Archer snorted. “If memory serves, you’re the same girl who spilled her guts using her work cell phone, last time we talked.”
“Touché,” Sam said. She hung up, dug from her pocket the slip of paper containing the phone numbers relevant to the case, and typed in the cell number that they’d earlier traced to Rome. She sent the number as a text message to Archer’s burner.
Then they busied themselves looking at tourist trinkets in the airport. There weren’t many American tourists buzzing around the globe since the dollar shat itself, but acting like tourists would give them a chance to spot a tail before they left the airport.
She felt her burner vibrate with an incoming text message from Big A. Hotel Bellariva, Pescara, Italy.
We’re in the right country, at least, Sam thought. She replied with a query: “How latent?” Meaning, how recently had the cell phone been active and tracked by the satellite?
Archer’s reply came quickly: 3 hrs. Sam was elated to be chasing a live lead.
She thanked Big A for his help, removed the SIM card from the burner, and flushed it down the toilet in a nearby women’s room. Then she wiped the handset clean of her fingerprints and dropped it in a sanitary napkin receptacle in the stall.
Now, where the hell is Pescara?
She rejoined Brock on the concourse, and they walked slowly, searching for a map of some sort. Their first notion was that Pescara might be the name of a district in Rome, but finding nothing resembling a map, they stepped into a trinket shop and asked the shopkeeper.
“Pescara is a quaint fishing village and tourist destination on the Adriatic coast,” the shopkeeper replied in practiced English.
“Which coast?” Sam asked, her geographic ignorance not feigned.
“East. East coast. Adriatic Sea.” The shopkeeper produced a map and pointed. Pescara was on the far side of the boot.
“How long to drive?” Sam asked.
The shopkeeper laughed. “Maybe a week, maybe two. Depends on your thirst. We serve vino in big pitchers here in Italia.”
“What if we’re in a hurry?” Brock asked.
“Then you should relax,” the shopkeeper advised. “You’re on vacation, no?”
“Right. But just the same,” Sam said, “what’s the quickest way to get there?”
The shopkeeper put on a disdainful look and shook her head. “Then fly. Three hundred Euro.” She pointed across the concourse to a sign advertising the services of a regional air carrier.
“Grazie,” Sam said.
“Prego,” the shopkeeper replied.
“I sure hope not,” Brock said as they walked toward the charter service. “Pretty sure I pulled out in time.”
12
“Holy buckets,” Trojan said, looking at his monitor. “I think a few of these guys are working!”
Vaneesh looked up from his own computer screen. “Which guys?”
“I sent out a dozen different trial versions to probe the NSA data acquisition system. Looks like three of them have pinged our download site.”
“So they worked? We’re in?”
“That’s what I’m saying. It looks that way. For the moment anyway.” Trojan clicked a few more keys. “Yep, they’ve definitely pinged our server, looking to download the payload file.”
Vaneesh’s expression soured. “I just got this damn thing to compile ten minutes ago. Now I have to test it for functionality. Could be a few hours before it’s ready to roll.”
Trojan frowned. “We may not have that much time. The virus is coded to start replicating, and it will eventually draw attention. I’d hate to get shut down before we even deliver the executables.” Meaning, there was a possibility that the NSA would discover and remove the virus from its data pipes before Vaneesh had a chance to finish the code that would allow the virus to intercept the Bitcoin laundering operation.
“No pressure,” Vaneesh said. “It’s just the fate of the free world.”
Just then, the door to the computer room burst open. Two men wearing camouflage fatigues and kevlar helmets strode in, assault rifles in their hands.
Trojan leapt to his feet.
“Jesus!” Vaneesh shouted. He nearly fell out of his chair.
“You can just call me Captain Gilmore,” one of the uniformed men said with an amused chuckle.
Archive stepped through the doorway. “Sorry for the commotion,” he said. “But our friends from NORTHCOM are here. This might become a very popular place once you two get your magic working, and I thought a little professional help might be appropriate.”
“You scared the living shit out of me,” Trojan said.
