Brothers In Arms

by Marcus Wynne

  She looked for telltale signs of tension in his body. She had once studied massage, and with it anatomy, and found the knowledge the training imparted invaluable in her profession as a killer. The cutout was nervous and tense. She saw that in his shoulders and back. Amsterdam had no shortage of massage practitioners and was famous for its sex workers; why hadn’t he taken advantage of that? Of course, he was Muslim, but he was also young and male and the demands of covert operations required release. If he had been on her team she would have sent him for a massage and some sex to relax him.

  He paused just short of the coffee shop to look in the window of a newsstand, his eyes roving over the racked magazines and the stacks of cigarettes and small cigars behind the cashier’s counter. She stopped beside him and said, “Hello, Joe from the States.”

  The young man startled, his features for a moment registering surprise and more than a little fear, then he caught himself and turned to her.

  “You must be Marta’s friend,” he said. “Is Marta with you?”

  “Not today, Joe,” Isabelle said. She took his arm and tucked both hands into the crook of it. The young Arab tensed under her touch, and part of her filed that information away, even as she went to soothe him.

  “Relax,” she said. “No one is following us, it’s a beautiful day, and we have some business to discuss.” She steered him back onto the sidewalk and into the flow of passersby. “Do you like coffee, Joe?”

  “Yes,” Youssef said. “I do.”

  “Then let us go then, you and I, to this café here, where we can get a good coffee and sit and watch people. I enjoy that, do you?”

  Youssef paused. “Yes. I do.”

  Isabelle gently steered him, letting his arm rest against her side and the swell of her breast. She was aware of his awareness of her sex, and she subtly encouraged his discomfort by bumping her body against him and pressing her breast into his arm.

  At the café, they took a seat near the street, at a table away from the others, where the background noise of the street was just enough to mask their quiet conversation from the other patrons.

  They sat quietly till their espressos arrived.

  “So, Joe,” Isabelle said. “How do you find Amsterdam?”

  Youssef sipped at his coffee with enthusiasm. “It is a beautiful city.”

  “Yes it is,” Isabelle said. “Quite beautiful. The people are good, too, don’t you think?”

  Youssef set his cup down, turned it slightly with one finger. “Yes.”

  They sat together quietly for a few minutes, watching the people passing by, each hurrying on their way in the beautiful light of the summer day.

  “So, Joe,” Isabelle finally said. “What of our business?”

  “It is wondered if you can complete the contract.”

  “No,” Isabelle said.

  “I should say, it is wondered if you can complete the contract with additional information.”

  Isabelle sighed. “Even with exact targeting information, information more specific than before, the target has become much harder. Our people there were unable to determine where the target is, and the level of protection, much higher than we were told, is sure to have risen. We don’t think that it can be done.”

  Youssef let a distressed look slip across his face. “We are told that you are the best. If you think it can’t be done . . .”

  “Not by us. We have had too much exposure and there isn’t enough information.” She paused. “If you don’t wish to be the bearer of bad tidings to your people, I would be glad to talk directly to them and explain why. I understand how difficult it must be for you to explain to them . . . why not let me help you?”

  She watched the play of emotions across the young man’s face, and her intuition spoke clearly to her and guided her as it always did.

  “It must be so hard for you,” she said. “Being alone in a city where you don’t know anyone . . . and then to have this difficult tasking upon you. Since we’re ending the contract anyway, I don’t think your people will mind meeting with me—I can help them make a decision about where else to go with the project.” She studied him, touched her ponytail, then folded her hands together on the table in front of her.

  “Are you hungry, Joe?” she said. “Would you like to take a meal together?”

  “Yes,” Youssef said. “I would like that.”

  Over lunch they talked of inconsequential things. Youssef talked about his family, his friends from the camps, his loneliness; he poured it out to the sympathetic ear of the woman who told him to call her Isabelle.

  “And what of the man who controls you?” Isabelle said. “Does he not spend time with you to help you with your tasks?”

  Youssef shrugged. “He is a busy man, and there are many demands upon his time . . . he does the best he can.”

  “When do you meet him again?”

  “He’ll be coming here, in a few days. He’ll contact me and let me know when.”

  “Then it’s perfect for us,” Isabelle said, stressing the us. “When he arrives we can meet and speak about the impossibility of continuing this contract. I can give him the bad news himself, to his face, and you need not concern yourself anymore with that.”

  Relief and worry alternated on the young Arab’s face. “It’s not good tradecraft. He will be angry . . .”

  “There’s no need for tradecraft between friends, and the contract is concluded. We are only a few people talking about past business, and we are very safe in this city. Let me worry about his anger, will you, my friend?”

  “That would be good,” Youssef said. “If you could help . . .”

  “Of course,” Isabelle said warmly. “What are friends for?”

  She touched the top of her thigh where the fighting knife was sheathed, and studied the young man’s neck.

  DOMINANCE RAIN HEADQUARTERS,

  FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA

  Ray Dalton sat at his desk, his isolation reinforced by the closed door and his instructions to his secretary to hold all calls and keep all visitors from his door.

