“No. She may be a bit angry, but not with the fury of a jilted lover.”
Winter kept his gaze steady, and Smith couldn’t tell if he believed him or not.
“Who are you really? One of Arden’s clients?”
Smith smiled at that. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Right now I need to understand what I’m facing. You’re dedicated to living off the grid. What things should I worry about in the trip to Calais? Assuming that I want to take the Channel Tunnel and not a boat.”
“As I said before, I’m not sure it’s even possible to do that with any anonymity. Why not the boat?”
“The tunnel is faster.”
“Okay, that’s certainly true. First off, you need to understand that no one really ‘lives off the grid,’ they just think they do. You’d have to bury yourself high in the Alps and grow your own food even to have a shot at it.”
Smith thought of Howell and his lair in the Sierra Nevada. The decision to live so far from others was suddenly making more sense.
“Okay. But you’ve done it.”
“Not really. Every time I head into town, even with the helmet, I’m captured on a camera. Which means that someone sees me. Whether they choose to investigate further is the deciding factor. I depend on the fact that the average government worker is not that interested in analyzing the thousands of images and people they monitor daily, and this disinterest is the only thing that keeps me somewhat protected.”
Smith downed the last bit of his coffee and stood. “Is it safe to be outside here? No cameras?”
Winter nodded. “No cameras, and the satellite won’t pass over again for another twenty hours or so. Even if it does, the trees block the front of the house. They’ll have a shot of the panels, though. Nothing I can do about that, they need to be open to the sky to soak up the sun.”
Smith went back outside to the white car and knelt next to the rear left tire. He pulled out the device that the operative had given him. He heard the crunching of Winter’s shoes on the ground behind him, but didn’t look up. Smith switched on the device and ran it around the tire’s rim. It beeped once at the three-quarter mark. Smith took the probe, held it close to the rim, and pressed a button. The small probe turned red and the device gave an answering two-beep signal. Smith rose and went to the next tire.
“What are you doing?” Winter asked.
“Burning out the RFID chips,” Smith said.
“They’re in tires? That never occurred to me. Why?”
Smith finished with the second and headed to the third. “Easier if there’s a recall.”
“I usually use a disposable camera’s charge to burn RFIDs. That’s a nice little device you’ve got there.”
When Smith was done with the last one he waved at Winter’s cycle.
“Want me to check yours?”
Winter nodded. “Hell yes.”
Smith ran the leads over the motorcycle’s tires and deactivated two more chips. When he was done he switched off the device.
“I think you should assume that you’ve been pinged every time you’ve ridden that cycle.”
Winter grimaced. “Like I said, I knew that I was watched, but it’s worse than I thought.”
“Do you really think it’s possible to get Arden out of England without the authorities knowing?”
“I’m pretty sure. I’ve done it a lot of times.”
“Why?” Smith asked.
Winter raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Smith shrugged. “Why live a life constantly at odds with your fellow man?”
“Because my fellow humans are a bunch of murderous bastards out to defile every inch of this planet to ensure their own pleasure.”
Smith shook his head. “You don’t really believe that.”
“What makes you think I don’t?”
“Because it’s not true. Statistically and objectively. There are billions of people on this planet and the majority of them try to do what’s right every day.”
“You’re an optimist.”
“I’m a scientist. I’m just stating a fact.”
“Scientists are some of the people who got us here in the first place. They invent the technology that creates the problem and then they try to sell the rest of us the solution.”
Smith wanted to argue that the majority of scientific advances had benefited humankind, not harmed it, but he sensed that it would be a futile discussion. He suspected that Winter would trot out the one example that leveled the argument: the nuclear bomb. It was an invention of the darkest variety.
Smith shoved the device in his pocket and headed back into the cottage. The bathroom door hung open and the smell of shampoo and soap wafted in the air. Smith took the stairs to the attic and found Arden on a top bunk, sound asleep. He crawled into another top bunk closest to the exit, placed his jacket at the foot of the bed, set his watch to wake him in three hours, and tried to get some rest.
42
Russell stood near the door of a safe house only ten miles from where they had first intercepted Smith and Arden. Taylor’s condition had deteriorated too rapidly for them to reach the hospital and they’d opted for the closer location. Now Taylor lay on a bed while a physician connected to the agency attempted to address her injuries. Russell watched him from across the room. His head was bowed over Taylor as he worked and Russell’s operative, still in her cocktail dress, held a desk lamp next to the doctor’s shoulder to provide more light. From the bed came a rattling sound—a sound that Russell had heard many times before. The physician’s head bowed lower.
“Is she dead?” Russell asked. The physician straightened.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry. The damage to her artery was too extensive.”
Russell turned and walked through the house and out the front door, where Beckmann leaned against the physician’s car while he smoked a cigarette.
“Taylor didn’t make it,” Russell said.
Beckmann tipped his head to the sky and closed his eyes a moment before looking at Russell. “This whole mission has taken a wretched turn. I feel like we’re reacting to someone else’s game instead of playing our own.”
