“I forgot to ask, where’s Liechtenstein?” Max said.
“It’s between Switzerland and Austria,” Tom said.
“Is it a country?” Max asked.
Tom nodded. “A small one. Known for money laundering.”
“That’s what Young said.”
Tom looked at Willy and said, “Let’s go to Liechtenstein and see what Valentin knows.”
“Liechtenstein doesn’t have an airport,” Willy said. “It’ll be quickest to fly into Zurich, and from there you can drive to Liechtenstein.”
“Zurich sounds good,” Hank said. He was calm now, as if the Blade incident had never happened.
Willy rose from his seat. “I’ll tell the pilot to take us to Zurich. And arrange for the Agency to send a German translator.”
Max thumbed his iPhone. “Young sent the pic of Valentin, but he didn’t send a pic of the girlfriend.”
“I’m sure he’s working on it,” Tom said. “We need to get into their apartment, grab some intel, and plant some electronic surveillance.”
Max continued to manipulate his phone. “We should have a photo of her, or at least some idea of what she looks like, so we can make sure she’s left the apartment before we break in and set up the bugs.”
Tom said, “You could pose as a private English conversation teacher—offer free lessons as part of some introductory offer or something. Then you can ID her and maybe get a photo.”
“That might work,” Max said.
“Gravy,” Hank said. “I’ll check on our bugging and surveillance equipment. You boys better get some rest.”
Max didn’t argue. He reclined his seat and caught some shut-eye.
The noise and vibration of the plane’s landing gear woke Max. He looked at his watch. Two hours had passed, but he felt shiny and new as if he’d slept eight hours. The flight was only an hour and a half, so they must’ve spent thirty minutes in a holding pattern waiting for an opening to land. Because passports and other controls had been abolished at many European borders, such as between Austria and Switzerland, it was as easy as flying from one state to another in the US.
Max and the others stepped off the plane amid snow flurries. Two cars were parked on the tarmac with their engines running, and in one of them, a blonde woman sat in the driver’s seat. A young brunette dressed in business attire approached them.
“Friends of ours,” Willy said.
The brunette pointed to the empty car. “That one is yours,” she said. “Welcome to Zurich.”
“I won’t be staying, but my friends will,” Willy said.
It seemed like an innocent enough exchange, but their words and actions were predetermined, to verify that the woman and Willy worked for the Agency. She handed Willy a set of keys, she got into the car with the blonde driver, and they rode away.
Willy passed the keys to Hank. “See ya, buddy.”
Hank took the keys. “Thanks.”
Max waved goodbye to Willy before sitting in the front passenger seat. Tom waved before he crashed in the back seat. Hank sat next to Max and drove out of the airport. Snowflakes gathered on the windshield, and Hank flicked on the windshield wipers. Then he turned onto the highway and picked up speed, driving past airport hotels with signs written in German and English.
“You sure you don’t want me to drive?” Max asked. “I slept on the plane.”
“I’m good,” Hank said. “Need something to take my mind off finding him.”
“We’ll find him.”
“Hope so. Then maybe I can put this to rest. Maybe I can rest.”
Max spoke without thinking. “I know what you mean.”
Hank said nothing.
Max thought about what he just said. “I mean, I know what it’s like to lose a mother—not a wife.”
Hank seemed to ponder Max’s words. “I guess I don’t know what it’s like to be so young and lose a mother. Maybe I should’ve …”
“Don’t,” Max said. “No shoulda coulda woulda.”
“But …”
“Don’t. I’m serious. No chick-flick moments. We’re Wayne men.”
Hank cracked half a smile.
The highway widened, and they passed stretches of snow-topped homes that looked like hands in prayer illuminated by streetlights. Then came silhouettes of evergreens standing vigil beneath the moonlight. The rooftops and trees alternated until the road curved south into a valley. They ran beside the Rhine River, its dark, sensual waters mysterious in the moonlight, until they crossed the border into Liechtenstein. Deeper into the Rhine Valley, they reached the capital city, Vaduz, which slumbered silently beneath a blanket of snow and soft lights. They rode up a mountainside, and the headlights illuminated a high canopy of snow-covered branches that were like the entrance to a winter wonderland. Hank parked at a chateau called Park Hotel Sonnenhof. Max got out of the car and could see the black vein of the Rhine Valley, the shadowy Alps, and a brightly lit castle on a mountaintop.
