Sam strapped into her seat while Brock performed his pre-flight inspection. She scanned the area a dozen times, looking for anything or anyone that tweaked the antennae she’d developed in her years in the spy business. She saw nothing shifty, shady, or even mildly suspect. Which made her nervous.
Brock finished his walk-around, strapped into the seat next to Sam, ran through a few more checks, and started the engine.
Ten minutes later, they departed the surface of the earth, turned toward the big W on the compass, and followed the propeller as it clawed its way west.
They would have preferred an earlier start, but things just didn’t quite work out that way. Eleven hundred miles. Eight hours, as the crow flew. And Brock planned to fly as the crow flew, making as close to a straight line as possible between Hungary and England.
They re-debated the wisdom of their decision to rent an airplane and fly across Europe. But the debate didn’t last long. European rental car agencies all had Interpol on speed dial. It would be very difficult, even under an alias, to get all the way across Europe in a rental car.
And Sam was tired of stealing cars. It carried even lower odds of long-term success.
So they planned to make several refueling stops at small, out-of-the-way airports, hoping to rely on the relatively lax civil aviation oversight at local flight operations centers. The authorities simply didn’t watch recreational aviation the way they watched other transportation methods.
They bumped along at 140 nautical miles an hour, or “knots” in aviation parlance. Brock kept the airplane low to the ground, and took every opportunity to descend below the tops of ridge lines, peaks, and hills to make tracking them by radar as difficult as possible. The flight plan he’d left on file at the rental office said something about heading south, toward the border with Serbia, which was obvious madness. Nobody from Hungary went to Serbia. In fact, almost nobody from anywhere went to Serbia. He wasn’t sure the misdirection would be meaningful, but he felt it was worth a shot.
Once he left the Tata control tower’s airspace, Brock switched his electronic beacon off. Extremely illegal, but one could always blame equipment failure. Without a beacon, they became a thousand times harder to track by radar, overall an agreeable effect and a worthwhile risk, they decided. Brock planned to stay away from airports and cities, and to stay below a couple thousand feet above the ground. Few air traffic controllers would notice, and fewer still would care.
Brock expertly trimmed the aircraft for level flight. It was an intuitive thing, after all of those years, as natural as putting the left foot in front of the right. The F-16’s flight control computer trimmed itself, which was nothing short of luxurious, but Brock had stayed proficient flying small aircraft that required more constant attention. He was most at home with air under his ass.
The rhythmic throb of the aircraft engine and the vibration of flight lulled Sam quickly to sleep. She dozed fitfully.
Bratislava came and went. Then it was on to Salzburg. The miles disappeared beneath them, and the gas disappeared at a commensurate rate. They had to make a refueling stop.
Sam awoke as the sound of the engine changed. Brock had been given permission to land at a small regional airport beyond the outskirts of Salzburg. The scenery was mind-blowing, absolutely gorgeous. Castle remnants dotted the hills, vestiges of a more romantic millennium. And only slightly more feudal than the current millennium, Sam surmised groggily. Everyone was someone’s bitch. Or serf, as it were.
Brock set the flaps, lined himself up on the runway centerline, adjusted his glide path, and made small corrections all the way down the chute. When the aircraft wheels crossed the threshold, Brock pulled the power all the way back, eased back on the yoke, and settled in for landing.
The small aircraft hopped a little bit, then settled down nicely. Brock let it decelerate, exited the runway, found the right taxiway, and pulled to a stop in front of the small flight business office.
He parked between two similar light aircraft, ran through the shutdown checklist, and watched as the propeller slowed to a halt. Brock did his post-flight walk-around inspection while Sam went to buy more fuel.
The desk clerk was officious, playing into the Austrian stereotype, Sam thought with a small, tired smile. She tried a few words of German to break the ice, but it was thick ice. In the end, the credit card belonging to Sam’s alias was good for a full tank of fuel, but nary a smile from the man behind the counter.
