by Trevor Scott
"What do you find so funny?" Kurt asked.
"I don't know. I guess it figures," Toni said. "A lot of times we end up running across the path of another agency. It can get frustrating. Especially if you've been working a case for a few months."
"But why would the Commerce Department run an operation like this?" Kurt asked.
"They aren't, kid. There must be a rogue."
Kurt sat down on a typing chair backwards and swiveled around a few times. "What is the Commerce Department doing with an office in Italy?"
"I don't know," Toni said. "They could be here to keep track of all the new American companies opening offices. They're all trying to carve a piece of the pie when and if the European Community unifies. Those companies with a strong foothold have a chance to make big bucks."
"How are we going to find out who's been stealing our technology?"
Toni patted Kurt on the back and then left her hand on his shoulder. "Stick with me, kid. As you've seen, I have ways of making them talk," she said.
Kurt looked up at Toni. Her eyes had a sparkle, he thought, that could tame the wildest beast. Kurt put his hand on hers.
* * *
CHAPTER 16
GENOA, ITALY
Sirens echoed back and forth adding chaos to the normal sounds of rush hour traffic. Cars reluctantly pulled to the sides of the busy roads allowing the ambulance to barely squeeze by. Polizia on Moto Guzzi motorcycles weaved onward through the clustered maze that had formed.
What was once a tranquil sidewalk cafe, was now turned into a horrid scene of destruction. Glass table tops had been shattered and scattered over fifty feet like shrapnel. Bodies lay helplessly on the sidewalk with blood oozing and spurting from countless jagged cuts. A lone, old robust woman screamed and prayed aloud as she held her black rosary close to her chest, repeatedly crossing herself.
Polizia and Carabiniere cordoned off the area and started searching the buildings.
The ambulance crew arrived and started attending to the only survivor-a man in an expensive suit that did nothing to protect him against the blast and flying glass.
A middle aged man with dark curly hair in a black double breasted suit paced back and forth pointing and shouting orders. Inspector Bruno Gallano was Genoa's terrorist expert. He stood quietly by himself for a moment and scratched the five o'clock stubble on the right side of his face. Finally, he waved his assistant over to him.
"What do the people say happened?" Gallano asked his assistant in Italian.
"Mixed reports," said his assistant. "But it appears to be a terrorist attack by the Red Brigade."
"Why?"
"Electronic device with plastic explosives. Similar to the Rome Train Station. Only one thing is different. They used a remote control car."
"How?"
"Well, a remote control Porsche came from up the sidewalk there," the assistant said pointing up the street. "Nobody touched it as it weaved in and out of the people on the sidewalk. Then witnesses say the car took a right turn here and stopped under the table of four men. It was there for only a second before blowing."
The two men sidestepped all the debris and positioned themselves over the remains of four bodies covered by blood-soaked sheets.
"Any identification on these four?" Bruno asked, lifting the sheet of one and viewing what was left of a previously healthy male, and then lowering the sheet.
"Yes! The glass and metal did a number on the fronts of their bodies, but their backs were pretty much intact. They all had wallets."
"Well?" Bruno said, becoming impatient. "Who are they?"
"All American sailors."
"Shit! That's all we need," Bruno said. "We've got the USS Roosevelt in port for its first visit, and we have a fucking international terrorist incident."
Bruno Gallano scanned the scene one more time to perhaps convince himself that it wasn't happening. But the reality of four American bodies lay at his feet. The three additional Italian corpses lay further away. Bruno knew that one death was as important as the next, but the Americans would be harder to explain. It changed things from a municipal problem to an international incident. He could do without that kind of notoriety, he thought.
"Have your men come up with anything yet?" Bruno asked.
"Not much. It appears that there had to be at least two people involved-one to drop off the car and the other to direct it from that building there," the assistant said pointing across the street to a large five story brick building with Roman arch windows.
Bruno looked up at the building and then back at the Americans. "What's the connection here?" he said. "This isn't your typical American hang out. How could the Red Brigade know they'd be here at this time? Or did they really give a shit who they killed? The car stopped right under the table, though. So, whoever did this, had to know these guys would be here at this particular time."
Bruno's assistant just shrugged his shoulders.
"Who are the Americans?" Bruno asked.
"Let's see," the assistant said flipping through his note pad. "We have a Lieutenant Budd, a PO1 Albrecht, whatever that is, a PO1 Taylor, and a Seaman Phillips."
Bruno scratched his impending beard again. He stooped down and took a look at another American sailor. "Isn't that kind of a strange group?" he asked. "I mean, in the Italian military we never went anywhere with the enlisted men, yet here we have a lieutenant with three enlisted sailors. Is that significant?"
"I don't know," the assistant said. "Maybe we should ask the American officials when they show up."
Bruno's assistant had sent word to the USS Roosevelt as soon as he found out that American sailors had been victims.
"Inspector!" yelled a man from the third floor window of the building across the street from the bloody site.
Bruno turned and looked up. "Si, si."
"We found something."
