Calypso Directive

by Brian Andrews

  “That didn’t seem to stop you at Chiarek Norse. You were a pro.”

  “Beginner’s luck,” AJ whined.

  “Enough. You can and you will do this. End of discussion,” Kalen said, sternly.

  AJ looked at Albane, protesting, but she shook her head. The decision was final.

  Kalen made a “gather round” gesture to the group with his hands and outlined the plan. “In all likelihood, Foster won’t approach until he sees our agent first. AJ, you should be seated with your back to the exterior hotel wall so you have good visibility and Foster can see you. We’ll text Foster that you’ll be wearing a black sport jacket with a blue pocket square. Make sure, AJ, that you maintain a clear line of sight with me at all times. I’ll be idling with the Ducati a half block away, ready to jump in, if the situation warrants.”

  “What do I do if Ponte is with him?”

  “Unless she crashes the party with a police escort, I don’t see her being a factor.”

  “What if the goons from Ponte’s apartment show up?”

  “If anything goes awry, anything at all, I can extract you within seconds. I’ll be on the Ducati, twenty-five yards away from your position with a clear line of sight. My visor will be up, and I’ll be pretending to flirt with Albane and showing off my bike like the testosterone-charged egomaniac that I am. You can signal me covertly by standing and saying ‘This meeting is over’ emphatically, or by saying the code words ‘Echo November.’

  C. Remy will be the Coordinator for the op. We’ll be on open mikes. If we split up, rendezvous back here. The most important thing to remember is that if you can’t convince Foster to come with you willingly, then it is imperative that you mark him so we can track him. I will consider this meeting is a success even if the only thing you accomplish is tagging Foster,” Kalen said.

  “The primary method for tagging Foster is to get him to accept this bug that looks like a USB memory stick. The bug is equipped with a thirty-day battery, microphone, and GPS transponder. I’ve loaded it with a subset of Foster’s medical files from Chiarek Norse. If he checks them, he’ll know we’re telling him the truth,” VanCleave explained. “As long as Foster has the USB key in his possession, we can track his movements.”

  “What if he plugs it into a computer, but ditches it after he downloads the files?”

  “The USB key is also equipped with a virus. If Foster plugs it into any computer with Internet access, I will be notified instantly, and bingo, we have his location.”

  “What’s the backup tagging method?” AJ asked.

  “The back up tagging method is for you to touch Foster’s shoe or pant leg with the tip of your shoe. I’ve applied a radioisotope marker to the toe of your right shoe. If you graze him, it will rub off and I can track him,” VanCleave said.

  “What if I actually convince Foster to come with me? What then?” asked AJ.

  “That’s the goal, AJ. The driver will pick you up in the Seven series and bring you both back to the nest.”

  “Okay, so what do we do once we get this guy?”

  “Silly boy . . . we interrogate him,” Kalen laughed.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  K. Immel—RS:Physical: “They’re here. Standing behind the corner arch support of the State Opera. Technical, can you see them from your position in the hotel room?”

  Kalen had taken station strategically at the northeast corner of Kärntner and Philharmoniker, in front of a Starbucks coffee shop, and catty-corner to where Julie and Will were standing at the Wiener Staatsoper, the Vienna State Opera House. From his location, he would be able to observe the meeting between AJ and Will at the Café Sacher and intervene within seconds if necessary.

  VanCleave had rented a room at the Hotel Sacher facing south and positioned almost directly above the hotel’s outdoor café. From his bird’s eye vantage point, he could see all the players, monitor foot and vehicle traffic in and out of the T-shaped intersection, and use a directional microphone listen to conversations within a seventy-five meter radius.

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Got ‘em. Calibrating the directional mike . . . I have good audio . . . Ponte is wishing Foster good luck. She just kissed him.”

  K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Foster is moving. He’s crossing the street. Bio, get ready.”

  A. Archer—RS:Bio: “Roger.”

  The second and third stories of the State Opera overhung the first story, creating a covered walkway and allowing more space for pedestrian traffic along Kärntner. The portico was supported by stone columns that formed a series of arches. Occupying the southwest corner of Kärntner and Philharmoniker, the portico was two arches deep by five arches long. Will and Julie had taken position under the portico and behind one of the many columns.

