The Jason Betrayal

by Jack Bowie

  “Adam, please help me.”

  Only twenty more steps and he would be there.

  “Adam, please.”

  Ten more.

  He reached out and grabbed her. She was safe!

  * * *

  Fowler watched as his friend walked toward the clock. He had never felt so helpless.

  He knew he shouldn’t, but he searched the area looking for any sign of Slattery. A glint in a window, an errant pedestrian, a shadow on a rooftop. There was nothing.

  He had slipped the tracker under Braxton’s collar when they had exchanged embraces. He prayed it would stay in place. And Singer wouldn’t find it.

  Braxton finally reached Walker. He watched as she threw her arms around his neck.

  Funny. She looked shorter than he remembered.

  * * *

  “I’m here, Sydney,” Braxton exclaimed. “It’s me, Adam. You’re safe.”

  “Thank you.”

  He grabbed the hood and pulled it off her head.

  It wasn’t Sydney. He was looking into the face of a child, with hideous dark makeup.

  “Who are—”

  That was when the child threw her arms around his neck. And he felt a pinch.

  * * *

  When Singer saw Braxton grab the hood, his left hand, buried in his pocket, pressed the button on a remote transmitter.

  Bauernmarkt exploded with flashes. The afternoon before, Singer’s team had placed eight remote-controlled smoke grenades in locations around the meeting place: trash bins, brick voids, light post enclosures, the underside of the bridge. Within seconds, the block was filled with thick, acrid, smoke. The clock disappeared in the fog.

  Singer called toward the BMW, it had been stolen that morning, and two of his associates, wearing gas masks, jumped out and ran toward Braxton. Oskar and Helmut were Austrian weightlifting champions who Singer used on operations that required a little extra muscle. This was a perfect example.

  Shahid struggled to hold the consultant up, but Oskar grabbed Braxton around the waist and hefted him onto his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. It didn’t look any more difficult than carrying a sack of flour.

  Helmut handed Shahid a mask. She pulled it over her head.

  The three of them ran back to Singer, he had retrieved his own mask and a backpack from the vehicle, and they followed him up Bauernmarkt.

  * * *

  The smoke completely obscured Heidi's image.

  Ostermann reached for his radio. “Falcon One, this is Falcon Zero. What do you see?”

  He had asked his team to use English in deference to their distinguished guest.

  “Nothing, Falcon Zero. I have no visual.”

  “Roger, Falcon One. Falcon Two?”

  “The same, Falcon Zero. The smoke is too dense. But it should dissipate in a few minutes.”

  “Roger, Falcon, Two. Stay in place until further orders.”

  “Roger, Falcon Zero.”

  “What now, Bernie?” Slattery asked.

  “Let’s go to infrared.” Ostermann typed a few commands on the console and the image on the monitor flashed. It turned a familiar grainy green.

  “There!” cried Slattery, pointing to the screen. Four small bright circles across the screen in a formation. One of the circles was larger than the others. “What do you think?”

  “Someone is probably carrying your man. But why is your female running with the others? Why didn’t she try to escape?”

  “That’s a good question. If I had to guess, she’s an imposter. It’s not our hostage.”

  Ostermann moved the console’s joystick to keep the circles in the center of the monitor.

  “Don’t run into anything,” Slattery said.

  “No worry. Heidi is above any buildings.”

  The dots turned and Heidi maneuvered to keep them in the center of the screen. Then they stopped and started disappearing, one by one.

  “What the hell?” Ostermann exclaimed.

  “Did they go into a building?” Slattery asked.

  “I don’t know. Switching back to visible.” The monitor flashed and a different image appeared. Two streets met at an intersection, buildings on every side.

  “Zoom in,” Slattery ordered. The area expanded. “This is where they disappeared. What is that?” He pointed to an odd structure by the side of one of the streets.

  “Shit,” Ostermann said. “It’s an entrance to the sewers.”

  Chapter 38

  Vienna, Austria

  Wednesday, 11:10 p.m.

