by Trevor Scott
RISE OF THE ORDER
A Jake Adams International Espionage Thriller #5
Trevor Scott
SALVO PRESS
An Imprint of Start Publishing LLC
New York, New York
Also by Trevor Scott
Fractured State (A Novella)
The Nature of Man
Discernment
Way of the Sword
Drifting Back
Fatal Network (Jake Adams #1)
Extreme Faction (Jake Adams #2)
The Dolomite Solution (Jake Adams #3)
Vital Force (Jake Adams #4)
Rise of the Order (Jake Adams #5)
The Cold Edge (Jake Adams #6)
Without Options (Jake Adams #7)
The Stone of Archimedes (Jake Adams #8)
Boom Town (Tony Caruso #1)
Burst of Sound (Tony Caruso #2)
Hypershot (Chad Hunter #1)
Global Shot (Chad Hunter #2)
Strong Conviction
The Dawn of Midnight
Duluthians: A Collection of Short Stories
The Hobgoblin of the Redwoods (A Young Adult Mystery)
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and not intended to represent real people or places.
RISE OF THE ORDER © 2012 by Trevor Scott.
This edition of RISE OF THE ORDER © 2013 by Salvo Press.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Salvo Press, 609 Greenwich Street, 6th Floor, New York, NY 10014.
Published by Salvo Press,
an imprint of Start Publishing LLC
New York, New York
Please visit us on the web at
www.start-media.com
Cover iStock Photos by SCM Studios.
ISBN: 978-1-62793-433-6
Visit the author at: www.trevorscott.com
For My Father
May He Rest In Peace
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the people of Magdeburg and Bernburg, Germany. In researching this book, I found out a great deal of my own Prussian past, and was able to visit the last known address of my Grandfather, a German Army officer who had survived trench warfare in World War I before emigrating to America. Also thanks to the cities of Vienna, Budapest, and Prague, for providing excellent food and beer and a great setting for this book. I hope I didn’t completely destroy the serenity of the Austrian Alps, one of my favorite places on Earth. A special thanks to the Teutonic Order. I meant no disrespect to this fine Order.
1
Vienna, Austria
Europe had changed. Jake Adams knew that much. Gone were the pristine narrow streets lined with three hundred year old buildings leading to six hundred year old cathedrals. Now the streets were invariably littered with trash and the buildings tagged with Europe’s version of gang markings—ornately swirling messages in red or black or white—the culprits skinheads, anarchists, or simply disenfranchised foreign youth with too much time on their hands. Jobs gone to the more recently arrived.
Freezing rain pelted Jake’s exposed head as he strolled cautiously down a narrow lane along the Donau Canal in south Vienna. He had parked his car two blocks away, as instructed by phone, and wished now that he had never agreed to meet like this at midnight. It wasn’t that Vienna was normally a dangerous place at night or day, but he had been in situations like this far too often, and he knew that they were not always as innocuous as they seemed. Besides, he had driven most of the afternoon from Innsbruck; first there had been only rain, and then the rain left an invisible sheet of ice across the autobahn until cars were barely moving. That would have been tiring to anyone, yet he was starting to feel every bit his forty years. He held back a yawn.
Now he was having a hard time keeping his feet, despite the fact that he wore his best hiking shoes. The light windbreaker over his wool sweater kept the rain out, but the wind was picking up now and seemed to pass through both layers to his skin. He should have put on his lined leather coat. Worst of all, though, he had been forced to slide his 9mm CZ-75 automatic pistol into the right front pocket of his khaki pants, the handle butt hanging out and covered only by his windbreaker.
He didn’t know what to expect. Not one to take security jobs over the phone—impossible to judge how one lies under those conditions—he nevertheless felt compelled to hear the man out once the Federal President of Austria himself had called to ask for Jake’s help. How could he say no to him?
Ahead he saw the building, gray as the day had been, the neon sign at the corner bright red and yellow, indicating the Donau Bar was open for business. Only a couple of cars were parked along the deserted street, and Jake guessed that was because it was a Sunday night.
He stopped suddenly, turned and stooped down, as if he had dropped something, and took the time to glance about behind him as far as he could see in the shadows. Nothing. He re-tied his right shoe. With the pounding rain his senses seemed confused, his ears having an impossible time distinguishing the normal sounds of city life—cars and trams and buses—from that which should not be there. Like footsteps matching his stop-and-go pace. He would never be able to forget his training and years of experience in this game.
Satisfied all was as it should be, Jake rose and picked up his pace into the bar. He greeted the patrons with his best German, honed from living in Austria for more than five years and his work with the CIA and Air Force intelligence before that, stationed in Germany for most of his tours of duty. He looked Austrian now, with his dark hair and eyes and his clothes bought off the rack with European labels. In fact, it had been months since he had even spoken English.
After ordering a beer, Jake scanned the room quickly and took a seat in a corner booth, the tall wooden sides giving him an unrestricted view of the bar, where two men sat smoking. Large, full beers sat in front of each man. Jake sized them up. The one on the right was about five-ten, Jake’s height, and the other man looked to be a couple of inches taller than that. But since they were sitting, it was hard to tell for sure. They both wore long coats, and had barely touched their beers.
