by Jack Bowie
A stab of pain bent her over. She probably had cracked a rib.
European police sirens whined in the distance. At least someone had managed to use their phone for its intended purpose.
She had failed. Failed in her evaluation of a Jason. Failed to find the traitor.
And failed in protecting Donnelly.
There was nothing more to do—running away was not an option—so she just sat down on the pavement and waited.
* * *
After the attack in Nuremberg, Singer had found a public restroom where he had removed any visible signs of the encounter. He had trashed the bloody jacket and stolen a new one from a stall in the Spittlertorturm station. Then he had picked up his car and returned to Vienna.
In his apartment, he had taken a shower to remove any remaining blood, bandaged the deep scratches in his neck, and put on clean clothes. Then he returned to the factory to wait for Shahid and his team.
He was scanning the news sites looking for any mention of the abduction when he heard the creaking of the loading door downstairs. Three minutes later, Shahid appeared in the door to the office.
“How did it go?” he asked.
Shahid shrugged. “No problem. We switched vans in Győr before going into Budapest. Made the pickup, drove back to Győr and torched the stolen van. All neat and tidy. Your prize is tied up downstairs. He’s a little beat up from the ride, but nothing critical.”
“Any difficulties at the border?”
“None at all. We stuffed him in a box marked ‘Medical Waste’. Had three other filled boxes we stole from a local hospital. The guard opened one, nearly threw up, and waved us through.”
Singer nodded approvingly. He had called three of his “friends” from Germany for the operation. Typical hired muscle but reliable. They would be well paid.
“How was your trip?” Shahid asked.
“Satisfactory. Your friend Teuber won’t be a problem anymore. His phone and backpack are by your desk. See if you can find anything useful.”
Shahid gave him a strange look, then shook her head. “Did you find out how he identified the site?”
“Yes. It was Braxton. But it won’t make any difference. Just check out Teuber’s phone.”
He didn’t want to share all the details of the encounter with Shahid. She’d just ask questions that he didn’t want to answer.
“Okay. But what happened to your neck?”
Singer unconsciously touched the bandages. “Cut my face shaving.”
“Uh huh,” Shahid said as she walked back to her desk. “Oh, I was tracking social media on the way back. Pretty interesting. Take a look.” She sat down at her station, and her fingers flew over the keyboard. A few seconds later the monitors flashed and began displaying a stream of photos and videos taken by the bystanders on Apáczai Csere János. “Everybody wanted to play reporter, not policeman.”
It was quite a display. Donnelly and the three masked mercenaries were prominently shown. Singer was relieved, but not necessarily surprised, to see that Shahid had managed to stay invisible. There was one other person in the pictures.
“Stop!” he yelled.
Shahid froze the displays.
“There.” He pointed to one of the screens showing a woman crawling on the street. Her face was clear. “Who’s that?”
“Some lady who was with Donnelly at dinner. I think I also saw her with him at the conference.”
This just gets better and better.
“Call the team back.”
Chapter 31
Budapest Marriott, Budapest, Hungary
Monday, 12:10 a.m.
Walker didn’t get back to the Marriott until after midnight. She had spent over two hours answering questions about the abduction from an unending stream of Budapest police officers.
Did she know the man? Yes.
Are they lovers? No.
What is he doing in Budapest? Attending the cryptography conference.
Is he American? Yes.
Is he a spy? No.
Could she identify the kidnappers? No. They wore masks.
The same questions over and over. She had tried to tell them about the pictures taken by the bystanders, but they didn’t seem interested. Not that she expected the photos would be of any value anyway. The assailants had been professionals who would be unlikely to leave any evidence behind.
One of the female cops had finally asked if she needed any assistance. Walker had said no, despite the pain in her side and the blood oozing from her palms and knees. Going to a hospital would only result in more inane questions that wouldn’t help Donnelly in the least. She had insisted they let her go back to her hotel.
After the standard mantra of “don’t leave the area”, they had released her.
She went to the bathroom to clean up. Her suit was ruined and went immediately into the trash. She took a long, hot shower, grimacing as the soapy water cleaned her scrapes and bruises. She dried off and wrapped herself in the fluffy, soft robe she found in the wardrobe.
Going to the window, the lights on Castle Hill glowed brightly against the night sky, but not even that vista could remove the dark stain that she felt now marked the city.
Still, she had work to do.
Walker’s first call was to Cutler’s cell phone. It was only seven o’clock in D.C. She managed a quick dump of the evening’s events before Cutler went apoplectic. She ranted on about her job, MITRE, Jason, and national security, in precisely that order. She said she had lots of calls to make and hung up. Any concern for Walker’s condition seemed to have slipped her mind.
Walker could only imagine the alerts that would soon be flashing across metropolitan D.C. A prominent American scientist, and a Jason, had been abducted in Budapest at a spy conference. There would be panic.
But Walker knew she had another task. She had to get in touch with Braxton. She pulled up Fowler’s text and called the number.
“Hello?” Braxton’s voice had a weak, sleepy tone.
“It’s Sydney, Adam.”
“Sydney? It’s midnight.”
