by Rick Jones
Now alone, Hans Gruber watched steam rise from his drink. Then he looked at the Deep Mountain Facility that extended over the gorge like the horn of an anvil. It was a magnificent fortress manufactured from concrete and glass that would serve as a fine perch to rule from, he thought.
As time passed, Hans Gruber always relished these moments when everything was quiet and peaceful. He had been a mercenary who killed for wages in American dollars, British pounds, Euros, anything that would increase his bank account and get his adrenaline pumping. But when he met and listened to Elias Caspari, he received his vision with absorption and knew right then and there that he had a greater purpose in life. It wasn’t because he saw Caspari as a prophet—far from it. It was because he saw a man with leadership qualities who could promote a way of life he could envision: a life under a single rule, under a single head of state. But in order to get to Caspari’s Heaven, you must do so by going through Hell. And paving the way through valleys filled with fire and brimstone, he knew, was his worldly mission.
Just as he was about to leave, a man he didn’t know took a seat opposite him at the table.
Gruber gave him a questionable look. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked. There were other empty tables on the landing that overlooked the valley.
The stranger sat quietly at the table looking at the scenery.
Then from Gruber, he said while beginning to stand, “Whatever.”
“I couldn’t help admiring that tattoo you have on your hand,” the intruder said. “A grinning skull whose sockets happened to be covered over by eyepatches.” He turned to face Gruber so that their eyes locked, with the mercenary slowly retaking his seat. Then the visitor added: “It’s a rather distinctive illustration, don’t you think?”
“Who are you?” Gruber asked him. “What is this?”
The stranger was dressed in a cloak-and-dagger trench coat that was something out of a 50s film noir. Beneath it, however, he was holding a suppressed weapon. “A couple of nights ago,” he began, “you were part of a group that raided the Vault of the Knights Templar in Croatia.”
Gruber shook his head. “Look, I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. So have a nice day.” As he started to get up, the man across from him produced the weapon, a Glock whose suppressor doubled the extension of the gun’s barrel.
“Sit down,” the intruder told him.
Gruber did as he was told.
“Now,” the man with the gun began, “You’re going to tell me everything I need to know.”
“You think so, huh?”
“I know so. And we’re going to start with the whereabouts of the relics you stole from the Vault of the Knights Templar. And you know what I’m talking about.”
“I haven’t a clue.”
The operator pulled the trigger and the Glock sounded off with a muted shot. The round went past Gruber, the bullet continuing its path into open space beyond the café’s railing.
“Consider that a courtesy miss,” said the intruder. “You’ll get no such consideration from me next time. Believe me.”
Gruber looked at the mouth of the gun’s barrel. “Yes,” he said. “I do believe you.” Then he looked the intruder in the face, which remained neutral. “Let me guess,” he began. “You’re from the Consortium . . . since you speak of the Vault which only a member of the Consortium would know about.” And then: “It didn’t take you long. And for that I applaud you for your efforts.” Then Gruber’s eyes shifted in their hollows and settled upon the CCTV cameras looking down at them. There were two that provided a panoramic viewpoint. “I see,” Gruber finally said, before returning his focus back onto the intruder. “The CCTV cameras. I guess Big Brother truly is everywhere. You used facial recognition software to confirm my identity.”
The intruder remained silent.
Then Gruber raised his hand to show off the tattoo. “And that’s why you made a remark about my tattoo, yes? You know who I am.”
“Hans Gruber. A wetwork operator with twenty-four confirmed kills. You work mainly as an assassin for corporate raiders. But you also perform contract killings on political targets, as long as the price is right.”
“Twenty-six,” Hans Gruber said, smiling. “My kill total is twenty-six. I had the pleasure of removing two of your guards in Croatia, which means that your records are somewhat unreliable. That makes me wonder what else the Consortium is wrong about.”
“Not much,” said the intruder. “Now this is how our little exchange is going to work. I will ask you questions, and you will give me answers. It’s that simple.”
“And if I refuse to do so?”
“If you’re going to be a waste of my time, Gruber, I’ll end the moment with a shot to center mass and another to your forehead for good measure. How about that?”
