by Brian Drake
“I’m John Foley,” the ponytailed man said. “Central Intelligence Agency.” He lifted Dane’s chair and began slicing the ropes. “Take it easy.”
“Did you know it was the fake the whole time?” Dane said as his limbs began to tingle.
“Yup.”
Two days later Steve Dane sat poolside soaking up the sun. He wore a long-sleeved shirt, buttoned only at the bottom, and shorts that ended just above his knees, effectively concealing his scars.
He looked up from his magazine as Len Lukavina stepped through the pool gate wearing shorts and a T-shirt, the warped skin on his body in full view. Dane smiled but did not get off the lounger. Lukavina dropped into a squat beside Dane.
“Feeling better?”
“All fingers and toes accounted for,” Dane said.
“You look like hell. You’re practically painted with bruises and welts. You really want to be outside?”
“Since when do I care what people think?”
“You’re full of smoke, you know that? Tell Stone thank you for bringing the real SADM by the house.”
“Sure. He’s back home but he’ll appreciate the sentiments.”
“He appreciated what you paid him even more, I’m sure,” Lukavina said. “Have you talked to Russo?”
“I will tonight. There is one last bit of information I’d like to supply him with. You know what I mean.”
“Who ratted out his daughter, yeah. Johnny was in on that.” Lukavina removed a sealed envelope from a pocket of his shorts and passed it to Dane. The envelope was very thin. Dane held it up to the sun to see a folded sheet of paper inside.
“A name?”
“One name. Russo can close the account entirely.”
“Is it one of his bodyguards?”
“No. Somebody higher in the organization. The guy was using Mafia money to pay his gambling debts and used the money Milani paid him to replace the money he took.”
“How much trouble are you in?”
“Too much to count,” the CIA man said. “Plus, my operation is only half completed. I didn’t get to follow the terrorists back home.”
“Tell them it’s what happens in the field.”
“You also cost us a lot of money and man-hours.”
“We say people-hours now, Len.”
Lukavina glared.
“What else could I do, Len? The client comes first.”
“There was a time when your country came first.”
“It still does, in my own way.”
Len opened his mouth to say more but stopped. Dane knew he was going to disagree, and maybe he had a point. The US would always be home, but Dane couldn’t go back until he’d settled accounts with the men who’d betrayed him.
“What’s next for you?” the CIA man said.
“I came out here for a vacation,” Dane said. “So far it’s been everything but. I’m going to relax for a while and”—Dane smiled over Lukavina’s shoulder—“have a good time with my lady.”
Len Lukavina stood up as Nina returned carrying two martinis. She handed both to Dane and resumed her position on the neighboring lounger.
“Stop staring, Len,” Dane said. “You look like you’ve never seen a woman before.”
Nina said, “He’s never seen a woman in a bikini like this before.”
“She’s still torturing me,” Dane said. “There’s this guy who plays his accordion all night. She won’t—you know—until I do something about that.”
Dane handed her a martini.
Lukavina took a second envelope from another pocket. “If you change your mind, here’s the next link in the chain.”
Dane made no move to take the envelope.
“Milani’s next move,” the CIA man said, “was to take al-Qaeda’s money to Istanbul and hand it over to a contact there.”
“You learned about it,” Dane said. “Your people can handle it.”
“My people and I are going to be on the bench for a week after this mess. You owe me one.”
Lukavina dropped the envelope on the ground beside the lounger and departed with a wave.
Dane swallowed some of his drink.
“We have to follow that lead,” Nina said.
“Don’t start with me, baby.”
“If this Duchess can get her hands on nuclear weapons, she needs to be stopped.”
Dane set his drink down, donned a pair of sunglasses and lay back. “Relax and drink your vitamins. Let’s just catch rays for a while.”
Their final meeting with Russo and his daughter, over dinner, concluded with the capo’s handing Dane a very large tote bag full of cash.
“If there is anything you ever need,” Russo said at the end, “do not hesitate to call me.”
Upon their return to the hotel, they were greeted in the lobby by Detective Palermo. He stood in front of them with folded arms.
“Whatever you are doing,” he said, “I assume it is over?”
“What gives you that idea?”
“The US government no longer has any concern for you. We’ve gone two days without anything blowing up or finding people shot dead in the street or anywhere else for that matter. Whatever happened—”
“I don’t know a thing about it, Detective.”
“When are you leaving my country?”
“Soon. A few days. Haven’t seen Venice yet.”
“Right now is not soon enough, Mr. Dane.”
Much later, around 3:05 a.m., as Dane and Nina lay in bed, the accordion started up again. More revelry accompanied the noise.
Nina stirred and jabbed Dane in the arm until he opened his eyes and muttered, “What?”
She said, “Are you going to do something?” She wore ugly flannel pajamas and green face cream that made her look like a lizard.
“Honey, I can’t shoot him.”
“Do something.”
“Sucker punch?”
“Acceptable.”
Dane tossed the covers aside and rolled out of bed. He dressed and stepped into his shoes. “Get that crap off your face,” he said, “and be naked when I come back.”
“Yes, darling.”
Dane left the room to “introduce” himself to the accordion player.
