by Trevor Scott
Lt. Budd sat down on the edge of the bed.
Toni strutted slowly to the refrigerator, every movement of her hips exactly as planned, every swish of hair perfectly choreographed. She bent over at the waist as she opened the small brown refrigerator door, and lingered there with her buttocks pointing directly at Lt. Budd. She pulled out two beers, opened both of them, and placed two small pills in his bottle. She looked over her shoulder. He hadn’t missed a move. She turned slowly, pulled up a small chair, sat down on the edge, and slowly spread her legs invitingly.
“Let’s have one more drink before we have mad passionate sex,” she said, handing him his beer.
He eagerly took the beer from her and chugged about half of it. He lifted one leg to pull off a boot, but only got it half way off before the drugs took effect and he passed out flat on his back.
“Works every time,” Toni said softly.
She quickly rifled through his desk drawers and flight bag. Just normal items. The room was clean. Then she looked at Lt. Budd, a contorted smirk on his face, in his Navy flight suit with the thousand zippers. One by one she checked each pocket. Finally, she found a small piece of paper with a number on it. She knew immediately what she had found. That was awfully careless. A pilot can remember hundreds of details, but can’t even memorize one sequence of numbers?
●
Kurt was waiting in Toni’s Alfa Romeo. She opened the door and climbed behind the wheel.
“It’s about time,” Kurt said.
“Ah, you miss me, kid?”
“No. I just have some information I want to share with you.”
“Well I’ve got something too, but since you’ve been waiting so patiently, you go first.”
“I checked out the A-7,” Kurt said. “All of the avionics circuit breakers were at normal in-flight settings.”
“So you’ve learned nothing, then.”
Damn you can be a cold one, Kurt thought. Why not twist the knife after you stab me in the back. “Actually, I’ve learned quite a bit. The settings shouldn’t be normal. The pilot is supposed to reset all circuit breakers if he diverts. Sure he could have messed up and forgotten, but I think he left them that way in case anyone wanted to check. If those are normal, then we have to do a complete electrical check of the system—from the sensor under the landing gear all the way up to the cockpit panel. That takes a lot of time.”
“Good work, kid. I found something also. A telephone number.”
“You spent that much time with him, and all you got was a telephone number?” Kurt asked.
“This could be important,” she said. “It’s a Rome number. I tried to call it, but there was no answer. So it could be a place of business. I’ll have it traced in the morning.”
Kurt thought for a moment. “But he has to know more. I’m sure we can make him talk.”
She smiled.
The evening was young, and Lt. Budd would be under the influence of the drug for quite some time. It would be easy to get more information.
9
VARAZDIN, CROATIA
The drive through the Medvednica hills to the land beyond the mountains had been picturesque but mostly unobserved by the man with the green flight bag. He was surviving on adrenaline and nothing more. His swollen left ankle throbbed with pain from the jump to the fishing boat that morning.
The bag had now become an appendage. After reaching the old city, he walked with a limp along a narrow cobblestone street until he arrived at a Baroque house with a high metal gate out front. The gate creaked loudly as he entered and closed it behind him. The stone sidewalk was smooth from centuries of rain and human treading. The mansion had once been the palace of a wealthy aristocrat, but was now far from aristocratic. A once splendid garden was now overrun with weeds and vines and in dire need of a tender.
As the man with the bag reached the first brick step to the long front stairs, the large decorative wooden door opened. He entered and was led through a wide corridor by an old hunched-over woman who also walked with a limp. She showed him to a large study where two walls were completely lined with books. He sat down on a leather chair that had seen better days. Thick plaster walls were chalk white. Oak trim that lined the windows, the base boards, and along the edge of the ceiling needed a coat of varnish. Some of the books were the only new items in the room. Many were old, passed down for generations probably, but a number were new and in many different languages.
In a few minutes, where the only sound had been that of a pendulum clock, a slight man with silver hair shuffled in and sat behind a large oak desk. His gray wool suit was of high Western standards. Italian.
