Donovan had once been on the receiving end of Montero’s tactics, and the story was classic Montero. She was all about finding maximum leverage, then using it to her advantage.
“Realistically,” Michael asked, “how much time do you think we have to be effective?”
“No more than forty-eight hours,” Montero said. “Obviously, we’ll keep looking for her as long as it takes, but I think inside of two days, we’ll be all jammed up by either the CIA or the local authorities—which is why we need to work fast.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE SUN QUICKLY burned away the mist, giving way to another hot muggy day. Lauren sat cross-legged with the binoculars, studying the dam and its surroundings. She could see the high-voltage lines that stretched off to the east. The fact that this was a hydroelectric dam meant that the water coursing through the turbines was consistent, which explained the current in the watershed. She was thirsty, and she’d long since finished the water she’d taken from the helicopter. Beyond hungry, she could feel her energy level waning. She had found a stand of trees surrounded by some camouflaging grass and weeds. She had a good field of view across an open area and the road and the river beyond. Though now in the daylight, Lauren could clearly see that the canal feeding into the dam was man-made. Through at least a hundred and eighty degrees, she could see a threat coming from a long way off. If someone were coming up from behind, she hoped they’d be making enough noise for her to hear.
She lowered the binoculars. The trucks and soldiers were still in position. Maybe six or eight men per truck, which meant a minimum of twenty-four armed men guarding the road. There were security cameras on top of each light pole and an operations platform, which looked like a control tower, giving whoever was up there a commanding view of this entire section of the canal.
Lauren had the map opened in her lap. She’d pinpointed her exact position between the original channel of the Danube and the canal. She was still in Slovakia, though the border to Hungary was less than half a mile away. Right behind her was one of the larger forks of the Danube. On the map she traced the path of the river as it snaked back and forth for miles. The closest civilization on this side of the canal was several miles upstream, a village named Bodíky. Downstream, the map ended before it showed her anything resembling a town or a major road.
No matter how many times she studied it, she didn’t see any conceivable way to cross the dam on foot. The current ran fairly fast through the canal, so if she tried to swim across, she might be swept into security camera range, or over the top. She was resolute in her decision to continue moving downstream and determined to get some sleep, and then tonight, after dark, she’d start moving again. Hopefully, if she made it far enough downstream, past the dam, she might discover some other options.
Lauren settled back and used the still-damp chart to cover her face in an effort to ward off the ever-present insects. She’d crossed her arms across her chest and closed her eyes when she heard the faint purr from an outboard motor. Lauren sat up, drew the pistol she’d taken from the pilot, and waited, holding her breath. The motor stopped and Lauren turned and peeked over the edge of the embankment, but she couldn’t see the boat or how many were aboard. She heard voices but couldn’t understand the words, though quickly the volume escalated, and she couldn’t miss the angry tone. Crouching as low as she could, Lauren quietly moved closer to the river. Whoever was yelling wasn’t far; a dozen more steps and she stopped and took cover behind a tree. Only a few yards below where she stood was an older man, a fisherman, sitting in his wooden boat, the bow pushed up on a small sandbank, the oars still in the water. Standing in another boat was the man yelling—he was better dressed than the men she’d seen so far, and as he pulled his own boat up onto the sand and stepped out, Lauren could see that his street shoes and creased slacks were way out of place in the woods. The man strode purposefully toward the fisherman and pointed a gun at the old man, apparently not happy with the conversation. From a pocket, the gunman removed some papers and held them up for the fisherman to inspect. Lauren was close enough to spot the passport pictures of her and Daniel. The fisherman shrugged and shook his head. Lauren could see the fear in the old man’s eyes.
The gunman swung his pistol and clipped the defenseless man across the side of the head, instantly drawing blood, and then leveled his pistol and cocked the hammer.
The gunshot was loud, seeming to reverberate through the trees. A crane, startled by the sound, took flight, squawked, and screeched as it flew away. Lauren was about to fire again, but the gunman had collapsed, his gun in the sand, both hands grasping his shattered knee as he thrashed on the ground in pain. The fisherman, his face filled with shock and surprise, turned to look up at her. Lauren held her pistol barrel up, as if she were not a threat. An instant later, the fisherman was out of his boat, knife in hand, standing over the gunman. There were two quick exchanges of words that Lauren didn’t understand, and then the fisherman slashed the knife across the gunman’s throat. The gunman’s death wasn’t quick or easy, and finally he lay motionless on the sandbar.
Lauren gripped her gun tightly as she came down the incline to the sandbar. “Do you speak any English?”
“A little, thank you.” The fisherman leaned down and picked up the pictures of Lauren and Daniel. He handed them to her. “You saved my life.”
“I need help,” Lauren said. “These men have been hunting me.”
“You were in plane crash?” The fisherman passed Lauren what looked to be a bottle of wine.
Lauren nodded as she opened the cork and put her lips to the opening and drank what turned out to be water.
“What did you ask him before you finished him?” Lauren asked.
“I ask him how many were here with him.” The fisherman knelt and washed the blood from the blade of his knife. “He said he was alone—he lied. People are searching, many men. Where is the man traveling with you?”
