Hunt the Lion

by Chad Zunker

  He stopped at the first gas station in sight, searched the Nissan for any loose cash. Finding a few euros in the middle console, he hurried inside the station. There were maps by the front counter. Sam grabbed one, paid the clerk, and rushed back to the SUV. Opening the map, he identified the most direct path to get him to Salzburg. He estimated it would take him just under two hours.

  Jumping back on the highway, Sam said a prayer, punched the gas.

  Tommy Kucher had better be there.

  TWENTY-THREE

  By midmorning, Sam ditched the Nissan Rogue in a parking lot near the Salzach River in the heart of Salzburg. With the Eastern Alps set in the distance over his shoulder and a massive castle sitting high up on a hillside right in front of him, he surveyed the picturesque city. The sky was clear, the sun out, and Salzburg was already bustling with activity as throngs of people strolled along the sidewalks next to the river. How would he find Tommy?

  Although Salzburg was no booming metropolis, Sam would still be searching for one guy among a couple hundred thousand people. Even though he had his own unique style that stood out—tattoos, funky hair, piercings nearly everywhere on his body—Tommy really didn’t want anyone to find him right now.

  After things had gone haywire last month during Sam’s trip to Mexico City—a trip where he’d pulled Tommy in for much-needed help—the brilliant hacker who’d played such a pivotal role in saving Sam’s life on another occasion in the past year had decided he needed to uproot. Tommy talked about heading overseas, going off the map, and reestablishing his online crusade somewhere more obscure. It didn’t sit well with Tommy that an outside party had so easily infiltrated and manipulated his private online network—one he’d spent years insulating. Unfortunately, Tommy didn’t have full disclosure on that; Sam had been unable to tell him the truth about Marcus Pelini, the CIA, and Operation Shadow Shepherd. He regretted that now. He needed his hacker friend more than ever, but he could no longer simply contact Tommy by logging in to the secure website they’d used to interact regularly. Tommy was no longer there. He told Sam he needed to go into a dark hole for a long while.

  When they’d last spoken, four weeks ago in DC, Tommy had told Sam—with his usual goofy grin—not to go and get himself into any trouble over the next few months. Tommy Boy would not be around to help bail him out this time.

  Famous last words, Sam thought.

  However, a week ago, Sam had received a postcard in the mail with a picture on the front of the sun rising up over beautiful Salzburg, along with a few simple words scribbled in black pen on the back: Don’t say it’s a fine morning, or I’ll shoot ya. There was a smiley face drawn next to those scrawled words. The postcard had made Sam laugh. Although there was no name listed, he knew it was from Tommy. The quote on the postcard was from John Wayne in the classic western McLintock!, a film they’d watched together at Tommy’s favorite old DC movie house—one of dozens of such films Tommy had insisted Sam come watch with him. When Tommy wasn’t hacking, he spent the rest of his time obsessed with these films. He’d even given Sam the nickname Duke early on in their friendship, the same one John Wayne had carried throughout his legendary film career.

  A few blocks from the river, Sam grabbed a chair in front of an open computer station inside a copy shop near Alter Markt, a wide-open market with huge water fountains surrounded on all sides by medieval-looking buildings. To locate Tommy—a true needle in a haystack—Sam needed to be able to pinpoint every tattoo parlor, video arcade, and movie house he could find in the city. Tommy must have been to one of them. He began a Google search, printed out a two-page list, paid for the cheap copy job with the money he took from the stolen car, and hit the streets again. Unfortunately, he did not have a photo of Tommy. If you typed his name into Google, you’d find nothing. Not his photo, not his name. Tommy always made sure of that.

  Most of the locations on Sam’s Google list were within walking distance. He had doubted Tommy would choose to live on the outskirts of the city. He liked to be in the center of the action. Sam hit four tattoo parlors, three video arcades, and two movie houses within the first hour. No one at any of the places was able to identify the man Sam had tried to describe in vivid detail. Just a bunch of blank stares and shakes of heads. Last he’d seen Tommy, he’d had a black Mohawk, a dozen rings in both ears, and tattoos everywhere—including his most identifiable one: a blue-and-gray one wrapped around his skinny neck that read Tommy Cool, the name of his onetime punk band. Sam led his search with that tattoo.

