The Assassin

by Andrew Britton

  Thick black clouds were still moving in as Karl Lang walked up the sidewalk quickly, avoiding the withered trees sprouting out of the cracked cement and the cluster of youths arguing loudly outside the music shop. The trip from Potsdam had taken him twice as long as it should have, owing to a lengthy stop at a roadside café, where he’d consumed a simple meal of veal schnitzel, roast potatoes, and sauerkraut, all washed down with a strong wheat beer. After the first Hefeweizen, he’d consumed another two with surprising speed, still trying to clear his mind of the meeting he’d just attended.

  He knew he’d hidden it well, but the truth was that the woman had terrified him. Her presence alone was deeply unsettling, and although it was difficult to pick out the precise reason, he thought it might well stem from the way she moved. Every gesture was graceful and slow, but to an unnatural extent. It was almost as if she’d written down everything she was going to do for the day, and was taking great pleasure in prolonging each and every performance, immersing herself in the smallest details. Even more frightening was her voice. It was low, throaty, and strangely erotic, but it also held an odd quality that he couldn’t quite define. To Lang, it sounded as if she were trying to earn the trust of a small animal, only to strangle it once she had it in her arms.

  He shivered involuntarily, just thinking about it. Fortunately, he’d never have to see them again. He’d make a point of suggesting that Herr Rühmann deal with more savory people in the future, but he set the thought aside as he approached the door and punched a button with his thick forefinger.

  Rühmann employed a bookish young woman on the ground floor as the building’s caretaker. She answered immediately and buzzed him in. Lang crossed the cracked linoleum of the foyer and made his way to the elevator, unaware that the door behind him had hung open longer than usual. The brass doors to the elevator slid open, and he paused, hesitating. Rühmann had asked him to fax some paperwork to the storage facility in Montreal, effectively terminating the lease, and he’d left the originals in the car. He was about to turn back, but before he could, he felt something cold and hard pressing into the base of his neck. He stepped forward instinctively, moving into the elevator. A familiar voice said, “Stop right there. Hands out by your sides.”

  Slowly, Lang complied, his mind racing, stomach churning. Once his hands were up and cocked at the elbows, the muzzle moved away.

  “Turn, slowly.”

  Lang turned. Will Vanderveen was standing inside the doors, holding a suppressed HK Mark 23 in his right hand. The gun was now at waist level and close to his body; he was holding it more like a useful accessory than a murderous tool. Lang instantly thought of the Glock .40 concealed beneath his thin cotton jacket, but he knew he would never get it out in time. Behind Vanderveen, the woman stepped into the elevator. She examined the controls for a moment, then turned to face him.

  “You need a key, correct? To get to the top floor?”

  Lang nodded, trying to stop from trembling; even now, he couldn’t meet her eyes. “It’s in my pocket.”

  “Take it out, but do it slowly.”

  He did as she asked, holding it out in his right hand, but she shook her head. “Throw it to me.”

  Lang could barely understand her heavily accented English, but Vanderveen, seeing the confusion on his face, quickly repeated the instructions in German. Lang tossed Raseen the key. She picked it out of the air, then turned to the controls. Seconds later, the elevator jolted upward.

  For no apparent reason, Lang looked up at the sudden motion and didn’t see what happened next. Vanderveen raised the Mk23 and fired twice. The first shot pierced Lang’s heart. The second tore through his chest, coming to an abrupt halt against his spine. The German dropped to the floor of the elevator, groaned once, then went still.

  The elevator shuddered to a stop, and the doors slid open.

  The entrance hall in the fifth-floor apartment rivaled the foyer on the ground floor in size, but easily surpassed it in style. Recessed lighting played over neoclassical wall murals, and the antique parquet floor glistened beneath their feet. After pulling Lang’s body out of the elevator, Vanderveen checked the empty compartment quickly. There was no blood on the metal floor, and neither of the low-velocity rounds had exited Lang’s body. The doors closed, and Vanderveen paused to listen. He could hear music playing softly through a pair of double doors — Mendelssohn’s Piano Concerto No.1. He adjusted the pack he was wearing and started to move toward the music. Raseen trailed softly behind him, a suppressed Beretta .22 in her right hand.