  “I think I see him,” Julie said to Will, peering around a cream-colored stone column toward the Hotel Sacher. “There, in the black jacket with the blue pocket square. He’s looking around. . . . He just sat down facing the street.”

  “Wish me luck,” Will replied.

  Julie leaned in and gave him a quick kiss. “Good luck. I’ll be right here watching.”

  He crossed Philharmoniker Strasse and walked toward three maroon awnings, each adorned with a printed golden ‘S’ encircled by a wreath—the logo of the Sacher hotel and café. Seven small round bistro tables, each with two chairs, formed a modest row along the window front. The brisk evening air made the café’s indoor seating a more welcome choice for most diners, so only five people sat outside. Only one sat alone facing the street.

  Will paused ten paces from the tables and surveyed the landscape. He scanned the crowd, looking for men in black with curlicue wires dangling from their ears and government-issue overcoats. He found none. Only automobile traffic, wandering tourists, and a man showing off his sport bike to a raven-haired girl in front of a Star-bucks down the sidewalk. Will took a deep breath and walked up to the table where the agent was seated.

  A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Talk to him, Bio. Engage him, or we’ll lose him.”

  “Mr. Foster, my name is Special Agent Nelson. Thank you for coming.”

  Will stood motionless, considering. “You look a little young for a federal agent.”

  “Would you believe I’m five years out of the academy? My nickname in the Bureau is Babyface. I hate it, but whatcha gonna do,” AJ improvised.

  A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “That’s good, Bio. Keep it up.”

  “Please, Mr. Foster. Have a seat. We’re just going to talk. That’s all,” AJ said.

  Will stared into the young man’s hazel eyes. AJ met Will’s gaze and held the eye contact. After several seconds, satisfied, he pulled back the empty chair and sat down. “You called this meeting. Talk.”

  “You asked for proof, so I brought it. This USB key contains data and documentation we’ve obtained from the Chiarek Norse facility—the very facility where you were detained. Vyrogen Pharmaceuticals took extreme measures to keep these files secret, and now we know why. We’re here to help you Mr. Foster, but we need your cooperation.” AJ said and placed the USB key on the table in front of Will.

  A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Don’t say things like that. You sound like you’re setting him up. Tell him your goal is to protect him and Julie. Help him get his life back. Empathy, Bio, empathy.”

  “Cooperation?” Will said. “So you want me to testify against Vyrogen? Is that the only reason you’re here?”

  “We’re here to protect you and Ms. Ponte. I want to help you get your life back. That’s our number one priority. From the files we’ve commandeered, we have a pretty good picture what Vyrogen has been up to. But I’m not going to lie to you, we could definitely use your help to fill in some of the blanks . . .”

  A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Good. Now appeal to his sense of duty. We need to protect other innocents like him.”

  AJ continued, “We can protect you against Vyrogen, but we also need to know if there are others. Others like you, research subjects who survived and need
our help. My job is to make sure that Vyrogen is stopped, and to help the innocent people who they’ve hurt.”

  A. Mesnil—RS:Social: “Beautiful, Bio.”

  “Assuming I believe you, what are you proposing?” Will asked, still making no move to pick up the USB key.

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “Bio, he’s not going take the USB. Go to secondary marking protocol. Gently swipe your right toe on Foster’s leg. Do it now.”

  “I’m proposing that you come with me. Ms. Ponte can come too, if she chooses. We’ll debrief in a safe location here in Vienna. Then, when you’re ready, we’ll take you home under protective custody.” As he spoke, AJ slid his right foot forward six inches and hit the table leg, awkwardly. He missed.

  “Before I consider going with you, I need to see your credentials,” Will said.

  AJ nodded. Below the table, he made another sweep with his right foot, this time successfully brushing Will’s left pant leg.

  “Have your contact at Orange Telecom ping Ponte’s phone again,” Raimond Zurn barked. “I still don’t see them.”

