by K. J. Howe
Johann studied the stranger when he arrived. He was of average height and weight, with brown hair and eyes, dressed in brown slacks and a white dress shirt. Johann had expected someone more remarkable, but maybe that was the whole point. Forgettable, this man could easily blend into a crowd.
Father guided the stranger to a back corner of the room, not seeming to notice that Johann was within earshot where he had burrowed into the couch.
“Krimm, the plane has gone missing. From the security chatter, it sounds like it was skyjacked. Gladio?” Father asked.
“Perhaps. The question is, can we get her back in time?”
“Doubtful, but my contacts have their ear to the ground. A kidnap specialist with Quantum International named Thea Paris was on board the flight, but she escaped. Quantum will be negotiating for the release of the passengers.”
“Find those passengers before the negotiator does. It’s too late to recruit another scientist.” Krimm’s tone was peremptory, curt; he spoke to Johann’s father in a way Johann had never heard before.
“True, but even without her participation now, we can move ahead with phase one using the quantity we have,” Father said. “But we will eventually need her expertise in mass-production before we can launch the phase-two attack. We will get her back.”
“Good,” Krimm said. “What about the mole?”
“Dealt with.”
Johann shivered. Uncle Karl.
“Only a few of us are aware of the overarching plan, and I am sure the Gladio don’t know about the bioweapon.” His father’s voice was clipped, intense, as he tried to reassure Krimm.
“Then we implement phase one immediately.”
“The messengers will pick up the canisters tomorrow.”
So soon? Johann felt dread wash over him.
“Four refugee camps to start, yes?” Krimm asked.
“Yes, then we’ll expand from there. France, Germany, Greece . . . we’ll focus on the areas with the largest Arab populations.”
“You’ve done well, Gernot—all of you.”
“Thank you. All of us know how important this fight is for our future. Now, let me find Johann, my son, so you can meet him. He recently joined the cause.”
Johann wished the floor could open up and swallow him whole. The last thing in the world he wanted was to be a poster boy for the Freiheitswächter.
Chapter 45
Thea and Rif strode down the long plaza toward the entrance of St. Stephen’s Basilica, a magnificent neoclassical church built to honor the first king of Hungary. It had been rebuilt several times over the years, once because the original dome had collapsed before construction was even completed, taking the rest of the building with it, and again after aerial bombing during World War II had damaged it. And it looked amazing these days.
She’d had a brief text exchange with Prospero, and now she was meeting his representative in the basilica, a public space that, due to the ever-present crowds within, offered excellent cover for a meeting like this. Meanwhile, her other teammates were scattered throughout the city, procuring the vehicles and equipment they’d need for the mission.
“You call your father?” Rif asked.
“That I did.” She was still reeling from the revelation that Papa and the mafioso were in touch. “He claimed Prospero was making threats about the boys unless I came up with that damned truck.”
“You believe him?”
“Not really. Would you, after everything he’s done?”
As they climbed the steps to the church’s soaring entrance, she noticed Christ’s words in giant gold letters above the arch: Ego sum via veritas et vita: I am the way, the truth, and the life. Papa could have as easily taken that as his motto, the way he goes around changing the facts to suit himself.
Rif broke into her thoughts. “What possible reason could he have to work with Prospero?”
“I know, it doesn’t make sense. But something is off.” She stopped mid-stride, struck by a sudden thought. “Hey, do me a favor and ask Brown if he can check Prospero’s phone records from during the Liberata negotiation.”
Rif raised an eyebrow, sounding doubtful. “I’ll ask, but that’s time travel you’re talking about. You think Christos and Prospero might have been in touch back then?”
“Maybe. Let’s hope I’m wrong.”
They took the next few steps in silence; then Rif spoke up. “Speaking of fathers, Hakan sent an update. No more news on the jet passengers or the truck, but get this: apparently, the motto for the Gladio is Silendo libertatem servo, ‘In silence we serve freedom,’” Rif said.
“I’d love to hear Prospero explain how hijacking serves freedom,” Thea muttered. “Did Hakan have any luck locating the 737?” she asked.
“Nothing yet. Because of the damage to the plane, they’d have had to fly below ten thousand feet, making it difficult to locate them on the radar,” Rif said. “Anyway, they couldn’t have gone far. Hakan will find it.”
The iconic church towered above the square, history seeping from every stone. “Twelve minutes before the meet.” Perhaps she would have time to say a quick prayer for Ayan, Jabari, and the other passengers.
“I’ll have eyes on you the entire time.” Rif inserted his earbud. Thea’s was already lodged in her ear.
“We’re live?” he asked.
“Reading you, loud and clear.”
“Code word yellow if you need me,” Rif said.
Thea had been to St. Stephen’s Basilica once before, when she’d squeezed in a day of sightseeing on her way back to London from a mission in Syria. Two years ago, she’d led an insertion team that rescued a Dutch aid worker taken hostage by al-Nusra jihadists in the northwestern part of the country. The beautiful church had seemed like a refuge after what had been a difficult extraction, but now it felt menacing. Context is everything.
Rif hung back outside so she could enter first. Dark and cool, the enormous building could hold more than 8,500 people, making countersurveillance a challenge.
