by K. J. Howe
Both Italian, both operating in the shadows—but on opposite sides of the law—they’d found common ground as participants in Operation Gladio and since then had opened lines of communication that had been profitable financially and on the intel front. Prospero found it ironic that he was the mobster in this equation yet almost certainly had a stronger moral code than his partner in crime.
Still, the risk was his alone in this hijacking. If he was successful, he’d be doing the world a service while making a favorable deal with the CIA, one that enhanced his wealth and protected him from prosecution. If his plan blew up . . . well, he didn’t want to go there now. No matter what, Gernot Dietrich had to be stopped. The pazzo austriaco thought he was the next Hitler, this time hoping to eradicate Arabs instead of Jews.
After the Second World War, clandestine stay-behind armies had been seeded all over Europe to protect against an imagined Soviet invasion. An expansion of Churchill’s black-ops Special Operations Executive, these paramilitary organizations were secretly funded and meant to operate in the shadows, overseen by NATO and supported by the CIA and MI6 as a bulwark against the spread of communism during the Cold War.
By the 1980s, most of the groups had mutated into quasi-terrorist paramilitaries or faded into obscurity, their memberships dissolved and their secret arms caches dismantled. In 1990, the Italian branch, Gladio, had been the first to be exposed to the world, but even after coming under the spotlight, it had never gone away completely. Prospero and Enzo had both worked for Gladio, carrying out anti-leftist operations, presumably under CIA control but more often than not working for their own benefit.
The Austrian branch, the OWSGV, had gone through a number of transformations over the years, but it had survived, sheltered in the 1990s and 2000s by successive US presidents. Now, under Dietrich’s leadership, they were completamente pazzo—bat-shit crazy.
“You have the plane—and the target is on board?” Enzo tapped his little finger on the crystal glass.
“Sì, the BBJ is under our control.” No need to expand on the complicating circumstances. Thea Paris would eventually have to capitulate and let his men on board.
“Bene, bene. By the way, I suspect Rudolph Krimm is feeding the Austrians information.”
Krimm was a former CIA agent Enzo used to work with. The guy was on a crusade against the Middle East, so it was no surprise to hear he was giving those murderous neo-Nazis intelligence. “You think Krimm might be supporting Dietrich’s plan?”
“Hard to say.”
What was it with Spruilli—had he lost his nerve? He wasn’t usually this ambivalent. Or maybe he knew something he wasn’t sharing? “I’ll handle the situation in Libya, make sure the target is secure.”
“And the truck?” Enzo paced, his fine-boned frame gliding across the hardwood floor.
“Still searching for it.” That damned truck full of Syrian refugees had to be stopped.
“Any news from your informant in Austria?”
“Unfortunately, he’s gone silent.” Prospero was more worried than he let on; the mole was a lifelong friend whom Prospero’s father had installed inside Dietrich’s operation.
“I hope he hasn’t been exposed.”
“He knows what he’s doing.”
“Have you tried reaching him through the dead drop?” Enzo asked.
“Of course.” Prospero felt a twinge of annoyance at being micromanaged. “Anything else?”
“Just that my contacts in Salzburg are reporting unusual levels of activity at Dietrich’s property.”
Prospero swore under his breath, staring at the drink in his hand. It suddenly didn’t hold the same interest it had five minutes ago. With all this activity in Austria, finding that truck before Dietrich made his move was critical. But more than one million refugees from the Middle East and Africa had streamed into Europe this year alone. Locating a single truck filled with asylum-seekers was proving to be more difficult than Prospero would ever admit.
“We need more information, and fast,” Spruilli said.
Prospero thunked down the undrunk portion of his Rusty Nail on the mahogany desk. “Then I’d better get going. Work your contacts. Keep looking. Let’s pray we’re not too late.”
Chapter 13
Johann rubbed his eyes, fighting to stay awake in math class. The teacher’s voice droned in the distance. After the horrifying spectacle that had kept him up half the night, he felt as if he were floating outside his body, reality having slipped its bonds.
He’d texted Uncle Karl again, hoping they could at least speak on the phone. He wanted to make sense of last night’s events with someone he trusted. But no answer. His stomach twisted—Karl had given him a birthday present every year. Not even texting to wish him a happy birthday was disappointing; actually, it was unsettling, which was worse.
His nemesis, David Taddington, sat at the back of the class, surrounded by his flock of bootlickers. Johann yawned, maybe a little too loudly. David shot him a condescending glance. Despite his better instincts, Johann remembered the Freiheitswächter medallion nestled in his pocket, and it gave him strength. If the American boy only knew about what had happened at his house last night, he wouldn’t dismiss Johann so readily.
Fatima smiled, and he smiled back. But a sudden, vivid, mental image of her gentle beauty marred by the gruesome effects of weaponized plague nauseated him, and his smile faded. Given her DNA, she would die just as horribly as Omar Kaleb had. The medallion now felt like a terrible burden.
The bell rang, jolting him out of his thoughts. He gathered his papers and books, shoving them into his knapsack. Hanging back, he let the popular kids leave the classroom first. Fatima was still typing notes into her laptop.