  “The accuracy is only plus or minus fifty meters, brother. The last triangulation puts their position at these GPS coordinates. We need to be patient. Remember, they could be inside a building. The ping works anywhere that the phone has a signal,” Stefan said.

  “There,” Udo said, pointing out the right passenger window of the van. “The girl is there, standing against that stone column.”

  “Good eyes, Udo,” Raimond said, pressing the brake pedal and slowing the van to a crawl. “She’s alone. Look for Foster.”

  “He is there,” Udo said. “At that café on the other side.”

  Raimond smirked and brought the van to a stop along the curb. He shifted the automatic transmission into park, flipped on the hazard flashers, and turned to face Udo and Stefan. “Stick to the plan and everything will be fine. In twelve hours, my brothers, we’ll be counting our money and drunk on Augustiner.”

  K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Bio, we have a bogie, incoming, your three o’clock. Grey jacket, blue jeans, black boots.”

  AJ turned his head to the right, looking east toward Kärntner Strasse. A man in a grey jacket was walking straight toward them, quickly and deliberately. His face was expressionless and cold.

  Will scooted his chair back away from the table. He turned to his left to see what AJ was looking at.

  Raimond Zurn crossed the threshold of the Café Sacher outdoor dining area. He stepped around two empty tables and was upon them.

  “You,” Will said with disdain to the bounty hunter he had tussled with on the streets of Prague. His stomach tightened. How could he have been so stupid as to agree to meet this guy Nelson? It had been a double-cross from the beginning, and he had fallen for it.

  “I believe we have unfinished business,” Raimond Zurn said with a malevolence that made Will’s skin crawl.

  “Funny, as I recall, our business was concluded when I left you clutching your balls at the cybercafé in Prague,” Will said, trying to mask his fear.

  “Who is your friend? Don’t tell me you’ve hired a bodyguard.” Raimond turned to AJ. “You’re not going to be any trouble, are you, little boy?”

  Perplexed, Will looked at AJ and then back at Zurn. Was this charade part of the double-cross?

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “White van traveling east on Philharmoniker Strasse. It just stopped in front of the Ponte woman. We’ve got trouble!”

  A white cargo van with black tinted windows stopped on Philharmoniker Strasse, directly in front of Julie, blocking her line of sight.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she said, exasperated. “Move, stupid van.”

  The van did not move.

  The passenger door opened and a muscular man with a shaved head stepped out and onto the sidewalk. Julie tensed. It was just a coincidence, she told herself. He turned around to face the van. The passenger window had been rolled down, and he was talking to the driver. He then stepped away from the window, waved goodbye to driver, and began walking south, down Kärntner Strasse. She watched him for several seconds, just to be certain, until he was halfway down the block. Never once did he look at her. Satisfied, she turned back to watch Will, but the white van was still there, idling at the curb, blocking her view.

  “Damn it!” She surveyed the area, looking for another vantage point with cover. She noticed another stone column, three meters to her left, where she might gain a clear line of sight around the van.

  It was time to relocate.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name,” AJ said, turning his chair forty-five degrees toward Zurn.

  “That’s because I didn’t tell you my name,” Raimond replied. “I think it’s time for you to leave. Mr. Foster and I have some unfinished business we need to discuss in private.” Raimond pulled the flap of his leather jacket open, revealing a Sig Sauer pistol, with suppressor, suspended in an underarm shoulder holster.

  AJ looked at the weapon, then up at Zurn’s face. He had never met a killer—until now. The eyes confirmed it; eyes full of malice and pompous impunity. This man would gun him down where he sat without a second thought. AJ glanced to his right, surveying the van that VanCleave had just reported. The van was idling at the curb. The driver window was tinted, so he could not make out a face inside. His stomach went sour, and his mouth turned to parchment.

  Udo Zurn walked a half block south on Kärntner Strasse before he glanced back at Julie. To his surprise, she was no longer there. He immediately turned right, toward the State Opera building. She had been standing behind the corner column on the perimeter of the portico, nearest to the street. He darted between two columns, entering the portico to the south, behind her. He looked north. From his new vantage point he could see that she had shifted one column to her left; she was now peeking out from behind the middle column instead. He smiled. Perfect. From his left jacket pocket, Udo retrieved and donned a pair of black leather driving gloves. From his right jacket pocket, he pulled a Ziploc plastic bag. Sealed inside was a chloroform-laden handkerchief, which he withdrew and wadded up in the palm of his gloved right hand.

