Assassin's Sons: [#4] A Special Operations Group Thriller

by Stephen Templin

  “Vlad Ledouskikh is concerned about Commander al-Iraqi’s and Blade’s disappearance,” Emma said. “What happened?”

  Valentin’s words came out tense: “Have you talked to anybody else about this?”

  “No,” she said.

  “You can’t talk about these things. Don’t even say Vlad’s name.”

  “Yeah,” she said dismissively.

  “I’m not joking. Where’d you hear these things?”

  “You act like you don’t trust me.”

  “Have you forgotten that I came home from work and caught you with another man?”

  “He was my coworker, and since I quit the job, I didn’t see him anymore. Only did it because you’re never home. I was bored.”

  “You know how stressful work was for me then.”

  “What about now? If you want more than I can give, I understand. If you see someone else, I only ask that you don’t let me know. Just don’t leave me alone.”

  “It’s not right.”

  “For someone who uses numbers all day, you’re not logical. And you don’t invite me to any of your parties.”

  “My clients have secrets, and I can’t involve you.”

  “I’m bored,” she said. “Zurich or Munich would be better than here.”

  “I’m searching, but they’re not hiring. I told you this before.” Footsteps walked away—maybe they were Valentin’s footsteps.

  Somebody, probably Emma, played a movie.

  Hank hit the stop button. “That’s all we have so far.”

  Max picked up his phone and input a message. “I’ll text Park and see if he can give us something more on this Vlad dude.”

  Tom reached over to his laptop and opened it. “I’ll do an Internet search.”

  Hank put his hand on Max’s shoulder and said, “You better be careful with this Emma gal at lunch tomorrow.”

  Max cleared his throat. “I can handle her.”

  “She can handle you,” Tom said.

  “I can handle her,” Max repeated.

  “What were you two doing while I was bugging the apartment?” Tom asked. “You went off radio for about an hour.”

  “English lessons,” Max said. “Mic problem.”

  “Mmm,” Tom said.

  “The sacrifices I make for my country,” Max said with fake seriousness.

  The next morning, the Waynes and their interpreter listened to the live feed of Valentin’s apartment as he left for work. Max looked out the window and saw him drive away. About an hour later, Max’s phone rang. The caller’s name displayed: Emma. “Max, I sorry,” she said. “I forgot another appointment. I can’t go lunch with you today.”

  Max attempted to hide his disappointment. “When can you go?”

  “I’ll call back,” she said. “Sorry. We go other time.” She hung up.

  This change of plan was bad for the mission, but he was surprised at how much he’d been looking forward to seeing her again. “She canceled lunch.”

  “We need to get back into that apartment so we can get more info about this Vlad character,” Tom said. “He might connect us to Ringvereine’s leaders.”

  Minutes later, a young rock star–looking guy with platinum blond hair sauntered into Emma’s apartment building. On the live audio feed, her doorbell rang. The door unlocked, and Emma and the rock star briefly greeted each other in German as if they knew each other. The door lock sounded again. Then they talked.

  It was déjà vu. Max didn’t want to hear what came next. He felt played.

  “She does have a busy schedule,” Tom said.

  The audio became quiet, so Tom turned up the volume. Max wished he hadn’t. A faint squeaking sounded, like the rocking of bedsprings. Tom chuckled and Sophia seemed embarrassed. Max wasn’t amused. He wasn’t the jealous type, but he didn’t want to hear these details of Emma’s life.

  Still looking out the window at the front of Emma’s apartment, Max saw it. “Valentin is back.”

  “Not good,” Tom said.

  “I should warn her,” Max said.

  “And tell her what?” Hank said. “That you’re stalking her? That you work for the Agency? Don’t blow this like you blew the Blade op! It’s too late to warn her, anyway.”

  Over the audio feed came Emma’s voice in the throes of passion. Max’s body tightened up, and he didn’t know why. The woman continued to make noises. Max’s body became so taut that he thought he’d snap. This is going on for much too long.

  “What’s Valentin doing?” Tom asked. “Watching?”

  Four gunshots rang out—pop, pop, pop, pop! Max’s gut felt like he was the one who was shot. Pop!

