by Brian Drake
“Mr. Raven?”
A woman’s voice. Soft. Almost a whisper. German accent.
“Speaking.”
“My name is Tanya.”
“Okay.”
“May I see you?”
“For what?” Raven pulled the tie from his shirt collar and tossed it on the bed.
“I want to defect to the United States.”
Raven chuckled. “Unless I’m reading the calendar wrong, it’s not 1985 anymore. You can leave Germany anytime you like with a proper visa.”
“I’m serious, Mr. Raven. My name is Tanya Jafari and I’m a fighter with the Islamic Union. I was born in Germany and married into the jihad and now I want to come to the United States. I will trade information for a new identity.”
“What information?”
“I know the White Widow.”
“The who?”
The woman cursed. “Are you serious?”
“If you know enough to reach out to me,” he said, “you know I’m out of the loop on some things.”
He couldn’t help his gap in information. He wasn’t a CIA paramilitary officer any longer. He worked on his own now, his interests personal. Anything he needed to know—such as the details of the “White Widow”—he could learn through his network of informants.
The woman remained silent.
“Why don’t you tell me who she is,” Raven said.
“Call your friends at the CIA,” she replied instead. “I will find you.”
The line clicked.
Raven shook his head and hung up. Dammit!
He hadn’t returned home to Stockholm to go back to work again. He had hoped to avoid work for a week or two. How did “Tanya Jafari” find him? He checked his Rolex. He’d stepped aboard his houseboat only ten minutes earlier. The open windows flushed out the stuffy air. Can’t a guy get a break?
The “White Widow”. He laughed at the name. Did she steal her moniker from a comic book? He blamed “the Jackal”. Since the reign of Illich Ramirez Sanchez, every terrorist wanted a cool name to show off in the media.
Tanya Jafari, the CIA, and whoever picked her nickname from the Marvel Cinematic Universe, could wait. He wasn’t lifting a finger until he had a shower and ate lunch at the marina club.
As the hot water sprayed over his body, he built a picture of her in his mind. I married into the jihad... She was German. Blonde hair, blue eyes? He might cheat by looking up her name on the Internet. She sounded like one of the thousands of women from Western Europe who found their way to the Middle East. They either met jihadist boyfriends or found recruiters on internet forums or social media. Raven considered it an odd phenomenon. Perhaps her family had spoken to the media. Many others did the same when their daughters vanished from home to turn up in Syria or Jordan or Iraq or...
Nuts, he decided. Let her find him. He’d hand off Tanya Jafari to the CIA and let them deal with her.
Every soldier needed R&R. His was long overdue.
Raven stood at the rail of the King’s Bridge in Stockholm, overlooking Klara Sjö (“Lake Klara”). It was a canal cutting through the city. Why the Swedes named a canal a “lake” was a question too amusing to ask. The waterways in the city didn’t pool into anything the size of a lake.
But who cared? Raven enjoyed the view from the bridge. The evening was cool with pink sky above as the sun set. The water rippled below. Raven stared at the surface as if in a trance. He wore casual clothes for his night out and wasn’t carrying his pistol. But the leather sap he also habitually carried rode in the right pocket of his slacks. He couldn’t go out totally unarmed.
He ignored the other pedestrians passing behind him. The King’s Bridge connected the Stockholm district of Norrmalm to Kungsholmen, an island in Lake Mälaren, also part of central Stockholm. Lake Mälaren was also not a lake.
The two one-way concrete sections of the King’s Bridge arched over the Klara Sjö. Below, boats passed. A loud crowd on a party boat made Raven grin. He liked seeing people have fun. It reminded him of better times.
The canal didn’t have the same effect on him as watching the ocean. The sight and sound of crashing waves did more to bring him peace than the rippling canal. He didn’t have an ocean to look at, but the canal served his purpose. He wanted to get his mind off the constant state of war in which he found himself. He needed a respite from tangling with the worst the world had to offer.
