Once Dead

by Richard Phillips

  Cunar Thane’s response didn’t greatly improve his mood.

  “Nothing direct.”

  “Then give me some indirection.”

  “It’s a little thin, but we’ve identified some recent unusual offshore banking transactions that might trace back to one of our analysts based out of our Paris consulate.”

  “Might trace back?”

  “There’s only an indirect link, nothing solid. We ran it up the chain and couldn’t get any buy-in from higher.”

  “Okay. So who’s the analyst?”

  “One of the DCI’s favorites, Rita Chavez. Rock solid reputation.”

  “So what’s the link?”

  “Three years ago she had a brief affair with Jack Gregory, when he was with the agency. The only other link is the timeline of the banking transactions. The accounts in question each received six-figure deposits over the last couple of weeks. But, like I said, we haven’t been able to make a solid link between Rita and those accounts.”

  Inhaling deeply through his nose, Jacob held the breath for several seconds before slowly breathing it out. Cunar was right. This was pretty thin. But thin was better than nothing and, right now, Jacob had a fat fistful of nothing.

  “Send me Rita’s file.”

  The pause at the other end of the line punctuated the stress his request induced in Cunar Thane.

  “Did I mention that Rita has close ties to the DCI?”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass. Get me the goddamned file! I’ll take it from there.”

  Another pause ratcheted up Jacob’s irritation, but he managed to hold it in.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You do that.”

  The phone went dead in Jacob’s hand. Cunar was a chicken-shit son of a bitch, but he’d get Jacob the file he wanted, even if it took longer than usual to cover his tracks. He was way too smart to really piss Jacob off. Bad things happened to people who pissed him off.

  Jacob set the phone on the hotel room desk and stood up to walk to the window. The fourteenth-floor suite looked out over Potsdamer Platz, the square surrounded by high-rise buildings that proclaimed Germany’s rise to Eurozone economic dominance. It was a beautiful sunny Berlin afternoon, one that would have made anyone else want to be out exploring the shops or sitting at an outdoor café sipping the froth on a pilsner. But Jacob wouldn’t be partaking of alcohol until he put a bullet through The Ripper’s brain pan. And since he currently had no other leads, he’d stay in the suite, alternately cleaning his weapons and pacing like a caged lion while he waited on Cunar Thane to produce. And even though Rita Chavez might turn out to be a false lead, it would set him in motion. Besides, a side trip to Paris wouldn’t break his heart.

  Even if Rita was clean, she had been Jack’s lover. Perhaps there was still a little something between them. If so, that would be all Jacob needed to make The Ripper come to him. And pinning Rita’s death on her ex-lover would be easy. Especially since Jacob would be the only surviving witness.

  CHAPTER 27

  On the opposite side of the room, Vladimir Roskov hurled his cell phone into the wall, following up with a kick to the wall-mounted television that tore it loose from its mounting bracket. The flat screen shattered as the corner struck the desk, sending a glittering spray of glass shards sliding across the tile floor.

  Petor Kline had seen Roskov’s temper flare many times before, but as he watched his employer destroy the east room of his own penthouse, he felt fear’s knife edge slide into his brain. Vlad’s just-ended conversation with Rolf Koenig had not gone well. From what he’d heard of the heated exchange, Koenig had ordered Roskov to cease work on any operation to find and kill The Ripper.

  Breathing heavily, Roskov spun to face his lieutenant, fury bordering on madness shining in his eyes. “Screw Koenig. Does he think I’m a lapdog that can be ordered to sit, to stay? The bastard tells me to stay on target, to stay focused. You know what happens if I let someone kill my people and send their bodies to my warehouse in the trunk of one of my cars and then do nothing? Do you?”

  Petor only nodded, unwilling to interrupt Vlad’s rage with an insipid response.

  “Sooner or later someone finds me in my own car’s trunk.”

  “So Koenig wants us to do nothing?” Petor ventured.

  Vlad’s eyes finally focused on Petor. “Only with regard to The Ripper. He says unspecified government agencies will deal with that man. He wants me to increase my security and relocate to Kazakhstan by Monday.”

