by Jack Bowie
Fowler saw an intersection ahead and spun the wheel to the right. The rear end of the pickup slipped out as they rounded the corner. He fought to stay on the road.
“You tell me. What’s going on, Turner?” Fowler yelled. “Who are these people?”
The Mercedes made the same turn. They were only three car lengths behind.
“Who the hell are you?” Turner shrieked. “Do you know who I am?”
That’s the best he’s got? Jesus.
“I told you. I’m a cop. Investigating a goddamn Jason who is selling national secrets. So stop with the bullshit. Do you know who they are?”
Turner looked at Fowler like he had gone crazy. “How do you know who I am? I wouldn’t sell secrets. Stop the car! I’ll have your badge.”
That was not the reaction Fowler had expected. Could the Jason be telling the truth?
They hit a rut in the road and Fowler tightened his grip on the wheel. His knuckles were already bone white. “We don’t have time for this, Turner. If you’re not a traitor, then who is trying to stop us?”
Turner glanced around. Fowler had seen it before when suspects were trying to determine which story to tell. The truth or something else.
“They’re from the casino,” Turner finally said. His voice had lost all of its aggression. “I developed a system. A way to beat the odds. Got a couple of friends to help me. I needed the money.” He paused then his voice regained its strength. “We were doing fine until you dragged me out of there. I can’t go back. Do you know what they’ll do to me?”
Fowler didn’t know whether to believe this piece of crap or not. Turner was a cheat? But if so, then someone could be threatening to disclose his extracurricular activities. He could still be the traitor. “Is that why you’re selling secrets, Turner? You’re being blackmailed?”
The response was immediate. Turner balled his hands into fists and pounded them on the dashboard. “Dammit, I’m not selling secrets. I’m not being blackmailed. How many times do I have to tell you? You have to get me away from those goons!”
Fowler was beginning to believe the man. Then he remembered the drop in the casino. How could the Jason explain that?
He reached into his left pants pocket and pulled out the object that Turner had tried to pass. He was expecting a zip drive or some secret decoder ring. But it was only an earbud. A listening device.
Shit!
Fowler pounded his hands on the wheel. “You’re a goddamn card cheat! I’m risking my ass for a card cheat?”
He slammed both feet on the brake, throwing them into their seat belts. The steering wheel shook as the pickup fishtailed to a stop by the side of the road. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the Mercedes pull up behind him.
“What the hell are you doing now?” Turner shouted. He was shaking.
“Now listen,” Fowler ordered. “If you want to stay in one piece today, do everything I say. Open the glove box. There’s a set of handcuffs. Put them on. In front is fine. I’m going to pull you out of the truck. After that, shut up. Look guilty. Let me do all the talking. Do you understand?”
Turner hesitated, turned and saw two giants getting out of the Mercedes. He looked back at Fowler, nodded, and opened the glove box.
Fowler jumped out of the truck, walked around the front, opened the passenger door and yanked Turner, now handcuffed, out of his seat. The Jason stumbled on the running board and nearly fell to the ground.
Two men in black suits were walking toward him. They both had slicked-back dark hair, shoulders the width of a linebacker’s and shirts that were at least two sizes too small. The taller man had a scar down one cheek. The shorter one’s right hand rested suspiciously in his pocket. Fowler had been expecting something out of James Bond, but these two were closer to extras from The Godfather.
They were about ten feet away.
“Give us Mr. Newton,” Scarface called, “and you’re free to go. You don’t need to get involved in this.”
Fowler glanced toward Turner. Newton? Really?
He raised his left hand and slowly reached into his coat pocket with his right. Shorty’s hand reappeared with the Glock.
Well, if Sydney can do it, so can I.
“Special Agent Samuel Fowler, FBI,” Fowler shouted with as much confidence as he could muster. He waved the fake credentials in the air like a children’s party flag.
Shorty lowered the pistol.
