Harbinger

by S L Shelton

  “I’m not CIA,” I lied with a straight face. “But my source has assured me you are a suitable craftsman for my needs.”

  He shook his head. “CIA, DIA, NSA…it doesn’t matter what three-letter agency you work for,” he said, placing his hands on the table, one on top of the other mirroring mine. “Whichever it is, they would be happier if you didn’t come to me.”

  “I answer to no one but myself on this,” I said with a genuine smile. “And I am quite capable of paying a premium for the service.”

  “That’s good,” he said with a chuckle as he rose and went to the cabinet. “Because if I help you, it will be very expensive.”

  He pulled two mugs from the shelf and closed the cabinet door before turning back to me. “How soon?” he asked, his posture reflecting that he had decided to help.

  “What’s the earliest you could have them ready?” I asked.

  He nodded, understanding. “US documents?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you have a background preference?” he asked.

  “Something that wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows if I showed up in a French bank asking about offshore accounts.”

  He puffed his bottom lip out in thought and then nodded his head absently. “Shipping, then,” he said after a thoughtful pause.

  “Shipping, investing…” I replied. “Anything with a good background to it.”

  “I think I can help you,” he said finally, after staring at me for another few beats. “Maybe by Monday.”

  “Thank you,” I replied sincerely.

  “First, we will drink our coffee and then I will take your picture,” he said as he poured steaming water into the two cups.

  After we drank our coffee and talked briefly about what would be included in the identity package, he set up an authentic-looking background to photograph me in front of. He took several shots and then asked me to ruffle my hair a bit. Once my appearance was altered minutely, he took a few more photos in front of a different background.

  “I can’t give you a new ePass if you want an established ID,” he said as he rolled up his backdrops.

  “I understand,” I replied, realizing that his supply of established covers were probably a bit old.

  “And of course, you won’t be able to choose your own name,” he added, looking at me over the top of his reading glasses. “I don’t have the ability to insert a background into legitimate US systems. You’ll have to make do with ones that were created before I was blacklisted.”

  I nodded my understanding. “Nothing that’s been used or recorded previously, though…right?”

  “It will be a clean ID,” he assured me with a fatherly smile. “The background will be boring and unremarkable, and the IDs—including the credit cards—will stand up to any scrutiny.”

  “Excellent,” I said, shaking his hand before he reached for my coat.

  “Monday at this time,” he said as I handed him the stack of cash for the agreed-upon amount. “I should have it all ready for you by then.”

  “Thank you,” I replied as I pulled my coat on and began wrapping my scarf around my shoulders.

  “Be careful going back to the station,” he said to my back as we walked down together. “This neighborhood isn’t as friendly as it once was.”

  The light in the entryway was out, allowing me to pause to check the street before exiting. When I was convinced there weren’t any lingering crowds of rowdy youth, I opened the door and left. Ismet bolted the door behind me.

  I started my walk through the dark streets, doing my best to avoid the security lamps that would highlight me to any unwanted attention. I was almost back to the end of Rue de Belgrade when the hairs on my neck stood at full attention under my collar and scarf…and it had nothing to do with the cold.

  I didn’t look back. Instead, I pulled down my hood so I could hear better. As I reached out with all my senses into the dark, I began forming a mental picture of my surroundings. Unfortunately, those surroundings included the soft pat, pat, pat, scuff of soft-soled athletic shoes.

  Upon reaching the broader Avenue Van Volxem that ran parallel to the train tracks, I looked over my right shoulder briefly before I turned.

  Six males, sixteen to mid-twenties, two visible weapons—baseball bats, I recounted silently as if I were constructing a shopping list. Youngest at rear, oldest and largest not holding baseball bats.

  I needed a quiet place to take care of this. If I kept my current pace, they would catch up on the street just before I reached the train station. Security cameras would catch the action, and that would most certainly place scrutiny on me—unacceptable. Ahead was a tunnel that passed beneath the tracks on a connecting street. That would have to do.

  “Hmm,” I muttered as I jogged across the avenue and then into the tunnel. No bats in the hands of the older guys.

  I couldn’t imagine it was a gesture of power balancing, the older guys giving the bats to the smaller, younger fellows. Their confidence, I deduced, must come from a concealed weapon.

  Firearm? I wondered briefly and then dismissed it with a grunt. If they had guns, they wouldn’t be stalking a single traveler at night, they’d be knocking over convenience stores.

  Knives? Most likely that was the answer.

  Halfway through the tunnel, I stopped and tucked myself in behind a concrete pillar against the wall. I listened as the tap, tap, scuff of their shoes became tap-p-p-p, scuff-uff-uff in the echo of the tunnel.

  No fatalities, I cautioned myself as their footsteps quickened upon realizing I had disappeared.

  As the first pursuer breached the plane of my hiding spot, I threw an elbow and caught him in the throat. I immediately wrapped my arm around him and yanked the box cutter from his grasp. The next young man lurched forward with a knee, but in the dark, he mistakenly struck the groin of his buddy. I dropped the dead weight and let him sink to the ground to tend to his abused testicles.