  The mention of moving into the operation’s final phase one week earlier than planned quickened Petor’s pulse. Time had become a crazy conductor on a bullet train, propelling them all toward Rolf Koenig’s defining moment. He understood Koenig’s demand that Roskov stay focused on the critical task that lay before him. For a mission this many years in the making to come off the rails now, just because of one man, was unthinkable. But The Ripper had gotten in Roskov’s head, violating the man’s self-image in a way that threatened his always tenuous sanity.

  Of course Koenig had prepared for just such a contingency. It was the reason Rolf had inserted Petor into Roskov’s operation three years ago. It was the reason Petor had put so much of himself into working his way into Roskov’s inner circle. He’d killed his way in, not that he minded that. In fact, he regarded it as a bonus on a job that had already made him a rich man. And when all this was over, in addition to riches, he would have power such as only the likes of Rolf Koenig could bestow.

  “There may be a way to get what you want without Koenig being any the wiser.”

  Now he definitely had Vlad’s attention. “Talk to me.”

  Walking to the window, his shoes crunching broken glass, Petor let his gaze wander over the bustling Berlin streets.

  “The problem is three-fold. First we need to get you secured in the Kazakh facility. Second, I’ll target The Ripper, delaying and distracting him so he can’t interfere with your mission, while I prep for the kill. Don’t worry, I’ll take The Ripper down.”

  “I want him alive.”

  “If I can’t take him alive, I’ll bring you his head in a sack.”

  Roskov moved up beside Petor, speaking with a voice that rumbled deep in his chest. “Not good enough.”

  Petor turned to face Roskov, his gaze locking with the mobster’s. “Okay. But it’ll cost you extra.”

  Roskov grinned. “Then I’ll stay focused on the Koenig project. Afterward, bring me The Ripper and you can write your own check.”

  Petor nodded, then turned and walked toward the door.

  “And Petor . . . ”

  Roskov’s voice brought him to a halt, hand on the doorknob.

  “Don’t disappoint me.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Jack banked the black Beemer hard around the corner of Rüdigerstrasse and Schottstrasse, letting the powerful motorcycle carry him away from the apartment and into the waning night.

  Turning onto Frankfurter Allee, he left Berlin for the rural country to the east. Jack passed through Vogelsdorf and Tasdorf, letting the graying sky of the coming dawn welcome him to his next lodging. And although he didn’t yet know whether he would choose to rent a room at a village gasthaus or at a farmhouse on the outskirts, he knew he would recognize the right place when he saw it.

  The two-story farmhouse just outside Herzfelde, with its waterwheel and attached barn, pulled him into the cobbled driveway as if the bike had acquired a mind of its own. Dropping the kickstand, Jack switched off the Beemer and stepped clear. Removing his helmet, he hung it from the handlebar, ran a hand through his hair, and walked up to the door.

  The gray-haired woman that opened the door had the strong, matronly face of a farmer’s wife, her clear blue eyes taking in the man before her with businesslike efficiency.

  “May I help you?”

  “Do you have a room free?”

  “We always have a room for someone who is willing to pay.”

  “How much?”

  �
��For one person, forty euros per night or two hundred a week, breakfast included, payment in advance.”

  Jack reached for his wallet and handed her two hundred-euro bills. Then, grabbing his things from the motorcycle, he followed her inside, up a narrow set of stairs to the second floor, and into a room at the far end of a narrow hallway. It was a clean but simple space—a single bed, a free-standing schrank by the door, a small desk beneath the window, and a sink.

  Jack extended his hand. “I’m Karl Dietrich and this will do nicely.”

  “Frau Gensler. The water closet is down the hall on your left. Please make yourself comfortable. Breakfast is still available downstairs. I have some meats, cheeses, and breads set out. Also coffee.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jack watched Frau Gensler depart, then shut the door behind her.

