An alley opened on her left, abrupt and unexpected. If the street was steep, the alleyway struck Toby as an exercise in mountaineering, winding up between the ancient houses with their blooming window boxes. There were a hundred hiding places in the alley, and Toby knew that she should pass it by, return to safety in the crowds below.
No good.
She turned into the alley, climbing stiffly, peering into darkened doorways, excavated spaces under homes, the runways that extended back between chalet-style structures into deeper darkness, choked with grass and stacks of firewood. She had covered half the distance, was about to call it quits, when she was frozen into sudden immobility by a sound behind her.
A footstep, scraping on the rocky soil.
A voice, familiar to her in the way that funeral marches are familiar.
"Toby."
Only that, and she was horrified to recognize her name.
The lady turned, and recognized the silhouette as she had recognized the voice. An errant glint of sunlight caught the Detonics autoloader in his fist.
"You followed me."
She had no choice now but to bluff it out.
"I saw you on the street," she told him, summoning her most alluring smile, defeated by the darkness. "I called to you, but with the crowds and all..."
"Zermatt?"
"I get around," she said, and knew how lame it sounded once the words had crossed her lips. "Small world."
"Too small."
He gestured with the pistol, and she flinched, already braced for the explosion that would finish her. But it never came. Instead, she heard scuffling footsteps on her flank, too close for any solid counteraction as they closed the distance. She swiveled, swung her bag, aware that it was futile. She could hear the whisper of the sap in flight before it struck her skull a solid blow behind the ear, and utter darkness folded her inside its shroud.
Chapter Thirty-One
Julio Ramirez settled back into his chair and scanned the solemn faces ranged around the conference table. Ludovescu sat on his right, heavy features molded in a scowl that had become the Bulgar's permanent expression. Next in line was the Nicaraguan, Calderone, waiting patiently with both hands on the tabletop. Mahmoud Khaldi, to his left, still had a bandage plastered to his cheek as a memento of the ambush in Toronto. Staring at his clones, Ramirez was disoriented for an instant — startled, as he always was, to see himself reflected in the mirror of their flesh. Two chairs stood empty at the far end of the table, looming monuments to failure and disgrace.
"You know why I have called you here."
He spoke in English, since it was the only language common to them all. Before the meeting had convened, Ramirez had already activated jammers in the conference room and elsewhere, their chaotic signals capable of neutralizing any listening devices that the unknown enemy might have secreted in his home. He knew the possibilities were slight, but in the wake of four disrupted operations, Julio did not possess the same assurance he had cherished a week before.
So much could happen in the span of seven days. How many lives could be terminated in that time? How many dreams destroyed? From grim experience, the Raven knew that such disasters had no limitations. Anything could happen, anytime, to anyone, and this time it was happening to him.
Their purpose now was to determine the identity of any enemy who might attempt to scuttle Project Raven. Since the possibilities were almost limitless, they would be forced to search for clues that could betray the opposition. Only when they had arrived at names and numbers could they hope to take effective countermeasures.
"Should we not wait for Castresana?"
Khaldi's voice was soft, deceptive in its timbre, cultured from the years at university. Ramirez thought that it was not a killer's voice, but rather like a surgeon's, bent on soothing his intended victim while the scalpels were prepared, offstage. The eyes were killer's eyes, however, and Ramirez focused on them with his own, ignored the gentle voice.
"Castresana is not coming. He was killed last night, in Steyr."
A muffled curse from Calderone punctuated the startled silence. Narrowed eyes turned toward the empty chairs, as if in search of reassurance that there had been some colossal error. Finding no peace of mind, they swiveled back to look upon Ramirez.
"We are under siege," he told them flatly. "Four attacks in seven days, with casualties in every case. Our brothers have been martyred in the cause, and we shall join them soon, unless..."
He left it hanging, each man free to draw his own conclusions. They glanced at one another nervously, as if the stain of guilt might be apparent at a glance, in search of traitors from within. Ramirez had expected this, although he did not personally feel that any one of them would sell the others out.
Ramirez turned on Ludovescu.
"Tell me what went wrong in Mittenwald," he ordered brusquely, brooking no denial or evasion of the issue.
Ludovescu shrugged. "The deal was set," he said. "Simple cash-for-weapons transfer. Nothing that we haven't done a hundred times before. The customers were hot, of course, but still..."
"They were observed," Ramirez said. It didn't come out sounding like a question.
Ludovescu nodded slowly. "Possible. They had their stupid faces plastered over every bank and cashier's office in West Germany. Of course, it's possible."
"GSG-9?"
The Bulgar thought about it, finally shook his head.
"The strike force was too small," he said. "I saw two men, and two men only. Even if I missed a couple more, it doesn't fit the pattern for GSG-9. They like to saturate a target zone with uniforms and gas the place. You know their style."
"Then who?"
"Ah, well..."
"The CIA?" suggested Calderone.
Ramirez almost laughed aloud, but Calderone was plainly serious. His Hispanic background had conditioned him to look for indications of the Company wherever trouble reared its head. Despite the changing times, the senate hearings and exposures in the media, the mind-set never changed. Politically, he would be living in the 1960s till the day he died.
