by Alan L. Lee
Champion pondered his options and realized at the moment, they were few and far between. “Keep with it. I need all eyes on this. Mr. Bonderman, Mr. Jennings, again, thank you. You can get back at it now.”
Once Bonderman and Jennings exited, only Peters and a woman dressed in a smart business suit remained. Sara Garland didn’t visit Langley often. Being around suits and management was, for her, the epitome of boredom. After a couple of trips, the mystique of the compound sort of lost its luster. There was no comparison to being out in the real world, in the thick of things.
The sun hadn’t been up for long, and already Champion could feel the initial onslaught of fatigue. A busy workday would force the symptoms to subside. “Sara, profile this for me. If you’re Nora Mossa, how are you moving about?”
Though Sara held him in the highest regard, she didn’t feel the slightest need to impress Champion. Before she had worked with him, she had heard through the grapevine that he respected ability. She had been pleased to discover the grapevine had been right, and he had subsequently become a mentor to her career. The folder in front of her contained a great deal more information than the packets distributed to Jennings and Bonderman. Before she could respond, Champion interrupted, his eyes pacing back and forth between Garland and Peters. “I’m sorry, it just occurred to me you two don’t know each other. Sara Garland, Karl Peters.” An obligatory nod followed the introductions.
“Karl, I asked Sara to do background work on Mossa once she went AWOL in Rome. She’s pretty much up to speed. And Karl, if you’re up to it, you two might be working this together.”
Sara cast Champion a quick, curious glance that he noticed but dismissed. Peters looked at Sara, sizing her up. “I’m up to it, sir.”
“Good. Sara, please continue.”
She swallowed quietly and focused on her notes. “Nora Mossa is well trained. Excellent in self-defense, high marks with weaponry, intellectually sound.” Sara flipped a page, searching for the most relevant material. “She speaks several languages: Italian, French, Spanish, Russian, and at last report was working on Arabic. She has kills to her credit, so she’s not a stranger to getting her hands dirty. If she wants to hide, the world is her playground. As Mr. Jennings mentioned, because of her covert status, I’m sure she has several identities that we don’t know about. There is no lover or boyfriend of consequence, but she does date. She hasn’t contacted any of those individuals so far, nor has she called her mother.”
At the end of the table, Peters took notes more to keep his mind off the pain than anything else. So far, he knew most of what Ms. Garland was saying and would lay odds Champion knew it as well. He was aware of Mossa’s skills: they were the reason he’d drawn his weapon and kept his distance. For him, the gun was the equalizer. What he hadn’t counted upon was her having backup. Though he didn’t know who Sara Garland was, he surmised she might not have made that same mistake. He figured Champion knew that as well, which was probably why she had been working this case unbeknownst to Peters.
“I assume all active assets she’s worked with in the past have been notified and that they should report immediately if contacted?” Sara asked of Champion.
He confirmed her assumption, which prompted a response. “Then we have to do some detailed background work, which is going to be time-consuming for sure. I’ll need clearance for that.” Sara turned her attention to the beat-up Peters on her left. “As for yesterday, it was no mistake on her part. I believe it was a fact-finding exercise. With the surveillance cameras manipulated, the coffee shop was a perfect vantage from which to see what’s coming your way. A woman with a multitude of skills who’s on the run, all of a sudden stupidly uses a debit card under her real name? And”—Sara raised an eyebrow, “a woman who trusted someone else to watch her back.”
“What’s her next move? Where would you go?” Champion got up to walk around, trying to jump-start his system. Was it really only six-forty-five?
“Once alerted to the circus that ensued,” Sara said, “I would get my ass out of Dodge, so to speak. Knowing I had that many prying eyes on me—and knowing the watchers have a ton of resources readily available—I’d get out of the country before a containment plan could be put together. The quickest available flights departing anywhere would suffice. And one other thing,” Sara added as she closed her file.
“I wouldn’t trust anyone at this point. Least of all, the CIA.”
CHAPTER 15
Some useful elements of his past were slowly returning.
