Marta repeated those same words to herself as she drove through the night. She was near the border crossing into Austria, about two hours after the incident in the café in Budapest. Since that meeting months ago, she hadn’t spoken with Smelinski and hadn’t shared the details of her plans for the Cherzny operation with anyone still alive.
It had to be Smelinski, her mentor. He turned on her and alerted Cherzny’s people. He had aligned KGB resources against her and sentenced Marta to death.
She needed information. She needed to see Anton. He was the only person she could trust to tell her the truth about Smelinski and Cherzny, and any connections between them. At the border stop, she handed the Austrian security worker a passport identifying Marta as a citizen of France, a resident of the town of Saint-Denis, north of Paris. The gentleman knew the town and its notoriously high crime rate. He asked Marta in French why she would live there.
“Ah, home is home. Is it not?” She replied in a flawless suburban Paris accent. He accepted her response with a smile and waved her on. She was on the outskirts of Vienna, and 25 minutes later, she pulled into the short driveway of a townhome in the southern 11th district of the city.
She enjoyed this home most of all. It was secret from her other residences, apartments and hotel rooms. She hid this location from everyone, including Smelinski and Seibel. One could imagine her surprise, the racing of her heart, and the tensing of her hands on the steering wheel as her headlights washed across an individual seated in the chair outside her front door where she drinks the occasional cup of morning coffee.
She completed the swerve into the short driveway and turned off the headlights. It took her a few moments to catch her breath. The individual formerly seated in her chair walked a few steps along the walk from the front door to the driveway. He stopped about 20 feet from the car. Even in the dark she was pleased to see his smile. From inside her car, with hands still gripping the steering wheel, Marta smiled back at Lance.
Chapter 12
“How would you do it?”
Her smile and gentle laughter had him again. She was as delightful as she had been nearly four months ago. But now she was healthy, all healed up from her gunshot wounds. She was strong and sure, and didn’t hesitate to reach out with her scarred left hand to touch his arm or take his hand. Her question posed to him was a response to their discussion about their day.
In extremely vague terms, the two killers described how they each had been required to take decisive, life-ending action earlier in the day. Marta just finished describing her extrication from the café. Lance had been impressed. She asked him how he would disentangle himself from a similar situation.
“I think the getting up and going to the bathroom doesn’t work for guys. You know, the Godfather and all.” He couldn’t help but smile.
“The Godfather?”
“The movie. And the book before that.”
“Oh yes. I don’t believe I’ve seen it, but know the basics.” She leaned in closer. They were sitting on a couch in her tiny living room. “So did someone go to the bathroom in that story?”
“Yes. And he came out with a gun and proceeded to put a couple of bullets in his dinner partners.”
“So again, how would you have done it?” She insisted.
“Well, the way you describe it. There were three total. One at one table; two at another. We’re sure there were no others?”
“Positive.”
“Well then,” Lance closed his eyes and envisioned the room. He saw the tables, people seated at them talking and eating, and waiters moving about the room. “We need information from the one guy, correct?”
“Yes, only a little, but yes.” She instinctively leaned a little closer to him. She wanted to reach out and touch his face, his lips. They had not kissed yet. She wanted to touch the small gash over his right eye. It was fresh, only hours old. She thought it would make his face even more distinguished as he aged.
Lance continued, “I would have waited for them all to be seated. I would watch all sightlines from outside to be sure they were alone. After confirming this, I would enter quickly and put a shot in each of the two men seated together.”
“Where?”
“Between their eyes, from four or five feet. I would then turn to the other gentleman and put one in his knee and then place the smoking silencer under his chin, aimed up through his head. I would ask him for the information, and after he provided it or not, I would pull the trigger and casually walk out while the blood spray is still settling.”
“You wouldn’t run?”
“Draws too much attention. I assume that I have parked a vehicle or have someone waiting for me a couple of blocks away. I would remove my disguise and put it in a jacket pocket since I don’t have a purse to stuff it in.”
He opened his eyes and turned to her. The smile was gone. Instead, she tilted her head and squinted her eyes at him.
“What is it?” He turned his whole body toward her.
“Where were you this evening?” Suspicion oozed out with the words. She even pulled back a half an inch.
Lance saw the movement and quickly figured it out. “So, did I get it right? Is that a method you would approve of?”
“You didn’t answer me.”
“Okay. I was here in Vienna. Been here since yesterday morning.” He smiled.
“You have not left the city?” She didn't smile.
“No. I considered it after I ran into a group of your friends who gave me this,” he pointed to the wound over his eye. “But I had to come see you after they parted with their information. And their lives.”
The smile came back. She didn’t necessarily believe him, but she just had to hear the story of how he had found her.
“How long did it take you to find me?”
“Today?”
“No, how long have you been looking? Weeks? Months?” She reached to grab her glass of water on the coffee table. She didn’t take her eyes off his. “How long?”
