by Jack Bowie
Flynn smiled. “Thanks, but I nearly strangled her myself. How could she do something like that?”
“Ten million dollars is very persuasive. Not that it will do her much good now. What happens next?”
“She gets locked up in a very dark cell. We’ll tell MITRE she had a family emergency and needs to take a sabbatical. I doubt very many of her colleagues will miss her.”
“Her explanation of the contact process sounds like the truth,” Slattery said. “Use of a Drafts folder is common tradecraft. It’s relatively safe and simple. Singer would know it well.”
“So now we know how to get in touch with him. But what do we say? How does that help us find him?”
“I do have an idea on that. But it’s rather unorthodox.”
Chapter 35
Simmering, Vienna, Austria
Tuesday, 5:10 p.m.
Singer walked up the stairs to the office and saw Shahid staring into her monitors. He wondered if something important had come in.
“What’s up, Sallie?”
She turned and glared at him. “Where have you been? It’s after five o’clock! I had to feed your goddamn prisoners myself.”
Singer took his colleague’s ire in stride. It was what she did. “I had some errands to run.”
“Is that what all the noise was downstairs?”
“Yeah. Our German industrial friends had some supplies they wanted delivered into the Ukraine. I told them I could help.”
“We’re gun runners now?”
“Just a little import-export. They unloaded five drums downstairs, all labeled ‘vegetable oil’. I’ll get one of the crews to take them across the border. It’s good money.”
“If you say so. And by the way, you look like shit. You okay?”
He had had a terrible night. The Oxy was becoming less and less effective for the pain. He’d have to talk with his dealer and get something better. “Just a little indigestion. Kept me awake most of the night. That’s why I slept late. I’m touched by your concern for my health, but what’s happened?”
“I was scanning Gmail and this came through on your contact’s account.”
Shahid pointed to one of the screens.
How about a trade?
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“How would I know? But there’s an attachment. Should I open it?”
“Is it safe?”
Shahid ignored the comment and clicked on the link. A booking photo of Cutler appeared.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
“Shit. My contact. Slattery’s picked her up.”
“And he wants to trade her?”
“Apparently.”
“For who?”
“Doesn’t matter. She’s busted. She’s no use to us now.”
“Do you want to reply?”
“Yeah. Tell him to go to hell.”
Goddammit. Slattery is going to pay for this. Pay dearly.
“Okay.” Shahid started typing.
“You get anything off Walker’s phone?” Singer barked.
“Oh yeah. I was going to tell you this morning, but you weren’t here. She called a burner early yesterday morning. Right after we picked up Donnelly. I found a text with the same number from some guy named Fowler.”
Fowler! That number had to be Braxton. It was time to set the trap.
Singer turned and headed back downstairs.
* * *
Walker heard Singer coming down the stairs from the second floor. His footfall was louder than usual. Something must have happened.
He usually arrived early in the morning. When he hadn’t appeared by noon—at least that had been the time Walker had inferred from the angle of the light through the factory’s upper windows—she began to call out. She had complained about not getting any water. She had yelled about no food.
The strange Goth woman had eventually appeared with two bottles of the awful energy drink. She had managed to get some of the liquid into Donnelly but had lost her patience with Walker. She had yelled something in a language Walker didn’t recognize and dumped what was left of the vile fluid over Walker’s head. Her hair was now a disgusting sugary mess.
Singer reached the factory floor and strode toward Donnelly. A metal pail lay in his path, and he gave it a violent kick, sending it flying across the room. Walker had the feeling this was not going to be a friendly discussion.
He stopped at the table and picked up the iron mallet.
“You’ve become quite the celebrity, Professor,” Singer said. “The bidding has been very lively. I’ve decided to delay the final auction for a few days. So you’ll be my guest for a bit longer.”
He turned to Walker. “But you, Sydney are all mine. We’re going to have such fun together.”
“Stop it!” Donnelly suddenly yelled. “Leave her alone. She never did anything to you.”
“Shows what you know.” Singer turned back. He grabbed the head of the mallet and slammed the handle down on Donnelly’s right forearm. A loud crack resounded through the room. The Jason screamed.
“No!” Walker cried.
Singer flipped the mallet in the air, catching it by the handle, then turned to Walker. “That’s not quite true, is it, Sydney? That stunt you pulled in the elevator in Virginia broke my wrist in three places. I was in a cast for months. Now I suppose I could view that as a favor, since I can now shoot as well with my left hand as my right, but that’s minor consolation for the pain I had to endure.”
Walker decided to poke the tiger. It might be foolish given his mood, but she wasn’t going to play victim any longer. “You really need to get some better help, Singer. That Goth bitch that’s upstairs got a little sloppy with my drink. Is she Scheherazade? And all this time we thought she was the brains behind this operation.”
Singer’s face grew red. His arm shook. “One last chance, Sydney. Where is Braxton?”
“I told you I don’t know.”
“So be it.” He raised the mallet and crashed it down, this time on top of Walker’s left wrist.
She screamed, then passed out.