“We split up. We will meet later.” Lauren handed the bottle back to the fisherman, knelt and took the dead man’s gun and stuffed it beneath her belt. She searched his pockets and found more cash, but nothing else. No wallet, no papers of any kind. She turned to the fisherman. “Any idea who he is?”
“I do not know, but he is not with the others. He is German or maybe Polish, from a city. He did not know very much about what is happening on the river.”
“What is happening?” Lauren asked.
“The Slovakian military is looking for you, as are some other men. You damaged their helicopter, yes?”
Lauren nodded.
“You are very clever. I’ve heard they are Ukrainian—very bad. This man wanted answers to questions the others already know.”
“Like what?” Lauren asked.
“He did not know about the bodies or that the airplane has been found.”
“What bodies?” Lauren asked, the news of the Learjet being found was not surprising, but she wanted Daniel’s death to remain undiscovered.
“Inside the plane were two bodies, a pilot and one passenger.”
“Will you help me?” Lauren said as she took out her map.
The fisherman nodded.
“My name is Lauren. What’s yours?”
“Gusztav.”
Lauren opened the map and held it for Gusztav to see. “What is the safest way for me to get to a large city?”
Gusztav went to his boat and reached for a battered lunch box and pulled out a sandwich wrapped in a paper towel and handed it to Lauren.
“Thank you so much,” Lauren said as she relished the salami, hard cheese, and butter between two slices of rye. She tried to chew slowly, to make it last, but in moments it was gone. Gusztav handed her the water bottle, and when she’d washed the food down, she again thanked him before turning her attention to the map.
“Take his boat and follow this channel.” Gusztav traced a calloused finger along the chart. “Here, there are summer houses, many have boathouses.”
“Then what?�
�� Lauren lowered the chart. Where he’d pointed was at the edge of the paper, she’d have to memorize the rest.
“Steal a fast boat. Get as far away from this area as possible. Do not go by road, there are checkpoints. If you go downstream fifteen kilometers, you will come to another river on your right. Twelve kilometers upstream will take you to Győr, Hungary. You won’t be safe very long, the police are corrupt, but you maybe call for help.”
“You’re going to be in trouble for helping me. I want you to tell them I shot the man and did that to your head.” Lauren pulled out the wad of bills she’d taken, nearly two hundred Euros, then handed Gusztav the stack.
“Go now, the men looking for you are looking too far upstream. They could be in this area by later today.”
“Thank you, Gusztav,” Lauren squeezed his hand. “You saved me.”
“We’re even.” Gusztav retrieved another bottle of water and handed it to Lauren. He held the gunman’s boat steady as he helped her get aboard.
Lauren moved to the rear seat. She pulled on the rope and the small gasoline engine sparked to life. She backed off the sand, straightened the bow, and twisted the throttle until the boat chugged down the channel. She secured both pistols next to one of the oars. The river eventually wound through the trees and grew to be every bit of a hundred yards wide. She was fully exposed, but buoyed by Gusztav’s words that the people looking for her were searching too far upstream. She urged the little outboard to propel her faster and hoped she could make it to the summer homes without being seen.
She looked down at both pistols. The Glock she’d taken from the man Gusztav killed looked brand new compared to the Warsaw Pact-designed Makarov. Both were equally deadly, but it further implicated that the guy with the Glock was a new player, one with more resources. Lauren felt no remorse for the man she’d shot. By all outward appearances he would have killed Gusztav, an innocent fisherman, because of her. Or for that matter, he would have probably killed her if given a chance. She’d maybe bought herself some time, but Gusztav was right, she needed to get away from this area entirely or they would find her.
On impulse, she checked to make sure she still had the flash drive Daniel had entrusted to her. It was still safely tucked into her front pants pocket. The reality that far more lives than her own were at stake was never very far from her thoughts. For everyone’s sake she needed to get somewhere so she could open the drive, and then she needed a way to reach someone who could do something with the information she suspected it held.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THEY’D CHECKED INTO the hotel and each gone to their own rooms to shower. Afterwards, they’d assembled in Donovan’s room, and Montero handed out their weapons. With the precision of a military operation, she made sure everyone understood their role, and if they went off book to stay in touch. The last part of her briefing was to make sure everyone knew where the American Embassy was located and told them to snap a photograph of anyone acting even remotely suspicious. Then as planned, she and Donovan left Michael behind and went down to rejoin their hired driver.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you in full battle mode,” Donovan remarked as the Mercedes pulled away from the hotel. Within minutes they’d merged onto the A-4 and were speeding into town.
“To be honest, I never thought I’d be back in the field.”
“How does it feel?”
“Good, like an old pair of jeans.”
“Do we have an appointment with this guy?” Donovan was pleased that Montero seemed relaxed and loose.
“No, it doesn’t work like that.” Montero raised her phone and opened an email that just arrived, and then handed the phone over so Donovan could read.
Donovan read the text:
—Klaus Mikos is presently in Vienna. He accepts clients by referral only and has cut back his work due to a contested divorce from wife number three (Sophia). He was recently photographed at a hotel in Venice with a young Italian model, see attachment. I ran facial recognition on the girl, she’s fifteen years old, part of a sex trafficking ring under investigation by the Italian authorities. I hope that’s useful.
