Talon of Scorpio

by G T Almasi

  “Yeah.”

  “Lemme see.”

  He lifts his hand away.

  Holy shit!

  My partner’s left ear is nearly sliced off. A slip of flesh connects it at the front, but everything behind that is a meaty mess.

  “Is it bad?” He looks at his fingers. His sleeve is soaked dark red.

  “Yeah, it’s bad. Put your hand back.”

  “Ow! Damn, that’s starting to hurt.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Patrick holds his ear on while I pull a compress from his X-bag. I move his arm and gently squish the bandage to his ear, then I set his palm back over the pad. “Hold that.” I tear off a length of tape to wrap over the bandage and around my partner’s head.

  “Agh!” Brando winces from my untender nursing technique.

  “Sorry.” I try to distract him while I work. “How far behind Fredericks are we?”

  “Four days, at least.”

  Damn. The tape is already slippery with blood.

  “Darwin, I can’t make this stick. Maybe we should take you into this hospital?”

  “No, Antwerp is falling apart. We have to get outta here.” Patrick continues pressing the bandage to his injury. Dark juice seeps between his fingers. “How about I look around for a car while you pop inside and grab more bandages and shit?”

  “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  I run to the hospital. Through the emergency room windows I see nurses and orderlies hurriedly attending to a mob of shell-shocked civilians carpeted across nearly every square foot of floor space. I bolt inside and slip across thick smears of maroon liquid where shot-up patients lie before being rushed to surgery. I approach the unattended nurse’s desk and quickly swag some supplies. A row of bodies covered in sheets lie in the hall behind the station.

  Below the fearful bedlam, I catch snippets of conversation. An explosion at a shopping center. Terrorists. Chatter about action at the naval base here in Antwerp. I find a cop and ask him what happened.

  The story is still in bits and pieces. It sounds like a bomb went off in Antwerp’s shopping district only a few minutes before we sailed into the harbor. The blast wiped out multiple storefronts, tore down a pedestrian walkway, injured as many as a hundred people, and left a crater either seventeen or seventy feet wide. The explosion shook every building in the city. Rival political factions took this as a signal to begin shooting the hell out of each other.

  I thank the policeman and move toward the exit. On my way, I overhear another cop interviewing a sixtysomething gentleman. The older man’s left arm rests in a makeshift sling under his tweed sport coat.

  Tweedy tells the officer he’s a civilian researcher at the Kreigsmarine base, which he says was attacked a few minutes after the shopping center explosion. I stop walking and pretend to look for something in my pockets so I can catch the rest of this exchange.

  To hear Tweedy tell it, a well-armed squad shot their way straight to one particular lab, lifted a single prototype something-or-other, and then immediately scramboozled.

  The cop asks, “Can you give me any details about what was stolen?”

  Tweedy replies, “Sorry, Officer, I work on a different project, so I do not know precisely. A whisper here, a whisper there.” He shrugs, then says, “Everyone knew they worked with extremely hazardous materials.”

  The policeman draws a pad and pen from his pocket. “How could you tell?”

  Tweedy replies, “All laboratories have safeguards, but that project nearly drowns in them. Very dangerous, whatever it is.” The injured researcher wraps his good arm around himself as if to suppress a shiver.

  The cop writes notes on his pad. “Any advice for our search teams?”

  “Officer, I have no idea where those thieves went.”

  “I mean for when we find it.”

  “Oh, goodness,” Tweedy says. “They should keep their distance.”

  “How much distance?”

  Tweedy grimly answers, “One of the whispers told me the unit has a kill radius of two kilometers.”

  —DARE: HIGHLORD—

  8 SEP 1981

  ANTWERP MISSILE LAUNCH

  From: Brussels, Province of Belgium, GG

  To: ExOps HQ, Washington, D.C.

  Sir,

  I’ve received independent and nearly identical reports of a missile launch from Antwerp. Whether it was a test or not remains unclear. Please advise if I should investigate further.

