The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller)

by David Khara

  These reporters seemed to be rediscovering scourges that had afflicted the underclass since the dawn of time, well before the advent of financial chicanery. Nothing new there. NBA and NFL franchises were busy trading players, but Eytan skimmed over the sports pages. In the Middle East, the situation remained unstable. In Africa, the West continued to plunder resources—a gigantic new oil field had been discovered. In the United States, Medicare reform was once more the big issue.

  There was a health scare in Mexico. An especially deadly influenza virus, according to the Times. Local and international organizations, under the supervision of the World Health Organization, had established quarantine procedures to isolate blah blah blah. Eytan smiled. It’s awesome how you can feed people the same old bullshit time and again without them noticing. In three months, face masks would be everywhere, pharmaceutical firms would be selling millions of doses of a miracle vaccine to overanxious or corrupt governments…

  After going through three sections with one eye on the news and the other on Corbin’s building, he felt like he was getting a permanent squint. The paper joined the remains of his breakfast in a nearby trashcan. Around ten, the sidewalks and streets began to busy up. Long-distance surveillance became tricky. Eytan considered crossing but had no desire to wind up a pancake on the blacktop.

  While waiting for the walk sign at the nearest crossing, Eytan noticed a black Chrysler limo pulling up outside the building. The limo didn’t stand out in any way in this upscale neighborhood. It was the tags that attracted Eytan’s attention—pale blue with a curved red band at the top and “Diplomat” clearly printed on them. Eytan memorized the number: D PR08-68 UN. He racked his brains. D for Diplomat, obviously. UN for the United Nations, simple. But he felt a growing sense of foreboding. Shit, what did PR stand for again?

  The traffic stopped. Pedestrians crossed. Two bulky guys got out of the limo, which immediately merged back into traffic. Eytan walked faster, then broke into a sprint as the guys entered the building.

  PR. The country code for Argentina.

  Crucial discovery: I can sleep without getting wasted the night before. Now that’s encouraging news. Bernard shook me up last night, but can I blame him? I’m caught up in something straight out of an Ian Fleming novel.

  Considering the circumstances, I’m shocked to realize that the events of last night have left me feeling great, like I’ve awakened from a long sleep, shucking off my torpor and stepping back into reality. But which reality? I’m confused, which is only natural. The trip to Switzerland will provide the key to this whole strange business. I’ll drop by the hospital to give Mom a hug before I leave. I owe her that, at least.

  The phone rings. I get up. Weird. Something’s wrong. The walls are straight, the floor’s flat. I’m not staggering. I was almost used to lurching instead of walking. In a straight line, the phone’s not so far. I pick up. A woman’s voice asks if I’m Jay Novacek. I nearly blow her off. I’m Jeremy Corbin. But I’m not sure the name’s very safe. So I say yes. She talks. The more she says, the less I understand. The handset slips from my grasp. My knees buckle. I crumple to the floor. I rewind the words. “I’m very sorry to tell you your mother died this morning from a heart attack. My sincere condolences. Could you drop by today to take care of some administrative matters?”

  I thought it would take longer for my world to collapse. My father, then my mother. The earthquake starts in my gut, and soon I’m trembling from head to foot. Tears erupt from my eyes. I want to trash the whole place, demolish the walls with my bare fists. A second later, I’m sobbing, sprawled on the rug. The pain is massive and overwhelming. Not her, not now.

  Suddenly, it hits me. I’m next.

  My cell phone vibrates. Startled, I grab it without thinking. It’s Bernard. “Bernard, Mom’s…”

  “I know. We have to act fast. You’re in danger. Do exactly what I say.” He talks, I listen. I sense he’s scared. I’m scared, too. Now I’m not sure I want to croak anymore. At least not before I’ve gotten to the bottom of all this. Not before I get payback.

  I skip the shower and get dressed fast. I stuff random clothes into my black leather travel bag. Passport in pocket, I throw on a jacket, pull my Yankees hat down low and head out. Following Bernard’s instructions, I bypass the elevator and take the stairs. Cigarette dangling, I race down them. Twelve flights at this speed will soon tone up those calves. I glance at my watch. Ten in the morning. I nearly slip on the thick red carpet that the building’s interior designer felt obliged to put in the lobby. Looks good, but it’s gonna kill someone one day.