  Dropping his backpack onto the bed, Jack let his thoughts return to the fascinating young NSA agent who had confronted him in the Berlin apartment. To say that he found her exciting would be doing his inner demon a disservice. The confidence of that dark-haired beauty had set him on fire. He’d known that her pulse raced with a full load of adrenaline injected into her system by the dangerous encounter, yet she’d shown no outward indication of that internal tension. Sniper calm.

  He had no doubt that Janet Price was one very special agent. And since Admiral Jonathan Riles had sent her to him, it meant the NSA director believed something big was about to go down and that Jack was right in the middle of it. Janet had made him a reasonable offer and he found himself wanting to accept it. That was exactly why he’d do no such thing.

  After all, the thing he wanted most in the world was to track down Carlton “Priest” Williams and take his sweet time killing the man. But Jack continued to deny himself the object of his desire. Somehow he feared that if he let those inner urges control his actions, he would become a puppet of the beast within, a slave to his basest desires, no better than his nineteenth-century namesake, maybe something far worse. He already felt like a vampire thirsting for hot blood, all the while knowing that to give in to that craving would be to dive into a rip current that would sweep him into a roiling sea of addiction.

  No. He would stay focused on the job at hand and keep his eye on the little picture. But first, he felt the need for a long, hard workout. Perhaps that, a cold shower, and some sleep would pluck Janet Price from his head.

  CHAPTER 29

  Rachel Koenig switched off her cell phone and set it on her nightstand, struggling to wrap her mind around the conversation she’d just had with her husband. At least she thought it was her husband, although she hadn’t heard him speak to her like a real person since their wedding. Rolf had actually spent forty minutes talking to her as if she were a partner instead of a decoration. And he’d asked for her help. He hadn’t demanded. He’d just asked.

  Rachel rose from the bed and opened the French doors that let her step out onto the high balcony, feeling the gentle night breeze rustle her lacy white nightgown against her legs. Still low in the sky, the quarter moon dimly illuminated the castle walls far below, painting their long shadows across the courtyard.

  As she replayed the conversation in her mind, Rachel understood one thing: Jack Gregory was everything she’d thought he’d be and more. As hard as it was for her to believe, The Ripper had cowed Vladimir Roskov. According to Rolf, Roskov had notified him that if Rachel would call off her attack dog, Roskov would end his intimidation campaign against Rolf and his family. In addition, Roskov had promised to have no more contact with the Koenigs or any of the many Koenig business concerns.

  Stepping up to the stone railing, Rachel leaned over to look down into the moonlit courtyard. To think that just three weeks ago, she’d leaned across this railing and considered taking the fall onto those paving stones a hundred feet below. Now, it appeared her long nightmare was over. Rolf’s voice had carried a very real note of respect as he’d thanked her for finding and hiring Jack Gregory. And although he hadn’t overdone the praise, she sensed the feeling behind his words, a feeling that helped her believe. That, and the fact that Rolf hadn’t ordered her to call off The Ripper. He’d asked her to.

  Rachel walked back into her bedroom, shrugged into her warm cashmere robe, and walked out into the hallway. Turning left, she passed Rolf’s bedroom on her left and the door to the ancient spiral stairway on her right, stopping before their private elevator to punch the call button. As the door slid open, Rachel stepped inside and pressed the button numbered two. When she stepped out of the elevator onto the office level, two floors above the grand entryway, Rachel noted the automatic increase in lighting as the motion sensor detected her arrival and walked directly to her private office.

  While much smaller than Rolf’s, it had all the toys that one would expect to be available to the wife of the founder of the world’s second-largest technology conglomerate. But unlike Apple’s legendary founder, Rolf Koenig was a multi-layered genius with personal designs that spanned technological realms from microprocessors to satellite communications systems and nuclear-powered, off-world mining robots.

  Many people misjudged her husband, thinking he was primarily interested in building his family fortune. The truth was that Rolf regarded money as merely a tool that enabled him to move on to his next technological breakthrough. Rachel knew Rolf had ambitions far beyond mining the moon. Her husband believed he was a modern-day Queen Isabella, destined to release the riches of untapped worlds that others thought well beyond practical reach. More than that, he wanted to lay claim to vast stretches of those worlds. But that required changes to existing treaties that would enable companies to establish those land grants. That would open the floodgates, releasing the torrent of cash unproductively sitting in corporate vaults.

