The Unknown

by Brett Battles

  Schwartz nodded to himself and descended the stairs. Staheli and Hahn shared a look, then moved to the opening to see what the senior inspector was doing.

  Schwartz studied the small area outside the doors, paying particular attention to the wall separating the two entrances.

  Nearly a minute passed before he looked up at them and asked, “Have the rooms been processed?”

  “Of course,” Hahn said. “The crime scene technicians went over everything this morning.”

  “Then may I have a look?”

  Hahn deferred to Staheli, who said, “By all means.”

  Schwartz disappeared into cabin 14.

  Staheli was both annoyed and insulted by Interpol’s intrusion. Why the organization was interested in this case, he had no idea. If the missing man had really been kidnapped as the suspected claimed, then every second counted, and playing tour guide to Schwartz was wasting precious time.

  Hahn gave Staheli a concerned yet curious look, but Staheli said nothing.

  Schwartz stepped out of the cabin a few seconds later, nodded to the two men, and pointed at cabin 16.

  Staheli motioned for him to go ahead.

  The Interpol official took even less time inside than he had in the other cabin, and soon rejoined Staheli and Hahn in the corridor.

  “Did you find anything in either room?” Schwartz asked.

  “Nothing in cabin fourteen,” Hahn said. “But we did recover a small duffel bag in sixteen.”

  Schwartz raised an eyebrow. “What did it contain?”

  “Clothes, toiletries, some medication, a thumb drive.”

  “What kind of medication?”

  Hahn pulled out a notepad and consulted it. “Naratriptan.”

  “That’s for migraines, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t checked yet.”

  “You haven’t checked?”

  “We have not had the time,” Staheli said.

  “Of course,” Schwartz said sympathetically. “Do you know the missing man’s name?”

  “Richard Meyer.”

  “Any theories what happened to Herr Meyer?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Could he have hidden in another part of the train and perhaps is in Graz now?”

  “He is not in Graz,” Staheli said. “We conducted a thorough search before the train got underway again. It is more likely he jumped.”

  Schwartz cocked his head. “You have reason to believe this?”

  “A window is missing from one of the cabins.”

  “Missing?”

  “It was cut out after the train left Zurich.”

  “That sounds like a very good reason to believe he jumped. May I see it?”

  Staheli tensed, his patience level nearing its limit. “Follow me.”

  He led Schwartz into the other car and down to cabin 2, Hahn trailing them.

  “Please,” Staheli said, motioning for his guest to enter first.

  Schwartz stepped inside and paused, his gaze on the window.

  Staheli stepped in behind him and pointed at the top bunk. “The glass is there.”

  Schwartz looked over, then scanned the rest of the room. “Did you find anything else in here?”

  “No.”

  “What about fingerprints?”

  “One set, around the lower bunk and again by the window.”

  “Have they been matched to the missing man?”

  “We have put in a request for his prints but are still waiting for them to arrive.”

  Schwartz made a closer inspection of the window, and then stuck his head outside. He looked downward first, no doubt judging the distance to the ground. It was the same thing Staheli had done when he was shown the room. The drop was a bit more than two meters, high enough that one would have to be careful not to wrench an ankle, but otherwise doable—as long as the train wasn’t going faster than a crawl.

  Schwartz twisted around to look toward the roof. Staheli had done that also. At the time, he’d wondered if the window had been used to access the roof. But there were no handholds or anything else someone could have used to scale the distance up.

  The Interpol man started to pull his head back in but then stopped, his eyes on the duct tape covering the glass. He reached out and plucked something caught at the edge.

  “What is it?” Staheli asked.

  Schwartz looked at the item, and lowered his hand outside below the window frame for a second before ducking back inside. “It was just part of a leaf. Probably kicked up by the train.” He smiled. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see the suspect now.”

  Kincaid sat at the table, eyes closed. The cuffs around his wrists were attached to a chain connected to the table, preventing him from moving his arms more than a dozen centimeters or so in any direction.

  He probably could have broken free, but he hadn’t even tested the chain’s strength. Instead he stared across the room, his mind a storm of anger and self-recrimination.

  He had lost his cargo.

  That had never happened before. His reputation was going to take a big hit for this, but at the moment he didn’t care about what others thought.

  At first, all he could think about was, what if Brunner was dead? That would be the ultimate disaster. The man had been Kincaid’s responsibility, and blame for the man’s death would rightly fall on Kincaid’s shoulders. He would be as guilty as whoever actually took the scientist’s life. And he would feel it in his soul until the day he, too, left this earth.

  Eventually, he focused on the other big issue on his mind.

  Clarke.

  To be betrayed by one’s partner, even a temporary one, was the most ruthless thing that could happen to an operative. If it took the rest of Kincaid’s life, he would find the bastard and exact his revenge. He also needed to have a very pointed conversation with Misty. She had paired him with Clarke. How could she not have known Clarke couldn’t be trusted?

  The questions kept coming, all with no answers.

  He opened his eyes and looked around.

  The windowless room the police had stowed him in had a single steel door straight across from the table, and two cameras mounted to the ceiling, one in front of him and one behind. The only pieces of furniture were the table and two chairs.

