“Oh, shit,” seemed to be Jones’s new mantra.
Happy-Max had vanished. His replacement brought the DVD over to the desk, as Jones woke up the computer.
“Why, for the love of God, would they go to Gretta Kraus’s workshop?” Max asked it as a rhetorical question.
Jones kept his mouth shut, although it was clear to Jules that he knew the answer.
“We were hoping you’d be able to tell us,” Ulster said to Max.
The DVD began to play, and both Max and Jones leaned in to watch. Jules had a clear view over Jones’s broad shoulder.
Max—the real Max who could turn coal to diamonds with certain tightly clenched muscles—used the opportunity to tell Jones, sotto voce and through gritted teeth, “I’m going to kill you. More slowly and painfully this time so that—”
But then Goldie was upon them, leaving the rest of Max’s threat hanging. This time? Jules could only guess what that meant.
The female agent used her pen to point to the screen, which revealed a stagnant shot of what could have been an architect’s studio. Slanted work surfaces, stools, clean lines, bright colors, cut flowers in ceramic vases—it looked like a page from the upscale section of an Ikea catalogue. She tapped. “This is Gretta.”
Gretta was neither typical Hollywood thriller forger-nerd, with pocket protector, thick glasses and streaks of ink on her face and hands, nor James Bondian catsuit-wearing babe-of-evil. She was, instead, 100 percent German hausfrau. Fifty and frumpy. Good for her, for not conforming to expectations.
Except wait. Not so good for her—considering they were watching the last few minutes of her life. She was about to become the newest poster girl for the Crime Doesn’t Pay campaign.
“Gretta’s husband and her sons,” Goldie pointed again with her pen to three men leaning over a computer, much the way Max, Jones, and Jules were doing now. Except Max, Jones, and Jules had all of their teeth. As they watched, the oldest of the three men took his out, putting it—them?—on a plate alongside of what looked like a donut.
Yikes.
A youngish woman entered the frame, “Gretta’s assistant,” Goldie narrated. “And watch Mr. Kraus as she brings the women in. He makes a phone call.”
On the screen, the assistant was followed by . . . Yes, that was definitely Gina, but with an adorable haircut, along with another woman. And sure enough, over by the computer Mr. Kraus looked at them, then slipped in his teeth and picked up the phone.
As Jules watched, both Max and Jones tensed, and Jones oh shitted.
“That’s her,” Max told Goldie and Ulster, trying hard to resurrect Happy-Max, but not quite able, considering. “Gina. And her friend, Molly Anderson.” He looked at Jules. “Also known as Mrs. Leslie Pollard. She was married recently. When was it exactly . . . ? Do you remember what Father Soldano told us, Bill?”
“About four months ago,” Jones said, his voice tight as he stared at the screen.
And Jules finally backed off, because he now understood. Jones was apparently as invested in finding Molly and Gina as Max was. And, for various reasons—the most obvious being that the man would be wrestled to the floor, handcuffed, and immediately extradited to the United States—Max wasn’t ready to disclose Jones’s true identity to Ulster and Goldstein.
Jules, however, was trusted with the truth. He reholstered his weapon, pretending he had an itch under his arm.
On the screen, Molly seemed pissed. A statuesque redhead whose entire attire and attitude screamed crunchy-granola Unicef Mama, she was talking and talking, but Gretta just kept shaking her sullen head. “I’m sorry,” it looked as if she were saying. And, No. “Nein.”
Gina stood there, hugging her nifty ergonomic backpack, as if she’d rather be anywhere else in the world.
Jules couldn’t wait to find out what they were doing there. Although he suspected if he asked, “Who here needs a professionally forged passport and ID?” only one of them would raise his battered-knuckled hand.
But what kind of lowlife scum willingly sent two women into a literal den of thieves?
Jules predicted that after Max got rid of Ulster and Goldie someone and someone else might just trip over the ol’ lamp cord again.
On screen, Molly didn’t give up. She just kept talking. Jules wished this recording had a soundtrack. He could only imagine how frustrated Max must be.