  He had a lot to think about.

  On the desk in front of him were the latest reports, the ones he received as soon as each therapy session was completed, from the doctor working with Rhaman Uday. The frightening bits and pieces were coming together. Also on his desk was a report from the National Security Agency that pieced together intercepted communications with an old debrief from an Iraqi defector. The NSA report told of an Iraqi project to genetically engineer the smallpox virus. One of the project’s goals was to make the incubation period longer, and to enhance communicability during incubation. Another goal was to increase the lethality of the virus from its normal 30 percent fatality rate. Like all of the Iraqi biological projects, the program had been swathed in secrecy, but the defector debriefing indicated that the engineering had been successful. The virus had been tested on live humans, prisoners, in a secret Iraqi test facility. Saddam Hussein had been so interested in the outcome of the program that he personally visited the facility and made sure that his high-level administration saw the effects of the virus. One of those people had been the administrator Rhaman Uday.

  The name of the project, in English, was Sad Holiday.

  ENROUTE TO AMSTERDAM/AMSTERDAM,

  THE NETHERLANDS

  During the three-and-a-half-hour drive to O’Hare airport in Chicago, Charley and Dale hashed out their game plan.

  “What about weapons?” Charley said. “I’m not going light against the Twins.”

  “We’ll be met at the airport once we clear customs,” Dale said. “The contact will take care of that for us. I ordered you a Glock.”

  “I hate going naked.”

  “We won’t be. The contact will provide us with transportation and a surveillance crew.”

  “That will save us a lot of time, if the crew’s good.”

  “According to Callan they are.”

  “We’re onboard the same boat when it comes to what we want to do
here, right?”

  Dale nodded, his hands steady on the wheel of the rented Jeep Cherokee. “You’re right. Killing them isn’t the right solution. They’ve got too many powerful friends and they’ve done too much work for the powers that be—including our people.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “No,” Dale said. “I lost my capacity for surprise about that kind of thing.”

  “You and me both, brother,” Charley said. “Did it seem to you that Callan is moving pretty fast?”

  “He is moving fast. There’s somebody pushing him.”

  “You think?”

  “I know. Callan and me, we’ve got history going back to Delta. He was a troop sergeant and I was the youngest kid on the block. He’s a master of circumlocution when he wants to tell you something without being blunt about it.”

  “Circumlocution? I love it when you talk like that.”

  “He’s running us for somebody else.”

  “We figured that. Agency?”

  “That or my old outfit.”

  “That’s a high-speed operation,” Charley said. “We didn’t know much about what you guys did, but we heard bits and pieces. It’s too small a community for that not to come out. And you’re right . . . this has a different flavor than a straight-up Agency gig. If there is such a thing.”

  “He was clear with me,” Dale said. “We’re just supposed to back them off, let them know they’ve been played against us by someone who didn’t give them the whole picture, maybe even wanted them to get whacked in the process. And see how they take that, see if we can’t leverage their anger into them letting us know who’s paying for the hit. Then we track it back to the source.”

  “Are they getting good take out of Uday? Maybe that will fill in the picture some more.”

  “Filling in the picture is what this is all about,” Dale said.

  They parked the car in the long-term parking lot, then went to the ticket counter separately to pick up their tickets. They went through the security screening process without speaking to each other. Once onboard, they sat apart, and passed the long flight to Schiopol airport in Amsterdam as though they didn’t know one another. In Amsterdam, they walked the long concourses, again separately, to customs and went through easily without being stopped or their carry-on bags searched. Outside of the customs area, they walked along until they saw a man holding a sign that said MILLER on it.

  Dale walked up to the man, nodded, and started walking with him. Charley lagged behind, looking for surveillance. He saw nothing, so once they were outside, he lengthened his stride to catch up to the two men. The man who’d come to greet them was a short, chubby Dutchman with bright red cheeks and brilliant blue eyes.

  “I’m Hans,” the Dutchman said.

  He led them to his car, a full-size navy blue Mercedes, and put their bags in the trunk. They got in and he drove away, carefully maneuvering the car through the busy traffic exiting the airport. He eased onto the highway and drove toward Amsterdam.

  “I was thinking of taking the train,” Hans said. “But we will be more comfortable in my car. You have reservations in your names at the hotel Artos, near the Central Train Station. It will be very convenient for you.” He took a thick, oversized manila envelope from beneath the seat and handed it to Dale. “This is information you will find useful. You can get a VCR player in your room if you request it, here’s some tape.” He handed over a videocassette.

  “Do you have some tools for us?” Charley said.

  “Yes, in the trunk. I’ll give them to you when we arrive at the hotel,” Hans said. “Two Glock nineteens, one spare magazine for each, with Winchester Silvertip ammunition. You didn’t ask for holsters.”

  “That’s fine,” Charley said. They didn’t want holsters. If they needed to ditch the weapons, they wanted to be able to do so without having to strip off holsters that might give them away.

  It was a longish drive in the heavy traffic to downtown Amsterdam.

