by J C Ryan
“Hell, no! I don’t want the person who’ll take care of him involved. Rest assured, he’ll be fine. I give you my word on that.”
“Good enough. Anything else you need that I can help with?” Bill asked.
“Better you don’t know. Aside from our snatching him for his own safety, part of this is highly illegal. You want plausible deniability, yes?”
“You’re right. I don’t want to know.”
“Then I’ll get busy.”
Sean had his cell phone out of his pocket before he even cleared the building. “Hey, buddy, long time no see. Want to meet me for lunch? My treat.”
Over the best street tacos in Washington, DC, he told a friend from his Special Forces days he needed a chop shop. His friend, a DC cop now, raised his eyebrows.
“Is there anything you want to tell me, Sean?”
Sean shook his head. “You know what I do now, right?”
His friend nodded.
“It has to do with a top-secret operation. Sorry I can’t tell you more. Can you help me?”
“Yeah, I think I can.” He went on to give Sean the name of a suspected chop shop, and contact information for the undercover cop who worked there. “You’ll tell me someday?”
“If I can. Thanks, Joe.”
His call to the undercover cop went pretty much the same. “We’re looking for some non-standard equipment, a black box in the driver’s side door panel. Give us that, and the rest of the car is all yours.”
“More evidence for me, not a problem. Where will the car be, and how will we identify it?”
Sean gave him the address of Kelly’s apartment building, a description of the car, and the license plate number. “Wait until at least two a.m., okay?”
“Sure. And how do we get the box to you?”
“I’ll be in touch. And hey, make sure the battery is disconnected before you mess with that box. Then don’t let it out of your sight. It’s extremely important.”
Sean’s next call was to Kelly, who still wasn’t keen on inviting McCormick to spend the night with her. “It’s the last time, Kelly, I swear. And you don’t need to do anything else for this operation. Just loan me your apartment key, and make sure McCormick is in bed before midnight. You can slip him a roofie if you don’t want to make him sleepy the old-fashioned way.” He grinned only when he’d finished the sentence, so she wouldn’t hear it in his voice.
“Yuck. This is the last of him, you promise?” she asked.
“You have my word, Kelly.”
***
At midnight, Sean and two of his men were at Kelly’s door. They eased her door open and tiptoed to the bedroom, where they found both Kelly and McCormick asleep. Trusting that Kelly had done her part one way or another, they quietly hefted McCormick and carried him into the living room, where they administered another sedative and trussed him like a Thanksgiving turkey.
Sean noticed Kelly didn’t wake either. Must have been a good bottle of wine. They held McCormick up between the two EA operatives, pretending he was a drunk companion until they got him in their vehicle. From there, they drove him to a warehouse near the same airport where the “milk” plane was hangered and loaded him into a crate with ventilation shafts that had been prepared for his transport.
They then had a truck pick up that crate and several others and deliver them to a freight transport service. McCormick’s crate was labelled for delivery to Colorado Springs, Colorado. The pilot accepted the bill of lading without insisting on checking the cargo, as he’d been paid to do. The paperwork protected him.
Sean hurried back to Kelly’s, where he’d arranged to meet the car thieves. He accompanied the undercover cop to the chop shop, where he took possession of the black box.
First thing in the morning, it was destined to be handed to the quantum IT project team. They’d be all over it like kids in a candy store.
***
McCormick’s crate was met in Colorado Springs at noon by Jared Walker, who loaded it into his pickup and drove out of town before he opened it. When he pulled over on a dirt track off Highway 24, he could hear McCormick making a racket inside the crate.
Jared pried the lid off, and McCormick sprang up, ready for a fight.
But as soon as he noticed the mountain peaks around him and a familiar-looking but unknown guy in a cowboy hat with a pry bar in his hands, Russell stilled. It had been a while since he’d been directly involved in an operation, but he knew the evidence when he saw it.
“Who are you?”
“I have a letter here from my brother, whom I think you know. It explains everything.” Jared handed the letter to Russell and then went to sit inside the cab of the pickup while McCormick came to terms with his situation.
McCormick read the letter with growing disbelief.
Russell, we apologize for the inconvenience, but we’ve placed you with my brother for safekeeping for the time being. You are best advised to stay put and do as you’re asked. Enjoy the peace in the Colorado Rockies, and stay out of sight of your former masters if you value your life. The letter was signed “Sean W.”
McCormick jerked open the passenger door on the pickup and said, “What the fuck?”
Jared shrugged. “You know as much as I do. My brother asked me to pick you up and feed and shelter you until further notice, and said you’d be glad to give me a hand on my ranch in return for the favor.”
“Fat chance of that. Take me to the nearest airport,” McCormick demanded.
“No can do, friend,” Jared answered. “Firstly, my brother told me your life would be in danger if you were seen by anyone else. He went to a lot of trouble to get you here, and he must have a good reason. I just got his mail this morning. If you want to risk it, you’ll have to walk back to Colorado Springs, because I don’t have time to take you back.
“Secondly, picking you up has cost me three hours, and my alpacas are hungry. The least you can do is come help me feed them. Then we’ll talk about what’s next.”
