by S L Shelton
“Nothing…any particular account number?”
I texted back immediately.
“They’re inside now. Give ’em a minute.”
A thumbs up emoticon arrived a second later from Storc.
For almost thirty minutes I waited, watching the idling sedan and its driver. When they left the building, the couriers carried one bag each and were struggling more noticeably with the weight.
I got back into my car and started out of the garage, pausing until the courier’s sedan had already merged into traffic before following. A moment later, Storc texted me. “1.5m euros. Withdrawal.”
“Thx.” I sent back.
One point five million euros wouldn’t take up that much room unless they had been smaller bills—probably no larger than fifty or one-hundred euro bills. I wonder why they would purposely withdraw small bills. Why would they withdraw bills at all? Bearer notes for that amount would fit in a slim folder.
I continued to follow them, expecting they would continue on to another bank for another withdrawal or deposit. That’s not what happened. As I followed them back through the streets, I realized we were leaving the city, this time headed west.
“Where are you going boys?” I asked myself as I glanced up in my rearview to be sure I hadn’t picked up a tail—still clear.
For more than two hours, I followed them west along the busy Belgian highways. In the course of that trip, I looked up into my rearview several times, trying to condition myself to not rely on senses that didn’t seem to be working properly. We passed through Brussels and through the increasingly rural scenery along the E40 on our way toward the German border. When the sedan finally took an exit, it was for Eupen, Belgium—a town less than five miles from the German border.
“What the hell are we doing out here?” I asked, agitated and suddenly conscious of how exposed I was on the quieter stretch of road.
I followed them, letting the Mercedes pull further ahead until they were barely in sight. Once again, I lost them as they wound through the town, only to catch sight of them again a few blocks later after several moments of frantic lane changes, trying to close the distance. The longer we stayed on the narrow suburban streets, the more I worried their driver would look in his rearview and realize there was a shiny Audi behind him that had been there since Lille.
My paranoia was reaching maximum overload when they finally pulled into an industrial park and then stopped in front of a large, unmarked roll-up metal door. I continued past the park before stopping on the access road outside of their line of sight. The rail separating the commerce zone from the road was far enough off the shoulder that I didn’t have to worry about a passing car sideswiping me, and yet it left me in the perfect position to take off in a hurry if I had to.
I jumped the rail and slid down the bank to the backside of the L-shaped complex. When I peeked around the corner, I saw the couriers carrying the cases into the garage under the watchful gaze of the driver.
A payoff? I wondered. Who is important enough to pay off way out here?
I started having second thoughts about this tracking operation. My hopes of finding something other than a routine payoff or money transfer were fading. However, as long as Storc was hitting a dead end on finding the company that had hired the couriers, my best bet of finding a connection to the money source would be these guys…the oddball account users.
A moment later, the two men came back to the car, struggling to carry a large hard plastic case between them. They were followed by a different man, who was carrying another, smaller, cardboard box. The driver was standing next to the car, his hand tucked behind his back as if fingering a weapon there.
A transaction! I realized. What’s in the boxes, fellas? Weapons? Drugs? Explosives?
No pleasantries were exchanged and no good-byes were said. The couriers maneuvered the heavy case into the trunk, got back into their vehicle, and then drove out of the park. I scrambled up the hill back to my car.
“I’d give anything for some tracer tags right about now,” I muttered as I got in my car and then did a fast U-turn, following them back the way we had come.
I should go back to the CIA hangar in Antwerp tomorrow and get some trackers from Tex, I thought. That would beat the hell out of following these bastards so closely.
The sedan returned to the highway without pausing in town and then continued across the border into Germany. For nearly three hours, we traveled until I thought we were headed for Frankfurt. However, just outside of the city, they turned onto a two-lane road, continuing for another four miles or so into a suburb of Frankfurt called Wiesbaden.
I was relieved the hour had gotten late enough for the evening rush to begin. By the time the sun was starting to hang low in the pink and orange sky, the sedan had pulled into another industrial zone, just outside the town. I maneuvered my car through the narrow entryway and then pulled into the parking lot of the factory next door. There, the evening shift was just starting to arrive.
The courier’s sedan pulled up outside what looked like an empty workshop space. The driver got out, slipped a key into the deadbolt lock, and opened the door as the other two maneuvered the heavy case inside. After a moment they came back out, and one of the men jogged back to the car, taking the cardboard box from the front seat before running it into the building.
Follow the car or see what’s in the boxes? I asked myself.
The driver stretched before getting back in, leaving one of the other men to go back and lock the door on the workshop. Once they were all back in their car, I toyed with the key in my ignition as they drove off. Indecision crept into my chest. Follow the couriers or see what’s in the boxes? I asked myself again. The taillights of the sedan drifted out of sight around a corner before I could make up my mind.
“What’s in the boxes?” I muttered as I turned off the engine of my car and got out.
The sun hadn’t yet set, though it was creeping up on dusk. I walked casually to the building, carrying my canvas bag, my coffee cup (which was now full of urine), and the remainder of the sandwiches I had purchased that morning. I looked like someone about to start my shift at the factory.