—KX
“I think we’ll get the information we want if we can just get to him,” Montero said as Donovan passed her the phone.
“Who’s KX,” Donovan asked. “And how did you get this?”
“KX is a source I have in Florida. I want to call him a private detective, but he’s so much more. My guess is he’s a former detective of some kind, but his abilities as a world-class computer hacker, with a legal background, are what set him apart from any researcher I’ve ever known. I’ve used him over the years to help me track down missing children, girls at risk, sometimes even the parent who kidnapped their own child. He works miracles and never charges me for that kind of help. Don’t get me wrong, he doesn’t always do pro bono work. In fact, I went ahead and put him on retainer. Between KX in Florida and my contact in Interpol, we have round-the-clock data mining capability.”
“How do you plan to get us a referral?”
“You leave that to me.”
Donovan’s phone rang with a number he didn’t recognize. He showed it to Montero who shook her head in puzzlement. He took the call.
“Good morning, sir, it’s Trevor. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve arrived in Salzburg, and I’ve just gone over the machine, it’s in tip-top shape. The paperwork seems in order, and I’m looking for your final authorization to transfer the funds, as per your man in Washington.”
Donovan appreciated how much information was being transmitted without the use of any last names, or an actual description of the transaction. “I’m sure all the appropriate insurance binders, registrations, and taxes are in the works, and you’ll be free to leave once the funds arrive.”
“Yes, sir. They’re topping off the petrol as we speak. Though there’s another reason I called. When I landed, I had a rather urgent email from our mutual friend in London. Seems he’s come across some information that another player has entered the game and may already be on the field. They would be a larger team looking to clean up a specific situation. Our friend was a bit distressed by this news and, of course, wanted me to inform you of this development.”
“We expected that move,” Donovan said as his jaw hardened. “Get to Vienna as soon as possible.”
“Right,” Trevor said. “I’ll finish up here and get on with it then.”
“I’m texting you contact information for Vienna. His name is Michael, and he knows you’re coming. Rendezvous with him. He’ll give you the full briefing. I’ll see you later today.” Donovan ended the call, put his head back, and exhaled.
“What’s happening?” Montero asked.
“Our man in London passed on some information. You were right, we’re going to have more competition that we thought, in fact, it sounds like they may already be on the scene.”
Montero pursed her lips and nodded, the determination in her eyes intensifying. She glanced outside at a road sign. “We’re almost there. Follow my lead.”
The Mercedes exited the autobahn and maneuvered into the heart of Vienna. After several turns the driver eased to the curb on a quieter side street in a very elegant neighborhood. The buildings appeared to be older, but very well maintained. There were trees, flower boxes, a scattering of small shops sprinkled amongst ornate entryways marking the portals to luxurious residences.
Montero got out and Donovan followed after instructing the driver to stay put, that they were going to take a look around the neighborhood.
“Right there in that building.” Montero pointed as they walked. “There’s a penthouse we’re going to buy, or at least act like we’re going to buy. I phoned the realtor’s office and left a message that the only way we’d even look at the property was if Klaus Mikos would redesign the interior. We’ll see how eager they are to sell. Oh, if anyone asks, we’re the Davidsons out of Chicago. I’m Laurie and you’re Robert.”
“That just never
gets old for you, does it?” Donovan shook off his annoyance at Montero giving his actual first name as a cover. This wasn’t the first time. It made sense on a procedural level, less confusion, but she enjoyed it a little too much.
“It’ll never get old. Oh, and the apartment is on the market for a little less than five million dollars.”
Donovan heard his phone and silently thanked whoever it was that was calling. “Hello.”
“It’s me,” William said. “Can you talk?”
“Yeah, what’s up? It’s early, even for you.”
“I just got a call from Calvin,” William said. “The Slovakian authorities have found the Learjet. There are a total of three bodies recovered, none of them Lauren. It looks like the emergency exit was opened.”
Donovan dared hope that Lauren had somehow survived.
“There’s another report from Slovakia, a woman shot and killed a man who has yet to be identified. She then assaulted a fisherman.”
“Do we have any official confirmation that this woman is Lauren? Why would this woman kill one guy and assault another?”
“Word is that the fisherman seems to have tentatively identified Lauren from her passport picture, but he’s not a young man and has suffered a possible concussion. Nothing he says is making much sense so it’s not official.”
“Where did the shooting take place?”
“Slovakia, on the Danube River, near the Gabčíkova Dam. It’s about fifty kilometers south of Bratislava. Not all that far from the Learjet. The military has ramped up their search efforts as well as cordoned off the entire area to anyone but military personnel, which means they’ve put up a no-fly zone. The media is just now picking up on this story, but it won’t take them long before it goes front page. The jet has been missing for days, and no one has reported it missing. It’s raising all kinds of flags. The CIA is maintaining their distance, though there has already been a report leaked through the British media about the plane being part of a possible European arms deal. The misdirection is classic CIA.”
Pegasus Down: A Donovan Nash Thriller (Donovan Nash Thrillers) Page 8