  Just when he was about to get desperate, Sam caught a solid lead at the third movie house, a classic theater called Mozartkino. He wasn’t surprised when he spotted several advertisements for upcoming shows of a few classic westerns he recognized. The young woman working the concession nodded at the mention of Tommy Cool. She told Sam that he’d been a regular; she’d even seen him yesterday, and she usually spotted him hanging out at 220 Grad, a small café just a block over from the theater.

  Sam hustled up the street, put eyes on 220 Grad, which was housed in a yellow building with orange umbrellas on the patio out front. Several people were sitting in orange chairs around tables and enjoying a variety of menu items. Sam didn’t recognize Tommy as being one of them. He pushed through the doors and stepped inside the café. A short line was at the counter. Most of the tables inside were also taken—the place was popular. Again, Sam surveyed the faces of the patrons. A couple smiling and laughing together. A gray-haired man reading a newspaper. A mom corralling two small children. A bald young man with square black glasses working on a laptop. Two men in suits with papers spread between them. A young woman with headphones on, watching something on her phone.

  No Tommy. He cursed to himself. He hoped that the guy at the counter could offer some assistance. Sam waited in the short line. He began to read the menu, feeling hungry. He felt a tap on the shoulder, turned. The young woman wearing the headphones handed him a folded piece of paper.

  “That guy over there asked me to hand this to you,” she said.

  “What guy?”

  She turned, shrugged. “Oh, he’s gone, I guess. Weird.”

  Unfolding the paper, Sam read it: Meet me in the alley.

  Sam took another quick look around the café. One table was now empty that had been occupied only a minute ago. The bald guy with the square black glasses. What the hell? He stepped out of line, hurried outside. His eyes went left, right. He caught the back of the bald guy just as he was circling the building to his right.

  Sam rushed after him, turned the corner, then stopped in his tracks. The bald guy had removed his eyeglasses and was now staring right at him with the biggest grin on his face. A very familiar grin. Sam couldn’t believe it. Tommy Kucher. Only not like he’d ever seen him before. Completely bald. No facial hair. All the earrings were gone. He wore a pair of normal blue jeans, running shoes, and a neat blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Tommy looked like a brand-new guy.

  “You miss me that much already?” Tommy asked.

  “More than you know,” Sam confirmed, giving his buddy a quick hug. “I don’t even recognize you.”

  “That’s kind of the point, dude. I needed to reinvent myself.”

  “You did a helluva job.”

  “Clearly not good enough. You found me. What the hell are you doing in Salzburg?”

  Sam sighed, his smile disappearing. “Can we go somewhere private to talk?”

  Tommy eyeballed him curiously.

  “It’s important,” Sam said.

  “What the hell did you do now?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Tommy had set up his new residence on the top level of an old four-story apartment building that sat in a long row of other apartment buildings near the center of Salzburg. The apartment was about the same size as Sam’s place back in DC. A tiny kitchenette. A miniature fridge. A futon. A beanbag. Not much else. Not even moving boxes stacked in a corner. Tommy had brought next to nothing with him from the States. Every
thing was makeshift except a decent metal L-shaped desk that already housed four giant computer screens. The tiny apartment wasn’t much for design, but it did have a little balcony with a peek of the river. Shutting the apartment door behind them, Tommy took time to latch four different lock systems—he’d clearly added extra security measures. Sam walked over to the open balcony, peered down into a good-size marketplace below.

  “You know Mozart was from Salzburg?” Tommy mentioned.

  “I’d heard that. And something about The Sound of Music being filmed here.”

  “The hills are alive, dude,” Tommy said with a smirk.

  Tommy had begun to play the role of tour guide on their five-block walk from the café over to his apartment building. He seemed happy to have made his new home here in Austria, and he had already fully embraced the change of scenery. Sam hoped to hell he wasn’t about to torpedo that for him in some way.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place,” Sam said, eyes on the room.