Lance sat back and rubbed his thighs, squeezing the aching muscles that resulted from diving, rolling and sprinting just a hours earlier. He smiled at her as she put the glass down and sat back on the cushions. She brought her left arm up to the back of the cushion and rested her head in her hand and very casually reached out her right hand to his forearm. She wished he didn’t have long sleeves on so she could touch his skin.
“Are you going to tell me?” She was insistent on this point.
“Five and a half days.” He pulled his right arm back to allow his hand to take hers. They laced their fingers. Both comfortable in this time and place.
“Five days? Really?” She leaned forward to place her head on his shoulder. It was her permission for him to tell her his story. "Go on, please."
Chapter 13
“How much detail do you want?” He asked.
“As much as you are comfortable sharing.” She replied. Lance leaned his head on hers. He drifted for the briefest slice of a moment. This, like their last time together, was the most intimate moment he had ever shared. This closeness, this letting down his guard, was foreign to him. He wondered if she felt the same. In the next moment, she moved her forehead to his neck. She brought her hand up to his chest. “Please, go on.”
Lance pulled her closer, placing his chin on her head. “You are affecting my concentration.”
“I would apologize, but I would not mean it. Please tell me how you found me Lance. And don’t spare the good stuff.” With that, she slapped his chest gently.
Lance obeyed. He closed his eyes and went out of body to look back over the last five days since landing in Antwerp. He had been something of a violent whirlwind moving through Europe. In his wake, he left death, suffering and people grateful to still be breathing. Short on time, he did not have the luxury of building relationships on this off-assignment tour of duty.
“I started in Belgium. I made it to Paris by the first afternoon and went to visit one of only two contacts related to yo
u that I was able to pry out of Seibel.
“Marshon or Broulet?”
“Marshon.”
“Felix is a nag. A good man, but an old nag.” She nuzzled into his neck.
Lance then proceeded to tell her about visiting Felix Marshon, a pleasant-looking Frenchman who just happened to be a 40-year KGB plant. Marshon had worked in Paris as a bank manager for so long, he probably couldn’t even remember being Russian, let alone a communist spy.
Lance met Marshon as he walked up the stairs of his apartment building in the pricy and trendy Montparnasse district. It was the older gentleman’s walk that gave him away as a homosexual. Lance knew within a half-second as he watched the dapper gentleman approach the building three minutes earlier that he was gay. Lance greeted him in such a manner that the old spy barely broke his stride as he continued up the stairs, into the lobby and onto the elevator. They didn’t speak on the lift as two other tenants joined them. Once they reached Marshon’s floor, Lance and the elder spy stepped off. If he wanted to assault Lance, this was the opportunity. Instead, Lance gripped his arm in a friendly manner. They walked down the hall to his apartment.
Marshon's apartment confirmed Lance’s assumption. The man was tasteful in his decorating, fastidious in his home maintenance and protective of his sexuality. Lance got right to the point as the door closed behind him. He spoke in Russian.
“I don’t have time to chat or play games Felix. You don’t know me, and you do not want to know me. I only need one thing from you.”
The old gay gentleman took a step back. Lance had invaded his life and threatened his lifestyle by being here. “What is it that you want?” Marshon’s response was in French. Lance knew only phrases of the language.
In Russian again, “I need to find the location of someone that very few know. I already know that you don’t, but you can put me in touch with others who do.”
“Who is it, my young man?” He responded in Russian this time.
“I’m not going to say the name. But you already know who I’m talking about. You don’t need me to say her name.” Lance said the key word – "her." He watched the Russian spy closely. The man turned his head, raised his eyebrows and brought a hand to his wrinkled chin. It was delay. He needed to think about his next move.
“Felix, you know at least two people who have the information.”
“And who are these people?” Felix was feeling a bit braver. He began to think that he might have the upper hand in this matter. Lance decided to tell a few lies.
“Your name came up several months ago during a sweep of a database being decommissioned at the source. A review of your relationship to the subject provided linkage to several resources both active and inactive.” Lance thought to himself that it sounded sufficiently vague. It sounded like bureaucracy, both Soviet and American. To add a little intrigue, Lance switched to Russian accented English. “You are undoubtedly aware, based upon your interaction and dealings with her while she was stationed in Paris, that the subject has gone off the radar for good. She is no longer in direct contact with any approved resources. Her actions have placed several sectors in jeopardy.”
Marshon moved from the middle of the room to a bureau with several decanters on it. “I’m afraid this is not something I am aware of. I will need more information to be of any assistance.” And then he moved his hand to a drawer.
Lance sprung across the space between them and placed his gloved right thumb beside Marshon’s Adam’s apple and his gloved fingers behind his neck. He tightened the grip and delivered a quick strike to the old man’s stomach with a balled and gloved left hand. The effect of the two moves left the man without oxygen. It also kept him from reaching for the gun in the drawer. Lance knew how this was going to go the moment he mentioned a female. The rest was just for show.
