“Go on,” Frank said.
“I realize that I may still be considered a suspect in your case, but Vincent told me you were a straight shooter and I could trust you with some information in my possession.”
Frank was at full attention now. He was perplexed at the timing of the call and somewhat incensed at Vincent Marks for betraying what he thought was, and should have been, a confidential conversation. “How many of these guys were talking to each other?” Frank asked himself.
“What exactly did Vincent say about me?” Holden asked, careful not to jump to conclusions about the break in confidences. That was one of the first things he had been taught—not to be in a hurry to assume things. Often times, the difference between an outstanding investigator and one who couldn’t crack the case was the investigator’s ability to attend to even the minutest of details.
“He told me you were the lead investigator in the case involving the leaks and that you came across as someone we could depend on.”
“Just what kind of information do you have?” This phone call had totally blindsided him and Holden still had his defenses up.
“If I may, I’ll start at the beginning,” Max answered. “It began in late 1995, about eight months before the summer Olympics.” Max started. He continued telling Holden the story, beginning with how his internal security had uncovered some sort of plot and then filling him in on everything that had happened since. When Max got around to the part about two of his security personnel being murdered, Holden’s pen dropped out of his hand.
He jumped in, “Did you say that your two men were last seen in Atlanta with two women?”
“Yes, agent Holden. That’s what the people in the hotel told us. Neither one of these men was from Atlanta, so we assumed they were, well, working girls hired to escort our men for the evening. Looks like they called the wrong agency, wouldn’t you say?”
“What the hell is going on?” Frank asked himself, his head swimming in all this new information. First Levine, then Spanos’ case with this Garrett character, and now this! The more he dug, the more questionable situations he encountered. He felt as though he were in a never-ending maze, thrown a few tidbits each time he figured he’d come to a dead end. Nearly forgetting he had a caller on the phone, Frank asked, “Have you contacted the Atlanta police with this information?”
Max answered, “They closed the cases and we didn’t see the need in drawing any undue attention to the matter, Agent Holden. It just wouldn’t have served anyone’s purpose, wouldn’t you agree? Neither of the men had family, so we simply kept our mouths shut and went on with our own internal investigation. Now my security people say that Interpol is snooping around over in China, so I figured I would give you what I have and wash my hands of the whole affair.”
Frank closed his eyes and thought for a moment, running his fingers through his hair for the tenth time since this conversation began. For months nothing had happened regarding this case and now in the span of twenty-four hours he had leads and information flooding in from every direction.
“Hello, are you still there Agent Holden?” Max asked, interrupting Frank’s thoughts.
Frank’s eyes opened, bringing him back to the moment. “Yes, sorry Mr. Schlagle,” he answered. “Just trying to sort through some of this. Um, would it be possible for us to send one of our local agents to pick up copies of your files? Say sometime tomorrow—at your convenience, of course?” Frank pressed.
“Absolutely,” Max answered, “I’ll have them ready first thing in the morning.”
Frank continued, “Did your people find out who these girls were supposed to have worked for?”
“No,” Max responded, “That was a dead end for us. We contacted all of the escort services in town and no one could help. We even offered a significant reward, and we heard nothing. Not a peep.”
“Why do you suppose men in their positions would have gone out with such women? Is there a chance someone in your company set them up?”
“I’d certainly hate to think so, but it does seem possible, doesn’t it? Whatever the case may be, all our investigations lead nowhere.”
Frank sighed, “Mr. Schlagle, let me have a chance to go through the files. I may have more questions for you then.”
“Fair enough. Here’s a number where I can be reached twenty-four hours a day. For your use only, Holden,” he warned, familiar with the way some investigators felt free to pass on leads and tips to their associates.
“Of course.” He hung up the phone, giddy with the new leads, almost laughing at his latest finds. After a moment, he caught himself though, and his mood became more somber. He realized that, if these incidents were all related, someone was responsible for five recent murders—one of them, Levine’s. That made the stakes even higher. One person or organization creating all this havoc gave more importance to each individual act of aggression, making it more important than ever to find the correlation between these events.
Frank closed the door to his office and had his secretary hold his calls. He grabbed the file he had been reviewing on Garrett, and began reading it again; this time devouring the information as a hungry wolf would its prey.
* * *
It was 4:00 a.m., two and a half days later. Frank had just finished reading the files from Max Schlagle for the second time. Garrett and Simon’s files lay on the corner of the desk, each having been read several times through. Holden had not left his office in three days. He paused as he caught a reflection of himself in the window next to his door. “I look awful,” he said to himself, rubbing his unshaven face and raising his arms to smell his soiled shirt. “Whew! I need a shower and a fresh change of clothes,” he muttered, smacking his lips at the staleness of his breath as well. He picked up a cold piece of pizza and started eating with little attention to taste, but rather a desire to mask the aftertaste of sour beer emanating from his mouth. There was no time to focus on the inessentials when what he really needed to do was concentrate on all the information he had pored over again and again for the past few days.