8
Sloppy Shooting
Sean McFadden sat with crossed legs, his dark hair slicked back, in front of a small restaurant sipping a warm mug of black currant tea with a touch of milk. Under the table sat a metal briefcase. It was supposed to be full of money.
Most passersby weren’t wearing a jacket, but nobody seemed out of place if they did. The weather was cool enough that one could do as he pleased. McFadden wore a light windbreaker, zipped halfway up, to hide the gun under his right arm—a silenced Walther PPS 9-millimeter automatic.
Mixed with the vehicle noises and the heavy footsteps on the cobbled pavement were shouts from street vendors; from food carts spaced out on either side of the street, meat and chicken sizzled and the scents of curry and garlic wafted his way. McFadden took it all in but was not able to enjoy it. Maybe another time. Today he was working. His blue eyes missed no detail as he scanned the pedestrians and traffic, but there was only one person he was looking for. Everybody else was cannon fodder.
A freelance assassin in high demand, McFadden had not always worked for himself, but the IRA was long gone, except for its weak political elements and clusters of “freedom fighters” who claimed to be carrying on the fight but were really nothing more than thugs blowing stuff up for no reason. When a soldier lost his country, there was nothing left to fight for but his own pocketbook. Someday he would return home to a country free of the British scourge; that day was not today.
The busy market square at the center of Istanbul, with its old stone buildings and maze of back alleys, had been his choice for the meeting. Today’s assignment wouldn’t be hard. Meet a courier who had a briefcase full of money not unlike the one under the table. Trade cases. Kill the man. McFadden’s case was empty and there would be no
need to bring it back with him, but he would bring the full one back to the Duchess.
The courier broke from the flow across the street. He walked with a limp and hustled between stopped cars, stepping onto the sidewalk almost directly across from McFadden. The courier was a mouse. Thin, pasty skin, straight hair; his clothes didn’t seem to fit. He made brief eye contact with McFadden, stopped, produced cigarettes and matches, lit up and dropped the matchbook. He kept walking. A trouble signal. McFadden rubbed his forehead. So much for easy. He drank down his tea and went over to pick up the matchbook. The courier had scribbled a phone number on the flap.
McFadden pocketed the matchbook and picked up the briefcase and went the opposite way the courier had gone.
A few blocks from the café, McFadden went into an alley and called the number on his cell phone.
“You better have a good reason,” the assassin said.
“Milani and the al-Qaeda agents are dead, and the US has the nuke. There was somebody—”
“Wait.” McFadden killed the connection and dialed another number. A woman answered. He said, “Milani and his contacts are dead. We don’t have the nuke.”
“The courier?” The woman spoke with a soft voice void of panic or emotion.
“Still alive.”
“Complete the mission,” she said. “I don’t want any comebacks. And then I need you in Paris. We have more pressing problems.”
“Okay,” McFadden said. He ended the call and reached the courier again. “I’ll be at your place in an hour.”
“But I don’t—”
“Relax. You worked. You’re still getting paid. Don’t go anywhere.”
Steve Dane cleared customs and collected a small single suitcase before finding a taxi. He told the driver, “Downtown.”
He’d never been to Istanbul before, and he made this first visit alone. Nina had left Italy for Paris, responding to a call from a new client.
She had insisted that he go to Istanbul to follow the lead Lukavina had given them.
“It won’t take very long,” she said. “I’ll handle the Paris meeting while you check out this other thing.”
“Nina—”
“Stop putting on a show. You can’t fool me. You know you want to do this.”
Their plan had been to stay in Italy a few more days but, as always, they couldn’t remain at rest for long. And the new client had some money he wanted to part with in exchange for their services.
So Dane boarded a plane for Istanbul, and Nina went to Paris.
He glanced at the photo as the taxi let him off in the square. Finding the man wouldn’t be easy, but there were ways if one had even an ounce of patience. He blended with the crowd. The warm summertime air meant most folks were dressed in light colors and loose-fitting items; Dane was no different. He wore tan khakis and a white long-sleeved shirt and leather jacket.
He stepped into an alley, kneeling with his case on the grimy concrete. From the X-ray-proof bottom he took out his Detonics Combat Master, which he dropped into an inside pocket of his jacket. Rising with case in hand, he continued nosing around and finally spotted the limping courier traveling along the sidewalk.
Dane stopped behind a street vendor’s wheeled cart once the mousy man neared the café.
The vendor approached Dane, holding up a tapestry. “You buy, good deal,” the vendor said, waving a hand over the abstract pattern. To Dane it looked like a bunch of circles haphazardly drawn.
“Not today.”
“Very cheap. Fifty dollars.”
“No.”
“Forty-five dollars. Very good buy. Impress your friends.”
Dane waved the man off and stepped around the cart, and watched the man light a cigarette and drop a matchbook. He saw the other man get up from his chair and retrieve the matchbook. Dane grinned. Sean McFadden. Working for the Duchess? It had been a long time since their paths had crossed. Obviously he was here to kill the courier. Dane watched the assassin walk off in the other direction. He followed the courier.
The reason for the aborted contact was clear. News of the events in Mestre had filtered down the chain and now the Duchess’s agents needed to scatter. But McFadden wouldn’t just pack up and leave. The mousy man had no idea that there was a target on his back.