  To do that he needed to prove to Europe and the emerging powers in Asia that America’s time of technological leadership was past. America had set the world’s rules for space exploration, had established the limits on its exploitation via outdated international treaties. But instead of protecting the solar system from exploitation, Rolf knew that those ill-considered agreements had prevented space development that would benefit all mankind.

  America had lost its vision, relegating space exploration to an expensive hobby, subject to the inevitable federal budget cuts such a hobby deserved in tough fiscal times. But Rolf believed space held the key to untold wealth for the corporations that first commercialized its unlimited resources. The how was a technological problem, one that could only be solved by a visionary such as himself. Only Rachel knew that there were no visionaries like Rolf. That meant that if it was going to happen, Rolf Koenig would have to do it.

  Rachel pulled her thoughts back to the present. It was time to make full payment into the three Caribbean bank accounts Jack Gregory had provided. Then, in the morning, when those transactions had been confirmed, she would send him an encrypted message that would thank him for a job exceptionally well done and notify him that his services were no longer required.

  Remembering Heidelberg and how it had felt to stand next to The Ripper on the Alte Brücke, she again felt the surge of adrenaline she’d experienced on that fateful day. Of all the decisions she’d made in her life, hiring that man had certainly been her best.

  CHAPTER 30

  The moon rose over the Avenue des Champs-Élysées as Rita found herself stuck in traffic, staring out the windshield of her silver Citroën C-Zero at the famously lighted Arc de Triomphe. The environmentally friendly car allowed her to blend seamlessly into the politically correct French culture she had come to adore. Odd that. Rita had grown up in El Paso, Texas, ingrained with a southwestern conservative culture that sneered at European socialism. Yet, for the last five years she’d been firmly embedded, gradually learning to love every minute of it.

  There were certainly parts of French culture that grated on foreigners, Americans in particular. But as she got to know them, the French people and their mores had wormed their way into her very so
ul. Not that there was only one French culture. The people in Normandy were far different from Parisians or from the Mediterranean folk of Nice or Cannes. But the fact that different regions of the country had very distinct feels held no surprise to Rita.

  Despite the deep and enduring beauty of the scene, Rita was tired, and the traffic jam wasn’t exactly making her day. She wanted to get home to her apartment, open a fine bottle of Bordeaux and swirl it in a broad-rimmed glass. Although she could now afford a much more luxurious place, Rita knew that her security lay in obscurity. While her apartment was small, it was homey, and it had the most wonderful little balcony with its view of the Seine. Just big enough for two chairs. But in this case it held one chair, an end table, and a hanging flower pot.

  While some might have thought that sad, given the romantic nature of Paris, it fit Rita’s life. Lovers were dangerous. Bringing them into your home was far more so. When she acquired a new lover, she always invaded their space rather than allow them into hers. The exception had been Jack Gregory. But that was in the past and, though she still loved him, she’d learned a lesson. Letting any man too deeply into your life was dangerous. Letting a dangerous man into your personal space could sweep you away in a passionate maelstrom that threatened a total loss of self. More than that, it threatened your life.

  Rita looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror and swept her fingers through her long brown hair. Been there. Done that.

  It took her another half-hour before she managed to work her way to the parking garage below her apartment. Stepping out of her car, she grabbed her briefcase and the small sack of groceries from her back seat, slamming the door with her knee as she fumbled with the key fob. A rustling noise behind her brought Rita’s head around.

  Nothing there. Christ, she was jumpy tonight. Probably just lingering tension from the brutal commute. Mix that with the poorly lit and cramped parking space and it was no surprise that she was hearing things. Rita thought about taking the elevator but decided that she could really use the exercise the climb to her third-floor flat would provide. But when she opened the door to the stairwell, the utter darkness that greeted her changed her mind. She’d have to call the manager about the light being out.