Now, more than a decade later, she made her way through the maze of narrow corridors that make up Stare Mestro to a small brewery on the corner of Karlova Street. The outside was dark wood wainscoting with a tall carved relief of a woman in a flimsy white gown. Inside, soft lighting revealed a dark wood bar with brass accents and a few tables covered in crisp white cloth. Eliška spotted Miklos through the glass. He was short and pudgy, with a big head and no neck. He reminded Eliška of a bullfrog. She slipped into the shadowy recess of a doorway across the street and watched him. A lively crowd packed the small space. Miklos occupied a stool at the bar, nursing a beer, and casting nervous glances over his shoulder. He worked for Czech Intelligence. They had met during Eliška’s stint in the military.
Eliška checked her watch. It was half past six. She looked back at Miklos. He was eyeing the door. “Go on,” Eliška muttered under her breath. “You know you want to make a run for it.”
He sat there another minute, then shook his head and slipped off his bar stool.
Eliška smiled. Some things never change.
She ducked back into the shadows as Miklos exited the bar. He weaved through the stream of tourists, making his way toward the underground. Eliška kept her head down and used the sea of people to stay out of sight. She let him reach the bottom of the steps before hurrying down after him. She spotted him again as he joined a throng of bodies pushing onto a train bound for Vyšehrad. Eliška had to dash across the platform. She slipped through the doors just as they hissed shut.
The ripe scent of unwashed bodies filled the car. Eliška waited until the train lurched into motion, then pushed her way through the press of commuters to the next car. Miklos was hanging onto a pole and swaying to the rhythm of the carriage. She sidled up next to him and dropped her voice. “Dobry den, Miklos.”
He recoiled like a man shying away from a hissing viper. His eyebrows walked up his forehead and his shoulders hunched. His eyes did a circuit of the underground car. He let out a breath and his expression changed from surprise to annoyance. “How did you find me?”
Eliška rolled her eyes. “Don’t insult me. I knew you’d bail on our meeting.”
Without looking directly at her, he asked, “Then why did you bother to contact me?”
“Because I need a favor,” Eliška told him.
He stared out the window at the dark tunnel rushing past. “Last time I did you a favor, I nearly went to jail.”
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“Friend?” He snorted and shook his head. “More like a curse. I don’t know where you’ve been all these years but you should have stayed gone. You know what they’ll do if they find you?”
“They aren’t going to find me,” Eliška said. “Unless you tell them.”
When Miklos didn’t respond, she said, “Miklos, did you tell anyone I contacted you?”
He managed to act insulted. “No.”
Eliška closed the distance between them and put her hand into her leather jacket. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of a switchblade knife. “Don’t lie to me, Miklos.”
He edged away. “I didn’t tell a soul. I swear.”
Satisfied, Eliška produced a picture of the American sitting at Café Organica. She had been in the crowded shopping center less than fifty feet away—disguised as an overweight, middle-age brunette. She had watched Bob make a phone call, saw the escort’s body disappear under the Ford Explorer, and then watched the American casually stroll away. Eliška had been close enough to kill him. She wanted to walk up and put a bullet in the back of his head, but Bob was just an errand boy. Eliška needed the man behind the American. The man pulling the strings. She passed the picture to Miklos.
He cast another nervous look around the train car before taking the photograph. “He’s not my type.”
“He tried to kill me,” Eliška said. “I want to know who he is and, more importantly, who he works for.”
Miklos stuffed the picture in his coat pocket. “That’s a big ask.”
Eliška leaned close. Her lips brushed his earlobe. She whispered, “I’ll think of a way to repay you.”
Miklos let out a trembling breath. “What if I get caught?”
“Don’t be such a cold fish. Girls don’t like that in a man.”
He bristled. “Where do I start?”
“He’s American.”
“The world is, unfortunately, full of those. Got a name?”
Eliška scrunched her face up in an apologetic frown.