Russell had no intention of helping with any alpacas, but neither did he know how far it was back to Colorado Springs as the truck had been moving when he finally woke up.
That bitch, Kelly White, must have roofied me.
And it was cold, much too cold for the garb he was wearing. He didn’t even know where the jeans and plaid shirt had come from, but he wished whoever had dressed him in them had sent along a heavier coat than the denim jacket he had on.
“Fine, I’ll go to your ranch with you,” he huffed in defeat.
Chapter 61 - Lately he couldn’t do anything right
May 6
Mathieu sighed in satisfaction after reading the latest message from the last of his three assassins. She had arrived in Matera. With the plan to deal with the Devereuxs in place, he turned his attention to McCormick. It was time to get his mother on board with his plans.
“Maman, I trust you received my analysis of Russell McCormick’s performance lately,” he said by secure satellite uplink.
“I did, and I have read it. I concur,” she answered.
“Then I have your permission to proceed?”
“Absolutely.” They needn’t bother with a vote in the Council; security matters were part of their duties.
While talking to his mother, Mathieu’s eye caught the statuette which he always kept on his desk. It was an exact replica, mini version of Maman, the huge sculpture of a spider by Louise Bourgeois on display at the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa. It was supposed to allude to the strength of Bourgeois’ mother, but always reminded Mathieu of how predatory his own could be.
Mathieu kept his expression solemn until he’d closed the video link and then broke into a big smile. Perhaps his most favorite part of his job was the elaborate planning that went into an operation of this type.
He had a rather elegant solution to the McCormick problem—one that would also implicate Kelly White while taking McCormick out of the picture entirely.
He needed no permission to render Kelly irre
levant in any manner he chose, as she was only an unwitting pawn. However, he was displeased with her ineffectiveness. Ruining her would add spice to the task.
Mathieu contacted his undercover operative within INSCOM and gave him two names, along with instructions to carry out his plan. If they were successful, McCormick would be found dead in his apartment, and Kelly White would be arrested for his murder.
Within two hours, his INSCOM contact was back with a disturbing message. Russell McCormick was missing! He’d disappeared from White’s bed without a trace in the early morning hours of the previous day.
“How could that happen without her knowledge?” Mathieu asked, dubious.
“Apparently the two shared a bottle of wine, and she is a heavy sleeper when drinking. She reported him missing around noon, after he failed to show up for a planned meeting at ten and then also missed a lunch date.
“Evidently, she woke to find him gone and assumed he’d gone to work early. When he missed their meeting, she called his office and learned he hadn’t been there. By the time he missed the lunch date, she felt something was wrong and raised the alarm.”
“Keep your eyes on the situation and notify me immediately when he turns up. I don’t like coincidences.”
“I will.”
Mathieu considered his options. He couldn’t hide this for long. Maman would have to know.
He sighed.
It seemed lately he couldn’t do anything right, ever since that damned Carter Devereux had stolen the Giants’ library from the City of Lights.
Maybe Devereux’s death would stop the downward spiral.
He should be hearing the good news any time now.
Chapter 62 - It’s a triangle
May 6 early morning
In the crisp early morning, Carter, Mackenzie, and the rest of their team, led by their “tour guide”, Piero, strolled out to explore Matera. Acting like the other tourists in town, they were headed for the Sassi.
Carter’s trip to Matera in his youth was prompted by the history of the region. He’d been between college semesters, about to embark on the advanced undergraduate classes that would eventually lead to his work as a leading archaeologist. Thanks to his grandfather’s interest in archaeology and his wealth, Carter was often treated to such excursions, priceless in memory. It was during that trip he’d seen the dolphin pentagon they were seeking now, and he thought he knew just where it was.
Nevertheless, to maintain their cover as tourists, they strolled through the winding paths of the Sassi, taking pictures, pointing and exclaiming at the sites, and making their way to the carving by an indirect route.
The morning was a beautiful example of the mild spring weather in Southern Italy. Sunny, but not too hot, it was perfect for their purposes. Judging by the crowds, it was perfect for the other several thousand tourists in the area as well. They often had to stop and wait for the way to clear before moving on. However, they worked to appear as if they were unhurried, though Carter was itching to confirm his memory.
When they finally came to the spot, they took pictures, and one of the team inconspicuously took the GPS coordinates as Carter and Mackenzie posed with the carving between them. Afterward, they continued to wind their way through the ancient city.
Just as it had been in Jordan and on Crete, the outing was enjoyable for its own sake. Carter was perhaps the most interested, but the history of this ancient town was fascinating. Considered the third-oldest continually inhabited settlement in the world, after Aleppo in Syria and Jericho in Israel, the Sassi was a jumble of cave dwellings carved into the side of a deep ravine. It had been occupied for more than nine thousand years.
People still lived in some of them, though the Italian government had forcibly evicted some fifteen thousand citizens in the 1950s because of the squalor and terrible living conditions. Now many of the cave dwellings had been cleaned up, restored, and returned to service. The churches among them had been deconsecrated and now served as living museums.