  —Grey, L12-INF

  —DARE: SCHIMPANSEGLEICH—

  9 SEP 1981

  AFTER-ACTION REPORT

  From: Antwerp

  To: ExOps Front Desk, German Section

  Sir,

  Mission accomplished.

  Faithfully,

  —Darwin

  —DARE: HIGHLORD—

  10 SEP 1981

  CHANGE IN LUFTWAFFE COMMAND

  Control,

  General Reinhard Heydrich has taken indefinite leave for family reasons. General Claus von Stauffenberg has assumed command of the Luftwaffe.

  More when I hear it,

  —Garbo

  —DARE: HIGHLORD—

  10 SEP 1981

  EPERNAY DESTROYED BY AIRSTRIKE

  From: Reims, Province of France, GG

  To: ExOps HQ, Washington, D.C.

  Sir,

  Last night’s massive explosion in the town of Epernay is confirmed as a missile strike. Our observation confirms the total destruction of the town center, with significant secondary damage extending for hundreds of yards in every direction.

  The town is a capital of Champagne production, and hosts the headquarters of Moët & Chandon, Veuve Clicquot, and Piper-Heidsieck. The extensive chalk caves deep beneath the streets function as a winery and as a base for the regional Circle of Zion presence. Some of the tunnels were lightly damaged, but the underground networks—both geological and human—remain intact.

  —Pericles and Jade, L6-INT

  16

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 7:23 A.M. CEST

  BASTOGNE, PROVINCE OF BELGIUM, GREATER GERMANY

  My partner and I escaped Antwerp by applying our agency’s recommended emergency egress procedure—grand theft auto. Since we have our choice of every car in sight, we always swipe a nice ride. This time, though, we scored what may be the sexiest vehicle ever made—a black Porsche 911 Turbo. The car, which I’ve nicknamed Pepé, won my undying love the moment his black leather driver’s seat nearly swallowed me during his first breathtaking blast onto the highway. It was like the car was never going to stop accelerating.

  We bail out of traffic and cruise into a gas station near the intersection of the N4 and the E25. I make my partner get out to talk to the fuel floyd while I play with our Porsche’s smorgasbord of buttons and switches. The leather driver’s seat has sixteen controls and can produce any temperature from hot-buns to chilly-cheeks. The gloriously complicated stereo snags every radio wave from London to Moscow. It’s better than mil-spec.

  I want to marry this car.

  Patrick returns to find his seat in a completely different position than he left it. He scowls at me.

  “You need more lumbar support,” I say, then, “Whadja tell the guy?”

  “You’re a famous movie star and he’ll receive free tickets.”

  “Tickets to what?” I shift Pepé Le Porsche into “Bodacious” and steer us toward the middle of Bastogne.

  My partner returns his seatback to its original non-spine-bending position. “Ha!” he laughs. “You know, I never said what the tickets would be for. Maybe he was scared of my bandages.”

  I find a James Brown tune on the radio and crank the volume
. The song blasts from Pepé’s gut-shaking squadron of speakers like the horns of Valhalla.

  Patrick shouts, “Can we turn the music down?”

  “Huh? What? Speak up!” I slow for a red light.

  My partner takes his glasses off and wipes the lenses with a Kleenex from the dispenser inside the climate-controlled glove box. There’s probably a Jacuzzi in here somewhere.

  The car’s first-aid kit contained a generous selection of medical supplies including bandages, medical tape, and antiseptic ointment, all neatly packed into a fine leather case. We pillaged the kit’s contents to patch the slashes and gashes we missed earlier. My legs caught a couple of hits, but the SoftArmor under my jacket did a great job protecting my body and arms.

  Patrick’s SoftArmor shielded his body, but not his ear. I smeared a big blob of antibiotic goop all over it, taped a second compress bandage on the grisly mess, then turbaned an entire roll of the hospital’s gauze around his head to hold it on. We’ll find him more competent medical help, but not in Antwerp; we’ve got to keep after Fredericks. Besides, ExOps doesn’t have a House here. Garbo was only our Greeter this mission. After pointing us at Heydrich, she skedaddled, presumably back to Calais.