On this particular night they were serving Alex well. Conducting surveillance under these circumstances was a bitch, and yet, his target was well in sight and unaware he was being tailed. Duncan was half a block ahead of the subject while Alex kept pace a short distance from behind, careful not to bump into pedestrian traffic going in the opposite direction or onlookers who stopped in their tracks to survey their varied options.
The streets were dimly lit by the red neon glow that stretched from building to building. Amsterdam stood out on the world map because it had succeeded in maintaining a sense of age-old beauty, while also addressing the wants and desires of the human condition. Its acceptance of most soft drugs, especially marijuana, was an eye-opener for those who visited from much stricter locales. Couple that with legalized prostitution, gaudily on display in the infamous Red Light District, and it was easy to see why Amsterdam was a destination for those who wanted to experience what their own countries would never come to understand. For all its vices, Amsterdam had little crime except for nuisance pickpockets and low-level dealers of hard drugs.
Alex and Duncan had eyes on their subject the moment he exited the fashionable Hotel InterContinental Amstel. He promptly called for a taxi and was let out a block from the Red Light District. Alex was being extra cautious because there was a chance that another set of eyes was on the subject or that he had veiled security watching. If the latter were the case, they would be very skilled. Even though Nora told him the man was traveling alone, Alex checked anyway to make sure no one was watching his flank.
The man’s name was Neville Schofield, a card-carrying member of Britain’s elite security service, MI6. He was also someone Alex once considered a friend. The years had been kind to Neville. His curly red hair still possessed volume and was perfectly suited for the animated face it topped. Alex used to poke fun at him over his resemblance to the lead singer of Simply Red. There were a few wrinkles on his face, but other than that, he appeared to be the Neville of old. The next fifteen minutes were spent watching him delight in the process of shopping for his next sexual escapade. He finally made a choice and was ushered into the working woman’s office, the curtains steadfastly closed after an arrangement was agreed upon. There was nothing for Alex and Duncan to do now but wait. Making the down time interesting was a small wager on just how long they’d be waiting. While Duncan kept watch, Alex ducked in a bar to grab a couple of beers to go.
“You ever?” Duncan asked, motioning toward the sexual smorgasbord.
Alex shook his head. “Not as long as I can get it for free.”
“Yeah, I don’t get the fascination either. Granted, the whole experienced thing I understand, but just thinking about all the guys before you…” Duncan’s face constricted as if something sour passed his lips. “Plus, no emotional attachment at all. I mean, when you’re with a woman, even if it’s a one night stand, in some respect she’s there because she digs you.”
“Never knew you were such a romantic.” Alex finished off his beer. “Also, you owe me fifty bucks.”
Duncan looked up to see Neville emerging from the apartment. “Damn,” he muttered as he reached in his pocket and handed over his debt.
Neville grabbed another taxi back to the hotel. Instead of heading for his room, he made a detour to the lobby bar. He chose a table overlooking the Amstel River, flagged down a waitress, and ordered. After his drink arrived, Neville managed two sips before he was interrupted. Duncan blocked him in by occupying t
he outside chair, and Alex followed by taking a seat directly across from Neville. His momentary unease was replaced with a toothy smile.
“Talk about a sight for sore eyes.”
Alex nodded. “Still like big tits, I see. Now, what’s Mrs. Schofield going to say about that?”
The smile disappeared from Neville’s face for just an instant. “You bastard! You’ve been following me?” he said, shaking his head. “To answer your queries: yes, I still have an affinity for large breasts, and there is no Mrs. Schofield anymore. We divorced two years ago.”
“Sorry to hear about that,” Alex offered sincerely.
“Don’t be. As you so aptly put it, she did have ample reasons to leave me.” Neville turned his attention to Duncan, whose smirk was as unnerving as his size. “And who might Bigfoot be?”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Alex proclaimed. “Neville Schofield, meet Duncan Anderson.” They shook hands, and Neville was taken aback by the size of Duncan’s hand.
“Nice guy to have around,” Neville observed.
“As friends go, he’s pretty damn good.”