"They wouldn't act alone this way on friendly soil," Ramirez said. "Too much publicity, all bad. It doesn't play."
"Mossad?"
It was the logical suggestion for a Palestinian, and Khaldi had delivered it straight-faced. Ramirez tried to best his answer likewise.
"In Beirut, perhaps. But Germany?" He shook his head in an emphatic negative. "There are too many targets in the Middle East. When the Israelis go abroad to hunt, they look for Nazis in their wheelchairs." Pausing to appreciate their laughter, he continued in a moment. "No, I think our enemy is someone new to us this time."
While that sank in, Ramirez stared at Khaldi, waiting for the Arab to glance up and meet his gaze. Their eyes met, locked and held.
"What happened in Toronto?" he demanded.
A shrug. "Vachon's security was weak, and we were taken by surprise."
"By whom?"
"Competitors, I think... but who can say?"
"And the authorities?"
Mahmoud considered it briefly, finally shook his head.
"Police announce themselves before they open fire. The Western governments are totally predictable in their concern for 'human rights.'"
Ramirez grimaced, swept the table with his eyes.
"Has it occurred to no one that these incidents might be related? Do you pass it off as mere coincidence that we have lost two brothers in the space of seven days? Is no one interested in survival? In revenge?"
His voice had risen to a shout, and they were staring at him curiously, waiting for Ramirez to compose himself. He took a moment, breathing deeply, staring at them each in turn until they dropped their eyes or glanced away.
Among the three survivors, only Calderone appeared to feel no guilt, no loss of confidence. He faced Ramirez squarely, finally cleared his throat to speak.
"There is a common thread among these... incidents." He hesitated, for effect, before proceeding.
"Escobar and Castresana both were doing business with a Westerner, this Axelrod. Is it not possible that he has been the target all along?"
Ramirez had already touched upon a similar suspicion in his mind, uneasy with the implications. Now he trotted out his doubts, in hopes that they might be dispelled, some workable hypothesis extracted from the jumble of conflicting evidence.
"He was not present — was not even in the country — when our brother fell at Steyr."
The Nicaraguan frowned, considered the anomaly and finally dismissed it out of hand. "No matter. His supply was there. We may assume our enemies extracted information from Vachon or one of his associates. When Axelrod escaped them in Toronto with the money, they assumed that he would try to make the purchase at its source."
"And Carlos?"
"Ah. Whatever happened, we may never know the details, si? Assume that someone — Carlos, one of his connections — learned of strangers asking after weapons. Asking after Axelrod. A trap is set for the intruders, but it backfires. Carlos is a victim of his own devices."
Calderone's hypothesis was logical, it covered all the sketchy evidence available... and still, it left the Raven with a sickly feeling that the drama had another act in store. Their enemies would not be satisfied with Steyr, not if they were after Axelrod. And not if they had stumbled onto Project Raven, certainly. If Escobar and Castresana had been killed by members of the same conspiracy, if they were recognized for what they were...
The Raven stopped himself before the whirlpool of imagination could devour him. It was entirely possible, he realized, that he was on the verge of losing everything that he had worked and fought for ail these years. A single leak was dangerous, potentially disastrous, and today they seemed to be awash with leaks on every side. Despite the Nicaraguan's crafty calculations, they could not assume their enemies were interested in Axelrod alone. Not any longer, with two members of their company already slain, two others narrowly escaped from traps in Canada and Germany. Coincidence could not explain the seeming chain reaction of disasters that had overtaken them this week. If anything, the incident at Steyr was final proof of a conspiracy, concerted action by determined enemies.
"Security must be improved," Ramirez said at last. "Until we have the situation well in hand, we undertake no further operations, move no merchandise."
Mahmoud looked worried. "There are certain dealings with the PLO..."
"Postpone them. The survival of our operation takes priority," Ramirez snapped. "Are we agreed?"
There were reluctant nods around the table. These were men of action, and it went against their grain to hide themselves away while enemies were on their track. No strangers to the underground, they still preferred to face the dangers of their chosen life-style squarely, guns in hand, and forcibly eradicate whatever threats might challenge their ability to move about the globe at will, pursuing profit and the cause of people's revolution.
"Where is Axelrod tonight?"
The question came from Ludovescu, and Ramirez had been waiting for it, braced for their reactions.
"Here. Zermatt."
The Nicarguan and the Bulgar glanced at each other, turning back to glare at Julio Ramirez, pinning him with angry eyes. Mahmoud sat quietly, expressing no surprise. Indeed, he had transported Axelrod to Switzerland, on orders from Ramirez, following the firefight in Toronto. His was not to question why, and he would hold his peace until Ramirez pacified the other members of the team.
"You bring this plague among us?" Calderone demanded. "Why?"
Ramirez smiled, exuding confidence. "We needed bait, and the American will serve our purpose. If anyone is hunting him, they will be forced to seek him here."
"Precisely," Ludovescu blurted. "And while they are hunting him, perhaps they blunder onto us."
"Indeed."
