by Brian Drake
McNeil handed over another picture. General Ike’s shoulders sank.
“I think it’s obvious what this means,” McNeil said.
“Do we know where the shooter is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s bring him in. Tell him confession is good for the soul.”
“And our new suspect?”
“Start back tracking the data on Farnsworth’s account and travel information and see if you can find how Tattaglia planted it there.”
ON DAY three Stiletto returned to work.
General Ike, in meetings with analysts and the DCI, did not see him for several hours; when he finally had a chance to talk, Fleming found Stiletto on the smoking deck. The deck was an outdoor sitting area between the middle floor and upper section of C.I.A. headquarters.
Stiletto puffed on one of his Dominican Montecristos and drew in his sketch book. Of all his regrets about this current mission, the biggest was not being able to bring the box of Cubans back from Monte Carlo.
General Ike pulled up a stray chair and joined him.
“I heard about Farnsworth,” Stiletto said, tapping ash into a glass tray on the table.
“The story doesn’t end there, Scott.”
“There’s someone else?”
“Not somebody else, per se. She was never the mole to begin with. We have solid proof she was set up.”
“By whom?”
“Not now, Scott. Zolac’s money went to Russia.”
“Could mean anything. Did you check—”
“Elisa Yanovna, of course. She had no record of any property.”
“Either they have a safe house we don’t know about, or there’s another party helping him,” Stiletto said. He put down his sketch book in disgust. He regarded the cigar with further distaste but made no move to put it out.
“It will all work out, Scott.”
“This is not my finest hour, sir. A lot of effort and no results.”
“You might be the only one in the field, but we have dozens behind the scenes,” General Ike said. “It’s not like anything like this hasn’t happened before. And we’ve learned enough from the material taken in Austria to take the organization apart. Zolac was aligned not only with criminals but high-profile business leaders. We’re not clamping down on all of them yet. A lot we’ll be able to turn or use to our advantage elsewhere. We’ve done good work, Scott.”
Stiletto blew out a stream of smoke.
“It’s not over yet,” Fleming said. “We’ll dig up something.”
Chapter Ten
LISBETH ARRIVED with dinner.
Miller sat up in his cot. “You okay?”
“Shhh,” she said. She set the tray down and came to him as he rose from the cot. “Ransom demand in the morning. Here.” She handed him a cell phone from her back pocket. “If you get traded, I’ll tell you where we end up. As soon as you’re gone, we’re moving out.”
“Lisbeth—”
“Tell them I’ll only talk to you. Make them cooperate.”
Miller took the phone. Lisbeth turned and marched for the door as one of the guards stuck his head in to check on her.
“Twenty million,” the General said.
“For Miller?” said Stiletto.
“To be delivered within forty-eight hours.”
“The NWRF never wanted his help to begin with. His kidnapping was a ruse to raise money.”
Fleming nodded.
“And yet by now they know we’re onto them,” Stiletto added, “and they think we’ll still want to question Miller?”
Fleming closed his eyes a moment. Stiletto figured he had one heck of a pounder in his skull.
“Cash?”
“Bearer bonds,” Fleming said, opening his eyes. “I spent the morning talking to the DCI. I tried to convince him Miller is now a red-herring but he thinks with advanced interrogation, we can still squeeze information out of him. He’s been at the heart of the enemy camp, after all. Of course, the bonds will be fake.”
“This is crazy. He’ll tell us what they told him to. He’s useless now.”
“We can still threaten his sister.”
“The one he’s squirreled away by now so we’ll never find her?”
“We have our orders from the DCI, Scott.”
“Obeyed under protest, sir.”
Fleming opened a desk drawer, took out his aspirin, and popped two. His ever-present glass of water sat on his left, and he downed the contents in one gulp.
“Are you done arguing?”
Stiletto let out a sigh. “I want full Tac Team back-up. They aren’t just going to hand Miller over, sir.”
“I’ll set it up.”
“Where’s the exchange taking place?” Stiletto said.
“Checkpoint Charlie.”
“I bet they enjoy the irony.”
STILETTO JUMPED on a C.I.A. jet a few hours later with a briefcase full of bearer bonds totaling more money than he’d ever seen.
He also had a tote bag containing his personal weapons, the Heckler & Koch UMP .45 SMG and the Colt Combat Commander. He planned on giving one or both of them a heavy workout.
The jet landed in Berlin and Stiletto entered the country under diplomatic cover. Fellow agent Mike Cutter, leader of the tactical team assembled for the mission, met him at customs.
Cutter updated Scott as he drove in Berlin traffic.
“We found an empty office overlooking the intersection,” Cutter said. “The other shops and offices on the street check out okay. Nobody is there that doesn’t belong and they’ve all been there a long time.”
“So if the enemy pulls a fast one, it will be on the street.”
“My take, as well,” Cutter said.
Cutter was clean-cut but for the dragon tattoo on his right wrist. Nothing indicated his special ops status or ability to handle a wide variety of small arms or kill with his bare hands. Scott hadn’t worked with him much, but considered him a pro.