Precious stones as well as burgundy, black, and white marble adorned the grand interior, all set off against the gleaming gold leaf of the vaulted, painted ceiling and ubiquitous trim. The world-renowned statue of St. Stephen at the main altar, the magnificent stained-glass windows, and the massive carved wooden pews were awe inspiring, but she ignored the beauty around her and scanned the crowd for anyone who stood out or was trying to blend in. Someone like me.
No one so far.
She slipped a bill into the donation box and paused to light a candle for her brother, remembering their last moments together in Zimbabwe—his rage, his pain. Rest in peace, Nikos. I miss you.
She worked her way around the pews, looking for anything out of the ordinary. She passed the small chapel to the left of the main altar that held the “Holy Dexter,” King Stephen’s mummified right hand, revered for its “incorruptibility.” I doubt that, but he was king more than a millennium ago, so who can argue with the guy’s rep now?
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Rif entering the basilica, moving toward the left aisle, which gave him clear sight lines to most of the church. He strolled casually, eyes in constant motion.
A few people prayed in the pews, but most of the crowd cruised the aisles of the church, eager to check off the box on their itinerary before moving on to the next attraction.
She threaded through the throng, narrowly avoiding being impaled by tour guides’ flags and selfie sticks. Slipping into the last pew, she sat close to the aisle for quick egress. With a mirror app on her phone, she pretended to text while monitoring her surroundings.
Seconds later, a large red-haired woman wearing a flower-print dress plopped down beside her, a strong British accent revealing her home country. “Lovely top, dear.”
“Thanks, it’s Anne Fontaine.”
“Just fabulous. If my husband drags me to one more heritage site, I will go mad. I’d rather be back at the hotel drinking Pimm’s and reading Jilly Cooper b
efore we head to dinner.”
Two minutes until the meet. She had to get rid of this woman. “You’re not going to the event, then?” Thea improvised.
“What event?” The woman leaned closer, her face glowing with exertion.
“At the Bestsellers Bookstore, around the corner. I heard Martina Cole is doing a book signing or something there . . .” Thea glanced at her watch. “Right about now.”
“The Martina Cole?” She pushed herself off the bench. “I’ve always wanted to meet her—fancy her being here in Hungary. Thank you so much.” She headed off, no doubt in search of her husband, who would have to bear the brunt of her disappointment when she found out the author wasn’t actually there. But at least she’d be in a bookstore and away from the historical sites.
She scanned her surroundings, spotting Rif on the other side of the basilica. He might have been trying to hold back a smile, having overheard every word.
Several large groups entered St. Stephen’s, collapsing umbrellas and shaking out their coats. Must have started raining, so the tourists were seeking sanctuary.
A man with scraggly facial hair, a leather jacket, and an olive-colored messenger bag slid into the pew beside her. “Liberata?”
He was dry, so he must have been inside for a while—she had to admit the approach was good. She reached into her pocket and pressed a button on her cell to pair her phone with his. “What should I call you?”
He ignored the question. “The truck entering Budapest will have this Greek license plate; the refugees are hidden inside, behind cargo. Bring the vehicle to these GPS coordinates in Turkey.” He passed her a sheet of paper.
“I need more details. Hundreds of trucks come into the city every hour.”
He reached into his messenger bag, then handed her a grainy photo of a large GMC truck at least twenty years old. “This is it.”
“What’s so special about this vehicle?”
“Just do the job.”
“First I need confirmation the plane’s passengers are safe, especially the Kuria boys.”
He showed her a live feed of the prisoners on his phone screen. The buzz of the crowds faded, her full attention on the video unfolding on the screen. Ayan, Jabari, and the other passengers were inside what looked like a large shed or garage. The boys were playing cards on the floor. She breathed a sigh of relief. They looked healthy, unharmed, unafraid. No windows in the frame, so she couldn’t see outside. She studied the items in the room, searching for clues to their location.
“I want access to the feed.”
“Deliver the truck, and you’ll get the passengers back.”
“No harm in letting me keep an eye on them.”
He reached into his jacket, pulled out a second cell phone, and pushed a button. Seconds later, two of Bassam’s guards appeared in the video. They aimed AK-47s at the boys, who were thankfully so involved in their game that they were oblivious.
“Tell them to back off.” Thea clenched her fists.
“Find that truck.” The man stood and merged into the crowds, heading deeper into the church.
“Stay on him,” Thea told Rif. It would help if they could follow the man back to where he worked or lived.
Rif’s height allowed him to see over the crowd. “Got him.”
She headed in his direction. “You still have him?”
“He’s close to the right tower.”
“Coming to meet you,” she said.
“Way too crowded.”
“That’s why he chose this location.”
“Dammit.”
“What?” She quickened her step, dodging tour groups speaking different languages.
“He disappeared. Turned the corner and vanished.”
“No sign of him?” she asked.
Seconds passed.
“Nothing. He’s gone.”
She caught up to Rif, searching the area. Not a trace. They looked for any hidden doors but couldn’t find any without conducting a more thorough, and attention-getting, search.
“At least the boys are safe,” Rif said.
“For now.”