Bruno instructed his men at the scene to leave the bodies where they were until the American authorities arrived. Then he and his assistant entered the old brick building and climbed the three flights of stairs. The stairwell was dark, and Bruno noticed that a bright sunny day would probably not change that fact. The hallway on the third floor had uneven hardwood floors and tan thick plaster walls in need of fresh paint. Two Carabiniere officers waited in front of a wide doorway.
Bruno breezed past the men and into a small one room apartment. Bruno stopped and scanned the room. A boy around eight years old sat on the edge of a small bed in one corner. He immediately looked up at Bruno with his dark overpowering eyes. Fear seemed to scream from each eye with recent tears streaking his dark cheeks. Bruno looked at the rest of the room to try to de-emphasize his presence and put the boy at ease. He walked to the window and leaned against the sill to observe the gory scene below. Had the boy seen what happened and was fearful of its tragic consequences, or did he know more? Bruno suspected the latter. He walked back over to the two Carabiniere at the doorway and escorted them farther into the hallway.
"Does the boy know what happened?" Bruno asked.
"Si!" said the older of the two officers. "We just got to this floor when the door slammed. The boy acted strange, so we asked him a few questions."
"And?" Bruno asked impatiently.
"He was sitting on the steps on the first floor of the building when a man came up to him and asked if he would like to make some money. Of course, he did. The man told the boy to meet him back here at four. When the man came back, he had a small case with him. He told the boy he needed to bring him to his apartment. When they got up here, the guy opens his case and pulls out a black remote control Porsche. Of course the boy's eyes lit up with joy when he saw that."
"Then what?"
"The man puts the car in a paper bag and tells the boy not to let anyone see it. He then instructed him to take the car down the block to the alley, pull it out and set it on the sidewalk when the church bell chimed on the half hour. It was timed so the boy would only have to stand there for about a minute or two."<
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"Can he describe the man?" Bruno asked.
"Si, inspector. The man was in his mid-thirties, well dressed, expensive black pants, a leather coat, driving gloves, and a black knit cap. But more importantly, his Italian was poor."
"What type of accent?" Bruno asked quickly.
The officer paused for a minute. "American."
Bruno put his hand up to his nose, stroked it, and then slid it down and rubbed the stubble on his face again. Either the Americans were trying to take their crimes to his streets, or one had joined the Red Brigade, Bruno thought.
"Where's the boy's parents?"
"He says there's only a mother who works days at an office a few blocks away. The boy decided not to go to school this morning. We think the mother walks the streets at night."
"Why's that?"
"The room right next door to this one has papers with her name on it. There's only a bed in there and a few skimpy outfits."
"You say nothing about this to anyone," Bruno said. "Do you understand? Not to your superiors, friends, wife, nobody!"
"Si, inspector," they both said.
"Take the boy directly to my office. Don't let anyone question him, or see you take him from this building. Any questions?"
They looked at each other, and then said: "No, sir."
After the men left with the boy, Bruno looked over the room. He knew he wouldn't find anything, but it was a force of habit. He found himself feeling sorry for the young boy and the situation he was in. He had to be frightened, it could be no other way. The room, the building, the neighborhood had all hardened him in some way. But he was still a child. And children still have fears, Bruno thought. He locked the door and headed back down to deal with the bodies still lying in the street.
* * *
CHAPTER 17
BUDAPEST, HUNGARY
Over six inches of thick, heavy snow had fallen overnight. The city looked cleaner than it had in decades. Many of the older buildings, damaged during World War II, still hadn't received their restorations as promised, but progress had surely been made. To the thousands of people who had flooded the streets to protest the government's stagnant economy, it was as though a baptism had been performed by God himself upon the two million citizens of Budapest.
At his weathered, wooden desk, Isaac Lebovitz slowly paged through the volumes of information that the American businessman, Jason Dalton, had given him. The frequent chants for more jobs by the protesters below his office brought an occasional smile to his face. He knew that not long ago the people would have been silently whisked away to jail, or worse. But now the chants were tolerated; the will of the people could no longer be stomped under foot. And Isaac intended to take advantage of this movement.
Isaac's men had printed page after page of computer data and bound them in hard cardboard binders to allow more easy reading. The marketing information was current; perhaps too current to allow his company to properly use this powerful information.
Behind his desk, a large cast iron radiator, with few paint chips remaining on its surface, clanked violently out of control. Isaac kicked it with the side of his shoe dropping more paint chips to the floor, but doing nothing to stop the noise. Things will surely change, he thought. No more second-rate anything.
The phone rang.
Isaac picked up the ancient black dial phone and simply said "Lebovitz."
His secretary, who had been with Isaac as long as the phone, told him that two of his men had arrived and wished to speak with him. "Send them in," he said, and then set the phone back in its slot.
The brass door latch swiveled, but the door wouldn't open. Isaac got out of his chair, flipped the binders closed, and shuffled to the door to unlock it. The papers weren't for all to view.
"Have a seat," Isaac said, sweeping his hand toward the two wooden chairs in front of his desk as he sat back in his chair.
