Terror Bounty (7 page)

Jackman was incredibly nervous as he
walked down the street in the middle of Rome. Thankfully, it was chilly and
most of the tourists were indoors by this time of night.

It was crazy, he wasn’t usually one to
suffer from anxiety. In fact, his job had always been a high-wire act and as
such he’d been trained to keep cool under pressure no matter what.

However, today was different. Short of
drinking a quart of whiskey or swallowing a handful of pills he had no idea how
to manage this stress. He was walking next to the world’s most wanted man.

Worst of all was that Willis Greenwood
didn’t seem to be affected at all. After the bombing in New York, he had to
know that the entire planet was after him. You didn’t kill a hundred people
without being aware that you were likely to get shot at a moment’s notice.

But no, Greenwood was walking
confidently, seemingly without a care in the world. And was he even smiling?
Jesus
…

“Why the long face?” Greenwood asked,
noticing the younger man demeanor.

“I was expecting our meeting to be a
little more covert.”

“A long time ago, I made myself a promise
that I wouldn’t remain in hiding all my life. I’ve never wanted to end up like
Osama bin Laden, burrowing in a cave or a compound. What’s the point of being
alive if you’re not living?”

Jackman didn’t reply because he didn’t
trust himself with not being snarky. What kind of trite self-help bullshit was
that anyway?

They stopped in front of a small
trattoria. The restaurant was nothing but a hole in the wall and the lighting
was dim. It was almost full, most of the 15 tables occupied by people speaking
a handful of languages, tourists and locals eating pasta and drinking wine.

“Are you sure we’re safe here?”

Greenwood grinned and leaned closer. “The
owner is a friend. He’s former Red Brigade and he’s sympathetic to our cause.”

“It’s not my cause,” Jackman answered
curtly.

“If you’re standing here with me, then it
is your cause. Make no mistake about it, son.”

There was a hint of menace in Greenwood’s
voice and his eyes had turned black. The expression vanished in a flash when an
elderly man in a white shirt and black apron came out of the kitchen.

“
Come stai, amico mio?
”

“Stefano, good evening!”

Greenwood shook his hand enthusiastically
before embracing. Jackman heard them speak in rapid-fire Italian, it sounded
like they were catching up.

“This way, I have good table for you!”

“Stefano, you’re too good to me. Someday
someone will erect a statue in your honor.”

They walked through the restaurant and
Jackman’s stress levels were off the charts. All it took was somebody looking
up from their linguine to recognize that the international terrorist Willis
Greenwood was right next to them. If they so much as snapped a picture of him
they’d be national heroes and Jackman would be in jail.

But nobody noticed.

In all fairness though he didn’t look
much like the photographs the FBI had distributed to the press. In spite of the
computer-aging and the possible mustaches and beards and hairstyles, something
was missing from those pictures. The eyes were different, the cheekbones
higher.

Plus Greenwood walked in such a relaxed
fashion that he didn’t arouse suspicion in the least. At the moment, he was
just an American tourist about to indulge in some Italian delicacies.

The restaurateur led them to a table by
the wall, near the back. They weren’t exactly hidden from view but they were
far enough from others so they could discuss without being overheard.

“I bring you nice bottle of Chianti, best
I have.”

“That sounds delightful, Stefano. You
have the best taste in wine, I still haven’t forgotten the fragrance of that
1986 Bruno Giacosa, so delicious. I can’t wait.”

With a proud smile, the old man went away
and disappeared into the kitchen.

“I don’t like this,” Jackman said. “This
is too public, we should have done this in a hotel. Hell, we should have done
this in a parking lot somewhere.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. We’re gonna
have some great wine, we’re gonna have some great food, and then we’ll talk.”

“No, let’s talk now. Let’s get it over
with.”

Greenwood smiled and shook his head.
Nevertheless, his eyes weren’t smiling, they were black with menace again.

“It’s not how I do business. First we drink
and eat and relax.”