They parked behind the two-story building facing the former checkpoint intersection and climbed stairs to the second floor, bare except for computers and scattered pieces of equipment. The tac team, loaded for combat, milled about, while the team’s technicians and analysts studied the computer screens.
Cutter introduced Scott and presently Stiletto went to one of the windows overlooking the intersection, the junction of Checkpoint Charlie for so many years. He looked at the guard shack. It wasn’t the original, which now sat in a museum, but Stiletto still felt oddly emotional about it. A monument to the Cold War, a symbol of conflict between two nations, it would now witness another conflict. The world never changed; the Wall was gone; one no longer needed papers to cross; but the wars never stopped.
He wondered if it was all worth it.
He shook the negativity from his mind and took a deep breath. Philosophy belonged to the poets, not the soldiers. Or maybe that was wrong too. He turned from the window to check his gear.
THAT NIGHT, per instructions, Stiletto stood in the street beside a silver BMW, which was C.I.A. special issue. The bumper was reinforced with steel; the glass bulletproof, with other practical options for the everyday field agent engaging with European terrorists.
Stiletto had a wireless Motorola com set on his belt with the earpiece plugged into his right ear. Cutter and another team member remained in the rented office while the rest of the shooters were spread out along the street. A light windbreaker covered the shoulder-holstered Colt; the HK UMP sat in the BMW. The night’s chill bit through the windbreaker but the adrenaline kept him alert. No traffic at this hour. Scott kept looking up and down the street.
“Any sign?” Cutter said, his voice as crisp and clear over the com link as if he’d been standing next to Scott.
“Nothing yet.”
An SUV turned the corner up the street and the headlights lit the way as the car approached the checkpoint.
“Here they come.”
The black SUV was a high-end Mercedes and the dri
ver pulled over on the opposite side of the street. The tinted windows prevented any view of the occupants.
The doors opened.
Four men climbed out, all but the driver armed with submachine guns. The two from the back of the vehicle hauled Miller out and placed him against the SUV. Miller’s hands were tied behind his back and tape covered his mouth. He wore a long coat.
“Stand by.”
The driver grabbed Miller by the arm and led him part way across the street. “Let’s see our money.”
The NWRF shooters spread out a little.
Stiletto picked up the briefcase from where it sat at his right ankle. He started across the street.
Cutter in his ear: “We’re getting a wireless signal from the SUV. I think they strapped a bomb to Miller.”
Stiletto said nothing. He kept his eyes on the driver. Miller watched him approach with wide eyes.
The agent stopped, rested the case on one hand and lifted the lid. He showed the bearer bonds to the driver.
“Let’s have him.” Scott closed the case.
The driver gave Miller a shove.
Cutter: “We’ve jammed the signal, Scott.”
Stiletto handed over the briefcase and hustled Miller to his side. He tore the tape off Miller’s mouth.
“There’s a—”
“We know.”
Stiletto shoved Miller behind the BMW and tore the coat off Miller’s back as the NWRF troopers opened fire. Slugs smacked into the bulletproof sedan. The bomb was taped between his shoulder blades. Stiletto ripped off the rig and tossed it into the street.
The NWRF salvo did not last long. The C.I.A. tac team responded with automatic fire of their own. The NWRF troops, using the SUV for cover, piled inside. The driver left a patch of rubber on the street as he took off.
Cutter came out and grabbed Miller; Stiletto jumped into the BMW and took off after the SUV.
“Secure Miller and send back-up,” Stiletto said into his com unit.
“They’re right behind you,” Cutter said.
Chapter Eleven
THE SUV almost tipped over making a right turn.
The better-balanced BMW had no trouble keeping up, and Stiletto closed the gap quickly. But he didn’t want a fight on city streets. When the SUV jerked right onto an autobahn on-ramp, Stiletto followed, radioing his position to the back-up team.
The SUV pulled ahead on the straight-line highway but Scott knew there were bends coming he could use to his advantage.
Growing headlamps in the rearview mirror signaled the catch-up of the tac team; an agent named Macedo announced himself over the radio and told Scott they were with him.
Stiletto said, “When we get to the bends I’m going to try and knock them off the road.”
“Copy.”
Stiletto increased speed. Gunmen leaned out on either side of the SUV and fired. The full-auto rounds bounced off the BMW and Stiletto did not slow his pursuit. Another salvo proved equally worthless and the shooters retreated back inside the vehicle.
They reached the bends. As the road curved right, Stiletto sped up; on the following left curve, he surged forward and bumped the SUV’s back panel with his car’s reinforced bumper. The SUV started to slide but the driver recovered and widened the gap as soon as the road straightened again.
Macedo said, “Next curve in about half a mile.”
Stiletto unleathered the Combat Commander, clicked off the safety, and jammed the gun under his right leg. He lowered the driver’s side window. Cold wind rushed into the car.
The next bend curved left. Stiletto increased speed. When the road curved right he surged forward again. As he bumped the SUV, one of the gunmen took a shot, but once again the slug bounced off the glass. As the SUV started to spin, Scott grabbed the .45 and fired out the window, three rapid shots, one of which exploded a back tire.
