by Brian Drake
Schrader nodded. He watched Speidel’s face. The younger man’s eyes and the shift in his sitting position suggested he had more to say. “What are you holding back?”
“I’m afraid Tanya didn’t tell you the truth about her mission in the US. She may have compromised us.”
Schrader’s voice rose. “How?”
“There was a break-out in the detention center where Omar Talman was being held. A helicopter collected him. Who else but Tanya would attempt a rescue?”
“She might.”
“Which means she wasn’t only coordinating Operation Triangle. She may not have been coordinating at all. You’ll remember, sir, I was against her visit to begin with. There was no reason for her to go.”
“But my daughter is as stubborn as her mother,” Schrader said.
“You need to talk to her before she reaches the island. Before the Americans unravel Operation Triangle and your activities along with it.”
Schrader took a deep breath and let it out. “You’re young, Sebastian. Back in the old days, we’d sweat out news like this, two or three times a week.”
“I have told you everything I’m working on currently.”
“Of course. Come back when you have more. I’m particularly interested in why our systems are being probed.”
Speidel nodded sharply, rose from the chair, and exited the office.
Schrader turned to look out the window again, but the view didn’t register.
When he was the age of Dassler and Speidel, he’d been in the Red Army Faction. Some called it the Baader-Meinhof Gang, but the group had never accepted the name as official. They weren’t a gang. They were the vanguard of a new revolution to overthrow a corrupt system of government. His old comrades were dead. He was the only one left.
Schrader had decided to use capitalism in order to subvert capitalism. Revolutions weren’t free. He used his wealth to fund what western intelligence might call “terrorist cells”. He had no such derogatory view of them. They were freedom fighters. Young people eager for change.
Western ideology represented oppression of the poor and the promotion of the rich. He saw how much money his clients reaped. The successful ones paid back the investment and kept more for themselves while paying employees a pittance and expecting undying loyalty in return.
He imagined a world where everybody existed on a level field, with no more and no less than anybody else. But Schrader had learned long ago only the point of a gun brought about such a society. Far too many would resist a normal change of government, and the slow drip approach didn’t appeal to him either. No matter which route he chose to implement the vision, the rich and powerful would fight back. But they didn’t care who died in the process. They’d sacrifice as many pawns as necessary.
Society had to be broke before they could accomplish any significant rebuilding. Breaking down society required guns and bombs and a willing group to use them as designed. His activities may not bring about change, but they caused instability. From such instability leaders would emerge to lead the way to the promised land.
It was the young people who would carry out the change. The youth were ripe to come to power and make the world equal. They were currently living through the worst the old system had to offer. They knew the horror of inequality first-hand. In the old days, it had been a tough argument to make. Now? Not at all.
He might be dead by the time such changes occurred, but his crystal ball was clear. The revolution would happen. Sooner than the world realized.
Tanya, his oldest daughter, his protegee, was carrying out her end. The news of Francesca Sloan’s reported death saddened him, as, he knew, it hurt Tanya more. Battle spared no soldier. Even the ones who walked away carried a permanent reminder of the fight. What made Schrader less sad was Francesca hadn’t died a traitor. He’d seen his share of those, too.
He often feared his youngest daughter, Hannah, would betray him. As much as it pained him to do so, he knew he had to place her under surveillance. If the Americans were coming for him, they’d know she was a potential source of information.
If Tanya was his greatest success, Hannah was his failure.
6
Raven cleared customs at Berlin’s Tegel Airport without fanfare. He traveled under one of his cover names. He’d have preferred a direct approach, but Clark Wilson convinced him otherwise.
“You can bet they’ll be watching for you,” Wilson said.
“They will disappoint me if they aren’t. A head-on fight is better than sneaking around at this point.”
“We don’t want you getting whacked before you learn anything, Sam. You’re on the payroll. Follow orders.”
Raven laughed. “You know who you’re talking to, right?”
Wilson had conceded the fact Raven was never very good at following orders.
But Raven also wasn’t in the mood for a wrestling match with the CIA. Not this time. They were working toward a common goal. Cooperation mattered more than personal preference. This time.
Wilson had also advised Raven on a potential ally in the Hugo Schrader household.
“His daughter Hannah,” Wilson said. “She’s ten years younger than Tanya. We dug up a string of emails between her and Tanya. She begged Tanya not to go to the Middle East. She didn’t want to be left alone with their father.”
“He abused her or something?”
“They don’t get along. He filled them with stories of the glorious Red Army Faction growing up. Tanya ate it up. Hannah thought it was disgusting.”
“Sounds like Tanya was predisposed to turning subversive and found her excuse with Ahmad Jafari.”
“A fair assessment.”
“Where do I find Hannah?”
Wilson provided her current apartment address and told Raven to work his magic.
Except Raven had no ideas for how to approach the younger of the two Schrader daughters.
There wasn’t time for the standard cultivation of an asset. No “meet cute” and conversation followed by a pitch to help the Americans catch her sister. Operation Triangle was in progress. The Islamic Union would strike sooner rather than later. Raven had no intention of playing games when innocent lives were at risk.
