“What’s Sacher torte?” Max asked.
“No idea,” Tom said. “If you’re good, maybe I’ll give you a bite.”
Minutes later, the waitress returned with their coffee and pastries. Tom motioned for Max to help himself to a bite of his black cake.
Max did.
“Hey,” Tom complained, “I said a bite, not the whole thing.
The Sacher torte tasted of chocolate and apricot. “This is cordon bleu,” Max said. He loved Vienna and looked forward to experiencing more of this delicious city.
Three cups of coffee later, Tom said, “Grub is late. Is this the right place?”
Hank simply nodded his head.
Another twenty minutes had passed when an Arab man in his forties with a full beard and wearing street clothes arrived through the pastry side of the café. He unzipped his jacket, revealing a red Egyptian Al Ahly Sporting Club soccer shirt, the shirt Willy said Grub would wear.
Max raised his hand, signaling Grub to join them at their table. Grub’s dark eyes locked on him, then skittered away. As he walked toward their table, his eyes darted back and forth between Max and the nearest exit as if he might make a run for it any minute.
Hank gave the first words of the bona fides: “Please, join us.”
Then Grub said his line: “What’re you having?”
“Coffee and cake.”
“I’d like that.”
Bona fides complete, Grub sat, and Max ordered him a coffee and cake. Grub ate as if he hadn’t eaten for days. With each bite, his darting eyes settled. He took a deep breath. Then Grub said, “We’re enemies, you and I.”
“I know,” Hank said.
“I need the money,” Grub said.
“Money I have.”
“Show me.”
Hank pulled out an envelope and discreetly displayed the money inside. “All yours.”
Grub eyed it anxiously and wasted no time getting down to business. “Lukas Saada forges documents and counterfeits currency for Ringvereine,” Grub said. “He owns an extensive knife collection, so people call him Blade. He also has an explosive temper.”
“I understand that you want the money,” Hank said, “but why would you rat out your buddy?”
“I thought this is what you wanted to know. I was told that you’d pay me for such information.”
“Yes, if your information is good, I’ll pay you.”
Grub ate a piece of cake. “He’s not my buddy. I do forgeries and counterfeiting, too. He’s competition.”
Hank smiled. “You want to get rid of the competition.”
“Yes, and the money will be a bonus for me.”
Max interjected a question. “What else do you know about Blade?”
“He might run video surveillance inside his house. I know he beat and tortured his boyfriend before he fled the country. Also, Blade goes out to eat every night—always the same restaurant.”
“Do you have a cell phone and address for Blade?” Hank asked.
Grub hesitated.
Hank persisted. “Need a cell phone to verify he exists. And an address or at least a recent photo. Before you get paid.”
Grub reached in his pocket.
Max drew his gun and kept it concealed beneath the table. Tom’s shoulder moved slightly, indicating he’d done the same. Hank didn’t wince in the slightest—either his covert draw was perfectly covert, or he hadn’t drawn his weapon.
Grub seemed oblivious to Max’s actions. Grub pulled out a piece of paper with some scribble on it and handed it to Hank.
Hank looked at it. “Cell number and address—you came prepared.”
“Now do I get paid?” Grub asked.
“If the information is good,” Hank said.
“It’s good, it’s good,” Grub said.
13
10 Days
Blade opened the door to his Vienna condo. “Come in, gentlemen. Hope you don’t mind the mess.” He wore a finely tailored suit, similar to the twins, and his hair was coruscant.
Düster and Junior joined Blade inside. The modern couch, coffee table, carpet, and shelves aligned at neat angles on a spotless wood floor, and the place was brightly lit. “Doesn’t look messy to me,” Düster said.
“Immaculate,” Junior said.
Blade nearly blushed in what seemed to be a mix of pride and embarrassment. “Thank you.”
Düster checked himself out in a decorative mirror on the wall. He liked the outline of his face in symmetry with the borders of the mirror and the lines in Blade’s apartment. “Nice mirror.”
“Well hung,” Junior said.