  “Whatever. It works. I don’t do much entertaining, as you know.” He plopped down into the black office chair behind his desk. “I’d invite you to have a seat, but I don’t really have an extra one, unless you want to use the beanbag.”

  “Thanks, I think I’ll stand.”

  Tommy leaned back in his chair, studied Sam. For the first time, a silence hung in the air between them. The playful banter was over. It was time for Sam to get down to business. He almost didn’t know where to start. He had a lot to tell his friend, most of which was probably going to really piss him off.

  “Listen, I’m sorry to barge in here . . . ,” Sam began.

  “Just tell me what’s happened already.”

  “All right.”

  Sticking his hands in his pockets, Sam proceeded to tell Tommy everything that had really happened in Mexico City, New Orleans, and DC last month.

  Tommy cursed several times. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Sam! You mean I was played like a second-rate fiddle all the way to the end? Even by you?” Tommy asked, looking betrayed. “I thought you and me were like brothers or something. Hell, I put my life on the line for you. Why, man?”

  “Because Marcus Pelini is my real father.”

  Tommy’s eyes widened. “Whoa. I did not see that coming.”

  “Me neither, believe me.”

  Sam told him everything he knew about Marcus Pelini—the revelation about him being his real father, then the invitation to join him on a covert CIA mission. Something Sam stupidly had agreed to do to grow closer to him.

  “I trained relentlessly for the last month,” Sam said, pacing the room.

  “Does Natalie know?”

  Another sad hang of the head. “No, she doesn’t. No one could know. That was all part of the deal.”

  “Brutal. But I’d have probably done the same thing as you. The wounds of the father and all, you know. Something tells me everything did not go as planned while in Moscow last night, or you wouldn’t be standing here with me right now.”

  “Nothing went as planned.”

  Sam detailed the chaos of the previous evening—his delicate escape from Zolotov’s compound, discovering all the dead bodies inside the safe house, the still-missing members of the team, including Pelini, and his night on the run. During the middle of this explanation, Tommy turned his attention to the computer screens and began typing away, pulling up stories and images of Vladimir Zolotov.

  “You still have the tablet?” Tommy asked.

  “Yeah.” Sam pulled it out from under the back of his jacket, handed it to him. “Can you get into it?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Tommy plugged a cord into the tablet, set it beside his keyboard, continued to peck away. His eyes bounced from screen to screen.

  “Listen, you really don’t have to do this, Tommy,” Sam said, trying to mean it. “You don’t owe me anything. Hell, it’s the other way around. I’m the one that owes you big-time. You’ve just created a new safe haven here. I promise I’ll understand if you’d rather not get involved. Just say the word and I’ll walk out of here.”

  Tommy looked up, rolled his eyes at Sam. “How long you been practicing that little speech?”

  “The whole drive from Munich.”

  Tommy grinned. “It wasn’t bad. You delivered it well.”

  “I really mean it.”

  “No, you don’t. But it’s duly noted. Now come over here and take a look at this.”

  Sam circled in behind Tommy and looked at one of the screens.

  “This it?” Tommy asked.

  Sam stared at a digital folder entitled BLACK HERON. He nodded. Tommy continued to hack his way deeper into the file, his fingers pecking away at a hundred miles per hour. It took him a few minutes—there was a lot of strange code flashing across the screen—and then another digital folder appeared entitled THE LIST.

  “We’ve got it,” Tommy confirmed.

  “Can you open it?”

  “You sure you want to see it? Sounds like this list is nothing but trouble.”

  “I want to see why people are shooting at me.”

  “Give me a second. It’s encrypted, as well.”

  Tommy clicked away for a few more minutes.

  “Voilà,” he announced, finally opening the folder. “Well, that’s interesting.”

  “It’s empty?” Sam asked, squinting at the screen.

  “Yep. It’s an empty folder.”

  “Could the file have been moved?”

  Tommy kept working his keyboard, shook his head. “I don’t know. You sure they actually secured the list?”