They checked in, and a friendly receptionist gave them their keys. Each was attached to what looked like a plate of gold. It wasn’t a spacious hotel, but it was charming and elegant, and Max felt as if he’d been transported into a fairy tale.
An hour later, after finding their rooms and preparing for the next day, Max went to bed. He hoped this fairy tale would be a story of redemption.
18
The next morning, Tom drove Max out to Valentin’s building, and they watched it until he left, which wasn’t until after ten o’clock. They waited another hour to make sure he was clearly gone before Max went door-to-door posing as a private English conversation instructor. Tom would maintain visual reconnaissance from the car, where he also stood by with audio surveillance equipment—in case an early opportunity presented itself to set it up in Valentin’s place. Meanwhile Hank took a taxi to hunt for an apartment near Valentin’s.
Each apartment in Valentin’s building had a door opening to an outdoor area with a concrete deck and a roof above. Because Max wouldn’t be protected inside a foyer or hallway, he’d be exposed to the wind and cold, and he didn’t want to stay out in this winter weather too long. Although his target was on the second floor, he started on the first floor to give the appearance of random door knocking. He pressed a doorbell button, but no one answered, so he walked over to the next apartment and rang. A hairy man with monstracious muscles opened the door and grunted something at Max in German.
“Hi, today I’m offering free English lessons,” Max said.
“Mein Englisch ist bescheuert.” It sounded like he said “my English is bullshit,” which was the whole point of Max offering his services, but the man closed the door and clicked the lock.
Unfazed, Max climbed the stairs to the next pair of apartments and rang the bell at one. An elderly woman opened the door.
“Hi, today I’m offering free English lessons,” Max said.
“Das ist mir wurst,” she said, and her face screwed up before she slammed the door on him.
Finally, Max rang the doorbell at Valentin’s apartment—no answer. He rang again. Still no answer. He tried again. The door opened, and a not scantily endowed woman appeared. Her golden hair flowed freely down her shoulders, and her relaxed confidence in the doorway stopped his breath for a moment.
“Hi, I’m free English offer today,” he said.
She cocked her head to the side as if she didn’t understand.
He was so focused on her that he didn’t remember what he’d said. He wasn’t sure if her bewildered expression was caused by his words, her lack of understanding, or both, so he said it again: “Hi, today I’m offering free English lessons.”
Her words quickened. “Where you from?”
“America,” he said.
“I thought so. You look like young James Spader.”
“James who?” he asked. When in France, he was told he looked like Michael Bublé, and he had to Google him to figure out who he was. When it came to Max’s appearance, some foreigners seemed
to have a warped sense of vision.
“James Spader,” she said. “When he was young. You know, Pretty in Pink?”
If it was a movie that had the word “pink” in it, he was sure he hadn’t seen it, and he was sure he hadn’t seen this one. He shook his head.
She leaned against the doorframe. “Secretary?”
He had first thought Secretary was a kinky sex movie, but when he started to watch it, there was too much talking and not enough sex, so he stopped watching. He remembered Maggie Gyllenhaal was cute, but he didn’t remember the dude. And now Max didn’t know how to say all this without it getting lost in translation and making him look bad, so he grinned sheepishly. “What’s it about?”
Her smile broadened, but she didn’t answer. “What movies you watch?”
“Saw Hell or High Water. It was pretty good.”
“What is it about?” she asked.
“Two brothers rob a bank that’s about to foreclose on their dead mother’s ranch.”
“Sounds interesting. What else you like?”
“Unforgiven.”
She became animated and made a shooting gesture with her finger. “Clint Eastwood—I like. Good, Bad, Ugly—Italo-Western.”
