by Jack Mars
He tried to scramble away, but she dropped a knee on his chest. There was no escape. This was her job now. But she didn’t want to know what he knew; he could feel it in her intense glare. She just wanted to hurt him.
Maya grabbed his chin and forced his head still, even as he gasped for breath and tried to strain against her grip. She was strong. Stronger than him.
Maya, please…
Don’t!
There was nothing he could do as she forced the pliers into his mouth.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Zero awoke with a start as the plane dropped in altitude, the pressure change making his ears pop. It was a dream—no, a nightmare. He was still inside the gray plastic crate on a cargo plane bound for Germany, and by the sensation in his gut telling him they were descending rapidly, it seemed as if they’d arrived. He groaned as he sat up against the crate’s wall; his neck was not only sore, but now stiff as well. He stretched it left and right as he said, “Karina?”
“Mm.” She let out a soft groan as she pushed herself up from the crate floor.
“I think we’re landing—”
The wheels hit the tarmac with a whump that had them both sucking in a startled breath. Karina’s hand shot out to steady herself and latched onto Zero’s knee. She laughed nervously at herself.
“Finally,” she murmured in Polish. “Thank god.”
He smiled in the darkness of the hold and the crate. “You really are an interpreter, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Did you not believe me?”
“In my line of work, I tend to have a lot of doubts.” As the plane taxied on a runway he asked, “And Sanders—rather, Veronika. Is she really your sister?”
Karina stretched her arms as best she could in their narrow confines. “Half-sister, if you want to be technical. Her father passed away when she was only an infant. Our mother remarried and had me two years later. But that hardly matters; to me, she is my sister, the only one I’ve ever known.”
Zero didn’t press any further, because he was pretty sure he knew how the story went from there. Sanders/Veronika became an agent of the Ukrainian FIS, and her little sister became an interpreter. When Karina needed help, she turned to the only person she believed she could trust.
The plane slowed and taxied to a stop. The ensuing several minutes were spent in darkness and silence, each of them waiting and listening until the plane’s engines powered down and the electronic hatch at the rear whirred, lowering against the tarmac.
“What time is it here?” Karina whispered.
“Not sure.” Zero had no phone or watch. “Assuming the flight took about ten to eleven hours, plus accounting for the time difference, I’d guess it’s close to seven p.m. local time.”
Karina sighed. “We lost almost an entire day.”
Zero heard a rumbling outside the crate, wheels against the metal floor of the cargo plane. Then a rumbling beneath them as a pallet jack was pushed under the crate. They bounced slightly as someone—presumably the pilot—pumped the jack, lifting the pallet and crate a few inches, and then pulling it down the ramp and off the plane.
Zero braced his arms against the walls of the crate as they rumbled over tarmac for a short distance before finally coming to a stop. The pallet jack hissed slightly as it lowered the crate, and Zero heard the lock slide open from the other side.
Still he didn’t move or dare to open the door yet. “Let’s just stay put for a bit,” he whispered softly to Karina.
Zero listened intently near the door for another several minutes before he dared to push it open an inch. He saw a sliver of purple skyline; the sun had set, but night hadn’t fully descended yet. He saw no movement, so he pushed the door open the rest of the way and climbed out, at last able to stand to full height—which was both a blessing and a curse, evident by his aching lumbar region.
“Clear,” he said over his shoulder, and Karina climbed out after him. She handed him his jacket and he pulled it on, then making sure the silenced Sig Sauer was still tucked in his pants.
They were standing on a runway, not far from a stout building that was likely a freight depot, with a few inert planes parked behind it. Their crate was in line with several other containers and pallets of goods that were waiting to be moved to one place or another. There were lights on inside the building, which likely meant people, which to Zero meant they should go the opposite way.
Karina stretched, shook out her dark hair, and then gingerly sniffed her shirt, making a face. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve needed a shower so badly.”
He nodded his agreement. “Identities first, shower later. This way.”
The runway on which they’d landed was part of the larger complex that was the Dusseldorf International Airport, but the commercial terminals were far from where they’d been dropped off. Zero kept his head up and made no attempt to hide himself or sneak around, and instructed Karina to do the same; no one was looking for them in Germany, so as long as they looked like they belonged they could get by without much issue. Or so he hoped.
“Can I ask you something?” he said as they walked around the perimeter of the runway, toward an access road that would lead them toward the airport’s main terminals. “I understand having distrust; believe me, no one has more trust issues than me. But why not take what you know to the media, or to the FBI?”
Karina chewed her bottom lip for a moment. “A couple of years ago,” she began, “I was interpreting for a German diplomat who lost his temper in a meeting and said some very untoward things. Afterward, he tried to rescind his statement by blaming me for skewing his words. Despite my best efforts to set the record straight, I was reported as having been the cause of the relations breaking down. This diplomat was not only quite wealthy, but had significant investments in the German media. I was publicly ridiculed; no one would listen to me. I am fortunate it didn’t destroy my career. I haven’t set foot in this country since.”
“I’m sorry,” Zero told her quietly. He knew all too well what it was like for those in positions of power to stifle a voice, especially one that wasn’t supposed to be heard in the first place.
