The Bleiberg Project (Consortium Thriller) (7 page)

T
hey’re still on our ass.
Jackie says there’s no point trying to lose them. I feel like a worm on a hook. Not a fate I envy. Note to self: Cool car, this Lexus. If I make it out of this and can sit behind a wheel again, I’ll buy one to replace my DB9.

We reach the hotel with them on our tail. Thank God, it’s an underground parking garage. They don’t push their luck by following us in. Blondie’s right. They’re waiting for us to recover whatever’s in the safe-deposit box before hitting us like a swarm of locusts on a field of wheat. If I had to choose, I’d take the locusts. But you don’t always get what you want.

I’ve decided to let events take their course. If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die. I can’t see my pocket-size bodyguard stopping a colossus riddling me with bullets. We’ll see. In any case, she’s got the discreet surveillance of her surroundings down pat. Good job.

The hotel’s pure luxury. I don’t know about the city. I only saw it reflected in a rearview mirror. At least I’ve got a Swiss stamp in my passport now. I can start a collection. The elevator takes us straight to the lobby. Big, clean and shiny. Hip mirrors on the walls. I was hoping for a Swiss chalet, and I wind up in a cookie-cutter boutique. We could be anywhere in the world. It’s almost sad. The standard desk and receptionist seen a thousand times before. Jackie registers us as Mr. and Mrs. Ingalls. The guy doesn’t notice my look of surprise. Charles and Caroline Ingalls—alcoholic trader and CIA killer. Shit’s going down in
The Little House on the Prairie
. I lean back six degrees to scope her butt. Nice. A married man now, but don’t expect me to be sawing wood just yet. Best of all, the CIA’s picking up the tab. If killers weren’t chasing me, my parents hadn’t just died, and I didn’t feel like a rat in a maze, I’d almost think I was on vacation.

A bellhop appears with a black case. Jackie smiles. Tooled up. The bellhop accompanies us to our room. On the way to the elevators, I check out the wildlife in the lobby. Actually, I stare at it. Which of these “guests” is going to stab me in the back? Is the bitch that killed my mother here? And the little fat guy with greasy hair in the badly cut suit, why’s he staring at me like that? I’m sweating. My right hand starts to shake. They could use some AC in here. The heat’s unbearable. The way my guts are torturing me, the in-flight meal must have been past its sell-by date.

Jesus, quit staring, you asshole! He’s coming over, reaching into his jacket. He’s a hit man! Jackie’s up ahead. I yell, but she doesn’t look around. The bellhop’s feeling up her ass. She’s stripping in public. A freak, I knew it. You’ll have Jay jumping your bones, beauty! But right now, I charge the dwarf before he smokes me. Tackle him to the floor. He lashes out with his tentacles. Shit, is his skin blue? The world’s spinning around me. Suddenly, once again, the lights go out.

“Hey!” A sudden
burning sensation wakes me.

“There you go, Jeremy. You’ll feel better in a few minutes.” Jackie’s leaning over me. A strange newly kind tone in her voice. She’s holding an empty syringe.

“Better? What happened to me? I was in the lobby and then…I don’t know, everything just went weird.”

“Cold turkey. With the stress and jet lag you got a fit of something like delirium tremens. I gave you a shot of a derivative of benzodiazepine. You need to drink some sugar water and get some glucose into your system. From now until we get back to New York, you’ll have to carry a bottle of water with you at all times.”

She presses a cotton ball to my forearm. The fleeting skin contact makes my whole body tingle. Unless it’s the stuff she just injected into me. “You always walk around with that on you?”

“Hardly. I thought it might come in handy. Bernard warned me about your alcohol issues. I thought I’d better have something with me just in case. Anticipation’s an important part of my profession.”

“You’re doing a fine job.”

“I wish I could return the compliment. You attacked a hotel guest. Keeping him quiet will cost the American taxpayer. Incidentally, you also called me a horny bitch and announced your plans for me. Very classy.”

Ouch. I grab the pillow, wedge it against the headboard and haul myself into a sitting position. The gyroscope’s still off-center, and the room pitches like a sailboat in a storm.

“No way are you getting out of that bed. The jab is palliative not curative.”

I massage my temples and close my eyes, hoping the first signs of a headache will go away. When I open them, Jackie’s in the bathroom doorway, a damp towel in her hand and an affectionate smile on her lips.

“Does this benzo shit have any known side effects?” Silently, she comes over and presses the towel to my forehead. Cool water trickles over my cheekbones, follows the contours of my jaw and drips onto my chest.

“Sure. Sleepiness, loss of balance, dependence if you keep on using it. But you’ll be OK with the dose I gave you. You’ve just succeeded in making my job a bit more difficult.” I grasp her wrist with one hesitant hand and look her in the eyes. Adopting a serious expression isn’t hard for me right now.

“I’m sorry, Jackie. For the insults and anything else I said.” She doesn’t reply, except with a look every bit as intense and sincere as mine. The skin contact flusters her as much as me. Usually I’d shamelessly take advantage, but not with her.

