[Jake Adams 01.0] Fatal Network

by Trevor Scott

  “Schade.”

  Herb nodded his head in agreement, playing the dedicated Polizei. Then he saw the fat man at the far corner of the bar quaffing a large mug of beer. Be patient. A few more beers.

  The fat man ordered one after another and drank them faster than the bartender could draw the next one. Finally the man slid off the wooden stool, grabbed his belt and pants waist and pulled them upward, and then walked toward the men’s room.

  Herb casually followed the fat man out of the bar to the foyer area and then into the men’s room. The man stood with his chubby hand against the wall over the open urinal and was relieving himself in a grand fashion.

  Herb pulled his leather gloves over his fingers tighter and quietly walked up to the fat man. Just as the man shook off any residual urine and zipped his pants, Herb gave him a strong, quick kidney punch.

  The fat man crumpled hard to the floor immediately with a release of air as the wind was knocked out of him. Herb grabbed him by his jacket collar and dragged him away from the urinal. He rolled him to his back, pulled his head from the ground by his hair, and then punched him in the nose and mouth. He punched him again and again. Blood oozed from the man’s nose, lip, and a cut under his left eye.

  Stop. Herb’s heart raced. He wanted to swing and swing until all the life was out of the fat bastard. After all, he was the one who had clonked the pipe across Johnson’s head and then wrapped him and threw him in the swift Rhine. The one who had sent a flurry of bullets Jake’s way. And undoubtedly one of the cowards who had battered Kaiser senseless. He didn’t deserve to live, Herb thought.

  The door swung open quickly and a skinhead walked in, stepped over the fat man’s legs, and then relieved himself. Without concern, he simply walked out.

  Herb shook his head in disbelief. He dropped the fat man’s head and let it slam to the ceramic floor. Quickly he emptied the contents of the man’s pockets onto the floor. A handful of Euros, a small knife, two paper clips, a pen, a slimy comb; nothing out of the ordinary. Inside his jacket was a gun and shoulder holster. The right inside jacket pocket contained a small piece of paper.

  Herb looked behind him to the door, and then unfolded the paper. The initials F.I. and the number 0920 were at the top. Then Rome and Lufthansa were scribbled quickly. He folded the note and returned it to the man’s right pocket. Frankfurt International, Lufthansa from Rome arriving at 0920. That’s nice, Herb though, but what fucking day.

  The fat man lay with a stupid smirk on his face. Unfortunately, he probably didn’t even feel the blows to his face. Maybe the pain would come in the morning.

  Herb started to leave the men’s room, but stopped. He came back and rolled the fat man on his side, tugged his wallet from his pocket, took all the money out, and returned the wallet to his pocket. Robbery was reason enough to beat a man.

  Outside the Gasthaus, back in his car, Herb wondered what day that flight would arrive and whether there was even any significance in the information. Something had to work. Somehow, he had to prove to Jake, to himself, to the rest of the customs office, that he was worthy of the best assignments. That he still had what it takes to run a proper investigation. Some way he had to bring this whole thing together. Make sense of it all. Somebody would have to make a mistake eventually. And the fat man lying on the men’s room floor might be that somebody.

  Herb gripped the shift knob and quickly pulled it back against his chest in pain. Even through the leather glove, he could tell that his hand would be bruised from smashing the fat man’s face. A small price to pay, he thought.

  FRANKFURT INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  The large black board ticked away feverishly updating the arrival schedule of flights from across the globe. Herb watched as Lufthansa Flight 86 from Rome clicked up in bold white letters, Arrived. The large crowd of people pushed and shoved closer to a metal railing that separated them from four doors leading to a ramped customs area. A pair of U.S. Army Military Police stood staunchly side by side surveying the crowded scene. Two German Polizei, armed with Uzis, strolled over to the edge of the crowd and parked themselves next to the corridor that led from the International Terminal to the parking ramps and the main terminal.

