by Peter Nealen
“See any sign of their buddies?” I scanned our surroundings for one of the other cars we’d linked to the sedan. There was a van and an SUV as well, but I didn’t see either of them.
“Not yet.” Chris was looking, too. “Can’t say I like the fact that I can’t see that van. Makes me think ‘kidnappers.’”
“Same here.” I scratched my chin through my goatee. “What do you think? EDC or one of the irregular groups?”
“EDC.” He sounded pretty certain. “Somehow they don’t fit the profile for the Fourth Reich or the DDSB, from what we saw in Germany.”
“Could be they act and dress different up here.” Neither of us were looking at each other while we talked; we were watching our surroundings and listening to the radio. The radio had remained quiet so far; we were mostly in position, but there wasn’t much to report on yet. “This is a different environment.”
“I don’t know.” Chris was more than just a former SEAL; he was also a preacher for some small, rump Protestant church. “They’re pretty much thugs. The people behind them might be more sophisticated, but the actual groups don’t strike me as being nearly that professional.”
“That’s assuming that there aren’t varying levels of the organization.” I’d been thinking about some of this stuff in the background for years. We were hip-deep in a war that was amorphous and formless, constantly shifting every time we thought we had a threat nailed down. “It’s easy to pin them as just gangs, but the Fourth Reich has cells on both sides of the damned Atlantic. I’m convinced that the DDSB is just one more Marxist cell in the big soup of networked groups.” That might not have been the clearest metaphor, but I was winging it while looking for threats and trying to spot our opening.
“Deacon, Weeb.” Scott’s voice was faint and tinny in my earpiece. “We’ve got eyes on that blue Kia Sportage. Can’t quite tell who all is in it, but we have confirmed that Long Hair is one of them. They’re parked at the corner of AC Meyers and Teglholmsgade.” He mangled the latter street name a bit, but I was in no position to throw stones. I’d gotten pretty good at German and at least pronouncing Polish names, but Danish was a different animal.
“Roger.” I didn’t bring the radio up to my lips, but kept it down below the dash while I tried to project down to the mic. “We’ve got eyes on the black sedan. No sign of the van yet?”
“Negative.” Scott’s call was echoed by the rest of the team. My eyes narrowed a little as I studied the sedan without quite looking directly at it. It was a technique I’d learned a while back. I had found that I could actually see more, using more of my peripheral vision, when I didn’t quite focus on one target. It also avoided triggering the weird “sixth sense” most people get when they’re being stared at.
I didn’t like the van’s absence. Chris was right; it could very well be a snatch vehicle. And that could spell bad news.
Or, it could be good news, if they were just watching and not ready to make the hit yet. But we were there on campus at that time for a reason, and I couldn’t help but imagine that anyone else who was following Landau was probably there for the same reason.
We really didn’t have enough information. We hadn’t had the time to develop this situation. Which meant we were really going to have to roll with the punches.
Someday, I’d have the leeway to exercise every bit of operational patience I could muster. But that hadn’t been the American way in a very, very long time.
“She’s supposed to start in about five more minutes.” Chris checked his watch.
A glance at my own confirmed it. We’d been in place for about ten; I hadn’t wanted to heat things up too much, on the off chance that the surveillance on her had picked us up. But that meant that we were going to have to move fast if we were going to get in before they closed the doors.
I would have preferred to make contact as she was coming out, but the lecture hall was going to be closed, and given what I’d seen of her security, I expected that non-attendees suddenly coming up to her afterward would to be viewed as a threat, no matter how dismissive she was toward her bodyguards—and we’d observed that, too.
“All right.” I turned to Stenberg in the back seat. “You ready?”
He gulped. For all his talk about coordinating the resistance, this was apparently beyond his experience. We were armed, and we’d already identified possible threats that he wouldn’t have spotted if we hadn’t pointed them out. But he nodded and opened the door, stepping out onto the pavement.