The CIA provided the location of a local safe house, but Raven wanted to save it for a backup. After navigating the busy terminal to baggage claim, he collected his two suitcases. Outside in the crisp summer afternoon, he found a cab. The driver took him to the Radisson Blu Hotel where he’d reserved a room.
“How is Paris?”
Hugo Schrader sat at his desk, his back to the window, holding the desk phone to his ear. A sweep of the telephone system revealed no tapped lines.
“I’m fine, Papa.”
“Tell me what you did in America.”
Silence.
“Tanya?”
“I did what I told you, Papa. I put elements in motion for the project.”
“You’re lying, Tanya.”
“I am not.”
“What happened to Francesca? What aren’t you telling me, Tanya?”
“I did—”
“What?”
“Other things.”
“You were there to get Omar, weren’t you?”
“More or less. He got himself out. I only gave the signal.”
“You’ve exposed us, Tanya. You’ve put the project in jeopardy.”
“Nothing can stop what we are doing, Papa.”
“They’ll try.”
“There’s somebody you should watch for,” Tanya said. “His name is Sam Raven.”
“Why him?”
“He brought me to the Americans. I used him specifically because I knew he’d believe my story.”
“What story, Tanya?”
“I told them—” She stopped. “Not on the phone, Papa.”
“I’m getting the general idea.”
“Francesca sacrificed herself for us, Papa. It was the only way to send the Americans off course.”
“Te
ll me more about Sam Raven,” Schrader said. “Tell me what he looks like. Better yet, send me a picture.”
Raven didn’t bother to unpack right away. He used his phone to plot directions to Hannah Schrader’s apartment. She was fifteen minutes away if traffic wasn’t terrible. A five-minute phone call arranged for a nearby Hertz office to bring him a rental car. They brought him a blue Audi A5.
Only after signing for the car did Raven unpack—sort of. He left his clothes in the suitcases but removed the X-ray proof bottom of one. Inside waited his Nighthawk Custom Talon .45 autoloader, shoulder harness, ammunition and spare 8-round magazines.
He drove to Hannah’s apartment complex and parked curbside around the corner. His shoes tapped on the quiet lobby’s tiled floor. A wall of mailboxes, elevators, rear exit to the courtyard. All very clean and Germanly spartan. There was no tenant directory. In the middle of the day, he expected she was still at work.
He drove to Schrader Venture Capital and found curbside parking space a block away. He returned on foot, pausing a moment to watch the boat traffic in the Spree. The busy locals on the sidewalk ignored it. Across the street, a pair of tourists snapped pictures of the waterway.
The lobby of the skyscraper buzzed with activity. Men and women in suits stood around talking or hurrying in and out of elevators. He spoke to the security guard at the front desk and asked to see a representative. When the guard inquired why, Raven told him he wanted to discuss an investment proposal. The guard made a call and told Raven to wait. He found a black leather seat in the corner and sat with his back to the wall.
A tall man in a dark suit and black-framed glasses found him there.
“Mr. Cooper?”
Raven had used his cover name of Isaac Cooper. He stood, smiling, extending a hand. “Yes. Who might you be?”
“I am Sebastian Speidel, special assistant to Mr. Schrader.”
“I didn’t realize I’d get the royal treatment.”
“We will talk here. My job is to make sure you meet our qualifications. If you do not, we go no further.”
Raven put his hands in his pockets. “Sure.”
“You’re American?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you in Germany?”
“My business partner and I want to expand into the European market. We make custom musical instruments. High-end guitars.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We’ve picked up several endorsements already in the States, and we’re negotiating with members of Ramstein to use our equipment.”
“Who?”
“Ramstein. One of the biggest heavy metal bands in your country. I thought everybody in Germany knew of them.”
“No.”
Raven laughed. “Of course. My mistake.”
“Mr. Cooper, we do not work with companies who generate less than one million dollars.”
Raven blinked. “Oh. Well. No problem there. When I say high-end guitars, I mean equipment with a starting price of five thousand US.”
“Surely you cannot generate one million a year selling guitars.”
“I can prove it, of course.”
“You have sales records with you?”
“At my hotel. If you’d like to schedule a formal meeting, I’d be happy to provide details.”
“Very interesting. What sort of investment help would you be looking for?”
“I don’t want to talk numbers here in your lobby, Mr. Speidel. We have a modest proposal I’m sure your company will appreciate.”
“Hmmm. Well, I will have to discuss this with Mr. Schrader. I have a feeling you will be too small for us, no matter your gross sales numbers.”
Raven shrugged. “German musicians will like our products.”
“Who did you say you represent again?”
“I didn’t actually. Cooper Instruments. We have a web page. Cooper Instruments Dot Com.”
“Of course.” Speidel smiled. “We will research and get back with you.”
Raven pulled out his wallet and made a show of looking inside. He sighed with a shake of his head. “I’m out of business cards.”
Speidel only smiled.
“I’m staying at the Radisson Blu,” Raven said. “I’m not hard to find.”
