Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (165 page)

“I’m sorry, but those were our orders.”

“Let me see your badge and identification.”

“There isn’t time. Please, Herr Vogel. Come with us.”

The bodyguard took a step back and reached inside his jacket. As the gun came into view, Navot lunged forward. With his left hand, he seized the bodyguard’s wrist and pinned the gun against his abdomen. With his right, he delivered two vicious open-handed blows to the back of the neck. The first blow staggered Halder; the second caused his knees to buckle. His hand relaxed, and the Glock clattered to the marble floor.

Radek looked at the gun and for an instant thought about trying to pick it up. Instead, he turned and lunged toward the open door of his study and slammed it shut.

Navot tried the latch. Locked.

He took a few steps back and drove his shoulder into the door. The wood splintered and he tumbled into the darkened room. He scrambled to his feet and saw that Radek had already moved away the false front of a bookcase and was standing inside a small, phone booth–sized lift.

Navot sprang forward as the elevator door started to close. He managed to get both his arms inside and grab Radek by the lapels of his overcoat. As the door slammed against Navot’s left shoulder, Radek seized his wrists and tried to break free. Navot held firm.

Oded and Zalman came to his aid. Zalman, the taller of the two, reached over Navot’s head and pulled against the door. Oded slithered between Navot’s legs and applied pressure from below. Under the onslaught, the door finally slid open again.

Navot dragged Radek out of the elevator. There was no time for subterfuge or deception now. Navot clamped a hand over the old man’s mouth, Zalman took hold of his legs and lifted him off the floor. Oded found the light switch and doused the chandelier.

Navot glanced at Becker. “Get in the car. Move, you idiot.”

They bundled Radek down the steps toward the Audi. Radek was pulling at Navot’s hand, trying to break the vise grip over his mouth, and kicking hard with his legs. Navot could hear Zalman swearing under his breath. Somehow, even in the heat of battle, he managed to swear in German.

Oded threw open the rear door before running around the back of the car and climbing behind the wheel. Navot pushed Radek headfirst into the back and pinned him to the seat. Zalman forced his way inside and closed the door. Becker climbed into the back of the Mercedes. Mordecai accelerated hard, and the car lurched into the street, the Audi following closely.

RADEK’S BODY WENT suddenly still. Navot removed his hand from Radek’s mouth, and the Austrian gulped greedily of the air.

“You’re hurting me,” he said. “I can’t breathe.”

“I’ll let you up, but you have to promise to behave yourself. No more escape attempts. Do you promise?”

“Just let me up. You’re crushing me, you fool.”

“I will, old man. Just do me a favor first. Tell me your name, please.”

“You know my name. My name is Vogel. Ludwig Vogel.”

“No, no, not that name. Your
real
name.”

“That is my real name.”

“Do you want to sit up and leave Vienna like a man, or am I going to have to sit on you the whole way?”

“I want to sit up. You’re hurting me, damn it!”

“Just tell me your name.”

He was silent for a moment; then he murmured, “My name is Radek.”

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t hear you. Can you say your name again, please? Loudly this time.”

He drew a deep breath of air and his body went rigid, as though he were standing at attention instead of lying across the back seat of a car.

“My—name—is—Sturmbannführer—Erich—
Radek
!”

IN THE MUNICH safe flat, the message flashed across Shamron’s computer screen: PACKAGE HAS BEEN RECEIVED.

Carter clapped him on the back. “I’ll be goddamned! They got him. They actually got him.”

Shamron stood and walked to the map. “Getting him was always the easiest part of the operation, Adrian. Getting him out is quite another thing.”

He gazed at the map. Fifty miles to the Czech border.
Drive, Oded,
he thought.
Drive like you’ve never driven before in your life.

36

VIENNA

O
DED HAD MADE the drive a dozen times but never like this—never with the siren screaming and the blue light whirling on the dash, and never with Erich Radek’s eyes in the rearview mirror, staring back into his own. Their flight from the city center had gone better than expected. The evening traffic had been persistent, but never so heavy that it didn’t part for his siren and flashing light. Twice, Radek rebelled. Each uprising was ruthlessly put down by Navot and Zalman.

They were racing north now on the E461. The Vienna traffic was gone, the rain was falling steadily and freezing at the edges of the windshield. A sign flashed past: CZECH REPUBLIC 42 KM. Navot took a long look over his shoulder, then, in Hebrew, instructed Oded to kill the siren and the lights.

“Where are we going?” Radek asked, his breathing labored. “Where are you taking me?
Where
?”

Navot said nothing, just as Gabriel had instructed.
“Let him ask questions till he’s blue in the face,”
Gabriel had said.
“Just don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. Let the uncertainty prey on his mind. That’s what he would do if the roles were reversed.”

So Navot watched the villages flashing past his window—Mistelbach, Wilfersdorf, Erdberg—and thought of only one thing, the bodyguard he had left unconscious in the entranceway of Radek’s house on the Stöbbergasse.

Poysdorf appeared before them. Oded sped through the village, then turned into a two-lane road and followed it eastward through snow-covered pine.

“Where are we going? Where are you taking me?”

Navot could endure his questions in silence no longer.

“We’re going home,” he snapped. “And you’re coming with us.”

Radek managed a glacial smile. “You made only one mistake tonight, Herr Lange. You should have killed my bodyguard when you had the chance.”

KLAUS HALDER OPENED one eye, then the other. The darkness was absolute. He lay very still for a moment, trying to determine the position of his body. He had fallen forward, with his arms at his sides, and his right cheek was pressed against cold marble. He tried to lift his head, a bolt of thunderous pain shot down his neck. He remembered it now, the instant it had happened. He’d been reaching for his gun when he’d been clubbed twice from behind. It was the lawyer from Zurich, Oskar Lange. Obviously, Lange was no mere lawyer. He’d been in on it, just as Halder had feared from the beginning.

