“I can support an STO this morning if you like,” Kim said.
“Thank you, but we don’t have time for that today. Besides, Archer is a quick study . . . and I know you’ll set him straight when he screws up.”
Kim chuckled politely and signed off.
“Will that be all, Mr. Briggs?” the voice from the ceiling asked.
“Question: Have Archer’s phone and ID card been activated?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Then that is all, Coordinator,” Briggs stated. His hand disappeared into his pocket and then reappeared holding a mobile phone. He tossed it to AJ. “Here you go, the only phone you’ll ever need again.”
AJ turned the sleek mobile phone over in his hands. “Is this Abbey’s handiwork too?”
“Of course.”
“Want to give me the rundown?”
“Sure. Think of that phone as your own personal command center. GPS, video camera, wireless ready—on all bands and protocols. Multitactile touch interface. For hands-free operation, there’s a wireless ear bud. It pops out of the left side, here at the bottom. It fits down in the ear canal, completely hidden so you don’t look like some government spook with a curly wire hanging down your neck. It is a little tough to fish out at the end of the day, so use the magnet on the tip of your stylus. You already saw the dentist for your mike, which is voice activated, so you don’t have to mess with that. The unit is designed so that you can leave it in your pocket, or in your bag. Just jiggle the phone and the voice command software will sound a tone in your earbud indicating the phone is ready. If you need a Coordinator, just press the ‘0’ button. Coordinators are always available to assist you, twenty-four seven, but don’t abuse it. The first Resource I hear tasking a Coordinator to order him pizza is going to have his butt kicked by me personally. Got it?”
AJ smiled and nodded, then looked at the floor.
“What? Is there a problem, Archer?”
AJ raised his head. He took a moment to look around, taking in the scenery of the command center that Briggs called his lab. He then threw his hands up. “The problem,” he said, trying to sound calm, “is that I still don’t have the first clue what is going on here.” He jerked his thumb back at the curved multimedia wall. “What’s with all this? And recording my every word? Why is everything here so strange? You still haven’t told me what this company actually does, nor have you told me what my assignment is.”
Briggs nodded. “All perfectly fair questions,” he said, as if trying to calm an upset child. “You’ll have your answers, trust me.” He glanced at his watch. “But right now, we have a meeting to go to. There is someone waiting who would like to meet you.”
Chapter Eight
Prague, Czech Republic
“WILLIAM FOSTER?”
Will flinched, but did not acknowledge the call from the man in the gray trench coat approaching him. He casually logged off the computer, stood up from his chair, and began to walk away. He hoped that logging off would be enough to conceal Julie’s identity, but when it came to anonymity and computers, he had his doubts.
A hand came down on his left shoulder from behind, stopping his progress toward the exit.
“Thank God we found you. You’ve had us all very worried. You’re quite ill, Mr. Foster. Come with me sir, we need to get you back to the hospital . . . for treatment.”
Using his best college German, Will feigned incomprehension. “Ich heiβe Hendrick Wrobel. Entschuldigen Sie mich, bitte.”
“Ach, sehe ich. Moment mal. Erzählen Sie mich dann, Herr Wrobel, von welchem Staat sind Sie,” the man in the gray trench coat replied.
Will turned. So much for that idea, he thought. “Fuck off, I’m not going anywhere with you.”
The smirk on the German man’s face transformed into a scowl. His sinewy fingers tightened, crumpling Will’s barn jacket inside his clenched fist.
Will’s thighs began to tremble.
“Mr. Foster, please don’t make this difficult, after all, you’re not well and we wouldn’t want to have to call an ambulance for you,” said the man, giving Will a shake.
Will looked down and checked the other man’s stance. A voice inside his head reminded him that there’s no such thing as fighting dirty when you’re fighting for your life. He steeled himself and then drove his knee squarely into the other man’s groin. The bounty hunter’s eyes bulged, and he barked a hoarse, unintelligible expletive. Then, like a condemned building collapsing after the crash of the wrecking ball, Raimond Zurn fell to his knees.