Marshon brought a fist up to Lance’s left cheek. The blow glanced off as Lance turned his head. He squeezed Marshon's throat tighter, twisting the man’s neck slightly. He leaned close, just inches from the old man’s reddening face. “Felix. I tried to be nice. I told you I have no time for delays. You have chosen to make me an enemy so I will give you just a couple of more seconds, and then I will break your neck. You will never walk along the Seine, hold your young gentleman lover’s hand or enjoy the taste of that brandy ever again.” Lance made all that up, of course. He didn’t know much about Marshon, other than that his real name was not Marshon and he had been working for the KGB for decades.
“Please, sil vous plait.” Marshon breathed the words, whispered them.
“In Russian.” Lance demanded.
“Pozhaluista,” the old man pleaded through gritted teeth.
Lance did not enjoy this. He would've rather obtained the information peaceably and moved on. But he could tell, when he had Marshon on the elevator, that the ancient spy was looking for ways to subdue or kill him. He became even more determined when Lance mentioned a “her.” It appeared Marta had put the fear of death into the old man. Lance thought to himself that she had likely been here, in this very room, getting her message across. And then a light bulb went off. She killed his lover. At some point in the past few years, Marta made her point to Felix Marshon by having his lover killed. It was likely brutal and done right before his eyes. Marshon’s reaction a few minutes earlier was telling. His next few lies were merely cover, and not very good.
Lance continued in Russian. His accent guttural, from the mean streets of Moscow. “I didn’t come here to hurt you. I merely have a job to do, and I have very little time,” Lance released the man’s throat and took a step back to allow him to compose himself. “Now, take in a few breaths and tell me what I need to know.”
Marshon bent over and put a supporting hand on the bureau behind him. After a few moments he straightened and resumed his regal bearing. “I truly have no idea where she is. But I know several others she had dealings with since I last encountered her.” With that, he reached into a breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to dab at his lips and wipe his brow.
“Go on.” Lance sagged his shoulders to appear relaxed. He turned away from Marshon to look out a window. He noticed a few moments earlier that the lip of a tray sitting on a table beside the couch provided a nice reflection of the man standing behind him. Lance turned away to allow Marshon to further compose himself and complete the plan the old sleeper agent had hatched in his head. Lance watched the man’s movements in the lip of the tray. He reached for the drawer again and silently pulled out the gun and aimed it at Lance.
Preacher sprang again. He grabbed the gun and violently twisted it. He pulled the man close, picked him up and propelled him to the couch. After throwing him onto the sofa, Preacher brought the gun up to the man’s chin, not the chin per se, the submaxillary triangle of soft skin between the chin and throat.
“You have served your time and your country. You have decided to take the information you possess between your ears to your grave. I respect that starik.” Lance intermingled English and Russian using the Russian term for "old man." “You obviously know my assignment included ending your life. Samoubiistvo is a proper manner for your sendoff.” The Russian word for suicide sounded better than the English version.
“No, please. Nyet. Pozhaluista!” Marshon pleaded for his life. Lance was a little surprised. He thought the old man would prefer to go gracefully into that dark night. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you.”
“Please do.” Lance bent down to whisper in Marshon’s ear. “I’m listening.”
“She will kill me when she finds out I told you this.” He was near tears.
“She will never learn the source from me. Go on.” Lance gently pressed the gun deeper into the man’s throat.
“One man is in Munich. The other is in Milan. Her network is extremely sparse. There has been some talk about Vienna. That is all I know.”
“You have names and addresses for Munich and Milan?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. I’ll take that informa
tion and be on my way.” Lance stood and removed the gun barrel from Marshon’s chin. He switched the gun into his left hand and reached into a pocket to pull out a piece of paper and pen. He handed both to the old man. “Please write the information for me. Thank you.”
Marshon moved his head left and right and rubbed his throat where the gun had just been. He then wrote down two names and addresses on the crumpled piece of paper. Then he handed it to Lance who had walked around in front of him. “Now, please go.”
Lance looked at the paper. “So, you just happen to have this information memorized?”
“I am no fool. If I had this recorded somewhere other than my mind, it could be discovered, and then she would find out I had been less than precise in my actions. She is unforgiving.”
Lance looked at the names and addresses and memorized each. He closed his eyes for a few moments standing over the old spy and went out of body up to the height of satellites and then back down to Munich and the street referenced. He descended to street level to look at cross streets near the address. In the next moment he moved to a satellite view of Milan, Italy. He then descended to a couple thousand feet. He had never been to the city and didn’t know the streets like he did Munich. He opened his eyes and bent down to Marshon to shove the paper into the man's mouth.
“I would destroy that information and leave no remnant.” He turned toward the door, took a few paces and stopped. Lance examined this situation anew. He had met this man 12 minutes earlier, and now he held his life in his hands. The next decision was already made for him. Loose ends could lead to harm for him and for Marta. Lance turned back to the man seated on his sofa. Like dozens of others in the last year, this human was dead the moment he encountered Preacher. This peripheral player in the spy game now possessed information that could not be allowed to be passed to others who would use it to destroy. This man had seen Lance. He knew of the connection with Marta.
The Perfect Weapon Page 7