I checked the PR-15 holstered inside my waistband and made sure it was well-concealed. We’d checked earlier; there was no metal detector or security with scanners at the doors, so we should be able to get the pistols in. They were for close in, immediate threats; as I got out, I pulled my go bag out of the back seat. If things got really sporty, I had the Rattler folded up in there, along with about four spare magazines.
Slinging the pack on my back, I shut the door and Stenberg and I joined the flow of students and other curious people heading inside. I wasn’t alone, either; I spotted Tony heading over from the other side of the parking lot. He was bigger than most of the students—hell, Tony was bigger than most of us, and except for David, none of us were small dudes.
Still, nobody paid us much mind as we filed into the lecture hall. I kept my eyes peeled, watching the crowd. Most of them were young, but there was a fair sprinkling of gray heads in the mob, as well. There were plenty of backpacks and book bags, too. So, unless they’d set up a surprise X-ray machine at the entrance, we’d be fine.
I was also looking for guys like us. I scanned for anyone who was paying a bit more attention to their surroundings than any of the obvious students. Even more, I was looking for anyone who had that “meat-eater” vibe that most of us can’t quite turn off.
There. The man walking in just about ten yards ahead of me didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the crowd. He wasn’t big, wasn’t wearing the tacti-beard and tattoos, or a ball cap and 5.11 tuxedo. He was short, wiry, and going slightly bald. But he was watching. His eyes took in everything. I looked away before they flicked to me, but I knew he’d seen me, and he was making the same calculations I was.
Who the hell are you? Who are you working for, and what’s your objective?
The surveillance on Landau hadn’t all stayed outside. The question remained, who were they, and what was their interest in Landau?
Or did our interest get leaked before we even left Poland? Are they watching her because they know we’re going to try to contact her? That was the other possibility, and given the divides that had Americans in and out of government working at cross-purposes, it was far from outside the realm of probability.
The little guy and I studiously ignored each other as we filed into the packed lecture hall, even though we ended up almost within arm’s reach of each other. He didn’t have a pack like I did, but I had little doubt that he had some kind of weapon on him. He didn’t move or act like a spook. He struck me as more of a special operations guy.
I didn’t think he was one of ours. JSOC had some elements out this way, but as far as we’d been briefed, they were pursuing other threads. Not that it was impossible that wires had gotten crossed, and a target set had been double-dipped. It had certainly happened before. But I didn’t think so.
I kept half an eye on him, but I couldn’t afford to get target-fixated. I needed to keep track of Landau as well as the rest of the crowd.
Tony was stationed off to one side, his pack slung over one shoulder. I couldn’t see anyone else who pinged my threat receptors right away, at least not like the little guy next to me.
My eyes lit on a small knot of young people just below me, muttering amongst themselves. Most of them had their backs to me, but I could see that most were wearing hoodies or leather jackets, and a couple had longer hair. They kind of looked like the protestor set, but it was kind of hard to tell in a mass of college students. Most of the other young people in the room looked like the protestor s
et, too.
The podium at the front was currently unoccupied, framed by lights on the ceiling that were rendered completely superfluous by the wall of picture windows behind it.
Murmured conversations filled the room while the crowd waited for Landau to appear. Finally, things got quiet, as a small woman in her late forties, wearing a light gray pantsuit, stepped out onto the stage and went to the podium.
“Meine Damen und Herren, heute prüfen wir die Zukunft der internationalen Zusammenarbeit nach den schrecklichen Schlägen, die sie In dem gegenwärtigen Krieg erlitten hat.” Her voice was soft and kind of flat, and she talked fast. “Eine Reihe schrecklicher Entscheidungen von Beamten sowohl im Osten als auch im Westen haben uns an den Rand einer Katastrophe geführt...”
My German was just good enough to sort of follow along, but right then I didn’t care about the content of her speech enough to pay attention. I went back to scanning the crowd.
