by Trevor Scott
“Nice place, eh, kid?”
Kurt scanned the room one more time.
“And you thought working for the CIA was glamorous,” Toni said with a smile as she crossed her arms.
“This desk looks familiar,” Kurt said. “Wait a minute. I’m sure I threw this desk overboard at the end of my last cruise off the coast of Florida. Did somebody fish this out of the Atlantic for you?”
Toni laughed her first real laugh since Kurt had met her three days ago. It suited her well. Her smile pushed her high cheek bones even higher, and exposed her straight white teeth.
“You’ve got a good sense of humor, kid. This office could use that from time to time.”
Toni unlocked the small floor safe and pulled out some papers from the front file with a red ‘Secret’ cover sheet. After about a minute of sifting through the papers as a returning vacationer would her mail, she handed them to Kurt.
It was a message from Captain Murphy.
“Shit.”
“You can say that again,” Toni said.
“I’ll bet Murphy wants to have that Under Secretary for lunch. Why in the hell do they trust civilians with that type of information?” Kurt asked. After he said it, he realized that Toni was also a civilian. “I’m sorry, Toni, no offense intended, it just pisses me off that some drunk bureaucrat can leak this sensitive information.”
“That’s all right. We don’t really consider ourselves civilians, either. But this happens all the time. I had a friend who was working in Poland who was exposed by a stupid statement from a visiting congressman on the intelligence sub-committee. They found my friend the next day; what was left of him.”
“Where do we go from here?” Kurt asked.
“Well, for one thing you can’t report back to the Roosevelt. We don’t know if you’ve been compromised, but we have to assume that you have.”
“I need to talk to Murphy.”
“No problem. You can use the secure phone.”
Kurt sat on the edge of the desk and punched in the number from memory.
The phone rang on the other end three times, and then Kurt recognized Captain Murphy’s “Hello.”
“Whisky One,” Kurt said. He heard a click on the other end that sounded like the receiver being placed down, but was only Captain Murphy keying his phone to secure mode. Kurt wondered why the phone wasn’t always run on secure.
“Kurt, I’m glad you called,” Murphy said. “I guess you got my message at the embassy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry about that Goddamn Under Secretary. I want that guy’s balls. I had just briefed the Secretary on our technology breach that afternoon. That other bureaucrat had to be there because he deals with acquisitions and special programs.”
“I see.”
“Well, the Secretary pressured me on what my plan of attack was, who and what agencies were involved, and how much time I needed to wrap up the case,” Murphy said. “I told them as little as possible without getting my butt in a sling, and I thought that was the end of it. Later that evening at a party the Under Secretary shot off his mouth.”
“Sir, I understand the company rep from Florida knows about the technology transfer now,” Kurt said. “Do you think they know about me and Toni?”
“Kurt, I can’t honestly say. I got to the guy and shut him up as soon as I could, but I have no idea how much he gave away.”
“So we have to assume the worst?”
“Yes. That would be most prudent,” Murphy answered.
“I won’t return to the Roosevelt then,” Kurt said. “Sir, could you make up some bogus story and send it to my squadron on the ship?”
“No problem. I’ll have a message sent from Naples saying you were placed in the hospital there after being hit by a taxi, and will be flown back to the states once you’re stable.”
“Thanks, sir. Is there anything else you need from us?”
“Yes. What have you two come up with?” Murphy asked.
Kurt thought for a moment. “Sir, Petty Officer Shelby Taylor is our low man, and Lt. Budd is our drop artist,” Kurt said. “There are a few other minor players on board the Roosevelt, but we’re still trying to reel in the main fish. Request permission to remain ashore and help Officer Contardo with the investigation here?”
“Permission granted, Ensign Lamar.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Keep in touch every few days if you can.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line went blank on the other end.
As Kurt was finishing his conversation with Captain Murphy, Toni had logged onto her computer and was accessing the Italian Telephone Company.
“Well? Who owns that number?” Kurt asked.
“Patience, kid. Rome wasn’t built in a day,” she said sarcastically.
Toni’s fingers whipped across the computer keyboard like a journalist’s on deadline. Kurt watched closely until the telephone number popped on the screen followed by an address. They looked at each other in disbelief.
“Holy shit,” Kurt said. “Why in the hell is the U.S. Commerce Department involved in something like this?”
A smile came across Toni’s face as she logged off the computer. She shook her head.
“What do you find so funny?” Kurt asked.
“I don’t know. I guess it figures,” Toni said. “A lot of times we end up running across the path of another agency. It can get frustrating. Especially if you’ve been working a case for a few months.”
“But why would the Commerce Department run an operation like this?” Kurt asked.
“They aren’t, kid. There must be a rogue.”
Kurt sat down on a typing chair backwards and swiveled around a few times. “What is the Commerce Department doing with an office in Italy?”
