by Jack Bowie
Once inside, the pair shared a handshake and sat down in one of the corners.
“Thank you for coming, Bernie,” Slattery began. “I’m in a bit of a fix.”
Bernhardt “Bernie” Ostermann was a major in the Wiener Einsatzgruppe Alarmabteilung, Vienna’s dedicated police tactical unit. The WEGA, as it was known, had similar training and responsibilities to Austria’s EKO Cobra Federal tactical unit, but operated solely within the capital city. Slattery had met Ostermann on a NATO joint terrorism task force, and the two had struck a friendship. They both had risen through their respective ranks and now held positions of significant responsibility. Slattery hoped his friend could help.
“Of course, Roger. But I certainly hadn’t expected a personal call from the CIA’s head of counterterrorism. You usually appear accompanied by a squad of adoring acolytes.”
Slattery smiled despite himself. Ostermann was a tough, by-the-book street cop, and never hesitated in poking at Slattery’s vaunted Agency position. Not that that position meant a damn at the moment.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures, Bernie. There’s been a kidnapping, someone I know. Another friend is going to trade himself for her tonight. But the friend doesn’t want any police involvement.”
“Are these people your agents?”
Slattery was digging himself a deeper and deeper hole, but he didn’t know what else to do. “No. Civilians who got messed up in something way over their head.”
“That’s a big ask, Roger. Kidnapping is a very serious crime in Europe. Unfortunately, it’s a lot more common than most people think. But we both know it’s best to get in front of the situation. Fast and hard. Why handle this any differently?”
“This kidnapper is not a normal criminal. He was one of us.”
“Jesus.”
Time to drop the last ball. “Did you read about the abduction of one of our scientists in Budapest?”
“Yeah. I saw that.” Ostermann leaned forward in his chair. Slattery had gotten his attention. “You think these are connected?”
Telling Ostermann about Donnelly was another risk, but the cop needed to know the importance of the situation.
“I know they are, Bernie. It’s the same man. I can’t take any chances of losing this guy. If he senses any involvement from law enforcement he will disappear and we’ll never find him or his hostages.”
“Okay, but why call me? Why not use your own assets?”
“Not enough time. It would take me days to get approval and bring in a team. I need something local, my friend.”
Slattery hoped Ostermann would buy the explanation. Timing was an issue, but so was keeping this operation under the radar for now.
“I assume you have a plan?” The cop didn’t miss a thing.
“We have to track him back to his hideout. Then we go in. Full force.”
“Can we put a tracker on your man?”
“Perhaps. I’ve got a new toy from our tech guys I can try. But the kidnapper is clever. I need a Plan B.”
“What can I do?”
“Didn’t I hear you had a new toy? A surveillance drone?”
“Ah, you have heard of this? A new design from BAE. Very small, very quiet, very efficient. We call it the Maus.”
“The Mouse. Very clever. Can you get one? Today?”
Ostermann looked at Slattery like he had lost his mind. “You’re serious aren’t you?”
“Deadly serious. The lives of three of my citizens depend on it.”
* * *
Braxton opened the door and saw his friend standing very uncomfortably in the hall. He stepped back and let the ex-cop step in.
It was a tiny room, even smaller than his room in Nuremberg: a single bed, one night stand, a small desk with one roller chair. Fowler looked at the chair and dropped onto the bed. Braxton pulled over the chair.
“How was the flight?”
“Awful. Do you know they don’t even serve real meals anymore?”
“Yeah. I heard that.”
“How are you doing?”
Braxton sighed. “I’ve been better. I can’t get Sydney out of my head. Didn’t sleep very well last night.”
“We’ll get her back, Adam. Have you thought any more about calling in the professionals?”
“No, Sam. I can’t.” He didn’t want to have this argument again. “Please. I have to do this my way. Are you in or not?”
“I’m in. What do I need to do?”
