Pegasus Down: A Donovan Nash Thriller (Donovan Nash Thrillers)

by Philip Donlay

  “Keep me posted, William, and thank you.” Donovan ended the call just as Montero motioned for him to follow her to an outside café. They were seated in a group of tables under a tree away from other patrons. They ordered coffee and Donovan brought Montero up to speed on the new developments in Bratislava.

  “Do you know what bothers me?” Montero said. “The photo William mentioned, the one they showed the fisherman. Where did it come from?”

  “Her passport must have been recovered from the Learjet.” Donovan said after quick consideration.

  “I know, that makes sense, but still, it seems a little fast for me. The military is involved in the recovery, and while they can be thorough, I’ve never known them to be especially speedy.” Montero pursed her lips. “I can’t help but wonder if the CIA supplied Lauren’s photo to the men it contracted to clean up their mess.”

  “You know I don’t much like sitting here doing nothing,” Donovan said as he let Montero ponder the issue of the photograph. “How do we know this designer, Klaus, will meet with us?”

  “Because he’s greedy, and this is like money falling into his backyard.”

  “How long do we give him to show up?” Donovan said, feeling his impatience getting the better of him. “Why can’t we go find the bastard and get the information we want?”

  “You’re not far off on the tactical aspects,” Montero replied. “We are going to shake him down. We will straight up get in his face and threaten him with unspeakable consequences. But we need to do it slowly, and make it seem like he has no other options.”

  “We don’t have many chances at this. I doubt we get very far going house to house asking for Archangel. I know him. I’ll recognize him if I see him, but as far as he knows I’ve been dead for over twenty years. I can make him understand, but I need to be close enough so he can look into my eyes and hear the sound of my voice.”

  Montero glanced down as her phone beeped. “Klaus Mikos will be here in a few minutes.”

  Donovan searched the sidewalk as Montero finished sending a text. Ten minutes later, rounding the corner, he spotted a tall, tanned, graceful-looking man who walked up to the hostess. Montero recognized Mikos and waved.

  Donovan disliked the man instantly, gracious only because it benefited him, arrogant, privileged, without a trace of humility or sincerity. Donovan shook his hand and there was no eye contact—Klaus Mikos was already eyeing Montero.

  “Please sit,” Montero offered her hand which Klaus leaned in and kissed.

  Donovan sat, impatient for this process to be over.

  “So nice of you to meet us on such short notice,” Montero said. “I’m assuming the realtor told you we’re ready to make an offer on an apartment here in the First District, but not unless you’ll agree to redesign the entire space.”

  “Yes, it was all explained to me. I am rather booked at the moment,” Klaus replied. “What time frame did you have in mind?”

  “Yes, we heard you’re busy going through an especially complicated divorce from Sophia,” Montero said as she slid her phone in front of Klaus so he could see the picture of him and the underage girl that had been taken in Italy.

  “You do know she’s only fifteen?” Donovan asked. “Does Sophia, or her attorney, know about your appetites?”

  “How dare you!”

  Donovan was startled at how fast Klaus dropped his façade and his temper flared. His fists clenched, his eyes became narrow slits radiating hatred. Donovan casually dropped his hand to the butt of his pistol.

  “What do you want?” Klaus tried to recover with a smile, to backtrack and give the impression he was unaffected by the images.

  “You know you’re guilty. The Italian authorities are investigating the man who appropriated these girls for you. It might take months, you know the Italians, but we could make sure the news broke before your divorce was final.”

  Klaus tried to maintain his composure, he unclenched his fists and his hands shook. Donovan was enjoying how quickly Montero had found his vulnerability and was now applying the necessary pressure.

  “This property,” Montero selected the photo of Kristof Szanto’s Hungarian home on her phone and turned it to face Klaus. “Who authorized you to work on this house? Was it the same person who commissioned you to work on the chalet in Innsbruck?”

  Donovan saw the color drain from Klaus’ face. His expression of anger fell away into obvious fear.