  I slowly roll toward the intersection, trying to time my approach so I don’t have to completely stop. Thinking about Brando’s ear makes me reconsider the stereo’s stomach-pumping volume. I turn the music down.

  “Thank you,” he mutters.

  “How’s your ear?” The light turns green and I accelerate through the intersection.

  “Hurts like a motherfucker.”

  “I thought you injected some of my Overkaine.”

  “I did, but just enough to make it bearable.” He gently touches the bandages over his injured ear. “I’m not used to it, and I need to stay focused if we’re gonna get where we’re going.”

  We’re looking for a Carbon lab in Bastogne. The bureauschmucks who run this program love to hide their labs in out-of-the-way burglets where nothing ever happens, even during a civil war. Bastogne fits. The town center looks like it’s from the Middle Ages—half-timbered houses, cobblestoned cow paths pretending to be streets, and Olde Europe’s typically ludicrous number of churches.

  My partner spots our Greeter. “There, in front of the tabac,” he says. “Cigarette, sunglasses, dark hooded jacket.”

  “Got him.” I park in front of the tobacco shop. We hop out of Pepé and approach Mr. Hoodie.

  Our contact waits until we’re directly in front of him before he removes his sunglasses. He says, “Hello, ugly Americans.”

  “Shit,” Patrick gasps.

  I recognize this man. Even the livid burn scars glaring across his face don’t obscure the features I first saw on my inaugural mid-Level Job Number in New York City.

  It’s Hector.

  My hands whip my pistols out of their holsters and jam them in the man’s face.

  Hector, unfazed, coolly asks, “How is that way to greet old friend?”

  Despite his Spanish-sounding field name, he’s a retired Russian Level. Retired or not, agents from Russia are never “old friends”—especially this jamoke. Hector was my target at the Hungarian restaurant in Manhattan last year. We met again at the lab outside Riyadh. I left him on the floor with what sure as shinola looked like a fatal stab wound. I assumed he’d been roasted into Cajun catfish along with everyone else in the place.

  “Hector,” I growl. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Saving world.” Hector gestures toward me with the end of his cigarette. “Same as you.”

  “Bullshit,” my partner says.

  “Ask with your famous ambassador.” Hector nods toward Darwin and slowly blows smoke from the corner of his mouth. “And you, Quick Draw McGraw, get those out from my face.”

  Patrick comms the ambassador’s office while I stubbornly keep my weapons pointed at Hector. His eyes roam across the two of us and linger on Patrick’s bandaged head.

  “I’ll be damned,” Brando says. “Scarlet, let up. He’s on JFK’s payroll.”

  I lower my pistols. “As what?” I grumble.

  Hector grins around his cloud of smoke and sneers, “Consular Affairs Liaison.” He tilts his head for us to follow him and turns to enter the tobacco shop.

  That job title actually sounds right. Inscrutable terms like this are classic embassy-speak for nasty things like Freelance Hit Man.

  We grudgingly follow JFK’s Consular Affairs Liaison inside.

  I comm, “Since when do we employ flacks from Russia?”

  Brando comms back, “Since longer than I thought, I guess. Ambassador Kennedy’s office harvests reams of raw intel about the USSR, but I had no idea his network extended into the Kremlin.” He cocks one eyebrow. “Ex-Kremlin, anyway.”

  I pull the store’s door shut behind me. Shops like this sell tobacco from all around the world: American cigarettes, South African pipe tobacco, Indian rolling paper. One wall supports rows of cloth pouches full of loose tobacco, labeled by their country of origin. A teenage girl stands behind the counter, reading a paperback. She glances at the three of us before returning to her book. I still carry my sidearms, down by my sides. Patrick notices but doesn’t tell me to holster them.

  “So…” I comm. “KGB guys. Working for an American embassy.” I wiggle the barrels of my guns at our cigarette-smoking Greeter. “We’re okay with this?”

  “I’ve heard of crazier things.” My partner shrugs. “Like ex-KGB guys working for a terrorist organization in Iraq.”

