by Gregg Loomis
At the bottom of a steep escalator, he fed coins into a machine, took a ticket, and boarded a train headed into the city. En route, he changed cars twice and trains once, disembarking just across the Seine from the Ile St. Louis. He was fairly certain he had not been followed, but the sparse foot traffic across the nearby bridge would reveal any tail he had missed.
Across the river, he waited patiently on the narrow Rue Louis until he succeeded in getting a cab. The driver mumbled unhappily when Lang gave him the destination, less than a mile away. No one got into the following taxi, and Lang finally gave a sigh of relief despite the cabbie's continuing expression of displeasure at so short a fare.
Oh well, the French were always displeased about something: the wine, the food, or lesser things such as politics or the economy. Lang's pronunciation of the destination must have revealed him as an American, for the cabbie turned to complaints of U.S. involvement in Iraq, although Lang was unable to see why a French citizen would be concerned. France had, after all, opted out.
The French: Our national flag is the tricolor; our battle flag a single color: white.
Minutes later, he was paying the still-protesting driver in front of a pizzeria on the Left Bank along the Quai d'Orsay, one with a view of both Notre Dame and the statue of Michael. Gurt was sipping a cup of coffee at one of the tables lining the curb.
Lang took the one other chair at the table. "All clear?" Gurt looked at him over the rim of her cup. "I saw no one."
In minutes, they were descending another escalator, this one to the St. Germain station. They went directly to Orly, the airport for most of Paris's European flights. Lang used a credit card to buy two one-way tickets on different flights to Frankfurt and used the time before the first to arrange for a car.
"The card is traceable," Gurt said as they sank into seats at his departure gate.
57
Lang shrugged. "I know, but all my bogus IDs expired years ago. We'll just have to hope if someone's tracking us, they're still looking in Paris or they won't have the resources to meet both Paris-Frankfurt flights."
"They won't have to look, just check the files of your card company."
"Maybe the Agency office in Frankfurt can help, give us some ID we can use." Gurt shook her head slowly. "Neither of us are actively employed there now."
She was right. Ever fearful of one more wave of unfavorable publicity, the Agency wasn't likely to furnish bogus papers to a former employee and one on an .indefinite leave. Lang mentally kicked himself. In an age when teenage hackers were capable of multimillion dollar identity thefts, it would have been a simple matter to create his own false -persona. In spite of the ease of access to information, few government agencies ever bothered to cross-check. The death of someone around the desirable age appeared in the obituaries and, with the readily available date of birth, a request in that name could be made for replacement of a lost Social Security card. The card could be used to obtain a driver's license, and both to obtain a certified copy of a birth certificate to be parlayed into a passport. Assuming the deceased had even modest credit, the banks were only too happy to ship their plastic, one and a half percent interest for the first six months.
Lang consoled himself with the speed at which the bureaucratic wheels turned. Establishing a good false identity with real documents took months. How many more attempts on his and Gurt's lives could be mounted in that time? Lang didn't want to even guess.
They would have to go with what they had.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Frankfurt Flughof "Three hours later
Miraculously, Lang had napped on the short flight, the first sleep he had gotten on an aircraft since his days with the Agency. He had watched water bead against the adjacent window as the plane descended through clouds dirty with moisture. The runway and taxiway were shiny with rain. Before deplaning the 717, he checked his watch. Gurt should be landing in the next forty-five minutes.
As an arrival from a fellow European Union country, Lang bypassed a line of Japanese tourists at the immigration stations and walked through the nothingto-declare gate into the terminal. The main area was nowhere as large, multinational, nor loud as de Gaulle, a fact for which Lang was thankful. It would have been pure luck to find
Gurt in the crowded main terminal. Not that he had to. Knowing the tenuous relation between schedule and reality in the world of the airlines, they had agreed to meet in the city at a small bierstubenear the Agency's location. Lang was already anticipating a liter of truly fine beer served with the fattest
58
bratwurst he had ever had.
The thought of epicurean delights may have been what momentarily distracted him. He had not noticed the man in the rain-splotched coat who seemed unusually interested in shop displays a regular ten feet from wherever Lang paused.
Lang moved a few feet away, intent on duty-free tobacco products. The man acquired an interest in the ladies' shoes in the window of the adjoining shop. As Lang inspected confectionery, his companion was checking out the spirits and wine next door.
Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean someone's not out to get you. It had taken less time than Lang had hoped for someone to find the credit-card transaction.
Lang made it a point to gaze around randomly, a tourist overawed by one of Europe's least interesting air terminals. He could go to the rental counter, claim his car, and let the man follow as best he could until the opportunity to take action arose. Or he could take evasive action and, unless the guy was a real pro, lose him.
Neither option was satisfactory.