Jackman stared back. He didn’t enjoy any
of this posturing, if that was what it was. He was strongly considering calling
off the whole thing and going back home. He’d taken enough of a risk flying to
Italy in the first place.

Stefano returned with a bottle in a
traditional straw basket and two glasses. “You see, the very best wine in
Tuscany!”

He poured two glasses, not bothering with
a sample first. Greenwood brought his to his lips and closed his eyes as he took
a sip. He let out a soft moan.

“Oh my God, Stefano! This is divine.”

“
Si
, I tell you.”

“You can’t let me leave without getting a
couple of bottles from you, okay?”

“
Perfetto!
Tonight we have
delicious specials for you. We have spaghetti alla carbonara, saltimbocca alla
Romana which is veal with sage and prosciutto, very good. But my favorite
tonight is trippa.”

Greenwood’s eyebrows rose. “Tripe? Tell
me more about that.”

“Yes, cow stomach I cook in rich tomato
sauce for many hours. Then I serve with pecorino, much delicious.”

“You’ve never led me wrong when it comes
to food, Stefano. Let’s go with the tripe.”

“Uh,” Jackman stammered, wondering how
anybody could eat a cow’s stomach. “I’ll take the carbonara.”

“
Perfetto
.”

He left and the two Americans drank wine
until they were alone.

“Now can we talk about this?”

“No, Mr. Jackman. As I said, we eat
first. You know, like civilized people. Then we’ll talk.”

There was no sense arguing so Jackman
shut up. After all, a lot of money was at stake. The food took a surprisingly
long time to arrive and they had the opportunity to drink half the bottle.
After that, they ate. Greenwood never stopped talking but it was never about
anything related to their meeting.

No, he talked about going to Columbia
University, about sports and his passionate dislike of football. He talked
about his dating experiences in Cambodia and the importance of revamping the
education system. Jackman was shocked that the conversation didn’t veer more
toward politics given who Greenwood was.

The younger man had finally begun to
relax as he finished his pasta – it had to be the wine, he decided – when
Greenwood got down to business. The mission specifics were outlined and he was
asked if he could deliver. Honestly, Jackman wasn’t sure.

And then the subject of money came up and
this changed everything.

Stefano returned himself to pick up the
empty plates. “Was everything to your satisfaction?”

“It was fantastic! I’ve had the privilege
of traveling all over the world and never did I taste better tripe. I think you
should be awarded the Nobel Prize and I don’t say that lightly.”

“
Grazie!
”

The restaurateur was beaming as he walked
away. Greenwood clasped his hands together and leaned toward his guest.

“So, where do we stand?”

Jackman took a moment to reply but the
situation was now crystal clear. “For that price, you have nothing to worry
about.”

“Beautiful.”

“I can get started the minute I see some
money.”

“Music to my ears, Mr. Jackman. Music to
my ears.”

Greenwood smiled broadly and leaned back
into his chair as he finished his wine.

It was ten o’clock and Rick was ready to
do some business. He had grabbed himself a frikandel, some kind of minced meat
hot dog, and he was just finishing it as he walked back into the antique shop.
It was delicious. He needed to eat it again before he left the Netherlands.

The bell above the door rang as it swung shut.
Behind the counter he spotted the clerk, still a walking advertisement for the
color brown.

“Hi, me again.”

The old man grinned tightly and held up a
finger before disappearing into the back.

Okay
, Rick
figured.
He isn’t in a talkative mood
. He approached the counter and
wiped his hands on a napkin before inspecting his teeth in an ancient mirror.
It was cracked but still serviceable.

There were footsteps and his heart beat a
little faster. But something was odd, the steps were faster than the old man’s.
That’s when a woman appeared from the backroom.

“You’re Hoover?”

The woman was about his age and extremely
attractive. Her accent was British.

“Sometimes,” he said cautiously.

“I want you to meet me at the red
Mercedes on Weesperstraat in 20 minutes, on the Nieuwe Herengracht Canal
bridge.”

“What’s wrong with talking here?”

“You want my business you do it my way. I’m
leaving now, you follow ten minutes later. When you do, you will have bought a
pair of earrings.”

