Harbinger

by S L Shelton

  “Unauthorized entry to the hold,” I replied, pushing the door open into the cargo area.

  “Are you sure you’re good?”

  “I’m fine,” I replied in a whisper. “Just get that log entry planted for me in Atlanta.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Nick replied.

  “I’ve got to go now, but I just sent Storc some pictures I took this evening,” I continued as I crouched and walked toward the hatch. “The giant and his men have the equipment now.”

  “What are they?” he asked.

  “Gotta go. Look at the pictures.”

  I ended the call just as I reached the door. Above I could hear the motor pulling the boarding tunnel away from the plane. I used the light from my phone to illuminate the handle on the hatch before twisting it and pushing the door up. Below me, the tarmac was about twelve feet down. I grasped the recessed equipment hook and let my feet swing down before pushing the hatch closed and re-latching it from the outside. I’m certain my actions had set off an alarm in the cockpit, but it also should have silenced once the hatch closed again.

  When the plane started to move a moment later, I dropped to the ground and rolled away. The service truck next to the terminal was just pulling away, and I ran to climb on the back. Within moments, we were zooming around the outside of the terminal back toward the service area. I looked back at the Airbus 330 as it slowly rolled away from the gate toward the runway.

  “Bon voyage, Mr. North,” I said to myself.

  Now that Scott North was on his way back to the states, I had work to do—work that would move faster now that I had the phone data and MAC address from one of Harbinger’s men. I had made a direct connection between the accounts and Harbinger. A warm flash of satisfaction washed over me.

  “Who’s da man now?” I muttered.

  Within moments, the plane was out of sight, and we rounded a corner, reentering the terminal through a large, roll-up garage door. I hopped off the truck before it came to a complete halt. Moving with purpose toward the employee entrance area, I timed my strides to intersect with the door just after a service worker had swiped his security card and passed through.

  As I walked down the long, wide concrete causeway, moving to the side when a propane-fueled cart zoomed by, I passed a wide double door. Inside were piles of unclaimed luggage.

  “Bingo,” I muttered before turning through the opening.

  Piles of clothes, bags, skis—even a kayak or two—were piled in the corner or stacked on carts.

  Lost and found, I realized as I scanned my surroundings for unwanted attention. I immediately zeroed in on a long black coat similar to the one I had given up to the pickpocket yesterday. I held it up and discovered it was only slightly too large for me. In a pile next to it, various shirts were heaped together like trash at a landfill. I grabbed a zip-front maroon hoodie with a sports shoe logo on the breast and then stripped my jacket and sweatshirt off.

  A worker walked by the open door and paused. “Bitte bedienen Sie sich,” he said with a sneer on his face, sarcastically telling me to help myself. He clearly thought I was some self-serving, pilfering employee of the airport.

  “Danke,” I replied with a wink and tossed my jacket and shirt into the pile after checking the pockets.

  He shook his head and walked away, disgusted with my behavior. I followed him, pausing only long enough to pick up a gray scarf from a pile near the door. He continued to walk down the wide concrete and block hallway, looking over his shoulder once. The glare he shot me told me he wasn’t pleased with my thievery. When he reached the end of the corridor, he went through a door into the main terminal. I followed him out into the public area.

  The noise of machinery and engines was replaced with voices and subdued music as I entered the terminal. I scanned the area briefly, getting my bearings before heading for the arrivals door and exiting the building. I took the long way around the parking area toward the rental lot. There I stood several dozen yards away from where I had left my gun, pulling my collar and hood up before wrapping the thick gray scarf around my face. I scanned the scene intensely, making sure there were no prying eyes and timing the arrival of the shuttle.

  After several minutes, I saw the bus rolling toward me. As soon as the vehicle stopped, blocking the view of the terminal, I walked swiftly toward the corner where I had stuffed my bundle into the cones. Travelers passed each other, climbing aboard the bus as I withdrew my sweatshirt-wrapped weapon. I tucked it under my new coat as I boarded the shuttle.

  I looked around to see if there were any signs of awareness from anyone. There weren’t. Everyone seemed much more concerned with staying warm and getting to their next destination. I settled into a seat next to an elderly couple who looked like they were about to fall asleep.

  The old woman smiled stiffly at me as I unwound my scarf and reached under my new coat for my phone. I nodded to her with a warmer smile and then fished one of the bent paperclips out of my bag. I listened passively to the quiet conversations going on around me as I ejected the SIM from my iPhone and snapped it in half.

  When I looked up, I saw that no one’s lips were moving—the conversations were in my head, sneaking back to my conscious mind. I clenched my jaw in agitation while digging a new SIM card from one of the interior pockets of my messenger bag.

  Thanks for taking care of that when I needed you to, I thought, directed at Wolf. It probably saved my life.

  There was no response, but I wasn’t worried—he had acted when it mattered. When the shuttle finally started to move, I exhaled a deep breath of relief. Scott North was on his way back to the States, and I was free to continue my investigation.

  **

  6:15 p.m.—New York City, Spryte Tower.

  HEINRICH BRAUN had just finished his last security briefing of the day when the phone in his pocket rang. He waited until he’d stepped into his office and closed the door before answering.

