by Ethan Jones
Claudia said, “See, nothing happened. He’s going home.”
Javin nodded. “Tom, take over. We’re going through the intersection and coming around the other side.”
“Copy that,” Tom said.
When Javin and Claudia returned onto Rue Schaub, Loger was standing by the door. He was wearing black clothes, like everyone else on the team, so they could be almost invisible in the darkness that had begun to envelop everything around them. Loger had also pulled up the hood of his windbreaker, so only his blue eyes and fair-skinned face were visible.
“Where’s Tom?” Javin asked when he was a couple of steps away from Loger.
“Already inside. I’m making sure no one’s following us, and also keeping the entrance open.” He gestured at a rock he had placed between the door and the frame.
“Good. We’re heading up.”
“I’ll be there soon. Five more minutes, just to be absolutely certain we’ll have no unwanted guests.”
Javin and Claudia hurried up the stairs. When they came to the third floor, Javin expected to see Tom close to Schmidt’s apartment door, as they had planned. Instead, the door was opened just a crack.
He pointed that out to Claudia through a series of gestures, then pulled out his Sig Sauer P320 pistol from his shoulder holster. He stepped closer to the door and listened. Muffled noises echoed from inside. It sounded like someone was trying to talk with his mouth full. Then came a loud bang, followed by the scraping sound of a loud object being dragged across the floor.
Javin gestured to Claudia that he was going in.
She nodded her understanding.
He pushed the door slowly with the tip of his boot, then took a couple of quiet steps. The sound of his boots over the hardwood floor was barely audible. Then Javin took the next step, and the floor gave off a loud creak.
“Is that you?” Tom called.
“Yes, we’re coming in. You okay?”
“Yes, yes, I’m good. I’m in the living room.”
Javin drew in a breath of relief. He hurried through the hall and entered the living room.
Schmidt was sitting in one of the overstuffed brown leather couches. His hands were tied to the front, and a strip of duct tape stretched across his mouth. Sweat had begun to cover his forehead and was visible on the collar of his crisp white shirt. There was no fear in Schmidt’s eyes, only a glint of what Javin thought was merely annoyance.
“What happened?” Javin asked as he stood next to Tom.
“I seized the moment. One of his neighbors came out when he arrived at the door. She held the door open for me. When he came to the third floor, I grabbed him.”
Schmidt shook his head and tried to speak. Of course, nothing distinct came out.
“So, we’ll start to interrogate him?” Claudia said.
“Sure. Where’s Loger?”
“Downstairs, watching our back.”
“All right. Let’s start.”
Tom stepped closer to Schmidt. “I’m going to remove the tape. Make no sounds. No one will hear you, and it will make me upset. You don’t want to see me upset,” he said in a calm tone.
Schmidt nodded.
Tom removed the tape slowly, but still Schmidt winced in pain. “You’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“What does that mean? Are you not Helmut Schmidt?”
Schmidt nodded.
“Are you the Executive Director of CBG’s main branch in the city?”
Schmidt nodded again.
“So we have the right man. We just want to ask you a few questions. If you tell us the truth, this can be over in a matter of minutes.”
Schmidt grinned. “You might have the right man, me, but you don’t know half of what’s going on.”
“Well, that’s why we’re here: so you can tell us.” Tom walked to the table across from the couch and picked up his tablet. He flipped through until he found what he wanted, then leaned over Schmidt. “This man, what’s his name?”
Schmidt glanced at the picture showing him dining with Marley. The Swiss banker’s eyes glinted with recognition, and he bit his lip. A moment later, he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does. Now, what’s his name?”
“You’ll never get to him.”
“Let us worry about that,” Javin said.
Tom stood a couple of inches away from Schmidt’s face. “Listen, I hate wasting time. I also hate wasting money. I’m sure you know you’re not the most handsome man who ever lived… But still, you have a good face.” Tom ran his hand along Schmidt’s jawline. “No bruises, no scars. That’s all going to change in a moment. You’ll have to pay a ton of money to get your face back to this state.” He shrugged. “Or you may never look this handsome again.”