“I’m getting tired of all these games,
lady.”

“Hey, you’re the one who needs my help.
Shall I make new plans for tonight instead?”

Rick searched hard but couldn’t find a
trace of humor on her face. “No, that’s fine. We’ll do it your way.”

“Splendid.”

She turned to leave again when he cleared
his throat. “Uh, just a question.”

“What?”

“What’s a whisper straight?”

“Weesperstraat,” she corrected him. “It’s
a street.”

“And how do you spell that?”

She told him, the letters coming so fast
that he was immediately puzzled, but at least he knew how to pronounce the word
now. She left right after and the clerk came back.

This time he was smiling. He leaned
forward on the counter which Rick could see now doubled as a glass display
case. It was filled with what he guessed was vintage jewelry, including several
pairs of earrings.

“See something you like?”

~  ~  ~  ~

Weesperstraat turned out to be a wide
street in central Amsterdam. Rick got out of his taxi a block away and walked
the rest of the distance toward the bridge. In his hand was the discreet shopping
bag from the antique store.

He made out the red Mercedes just after
the bridge and when he got to it a tall blond man with a buzz cut came out from
the front passenger side. He opened the rear door for him.

This was getting way too familiar, Rick
thought. He wondered if people in the criminal underworld were issued a
handbook teaching them how to be so mysterious and dickish.

Not having a choice, he got into the
backseat, sliding in next to Olivia. He immediately saw that the driver was
even bigger than the blond henchman dude.

“Fancy meeting you here. I got the
earrings. Now what?”

She grabbed the bag from him and fished
the jewelry out. She pulled the earrings from the small velvet box and put them
up to her ears. She glanced at herself in the rearview mirror, craning her neck
to get a good look.

“A little flashy but I guess they’ll do.”

She pocketed them, leaving Rick to ask
himself if this purchase had been a code of some sort or if she simply was into
jewelry that she didn’t have to pay for. In any case, he had picked the
cheapest earrings he could find, paying €20.

He said, “Can we talk now?”

“I want a detailed list of what you need.”

“Oh, you know, rocket launchers, Stinger
missiles, miniguns–”

She shook her head, interrupting him. “What
grade did you graduate?”

“Excuse me?”

“What is the highest level of education that
you have achieved?”

“I have an undergraduate degree from
Virginia Commonwealth University.”

He was absolutely confused and told the
truth instead of lying like he should have.

“So I take it you’re fairly familiar with
the English language.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Are you familiar with the English
language?” she repeated.

“Yeah, I’m fucking familiar! What the
hell are you driving at?”

“Did you ever happen to look up the word
detailed
in a dictionary? When I say I want a detailed list, I think it’s rather
self-explanatory. It therefore entails specifics. Don’t you agree, Mr. Hoover?”

He gazed at her, his eyes narrowing
because he’d never wanted to hit a woman until now.

“I can write something down,” he forced
himself to say calmly.

“Smashing. What will be your method of
payment?”

“It depends, I’d like to see an estimate
for the merchandise first.”

“Are we gonna play this game again, Mr.
Hoover? I think you have an idea of the amount involved.”

“It should be cash.”

“Splendid. Make it large denominations
and I prefer newer bills, euros of course. One last thing: how did you get wind
of my operation?”

Rick opened his mouth to speak before
pausing. He could screw everything up if he said the wrong thing.

“I don’t think I should say.”

“I think you should,” the woman said
coldly. “You found us through the phone book? Through Facebook? I want to know,
Mr. Hoover.”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential
information.”

She nodded gravely. She obviously wasn’t
happy with the answer but Rick was pleased with himself for standing his
ground. He felt that’s what somebody about to purchase Stinger missiles would
do.

The woman turned to the driver. “Let’s go
to the office.”

Somehow this didn’t sound like a positive
outcome anymore. Would they dispose of his body at her office or would they
dump him in one of the canals?

He had a feeling he’d be dead before he
could reach for his weapon.