  The entrance hall led into a small drawing room. They skirted the cluttered furnishings and stepped into a large office. The pale yellow Regency draperies were pulled back from the massive casement windows, which overlooked the slow-moving, gray-black waters of the Spree. The office was elegantly appointed, the walls upholstered with moss green velvet, a nineteenth-century chandelier hanging from the plasterwork ceiling. Couches covered with silk cushions were scattered over the Brussels weave carpet, and at one end of the room, a series of leather-bound bookcases held a vast quantity of expensive tomes. To the left, there was a second doorway, leading to an expansive dining room. Just inside the door, an eighteenth-century desk was positioned at an angle to the windows, affording its owner a fine view of the river.

  Behind the desk sat Thomas Rühmann, his neat silver head hunched over a series of documents. He glanced at his watch as they entered and started to speak without looking up. “Karl, where have you been? I need you to…”

  He looked up and trailed off, his eyes narrowing slightly. There was nothing in his face that hinted at fear; if anything, his expression was one of mild irritation. Vanderveen had expected as much; Rühmann had not reached his current station in life by being easily intimidated.

  “Who are you people? What are you doing here?”

  Vanderveen was not surprised that the Austrian arms dealer didn’t recognize him. He’d changed his appearance yet again the previous day. His close-cropped hair was now black and streaked with gray; his eyes were a pale, watery blue. They had only met once before. He had appeared in his natural state on that occasion, though he had used the name Erich Kohl.

  “It’s me, Thomas.” Vanderveen moved farther into the room, but Raseen hung back, tapping the Beretta against her denim-clad thigh. “Don’t you recognize my voice?”

  Rühmann’s face turned white, but it was his only concession. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly strong. “What do you want? We’ve finished our business. I fulfilled my end of the bargain.”

  “Stop right there,” Vanderveen said. Rühmann had started to move his right hand down to a drawer. “Stand up, please, and have a seat over here. I’m not sure what’s in the desk, but I think it’s best to remove any temptation.”

  The Austrian complied, selecting the armchair next to the one Vanderveen had indicated in a pointless display of disobedience. Meanwhile, Vanderveen checked the desk quickly. The second drawer held a nickel-plated Walther PPK. He tucked the handgun into his pocket and started going through the rest of the drawers.

  Rühmann had turned slightly in his seat. His back was arched in indignation, his face a picture of aristocratic outrage. “Kohl, what do you think you’re doing? You’re making a terrible mistake, my friend, if you think you can barge in here and threaten me like this….”

  While he was speaking, Raseen had crossed the room to take the chair opposite his. The Beretta was still in her hand, but she held it down by her side, out of view. Rühmann could not help but look at her, and when she opened her mouth, her melodious voice poured forth. From that point on, Vanderveen became part of the furniture.

  “Herr Rühmann, we are only here to ensure our security.” She leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs, tilting her head to the side. Everything about her posture suggested a calm, relaxed disposition. “We need all of the documents pertaining to the storage facility in Canada. We need anything that might link you or us to the device, including financial tra
nsactions, and we need it immediately. You see, we have reason to believe a man from the U.S. government is on his way to interrogate you, and we wish to stop that from happening.”

  “You mean you intend to kill me,” Rühmann said stiffly.

  “I didn’t say that,” Raseen pointed out softly. “All we want are the documents. You’ll have to come with us, of course, but we have no intention of killing you. You and your contacts are much too important to our organization.”

  “And where is Karl?”

  “I have no idea. We left him in Potsdam.”

  Rühmann seemed to draw into himself for a moment. His face was expressionless, but Raseen could see that his mind was moving quickly behind those dark blue eyes.