“Guilty conscience?” Gilmore asked with a chuckle. “Anyway, we’re the cavalry. Custer’s last stand, they said, so I thought I’d better get acquainted with the place we’re supposed to be protecting.”
“How many did you bring with you?” Vaneesh asked.
“Two dozen.”
“Let’s hope that’s enough,” Archive said.
“I can’t imagine it wouldn’t be,” Gilmore said, puffing his chest a bit.
“I bet you can’t,” Archive said to the uniformed man. “And I hope you’re right. Let’s allow these two gentlemen to get back to work, shall we? At the risk of melodrama, I daresay their task is of existential importance to what’s left of the nation.”
13
“Hello, Balzzack011,” Sabot said, a snarl in his voice.
Fredericks smiled. “Look at the brain on our little Domingo.”
“You sonuvabitch,” Sabot said, rising to his feet, jaw and chest jutting forward. “What did you do to the girls?”
“Relax, vato,” Fredericks said. “They’re fine. Absolutely peachy. Maybe better than ever.”
“Why all this?”
“All what?”
“This whole goddamned charade. The dungeon in the jungle. The bullshit about running from your employer.”
Fredericks laughed. “You’re a rube, aren’t you. You’ve done federal time, and you’ve even shoveled manure as a Bureau stooge, but you still don’t see it, do you?”
“I see you clear enough now, you lying sack of shit.”
Fredericks’ smile hardened. “What makes you think I’m lying?”
The question stopped Sabot short. What if Fredericks wasn’t lying? That would imply…
“So you really are in some sort of a bind, aren’t you?”
Fredericks snorted. “No, I’m just fond of your company, and the great smell here in the rectum of Central America,” he said. “Of course I need your help. That’s why I didn’t slit your throat. But I also needed a little plausible deniability to avoid getting crossways with the guy who’s paying me.”
Sabot shook his head. “Who is it? Who’s pulling your strings?”
Fredericks laughed derisively. “Do you think you’d recognize the name if I told you?”
Sabot’s anger swelled anew. “Why take Angie? What kind of a sadistic bastard messes with a man’s woman?”
“Insurance, little buddy.” Fredericks tossed another photograph at Sabot. Angie and Connie, both barely dressed, both glassy-eyed, both laughing heartily at some joke told by a greasy-looking asshole shoving a needle into his arm. “Those ladies know how to par-tay,” Fredericks said. “Like escaped nuns or something.”
Sabot charged, fists flying.
And then he was flat on his face, one arm wrenched behind his back and stretched an impossibly long way toward the nape of his neck, Fredericks’ considerable weight pressing Sabot’s chest into the disgusting carpet.
“I don’t blame you, little man,” Fredericks said, crushing Sabot with his weight. “I’d be pretty pissed off myself. But ask yourself if you’d rather be dead. Because that’s what you would have been if I gave a damn about following my orders. You’d never even have made it to Central America. That sedative on the plane, the one that made your skinny beaner ass sleep right through the stop in Tucson? That would have been cyanide instead. And I will kill you
, in two seconds or less, unless you get your head on straight right now.”
Fredericks shifted his weight and pressed his knee into the back of Sabot’s neck, jamming Sabot’s face into the unpadded carpet. The pain was excruciating, and Sabot worried his neck would break.
“How much pressure do you think it would take to snap your little spine?” Fredericks asked. “Do you think I weigh enough to make that happen? I did eat two of those greasy little burrito things for lunch today. My money’s on me, vato.” Fredericks wiggled his knee for additional emphasis, wrenching the skin behind Sabot’s ear and sending a stabbing pain through Sabot’s vertebrae.
Sabot struggled for breath, his windpipe also constricted by Fredericks’ ponderous heft. “Okay,” he wheezed.
Fredericks stood up, clasped Sabot’s armpits, and effortlessly lifted the smaller man to his feet. “That’s a good man!” Fredericks said with mock bonhomie. He made a show of straightening Sabot’s shirt and dusting off his shoulders. Fredericks extended his hand. “No hard feelings.”