When I got to the corner of the building, I leaned against the wall and pulled out my pack of cigarettes. I looked around as I withdrew my lighter. No one was looking my direction, so I rolled around the side of the building and pocketed my lighter and cigarette without using either.
The broad alleyway between the factory and the building where the couriers had made their delivery was empty, but it had a security light halfway down. It was just beginning to flicker to life as dark slowly crept over the area.
I waited for several minutes for an opportunity. When a slow-moving tractor-trailer approached the rear of the factory beside me, its loud engine struggling under the weight of its load, I calmly reached into my bag and withdrew the silencer for my Glock. I looked around once more before affixing it to the barrel.
As the truck passed, echoing loudly down the alleyway, I raised my gun and fired a single shot at the security light. A muted thwack barely reached my ears, concealed beautifully by the noisy truck. I bent and began picking up the glass that had fallen, scooping it into the paper sack with the remainder of my sandwiches.
No one was in view when I reached the trash barrel next to the side entrance of the target building. As the sound of the truck’s engine slowly receded behind the factory, I dropped the glass-filled sack into the barrel and then calmly reached into my canvas messenger bag, extracting two paper clips from the various items at the bottom.
Simple lock, I thought. Ten seconds max.
It actually took twelve. I chalked up the delay to my frozen fingers and shrugged off the mistaken time estimate. Before opening the door, I looked around me once more. No one was in sight, so I slipped inside. I swept my gaze around the doorframe quickly before closing it behind me. No wires, no contacts.
The dark space smelled of motor oil and solvents. The single window
in the space was covered with paper, but I could see the glow from the security lights that dotted the parking lot outside. I waited for several minutes, listening while I waited for my eyes to grow accustomed to the darkened environment. The low hum of a transformer was the only sound I could hear from within the building. Straining to hear the direction of the noise seemed to trigger the hushed mumble of conversations in my head.
Not now, I thought in despair, clenching my jaw.
As I stepped carefully across the dusty concrete floor, the hum became louder. In the corner of the shop was a glowing orange light, like an instrument indicator. My heart jumped in my chest when the thought occurred to me that it might be an alarm panel.
Calm down, I thought. There were no contact plates on the door and no wires from the window.
As I drew closer to the hum and orange light, I saw it was a control box for a car lift. I closed my eyes and released the breath I had been holding. I knew better than that. I’d already had my answer when I entered…there had been no alarm contacts. But my broken brain had me second-guessing myself.
“Snap out of it, Scott,” I muttered as I turned back toward the center of the shop.
Sitting on the edge of a recessed slit trench in the floor, I spotted the large hard case and the smaller cardboard box that the couriers had left behind. Careful not to fall into the mechanic’s pit, I withdrew my phone and illuminated the side of the larger of the two containers. A serial number and model number were all that was printed on the side—for what, I had no idea. I snapped a picture of them with my phone.
I carefully picked up the breadbox-sized cardboard container so that I could open the lid of its larger sibling, but I stopped when I caught a glimpse of electronics boards through the folded corner of the smaller box. Pulling the edge back carefully with just my pinky, I discovered about a dozen or more small electronic component cards. When I shined my phone over the opening, the dim illumination revealed Chinese and Russian characters printed on the chips mounted to the small boards.
The cards were smallish compared to regular computer components, but I had never seen anything that looked quite like them before. I snapped pictures of the mini boards from different angles and then moved some of them around to verify they were all the same—they appeared to be identical.
I was about to set the smaller box on the floor when lights flashed through the paper-covered window. I quickly set the cardboard box back in its place on top before searching the darkened space for somewhere to hide. Not seeing any place immediately suitable, I panicked when the front door lock rattled.
“Who has the key?” a man’s voice called just outside the front door. As tension seized my chest, I jumped down into the mechanic’s pit.
I shuffled as quietly as I could to the far end and squeezed in behind the stairs that led down from the floor level. There, boxes of oil, solvents, and other various supplies were jammed into the spaces between the steps. I slid a half-empty box of lube cylinders in front of me just as the door opened.
Overhead, the lines of fluorescent lighting flicked to life. The cold tubes and ballasts moaned, popped, and buzzed in protest over being suddenly charged with electricity after sitting so long in the freezing dark. I remained motionless, taking only shallow breaths to calm my rapidly beating heart.
Around me, I heard scuffing as many feet entered the garage, followed by the sound of the overhead metal door rolling up. I closed my eyes, trying to breathe the tension out of my chest when a booming, bass voice echoed across the space.
“Don’t load it until we have confirmation from the bank.” The barrel-deep words vibrated in my ears, adding a new layer of constriction to my already tight chest. It was the giant—Harbinger.
I was terrified I was about to have a panic attack as muttered conversations—those within my head and those in the garage—blended, confusing me. I suddenly felt light-headed as the noise swelled in my ears.
Get a grip, Scott! I thought to myself, but my heart rate and anxiety continued to rise. I wasn’t sure if it was due to the presence of the giant, my broken brain, or a combination of both. I felt trapped.