“Yes, in English we call it a Spaghetti Western.” Max was relieved to find some common ground. “I like those movies, too.”
“Spaghetti Western sounds funny.” Hers eyes sparkled diamond-brilliant blue. “Where this free English lesson?”
“At the coffee shop across the street.” He expected a public place would be easier for her to commit to, and it would get her out of the apartment so Tom could sneak in and set up electronic listening devices. Also, from the coffee shop, Max could watch the area in front of the apartment to warn Tom if Valentin returned early.
She grinned. “One moment.” Then she closed the door. Her grin was a good sign, but the closed door was a bad sign. He waited. And waited.
A few minutes later, the door opened again, and she emerged wearing a milky white jacket, gloves, and a knit hat. She was carrying a set of keys. Then she closed the door behind her and twisted a key in the keyhole until the lock clicked. She dropped the keys in her jacket pocket with a jingle and extended her hand to him. “Emma.”
He shook it. “Max.”
He released the handshake, but she grabbed his hand. She tugged him down the stairs, and he wondered what would happen next. “Are you from around here?” he asked.
She rushed him across the ground floor and out into the falling snow. “Yes.” Instead of going to the coffee shop, she took him in another direction, disrupting his tactical plans. He thought maybe she had a different coffee shop in mind.
Tom’s voice sounded in Max’s earbud: “Where you going, Yukon?”
“I don’t know,” Max said.
“You don’t know what?” Emma asked.
“I’m going in,” Tom said.
Emma turned a corner, and Max lost visual on the front of the building. This was not going according to plan—at all—and he didn’t want Tom risking it. “No,” he said.
“Keep her busy ’til I finish, okay?” Tom said.
“You okay?” she asked.
This situation was fluid and moving rapidly, possibly in their favor, so Max decided not to argue with his brother. Max answered both Tom and Emma with one word. “Yes.”
“In Liechtenstein, people become who they want to be.” Her blue eyes beamed brightly.
“Who do you want to be?” Max asked.
“Myself,” she said without hesitation. “Who do you want to be?”
“Myself,” Max said.
“I don’t want coffee,” she said, “I want snow.”
Max picked up his pace so she wouldn’t have to pull him, and he jogged with her through the falling snow.
“You know movie, Love Story?” she asked.
Max was amazed at her knowledge of American movies and embarrassed by his ignorance. “Heard of it.”
“It’s silly movie, but I love it.” As she ran, she opened her mouth and caught snowflakes.
Max opened his mouth and captured some of the ice crystals, too. They melted in his mouth.
The sun dominated the Alps, erasing most of the mountain range’s shadows, but the snow fell thicker and faster, casting an ivory curtain in front of the shining orb. Emma led him past a section of tall wild grass bent in sparkling waves of ice.
Max and Emma dashed into a white powdered park. At the center of it, they hopped up the steps of a white gazebo. Snow crunched on the deck beneath their feet, and they stopped under an octagonal canopy. She latched onto the front of his jacket and pulled him down—forcefully—and they fell to the snowy bed.
Max lay beside her and said, “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
She was so close that he felt the warmth of her breath. “No trouble.”
A low picket wall circled them, preventing outside eyes from seeing them but allowing them to see the outside sky. He tasted the heat on her moist lips, and his temperature rose. She unzipped her jacket. He unzipped his. Then she removed one of his gloves and slipped his bare hand underneath her blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her skin was soft as homemade bread and warm as toast.
Her voice smoldered. “I don’t want talk. I want do.”
When it came to getting naked with women, Max had no inhibitions, but when Emma unbuttoned her blouse, he remembered his throat mic, and he nearly panicked. He fumbled like a clumsy schoolboy to unbutton his shirt and covertly remove his mic at the same time. He discretely stuffed the mic in his shirt pocket.
She stripped off her slacks, revealing alabaster thighs. He did the same while awkwardly hiding his Glock. He removed his merino wool beanie and used it to cover his weapon. They shed most of their clothes. She kept on her blouse and jacket—both open now, exposing her. Max eased on top of Emma.