Isaac Lebovitz looked at the man with the bag and collected his thoughts on how he wanted to begin his negotiations. He tapped his forehead with his finger in time with the clock on his desk. “I see you have the bag, Mr. Dalton,” Isaac said. “I’m sure we can come to a reasonable agreement.”
“Please, call me Jason,” said the man with the bag. “I’ve come a long way and I’m tired, but we must take care of business.”
“I agree,” Isaac said. “Patience is not an American virtue. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Dalton unzipped the bag and removed a computer recordable CD, a small wooden box, and a stack of papers. He stood up and plopped the papers on the oak desk.
“These are schematics and diagrams that will be helpful to your engineers and developers,” Dalton said. He stood with his hands on his hips waiting for a response.
Isaac leafed through the pages quickly as a child tears into his toys at Christmas anticipating each new one and then swiftly moving on to the next. When finished, he looked up. “These will be very helpful. What else do you have for me?”
“The CD is also significant,” Dalton said. “I got them from a different source. They correspond to international marketing strategy and economic forecasts, and could be even more helpful than any technical advantages you may receive.”
This was a welcome bonus for Isaac. He had asked for this type of information, but wasn’t sure if it was possible this soon. His Hungarian government had moved too slowly, frustrating him. He considered himself patient to a fault. But the time for patience had passed.
“I’ll have my people look at the CD before we can come up with an overall price,” Isaac said. “Could your people get the chips?”
Dalton opened the small wooden box. It was lined with layers of foam with cut-outs where the chips were inset. With the precision of a surgeon, he pulled a small chip out of the foam with his thumb and forefinger. He handed the small chip to Isaac.
Isaac accepted the chip in the palm of his hand. He then pulled out a magnifying glass and viewed the chip as carefully as an Amsterdam diamond dealer examined a gem.
“This is the fast one you talked about?” Isaac asked, not an expert but trying not to be totally computer illiterate.
“Yes. Your company could become the Intel of Eastern Europe with this chip,” Dalton said. “And the last of the information, of course.”
Isaac smiled. That’s what he wanted more than anything now. His headquarters was in Budapest, but once he shifted into full production, he planned on having facilities in all of Eastern Europe with marketing throughout Europe and the United States.
“Jason, you must be tired. My maid has prepared a room for you upstairs. Why don’t you get some rest before we negotiate.”
Dalton nodded in agreement, picked up his bag, which now only contained a few extra clothes and toiletries, and retired to the comfort of a feather bed.
●
Isaac Lebovitz rocked back and forth in his high back leather chair. The clock on his desk ticked loudly without bother to him. His hearing was diminished from the constant bombardment of German artillery during the long campaigns of World War II. His large stone house, passed down from generation to generation, survived that great war and many before. Even the scourge of Communism had not crumbled its foundation in poverty.
The information
that Jason Dalton was selling far surpassed Isaac’s expectations. Even though his English was far from perfect, having been taught first by American soldiers and then at Budapest University, he could tell that the management and marketing information could transform his company into a great East European conglomerate.
Isaac knew that this was the time to bring back the respect of his family name. Not only the wealth, but the esteem.
As the wooden door to the study opened, Isaac swiveled in his chair to see who had broken his thoughts. The maid had left for the day, so it had be the American.
“I feel like a new man,” Dalton said as he limped in and took a seat. “Are you ready to make me an offer?”
Isaac studied the American. “Yes...but how is your ankle?”
“Sprained, I think. I guess I’m not much of a sailor.”
They looked at each other as though a chess match had just begun—neither flinching an eyelid, the clock still ticking loudly.
Isaac broke the silence. “While you slept, I had my men check over the chips and the documents. We can use this information, but I need more.”
“That’s not a problem,” Dalton assured him.
“The chips are impressive...better than anything I’ve seen in Hungary or through other sources.”
