The Aggrieved

by Brett Battles

  It would take time for them to turn their attention back to Dehler and Reiser, and by then, he should be sitting in his suite at the Jude Iris Hotel, enjoying a bottle of champagne.

  He left through the main part of the train station, his gaze taking in the crowd. Outside, he considered grabbing a taxi, but the weather was considerably better than he’d experienced the day before in Austria, and the hotel wasn’t really that far away, so he decided to walk.

  “JAR, COMING YOUR way,” Orlando whispered into her comm as she fell in five meters behind Reiser as he walked toward the train station exit.

  Jar, Nate, and Quinn were spread around the outside of the station, each covering a different potential route.

  Reiser stepped through the doorway, disappearing in a glare of daylight. The urge to rush after him pulled at Orlando, but she resisted.

  When she stepped outside, she whispered, “Which way did he go?”

  “Left,” Jar said.

  Orlando turned west and spotted Reiser walking toward a line of cabs.

  “It looks like he is going to take a taxi,” Jar said.

  Quinn’s voice, “Heading over. As soon as you know for sure, let—”

  “—you know which cab he is in and what direction it is headed,” Jar finished for him. “It would be senseless for me not to do this.”

  Orlando nearly laughed out loud. She was really beginning to like Jar. A lot.

  Reiser walked right by the taxis.

  “Forget the taxi,” Jar reported. “Still on foot. Heading toward Löwenstrasse.”

  “I’ll circle around and try to get ahead of him,” Nate said. “See if there’s someplace we can grab him.”

  “I’ll head that way, too,” Quinn said.

  Orlando weaved through a group of people and shot a look down Löwenstrasse. It was nearly as busy with pedestrians and street traffic as the area around the station was. What they needed was a quiet spot along Reiser’s route where no one would notice a kidnapping.

  Ideally, they would have had time to obtain the proper tools—such as a quick-acting knockout drug—and map everything out so they’d know where to nab him no matter which route he took. But they’d barely had time to get from the airport to the train station and had no choice but to wing it.

  A streetcar ka-dunked down the road, forcing Reiser to stop at the corner until it passed. Orlando slowed and angled off to the side, staying in his blind spot. She took advantage of the pause to shoot a glance at the pillar Jar was tucked behind.

  “Follow me,” Orlando said to her through the comm.

  “Copy.”

  Instead of stepping onto the road as soon as the streetcar went by, Reiser glanced from side to side and over his shoulder. Orlando had sensed the look coming and stepped to the left so that a group of teens was between them. Apparently not seeing anything of concern, he headed off again, his pace unchanged.

  “I’m on Löwenstrasse,” a winded Nate said. “Just past Schweizergasse, at the tram station. Too many people right here. Moving toward target.”

  “Hold on,” Quinn said. “I’m between you and Reiser. A lot of pedestrians here, too. We’ll have to see where he goes and hope he turns down someplace less busy.”

  “Copy,” Nate said.

  Reiser continued down the road for four blocks before he changed his route.

  “Turning left on Gerbergasse,” Orlando said.

  “We’ll head up to the next street and come around,” Quinn said. “Nate?”

  “On my way,” Nate said.

  As Orlando made the turn, she realized she’d been on this street before. It had been for a job years ago.

  When was that?

  It took a moment before it came to her. It had been back when she was living with Durrie—her son’s late father and Quinn’s former mentor. An info-gathering mission that had unearthed ties between an American defense company and three renegade governments on the weapons blacklist.

  As Reiser kept right, taking the bend onto Uraniastrasse, more memories came back, this time bringing a feeling of unease. She slowed as she tried to figure why.

  “Are you okay?” Jar asked.

  Uraniastrasse. We stayed on this street during that job, didn’t we? Yeah…at the—

  She stopped in her tracks. “Everyone back off.”

  “Why?” Quinn said. “What’s going on?”

  “If you haven’t reached Uraniastrasse, then stop where you are. Otherwise get off it now.”

  “Orlando, what is it?”

  “I need a minute. Just go!”

  She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Jar had retreated out of sight, and then she crossed the street and found a spot where she could watch Reiser as he continued down the block.

  Under her breath, she muttered, “Keep walking. Keep walking. Keep walking.”

  When he walked right by the building she’d been worried about, she let out a relieved breath. But then he stopped, looked around, and retraced his steps to the door of the Jude Iris Hotel—private, luxurious, and notorious safe house for people in the secret world.

  Chapter Eighteen

  REISER DIDN’T REALIZE how tense he’d been, until he entered the lobby of the Jude Iris Hotel and every muscle in his body seemed to simultaneously relax. He was safe now. No one could touch him here.

  The lobby was not large. In fact, it was surprisingly small given how much it cost to stay at the hotel. It was about as wide as the living room at Keller’s farmhouse, and maybe twice as long. At the far end of the room sat a black brushed-metal counter, and behind it a female receptionist. No one else was present. Guests of the Jude Iris were obviously not encouraged to mingle.

  As he neared the counter, the receptionist smiled and said in English, “Good afternoon. How may I help you?”

  Though the Swiss in this part of the country spoke German, it wasn’t his German so he answered in kind. “May I speak to Peter Dubach, please?”