“I know you would like to talk with mister, ah, Newton, here, but I’m afraid the government cannot allow that at this time. This man,” Fowler pointed to Turner cowering in his handcuffs, “is under arrest for bank fraud, money laundering, and tax evasion. Now I understand you want to stop him from visiting your establishment, but I can promise you will not see him for, say twenty years or so. After that, please be my guest. But for now, he comes with me.”
Fowler’s heart raced. He prayed the thugs couldn’t see the sweat running down his forehead. For now, they seemed more confused than angry.
He needed to give them something to take back to the casino. Something to relieve the pressure on them. “I assume your bosses would not appreciate an investigation into the abduction of a federal fugitive.”
The men relaxed.
Fowler waited about fifteen seconds, then led Turner back to the passenger’s seat. Without ever looking back to the men, he closed the door, walked to the driver’s side, got in and drove away. Slowly.
When Fowler checked the rearview mirror, they were still standing outside the Mercedes looking at each other. Turner sat motionless in his seat.
He waited until his heart rate had dropped from the red zone. Then he lit in. “I don’t give a damn how smart you are, Turner. If I ever find out you’re cheating at cards again, I’ll personally break every one of your fingers.”
Chapter 28
Wöhrd, Nuremberg, Germany
Sunday, 11:05 a.m.
Singer arrived in Nuremberg just after 11:00 a.m. He had gotten up at six, unable to sleep any longer. Finding out how the hacker had discovered their site was crucial. The drive had been long, but he had listened to a new Gabriel Allon audiobook to pass the time. He found the stories quite entertaining.
Teuber’s apartment was in the Wöhrd district: an area containing the Nuremberg Institute of Technology and a favorite for students. After twenty minutes of aimless driving, he finally found a parking place and walked the three blocks to Teuber’s building.
Singer stopped at a kiosk along the way and purchased two items he needed for his surveillance: a broad-brimmed cap and a copy of the morning’s Nürnberger Zeitung. Once he reached the apartment building, he found a park bench across the street and sat down. Pulling the cap low over his face, he thumbed through the newspaper, regularly glancing up to observe the apartment’s entrance.
Ten minutes later he saw Teuber emerge from the building. The man had changed little since Hess. The same long scraggly hair, thin frame and slightly stooped walk. He wore a light jacket, black jeans and running shoes. His ubiquitous backpack hung from his shoulders.
Singer had planned a quiet encounter inside Teuber’s apartment, but there might be more to learn by seeing where the hacker was going. He folded the newspaper and followed his target down the street.
* * *
Teuber had taken the U-Bahn to the Spittlertorturm stop. Throughout the trip, he had been his usual inattentive self: earbuds stuck in his ears, lost in some undoubtedly reactionary music and oblivious to the people around him—people like Alfred Whitehead Singer.
Singer had then followed the hacker to Rosenaupark, a small, quiet park just outside the old city wall. Teuber entered from the south and took a seat at one of the benches near the center of the park. There were few others around at midday on a Sunday: a small family at the playground area and three others milling around a stone fountain in the north end. None looked familiar.
He had always enjoyed this part of the hunt: tracking his prey, waiting for the right moment to attack. T
euber would soon surrender his secrets. One way or another.
Singer found a bench on the perimeter path and settled in to see what was going to happen next.
* * *
Braxton had spent the morning surfing the web on his new phone, looking for any news on Jason, the CIA or his business. Everything seemed to be quiet. His laptop was off limits. It was the easiest device for Slattery to track.
Rain had drenched the town overnight, but the morning sky was clear, bright sunshine filling his room. He hoped the rest of the day would be as promising.
He left the hotel and arrived at Rosenaupark a few minutes before noon. There was no sign of Teuber, so he walked over to the fountain and again studied the odd sculptures.