Düster gave Blade a honey badger smile.
Blade smiled politely. He was a predator, too, but he wasn’t at the apex. As long as he forged and counterfeited for the twins, they assured his survival.
Düster strolled over to the bookshelf. Instead of books, it was adorned with blades: military, hunting, dagger, butterfly, throwing, and foreign. And there were pocketknives—lockbacks and multi-tools. Düster touched the machete that hung from one side of the bookshelf while his brother admired the Malaysian parang hanging on the other side.
The layout of Blade’s condo was open, and Düster could see deep into the kitchen, where a dozen knife handles protruded from a wooden knife block standing on the counter.
In a separate space was an office with a desk and several X-Acto knives on it. “That’s where the magic happens,” Düster said.
“It kick-starts the spirit to see your blade collection again,” Junior said.
Düster returned his gaze to the machete. “Thrilling.”
Blade bowed his head. “You’re too kind.’
“I need to use your water closet,” Junior said.
Blade pointed his hand in the direction of the bathroom. “Please, this way.”
Junior disappeared into the bathroom and the door clicked shut.
There were two more doorways in the condo, leading to bedrooms, covered by crimson curtains instead of doors. Blade was single and used one of the bedrooms for storage.
“I heard Commander al-Iraqi is missing, possibly captured,” Blade said.
Düster caressed the machete blade. “Yes.”
“People say you’ll be promoted to commander. Congratulations.”
“I had some problems with my coyote, but his assistant is getting the job done. My twelve jihadis are now travelling from Syria along the Balkans route. But they’ll need IDs and counterfeit money before they can continue to Germany.”
Blade walked over to a satchel on the floor leaning against his desk. He picked up the satchel and handed it to Düster. “Inside are IDs and money for six of them. But I need to make a supply run before I can finish the other documents.”
Düster let the machete hang and took the satchel. “In ten days, I’m counting on you to smuggle us onto that German cargo ship bound for New York. Are you sure you can get us and the explosives on?”
“I do it often,” Blade said. “I can smuggle anything. I’ve got some cargo handlers and mariners on my payroll. They’ll get your gang and your explosives on board without anyone else knowing.”
“What about inspections?”
Blade sighed. “I got you and your brother and the bombs to America before.”
“Georgetown was just a practice run,” Düster said. “This time there will be more men and more explosives. This time it will be New York.”
“We already went over this.”
“I want to hear it again,” Düster said.
“From Hamburg to New York, you’ll sail on a trusted shipper that’s on the green lane program. They’re rarely inspected.”
“Rarely doesn’t mean never.”
“Yes, there’s always some risk.” Blade stepped closer to Düster and grinned.
Düster didn’t return the smile. But he didn’t frown either. He showed no emotion as he looked into Blade’s eyes.
Blade’s smile broadened as he stared into Düster’s eyes.
Düster pulled away. “What’s that smell?”
“Smell?”
Düster didn’t like the cologne or whatever it was that Blade wore. “On you, what is that odor?”
Concern filled Blade’s voice. “Body wash?”
“Get rid of it.”
Disappointment crossed Blade’s face. “It was a gift from you.”
“I’ll buy you something awe-inspiring. And that necktie, I don’t like it.”
“I can wear another necktie.”
The bathroom door opened, and Junior appeared. He stopped in the doorway as if he’d interrupted something.
Blade slinked away from Düster and went behind one of the red curtains.
Junior looked his brother in the eyes and asked, “Is something wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“You seem like something’s wrong.”
Düster rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s the hairs on the back of my neck. They keep standing up as if there’s trouble.”
“Yes,” Junior said. “I feel it, too. Can’t quite put my finger on what it is.”
“Something is out of place,” Düster said.
14
The sun fell out of the heart of Vienna, where Max and Tom strolled into a century-old building converted into a luxury hotel, across the street from Blade’s condominium. Hank went back to the car for something he’d forgotten. The brothers stepped up to the front desk, and the clerk greeted them in German.
Max showed the clerk the reservation on his iPhone. “We have reservations.”
