by Brian Drake
He braced on the fallen log and fired into the shadows, shifting the muzzle, shooting on instinct. He couldn’t see any better than the enemy. No yells indicated hits.
Somebody yelled to cease fire. Raven reloaded. The new boss kept shouting instructions. Raven had an idea. The boss didn’t want his guys shooting at themselves. Fair enough. But if Raven could trick them into shoot each other...
Raven unscrewed the suppressor from the end of his weapon and slipped it into a pocket.
He stayed low. The searchers were not being quiet. Raven scooted back from the log, rose to a crouch, and squeezed the trigger.
He let one half burst go left. Swinging in the direction of the second unit, he fired a longer burst. Pivoting, he ran hard. Hell with the terrain. If he didn’t get to the Audi he was finished.
He ran, dodging, jumping, listening. The gunners opened fire in response to his bursts. Each side had heard the shots hit near them and they responded in kind. The chatter of automatic weapons lasted at least three seconds until somebody yelled for another cease fire. He’d confused them and bought a little more time. They’d reorganize before continuing.
Raven now had a chance to get out of there alive.
He didn’t look back.
Hannah Schrader jerked awake with a startled yelp.
Several faces turned her way.
The CIA plane was quiet and comfortable. Leather single seats and longer leather bench seats lined the interior. The cabin crew had herded her, Macedo, and Storey to the back upon their arrival. She had no complaints about the accommodations. But the grim faces of the well-armed and powerfully built CIA crew up front, the jet’s primary passengers, were not friendly. She turned away from their investigative gaze.
Macedo, next to Hannah, touched her arm. “You okay?”
Hannah nodded. He left his hand where it was. The touch felt comforting. She let her heartrate settle and said, “My father is dead.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.” She closed her eyes. “I just know.”
Hannah brushed Macedo’s hand away and he withdrew. Storey, across the aisle, resumed reading a magazine he’d found on the jet.
She curled up in the chair and turned to face the fuselage on her right. She’d closed the window shade when they left Berlin. Part of her didn’t want to watch her home city fade into the distance.
She didn’t know if she’d ever be back.
She’d didn’t know what to make of her life now.
Hannah had information to share, but she didn’t know if the details would help the Americans. They’d want to know how Tanya, as the first heir, now had control of the company. Her father was gone, but his money would still finance terrorism until they removed Tanya from the equation. Then Hannah would take over. She’d dismantle the monster piece by piece.
She knew all about the company, but where Raven might find Tanya wasn’t a detail she could share. Tanya might be anywhere in the world. She may not have even left the United States.
Hannah hadn’t only left her father’s world. She’d abandoned what little life she carved for herself. What would her friends think?
But she didn’t dwell on her friends for long. Her thoughts circled back to four words bouncing between the spaces of her mind like a stray tennis ball.
Her father was gone.
He’d funded terrorism. He’d tried to have her killed. Despite everything, he was still her father. And as she started to quietly sob, she decided there was no sense in pretending otherwise.
Part III
1
“Where are you?” Clark Wilson asked.
“My own safe house,” Raven told him. “I’m still in Berlin.”
“Do you understand the shit show you unleashed?”
“I have plenty of popcorn.”
“I’m serious, Sam. The German police are going nuts. Those men you killed at Schrader’s place? They all have connections to terrorism or neo-Nazi factions. His body lying in the middle of the mess is a PR nightmare.”
“I’m not interested in what the Germans think,” Raven said. “We fought two world wars so we don’t have to care what Germany thinks.”
“Fisher wants to know why.”
“Tell the Deputy Director I wanted to send a message to Tanya.”
“What kind of message?”
“You got to us, we can get to you.”
“You’re acting like this was personal.”
“It is personal, Clark. She used me. I brought her to you. Her man killed a lot of good people at the black site. Did you forget that?”
“We haven’t forgotten anything, Sam.”
Raven said nothing. Wilson paused too. The silence carried on a moment. Raven was happy for the break. He and Clark needed a second to calm down. If the CIA wanted an apology, Raven wasn’t going to oblige them. He had nothing to apologize for.
Wilson said, “They think we took Hannah out of the country.”
“She’ll be a valuable source of information. Use it to your advantage.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ask the German government if they’d like to know how one of their most prominent citizens built his own terrorist army.”
Wilson paused a moment. “Explain.”
“If I have to explain, you haven’t talked to Hannah.”
“Dammit, Sam, help me out! I can’t be everywhere at once.”
Raven ran through his first conversation with Hannah. “Her father took advantage of Ahmad and Tamal. They were in the public eye and had vulnerable family members. He paid his goons to harass Berlin Muslims in general and target the two families in particular. The goons killed Ahmad’s grandfather and two members of Tamal’s family. Schrader convinced both to turn their rage into action. Follow?”
“And he was the money man like we thought.”
“Correct. Hannah says there is proof in her father’s office safe. I wasn’t able to get there.”
Clicking computer keys sounded in the background. “I’m taking notes for Chris,” Wilson said. “Anything else?”