She went on for the better part of an hour. Most of the crowd listened attentively, including the little balding man next to me. Others were clearly starting to zone out.
I watched them carefully, again being careful to avoid outright staring. Maybe they were there for a class credit. Or maybe they were there because Landau was a target.
Finally, she started to wind down. Stenberg was getting a little fidgety. He was paying attention to the speech, and was clearly getting a little wound up as he prepared to do his part.
The man next to me wasn’t visibly excited. In fact, he looked bored. I didn’t take that as a sign that it was time to relax.
Landau wrapped up to a smattering of applause. I’d caught enough of the speech to know that it was mostly bemoaning the impact that the war had already had on efforts to unite everyone in a nice, peaceful, homogenous, soulless blob.
Okay, that wasn’t quite her turn of phrase, but you get the gist.
I wasn’t impressed with the individual that command thought was going to stop the war. But I didn’t get to pick the package.
As she stepped aside from the podium, the audience started to filter out, except for a handful who moved toward the stage, apparently to ask questions. Stenberg started that way, without looking at me, focused on Landau. I followed, keeping an eye on Baldy. He didn’t move, but stayed up near the door in the back. That I didn’t like. I could feel his eyes on my back.
Landau saw Stenberg coming, but didn’t seem to notice me. Her eyes lit on Stenberg and she smiled, though it didn’t quite seem to make it to her eyes. She was a sharp-featured woman, with a bit of a pinched look about her that reminded me of one of Vogt’s co-conspirators back during the winter. I briefly wondered if that woman was still alive.
“Hello, Gritta.” I raised an eyebrow. I hadn’t realized that Stenberg was on a first-name basis with our asset. “Emile Roux would like to talk to you.”
Her eyebrows shot up, and I saw her face tighten. Her whole body stiffened, and she stood back a little bit. “I know what Emile wants.”
Stenberg stepped right up to the edge of the stage. “He isn’t wrong, Gritta. Something has to be done.”
“Yes. Something. But to become a puppet of the Americans is not the ‘something’ that I would have anything to do with.” She folded her arms. “I am not Ahmed Chalabi, and I will not be a European Karzai.”
She still didn’t seem to have noticed me. I took the opportunity to glance around the room.
Most of the students had left. A small knot of them was still gathered around the stage, watching the interplay between Stenberg and Landau with some curiosity and faint confusion.
The balding man was still standing by the door. Tony was sitting in a seat across the room from him, his pack in his lap. The group of protestor types were still in their seats, muttering amongst themselves and watching me.
I didn’t think anyone would kick things off in here. It was too high-profile. But that was assuming that everyone involved was a professional. From the looks of the protest set, I couldn’t be sure of that.
What’s their interest? They can’t know why we’re interested in Landau, even if they know we’re Americans. Or can they? Once again, I wondered how much of this plan had already been leaked.
It had certainly happened before. Even when I’d still been a Marine grunt, I’d been a part of operations that had been all over the news hours before we’d hit the ground. Under the current circumstances, I couldn’t help but suspect that things had gotten much worse.
“No one is asking that.” Stenberg looked around, as if just then noticing just how public we were, and how many eyes are on us. “Things are going to change drastically soon. We need you to help shape what’s to come.”
She stared at him for a moment, her eyes cold. “I’m sure that was well-practiced. Of course, I’m supposed to play along so that I can have some ‘influence’ over events, no? It is a cunning bit of manipulation, but I have seen it before.”
Stenberg spread his hands as he turned back to her fully, apparently feeling a new sense of urgency at the situation. “Please. Just meet us to talk. There’s no need to promise more than that, but events are moving quickly. Do you really want the Americans to decide entirely what Europe should look like for the next century?”
“You’re assuming that the Americans have any hope of winning.” Landau had finally noticed me, and her gaze as she met my eyes got even colder. “The United States is a shadow of its former self. They will cause all sorts of damage and leave, and then we might pick up the pieces. But I do not wish to be a part of another American war in Europe.” She turned her back and stalked off the stage.