  I glance down. A guy’s running up the stairs. Black suit, shades, buzz cut—the full Men in Black outfit. I get a nasty feeling about the guy. I double back, heading for my floor. Look up. Jesus, another guy—the first guy’s clone—is coming down. I’m trapped. No time to think. My only chance is the fire escape. Nobody’s going to save me. It won’t happen. The building’s full of money grubbers. At this time of day, they’re already at their desks. Through a door, down a hallway. Running. The two undertakers can’t be far behind. In under five seconds, I’m at the window.

  Shit! A third hit man has this base covered. He’s coming in. And like an idiot, I’m headed straight for him. I’m screwed. Weirdly, he’s not dressed like his buddies. They’re channeling the prez’s Secret Service operatives. He’s straight out of the woods, in combat pants and jacket, lumberjack boots, green long-sleeve crew-neck shirt and no shades. He’s as bald as a coot and has to be at least six-feet-six. I don’t like the look on his face, but I can admire the smooth way he draws two guns equipped with silencers.

  I look him straight in the eye, but it’s like he sees through me. He takes off feet first and whacks me in the belly with his size 14’s. Winded, I fall on my butt. I’ve been getting too friendly with the floor lately. Two muffled bangs. Then two more. It’s good to know dying doesn’t hurt. Woozy, I lower my head to check out the holes in my stomach. No blood.

  The bald guy’s flat-out facing me, guns outstretched, eyes focused on something over my head. Four cartridges bounce and roll on the carpet. I turn my head to see what’s behind me. The two goons are sprawled face-down. I spin back around to see the giant’s reaction. Without using his arms, he flips back onto his feet. Very impressive. The guy seems almost laid back. He holds out a paw the size of Michael Jordan’s. I grasp it and haul myself up with a lot less grace. “Who are you?” It’s as good a question as any.

  “You don’t recognize me?” he asks in surprise. I think. Nothing comes to mind.

  “No. Should I?” It’s as good an answer as any.

  “I’m your best friend.” Yul Brynner grins and clocks me. Back on my butt. But this time he’s punched my lights out.

  CHAPTER 11

  Bernard Dean was in a foul mood. In the last twenty-four hours, he’d received more bad news than in all his thirty years of active service. Daniel Corbin’s death was not a good sign. Ann’s death was tragic proof of that. Added to these personal losses, a liaison officer from Langley, William Pettygrow, had gone missing. Pettygrow’s unit had access to the details of every agent who needed a change of identity. A quick check confirmed Dean’s hunch—Pettygrow handled Corbin’s file. The reason for the soldiers’ little visit to Jeremy to announce his father’s death was simple. The twenty-year-old secret was out. All Dean had to find out now was who benefitted and why. The Swiss safe-deposit box, the key Ann kept—it was all part of an obscure and sinister puzzle.

  Dean thought back to the call he had taken five minutes earlier. The conversation disturbed him even more. Knowing that the call came from an undetectable encrypted cell phone didn’t help. But that voice echoed like a distant memory. They’d met. He’d bet his life on it. Fingers clenched on the wheel of his sedan, Dean was speeding through heavy traffic toward Central Park. It took him a good quarter hour to reach Jeremy’s building. He parked and reached into the glove box for his small-caliber pistol, which he kept in his hand, concealed unde
r his coat. At times like this, you couldn’t be too careful.

  Glancing left and right, he reached the entrance in a few strides. Following the Agency’s playbook to the letter, Dean ignored the elevator and took the stairs. In the absence of anybody else, friend or foe, on the staircase, he cursed his age as he climbed the steps. His lungs burned, and his thighs would be aching all day. His stamina was waning, but he still had surprising physical strength on his side and solid experience. The term “nonoperational” agent was never more appropriate, but aging provoked no existential angst for Dean. What it provoked was just one crucial question: If the anonymous phone call was a trap, would he be able to defend himself?

  He was still expecting to find out when he arrived outside Jeremy’s apartment, scanning the hallway and peering at the small wall lamps on either side of the elevator. Imitation gold lampshades—an ode to banality of the kind a good agent couldn’t resist. As per his telephone instructions, Dean examined the lamp on the left, running his fingers over it. Behind the lamp socket, he felt a mushy lump and a key. After several attempts, he pulled out the key and, to his disgust, the blob of freshly chewed gum with which his mysterious informer had stuck it in place. Gross-out schoolboy humor, he thought.