A war without end wasn’t the life he’d chosen. Fate had decided for him. He’d tried to resist, but the ghosts of his nightmares wouldn’t leave him alone. They remained a constant as he battled the stream of predators who sought to destroy innocent lives. Raven often felt he made no difference. One fight ended; another began. His ghosts told him otherwise. He kept fighting in hopes of someday silencing the nightmares, but they persisted.
Enough melancholy. He cleared his throat, straightened, and adjusted his jacket. He crossed the top of the arch and walked down the other side. He was treating himself to a night of roulette at the Casino Cosmopol, and a dinner at the casino’s Jackpot Bar & Grill.
He fully intended for the casino to pay for his dinner via his winnings. He had a system for roulette, and while he lost as much as he won, he could count on winning the price of dinner. Or at least breaking even. It all depended on how loud his stomach growled.
The casino required a cover charge; he paid at the door. Entering the restaurant, the hostess asked for his identification. Nobody under 20 allowed, and the staff checked all IDs. Older guests were no exception. Raven showed her his ID and made for the bar. It was still early, and the place wasn’t full. He found a stool and signaled the bartender, a man named Sven. Raven had gotten to know Sven well over his frequent visits.
“Hello, Mr. Raven.”
“Good evening.”
“Your usual?”
“Please.”
Raven’s “usual” would make martini aficionados scream in agony. A shot of gin, shot of vodka, touch of vermouth, twist of lemon peel, stirred, because James Bond was an idiot. Nothing on the initial list would send the hobby drinkers to the roof. They also wouldn’t admit such a concoction carried with it the scent of rubbing alcohol. Raven stumbled onto a solution one night, long ago, by accident. Two teaspoons of water after the pour. Cue the weeping and gnashing of teeth!
The extra water served a purpose. It muted the rubbing alcohol smell, seemed to bring out the flavor of both gin and vodka, and enabled one to enjoy a good martini. More than one actually. The unintended consequence was his martinis tasted like water. One could quickly polish off several and forget the natural result. Next-day hangovers were rough indeed.
Sven set a glass of ice water in front of Raven, with a teaspoon beside it, and proceeded to mix the martini. He poured the elixir into a glass, added the peel, and placed the glass in front of Raven with reverence.
“Your turn, sir.”
Raven added the two teaspoons of water, stirred once, and set the teaspoon on a napkin. He swallowed a sip and smiled.
“Amazing as always.”
Sven refused to add the water. It went against his conscience. He’d appealed to Raven not to do such a horrible thing the first time Raven made the suggestion, to no avail.
The bartender excused himself to serve other customers. Two young ladies dressed in their best night clothes took a lot of time ordering. They rejected several of Sven’s suggestions. They looked as if they were finally legally allowed in the place. He smiled at them and raised his glass. They turned away and spoke close in hushed tones followed by giggles. Raven grinned. Have fun, ladies. It’s all downhill from here.
Sven returned after finally serving them. “First timers,” he said.
“I figured.”
“Been out of town? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Raven swallowed another sip. “Way out of town,” he said. “I’m hoping to stay home for a few weeks.”
Sven excused himself again. Raven reached behind the bar for a menu card. One
could eat at the bar, but he didn’t partake in such uncivilized behavior. He’d consumed meals in so many godawful places around the world he refused to eat anywhere but at a proper table when home.
But since the girls were ignoring him...
He laughed and took another drink. Tanya Jafari was long gone from his thoughts.
The chef’s special of prime rib and fried potatoes caught his eye. He put the card back. He looked behind him. The tables in the restaurant were filling up fast.
He finished his drink, paid Sven and told him to keep the change. Then he said, “Your roulette table will pay for my prime rib.”
“Good luck, Mr. Raven.”
Raven nodded and turned to walk away. A chill went down his neck. Sven’s good wishes carried with it a subtext he didn’t want to acknowledge.