Stenberg looked over at me, defeated. I just kept my face composed and nodded, taking more note of the other reactions in the room instead of what Landau was doing.
The balding man in the back just watched, his face as impassive as ever. The protestors were actually grinning—they had overheard what had happened, and they must have thought that they’d won. At least for now. But from the looks on a couple of their faces, I knew better. They knew that Landau wasn’t their friend, and she was still a target.
For the far-leftists, everyone is a target, eventually.
“Come on.” I headed back up toward the doors, feeling more than seeing the protestors’ eyes on me. I was a target to them, too.
They’d regret trying to take that bite. Especially since I still had my PR-15 in my waistband and my Rattler just a swing of a bag away.
Tony had already slipped out by the time we reached the doors. I met the bald guy’s eyes for a second as we passed him.
There was no recognition, no acknowledgement there at all. Just a dead, blank stare. The guy was a pro. I wondered who he worked for, while at the same time I mentally rehearsed reaching for my pistol and putting two rounds into his chest before blasting his brains against the wall.
Always have a plan.
Nothing happened as we went back to the car. The black sedan was still there, and I had to assume that the other vehicle was still in place, as well. That didn’t bode well. We hadn’t had all three of our vehicles on Landau before this. If the opposition—whoever they were—had this many assets in place, and the van was missing…
We had to be ready to move fast.
Stenberg and I got into the vehicle and shut the doors. Stenberg spoke first.
“I’m sorry. I thought I could at least get her to talk to us.” He slumped in the back seat. “I don’t know what we’re going to do now.”
“We’re going to keep eyes on and let the situation develop.” Chris reached over and turned the radio up. “You should hear this.”
“…again, we are still trying to find out exactly what happened. But we have confirmed that Soren Magnussen has been killed in what appears to be a traffic accident. There are reports that he was shoved in front of a bus, but those are still unconfirmed.”
“Well, now. That’s interesting.” Soren Magnussen had been on our “persons of interest” list. He was a known EDC political o
perative. We hadn’t known that he was in Copenhagen.
“Things are getting spicy.” Chris nodded toward the black sedan. “And I think our friends out there know it.”
“I guarantee they do.” I sat back in the seat. “Like you said, now we wait and let the situation develop.”
Chapter 8
It didn’t take long.
“This is Weeb. Blue Kia is moving. And I think we have eyes on the van. Have to confirm the license plate, but the Kia started to move just as the van came around the corner.”
“Right on time.” I keyed the radio, my eyes already locked on Landau and her detail as they came out the front doors and headed for her Mercedes. The guards on the vehicle had straightened as soon as she’d come out of the building, one of them getting into the driver’s seat. The other waited by the back door, his hands folded in front of him. “Roger.”
Chris was watching the black sedan. “You don’t think they’re going to try to do it here?”
“If they are, they’re either more confident or far more amateurish than I thought.” It was broad daylight, there were a good four hours left before dark, and this was hardly the most secluded part of town. There were still students wandering from building to building, more of them on the glass-enclosed bridge over the water. This was not the place for a snatch and grab, not if you were hoping to be remotely clandestine about it.
Of course, if they were German, staying clandestine might not be the point. Having a political figure of Landau’s stature openly grabbed off the street might send more of a message than just having her disappear. Especially if the EDC had already warned the Danes to stay away, and I didn’t see any Danish Politiet anywhere.
“Get ready. Just in case.” I already had the bag open and my hand on the Rattler’s grip.
I could hear Stenberg muttering in the back. It was in Swedish, but it sounded something like, “This isn’t happening. Oh, this isn’t happening.”
Welcome to the big leagues, Mr. Resistance Fighter.
But the black sedan didn’t move as Landau and her detail got into the vehicle. There was no sign of the blue Kia or the van. The Mercedes started rolling, and I still didn’t see any reaction.