The clerk looked at the reservation, then switched to English. “Yes, of course. There are two beds, uh, if you need them.”
Max became curt. “Damn straight we need two.”
The clerk leaned back and coughed. “Oh, I didn’t mean—what I mean to say is that we accept people of any race, religion, color, or—sexual orientation.”
“We’re business partners,” Max said.
Tom helped out. “We’re here to see about expanding our business to Europe. We have another partner who will stay in a different room. He should be here any moment.”
The clerk handed Max the card keys to their room as if he were the king bestowing a gift upon his peasants—expecting praise for his benevolence. In German, he commanded a nearby valet, who stood hunched over like he was carrying luggage, even though his hands were empty.
The valet put their luggage on a cart and led them toward the elevators, and on the way they passed beneath the fading light coming through stained glass windows before they were escorted up the elevator to the sixth floor. Then the valet unlocked their door and led them into a spacious modern room with a flat-screen TV and Viennese accents of wood, marble, and mother-of-pearl. Tom tipped the man, and he thanked him politely before leaving. Max strolled over to the window and peered outside. If Grub’s report was correct Blade’s condo was across the street, two floors below. His red curtains were closed. “Let’s tail Blade to dinner and see if his routine matches the pattern Grub gave us.”
The room was chilly and Tom turned up the thermostat. “Sounds like a plan.”
Minutes later, a knock came at the door.
Max put his hand on his pistol grip.
Tom went to the door and looked through the peephole, keeping his body to the side in case someone tried to shoot through the door. “It’s Dad.” Tom opened it.
Hank sauntered into the room and sat in the sitting area. “Tonight, if you boys follow Blade to Chameleon, I’ll tail him from the restaurant back to his apartment.”
“Sure,” Max said. He looked for a cord to close the curtain but saw none. Upon examining the wall, he noticed a control. He fiddled with it until blackout shades closed. “Coolsville.” Then he walked over to the sitting area and sat with Tom and Hank.
On his phone, Hank displayed a map of Blade’s predicted route between his condo and the restaurant. “It’s about a ten-minute walk from Blade’s place to the restaurant and another ten minutes back.”
Max brought up the map on his phone and studied it, too.
“It’s just below freezing outside,” Tom said. “Exposure time in this weather could degrade our ability to stay on him.”
Hank looked up from his map. “There’s no bad weather, only bad clothing.”
“You told us that before, Dad,” Tom said.
“More than once,” Max said.
Tom folded his arms. “I’m merely saying that we could end up outside for longer than we’re expecting. You’re preaching to the choir.”
“Grub said that Blade leaves his condo at about 7:00 p.m. for dinner,” Hank said.
“If Tom and I exit here at 6:25,” Max said, “we can be on the street at 6:30 and get ready for Blade in case he leaves early.” He pointed to a French bakery on his map and showed it to Tom. “We can act like we’re shopping here until Blade walks by. Then we can slip out and follow him.”
“Just don’t start eating, or we’ll never get out of there,” Tom said.
Max shrugged—guilty as charged.
After they planned their surveillance and reexamined Blade’s photo, they kitted up. For communications, Max dropped a radio receiver the size of a green pea in his ear canal and wore a throat mic, as did Tom and Hank. Shooting and moving were important, but communication was the third leg in the tripod that supported success.
Max wore long johns under his pants and soft merino wool socks. He buttoned his shirt collar geek-style to conceal his throat mic, and he wore his Glock 9mm in a holster on his hip and concealed it with a fleece sweater. Over the sweater, he wore a jacket. Next, he put on a toasty pair of Salomon boots. Then he put on a beanie.
The biggest challenge was gloves. Assault rifles had large trigger guards that could accommodate thick gloves, but the trigger guards on pistols were smaller. In order to effectively manipulate his pistol, he had to wear thin gloves, and when his hands became too cold, he’d have to put them in his pockets to warm up. Max pulled on a pair of thin water-resistant gloves that snugly fit his hands.