She closed the device and saw him standing there. Her eyes sparkled with warmth. “Free period?” Johann already knew that he and Fatima shared the same empty slot in their schedules.
“Let’s go out back.” The lingering mental image of the deadly gas hovering in the underground chamber tightened his chest. He craved the outdoors, fresh air, to clear his mind.
They headed out the rear door into the spacious yard, bypassing a storage shed to be greeted by a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains. The air was crisp, invigorating. A soft breeze brought a whiff of lavender. He longed to feel the same connection with Fatima they’d experienced yesterday on the bus ride home from skiing. Did she feel it too?
“You look tired. Up late celebrating your birthday?” she gently chided him.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about Schönbrunn.” Of course he couldn’t breathe a word about last night, but he had to work through some of his tumultuous feelings. He felt safe sharing his thoughts with Fatima, even though he barely knew her.
“I’m so sad. My whole family is. We prayed for the victims, their families—and the men who committed the horror.”
Surprise rippled in Johann’s mind. At first, he feared she might be sympathetic to the terrorists’ efforts, but, looking at her kind face, he knew that couldn’t be true. She was just a compassionate person.
“The attacker who got away—what do you think his punishment should be when he’s caught?” he asked.
“His fate is in Allah’s hands, not mine.”
“Don’t you think he deserves death?”
She hesitated, glancing at the ground. “I hate what those men did, what they stole from innocent people, children.”
“And if you could do something to stop the next attack, how far would you go?”
She stared into his eyes, perhaps sensing a hidden conversation below the surface. “I’d give my own life, if I had to.”
He could feel her conviction. She was much braver than he was. “How do you feel about secrets?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.
He looked at her blankly.
She smiled. “That’s what I would say if someone asked me to divulge one.”
“Oh, I see.” He forced a laugh, h
is hand touching the medallion hidden in his pocket. Could he share this secret with her? He’d sworn an oath to Father and the other men, but this knowledge felt too monumental to carry alone.
Fatima’s head snapped up, and she looked past his shoulder. He turned and followed her gaze. David and his group were headed in their direction, muttering among themselves like a swarm of angry bees.
Johann stepped in front of Fatima. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” But he did worry. The air buzzed with negative energy.
The group stopped a few feet away. David’s chin jutted forward, his gaze focused on Fatima. “Liam says he walked by your house last night and saw a stranger going in. Is your family harboring the terrorist from Schönbrunn?”
Fatima drew back, as if physically assaulted. “My cousin Abdul is visiting from the UAE.”
David looked down at her. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Johann straightened his shoulders. “Leave her alone—she had nothing to do with the attack.”
“How do you know? You bunking up with her during prayer time instead of sleeping at the family crypt?”
His friends laughed. Fatima’s face whitened. Anger pulsed at Johann’s core. “Leave now.”
“I need to find out what’s going on at this towelhead’s house.” David shot his hand toward Fatima, reaching for her hijab.
Johann’s instincts, honed during countless 6:00 a.m. training sessions, kicked in. He stepped forward, blocked David’s reach with his left arm, and slammed his right hand upward into the bully’s nose. Blood spurted into the air in a pink mist. Moving quickly, he kicked David’s feet from underneath him, toppling him onto his backside.
The group went quiet.
Tension crackled in the air.
David covered his face with his hands, making small animal noises. He glanced around, disoriented.
Johann grabbed Fatima’s hand and pulled her toward the school entrance.
“You’re going to pay for this!” David shouted, staggering to his feet.
“We all pay for our sins,” Johann murmured under his breath.
Something had snapped inside him. He’d never hit anyone before, but he was tired of being afraid. And now he was a Freiheitswächter. No one was going to bully him or his friends ever again.
Chapter 14
Rif slammed down the landline’s receiver. “She’s alive!” Hakan and Christos gave him questioning looks. “I spoke to a pilot who received a call from the plane Thea is on. They landed on an old deserted runway in the Libyan Desert.”
“And the boys?” Christos asked.
“Sorry, Christos, no idea. The communication was one way and didn’t cover the passengers.”
“That’s one of the harshest parts of the Sahara. Why land there?” Christos paced the room.
“Because it’s remote. An ideal place to take a hijacked plane,” Rif said.
“What else did the pilot say?” Hakan asked.
“Thea’s mayday gave their GPS coordinates. She also reported armed men surrounding them, but she’d repressurized the plane, so they couldn’t open the doors. She’s probably in a standoff with the hijackers.”
“Any way to reach her?” Christos asked.
“She would have contacted us if she could. The satphones have been jammed, and there’d be no cell service there.”
“Never good to be in the middle of nowhere,” Hakan said.
That’s for sure. Rif recollected the sad story of the World War II B-24 bomber, Lady Be Good, out on its first combat mission, the wreck of which was discovered two hundred kilometers north of Kufra after it had been missing for fifteen years. When Lady Be Good overshot its air base in a sandstorm and ran out of fuel, the crew had bailed out, possibly believing they were over the sea. But they landed in the desert more than 600 kilometers inland and started trudging for safety across the arid sand, slowly dying from dehydration in a place so forbidding, even the Bedouins refused to go there.