Isaac searched the faces of his men for some answer. He knew he could depend on Stanislav Kirsac and Max Sardouf to follow his directions to the letter, regardless of how difficult the assignment. After all, they had worked for Isaac in Hungarian Intelligence for over ten years. But they weren't due back in Budapest for a week. They had all traveled together throughout Western Europe and Scandinavia in search of military secrets to please the Hungarian government and, more importantly, the former Soviet KGB. Anything they found that hadn't already been uncovered by the KGB was not only a source of great pride to Isaac, but nearly contemptuous to the KGB for not getting the information sooner. But what the trio had found on those frequent trips to the West, was an affluent people with a fervent lust for things. And their democratic European cousins got what they wanted, Isaac thought. That will change soon.
"How was Germany?" Isaac asked.
The two men sat side by side as one. The two could have passed as brothers, Isaac thought. Their high brow ridges resembled more Ukrainian men than their Croatian heritage. Even more than their pronounced foreheads, their continual stoic expressions in near perfect harmony, made them appear as only brothers could. They looked at each other, and then back at Isaac.
"One of our contacts is missing," Max finally said, more self-assured than Stanislav.
"Which one?" Isaac asked.
"The one from Bitburg," Max added. "We're sure he's dead."
Isaac leaned back in his chair. It wasn't as comfortable as the one in Croatia, but not much would be for a while.
"Who did it?" Isaac asked.
"We have our suspicions," Max continued. "We think he might have been selling to another country or one of the local businesses."
"Why?"
"Well...we saw him with Gunter Schecht."
Isaac paused for a moment. "Shit! I thought he retired last year?"
"He may be freelancing," Stanislav said cautiously.
"Can we replace our contact?" Isaac asked.
The two men looked at each other again. "Do we need one?" Stanislav asked more boldly.
"Of course we do," Lebovitz said, somewhat disgusted with the question. I'm glad I don't count on these two for their brains, he thought. "We might need more from Teredata...we should have all we need, but I'm not certain. We do need a good, reliable contact in Germany, though. Find someone close to the government in Bonn. We'll need some good inside information."
"Anything else?" Max asked as both men rose.
Isaac thought for a moment. Something wasn't making sense. Why kill the man in Bitburg? "I need to know who killed our Teredata contact, and why," Isaac said. "Also, find out who Gunter Schecht is working for. I don't like it when a guy with his reputation is involved. I don't trust that bastard."
With all the directions the men needed, they both nodded and departed the office.
Isaac slumped back into his chair and tapped the side of his forehead with his index finger. Somehow this must all come together, he thought. It will happen. The San Remo villa overlooking the opulent Mediterranean coast will surely be his. The overwhelming scent of roses will rise from the terraced fields and engulf his very existence.
* * *
CHAPTER 18
BONN, GERMANY
The Audi A6 crept slowly up the residential hill and turned left onto a one block dead end street. There were only a few houses with large, meticulously landscaped yards on the block. Jake had selected a corner house due to its view of the road and Bonn. He pulled over to the curb and parked over a block from his newest apartment, and waited to see if he had any surprise guests. He had leased the house from an older couple for a month-an agreement that he would not keep. Using his best British accent, he had told his landlords he was just assigned to the embassy.
Jake was a bit superstitious about renting another Audi, since his previous encounter with Gunter and his men. Superstitions aside, he wasn't about to let Gunter take another crack at him. Changing cars daily was a small caution.
A few days had passed since Jake Adams and Herbert Kline became partners. The weather had been uncooperative, r
aining constantly. Even a warm rain would have been welcomed, but this was the type that chilled one to the bone. Not cold enough to snow, but cold enough to freeze after it hit the ground. His windshield wipers swished across the glass, but left annoying splotches of ice right in Jake's view.
Jake was getting used to working with Herb. The computer remained an important source of information, but a human factor was refreshing.
Herb was old school intelligence. Hit the streets, work the contacts, analyze the reliability, and come up with a reasonable analysis. Herb's skill and intuition had been underestimated by Jake's colleagues at the CIA and German Intelligence. Most had seen the outside man, not the inner man. Only time and proper observation could reveal the innate qualities of a person, Jake thought.
Along with the change of cars, Jake had continued to move from hotel to Gasthaus throughout the Bonn area, frustrating Herb each time. His current house in the hills on the right bank of the Rhine offered a splendid view of Bonn's government office district and a distanced view of Bundenbach Electronics. Seeing the building had a cathartic affect on Jake. It wasn't necessary to remain so close, but it seemed to focus his vision on his mission.
The days had been filled with long hours in cars observing Bundenbach and Gunter Schecht. The time in the car had reminded Jake of his days with the Company. Jake had often felt guilty that he was getting paid to sit and observe someone going through their normal daily routines. When his observations actually turned into a significant piece of information, Jake would finally find satisfaction and accomplishment in all the waiting.
Everything looked in order. Jake drove forward slowly and pressed the button to the remote control garage door opener. The gray door crept fully open just as Jake's Audi slid through. He quickly closed the garage door and entered the house through an inside door.
Once inside, he checked the place for any disturbances. Nothing. He opened the Rolladens covering the windows and let in what little light remained in the overcast afternoon.