The bartender, a sturdy man in his early forties with a chiseled jaw, pock-marked face and bushy, unnaturally blond hair, brought Jake his beer and then hurried back behind the bar, his bulging eyes reminding Jake of the late Marty Feldman
It was ten after midnight. His contact was late. Jake guessed the man had been watching the front door, waiting for Jake to enter before coming in himself. Slowly, quietly, Jake slid his gun out and set it on his lap.
Less than a minute later the door swung open and an older man entered, his eyes shifting about from the men at the bar and landing on Jake. The guy was wearing a business suit covered by a topcoat with water bubbling and then dripping to the wood floor. He removed his fedora and rubbed his fingers along the brim. With that, Jake ran his hand through his hair. The man smiled as if recognizing an old friend, and hurried to take a seat across from Jake.
They shook hands across the table and Jake raised a thumb to the bartender, indicating to bring a beer for his friend.
Jake studied the man across from him intently. He had had almost no time at all to research the guy before leaving Innsbruck. And that had been a problem. He liked to know more about any potential client than they knew about themselves before taking on a case. Now he would have to play catch up. Jake prided himself on understanding people. After all, that was his business. Looking at the man, he saw an impeccable dresser, meticulously manicured nails, not a hair out of place despite the wind and rain. That meant hi
s car was close. Concerned brown eyes. That’s what Jake saw. Something, in fact, out of character for the man. He knew the man was fifty-five, yet he had almost no wrinkles on his face—not even smile lines along his dark eyes. His only gray was a distinguished splotch along each temple.
“Slide your wallet across the table as if showing me photos of the wife and children,” Jake said in German, a smile on his face.
The man looked confused.
“I like to know who I’m working for,” Jake said, switching to English, his wide shoulders rising and falling.
“We talked on the phone,” the man said, his voice a near whisper.
Jake shrugged again, his eyes glancing to the side and watching the two men at the bar. Looking at the mirror behind the bar, Jake could see the man on the right peering directly at him before diverting his eyes back to the man next to him.
His contact slid his wallet toward Jake and then opened it, mentioning his two sons, which Jake knew he did not have. Jake read the Austrian driver’s license. Gustav Albrecht. His residence was the same as his work address, the headquarters of the Teutonic Order in Vienna. Jake had done a quick internet search of the organization. Having been established in 1190, Jake was dumbfounded that the Order still existed after more than 800 years.
Smiling, Jake returned the wallet to the man.
“What do you need from me?” Jake asked the man. “Don’t you have knights in shining armor to protect you?”
The man laughed and shook his head. “We are a charitable organization now,” he said apologetically. “We have churches and kindergartens.”
Jake knew that much. “So, what do you need from me?” he asked again. This was starting to get old.
The man leaned forward onto crossed arms. “I am the Grand Master of the Teutonic Order.”
“And that means?”
Albrecht let out a deep breath. “Sadly, not much anymore. But at one time my predecessors would have had large groups of knights under command.”
It seemed to Jake as if this Grand Master wished for the days of old. “I meant no disrespect,” Jake said. “I understand the historical importance of the Teutonic Knights. I just don’t understand the significance today. Please get to the point.”
“The past is important for today,” Albrecht said as if scolding, his finger pointing at Jake. “The Order is under attack.”
Finally. “Attack? By whom?”
Albrecht’s eyes shifted toward the two men at the bar and the bartender before settling on Jake again. “That’s what we want you to find out.”
Jake must have looked confused, because he was. “If the Order is simply a charitable organization, who would want to do you harm?”
“We’re not entirely sure. Our priest in charge of Slovakia has been murdered.”
Now that was something Jake could investigate. “So, you want me to find his killer?”
The man nodded. “But we think there’s more to it than that.”
The bartender swooped by and set a beer in front of Albrecht, and then disappeared into a back room.
“You know my fees?” Jake asked.
Albrecht nodded, sipped his beer, and then said, “There will be a bonus for discretion. We have a reputation to consider.”
Jake almost laughed out loud. The Teutonic Knights had been less than discrete throughout history, forcing Christianity on heathen hordes that were more interested in finding enough food to eat than understanding a higher power. “Your Federal President knows,” Jake reminded him.
“We were friends at university,” Albrecht said.
“A politician to be trusted,” Jake said, “seems like an oxymoron.”
He shrugged. “He also married my sister.”
The first sign that all was not well registered in Jake’s brain as one of the men at the bar flew off of his chair, his back blown out through his coat in a barrage of flesh and blood.
Then the blast.
Jake simultaneously grasped his gun, jumped from the booth in front of the grand master, and shoved the man to the floor. The second blast came, taking off the top of the second man’s head, and thrusting him on top of his friend on the wooden floor. His heart pounding, Jake aimed toward the back room, but he had no target. To stay put, though, he would be an easy target. Move.