Will stepped out onto the street, trying to breathe. Trying to think. He turned left instinctively, back toward the direction of Wenceslas Square, and he ran. He kept his eyes forward, scanning faces in the crowd. It was unlikely the man in the gray trench coat was working alone. He tried to resist the urge to check for a trail, but fear overpowered. He looked over his shoulder and traded glances with a hulk of a man in a black motorcycle jacket moving toward the entrance of the cybercafé.
Commotion erupted behind him, as the brute in the motorcycle jacket launched into pursuit. Will kicked up his speed into a full sprint. The street was a sea of pedestrians, forcing him to dodge and swivel as he ran, impeding his forward progress. He glanced over his shoulder; his lead was dwindling. He was not surprised. Foster men were like draft horses, built for power, not for speed. It was inevitable. He would have to turn and fight.
As he entered Wenceslas Square, he heard heavy, pounding footsteps behind him. Allowing himself to be tackled would be a disastrous mistake. It was time to make the switch from defense to offense. He took two braking strides, spun one hundred and eighty degrees, and assumed a wrestler’s ready pose—knees bent, feet wide, arms up and poised for grappling.
The look of surprise on his pursuer’s face affirmed his tactical instincts. Instead of making the take down, his foe was forced to dodge right, narrowly skirting Will’s grasp. Unlike the guy he had faced in the Internet café, this assailant was a monster. With a tree trunk neck, shaved head, and massive shoulders, he looked like a cage warrior from the Ultimate Fighting Championship. Will frowned as the other man slowed his forward momentum by running a tight arc around him and then, with surprising agility, whirled to face him.
Udo Zurn looked into the American’s eyes and saw exactly what he wanted. Fear. He did not need a weapon to win this fight. He could pound the American into a useless, bloody pulp and toss him into a garbage dumpster without breaking a sweat. Unfortunately, his brother Raimond had been firm and explicit—their employer’s orders were to deliver the American alive and unharmed. Where was the sport in that? He grimaced in annoyance and reached inside the flap of his unzipped motorcycle jacket. His fingers found the contoured plastic grip and closed around it.
The spectators, who had already begun to aggregate, uttered a collective gasp as he pulled out his weapon of obligation. Since he was not above showmanship, he squeezed the trigger and let the crackling, purple arc of current announce to the crowd that he clutched not a pistol, but a stun gun. One zap and the fight would be over. One million volts of electricity would transform the American into a limp, helpless pile of flesh and bone on the pavement.
Udo smirked and in heavily accented English said, “When you think of this day, remember that Udo, not God, gave you this pain.”
As the word “pain” rolled off his tongue, he lunged at Will Foster’s chest.
If not for the eight years of high school and college wrestling practice, Will would have been down for the count. Instead, his reflexes took over, twisting his body clear of the crackling electrodes. The smell of charred fibers on his coat sleeve wafted through the air, lingering evidence of the near miss.
He circled, trying to maintain six feet of separation from his long-armed foe. In a position of weakness, the key was to keep moving. Dart and feint. Keep your opponent off-balance and guessing. To gain the upper hand, he would need to grapple, but a traditional takedown would be risky. Even if he were successful at grabbing the Ger
man’s legs and upending him, his own back would be exposed and vulnerable during the take down. His only chance was to wait for his adversary to make a mistake. Then, and only then, could he grapple.
An unbroken chain of onlookers now encircled them, hesitantly enjoying the unusual spectacle. After a minute of circling, Udo made a second lunge at him, followed by a third, then a fourth, and then a fifth—each time shocking nothing but air as Will darted about like a hummingbird. Udo’s face twisted in frustration, and with a throaty growl, he charged. Will rotated his torso parallel to the vector of attack. As the German sailed past, he pounced, like a lion clawing the flank of a stampeding cape buffalo. The two bodies crashed to the ground as one, with Udo absorbing the brunt of the impact. Will wrapped his left arm around the big man’s neck from behind, fashioning a headlock. In his peripheral vision, he noted that Udo was still clutching the stun gun in his outstretched right hand, so he grabbed Udo’s wrist. Udo tried to roll over and free his left arm, which was now pinned beneath his chest, but Will’s legs were extended outward in a wide inverted “V,” giving him just enough leverage to exert control. The stun gun arced and sparked as Will dragged Udo’s hand across the pavement. Rough as sandpaper, the textured concrete tore the skin from the big German’s knuckles. As soon as he felt the tendons in Udo’s wrist slack, he smashed the hand on the pavement. The tactic worked, and the taser popped loose and skidded across the ground. Udo jerked violently to reach it, dragging Will with him. Still maintaining his headlock, Will crabbed his lower body to the right, giving him a better angle to reach the stun gun with his right hand. Both men’s fingers pawed at the plastic handle, but Will found a grip first. He tightened his headlock and then arched his back to lift his foe’s chest off the ground, exposing a target. Then, he slammed the shiny protruding silver electrodes into the brute’s sternum and squeezed the trigger.
