The man gazed at her for a second.
“Good,” he said with a content smile. “Then you know how it feels to be on both sides. It’s ironic, that this time the Victory Day of your country will be a victory for us if you accept.”
***
Shanghai, China
A skyscraper luxury apartment hung over the night-time fog of the city. Zhou strode past reception without losing time. He got into an elevator and took the long ride up through the glass corridor. Art sculptures from different dynastic periods lined the hallways on each level. Zhou had gotten his employee and long-time friend Chen a nice apartment here. That was just another of the long list of favours he had done for him. They were close and that was what confused Zhou. All signs pointed to Chen as the culprit but he just could not believe it. There were some bonds so strong that they would never be broken. Bonds like they had.
Zhou cleared his throat as he approached his destination.
His armed security detail was waiting for him when he stepped out of the elevator. Amongst them, Mei Ling stood in tight, practical trousers rather than her usual skirt and blouse.
They all bowed their heads and greeted him, “Lao ban.”
He nodded back and stepped into their midst. He didn’t have time for formalities.
Mei Ling stood next to him.
“Lao ban, he isn’t responding to us,” she said.
Zhou pressed his lips together and stepped to the apartment door. He rang the bell and waited, while security spread out in the hallway behind.
Zhou looked at her.
“The police were informed and are on their way,” Mei Ling said.
“By whom?” He got out his phone and dialed Chen’s number.
“None of us,” she said.
“Send them back!” Zhou ordered. He had to be the first to know. And if it was Chen, he had his own lines of questions that had to be asked.
“Lao ban,” Mei Ling bowed and pulled out her own phone.
No one answered on Chen’s line. He ended the call and pressed the doorbell again.
He looked back at his armed men and signaled them to form up at the door.
“We’re going in.”
The men complied without hesitation. One of them hefted a door-ram to the height of the lock.
“Step back please,” another said to Zhou.
Zhou gave him a questioning look but said nothing.
The ram cracked against the door. It shuddered and bulged. With two more blows the door swung open a gap.
The classical music of Tchaikovsky flowed out of the apartment.
Zhou checked his watch and pulled his own gun from its holster. He leaned against the doorframe, aware that the expensive material of his suit might rip if he wasn’t careful.
A hand held him back.
“Lao ban. Let me go in first, for your own safety,” the man said.
Zhou thought about Chen. He remembered playing mahjong with him, having one Baijiu too many on business meetings and driving home together. He didn’t want to believe that Chen had done anything to betray him.
Zhou shook his head. “No, it should be me.”
He loaded his gun, though it felt strange in his hands. The slide stuck more than he remembered. It was rarely used and needed oiling.
“Don’t worry, I still haven’t forgotten how to use it,” he said.
He slid into the open gap.
Zhou stretched his hand out behind him and motioned with his fingers.
“Light. Give me your light.”
The security officer complied.
Zhou put the flashlight under his gun and propped the muzzle on his wrist. Then he stepped into the hall. The lights inside were dimmed, but enough to see. Only the dark corners concerned Zhou.
“Xiao Chen?” Zhou called out while walking slowly towards the music.
Zhou stole down the hall and into the living room where the music played. He saw Chen lying spread-eagle on the floor, his back broken through a shattered glass table. Blood stained the carpet underneath.
“Xiao Chen!”
Zhou ran over to the body and knelt beside it. He grabbed Chen’s shoulders and shook him.
Zhou’s bodyguards swarmed into the adjoining rooms, sweeping through every corner.
Mei Ling approached.
“Lao ban,” she said. “Fingerprints, you might take care not to touch him.”
Zhou nodded and stood. He looked around. The TV was on, on low volume. An unfinished drink stood on a tray next to the couch. Chen was still in his business suit, the white shirt now crimson with blood.
The security detail returned and formed a loose ring around the dead man. Their arms were crossed and their heads bowed.
“Lao ban.”
Mei Ling beckoned him over with a troubled look toward her tablet screen. She kept her voice low. It was apparently nothing she wanted his bodyguards to hear.
“It seems your deceased friend received a considerable amount of banking transactions from untraceable sources during the last couple of weeks. It was right after we went public with our new technology.”
Zhou felt his face and heart darken.
“How much?”
“Two million dollars.”
He glanced over to the dead body of his friend and crouched down again. He could not believe the confirmation of what he thought was impossible. Zhou grabbed the man at the collar of his shirt. White heat spread in his chest like a glowing ember. He felt sick.
“Why have you done this to me?” he screamed. “Why?”
CHAPTER FOUR
CAPITAL OF SPIES
“When you set out to take Vienna, take Vienna.” - Napoleon Bonaparte
Hallstatt, Austria
Curved roads led Antoine past lakes and mountains. The pedal pushed to the floorboard, his Audi A7 shot through a tunnel and was spit out into the green heart of Austria’s countryside. He stopped when he reached Hallstatt, a lake town in the mountains. A fairy tale church tower with a small graveyard loomed over the old village of timber cottages. Flowers were out in droves on the balconies. Smoke from burnt wood rose out of the chimneys. White clouds came rolling over the mountaintops on the other side of the mirroring lake.