"Es loco." Calderone made no attempt to hide his disenchantment with the Raven's plan. "Two dead already, and we bring the opposition here? By invitation? It is suicide!"
"Silencio!"
The Raven's voice cut through the Nicaraguan's protests like a knife through cheese, and left him with his mouth agape, the source of angry words choked off inside his throat.
"Have you so little confidence in one another? In yourselves?" His eyes were scornful as they skipped from face to face. "What better way to finally identify our enemies and root them out? What better means of sealing all our leaks at once?"
"But Axelrod..."
"Is bait, and nothing more," Ramirez said. "If he should be devoured by the shark, or simply thrown away when we are finished with him, who will mourn? He is an outlaw in America, a public nuisance. He will not be missed. Once we have finished with his enemies, our enemies, he is expendable."
They waited for him to continue, hanging on his every word, and they would turn upon him like a wolf pack if he seemed about to lose control. Ramirez let them think about it for a moment, finally played his ace.
"I had a visitor this morning, from Dzerzhinsky Square."
The silence had become a living thing. It crouched before them on the table, daring any man to violate its sanctity. When several moments had elapsed, Mahmoud leaned forward almost deferentially and asked, "What troubles the KGB?"
Ramirez spread his hands.
"What troubles all of us? What brings us here tonight?" His smile was narrow, mirthless. "They believe that Project Raven has outlived its usefulness. The time has come, they say, to scrap our operation and begin afresh, with other faces, other soldiers of the cause."
He was exaggerating, putting words in Rylov's mouth, but it did not require a psychic to predict their future if the string of ugly incidents continued unabated. They were standing on the eve of private Armageddon, staring down into the pit, and he did not intend to take that last step voluntarily.
"What shall we do?"
The question came from Ludovescu, the Bulgarian, who had been raised to manhood in the shadow of the Soviets. He knew firsthand of their duplicity, their infinite capacity for sacrifice — provided that the sacrifice was limited to rank-and-file subordinates.
"We must defend ourselves," Ramirez said, "against our enemies on every side. Our project must continue. Will continue."
"But the Soviets..."
"Are easily impressed," Ramirez finished for him. "They reward success and chastise failure. When we demonstrate that we have dealt with the elusive opposition, KGB will reconsider their decision... but we must resolve the matter swiftly, to our total satisfaction. And if Moscow's representative should have an accident, meanwhile..."
"He should have been more careful," Ludovescu quipped, provoking laughter from the others.
Calderone recovered first. "How soon can we arrange this accident?" he asked.
Ramirez raised a cautionary hand. "We must attend to our priorities," he said. "Our other enemies demand attention first, then Axelrod. Unless we deal from strength, the KGB will crush us underfoot."
"We do not crush so easily," Mahmoud declared.
He had them now, and Julio Ramirez managed to suppress his smile with a concerted effort.
"First things first," he said. "All things will come to us in time."
But time was running out, he knew. With Rylov in their midst, already searching for excuses to dismantle Project Raven, their future might be measured in a span of hours now. If they could not neutralize the threat from faceless enemies, the Russian would be able to proceed against them with impunity. Before they could eliminate the man from Moscow, they would have to deal with others still unknown, protect their flanks and form a hard, united front against their overcautious sponsors.
Rylov was the problem now. Of those who had originated Project Raven, he alone survived, and as a founding father, his opinion carried weight in Moscow. If he had decided that the project should be scuttled — and he had, or shortly would, that much was clear — the heavy hand of KGB would move at his command. Once he had been eliminated, his successors might be more amenable to reason. Even if th
ey finally voted in the negative, it might be possible for Project Raven to continue on an independent, unaffiliated basis.
After Rylov was eliminated.
After they had dealt with all their enemies in turn.
The prospect did not frighten Julio Ramirez. He had spent a lifetime waging war of one sort or another — on civilians, on the Western military powers, on the bourgeoisie. He had already set a record for longevity among his fellow terrorists; no one but Arafat had struggled longer in the cause, and lately the exalted leader of the PLO was sounding more like a negotiator than a soldier of the people, sniveling before the television cameras and apologizing to the world for the activities of bolder men. It made Ramirez sick to see his onetime idol shaking hands with Jesse Jackson, standing up in the United Nations and condemning "senseless violence" in the name of the assembled fedayeen.
There was no senseless violence, in the Raven's view. Some violent acts were fruitful, some were not — but history was written in the blood of martyrs, soldiers of the cause. No single act of mayhem was entirely wasted if it served a larger purpose, driving home the grim determination of the people's army to be heard. If acts of savagery provoked reaction, why, so much the better. Let the bourgeois enemy expose himself for what he was: a bloated leech that drained the common people of their strength. And if there must be friendly casualties, then let the chosen meet their fates with heads held high.
There was a profit to be made in revolution, and Ramirez had been lucky in acquiring sponsors who could recognize his talent, use it to their own advantage. He had grown with their ambitions, cultivating some objectives of his own, and he was not about to watch his world disintegrate around him now. If Rylov, Axelrod or any of their other, faceless enemies were anxious to destroy him, they would find the Raven ready, willing and extremely able to resist. There were no silent martyrs in Zermatt.
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