The two men shook hands again and Raven left the lobby. He didn’t look back to see if Speidel was watching him. Raven had no doubt he was.
Sebastian Speidel entered the office of Schrader’s secretary. He said nothing to the woman and knocked twice on Schrader’s door before stepping inside.
Schrader did not look up from his paperwork. He held a gold fountain pen and scratched his signature on several sheets.
“What is it, Sebastian?”
“Sam Raven just paid us a visit, Mr. Schrader. The picture Tanya sent us was accurate.”
Schrader scribbled his name on another sheet of paper, set it aside, and signed another. “And?”
“He’s staying at the Radisson Blu.”
“Good. Kill him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Speidel left the office.
7
Raven figured on a direct approach to Hannah Schrader but not in public.
Not with her under surveillance.
The two goons who followed her from work to a bar wore pressed gray suits. They fit well with the rest of the bar’s happy hour clientele. Hannah didn’t notice their presence. Or was she used to them being there?
She met two girlfriends at a small hotel bar. It sat off the lobby, tempting new arrivals as they headed for the elevators. The décor wasn’t fancy. The mirrored walls made a futile attempt at making the place look bigger than it was. Muted televisions screens on two walls played either news programs or sports.
Raven took a seat in a back corner and read a newspaper. There weren’t many patrons, so he had a decent view of Hannah, her friends, and the goons who watched her.
Hannah Schrader wore a typical skirt-and-blouse combo. She’d removed her heels after sitting down, and the shoes rested beside her chair. She sat with her elbows on the table, leaning toward her friends, her nyloned feet on the floor. Hannah’s bright blonde hair matched one of the other girls. The third member of their trio was a brunette who wore her hair very short.
The brunette apologized for insisting on the hotel instead of their usual bar. She didn’t want to “see you-know-who tonight”. Hannah and the other blonde didn’t mind. Hannah exclaimed, “Alcohol is alcohol!” as the waiter brought their drinks. Hannah was a whiskey drinker. The waiter placed a double in front of her.
The brunette ordered fried mozzarella poppers before the waiter departed. Raven cringed. Fried cheese? It wasn’t a worthwhile snack at any time of day.
Her two minders glanced at her from time to time but didn’t make the effort obvious. They kept up an animated conversation with a running commentary on the sports program.
He sat with his paper and martini and waited.
He needed Hannah alone for his approach to work. Would the goons hang around?
Hannah Schrader eased her car through the automatic gate. She parked in a spot with her apartment number on a post. Raven lost sight of her as she crossed the parking lot to a connecting gate. She’d travel through the courtyard to her place in the complex.
The answer to the question about the goons came fast. They followed her home, taking the turn before the complex and driving off. No need to watch her when she was at home, Raven supposed.
He still didn’t know if the surveillance was routine or new. Was Hugo having her followed in case the CIA came calling about her sister?
Raven left the rented Audi parked on the street and entered the complex through the lobby. Stepping out onto the courtyard, he found a bench. He sat with a view of Hannah’s third-floor balcony. The light snapped on behind the glass balcony doors.
He leaned back on the bench with crossed legs and stretched his right arm along the back edge. The courtyard, shielded from the street by the buildings, was quiet. Nearby flowers f
illed the air with a pleasant scent. Raven waited with a mix of uncertainty and confidence.
He had to win Hannah over and fast.
He hoped his approach worked. And he hoped he could keep Hannah out of danger.
Getting out of her suit and stockings was always the best part of Hannah Schrader’s day. She traded her work clothes for jeans and a sweatshirt. In the kitchen, she filled a pitcher with water and proceeded to water the plants around the living room. Some hung from the ceiling, others supported on stands in corners. They were lush and green and added to the apartment’s color explosion. She’d covered the walls with brightly colored Egyptian tapestries. Red and green furniture, loud throw rugs. She lived alone and had nobody else to impress.
She flipped the latch on the patio door and stepped onto the balcony. More plants lined the top of the wooden rail.
She hadn’t minded meeting Jenny and Val at the hotel bar. Catching up with the pair was always a highlight of her week. They’d grown up together and had a tight bond. But their regular bar had dancing. She needed a few drinks and a couple of spins on the dance floor to rid her mind of the funk she fell into every day she worked for her father.
Hannah worked in the press office. She coordinated coverage for the company’s business activities. She didn’t interact with her father often. Their differences had become too great over the years. He kept trying to maintain contact, but she always pulled away. Especially since Tanya left.
Her father was not a good man. Deep down she knew he’d never see the error of his ways. He’d instigated too much violence already; several murders she was sure of.
She wanted to quit and leave Berlin. With her mother gone, and Tanya playing guns with terrorists, she was the only one who might be able to shed light on their activity. But she knew her father often had men watching her. Contacting German intelligence or visiting the US embassy was out of the question. She’d be intercepted and taken to her father and then what?
Hannah didn’t have any interest in politics and didn’t understand the appeal of setting off bombs and killing people over disagreements. Somehow her father had pulled Tanya into his point of view, but not her.