Soon the keys in her pocket were jingling like sleigh bells. The gazebo trembled, and a gust of wind blew snowflakes into the open structure and across his bare back. Their bodies steamed, rising in thermal degrees like a comet hitting air in the upper atmosphere. They burned hotter and hotter, brighter and brighter, as if to reach incandescence. When their heat began to dim, they kicked in the afterburners and burned hotter and brighter once more. He didn’t know if half an hour had passed or an hour, but they entered the earth’s atmosphere like a comet and crumbled to earth.
He lay beside her and caught his breath. Usually this was the moment when he’d be eager to cut and run, but he’d found a kindred spirit—one who fearlessly lived in the moment. He kissed her.
“I’m on my way out,” Tom transmitted.
Max sat up. His back was cold, and his chest was hot. He turned his back to Emma, strapped on his throat mic, and buttoned his shirt. Like a bashful boy, he hid his Glock from her view as he put it on with his trousers. After concealing his weapon with his clothing, he turned to look at her.
She pulled on her slacks. Curiosity filled her sweet voice. “Why you ring doorbell?”
He rang it because he had a job to do, but he couldn’t tell her what his real job was. “Because I’m giving free English lessons.”
She buttoned her blouse. “You saved me.”
“Pardon?”
“I so bored. Then you came.”
“It’s difficult to imagine you bored.”
She zipped up her jacket. “Tell me you love me.”
Max recoiled—“love” was a word he’d only uttered to his mother, and after she died, he’d never uttered it again. “But I don’t love you,” he said matter-of-factly.
“I know,” she said sweetly. “Just say ‘I love you.’ Lie to me. You never tell lie?”
Max zipped up his jacket. “I’ve told more lies than I can remember, but I’ve never told that lie.”
“Only one lie. I don’t want you love. I only want hear. Like movies. Say ‘I love you.’”
He leaned over and kissed her. “I love you.”
Her cheeks
glowed. “I love you, too.”
They got to their feet. He wanted to spend the night in the gazebo with her—they’d likely freeze to death, but it’d be a helluva way to go—better to burn out than to fade away and all that.
“Will I see you again?” she asked.
Max figured that Tom might need access to Valentin’s apartment again; at least, that’s how he justified seeing her again. “How about lunch tomorrow?”
“I like.”
“Can I pick you up at your apartment at twelve?” he asked.
“Twelve is good,” she said.
They descended the gazebo’s steps. Snowflakes floated, smaller and fewer now. The sun broke through the sky like liquid silver. Max and Emma retraced their hurried footprints in the snow, going the opposite way now. He gave her his phone number, and she entered it in her fluorescent red iPhone and called it. Then he added her to his contact list.
Their tryst in the gazebo was brazen, and he thought they’d better not press their luck by being seen together near her apartment. At the edge of the park, Max said, “Maybe we should say goodbye here.”
“No goodbye,” she said. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
19
A couple blocks away from Valentin’s apartment, Max and Tom sat on the floor of an apartment that Hank had rented. They finished a late bratwurst dinner with their dad while they ran surveillance. There was no furniture. A live audio feed into Valentin’s apartment played. “What movie is that?” Tom asked.
“Romeo and Juliet,” Max said.
Tom looked surprised. “You like to play the fool, but you’re smarter than you let on.”
Max understood tragedy and identified with it in the play. “I just like Shakespeare.”
The doorbell rang.
Hank rose, walked briskly to the door, and peered through the peephole. He opened it and invited a lady in. She was a blonde in her early thirties with a blissful aura about her. Hank closed the door. “This is Sophia, our interpreter.”
“Sophia, this is Max and Tom.”
“Hi,” she said.
Hank pointed to the receiving and recording equipment wired together on the floor and said, “Earlier Valentin and his girlfriend Emma had a heated discussion, but they quieted down.” He played back one of the audio recorders. Sophia translated.
Assassin's Sons: [#4] A Special Operations Group Thriller Page 12