Frank had three cases, none of which had any physical evidence linking them to another. Yet, his gut told him they were somehow related. He had learned over the years to pay attention to his gut feelings; they had saved him on more than one occasion. If these cases were related, what should his next move be? He tossed what remained of the piece of pizza into the trash and grabbed his jacket as he headed for the door to his office. He was getting this feeling of urgency; one he often experienced as he began putting together the pieces to the puzzle of a difficult case. He had all the edges now; all he needed was to fill in the middle and complete the picture.
As he started his drive home, Frank dialed his phone. He had decided that his next logical step was to contact Interpol. He knew the Vice-Commander of the European section, and since they were six hours ahead, Frank hoped he could catch his friend before he left for lunch. Sure enough, he was in luck. His friend’s voice answered.
“Johanne, how are you?” he asked.
“Who’s this?” the man asked at the other end.
“Frank Holden, here,” he answered.
“Frank? Frank! I’m sorry. It’s been so long; I didn’t recognize your voice. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?” Johanne asked.
Holden told him the reason for his call and filled his friend in on the cases as the Interpol supervisor listened. Ten minutes later, when Holden concluded, Johanne spoke.
“Frank, I think maybe you’d better come over here. We have a few more details on the China issue, but not much. There have been several assassinations in Europe and Asia all involving technical people, and our only common link appears to be the people pulling them off. Six of the victims were taken out either by car bombs or bombs in their flats, the other eight were close range shootings. In five of those cases, these men were all seen with various women, beautiful women, just pri
or their deaths. We just may be looking for the same people.”
“Any good leads yet?” Frank asked.
“We have some agents on the ground, trying to infiltrate, but I can’t comment on any of that over the phone,” Johanne answered.
Frank looked at his watch. It was just starting to get light and he hadn’t slept well in three days. “Let me call and see if I can book a flight out today. Where are you going to be the next few days?” he asked.
“I’m in Brussels, now. But I’ll be heading back to Paris later this evening.” Johanne responded.
“I’ll call you as soon as I’m booked.”
“Looking forward to seeing you Frank,” Johanne replied, hanging up.
Holden ended the call, depressed the flash button and pressed the speed dial button for the agency travel office. “Another sleepless night to look forward to”, he thought to himself, as he downshifted and sped towards home.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Garrett wiped the mud from his face as he walked downstream from his home. When he came to the first road crossing the creek, he climbed the bank, sticking his head up checking for traffic. Seeing that the road was clear, he climbed the rest of the way out of the creek bed and hiked down the road to a nearby convenience store. Garrett knew that the authorities would be looking for him, and the quicker he could be on the move, the better. He was going to call a cab, but luck was with him again that night and he met a cab driver just leaving the store carrying a fresh cup of coffee. Garrett got into the back of the taxi and gave the cabby directions to a rundown neighborhood, south of the city. Before the driver could protest, a hundred-dollar bill passed from the rear seat and into his lap. Thirty minutes later, they arrived at their destination. The area Garrett had chosen had a few of small car dealers intermixed with liquor stores, bars, and women of the streets just finishing up with their nights work.
Garrett exited the car and paid his fare. It was getting light, so he walked the streets until he found a small pharmacy. The adrenaline pump was subsiding now and the pain in his arm was becoming hard to bear. He grabbed gauze, tape, antiseptic, and some aspirin and went to the checkout counter. The attendant looked at his arm, then back at Garrett and proceeded to ring him up. No doubt the clerk had seen worse in this part of town. After he had bandaged himself, Garrett walked until he found the car lot he wanted. He took up a position across the street and waited. When the owner of the lot arrived a few hours later, Garrett left his position and went to meet with him. After some minor negotiating, Garrett handed the owner some cash and drove off of the lot in a common looking, late model sedan.
Garrett drove down the road a few miles, until he came to a small shopping center. He needed new clothes, ones less conspicuous, and various personal items. After finding what he wanted, Garrett also bought a screwdriver, which he then used to help himself to a license plate off of another car in the parking lot. He had chosen his car well was able to find one of the same make and color. Gassed up and ready to go, he drove back to the interstate and headed back north, starting the long journey up the east coast.
Two days later, after a long and uneventful drive, Garrett arrived at the Canadian border. Getting into Canada had never really been a problem for Garrett in the past, and this time was no exception. Once in Canada, he made his way to Montreal, where, he stopped at a bank and, using one of his fake passports as identification, purchased some traveler’s checks. Credit cards could be traced so Garrett had to be careful. When he was finished at the bank, it was on to the airport where he bought a ticket to Paris using those same traveler’s checks. “So far, so good,” Garrett thought as he settled back for the flight. “I just hope getting through immigration and customs in France is as easy.”
* * *
Several hours later, Garrett was awoken by an announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are on our final approach to Charles De Galle airport and have been cleared for landing. Please return to your seats and remain there with your seatbelts fastened. Also, at this time, please turn off any electronic devices and return your tray tables and seats to their upright and locked positions.”
