by Seeley James
“Idiot.” He hissed under his breath.
Our tails examined their phones and mimicked a conversation. One of them pointed up the street. They started walking away. I turned in the opposite direction at a brisk pace. Once again, my short companion doubled his stride to keep up.
We took the glass elevator down to the subway station and hopped on a train. We settled into open seats, and the doors thwacked closed.
Watson rolled his Sabel phone in his hand, turning it over and over. “Where we going?”
“I told you, Camp Nou. Barca plays Valencia tonight. Maybe we can get tickets and see Messi play.”
“Who?”
“Lionel Messi.” I did a double-take. “You work for the best women’s soccer player of all time, and you haven’t brushed up on the sport? Bad form, little man. Bad form.”
“There’s a lot to digest. Coming to Sabel is like diving overboard a thousand miles from Honolulu.”
“Have you been to Barcelona before?”
He looked away.
We got off at the Maria Cristina station.
“Map says Camp Nou is the next stop.” Watson made sure he was even with me as we stepped off the ground-level train and crossed the wide boulevard.
“I wanted to see the Facultat de Dret while we’re here.” I glanced at his scrunched-up face. “Law school.”
He did a big oh as he took a nervous glance behind us.
The law school was disappointing. A giant box with some mildly interesting windows, it hardly reflected the unique architecture one might expect from the city that gave us Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia.
I ducked into a multistory parking structure and wound my way down a level in the stairwell. Watson followed, asking what we were doing in a loud voice.
“Why so noisy, Watson?” I asked. “Trying to give our location away to those guys who’re following us?”
Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
It was nice and dark at the bottom. A weak lamp flickered nearby. Footsteps scuffed their way down the concrete steps a few seconds later. I pulled my Glock and nodded for Watson to follow suit. I gave him standard hand signals to tell him I’ll shoot the first guy, you shoot the second.
I pressed my back to the wall next to the stairwell. Watson froze in place like a buck private fresh out of boot camp in his first firefight. The first target walked past me, moving straight ahead. The second followed two strides back.
I darted Watson in the forehead. Then darted both targets.
Miguel and Emily stepped out of the shadows and stared at the bodies.
CHAPTER 17
Yuri bopped in time to Erik Friedlander’s plucked cello streaming through his earbuds as he rode the tram up the mountains overlooking Zurich. He was headed for the popular overlook called Felsenegg. It was a beautiful, sunny view of golden leaves a day from going brown. Not quite the explosion of color he’d found in the American New England states, but a close second. He shared his tramcar with a small family and an entwined couple. He smiled and bopped and drank in the natural beauty.
It was too much to keep to himself. His burning need to share it with someone overcame his logical desire to keep his location secret. He pulled up Andrine on Skype and turned his phone’s camera to the window.
When she came online, he heard the clatter of dishes, the shouts from the kitchen, the sound of an early-evening crowd. It was a bad time. She was working.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Where are you?”
“You have to guess.” He took a seat, wincing at the pain in his ribs, and flipped the screen to his face. She was lovely. Too beautiful for him. He positioned the camera to catch some of the view. “I’ll give you a hint, it’s in Switzerland.”
“Geneva? Lucerne?” She looked over her shoulder and held a finger, making someone wait.
“You’re busy, you have to go.”
“Father can wait, Yuri.” She smiled. “I wish I was there with you. But not Switzerland.”
“You don’t like the Swiss?”
“They helped the Nazis, refused to help Holocaust survivors, and now they are the bankers to the kleptocracy in your homeland. Did you read the Panama Papers? Their work allows the subjugation of millions of people. They have no scruples. You’re not banking there, are you?”
“Sightseeing, I swear.” He laughed. “Next time I travel, I’ll ask your father to give you a few days off. You can pick the place.”
“New York would be nice.” She hid her smile and batted her eyes. Someone called to her in the background. “Now I have to go. We can talk later.”
