” Lucas reached over and chucked Miklos on the shoulder. The impact threatened to knock the little man right off his seat. “Miklos here is going to the meet. Isn’t that right, Miklos?”

  He licked his lips. His eyes darted from Lucas to Eric and back. “You said all I had to do was set it up.”

  Lucas took a long drag on his cigarette. The end flared bright and then dimmed. He fixed Miklos with a hard stare. “Help us nail Cermákova, and you can go back to analyzing photographs for the military. Refuse …” Lucas shrugged and thrust his chin at the German. “Eric will drill a hole through your neck. Ever seen someone shot in the neck?”

  Miklos shook his head side to side.

  “Real nasty,” Lucas told him. “Bullet severs the spine, paralyzing you instantly, and blows out your vocal chords so you can’t even scream, but it doesn’t kill you. Not right away. You lay there and choke to death on your own blood.”

  Lucas let that sink in before saying, “You going to play ball, Miklos?”

  He hesitated only a second before nodding.

  “See, I knew you were a smart boy,” Lucas said. He turned to Eric. “Tell those idiots to turn off the video game and get in the van. We got work to do.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Jaqueline Armstrong spent most of the day in a meeting with the DNI, then had to climb the Hill to justify her budget to the House Select Committee. A budget crisis was looming and Armstrong wanted to get her shop funded before Congress stalled out over partisan issues. It didn’t help that most of the senators on the committee were loyal to the opposition party. They had made it their unofficial mission to oppose the White House in every way possible. That meant stonewalling the new CIA director as well. Convincing them to green light covert action was impossible. A successful operation by the CIA would go down as a win for the president. Congress wasn’t going to let that happen, which meant Armstrong’s hands were tied. She could collect intel, but mounting any kind of operation was out of the question. It was unfortunate too; the information she was getting out of Iran could help defuse their nuclear ambitions. Certain politicians would rather see America nuked than allow a victory for the current president.

  On top of that, Armstrong’s daughter had been calling every fifteen minutes like clockwork. Nickie was dealing with her first real crush. He was, according to Nickie, a ‘cool guy’ who didn’t even know she existed. The teenage hormone-fueled melodrama was too much for Armstrong, but she listened anyway. Or tried to. This was one thing Dad couldn’t help with and Nickie had turned to Mom for advice. Armstrong was okay with Mr. Cool giving Nickie the cold shoulder—in fact she preferred it that way—but she wasn’t about to tell her daughter that.

  No one ever said being the Director of Central Intelligence was easy.

  Armstrong made her case to the committee. The members were seated on a raised platform. Fifteen men and women stared down at her with openly hostile expressions fixed on stony faces. Armstrong felt like she was on trial. She had been hoping for professional courtesy from the women at the very least. If anything, they were worse than the men. When it was over, Armstrong packed away her documents, thanked the elected officials and made her way out of the soundproof room.

  Duc Hwang was waiting for her. The big Navy SEAL looked out of place in his ill-fitting suit and his wild tangles of black beard. Well-dressed staffers gave him a wide berth as they passed him in the hall. He said, “I found something I think you’ll be interested in.”

  Armstrong cast a quick glance over her shoulder at the door before leading Duc down the marbled hall toward the restrooms. Government buildings have ears; Armstrong had found that out the hard way. She lowered her voice and asked, “What have you got?”

  “While you were arguing budgets, the DDO was having a luncheon with a top-ranking investigator for the Secret Service Department.”

  “What? How did you … ?” Armstrong shook her head. “Never mind.”

  As head of her personal security, Duc had developed his own intelligence network. Nothing happened in Langley without him knowing. She said, “What did they talk about?”

  “I don’t know.” Duc shrugged his cannonball shoulders. “But there’s something else.”

  “More good news?” Armstrong said in a perfect deadpan.

  “Jake Noble is no longer on his boat,” Duc said. “I got curious and checked the logs. He used his security clearance at the front gate day before yesterday.”

  Armstrong blinked. She felt like Duc had just sucker punched her in the belly. Noble wasn’t cleared for duty. He was still on bereavement, pending a full psych eval. What would he be doing at Langley? It came together for her in a flash. Wizard’s request for analysts and Jake Noble in DC—it couldn’t be coincidence.

  “I need to get back to Langley.”

  Duc said, “I thought you might.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Charles Bridge spans the wide and winding banks of the Vltava River. The stonework balustrade is guarded by statues of martyred saints. Pigeons roost in their ancient crooks. Their droppings cover age-blackened stone like white frosting on chocolate cake. Every day, hundreds of tourists swarm the smooth cobblestones, stopping in the center of the span for selfies, and clogging up foot traffic. Groups of musicians armed with cellos and violins play classical renditions of modern hits on the eastern side of the bridge. Prague is famous for its symphony, and you can listen to some of the finest musicians in the city for free at Charles Bridge. Today, a small knot of players sawed their way through God’s Gonna Cut You Down by Johnny Cash.

  Stone towers flank either end of the bridge. In Medieval times, they guarded against invading armies—defending the road to Prague Castle—and formed a part of the coronation route for Czech kings. Now
they serve only as a tourist trap. For a hundred Czech crowns, you can climb to the top and take in a view of the city. Noble counted out the bills for a tired-eyed attendant and she passed him a pair of ticket stubs.

  Eliška motioned for him to go first.

  Noble put a hand in the small of her back and gave her a push. “Ladies first. I insist.”

  The door was a collection of petrified wood held together by rusting iron. Noble had to duck. He gripped the Kimber hidden in his waistband and followed Eliška up a set of winding stairs. She took the steps two at a time. It was easy to see how P. Arthur Fellows had been caught flat-footed. She had the kind of hypnotic sway that keeps a guy up half the night just imagining the possibilities.

  At the top of the steps, Noble found a stone statue of a leering old man with his robes hiked up, irreverently displaying his backside. They passed the statue into a vaulted chamber. Aging timbers held aloft a shingled roof and a cold wind whistled around the sloping eaves. A shifting, shadow-laden twilight spilled in from a pair of doors leading to a balcony that wrapped around the top of the fortification. The small space under the roof was empty and quiet, except for the wind.

  Noble whispered, “Where is he?”

  Eliška shook her head. “Outside maybe?”

  He followed her to one of the doors and stepped onto the balcony. Wind whipped his hair into a cloud around his head. He could see the entire city from up here. The red-tiled roofs and ancient spires of Prague marched away into the rich red dusk of the setting sun. A defensive stonework of fleur-de-lis wrapped around the balcony, forming windows through which archers could rain down arrows on approaching enemies. It also made an excellent privacy screen for clandestine meetings. They circled the tower and found Miklos staring out over the bridge toward the opposite tower. His eyes opened wide at the sight of Noble.

  “Who is this?” Miklos said. “You didn’t tell me anyone else was coming.”