Tom wore a Glock, too. Both Max and Tom’s pistols were manufactured locally in Austria, so they couldn’t be traced to the US. As a backup, Tom carried a stainless steel pen with nonslip grips. It wasn’t a tactical pen per se, but it didn’t draw attention and could be used in a pinch to stab someone.
Max glanced at his watch and it was 6:22 p.m. His heart rate sped up with each passing minute. When his watch read 6:25, he headed out the door and Tom followed. They rode the elevator down and slipped out the side door of the hotel. It wasn’t as cold outside as Max expected, probably because his adrenaline was burning so hot. He checked his watch again—6:28. He’d moved more quickly than he anticipated. His mind sped like a Ferrari. He needed to drop it down a gear or risk attracting unwanted attention. Max took a deep breath and eased off the accelerator. Tom noticed and slowed his steps, too.
Blade was nowhere in sight—yet. About a foot of snow had accumulated on the building ledges, but the wide pedestrian zone was mostly clear of the white stuff. Max and Tom approached the bakery where they would begin their surveillance. On the window, the reflection of shop lights mingled with Christmas lights. He remembered Dad’s story of how he met Maman. Max wondered what the chances were of meeting an eye-catching French girl inside the bakery.
He and Tom stepped inside. A big blonde woman rushed Max like a bulldozer, and he nearly leaped inside his skin. Tom leaned back. Max was five foot ten and Tom an even six, but this woman was taller than both of them and seemed wider than the brothers were combined. Whoa.
Her German greeting bubbled with enthusiasm.
Tom thought quicker, smiled, and pointed to a row of gingerbread houses displayed in the window facing the pedestrian zone. Max copied his brother’s smile and gesture.
She nodded and said something in German as if she understood they wanted to look.
As Max pretended to examine the gingerbread houses, he scann
ed outside for signs of Blade.
Max liked gingerbread, or any kind of bread, but he couldn’t help wonder, and his thoughts slipped out of his mouth in a French mumble: “If this is a French bakery, where’s the Bûche de Noël?”
“Vous parlez Francais,” the baker gushed in French. You speak French.
Tom frowned at Max.
She seemed about to move in for a mongo hug, but Max sidestepped her.
“The Bûche de Noël is here!” She looked about to break an arm pointing anxiously to a side shelf of Yule log sponge cakes covered in bark-like chocolate and sprinkled with snowy white sugar.
The warm aroma of freshly baked breads beckoned him back to Maman’s kitchen. At Christmastime, she’d make thirteen desserts, one for Jesus and one for each of his apostles. Max’s taste buds watered and his heart ached.
Tom kicked him out of his daydream.
Before Max could return the kick, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a man pass their window wearing a trim, knee-length, camel-colored cashmere business overcoat. He was the man in the intel photo Willy showed them: Blade. Adrenaline dumped into Max’s blood, priming him for the chase. A horde of pedestrians passed outside, and losing Blade in the crowd became a real possibility. Max slipped out the door without a goodbye.
He’d lost sight of Blade, so he hurriedly analyzed the crowd. Mentally he filtered out women, elderly, and non-Caucasians until he found him. They were walking too fast, so Max slowed to keep at least two pedestrians between themselves and their target. Max’s body had heated up inside the bakery, and now the cold air kissed his skin.
Blade didn’t look over his shoulder or show any sign that he was trying to detect surveillance. Maybe he felt safe and was complacent. Or maybe he was really good at this.
Red, white, and green Christmas lights adorned the entrances and windows of designer stores that lined both sides of the promenade. High above, streamers of white lights stretched the width of the walkway. From the streamers hung giant, bell-like ornaments made of more white lights.
Blade entered a T intersection. Between him and Max, a pair of lovers turned suddenly, as if changing their minds about where they were going. A family of five departed, as well. If Blade turned now, he’d have a clear view of Max and Tom—they’d be caught out in the open, and Blade could become suspicious. Max veered over to a cluster of people.
Assassin's Sons: [#4] A Special Operations Group Thriller Page 9