Very soon Raven would need much more than luck if he were going to keep on living.
2
The wheel spun. The dealer counter-spun the wheel and the ivory ball raced along the track.
The interior of the casino always impressed Raven. Tiles with individual etchings lined a high arched ceiling. The ceiling was too high for patrons to appreciate the etchings, but they provided a nice detail.
Table games lined either wall with the roulette tables in two rows down the center.
Beyond the tables, a staircase led to the lower level where more games awaited.
A railed walkway, overlooking the game room, contained slot machines. Chairs and tables covered other spaces throughout the floors.
Raven paid attention only to the table in front of him. He stood close, near the dealer, a stack of chips in front of him and bets placed. His attention was on the wheel and the table. Other players crowded close. Their excited chatter might as well have been carried away in high wind. He was aware of everyone’s position at the table and glanced around now and then to check his exposed back. But his focus was on the game.
He didn’t feel in danger, but there were eyes on him.
Was Tanya Jafari here?
He focused on the game again.
Roulette was a game a lot of people played but nobody played well. It was easy to win if you spread out a lot of chips on the table, but one ran the risk of winning and losing at the same time. Raven had seen it often. Somebody would bet 125 krona across the table, won 50, but actually lost 75. The wider the spread, the more lost than won, and it only offered the illusion of success.
Betting on individual numbers was also a no-no for Raven, and the sign of an amateur too. Pinpoint accuracy in roulette wasn’t attainable. In a game depending on randomness, he had to account for chance as much as possible.
The wheel slowed and the ball dropped. The dealer announced, “Red, 12, even.”
Raven tapped the edge of the table as the dealer cleared chips and distributed winnings. Raven preferred the outside bets to the numbered rows. Much better chances of winning, as in this case. He’d placed 50 krona on the red square outside the rows. Any red result would have put winnings in his pocket.
Raven collected his 100 krona return and set the two chips aside. The winnings paid for dinner. Now for a little fun.
He continued to play, mixing the red and black boxes with corner bets, where one chip covered four numbers. He bet on corners close to the wheel covering squares one, two, four and five. The ball landed on black 24, at the far end of the table. A loss.
Raven shifted his next corner bet to cover 23, 24, 26 and 27. 50 krona. He also placed an additional 50 krona chip on the black square.
The wheel spun. The dealer counter-spun the ball. The sound of the ball running in the notch was mesmerizing. Raven reminded himself to breathe. Gambling was a form of combat. You couldn’t take your eyes away from the target for a moment. One distraction and you’re history.
The ball dropped with a sharp click.
“Red, 21, odd.”
Groans around the table. Raven bowed his head and laughed. At this rate he’d get cleaned out. He’d started with 1000 krona and the losses were chipping away fast.
Then his stomach grumbled.
All right, he decided. One more for the road.
Fifty krona on the outside red square. Another 50 to cover the second 12 numbers on the board.
The dealer spun the wheel and flicked the ball into the slot. They rolled counter to each other and the ball snapped into a slot.
Raven shook his head.
“Red, 34, even.”
He collected his 100 krona win.
But his bet on the column numbers had cost him 50. He won, and he lost. Such is roulette.
Raven cashed in, changed his chips for banknotes, and wandered back to the Jackpot Bar & Grill.
Raven stopped midway, moved to the wall to put his back behind something solid, and looked around.
Somebody was watching him.
But nothing around him suggested surveillance. Players filled every seat at the table games. On the walkway above, more players sat at slot machines. Some observed from the rail, but they were groups of people, caught up in their own conversations. Nobody was looking at him, per se. Nobody stood out and tripped his mental alarm.
He didn’t think Tanya Jafari would be traveling with a friend. She’d be alone. There were no individuals, like him, floating around. If he was wrong, she was good enough to avoid his detection.
He left the wall, walking faster than normal.