  He’d been here since they’d transported him from the train. That had been…what? Six hours ago, give or take?

  A while ago, an officer had brought him a bottle of water. Desperate to get ahold of Misty, Kincaid had asked the man if he could make a phone call. Not to confront her about Clarke yet, but to let her know Brunner had been taken so she could start looking for him. Every hour that passed, the chances of a successful rescue decreased dramatically. But the officer had acted like he hadn’t even heard the question and left without saying a word.

  Kincaid hadn’t had a visitor since.

  There was a little less than a swallow left in the bottle now. He picked it up and leaned forward so he could raise it to his lips.

  As the water trickled down his throat, he started to think about Clarke again. How the hell had the asshole pulled it off? No way he could have done it alone. There must have been someone else on the train. Someone who— “I’m so sorry.” The words spoken first in German and then English, by the woman who had squeezed past Kincaid at their stop in Innsbruck.

  He hadn’t seen her or her companion when he’d done the walk-through, and had been coming back to warn Clarke that the couple might be trouble. But then his partner had shot him, and thoughts of the other two had passed from Kincaid’s head.

  He didn’t know for sure, but Kincaid’s gut was telling him the couple had assisted in the kidnapping. Before Kincaid had even started his walk-through after the Innsbruck stop, Clarke had no doubt messaged his buddies, letting them know Kincaid was coming. They’d probably hid in a bathroom until Kincaid had passed by, then made their way to help the traitor.

  Kincaid concentrated on his memory of the pair, wanting to sear
their faces into his mind. Over and over, he played the scene of them passing by, noting nose width and hair color and the small mole beside the man’s left eye.

  He was so focused on this that it took him a second to realize the door to the room had opened.

  He blinked, then watched Chief Inspector Staheli—the police officer who’d interviewed him on the train—entered, followed by a man Kincaid had never seen before. The new guy had a lean chiseled face, short dark brown hair. Though he looked like he was in his mid-to late 30s, his face had a sense of experience that made Kincaid think the man was closer to his mid-40s.

  Staheli and his companion approached the table.

  “This is Senior Inspector Schwartz from Interpol,” Staheli said. “He has a few questions he would like to ask you.”

  Kincaid looked at Schwartz but remained silent.

  The man slid the other chair out from the table and sat down. “I understand you speak German.”

  “I do.”

  “Then you do not mind if we continue in it?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Your name is Oscar Johnson?”

  “Uh-huh,” Kincaid said. Johnson was the name on the passport he was using.

  “Inspector Staheli tells me you claim to be a bodyguard?”

  “I don’t claim anything. I am.”

  “And that the passenger in cabin sixteen, Richard Meyer, was the person you were supposedly guarding.” Meyer was the alias Kincaid had given Brunner for the trip.

  “Not supposedly. Was.”

  Schwartz flashed a humorless smile. “It is your story that Herr Meyer was kidnapped.”

  “It’s not a stor—” Kincaid bit back his anger. “Look, you need to have people looking for—”

  “And that the kidnapper is the one who shot the conductor?”

  Kincaid took a deep breath. “And me.”

  “That’s right. You were shot, too. May I have a look?”

  “Oh, yeah, I’d be happy to show you but…” Kincaid lifted his hands as far as he could off the table, which wasn’t much. “Sorry.”

  Schwartz stood up. “Would you mind if I…?” He mimed unbuttoning Kincaid’s shirt.

  “Whatever floats your boat,” Kincaid muttered in English.

  “I’m sorry?”

  In German, Kincaid said, “Sure. Go ahead.”

  Schwartz moved around the table, leaned down, unbuttoned Kincaid’s shirt, and loosened the bulletproof vest underneath. As he did, he whispered in English in a voice only loud enough for Kincaid to hear, “Misty sent me.” Schwartz then proceeded to examine the bruise on Kincaid’s chest. “That looks like it hurts. Good thing you were wearing protection, yes?”

  “Yeah. Good thing.”

  Schwartz returned to his chair and asked several more questions, most of which were variations of those Staheli had asked earlier. Kincaid answered with just the right amount of frustration, to convey an annoyance he no longer felt.

  Finally, Schwartz stood up. “Thank you for your time, Herr Johnson.”

  The man turned and he and Staheli exited the room, closing the door behind them.

  Kincaid stared after them but kept his relief from showing on his face. In case anyone was watching on the cameras.

  Outside the holding cell, Staheli turned to Schwartz. “Unless there is anything else, my staff and I need to get back to work. We appreciate Interpol’s interest in this case, and I will gladly keep you informed of any progress.”

  Schwartz smiled politely. “Is there someplace we can talk privately?”

  Staheli grimaced. He could little afford to give the inspector more time, but he wasn’t about to start a rift with Interpol. At least not yet. So he nodded and led Schwartz through the station to his private office.

  “Do you mind?” Schwartz said, a hand on the door.

  “If you feel it is necessary,” Staheli said.

