Without Options (19 page)

He cautiously moved onto his train waiting at the platform and settled into the first-class section.

20

Toni and Franz slept in until seven, grabbed some pastries and coffee, and checked out of the base quarters. She didn’t like the way Franz looked. He wasn’t only more tired, he was coughing up spots of blood now. If he wasn’t actively dying, he was on the edge of the cliff looking over. Before leaving the base, Toni went alone to the service station and filled the gas tank, where she called Kurt Jenkins on her secure cell. They had a direction to go now, but she was questioning her decision to bring Franz along for the ride. Yet, what choice did she have? The man was dying—she could see it and smell it on him. After all he’d gone through in his life, he deserved to see something good come out of it in the end. He needed to find out who’d killed his Godchild, Anna. Deserved to help his old friend, Jake Adams. No, Toni had no choice.

Now, after driving for almost an hour and a half, from Autobahn 6, to 63, to 67, and finally 3, they exited and headed toward the center of Frankfurt am Main.

“Are we sure your contact will be home?” Franz asked. His coughing settled down somewhat with his constant smoking.

“He’s there,” she said, slowing her car and turning onto a residential side street where three-story stucco row houses lined both sides of the street. “Some of our assets have been watching the place.”

She slowed the car to a crawl as she approached the address, and noticed the green VW Passat a block away from the target, a single man at the wheel. Christ. Mr. Obvious. Toni pulled in behind the VW and parked.

“Let me talk with this guy,” she said, disturbed.

She got out and went to the passenger side. The driver opened the door for her. He looked about twelve, a slight man dressed sharply in slacks and a leather jacket, with bright blue eyes and dark brown hair.

“It’s cold this morning,” the man said.

Toni took a seat and said, “No shit. Has our guy gone anywhere?”

“No ma’am. That’s his car there. The ancient gray Beemer.”

“That’s silver,” she corrected. “What about a back entrance?”

“My partner is back there.”

“Army intel?” she asked him, knowing the answer.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You call me ma’am one more time and I’ll cut off your nuts and feed them to you.”

“Yes. . .I understand.”

“Great. As I go in you call your little friend and tell him I’m doing so. Also describe what I look like, along with my partner. I don’t want any friendly cross-fire. You understand?”

“Yes. You want me to follow you in?” He reached for his gun inside his jacket.

“No. You stay here. But if you see him running to his car, you drive up there and box him in. His car is stuck between those other two. You put your car in there and he has no way out.”

“Understand. Second floor. First floor is an old woman. Third floor is a young couple. Husband is at work and the pregnant wife is at home. There’s no buzzer to get through the first door.”

“Okay.” She gave him a reassuring smile and got out. Jesus, they’re getting younger every day, she thought. She nodded her head to Franz, who took that as a sign to get out.

Franz met her on the sidewalk and the two of them walked arm-in-arm toward the apartment on the right. To anyone watching, they’d appear as a father and daughter out for a walk.

“You’ll need to let me deal with this guy,” Toni whispered to Franz.

“All right. But I thought I’d be the muscle for once.” He smiled at her.

They turned up the front walk and climbed a few steps to the entrance. She felt like they were being watched. Inside, they both drew their weapons and headed up the stairs to the second level. Franz stood back away from view of the peep hole, while Toni, gun behind her back, knocked lightly on the door, a sunny disposition across her face.

She saw movement at the peep, an eyeball, and then heard the door unlock and swing open. Standing in front of her was a rough-looking character of fifty-seven years, two months and five days. Sergei Lobanov Kozerski, former KGB and SVR officer, and reportedly retired in the last few months. But Toni knew the old KGB and the SVR never really retired anyone, unless it was with a bullet in the back of the head.

“What can I do for such a beautiful woman this fine morning?” Sergei asked her in German.

She simultaneously smiled, shoved the gun in his face, and thrust her foot against the closing door. The man reluctantly backed into his apartment, followed closely by Toni and then Franz.

“Let’s use English,” Toni said. “Have a seat.”