“We drive up to this Anchor Clock. It’s on Bauernmarkt. Singer will walk Sydney out and leave her under the clock. I’ll go out to meet her and send her back to you. Then I’ll wait for Singer.”
“How do you know he’ll let her go?”
“If he doesn’t, I don’t go out. But he will. He wants me. But you have to promise me to take care of Sydney. Whatever happens, you keep her safe.” He had to make Fowler understand. This was all about Walker.
Fowler put his hands back and leaned into the bed. He looked tired.
“Okay. I understand. Have you got any kind of weapon? Just in case.”
Braxton reached into his pocket and handed his recent purchase to his friend.
Fowler opened the knife, studied the blade, then closed it and handed it back.
“Nice. At least you’ve got something. Now, we need to do some planning. Have you got a map?”
* * *
Ostermann had registered in the Holiday Inn and promptly walked out, passing the key card to Slattery as he walked in. The agent had checked the reception area, then taken the elevator to Ostermann’s room for the meeting with Fowler.
Promptly at six, he heard a knock at the door. He checked the security eye, then opened it for his friend.
Fowler walked into the room and looked around.
“You look tired, Sam,” Slattery said.
“It’s been a long day, Roger. Didn’t sleep all that well on the plane.”
“I’m sure that’s not the half of it. Let’s sit down.” He directed his friend to the narrow sofa squeezed into the side of the room. It bent under the weight.
“Thanks for coming,” Slattery continued. “I know it wasn’t easy.”
“I still feel like shit going behind Adam’s back,” Fowler said. “But he won’t listen to reason.”
“No way to stop him?”
“Absolutely not. He’s sure the only way to get Sydney back is to sacrifice himself. Not all that surprising. He cares more for her than he lets on.”
Slattery nodded. With all Braxton and Walker had been through he wasn’t surprised.
“Did Adam tell you the plan?”
“Yes. And it’s as screwed up as you’d expect.” Fowler related the directions Braxton had gotten from Singer.
“He doesn’t have a chance, does he?” His friend’s voice had dropped to a whisper.
Slattery had known Fowler for almost ten years, ever since a suspicious murder case put them on parallel paths. They had knocked heads—a hard-nosed D.C. cop and a slippery CIA spook were oil and water—but eventually became friends over a shared passion for hot Mexican food and Dos Equis beer.
Now Slattery had to bring his friend back from the brink and enlist his help, even if it was the longest shot yet.
“Let’s not get ahead of things. We can use this to catch Singer. If you’re willing to help me.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a small box and popped it open. Reaching inside, he extracted a silver disk, about the size of a dime, and handed it to Fowler. “This is a tracker. You need to put it somewhere on Braxton’s clothes, maybe under a coat collar. We’ll be able to follow where he goes.”
Fowler turned the disk over in his fingers. “They keep getting smaller, don’t they? But won’t Singer be able to find this sucker with a detector?”
“Not this one, Sam. It’s got some special features. I’m hoping it’ll do the job.”
Fowler winced at the agent’s lack of confidence but put the disk in his pocket. “I’ll get it on Adam. You be
damn sure it does the job.”
Slattery didn’t blame Fowler for his attitude. He was worried about Braxton. And Walker.
But Slattery had even more worries. If the tracker failed, or was detected, and Ostermann’s toy couldn’t back them up, Singer would be in the wind with the secrets. And Slattery would likely have to live with three more deaths.
He had to break the tension before Fowler left. He needed his friend to focus on the exchange. “Oh, one more thing. We found the traitor.”
Fowler snapped his attention back to his friend. “Was it Donnelly after all?”
“No. Not even a Jason. It was the Program Manager at MITRE, Candice Cutler. She had access to everything Jason produced.”
“Jesus. Why did she do it?”
“Just for the money apparently. She was a friend of Singer’s at Princeton and they kept in touch. When she got the job at MITRE, the temptation was too much to ignore. She and Singer had a pretty good racket going. Until now.”
“Give her everything she deserves, Roger. You can execute her for all I care.”