Gruber looked at the mouth of the gun’s barrel. “I believe you.”
“Did you think I was kidding?”
“Still, my devotions lie where they lie, even with a gun pointed in my direction.”
The intruder, Mr. Plato, never broke stride in his conversation. “Question number one: Where’s the Eye of Moses?”
“It’s in a location where the Consortium can’t get to.”
If Mr. Plato was getting frustrated, Gruber could not see it.
“That’s not an answer to my question,” Mr. Plato said evenly. Then: “Where. . . is . . . the Eye . . . of Moses?”
“Again, it’s in . . . a place . . . where the Consortium . . . can’t get to.”
There was a tic from Mr. Plato, a marginal twitch at the corner of his mouth and the first sign of frustration. “Let me put it to you this way, Gruber,” he said while redirecting the point of his weapon to the assassin’s heart. “I’m going to count to three. If you don’t tell me what I need to know, then you’re of no use to me.”
Gruber cocked his head slightly to the side and smiled. “Why wait?” With that he flipped the table over, which knocked Mr. Plato’s aim skyward. A muted pop sounded as the bullet went off with an upward trajectory.
Then Gruber kicked the overturned table and forced it into Mr. Plato, which knocked him backward and to the ground. When Mr. Plato tried to readdress his aim, Gruber was already on top of him. After grabbing Mr. Plato’s wrist and torqueing it hard to the left, the gun fell from the operator’s grasp and to the ground. When Gruber attempted to grab the suppressed Glock, Mr. Plato lashed his foot out and kicked the gun, which skated across the landing and beyond Gruber’s grasp.
With the cords of his veins sticking out in anger along the sides of the assassin’s neck, Gruber grabbed Mr. Plato by the front of his jacket and hoisted him to his feet. Once on solid footing, both men began to dance around in a drunken tango trying to best the other. Gruber had Mr. Plato by the front of his jacket in a clenching grip, until fabric bled through his grasping fingers. Mr. Plato, whose hands were free, slapped them against Gruber’s ears to pop an eardrum. The action, however, only angered Gruber as he cried out with rage, cocked his arm back, and drove a piledriving punch forward. But Mr. Plato was much quicker to the draw.
Sweeping his right arm across in a swimming motion, Mr. Plato was able to knock himself free from Gruber’s clutch and with his left arm, deflected the punch. Finally freed from Gruber’s control, Mr. Plato went into an arrangement of fluid motions throwing fist after fist, blow after blow, with his hands connecting to the jawline, the face, and with chops to the throat. Gruber was backpedaling, the blows coming too fast, too quick, with Mr. Plato’s hands moving in blurs that were too fast for Gruber to counter.
Gruber, in desperation, threw punches that went wide, which left him open to more punches, more strikes. Mr. Plato pushed Gruber back to the railing, the assassin close to being punch-drunk from the deliveries he’d been receiving, blow after blow after blow. When the small of Gruber’s back hit the railing, Mr. Plato pinned the assassin against it by grabbing Gruber’s throat, and then threatened to for
ce him over the side and into the gorge if he did not cooperate.
“The Eye of Moses,” he said while maintaining a clawed hand against the Klansman’s throat. “Where is it? Where’s the Shadow Klan’s Stronghold?”
When Hans Gruber parted his lips to smile, he revealed rows of teeth that were coated with blood. As he labored to speak but couldn’t do so because of the clenching hand that gripped his throat, Mr. Plato eased up.
“The Eye of Moses,” Mr. Plato said softly. “Where . . . is it?”
Gruber shook his head as though he was relenting, then he raised his hand in surrender. “I’m done.”
Remaining incredibly cautious, Mr. Plato released his hold and stepped away. Nevertheless, he stayed in an attack posture should Hans Gruber decide to go another round.
“You want to know where the Eyes of Moses is?” Gruber managed with a raspy voice.
Mr. Plato did not respond since he believed the question rhetorical.
“You’ll get nothing from me . . . Or from anyone else.” With that, Gruber leaned backward over the edge of the railing and tossed himself into the gorge.