  Finding the right day for the Lufthansa flight had been easier than Herb had expected. The airlines changed times of their flights frequently to deter terrorists from becoming overly familiar with their routes. It was laughable reasoning, but just one small effort out of many to curb the possibility of a bombing. So the flight had been the day after the fat man found his face against the men’s room tile.

  A soft female voice echoed over the public address system in German, English and French the gate where the Rome passengers would descend through. Herb scanned the shifting crowd for Gunter and his men. Nothing. It had to be the right day, he thought.

  A fat woman walked over with a small poodle on a leash and sat in the chair next to Herb. He pretended not to notice her, but her body odor would have chased a room full of weight lifters from a gym.

  Then he saw the fat man at the far edge of the awaiting crowd on the opposite side of the Polizei with Uzis. The fat man’s face looked like it had gone through a car windshield in an accident. His left eye was swollen shut, his nose looked twice the normal size, and his upper lip would take days to get back to its proper dimensions. Herb smiled as he looked down to his own bruised hand.

  Passengers started streaming down the ramp and through the four open doors to the terminal waiting area. Some carried only brief cases, but others pushed carts loaded with suitcases. Herb kept his eyes open for Gunter Schecht. He had to be there somewhere.

  Then the fat man moved forward quickly to greet a man in a blue suit with a black and gray beard. He only had one thin suit bag slung over his shoulder, and a small brown attaché case. Who the hell was that? Herb reached to his ankles and pulled up his socks, then he sat up again to watch for Gunter.

  The two Polizei, seeing Herb’s signal, approached the fat man and the bearded passenger. The man, apparently disturbed, set down his attaché case, pulled a blue passport from his inside coat pocket and flipped it open for the armed men. Satisfied, the Polizei slowly strolled over to a young couple and asked to see their passports as well.

  Herb got up and followed the men to the exit. Outside, the men waited next to the curb. Herb lingered and watched from the window next to the automatic sliding doors.

  The early morning fog had actually gotten worse. The large multi-level parking ramp only a short distance across the loading road, taxi area, and bus stop was barely visible. In a few seconds, a silver Mercedes pulled up and stopped in front of the two men. It was Gunter’s car. The fat man opened the rear door for the bearded man, closed it behind him, and then got into the front passenger seat. Swiftly the car pulled away and was lost in the fog.

  Herb wandered outside and watched as passengers and friends boarded buses and taxis and awaiting cars. The cold moist air seemed to move right through Herb’s body as if a ghost had enveloped him and then departed to another victim. He shivered and pulled his thick cloth collar up around his neck.

  The electronic doors slid open behind him and the two Polizei walked toward Herb. They chatted about the lousy weather as they brushed up beside Herb and passed a small note into his open left pocket. He put his hands into his pockets and held on tightly to the piece of paper. He knew that his break had finally come. Following Gunter was of no consequence to him. Whoever this man was, he had to be important to his case. The fat man acted as though he were somebody. Gunter wasted no time picking him up. Normally, his arrogance made him late. The distinguished bearded man had to be important. He had to be a key to Bundenbach’s plans.

  Finally, Herb pulled out his wallet with his right hand and placed the note inside among his Euros as if seeing how much money he had. “Steven Carlson” is all that was written. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place where he had heard it. It wouldn’t take too long to find out more about this man, but he’d need
Jake’s help. He missed the days that he and Jake had worked side by side. He felt as though Jake was the only one who believed in him. The only one to see him for what he was. Not perfect, not the best, but a fellow human who needed to feel viable once in a while. Jake took him seriously. He listened to his ideas and cared.

  Herb went back inside through the doors. He strolled back toward the parking ramp. Passing close to a smoke-filled airport bar, he felt the urge to go in and shoot down a few shots of schnapps to celebrate his small victory. He even stopped for a second and started to turn in. But then he changed directions and continued on toward his car. He stopped at a yellow enclosed phone booth, called Italy, and left a message for Jake.

  Back at his car, he planned his next move. He would drive back to Bonn and keep track of Gunter and Steve Carlson until Jake got back. Carlson had to be the key, Herb was convinced.