  Schwartz closed the door and sat in the guest seat in front of the desk. “I apologize for any inconvenience I’ve caused. I know your job is hard enough without someone like me getting in your way. Unfortunately, Chief Inspector, this case is considerably more…complex than you realize. The name of the man you are holding is not Oscar Johnson.”

  Staheli frowned. “Then what is it?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What I can tell you, and this must not leave your office, is that Herr Johnson is a British police officer.”

  “A police officer?” Staheli said.

  “He’s been working undercover on a joint operation between British, German, and Dutch law enforcement, coordinated through Interpol.”

  Staheli stared at him, waiting for the punch line, but Schwartz’s expression didn’t crack. “You’re serious.”

  “I am.”

  “Undercover doing what?”

  “That is also something I cannot disclose.”

  “What about all the questions you asked him? Was that only an act?”

  “It was.”

  “Why not just—”

  “I assume you had officers watching the feeds from the cameras in the room?”

  “It is standard procedure.”

  “That is the reason for my act. It is vitally important that we confine the truth to as few people as possible. I had to obtain special permission just to let you in on it.”

  “And I’m supposed to take your word for it?”

  “Of course not. You should call my office and double-check with them. I’m sure you have Interpol’s number.”

  That sounded like a damn good idea to Staheli. He reached for his phone.

  “But before you make the call,” Schwartz said, “there’s one other thing you’ll want to confirm.”

  Staheli’s hand rested on the receiver. “What would that be?”

  “That Herr Johnson will be leaving with me.”

  “What?”

  “You will tell your colleagues that he is suspected of involvement in several other crimes, and that I am taking him to Vienna for further questioning.” Schwartz leaned back in his chair. “Go ahead, make the call.”

  Staheli stared at him, dumbfounded. After a moment, he located the contact number for Interpol, picked up his desk phone, and dialed.

  After the Interpol operator answered, Staheli said, “This is Chief Inspector Staheli of the Austrian Federal Police. I’m calling about one of your senior inspectors, surname Schwartz, Christian name—” He glanced at Schwartz.

  “Johann.”

  “Johann,” Staheli said into the phone. “I would like to speak to his supervisor.”

  “One moment.” After placing him on hold for several seconds, the operator came back on. “His supervisor is Leonard Hendricks, head of investigations. I’ll put you through.”

  A secretary answered, and Staheli was put on hold again. Finally Hendricks came on the line.

  After Staheli explained what Schwartz had told him, Hendricks said, “Yes? And is there a problem?”

  “So, he does work for you?”

  “Of course he does.”

  “Well, I-I can’t just let him take the prisoner without some sort of documentation.”

  Across the desk, Schwartz pulled a folded piece of paper from inside his jacket and put it in front of Staheli. “Here’s your copy of the order.”

  Staheli opened it. It was a transfer document, authorizing the release of the suspect to Schwartz.

  “I…I don’t know. I mean—”

  “I understand your caution, Chief Inspector,” Hendricks said. “If you feel the need for further confirmation, please call Oberstleutnant König’s office in Vienna. He has been briefed on the situation and can answer any other questions you may have.”

  König was a high-ranking official within the Austrian Federal Police, and oversaw Staheli’s district.

  “I will. Thank you.”

  Not surprisingly, the subsequent call to Vienna confirmed everything.

  When St
aheli hung up, he looked at Schwartz, annoyed, but knowing there was nothing he could do. “I guess he’s all yours.”

  A pair of officers put the still handcuffed Kincaid in the rear of Inspector Schwartz’s car. A thick Plexiglas partition separated the backseat from the front. Though there were handles inside the rear doors, Kincaid had no doubt they didn’t work.

  After saying goodbye to a sullen Inspector Staheli, Schwartz tossed what looked like Brunner’s travel bag into the front passenger seat, climbed behind the wheel, and pulled onto the street.

  Once the police station was out of sight, Kincaid leaned toward the partition. “I’m Darius Kincaid.”

  The man glanced in the mirror. “Quinn.”

  Kincaid stared back. “Jonathan Quinn?”

  “That’s me.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  Quinn was a legend in the secret world. But given that his specialty was body removal, he wasn’t someone with whom Kincaid would typically cross paths.

  “So, Mr. Quinn, do you think we can get these cuffs off me?”

  Chapter Five

  OUTSIDE WASHINGTON, DC

  Misty Blake, head of the Office, had been monitoring the situation in Central Europe since the moment Kincaid and Clarke obtained the package and set off on their journey to Hamburg. She always did this when one of her missions was in active mode. This allowed her to respond quickly if something went awry.

  The package on this particular mission—a scientist named Thomas Brunner—was apparently the target of several different organizations and governments, each wanting to procure Brunner’s services for itself. The information she’d been given indicated that for the last eighteen months, Brunner had been voluntarily confined to a facility in Zurich owned by his employers, a company named Ferber-Rae LTD. Ferber-Rae had gone to great expense to increase the security on the floor where Brunner worked and to create a private suite for him. Nothing in the brief said why Brunner had agreed to this arrangement, or even why the confinement was necessary. But agree to it Brunner had.

  The only other thing she’d been told about the scientist was that he was a rising star at the company. The reason was never mentioned.