  The woman bowed her head, said, “Of course,” and left through a door behind her.

  Two minutes passed before she reappeared in the company of a thin, middle-aged man dressed in a tasteful, dark gray suit and tie. She hung back by the door while the man approached the counter.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “I am Peter Dubach. I understand you are looking for me?” His English was so good, he could’ve passed for a native Brit.

  “I have a message from a mutual friend. I was told to tell you I’m a guest of number seventeen.”

  There was no change to the man’s expression. “Very good, sir,” he said, and turned to the woman. “Lisbeth, please show this gentleman to suite seventeen.” When he looked back at Reiser, he said, “Whatever you need or want, just pick up the phone and let us know.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  Lisbeth led him to a portion of the lobby wall and touched a recessed button. The wall slid to the side, revealing the elevator. She motioned for Reiser to enter and joined him in the car.

  “Is this your first time staying with us?” she asked as they traveled upward.

  “It is.”

  “Then you are in for a treat.”

  The car glided to a stop at the ninth floor and the door opened. Again, she let him go first, and then escorted him down an elegantly decorated hallway. There were only four doors besides the one for the elevator, none with numbers on them.

  She stopped in front of one and handed him the thin, round fob she had been holding. “That’s your key. No need to wave it in front of the door. As long as you have it on your person, the lock will open. Try it.”

  He slipped the fob into his pocket and tried the door. As promised, it opened.

  “If you lose it or have any problems with it, call or come to the front desk and it will be replaced.” She held out a hand toward the doorway. “Please.”

  He went inside and she followed.

  The space more than lived up to the hype. The central part of the suite had a sunken living room with leather couche
s, a giant TV that could easily be watched from anywhere in the room, and vases of flowers everywhere.

  Lisbeth walked over to a tall cabinet along the wall and opened the door. It was a full-size refrigerator, its shelves packed with food. “If there are any snacks or drinks you want that aren’t here, just let us know. And if you want something more substantial, our kitchen can take care of that for you.” She closed the door. “The bedroom is this way.”

  She crossed over to a pair of French doors and opened them. The room on the other side was as big as the living area, with a bed wider than any he’d ever slept on before.

  “If you have other…needs, those can also be arranged.”

  He couldn’t help but grin at that. A little company might be nice, help rid him of the last of his stress. Before he could say anything, someone knocked on the suite door.

  “Allow me,” Lisbeth said. She returned to the entrance.

  A moment later, in walked Dubach, carrying a tray upon which sat a bottle of champagne and a plate of cheese and olives and sausages. “A special welcome for our suite-seventeen guests,” he said as he set the tray on a table near one of the couches. He motioned at the bottle. “May I?”

  With a smirk, Reiser said, “Please.”

  Boy, could he get used to this. Maybe a one-week stay wouldn’t be enough to ensure his safety. Two seemed like a better plan. He might even stretch it to three if he was still feeling a little uneasy about returning home.

  Dubach filled the glass and carried it to Reiser.

  “You should have one with me,” the German said.

  “I would love to, but I’m afraid my work would suffer.”

  “One couldn’t hurt.”

  Dubach bowed his head. “If you insist.”

  Lisbeth sprang into action, opening another cabinet and pulling out a second flute.

  “You, too,” Reiser said to her.

  “Thank you,” she said, and grabbed another glass.

  When Dubach and Lisbeth were ready, Dubach raised his flute and said, “Welcome to the Jude Iris. May your stay be a quiet one.”

  Not quite the toast Reiser would have made, but it would do. “Thank you.” He raised his glass and took a hearty drink. When he brought the glass back down, Dubach and Lisbeth were smiling at him. “That’s good stuff.”

  “It’s Armand de Brignac Brut, 2006.”

  Champagne was not Reiser’s strong suit. He’d never heard the name before, but he guessed it must cost a few hundred euros a pop. He took another sip.

  Damn, it was good. Maybe he needed to start paying more—

  He heard something shatter. It sounded muffled and far away, but then he noticed his glass was no longer in his hand. He looked down and saw it had broken into a million pieces on the tiled floor.

  He staggered sideways, his balance suddenly out of whack.

  Dubach put a hand on Reiser’s back. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

  He helped Reiser to a chair and eased him into it. Across the room, Lisbeth was walking toward the sink, carrying two champagne flutes. Full champagne flutes. There was something odd about that, wasn’t there?

  “I don’t…I don’t…what—”

  “Relax. There’s no reason to fight it.”

  “Fight…it?”

  “It’s a very humane drug. The worst part is the disorientation you’re experiencing right now. I can assure you, however, you will not experience any pain. Soon, your brain will be cut off from the rest of your body, and you won’t even realize your organs are shutting down. In the end, you’ll simply drift off.”

  Reiser knew he should feel panicked, but all he felt was calm. He couldn’t even get angry at Dehler, though he knew she had done this to him. He was too content, too relaxed. Too…

  What was I just thinking about?

  “It won’t be long now.”

  Out of the corner of Reiser’s eye, he could see a man standing beside him. What did he mean by “it won’t be long now?” And who was he?