  33

  BUDAPEST, HUNGARY

  Isaac Lebovitz sat quietly in his dingy office and stared at the government clock that he took with him when he left Hungarian Intelligence. He knew it was a useless State product that had only about a fifty percent chance of being on time, but it reminded him of all the time he had spent surveying Western targets. Who cares? In no time, only Swiss clocks would let him know that he didn’t really have to be anywhere special at any special time. Besides, the warm San Remo beaches of the Italian Riviera would remain faithful to his tardy ways.

  He sifted through page after page of economic reports that Dalton had provided him. Some were marked NATO Restricted by the U.S. Commerce Department. That brought a special smile from Isaac. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea of Hungary becoming part of that organization—a group that he and his comrades had worked so hard to thwart.

  Vitaly Urbanic walked in unannounced and took a seat on the other side of Isaac’s desk.

  “Is everything coming together?” Isaac asked. He felt guilty not telling Vitaly everything about his plan. He was convinced that the less Vitaly knew about certain aspects of the operation the better off he’d be in the long run.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I expect nothing less from you,” Isaac complimented.

  Vitaly shifted in his chair. “I’m a bit confused. I don’t understand how we can produce and market this computer without the help of our government?”

  Isaac smiled as he rose from his chair. “Vitaly, Vitaly, you’re still thinking like a Communist.” He patted his old friend on the shoulder. “Think like a Capitalist. I realize that you haven’t had as much exposure to the West as I, but get away from the old thinking. Or back to the older thinking.”

  He loomed over Vitaly as a teacher scolding his pupil. “You were too young to remember anything prior to World War II. As a young boy my father told me stories of how great the Austro-Hungarian Empire was. We had a strong navy. Great wealth. World esteem. Power. Now look at us. A dog that slobbers for table scraps from Russians. Not anymore. Because change is moving forward swiftly. Soon we will be strong again. Soon the Russians will be begging us for food, and we shall be powerful like our European cousins. The time for action is now. We’ll make mistakes, stumble as a child does when he first learns to walk, but eventually we will stand tall and walk...run with the other economic powers. With or without our government. We will become part of what is right with this world.”

  Isaac drifted slowly to his chair and sat down behind his desk. His breathing and heart rate had increased. He tapped the side of his head with his index finger to calm himself.

  “How will we make this work?” Vitaly asked.

  “Smooooothly.” Isaac quipped, finally smiling.

  “But...”

  “Are you worried about the technical support?” Isaac asked.

  “Yes. But also the marketing arrangement.”

  “It’s a risk. I admit it,” Isaac said. “But every great entrepreneur has to take risks. It’s the nature of the game. Technical support will be no problem. Dalton has given us nearly everything we need to produce his chip. I’m waiting for the last piece of information from him and we’ll be set to start producing the chips in Germany. We’ll have the leading edge of our network ready to exploit the European Community’s single market. In less than six months, we’ll produce the computers and chips here as well. And then six months later in Prague. You see, we’re nearly ready.?Then we’ll sell to the largest market in the world; right back to the Americans.” He smiled thinking about that irony.

  “And the German technology?”

  Isaac hesitated. “Rudolf assures me that his technicians can handle the transputer conversion.”

  “Is Rudolf loyal?”

  Isaac laughed. “Of course. He’s family. Married to my niece. She’s quite good looking. Our family network is important, Vitaly. We’ve had nothing else for the past six decades. This is how we have always built commerce, built business relationships. Family. Royalty has always done this, and so has the lower levels of aristocracy. When it is in the best interest of the family, then everyone will benefit.”

  “But I thought we still needed the remainder of the transputer relay schematics?”

  “That’s true. In fact, that’s why you’re here. The American will be in Germany soon. I need you to take the rest of your men to Bonn and confront him. You explain to him that we had a deal with his man, Johnson.” Isaac’s eyes became wide and his voice deepened. “Don’t take no for an answer. He’ll have access to the German technology we need.”