* * *
Singer walked behind his prisoners to the loading dock door and stared at the drums lined by the inner wall. They did say ‘vegetable oil’, but everything else he had told Shahid was a lie. Singer’s contacts had provided five drums of fertilizer explosive. Enough to blow the factory, most of the block, and anyone nearby, into a mountain of dust.
Slattery would think he was coming to free his friends. He would be met with something very different.
Singer spent fifteen minutes taping small blocks of C4 to each drum, inserting the detonators and tying them to a cell phone trigger circuit. He had already programmed the burner’s number to his cell phone speed dial. Grabbing a stained tarp from the floor, he carefully draped it over the drums.
The trap was ready. Now to sweeten the bait.
He pulled out his cell phone and tapped the number Shahid had given him earlier.
“Hello?” Singer recognized the voice. It was Braxton. Time to probe a bit.
“Look Braxton, I don’t know what you and Slattery have cooked up, but I’m not playing.”
“Singer? Is Sydney alright?”
“For the moment. Now, what are you doing?”
“Doing? With Slattery? I have no idea what you’re talking about. He and I are not exactly on speaking terms right now. I want to talk to Sydney.”
Interesting. Maybe Braxton is out there on his own. It would be like Slattery to let him run. Then watch what pops up. But two can play that game.
“Okay. Give me a second.”
He muted the phone and walked back to where Donnelly and Walker were tied up. The Jason looked up and Singer pointed a finger at him. “Say anything and I’ll break your other arm.”
Walker was still slumped in the chair. Her left hand looked like a bloated piece of chopped steak.
“Walker! Wake up.” Singer shook her by the shoulders. “Walker!”
“Whaaat?” She raised her head.
“Your boyfriend’s on the phone. Say anything wrong and I’ll break your other hand. You understand?”
Walker nodded.
Singer unmuted his phone. “Okay, Braxton, say hello.” He held the phone down to Walker’s face.
“Sydney? Are you there?”
“Adam? Is that you?” Her voice was weak and trembling.
“Yes. I’m here. Are you okay?”
“I’m … alright. You need to look at MITRE, they might—”
Singer jerked the phone away and slapped Walker across the face. It was useless information now, but there was no need to give Braxton more than necessary.
Walker groaned and her head fell forward.
“What! What happened?” Braxton yelled through the phone.
“Nothing serious. Your girlfriend just got tired.”
“What do you want? I’ll do anything.”
He hadn’t said anything about MITRE. Maybe he didn’t know about Slattery and Cutler. That would make things easier.
“Where are you? Still in Nuremberg?”
Braxton hesitated. “Nearby.”
“How about a trade? You for Walker?”
“Okay.”
There had been no hesitation. This was going to work out just as he had planned. “Listen carefully. I’m only going to say this once. Come to Vienna. Meet me under the Anchor Clock at eleven tomorrow night.”
“The ‘Anchor Clock’? What’s that?”
“Look it up. And come alone.”
“No. You’ll be there with Sydney so I’ll bring a friend. Someone to take care of her.”
The consultant did have balls. Not that it will make any difference. “Okay. But not your friend from the CIA. If I see Slattery, or any cops, you’ll never see Walker again. Understand?”
“I understand. Tomorrow night at eleven.”
Singer hung up. It was time to make some preparations.
* * *
Braxton listened to the dial tone.
He should have been surprised, but everything that psychopath did was surprising. Braxton had thwarted his murder attempt in Maryland and helped end his client’s reign of terror in Switzerland. Why wouldn’t he want revenge?
He knew he was walking into mortal danger, but he had been responsible for what happened to Chu, Tueber and now Walker. This had to stop. If there was any chance he could free Walker, he had to try. Bravery had nothing to do with it. It was responsibility. Responsibility for his actions and responsibility to his friends. After the trade, he would find a way to kill Singer.
He punched the number of the only friend he had left.
“Fowler.” The ex-cops gruff voice was a relief to hear.
“Sam, it’s Adam.”
“Adam, where are you? Are you okay? It’s been two days. We’ve been waiting for your call.”
Damn. He had forgotten to call the office. Chu must be a wreck.
“I’m fine, Sam. But I need to ask you something. Can you come to Vienna?”
“Vienna? In Austria? I guess, but why?”
Braxton described his call with Singer and talking with Walker. “She doesn’t sound good Sam. I’ve got to get her back.”
“Adam. You have to tell Roger. He can help.”
“NO. I will not call him. And neither will you. He’ll do something stupid and Singer will find out. I know it. And we’ll never see Sydney. You’ve got to promise me, Sam. Promise.”
“Okay. I promise. Tell me what you want me to do.”
* * *
Slattery knew his message was equivocal. It was a shot across Singer’s bow to see how he would respond.
He had watched Gillum leave the message, then had returned to his office.
Lewis had congratulated him on the capture of Cutler. He had accepted the praise but knew it was only a partial victory. They had identified the leak, but Singer was still out there, with the frightening revelation about GPS and the man who had uncovered it. And now with Sydney Walker as well.
Singer had to be stopped. Permanently.
“Roger,” Lewis called from her desk. “Eric’s on the phone.”