  I could feel the location of each punk. The echoing of their breath, the scuff of their shoes, even the disruption of echo when they moved, filled my senses and reminded me that I was a trained killer now. That thought tempered my next action.

  Before they could decide what to do next, I launched a spinning high kick at the face of the attacker who had kneed his friend. His head smashed against the concrete wall of the tunnel.

  The four remaining men—boys actually—began goading each other into taking their turn with me, having watched me dispatch their two larger leaders.

  “Come on then,” I said.

  One of the smaller boys rushed forward, swinging his bat high above his head as he approached. I caught it mid arch and yanked it from his hands, sending him backward on his ass with a shove.

  “RARRRRRR!” I growled at them, flailing my arms wide with the bat in my hand.

  They scampered off, leaving the two largest boys moaning on the ground. I tossed the box cutter across to the other side and knelt beside the first one. When I reached for his face, he flinched, but I grabbed his jaw anyway and turned his head from side to side, getting a closer look.

  I shook my head and tsk’ed my disapproval.

  “Be a doctor,” I said to him.

  He replied in a language I didn’t understand but took for Arabic. It could have just as easily have been Turkish. Whatever language it was, what he said sounded like an excuse.

  I pulled a few hundred euro bills out of my pocket and held them up in front of him before pointing at his nearly unconscious comrade. “Doctor,” I said again and pointed down the tunnel in the direction the younger boys had run, “Doctor,” I said once more and then flashed the money in his face before tucking it into his hand.

  “You are older,” I said, standing. “You should know better.”

  He looked at the money in his palm and then up at me as I turned to make my way to the train station.

  “English,” he yelled at my back.

  I paused and turned to see him holding the money up.

  �
��I fix,” he said, pointing in the direction the younger boys had run. “Doctor.”

  “Good,” I yelled and turned the corner, dropping the bat on the sidewalk with an echoing clatter.

  I may have just given money to a criminal, or I may have just opened his eyes. In either case, they’d be less likely to attack someone else tonight. And it hadn’t really cost me anything—I was still flush with cash from the courier’s wallet.

  I smiled at the irony as I walked the last two blocks to the station.

  **

  8:55 p.m.—Somewhere in Switzerland

  HARBINGER tugged at the zipper of his oversized snowsuit. After peeling the heavy coverall down to his waist, he unstrapped the shoulder holster containing his Desert Eagle fifty-caliber handgun. It was one of the few handguns that felt comfortable in his massive grip. After re-buckling the belt, he hung it on a spike in the stone wall of his spartan room.

  The snow that had been clumped to his boot started to melt into a wet slush on the stone floor when his satellite phone chirped.

  He breathed out his frustration before dropping heavily to his bed, causing the lumber to groan in protest from the weight. He reached over and picked up the phone before seeing it was a secure call.

  “Yes,” he answered tiredly.

  “Mr. Harbinger, it’s Heinrich,” Braun said, slipping familiarity into the conversation before it had even begun.

  Harbinger bristled in anger at the gesture. It was a recent and unwelcome familiarity that made him realize something had changed in their relationship. Harbinger hated familiarity, and he hated change…especially when it suggested betrayal in the works.

  “Mr. Braun,” Harbinger replied, refusing to take the bait of using Braun’s first name. “I think I mentioned I would contact you with an update as soon as the installations were in place.”

  “Another issue has come up,” Braun replied, in a tone that was almost taunting. “I need your attention on the matter.”

  Harbinger lowered his head, straining against the rising rage that filled his belly and throat with bile. The protocol violation alone might have resulted in his crushing the little German spook had they been in the same room. But requesting another task while his limited resources were already stretched beyond reason…that was enough to send pinpricks of blood dotting the outer orange ring of his genetically engineered green eyes. He stared at the puddle of melting snow at his feet for a few seconds before responding.

  “I think you are aware of my distaste for humor,” Harbinger replied in a slow and even tone, fighting the rage beast back down into its cage. “I’m certain you are aware of the procedures we have in place for contracting my services.”

  “Yes, however, this is most urgent,” Braun replied. “Costing and manpower considerations will have to be figured as we go.”

  “Those procedures are in place to limit—”

  “I apologize for the breach of protocol,” Braun replied, interrupting Harbinger and sending another flash of red into his right eye.

  Harbinger wiped at the discomfort with the back of his hand, pointlessly trying to quell the boiling blood behind the socket.

  “Speak your piece,” Harbinger snapped.

  “There is a CIA black site in Antwerp that received a guest on the night of the failed attempt to abduct Scott Wolfe from Camp Peary,” Braun replied. “We are assuming that was the departure point for Wolfe after he escaped your assault.”

  The blood pressure at the back of Harbinger’s neck threatened to overwhelm him, but he remained seated and leaned back on the bunk instead of letting the fire in his head control him.

  “If I recall, it was your toy soldier who was responsible for extracting Wolfe,” Harbinger said with a threat in his voice so palpable, he nearly chuckled at its potency. “I was to provide an opening and support for his—”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Braun interrupted again, dismissive. “No one blames you or your men for the failure of the operation. The asset clearly wasn’t all he was hyped to be.”

