“Damn, Lance. Who didn’t you kill?”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“Who did then?”
Lance explained to Marta his progress, from arriving in Vienna three days ago, tracing Anton to the police station and arranging to meet him at an out of the way pub four blocks from the polizeirevier -- the police station.
Anton Metzger was a relic. At 61, he should be retired from the Vienna Police and enjoying a fine pension. He should also be dead. Few other Cold Warriors had seen the extent of duty Anton had. He had avoided meeting his demise by being smarter and sharper than those opposing him. As a child, he emigrated from the Ukraine with his parents before the Second World War. He followed his lifelong dream of becoming a police officer. He also followed his father into the family business, as a spy for the Soviet Union.
His development as a resource for the Soviet Bloc included stints as a relay, repository and finally as an active agent, always working behind the scenes to keep Vienna and points west unstable. His position as a police investigator, working narcotics and homicide, gave him a perfect cover. He was allowed to travel in all directions investigating crimes.
For Marta, Anton had become the one reliable information exchange conduit with Gregor Smelinski. For Lance, Anton was the guy several sources had pointed to for reliable information about Marta’s location.
Before walking into the bar, or kniepe, Lance surveyed the surrounding blocks twice. He couldn’t tell what it was, but something had his hackles up. After making sure it was safe, Lance entered the quaint establishment. He was wearing a blond wig, glasses and a cheap suit that was three sizes too large so it hung on him, adding thirty pounds to his frame. The pub was dark inside. It featured wood paneling, low lights hanging from dirty chains and a bar backed by several hundred bottles.
Anton was at the bar. He did not greet Lance as he took a seat two stools over. Lance spoke German with a Russian accent as he ordered a draft. After several minutes, the bartender stepped over to talk to a waitress. Lance broke the ice with Anton by asking about restaurants in the area. He said he had a yearning for Asian fare. Anton suggested a couple of places a few blocks over. He recommended a Thai restaurant famous for its noodles.
During the next 40 minutes, they talked about food, drink, travel and women. They drank a good deal. The bar filled up with people getting off work, and Lance moved to the stool next to Anton to give a middle-age woman his seat. Now just inches apart, Anton spoke into Lance’s ear.
“What do you want, you young punk?”
“I am trying to find someone.” Lance replied quickly in a whisper.
“Make it quick.”
“If I say her name I will have to kill you Anton, or Antonovich.”
“Go screw yourself.”
“Will do, right after you share the information between your ears. If you will not part with it voluntarily, I may have to remove it by force.”
“Threats? You silly boy, don’t make threats you are unable to fulfill. Tell whoever sent you here to send someone with some balls and hair on his chest.”
Lance enjoyed this spirited conversation and was about to respond when something in the mirror caught his eye. It was another set of eyes, and they were looking right at him. He lowered his head to take a swig of beer. When he lifted his head, the eyes were still looking at him. Lance realized why he had missed the man on his sweep of the external environment. The guy was already inside when Lance walked in. He was sitting with two other men at the table.
Lance had missed him before now because he couldn’t see him in the mirror from his original seat. Damn. Not good. He turned to Anton, “Enough. Four sources west of here identified you as the repository of information identifying her whereabouts. I need nothing more than an address and I will leave.”
“If I had that information and gave it to you, she would kill you the moment you got within a kilometer. You would not even get close enough to look in her eyes before her people cut you down. You are a fool to ask and I am not nearly fool enough to let a sliver of information like that into my head, let alone out of it.” The alcohol and age worked to let information slip from Anton’s mouth. It was clear, he like all the others, dreaded Marta's wrath. She had put the fear of death into dangerous men. She was good.
Lance stood up on wobbly legs. He saw the three men tense at his standing. He faked a stumble and put a hand on Anton’s shoulder to lean in close. “You are going to tell me what I need to know my old friend. But right now I need you to concentrate. The three men seated at the corner table, are they yours?”
Lance dropped a few bills to the floor and bent to pick them up. Anton took the opportunity to spin on his stool and have a good laugh at Lance’s drunken act. He scanned the room and the men at the corner table. Lance stood back up and took his seat next to Anton.
“They are not with me. I thought they were yours. They were here when I arrived.”
“Not with me. I missed them when I came in. I was concentrating on the street.”
“Your mistake then. You will learn. I have been watching them. They have taken no action. That’s why I thought they were with you.” Anton was suddenly the elder statesman spy teaching a young rookie.
“Who are they then?”
“They look Czech, maybe Polish. The clothes, the hair, the teeth.”
“KGB?” Lance asked.
“Maybe. Is the KGB, or what is left of it, looking for you?”
“No. I’m not on official mission. I’m freelancing.”
“You are CIA.” Anton scoffed.
“No, I’m KGB, like you.” Lance replied.
“Whatever you say, I don’t care. I am going to get up and walk out of here now. We will see how our friends respond. Are you ready?” Anton stood up on shaky legs and dropped a few bills on the bar. He slapped Lance on the shoulder and meandered to the door.