Laughter greeted him as he passed through the archway of the Jackpot Bar & Grill. The two young women he’d seen at the bar earlier occupied a table with two gentleman and all four were having a good time. Raven smiled again. His 20s were further behind him than he wanted to admit. He had no wish to relive those days, but a quick visit wouldn’t hurt. Long enough to correct a mistake or two; choose a different path.
But he’d made his choices. He had to live with them. The foursome at the table would have to live with theirs too. He wished them the best.
The hostess escorted him to a table in the center of the room. He asked for one in a corner. She took him there. He eased into the chair with his back to the wall, eyes on the front of the restaurant.
He didn’t want his back exposed any longer.
3
Raven scanned the menu again but saw no reason not to order the chef’s special. Prime rib sounded fine indeed.
A shadow fell over the table. He looked up as Sven, the bartender, approached with a tray. He supported the tray on his right hand.
“Compliments of the house, sir,” Sven said. He sat the martini, a glass of ice water, and a teaspoon on the table, along with a folded napkin. Raven thanked the bartender, who turned and fast-walked to the bar.
Raven unfolded the napkin. He smiled. Sven was a good man.
The woman at the bar is asking for you. Dark hair. Pink dress. German accent. I distracted her while you got your table.
Raven placed the napkin on the table and set the water glass on top. The condensation would smear the words.
He spooned water into his martini, stirred, and sipped. The waitress arrived and he ordered the special. No salad, no appetizers. The waitress departed. Raven sat back and watched the dark-haired woman in pink.
She sat alone, perched on the barstool with crossed legs. Her left leg dangled. She wore black stilettos with red-tipped toenails. She moved the toes of her left foot with nervous tension.
When Sven passed her every few minutes, she asked him a question. He kept shrugging his shoulders. She looked toward the front of the restaurant, then glanced around. She looked over her left shoulder in Raven’s direction and stopped short. Raven smiled at her and raised his glass.
She slid off the barstool, Cosmo in one hand, small pink purse in the other, and approached the table with purpose. She looked defiant. Almost angry. She was upset with him or had a nasty case of Resting Bitch Face.
Well, she is German...
“Mr. Raven.” She stopped a few feet from the table.
“Miss Jafari.”
&
nbsp; “May I?”
“Sure.”
She slid into the booth opposite him. She sat straight, her face stoic.
His guess at blonde hair and blue eyes had been off. Tanya Jafari’s thick black mane washed over her freckled shoulders. She did have blue eyes though. Lines in her face showed she wasn’t in her 20s anymore. Raven pegged her for mid-30s.
“You made a fool of me,” she said.
“How?”
“I’ve been sitting here asking about you for fifteen minutes. I look like a stood-up schoolteacher who can’t figure out she’s been stiffed.”
Raven laughed. “At least not in a good way.”
“Enough.”
Raven raised an eyebrow.
“Did you do what I asked?” she said.
“Why are you talking to me like you’re a commanding officer? I’ve done nothing since I returned home except lose a little money at roulette.”
“Why are you being hostile?”
“I’m tired, Miss Jafari.”
“People like us only rest when we are at war.”
“And which war are you fighting, Miss Jafari?”
“I’m not fighting wars any longer. I want to stop fighting. I need to get out of the Islamic Union.”
“They are a tough lot, yeah. I understand.”
“Will you help me?”
Raven swallowed some of his martini. He studied her face. Plenty of lines indicated tough experience. Her eyes looked weary. Her bare arms were well-muscled, and her figure didn’t appear affected by long-term sitting. She was, or had been, an operator. Western intelligence knew the Islamic Union was unique among jihadist organizations. They eschewed Muslim practices to get cells to blend into Western nations. Recruiting western personnel furthered their goal.
“I usually don’t help people like you,” Raven said.
She sucked in a breath. “But you—”
“Why do you think my reputation for assisting those in need extends to terrorists?”
She leaned close. “I told you I want out.”
“How many people have you killed?”
“Only one and it was too many.”