Chapter 37
Holiday Inn, Vienna, Austria
Wednesday, 7:30 p.m.
Braxton met Fowler downstairs at 7:30 to get something to eat. He had spent the afternoon doing “normal” things: reading mail, surfing the web, checking on contracts—anything to avoid thinking about the upcoming exchange.
He had decided not to “get his affairs in order” as his father might have said. That would have been accepting defeat, something he refused to permit. First, he would free Walker. Then, he would take care of Singer.
Braxton had made a few decisions about his business, however, and had sent a note to Chu to put the steps in motion. Follow-up could wait until he returned to Tysons Corner.
Chu had asked how things were going, of course. She appeared more upbeat than she had when he had left. There was no way he could tell her what was really happening, so he had said things were fine and hoped she would forgive him when she learned the truth.
The receptionist recommended a small Chinese restaurant a few blocks away. He and Fowler walked under a light mist, the remnants of a rainstorm that had passed through mid-afternoon. The restaurant was clean and neat, owned by an elderly Chinese couple who personally greeted every patron and watched over the food preparation like a Marine drill instructor.
They decided to share an order of General Tso’s chicken and one of kung pao beef. The food came quickly and they dug in, washing it down with two bottles of Tsingtao beer. Their conversation was stilted and forced. Neither of them wanted to address the elephant in the room: the impending confrontation with Singer.
Braxton couldn’t get Singer’s instructions out of his head. After sending Walker to Fowler, he would wait for Singer to return. He didn’t want to think about what would happen after that. The only thing that counted was that Walker would be free.
He knew Singer would be armed and ready. There was nothing short of a suicide vest that would stop him. And that was a truly foolish idea. He would have to find a different way.
After finishing their meal, they ordered another round of beers and sat quietly, nursing the drinks to pass the time.
At ten o’clock, Fowler spoke up. “It’s time to go, Adam.”
Braxton paid the bill and they walked to the hotel in silence. They collected the car from the garage and Braxton took them back into the night.
He drove onto Schonbrunner Strasse, then to Rechte Wienzeille and finally Opernring, following the ring roads to Schottenring along the Danube Canal. This late on a weekday night, traffic was light and Braxton had no trouble negotiating the tight turns. He took the Salztorgasse exit south and maneuvered through the narrow streets to Hoher Markt.
He pulled to a stop along Hoher Markt at the foot of Bauernmarkt. They got out of the car and stood on the corner. A damp wind blew from the west. The street, empty of both pedestrians and vehicles, was wet from the afternoon’s rain, the mix of water and oil reflecting rainbows of colors.
Ahead, up Bauernmarkt, an enclosed pedestrian bridge linked the second floors of the two buildings on each side of the street. In the middle of the bridge was the Anchor Clock, or Ankeruhr. It was a massive Art Nouveau sculpture, over a story high. The bridge and clock had been built in 1914 by the Anker Insurance Company to link the two buildings that were then the headquarters of the company.
Hardly a typical timepiece, the clock’s most prominent feature was a pair of huge figures that stood on each side of the clock’s center, as if they were standing in the bridge. Every hour, a new figure moved across the space, and at noon, twelve different figures paraded across the area, to the accompaniment of period music. The figures themselves were individuals of historical significance to Vienna, including the composer Haydn, the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius, Charlemagne, and Emperor Maximilian I of the Hapsburg monarchy. The clock was a major Vienna attraction.
“One more time, Adam,” Fowler finally said. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do. This has all been my fault. I have to try to fix it.” Braxton hugged his friend. Fowler returned the gesture.
“Sam?” Braxton asked after he had pulled away.
“Yes?”
“I forgive you.”
“What?”
“I know you must have contacted Slattery. You’ll always be a cop.” He scanned the buildings on each side of the clock. “I don’t see him, but I assume he’s around somewhere. I just hope he stays out of the way.” Braxton started to step away from the car, then stopped. “Oh, when I spoke with Sydney, she told me to look at MITRE. I think she meant the leak could be there. Tell Roger.”