  “Braun,” he said.

  “We’ve had a security incident,” came the vibrating bass voice of Harbinger.

  Braun sat behind his desk, brushing off the tension that had formed in his chest upon hearing the voice. “What’s happened?”

  “There was an incursion at the equipment pick-up site,” Harbinger said. “One of my men was knocked unconscious when he was checking the locks on the building.”

  “Are local authorities involved?” Braun asked.

  “No,” Harbinger replied. “Not yet, anyway. But the car was registered as a rental. We found it at the airport in Frankfurt.”

  “Who was it registered to?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Harbinger replied. “The terminal was too busy to question the rental clerk.”

  “Don’t,” Braun said firmly. “Give me the information, and I’ll track it down from this end.”

  “Two of my men believe they saw the intruder boarding a flight,” Harbinger added. “Lufthansa 444 to Atlanta.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Braun said. “Do you feel the mission has been compromised?”

  “I’ve had my tech go through the components. He says everything looks intact and unadulterated.”

  “What about operationally?” Braun asked.

  “No,” Harbinger replied confidently. “There is no possibility the loose end is from our side. That means he probably followed the couriers to the drop site. No sensitive information was available to the infiltrator…so we are still on plan.”

  “Good,” Braun replied, relieved. “I’ll have the information on the rental car before the flight lands in Atlanta. You should carry on as planned. I’ll let you know if anything changes on this end.”

  “Understood,” Harbinger replied. “But as an aside, if the couriers are the weak link in this, you should consider replacing them. A great deal hinges on what they do.”

  Braun tightened his hand into a fist. “You are correct, of course,” he said with saccharine pleasantry dripping in his tone. “We’ll know more once we find out who
was on site.”

  “In all other regards, everything went as planned,” Harbinger continued. “Your payment was received, and the equipment is in transit now.”

  “Excellent,” he replied. “Send me the information on the rental car.”

  There was a short pause, followed by a chime on Braun’s phone. “Sent,” Harbinger replied.

  “Thank you. Be sure to update me when the installation is complete.”

  “Acknowledged,” Harbinger said, clipped, before ending the call.

  Braun sat back and brought up the text with the license number for the black Audi RS6.

  “Let us see who you are,” Braun muttered as he typed the information into a secure e-mail to send off to the research department.

  After sending the message, he stared at his computer screen blankly for several minutes waiting for a reply but then abruptly leaned forward, having been struck by an idea. He brought up a map of Europe on his screen and zoomed in on Frankfurt before zooming out and panning over to see all of the western nations on the continent.

  He squinted at the screen and then grunted quietly as a thought occurred to him. Reaching for the phone on his desk, he then dialed a number before sitting back in his leather chair.

  “Electronic Forensics Division,” came the answer.

  “Expand the search parameters for the CIA Gulfstream tail numbers to a radius that includes Frankfurt, Germany,” Braun said.

  “Yes sir, Mister Braun,” the man replied.

  “Call me if you find anything.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man had time to say before Braun dropped the handset back into its cradle.

  Wouldn’t it be something if it turns out Mr. Harbinger is responsible for finding Wolfe or Gaines after all? he thought as a cruel smile stretched his pallid cheeks.

  **

  HARBINGER relaxed in the back seat of the Range Rover as his team drove toward Flühli, Switzerland. He closed his eyes and breathed a deep breath out through his nose, dropping the phone in the seat next to him.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Bellos said from the front seat.

  “Your apologies do nothing to remedy the situation,” Harbinger said quietly after a moment.

  “Yes, sir,” Bellos replied, sullen as he pressed his hand to the back of his head.

  Harbinger leaned forward and draped his arm over the seat, laying it across Bellos’s shoulder. “Did you get a look at him at least?” Harbinger asked.

  Bellos shook his head. “The light outside the door was broken,” he replied.

  Harbinger nodded his head before sitting back again. He suddenly wondered if he should stop the vehicle and give Bellos a beating to drive home the significance of his mistake.

  “It was a total lapse of operational awareness,” Bellos said before Harbinger could make up his mind. “I deserve whatever punishment you see fit.”

  The sentiment tugged at Harbinger. Damn you, Bellos, he thought. You are so much like Jonathan; I should kill you just for reminding me of him.

  “Let me think on it,” Harbinger said finally and sank deeper into the seat before closing his eyes again.

  Jonathan, Harbinger thought. You’d be thirty-eight this year…just two years younger than me.

  He shook his head at the pain. Even now the thought of Jonathan, his younger brother, brought a pinch to his chest.

  **

  Project Gold Rush: 1980s

  HARBINGER, at the age of fourteen, was bigger than any of the six men who attacked him. After throwing two of them to the side of the enclosed fighting ring, he paused to look at the adjoining fighting circle to watch his younger brother, Jonathan. The younger male, though smaller than Harbinger, was about the size of the three men who were taking turns wailing on the boy with batons.

  “Jonathan!” Harbinger yelled. “Keep your arms in!”

  Jonathan’s attention snapped to Harbinger before another round of blows descended on the younger boy. Harbinger flinched at the abuse his brother was taking without defending himself—but his attention was returned to his own lesson when a sharp blow to the ribs triggered his focus reflex. A sharp shove from behind sent him to the wooden floor.