  “Sonofabitch!” Hank shouted.

  The audio feed became quiet. Max started for the door, but Hank held him back and said, “Wait. Let the locals handle this.”

  Max stopped. He and the others waited. The sound in their apartment was dead.

  Ten minutes later, sirens, lights, squad cars, and an ambulance came. Police and paramedics poured out of the vehicles, and the police entered the building first.

  Sofia resumed translation. “The police are making sure it’s safe. Three dead. All gunshot wounds. One self-inflicted—he’s the shooter. Is it safe for the paramedics? Send them.”

  The paramedics entered the building. While the emergency responders went about their business, the Waynes and Sophia went about theirs—planning how they’d go into Valentin’s apartment and sweep up the intel.

  “I’ll head out first to fetch the car and bring it around to post surveillance on the entrance to Valentin’s apartment building. I’ll also stand by as the getaway car,” Hank said.

  Max didn’t want to go into that apartment, but he knew he had to. “Tom and I will go next.” He looked at Sophia. “Sophia give us half a minute, so we don’t look like we’re all going together. Then you come and stand watch outside the apartment door while Max and I go inside. You’re native to the area, so you can talk your way out of any problems that might arise.”

  The paramedics left shortly after discovering that all three were dead. Soon after, a coroner arrived. Half an hour later, the police and coroner left, and Valentin’s apartment became silent again—time to move out. Max looked at the others in turn—they were ready, but Max didn’t feel ready. Hank headed out first. Max went next, Tom beside him.

  They slipped into Valentin’s building and climbed the stairs. Tape with red and white rectangles and polizeiabsperrung written on it crossed the doorway to the apartment. Max reached under the tape and picked the door open. Tom ducked under the tape and entered first, his pistol at the ready. Max followed, locking the door behind him.

  Max didn’t expect anyone in the apartment, but they cleared it anyway. Inside the bedroom, blood soaked the carpet and bedsheets, and blood spatter stained the walls and ceiling. Max spotted Emma’s fluorescent red iPhone and pocketed it. He confiscated a laptop, some papers, and anything else that appeared to have intel value before moving to the next room.

  Max and his brother only took half an hour in the apartment before they emerged with stuffed pockets and bags. Max motioned for Sophia to follow them. They descended the stairs and jumped into the vehicle, where Hank sat behind the wheel. He pulled away from Emma’s apartment building and into the street. He drove to the Park Hotel Sonnenhof rather than their apartment across the street. An Agency cleaner would visit their apartment to pick up the surveillance equipment and cover their tracks.

  As the city lights of Vaduz drifted along the passenger window, an invisible cloud of gloom hovered over Max. He’d cried when Maman died, but he hadn’t cried since then. He pushed the dark cloud and Emma’s bloody bedroom out of his mind. In their place, he kept the memory of making love to her in the gazebo in the snow. As it was with so many of Max’s memories, he forgot the bad and remembered the good. He remembered what it was like to embrace a shooting star.

  20

  Emma’s death hit Max harder than he realized. He sat like a zombie
on his bed with a cup of coffee in one hand and his iPhone in another. After he opened his hidden encrypted e-mail and read the header of a new e-mail, he said, “Young just sent background info on Vlad.”

  Tom put down his morning cup of orange juice. “What’s it say?”

  Max read aloud: “Vladimir Ledouskikh came from a wealthy Russian family, but he joined the Russian mafia for the thrill of it. He rose in the ranks until he ran his own crew, but one of his men was the boss’s son, and he wouldn’t obey, so Vlad asked the boss to transfer his son to another crew. The boss refused, and adding insult to the refusal, the boss demanded more tribute money from Vlad. A week later, the boss and his son’s bodies were found in a Dumpster. They’d been shot, stabbed, and burned. During the autopsy, a hundred banknotes, worth five thousand rubles, were found stuffed in the boss’s anus. Vlad left Russia to live in Berlin, and later he settled in Munich.”

  “Munich isn’t that far away.” Tom picked up his orange juice and took a sip.