He gave another snort. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”
“One more thing,” Eliška said.
“There’s more?”
“Have you still got the cabin?”
Miklos was already shaking his head. “Out of the question.”
“I need a place to lay low.”
“I’d suggest Angola. It’s nice this time of year.”
She gave him a hard stare. “Someone is after my father, Miklos.”
He softened. “Fine. You can have it day after tomorrow.”
“Why not tonight?”
“Someone’s in it,” he explained.
“Who’s in it?”
“A few years ago, I turned it into an Airbnb for extra cash. I’ll have to cancel a reservation. It’s going to hurt my rating. You owe me.”
She planted a kiss on his cheek. “You’re the best.”
The train was pulling into the station. The high-pitched scream of the hurtling missile dropped several octaves to a throaty rumble. Miklos looked out the glass at the station. “How do I contact you if I find anything?”
“You don’t,” Eliška said. “I’ll contact you. Keep your phone handy.”
The train slowed to a stop. There was a chuffing of air brakes and the doors opened with a pneumatic hiss. Eliška stepped onto the platform along with the crowd as it herded toward a set of escalators that led up to street level.
Chapter Twenty-One
The old pickup truck started to rattle and knock as Noble reached the outskirts of Johannesburg. Picturesque countryside gave way to shanty towns of corrugated steel and weathered boards. The temperature gauge edged steadily closer to the red line. The wolf dog sat in the passenger seat panting. He flashed his teeth at passing cars—Czechoslovakian wolf dogs rarely bark, one of the many reasons they make such great guard dogs—otherwise he seemed to enjoy the adventure. It was full dark by the time Noble reached the auto repair shop. He swung the hiccupping pickup into an empty spot and killed the engine. The truck farted a cloud of black smoke and cooled with a series of soft ticking sounds.
The bay door was up and a Crown Vic was parked in the garage. Fluorescents reflected on the automobile body. The biting rhythm of a Danzig tune blasted from the stereo. A large black man in coveralls was bent over the engine of the Ford, half hidden by the open hood.
Noble climbed out and the dog tried to follow. He held up a hand. “Stay.”
The dog sat back with a whine.
Noble cracked the window, shut the door, and crossed the lot.
The black man straightened up, wiping his hands on a filthy shop rag. The yellow stitching on his shirt said, Nelson. “Closed,” he announced in a baritone voice. “You want to leave the truck, I’ll have a look at it in the morning. Otherwise you gonna have to come back tomorrow.”
“That old heap isn’t worth the effort,” Noble said with a look over his shoulder at the pickup.
“Then what you want?”
“A friend sent me,” Noble told him. “Said I could find someone here to help me with a little business problem I’m having.”
Nelson shook his head. “Don’t know nothin’ about that. I fix cars.”
“I know how it works,” Noble said. “You just make the introductions.”
Nelson’s brow knotted together. He waved his dirty shop rag like he was shooing a bothersome fly. “You talking crazy, white boy. Go on, before I get angry.”
“Listen, Nelson … Can
I call you Nelson? I got a real problem. I got a deputy district attorney back in Sydney digging through my business with a fine-tooth comb. He’s a real Boy Scout. I’ve tried everything. He won’t be bought or threatened. He’s going to bring down my whole operation.”
Nelson said, “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Please,” Noble said. “I’m desperate. All I’m asking for is an introduction. Can you help me or not?”
“I told you once already,” Nelson said. “I’m not going to tell you again. Get out of here.”
“Not until I talk with her.”
Nelson turned to a rolling cart and grabbed a wrench. The wolf dog loosed a series of explosive barks, clawing the window of the pickup with his front paws. Noble ducked and felt the wrench whistle overhead.