The tram car slowed and bumped to a stop. The family got off first. Yuri followed. The young couple lagged behind, their arms wrapped tightly around each other, oblivious to the world around them.
For a moment, he imagined wrapping his arms around Andrine, picking her up off her feet, twirling her in a circle, and putting her down in front of the panoramic view. One day, perhaps. One day when he had become important and could hire servants for her. She may not approve of servants. But even a socialist would eventually warm to having household staff. Everyone does.
The family had gone the opposite direction. He was alone on the path. With a bounce in his step, he waltzed through the colorful trees. Despite the sunshine, the weather had a bite to it. Yuri shoved his hands in his pea coat and picked up his pace.
Restaurant Felsenegg’s outdoor patio, with its famous view of Zurich, was closed. He strolled by and continued down the path. A hundred yards later, he found his contact. A bald man in a business suit sat in the shadows on an overlook bench. A stack of manila envelopes waited next to him.
“Herr Mandrake?” the man asked.
Yuri nodded and replied with the codename. “Herr Freimann?”
“The light’s not good for pictures.” Freimann spoke in German. He rose and held out the envelopes. “I hope you have a good flash. Just be quick about it. Alan Sabel is a powerful man. If I get caught, I’m as good as dead. I must get back to the bank in an hour.”
Yuri pulled his PSS, the silent pistol, from his coat and put a bullet in the man’s temple. The envelopes fell to the ground. Kneeling for only a second, he picked them up and tucked them under his arm. With a glance, he satisfied himself that Freimann was dead. He strode down the footpath another two hundred yards, then turned into the trees.
He walked down the mountain’s north side through a few villages to the Reppischtallstrasse. Independence from Strangelove occupied every waking moment of his life. But extricating himself from Strangelove would require a master plan. Carefully staged and executed. He could take some of the men with him, but only the strong. There would be no second chances. Any failure, no matter how small, would mean death. It would have to be perfect. No mistakes. No loose talk. No weak links.
He met Roman at the café as planned. They drank coffee and ordered lunch. They admired the quaint farmhouse across the street.
“How did you like group therapy?” Yuri asked.
“It was good for Igor to talk about his concerns.” Roman waved his empty cup at the waitress. “And talk and talk and talk.”
Yuri laughed. “He had quite a few issues, didn’t he? But I think he spoke for many others.” Yuri shrugged and held his cup up to the waitress when she filled Roman’s. “I was surprised to see Petr break down in tears.”
“So many children lost … bothered everyone.” Roman sipped and burned his tongue. “It bothers me, but not enough to cry in front of the others.”
Yuri looked at Roman, whose eyes avoided his. He always saw Roman as a tough guy from the streets of Moscow. Late twenties and already a worldly cynic. He wore his hair buzzed to stubble like a black cap. His darting eyes took in everything around him as if evaluating its resale value on the black market. He was the first to laugh at the tribulations of others, never one to offer sympathy, yet he now admitted to feelings.
“Alexandr sat with his arms crossed and never spoke,” Yuri said. “You kn
ow him well. Should I be worried about him?”
“You mean his mental health? No. He doesn’t speak when there are more than two people in the room. It’s his way.”
The waitress brought potato rösti—what Americans call hash browns—for Yuri, and bratwurst with fries for Roman. Their eyes grew, and they dug in.
“You know, we still get messages in the data from America.” Roman took a big bite.
“I met Brad once.” Yuri watched his man carefully for a reaction. His man tried not to look surprised. “A brief encounter, just a few words exchanged. Who he represented was not clear, so I reported the contact to Strangelove.”
Roman finished chewing, aware that Yuri watched his every facial twitch. “What did the old man say?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not good.” Roman offered his fries. “Does that mean Brad works for the general?”
“I don’t know.” Yuri waved off the offered fries. “It means my banda should be careful not to engage with people when they don’t know anything about them. There are many spies in this world. Our value to the Motherland would diminish instantly if our methods and techniques were replicated by other bandas or unmasked by other countries.”