Gretta now looked pissed. She pulled out a file from a cabinet, tossed it on her desk, gesturing to Molly.
Maybe it was just Jules’ vivid imagination, but Gretta had to be saying, auf Deutsch, of course: “So who’s going to pay for this? Huh? Huh? Huh?”
This being the masterpiece of forgery that was surely in that file. Whatever it was, the camera angle didn’t pick it up. Jules guessed passport. And he’d bet big dinero that the photo used in the official document would show a remarkable likeness to the man sitting directly in front of him.
The name on the passport, of course, could have been anything. Anything except for Grady Morant, David Jones, or Leslie Pollard.
“Bill” had already used those names—he would surely have chosen something fresh and new. Something, oh, say, not on anyone’s Most Wanted List.
On the computer screen, Gina was now digging in her bag. Opening her wallet. As she and Molly now argued, she handed Gretta a . . . credit card?
Even more absurd was the fact that Gretta took it. She vanished out of range of the camera as Molly and Gina stepped closer to each other to continue their disagreement.
“NTS International,” Max murmured.
Of course. That mysterious twenty-thousand-dollar charge to Gina’s credit card. NTS International was a temporary front for Gretta Kraus’s lucrative illegal business. No wonder they were having trouble tracking them.
“Now, here’s where the husband gets a phone call, probably from the front office,” Goldie pointed to the screen. Sure enough, in the background, Mr. Kraus again picked up the phone. What were the chances that the old guy’s first name was Klaus? “And now he goes out front and . . .”
Mr. Kraus came back into the workshop with another man.
Jules had never seen him before, but Gina and Molly sure as hell seemed to recognize him. They backed away. As if they were afraid of him.
“Motherfucker,” Jones expleted, apparently having used up his oh shit reserve. “He’s clearly our guy and those assholes just walked him in.”
“Do you know him?” Max asked Jones, who was probably still alive thanks only to Goldie and Ulster’s continued presence.
“No. You?”
“No.”
As everyone on that screen did more of that silent talking, the man—dark hair, medium height and build, mustache, maybe mid-fifties—casually took out a handgun. His demeanor wasn’t threatening, but that weapon really ramped up the mood from frightened to scared shitless.
Gretta Kraus got into the discussion then, as Gina stepped slightly in front of Molly.
And it was Max’s turn to cuss. He glared at Goldie. “Do we have an ID on him?”
“Not yet, sir,” she said. “It was lower priority, since he doesn’t seem to be connected to the terrorists and . . . See, here’s where Gina’s got her passport behind her—it’s in her wallet. See, she’s backed up against Gretta’s desk and . . .”
As they watched, courtesy of the camera positioned back behind that desk, Gina slipped her wallet—large, made of brown leather—beneath some of the papers scattered there.
Maybe she was trying to hide her identity. Or maybe she thought that without her passport, she wouldn’t be able to leave the country.
“Molly’s passport was in there, too,” Jones said. He glanced up at Goldie, adding, “Probably. I mean, she’s not carrying a purse or anything, so I’m guessing . . .”
“And now the shooting starts,” Jim Ulster took over the narration.
On the screen, everyone jumped, as if there was a sudden loud noise from out in the other room.
Gretta, who’d be
en standing close to Gina, went down, hard, with a spray of blood.
“Ah, God,” Max breathed, no doubt noticing the look of pure horror on Gina’s face. She didn’t quite know what had happened. She was still just standing there.
The room exploded around her as bullets hit the plaster walls, the lamps, those vases with cut flowers. And the mustached gunman, who’d already tackled Molly, dragged Gina down with him to the floor.
On the far side of the room, the two younger Kraus men grabbed for weapons—serious-ass military-type machine guns—ready to fight back. But their as-of-yet unidentified gunman didn’t waste a single second returning fire. He shouted something to Gina—he had her by the wrist—and she grabbed Molly. And he pulled them both with him out of camera range.
“Back door’s back behind the camera, to the left on your screen,” Ulster told them, as they watched the last two Krauses get riddled with bullets and fall.
“Whoever he was,” Goldie said, “he definitely saved Gina and her friend’s lives.”