  He moved quickly, covering the distance separating them in mere seconds. By the time Julie became aware of the footsteps closing in behind her, it was too late. Udo’s grip was all encompassing. Suffocating. She stiffened as she felt folds of silky fabric against her lips. Her nostrils tingled and she felt queasy, then light-headed. Darkness swept into her field of vision, gobbling up the light like a shade pulled down over a sun-filled picture window. She threw an elbow into the wall of flesh behind her. It was futile. He was iron, and she was . . . unconscious.

  Her body was limp as Udo lifted her. He carried her 125-pound frame, as effortlessly as he would a sleeping toddler, back to the white van. Stefan Zurn had opened the side cargo door from the inside, and he was peering out the opening toward them. Udo trotted over to the van, ducked his head, and stepped inside with Julie in his arms. Stefan closed the door behind him. The rear compartment of the cargo van had no seats. Udo’s motorcycle stood inside, held upright by nylon straps lashed to four metal tie-down rings bolted to the bare sheet metal floor. The motorbike took up the majority of the cargo hold, so Udo laid Julie down parallel to the bike, up against the sidewall of the van. He looked at Stefan for approval.

  “Perfect,” Stefan said. “Now we wait for Raimond.”

  E. VanCleave—RS:Technical: “They’re making their move. A male, Caucasian, just grabbed Ponte. He’s dragging her into the van. Damn it! They’re here for Foster. Change of plans, extract Foster.”

  K. Immel—RS:Physical: “Roger.”

  AJ stood abruptly. “This meeting is over! We’re leaving,” he commanded.

  The high-revving whir of the Ducati engine pierced the nighttime air. Kalen popped the clutch and the motorcycle launched forward like a missile. He jumped the curb and sped across the pedestrian-only section of Kärntner Strasse. In less than two seconds time, Kalen and
his motorcycle had covered the distance between the café and his starting point.

  All three men, Zurn, Archer, and Foster, turned toward the direction of the motorcycle engine. Pandemonium erupted on the sidewalk, as pedestrians screamed and jumped clear of the speeding motorbike’s path.

  Zurn drew his pistol from the concealed holster and took aim at the rider.

  At the same time, Kalen shifted his center of gravity, turned to the left, and powered on the throttle—dipping and spinning the Ducati into a controlled slide. His head and torso dropped below the line of fire as three bullets whisked through the air above him. At the last second, he hoisted his left foot up onto the fuel tank so that his leg would not be pinned and abraded across the concrete. Bike and rider surfed along the ground at sixty kilometers per hour toward Raimond. Empty bistro tables and chairs flew into the air like popping corn off a hot stove, as the undercarriage of the bike clipped the legs of everything its path. The rear wheel of the bike crashed into Raimond’s shins, just above the ankles, precisely on target. Raimond spun like a pinwheel—his legs catapulting up, his torso arcing down. The force of the impact with the concrete jolted the Sig Sauer loose from his grip; the weapon tumbled through the air and landed with a thud on the ground a meter away. Raimond grunted and rolled onto his side. He scanned the ground, looking for his pistol. Both AJ and Raimond located the handgun simultaneously and then glanced knowingly at each other. AJ dove over a fallen bistro table at the same time Zurn lurched for the gun from his fallen position.

  Kalen popped the Ducati back up to the riding position, revved the throttle in neutral, and turned to Foster. He flipped the black visor up on his helmet and looked at Will.

  “If you want to live, come with me,” Kalen said.

  Will looked at Kalen and then glanced around him at the van parked across the street, blocking his view of Julie.

  “Julie!” he exclaimed, taking a step toward the street.

  “It’s time to go,” Kalen ordered, seizing Will’s arm and pulling him toward the bike. “They’ve already taken her. Get on the bike!”