Roman stopped eating and met his gaze. “I understand.”
Yuri kept staring long enough to make his point, then picked up his fork. “Talking about #HuntersFail was good for me. Everyone said it made them feel better as well. Tell me, Roman, what do they say when I’m not there?”
Roman finished his bratwurst to buy time for an answer. Yuri waited patiently.
“Some of the men,” he waved his fork, “are unhappy.”
“Unhappiness is the Russian way of life. It is our fate.” Yuri signaled for the check. “How unhappy are they?”
“We were happy to be unhappy when you dragged us into the banda. We lost a lot of money. But, we serve our country, we earn our freedom, we go back to hacking Americans. That is a level 5 unhappy.”
“But?” Yuri gave their waitress his credit card.
Roman waited until the transaction was complete and the waitress walked away. He leaned across the small table and stared directly into Yuri’s eyes. “There is a big difference between stealing a man’s watch and murdering his child. Right now, we are at maximum unhappiness.”
Yuri nodded and rose. They went outside. Yuri said, “Some in the banda are not willing to accept their fate, their Avos’?”
“That is an outdated superstition.” Roman scoffed as they opened their respective doors, Roman driving and Yuri the passenger. They got in and buckled up.
Yuri said, “Nietzsche wrote about a Russian soldier who lay down in the snow to accept his fate. Either he would die, or the enemy would pass by and think he was dead. His willingness to leave it to Avos’ put him at ease, lowered his metabolism. He entered a state near hibernation. It conserved his energy. The enemy passed over him. He lived.”
Roman put it in drive and glanced at his officer. “Bullshit.”
“Yes.” Yuri pulled a thin, short knife out of its hidden slot in his belt buckle. “One might rely on his Avos’, but keep something handy to help the odds.”
Roman laughed and drove out to the main road. He turned left and headed for the unmanned crossing into Germany. Yuri took out his stack of manila envelopes and opened one. He found twenty-year-old bank statements.
“Why did you tell me that story about Nietzsche?” Roman asked.
“The trouble with being an officer is reading your men. Normally, I would rely on my lieutenant, but this time there is too much at stake. It is critical to understand what is not said in group.”
“Your quote was from Nietzsche’s autobiography, Ecce Homo, which is Latin for ‘behold the man.’” Roman checked his commanding officer from the corner of his eye. “This is why you brought me instead of Vasili? You expect me to behold the hearts of my brothers?”
Yuri laughed and waved a finger at Roman. “The trouble with commanding a platoon of hackers is that you’re all smart. Too smart sometimes.”
“OK, fine.” Roman put out his fist. Yuri bumped it. “I answer your questions as best I can. But I don’t speak for everyone. I can say only what I believe to be.”
Yuri opened another envelope and looked through it as he spoke. “Talking about our feelings in the group makes everyone feel better. But it is a step. Only a step. From there, one can step left or right or forward. A feeling arose from the session that not everyone was willing to accept his Avos’. And that’s OK. It was a difficult assignment. We did a terrible thing. What I need to know is, what do the men propose to do about it?”
They drove in silence for a kilometer or more. Yuri looked through the papers in the next envelope. They were also twenty-years-old. Documents of no value that he could see. Requisitions for toner cartridges, personnel transfers of bank employees, water bills.
“The answer is difficult to reveal.” Roman stammered a little before he spoke again. “Before I do, I need to know something.”
“We are having a conversation about theories, Roman. Nothing you say will be repeated outside of this car. This is American-style AMA: ask me anything.”
Roman nodded. “There is a rumor that there were no orders for #HuntersFail.”
“Interesting rumor.” Yuri opened another envelope. “We are being honest here, so I will tell you the truth: there were orders. They were destroyed after I read them. But the result is the same. The record will show we were acting on our own.”
Roman exhaled. “Shit.”
“An eloquent analysis, Roman. ‘Shit’ is right. Look on the bright side—if the Americans trace our hacks, we will never hear the drone that will vaporize us.”