Russell knew what he meant. “We’re reacting because we don’t have the time to really analyze the facts. We still don’t know why these disparate people were kidnapped all in one night.”
“Taylor wasn’t kidnapped at the same time. At least I don’t think she was.”
Russell began to reply, but stopped when she heard the cracking of a twig. Trees surrounded the house, which was in the center of a stand of them that stretched across five acres. Beckmann stared steadily at Russell, but it was clear that he had heard the noise as well.
“We have visitors,” Russell said in a soft voice.
“Yes, it appears as though we do.” He offered her the cigarette. “Hold this a moment?”
Russell took it. Beckmann slowly reached across his body and slid his hand under the lightweight jacket he wore, where Russell knew he had a gun in a holster near his left shoulder.
“I left my gun in the house.”
“Then I suggest you take cover at the count of three. One, two, three.”
Russell dropped below the car window and pressed her shoulder against the door. Beckmann dropped with her. The only sound was the creaking of the tree branches as the wind blew through them. Russell reached to her ankle, where a knife in a holder hugged the outside of her leg. She removed it, held it at the ready, and wished it were a gun. Beckmann shuffled forward to the front of the car and peered around the headlights.
“See anything?” Russell whispered.
“Nothing. We’d better get back into the house. Whoever’s out there could be making their way around,” Beckmann replied.
From the back of the house came the crash of breaking glass. Russell was up and sprinting toward the front door, with Beckmann right behind her. She ran through the hallway and dodged right to pick up her own gun, which she had left on a credenza. When she r
eached the bedroom entrance she pressed against the wall next to the doorway. Beckmann joined her and stayed close while Russell inched toward the opening, holding her gun high. When she hit the door panel edge she peered into the bedroom.
The doctor was sprawled over Taylor’s body with a gaping wound at the base of his skull. The operative sat on the floor to the right of a shattered window and pressed her back against the far wall. She saw Russell and held up two fingers.
“Detmar says there are two, so we should expect a pincer movement,” Russell whispered to Beckmann. She slid her knife back into its holder at her ankle and checked her gun. She watched as Detmar crabbed across the floor, bent low. She came through the door and pressed against the opposite wall.
“I’m pretty sure I saw two before I dropped down,” Detmar said.
“Do we have any other backup close?” Russell asked.
Detmar shook her head. “Nothing. This safe house was just added to our list this week. It’s so new that it hasn’t even been staffed yet. I wonder how they found us. I’m positive we weren’t followed from the highway.”
Russell wondered as well. “We need to get to the car and get out of here,” she said.
“Agreed. With Taylor gone there’s no reason to stay.”
“I’ve got the car keys. I’ll count it down and then we’ll head to the car. Don’t stop,” Beckmann said.
On Beckmann’s count Russell and Detmar burst from the door, guns high, and sprinted the short few feet to the car. Russell heard the compressed air noise of a silenced shot and Detmar grunted once and stumbled into Russell, almost knocking her down.
“Right, thirty degrees,” Russell said.
Beckmann laid down fire and Russell wrapped her arm around Detmar to hold her up. She dragged the woman the last few feet to the car and opened the back door. Detmar fell into the backseat while Russell slammed the door closed and opened the front passenger door. She stayed behind it, using it for whatever cover it could provide while she joined Beckmann and fired into the trees. As she fired, Beckmann continued working his way around the vehicle to the driver’s side. Russell was relieved when she heard the engine start up. She scrambled into the seat and Beckmann shot down the driveway. A bullet punched through the back window and exited the windshield without doing any further damage, but it was the last close call Russell wanted to have that evening.
Beckmann barreled down the snaking drive and turned on a hard left, bumping up over a large boulder painted to glow in the dark that marked the driveway’s end. The car’s shocks squeaked as the car hammered back down. The sedan swerved a bit but Beckmann managed to keep it on the road as he straightened. Russell watched the side-view mirror as they accelerated down the road. When she was certain that they’d outrun the attackers, she put her gun in the holster and leaned over the seat.
“Where are you hit?” she asked Detmar.
Detmar grimaced in obvious pain. “In my side. I think it went clear through.”
“I’m driving to the hospital we were supposed to take Taylor to,” Beckmann said.
“Don’t go there,” Russell said.
“What are you talking about? She needs medical attention.”
“Someone is feeding information to these guys and I don’t think we can afford to use any of our usual haunts until we know who,” Russell said.
“The woman still needs a doctor,” Beckmann replied.
Detmar’s gaze switched from one to the other as Beckmann and Russell debated the issue.
“Do you know anyone outside the agency who could handle this for us?” Russell asked Detmar.
She shook her head. “No one. A bullet wound would have to be reported.”
“Beckmann?” Russell asked.
“I’m thinking,” he said. “But no. I don’t.” They drove a few miles in silence.
“I wish Smith were here. He’s great at field dressings,” Russell said. “I don’t have any ideas either. We’ll use the agency medical center, but I won’t call ahead and this time we’ll guard the perimeter.” She looked at Detmar. “Hang in there.”
Detmar nodded and closed her eyes.
