The Jason Betrayal
Page 19
“Yeah. He was pretty concerned about that. Once I saved his butt from the mob. I told him they wouldn’t hear it from us.”
“Thanks. I’ll let Hawthorne take care of Turner’s extra-curricular activities. It’ll give him something else to do.”
“What about Sydney? Should I call her? It’s looking like Donnelly may be our guy.”
“I wouldn’t bother her now,” Braxton replied. “She’s probably in some conference session. I’ll talk to her later and give her the news.”
Fowler noticed a lot of static on the line. “Where are you? It’s a pretty noisy connection.”
“Ah, I’m in a car.”
“A car? Where are you going?”
“I got a lead on Scheherazade. She may be in Vienna. And I think she’s with Singer. I’m on my way now.”
“She? Scheherazade is a woman?”
“Yeah. And a pretty young one, according to my source. We’re getting closer, Sam. I’m going to get this bastard.”
Braxton actually sounded upbeat. But Fowler was still worried about his friend.
“That’s great, Adam. But don’t you think it’s time to call in some help?”
“No!” he snapped. Then his voice relaxed. “Not yet, Sam. I’ve still got some leads to follow. I’ll be careful.”
What was Fowler going to do with his hard-headed friend? He was as difficult as Slattery.
“Okay. But take care of yourself. And give Sydney my best. I’ll watch things over here.”
“Thanks, Sam. We’ll talk in a couple of days.”
Braxton ended the call.
Things sounded better. They were making progress.
Then why did he feel so unsettled?
* * *
Braxton arrived in Vienna at 6:30 completely exhausted. The events of the previous two days had finally taken their toll. He checked in to the Holiday Inn and ordered a quick dinner from room service.
Then his cell phone rang.
Could it be Singer? But where would he have gotten the number? Teuber never had it.
“Hello?”
“Hallo? Mr. Braxton?” It was a man’s voice, with a heavy German accent. Not Singer.
“Dieter? Is that you?”
“Yes. Was it you?”
What is he talking about?
“Was what me?”
“With Wilhelm. Were you with him when he was killed?”
Teuber’s death must have made the local news. What could Braxton say? He had to tell the truth.
“Yes. We were talking when Singer appeared. I don’t know how he found us. Wilhelm sacrificed himself to save me. I owe him my life.”
Hoch was silent.
“I’m so very sorry, Dieter. I know you were friends.”
“He is dead because he helped you. And I am responsible. I will also be a target. I must disappear. I do not want to become involved with Scheherazade or the man you seek. It is too dangerous. Do not try to contact me.”
“But—”
“And tell our friend we are now even.” He hung up.
Two more lives destroyed by Singer.
When will it end?
* * *
Walker had spent most of Sunday relaxing. The conference was winding down and the crowds of attendees had thinned. She had even spent a few hours sightseeing, walking north along the Danube past the Chain Bridge to the Hungarian Parliament Building, a sprawling Gothic Revival structure that she had learned was both the tallest building in Budapest and the largest building in Hungary. She had returned to the Marriott physically tired but mentally refreshed.
She showered, dressed and met Donnelly in the lobby at seven. As they walked outside, he held the door open for her.
“Why thank you,” she said. “That was a pleasant surprise.”
“Well, my mother brought me up to always open doors and hold chairs for members of the fairer sex. Although that behavior has gotten me in a bit of trouble with the feminists over the past few years. I hoped it might be acceptable with you.”
His smile was wide and natural. He wore gray flannel slacks, a freshly pressed white shirt and colorful striped tie with his ubiquitous blue blazer. Nothing a couturier would call fashionable, but he had made a genuine effort. It almost made her forget the real reason for accepting the invitation.
“Just don’t let it go to your head. But you do look very un-academic this evening.”
Walker had run out of anything new, so she had worn her blue suit with a shiny white silk blouse. Her one concession to the occasion was an extra button undone at the top.
“Thank you,” Donnelly replied. “But you always look lovely. That’s a great outfit.”
Walker smiled in response. The Jason was either being exceedingly polite or he was completely oblivious that he had already seen her suit at the reception. She decided not to worry about which.
They turned north on Apáczai Csere János. It was like walking through a canyon. A vertical cliff of concrete rose over ten stories to their left, the back of the Marriott. On the opposite side of the street, two blocks of four-story apartment buildings completed the canyon. She felt sorry for the inhabitants. They had had a spectacular view of the Danube before the Marriott rose from the clay.
As they walked along the street, Walker found herself glancing to the opposite side of the street and checking store-front window reflections for tails. She felt silly, but some tradecraft just never went away.
They finally escaped the walls of the canyon and the vista opened. To their right was Vigadó Concert Hall, an impressive Baroque building dominating the block. To their left, also running the length of the block, was Vigadó Park, a small plaza elaborately landscaped with a stone fountain in the center. She could see through the park all the way to the Danube and across to Castle Hill.
Walker was soaking in the view when something registered in her peripheral vision. She jerked her head to the right and would swear she had seen the Goth waif from Donnelly’s session sitting on the steps of the Concert Hall. She stopped short and scanned the building. The waif, if she had even been there, was now gone. She shook off the vision.