“I know. Something’s happened.”
“Are you alright?” At least her real boss was concerned about her condition.
“Ah, yes. Nothing major. It’s about Ian, er, Prof. Donnelly. He’s been abducted. By Singer.”
“Abducted?”
“Yes.” She described the events.
“How do you know it was Singer?”
“Who else could it be?”
“Good point. Could it have been a play to protect Donnelly’s identity as the traitor?”
“I don’t think so. It looked real.” And felt it.
There was one other thing. She felt funny mentioning it, but the coincidence kept bothering her. “There was a girl with the men who attacked us. I think I saw her at the conference as well. She was strange. Young but … aware. And very Goth.”
Braxton’s response was immediate. “It was Scheherazade. Scheherazade is a woman. Who dresses Goth. I just found out.”
“That was her? Do you know where they are?”
“Not exactly. But I spoke with someone who believes they’re in Vienna. I’m there now.”
Walker didn’t hesitate. She was not going to leave Braxton alone any longer.
“Vienna? Okay. I’ll join you. But I have to wait a day or so. The police told me I needed to stay here.”
“I understand. And there’s one more thing. I talked with Sam this morning. It’s a long story, but Turner is not the traitor either. We have to go in another direction.”
Damn. What would they do now?
“Let’s talk tomorrow, er, later today,” Braxton continued. “We’ll work something out. Get some sleep and take care of yourself.”
“I will, but thank you.” She hesitated as another question materialized in her head. It was frightening. “Why would Singer abduct a scientist? He wouldn’t auction a person would he?”
The response came slowly. “Honestly, Sydney, I d
on’t think there’s anything Singer wouldn’t do.”
* * *
Slattery had just settled down with the latest Tom Clancy thriller. Beth had already gone to bed, leaving him alone in a peacefully quiet house. Then he had gotten the call.
Mark Wilson, from the European desk, knew of Slattery’s inquiries regarding Singer and had decided to take a chance calling the head of counterterrorism when the report of Donnelly’s abduction alerted on his screen.
It was him. Slattery had to get to the office.
He had thanked the analyst for his initiative and hung up. Then he had changed his clothes, kissed his wife and driven to Langley.
It was eleven o’clock when he arrived. He immediately pinged all the European counterterrorism analysts looking for any chatter relating to an abduction or kidnapping. Just in case. But nothing had been heard.
There was no doubt in his mind what had happened. Slattery had called General Kennedy earlier in the day. He had confirmed the high quality of the GPS report, and that the Jason team had been led by Prof. Ian Donnelly. Singer had discovered, somehow, that Donnelly was in Budapest. And taken action.
Slattery had a summary from the Budapest Chief of Station by midnight, 6:00 a.m. in Budapest. It provided little additional information. The stolen escape vehicle had been found, torched, an hour west of Budapest. Border checks had produced nothing. Bystander images, mined from social media, showed three assailants, all wearing balaclavas. Facial rec had identified two other individuals: Donnelly, of course, and an ex-DIA agent named Sydney Walker.
Slattery slammed his fist on his desk. What the hell was she doing there!
He requested the images be forwarded to his email account.
The phone rang and he grabbed the handset. What now?
“Slattery.”
“Roger, it’s Eric Gillum.” Gillum? Why is he here?
“There’s been an update on the site.” Slattery shook his head. He feared he knew what Gillum had found. “Donnelly is the new offer. He doesn’t look good.”
Shit!
“Thank you, Eric. Can you send me screenshots?”
“Sure, Roger. They’ll be in your email.”
* * *
Walker struggled across the pavement to get to Donnelly. No matter how hard she tried, something kept holding her back. She had to get to him!
She bolted up, now awake, sweat pouring from her body and damp bed sheets wrapped tightly around her. It had just been a dream.
Light streamed through the thin curtains of her room. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was seven o’clock in the morning.
After talking with Braxton, the adrenaline rush had disappeared and left her exhausted. She had collapsed in the bed and fallen asleep, apparently getting a solid night’s rest, except for the nightmare that had awakened her.
She checked her email, but there were no updates on the abduction. The in-room cable was no better. It was the middle of the night in the U. S., so she didn’t want to bother anyone there. Once again, she was on her own.
Walker showered again, cold this time, to wake her up. Her wardrobe was down to the bare essentials, so she picked something comfortable, her traveling uniform: a light sweater, black jeans, and tall leather boots. The conference had finished, so today would be a full day of sightseeing, starting with the scene of the attack. She was an investigator, after all, and wasn’t going to stop just because she had been one of the victims.
She grabbed a quick breakfast of an omelet and juice at the DNB and headed out to Apáczai Csere János toward Dunacorso.
* * *
Slattery stared at the picture of Donnelly. He had been beaten badly. Dark purple bruises covered his face. One eye, his left, was so swollen Slattery couldn’t see the eyeball. Dried blood was caked under his nose. His brown hair was dirty and matted; the right side stained red with blood. He looked alive, just barely.
What the hell does Singer want?
