Without Options (22 page)

“Just a minute.” He could hear her tapping on her computer in the background. “The woman in Mainz whose cat had a kitten with two heads?”

“Yeah, I thought you’d really like to see that image at this time of night.”

“How about this. Three men found shot to death in Baden-Baden?”

“Yeah, I’ve been there before and it seemed to be such a nice resort town.”

“What about it?”

“Any identification?”

“No.”

“But they gave an address,” Jake said. “I was curious so I looked it up. Turns out to be a guy named Vladimir Volkov.”

“The Vladimir Volkov? Former KGB and SVR?”

“That’s right. So I searched the net and found not just my hit notice, but that for Vlad as well. Turns out someone had a million Euros out on him also.”

“Interesting.”

Neither said a word for a minute and Jake guessed she was considering the ramifications of this new revelation.

Alexandra said, “Don’t tell me you plan on collecting.”

“You know a better way to catch those involved?”

“No.”

“Go to work tomorrow,” Jake said. “Tell them you saw the news on the internet, found out it was the former Russian spymaster of Germany, and started to search.” He gave her the fastest way to find what he’d found online earlier. “Come clean about your involvement with me driving to Luxembourg, and how you linked the hits against me to those of Vladimir Volkov. Ask to be put on the case. Then you won’t have to sneak around. You’ll have full intel at all times.”

“You think they’ll believe me?”

“It’s the truth. They have to believe that. Besides, they might already know about the hit notices. Maybe there have been others killed already. For some reason someone wants former spies dead. We need to find out why and who’s behind it.”

“Are we still set to meet the day after tomorrow.”

“It’s after midnight,” Jake said. “So that’s tomorrow.”

“Right.”

Jake said good luck and goodbye and shut down his cell phone. Maybe now he could actually sleep. Instead, his mind reeled back over the past few days, seeing the men he’d shot. Deep inside he knew he’d had no choice. Shoot or be shot. But these were all men who would no longer enjoy a good beer or experience the touch of a woman. As quickly as they’d entered his mind, Jake shoved them out again. Now his mind transported him to a Montana mountain stream, with Jake making the perfect presentation of a dry fly. Almost immediately a trout scooped it up and flew out of the water. The fight was on. The heavy rainbow broke the surface, flipping high into the air, trying its best to spit out the fly. But Jake kept the line tight. Those were his last thoughts as he finally dozed off.

24

Berlin, Germany

Clouds swirled over the city and a light rain started to dot Anton Zukov’s windshield as he drove through the eastern industrial area of the city. It had been only a couple hours since his last meeting with Viktor at the office, where he told him to go home and get some sleep. Right. Instead Zukov was at a late dinner when he got the call from Viktor to meet him at their office again. As he drove through this crappy area of the city, he thought about why Viktor had set them up here. First of all, it was cheap real estate—more money went straight into Viktor’s pockets and more also trickled down to Zukov. Another reason? Viktor had what some would call an unhealthy longing for the past. Their cell company was located within a short drive of the old KGB office in what was East Berlin. And if they looked carefully, they could even see the former headquarters of Stasi, the old East German Secret Police that had actually run the city with fear and intimidation during the Cold War.

Ah, the good old days, Zukov thought as he pulled his Audi A3 in front of the cell company building right behind Viktor’s new black BMW. He smiled in admiration at that car, which he knew was purchased with the false profits from cell phones. Did they actually broker phones to other companies? Of course. But most of their money still came from other ventures.

Zukov got out and hurried through the rain until he reached the overhang at the main entrance. Then he stopped and glanced back at the city, where dark shadows couldn’t only hide adversaries, but had hidden him and his friends over the years playing games that had become more deadly with each year and month and day.

Glancing back at the camera, Zukov smiled and raised his chin and heard the door zap. He shoved his way inside.

The foyer was like any waiting area for any business in Germany—a few uncomfortable chairs against two walls, an industrial counter to keep unwanted customers from passing into places they shouldn’t, and a few desks behind the counter where disinterested employees would eventually wait on the unwanted customers. To the left was a large back room with shelves of cell phones in boxes.