Chapter 46
Prospero paced the Turkish carpet in Aslan’s living room, talking to his contact in Budapest on a burner cell. He’d prefer to be personally supervising the hunt for the truck, but he needed to keep an eye on his insurance.
“You were right. They tried to follow me out of the church,” his man said.
“They’re professionals. Be prepared.”
“The live feed was effective.”
“If that truck reaches the Parliament Building . . .”
“We’ll have a team near the Chain Bridge, ready to block it off.”
“Low-key. Remember, no authorities.” If discovered, Gernot Dietrich’s plan would create havoc across Europe. If the police got their hands on the truck, there was no telling what would happen. “We don’t want widespread panic.”
“My men are keeping an eye on Liberata’s movements. I’ll report in later.”
Loud voices distracted him. At first he thought it was on the other end of the line in Budapest, but he realized quickly that the live feed was still running on a nearby computer. Something was going on in the outbuilding.
“Don’t disappoint me.” He ended the call and moved to the computer.
Luciano had Ayan Kuria in a headlock.
“Let him go!” Mike Dillman was a few feet away, yelling at Prospero’s nephew.
“He’s just a kid,” Laverdeen said.
“He b-bit me.” Luciano was enraged.
“What do you expect? You keep poking him with that stupid stick.” Dillman gestured toward the baton in Luciano’s hand.
Jabari grabbed Luciano’s right arm, trying to pry his brother loose. Luciano punched him with his free hand. The other hostages circled around the fight for a better view.
Uffa! Che idiota!
Prospero rushed down the hall and out the back door. His hip ached down to the marrow. They were in for some weather—snow, perhaps, given the temperature. He hurried down the cobblestone pathway to the outbuilding, hoping he wasn’t too late to prevent bloodshed.
The icy mountain air made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Bassam and his guards were already inside, but they seemed unsure about what they should do, given that Luciano was taking on two children. The other hostages were closing in, ignoring the threat of the rifles.
“Stop it now.” Prospero’s voice cut through the chaos.
Silence descended on the outbuilding.
“Get out.” Staring at Luciano, Prospero gestured with one thumb toward the door.
“The k-k-id had it c-c-coming.” His nephew’s mouth contorted with the effort of getting the words out.
Ayan had a dazed look on his face, his chest heaving with desperate gasps.
“I’m not asking again. Leave.” Prospero’s back stiffened.
Luciano glared at Dillman. The Texan smirked. His nephew stormed out of the building, reaching for his pack of cigarettes.
Tension filled the air, the hostages gathered together. Prospero’s patience had evaporated. “Any more disturbances like this, there will be penalties.”
“Don’t let that creep come in here anymore. He tortures the kids,” Dillman said.
“You’re not in a position to give orders.” Prospero’s fists clenched.
“Get him under control. He’s a loose cannon,” Laverdeen said.
Prospero studied the concerned faces, knowing they were right. The only person unaffected by the commotion seemed to be Ocean, though he could see a slight tightening around her eyes. Movement in a corner of the shed caught his attention. Karlsson was huddled on the floor, hugging himself and rocking back and forth.
“Ayan, Jabari, come with me.”
“Wait, where are you taking them?” Dillman asked, taking a step forward.
“None of your damn business.”
Bassam raised his AK-47. The Texan backed off.
Th
e kids followed him outside, skirting the area where Luciano stood, his back to them, blowing smoke rings into the frosty air.
Prospero headed for the house, using the rear door near the kitchen to enter. Inside was one of the domestics, a young girl, baking desserts. He grabbed a plate, tossed a few cookies onto it, and perched himself on a chair at the marble counter. “Sit,” he told the boys.
The boys scrambled onto stools, hungry gazes glued to the snacks.
“Go ahead.”
They each grabbed a cookie, downing it quickly in big bites.
“Have as many as you like.”
He didn’t have to ask twice. The boys were quite thin, wiry. He remembered how much he ate at their age.
The young cook opened the fridge and brought out a carton of milk. She poured two glasses without saying a word, placing them in front of the boys. Then she started making sandwiches. He let her go ahead. Maybe he’d have one himself.
“You two need to stop irritating Luciano.”
“He’s a bad man,” Ayan said between bites.
Prospero was inclined to agree. “But he’s your boss while you’re here. Do what he says, and things will be better for you.”
“He should leave us alone, or Thea will get him,” Jabari said.
“Yes, I’m sure she will. How do you know Ms. Paris, anyway?”
“From the orphanage in Kanzi,” the older boy said. “Her brother, Nikos, saved us from the warlord. But then Nikos died. Just like our mama and papa.”
“Mi dispiace moltissimo.”
“What?” Ayan wrinkled his forehead.
“It’s what Italians say when you’ve lost someone.” He remembered the day of his father’s funeral, how so many backstabbing sycophants had expressed their “deepest regrets” with those very words. Mouths moving in all the right ways but eyes revealing their true feelings.
The housemaid placed a large stack of ham and Swiss cheese sandwiches in front of the boys. They dove in, and Prospero joined them.
“These are better than in the airplane,” said Jabari.
“Of course. Airline food is horrible.” Prospero smiled.
“When can we go home?” Ayan asked.