The cave areas, or “sassi” meaning “stone” in Italian, consisted of thousands of man-made caves cut into the hard stone. Ascending the slopes of the valley, it was evident that one cave's ceiling was often the next cave's floor.
Stone-brick fasciae presented a veneer of civilization, but as they were meandering through the narrow ways coursing through the caves, they unavoidably had to walk over the roofs of some homes.
Walking through this part of Matera was like stepping back into Biblical times. No wonder movies like The Gospel According to St Matthew, Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ, and the new Ben-Hur were filmed there.
They’d explored only a small portion of the area when it was time for the mid-day meal. Afterward, Piero insisted they remain in the hotel as most of the places of business would be closed, and they would stand out if they were on the streets before four in the afternoon.
They used the time to brainstorm again what the carvings meant, whether they had anything to do with a Nabatean library, and if so, how to find it. Carter plotted the GPS coordinates on a map he’d brought along.
Carter remarked to the others, “I don’t know why, but a physical map is just so much more satisfying than a map on a computer screen. And it makes it easy to draw lines between the three sites.”
He did so and then examined his handiwork. Dylan came to look over his shoulder.
“It’s a triangle,” he said.
“Yeah, I expected that,” Carter quipped. “Since we had three points and all. But I don’t see a clue in it.”
Despite his joke, Carter was frustrated. He had a gut feeling there must be more to the carvings than the idea of the company logo, or even a family crest of the patriarch, Nebajoth, or a specific trader. The surroundings where each of them appeared didn’t particularly resemble each other. There was no common element other than the carvings themselves.
Even Mackenzie’s trick of stream-of-consciousness questioning didn’t give him an idea for further exploration this time. The others tried to emulate her with questions of their own. But nothing came to his mind.
Eventually, he said, “We need more information. Either another one or more of these carvings, or… and this is just a shot in the dark… simply more contemporaneous carvings of dolphins.”
Dylan grinned. “You mean, like breadcrumbs? Individual carvings of dolphins pointing the way?”
“Something like that. Pointing the way to what, I can’t say. Hopefully, it would be the Nabatean’s library.”
Everyone in the room turned to look at Piero.
“What about that?” Carter asked. “Know of any such carvings?”
Piero shrugged. “I don’t remember seeing any, but it might be worth asking locals and other tour guides.”
“Only if you can do it without raising interest in why we’re looking for dolphins,” Carter answered. “I still want to keep a low profile. And it’s possible we missed something at the other sites and will have to go back sometime. Do it if you can.”
Chapter 63 - They knew about him
After four p.m., rested but restless, they set out again as soon as Piero gave the okay. Now they were looking for something, anything, that caught their eyes. No one knew what it would look like, but they’d know it when they saw it.
This time, as they strolled through the Sassi again, they noted the way the shadows fell at different angles now, and stopped from time to time so Piero could talk to other guides.
At one such stop, Piero, who’d been playing the part of their tour guide with an actor’s flair, was speaking to the middle-aged woman guiding the group just behind them and noticed something from the corner of his eye. A trained and highly-effective CIA agent, he caught a glimpse of someone he’d noticed before. The man seemed to be following them, though it was difficult to say he did so intentionally, as the group he was with was moving in generally the same direction, and many other people were behind them, also waiting for a temporary blockage to clear.
Someth
ing about this man bothered him, though. He’d stood out when Piero first noticed him. He was convinced he’d seen the man in another context.
He felt the cold shiver between his shoulder blades as recognition kicked in. He’d seen the man’s face many times before, all in photos accompanying “wanted” notifications. In countless photos, old, bad, and newer, he’d seen the face of the known assassin from Germany. The guy was wanted by every security agency in Europe.
Piero knew him as Karl Stossel, but no one knew his true name. Rumor had it that he went by several, maybe one for every security agency that had him on their payroll for black ops, while simultaneously pretending to want him brought in. He was credited with dozens of kills, but again, no one knew how many were real and how many were simply thought to be his because of his fearsome reputation. Like Carl the Jackal, he was legendary, and only he knew where reality ended and the legend began.
Politely but quickly, Piero finished his conversation with the other guide and approached Dylan. Under the guise of pointing out an interesting site, he whispered that they should return to the hotel at once.
Dylan began moving the group along more quickly, and Carter caught his urgency. Before long, they were all back in the Devereux suite, and Piero was a changed man. There was no more foppish behavior, and even though he was still dressed like a runway model, he was deadly serious as he described who he’d seen.
“I don’t like it,” Piero stated flatly. Like most people in his profession, he hated coincidences. Especially those that brought highly-sought targets and one of the world’s most deadly and elusive assassins to the same small town in Italy at the same time.
“I don’t either,” Dylan said after hearing Piero out. He could now appreciate why Piero worked for the CIA and why Bill had sent him to help them. Despite appearances, Piero knew what he was doing.
Matera wasn’t a known holiday destination for assassins. Do assassins take holidays? Dylan didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to second-guess their new friend when it came to the German. In fact, he’d never second-guess him again. Sure, Piero’s style was different from the no-nonsense Dylan was used to, but he’d proven himself worthy of respect. Dylan hoped Piero would help back him up when he made his next suggestion.