“Is something wrong, Sydney?” Donnelly asked.
“No. Sorry. I just tripped.” They started back along the park. “Where are we going?”
“Just ahead. It’s called Dunacorso. I think you’ll like the atmosphere.”
They walked to the end of the park, then turned left, toward the water.
At the end of the block was a wide pedestrian path following the course of the Danube. Beyond the path were trolley tracks, then a drop to a lower level with a highway and parking area along the river. A line of river longboats sat docked in the water. It was a fascinating picture of Budapest’s abundant transportation options.
On Walker’s right was a large open terrace, protected from the elements by a quilt of brightly colored canvas awnings. The terrace was filled with tables covered in checkered tablecloths. Donnelly stopped and opened a wrought iron gate that led into the terrace.
“Welcome to Dunacorso,” he said.
He approached the hostess, who checked her reservation list, then led them to a table along the outside edge of the terrace, next to the pedestrian promenade.
Donnelly moved to one of the wicker chairs and pulled it out from the table. Walker couldn’t remember the last time that had happened to her.
“I hope the view suits you,” he said.
The breadth of the Danube lay before them with Castle Hill in the background. The view was closer to the river than from the hotel terrace but no less spectacular.
“Well, it does have a few things going for it,” Walker replied with a smile.
They were still settling at the table as a young Austrian waitress appeared, asking about their choices for refreshment. Donnelly ordered a bottle of Grüner Veltliner, a classic, balanced Austrian wine. It was quickly delivered and a pair of glasses prepared.
They toasted to good health and opened their menus.
Walker decided it was time for some more questions. She hoped the atmosphere, if not the wine, would improve the results of her interrogation.
“Ian, if you don’t mind, I do have one question. I hope it isn’t too personal.” The smile disappeared from Donnelly’s face and he straightened up in his chair. “No, not that kind of personal. It’s something about Jason.”
He visibly relaxed but his expression remained impassive. “Of course. As long as it’s not classified.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve heard some comments from the other Product Managers about your colleagues. There seems to be a common belief that they aren’t that, well, proud of their participation in Jason. Like they’re reticent to talk about their contribution. And it’s more than just the classified nature of the work. If I were one of the smartest people in my field, I’d be honored to help out my country, and anxious to tell people about it.”
Donnelly sighed. For the first time since they had met, he seemed uncomfortable. “It’s something in our history. Something we all know.” His eyes searched the awnings of the room for some unseen sign, then began his story.
“It was a long time ago. Mid-sixties. Vietnam. Jason was all physicists back then and still awash in its success with the atom bomb. We had the very best: Dyson, Gell-Mann, and Weinberg. DOD would ask us about certain problems and we tried to help.
“The Viet Cong were traveling all over the country via a series of tunnels and rat holes. They could pop up out of nowhere, ambush a squad of soldiers then disappear. It was cold-blooded murder. DOD asked Jason to help. This wasn’t so much basic science, but engineering. Still, we wanted to contribute. So we designed a sensor. A mini-seismometer that could transmit ground disturbances, like personnel movements through tunnels or convoy traffic on roads. We designed it and DOD built them. Thousands of them. They dropped them all over the jungle. It was supposed to win the war.”
Donnelly stared back into the kaleidoscope-colors of the awnings then turned back to Walker and emptied his glass of wine. His expression was one of sadness. “It didn’t, obviously. There were other projects, other failures. The Jasons became disillusioned. Many quit. We’re dreamers. We’re supposed to be apolitical. We just think up things. The reality of the war, and our participation, was a hidden, dark cloud over our lives.
“Up until then, Jason was pretty much unknown by most people. Our members were unidentified. Then the Pentagon Papers were released. Suddenly everything was public. Who we were, what we did. Jasons were demonized. Our students protested our existence. Resignations were demanded.”
“I didn’t know.” All this was before Donnelly was born, but he told the story like it was yesterday. The pain was palpable.
“Many lost their careers. Some held on, but their reputations were irrevocably damaged. It took a generation before the public stigma disappeared.
“Today’s Jasons all know the history. We were used. Dragged into a political cesspool not of our making. It’s a memory we all carry. It colors every interaction we have with the government. Some call it naiveté. I call it principles.”
Walker felt like crap. Why had she asked the question? “I’m sorry, Ian. I didn’t mean to …”
“No. That’s alright. You need to know who we are. You have to realize that all of our clients are inherently political. Even DOD. They love it when we design better weapons, but ignore us when we identify the impacts of climate change. It can be very frustrating and demeaning.”
The objective of any interrogation was to get to the truth, but Walker felt embarrassed, like she had crossed some invisible line; had injected herself into subjects that were not relevant to her investigation.
But was that true? Could this history color what Donnelly thought, and did?
Thankfully, a waiter appeared with their meals. He set them down and refilled the wine glasses. The bottle was already over half gone.
They began the meal in silence.
Chapter 30
Dunacorso Restaurant, Budapest, Hungary
Sunday, 9:30 p.m.