  Vitaly shifted nervously in his chair. Isaac knew that this was the first time since leaving Hungarian Intelligence he had asked his good friend to go beyond the normal means of persuasion. Yet, he also knew that he would never ask his top man to do something he himself was not willing to do.

  “What if the American is stronger than we think?” Vitaly asked, knowing the answer already.

  Isaac hesitated. He tapped his finger against his temple and stared directly at Vitaly. “Take all of your best men,” Isaac said. “We need this information now. If the American hands over the last of the chip technology to Bundenbach Electronics, they could reach the market much sooner than us. We could still produce a quality product much cheaper, but we can’t afford that kind of competition. Bundenbach has massive resources compared to us. So then you must do two things, Vitaly. Get the German technology, and stop the American from turning over his information.”

  Vitaly nodded. “Yes, sir.” He got up from his chair and slowly walked out of the room.

  Isaac slid his front desk drawer open. Inside, a beautiful postcard of the Italian Riviera lay among a pile of stark white papers. He picked up the card, brought it to his lips, and kissed it gently. Bright red, yellow and green sailboats were moored in the San Remo harbor. The sun shone brightly. Colorful flowers canvassed the foreground. And Isaac saw himself bend over to take a deep whiff. He closed his eyes and smiled.

  34

  ROME, ITALY

  Toni paced from the refrigerator to the sink and stood with her hand on the faucet not remembering why she was even in the kitchen. She noticed her hand tremble.

  Kurt came into the kitchen from the living room. “I guess I’ll get my own beer, Toni, but thanks for offering anyway,” he said, pulling a liter bottle of Peroni from her refrigerator.

  “I’m sorry, Kurt. I guess I’m drifting off a bit tonight,” Toni said. She stroked her long fingers through her thick black hair.

  Kurt opened the bottle and took a slow gulp. “Jake should be back any minute.”

  Toni knew that Kurt was trying to play down the fact that Jake was later than they had planned.

  “He should have been here two hours ago,” she said. “This is really rare for Jake. When he says he’s going to be someplace at a certain time, he’s there dammit. I can’t remember him being more than a few minutes late for any occasion.”

  Kurt took another sip. “Maybe so. But an aircraft carrier can take your breath away and make you lose track of time. Maybe he’s just checking o
ut the aircraft.”

  “That wouldn’t matter,” she said, and then walked into the living room.

  Kurt was right behind her. “I don’t understand what the problem is. I’m sure everything is all right.”

  Toni peered through the decorative sheers of the window overlooking the courtyard. A new dusk had darkened the garden greenery into one melded mass. She pulled the nylon cord next to the window and lowered the Rolladens all the way to the bottom, and then turned toward Kurt. “Is everything all right? We have four people dead, at least one person with the U.S. Customs office transferring restricted technology to another country, and who knows what else. Jake has a similar technology transfer in Germany by the same company, at least one person dead, and a former German Intelligence agent and his men trying to shoot Jake full of holes. Other than that, everything is just fine.”

  Kurt plopped into the plush living room chair and took another long sip of beer. It was obvious to Toni that Kurt’s long day watching Dalton had taken its toll on him.

  Toni turned her head quickly with the sound of a key in the door lock.

  Jake entered slowly and quietly closed the door behind him. He looked over at Toni next to the window, and then to Kurt sitting in the chair. “It’s like a fuckin’ morgue in here,” Jake said. “Who died?”

  “Where the hell have you been?” Toni asked.

  Jake unsnapped his leather coat, pulled it off, and set it gently on a chair. “Working, dear,” he answered, smiling.

  Toni gasped when she noticed the dried blood on Jake’s left temple. “What happened to you?” She came over to Jake and pushed his head sideways as a mother would to inspect her son’s road rash after taking a spill on his bicycle.

  “I had a little misunderstanding with Burt Simpson. He thought my sideburns were a bit too long.”

  “Go ahead and make fun,” Toni said.

  “Okay, truthfully, I’m pretty damn sick of getting shot at. And I don’t see that the end is near. By the way, Kurt, your buddy Leo is a good guy.”