Zukov swished through a low swinging door with the sign that said ‘Employees Only’ in German and Russian, and walked briskly to the back offices. Down the main hallway he had an office with almost nothing in it, but Viktor played the game better than most. He was the face of the fake company, so he had to make his office the largest, with actual furniture and faux certificates and plaques he didn’t earn.

As Zukov entered Viktor’s office, two other men left and went out into the main entrance area.

“Have a seat,” Viktor said. He sat behind his large metal desk with two LCD screens. One had a constant feed of the cameras around the building. The other was hitched up to high speed internet access.

Zukov sat in a hard wood and leather chair, his eyes on his boss.

“Vladimir Volkov is dead.”

“Where was he found?” Zukov asked, not restraining his surprise. He had the hit notice out on this man for the past two weeks and nobody was able to find him.

“Baden-Baden.”

“Is it confirmed?”

Viktor turned his monitor for Zukov to see. There were photos of the crime scene from German Polizei, along with a report on the incident, which he quickly read.

“Two others dead?” Zukov asked, leaning back into his chair. “Do you guess that was collateral damage?”

“Collateral to someone. But we got a claim of responsibility.”

Zukov was confused. “Who are the others killed?”

“We don’t know for sure,” Viktor said. “This was an open assignment to the highest bidder. We might have had two teams get there at the same time. It’s more likely that Vladimir Volkov got off a few shots.”

Shaking his head, Zukov said, “The Polizei report says there was another shooter there.”

Viktor smiled. “Good catch. Watch this.” He clicked on a video link on the computer, which showed a man with a gun at the side of his leg walking out of a building. The video was crude and dark.

When the video was done Zukov said, “So that’s our shooter. He claimed responsibility?”

“Yes. Calls himself Remus?”

Zukov laughed. “Of Roman lore?”

“Apparently.”

“Something bothering you?”

“Yeah. You get a feeling about these things. I’m going to send Nikolai on this meeting.”

“Are you sure? Will his old BMW even make it there? He’s had engine problems. He needs to steal a newer one next time.”

“He’ll be fine. You go as backup. But only observe from a distance. Do not shoot him.”

This was out of character for Viktor. He’d always let him handle these claim meetings.

“You have a problem with this, Zuk?”

“It’s my job, Viktor.”

“Nikolai needs the experience.”

“He’s right out of the Army.”

“He’s twenty-five. He spent time in Chechnya. It’s my decision.”

“Is something wrong with my work?”

Viktor leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. “I thought we agreed to dump the bodies without identification,” he said directly. It wasn’t a question.

“Are you talking about the Turk? I made a mistake.”

“And the recent Polish man. Two mistakes? I could believe one but not two.”

They had gone over this earlier in the evening. Zukov was burning inside now. He didn’t like explaining his actions to anyone. Which is why this assignment in Berlin had been so good for him. He could maintain a certain level of autonomy.

“All right,” Zukov finally said. “As you know, I’ve been having a little fun with the local Polizei.”

Shaking his head side to side, Viktor said, “I thought that might be the case. This isn’t chess, Zuk. What if the Polizei actually catch you?”

“I’ll be expelled.”

“And what will Moscow do with you then?”

Perhaps Viktor had a good point. They could send him to far worse assignments. But it would have to be a place without diplomatic relations with Western nations, unless they gave him a complete change of identity.

“I understand,” Zukov said reticently.

“What do the Polizei know of these dead men?”

“Not much, I’m sure. None of the dead men have any ties to us. Have you found the American yet?”

Viktor grasped the arms on his chair. “Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time. He has the Austrian and German Polizei after him, an Interpol Red Notice on him, along with every hit man in Europe on his trail. His days are few.” A smile forced its way out the side of his mouth.

Zukov smiled with him, not knowing the real reason for the obsession his boss had with this man. Maybe some things were better that way. Secrets always made life more interesting.

“I’ll find this American,” Zukov said. “Anything else?”