Sam inquired about food, and the clerk pointed to a refrigerator on the far wall. She bought a pair of day-old sandwiches for fifteen Euro. She reckoned that airport prices were the same everywhere, regardless of the airport’s size.
She rejoined Brock at the airplane. Refueling took ten minutes, start to finish. Ten minutes more and they were airborne again, heading west, with Nuremberg on the nose.
The miles passed. They had long conversations over the intercom. Mundane, existential, and most points in between.
Sam enjoyed the view, and enjoyed Brock’s company, but found it hard not to mull over the situation.
Where was Mark Severn’s body? Who hired a gaggle of goons from Boston? Who hired the Shin Bet to look after her in Budapest? The waters were frustratingly muddy.
Russians in Boston. Not unheard of, obviously. But American Russians from Boston in Budapest — with guns and bad intentions — were another matter entirely. She made a mental note to ask Dan to research the travel history of the dead Russians’ known associates, if there were any known associates. Maybe seeing a list of plane trips taken by the dead guy’s inner circle in the recent past, particularly with a Russian or European destination, might give insight into who else was involved.
And it might give her a chance to get one step ahead, which would be a refreshing change of pace. She’d been no fewer than two steps behind since the whole mess began, seven million hours ago on Wednesday. She had been on her heels the whole time, reacting, responding to threats. It was no way to stay healthy, and it was time to change the game up.
Heidelberg soon appeared in the distance. “Don’t they have a castle there?” Sam asked.
“One of the largest and most famous in the world,” Brock said. “I’m going to take us as close as we can get without attracting attention. It’s one of the most amazing sights in Europe.”
He wasn’t wrong. A long bridge spanned the Neckar River, leading the way to the Heidelberg Castle, a fortress of yellowing stone, an accessible anachronism amidst the modern world of cell phones, computers, and satellites.
It was equal parts history and romance, mystery and mystique, and Sam was entranced, her mind racing to imagine the battles and intrigues the ancient walls must have witnessed.
She saw a thick, squat parapet. The wall had been blown out, heaving a gigantic chunk of castle structure into the grass nearby. Even from the air, Sam could see that the shattered parapet wall was impossibly thick. She had no idea how anything that stout could have been broken. “That was their weapons magazine,” Brock explained. “Where they kept all their gunpowder. It exploded centuries ago, maybe more. The force blew the whole thing apart.”
“Hard to imagine an explosion that powerful,” Sam said.
“Given the right amount of internal pressure, even the strongest vessel shatters,” Brock said, looking pointedly at Sam, the serious arch of his eyebrow balanced by a wry grin.
Sam nodded. She didn’t need help connecting the dots. The internal pressure had certainly been mounting in her world.
“I’m still more than a little bit concerned about you,” Brock said.
“What’s to be concerned about?” Sam asked with a smile. “Russian muscle ain’t what it used to be.”
Brock smiled, but it was short-lived, and it never quite reached his eyes. He looked tired.
A long silence passed.
“I love you, Sam,” he said, his voice soft and quiet, barely audible over the propeller. “But you need to understand that I can’t do this forever.”
21
They landed and refueled just west of Heidelberg, at another small airport whose name Sam never bothered to learn. The stop took longer than previously, and they used the opportunity to stretch their legs. Sam bought more shrink-wrapped sandwiches, and they were on their way again.
They skirted Luxembourg City, peering down into the steep river valley that had been turned into both a fortress and a town. “There’s an amazing Thai restaurant at the bottom of the canyon wall,” Brock said. “It’s built into the side of the cliff. It’s an incredible atmosphere.”
“Next time, maybe,” Sam said.
“Provided someone isn’t trying to kill you,” Brock said. Sam thought she heard an edge. She felt a bit of anger flare, but it was short-lived. Who could blame him? Her life wasn’t exactly conducive to peace and harmony at home, and she imagined it wasn’t easy for him to watch her cheat death on a monthly basis.