This was his mother’s hometown. He remembered visiting that church the day his grandmother died and walking to that graveyard. A charnel house held the skulls of past citizens. It was here that he looked into the eyes of death for the first time. He didn’t know that countless more meetings would follow.
It was also where he told Nigel to send ‘Blake Griffin’s’ business card, not that he believed for a second it was his real name. Death came in many guises.
Antoine would find out who this man really was.
The shadow of the mountain fell over the lake as Antoine maneuvered the wooden boat toward a private estate on the opposite shore. It was a small castle, formerly Castle Grub—beautiful in the sunlight peeking over the mountain top.
There was no public entrance. A waist-high fence encircled the grounds. It was well-kept but there was not a soul around.
He tied the boat to the jetty and went to the letter box at the gate. It still bore the family name, even though they’d left this country a long time ago. He took out a small key and opened it. He leafed through the mail and took out one letter. The white envelope was from London, marked priority shipping.
Nigel.
Antoine looked around to make sure he was alone even though there was only nature for more than a mile in every direction.
Antoine turned his attention back to the envelope. Inside was a bone-cream colored card with anthracite metallic letters embedded in its thick paper. He remembered having cards like this. It read: “Blake Griffin, Houston and Howard’s Consulting Group.” This was the man who was after him. The question was, who was he really? After a year he was finally a step closer. But he still needed help and he knew just the person for the job: Bekkend.
***
Vienna, Austria
DC tower�
�s glass-surface mirrored the rising sun over Vienna’s modern city center.
A subterranean complex of parking spaces, traffic circles and tunnels obscured the road, ostensibly to leave the ground level free for pedestrians. On that day though, like most others, it was a desolate canyon. To Antoine’s schooled eye, the towers afforded free lines of fire for snipers. Even better, there would be no witnesses.
His agency, or as Rose put it, ‘The United Nations Intelligence’ occupied the top five of the tower’s sixty floors.
To get there, Antoine had to first take the deep-level garage elevator, which brought him to the lobby.
The concierge awaited him.
“Welcome Mr. Springer,” she said with a smile on her face. “Glad to see you again. We were wondering when you will be back.”
“Had a reunion to attend,” Antoine replied.
“How was it?”
“Too many people, if you ask me. I am glad to be back.”
He entered the ground floor elevator, and the doors closed.
It was a long way up but the elevator was fast. His ears popped as it rose higher and higher.
The doors slid open. An automatic voice spoke.
“Level fifty-eight: Lance Private Banking.”
Antoine stepped out of the lift and walked to the door. He leant forward and put his eye to the retina scanner.
“Identification,” a different female computer voice said. “Springer, Antoine.”
His iris matched the one on file for him in the database. The high-security locks of the bulletproof door opened with a clack.
Antoine stepped through to a hallway.
This was the agency’s home, as far as anything could considered home for a shadow organization of international vigilante spies. While the lake estate was Antoine’s secret refuge, the black tower in the heart of Vienna was the center of all operations for his employer.
Bekkend, the bureaucratic glue that held the organization together, met him there. The quintessential desk jockey, his thick rimmed glasses nearly fell as he struggled to keep hold of the stacks of documents he was taking to Rose’s office.
“How was Reyhanli?” Bekkend said.
“You were on the call too?” Antoine asked, surprised that Bekkend knew about the mission.
“No. But someone has to do the paperwork. According to the ‘official record’ the plane travelled to Cyprus.”
“Master of misinformation,” Antoine said. “Maybe you can work the other way around.”
Antoine started to give Bekkend the card, but his hands were full. Instead, he slipped it into the front pocket of Bekkend’s shirt.
“I need this examined,” he said.
“Anything particular?”
“I need the fingerprints lifted and the person identified,” Antoine said. “Find out who is the real person behind the name. I have a feeling he does not want to be found.”
“Spy hunting?”
Antoine nodded.
“Does Rose know about this?”
“With Jason and the lost bomb, I doubt it. She’s busy with other things,” Antoine said, indicating on Bekkend’s shirt pocket. “Now, if you would be so kind?”
“I will get the name and real agency this person is working for. How much is it worth it to you?”
“Drink on the rooftop bar,” Antoine suggested. “Everything has a time and place, but a good laugh and a good drink are always welcome... especially the latter.”
“By the way, where did you say you got the card?” Bekkend called over his shoulder from down the hallway.
Antoine looked after him, grinning. “I didn’t.”
***
Vienna, Austria
The airport hall of arrivals was a welcome sight after the three hour flight from Moscow, despite being packed full of other passengers’ relatives and drivers. Olga walked the line of name signs that stretched out in front of her, her bag trailing behind. She merged into the crowd as soon as possible to avoid attracting attention.
“Miss Kovalenko,” a voice said. “Miss Kovalenko!”