  Singer led his team north, up Bauernmarkt, then turned right onto Fleischmarkt. One hundred meters farther, on the corner of Rotenturmstrasse, was a temporary maintenance entry to the Vienna sewer system. Singer had spotted it on a reconnaissance run the day before. When the group arrived at the entrance, the men exchanged their gas masks for LED headlamps that Singer produced from his backpack. Shahid refused to remove her mask —she said she would not go down into the labyrinth without it—and slid her lamp over it. Helmut took over the burden of their captive from Oskar and they descended the steep metal stairs into the blackness of the underground world, safely disappearing from the sight of any watchers.

  The Vienna sewer system was a marvel of civil engineering. The first sewers in the city were built by the Romans in the early second century for their military camp Vindobona. Very few additions were made for nearly two millennia. Then, in 1830, a devastating cholera epidemic, fueled by flooding of the Danube tributaries, killed over 2,000 Viennese. The city embarked on a massive project to build tunnels and cisterns to control the flow of the city’s refuse.

  Singer and his colleagues descended into one of the original Cholera sewers, collection troughs along each side of the River Wein. The river, a major Danube tributary that once flowed open through the center of the city, now ran underground behind arching brick and concrete walls built in 1898.

  Not just a network of concrete pipes, the Vienna system had spillways, aqueducts, even grottoes as the city’s waste traveled to treatment plants. In most locations, walkways had been built in the brick and masonry tunnels to facilitate access by maintenance crews.

  And now even tourists. Ever since Orson Welles as Harry Lime escaped from the police using the Vienna sewers in The Third Man, the system had become an international tourist attraction. Now for only ten Euros, you could enter the system at Karlsplatz, receive your safety helmet and headlamp, and be treated to a guided tour of Vienna’s underground wonder.

  Singer wasn’t a tourist, but he didn’t mind using the famous system to escape his enemies. From the foot of the steps, he turned south. He had decided this was the easiest route and one that was unlikely to be followed, even if Slattery could convince anyone to try. He didn’t know how the agent had planned to track Braxton, but he was sure that plan was now defeated. There was no way Slattery, and his likely Austrian colleagues, could track them in these depths. Unlike the world above, the sewers of Vienna were not yet filled with surveillance cameras.

  They walked in single file: Singer, then Shahid, Helmut with Braxton and finally Oskar. Their path was a maintenance catwalk, part of the masonry wall, protected from the flow of sewage two meters below by a fence made of rotting wooden posts and rails. He noticed Shahid always kept at least one hand on the shaky railing.

  The beams of their headlamps shot forward into the darkness, weaving back and forth across the walls with their movement.

  The air was what he had expected: warm, sour and fetid; not somewhere he would want to have to rush through. Still, he started to sweat. He looked back, concerned about Helmut, but the giant just plodded along, seemingly unbothered by his burden.

  They made good progress, crossing over an intersecting channel, then continuing south along a wide aqueduct. Here, the guard rail was constructed of iron rods rising from the walkway, each with a loop at its top. A braided steel cable running through the loops served as a handhold. About a block farther, they came to another landing. A ladder
rose vertically, into a pipe, just large enough for a man to fit through. Singer climbed up, unlocked the eight triangular plates at the top and pushed them open. He had seen the process from street-level and thought that it looked like a shark opening its mouth. Cool night air rushed down the tube.

  Singer emerged onto Stephansplatz. A few meters away, their escape van sat parked at the curb where Singer had left it five hours before. He pulled Shahid up—she immediately ripped off her mask, threw it into the street and collapsed on the sidewalk—then helped Helmut with Braxton, Oskar pushing from behind. Helmut, panting heavily from the climb up the ladder, dumped Braxton next to Shahid. Everyone basked in the fresh breeze.

  “Search him, we have to go,” Singer ordered, as he unlocked the doors to the van.

  Oskar gave Braxton a thorough pat-down, finding his wallet, cell phone and knife. He handed the phone to Shahid, who quickly ripped out the battery and SIM card, sticking the separate parts in her pants pocket. The wallet and knife went to Singer. He flipped open the knife, its blade gleaming under the light from the street lamp, then closed it and slipped it into his pocket.