Schmidt swallowed hard. His eyes went to Javin’s face, then returned slowly to Tom. “I’m telling you, this is a terrible—”
Tom slapped Schmidt across the face. “You’re not listening, Mr. Banker. And you’re starting to upset me. What did I tell you about upsetting me?”
Schmidt did not reply.
Tom shrugged and looked at Javin and Claudia. “Do you want to talk some sense into him?”
Javin shrugged. “No, you’re doing pretty good. If he’s not going to tell you, he won’t talk to us either.”
Claudia took a step forward. “Listen, I’ve seen him at work.” She gestured at Tom, who was now holding a seven-inch-long Ka-Bar knife in his right hand. “He’s vicious. Why do this to yourself? It’s simple. Give us the blond man’s name and whoever else is involved with that account.”
Schmidt shook his head. “You don’t understand—”
“Explain it to us, then,” Claudia said.
Tom said, “He thinks he’s not afraid of me. Well, I’ll show him.” He walked to Schmidt.
“I’m very afraid of you,” Schmidt said. “But even worse, I’m more terrified of the others, of what they can do to me, and my family.”
“What others?” Javin said.
Before Schmidt could reply, Loger’s alarmed voice rang out in Javin’s earpiece. “Trouble, we’ve got—”
He was cut off, and Javin heard something that resembled a muffled gunshot.
Tom and Claudia had heard that too. They pulled out their pistols as a loud bang came from the hall. It sounded as if someone had just blown up the heavy wooden door.
Schmidt gave them a defiant look, then said in a calm voice, “What did I say about this being a terrible mistake?”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Schmidt’s Apartment, Rue Schaub
Geneva, Switzerland
Javin slid against the nearest wall as more gunshots came from the hall.
Schmidt stood up and tried to run toward the exit.
Tom grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him back into the couch. When Schmidt repeated the attempt, Tom’s right fist slammed against the banker’s face. “Stay there, or I’ll blow your head off.” The CIA agent pointed his pistol at Schmidt’s head.
The banker nodded and wiped the blood dripping from his split lower lip.
Claudia had already taken position next to the other wall. She gestured to Javin that she could see through the living room door and into the hall. Then she gave him a headshake.
Javin wondered about the shooters. Marley, or his thugs? He glanced at Tom, who stood behind the side of the couch. The team had now formed a triangle of fire, with everyone covering the only door connecting the living room to the hall.
Javin locked eyes with Claudia, and she gave him another headshake.
“Cover me,” he mouthed the words.
Claudia nodded.
Javin stepped around the wall and into the kitchen. He took a few quick steps, trying to make as little noise as possible. When he came near the door leading into the L-shaped hall, he stole a quick glance.
Two bullets pierced the wall inches away from his face.
Javin dropped back, thankful the bullets had missed the mark. H
e blinked rapidly to clear the dust from his eyes. He squeezed off a few rounds, uncertain where the shooters were, but in the direction of the incoming fire.
Gunfire erupted from the other side. It was both Claudia and Tom.
Javin drew in a quick breath and stepped around into the hall.
He was not prepared for the scene in front of his eyes.
A dark-haired man was standing in the hallway outside the apartment’s door. He was holding Loger in front of him like a human shield. A pistol was pressed against Loger’s temple. “Drop your gun,” the man said in English with a strange accent.
Javin held his Sig Sauer pointed at the gunman. He was mostly hidden behind Loger, but there was maybe an inch or two of the gunman’s head that was exposed. He was shifting on his feet, moving at all times, to make himself a harder target.
Javin’s eyes never left the gunman’s face. He had a broad forehead and a dark complexion, but he did not look like an Arab. His accent also was not Arabic. It sounded European, but not French and definitely not German.
“Drop your gun now!” The man pressed his pistol harder against Loger’s temple.