“It taught me a valuable lesson about the influence of politics and wealth.” One hand absently touched the pearl stud in her left ear. “The truth does not have to be what actually happened; sometimes it is just what the most prominent voices declare it to be.”
He nodded his agreement. “I can relate.” There was something about her eyes in the moonlight that made them look no longer brown, but an amber color, as if there was a light behind them shining out into the night. In fact, he hadn’t noticed it before, what with all the fleeing and shooting and escaping, but she was quite beautiful—
Stop, he told himself. This was just another mysterious and potentially dangerous woman. Don’t do that to yourself again.
Karina raised an eyebrow, as if reading his mind or maybe just wondering what he was thinking. But she didn’t ask.
“Once we rendezvous with your sister,” he continued, “what do you plan to do with this information?”
“Simple,” she said. “With Veronika at my side, we will bring it to the Ukrainian government. They might not take my word for it alone, but they will listen to her and FIS. And I will let them decide what course of action will be best. After all that I’ve been through, I don’t trust anyone else to learn what I know first.” Then she turned and continued toward the airport as she said, “You must have an interesting view of the world, Zero.”
“How’s that?”
“You clearly believe that the information in my head is worthwhile—and you are correct—but I’m curious to know what your plan will be after we liaise with Veronika.”
“Sorry?”
“You admitted yourself that you killed a Russian. You injured several more. You threatened a president at gunpoint. You rescued me—which I’m sure could be construed as kidnapping or aiding and abetting or perhaps all of the above. Do you think that revealing the knowledge of the presidents�
� meeting will nullify all of that?”
“I…” He was about to say that yes, he did think that, but again the stark insight flashed through his mind that he didn’t have the protective aegis of the CIA anymore. Maria had made it clear that she could not help him. Previously everything that he did while on an op—which often including killing, injuring, sometimes torturing, destruction of property, stealing vehicles, all manner of things that would be deemed felonies to ordinary citizens—was done in the name of national and international security.
Karina was most likely right. No matter how dire the circumstances of the secret meeting, he would still eventually have to face the music. He was reminded of the old and hackneyed saying: Two wrongs don’t make a right.
It just hadn’t ever been applicable to him before.
“How about we just take this one step at a time?” he said finally.
“Agreed.”
They reached the airport and made their way toward Terminal C, and from there took an escalator down to the lower floor. They would not be getting on any planes, of course, since they lacked identification; in fact, that was the whole reason they were there.
Beneath Terminal C was the Dusseldorf Hauptbanhof, or Central Station, where they would meet Alan’s forger contact and procure their IDs. From there they could hop on a speedy white train and take it east, over the border toward Ukraine.
The train station was not all that dissimilar to those in the United States, a large building that was primarily one enormous chamber, high-ceilinged and echoing, with various offshoots and stairs that led to different platforms. The two of them headed across the wide floor, skirting around passengers either arriving or departing as they made their way toward a café at the farthest end of the station. It was there that Reidigger said they would meet the forger.
They entered the café and got in line behind two other people at the counter. Zero glanced around casually; Alan had been adamant that neither the forger nor Zero would know the other’s identity, but he had told him to look for a man in his late forties with dirty-blond hair and eyeglasses who would be wearing a brown jacket.
He didn’t see anyone who fit the description. There was a clock on the wall that told him the local time was seven thirty-five in the evening; the forger was supposed to have arrived at seven thirty and waited one hour until Zero and Karina could get there.
Karina cleared her throat loudly (and somewhat obviously) as a man got in line behind them. Zero resisted the urge to shush her and instead pretended to examine the menu board overhead, though he was actually checking the man out in his periphery.
He looked the right age, and had sandy hair, and the brown jacket—though he wasn’t wearing eyeglasses.
To his surprise, as he was deliberating whether or not to address him, the man spoke first. “What is it you are looking for?”
Zero turned to face him. The man needed a shave, and his eyelids had deep creases that suggested he spent a lot of time squinting. Though he spoke English, his accent was clearly French, not German—though, he realized, Alan had never explicitly said that the man was native German. He’d only said that the forger was coming from Cologne.
Still, it didn’t feel right to him.
“Just getting a cup of coffee,” Zero replied. He turned back around and said to Karina, “What looks good to you?”
She frowned at him, clearly wondering why they were not addressing the man behind them. “Leaving here on a train would be nice,” she said quietly. Before he could stop her, she turned around to the man and asked, “Are you meeting someone?”
“Indeed I am,” the Frenchman said. “Two people, in fact. Americans.” He gestured toward a round table nearby. “Shall we?” He left the line, and Karina followed.
Zero hesitated. He had a bad feeling about this. If the man they were supposed to meet in Germany was French, Alan would have told him that. Wouldn’t he? It wasn’t likely a detail he’d overlook… but at the same time, they had been in a rush. All of this had been hastily organized.
The barista behind the counter cleared her throat. Zero was next in line and holding up those behind him. “Oh, um, changed my mind. Thanks.” He stepped out of line and joined Karina and the Frenchman at the table.
“Let’s be quick,” the Frenchman said. “I do not want to linger.” He reached into his brown jacket, but Zero held up a hand.