Neville made a reference to not drinking alone, and the alert waitress, sensing a sizeable tip might be in her future, was quick to take new orders. The bar was beginning to fill up, and for that, Alex was grateful. More noise meant the trio’s conversation could carry on without much concern for privacy.
“Now, back to this following me business,” Neville said with a raised eyebrow.
“I’ve had someone on you for two days.”
Neville traced his memory. A man of his position was supposed to notice such things. He was embarrassed that he hadn’t. “I do have business hours. A lot less intrigue involved with a making an appointment.”
“Don’t let it bother you too much. She’s very good.”
Neville was at least thankful for that. “Still, it’s tricky business here, Alex. It’s been years since we last tossed a few back, and if memory serves me right, you’re no longer…”
“Correct,” Alex confirmed. He could tell Neville needed to hear more before this impromptu get-together could proceed in the direction Alex needed it to go. “And this has to be off the books for you.”
“How far off?”
“A matter of time more than anything,” Alex answered as he produced a sheet of paper. “I need a couple of days, a week at most. If you’re asked after that, feel free to give it up.”
“I’ve always known you to be an honorable man in a dishonorable profession. Doesn’t sound too compromising, as long as it doesn’t jeopardize queen and country.”
Alex chuckled, “Yours, I’m not worried about.”
Neville directed his focus upon the single sheet of paper Alex pushed across the table to him.
Duncan provided some background on what he was looking at. “I believe these are names of arms dealers. A couple I recognize, strictly small-time stuff. Guns, ammunition, that gray area you government types allow to fly under official scrutiny so that you can keep friends in dark places. There’s three on here I don’t know, and that’s where we’re hoping you can help out.”
“So if I can, you want me to identify their level of commitment to world order?”
Alex waited until the waitress finished placing drinks on the table. “Here’s the bonus question. Any of those three names capable of procuring nuclear elements?”
It was part of Neville’s job at MI6 to know the world’s movers and shakers, especially those who tried to operate covertly. They did so for only two reasons: profit or ideology.
Neville studied the names and then looked up. “Anything here I should know about? Something possibly crossing my radar?”
“To early to tell, but I highly doubt it,” said Alex. “As I mentioned, I’m not concerned with the tea and crumpet set. I’m looking for Moby Dick.”
Neville returned to the list. “All right, Captain Ahab, I can make this a little easier for you. Ostermann is no longer with us. Not much fanfare on his demise; he drowned in Greece. Official report said he had too much to drink. Now, reportedly, he did like his alcohol, so it was a darn good cover story if other factors were involved, which may be the case. I’ll get to that in a minute. Rafiq Nawaz Khan … Pakistani. Well educated—US, in fact. He’s helped a number of countries increase their regional bargaining power. At first, though, it was to accelerate programs. Now it’s more directed at maintenance. The shift, I believe, can be explained by pressure from Israel. The thinking being, if I know precisely what you’re equipping someone with, there’s less concern, because I can adequately monitor that. Besides, the maintenance business promises a steady paycheck, and you’re alive to cash it.”
Duncan shook his head with an understanding look. “That was the name I knew. So much for my usefulness.”
“It’s a complex business with constantly moving boundaries,” Neville assured him. “This brings us to the third name on the list. Tobias Baum … German. The A-list guy of high-level black market stuff. Of course, officially his wealth comes from the shipping industry and well-placed investments. Klaus Ostermann was an associate of his. As I mentioned, Ostermann is dead. Some saw his accidental death as a message to Baum.”
“A message from the Israelis?”
Neville shot Alex a wink and pointed a finger. “Ah, you may be out of the game, but how it’s played hasn’t left you. The Israelis went out of their way to let it be known they weren’t involved with Ostermann’s timely demise. I say timely because Mossad was putting pressure on Baum to cease his dealings with certain Middle East countries, namely Iran. Israel gets a little testy when someone is trying to facilitate a WMD program for a country whose leader has publicly said they should be wiped off the face of the earth.”
“I take it Baum is a bit headstrong.”
“There’s that. Plus, countries keep throwing millions upon millions in his face to take calculated risks on their behalf.”