  “You say the U.S. government is behind this?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did they track me to Berlin?”

  “We’re not sure. They got your name from Mason, but that doesn’t explain how they tracked you here.” Raseen paused thoughtfully. “Of course, it might have something to do with the break-in at the German Embassy. I assume you heard about it.”

  “Bastards,” Rühmann hissed, his face contorting. “I told them they had to take me out of the database. I told them that a thousand times….”

  Raseen waved it off. “It’s not important. All that matters is getting you somewhere safe, along with any relevant documents.”

  “Relevant documents? If the Americans are coming here, I’ll have to destroy everything.”

  “How?”

  “Burn bags,” Rühmann answered absently. “They’re used by the military and the CIA. The ones I have are designed for instant use in the field. They burn the contents while the bag stays intact. I managed to get hold of them through my friends in the Bundeskabinett.”

  “What about a computer? I assume you have one.”

  “Yes, I have a laptop. I’ll have to pull out the hard drive.”

  He fell silent for a long moment, studying his hands, thinking it through. Finally, he said, “Where are you planning to use the device?”

  Vanderveen looked up to address the question. “You don’t need to know that.”

  “Bullshit!” Rühmann turned to glare at the younger man. “I’m the one the Americans are after. I think I deserve to know.”

  “It doesn’t concern you.”

  The Austrian didn’t seem to hear, and appeared to wither before their eyes, his face crumpling. “I knew this was a mistake from the start,” he said in a low voice. “It’s too big… It was always too big. Don’t you see? If you use the device in the States, I’m finished. The Americans know I was at Al Qaqaa. They managed to keep the story quiet, but a select few still know what was stolen out of that facility.”

  He looked at each of them in turn, finding nothing in their neutral expressions. “This has something to do with Paris, doesn’t it? That Iraqi minister who was killed.” His voice started to rise. “What about the prime minister in Baghdad? Was that part of it, too? Answer me!”

  “You supplied the weapons,” Vanderveen remarked quietly. “You had some idea where they were going. What do you think?”

  Rühmann didn’t seem to hear. “I should have stayed out of this,” he muttered. “It’s too big. I’ll never be able to move again.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Raseen said. “You took the money. You can’t back out now.”

  “They’ll trace the device to me.” The Austrian arms broker looked sick. “Thousands will die. They’ll never stop looking.”

  “They can’t prove a thing,” Vanderveen lied. He knew that Rühmann was the primary suspect with respect to the theft at Al Qaqaa in 2003. It was never intended that the Americans should learn of the Austrian’s involvement in the upcoming attack, but since he had been tied to Mason, the connection would eventually be made; it was all but inevitable. Still, the situation could be fixed easily enough. All Vanderveen had to do was pass additional instructions to the informant in New York. The informant, in turn, would suggest to his FBI handlers that Rühmann was working for the Iranians, which would further muddy the waters.

  “We’ve taken many precautions, Mr. Rühmann.” Raseen’s voice was low and strangely seductive. “Your continued well-being is very important to us.”

  “I see,” Rühmann replied. He was clearly skeptical. “You have an interesting way of showing your gratitude. You come here to warn me of danger, yet the first thing you do is show me your guns.”

  Raseen smiled gently, shooting a quick look at Vanderveen. He had already discovered a number of pertinent documents, which he’d stacked neatly on top of the desk. “Well, we didn’t know if you’d see it our way, Mr. Rühmann. You did have a gun of your own, after all.”

  “Right.” He looked over at Vanderveen, an annoyed expression crossing his face. “If you want my help, you can start by getting away from my desk.” He motioned to the Beretta in Raseen’s hand. “Do you mind?”

  She shook her head. “Go right ahead.”