Maybe so. But it was obvious to Jules that Max wasn’t on the verge of giving Mr. Mustache-Man a medal.
Goldie reached over and paused the DVD. “The rest of the footage is the terrorists trashing the place as they look for passports. They find Gina’s wallet on Gretta’s desk—it’s clear this is how they got hold of it. It also explains why the same-day, one-way airline ticket that was made in her name was paid for with her own credit card. We’re no longer looking at her as a possible connection to the cell.”
They’d actually thought Gina was . . . ? Jules made a noise of indignation, even though he knew they’d had to consider all possibilities.
“I want an ID for that gunman,” Max ordered. “Bump it higher in priority.” His phone rang. “Excuse me.”
He turned away to answer it, and Jules’s phone rang, too.
As he reached for it, Goldie and Ulster also started ringing.
That was never a good sign. Four agents, all getting called at once?
Something big had happened—an attempt on the President’s life, a nuclear meltdown, or . . .
“Goddamn it!” The real Max came roaring back to life, full force this time. He hit the mute button on his phone. “Don’t answer that, Cassidy!”
Or a terrorist attack.
Jules had his phone in his hand. He recognized the caller’s number. “It’s Yashi.” From the D.C. headquarters.
Max had already turned back to his call. “Please repeat—I’m having trouble hearing you.”
“Oh, my God,” Goldie was saying into her phone. “Right away. Yes, ma’am. Yes, ma’am!”
“They did what?” Ulster was equally distressed, one finger in his non-phone ear. “Oh, crap. Okay. Yeah, okay. We’ll be right in.”
Jesus, this couldn’t be good.
“What’s going on?” Jones asked Ulster as he hung up.
“We’ve got to go,” Ulster said. “We’ve got at least three commercial passenger planes in the air sending out an SOS. Air marshals have prevented hijackings, but they believe there are bombs on board that’ll go off if the planes try to land.”
“We’ve also uncovered a plot to set off a series of dirty bombs in U.S. and European cities,” Goldie gathered up her shoulder bag and headed for the door. “We’ve located three of the bombs, but at least two are still at large.”
“The connection’s bad,” Max said into his phone. “I can’t hear you. Call me back.” He hung up as Ulster and Goldstein paused at the door, waiting for him to dismiss them. “Go,” he said, and they went. “Jules.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You heard what’s going down?”
“Yes, sir.” Apparently, they were on the verge of a global terrorist attack. The one they always said was coming—and this time they’d been ready. They’d apparently already stopped much of it from happening, now they were going to stop the rest.
“That call you didn’t take,” Max told him grimly, “It’s someone telling you to get your ass back to D.C. When you call them back, they’re going to say you’ll have to catch a military transport, because all commercial airports in the U.S. have been shut down.”
Sweet baby Jesus. “All of them?”
“Yeah. I’m not going in,” Max told him. “For obvious reasons. But Peggy Ryan will take over—I have total faith in her. In the entire team. In you, too. But I know you and Peggy have knocked heads, so . . . Just tell me where you want to be assigned, and you’ll go there. As a team leader. She’ll eventually get used to you.”
What? “Excuse me, sir, you’re talking like you’re never coming back.”
Max nodded. “Yeah.”
Shit.
Double shit.
Jules hadn’t expected Max to ask him to stay and help find Gina and Molly. Not in so many words, anyway. But he really hadn’t expected this tell me where you want to be assigned, “have a nice life” bullshit.
Which didn’t mean that Jules couldn’t volunteer to stay right here. Especially considering the manpower needed for a hostage rescue. If Max had been thinking he was going to be able to utilize any type of Special Ops group like SEAL Team Sixteen to assist in Molly and Gina’s rescue . . . Honey, he was going to have to think again.
Those guys were going to be a little busy over the next few days, saving the world and whatnot.
Which meant . . . what? Max and No-name Jones over there, kicking down the kidnapper’s door all by their little lonesome?