He pushed himself onto his knees and sat back against the wall. He closed his eyes and waited until the room stopped spinning, then rubbed the back of his head. It was swollen the size of an apple. He raised his left wrist and squinted at the luminous dial of his wristwatch: 5:57. When had it happened? A few minutes after five, 5:10 at the latest. Unless they’d had a helicopter waiting on the Stephansplatz, chances were they were still in Austria.

He patted the right front pocket of his sport jacket and found that his cell phone was still there. He fished it out and dialed. Two rings. A familiar voice.

“This is Kruz.”

THIRTY SECONDS LATER, Manfred Kruz slammed down the phone and considered his options. The most obvious response would be to sound the alarm Klaxons, alert every police unit in the country that the old man had been seized by Israeli agents, close the borders and shut down the airport. Obvious, yes, but very dangerous. A move like that would raise many uncomfortable questions.
Why was Herr Vogel kidnapped? Who is he really?
Peter Metzler’s candidacy would be swept away, and so too would Kruz’s career. Even in Austria, such affairs had a way of taking on a life of their own, and Kruz had seen enough of them to know that the inquiry would not end at Vogel’s doorstep.

The Israelis had known he would be hamstrung, and they had chosen their moment well. Kruz had to think of some subtle way to intervene, some way to impede the Israelis without destroying everything in the process. He picked up the telephone and dialed.

“This is Kruz. The Americans have informed us that they believe an al-Qaeda team may be transiting the country by automobile this evening. They suspect the al-Qaeda members might be traveling with European sympathizers in order to better blend into their surroundings. As of this moment, I’m activating the terrorism alert network. Raise security at the borders, airports, and train stations to Category Two status.”

He rang off and gazed out the window. He had thrown the old man a lifeline. He wondered whether he would be in any condition to grab it. Kruz knew that if he succeeded, he would soon be confronted with yet another problem—what to do with the Israeli snatch team. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and removed a slip of paper.

“If I dial this number, who’s going to answer?”

“Violence.”

Manfred Kruz reached for his telephone.

THE CLOCKMAKER, SINCE his return to Vienna, had scarcely found cause to leave the sanctuary of his little shop in the Stephansdom Quarter. His frequent travels had left him with a large backlog of pieces requiring his attention, including a Vienna Biedermeier regulator clock, built by the renowned Vienna clockmaker Ignaz Marenzeller in 1840. The mahogany case was in pristine condition, though the one-piece silvered dial had required many hours of restoration. The original handmade Biedermeier movement, with its seventy-five-day runner, lay in several carefully arranged pieces on the surface of his worktable.

The telephone rang. He lowered the volume on his portable CD player, and Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 4 in G faded to a whisper. A prosaic choice, Bach, but then the Clockmaker found the precision of Bach a perfect accompaniment to the task of dismantling and rebuilding the movement of an antique timepiece. He reached out for the telephone with his left hand. A shock wave of pain shot down the length of his arm, a reminder of his exploits in Rome and Argentina. He brought the receiver to his right ear and cradled it against his shoulder. “Yes,” he said inattentively. His hands were already at work again.

“I was given your number by a mutual friend.”

“I see,” the Clockmaker said noncommittally. “How can I help you?”

“It’s not me who requires help. It’s our friend.”

The Clockmaker laid down his tools. “Our friend?” he asked.

“You did some work for him in Rome and Argentina. I assume you know the man I am referring to?”

The Clockmaker did indeed. So, the old man had misled him and twice put him in compromising situations in the field. Now he had committed the mortal operational sin of giving his name to a stranger. Obviously he was in trouble. The Clockmaker suspected it had something to do with the Israelis. He decided that now would be an excellent moment to sever their relationship. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I believe you have me confused with someone else.”

The man at the other end of the line tried to object. The Clockmaker hung up the phone and turned up the volume on his CD player, until the sound of Bach filled his workshop.

IN THE MUNICH safe flat, Carter hung up the telephone and looked at Shamron, who was still standing before the map, as if imagining Radek’s progress northward toward the Czech border.

“That was from our Vienna station. They’re monitoring the Austrian communications net. It seems Manfred Kruz has taken their terror alert readiness to Category Two.”

“Category Two? What does that mean?”

“It means you’re likely to have a bit of trouble at the border.”

THE TURNOUT LAY in a hollow at the edge of a frozen stream bed. There were two vehicles, an Opel sedan and a Volkswagen van. Chiara sat behind the wheel of the Volkswagen, headlights doused, engine silent, the comforting weight of a Beretta across her lap. There was no other sign of life, no lights from the village, no grumble of traffic along the highway, only the rattle of sleet on the roof of the van and the whistle of the wind through the spires of the fir trees.

She glanced over her shoulder and peered into the rear compartment of the Volkswagen. It had been prepared for Radek’s arrival. The rear foldout bed was deployed. Beneath the bed was the specially constructed compartment where he would be hidden for the border crossing. He would be comfortable there, more comfortable than he deserved.

She looked out the windshield. Not much to see, the narrow road rising into the gloom toward a crest in the distance. Then, suddenly, there was light, a clean white glow that lit the horizon and turned the trees to black minarets. For a few seconds, it was possible to see the sleet, swirling like a cloud of insects on the wind swept air. Then the headlamps appeared. The car breasted the hill, and the lights bore into her, throwing the shadows of the trees one way, then another. Chiara wrapped her hand around the Beretta and slipped her forefinger inside the trigger guard.