Already? It had only been fifteen minutes since they had sent the message. His stomach jumped. He picked up the handset.
“Eric?”
“We got a response.”
Slattery held his breath. “Okay, what did he say?”
“Go to hell.”
Well, not completely unexpected. Singer didn’t give a damn about Cutler. She was just a conduit. A now useless one. She had no continuing value. “Thanks, Eric. Keep monitoring the account, but I doubt we’ll see any additional traffic. Have you gotten any farther finding the site?”
“You mentioned Vienna. That’s looking more likely. We’re slowly peeling away the layers and getting closer, but nothing any more precise.”
“Thanks, Eric. Talk with you later.”
Slattery hung up the phone. He was running out of options. He only had one play left.
“Cassie,” he called. “Call travel. I need another Gulfstream.”
Chapter 36
United States Embassy, Vienna, Austria
Wednesday, 8:45 a.m.
Slattery was sitting in a tiny, claustrophobic conference room in the secure subterranean-level of the Embassy of the United States of America in Vienna, Austria. He had contacted Lawrence Zachary, the Vienna Chief of Station, while he had been over the Atlantic in the Agency’s Gulfstream. Zachary had inquired about the reason for the unplanned visit and Slattery had been purposely vague. To his credit, Zachary had dropped the questions and prepared a quiet and uneventful entrance into the imposing alabaster neo-baroque building on Boltzmanngasse in the Alsergrund district of Vienna.
He had then arranged for the head of counterterrorism to set up in this secluded corner where he was unlikely to run into the Ambassador, or anyone important for that matter.
Slattery was going back over Singer’s file when his cell phone rang.
“Slattery.”
“Where are you, Roger? It took forever to connect.”
“Sam? Uh, I’m out of the office. What’s going on?”
“Adam’s in trouble.”
There’s a surprise. “What now?”
“He’s going to trade himself for Walker.”
“What! That’s insane. Did he talk with Singer?”
“Yes, Singer called him. I guess he got the number from Sydney’s phone.”
What the hell was Braxton thinking? The consultant was walking into a trap and he’d end up the next hostage. “He can’t trust Singer. You’ve got to stop him.”
“Fat chance of that. He talked with Walker and said she sounds pretty bad. That set him off. And he refuses to get you, or anyone else involved. He’ll probably never talk to me again if he finds out I even called you.”
How can this get any worse? Thank god at least Fowler still has a brain.
“Okay. We need to work this out. When is the trade?”
“Tonight, in Vienna.”
“Vienna? Where are you?”
“I just arrived in Vienna. I’m on my way to Adam’s hotel. You’ve got to help, Roger. I’m really worried about this.”
Slattery dropped his head in his hands. The pieces were moving too fast. Could he put things together in time?
“Do you know anything more about the trade? Time or location?”
“Adam said eleven o’clock. Under some antique clock or something.”
The Anchor Clock. As good a landmark as any.
“Can you get away from him later?”
“Probably. Maybe later this afternoon. But I’m staying in the Holiday Inn with Adam. Where could we meet?”
“I’ll get a room there and text you the number. Tell Adam you have to call your wife. Around six if you can. Give me a call if there’s any problem.”
“Thanks, Roger. I need to get both of them back.”
“I know, Sam. I’ll do what I can.”
Slattery hung up. He had the outline of a plan, but he needed local help. There wasn’t time to use Agency resources even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. It was better to keep this disaster private.
He needed to call in a favor.
* * *
Singer entered the office and saw Shahid typing away. Colors flashed over the monitors, hiding and exposing streams of text and images. Were these the veils of Scheherazade? The reason she chose her moniker?
He shrugged off the musings. There were more important things to discuss.
“I need your help, Sallie.”
Shahid looked up. “My help? For what?”
He described what he needed.
She shook her head. “No way. I’m a hacker. I stay in the shadows. I won’t do it.”
Singer raised his hands in mock defense. “Okay, okay. I understand. But how about an incentive? You get the take from this deal. All of it.”
Her eyes lit up. “All of it? Why?”
“This op is over. We’ve lost our insider. We have to shut down. The secret to staying alive in this business is not to leave patterns: move around, change your partners. We’ve had a good run. But it’s time to move on. Think of this as your severance package.”
Shahid stared at a pile of papers on her desk. Then up to her monitors. Singer was sure she could care less about what was being displayed. She was thinking of her off-shore accounts. And what she could do with a significant influx of cash.
“Let’s go over that plan again,” she said.
* * *
There was a knock on the conference room door and one of the embassy aides entered.
“Major Ostermann is here to see you, Mr. Slattery,” he said.
“Thank you, Henry. I’ll come up.”
Slattery walked up to the main floor and saw his visitor standing in the waiting area. He cleared him through security and the pair walked down the hall to a room Zachary had reserved. It looked, and smelled, like something out of an English gentleman’s club, with three walls of mahogany bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes, a pair of windows looking out onto Boltzmanngasse, and eight soft, brown leather armchairs paired in the room’s corners.
It was just the spot for a quiet discussion between diplomats. Or spooks. All that was missing was a tuxedoed butler carrying a silver tray of exclusive libations.