Seeing Walker at the abduction was bad enough, but Donnelly’s photo had put him over the edge. He had had enough of this bullshit. He dialed a number he knew by heart. It rang nine times before being picked up.
“Fowler,” said a soft, sleepy voice.
“Okay, Sam. I’m done playing games. An American scientist, a Jason, was just abducted in Budapest. I have to talk to Braxton. Give me his number.” Slattery finally took a breath. His heart was racing.
“Whoa. Slow down. It’s … two in the morning for god’s sake. Some of us sleep. Who was abducted?”
“You know damn well who. Prof. Donnelly. And he was with Walker.”
“Abducted by Singer? Is Sydney okay?”
“She’s fine. I think. THE NUMBER, SAM.”
Fowler recited the number and Slattery wrote it down.
“What about—”
Slattery hung up and dialed the new number. Braxton picked up after six rings.
“Hello?” The voice was barely audible.
“It’s Roger Slattery, Adam. Have you seen the news?”
“News?” Braxton sounded like he was still asleep. “It’s eight o’clock. Where are you?”
“Your Jason friend Donnelly has been abducted. Probably by Singer. I know Walker is there. Singer probably does as well. Now will you tell me what is going on?”
Slattery heard a shuffling in the background. Braxton finally came back on the line.
“Sydney is alright?” At least he now sounded awake.
“As far as I know. Apparently, you knew about Donnelly.”
“Ah, yes. Sydney called me about midnight.”
“Dammit, Adam. You’ve got to tell me what’s going on. Before something else happens.”
“I met with the Jason Steering Committee. They believe a Jason is selling secrets and asked me to investigate.”
“You? Why not the FBI?”
“They were afraid of blowback. They think the government is out to get them.”
Jesus. Now Jason is paranoid.
“How is Walker involved?”
“She’s undercover at MITRE. Trying to find the leak. How do you know she’s there?”
“Her picture is all over social media. Singer is bound to see it.”
The line was silent. For once in his life, the consultant didn’t know what to say.
Slattery continued the diatribe. “I ought to throw every one of you in jail for this. An American scientist, who knows how many national security secrets, is in the hands of an international terrorist. A terrorist ready to sell him to the highest bidder. This is way over your head.”
“I understand you’re angry,” Braxton finally replied, “but you can take it out on me later. I have to call Sydney.”
And he hung up.
Goddammit!
* * *
Apáczai Csere János was filled with traffic and pedestrians. Businessmen and women rushing from one place to the next, trying to make that next appointment. It was the same everywhere.
As Walker approached Vigadó Park, she felt a twinge in her gut. The images of the previous night were still fresh in her mind. What could she have done differently? She had thought she had put her attacker down. She hadn’t followed up. And that had cost Donnelly his freedom. If she had only—
“Miss Walker!”
She heard the voice behind her and turned. A dark green Audi A5 had driven up and stopped at the curb. The man who had called her name was getting out.
“Miss Walker. I’m Inspector Kerek Janos. We met last night. May I ask you a few more questions, please?”
Walker considered the request. Janos was medium height, with stubby dark hair, narrow eyes and a broken nose. He stood like a fire hydrant next to his car; stiff and immobile. Oddly, she couldn’t quite place the face. But then, she felt like she had been questioned by every member of the Budapest police force.
She walked over to the car.
“I don’t know what more I can tell you, Inspector, but I want to be of whatever assistance I can.”
Walker took a step forward, then hesitated. Something felt wrong. She glanced into the vehicle and didn’t see all the electronic gadgets common to law enforcement. Janos was an Inspector, however, and it could just be his personal vehicle. But the driver looked nervous. He was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Why?
“Inspector, would you mind showing me your credentials?
“Of course not. Here, let me show you.” He reached inside his jacket and took a step toward Walker.
She waited a second too long. What appeared in his hand was not a wallet, but a taser. He pushed the needles through her sweater and pulled the trigger.
Walker had been tased twice before, once by a sadistic instructor at DIA training who had a thing for female trainees and once on an undercover mission in South Korea. She tried to fight, but her muscles wouldn’t respond.
She collapsed into his arms and he dragged her into the back seat of the Audi.
As the car sped off down the street, Janos zip-tied her hands and pulled a cloth bag over her head.
Despite the restraints, her muscles began to respond. She was planning her next move when she heard her cell-phone buzz.
Then she felt a pinch in her neck and everything turned black.
PART THREE
Vienna
Chapter 32
Simmering, Vienna, Austria
Monday, 11:45 a.m.
Walker came out of the haze hesitantly, finally remembering what had happened. She had a splitting headache; the result of the tasing and god knows what drug had been injected in her neck. Her first reaction was to snap open her eyes, but her training told her to go slow. No point in exposing her awakened state too soon.
First, she listened. It was a quiet place, she didn’t hear anyone, but there was a drone of machinery in the background. The sound echoed as if she was in a large space, not a small room.
The air smelled stale with a hint of petroleum, maybe oil. Maybe a warehouse or factory.
She tentatively tried to move. Her forearms were held fast in front of her as if on the arms of a chair. Her wrists were locked as well, but she could move her fingers. It was an odd sensation.