He heard a shout from the playground. A man and a woman watched two boys who were crawling over a well-worn two-story wooden playhouse. It had ropes, ladders and slides: an ideal place to burn boundless toddler energies. The boys, Braxton assumed they were brothers, climbed up the different ladders to the platform, then rode down the slides in a frantic competition. It reminded Braxton of his childhood, when he and his younger brother fought over every favorite toy, every assigned chore and every perceived slight. It had been awful. And it had been wonderful.
He marveled at the pure joy of the children. When had life become so complicated?
Braxton turned a different direction and saw Teuber sitting on a nearby bench, tossing bread crumbs to a few scavenging birds. The hacker must have appeared when Braxton had been watching the children. He waved and walked to the bench.
“Mr. Teuber,” Braxton said as he sat down. Teuber’s face was pale with dark circles shadowing his eyes. Braxton guessed it had been a long night. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Herr Braxton. I may have found some things that will help you.”
Braxton felt his pulse quicken. Could this hacker find Singer?
A tattered backpack sat next to Teuber on the bench. He reached in and pulled out a sheet of paper.
“I was able to break into the site. You were right. It is an auction site. And the contents are quite frightening.” He handed the paper to Braxton. “These are the credentials you can use. Scheherazade may throw some additional challenges at you, but I have described how you can bypass them. Despite her skill, the techniques she uses are predictable.”
Braxton took the paper as if it was a sacred treasure. “I am very appreciative of your work, Wilhelm. Thank you.” He hesitated, not sure he should push his luck. But he needed to know. “Were you able to find her location?”
“That was a bit more difficult, Herr Braxton. I had to call in some favors from other … friends. But we were finally able to place Scheherazade in Vienna. We cannot be more specific. But she is in Austria. In Vienna. I hope this helps you.”
Braxton’s pulse was racing. He had a location. He could read the site. That would have to be enough for now.
He took Teuber’s hand. “Yes, Wilhelm. Thank you so much. And rest assured, I will do everything I can to perform my part of our agreement as efficiently.”
“Well, look who’s here.”
Braxton recognized the voice before he even looked up.
“Hello, Wilhelm. Hello, Adam. Please, don’t get up. We’re going to have a little conversation.”
Singer stood in front of them, the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol sticking out from under a folded newspaper. The gun was pointed at Teuber.
“My friend says you’ve been busy again. You do remember her don’t you?” Teuber nodded his head. A drop of sweat ran down his chin. “She says you’ve been sneaking around in one of our web sites. Something not meant for you. We were wondering why you would do that. I thought you had learned your lesson in Hess.”
Teuber’s hands balled into fists. Would he actually try to attack the psychopath? Braxton shifted on the bench to prepare for what would happen next.
Singer quickly swung the pistol. “Oh, no, Adam. I must insist you sit quietly. I am quite capable of putting bullets in both your heads before your asses ever leave that bench. Your turn will come.”
Singer turned the gun back on Teuber.
“You do remember what happens to people who stick their noses where they don’t belong, don’t you, Wilhelm? People like Ingrid?”
“You bastard. You killed her!”
Teuber started to stand, but Singer’s arm lashed out and swiped the pistol across the hacker’s face, slicing his cheek and driving him back onto the bench.
Singer pointed the gun at Braxton.
“You see what happens to people that disobey me, Adam. By the way, how is Karen? Feeling relaxed?”
Braxton’s heart was racing, but he wasn’t going to let Singer control this encounter. They just needed time. Eventually, Singer would slip up. “She’s just fine, Singer. Karen’s much stronger than you think. Wanted me to be sure I told you to go to hell.”
Singer raised his arm for another strike, when Teuber suddenly leaped from the bench and threw himself at Singer.
“RUN!” the hacker yelled.
Braxton didn’t hesitate. As he jumped off the bench he heard a loud explosion, but ignored it and ran toward the stone fountain, only about fifty yards away.
Halfway there, he heard two muffled gunshots. He looked back and saw Teuber and Singer rolling in the dirt. He feared the worst.