  “Yes . . . I think . . . everyone celebrated like we had it.” Sam stood straight, pondered the events of the previous night. “Right after we secured the list is when all hell broke loose and I heard shots being fired in the safe house.”

  Tommy shrugged. “I don’t know, Duke. Maybe your guy only thought he had the list. Maybe Zolotov became privy to your operation and pulled the list from his server at the last second. Or someone else did.”

  “Can you tell if that’s true?”

  “I can’t verify anything without being inside Zolotov’s server.”

  Sam cursed, shook his head. “I really need to find someone else from the crew.”

  “How many are still unaccounted for?”

  “Pelini, Lucinda, and Mack. Everyone else is dead.”

  “Any way you can think of to track them down? Were they also using new CIA aliases like you?”

  Sam’s eyes lit up. “Yes! And I know everyone’s names except for Pelini. He wasn’t part of our group discussion.”

  “Give them to me. Maybe I can find a hit somewhere.”

  Sam gave him the alias names of Rod Luger for Mack and Clarice Nelson for Lucinda. Tommy went back to typing while Sam continued to pace the room. He shook his head, sighed. All that work to get inside the building, only to download an empty file? What the hell? At least five people were dead because of it.

  He looked at a digital clock Tommy had on the kitchenette counter. Almost noon. London was only an hour earlier. He wondered if his boss had tried to check in on him this morning. Or would David let him sleep, since he’d feigned illness the night before? At some point, David would become concerned about his absence. Sam didn’t want that concern somehow making its way back to Natalie and freaking her out.

  It was only six in the morning back in DC. Within the next thirty minutes, Natalie would likely be rolling out of bed, making her coffee, getting ready for the day. She would call him and not get an answer. Should he call her first? Act like everything was okay?

  Tommy snapped him away from his thoughts.

  “What time did you say you entered Zolotov’s property last night?”

  Sam turned. “Exactly two thirty. Why?”

  “Come check this out.”

  Sam circled in behind Tommy again. He was shocked to see one of the screens showing what looked like security-camera footage coming from Zolotov�
�s town house. Six different video boxes from six different security cameras were on Tommy’s screen. Three of the boxes were from cameras on the grounds of the property. Two from inside the stairwell. One from inside the elevator.

  “Look familiar?” Tommy asked.

  Sam nodded. “That’s the place. You’re tapped into their security?”

  “Yeah, man, wanted to get the lay of the land and see if you could be seen on video anywhere breaking into and out of the property.”

  “Can you?”

  “Not on the way inside. Your guy did a good job of minimizing the views. There’s some footage of you leaving the property. But nothing where you can be identified. However, that’s not what I really wanted to show you. Take a look here.”

  Tommy pressed Play. Sam watched the center video box on the screen. It was a camera on the grounds on the opposite side of the town house from where Sam had entered. The time stamp on the footage read 2:57 a.m. By that time, Sam would’ve already made his way inside the building. So what was Tommy trying to show him?

  “There,” Tommy announced, freezing the video.

  Leaning in closer, Sam spotted a shadowy figure on the screen, and it wasn’t a security guard or a dog. It was a man on the property. He was wearing all black—the same outfit Sam had been wearing.

  “Can you enhance it?” Sam asked.

  Tommy punched in a few keys, enlarged the video box, but it was impossible to see the man’s face. As if he knew how to avoid the cameras. But Sam didn’t need to see his face. He’d recognize that gait anywhere. The gray-bearded man.

  Marcus Pelini.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Alger Gerlach sat by himself at a café table near Maya Bay in the Phi Phi islands. The most beautiful spot on the planet, Gerlach thought, with its silky-soft white sand, vibrant fish, and colorful underwater coral. Southern Thailand had always suited him well. The man known as the Gray Wolf owned a bungalow nearby—one of a dozen homes he’d purchased in exotic locations across the globe with the more than $30 million he’d earned through his assassination efforts over the past decade. Money that was carefully laundered and hidden in several different offshore accounts.