  “Harman!” yelled the lead instructor. “Get your ass up and defend!”

  Harbinger rolled to his feet as the six men descended on him again. He was already bloody and bruised from the beating he was taking—the instructors wielded batons while students had nothing but their bare hands.

  “Harman!” the drill instructor yelled a second time.

  “Yes, Father,” Harbinger yelled with a sneer at the man they all called “Father”. “Order received and understood,” he recited—the expected response to an order.

  I must always acknowledge an order, he recited in his head. I must always carry out my order.

  He took a defensive stance as the instructors reengaged. A baton blow to the back of his legs—a cheap shot—forced him to turn, rage surging up his spine as blood began to boil in his eyes. Taller and stronger than his instructors, he was already more than a match for any of them one-on-one. But his musculature was more developed than the other boys his age, making him a greater threat to his trainers when his anger boiled over—which it did often.

  The instructor took a step back as a flash of fear darted across his face. Harbinger reached for the baton and snatched it from the instructor’s hand as the other five began to descend on him with their own clubs.

  Oblivious to the beating raining down upon him, he turned the baton on its previous owner and shoved it roughly into his face, smashing his teeth, before bringing it down repeatedly on the man’s head.

  “Harman!” Father screamed before jumping into the training ring and grabbing a stick from one of the other instructors.

  Harbinger didn’t hear the warning, only the sound of the gasps as he continued to administer blows to the instructor who had delivered the cheap shot.

  Father grabbed Harbinger by his training harness and threw him to the ground before beating him with the club.

  “Defend! Defend! Defend!” he yelled with each blow.

  The six solid blows across his abdomen and chest snapped him from his rage—pain sharpened focus in Gold Rush participants. Harbinger reached up and grabbed the end of the baton as it fell on him a seventh time.

  “Release!” Father yelled.

  Harbinger held firm to the end of the club, prompting his father to kick him in the ribs.

  “I said, release!”

  Harbinger released his grip on the baton and laid on the floor, breathing calm back into this blood.

  In the ring next to him, Jonathan was curled in a tight ball as batons from three instructors cracked on his bones and exposed flesh.

  “Defend,” Father said again, but he failed to break Harbinger’s attention as the instructors working with Jonathan began kicking and punching him.

  Father looked at the adjoining ring, focusing on what had captured Harbinger’s attention.

  “You need to give some of your fire to your brother,” Father said finally. “Where you can’t control your rage long enough to learn to defend from an attack, he seems incapable of generating enough rage to worry about his own survival.”

  Harbinger leaped to his feet and stomped across the ring.

  “Don’t do it, boy,” Father yelled at his back, but Harbinger was already leaping out of his own padded fight ring. “I’m warning you!”

  Harbinger climbed over the ring and grabbed one of Jonathan’s instructors by the arm before flinging him several feet through the air.

  “No, Harban,” Jonathan pleaded through his speech impediment, caused by a broken jaw and nose at the age of eight. “Pleats don.”

  Harbinger’s trainers spilled over the edge of the ring into Jonathan’s and began beating Harbinger more visciously than before. Once again, Harbinger’s single-minded focus—this time on protecting Jonathan—was all he was aware of.

  “Harban, pleats. Dey’ll pun you in wip da dogs again!”
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  “The head,” Father yelled at the instructors.

  Blows began to crash down on Harbinger’s head. As he began to black out, he saw Father dragging Jonathan away by his training harness.

  “No!” Harbinger yelled before a boot to his face sent him into unconsciousness.

  three

  Friday, January 28th

  3:15 a.m.—Antwerp, Belgium

  I was exhausted. When the taxi dropped me eight blocks away from Kathrin’s apartment, I had no idea it would be such a chore to walk the remaining distance. It felt like I had lead plates in my shoes, and even my new, stolen coat felt like a harness of sandbags rather than a defense from the biting cold.

  Each step required a conscious command to my legs. Step, step, step, step.

  When I finally reached the front door, I looked up and saw a light burning in the apartment. A new layer of exhaustion washed over me as I imagined the elaborate verbal dance I would have to perform for Kathrin’s benefit. I was introducing a great deal of tension into our relationship by not being forthcoming…but she was still holding out on me. I braced myself for the confrontation as I tried to quiet the heavy tromping of my leaden legs up the stairs.

  I slipped the key into the door and expected to see Kathrin standing there, arms crossed, with an angry glare directed at my head. I was shocked to discover no such thing.

  I looked around the room and saw a single lamp, lit presumably so that I didn’t stumble as I entered. I paused for a moment, listening for any movement, before quietly closing and bolting the apartment door. I wondered if she was sitting up in bed with a disapproving expression waiting for me…but the bedroom door was closed.

  Hmmm.

  I crept stealthily to the bedroom door and quietly turned the knob with my eyes closed, praying for no click. When I pushed the door open a crack, I saw my beautiful Kathrin sound asleep, lying halfway across the bed, her arm draped over the pillow I slept on. Her face was the picture of an angel’s in peaceful rest.

  My beautiful girl, I thought. You could do so much better than me.