The sound of feet moving across the concrete seemed to come closer, but I was terrified to open my eyes, feeling as if the simple action would release all the voices in my head. I pressed my eyes tighter.
Please, I begged Wolf. If you have any control over this at all, please stop it.
For what seemed an eternity, the feet scuffed above me and the men’s conversations droned, mixing with the voices that were growing louder in my head. I couldn’t even get an accurate count of the number of people due to the overlapping chatter between my brain and the sounds above.
Slowly, a warm flush crept up my neck toward my ears. They felt hotter as the feeling spread across my face, but gratefully, the voices began to recede. The world suddenly sounded much quieter as the chatter in my ears finally faded to silence.
Six, I thought to myself, counting the number of living, breathing humans in the building aside from me.…and thank you.
“That’s it,” said a man with an accent I couldn’t immediately place. “The money has been transferred to the accounts.”
“Move the equipment,” Harbinger said from across the room. The echo of his voice bounced back down to me from the high metal ceiling.
Without pause, the large hard case moved above me, opening up a line of sight to the metal door, which had begun to rise again. After a moment, the sound of a vehicle hatch door closing punctuated their efforts.
“Wrap it up,” boomed Harbinger as my heart rate normalized. “We have a lot of miles to cover tonight.”
The pace of footfalls and scuffs against the concrete increased, followed by the sound of car doors opening and then closing. Finally, there were only two people left…Harbinger and one other.
“We shouldn’t have any trouble getting it hooked up as soon as we arrive,” the man with the odd accent said.
“Just test it and then shut it down,” Harbinger said. “We wouldn’t want to tip our hand by letting a stray signal slip out.”
“A test can be written off as an echo,” the other man replied. “It would just be a blip…and register as radio, not radar.”
“Good,” Harbinger said before his footsteps moved further away.
When the lights flicked off in the room, I began to relax even more.
But then my phone buzzed.
My heart jumped in my chest as I reached into my pocket and grabbed it. My thumb found a button on the screen just before it buzzed again.
Damn it, Scott! You know better than that! I chastised myself for the rookie move.
I froze as the lights came back on. The scuff of large feet closing in on me was all I could focus on. They stopped at the edge of the pit, and I looked through a small gap between the boxes to see the towering figure that was standing on the edge of the mechanic’s trench.
Harbinger was a giant. Standing better than seven feet tall, he wasn’t just impressive in height, but in bulk as well. His arms were thicker than my legs. His legs were thick as trees. I could scarcely look at him for fear the simple act would give away my location—but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. He was truly a freak of nature.
He was so close that when he looked around the room once, and then down into the otherwise empty trench, I could see the green of his eyes. When he turned and walked toward the staircase that led down to my hiding spot, a cold wave of nausea filled my gut like ice water. He stopped and looked up when the ballast on one of the lights buzzed and then flicked off. I suddenly remembered watching him in the Syrian Desert, from hundreds of yards away. He had looked right at me and showed me his fingertips, only slightly parted, as if to say, “I was this close to getting you.”
Despite the cold, beads of sweat crawled down my neck under my collar. He was much closer this time, and unlike our encounter in the desert, I didn’t have a military gunship hovering overhead to protect me.
Harbinger lo
oked around once more before raising his chin and sniffing the air. I tensed.
Shit! Can he smell me? I wondered.
In my hand, I could barely hear the muted sound of Kathrin asking, “Are you there?”
After a moment, he turned and walked back toward the exit. The lights flicked off again, and I heard a car door slam shut. When the overhead door clattered down, I put my phone to my ear.
“I have to call you back. Sorry,” I hissed quietly and ended the call.
I pushed the boxes out of the way and squeezed through the narrow opening of the stairs. I stopped once my legs were free and listened for any movement… There was none. As urgency surged in me, I scanned the room for any other signs of change since I had last looked. Seeing none, I ran for the side door—I needed vehicle IDs and license plates.
I rushed out the door. Before I even had time to close it behind me, an arm struck out of the darkness—a head strike. My hands flashed up instinctively, trapping his fist and then ripping it violently backward. His mouth opened to sound the alarm, but my free hand flew to cover it as I released my grip with the other. With all my might, I punched down against the base of the man’s skull—he dropped to the ground without another peep.
I pulled my Glock from its holster as I stooped over the man’s limp form. Listening for any indication that the noise from our scuffle had been overheard, I patted the man’s pockets without looking down.
Shhhhhh, I thought to myself as murmurs started to rise in my ears.
When my fingers brushed over a phone, I set my Glock on the ground next to me and pulled the iPad from my bag.
Cable in side pocket, I recited to myself as I reached for it. Don’t fumble. Smooth motions. Plug in the cable, and then plug in the phone.
Despite my mental attempt to control my adrenaline, my fingers did fumble the connection. I had to turn the connector three times before it plugged into the phone. But once it was snapped in, I touched the icon for the component-reading app on my iPad. When the screen flashed the animated “loading” graphic, I picked up my gun and glanced around.