Sabot eyeballed him, angry, embarrassed, and confused. Who did this fat bastard think he was?
Then he reluctantly took Fredericks’ hand, his own skinny computer hacker’s paw instantly lost in Fredericks’ crushing grip. The whole thing seemed a little surreal, like the end of a playground dust-up.
“Partner,” Fredericks said, pumping Sabot’s hand, wearing an exaggerated smile, clapping Sabot on the shoulder with his free hand.
Sabot glared, pride and body both hurt by Fredericks’ surprising agility and strength.
“Aw, c’mon now,” Fredericks chided. “Buck up little camper.” He put on an artificially bright smile. “This is going to be a very, very lucrative partnership. It’s going to make all those digi-dollars you stole before look like chickenfeed.”
Jesus. He knows. Sabot pondered the implications. Had he gone from frying pan to fire?
“What about Angie?” Sabot asked after a moment.
“First things first, beaner buddy. You have work to do.”
It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what Fredericks wanted. Hell, it was what Sabot wanted, too.
He didn’t resist. If he played his cards right, Sabot realized, there was a decent chance he could wind up in pretty good shape. It would take some careful manipulation, maybe a little misdirection, but it was certainly possible.
And it wasn’t like he had any better alternatives.
He got to work.
14
Off duty foot soldiers tended to drink. Especially foot soldiers in crime organizations. Their daily reality was sufficiently unpleasant that attaining an altered state was often more necessity than desire. Many of them had done unspeakable things, and guilt strengthened the compulsion to gain some psychological distance from themselves. No matter where you go, there you are, unless you’re drunk out of your mind.
Sam was betting that the foot soldier who owned the cell phone they’d traced to Pescara wouldn’t be much different. She and Brock arrived at the Hotel Bellariva without a clue where to begin searching for the phone’s owner, so she figured the hotel bar and restaurant was as good a place as any to start. There was always the possibility that their mark preferred getting pasted alone in his hotel room, or that he was a teetotaler, but in the absence of any better ideas, Sam and Brock bellied up to the bar.
The familiar scents of booze and bar nuts hit her nostrils, and for the briefest of moments, Sam was tempted to indulge. Her stomach was empty, and the burn of a vodka, neat, no twist, would feel pretty damn amazing right now, she thought.
But moderation wasn’t a gift she possessed and her sobriety was too hard-won, so she sighed and ordered a club soda for herself and a beer for Brock.
The hotel was nearly empty. Europe’s holiday season was long over, and the hotel had let its hair down a bit. The bartender sipped occasionally from a tall glass of wine, and the wait staff seemed more interested in the Italian reality show on TV than in the customers.
Of which there were half a dozen. There was an old man in his sixties, sharing a table with a fading glory in her forties. She clearly wasn’t what she once was, but she still looked like a catch for a codger. Neither looked like the person Sam was looking for; not because of their age or dress, but because of their eyes. Hard people had hard eyes, and a steely gaze transcended just about any disguise.
There was also a pair of attractive girls sharing an appetizer who looked to be of college age. They might prove useful later in the evening. Sam hoped they stayed.
Sam also noted some sort of business meeting taking place at a table for two. The middle-aged men were poring over documents spread out atop the table, voices rising occasionally as they jousted for verbal dominance in that annoyingly male fashion. They didn’t have the look, either. Their hands and midsections were a little too soft, in addition to lacking the permanently distracted gaze that muscle squad members almost universally developed over time.
Sam sighed. “Hungry?”
“I could eat your shoe,” Brock replied.
As the town’s name implied, seafood was de rigueur in Pescara. They ordered, sipped their drinks while the kitchen prepared their food, and discussed the predicament in low tones.
It was beginning to have the vibe of a snipe hunt, Sam decided. The lead that had brought them to Italy was a solid one, and the Zip Line hit that Alfonse Archer had dug up earlier in the day gave them definitive evidence that the cell phone in question had been at this address as recently as just a few hours ago, but they were beginning to feel the sort of frustrated ennui that usually preceded arriving at a dead end.