Keeping low, Jake skirted along the edge of the three booths toward the front door. He saw the gun barrel rise over the bar in time to dive to the floor. The shotgun blast blew a hole in the front door above him.
Jake rolled and fired three shots toward the bar, his bullets smashing through the wood. Then he scurried toward the end of the bar. He heard a swishing sound.
Peering back to where he had left Albrecht, Jake saw that the grand master had found a spot under the table. It was some protection, but not enough. Jake had to act now.
With one motion, Jake jumped to his feet, thrust his arms over the bar, and fired three more shots. Then he popped back down and ran along the bar, stopping where the two men had fallen.
Slowly, he rose up to glance over the bar. Nothing. The swishing had been the door to the back room.
Now he heard sirens, and Jake knew it was time to get the hell out of there. “Albrecht. You all right?”
“I think so,” the man said, his voice wavering.
“Let’s go,” Jake yelled. “We gotta move.”
Albrecht crawled out from under the table and Jake grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of the bar.
“What about those two?” Albrecht asked, glancing over his shoulder.
Out on the sidewalk now, the sirens getting closer, Jake said, “They’re dead. Where’s your car?”
Albrecht fumbled in his pockets and, his hands shaking, produced a set of Mercedes keys. Jake grabbed the keys and pressed the Open button, which flashed a set of lights and beeped open a silver Mercedes across the street.
They both ran and got in, Jake behind the wheel. Seconds later Jake crossed the Donau Canal, got onto a northbound road and drove along the east side of the canal. Slow and easy, Jake thought. Across the canal, two polizei cars, lights flashing, rushed toward the bar.
2
The black Skoda Fabia RS drove slowly along Vienna’s Mariahilfer Stasse a couple of blocks from the West Bahnhof. The driver, a sturdy man whose shoulders extended beyond the bucket seat, wasn’t worried about destination, but was more concerned with how to reach their eventual goal. His thick left hand grasped the steering wheel tightly as they rounded a corner, and then he shoved the stick into third. Noticing a piece of white on his leather sleeve, he casually brushed it away, before downshifting into second for another curve.
He glanced sideways at the man in the passenger seat, his old friend Rada Grago, his chin shoved out defiantly, the deep scar resembling a cleft. Grago’s hair was longer than Miko had ever seen it; it was also dyed platinum now, and the man ran his fingers through the thick locks, a nervous habit. His Brother in the New Order had failed, true, but the mission had not been a complete failure. Maybe this was better, Miko thought. Now they could make that piece of shit grand master sweat like the swine he was; he’d be constantly looking over his shoulder, like a hockey defenseman waiting for a retaliatory strike after just checking a star player into the boards, ready to shit his pants with every auto backfire. Better to toy with the man.
“I’m sorry, Miko,” the passenger said in Czech. “I have failed.”
Miko Krupjak smiled at his old friend, snatched a radish from a plastic bag, and shoved it into his mouth, crunching down on the spicy vegetable. Miko had been waiting around the back of the bar, picked up Grago, and then drove off. Down the road a kilometer, Grago had wiped his prints and then thrown the shotgun into the Donau Canal.
“Grago. You killed two of the Grand Master’s guards,” Miko said. “That’s something. We’ll get Albrecht.”
Grago waved his hand in front of his face. “How do you eat those?” He rolled down his window a few inches and continued. “The man he had me
t there,” Grago said. “He moved like a cat stalking a mouse. A second more and I would have been killed. This man was not like the two Brothers who normally protect the Grand Master.”
“An outsider?”
“A professional,” Grago said. “I’m sure of it.”
Grago knew one when he saw one, Miko thought. After all, his Brother had spent years working for the old Soviets in his native Prague. And during that time, Grago had himself gained the moniker “The Butcher of Prague.” True, part of this came from his daytime profession, his cover story, as an actual butcher. But his brutality had raised him to unofficial enforcer level with Czech Security Information Service (BIS). Unofficial, because the BIS was not supposed to be brutal like the old KGB had been during its glory days. Grago’s transformation from his past to the Brotherhood had been gradual, yet he had taken to his vows of chastity and obedience with great enthusiasm. Poverty was no longer required of them, and that suited Miko and Grago just fine. They had seen enough of that in their youth.
Miko shook the bag of radishes toward Grago, but the passenger shook his head vehemently. “We’ll move forward with the plan, Grago,” Miko said, taking another radish into his mouth. “What can one man do?” He let out a resounding fart.
Grago sighed and then laughed. “You eat those and then wonder why you have gas?” He opened his window and waved his hand.
The driver smiled and turned around a corner on his random path to nowhere.
●
A few miles away in the silver Mercedes, Jake drove around the outer edge of Schonbrunn Palace. Lights lit up at the yellow structure that occupied more than five square blocks. When he reached the western edge, he turned south on a small road and pulled over to the curb. Across the street was a tall wall, the other side of which lay the expansive gardens of the palace. The rain had slowed some, but the streets were still slick.
Jake put the car in park and shut down the engine. Then he turned to the passenger and owner of the car and said, “What was that all about?”