Another gunman appeared in the hallway. This one was short-statured and had a lighter skin. He whispered something to the first gunman, who nodded slowly and replied with something that was inaudible to Javin, all but the last couple of words. The gunman said ubit' ikh vsekh, which meant kill them all, in Russian.
“You’re Russians, right?” Javin said in a calm tone.
“Are you deaf?” the gunman pointed his pistol at Javin. “Put your gun on the floor. Or he dies.”
“Or both of you die,” the second gunman said in a more pronounced Russian accent.
“Look, guys,” Javin switched to Russian, a language he spoke fluently. “We have no problems with you, and don’t want to cause any.” He kept his voice firm, yet warm and steady.
The first gunman cocked his head, startled to hear Javin speak in the gunman’s native tongue. But he kept his pistol pointed at Loger.
The Canadian agent took a step forward. “I’ve often worked with Russians, the SVR especially, and we have a great relationship.”
The gunman snorted. “You and the SVR? Really?”
“Yes, and let me prove it. I have an SVR agent’s number programmed on my phone.” He pointed at his right side pocket with his left hand. The right hand held the pistol trained at the gunman’s head, and Javin’s eyes were glued to the gunman’s face. “It’s on speed dial, number four.”
He moved his hand slowly and pulled out the phone. “I’m going to put it on the floor and—”
“No, throw it here,” the gunman said. “Bogdan, come in,” he called to someone in the hallway.
A third gunman entered the apartment’s hall and pointed a submachine gun at Javin.
The first gunman stretched out his hand.
Javin unlocked the phone and tossed it toward the gunman. It was not the greatest throw, considering he was using his non-dominant hand. But the gunman reached forward and caught the phone. “Just dial four and talk to her. The SVR agent’s name is Mila Kuznetsova. She works as a special operative—”
“Shut up. I’ll find out,” the gunman said. “If you’re lying, your friend will die first, and you will follow after.”
Javin wrapped his hands tight around the pistol’s grip. He hoped Mila would pick up her phone, and that her words would convince the gunmen to put an end to the stalemate that could turn deadly in an instant. Contrary to what was often seen happening in the movies, it was always better, if possible, to talk your way out of a shooting.
The gunman began to talk to someone that Javin hoped was Mila. The gunman asked a series of questions about Javin and his relationship to her. A few times the gunman cast a menacing glare at Javin, but Mila’s words seemed to produce the intended result. The gunman nodded, and his frown began to dissipate. He held the phone toward Javin, then lowered his pistol. “She wants to talk to you.”
Javin said, “Toss it back.”
He did and Javin caught it. He brought the phone to his ear while still keeping his pistol aimed at the Russians. “Javin here...”
“Javin, Javin, how often will I have to bail you out?”
“Mila, how can I thank you?”
“Oh, I can think of more than a dozen ways.” Her voice took on a playful tone. “But really, what are you doing there, messing with our boys?”
“Eh ... we’re after people financing terrorism, who’re killing Canadians and Russians in Iraq and Syria and all over the world.” Javin spoke in a voice loud enough for the Russians to hear him. “I think your boys are doing the same thing.”
“They are, and Vassily has worked on this operation for over two months. This is their turf, Javin.”
“If you say so.”
“I do, and you should be thankful they’ve heard of me. Otherwise, I’m afraid you’d have been dead by now. And that would have been quite unfortunate.” Her voice took on a hint of genuine regret.
“Yes, I’ve heard bad things about death.”
Mila laughed. “It’s horrible. The worst thing is you can’t feel anything, a kiss, a touch, the love of a woman...”
“Mila, thank you again.”
“No problem. Now, pass me back to Vassily.”
“They’re not going to kill me after you hang up?”
Vassily shrugged when he heard what Javin said and put his gun back in his shoulder holster. “Javin, don’t be afraid anymore. See, no gun.”
The other Russian still held the pistol close to Loger’s temple.
Bogdan’s submachine gun was still pointed at Javin’s head.
Mila said, “Of course not, Javin. They promised. Vassily is a man of his word.”