  “I could have told you that before we started,” Harbinger hissed, anger slipping into his tone for the first time. He cracked his neck sideways, trying to rein it in. “Your asset’s failure was responsible for the loss of two squads… They were left exposed while waiting for him to complete his mission.”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line for so long that Harbinger thought for a moment the call had disconnected.

  “Yes,” Braun said finally, muted, apologetic. “That was most unfortunate.”

  Another pause allowed Harbinger push the beast back down once more.

  “I’m assuming the compensation for their loss satisfactorily covered your inconvenience,” Braun added after a few beats.

  “Compensation does not negate the loss of talented soldiers due to the incompetence of others,” Harbinger replied.

  “Of course not—”

  “What do you want from me, Braun?” Harbinger snapped, cutting off the German’s pointless stroking.

  “Mr. Spryte has requested an interview of the personnel at the CIA airport facility in Antwerp,” Braun said, his voice crisp with purpose.

  “A request from Spryte?” Harbinger asked. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “Yes, well… It is my job to temper and translate policy into the real world.”

  “I don’t have the resources,” Harbinger said quietly but unapologetically.

  “I can’t imagine there would be more than two CIA personnel—”

  “I don’t have the resources,” Harbinger repeated, more firmly. “My men are performing surgery on missiles and building installations for the launchers. I don’t have the manpower to go on another wild goose chase for Wolfe.”

  There was a long pause in the conversation as Harbinger suspected a compromise was being formed on the other end of the phone. You are going to push me too far, you ridiculous little man, he thought as his rage simmered.

  “The couriers in Lille,” Braun offered.

  “What about them?” Harbinger asked, but he already knew where the conversation was going.

  “They are trained security forces.”

  “Ha!” Harbinger couldn’t help the outburst.

  “With the proper leadership, they could access the facility and provide security while you or one of your lieutenants engaged in questioning the employees.”

  “No,” Harbinger responded firmly but with no more than a mutter.

  “The car you pursued was rented by one Scott North,” Braun added, and his tone implied this information was thought to be a tempting treat dangled in front of the giant. “The North ID belonged to Wolfe. His Connecticut driver’s license photo was matched.”

  “That would make the exercise even more pointless,” Harbinger said with a raised voice. “He boarded a flight for Atlanta yesterday.”

  “Well, I’m certain that was what he intended everyone to believe,” Braun replied, revealing he knew better.

  Harbinger gripped the edge of his bed and pulled himself forward; the wood of the side rail flexed under the stress. “No more games. Tell me plainly what you have to say.”

  “Though great care was taken to insert Scott North into the arrival log at Atlanta customs, the entry was inserted manually…it was not a scan,” Braun replied. “The Department of Homeland Security scanned the gate security video and Mr. North—our Mr. Wolfe—never got off the plane. He is still in Europe.”

  Harbinger thought about that. If Braun was right, Harbinger felt he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the mission at hand until the Wolfe variable was eliminated.

  Still, it only means he might yet be in Europe. Harbinger thought. I can’t waste the limited resources I have.

  Braun’s assessment of the courier service was more than optimistic…far more so than Harbinger gave credence. Nevertheless, Wolfe had slipped through Harbinger’s fingers twice—that he knew of—and this could be an opportunity to correct that blight on his nearly perfect record of
success.

  “Send me the details,” Harbinger replied finally. “And make sure those suit-wearing security guards understand we will be in charge of the operation.”

  “Absolutely,” Braun said, his enthusiasm at the concession obvious in his voice. “There won’t be any probl—”

  Harbinger ended the call and dropped the satellite phone on his bunk.

  “Bellos!” he yelled through the closed door.

  A moment later, there was a knock and then the door opened. “Yes, sir,” Bellos answered as he entered the cramped quarters.

  “I need you to go to Antwerp to babysit some security guards,” Harbinger said as he bent and tried to pull his boots off.

  The groan emanating from his bed reflected the depth to which he sank into the straining springs. The angle made it difficult to remove his bear-sized boots.

  “Yes, sir,” Bellos replied quietly as he watched Harbinger struggle with his footwear.

  “You know why I’m sending you?” Harbinger asked without looking up from his task.

  “Sir, because I let that intruder take me down at the pick-up site,” he replied stiffly.

  Harbinger just nodded before collapsing back on his bunk, abandoning his attempt at freeing his foot. He stuck his leg out toward Bellos.

  “Get that,” Harbinger said simply.

  Bellos straddled Harbinger’s tree trunk of a leg and grasped the snow boot, struggling momentarily before removing it. Without a word, Harbinger extended the other foot. He could tell Bellos was nervous about the mistake in Wiesbaden. But Harbinger had lost so many good men in the past few months. Giving Bellos a pass for being caught off guard when he himself had been unaware of the intrusion seemed more profitable. The double shift in the cold and the wild goose chase in Antwerp would be more than adequate to serve as a reminder to be more prepared. Bellos was a good soldier.

  “Load a case of weapons into a Rover and take a basic listening package,” Harbinger said after the second boot came off. “You can pick up the second vehicle in Lille when you brief the couriers on the mission.”