She let out a long sigh. She had some hard choices to make.
But first, she had to extract herself from the center of someone’s crosshairs. Existentialist musings would have to wait.
Charleroi was next, another fuel stop, followed by Calais. Then they crossed the channel to London. They had been following the sun all day, but it vastly outpaced them, and it was long past dark when their wheels finally kissed the earth for the last time. Just shy of midnight local time. It had been a long day, one that seemed to last a week.
“We need a real night’s rest,” Brock declared, eyes bleary from sustained concentration.
“No argument here.” They inquired at the flight counter about a nearby hotel, relieved to speak with someone who spoke their native tongue. The night manager at the flight office gave them a brochure for a small bed-and-breakfast nearby, and they called for a cab.
They checked into the B&B, and not a moment too soon, as fatigue dominated their movement and thoughts. Brock showered, and Sam sat idly on the edge of the bed, debating with herself. She had a phone call to make. Tom Davenport. She was dreading it, and she considered extending her already-lengthy incommunicado period with her boss.
But bad news rarely aged well. She dialed from the hotel room, using her alias’s credit card to pay the long distance charges, which she knew would be exorbitant.
Calling from the hotel was a risk. Maybe even an error. Phoning home on an un-sanitized line, from one’s hotel room, no less, wasn’t even close to pristine trade craft. But Sam concluded it wasn’t any worse than stumbling around at midnight searching for a phone, half-drunk with exhaustion.
As if by some cosmic folly mocking all of her rumination and cogitation over the phone call, Davenport didn’t answer. Sam left a message, something about things having gone a bit sideways, a few operational complications having arisen, and the like. Not her best performance, but she was relieved she didn’t have to talk to him.
She took off her clothes, stood under the weak British shower for a few moments, climbed into bed next to Brock, and fell asleep nearly as quickly as her head hit the pillow.
Sam awoke. She had no idea what time it was. Her side was killing her. She got up gingerly from the bed, stumbled to the bathroom, and gulped a painkiller.
She peered out the bathroom window. Daylight. Still morning, but not quite an early start.
She walked back into the bedroom, crawled back in bed, and roused Brock. “We shouldn’t stay in one spot for too long,” she said.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, stroked the small of her back, kissed the curve of her neck, and let one hand venture playfully south on her anatomy. “I think we can stay here eight more seconds,” he said.
Sam felt his growing arousal. She drew her leg across him, rolled him onto his back, kissed his mouth and neck, rubbed against his erection, felt the thrilling rush of blood to her sex, and let out a small gasp of pleasure as she took his full length.
It lasted nearly as long as Brock had predicted. Afterward, they lay in each other’s arms, breathless, tired, content.
In those moments, all was right in the world. Everything else dissolved. There was only the moment, the communion of souls, the confluence of lives, the perfection of a matched pair. “I need more of this in my life,” Sam said.
“I’m not the one who’s flying around the world, impaling myself on steel shafts,” Brock said with a wry smile.
Sam kissed his neck. “Something should be done about that.”
“Yeah. How do I talk to the person in charge of your life?”
“Great question. I’ll let you know when I find out.”
Brock tightened his grip around her, kissed her neck, caressed her shoulders. “Maybe elevate it on your agenda,” he said. “I’m even more game for a bit of adventure than the average guy, but this death and near-death business gets old.”
Sam rose, peeled back the dressing on her wound, winced as the tape tugged at a stitch, and cursed as she saw the blood and pus. “Tell me about it,” she said. They both agreed that she was going to need serious medical attention as soon as possible. But they had no idea when that might be.
They availed themselves of the breakfast that came with the bed-and-breakfast fee. A steaming cup of tea washed it down, and Sam allowed herself a sweet roll as a reward for surviving the past few days.
They made their way to a library on the outskirts of London where Sam used Brock’s laptop and the free Internet connection to place another phone call.