Yes, but what about the others? He considered his next step, then began to lower his gun. “Okay, Mila. I trust you, and I trust Vassily. I’m handing him the phone now.”
Javin held his pistol close to his side as he walked to Vassily and gave him the phone. Vassily walked into the hallway, while Javin gestured for Loger to come to him. The Swiss hesitated for a moment, then Bogdan said, “Let him go.” He lowered his submachine gun, then stepped closer to Javin. “This is only business.” He offered Javin his large rugged hand.
Javin shook it. “Yes, business. I understand. We just walked into your operation.”
“Yes, the banker is working for us.”
Javin nodded. That revelation explained so many things.
Vassily returned to the door. “My name is Vassily Georgiev. As you’ve figured out by now, I work for the SVR.”
Javin shook Vassily’s hand. “I’m glad we have a common friend at your agency.”
“Yes, you’re very lucky to know Mila. She saved your life.”
Javin thought about reminding the Russians that he was holding them at gunpoint too. If it came to a shootout, there would have been no winner. But he nodded and said, “The rest of my team is in the apartment. Claudia, Tom.” He called to them. “Come out. It’s all good now.”
“Really?” Tom replied. “All I heard was Russian gibberish.”
“Yes, we have a deal with our Russian friends,” Javin said in English. “These are SVR operatives, who were working to get to Schmidt.”
“Who actually have Schmidt working for them,” Vassily said.
A brief tense moment followed. Javin had to admit that it was a strange situation. Very rarely had it happened that a shootout took such a turn, when the two hostile parties shook hands and had a conversation as if nothing had happened, even though they were trying to kill each other moments ago. Javin shrugged. A matter of misunderstanding.
Claudia walked into the hall. Her Sig Sauer was muzzle down and to her side. “My name’s Claudia.”
“And I’m Tom.” The CIA agent had stepped around the other corner and was still standing further back.
“Good, now let’s take Schmidt and get out of here before the Geneva police arrive.” Vassily walked tow
ard the living room.
Javin’s first instinct was to grab Vassily by the arm and stop him. But, whether Javin liked it or not, they were working with the Russians now. “Where are we going?” Javin asked.
“Not far. We have an apartment three blocks away,” Vassily said.
“Registered to the consulate,” Bogdan said.
Vassily gave Bogdan a harsh look intended to silence him. “We’ve got to go.”
Javin walked behind him into the living room.
Schmidt stood up. “Cutting it very short. Did you miss my signal?”
Javin frowned. What signal did he give the Russians?
“What you’re trying to say is ‘thank you for saving my skin,’” Vassily said. He turned to Javin. “What happened to his face?” He pointed at Schmidt.
“They beat me up,” Schmidt said.
“He tried to escape.” Tom shrugged.
Vassily glanced over at Loger. “He made the same mistake.”
Loger gave them all a sheepish look. A large bruise was visible on the left side of his face.
“Are you ready to go?” Vassily said to no one in particular.
“In five minutes.” Javin pointed at Claudia and Tom. “Clean up the place. I’ll take Schmidt downstairs.”
“We can handle that.” Vassily grabbed the banker’s arm.
“I’m sure you can, but I’d rather come along with you.”
The Russian agent gave Javin a look of disapproval. “If we’re working together, you’ll have to start trusting us.”
No, I won’t. “I trust you, Vassily, as Mila told me you’re a great guy. But I don’t trust him.” He pointed at Schmidt.
“Him? He’s not going anywhere...”
Javin shrugged. “Just in case.”
Vassily shook his head. “And then they say Russians don’t trust easily...”
He led Schmidt toward the door, while Javin picked up his rucksack. “See you behind the school in five,” he said to his team.
“We’ll be there,” Claudia said.
École des Grottes was a block east of Schmidt’s apartment complex and the agreed-upon meeting point if the operation went sideways, as it had.
Out on the street, Javin pointed at his blue Renault SUV. “We can take that vehicle.”