“No, start there. I think the Germans will cool their jets once they realize the scope of the problem. There’s more to it than a dead CEO surrounded by neo-Nazis.”
“Right.”
More typing.
“Okay, I sent an email to Fisher and I’ll go see him after we hang up. We’ll deal with Berlin. You do your thing.”
“Do you have anything useful for me or am I officially on my own?”
Raven looked out the small window of the apartment “safe house” and watched the activity on the street. He was in a quiet neighborhood in Berlin. The ground floor of the building across the street had a line of shops and restaurants. Raven wanted to go out and eat but didn’t think it was smart to move around during the day. If Schrader or Speidel had any contacts on the local police force, they might have given them his picture.
Wilson sighed. “We have scraps, Sam. Crumbs.”
“With enough crumbs you can make bread. Did you get anything useful from the server hack?”
“The hack so short it almost doesn’t matter?”
“Yes.”
“We found a name. Well, part of a name, and we’ve had to do some digging because of the missing pieces.”
“Tell me.”
“Ben Doyle.”
“Arms dealer,” Raven said. “He hangs out in Madrid, last I heard.”
“Right. The British have an interest in him so there’s always eyes on him.”
“Will they help us bring him in?”
“We haven’t asked.”
“Are we going to ask?”
“Depends on you.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“We’d like to question him, Sam. Question. Not mutilate. No more of your cowboy crap. We want to know if he’s supplied the weapons for Operation Triangle, or if he’s done any work for Schrader in the past.”
“Doyle keeps his mouth shut. He works
with the type of efficiency Schrader would appreciate.”
“Find out.”
“And if the answer is yes?”
“Bring him in and we’ll do the rest.”
“Operation Triangle may happen tomorrow, Clark. We don’t have time to play question and answer.”
“And we’re wasting time talking about it,” Wilson said. “Get to Madrid.”
“All right.”
Raven ended the call without saying goodbye. He yanked out his Bluetooth earpiece and tossed it and the cell phone on the sofa to his left. Leaning against the window frame, he stifled a curse. He didn’t blame the CIA for being upset, but also didn’t appreciate the lack of urgency. If they didn’t stop Tanya, they’d have a bigger disaster to deal with than an angry German government.
Madrid was a beautiful city, but Ben Doyle knew there were drawbacks making life less than ideal.
He sat in a gaudy café with pea-green walls and warped brown-and-white checkered tile floor. The owner’s idea of decorations was every piece of junk he could find. The odds and ends hung from the ceiling on wires, collecting dust, or were glued to the walls. Sloppy glue residue was visible around the edge of every item. Doyle thought all Spaniards were lazy. “Manana” the chant of the country. The café confirmed his prejudice; the bored attitude of the wait staff didn’t help.
But the café served excellent espresso which he sipped while eating a strawberry Danish.
Other “not so good” elements sat within the café too.
First, the American tourists. Loud. Mostly obese. They occupied several tables, none familiar with the other, and talked loudly about sightseeing plans for the day. They looked around the café in wonder, as if it were a cute piece of Madrid culture. It was, but for the wrong reasons.
There were other patrons, quiet ones, natives, who watched the Americans with careful eyes. They were the pick pockets who roamed Madrid, preying on tourists with no fear of the police. The cops didn’t care what they did. They’d follow the tourists and wait for the opportunity to lift a wallet or two.
In a sense, Ben Doyle was in the same class. But his protection payments didn’t extend to various western intelligence agencies who kept an eye on him from time to time. He had instead made a deal with one of them. Protection in exchange for information when they asked. Only when they asked.
The observations didn’t get in the way of his business.
Ben Doyle sold guns.
Lots and lots of guns.
He didn’t move heavy ordnance. If you wanted missiles, tanks, or fighter planes, he wasn’t the guy. If your shopping list required assorted small arms, ammunition, and explosives, he could beat the big guys.
His career started by helping the “New” IRA in Northern Ireland move drugs. The profits from the venture financed the purchase of the Hotel Sensanna, where he lived, and start the gun business. The hotel was the perfect front to cover his illegitimate career and launder his gun money.
A few days ago, he’d completed a major deal for such items for a client in Berlin. The client was happy. Doyle’s bank account was happy too.
He had another deal coming up at three in the morning, this one much smaller, only two cases of submachine guns. But a deal is a deal. Sitting in the cafe with his espresso and Danish gave him time to think. He decided the exchange would be his last.
All he had to do was tell his associate.
When she entered the café, he stood and smiled. He knew other eyes were locked on Amira Raferi but he didn’t care and she pretended not to notice. Amira was half Egyptian, half French, and all gorgeous, packing her slender figure into tight jeans and a Tee-shirt a size too large tied above her belly.
“Hello, Ben,” she said quietly as they embraced. She spoke English well, but her heavy French accent overpowered every word. They sat. He waved at a passing waiter and was ignored. He shook his head.
“Never mind,” she told him.
“You don’t want coffee?”
“We have a problem,” she said. “About tonight.”