Udo’s body seized violently, went rigid, and then fell limp.
Will released his headlock, lifted himself off the big man, and rose up onto one knee. Udo blinked and shook his head, trying to snap himself out of the fog of pain and disorientation. After a second’s pause, Udo cursed and tried to stand, desperately wanting to get back into the fight.
Will zapped him in the back of the neck, this time depressing the trigger for a full five seconds. Gasps, cheers, and even laughter erupted from the crowd around them, as a dark, wet stain spread across the groin of the bounty hunter’s blue jeans. Will ignored the commotion. He had to stay focused. He studied his fallen foe for a moment just to be sure. Udo was out; it was over. He stuffed the stun gun in his coat pocket, turned, and then plowed through the wall of spectators caging him in.
He had no idea where he was running, but it didn’t matter. He needed to put distance and bodies between himself and Wenceslas Square. Law enforcement officers were no doubt already en route to the site of the scuffle; surely cell phone calls had been made. Dodging tourists and window-shoppers right and left, he barreled through the streets of Old Town Prague. He yanked the wool cap from his head, pulled the maroon scarf off of his neck, and shoved them into his bulky jacket pockets as he ran. Running was necessary, but it also attracted attention. He needed somewhere safe to bide time until two o’clock when he would meet Julie at the Orloj. His first thought was to hide in an alley, but that was too obvious. He needed somewhere public but private, if there was such a thing. His mind raced, generating options and then quickly rejecting them. He came to an intersection and turned right on instinct. After rounding in the corner, he slowed to a walk.
He needed to change his appearance. His barn jacket had a weathered tan canvas exterior and a plaid flannel inner liner. Technically, it was not reversible, but he was improvising. He shrugged the coat off, pulled both coat sleeves inside out, and then slipped it back on. When he was in college and needed a quiet place to study where nobody could find him, he would hole up in the campus library. A library. That was the perfect place to hide. He could get lost in rows and rows of books. Besides, thugs and books have a natural aversion to each other.
It took him only two attempts—stopping and soliciting helpful-looking pedestrians—to obtain directions to the “big library.” Ten minutes later, he was standing outside the grand Klementinum complex, which appeared to span two full city blocks. The ornate Baroque façade was crafted using decorative columns and alternating panels of contrasting beige and brown plaster. As he approached the entrance, he noticed an armed security guard walking a leisurely perimeter patrol. Inside his pocket, he fingering the stun gun nervously. In a post-9/11 world, metal detectors at museums and national landmarks were commonplace. He couldn’t risk it. He waited until the guard was facing the opposite direction and dropped the stun gun into a trash receptacle.
Once inside, he approached a directory and considered three landmark attractions: the Mirror Chapel, the Astronomical Tower, and the Baroque Library Hall, which housed the National Library of the Czech Republic. He turned toward the National Library and followed the signs to the Baroque Hall.
After purchasing a single day pass for access to all the library reading rooms, he walked through the Baroque Library Hall. He marveled at the opulent marble works, dramatic frescoes painted by Jan Hiebl, and tiers and tiers of leather bound books. After exploring, he settled into a routine, splitting his time between the Reference Centre, the Main Hall, and comfortable chairs in the various reading rooms. He stayed in the library until closing time at ten o’clock. With his hands in his pockets, he smiled at the front desk attendant and strolled back out into the world.