Mr. Plato, racing with an extended arm to keep Gruber from falling, was too late. Looking over the rail, he saw Hans Gruber bouncing off the mountain’s wall repeatedly like a rag doll until he finally came to rest upon the valley floor.
Falling away from the railing, Mr. Plato had gained nothing for the benefit of the Consortium. Hans Gruber was now dead, and he took with him information that needed to be mined.
Pounding the railing with the flat of his palm in frustration, Mr. Plato hoped that his teammates were faring much better.
* * *
Misters Shakespeare and Galileo had been trailing Max Ueli and Alix Kristoffel ever since they left Gruber alone at the café. Their undertaking was to observe the assassins and to note contacts and locations before reporting back to Mr. Spartan who, in maintaining the chain of command, would contact Mr. da Vinci. Mr. da Vinci would then use the Consortium Command Center as a means for discovering the location of the Eye of Moses through satellite triangulation. Should Mr. Plato attain intel from Gruber that could be corroborated with the triangulation, then half the battle would have been won on the field. The other half, which would be the raid on the Shadow Klan fortress, would prove to be a much more difficult challenge.
As Ueli and Kristoffel walked in tandem through the streets of Lucerne’s main district, they appeared unaware of those who followed within eyeshot. At the point of a street-crossing, the two conversed for a long moment before going in separate directions, with one moving east and the other west.
Mr. Shakespeare followed Ueli in the eastward direction, whereas Mr. Galileo stayed close to Kristoffel.
The teams were now fully divided.
* * *
Mr. Shakespeare followed Ueli at a fair distance because he did not want to draw unwanted attention. And everything on the surface appeared copasetic since Ueli appeared fully unsuspecting of Mr. Shakespeare’s presence. Their pace was neither quick nor slow, but average. Nor did Ueli take mind to look over his shoulder, which made Mr. Shakespeare believe that keeping Ueli under surveyance from afar was about to pay off.
As Ueli rounded the bend whose corner was guarded by a row of tall privet hedges, Mr. Shakespeare quickened his pace. The moment he negotiated the turn around the thick wall of brush, Ueli was standing there and waiting.
Unlike his assassin brethren who wore their hair closely cropped to the scalp, Ueli held his like a Viking with long locks of raven hair that were lined with pewter streaks. Though his face was badly pitted and pocked, his most outstanding feature was the lateral scar along his cheek that had pulled at the skin to reveal the pink tissue underneath his left eye.
The sudden shock of Ueli’s awareness caused Mr. Shakespeare to hitch a breath in surprise.
“Is there a reason why you’re following me?” Ueli asked.
Mr. Shakespeare tried to shrug Ueli off by pretending not to know what the man was talking about, then excused himself while trying to go around him. But Ueli did not allow him to pass as he placed a hand on Mr. Shakespeare’s chest and shoved him back.
“I asked you a question. Why are you following me?”
“I’m not following anybody.”
Ueli’s one-sided smile curved on the side of his malformed face, which gave off the impression of malicious amusement. “You’re lying,” he told him. “What? You don’t think we saw you trailing us? That’s why we split up, so that we can have this little one-on-one chat—you and me. And you,” he said, jabbing a forefinger into Mr. Shakespeare’s chest, “belong to me.” In a deft move, the assassin produced a butterfly knife from his pocket and started to whip the blade and handles in several directions before it finally became functional. It was quick and stunning to watch, the choreography behind the movements having been practiced to obvious perfection.
Then lashing out with his free hand, Ueli caught Mr. Shakespeare by the throat with his hand and began to throttle him. “Tell me,” he said, the man a good six inches taller. “Whose little boy are you?”
Mr. Shakespeare could feel his head growing light because Ueli was pressing his thumb against his carotid.
“Who do you belong to?” Ueli’s voice was harder and more caustic in tone.
As the dark edges of Mr. Shakespeare’s sight started to pinch inward, Mr. Shakespeare galvanized himself by throwing a series of blows. His hands were like pistons that moved fast and furious with his blazing speed catching Ueli off guard. The assassin fell back against the blows while appraising the fluid motions, seeing that the man was a skilled and seasoned fighter. Then Ueli slashed the knife in a horizontal sweep to gut his attacker, missed, then tried to slice him by bringing the knife across with diagonal cuts—from left to right, and then from right to left—with the attacker cutting Xs in the air with whispering slashes.