“So you think this Ostermann thing didn’t exactly put the fear of God in him?”
Neville waved his hand, dismissing the supposition. “A guy like Baum would take all the necessary precautions, create the illusion that the message—if it was a message—was received loud and clear. But Baum, with all his assets and connections, would also think no one could pry that deeply into his affairs and come up with anything concrete. You see, the other theory about Ostermann—” Neville paused to down his drink. “—is that Baum got rid of him because he felt the Israelis did get to him.”
“Fair enough. I know the type,” Alex responded.
It was getting very noisy in the bar so Duncan leaned in close to be heard. “So, there’s only one question that remains.” Neville was puzzled.
Alex smiled. “Where can I find Tobias Baum?”
Anticipating a night of engaging stories and plenty of alcohol, Neville proved his worth. “My friend, I can do you one better than that.”
CHAPTER 16
It was not the way Alex liked to work, but he had to remind himself he’d done more with much less. And the stakes during those instances were far greater than they appeared to be now. Not letting his psyche get too far ahead of itself, he also acknowledged those were days gone by. He was putting himself at risk for the woman that sat across from him. What the hell was he doing here? The impulse to get up and walk away simmered just below the surface. For now, he held it in check. Besides, leaving would put him on equal footing with her, and though her desertion was very much in the past, making that distinction was mostly what kept him seated.
Nora had followed Neville Schofield from London to Amsterdam, but Alex was adamant about keeping her out of sight. If questioned, he wanted his friend to have total deniability on whether he’d seen or heard of her.
Thanks to information supplied by Neville, Nora and Alex now sat outdoors at a Brussels restaurant along the Rue des Bouchers. They were just an attractive couple enjoying a leisurely mid-day meal. Five tables away were Tobias Baum and a bodyguard. The red
dish, brick-paved street was for pedestrian travel only, and the myriad restaurant choices lining both sides attracted a constant stream of foot traffic. They provided ample cover for Alex and Nora. Apron-clad waiters selling their various establishments to passersby provided further distraction. Across the narrow street inside another restaurant, Duncan kept watch through a window seat. His vantage point allowed him greater visibility of the entire street, and he labored through the process of trying to check out every person who crossed his sight line. It was Duncan who’d alerted Alex that in all likelihood, Baum was about to have company, and true to Duncan’s observational skills, two men had walked up and joined the German.
So far, Alex had to hand it to Baum. Certainly wealthy way beyond his life expectancy, Baum either understood innately or had come to learn that not drawing too much attention to one’s self in his line of work eliminated a lot of trouble. Others, more paranoid or bent on displaying their self-importance, would surround themselves with a small, attention-grabbing entourage. Alex, Nora, and Duncan had concluded that Baum’s regular detail consisted only of two men. One pretty much stayed within reaction distance, serving as both protector and companion. Alex took detailed notes in his mind about the man. How he moved, on which side did he carry his firearm, were there any physical ailments he was trying to cover, like a bad knee? Did his muscular frame reduce his quickness, thus making him more apt to use a weapon than his hands or feet? The other bodyguard either trailed a safe distance behind or took a position ahead of the pair to make sure the horizon was clear of hidden danger. There had been no incidents that might have offered the opportunity to judge their readiness or skill level, but given Baum’s wealth and penchant for the finer things in life, it was likely that the bodyguards were among the best in the business. Alex knew that in Afghanistan and Iraq, there was a serious market for men of such expertise. In order to protect its fragile but valued interests, the US often recommended the services of ex-military specialists as personal bodyguards. The clients sometimes balked at the specialists’ hefty fee, but they soon acquiesced when the realities of survival took over. Though the bodyguards were outsiders, they were at least men that could be trusted. Their political and religious beliefs aside, they worshipped the proper execution of their job and the almighty dollar. Those bodyguards sat with Baum at the table, preparing to eat lunch. A smart man would go one step further and make the task of protecting him more than just about the money. From all appearances, Baum didn’t treat them like pieces of furniture. The personal touch could go a long way toward extending how far his protectors were willing to stick their necks out.