“I don’t know,” Toni said. “They could be here to keep track of all the American companies opening offices. They’re all trying to carve a piece of the pie when and if the European Community unifies. Those companies with a strong foothold have a chance to make big bucks. With the introduction of the Euro, there is speculation that the EU countries could try to form a union like the U.S. It probably will never happen, though. The French sure as hell don’t want it. Nor do the Brits.”
“How are we going to find out who’s been stealing our technology?”
Toni patted Kurt on the back and then left her hand on his shoulder. “Stick with me, kid. As you’ve seen, I have ways of making them talk,” she said.
Kurt looked up at Toni. Her eyes had a sparkle, he thought, that could tame the wildest beast. Kurt put his hand on hers.
16
GENOA, ITALY
Sirens echoed back and forth adding chaos to the normal sounds of rush hour traffic. Cars reluctantly pulled to the sides of the busy roads allowing the ambulance to barely squeeze by. Polizia on Moto Guzzi motorcycles weaved onward through the clustered maze that had formed.
What was once a tranquil sidewalk cafe was now turned into a horrid scene of destruction. Glass table tops had been shattered and scattered over fifty feet like shrapnel. Bodies lay helplessly on the sidewalk with blood oozing and spurting from countless jagged cuts. A lone, old robust woman screamed and prayed aloud as she held her black rosary close to her chest, repeatedly crossing herself.
Polizia and Carabiniere cordoned off the area and started searching the buildings.
The ambulance crew arrived and started attending to the only survivor—a man in an expensive suit that did nothing to protect him against the blast and flying glass.
A middle aged man with dark curly hair in a black double breasted suit paced back and forth pointing and shouting orders. Inspector Bruno Gallano was Genoa’s terrorist expert. He stood quietly by himself for a moment and scratched the five o’clock stubble on the right side of his face. Finally, he waved his assistant over to him.
“What do the people say happened?” Bruno asked his assistant in Italian.
“Mixed reports,” sa
id his assistant. “But it appears to be a terrorist attack by the Red Brigade.”
Although the Red Brigade had been a remnant of the Cold War, it had mostly been destroyed many years ago. However, as Bruno Gallano knew, since he had discovered this fact, this faction was seeing renewed interest by Italians who were dissatisfied with the government. But they were mostly anarchists. “Why?”
“Electronic device with plastic explosives. Similar to the Rome Train Station. Only one thing is different. They used a remote control car.”
“How?”
“Well, a remote control Porsche came from up the sidewalk there,” the assistant said pointing up the street. “Nobody touched it as it weaved in and out of the people on the sidewalk. Then witnesses say the car took a right turn here and stopped under the table of four men. It was there for only a second before blowing.”
The two men sidestepped all the debris and positioned themselves over the remains of four bodies covered by blood-soaked sheets.
“Any identification on these four?” Bruno asked, lifting the sheet of one and viewing what was left of a previously healthy male, and then lowering the sheet.
“Yes. The glass and metal did a number on the fronts of their bodies, but their backs were pretty much intact. They all had wallets.”
“Well?” Bruno said, becoming impatient with his assistant. “Who are they?”
“All American sailors.”
“Shit. That’s all we need,” Bruno said. “We’ve got the USS Roosevelt in port for a visit, and we have a damn international terrorist incident.”
Bruno Gallano scanned the scene one more time to perhaps convince himself that it wasn’t happening. But the reality of four American bodies lay at his feet. The three additional Italian corpses lay farther away. Bruno knew that one death was as important as the next, but the Americans would be harder to explain. It changed things from a municipal problem to an international incident. He could do without that kind of notoriety, he thought.
“Have your men come up with anything yet?” Bruno asked.
“Not much. It appears that there had to be at least two people involved—one to drop off the car and the other to direct it from that building there,” the assistant said pointing across the street to a large five story brick building with Roman arch windows.
Bruno looked up at the building and then back at the Americans. “What’s the connection here?” he said. “This isn’t your typical American hang out. How could the Red Brigade know they’d be here at this time? Or did they really give a shit who they killed? The car stopped right under the table, though. So, whoever did this, had to know these sailors would be here at this particular time.”
Bruno’s assistant just shrugged his shoulders.
“Who are the Americans?” Bruno asked.
“Let’s see,” the assistant said flipping through his note pad. “We have a Lieutenant Budd, a PO1 Albrecht, whatever that is, a PO1 Taylor, and a Seaman Phillips.”
Bruno scratched his impending beard again. He stooped down and took a look at another American sailor. “Isn’t that kind of a strange group?” he asked. “I mean, in the Italian military we never went anywhere with the enlisted men, yet here we have a lieutenant with three enlisted sailors. Is that significant?”
“I don’t know,” the assistant said. “Maybe we should ask the American officials when they show up.”
Bruno’s assistant had sent word to the USS Roosevelt as soon as he found out that American sailors had been victims.
“Inspector,” yelled a man from the third floor window of the building across the street from the bloody site.
Bruno turned and looked up. “Si, si.”
“We found something.”