Rif shook off the dark thoughts. From the sound of it, dehydration was the least of Thea’s concerns.
“Any assets in the area?” Hakan asked.
“No one who can get there sooner than we can.” It’d take them four hours flying time to reach the GPS coordinates. Rif typed into his phone. “The rapid response team will meet me at the airport. Wheels up within the hour.” Several members of their ops teams were always on call for emergencies.
“You going to para in?”
“We’ll land nearby and come in dark.”
“I’ll work the situation from this end, see if I can rattle any political chains, get support from the local Tuareg or Tebu tribes.”
“If you reach Thea, tell her to keep stalling,” Rif said.
“Be safe, son.” Hakan squeezed his shoulder.
“Bring Thea and the boys home.” Christos’s mouth was a tight line.
Rif shook his godfather’s hand. He understood a little of the torment the oilman was going through. Christos had made some horrific decisions when it came to his children, decisions that had cost him his son’s life and his daughter’s trust.
“I’ll contact you when I know more.”
Chapter 15
Johann and Fatima sat at a corner table in St. Peter Stiftskeller, the oldest restaurant in Europe, dating back to Charlemagne’s time. The Dietrich family had been coming to the Salzburg landmark for generations, and Johann used Vater’s account whenever he dined there.
He’d wanted to escape school, David, and reality for a short time, and this was the place to do it, the familiar cathedral ceilings and dark wood surroundings providing comfort. Johann and Fatima dug into the crispy Wiener schnitzel and the tender beef of the Tafelspitz along with a host of other delicacies. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, but he’d missed dinner last night and hadn’t bothered with breakfast. The maître d’ treated him with respect, thanks to his father’s patronage, and that made him feel good. Truth be told, he wanted to impress Fatima, and there was no better display of old-world Austria than this restaurant.
“I’m so full, I might explode.” Fatima laughed, the soft sound most welcome after everything he’d been through during the last twenty-four hours.
“Finish your Wiener schnitzel or you get no Salzburger Nockerl.” He’d pre-ordered dessert. If only he could freeze this moment, linger in it forever.
Fatima sparkled with enthusiasm. “Salzburg is so beautiful. I hope my family can stay here forever,” she said.
“How long is your father’s contract for?” he asked. She’d told him her family had come to Austria because of her father’s work in plastics.
“We’re going home in two months—unless the contract is extended.”
She can’t leave. The words came unbidden to his mind. He wondered if somehow Father could help but then realized it was hopeless. He pushed those thoughts aside and tried to enjoy the moment.
“You’ve heard all about my family. Tell me about yours,” Fatima said.
“We lost my mother in a car accident five years ago.” Johann didn’t share the details.
She reached out and touched his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
He never wanted her to let go. “I miss her every day, but for my father it’s worse. He was never exactly a doting parent or the kind of man you’d open up to, but ever since the accident he’s become . . . unreachable.” Johann felt a little guilty describing his father that way, but it was true, even if it did seem like a betrayal to be confiding it to a relative stranger.
“My father, too. Although he does ask my mother’s advice when he thinks no one is listening.” She smiled and removed her hand, picking up her water glass.
“Women are the smart ones.” He smiled back. “I miss my mutti. My father is obsessed with perfection, and . . . the illness I have, Marfan syndrome, it came from his side of the family.”
She nodded in understanding. “So he feels responsible.”
“I’m a constant reminder that his genes are not perfect.”
“But he should be so proud of you—any father would be. You’re smart, funny, kind, and a great skier, much better than I could ever hope to be.” She laughed.
He laughed too, just happy to be in her company.
Her gaze became serious again. “Will you be expelled for hitting David?”
He snorted and shook his head. “Father donates so much money to the school that I could get away with pretty much anything.” He pictured Omar Kaleb’s bloody body and cringed.
“You okay?” Fatima asked, her dark eyes compassionate.
“I may have eaten too much. But don’t worry, I always save room for dessert.”
As if on cue, the head waiter pushed a gold-framed trolley in their direction, the peaked soufflé riding on top.
After they had been served, Johann leaned back in his seat. He wanted to witness Fatima’s delight as she sampled the dessert for the first time.
She scooped up the first spoonful, then another and another. “Incredible. It’s so light, like fluffy clouds in your mouth.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m going to be the size of a house if I learn that recipe.”
“Nonsense—you’re absolutely perfect, and you’ll always be perfect,” he blurted.
She blushed and smiled at him. He wanted to reach out, touch her, but the sight of his father entering the restaurant with an associate shattered the moment. Johann was sure Vater had mentioned having some business in Lausanne today. He swallowed, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t budge. It was a large restaurant. Could they escape without his father seeing them?
But no, the headwaiter had already gestured in their direction, happily pointing them out. His father seemed even taller than his six feet and six inches as he approached the table. Father’s face might look impassive to outsiders, but Johann could see the storm brewing in his deep-set eyes.
“Guten Tag. I didn’t realize today was a school holiday.” Vater let the words hang in the air. He was at his scariest at moments like this.