He came back up in a boxer’s crouch and delivered a short uppercut, catching Nelson under the chin. His knuckles impacted with a solid thock. Nelson’s head rocked back and his knees started to buckle, but he managed to stay on his feet. Noble lunged for the wrench. Two months of hard drinking had taken their toll. His moves were slow and sloppy. Noble felt like he was moving through thick soup stock. Both his muscles and his mind were out of shape and it might cost him. One hit from the wrench would mean lights out. He latched onto Nelson’s wrist and used an armbar to force the big man down to the shop floor. It took twice the effort it should have. Noble felt the cuts on his chest reopen. With a savage twist, he yanked the wrench free of Nelson’s grasping fingers and rapped him behind the ear with it. The solid steel made a meaty crunch and Nelson’s eyes rolled up.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Otto Keiser listened with rapt attention to the soprano playing Madame Butterfly as she lamented her forlorn love affair with the American officer. The singer, a pretty young Italian, wrung every last drop of emotion from the scene. She looked the part as well, in a green kimono with golden dragons and jet-black hair piled on top of her head in a bun. The beam from a center spot cast her in brilliant light while the rest of the stage was lost in shadow. The audience held its collective breath as she delivered her final, impassioned plea.
A tear tracked silently down Keiser’s liver-spotted cheek. The despondent refrains pierced right to his heart, lifting him up and carrying him away from the prison of his wheelchair. The audience exploded with applause when she drove the knife into her belly.
“Bravura!” Otto clapped along with the crowd. “Bravura!”
Behind him, a security man stood with his shoulder against the door of Keiser’s private balcony. His name was Westley or Wexler—Keiser could never remember. He was towering pile of muscles with pale skin, flaming red hair and a puggish nose, flat and wide so you could see right up his nostrils. He looked like Opie on steroids, but he had Lucas’s seal of approval and that was enough for Keiser.
Keiser levered himself out of the wheelchair for a standing ovation when the performers emerged and lined up on stage. Westley/Wexler stepped up behind him, ready to catch him if standing proved too difficult. It was an effort. Keiser’s legs wobbled like a newborn colt, but he managed. He was breathing heavy when he lowered his corpulent frame back into the chair. Thunderous applause brought the cast out for a second bow and Keiser jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the door.
Westley/Wexler maneuvered the wheelchair up the ramp and through the door. The rest of Keiser’s security detail fell in around him as steroid-Opie mashed the call button for the elevator. The opera was only the beginning of the evening’s festivities. There was the after-party where Keiser was a guest of honor for his contributions to the Bern Theater. And the after-after-party.
The first stop was the ultra modern Hotel Allegro on Kornhausstrasse. The event hall looked like the inside of some super-sleek interstellar cruise ship with curving balconies and soft purple lighting. The women were clad in low-cut evening gowns. The men wore black-tie and clutched champagne flutes, smiles fixed on their faces. An aria played softly in the background and the crowd filled the room with a sound like squabbling geese.
Keiser made the rounds, shaking hands, remarking on the performance and offering advice to men looking for the next hot stock tip. He cautioned against commodities and told them to put everything they could spare into a cyber security IPO. Most of them scribbled the name of the company on a cocktail napkin. Tomorrow they would start moving funds. Some of them simply smiled and nodded. They would sit on the information and regret it six months from now. There are two kinds of people in the world; those who take what they want out of life and those who spend all their time trying to hold on to what little they have. Keiser had no time for the second kind. He couldn’t stand weak people. Be ready when opportunity knocks, that was his motto. You have to take risks if you want to change the world. And Otto Keiser planned to change the world. Governments and politicians could not be allowed to direct the fate of mankind. Keiser intended to do that himself.
He worked the room and finally found himself smiling up at the beautiful young soprano who had played the part of Madame Butterfly. She was even more stunning in an emerald green gown with a plunging neckline and a string of pearls around her delicate throat. The theater manager introduced them as Keiser clasped her dainty hand in both of his own.
“Herr Keiser, I would like you to meet our newest talent, Frau Theresa Sipriani,” the theater manager said. He was a foppish man in a loud tuxedo with tails and a garish pink bowtie. He turned to Theresa. “Herr Keiser is a patron of the arts, my dear, and our top sponsor.”