Bruno instructed his men at the scene to leave the bodies where they were until the American authorities arrived. Then he and his assistant entered the old brick building and climbed the three flights of stairs. The stairwell was dark, and Bruno noticed that a bright sunny day would probably not change that fact. The hallway on the third floor had uneven hardwood floors and tan thick plaster walls in need of fresh paint. Two Carabiniere officers waited in front of a wide doorway.
Bruno breezed past the men and into a small one room apartment. Bruno stopped and scanned the room. A boy around eight years old sat on the edge of a small bed in one corner. He immediately looked up at Bruno with his dark overpowering eyes. Fear seemed to scream from each eye with recent tears streaking his dark cheeks. Bruno looked at the rest of the room to try to de-emphasize his presence and put the boy at ease. He walked to the window and leaned against the sill to observe the gory scene below. Had the boy seen what happened and was fearful of its tragic consequences, or did he know more? Bruno suspected the latter. He walked back over to the two Carabiniere at the doorway and escorted them farther into the hallway.
“Does the boy know what happened?” Bruno asked.
“Si,” said the older of the two officers. “We just got to this floor when the door slammed. The boy acted strange, so we asked him a few questions.”
“And?” Bruno asked impatiently.
“He was sitting on the steps on the first floor of the building when a man came up to him and asked if he would like to make some money. Of course, he did. The man told the boy to meet him back here at four. When the man came back, he had a small case with him. He told the boy he needed to bring him to his apartment. When they got up here, the guy opens his case and pulls out a black remote control Porsche. Of course the boy’s eyes lit up with joy when he saw that.”
“Then what?”
“The man puts the car in a paper bag and tells the boy not to let anyone see it. He then instructed him to take the car down the block to the alley, pull it out and set it on the sidewalk when the church bell chimed on the half hour. It was timed so the boy would only have to stand there for about a minute or two.”
“Can he describe the man?” Bruno asked.
“Si, inspector. The man was in his mid-thirties, well dressed, expensive black pants, a leather coat, driving gloves, and a black knit cap. But more importantly, his Italian was poor.”
“What type of accent?” Bruno asked quickly.
The officer paused for a minute. “American.”
Bruno put his hand up to his nose, stroked it, and then slid it down and rubbed the stubble on his face again. Either the Americans were trying to take their crimes to his streets, or one had joined the Red Brigade, Bruno thought.
“Where’s the boy’s parents?”
“He says there’s only a mother who works days at an office a few blocks away. The boy decided not to go to school this morning. We think the mother walks the streets at night.”
“Why’s that?”
“The room right next door to this one has papers with her name on it. There’s only a bed in there and a few skimpy outfits.”
“You say nothing about this to anyone,” Bruno said. “Do you understand? Not to your superiors, friends, wife, nobody.”
“Si, inspector,” they both said.
“Take the boy directly to my office. Don’t let anyone question him, or see you take him from this building. Any questions?”
They looked at each other, and then said: “No, sir.”
After the men left with the boy, Bruno looked over the room. He knew he wouldn’t find anything, but it was a force of habit. He found himself feeling sorry for the young boy and the situation he was in. He had to be frightened, it could be no other way. The room, the building, the neighborhood had all hardened him in some way. But he was still a child. And children still have fears, Bruno thought. He locked the door and headed back down to deal with the reality of the bodies still dead in his street.?He would find this killer.
17
BUDAPEST, HUNGARY
Over six inches of thick, heavy snow had fallen overnight. The city looked cleaner than it had in decades. Many of the older buildings, damaged during World War II, still hadn’t received their restorations as promised, bu
t progress had surely been made. To the thousands of people who had flooded the streets to protest the government’s stagnant economy, it was as though a baptism had been performed by God himself upon the two million citizens of Budapest.
At his weathered, wooden desk, Isaac Lebovitz slowly paged through the volumes of information that the American businessman, Jason Dalton, had given him. The frequent chants for more jobs by the protesters below his office brought an occasional smile to his face. He knew that not long ago the people would have been silently whisked away to jail, or worse. But now the chants were tolerated; the will of the people could no longer be stomped under foot. And Isaac intended to take advantage of this movement. The government was too slow to react to any economic downturn. Unions and citizens who felt entitled to hand-outs would have to learn that their best action would be to work hard. Preferably in one of his companies. He would ensure they got a good wage for a hard day’s work. But no hand-outs.
Isaac’s men had printed page after page of computer data and bound them in hard cardboard binders to allow more easy reading. The marketing information was current; perhaps too current to allow his company to properly use this powerful information.
Behind his desk, a large cast iron radiator, with few paint chips remaining on its surface, clanked violently out of control. Isaac kicked it with the side of his shoe dropping more paint chips to the floor, but doing nothing to stop the noise. Things will surely change, he thought. No more second-rate anything.
The phone rang.
Isaac picked up the ancient black dial rotary phone and simply said “Lebovitz.”
His secretary, who had been with Isaac as long as the phone, told him that two of his men had arrived and wished to speak with him. “Send them in,” he said, and then set the phone back in its slot.