  “I needn’t tell you that these women are very dangerous,” Hans said. “I don’t mean you any disrespect when I warn you not to take them lightly because they are beautiful women. They have killed many men and they are highly skilled at using that beauty against us.”

  “Have you run up against them before?” Charley said.

  “I have seen their handiwork firsthand,” Hans said. “They are total professionals, and they kill without hesitation, especially if they feel they are threatened. Someday I would like to talk to them. One can only admire their work.”

  Charley laughed. “You’re a braver man than me, Hans. I’d rather shoot them from one hundred yards away with a scoped rifle. We’ve seen what they can do at close quarters.”

  “You have?” Hans said. “I would like to hear about that.”

  “Some other time,” Dale said. “Let’s get on with what we’re here to do.”

  “Of course,” Hans said. He pulled up in the crowded parking lot of the Central Train Station. He pointed across the canal at a towering hotel just across the bridge.

  “There is where you will find your rooms,” he said. “If you need anything, feel free to call at any time on my mobile phone . . . I will keep it clear for you.”

  The short Dutchman engaged the parking brake, then got out of the car and opened the trunk. He handed each man their carry-on bags, then took out an aluminum camera case.

  “You’ll find what we discussed in this case,” he said. “Everything else you might need is in the envelope. The information is all current, and I have my team in place right now. Once you are ready, I can put you with them and you will see for yourself.”

  “That sounds good,” Dale said. “Thanks for everything, Hans. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Yes, please do,” Hans said. “And I look forward to hearing the tale.”

  The Dutchman got back into his car and drove away, waving a hand out the window.

  “Nice guy,” Charley said.

  “Remember need to know, Charley?” Dale said.

  “He probably knows more than we do about what we’re supposed to be doing,” Charley said. “He’s an operator and on our side.”

  “Let’s get to the hotel.”

  Dale checked in first. Once he had his room assignment, he told Charley, who then checked in and requested a room on the same floor. They got rooms across the hall from each other. They met in Dale’s room, where Charley took a large bottle of Heineken from the minibar and cracked it open.

  “You can’t get this good stuff in the States,” he said. “This is stronger and has a better flavor.”

  Dale nodded and cleared the table of its menus and brochures on the sights of Amsterdam. He opened the oversized manila envelope and carefully laid its contents out on the tabletop. There were stacks of photographs, including aerial shots, detailed street maps with annotations, plastic overlays for the maps and photographs, and a surveillance log. He plucked out a photograph of the two women and a child.

  “I didn’t know they had a kid,” Dale said.

  “Is it theirs?” Charley said.

  “Looks like it.” Dale took a sheet of single-spaced printed material from the stack. “They live on a converted canal barge, a kind of houseboat.”

  “How far from here?”

  “We’ll be able to walk it.”

  The two men pored over the documents, pulled the maps out, and looked at aerial photographs that covered the houseboat and the neighborhood around it. They studied the urban terrain with the intensity of doctors looking at X rays of a critical patient. They wanted to know every inch of the ground for the confrontation they had coming. The Twins would have good information security; they would be living a low-key, low-profile life, fully integrated into their neighborhood, with a plausible cover story for their neighbors.

  The dossier worked up by Hans’s surveillance team confirmed that. The Twins’ cover was that they were flight attendants for KLM; they took it to the point where they left for assignments cla
d in KLM flight-attendant uniforms. Their child, Ilse, was popular in the neighborhood with other children, and stayed with Marie Garvais’s mother when the two went operational. They were quiet and stayed to themselves, interacting mostly with other parents of preschool-aged children, and their lesbian lifestyle attracted no attention in tolerant Amsterdam.

  Dale and Charley studied the photographs with interest.

  “Isabelle never smiles except when she’s with their kid, you see that?” Charley said. He flipped through the sheaf of surveillance photographs. “Every single one of these, she’s either frowning or neutral. Marie, she’s a cheery little thing, smiles a lot.”

  “What’s that tell you?”

  “Don’t know, Ranger,” Charley said. “But I remember her face when she was tracking me with that Skorpion. Stone-cold serious, that one.”

  “That’s both of them,” Dale said.

  They studied the maps of Amsterdam and tracked out the various routes that would take them by the Twins’ houseboat. They ordered up a VCR player from the front desk, and studied the video tape Hans’s surveillance team had made, showing the Twins at home in their houseboat.

  “They know how to live a cover,” Dale said. “They’ve been here for ten years in the same spot, same address.”

  “It’s a wonder they’ve never had anybody track them back.”

  “Anybody who did probably didn’t survive the meeting,” Dale said. “They’re cautious and professional in their business dealings—they don’t meet people at their home and they’ve never worked an operation in this city.”

  “Stone pros,” Charley said with real admiration. “Every step of the way.”

  “They’ve got the advantage, being women,” Dale said. “Most operators would stop looking for a threat once they got a shot of their legs. They’ve used that to their advantage time and again. Most men will hesitate before shooting a woman, but these two won’t blink an eye before dropping you.”