  A knock came at the door. Max put his coffee and phone down and got up and looked through the peephole. Sophia knocked again.

  Max let her in.

  “Guten morgen,” she said.

  “Morning,” Max said, and he sat on his bed again.

  “Guten morgen,” Tom said.

  “Kiss-ass,” Max mumbled at his brother.

  Sophia smiled softly and rested Valentin’s laptop on the table across from Tom. She sat down, opened it, and said, “Each time Vladimir Ledouskikh deposited money in his Liechtenstein bank account,” she said, “Valentin e-mailed Blade to inform him that the same amount had been deposited in Blade’s Vienna account.”

  Another knock came at the door. “It’s me,” Hank’s voice said.

  Max was beginning to feel like a doorman. He went to the door and let Hank in.

  Hank sat at the foot of Tom’s bed and nursed a steaming cup of Joe. “Willy called me and said that Langley decoded more of the flash drive you boys acquired from Syria. They discovered information about Blade that we already knew, but they also found out that Vladimir Ledouskikh is Ringvereine’s financier, and number three in their chain of command.”

  Tom finished his orange juice and tossed the empty cup in the trash. “So who are numbers one and two?”

  Max’s blood pumped, and he was keen to atone for snuffing Blade. “If we get to Vlad, he could lead us to one and two.”

  “If we knew where Vlad was,” Hank said.

  “Munich,” Max and Tom said in unison.

  “Jinx,” Max said.

  “That’s a start,” Hank said. “But where in Munich?”

  Sophia calmly ran her finger across the touchpad of Valentin’s laptop and tapped it. “I have his address here.”

  The Waynes watched her and waited.

  “He actually owns an estate on a mountain outside of Nebelhorn, in Oberstdorf, Germany,” she said. “About two hundred kilometers southwest of Munich.”

  “How far is that from here?” Max asked.

  “A little over a hundred kilometers,” she said.

  “Will Germany cooperate with us on this?” Tom asked.

  Hank swallowed his coffee. “Not likely. Germany knows the NSA did a wiretap on their prime minister. And there are some other problems.”

  “What about our station chief in Berlin?” Max asked.

  “He’s a real chair hugger,” Hank said. “More trouble than he’s worth.”

  Max stood up. “Time’s wasting.”

  “Okay, kit up and meet in the lobby ready to roll,” Hank said before he and Sophia left Max and Tom’s room.

  Max and Tom packed their suitcases, and Max called the front desk and checked out over the phone.

  Luggage in hand, Max rode the elevator with his brother down to the lobby, where on a table near the Christmas tree, was a three-story-tall gingerbread house. Small twisted pretzels formed low railings around each floor, and lights radiated from inside the tiny windows. What appeared similar to large M&Ms, except a little flatter, and without the m, were candies used as shingles. Icing icicles hung down from the eaves.

  Max covertly examined his surroundings for security cameras or other surveillance. The coast seemed clear, so he surreptitiously reached around behind the gingerbread house and snapped off a piece—a smidgeon more than he expected.

  “Dude, you didn’t,” Tom chastised him.

  Max put it in his mouth and chewed. “Amuse-bouche.” It amused his mouth, like a bite-sized tease from Maman’s cooking.

  They rolled their suitcases to the front desk and dropped off their keycards.

  “Where’s the gingerbread men?” Max asked.

  “The hotel staff knew you were here, so they hid them,” Tom said.

  They strolled over to a cluster of couches where Sophia sat zen-like with her suitcase ready beside her. The brothers sat on a sofa away from her as if they were travelling separately, to confuse anyone who might be watching.

  “They speak German here,” Max said, “and they have a gingerbread house—they should have a gingerbread man,” Max said.

  “Gingerbread men aren’t German.”

  “Then what are they?”

  Hank arrived and dropped off his key at the front desk before exiting the hotel. Sophia rose and followed, keeping a discreet distance between them. Max and Tom gave her a moment.

  “Gingerbread men come from England,” Tom said.

  “Seriously?” Max asked.

  “Queen Elizabeth had them made in the shapes of people she knew.”