The meal was delicious, prepared with the famous Italian fervor that seemed incongruous with the mid-priced hotel atmosphere, and Sam and Brock ate in silence at the bar, a gauche Americanism that drew curious stares from the other patrons.
But there was a method to their madness, and it paid off just a few moments later when a tall, athletic man seated himself two places over from Sam’s position at the bar. His face had Slavic features and a prominent scar beneath one eye. His eyes were several steps beyond cold, and his mouth had a bit of a permanently etched sneer. Strong candidate, Sam decided.
She leaned over toward the stranger, covered one side of her mouth conspiratorially, and whispered, “Save me.”
The man regarded her, a quizzical look on his face.
“Save me,” Sam repeated. “This guy keeps hitting on me.” She gestured surreptitiously toward Brock, who was trying somewhat unsuccessfully to wear a nonchalant expression.
“You want me to tell him to get lost?” The man’s accent was tough for Sam to place. Eastern European? Baltic? Not quite Russian, but not quite non-Russian, either.
“I don’t want to hurt his feelings,” Sam said. “We work together.”
The man eyeballed Brock menacingly. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked Sam.
“Please do.”
The man motioned to the bartender. He ordered a vodka. Man after my own heart, Sam thought. Sam just asked for “another one,” and the bartender brought her another club soda.
“I’m Sheena,” she said, extending her hand. She had paperwork to back up the alias, so she went with it.
“Sheena?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “I’ll never forgive my mother. I’m in interior decorating. My horny friend and I are here to research coastal Italian decor for a client with more money than sense.”
The man smiled. The hardness in his features diminished, but didn’t entirely vanish. “Bo,” he said.
“Like Bo Jackson?” Sam asked.
He chuckled and shook his head. “Bojan.”
“Is that a Russian name?”
Irritation flashed across Bojan’s face. It was short-lived, but Sam caught it nonetheless. “Thankfully not, though the Russians still think they own us.”
“Own who?”
“The Serbs.” His chin lifted slightly as he pronounced the word.
“
When did the Russians own the Serbs?” Sam asked.
“Ever hear of the Cold War?”
“Ahh,” Sam said, nodding, making sure her cleavage was visible. “Right. I always confuse Russians and Soviets.” Not true, but it was best not to seem too intimidating. She wanted Bojan thinking about her boobs rather than her brains.
Bojan shook his head and smiled. “Me too. There’s a surprising number of Soviets still around,” he said, his high Slavic cheeks scrunching with his smile.
“Will you excuse me a moment?” Sam asked. “I just need to go freshen up a bit.” Bojan smiled at her. She caught the glimmer of hope in his eyes, and she also caught his micro-gaze down her shirt. She gave him a slightly naughty smile, and made a show of wiggling her ass a little bit more than normal on her way to the restroom, giving Brock a surreptitious wink over her shoulder when Bojan turned back to face the bar.
She didn’t go to the women’s room. Instead, she dug a fresh burner from her purse, powered it on, and dialed the number of the cell phone Big A had traced to this location earlier in the day. She needed to know whether she was wasting her time with Bojan, or whether they’d hit the jackpot. She pressed the call button and peered around the corner.
Sure enough. Bojan patted his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone, examined the number, and answered. “Bojan,” he said.
Bingo. His voice was gruff and unfriendly in her ear. She hung up without uttering a word, hustled to the women’s room, and disassembled and disposed of the burner, flushing yet another SIM card down yet another toilet. She touched up her makeup to add realism to her trip, then returned to the bar.
She gave Brock a nearly imperceptible nod as she sat back on her barstool. He took the cue. He finished his drink and retired to their room.
Over the course of half a dozen more rounds, Bojan’s tough guy exterior melted away to reveal a tough guy interior.
But even tough guys liked to have sex, a fact that Sam exploited expertly. She made it apparent to Bojan that she was in heat. She obliquely mentioned that the previous night, she’d felt lonely in the big hotel room, her eyes throwing the kind of come-hither glance that had encoded itself in the female genome about a trillion years ago.
The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Page 188