  The Austrian stood warily and moved to the desk. Vanderveen stepped aside as the older man started pulling paperwork out of the drawers. The frustration was clearly taking hold, and he finally let it out in a bitter tirade. “This is ridiculous,” he spat, accidentally knocking a sheath of paperwork to the floor. “I don’t know how you found me, and I don’t care why you’re here. This kind of intrusion is completely unprofessional. I’ll never work with you people again, no matter how this—”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Raseen said, interrupting him calmly. “Our business relationship is very profitable for you. If you have any sense at all, you won’t throw it away over some hurt feelings.”

  Rühmann did not reply, his anger fading as he shot a curious glance to the door. Vanderveen was examining the frame, running his fingers over the lacquered wood. He walked the length of the wall, bouncing his knuckles against the velvet-covered surface. After a moment, he looked back to the Austrian.

  “What’s behind this wallpaper? Plaster?”

  Rühmann frowned. He seemed annoyed at the suggestion that his exquisite surroundings could be constructed of something so crude. “It was exposed brick when I bought the place. I had it covered with plaster to hold the wallpaper. Why?”

  Vanderveen frowned in turn. Ignoring the question, he walked back to the windows, his gaze fixed on the flat roofs of the buildings across the river. Realizing he wasn’t going to get an answer, the Austrian turned to a painting behind the desk, a large Turner landscape. He lifted it gently from the wall, revealing a safe.

  “Stop,” Raseen commanded. Vanderveen turned instantly, alarmed by the sharp note in her voice, but she waved him away.

  Walking over, she gestured for Rühmann to step aside. “What’s the combination?”

  He gave it to her, and she opened the safe. Inside, there were a number of burn bags and a small pile of numbered folders. No weapon. She gestured for him to continue. He pulled out the folders and started to push them into the bags, along with the documents stacked on the desk.

  It took less than five minutes to fill all the bags. Raseen used the time to unscrew a small panel on the bottom of Rühmann’s Hewlett-Packard laptop. Once she had the hard drive out, she slipped it into her pocket. Rühmann pulled the tabs on the burn bags, destroying the contents. All that emerged was a thin whisper of smoke. Vanderveen watched everything from his spot by the windows. His face was neutral, the gun resting on the ledge by his hand. He had dropped the backpack by his feet, and on several occasions he’d caught Rühmann staring at it with interest.

  The Austrian fell into the seat behind his desk and sighed wearily. “So, that’s it. When is this American supposed to arrive?”

  “Sometime tonight,” Vanderveen said. Kneeling, he unzipped the pack and started removing items. Some of the equipment had been supplied by the man in Dresden; the rest he had picked up himself at an electrical supply store. He pulled out the Semtex first, two half-pound blocks of grayish white material wrapped in green polyurethane
.

  Rühmann, leaning over his desk, recognized what he was looking at immediately. His eyes went wide. “What the hell are you doing with that?”

  Vanderveen did not reply. Setting the plastic explosive aside, he reached into the pack and produced a bundle of electrical blasting caps, a bulky roll of insulated copper wire, wire strippers, a handful of clothespins, and a pair of 6-volt batteries. Finally, he removed a soldering iron and a plastic bag filled with hundreds of steel ball bearings.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Rühmann repeated.

  Vanderveen looked up, but he didn’t offer an explanation. “Tell me something, Herr Rühmann. The door in the entrance hall… Does that lead to the stairwell?”

  This was information that had not been contained in the file. “Yes,” Rühmann said, obviously struggling to see the relevance. “It opens to a brief flight of stairs; then there’s another secure door on the fourth-floor landing. You need a code to get through.”

  “Is there an alarm?”

  “Yes, but it only activates my security monitors.”

  “Give me the code.”

  The Austrian recited four digits from memory.

  “Good.” Turning to Raseen, Vanderveen switched to Arabic. “I’m going to need some type of metal containers. Can you find me something like that? Coffee cans, for example? Look in the kitchen.”

  She went out as the Austrian looked on in utter confusion. Vanderveen was busy stripping the ends of a 20-foot length of wire when Raseen returned a minute later, bearing two large silver cans.