  “That was different. At least there Hector was—”

  Brando cuts me off. “The point is, Hector’s a contractor. If—for example—his employer were to be kidnapped by a badass, sexy American spy—”

  Ooh, I like where this is going.

  “—then Hector has to find a new gig.” Patrick looks behind us. “Some contractors care who they work for, and some don’t.”

  I lightly park my pistols in their holsters. “If you say so.”

  Hector opens a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. The girl at the counter doesn’t react.

  To my partner, I comm, “She’s not very attentive.”

  “Oh, she saw us,” my partner answers. “This shop is probably part of Kennedy’s intelligence network.

  “Wait a minute,” I comm. “JFK runs a whole network?”

  “Of course. He’s been the U.S. ambassador to the Greater German Province of Great Britain for over a decade. Whaddya think he’s been doing?”

  Jamming Little Jack into anything above room temperature.

  “Um, I guess I hadn’t thought about it.”

  We follow Hector into a storage room. The pungent air is heavy with earthy spices. Cardboard boxes with labels from all over the world are stacked to the ceiling. Hector stands before a small table and lays out a map of Bastogne. He’s already marked our entry route—a network of catacombs beneath the burg’s main square.

  His finger points at Town Hall. “One way in is through the heavily guarded Rathaus. Very noisy to get in that way.” He moves his finger to the edge of town. “A less well-guarded entrance is this storm sewer. It drains into the River Our.”

  “Any sign of Fredericks?” I ask.

  “In fact, yes.” Our scar-faced guide takes a shallow drag on his cigarette. “I watched him and his bodyguard sneak into town yesterday.” He exhales smoke through his nostrils. “Unfortunately, so did the secret police.”

  I first encountered Hector in a restaurant in New York City. He was acting as the bagman between Fredericks and Imad Badr, although Hector probably knew them as Scorpio and Winter. He was there to meet with the first black-haired girl, so it must have been cake for Hector to spot Talon, who looks just like her.

  Hector tells us if he hadn’t recognized Talon or Fredericks, he would certainly have not
iced the squad of Gestapo bullies who uncordially shoved the fugitives into a pair of black BMW sedans.

  “Oh-h boy.” I rub my forehead. “Bad move.” Trying to hold Talon in an automobile is like jamming a barracuda up your ass.

  Hector confirms my thought. “The girl ripped her guards to pieces before the driver even put his car in gear.”

  “I’ll bet she did,” I mumble.

  Brando asks, “And Fredericks?”

  Hector says, “His driver got away. Your man was taken to Bastogne’s Carbon emplacement.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Right there.” Our Greeter presses his finger to a spot on the map about a mile away from our smokeshop hideout.

  Brando studies the map. “This happened yesterday?”

  “Yes, at fourteen hundred.” So, two o’clock in the afternoon.

  “Where are Talon and Fredericks now?”

  Hector shrugs. “The Gestapo took Fredericks south, toward Luxembourg. I assume Talon followed.”

  We straighten up from the table. I ask Hector, “You coming with us?”

  Hector shakes his head as he slides another cigarette from his shirt pocket, sticks it in his messed-up puss, and lights it.

  “I was sent here to give information.”

  Puff.

  Puff, puff.

  I narrow my eyes.

  “And now I have.” He smirks.

  What an asshole.

  “Fine,” I grumble. “Watch the street at least, will ya, Marlboro Mensch?”

  Hector draws his cigarette from between his lips. “Fine, but do not be a long time.”

  Five minutes later, I’ve parked Pepé next to an ancient cemetery and Brando has unscrewed the storm drain’s grate. The square tunnel is damp and musty, but only a thin stream of water trickles along the ground. My night vision reveals a long brick passage stretching back under Bastogne. After some tiptoeing, we emerge at a large round room.

  “Cistern,” Patrick comms.

  Seven other tunnels radiate from this chamber like spokes on a wheel. Across the cistern, a flight of steel stairs curl downward out of sight. Beyond the stairs stand two armed buffos in black uniforms.