The Russian sat down onto a sofa, his hands on his knees and his expression insinuating pain upon Toni.

Glancing about the room, Toni noticed the large computer work station, with a line of servers cooled with liquid, and two 24-inch LCD monitors side-by-side on a large desk with empty Coke cans lined up in rows like soldiers at attention. Empty Coke cans also overflowed a garbage can and under the man’s desk.

“If this is rip off,” Sergei said, “you come to the wrong place. I have no money.”

“Right,” Toni said. “You spent it all on your computer equipment.” She hesitated and nodded for Franz to check out the rest of the apartment. He led with his gun into the back rooms.

“What do you want?” the Russian asked.

“Just some information,” she said. “I get the answers I like and you get to keep your little enterprise going. If not.” She shrugged. “Things will be a little different.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m your worst enemy or your best friend. You’ll have to decide.”

His mind seemed to reel out of control. “I don’t get your accent. You look Italian. I would have to guess Italian Intelligence.”

She laughed as Franz came back into the room carrying an additional automatic handgun, which he broke down and shoved into his pocket. Then Franz started rifling through drawers in the adjoining kitchen.

“You might want to forget who I am,” Toni said. “And worry how you might survive the rest of the day.”

The Russian thrust his hands out, palms up. “What have I done?”

“Sergei Lobanov Kozerski,” she said, and then rattled off his specifics, including some of the more important highlights from his career. As she spoke he seemed to sink deeper into the couch. “And now, she said, you run an internet enterprise. Some legitimate but mostly illegal. You were one of the first to start running massive e-mail SPAM attacks, collecting personal banking information. By the way, I think most people know that there’s no more royal family of Masovia.”

Sergei smiled. “Hey, if people are stupid enough to believe in such things, they should give me some of their money for compensation.”

“Right. But I’m more concerned about a more recent scam.”

Franz started coughing into his fist uncontrollably.

“Your friend doesn’t look too good,” Sergei said. “I think he needs a doctor.”

Franz washed his hands and went to the refrigerator, finding a bottle of vodka in the freezer. He poured himself a glass and shot the clear liquid back down his throat.

“You’ll need a doctor if you don’t answer my questions,” Toni assured him, her gun pointed at his head.

“Okay. So you’re not Italian Intelligence. What then?”

Franz came into the living room, walked past the sofa, and smacked the man across his head along the way. “Answer the pretty lady’s questions.” Then he continued his search of the apartment.

Sergei mumbled in Russian under his breath.

“He might not understand Russian,” Toni said, “but I do. And I don’t think he’d like you calling his mother that.”

The Russian pointed his finger at Toni. “You’re American spy. The Agency.”

“I’m not important,” she said. “But if I was, I’d put a bullet in your head right now. Stop this illegal business of yours. Maybe pull you out of here and place you in a prison on some island where you’d live your life making big rocks into small rocks. But I’m not. You had the Italian part right, though. Very good guess. But I’m on the other side there.”

His eyes widened. “Mafia?”

She didn’t answer, knowing this guy would be far more concerned about dealing with the Mafia than with government intelligence officers.

Franz walked past the couch again, smacking the Russian on the other side of his head.

“Hey.” The Russian rubbed his head.

Toni knew she could torture this guy and maybe get what she wanted, eventually. But she had a better idea. Had formulated it in her mind on the short drive from Ramstein Air Base to Frankfurt. She knew what motivated this guy. Find that in anyone and the answers come without too much trouble.

“I have a proposition for you, Sergei,” Toni said, her tone much more congenial.

He smiled.

“It has nothing to do with sex,” she assured him.

“You seem to know what I’m thinking. So how can I be of assistance to your. . .organization?”

She lowered her gun to her side, but kept the pistol ready in case he wasn’t buying what she was selling. Her eyes shifted slightly to observe Franz looking through more drawers on end tables, and then flipping through books stacked on the floor.

“Your servers are hosting a site that has put out a contract to kill a number of people,” Toni started, choosing her words carefully. He seemed to be more concerned now. “As you might guess, this is a direct conflict with our organization.”

