The Unknown

by Brett Battles

  The pop-pop-pop of a semiautomatic rifle cut through the night. Right behind Quinn, the cop running next to Ferber dropped to the ground.

  Ferber staggered forward, screaming.

  “Grab him!” Quinn ordered Kincaid as he swung himself behind a tree.

  Kincaid all but picked up Ferber and moved him down into the relative safety of a nearby depression. Two officers followed him, but one rushed over to their downed colleague.

  “Albrecht! Are you—”

  “No,” Quinn said as the man started to kneel. “I’ll take care of him.” He pulled out his keys and threw them to Kincaid. “Get Ferber to the car. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Will do.”

  As Kincaid and the cops disappeared into the woods, Quinn scanned the trees back toward the estate. Faint footsteps were coming from that direction, but they were still far off. And since there had been no further gunfire, the original shots had likely been warnings, the cop taken down by a lucky bullet.

  Quinn crawled over to the officer. The man was dead, hit square in the back, heart high. Quinn took the cop’s gun, spare magazines, and handcuffs, then moved into the trees toward the distant footsteps. He kept on as the sound grew louder until he reached a downed log he could hide behind.

  Seconds later, he heard the crunch of a step, no more than fifteen meters away. And then a shadow emerged from between two trees. Quinn watched the person move forward, walking fast but carefully, obviously trying not to alert his or her prey. Behind the terrorist, two more shadows appeared.

  The lead silhouette passed within five meters of Quinn, the other two closer still. Quinn watched the trees, waiting for more to appear. When none did, he rose to his feet and followed.

  When he had all three of them in sight, he aimed the police officer’s gun at the one in the lead and pulled the trigger. He adjusted his aim and shot again, and repeated the process a third time.

  The third man was the only one who’d had time to react to the bangs, and had been turning toward Quinn when the bullet hit him.

  Quinn ducked behind a tree and listened for reinforcements, but the forest remained silent.

  He approached the first body.

  A man. Alive but not for long. He was Caucasian, with an Eastern European look to him. A search of his pockets turned up two hundred Swiss francs and a Swiss driver’s license that Quinn was sure was fake. He took a picture of the license and put everything back in the man’s pockets.

  The man’s two companions were already dead. Interestingly, their pockets held the exact same items as the first guy’s. Quinn snapped pictures of their IDs also, and then grabbed one of the rifles—a Heckler & Koch G38. He returned to the dead cop, draped the man’s body over his shoulders, and went to find Kincaid and the others.

  The woods thinned as he neared the road, and he soon spotted the bodyguard and the officers standing near his car, alert for trouble, while Ferber sat in the backseat, head in his hands.

  “It’s me,” Quinn said before stepping out of the trees.

  The cops turned their guns toward him anyway, but soon lowered them.

  As soon as Quinn laid the cop on the ground, the man’s friend knelt beside him.

  “He’s dead,” one of the men said, hardly believing it.

  “There was nothing we could do,” Quinn said.

  He walked toward the car and held out his hand to Kincaid. “Keys.”

  Kincaid returned them to him.

  One of the other officers looked nervously into the woods. “What about the ones following us?”

  Quinn opened the driver’s door. “They didn’t make it, either.”

  “What? You mean—”

  “Gentlemen, my friend and I are going to get Herr Ferber to safety.”

  Kincaid climbed into the front passenger seat.

  “What are we supposed to do?”

  “If I were you, I’d hang out here until you’re sure your colleagues have secured the Ferbers’ estate.”

  Quinn handed the rifle in to Kincaid, slipped into the driver’s seat, and started the engine. A split second before one of the cops tried to open a door in back, Quinn hit the button that locked all the doors.

  “Wait!” the man said. “Let us in!”

  Quinn put the car into drive.

  “Hey!” the cop yelled. “Hey!”

  One of his buddies pointed a gun at the car, but as Quinn knew would happen, the presence of Ferber in the backseat prevented the officer from firing.

  “I-I-I don’t understand,” Ferber said, his voice muffled by the Plexiglas divider. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re taking you somewhere we can keep you alive.”

  “But if you’re with the police, why didn’t you bring the others with us?”

  “Different departments,” Kincaid said.

  When they reached the main road, Quinn turned right.

  “Zurich’s in the other direction,” Ferber said, panic seeping into his voice.

  “Which is exactly where the people who want to kill you are.” Quinn watched Ferber for a moment, letting his words sink in before adding, “Our job is to keep you alive. So, Zurich is out.”

  “Then where are we going?”

  “Like I said before, somewhere we can hide you.”

  When it became clear Quinn wasn’t going to add anything else, Ferber settled against his seat, still looking uncomfortable, but apparently willing to trust his “rescuers” for now.

  Quinn pulled out his phone and called Misty. “We have a situation.”

  Chapter Seven

  Confusion over the cause of the explosion at Ferber-Rae’s headquarters in Zurich meant that initial reports sent to the CIA from their station chief at the American Embassy were incorrect.