Dane peeked around the corner and watched the courier enter his room. The door shut, the lock clicked, and Dane advanced down the hall with the Detonics in his right hand. He kicked the door open. The courier, in the process of placing wallet and keys on a nightstand, jumped in surprise; Dane grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt, forcing him onto the bed. He jammed the .45 into his neck.
“You like breathing?”
The courier rasped out some words.
“Tell me who the Duchess is.”
The courier moved his mouth but nothing came out.
Dane stepped back. He kept the courier covered while he shut the door. The man lay gasping, rubbing his neck. Dane patted him down for weapons but found none.
“Get your shoes off,” he said.
The courier frowned.
“Now!”
The courier let the tennis shoes plop onto the floor. If he had any weapons concealed within, he couldn’t use them now. The courier sat on the bed looking at Dane.
“You’re working for the Duchess.”
The courier nodded. “Yes.”
“Tell me who she is.”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I swear I don’t know! I’ve never seen her! I only work with her representatives! I’m telling the truth, don’t kill me.”
Dane said, “The man you were supposed to meet is coming here to kill you.”
Beads of sweat broke out on the courier’s forehead.
“I’m the only chance you have, kid,” Dane said.
“But you’ll kill me too!”
“Wrong. Who is the Duchess?”
“I don’t know!”
“Then why does she want you dead?”
The courier stuttered a string of words. He raised a hand to wipe his face, but Dane gestured with his gun and the courier dropped his hand.
Dane clenched his teeth. This was a dead end. Pretty soon the kid would start whimpering and blubbering. The kid let out half a scream before Dane smacked him over the head and he fell over. Dane stretched him out and moved to the wall beside the door. Sean McFadden would arrive any minute; perhaps Dane’s old friend would be more willing to share words.
Dane laughed. Of course he wouldn’t.
McFadden hiked up the sloping sidewalk to the rooming house, a six-story stone building sandwiched between two other stone buildings in a street made up of more stone buildings. The Turks had come up with one way of construction back in the day and repeated it everywhere, though their modern efforts were a sight to see and a testament to architectural genius. McFadden went up the front steps, entered the small lobby and did not acknowledge the fat man at the front counter as he hustled up more steps to the courier’s floor.
In the hallway McFadden took out the Walther PPS and snapped off the safety. He held the compact pistol beside his right leg. At the courier’s door, he knocked twice.
The knob turned and the door squeaked opened. McFadden stopped at the sight before him. The courier asleep on his bed with his shoes off. Who had opened the door? He stepped in and froze when the cold muzzle of a gun touched his neck.
“Hello, Sean,” Dane said. “Is that the new Walther?”
“Latest and greatest for me,” the assassin said. “I’ll leave the antiques to you.”
“Drop the gun. Now.”
McFadden released his hold on the Walther and dropped it on the carpet. He kicked it away. It stopped near the bed.
“Hands up.”
The assassin raised his hands. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for the Duchess.”
“If she wants to see you, she will find you.”
“Tell me where
she is.”
“No.”
“Tell me who she is.”
“No.”
“So you’re going to stand here with my gun in your neck and not tell me anything?”
The courier stirred, moaned.
McFadden said, “You still hit like a girl.”
“I wasn’t really trying.”
“Do you remember the first lesson you taught me?” McFadden said.
“You mean you actually paid attention?”
McFadden flung his right arm out to his side. A long tube slid down his sleeve and stopped in the palm of his hand; a flick of the wrist and the tube extended into a long metal baton. McFadden whirled, swinging. Dane brought up his left arm to block the blow and pressed the .45 into McFadden’s chest. The assassin swept the baton upward, striking Dane’s wrist. The gun did not fire but flew out of Dane’s hand. Dane responded with kicks and punches. McFadden deflected some. The ones that landed against his hard body made him grunt. He slashed the baton from side to side, Dane jumping back. Dane grabbed a chair and lunged. McFadden swung, breaking the chair’s legs. They fell onto the carpet. Dane threw the chair. McFadden batted the chair away. Dane grabbed one of the fallen legs and launched his own attack, McFadden blocking with the baton, the awkward sword fight carrying them across the carpet. McFadden kicked Dane in the stomach. Dane bit off his scream; McFadden charged again, swinging the baton, clashing again with Dane’s chair leg.
The courier rolled off the bed and grabbed the fallen Walther PPS. He aimed at McFadden’s back.
The courier awoke slowly, listening to the grunts and crashing, and as his eyes focused on the gun on the carpet he saw his opportunity. He grabbed the gun. He aimed at the back of his contact, the man who had orders to kill him.
But the contact shifted before the courier fired; when he did pull the trigger, the gun bucked once, twice. One shot hit the wall; another cracked through the window behind the man who’d said he was there to help. McFadden whirled, charging at him, swinging the baton. The courier yelled and fired two more times but missed. McFadden swung and knocked the pistol from his grip; it crashed against the wall. The courier brought his smashed hand to his chest, gripping it with the other, howling. McFadden pivoted again, swinging at Dane, keeping him back, and then raced out through the open door.