Beckmann turned off the motorway and headed to the medical center, which was on a quiet cul-de-sac. It was a squat, nondescript two-story brick building with white window frames and double glass doors. Light glowed from the interior, but the four available parking spots were empty. Beckmann pulled into one marked with a sign that said “Visitors” and killed the engine.
“I’ll reconnoiter,” he said. Russell opened her door and stepped out, keeping low and tracking to the right. Beckmann was at the door in four long strides, also keeping low and to the door’s edge. He peered into the building through the glass door, his gun in his hand. Russell saw him go still.
“Scheisse,” he said under his breath.
“What is it?” Russell asked.
“You’d better come see this,” Beckmann said. Russell jogged up to him and he pointed to the door.
Through the glass Russell could see the center’s reception area. A woman was draped over a counter, her arm hanging limp next to a plaque that said “Reception.” Blood dripped down from her fingers and onto the carpeting below, where a pool was forming. Two feet and to the left of her, on the other side of the counter, a man lay, also facedown. His hand disappeared under his body. Three feet from that man another woman was sprawled against a couch, and her sightless eyes stared forward. Blood covered her clothes from a gaping wound in her neck.
“What do you think?” Beckmann asked.
“I think we’ve got a mole,” Russell said.
43
Darkanin stood outside the shattered window where Taylor lay dead. Asam stood next to him.
“I pay you to kill Smith and you don’t. I pay you to kill the lawyer and you don’t. I pay you to kill the chauffeur and you don’t, and I pay you extra to recover Taylor alive and she’s the one you kill? Give me my money back,” Darkanin said.
Asam shook his head. “Maybe if you had told me the truth I could have done the job right, but you lied to me every step of the way.”
“What are you talking about?”
Asam turned to stand in front of Darkanin. His dark eyes glittered with anger as he pushed his face into Darkanin’s.
“I’m talking about the chauffeur. I know a trained fighter when I meet one, and he was trained. And whoever he was, he was a professional, not some local gym rat who knows a few martial arts moves.”
It took all Darkanin had in him to stand his ground as Asam crowded him.
“What makes you say that? Trying to assuage your ego?”
Asam stabbed a finger at Darkanin. “In the past five years I’ve handled any number of jobs and all of them, all of them, have been successful. I am the best. That this man managed to evade me and stay alive is testament to his training and the training of the entire crew.” Asam spun and pointed at the doctor’s body. “And after Smith shot at me and another set of killers in a silver car wiped out two of my best lieutenants, I was nearly killed by two more that were guarding this guy. You’re into something big and you’ve underplayed the risk every step of the way.”
Darkanin stayed glued to the ground while Asam raged.
“I need more money,” Asam said.
Darkanin’s own anger began to bubble. He should have expected extortion. “Not. Another. Dime,” he said. “I needed that woman alive to finish the work that she began. She’s a microbiologist from one of the finest research institutes in the world. She’s brilliant and innovative and now she’s dead.”
Asam spit on the ground. “Then maybe you should have told me the truth about what I was up against.” He shrugged. “She’s dead and she’s not coming back, so you’d better find another one.” Asam bent down and picked up one of the two gas cans at his feet. “Let’s get to work,” he said.
Darkanin shook his head. “No. I’m not going inside. I’m not stupid. Even if you burn the house to a crisp there still can be evi
dence left behind. You go inside and burn it.”
To Darkanin’s surprise Asam headed toward the house without further argument. As he did Darkanin looked again through the window at the two dead people. What Asam said had struck a chord in him. Perhaps he could salvage the situation after all. What he needed was someone to finish the work that Taylor had started. He removed his gun, checked the magazine, and waited.
From within the house came the whooshing sound of fire igniting. The sound repeated two more times and Darkanin watched Asam back into the bedroom, his body bent as he trailed gasoline. He tossed the remaining gasoline on the dead physician, threw the empty can on the bed, and turned to climb out the shattered window. Darkanin shot him in the chest.
Asam’s body jerked back from the hit and a look of surprise spread across his features. After a moment he dropped to the floor, landing in a puddle of the gasoline that he had just spilled. Darkanin reached into his pocket, pulled out a book of matches, lit one, and leaned back through the frame to toss it onto the trail of gas. Flames licked upward.
Darkanin went around the house to where his car was parked. More flames shot out of the windows and bits of ash and clouds of smoke floated in the air. Darkanin started his rented Mercedes and drove down the drive at a steady pace. When he reached the main highway he dialed a number.
“Do you have her?” a voice said.
“She’s dead.”
“You used Asam, right?” The voice sounded incredulous.
“That’s right,” Darkanin said. “You told me he was the best.”
“He is.”
“He was. He’s dead.”
“Dead? How?”
“Smith killed him.”
“I’m surprised. Asam should have been able to take him out from a distance. I funneled him the tracking information every step of the way.”
“Who was helping Smith?”
“The same guy that my contact said had found and delivered Warner back into the hands of the DOD. Smith and another man named Beckmann. But you knew about them.”
The Geneva Strategy Page 20