Roman laughed. “Your concept of Avos’ is a dark one, my friend.”
“I know.” Yuri twisted in his seat to look squarely at his driver. “Theoretically, if you could wave a magic wand, what does your life look like in six months?”
“Are you recording this?” Roman snapped. “Am I going to jail?” His harsh tone banged against the glass. His eyes flashed. Then he softened. “Perhaps we talk about where Alexi would’ve been in six months—had he lived.”
“Fine.”
“Alexi has an apartment overlooking a sandy beach in Brazil. The beach is populated by women in bikinis. Behind him are banks of computers, hacking away at firewalls around the world. He is not a citizen of any country. He does not need a nation. But he keeps several passports to suit his whims for travel. Bitcoins flow to his Coinbase account and on to banks in the Caymans. He has undergone facial reconstruction to avoid recognition software. His Lotus is parked underground. Life is good.”
Yuri thought about the multi-million-dollar account filled with Alexi’s money that he controlled. He never told Strangelove about it. Never turned the money into the Russian auditors. He’d promised Alexi he would give it back one day if Alexi behaved himself. Now, it was his, and he owed it to no one.
“Alexi would be happier in the Caribbean,” Yuri said. “Each island belongs to a different country. If he had to flee in the middle of the night, all he would need is a fast boat. Cyprus is nicer about confidentiality than the Brits in the Caymans. And, a McLaren is much sexier than a Lotus.”
“You’ve been thinking about this?” Roman asked.
Yuri shrugged.
He opened another envelope. Again, the contents were reams of useless information. He resealed them and tossed the lot in the backseat.
“There is another rumor,” Roman said a kilometer later, “that Strangelove has ordered you to kill the industrialist Alan Sabel.”
“How many other interesting rumors have you heard?” Yuri knew the source for that rumor. There were only two people there when Strangelove gave that verbal order. “We still have our full workload.”
“Aren’t you done killing Americans? Will you put us at risk again? Strangelove is setting you up. It’s time to make a break. Get away from Strangelove and Russia.”
> “Talk like that will get you court-martialed,” Yuri snapped.
He looked at the sharp teeth of the Alps on all sides of them. His men deserved better leadership. Better than Strangelove. Officers who would never stab their men. Officers who would find a way out of the Avos’ Strangelove created for them.
“You don’t just walk away.” He took a deep breath. “You make plans. You find exits. You test your friends to determine the allies and the enemies. Who you can trust. You leave survival packages along the route. Until your plans are ready, you follow orders. No one should know what you’re doing. That is how a wise man would do it.”
Roman remained quiet for a long time. Then he twisted to look at Yuri. “Are you a wise man?”
“Extremely.” Yuri faced his man. “Are you?”
Roman nodded slowly and returned his gaze to the road. “I’m going to be wiser as soon as we get back.”
Something ticked in the back of Yuri’s brain. Something that he’d seen but not recognized when he saw it. What was it? Paper that wasn’t paper.
Roman glanced his way.
Yuri craned into the backseat and grabbed the envelopes. He rifled through them, checking each paper one at a time, then discarded them in the backseat. His hands and eyes worked like a madman’s.
Roman watched him from the corner of his eye until his curiosity overwhelmed him. “What is it?”
Yuri froze when he found it. It felt like his heart stopped as well. He pulled something no larger than a postage stamp from where it was stuck to the back of a paper.
A tracking transmitter.
CHAPTER 18
Pia got out of the car a couple miles outside of Moûtiers near the French border with Italy. She stretched and pulled her jacket close. She gave her father a smile across the hood. Despite Eleni’s tragic death, Pia had enjoyed working with Dad over the last few weeks. While their search for Strangelove had been fruitless, the time spent together was precious.
She nodded at the old stone farmhouse. “We’ve been here before?”
“You’ve b-b-been everywhere before.” Tania pulled out her beret and capped her wild hair.