Now it was Mr. Shakespeare’s turn to duck and dodge as the assailant pushed forward to take new ground. The blade of the knife slashed and cut and sliced air. Ueli did not appear to slow down from waning endurance, but seemed to gain momentum as he closed in. With a diagonal downward flash of the knife, the edge of the blade sliced through Mr. Shakespeare’s coat, through the flesh, and rode along the bone of his forearm, a deep gash. Crying out, his white-hot pain intensified as the lips of his wound pared back to reveal muscle tissue. Since this moment provided an opportunity for Ueli, he acted upon it. Stepping forward, Ueli grabbed and spun Mr. Shakespeare around so that the wounded man’s back was pressed to Ueli’s chest. And with a hunter’s glee, the assassin drove the knife across Mr. Shakespeare’s throat and opened a horrible second mouth.
A moment after Mr. Shakespeare’s eyes widened as though surprised by his own mortality, he fell to his knees while gagging an awful wetness. Turning slowly to see his attacker, Mr. Shakespeare could only see the silhouette of a man, a blackened shape, until darkness closed in from all sides of his vision to claim him fully.
After Mr. Shakespeare succumbed, Ueli returned the knife to his pocket, grabbed his cellphone, and started to take photos.
Now it would be up to the Shadow Klan’s Tech Unit to determine who this man was.
* * *
Mr. Galileo followed Kristoffel into a park whose trees were denuded of leaves due to the cold weather. After disappearing inside a walkway tunnel similar to those found throughout Central Park, Mr. Galileo hastened his pace. When he reached its opening, he saw the open half-oval shape of light at the other end, but no Kristoffel.
Mr. Galileo, siding with caution, stepped into the tunnel and made his way quickly to the other end, which was thirty meters away. His footfalls echoed off the surrounding brick walls with the cadence a quick tempo.
Just as Mr. Galileo was about to reach the opposite end, a shadow that was pressed against the brick came alive. With speed and agility, Kristoffel attacked Mr. Galileo before the operative had a chance to take a stance
in defense. Kristoffel, who had mastered the technique of Tae Kwon Do, threw a series of kicks that knocked Mr. Galileo down to the walkway.
With Mr. Galileo’s hands raised in supplication against further attacks as he laid there, Kristoffel stood over him with clenched fists. “I don’t like being tagged and trailed,” he told Mr. Galileo. “So, I’m giving you the opportunity to tell me who you are and why you’re following me. You’ve got three seconds starting now . . . Three.”
“Look, pal, I was just taking a walk, that’s all. You want my money, take it.”
Kristoffel shook his head. “Ain’t gonna fly with me, boy. I know a professional when I see one . . . Two.”
“I’m serious!”
“One.” Kristoffel brought his foot down to crush Mr. Galileo’s throat, but missed as Galileo rolled to his right, the man fast, and got to his feet. Mr. Galileo then maneuvered into a fighting stance in a style that Kristoffel did not recognize.
“What’s this?” Kristoffel stated in jest as he pointed to Mr. Galileo’s battle posture. “Moo Goo Gai Pan? . . . Seriously?”
Then the men began to circle each other, each vigilantly aware of the other in the way they moved and operated.
“You didn’t answer my question,” said Kristoffel. “Why are you following me?”
Mr. Galileo gave a cursory glance to the tattoo on the webbing of Kristoffel’s hand between the thumb and forefinger, which Kristoffel noticed. Then the Shadow Klansman held up his hand to reveal the illustration to Mr. Galileo in full. “Is this the reason why? Because you know who I am?” And then from Kristoffel, whose smile slowly melted away, added in confirmation: “The Consortium.”
“I want to know where the Eye of Moses is. And you’re going to tell me,” said Mr. Galileo.
“You think so, huh?”
“I know so.”
The pair continued to circle each other looking for an opportunity to best their opponent.