Scott swerved into the right lane and braked as the SUV continued to spin. It overturned and rolled several times, coming to a stop on its roof off the left shoulder.
Scott stomped harder on his brakes. He dropped the .45 on the floor and jumped out with the HK submachine gun as the back-up team approached the overturned SUV. One of the NWRF shooters was halfway out of the passenger window, firing; the tac team fired back from the cover of their vehicles. Stiletto took aim with the HK, triggered one burst, and the shooter stopped firing. The team continued pouring lead into the SUV, the high-velocity rounds penetrating the body panels and shattering glass. When Macedo yelled for a cease-fire, an odd silence descended on the autobahn.
LIAM MILLER splashed warm water on his face and examined his reflection in the small mirror.
He felt grimy and disgusting but otherwise didn’t seem too damaged.
He exited the airplane bathroom and stepped into the cabin.
The agent sat at a table, waiting for him.
“I need a medic,” Miller said. “Possible concussion.”
“When we land,” Scott said. “Sit down.”
They were the only ones on the jet except for the flight crew. Miller joined the agent at the table.
“So we meet again. Maybe you can tell me your real name this time?”
Stiletto shook his head. “We started a conversation we need to finish.”
“This time you will not have to threaten my sister. I’ll cooperate.”
“Why?”
Miller told Stiletto about Lisbeth. He expected the other man to laugh, but he did not. His expression remained flat; his thoughts unknown.
Stiletto said, “Did you ever have any connection to the Delta Nine nerve gas I asked you about?”
Miller shook his head. “Never. I wasn’t going to admit it. But they want you to think I did know. You’re supposed to question me endlessly and learn nothing while they go about their plans.”
“What are their plans?”
“Aside from acquiring the gas I don’t know.”
“And you know this because of Lisbeth?”
“Yes.”
Stiletto said nothing for a moment but Miller continued.
“Your men took a cell phone from me, do you have it?”
Stiletto nodded again.
“As soon as I left the camp, they evacuated. Lisbeth promised to call when they reach their next destination.”
“I’ll be happy to answer.”
“No. She’ll only talk to me, and this is the only way I’ll talk to you. And one other thing.”
“Which is?”
“I go on the raid. I help you finished this.”
“No way,” Stiletto said.
“You don’t understand. I want them as much as you do. They’ve tried to make a fool of me. I can’t let that stand.”
Stiletto folded his arms. “Your ex-girlfriend threw you over once already. Why put faith in her now?”
“If you let us reunite, we’ll give you whatever you want. We know the answers to questions you people haven’t even thought to ask. All we ask is asylum.”
“Too good to be true.”
“You aren’t the one who will make the decision,” Miller said. “I’m going to lay down. You think it over.”
STILETTO DID not stop Miller from leaving the table.
Miller stretched out on the small couch at the back corner of the cabin.
Stiletto turned to look out the window. The drone of the jet engines didn’t disturb his thoughts. Miller was either telling the truth or lying. Could he be on the level? With what he had admitted, Miller had made it impossible to stall or feed false information. Had the NWRF tried to be too clever, wasted an opportunity, and therefore created a new enemy?
Miller had also done a complete 180 since their first chat. Totally different attitude. And Miller was right about something else, too. Between him and his lady friend, the Agency could collect a great deal of information. He wondered what General Ike, and the DCI, the one to make the decision, would say.
ONCE THE C.I.A. jet landed, a chopper took Miller, once again under heavy gu
ard, to the Blue Ridge black site and placed him in a holding cell. He did not argue but only again asked Stiletto to communicate the terms to his superiors.
Scott flew away from the black site convinced Miller was indeed a changed man. He went back to his apartment long enough to shower and put on a suit and tie. One did not step into the DCI’s office wearing street clothes and reeking of cordite.
When Stiletto finished his verbal report, DCI Carlton Webb, General Ike Fleming and Leo Tattaglia said nothing for a long time.
Webb stood and went to his window.
“We got played,” the DCI said, “and played hard.”
“I disagree, sir,” said Fleming. “Going after Miller in connection to the Delta Nine was a perfectly valid strategy, considering we had nothing else to go on. The NWRF seized on it, however.”
“They got the idea from their mole,” Stiletto said.
Webb did not turn from the window. “Now in this new twist, it sounds like Miller is volunteering to help.”
“Yes, sir,” Scott said.
“Over a woman. Well, men have turned for less,” the DCI said.
Tattaglia spoke up. “Sir, accepting Miller at his word is a bad, bad idea.”
“For once I agree with Leo,” Fleming said. “It’s an escape plan.”
Webb said, “I agree with Scott the two of them together would make quite a package. It’s worth the risk.”
“They’ll get away and go underground,” the General said. “New identities. Same business. We’ll never catch them again.”
“Plus,” Tattaglia said, “this is more covert cowboy nonsense Fleming’s people specialize in. This is no way to run an intelligence organization. We’ve gone too far as it is.”
“Leo—” Scott said, but stopped when Fleming held up a hand.
“I don’t think that’s necessary, Leo,” Fleming said. “We’re all doing the best we can with the missions we are given.”