She flashed a set of white teeth. “A pleasure to meet you, Signor Keiser.”
“Please, call me Otto, and the pleasure is all mine,” he told her. “Your performance was inspired, young lady. Tell me, where did you study?”
Theresa managed to look humble. “I studied under Marissa Tulva in Roma.”
“Ah! I saw her perform Don Giovani,” Keiser said. “She was magnificent.”
Keiser impressed her with his knowledge of classic opera, proving he wasn’t just another socialite with too much money, he actually appreciated the music. Within minutes they were chatting like two old friends. When Keiser causally insinuated that he could be influential in furthering her career, Theresa’s smile never faltered. He was just about to invite her to a private gathering at his home in Tuscany when Westley/Wexler leaned over his shoulder and whispered, “Something’s come up.”
Keiser scowled. “What is it, man?”
He kept his voice down. “Somebody is making inquiries into Randall.”
Keiser felt a block of lead drop into his stomach, but he smiled up at Theresa. “You must excuse me, my dear.”
She offered her hand and Keiser kissed her knuckles before maneuvering his wheelchair around and making his way through the crowd. He steered past the theater manager, who was deep in conversation with an older gentleman, and Keiser crooked a finger. The theater manager bent down. Keiser said, “Send her up to my penthouse.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Theresa and said, “She is engaged to be married, Herr Keiser. Her fiancé is—”
“I don’t care if she’s taken a vow of celibacy,” Keiser grumbled. “If she’s not in my penthouse in thirty minutes, you should start looking for a new job.”
The theater manager bowed in acquiescence and started to stammer his obedience, but Keiser was already pushing the wheelchair into a quiet corner. He got clear of the crowd and spun to face his security man. “Who’s been asking about Randall?”
“A signals specialist in Czech military intelligence.”
The assassin was Czech and now someone in Czech intel was looking into Randall? Lucas had screwed up. If someone traced the assassination of the Secret Service agent to Randall, they might link it back to Keiser. His liver-spotted hands knotted together in worry. He was so close now. The thought of anything going wrong at this late stage left a sick feeling deep in his belly. He had spent a lifetime putting his plan together, slowly maneuvering all the pieces into place, manipulating world
markets so that conditions would be just right. He couldn’t afford any mistakes. Not now. He said, “Get Lucas on the phone.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lucas Randall floated on the weightless tides of the Adriatic Sea—what the locals called Jadransko—clad in a wetsuit and fins. A three-quarter moon hung in the sky, but beneath the waves was inky blackness stretching in every direction. A small dive lamp fixed to his goggles provided him with enough light to see a few scant meters. On his left, a massive sea turtle glided along above the ocean floor. The ancient sea creature cocked its head to the side and studied Lucas with one reptilian eyeball before moving off in search of food or maybe a mate.
Lucas used flippers to propel himself through the water. A yellow dive tank was strapped to his back. Bubbles gurgled up from the tank and raced to the surface. The sound of the ocean was incredibly loud in his ears. Through the wall of darkness, he spotted the first of six rotting concrete pylons thrusting up from the ocean. Time and the elements had eaten away at the concrete until barnacled rebar showed through.
The tide was trying to carry Lucas out to sea. Waves retreated from the shore, pulling him backward like some giant magnet exerting invisible pull. Then the ocean changed direction and threatened to slam him into the support. He was forced to hold on to the pillar with one hand while he reached inside his satchel. He brought out a small square of plastic explosive, no bigger than a deck of playing cards. He secured it to the pylon with a trigger cord. If anyone found the bomb and tried to remove it, the cord would set off the explosive. Next, Lucas attached a simple detonator and cellular receiver inside a waterproof Pelican case. He spent the next twenty minutes camouflaging the device with an old fishing net and seaweed from the ocean floor.
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