  In the first ninety-seven minutes after the blast, word from the police was it had been triggered by an accident within the facility. By the time the CIA station chief in Zurich learned what had actually occurred, the fire at Ferber-Rae had been out for nearly a half hour. This turned the incident from something that just needed to be monitored to an event that demanded the Agency’s immediate attention. The station chief’s first subsequent action was to call the assistant deputy director of operations back at Langley.

  Within minutes, the Zurich station chief found himself repeating everything he had just said, this time to the deputy director.

  “Was there any warning or any indication that something like this might occur?” the deputy director asked.

  “No, sir. As you know, we’ve been monitoring communications to and from Ferber-Rae for some time now, and there have been no direct threats that would account for this, nor has there been any online chatter about some—”

  The door to the station chief’s office burst open, and the deputy station chief hurried inside.

  “Deputy Director, if you could give me one moment,” the station chief said into the phone. He pressed a button, muting his end, and looked over at his deputy. “What is it?”

  “There’s been an attack at the Ferber estate.”

  “Another bomb?”

  “No, sir. A frontal assault. The police are reporting heavy casualties. That’s all we know at the moment.”

  The station chief relayed this new information to the deputy director, and then got off the phone so he could gather more intel.

  Over at Langley, the assistant deputy director received an unscheduled visit from Nori Harper, one of his operation coordinators and a prime liaison between his office and Swiss intelligence.

  “There’s a report on SRF Info that the Ferber-Rae building in Zurich was bombed,” she said. SRF Info was a Swiss television station.

  “It was.”

  She cocked her head. “So you already knew.”

  “I just got off the phone with our station chief there.”

  “I’m wondering if it might have something to do with the escort job?”

  He looked at her, confused. “Remind me.”

  “FIS requested
an escort for a high-profile Ferber-Rae employee, from Zurich to Hamburg.”

  The ADD vaguely recalled seeing that on a status report, but it had been such an insignificant item—a tiny favor for a sister agency—he had paid it little attention.

  “When did this occur?” he asked.

  “The pickup was at nine p.m. last night, local time.”

  “Were there any problems?”

  Harper grimaced. “I just talked to Misty at the Office—we contracted them to handle the job. The pickup went fine, but several hours later the package was kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped? And we’re only hearing about this now?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Is anything being done to retrieve the package?”

  “A team is already on site.”

  “One of ours?”

  “No, sir. From the Office.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good—”

  “It’s being led by Jonathan Quinn.”

  That quieted the assistant deputy director for a few seconds. Though he had never met Quinn, he was well aware of the operative’s excellent reputation. “All right. Keep me posted. And if a connection is found between the kidnapping and the bombing, I want to know right away.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Harper turned to leave.

  “Does FIS know yet?” he asked.

  “About the kidnapping? No, sir. I was planning to call them after I talked to you.”

  “They’ve got enough on their hands right now, so let’s hold off on that and see if Quinn can find the asset first.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nori said, and left.

  Chapter Eight

  Quinn turned down the dirt driveway and scanned the area ahead. In the halo of the car’s headlights, he scanned the layer of snow running to the house. It was untouched, and the building itself was dark.

  He drove up the driveway and parked the car so that it faced the road, in case they needed to make a quick getaway.

  He handed Kincaid the gun he’d taken from the dead police officer. “Check it out. Everywhere. Cabinets, under beds, behind curtains. If there’s an attic, check that, too.” He gave the bodyguard the code to the front door.

  With a nod, Kincaid exited the vehicle and walked up to the house.

  “I don’t understand,” Ferber said from the backseat. “What are we doing way out here?”

  This wasn’t the first time he’d asked the question.

  The house was in the country, halfway between Zurich and Basel, the closest neighboring structures too far away to see.

  “It’s what we call a safe house,” Quinn said. “It’s a place where no one can find you who isn’t supposed to.”

  “If it’s so safe, why did your partner go in there with a gun?”

  “Just a precaution. Like I told you before, our job is to keep you alive.”

  Kincaid stepped out of the house eight minutes later and signaled that the building was clear.

  “All right. Let’s go,” Quinn said, and climbed out of the vehicle.

  When Ferber tried to do the same, his door wouldn’t open. “Hey!” he shouted. “This thing’s locked! Let me out!”

  Quinn opened the back door, and Ferber sprung from the rear seat like a frightened cat let out of a box.

  “Why was it still locked?” the man asked.

  “It’s a police car, Herr Ferber. It’s designed that way.”

  Ferber blinked. “I’m-I’m riding in front next time.”

  “Sure, if that’s what you want.”

  Ferber took another glance at the car. “Yeah, it definitely is.”

  Quinn led him up to the house and into a cozy living room with a stone fireplace, comfortable furniture, and bulletproof windows.

  “I hope there’s something to eat,” Ferber said. “I’m starving.”

  Quinn looked at Kincaid, who said, “There’s some cheese and salami in the refrigerator. Or I could heat up some soup.”

  “Homemade soup?” Ferber asked.

  “Canned.”