It had rained while he was in the library and the wet cobblestones of the street glistened in the moonlight. He surveyed the immediate landscape, trying to decide which way to walk, when he spied a bald man wearing a leather coat. Panic erupted inside him. The man’s back was turned, and he was standing alone, in the middle of the tiny parking lot at the entrance to the Klementinum. The fact that he had not seen Will’s exit was a miracle. Will resisted the urge to sprint; instead, he turned and walked briskly away in the opposite direction. The sound of tires driving on cobblestones sent a shot of adrenaline into his bloodstream. Shit. Will glanced back over his shoulder expecting to see the two thugs in pursuit, but instead he saw the bald man embrace a blonde woman and get into the passenger seat of her BMW 135i. As the couple sped away, Will took several deep breaths, collected himself, and then set off walking.
He decided he would spend the remaining time hiding in a local pub. He wanted somewhere lively, crowded, and packed with tourists. Somewhere he could get lost in the herd and maybe even talk a happy drunk into swapping jackets. After ducking his head in several pubs, he finally found the perfect spot. Were he not running for his life, he would have happily capped off every night in Prague at a place like this. He milled about the bar until he saw a corner table open up. He slid into the booth from the right side at the same time a woman slid in from the left. They bumped hips, locked eyes, and burst into laughter. She was at least fifteen years his senior, hailed from Dublin, and was on vacation with her husband who was standing in line at the bar. He chatted happily with the couple, sharing the booth for the better part of two hours. While they entertained him with stories of their travels, he sipped on a glass of dark ale. It had been over five months since he’d had a beer, and every swallow was a sumptuous kiss to his palette. However, his body was so unaccustomed to alcohol that halfway through his first pint, Will was already buzzing. He resisted the temptation to order another; it was imperative he keep his wits about him. Eventually, the Irish couple excused themselves, and he was left alone.
His thoughts drifted to Julie. He imagined how the reunion might happen. Would she recognize him? Had the years been kind to her; was she still beautiful? What would it feel like to hug her? Would she let him embrace her? What would she think of him—drawn and unkempt as he was. Unexpectedly, he felt nervous as a wealth of memories and feelings he had suppressed for years came rushing over him.
The rowdy cro
wd in the tavern mellowed and thinned as the night wore on. During his time at the library, Will had printed Google maps depicting the streets between the Klementinum and the Astronomical Clock. The tavern was conveniently located only a few blocks from the Orloj, so he decided to stay put until the hands on the clock above the bar showed ten minutes until two o’clock. When it was finally time to go, Will paid his tab, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and set off to meet Julie. Within minutes, he was standing in front of Old Town Prague’s most famous landmark.
The Astronomical Clock of Prague, or Orloj, features two vertically stacked and richly appointed dials—each colored predominantly in shades of blue with intricate gold detailing. It was crafted and installed in 1410 by the combined talents of a clockmaker and mathematician. Even to the untrained eye, it is obvious that the Orloj is much more than a traditional clock. The upper dial, in addition to keeping the local time, also displays the times for sunrise and sunset, ancient Czech time, and the celestial movements of the sun, moon, and zodiac constellations. The lower dial is a calendar with elaborate inset paintings representing each of the twelve months.
A cast of colorful wooden puppets comes alive every hour animating the clock’s exterior: Vanity—forever admiring himself in a mirror; The Miser—shaking his bag of gold; Death—with his signaling bell; and the Turk—with his flute. Even more renown than the four animated figures is the Walk of the Apostles. Each hand-carved wooden apostle is as large as a man, dons a halo, and carries a unique symbol in hand. Every hour, on the hour, the twelve apostles parade in succession through two wooden doors that open above the upper clock dial—six apostles walking from the right, six from the left.
It took Will a moment of study before he could decipher the complicated clock dial. Eventually he ascertained the time: 1:57 AM. He looked from side to side, scanning the area for a five-foot-five, hardly inconspicuous blonde. Not finding her, he wandered over toward a darkened restaurant, Café Milena, which was directly opposite the Orloj. He took a seat at one of the many empty chairs left outside by the evening manager.
Calypso Directive Page 6