Ben Doyle shook his head and broke off a piece of his Danish. “Go ahead,” he said, chewing. “Give me the bad news.”
For sure, the coming deal would be his final one.
He was growing weary of “problems”. Always problems. Never ending problems.
Amira leaned close and began to talk.
2
“There’s a rumor,” Amira said, “Franco is going to hijack the guns.”
Doyle sighed and closed his eyes, pinching the top of his nose. Franco. The hot-headed leader of an upstart ETA cell who thought he was Genghis Khan. The world belonged to him; he simply hadn’t conquered any land yet.
He’d bid for the guns same as Doyle’s paying client. He didn’t have the budget to beat the client’s final offer.
Doyle opened his eyes and watched one of the pick pockets follow out an American couple. How he envied the pick pocket at the moment.
“I’m too old for this,” he said.
Amira frowned. “I didn’t expect you to answer that way.”
Doyle wasn’t “old”. Almost 40. He looked trim and healthy with close-cropped hair and matching beard. Without the beard he had a perpetual “babyface” as his mother used to say.
He didn’t answer her. His gaze wandered over her shoulder to the front window. People walked. Traffic moved at a slow pace in the congested street. What he saw were people free of the kind of problems he faced on a daily basis. It was time to join them.
“Ben?”
“What?”
“How do we handle Franco?”
“Change the location of the meet. Tell nobody.”
“I know where he is right now.”
“I’m short of assassins, Amira. Change the meet. I want an extra crew of gunners too.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
She scooted back her chair and exited the café. Doyle downed the last of his now-cold espresso and followed her after a few minutes. He left the last bits of his Danish behind. He didn’t leave a tip.
The exchange took place without interruption. Doyle, Amira, and two vans filled with four-man gun crews met the client on the bottom level of a mall parking structure. Money and guns changed hands. Nobody went home with any bullets in them.
Doyle returned to his penthouse apartment at the top of Hotel Sensanna. He felt worn out mentally and physically and tried sleeping. He couldn’t. Sitting in the dimly lighted living room, his smoldering gaze stared at nothing in particular.
In the time it took to finish a half-glass of Glenlivet he’d made up his mind. He’d turn over the gun business to Amira and run the hotel. His intelligence buddies wouldn’t like the news. He figured he’d still have to answer questions when they approached him. There was still enough criminal activity in his past to hang him. He would if he could. He didn’t want to sit in dark parking lots waiting for somebody to maybe kill him any longer.
He was young enough, and rich enough, to enjoy the rest of his life.
Doyle climbed back into bed with a feeling of calm about him. He’d made the right decision. He dozed off.
Raven enjoyed his visits to Madrid. He’d toured the city three times in the last five years. The architecture was the main draw for him. He appreciated the mix of modern with historic buildings. Raven was fond of old things, buildings or other useful objects. It told him not everything faced obsolescence. He often felt like a dinosaur, out of place in a narcissistic world. The resilience of “old things” gave him hope he was wrong.
But he wasn’t in the city to admire the history this time.
He had a target, questions needing answers, and a ticking clock. Operation Triangle never left his thoughts for long.
Raven checked in at the Hotel Sensanna and quickly unpacked the basics. There wasn’t time for elaborate surveillance. Raven needed to move fast, which meant picking up Doyle’s trail and squeezing him hard. He hoped the British agents Clark Wilson had mentioned weren’t in the city
for one of their “now and then” visits.
He knew Doyle occupied the penthouse. All Raven needed was a way up there or wait for Doyle to come down.
Amira would arrive in ten minutes.
Ben Doyle decided not to dress up. His conversation with her wouldn’t be long and they wouldn’t leave the hotel. Well, she would when they finished. Doyle intended to lock himself in the penthouse and get to work on his exit paperwork. Amira needed all the details of the business. Client lists, supplier information, and knowledge of Doyle’s secret “inventory” locations.
The information he’d give her, should it fall into the wrong hands, might put him away for life. And jeopardize governments and individuals who bought large quantities of black-market weapons. Especially the governments looking to get around UN regulations.
He found her in the downstairs bar. She had a Manhattan in front of her and a martini waiting for him.
“Gin?” he said, taking the stool next to her.
“Of course.” She smiled. “What’s going on? I thought I wouldn’t hear from you until the next deal.”
Doyle sipped his drink. The elixir was ice cold and hit his stomach hard. He nodded hello to the bartender. The bar was doing its usual brisk business with both guests and street clientele filling seats.
“I’m getting out,” he told her. “I’m giving you control of the gun business.”
She set her drink down. In the low light of the bar, she looked striking. Tan skin and dark eyes, the high cheekbones, and intense expression she wore when she wasn’t smiling. She looked at him with a mix of curiosity and surprise.
“What?”
“Everything is yours now.”
“You can’t do this.”
“I need to do this,” he said. “This Franco situation clinched it for me. It’s not fun anymore.”
“Well, okay.” She swallowed more of her drink. “How do we do this transition?”
“I’ll provide you with documentation. Everything you need to know. You’ll be able to take over without a hitch.”