If the man was simply following Lang to learn what he might have stumbled onto in Spain, fine. But blowing up the Porsche was hardly the act of someone merely inquisitive. Besides, there could well be someone waiting for Gurt, too. Lang was not particularly worried at the possibility. Not only was Gurt far more current than he in the more deadly aspects of hand-to-hand combat, she had been the Agency's female champion in four straight women's target competitions, rifle as well as pistol. Not satisfied with this accolade, she had nagged her way into competition with the men. She had beaten them, too. The word around the station was that pissing Gurt Fuchs off was both unwise and unhealthy.
Lang was also certain she would be wary of possible followers. No one who had been with the Agency ever completely forgot to be -aware of their surroundings at all times, to know how to reach the nearest exit and where it led, to use available storefront glass to look behind you, to have clearly in mind what fields of fire were usable if gunplay became necessary. Lang used to fantasize the peculiar behavior all that might engender .at family gatherings, cocktail parties, or other social events.
Gurt would be fine. The question was, what was Lang going to do?
He looked around with purpose, no longer simply rubbernecking. Across the terminal he spotted what he was looking for, large signs with male and female stick figures, Damenand Herren, the restrooms. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder as he picked up his gait, the pace of a man uncertain he is going to find relief in time.
He reached the men's room at a near dash. He was not surprised to find it as immaculate as any operating room. He was in Germany, where spotless was the norm and grandmothers on hands and knees scrubbed sidewalks in front of
59
their houses.
He had no time to admire hygiene taken to the max.
He hurried past the rows of crowded urinals to the section with stalls, noting that the area appeared empty. He opened the nearest door, locking it as he set down his bag where it would easily be seen underneath the door. Placing one foot on the commode, he stair-stepped to .the tank, reached both arms to the dividing partition, and pulled himself up into the shadows of the low ceiling. Straddling the divider wasn't comfortable, but he didn't intend to be there long. He was pulling his belt from his pants' loops when he heard steps on the ceramic tiles. He flattened himself against the narrow top of the partition.
As Lang had anticipated
, the eyes of the man in the raincoat went to the spaces between the floor and door of each stall. He saw Lang's bag immediately. The man in the raincoat bent over to look under the door of each of the other stalls, verifying they were empty, that there was no one other than he and Lang in this part of the facility before approaching the stall where the bag was visible.
Lang slipped his belt over his head, making a loop. He felt the familiar prickle of neck hair, the familiar sensation of anticipated action. Paranoia or not, that man did not intend him well. Raincoat was gently pushing against the door of the stall with one hand while reaching into a pocket with the other.
Lang moved.
Dropping the loop of the belt over the other man's head, Lang rolled off the partition and into the stall, letting his weight snatch the man up against the other side of the door with a thudding impact. Lang gave a violent tug on the belt and was rewarded with a gurgling, choking sound from the other side of the door. Lang unlatched the door and kicked it outward as hard as he could, sending the nearly strangled stranger sprawling beneath the sinks along the far wall.
Lang was on him before he could recover. He cupped the man's head by the chin and slammed it into a drainpipe under a sink repeatedly, while his other hand patted the raincoat until it found the pocket with the gun in it. A slim-model
.28 Beretta automatic, easy to conceal in a suit or coat pocket, even with the bulbous silencer. The weapon of choice of an assassin who intended to fire only one or two shots.
Lang retrieved his belt from the man's neck. The brown eyes that glared back at him with equal parts hate and fear could be Latino, African, Semitic, or European. The skin was stretched tightly over the facial bones, giving the man a cadaverous appearance that was difficult to appraise in terms of age. Lang cocked the slide and pressed the pistol against the man's forehead as he resumed the search of pockets. He was rewarded with a wallet containing cash but no identification. Lang had expected none. He had hoped to find some evidence of carelessness, a matchbook from a restaurant in a specific city, a receipt for a rental car or gas, any of the detritus men leave in suit pockets that might give a clue that this person existed before this instant. Whoever he was, he was a pro. He had even removed the labels from the suit, which could have
60
been purchased off the rack anywhere in the country.
Although certain he would get nowhere, Lang slammed the head against a pipe again. "Who sent you?"
The man gasped for breath, managing to whisper between clenched teeth in clearly understandable English. "Get fucked!"
There was an astonished intake of breath from behind. Flicking a glance to the mirror above the sink, Lang saw a man frozen in the entrance to the row of stalls. Only a closer look noted the crossed white leather straps, the dark uniform.
A cop.
The officer's widened eyes went from the gun in Lang's hand to the wallet in the other.
Lang was up and moving even as the policeman was fumbling the flap of his holster open. Lang swung an elbow against the side of the head of the man in uniform, sending him slamming into the wall. Before he could recover, Lang had an arm around his waist while the other hand removed the pistol and stuck it in his own belt.
"Sorry," Lang said, making for the exit, "but I was just leaving."