  “We know who owns the properties, so do you,” Donovan said. “Tell me who you dealt with, or I’ll go straight to Interpol. You’ll be disgraced by nightfall and bankrupt by the end of the month.”

  “I uh, can’t,” Klaus mumbled, his eyes darting back and forth like a cornered animal.

  Under the small table, Donovan saw Montero reach out and place her shoe into Klaus’ crotch and push.

  “Try harder,” Montero said.

  “The whole world hates pedophiles, especially her,” Donovan said. “I’d suggest you start talking.”

  Klaus jumped, his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as Montero increased the pressure. “There was a young woman. I only met her twice—when she hired me, and when we closed on the houses. Everything else was done via email or overnight mail.”

  “Where is she from?” Donovan asked, his fading patience evident.

  “I don’t know for sure. For a while we mailed correspondence or fabric choices to an address in downtown Budapest, but eventually everything was sent to Austria.”

  “Where in Austria?” Donovan demanded. “How long ago?”

  “Three weeks ago, sent to an address not far from Innsbruck.”

  “Give it to me.” Donovan said.

  With shaking hands, Klaus retrieved his phone and handed the instrument to Donovan who with one glance realized he had no need to copy the address. He knew exactly where the house was located. He returned Klaus’ phone, leaned in, and whispered, “What you need to be thinking about is who you’re most afraid of, your wife’s lawyers, the Italian police, or Archangel.”

  Donovan stood, and Montero followed his lead. They walked from the café leaving the frightened designer sitting at the table, his face buried in his hands. Donovan spotted the Mercedes and signaled their driver, who sat unmoving, his head tilted forward as if asleep.

  “We have a problem,” Montero said. She instantly clutched Donovan’s arm and turned to walk in the opposite direction.

  “Two men in a car parked at the curb. I think they’re waiting for us, and it’s possible they took out our driver. When we get to the corner, we’re going to turn right and start running. Once they commit, we’ll reverse direction and surprise them.”

  “Who are they?” Donovan turned his head just enough to see the Audi pulling away from the curb.

  “Take your pick,” Montero said. “Maybe Klaus was hotter than we thought. Get ready.”

  Donovan turned to look, the car was almost on them when they reached the crosswalk and without warning, Montero bolted to her right with Donovan close behind. The Audi made the turn into traffic, and the moment it did, he and Montero stopped and ran in the opposite direction. Trapped in the flow of traffic, the Audi didn’t have the space to do a U-turn and was forced to turn to the left and make a messy three point turn amidst angry motorists and a barrage of honking horns.

  “Back to the car,” Montero called out as she turned to judge their distance from their pursuers.

  Racing down the sidewalk, Donovan saw that Klaus was gone. Montero was behind him as he reached the Mercedes. There was a small, neat bullet hole in the side window. He threw open the driver’s door and shoved the body of their driver aside as he forced himself behind the wheel, started the engine, and with his foot on the brake, put the Mercedes in gear. The Audi was barreling down the street towards them when Montero, Glock drawn, ducked behind the car parked in front of the Mercedes.

  “Ram them!” Montero called out.

  Donovan’s foot flew to the gas pedal and the powerful car roared away from
the curb. Still accelerating, hands on the wheel at four and eight to help brace himself, he slammed the heavy Mercedes head-on into the grill of the far lighter Audi. The Mercedes bucked, the airbag deployed and quickly deflated.

  Through the cracked windshield, he saw Montero was already at the Audi’s side door, pulling a stunned man out by his shirt. Donovan put his shoulder against the door, threw it open, drew his Sig, and headed for the Audi’s passenger door. The man seated there was bleeding from his nose, his seat belt unfastened.

  Donovan followed Montero’s lead, opened the door and pulled the still dazed man out onto the street where a pistol clattered to the asphalt.

  “I’m pretty sure I know who these guys are,” Montero yelled as she came running around the back of the car. She knelt and took a picture of the second stranger’s face with her phone. “Let’s go! We need to keep moving.”

  Once again they sprinted down the street, making two turns until they intersected a busy boulevard. Donovan raised his arms and whistled in the direction of a taxi that swerved to pick them up.