  Max and Tom stood and walked to the door. On their way, Max eyed the gingerbread house again, but he thought twice might be pressing his luck, so he abstained.

  “Don’t,” Tom said.

  Taking orders from Tommy didn’t sit well with Max, so he reached around behind the gingerbread house and broke off another piece.

  “I can’t believe you,” Tom said under his breath.

  “YOLO,” Max said with a mouthful of gingerbread. You only live once.

  “You’re such a child.”

  “What about Hansel and Gretel and gingerbread houses and all?” Max asked. “Are you saying those are British, too?”

  “They’re German.”

  A young boy gave Max the stink eye as if he’d seen him take a piece of gingerbread. Max tried to ignore him and put distance between himself and the boy.

  They exited the hotel. “So you’re saying that gingerbread houses are German and gingerbread men are British?” Max asked.

  “Yep.”

  They stood inside the entrance to stay warm while Hank brought the car around. When he stopped in front, Max and Tom rolled their suitcases out to the vehicle. A valet grabbed Max’s before he could stop him and avoid having to pay a tip. The valet loaded it in the trunk, and Tom let him load his, too. Reluctantly, Max gave the valet a tip.

  Sophia was in the front passenger seat, so Max and Tom sat in back, and Hank spun away. “The Agency has a gingerbread contest every year,” Max said.

  “Gingerbread houses or gingerbread men?” Tom asked.

  “Everything—Syrian President al-Assad, Russian President Putin, and Kim Kardashian.”

  “That’s only gingerbread people,” Tom said.

  “Someone did an M1 Abrams tank and another did an Aston Martin,” Max said.

  Hank chimed in, “One time, someone did the bin Laden compound.”

  “Cool,” Tom said.

  “They’re fun to look at, but funner to eat,” Max said.

  They rolled out of Liechtenstein and travelled northeast along the Rhine River, which was exposed in the morning light. Snow fell on her brilliant blue waters, and she reminded Max of the free-flowing spirit of Emma. The Rhine guided them through Switzerland until they crossed over her and parted ways at the Austrian border. He looked behind and watched until the river was gone. He didn’t say goodbye; he remembered her last word to him: “Tomorrow.”

  21

  08 Days

 
Düster and his brother were called Die Unbestechlichen, the Untouchables, because they did what they wanted, and no one dared lay a hand on them. Düster parked his black Rolls-Royce Phantom in front of an Audi at the Honey Badger nightclub in Neukölln, Berlin, where there was more crime than the rest of the city. His mother, wearing her fur overcoat, a Mother’s Day gift from Düster and Junior, sat beside him and said, “Are you going to park here?”

  It was his and Junior’s club, and nobody tampered with his customers or their things here. “It’s quicker walking from here than walking from somewhere else.”

  They stepped out of the car, and he tapped his cane on the ground as he escorted her past the long line of people in designer fashions waiting to be admitted. Düster avoided the crowded front, guided her around to the steps, and took her down to the kitchen entrance. He opened the door, and the doorman, who wore a suit, greeted them, “Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Düster.”

  “Evening,” Düster said.

  “Good evening,” his mother said.

  Düster and his brother were her angels, and Düster had an angel painted on each wall in the entranceway.

  They passed a bouncer, who also wore a suit and greeted them by name. The walls leading to the kitchen were red. Inside the kitchen, all the appliances and countertops were stainless steel.

  “Why does the kitchen look so chaotic?” his mother asked.

  “They’re busy preparing the food, Mom. They know what they’re doing.”

  Doors opened to the main area of the club and admitted Düster and his mother like the king and queen. Crystal chandeliers reflected off square mirrors on the ceiling and squares of granite on the floor as if the club were a giant jewelry box. At the tables sat criminals, aristocrats, celebrities, and politicians. Others waited at the bar for a table to open.

  A host quickly spotted Düster and ordered a busboy to fetch them a table. The busboy promptly brought in a small table with white tablecloth, and set it down near the front of the stage. Another busboy brought in a red lamp, set it on the table, and plugged it into a socket in the floor. Then the first busboy brought red satin chairs, and Düster and his mother sat. Her face glowed. “You boys make me so proud,” she said.