Lance spun around on his stool and made eye contact with each man at the table. Their move. Two stood and began to move toward the door. The one who’d been eyeing Lance remained seated, staring at him. Lance had to make a decision fast. He didn’t like the looks of the two men following Anton. Something about the guy seated, and what he was looking at...
The blow came from the right.
Lance had only a microsecond to move his head to the left to avoid the full impact. It was a gun, the butt of a gun handle to be precise, and it hit Lance just above his right eye.
His faint to the left and the accompanying blow sent him off the stool. But before he hit the floor, he was spinning and rolling on his left shoulder. The training kicked in and Preacher took over. The blow to his head stung, but his reflexes had helped him avoid severe injury. He was alert on several levels, taking in hundreds of data points and formulating a plan to kill at least two men in the briefest possible time, and take the show outside and kill one more so he could capture the last remaining member of the team and break him to obtain vital information.
When he rolled back to his feet, he saw who had hit him. It was the bartender and the man was in the process of moving the gun along an arc to take aim at Preacher's head. It was clear in that instant the original blow was meant to incapacitate him. If unsuccessful, a bullet or two would finish the job. The bartender made a mistake though by not coming around the bar.
Preacher didn't need to go out of body to see the bartender was trapped behind the bar. He could not shoot him if he ducked down under the bar’s overhanging counter on the customer side. Now, this obstacle would only hold for a second or two as the bartender and the man formerly seated at the corner table converged on him. As Preacher dove for cover, he looked back at the man reaching into his jacket for a gun.
Another thing about the suit Lance had chosen for this meeting, because it was so large and ill-fitting, it provided ample room to hide the gun holstered under his left arm. If Preacher had time in the next second and a half, he would have rejoiced at his spur of the moment decision to secure a firearm through nefarious m
eans earlier that day. After setting the meeting with Anton this morning, he ventured into an area of Vienna tourists and most locals avoided. In a crowded and smelly quadrant of the ancient city, he purchased a Graz Buria handgun and 50 bullets. He bought the holster at a used military equipment store.
None of this crossed his mind as he reached into the jacket, gripped the handle of the gun, pulled, aimed and fired at the remaining gentleman from the three-person corner table. The man had his gun drawn and was a step from firing at Preacher. The guy's chest took a direct shot and he crashed into a table of three women. Screaming and chaos ensued. One down. Preacher dove to the right, to the end of the bar where the bartender would have to exit unless he tried to jump over the bar at the front end.
Preacher aimed the gun at the open walkway and kept his peripheral vision up along the bar. Four seconds passed as people jumped under tables and raced out the door. Preacher decided to take action. He rolled closer to the walkway where the bartenders raise a section of counter to walk behind the bar. He reached the gun around the corner at floor level and shot three rounds in an arc. Two missed, one hit. Damn lucky shot. He rolled onto his back to expand his area of vision. A groan from the bartender was followed by four shots fired through the walk-through space.
Preacher scooted on the floor back past where he had been seated, staying under the protective cover of the bar ledge. He got to a crouch, and then sprang to three-quarter height with the Graz Buria in both hands. The bartender’s head was visible. He was looking at the spot Preacher had just been. He saw Preacher pop up from the corner of his eye and turned his head. Preacher is still a horrible shot, worse with a handgun. But this was a little over seven feet. The bullet he put through the bartender’s eye shattered a bottle of whiskey behind him after coming out of the back of the man's head. Two down.
Preacher turned for the door and burst out onto the sidewalk. By his cranial clock's count, 28 seconds had passed since Anton had walked out with two men following him. Lance assumed the gunshots from inside the bar changed the men’s assignment. If Lance were giving the orders, he would have kept one man on Anton and assigned the other to watch the door. With this in mind, Preacher dove and rolled to the left the split second he kicked the door open, pleased it opened outward.
It was good and dark outside and lighting was poor. As expected, several shots came his way as he rolled behind a vehicle parked on the street. The shots came from behind another car parked about 40 feet away. Jammed against the car and the curb, Lance dropped to the asphalt to look for the man shooting at him. The headlights of an approaching automobile silhouetted a pair of feet and legs. He knew it was the guy because he was the only person not running or cowering on the ground after all the shooting. The Graz held 15 total rounds. He had fired five inside. Ten shots left, that should be enough. Preacher just wished the guy wasn’t 40 feet away. This would be a crapshoot.
He lay on his side and took aim at the guy’s feet. He fired four shots. Two made sparks on the road as they skittered past their target. One hit a tire on the car the shooter stood behind and one struck the guy in the ankle. Damn that had to hurt. Lance rolled fully into the street to get a clear shot as the man crumpled to the ground on his shattered ankle. Another car coming up the street gave Lance all the lighting he needed. From a prone firing position, the 40-feet were no problem to find center mass. He shot three more bullets and was amazed that all three hit the poor fella. Two in the chest, one in the neck. He had to admit, he was getting better. Three down.
The clock in his head ticked past 46 seconds since Anton walked out. Preacher jumped to his feet and ran down the street. He was taking an educated guess on the direction, but it just felt right.