“The Russians don’t even have these yet,” Dalton boasted.
That brought a smile to Isaac’s face. For most of his adult life his country had languished in the backdrop of left-over technology from the former Soviet Union. Now he had a chance to push his country forward into a market-based economy with high technology. Sure progress had been made. But not fast enough.
“Not even the Russians?”
“No. In fact, the Germans and the Brits have shifted their emphasis to transputer technology instead of enhancing current computer technology. So, I’m certain they don’t have a chip this fast either.”
“Even if they do, that’s not the point,” Isaac said. “More than just the technology, I want the Eastern Europeans to have what Western Europe has had for decades. The Russians denied us that affluence after the Great War.”
Dalton rose from his chair and walked over to the book shelves. Some of the titles would have surely been banned at one time or another in Moscow or Budapest, but Yugoslavia, and more recently Croatia, had allowed more freedom.
“I want to help you and your country, but I need proper compensation,” Dalton said. He paused for a second and then turned and looked directly at Isaac. “I don’t want cash, at least not initially. I want a partnership.”
Isaac raised his brows. “A partnership? This is a surprise. I assumed you would ask for cash. Isn’t that what most Americans want?” he asked.
“I’m not your normal American,” Dalton blared, his hands talking as much as his mouth. “I like to take risks, gamble. If the stakes are high, so much the better. I’ve worked for a lot of companies that failed to take risks, and most of them are out of business. The strong ones, those that see an opportunity and grasp it, survive and thrive.”
There was an uncomfortable pause as they stared each other down. Isaac finally smiled. “I like your attitude. The Communists told us for so long that we were nothing without them...we actually began to believe them. Most of the older people accepted the inevitability of Communism. Only the young people of your generation in our country decided that enough was enough. They want more for themselves and their families. The more they know about the West, the more they want to be like Western people.” Again, Isaac knew this was already happening, with or without him, but he wanted a big piece of the cake as well.
“Have you read all of these books?” Dalton asked.
“Yes. It was either that or watch the latest techniques in collective farming on the television.”
“Ah, I see.”
He wasn’t like a normal American, Isaac thought. The patience he was now showing was either a reflection of the sleep he had just received, or perhaps a true desire for a commitment. Nevertheless, it was refreshing.
“Would you like a drink, Jason?”
“Yes, please. Whatever you’re having.”
Isaac Lebovitz pulled a wooden panel down from behind his desk revealing a well-stocked bar. After a few seconds of mental debate, he selected a fine French Cognac and poured two snifters to the right level.
Dalton accepted his glass and twirled the contents allowing the aroma to rise to his nose. “Exceptional...as our partnership will be.”
The growth of a new aristocracy pervaded the scarcely lit room with the warmth of a fine French brandy. And the clock slowly ticked on the desk with a patience that was soon to be overcome by the will of an old aristocracy with new ideas. Isaac sat back in his chair, smiled, and tapped the side of his forehead with his finger.
10
BONN, GERMANY
Jake Adams eased his rental Passat against the curb and cut the lights and engine. He had thrown Gunter Schecht a similar transmitter to the one he had found on his car. It allowed him to remain easily undetected far behind Gunter’s Mercedes.
Thick dark clouds shrouded the gold-glassed headquarters building of Bundenbach Electronics in eerie darkness. Only a few lights on the top floor remained lit.
Gunter Schecht punched his card into a slot and a mechanical arm rose for him. He drove slowly into the underground parking ramp marked ‘Employees Only.’
Maybe Jake finally had a break in the case. He knew who tried to kill him, and now he might know who that man worked for. But what type of work did Gunter do for Bundenbach Electronics? He made a mental note to check into that company later.
●
Gunter Schecht would have to face his boss alone. He used his credit card key to enter the executive elevator. He got off on the top floor and hesitated by a window overlooking the Rhine. The green grass that lined its banks were a stark contrast to the frozen Eifel Hills he had experienced yesterday morning.