Viktor’s eyes shifted to his computer and then back to Zukov. “Moscow wants us to accelerate.”

How much faster could they go? Any quicker and Russia and America would be in a real war together. “You mean General Tatyana Petrova.”

“Keep your mouth shut, Zuk,” Viktor spit out. “Only you and I know of her involvement.”

And they had no official orders for their current work. If they were caught, the good general would hang them all out to dry, like smoked fish on a Siberian line.

“I understand,” Zukov said. “But I would feel better with a fail-safe of some kind.”

Shaking his head, Viktor explained, “There are few guarantees in this business. Success is your only insurance.”

He knew that too. “Then I better find the American,” Zukov said.

Without another word, Anton Zukov left his boss alone and exited the office building. Sitting in his car for a moment, the rain coming down a little harder now, he considered the next meeting with this man who had killed Vladimir Volkov. The man had been a legend in the spy game. Part of him wished he could have found the man first and picked his brain. Found out all his secrets. That man had to have thousands of them. Maybe that’s why General Petrova had personally placed his name on the list. They were killing the past and building a future. He could live with that.

25

Waking the next morning in Bonn, Toni went to get Franz from his room to go down for breakfast. She was forced to knock a few times before a groggy Austrian Polizei man shuffled to the door. He looked like crap. There was no other way to say it. She went ahead of him to start on coffee, while Franz took a long shower to clear his lungs of infected sputum and blood. He was moving into a pneumonia, she could tell, and wasn’t sure what would kill the man first—that disease or cancer, which had sucked all vitality out of a man that had been brusque and burly just a few months ago.

Drinking coffee by herself at the hotel restaurant, Toni’s phone buzzed in her pocket and she picked up. She had just turned it on after going to wake Franz.

“Yeah.”

“Where the hell have you been?” It was her boss, Kurt Jenkins, the CIA director.

“Sleeping. What’s up?”

“Can you talk?”

“I’m at a hotel restaurant, but there’s only a few people here and they’re across the room. What you need?”

“A lot of activity last night,” Jenkins said. “A former KGB slash SVR officer was killed last night in Baden-Baden.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Vladimir Volkov.”

“Jesus. He practically ran the spy game in Germany during the Cold War. What was he doing in Baden-Baden.”

“Apparently retired.”

“How’d he die?”

“Don’t know. There were two others dead in the apartment.”

Toni’s mind immediately thought of Jake Adams. “Was Jake. . .”

“No. But he might have been there. The Polizei found about a dozen spent brass. Forty cal. Jake’s preferred round.”

“And you think Jake took out Vladimir Volkov.”

“No. He was killed by two shooters with nine millimeter silenced Yarygin PYa pistols.”

“Did the Polizei identified the shooters?”

“Not yet. Based on the guns they’re guessing Russian. Both were in their twenties. Could be GRU.”

“That makes no sense,” Toni said. She saw Franz enter the restaurant and go straight to a coffee machine. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. We searched Vladimir Volkov. He’s been retired in Germany for two years. We got a ping off the Russian’s computer in Frankfurt. Sergei. Volkov also had a one million Euro bounty on him.”

“Interesting.”

Franz sat down across from Toni, his cup spilling some coffee onto the table, which he wiped up after swearing.

“Someone there with you?” Jenkins asked.

“Yeah.”

“Franz Martini?”

“Yep.”

“You need to send him back to Austria.”

“Not yet. Anything else?”

“Maybe. Someone has asked to be paid for the hit of Volkov. I think you should intercept that. Maybe take credit for the hit yourself.” He went on to explain what he wanted her to do, giving her the details of the hit and the meet. When he was done, they both hung up.

“Sorry about that,” Toni said to Franz, stuffing her phone into her pocket.

“Work is work. Any good news from the Agency?”

She wasn’t sure how much she could tell Franz. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the man, but over the years she’d come to compartmentalize almost everything—much to the displeasure of her new husband, who had become increasingly frustrated with her job, even though he knew what he was getting into with her. Well, he knew she worked for the government, not the Agency.