Two muzzle flashes and two shots rang out from an alley 60 feet ahead on the left. Preacher was almost to the alley when one of the guys who’d been at the table came running around the corner. They ran right into each other. Preacher brought his gun down on the guy’s left shoulder. The gentlemen, in return, kicked Preacher just below the left knee. The guy was bringing his gun up to shoot so Preacher head-butted him right smack on the bridge of his nose. It was a crushing, literally crushing blow. The guy’s gun dropped to the sidewalk as he fell backwards completely knocked out by the blow. His head struck the sidewalk with a sickening dull thud. Fifty-nine seconds gone. Preacher was a little pissed. He needed information. This guy had just capped Anton and was now out cold, maybe dead. He needed to get the hell out of here without gathering the information he came for.
With time ticking away, Preacher decided to grab the guy by his jacket and pull him into the alley. Once there, he dropped him and ran to Anton. As expected, the old spy had been shot twice, but was still alive. A dim light outside a back door entrance to a candy store provided the only light. It looked bad for the old KGB veteran. Lance bent down over him.
“Anton. Comrade can you hear me?”
“Screw your comrade crap.” The old curmudgeon had enough in him to be salty.
“I’m sorry you have to go like this. Here in some dingy alley. Killed by a nobody.”
“I’m not dead yet.” Lance saw the old investigator had his gun in his hand. “I have a few minutes left.”
“Tell me how to find her then. It won’t matter to you in a little while.”
“It was probably her who did this. Probably because you screwed up and came looking for her.”
“No, this is somebody else. This was not her work.”
Anton smiled and spit up some blood. “I know. If it was, we’d both be dead and our families would be next.”
“So tell me. I am actually here to help her.”
“She is beyond help. She has descended to the 7th level of hell with no return. Smelinski has seen to that.”
And so Anton Metzger died, but not before giving Lance an address that only he knew. After giving Lance the address, he told him to go screw himself again. God rest his soul.
“Wait, say that again. What were his exact words about descending into hell?” Marta sat up and pulled her feet from Lance’s hands to put them on the floor. She was ready to move, to explode. “His exact words Lance.”
“He said ‘she has descended to the 7th level of hell with no return. Smelinski has seen to that.'”
“That’s all?”
“Yes. That’s it. What has you so upset? I thought the Smelinski disavow of your services was your cover.”
“It is. It was.”
“Then why are you so angry, aside from the fact that one of your contacts is dead?”
“My god. I can’t believe I missed this. I can’t believe it took me this long.” Marta stalked across the room to the window. “I’ve been a fool.”
“What is it? What do you mean?” Lance followed her, but stayed several feet away to give her space. She was combustible.
“It is Cherzny. He owns Smelinski. It was Smelinski behind Anton’s death. It was not about you. It was me he was after.”
“How do you know?”
“How did you contact Anton?”
“I called him from a pay phone. He was at his desk and told me to call him back at another number. I called it and dropped a few secrets that very few know and he agreed to meet me.”
“Those secrets, were they about me?”
“Yes, but only someone truly connected to you would know them.”
“Only people like Seibel and Smelinski, right?” She asked.
“Correct. So when he had me call him at the second number, I dropped only one of the nuggets. It worked.”
“Yes it did. Smelinski must have had the entire station house bugged. He heard your coded information, and sent a team in to snatch you and kill Anton.”
“He wouldn’t kill Anton. Those two have worked together for what, 30 years?”
“He would and did kill him. Why do you think you were hit on the head instead of shot in the back of your head? They were ordered to take you alive, to find out what else you know about me.”
; “Marta, wait. Take a step back; tell me what this is about. Isn’t Cherzny the billionaire? One of the oligarchs running things now?”
Marta turned from the window. “Yes. But he is not one of them. He is the one running it all. He hides behind his elected office and a facade of working-class values, but he pulls the strings everywhere. He has reach into the government at every level.”
“And why is he after you?”
“Because I targeted him.”
“For what?” Lance asked.
“My mission. For four years now, my mission has been to take down anyone standing in the way of our government reassuming control after the Union falls apart. Take out anyone stealing from the people to line their own pockets. Annihilate the corrupt.”
“So all your chaos and anarchy and murder and mayhem, it has all been about flushing out corruption?”
“Yes.”
“Damn. You have done an incredible job. I mean really something.” Lance stepped over to the window. “So you think Smelinski, the incorruptible Gregor the Terrible, has been corrupted by Cherzny?”
“I thought it, and now I know it. I saw it in his eyes when I brought this to him in Belgrade. He tried half-heartedly to steer me away from Cherzny, but I told him I had already begun the mission.”
“How did you start it?”
“I set up several meetings with attaches and operatives doing Cherzny’s dirty work around Europe. When I made them an offer they couldn’t refuse, they still refused.” Marta continued to look out the window.
“That’s what you were doing in Budapest yesterday.”
“Yes. He was an accountant laundering Cherzny's money through dozens of banks. He too said no. And, he had two men with him sent to kill me. They were most likely Cherzny’s men.”
“Damn. This complicates things.” Lance turned back to her.
“Not for you. You don’t have anything to do with this.” Her words had a hard edge to them.
“Six months ago I would have agreed with you. But now, I have a stake in this thing.”
The Perfect Weapon Page 10