Fowler looked conflicted. “Ah, about that. Roger found the traitor. Sydney was right. It was the Jason Program Manager. Sydney’s boss.”
Braxton smiled and exhaled a deep breath. He had been right about Fowler and Slattery. And now his investigation was over. The assignment was successfully completed. Hawthorne, and Jason, were exonerated. He could move on without that hanging over his head.
“Thank you, Sam. It’s good to know that’s behind us. In case anything happens.”
“Adam, you can’t think that …”
Braxton saw the glow of headlights pan across the buildings on the side of the road. He turned and saw a dark BMW sedan approaching from the end of Bauernmarkt beyond the clock.
“He’s here, Sam. It’s time.”
* * *
They were parked on Wipplingerstrasse, two blocks away from Bauernmarkt in a Kögel step van owned by WEGA. The name of a local electrical contractor had been painted on its side. Slattery had moved from a claustrophobic conference room to the even more claustrophobic van filled with electronic equipment. It hardly seemed like a move up.
He was sitting next to Ostermann under a narrow collapsible tabletop. The top was covered with communications equipment and two LCD monitors hung on the wall.
“Looks like Braxton is in place,” Ostermann said pointing to one of the monitors.
The monitor showed an overhead view of Bauernmarkt with Braxton’s car at the bottom of the field of view. Two heads, clearly Braxton and Fowler, stood outside the car.
“The Mouse puts up a pretty good image,” Slattery replied.
“It should, for what it cost. It has collision avoidance, image stabilization and auto-tracking. The image from the street lamps is pretty good right now. But she’s got infrared if we need it.”
“She?”
Ostermann smiled. “We decided to give this Maus a name. She’s Heidi.”
“Heidi? You’re serious?”
The cop’s face dropped. “What’s wrong with Heidi? It’s my daughter’s name.”
Crap. Slattery usually did better than this. “I’m sorry, Bernie, I shouldn’t—”
The smile instantly returned. “Just messing with you, Roger. I’m not even married.”
Slattery shook his head and returned the grin. Ostermann must like humor to break the te
nsion. “Okay. I guess I deserve that. But back to work. Where’s the rest of your team?”
“I have two officers in empty apartments on each side of the clock. They have good coverage of the block. If anything happens to Heidi, they’ll pick up surveillance.”
Slattery saw movement on the display. “Here comes Singer.”
A new car appeared at the top of the screen. It stopped, then the driver got out, opened the rear door, and pulled someone from the seat. The driver pushed the individual forward.
“Can we get any closer?” Slattery asked.
“You got it.”
The image zoomed on the figures. The face of one was clear, but the other person’s head appeared covered by a hood.
“That’s Singer,” Slattery said. “The other should be Walker. How closely can we track them?”
“Heidi’s GPS resolution is exceptional; less than a foot.”
“Great.” At least until Donnelly’s report gets released and GPS goes to hell. “Here we go.”
* * *
Braxton watched as Singer pushed Walker forward. She was dressed in her black jeans and hiking boots; a bulky blue parka covered her upper body and a black hood was pulled over her head.
Singer stood behind her, using her body as a shield and prodding her forward with jabs from a semi-automatic pistol.
They kept walking, stopping when they were under the ornate clock. Singer said something into Walker’s ear, then grasped her shoulders as if to hold her in place. Then he starting walking, backward, toward his car, keeping the pistol trained on Walker.
Braxton‘s heart was racing. He had to get to Walker. There was only one goal. Free his friend.
When Singer neared the front of his car, he stopped and waved his pistol at Braxton to come forward. It immediately returned to point at Walker’s back.
Braxton took a deep breath and began walking. He estimated it was only about a hundred feet to Walker. It felt like a mile. As he came closer, he heard something. A voice? It became louder as he approached his friend.
“Adam …”
Walker was calling his name. He picked up his pace.