“God, you know, I really hate Peggy Ryan,” Jules told Max now. “She is such a pain in my ass. If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’ll just keep on keeping on, assisting you with this case. Just because the rest of the world’s on fire doesn’t mean two kidnapped women don’t matter. They need saving, so let’s go save ’em.”
Max was shaking his head. “Careers are going to be made, based on what happens over the next few days,” he pointed out.
Jules just looked at him for several long seconds. “That might be truly the most offensive thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Max didn’t look even slightly ashamed. His nose, however, was a little swollen. “That doesn’t make it any less true.”
Jones, aka Grady Morant, was watching them from his seat at the desk. Now that the comedy team of Ulster and Goldstein had left the building, his left hand, Jules noted, was no longer in his pocket.
“Why is it,” Jules asked Jones, “that Max can’t simply look me in the eye and tell me he wants me to stay, that he needs my help?”
Jones shook his head. Shrugged. “I’m not,” he said, “you know. Gay.”
Jules laughed his surprise. “What does that have to do with . . . ?” Did Jones think . . . ? Okay. Apparently no help would be coming from that quarter.
Jones stood up. “Can we get out of here? We need to figure out how the hell we’re getting to Jakarta. If commercial airports are shutting down . . .”
Jules’s phone started ringing again. He turned to Max. “You said tell me where I want to be assigned, I told you. What more do you need me to say?”
Max seemed to make up his mind. He nodded. “Answer that,” he ordered Jules. “And tell Yashi that I made you a team leader—that you’re in charge of this kidnapping investigation, and that you need three seats on the next flight to Indonesia—civilian or military, it doesn’t matter which, as long as you can board unchallenged with two passengers.”
“I’m in charge? As in, what? You’re assisting me?” Jules laughed. But Max didn’t join in. “Whoa. Wait, sir. I—”
“Tell him,” Max spoke over him, “as team leader, I tendered my resignation to you, and you accepted.”
What?
The ringing was driving him nuts. Jules answered his phone. “Yash, I’ve got to call you right back.” He hung up. “I beg your pardon, sir, but what the hell?”
“I can’t be in charge of this case,” Max said. “I can’t participate in any official capacity. Gina’s my . . . girlfriend.”
It was ent
irely possible, that was the first time he’d ever called her that. As it was, he practically choked on the word.
But before Jules could scoff at him—what a baby, and what a stupid word to choke on, for crying out loud, because Gina was not a girl and hello, he hadn’t even seen her in a year and a half—Max spoke again.
“She means everything to me,” he whispered. “She’s my life. Without her . . .” He shook his head.
And Jules realized with a jolt of shock that Max had tears in his eyes. It was one thing to see the man cry upon discovery that Gina wasn’t dead, but this . . .
“I’d sacrifice anything for her,” Max admitted now. “Including your career. So, yes, I will say it. I want you to stay and help me get her back.”
Jules didn’t hesitate. “I accept the position,” he told his friend. “And I accept your . . . you know.” Resignation. He accepted it, but couldn’t quite bring himself to utter the word.
Max nodded. “Call Yashi,” he ordered. “I’ll pack the laptop so we can communicate with the kidnapper—he calls himself E. We need to e-mail him—he’s already contacted Morant here through a special account. I’m going to demand additional proof of life. He sent a photo, but I want phone contact. Oh, and you should probably be aware, before I quit, I cut a deal with Mr. Morant. We don’t touch him until Molly and Gina are safely in our custody. After that, he’s all ours.” He caught himself. “Yours.”
“Only in my dreams,” Jules said, as he dialed his cell phone. “Because, you know, dude says he’s not gay.”
Jones ignored him. “I know it’s a long shot, but we should get whatever information we can about both e-mail accounts—his and the one he set up for me. Maybe we can trace his location.”
“Roger that,” Jules said. He’d also see if the D.C. office could spare any personnel, although it was extremely unlikely. Peggy Ryan wouldn’t miss him—he had no doubts about that. He also knew that she wouldn’t willingly assign away any other members of her team during a situation that involved a possible dirty bomb in the nation’s capital.
Still, maybe there was someone else on the team whom she suspected of being gay.
Breaking Point Page 21