The more they ate, the more relaxed the evening became. Their conversation drifted to travel and the challenges of the modern globetrotter. The wine bottle was nearly empty.
The sun set and the lights of the city shone all around them. The glow from Castle Hill lit the sky. It was an exquisite location.
When they had finished their dinners, the waitress reappeared and asked about dessert. Walker hesitated, she already felt stuffed, but Donnelly responded without even looking at the menu and ordered a Sachertorte. Walker requested a fruit sorbet, if only for politeness.
“So I gave you a mouthful about Jason, Sydney,” Donnelly said. “Why are you here?”
Walker considered the question. It could be answered on a lot of levels. “Because I thought it would be helpful to get to know my new partner better.”
Donnelly nodded his head. “Nothing less than I would have expected, but we both know I meant why are you at MITRE, playing babysitter to a bunch of anti-social nerds? You’ve got way too many skills to be a simple Project Manager.”
Walker felt her spook-sense trigger. Where was this going? “That’s very kind of you, Ian, but I’m quite happy in my new job. I needed a break from, well, a rather hectic previous position. And I like dealing with anti-social nerds.”
Like my real boss.
“You mean DIA?”
Walker twitched. “How …”
Donnelly seemed pleased by the effect of his knowledge. “Andy might have mentioned it. ‘Military intelligence’, eh? You know what many of us think of that phrase.”
“Yes, Ian. I am well aware. An oxymoron.”
The waiter brought their desserts and Walker nearly gasped. The Sachertorte was three layers of airy chocolate cake, dripping in chocolate icing with an over-sized dollop of Schlag on the side. She felt sick just looking at it.
“Ah, you think that’s big enough?”
Donnelly grinned. “It’ll do.”
Walker watched as he devoured the torte in the way only a man would. She decided that he was like most of the other Jasons she had met: self-possessed, opinionated, and confident. Yet he was also surprisingly thoughtful. She found it hard to believe that he was the kind to sellout his country. Still, she had met all sorts of criminals in her career and you could never be sure—
“It’s all a game you know.”
She snapped her head up from the sorbet. His eyes were back to an empty, faraway stare.
“Science I mean. A game where all that counts is being first. No one remembers the name of the second person to discover radiation. The second person to imagine the nuclear chain reaction. There’s first and everyone else. Which is odd, since being recognized as the first means everyone else has to know what you did.
“That’s why there are no secrets in science, Sydney. You of all people should know that. Only undiscovered truth. It’s been that way since man created fire. Once something is discovered it takes no time at all for that knowledge to spread. What is discovered by one man today, will be known to all men tomorrow. The government may declare what we do to be secret, but if it’s important enough to be secret, it never can be. Ironic isn’t it? The world would be a much safer place if the politicians would realize that. ”
Donnelly went back to collect the last crumbs of the torte.
Well, maybe I was too hasty in that evaluation.
Donnelly placed his fork back on the plate and looked across to his colleague. “What do you say we call it a night, Sydney? I feel like I may have had a bit too much to drink.”
Walker smiled. “That’s a great idea. I think we both could use a good night’s rest.”
* * *
Donnelly again held the gate as they left Dunacorso. They walked up to Apá
czai Csere János where he maneuvered behind her to place himself on the street side of the sidewalk. Walker had heard of this quaint exhibition of gallantry but had never actually seen it.
“Another of your mother’s teachings?” she asked.
“Of course. Wouldn’t want you to get hit by garbage flying out of the upstairs windows.”
“Or splashes from errant horse-drawn carriages,” she added.
They both smiled and continued down the street toward the hotel.
She hadn’t made any final decision on Donnelly, but now it was time to simply enjoy the cool Budapest evening. They joined other couples who were strolling under the light from overhead street lamps.
They continued past the park. As they stepped into the cross street, a man stepped in front of Walker.
“What—”
The man was dressed entirely in black, a balaclava pulled over his head. He grabbed her by the shoulders and tried to throw her to the ground. Walker’s training kicked in. She kept her balance and grabbed her assailant’s right arm, using his momentum to spin him around her body and drive him to the ground. His head hit the pavement with a sharp crack.
She heard a cry for help and turned to see two other black-clothed men struggling with Donnelly. “Get your damn hands off of me,” he yelled.
Walker tried to get to him, but her assailant grabbed her foot and tripped her. She fell to the pavement, scraping her knees and hands.
Looking up, she saw the two men drag Donnelly toward the side door of a black cargo van that had pulled out of the side street.
Walker tried to scramble forward only to receive a vicious kick to her side from the first man who had now regained his feet. From the pain, he must have been wearing steel-toed boots. She collapsed on the street and saw Donnelly disappear into the van. Her assailant followed. As the door closed, she saw a fifth person in the vehicle’s cargo space: the Goth waif. The van sped off down Apáczai Csere János.
Walker struggled to her feet only to see a small crowd of bystanders gathered, most of whom were busy taking pictures on their cell phones. None of them had made any effort to help. She was used to such behavior in the States but had hoped Europeans might be different. Once again, her fellow humans met her expectations in every way.