A woman squeezed through some bystanders. She was young like Olga, but dark skinned.
“You must be…?” Olga said and stretched out a hand, leaving her luggage on the floor.
She noticed the woman was a bit out of breath.
“Hello,” she said and gripped her hand. “I’m Kate Jackson, your host at the UN. You can call me Kate.”
Olga smiled.
“Olga.”
They exited the terminal. A limousine was waiting. The first signs of summer were fresh in the air. Their driver put her luggage in the back of the car. Olga walked to the open door and let herself fall into the seat.
“It’s a nice city,” Kate said. She got in next to her. “You will enjoy your stay.”
“I’m sure of that,” Olga replied.
They drove over the Danube Bridge. Modern glass buildings mirrored the sun and Olga could see the Vienna International Centre of the United Nations building. She would visit there soon.
“I wanted to personally pick you up and run you through everything,” Kate said. “That way, I can also show you the city.”
“How kind of you.”
They don’t know who I am. They think I’m just a representative. I’m a perfectly disguised wolf in sheep’s clothing.
The car engine hummed. Traffic was constantly floating, but a red light stopped them.
“Everywhere you go, you find the same fashion around the world,” Kate said. “Same shops, same brands. Signs of globalization.”
Olga caught a glimpse of the Vienna opera house and pointed to it.
“I have to say that this sand-colored palace of pompous arks and windows, takes me back to my childhood. It was full of-dreams and hard practice to become a ballerina.”
On the other side of the street, people sat outside sidewalk cafés enjoying dessert and coffee.
“And see this culture of coffee,” Kate mused. “Do you know where it originates from? Several hundred years ago, the Turks besieged Vienna and in failing to conquer it, were forced to flee. What the Austrians discovered in leftover tents from the siege, were bags of coffee.”
“Those were different times,” Olga said.
“But there haven’t always been wars,” Kate continued. “Around the early nineteen hundreds, people met from the East and the West to share their ideas. Some important personalities all lived here before rising to power, meeting in these very cafés before they went on and changed the course of history for better or worse. The United Nations wanted to nurture this tradition in Austria. Now we are becoming one big village.”
Olga nodded silently.
“Just don’t bring fear into the village.”
“Excuse me?”
“This new world order you are talking about often paints my country as a villain,” Olga said.
“Shouldn’t every country be judged on its actions by the international community?” Kate asked.
“Yes and no. As we all know, you can tip the scales slightly in the direction of one or the other with subtleties,” Olga said. “What history teaches us and how the media phrases certain words, to be injected into the minds of all. For example, how come our greatest ruler is known to the world as Ivan the Terrible, when every child in Russia knows his correct name was Ivan the Thunderous? Is it only because of an unfortunate translation error?”
“Please forgive my lack of knowledge and correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t he the one who boiled his enemies in wine?”
“Yes dear, I will correct you, because you are wrong. Wine would have been far too expensive.”
“But…,” Kate stuttered. “He did boil his enemies alive.”
Olga shrugged, slightly amused by Kate’s trying to get to the point.
“As I said, different times.”
Buildings passed, filling the deadly silence. After a time, Kate broke it.
“Speaking of different times, what became of the ballerin
a?” she asked.
Olga lifted her hands. “Well, I guess like times change, so do dreams. As I grew older, it became clear there was no future for me in ballet. I had to look for other paths and other ideals. What better way than to do the same as the leader of the country? Becoming a person who could protect the wellbeing of nations. Not by fighting wars, but by preventing them behind the scenes.” She remembered her father, who formed her into what she was now. “My father taught me a lot.”
The car entered the first district and they passed a lavish fountain. The sparkling drops caught the light, forming a rainbow down to the wet concrete. Behind it loomed a larger than life statue of a Soviet soldier from World War II. A remnant of the victory, liberation and occupation of her motherland, Olga recognized it proudly.
“And I can see why he liked it here,” she said, looking out of the window.
They arrived at the Hotel Imperial. The doorman took her luggage and followed them into the lobby. Kate led the way.
“I will take care of everything for you while you’re here,” she said and went over to the reception.
Olga turned around, admiring the imperial style interior. Its huge chandelier and colorful carpet spread out beneath her.
“Starting with dinner. The restaurant should have a view of the city, above the roofs of Vienna.”
Vienna was aflame with orange lights. Olga and Kate dined one hundred-sixty meters above the ground in the Donauturm. Atop Danube Tower, the entire restaurant rotated in circles to grant a three hundred sixty degrees view over the city. The tables were decorated in the style of a traditional Viennese cafe and belied the fact that they were at the top of the world.
Olga’s phone vibrated. Her father’s picture flashed on the screen.
“Excuse me for a moment,” she said to Kate and picked it up.
“Father,” she said in Russian.
“Hello Olga. Did you arrive safely?”
His voice was strong, authoritarian, but she was so used to it. Nothing stimulated her feelings more. It was like a bridge to her childhood every time she spoke to him.
Love Is for Tomorrow Page 3