“Wait. Just one question. The name of the man who sent you. Our mutual acquaintance.”
“Certainly,” the man said. “Just as soon as you tell me precisely why you are here.”
Zero raised an eyebrow. The persistent feeling that something was amiss was growing stronger by the second. “Come on,” he said to Karina. “We’re leaving.” He stood, and she did too.
But while he took two steps away from the café table, Karina remained, glaring down at the alleged forger. “You don’t know what we’ve done to get here,” she told him quietly, venom in her tone. “You’ve been paid. You’ve made the trip here. Either you have what we want or you don’t.”
The man glanced up at her, a thin smirk on his face. He reached into his jacket again, this time pulling out a small document case of black leather, not much wider than his palm. He set it on the table’s surface and pushed it toward her.
Karina glanced over at Zero for a moment, and then reached for the case. He looked over her shoulder as she opened it.
It did not have two passports inside.
Instead Zero looked down at a small silver shield—a badge. And opposite it, an ID card with the word “INTERPOL” in large capital blue letters.
Zero was right.
This man was not the forger. He was an Interpol agent.
“My name is Inspector Ives,” he told them. “And you are both under arrest.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Zero’s instincts kicked in immediately and he spun, ready to sprint out of the café. But two more men in plainclothes appeared suddenly at the coffee shop’s entrance. One had a hand on his hip, the holster obscured by the hem of a coat, and the other inside a jacket.
A thousand questions sped through his mind, chief among them: How? Reidigger certainly hadn’t sold them out. It must have been the forger, the real forger. But he didn’t even know who they were. All Alan had told him was that two Americans needed identification…
They don’t know who we are, he realized. This was a sting operation to catch the recipients of the forged documents. Interpol didn’t know who Zero and Karina were—because if they did, they would have brought an army.
The man who’d posed as the forger, Inspector Ives, tucked his badge back into his jacket as he stood. “I assure you, you are very much surrounded. We do not want to cause a big scene, so please put your hands on your head and face the wall.”
Zero nodded to Karina once and slowly raised his hands to his head.
But she did not do the same. Instead she glanced at him with panic in her eyes. “We cannot…” she said in Russian.
“Just do as he says,” Zero told her, instinctively responding in the same language.
“What is that you said?” Ives demanded as he stepped over to Karina, handcuffs already out. The other two agents approached from the entrance, hands resting on holsters.
“We cannot let them take us in,” Karina argued, her gaze flitting between Zero and the cautious Ives. “We must get to Veronika!”
“I have a friend in Interpol,” Zero said quickly, still speaking in Russian so that the inspector would not understand. It had been quite a long time, more than a year, since he’d even thought of his friend Vicente Baraf, let alone actually spoke to him. “We’ll contact him and tell him what’s going on. He’ll believe me—us. He’ll believe us. He can help.”
“Enough!” Ives barked at Karina in English. “Hands on your head, and turn around!”
Karina scowled deeply at him, but she slowly began to raise her hands to her skull. Ives held the cuffs up, ready to secure them around her wrist—but th
en she shot out a hand, pushing the flat of her palm right into his face. Ives’s head jerked back, and in that moment of imbalance Karina launched herself at him and tackled the Interpol agent to the ground.
“Karina, stop!” Zero shouted, but at the same time he saw the other two agents making a move toward them. His instincts kicked in; the Sig Sauer was already in his hand and aimed before he realized he’d grabbed for it. “Stop!” he demanded. “Hands up!”
The barista behind the counter shrieked. The few other patrons in the coffee shop scattered at the sight of the gun, dashing for the exit. The two agents complied, putting empty hands over their heads. Neither of them wished to be shot in what they likely presumed would be a simple operation.
Behind him, Inspector Ives shoved Karina off of him with a grunt—but the interpreter rolled away with something in her hands. It was his sidearm, a black Beretta 92FS yanked free from his jacket.
She scrambled to her feet and aimed it at Ives, breathing hard.
She’s good with her hands, Zero noted dourly. Too bad she wasn’t using her head.
“Karina,” he said lowly. “What are we doing?”
“I will not turn myself in to anyone other than my sister,” she said, teeth clenched.
Zero could see no other choice but to get out of there as quickly as possible. There was no way this would end amiably now. He relieved the two agents of their pistols and deposited them in the nearest silver trash bin. “Over there. Sit. If you follow us, we’ll start shooting people.”
Ives chuckled hoarsely as he slowly rose from on the floor.
“Don’t move!” Karina grunted at him, aiming the Beretta at his head.
Still he climbed to his feet, seemingly unafraid of her. “You do not actually believe you are going to make it out of here, do you?”
In response, Karina delivered a solid crack to the top of his head with the butt of the pistol. The Interpol inspector folded like an empty sack.
“Karina!” Zero scolded in disbelief. He grabbed her arm and yanked her toward the exit. “Come on, time to go.” They ran, Zero shoving the Sig Sauer into his jacket and Karina hiding the Beretta in the back of her pants. But as they left the café and rushed out onto the main station floor, they saw more than half a dozen white-uniformed security guards hurrying toward them, pushing past and around fleeing travelers.