  “Good choice,” he whispered.

  The wallet went into the backpack.

  “Your turn, Sallie,” he said.

  Shahid pulled a small RF sensor from the pocket of her jacket and wiped it over Braxton. There were no indications. Singer was surprised, but not unduly so. He had expected his enemies would principally rely on visual tracking.

  “He’s clean,” Singer declared. “Into the van.”

  Oskar and Helmut picked up Braxton and tossed him into the back of the van, then jumped in themselves and closed the door. Shahid went to the passenger’s door.

  Two minutes after emerging from the sewers, Singer drove off to the factory.

  * * *

  “They’re in the damn sewers?” Slattery couldn’t believe it. Singer had taken Braxton underground. “Where are they going?”

  “Let me look. I think there’s a map on the web.” Ostermann pecked at the keyboard and a new image finally appeared on one of the screens. It was a maze of red and blue lines.

  “They entered the sewers there. “Ostermann pointed to a nexus of lines in the center of the map.

  “That’s the sewers? It’s more complicated than the street map.”

  “Vienna has one of the oldest sewer systems in the world. It’s been under nearly constant construction since the early 1800s. Cholera, urban growth and two world wars take their toll. And now we’ve got goddamn tourists taking tours.”

  “Tours?”

  Ostermann shook his head. “It’s a long story. But you can see the problem. Most of these lines,” he swept his hand over the display, “have maintenance catwalks, cross-bridges and external access points. There’s no way of knowing where he’s going.”

  Slattery fell back in his chair. Singer was always one step ahead.

  “When does your tracker turn on?”

  He checked his watch. “Fifty more minutes. Midnight.”

  “Okay. We go back to your Plan A. I’ll call the team to meet us by the Ankeruhr. And we’ll pick up Heidi at the same time.”

  Ostermann turned to the Maus controller.

  Slattery refused to be discouraged. Even with this setback, he was closer to Singer than he’d been in two years. They were going to stop him. And get Braxton, Walker and Donnelly back safely. He had to believe that.

  “Sounds good. And I hope you’ve got room for one more. I know someone who will really want to join us.”

  * * *

  Braxton awoke with a pounding headache. His arms were pulled behind his back, his hands tied. He was sitting on a cold, hard floor, his legs, apparently unrestrained, stretched out. Sounds of machinery droned in the background.

  He chanced a look around. The only illumination came from two fluorescent lights hanging above him. Metal tables, wooden pallets and abandoned machines surrounded him. When he turned to his right he saw them. Donnelly and Walker, both tied to chairs, their heads drooped to their chests. Donnelly’s head was caked in blood and Walker’s was covered with an ugly brown slime.

  What the hell is that about?

  He saw the board across Walker’s chair, but couldn’t see her hands. He remembered what Walker had done to Singer and feared the worst.

  No one else seemed to be around. Farther to his right, over his shoulder, he saw more light coming from a room overlooking the rest of the floor.

  Is that where Singer and Scheherazade work?

  Having gotten a sense of his surroundings, Braxton tried to move. His arms were tied around the leg of a rusty workman’s table. He could move around the leg, but not much else. The table was firmly bolted to the floor; he couldn’t move or tip it.

  He took a chance. “Sydney?” he whispered.

  There was no movement.

  “Sydney?” he tried again.

  Nothing.

  “Sydney!”

  Walker’s head slowly raised. He nearly gasped at the bruises. “Adam?” Her voice was barely audible.

  “Yes. Are you alright?”

  Walker coughed. “I’ve been better. What the hell are you doing here?”

  At least she hasn’t lost all her spirit.

  “I’m here to rescue you.”

  She coughed again, but then it could have been a laugh.

  “Help … coming?” Her voice was weakening.

  “Ah, I think so. Soon.” It was a white lie, but he refused to believe this was the end.

  “Get … knife.” Her head dropped back down.

  Knife? What knife? She couldn’t be talking about his knife. He was sure Singer would have taken it.

  There must be a knife somewhere. Perhaps on his table. If he could get to it, they had a chance.