The fountain was only ten yards away when he felt something buzz by his ear and heard another shot. Singer had recovered. Braxton dove for the base of the fountain as a fifth shot ricocheted off the fountain, showering him in a rain of stone chips.
He scrambled on his hands and knees behind the fountain and pulled the knife from his pocket. It wasn’t going to compete with Singer’s gun, but at least he’d have a weapon. Maybe he would get close enough to use it.
Braxton slowly raised his head over the top of the fountain’s base and looked back. Singer was still standing by the bench.
What is he waiting for?
* * *
Singer had not anticipated the attack by Teuber. Perhaps by Braxton, but not the cowardly hacker. He had pushed Singer’s arm up, causing a shot to go wild, then slammed him to the ground and clawed at his throat, trying to get a choke hold. The man had acted like a deranged animal.
It had taken Singer precious seconds to quell his panic and take the offensive. The cancer was definitely affecting his abilities. He had finally gotten his right hand under Teuber’s stomach and fired two shots. The attacker had been neutralized.
Singer had shoved the hacker to the side and crawled to his knees only to see Braxton running away toward the fountain. He had swung the gun up and fired two more shots, both missing the target.
Dammit!
His heart pounding, he took time for a sitrep.
He had fired five rounds, impossible not to recognize in Germany’s current hyper-vigilant environment.
There was a dead body lying next to him.
A family was cowering behind the equipment in the playground, cell phones visible in the hands of both mother and father. It was likely the authorities had already been called and numerous pictures taken.
He was soaked in Teuber’s blood. His jacket was ruined and his hands were wet and slippery, likely the reason for the inaccuracy of his shots.
Sirens sounded in the background.
It was time to retreat. He could not afford any contact with the polizei. There was too much at stake.
But he had gotten what he had come for. Braxton was the link between Teuber and the auction site. His enemies were getting closer.
The consultant’s escape was unfortunate but not critical. In retrospect, his shots were ill-advised. They drew even more attention. Braxton was an annoyance, not the primary target. His time would come.
Singer returned to Teuber’s body and quickly searched his clothes. There was nothing of interest except the hacker’s cell phone which he stuffed in his pocket. Shahid might be able to find something useful.
Then he
grabbed Teuber’s backpack from the bench—no telling what might be inside—turned, and ran into the woods. He needed to clean up and get to his car.
* * *
After seeing Singer run off, Braxton made his own exit from Rosenaupark. There was absolutely no way he was going to stay around and try to explain to the polizei what had happened. He was unhurt, except for a few scratches on his face from the stone shards. That sounded like a successful escape.
It was time to leave Germany. He doubted Singer would make any attempt to find him, but he wasn’t going to wait around to find out. And he knew where he had to go.
He took a circuitous route back to his hotel, changed his clothes—no use making it easy on the authorities—and checked out. As he left, he grabbed a Holiday Inn brochure.
Going to the airport was a non-starter. There were simply too many ways to trace his movements electronically. The brochure described a Holiday Inn in Vienna City that looked comfortable and had close access to public transportation. He made a reservation, picked up his car and left Nuremberg.
Chapter 29
Annandale, VA
Sunday, 8:00 a.m.
Fowler woke early and went downstairs for a glass of juice to clear his head. Pat had been pleased his job had ended early and she was able to see her husband again. He had been happy to be home and share a hot meal with his wife.
After dropping Turner back at his house, he had called White and explained what had happened. White had volunteered to send Hendricks and O’Shea to fetch Turner’s car. Fowler never wanted to go anywhere near the damn casino again.
It had been far too late to call Braxton then, so he had deferred the update until now.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Adam. It’s Sam.”
“Sam! Great to hear from you. Any news about Turner?”
Fowler related his adventure with the scientist.
“Jesus,” Braxton exclaimed. “Who would have guessed the guy would turn out to be a gambler? I doubt the FBI security folks will look very favorably on that.”
Fowler remembered Turner blubbering in his living room and whining about losing his job at NRL.