Gunter yanked his pants up higher, tucked his shirt in, and snapped the bottom of his black leather coat. He entered the four-digit cipher code on an unmarked door, opened the door, and closed it behind him. The door led to a small, short passageway with a locked door on the other end. The walls were bare and the compartment reeked of stale cigarettes. Like all other passageways in the building, this one was monitored by closed circuit cameras. He looked up at the camera and tried to smile.
He knocked on the door three times. He couldn’t remember if it was supposed to be three or four times, but he figured he was being watched anyway so why would it matter?
A large man, larger than Gunter’s driver, opened the door. He said nothing as Gunter passed him. The man closed the door and propped himself against the wall next to it, guarding the exit.
Gunter sat down in one of two mahogany-red, leather chairs with gold studs. He wondered why under such tense circumstances he still found time to admire the quality of the textured leather, and the almost fresh fragrance it maintained. The boss must have smoked exclusively in that hallway, he thought.
“Would you like a beer, Gunter?” the boss asked, as he got up from behind his heavy wooden desk and went to a small cooler built into a bar in the corner of the large office.
“Yes, please. I could use one,” Gunter said.
Even though Gunter knew he was the best man working special projects in the company, he also knew that no one was indispensable. The boss opened the large bottle of Bitburger Beer as if he were trying to seduce a Fraulein. His dark burgundy suit was tailored perfectly. He looked at Gunter with his light blue eyes like a hunter views his prey just before pulling the trigger. Gunter accepted the beer and took a large gulp.
“You know, Gunter, this project is the most important one we have going right now,” the boss said, sitting down again. “In fact, it could change the way we do business for the next ten years. Only the strong will survive.”
“I understand the consequences,” Gunter said.
Gunter knew that his prior association with Jak
e Adams was important to the boss. His inside knowledge of Jake made him the perfect man for the job. He would get the job done—whatever was asked of him. He retired from German Intelligence with a small pension when Bundenbach Electronics offered him a substantial pay increase. But this had been the first time Herr Bundenbach had asked him to dissuade someone.
“You came a little too close to killing Adams,” the boss said.
“He won’t die that easily,” Gunter explained.
“A little too close,” the boss repeated.
Gunter stretched back in his chair and took another long gulp of beer.
“I know you’re a professional, Gunter, but will you find it difficult to kill Jake Adams at some point?” the boss asked.
“No,” Gunter said callously. “Do you want us to continue?” Gunter looked at the boss for approval.
The boss glared at him, his hands in front of him as if praying. “Let’s keep Adams alive for a while and see what he’s up to,” he said. “I need to know what he knows. Does he still work for the CIA? Find out. If he is working for Teredata, like we originally thought, then he’ll have to go, of course. I can’t have government agents dragging us down, and I won’t be undercut or underbid by anyone. There’s too much at stake. Our research staff has still not figured out the chips. So I still need Charlie Johnson for a while.”
Gunter looked up quickly to the boss. “I thought we had everything from him?”
“Let me do the thinking,” the boss said. “Just find out about Adams for now.”
“No problem.” Gunter finished his beer.
●
Jake was just about to turn the keys to start his Passat when he recognized a man in an old blue BMW less than a block away. He thought his eyes were deceiving him, but at that distance he couldn’t be mistaken. The BMW belonged to a German customs officer named Herbert Kline. Herb worked out of Bonn, at least he did the last time Jake saw him, so it should have been no coincidence that he was there. But why was he sitting out in front of Bundenbach Electronics? Kline had a reputation, earned or not, of being less than efficient. He was old enough and had worked long enough within the customs agency to be a secure, tenured bureaucrat. The agency couldn’t fire him, and the criminals would rather keep him around alive with his incompetence than replace him with a talented newcomer. At least that had always been the rumor. With the limited exposure Jake had with him, the rumors were unfounded.