  Whoever had secured him must have been in a hurry. His wrists weren’t tied tightly; he could move them up and down. He could tell the leg had a square cross-section and was covered with spurs of rust. Worse than any grade of sandpaper he had ever known. Was the edge rough enough to cut his bonds?

  Braxton began rubbing his ties on the leg. He winced as sharp metal flakes broke off and cut his wrists.

  I hope these damn ties break before I bleed to death.

  Chapter 39

  Simmering, Vienna, Austria

  Wednesday, 11:50 p.m.

  Singer collapsed on the chair next to Shahid’s desk. He was tired; too tired. The evening’s activities had taken more out of him than he had expected. He could feel the cancer sapping his strength; weakening his life force. He needed this to be over.

  “Everything okay downstairs?” Shahid asked.

  “Yeah. Braxton’s still out. Oskar and Helmut have left with the van. Thanks again for the help.”

  She screwed her face into a disgusted expression.

  “You forgot to mention the goddamn sewer. It’ll take me a month to get the damn odor off.”

  He knew she would never have accepted the assignment if he had described their escape route. Even with the incentive. Not that any of it would make much difference. Soon everything would be resolved. For everyone.

  “Where’s the bidding?” he asked.

  “We’re up to twenty-five million for the data and the scientist. Not a bad haul.”

  “You’re up to twenty-five,” he corrected. “Good work. You can pull the trigger anytime. What will you do with all that?”

  Shahid paused and closed her eyes. “I think I’ll get away for a while. Go to someplace warm.”

  Singer found that hard to picture. Shahid sitting on a beach in a bathing suit? Drinking high-energy drinks? Tanning? He shivered.

  “After that,” she continued, “I’m not sure. But you’ve given me something to think about. There are some, ah, events in my past that I would like to revisit.”

  He could certainly relate to that, but it was surprising to hear from Shahid. She never talked about her history; it was like she never had one. But everyone deserved the chance to make
the past right. Even Shahid. Maybe he could—

  “Did you hear something downstairs?” she asked.

  “No. But I’ll take a look.” He pulled himself up from the chair. “Oh, Sallie. After you take care of the auction, why don’t you head on home? I’ll finish up around here.”

  “Sure, Singer, Thanks.”

  * * *

  The muscles in Braxton’s arms burned like hot irons. He had no idea whether his efforts had weakened the ties, but they had rubbed his wrists raw. Sharp pains shot up through his forearms.

  Neither Walker nor Donnelly had moved, but he had heard soft breathing. There was still a chance.

  He heard a door open and the sounds of steps to his right. He turned and saw a man’s legs appear below the second-floor platform. A few seconds later, his face came in view. It was Singer. Braxton let his arms fall.

  “Well, Adam. I see you’ve awakened. So good to see you again.”

  Singer walked to the table where Braxton was held and took an object from its top. He continued forward and Braxton saw it was a large iron mallet.

  If the table was covered in tools, maybe the knife Walker had mentioned was there as well. But how could he reach it?

  Singer moved to Walker, grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked it back.

  “Stop!” Braxton yelled.

  “Oh, Sydney doesn’t mind. Do you Sydney?” He slapped her across the face.

  Walker’s eyes fluttered open. “Bastard!”

  “That’s my girl.” He pounded the head of the mallet into his left hand. “It’s time we finished our previous business.”

  Braxton knew where this was heading. He couldn’t let Singer do it. He raised his arms, grabbed the table leg and pushed himself up. Then he pulled his feet under him until they pressed against the metal leg.

  “I was so angry last time that I hit the wrong hand. How stupid of me. Time to correct that.”

  Walker’s eyes popped open. Then she looked over to Braxton and looked down at the floor. What was she doing?

  “Here we go, Sydney. Something for old time’s sake.” He raised the mallet.

  “No!” Braxton lunged at Singer, his legs pushing with all their strength. The ties snapped free and he dove into Singer’s calves. The psychopath fell to the concrete floor, his head hitting the edge of a palette with a dull thud. The mallet slid across the floor past Donnelly’s chair.