“But. . .”

She raised a finger to him. “Don’t ask how we know this. I can see that you know I’m correct.”

Silence as they stared at other, the Russian’s disposition shifting from nearly a lack of concern when he might be shot, to grave anxiety with this new prospect.

“What do you want?” Sergei asked, defeated.

“Quite simple. Who hired you to set up the hit site?”

Sergei shifted in his chair. “You might as well just shoot me.” His head turned to the side. “Why do you care about that if you are Mafia?”

She knew this was coming. “Maybe we want to work with these people. Set up a similar situation for our concerns. Are you all right, Sergei. You don’t look well. Would you like some water? Maybe a coke?”

Sergei looked to the kitchen and then back to Toni. “Maybe some vodka. Just a little.”

Toni nodded to Franz, who went to the freezer and poured the man a glass of vodka.

Franz lifted the glass to show Sergei, who lifted his thumb in the air asking for more than that. Franz filled the glass higher and brought it to the Russian. He started by sipping and then downed the entire glass.

“Feel better?” she asked Sergei.

He nodded.

“Good. Now, on with the negotiation. You were just going to tell me who hired you to host that hit site.”

The Russian shook his head and tried to focus his eyes on Toni, but he was clearly having problems.

Toni asked him simple questions first—like the color of his eyes, the city where he was born, his mother’s name, his sister’s name—questions where she already knew the answer. She had him just where she wanted him now. In fifteen minutes the Russian was a pliable as a five-year-old, telling her everything she asked. Truthfully.

When she got what she wanted from the man, she drugged the Russian further and went to work on his computer. Since she’d gained access to his servers, she could control any of his sites or those of his clients. Toni could have used Jake right now. He was much better with computers. While she trolled Sergei’s computers, Franz smoked until he ran out of cigarettes. She transferred and downloaded what she needed and then deleted any trace of her access.

A couple hours later and they were ready to go. Toni sent access codes to the Agency, allowing them to take over Sergei’s computer at any time. For now they needed to keep the Russian in place. When he woke he’d try hard to remember what had happened to him, but find his morning rather blurry. He was likely to remember she and Franz had been there with the gun, searching his place, but that’s about it. Even if he decided to search his computers for any breach, he wouldn’t find one. Yet, he would change the codes almost immediately. Just in case. She knew that and expected it. And the Agency would be able to automatically collect those new access codes.

She smiled as she left the Russian there dozing on the sofa. Sergei had just become Toni’s bitch.

21

Baden-Baden, Germany

Jake purchased a five-day five-country first class Eurail Pass that morning in Lyon. He first hopped a train to Geneva, Switzerland, changed trains and headed north through Basel and into Germany. He was on a train that would eventually end up in Berlin, but he could get off at any stop along the way and pick up any train he wanted to at any time. He knew the German train system intimately, having traveled the system too many times to count. And one thing he knew is that another train always came along, on schedule. Their precision was inspiring in a time when airline delays were insane and traffic jams on the Autobahn could delay drivers for hours.

The train pulled into Baden-Baden now and Jake gathered his bag and got off. The train would only stop in the city for two minutes.

Baden-Baden was a famous German spa town on the northern edge of the Black Forest. The Romans had known the healing powers of the water there, and the town had subsequently become the summer playground for European aristocracy—everyone from the rich and famous to royalty. Dostoevsky hadn’t only lost his shirt in the spa, but also the casino. Jake had fished the rivers of the Black Forest a few times with a local club, catching mostly small rainbows and browns on barbless flies and releasing them to fight another day.

It was late afternoon now. Jake considered getting a taxi and going to a hotel, but after sitting on the train all day he needed to stretch his legs. He slung his backpack over his shoulders and hiked into town.

Stopping to gaze at windows, he kept his eyes open in the reflection for anyone tailing him. Nothing. He’d select his hotel randomly, staying somewhere he’d never been before and pay cash. He found a hotel in the center of the old town section, using his best German to his advantage. Having lived in Germany and Austria for so many years, he had no American accent. He even dreamt in German now.