Tom Davenport answered this time. He sounded mellow and relaxed, a marked difference from his high-strung demeanor the last time they had spoken. “Sam, how wonderful to hear from you.”
“Tom, sounds like I caught you after cocktail hour.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“I’m not complaining. You sound like you’re in a good mood.”
“Conditionally, that’s true.”
“Contingent upon what?”
“Where you are at the moment,” Davenport said.
“Brock and I are in London.”
“I understand there’s an ID issue.”
“That’s right. Dan’s on it.”
“Good man, that Dan. Always great in a pinch. I’m glad you feel you can trust him.”
Clearly a barb. Sam didn’t take the bait.
“All you had to do was ask,” Davenport said. “I would have saved you the trip across Europe. I would have overnighted your new passports to Budapest.”
“Budapest had worn me thin. Besides, I thought people were cracking down on that kind of thing,” Sam said.
“I’m not ‘people’,” Davenport said. “And you were in play, in an evolving situation. I would have exercised my latitude not to inform the uptight parties.”
Sam was quiet. “Thank you, Tom. I suppose I owed you a call earlier.”
“I suppose you did.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t quite know who to trust.”
“I’m only your boss. Why would I possibly want to look out for you?”
“Once bitten…”
“I can’t change what happened to you before I took over,” Davenport said. “But I’m not those assholes, for one thing. And for another, a bad experience or two doesn’t give you permission to disobey orders. I told you to come home.”
“I’m sorry about that, Tom. It’s just that things were obviously moving fast, and something was obviously way beyond wrong.”
“Sam, you don’t know the half of it.”
“I have a long row of stitches in my gut that says I do know the half of it.”
“Yes,” Davenport said, a bit of sarcasm in his voice. “So I understand. I hope we can have a discussion about a few of your tactical decisions. And then there’s the body count. Where does it stand? Three? Or have you killed someone else in the last twelve hours?”
“Sounds like you know quite a bit about what’s been going on over here, Tom.”
“Yes, I do. Come home, and we’ll talk about it.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me earlier? May
be all of your knowledge and wisdom could have saved me a few pints of blood.”
Davenport laughed. Sam heard an edge of exasperation. “I did tell you, Sam. I told you it was classified. I told you I couldn’t discuss it with you over the phone. I told you to come home as soon as possible. The order still stands. I want you on a plane, today.”
“That’s our plan, Tom,” Sam said. “As soon as Brock’s new ID is ready. Until then, we’re going to lay low.”
“I don’t know what you mean when you say ‘lay low,’ but I imagine we might have different ideas on the subject. So I’ll be as clear as possible. I’m giving you a direct order not to pursue anything further in the Mark Severn case.”
Sam didn’t know why that angered her. It wasn’t like she was going to learn a lot while hiding out in London. But her hackles raised. “What the hell, Tom? We’re just going to walk away from the situation?”
“Yes, Sam, we are.”
“Don’t we owe it to Mark Severn to figure this out? I mean, what reason could we possibly have to abandon this case before we figure out what the hell is going on?”
“Sam, the investigation into Mark Severn’s death is officially closed.”
“Goddammit, Tom, what is the matter with you? The wrong stiff is on ice in Budapest, and there’s a gang of Russian pipe-swingers from Boston running around Europe right now, looking for us. They were a few seconds away from throwing me into the river yesterday. We have no idea who they’re working for, and we have no idea what their angle is. Why the hell are you closing this thing down?”
Davenport chuckled. “Because Mark Severn walked into the office today,” he said.
22
A dull boredom settled over David Swaringen. The luster and excitement of the command center environment had worn off a bit, and Swaringen had settled into a restive workaday lassitude. He scanned a wall full of monitors that showed absolutely nothing going on. This wasn’t going to be his life for the next decade, he hoped, hours and days of mind-numbing boredom punctuated by seconds of vicarious, voyeuristic excitement.
The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Page 68