Lang walked as fast as he could without drawing attention. He crossed the main terminal building and was heading toward signs that promised exit and ground transportation in three languages. At the foot of the stairs and escalator he would have to take down to the outside exit, three Polizei were listening to the crackling of small radios pinned to their uniforms. Lang did not have to guess the subject of the conversation.
He should have taken the cop's radio as well as his gun.
All three saw Lang at the same time and bounded up the steps. Lang spun around and fled, his ears full of shouts to "Halt!"
He ducked into the first concourse he came to, vaulting over the conveyor belts feeding baggage into the security-check X-ray machine. Open trays went flying, filling the air with briefcases, computers, personal items, and unidentifiable objects.
As he ran, Lang was looking for an exit to the outside. The first one he came to was locked, and he could sense his pursuers gaining. There was no time to try another door.
Instead, he charged into a gate area, shoving boarding passengers aside. He fled down the jet way and into the aircraft. Travelers, many stuffing baggage into overhead racks, stared openmouthed as Lang shouldered his way to the emergency exit with the bullish persistence of a fullback seeking first-down yardage. He could hear the police and the outraged security detail yelling for people to get out of the way. Hoping the instructions he had heard aboard hundreds of aircraft were correct, Lang twisted the semicircular latch on the exit and pushed. He was surprised at how easily the door opened and fell away.
Sitting on the floor, Lang pushed himself out of the passenger cabin and onto the wing. Eight or nine feet below, two men stopped loading, the plane's
61
baggage hold to gape. O.ne pointed and yelled something.
Leaving the' baggage handlers openmouthed, Lang slid off the wing, cushioning his contact with the tarmac by bending his knees. He sprinted for the tug and its train of baggage carts. Before anyone was certain what he was doing, he had the little tractor in gear and the accelerator flat to the floor. He crossed a taxiway, headed for what he guessed was the general aviation terminal on the other side of the field, judging by the small aircraft lined up on the ramp.
Security for general aviation tended to be lax, and there should be no police on duty inside the terminal.
First, though, he had to get inside.
A howl of engines overhead made him look up. A jet was clawing its way back into the ragged, cloudy sky. Only then did Lang realize he was in the middle of a runway. The plane was executing an emergency go around, vortices of moisture whirling from its wing tips like tiny tornadoes.
No sooner had his ears stopped ringing from the jet blast than he heard the pulsating wail of-police sirens. He looked over his shoulder to see four cars, side by side, blue lights flashing, in pursuit and gaining fast. The tug was making perhaps half the speed of the police cars, and there wasn't a millimeter of space between the pedal and the floor. They would catch him long before he reached the general aviation terminal.
Unless ...
Thankful that there were few objects to run into on an airport's surface, Lang drove looking over his shoulder, giving only an occasional glance forward. Just as the police pulled within fifty or so feet, he yanked the wheel so hard he feared one or more of the trailing carts would turn over, taking the tug and the whole train with it. Instead, he was now perpendicular to the oncoming cops. Quickly, he turned in the seat, reached to the rear of the tractor, and released the pin that held the coupling mechanism.
At that instant, the laws of physics became a powerful ally. Recognizing what was about to happen, the driver on the right slammed on the brakes while violently cutting to his right to avoid the loose string of carts now only a few feet from his front bumper. The abrupt braking action immediately broke the tires'
tenuous adhesion to the wet pavement, and centrifugal force, that phenomenon that tends to impel an object outward from the center of rotation, threw the entire weight of the vehicle to the left, entering a four-wheel drift across the rain-slick surface, an uncontrollable slide stopped only by a collision with the car on its left. On the left side, Lang was unsure which of the two remaining policemen, smoke pouring from screaming brakes, first slammed into the baggage train head-on, lifting two carts off the ground and through the windshield of the remaining cruiser.
All four were out of action for the moment, at least.
Relieved of its train, the tug noticeably picked up speed as Lang made for the terminal. Two more police cars were wailing across the field as he pulled up
62
beside a door and dashed inside.
He was
facing a flight of stairs, no doubt to the passenger lounge, where those who fly in private aircraft wait for their planes in comfort unequaled by the most luxurious frequent-flyer facilities of airlines. He had taken a single step when a flash of color caught his attention. On pegs next to the door hung bright green, chartreuse, coveralls, a combination safety and comfort device for ramp workers. He paused long enough to pull on a pair that almost fit. Then he began a leisurely ascent of the stairs, the walk of a man who has nothing to do but pass the time until his shift is over.
In the terminal, uniformed cops poured through the doors, hands on white leather holsters. Wide and fearful eyes of travelers surveyed each other with distrust. It was as though an old and very exclusive club had been invaded by the very people it was organized to keep out. A gently modulated intercom system spoke in several languages, vainly trying to calm passengers whose view of the chase across the field had inspired visions of terrorists everywhere.