  Ferber scrunched up his nose in disgust. “The cheese and salami will have to do. And some wine. Beaujolais, preferably.”

  Kincaid grimaced.

  Before he could say anything, Quinn jumped in. “Why don’t you have a seat?” he told Ferber. “We’ll see about the food.”

  Ferber surveyed his options and chose the brown, overstuffed couch facing the fireplace. “Please see if there are matches, too. A fire would be nice. This place is chilly.”

  Kincaid’s face hardened. Quinn put a hand on the bodyguard’s arm and turned him toward the kitchen.

  “We’ll be right back,” Quinn said and followed Kincaid.

  The kitchen was nothing fancy—a sink, a basic gas range, a square table with four wooden chairs, and a skinny European-style refrigerator.

  “What’s the layout?” Quinn whispered.

  “Two more rooms down here—a bedroom and a toilet. Two bedrooms and a full bath upstairs. There’s a sniper’s post in a dormer in the attic, but otherwise that level’s unfinished.”

  “Chairs in the upstairs bedrooms?”

  “A divan in one, but nothing in the other.”

  “Did you come across any rope?”

  Kincaid nodded. “There’s a big cabinet in the basement full of supplies.”

  “All right. Here’s what we’re going to do.” Quinn told Kincaid his plan, then said, “You get the food and I’ll set things up.”

  “How about I just jam the cheese down his throat?”

  “Tempting,” Quinn said. “But probably better to hold off for now.”

  He grabbed one of the chairs from the kitchen table and carried it upstairs. After surveying both bedrooms, he took the chair into the one with the divan, as it had more space, and set the chair in the open area near the foot of the bed. He checked the placement, then adjusted it a half meter to the left, so that it was directly in front of a mirror mounted to a dresser against the wall.

  As he headed back downstairs, Kincaid exited the kitchen carrying a cutting board with several slices of cheese and salami on it. While the bodyguard continued into the living room, Quinn circled into the first-floor hallway, where he found the basement entrance.

  The supply cabinet held lots of goodies. In addition to a box full of several different gauges of rope, there were canvas bags, spindles of wire, plastic sheeting, duct tape, shovels, saws, garden pruners, and more. Quinn picked out some items and returned to the second floor.

  He moved the chair to the side and laid out on the floor one of the three plastic sheets he’d brought up. He used one of the other two to cover the footboard of the bed and part of the mattress, and the final one to do the same with the dresser. After returning the chair to its place, he set a pair of rose trimmers, a carpenter’s knife, and a hacksaw on the plastic covering the dresser. The three coils of thin, reinforced rope he put on the bed, side by side.

  Satisfied with the tableau he’d created, he sent Orlando a text.

  Any luck?

  She responded within seconds:

  Of course. I’m annoyed you’d even ask that.

  A second text appeared with a link to a secured server. Quinn clicked on it, bringing up a folder with several dozen files in it. The first was a summary of what Orlando had uncovered. The rest were copies of the news stories and other documents she referenced.

  All of it concerned Eric Ferber.

  Quinn’s suspicions of the young heir began with the discovery of the money in the man’s bedroom, and had only escalated because of Ferber’s behavior during their drive from Zurich. Ferber’s father—and God only knew how many of the man’s colleagues—had just died, and other than the public display at the barricades, he had yet to act like he really cared.

  The information Orlando had given him only solidified Quinn’s concerns.

  Eric Ferber was a slacker who’d been living off his father’s money for all of his forty-three years. While he bore the title
of vice president at Ferber-Rae, he’d been mostly shunted to the side. Orlando had uncovered an agreement between the man’s father and another one of the VPs, a guy named Maxwell Carter, stating that Carter would be appointed the new Ferber-Rae president when Stefan stepped down. Though Orlando could find nothing indicating Eric Ferber was aware of this, it would be foolish to assume he didn’t know.

  At the end of the summary, Orlando had included an interesting tidbit Quinn could use to test whether or not his suspicions of Ferber were right.

  He shot Orlando another text.

  Can you listen in and record?

  Her reply:

  Absolutely. Give me a second to put in my earbuds.

  She called a moment later. Since she was still on the plane, and presumably in her seat, she couldn’t say anything. She tapped the mic once, letting him know she was there.

  “Switching to speaker,” he said, then hit the button. “Test, test. Can you hear me?”

  Another tap.

  He turned his sound down to zero to mute the ambient noise from the plane, and stuck the device in his shirt pocket, mic side up. Everything ready, he headed down to the living room.

  Ferber had almost finished the food Kincaid had brought him, though his drink—water, not wine—sat untouched on the coffee table.

  “Oh, good, you’re back,” Ferber said. “Your assistant says he doesn’t know how to start a fire. I tried to explain it to him, but now that you’re here, perhaps you can show him.”

  Kincaid’s hands hung at his sides, his fingers rolled into fists. Ferber was looking at Quinn, however, and didn’t see this.

  “The fire can wait,” Quinn said.

  “The hell it can. I’m cold. Unless you have a space heater, I suggest you get it started now.”