  A woman, young and cute, walked toward him. He didn’t know her, either, but he wouldn’t mind…

  His eyelids felt heavy. He struggled to keep them open.

  To hell with it.

  Whatever was going on, he could figure it out after he woke. He was too tired now.

  He let his lids close.

  Sleep. Yes. That’s what I need. Just a few hours of…

  “THAT’S IT,” DUBACH said as he removed his fingers from the now dead Reiser’s neck. “Inform Aaron that our guest is ready for him.”

  “Yes, Mr. Dubach,” Lisbeth said, and walked over to the phone.

  Sometimes when Dubach conducted a suite-seventeen procedure, the guest would be suspicious and even attempt to thwart the staff from completing its mission. On those occasions, Dubach was forced to dig deeper into his bag of tricks. He was pleased that was not necessary this time.

  He pulled out his phone and texted Dehler:

  Done

  QUINN AND NATE waited impatiently around the corner from Uraniastrasse.

  “Please tell me you still have eyes on him,” Quinn said into his comm.

  “He entered a building,” Orlando said.

  Quinn cocked his head, surprised. He’d assumed Orlando stopped them because Reiser had met up with someone on the street. “And none of us is following him inside because…?”

  “Because it’s the Jude Iris Hotel.”

  It took a moment for the name to click. When it did, he dropped his forehead into his hand.

  Son of a bitch.

  “I don’t understand,” Nate said. “What’s the problem? If it’s a hotel, we just sneak in.”

  “It’s a sanctuary,” Quinn said. “Like the Méndez in Buenos Aires.”

  “Oh. Oh. Crap.”

  “Yeah.”

  Though Quinn had never checked in to the Jude Iris himself, Peter—his late employer and head of the organization that had been known as the Office—had been a fan of such places, and had set Quinn up in several back in the day. But Quinn always felt they were choke points, with too great a chance of him crossing paths with the wrong person. These days he avoided them completely, preferring to do his hiding among the masses of the unaware.

  “What if we hack into their system?” Jar suggested. “They must have cameras. We can use them to see when Reiser is coming out again.”

  “No cameras,” Orlando said. “That’s part of the draw. No one who checks in wants to be recorded.”

  “No cameras at all?” Jar asked.

  “None.”

  “The Méndez takes in civilian customers in addition to those in the business, if I remember right,” Nate said. “Does this place do that, too?”

  “It did the last time I was there,” Orlando said.

  “Then what if Jar and I got a room? Once we’re in we can look around, see if we can find him.”

  Quinn shook his head. “The problem with a place like this, if they don’t put you on the same floor Reiser’s on, you’ll never find him.” He paused, an earlier thought tugging at his mind. “There might be another way, though.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Orlando asked.

  “Peter.”

  “Um, Peter’s dead,” Nate said.

  “Yeah, I remember,” Quinn said, with a heavy you’re-an-idiot undertone. “The thing is, Peter had contacts with the management that we might still be able to exploit.”

  “So, what? We call and tell them we’re friends of Peter’s, and ask if they can tell us when Mr. Reiser will be checking out?”

  “No. We get a friend to do it for us.”

  Orlando smiled. “Misty.”

  WASHINGTON, DC

  ANOTHER TYPO. SURPRISE, surprise. That made seventeen in the last thirty minutes.

  In Misty’s opinion, people who made seventy-eight obvious typos in a fifteen-page report should not be allowed to write said report.

  And come on, really? Mistaking their for there, not just once but three times?


  Criminal.

  She made the last fix and emailed it back to its creator. What she really wanted to do was attach a note that read: Take a spelling course before you touch your keyboard again. Unfortunately, she doubted it would be perceived as helpful.

  She marked the assignment as completed on her job list, and opened the next document.

  PROPOSAL FOR EXPANSION OF RESTROOMS IN BUILDING 617

  Oh, boy. Another page-turner.

  She spotted a typo in the first line on the cover page.

  “Just shoot me,” she muttered.

  As she was making the correction, her cell phone vibrated in the top drawer of her desk. She wasn’t supposed to take personal calls during work hours, but that rule was flouted by pretty much everyone in the department. In fact, at that very moment, she could hear Ted a couple of cubicles over, talking to either a plumber or an escort service.

  She pulled out her mobile.

  The caller ID displayed PRIVATE NUMBER. Probably a robo-sales call, but even that would be better than listening to a conversation about cleaning pipes.

  She pushed ACCEPT. “Hello?”

  “Misty? It’s Orlando.”

  Surprised, she took a full second before responding. “Orlando? My God. How are you?”

  “I’ve been better. Do you have a moment to talk? I really could use your help with something.”

  Misty looked around. None of her coworkers seemed to be paying her any attention, but that didn’t mean they weren’t. “Call me back in five minutes.”

  “Will do.”

  Misty snatched her coat off the hook by her desk, grabbed her bag, and headed across the room. Several colleagues gave her confused looks as she walked by. It was still midmorning—where did she think she was going?

  When she reached Mr. Ferris’s office, she tapped on the jamb and stepped inside.

  “Is there something I can—” He noticed the items she was holding. “Going somewhere?”