Garrett had flown a lot in his life and he was always annoyed at the announcements the flight attendants had to make. Hearing the message today had been all the more annoying since he had finally managed to fall to sleep. Grunting, he opened his eyes and stretched. Garrett winced. The searing pain in his arm, which had subsided while he slept, came back in a tidal wave now.
Looking around the plane, he noticed other passengers waking up and going through the same ritual. After another twenty minutes, the plane finally landed and Garrett stood with the other passengers, waiting to disembark. International passengers always seemed to be routed through a maze of hallways in airports. Charles de Galle airport was no exception. After what seemed like several city blocks, the passengers finally rounded the final turn and came to immigration. Garrett pulled out his passport and customs declaration and stood in line. When he was the next in line to be processed, he glanced down at his passport and opened it. Suddenly, his stomach did somersaults. In his half wakeful state of mind, he had accidentally grabbed the wrong passport out of his pocket. With the agent sitting barely eight feet away, Garrett coolly and calmly shoved his hands in his pockets and as discretely as possible switched passports.
“Sir. Sir, you are next,” the agent announced, motioning for Garrett to step forward.
Garrett shook his head and smiled. Removing the correct passport, he approached the immigration agent. “Sorry, I’m still half asleep,” he said, handing it to the agent.
“I understand”, the agent said laughing. “It happens all the time. May I ask why you are traveling to France?”
“I’m here for business. But of course, in this city even business is pleasurable,” Garrett answered.
“Well have a good time. Welcome to France,” the agent said with some pride, handing Garrett’s passport back to him indicating that he could proceed.
Garrett let out an internal laugh. It still amazed him how someone armed with the right words could get away with almost anything. He went on to gather his bags and clear customs without incident.
After almost mixing his passports at the airport, Garrett decided that Simon could wait. Rest is a weapon, a weapon that can be used for you if you have it, and against you if you don’t. He was in Simon’s territory now and he needed to have all of his wits about him. He left the airport and boarded a bus heading for the financial district. Once there, he intended find a bank and transfer funds in from one of his accounts. Then he would find a hotel and get some rest.
* * *
Hours later, Garrett awoke, noting it was daylight. Still disoriented from jet lag he got up and opened the curtain covering the window of his hotel room. Half walking, half stumbling back to his nightstand, he picked up his watch to see what time it was. Two o’clock PM. “Still too fuzzy headed to be tracking Simon,” he decided. He thought momentarily, “Guess I’ll use what’s left of today to buy a subway pass and find a room closer to the Luxembourg gardens.” Garrett also had to find some way to arm himself, which in a foreign country could be time consuming. Fortunately, he still had places he could access, places he knew of from his days with the agency.
The steam and hot water from the shower helped push back the fog that enveloped his mind. As the water rolled from Garrett’s head all the way down to his feet, he noted that the pain in his arm was also starting to subside. His thoughts then wandered to the matter at hand. Garrett knew that he might not have much time. He knew that Simon would be alerted once his team had not checked in. He only hoped that the leader would feel confident enough to stay put.
Garrett finished drying off and got dressed. Looking at the clothes he was wearing, he decided a trip to a department store would also be in order. He had been so tired the day before that he had gotten a hotel room near the bank, bare
ly making it back to his room before passing out. Looking around to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, he left taking the elevator down to the lobby. Garrett settled his bill and checked out of the hotel.
Squinting from the bright sunlight, Garrett walked out of the hotel entrance and down the street to a small café. He sat at a sidewalk table and proceeded to order lunch. Sipping a cup of coffee as he waited for his food, he felt the close shaven beard he had grown the past few days. Disguising oneself could be as simple as changing hair color, wearing tighter or looser clothing than normal, or growing facial hair. Any little change could buy him just enough time in a critical situation to give him an edge or even save his life.
The waiter sat the food before him and Garrett proceeded to eat as he started surveying people in the area. He hadn’t done this for years and decided he’d better get in some practice. He started observing other customers. After getting caught in the act by his first two subjects, Garrett’s old training started to come back, and he was able to survey first one, then two, then several people at the same time without being caught. When he finished eating, he paid his bill, and started towards the nearest subway entrance. On the way, he picked out a man walking in the same direction, and started to practice his tailing techniques. The subway entrance was only a short distance away, however, and Garrett cut his observation short as he entered.
Garrett knew the Metro had first opened around 1900 and had been expanded since. The system of tunnels is extensive and all buildings in Paris are within 500 feet of a subway entrance. For this reason, and the fact that the streets have little parking, the preferred mode of transportation in the city, was the subway. In fact, almost six million people used it every day.
Four flashes went off as the camera took pictures of Garrett. He hadn’t been in a camera booth in years, and then it been with a date. He waited as the photos processed, observing the people as they entered the subway tunnels. His old skills were starting to return to him now. He went through a series of mental exercises where he would take a glimpse of a group of people, and describe everyone he saw to himself. Finally, the pictures were done. Gathering the photos, Garrett walked up to the cashier’s window and asked for a monthly pass. The cashier responded as he handed her money and the photos, indicating which of them he would prefer she use. Moments later, she handed him his pass and Garrett proceeded through the gate.
Millenium Strike Page 10