  “Michelbeuern Metro Station,” Montero told the driver.

  They rode in silence, and ten minutes later, they pulled up to the Metro station. Donovan peeled off some bills and handed them to the driver as he and Montero stepped to the curb.

  “Nice job,” Donovan said. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

  “Not having any rules certainly makes it easier than working for the FBI.”

  “Like you ever followed the rules,” Donovan said. “Who were those guys?”

  “I pulled this from the driver.” Montero handed Donovan a smartphone. As he studied the screen he recognized the Gulfstream he’d chartered. He and Michael were clearly visible as they walked across the ramp. From the setting and the angle, he knew exactly which parking lot at Dulles Airport the photo was snapped.

  “Scroll to the next one.” Montero said, her arms folded across her chest and an angry expression locked on her face.

  Donovan did as instructed and found Lauren’s passport photo. Overhead, Donovan’s attention was drawn to a familiar sound and he looked up and caught sight of a low-flying bright red EC-130 helicopter. Their ride had just arrived.

  “The images were sent from a four-one-zero area code.” Montero said. “The CIA routinely routes calls through Maryland.”

  “We shouldn’t stay in Vienna.” Donovan said.

  “Roaring into Innsbruck looking for Archangel is a bad idea,” Montero said. “Especially if Michael is with us.”

  “Suggestions?”

  “Up those stairs is the heliport. Michael should have our bags onboard. I need to make some calls before we join up with them. Give me five minutes.”

  Donovan nodded as Montero drew out her phone. He watched as she spoke while keeping her eyes focused on her surroundings. In an easy, practiced manner she was her own best defense, maybe his best weapon to find Lauren. No one expected the attractive black-haired woman to be the most lethal person in the room.

  Donovan thought about Kristof and what they’d learned. Was his old friend even alive? He tried to process all of the current possibilities regarding Kristof and what their next move would be beyond getting to Innsbruck.

  Montero pocketed her phone and they walked up two flights where they found Michael waiting at a chain-link gate. Behind him was his latest purchase. The bright red helicopter was neatly parked, the skids lined up perfectly with the white H, its rotor blades spinning in the sun. He took a moment to admire the sleek lines, the shrouded tail rotor, and the tinted Plexiglas. Michael opened the door to the cockpit.

  “Trevor, this is Donovan. Donovan, meet Trevor.”

  The two men shook hands. Trevor was an ordinary-looking man somewhere between thirty and forty years old. He wore a relaxed smile in contrast to serious gray eyes. His brown hair, cut short, was curly. Donovan patted the former SAS pilot on the shoulder. “Thanks for getting here in such a hurry.”

  “No problem,” Trevor’s eyes moved to Montero as she climbed into the rear row of seats.

  “Trevor, I’m Montero. We need to get to Budapest.”

  “What’s in Budapest?” Michael asked as he fastened his seat belt.

  “I gather we’re not announcing our arrival?” Trevor asked.

  “No, that’s not our first choice,” Donovan said. “I think we take our bright red chopper and fly in like we own the place.”

  “I’m thinking that’ll work,” Montero said. “I’ll give you the full story once we’re airborne. Dr. McKenna may be alive, but we’ve learned the Slovakian authorities have shut down the entire area.”

  “What about a nighttime extraction?” Trevor asked. “I mean, if we had the equipment, it might be possible.”

  “I like how you think, but no,” Montero shook her head. “The Slovak army is more than capable of taking out an unidentified helicopter in their no-fly zone,” Montero pulled out her phone and read an incoming message. She held the phone so Donovan could see as well.

  Donovan scanned the text. It was confirmation that their chartered Gulfstream would be positioned to Budapest.

  She stowed her phone and looked back toward the cockpit. “We think she’s trying to make it down the Danube River out of Slovakia. When she does, we’ll be in Hungary ready to pull her out. We’re staying at the Presidential Hotel in Downtown Budapest.”

  “Ma’am,” Trevor said, “if we’re going to avoid the authorities, I’m not sure a downtown hotel is quite the way to go.”