  Dean dropped the gum to the floor, pressed his ear to the wall next to the door and listened. Silence inside the bachelor pad. Noiselessly, he opened the door and entered a living room whose owner clearly had a very loose grip on the concept of cleanliness. The remains of a snack were scattered across a large glass coffee table. The closed shutters over the floor-to-ceiling windows allowed only a little light in. Tall speakers dominated the four corners of the room. A state-of-the-art hi-fi and plasma TV adorned the wall to Dean’s right. Fifties jazz posters hung alongside modern art. A battalion of empty bottles stood in rows on the floor near the beige leather couch. A glass ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts. More were scattered on the rug. If the living room had been designed for conviviality, it had been transformed into an altar to despair and self-neglect. The reek of cold tobacco tickled Dean’s throat.

  The CIA veteran walked down the short hallway to the bedroom. Through the open door, he glimpsed the foot of the bed. And on it, Jeremy’s feet.

  As laid-back as ever, Eytan sauntered across the hotel lobby. After one night in the place, he was known to absolutely everybody. For a secret agent, a high profile is the best way to go unnoticed, he joked to himself, even if he didn’t feel much like laughing. When a Metsada agent came across a car with Argentinean diplomatic plates, he had every reason to worry. Since the 1950s, the country had been home base for a whole bunch of Nazi fugitives and not just the small fry. At least he had eliminated two guys whose intentions were anything but amicable.

  But the true cause of Eytan’s bad mood was his encounter with Corbin. This surveillance assignment would only be trickier now that the chump had seen his face. The Israeli hit man had been forced to act, but the consequences discretion-wise were disastrous. That encounter changed everything. The call to Bernard Dean was one more complication, but he had to make sure Corbin would be in safe hands. Eytan never expected to cross paths with the CIA veteran again. In some respect, it was the only good thing that had happened all day.

  Eytan entered his suite, discarded his combat jacket and shirt on the king-size bed and opened the high-tech case that had been left for him at the hotel reception desk.

  CHAPTER 12

  Don’t take this the wrong way, sir, but are you sure there’s no alternative?” The young woman frowned with a combination of irritation and apprehension. “Jacqueline, ordinarily your insubordination amuses me, but not today. Please, don’t make me pull rank on you.” Bernard Dean couldn’t lose his temper with Jackie Walls. Any other agent would have felt the full force of his anger by now. The small blonde had always managed to wrap him round her little finger. He knew it, and usually it amused him.

  “Sir, I’m no expert in witness protection. I don’t mean to disobey orders, it’s just that I’m scared I’ll disappoint you.”

  “Barbie,” as her coworkers at Langley called her, was infuriatingly stubborn and surprisingly self-deprecating. “Jackie, save that for someone who’s never seen you at work.”

  Her bright, innocent smile emphasized the roundness of her cute face. “Oh yes, silly me. I can’t fool the man who trained me.” She put on a perfect mock-contrite pout.

  There, she’d done it again. Unable to resist, Dean rolled his eyes. “And for the last time, lose the pigtails. You look ridiculous.”

  “If you read the women’s magazines, sir, you’d know that pigtails are in this summer,” protested Jackie. Dean nodded toward the bathroom door. Grumbling, she headed for it.

  Dean leaned over Jeremy, who was painfully opening his eyes.

  A major scoop! St. Peter is black. And he’s looking at me with a worried expression. It’s not St. Peter; it’s Bernard. I must be alive. Apparently I can turn my head. Move my toes. And hands. But my hooter’s killing me. A quick glance tells me I’m in my bedroom, on my bed. What am I doing in my boxers and socks? Think, Jay. I was supposed to be on a plane headed for Switzerland with Bernard at my side. Instead, I’m half-naked at home, and Bernard’s looking at me as if I just popped out of the womb. There’s got to be a gap in my memory somewhere.

  Oh shit, it all comes back to me. The men in black chasing me, the bald giant, the right-cross to the snout. Gradually, I begin to focus. Bernard is talking, but not to me. A chick comes out of my bathroom. Blonde, no more than five-four, cute, small boobs, pretty. Late twenties, tops. What’s she doing here? She shakes her head, making her hair twirl. Her jeans and red blouse are a tight fit. I like her. I prick up my ears.