  “Call me Montero, and the President Hotel has a heliport on the roof, so it’s exactly where we should go—we’ll hide in plain sight.”

  Trevor, a sly grin spread across his face, turned toward the instrument panel and moments later they lifted off, pivoted crisply, and accelerated to the southwest.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  LAUREN SPOTTED THE channel that Gusztav had shown her on the map, relieved she’d made it the short distance without seeing any other boats. So far, Gusztav had been right, far upstream she occasionally caught sight of a helicopter working back and forth.

  The quiet inlet was narrow and tree covered. Lauren killed the engine, and the boat drifted toward the shore. She picked up the lone paddle and silently maneuvered the boat deeper into the channel. The waterway was about a half mile long, shaped like a horseshoe, and if she followed it all the way around, it would eventually lead back to the river. She estimated she’d traveled nearly a third of the distance when a wooden dock slowly came into view. It was connected to a boathouse. The main house was set back from the shore, nearly concealed in the lush foliage. Next to it was another boathouse. Lauren kept rowing until she could see that there were at least eight of them. It reminded her of cabins she’d seen in northern Maine. These were probably summer homes owned by wealthy people in Bratislava.

  Lauren stopped rowing and allowed the boat to drift ashore. She stepped out and pulled the bow as far up onto the bank as she could. She removed her boots and rubbed her tired feet, then tied the laces together and looped them over her head so that they’d stay in place around her neck while she swam. She grabbed the binoculars and water bottle, secured both pistols firmly under her belt and waded into the water. She kept close to the bank, using the shadows cast by the overhanging trees for concealment as she came to the first boathouse. She stopped and listened, hearing only the songs of birds and the sound of insects.

  Lauren took a breath and sank beneath the surface. Using her hands to guide her in the muddy water, she surfaced inside an empty slip. She pushed off and swam underwater until she came to the next boathouse, coming up to take a breath alongside the structure. Blinking the water from her eyes, she peeked around the edge and scanned the shoreline to make sure she wasn’t being observed. Satisfied, she submerged, coming up inside the boathouse. She realized she was only inches from a varnished wooden hull, a waterline painted deep green. The paint looked fresh, which she took as a good sign that the boat was well maintained. She hoisted hersel
f up on the dock.

  Her eyes first shot to the ignition which held a key attached to a wooden float. She took in the graceful lines of the runabout; the mahogany deck gleamed as if newly redone. It looked similar to the vintage Chris Craft inboard her father had restored when she was a girl. She jumped down into the cockpit. The vinyl upholstery was the same rich green color as the waterline. She climbed over the back seat and opened the hinged doors to reveal the engine. It didn’t look new, but it was relatively clean. There was both a battery and a fuel tank. The gauge on the tank showed half-full. As her father had taught her, she counted sparkplug wires to determine how many cylinders. There were four and she frowned, a boat like this could have easily accommodated a six-cylinder engine. Still, if it started, it would work perfectly.

  Lauren threw off the bowline, turned and studied the door. It was a common door with tension springs, not unlike a garage door. She reached down and lifted, but it didn’t budge.

  Casting off the stern line, Lauren double checked that the run-about was now floating freely. She slid behind the wheel, found the throttle and gear levers. She cranked the key and to her great relief, the motor rumbled to life. She quickly shut it off, climbed out and rummaged around a small work bench until she found a screwdriver. She held her breath and dropped back into the water. Lauren popped up outside of the boathouse and moved to the main door. About two feet up from the bottom was a metal hasp fastened with a rusted padlock. Lauren took the screwdriver to the hasp, prying it from the soft wood. The sound of bending metal screeched briefly before it ultimately snapped free. Lauren submerged, and pulled herself up on the dock. Once again she tugged on the door and this time it opened and rumbled up the rails to its full height.

  Lauren slid into the cockpit, double checked she had it in neutral, turned the key, and moments later the engine fired, shattering the silence. She clicked the lever into reverse and eased the runabout out into the channel. She cranked on the wheel until it was pointed downstream, eased the shifter into forward, and nudged the throttle.