  “Happy now, sir?”

  Is it me, or is she taking the rise out of the old man?

  “Thank you. Sleeping Beauty has finished his nap,” snaps Bernard.

  Hey! I’ve had some nicknames in my time, but none that have so offended my alpha male sensitivities. The chick looks at me like a dog eyeing a juicy steak. Get an eyeful, baby. Make the most of it.

  “A hot little Beauty,” she opines.

  They’d better cut out the Beauty stuff right now. It’s my cue. “Why am I in my bed? Why were two guys chasing me? How come you’re here, Bernard? And who’s Buffy?”

  “Four questions on the bounce. I’m glad to see you’re fully functioning again. Allow me to reply, one by one. You’re in your bed because someone put you here after knocking you out cold. Your two attackers are dead. Their bodies have vanished into thin air somehow. I’m here because your Good Samaritan called me. He found my number in your cell phone. As for ‘Buffy,’ her name’s Jackie, and she’ll be your chaperone for the trip to Switzerland.”

  Bernard’s talking faster than usual. Is he worried? If so, who for? Himself or me? “Your bag wasn’t touched. Grab a shower and an aspirin, and get to the airport with Jackie. I’m staying in New York to coordinate the whole show.”

  I get up. Holy shit, Jackie really is tiny. I thought the Secret Service was pickier about the people they let in. “Sorry, miss, but…Bernard, are you sure she’s gonna be my guardian angel? The two goons and the Jolly Green Giant were in the superheavyweight category.” I quickly fill him in on the chase and my rescue by the giant stranger.

  “Give me more on the giant,” he says.

  “A white Michael Jordan, huge and incredibly agile for his size. I wasn’t in the best position to give you his precise stats.” Bernard nods but says nothing. The chick moistens her lips as she looks me up and down.

  “Jackie will take good care of you. Don’t be fooled by her size, or you’ll be in for a surprise. Powwow over. Get into that shower and get going. Your flight leaves JFK at 5:25. You arrive at 7:25 tomorrow morning, local time.”

  Seems like I never get to choose anymore. It’s a pain in the ass. I grab a smoke from the pack on the nightstand and light it up. “What about Mom?” I pull hard on my cigarette.

  “I’ll tell y
ou all about it in the car. Promise. Go!”

  Twenty minutes later, I’m back in Bernard’s car. My chaperones are up front, like Mommy and Daddy. I’m little Jimmy in the back. Cool. With a teddy bear and a coloring book, I’d be ready for summer camp.

  As soon as Bernard pulls away from the curb, he keeps his word and spills the beans. They think Mom was poisoned at the hospital by a woman disguised as a nurse. The security camera tapes are being studied to identify the suspect. He’ll know more when the results come through. To conclude, he recaps: Dad dies god knows how, Mom’s murdered, and some creeps are after me. Bernard’s conclusion is irrefutable.

  The Corbin is an endangered species.

  At the wheel of his pickup, Eytan had been idling for a good ten minutes a hundred or so yards behind Bernard Dean’s 7 Series.

  111a: surveillance. 111b: protection.

  Assassination, he knew. Abduction and exfiltration, he loved. Protection, this was his first time. Questions multiplied in his mind, but there were no answers. Over the last few weeks, he’d gathered scraps of information like pieces of a huge jigsaw that didn’t want to fit together.

  He was certain of one thing, at least. Jeremy was at the heart of this whole business. He was the bait for a big, very big, predator.

  CHAPTER 13

  Wewelsburg Castle, Westphalia, January, 1938.

  Behind his small steel-rimmed spectacles, he watched the learned assembly of scientists, archeologists and historians squabbling. The central theme of the meeting was: Was the Cloak of Odin, God of Gods of Asgard, in Finland or Norway? The question was important enough for some of the contributors to be ready to come to blows over it. The situation didn’t displease the reichsführer-SS. He found the posturing of these hopeless lice incredibly amusing. Since the order had been founded three years earlier, sterile debate and far-fetched projects had been the only items on the agenda. Nonetheless, the Study Society for Primordial Intellectual History represented a major step in furthering ethnic purification and would undoubtedly engender the Reich’s complete racial superiority.