Snapping out of it, my chaperone stands up. “Don’t worry. The sexual fantasies are caused by the delirium. I’m not mad at you. We’ll stay here this morning to let you recover and head over to the bank after lunch. And along with drinking all that water, you’ll have to stay away from the booze. The drug and alcohol don’t mix.”

Barely twenty minutes later, I’m on my feet again, not without a slight but mercifully brief loss of balance. I grab a smoke at the window, watching the avenue down below. Jackie locked herself in the bathroom shortly after shooting that shit into me. I sound harsh, I know. Must be the jet lag.

The bathroom door opens, and my water nymph emerges reinvigorated, with damp hair and wearing anthracite-colored jeans and a pale blue shirt. White sneakers with pink stripes emphasize how small her feet are. She wears a few discreet touches of makeup and even a little gloss on her delicate lips. I should feel flattered and smile—it’s always a good sign when a woman dolls herself up—but my mind’s full of morose thoughts. This moment of solitude, a rare luxury since yesterday, has allowed me to get things straight in my head. I was wrong about everything the whole time. My father, my mother, Bernard. The fatal accident I caused is the action that best reflects my true self. That’s nothing to smile about.

“Stop beating yourself up. You really think that’ll bring her back?”

She’s an expert at reading my mind and catching me off guard. I fiddle with my cigarette to hide my melancholy ruminations.

“At the risk of coming across as a total douchebag—or more of one than I appear to be already—I have to confess the aim isn’t to bring her back. Unfortunately, that’s beyond my, or anyone else’s, power. Until that crappy night, I’d been wasted a couple of times in my whole life. Sober, there would have been no accident. Drunk, my reaction time was too slow. That’s what eats me up. Guys get wasted every weekend with no consequences except the gradual destruction of their livers. Me, it took one drunken party and a momentary distraction to kill a child. I have to live with that on my conscience. I have no choice. I don’t drink as a cop-out, but as appropriate punishment. But have no fear, I don’t drive anymore.”

My smile doesn’t seem to convince her or dampen her curiosity. Understandable. I don’t convince myself. She wants to know more. “How did you beat the rap? Shouldn’t you be in jail?”

I need nicotine. I take a big drag on my smoke. “Bernard offered the parents a one-off lump sum. A very big sum. A PI the firm hired found out the mother was an undocumented immigrant. Cash plus silence equals Jeremy dodges jail time. And it makes me sick.”

As disgust deforms my features, I try to get a grip. Jackie sees the evil gnawing away at me. Her voice softens. “You never talk about it, do you?”

She’s sharp as a tack. It might as well come out. “No. Never seriously. You know, Jackie, hating yourself doesn’t make life easy. And admitting it doesn’t solve anything.” She comes over, grins, nudges me aside and peers out the window with me. She’s happy pressing up against me. The feeling of her thigh against mine is up there in the Highlights of My Existence.

“You’re wrong about two things.”

“Oh, yeah? Which ones, Miss Freud?”

She slicks back her damp hair, then shakes her head left and right. “Hurting people comes easy for some heavy drinkers. My father proved that time and again.” Buffy isn’t looking at me. Her gaze wanders over the buildings opposite us. I expect the worst. “He started hitting me in my high school freshman year. Occasional beatings, followed by endless apologies and sobbing. There was nothing he had to take out on anybody. He was a doctor in deepest, darkest Arkansas, a respected, well-liked figure, a regular churchgoer. He had money, a wife who loved him and a hardworking daughter. But he drank for no apparent reason. The asshole blamed it on me. He said I was too pretty, a prick tease. Believe me, I was so shy it was almost impossible for a boy to talk to me.”

I let out a long whistle. “I get the picture.”

She arches an eyebrow and looks at me with doe eyes. “To some extent, what happened shaped the rest of my life. To cover up the bruises, I found something to justify them. I started attending the tae kwon do class that some madman had opened in that nowhere town. I got into it, and the instructor said I had talent. One day, I came home and saw that my father was treating my mother the same as me. He didn’t see the first blow coming. Nor any of the blows that followed. I kicked his ass all over the house. I stopped just before I killed him. I didn’t hate him enough to rot in jail for life on a murder rap. He dragged himself along the floor, beat up and bleeding, begging me, telling me my mother understood him. How long had she been taking the slaps and lashes of his belt? I didn’t give him time to justify himself. I didn’t see any point listening to his pathetic excuses. I grabbed some stuff and walked out. I joined the army, then the Secret Service before Bernard recruited me. He got me a transfer to the CIA’s Special Operations Unit after he saw my file at a disciplinary hearing for insubordination. I have problems with authority. Ever since, every opponent has my father’s face. I made anger my greatest motivation.”

“I conclude it’s better not to pick a fight with you.”

“It’s not necessarily a good idea. Why the long face? My story isn’t so dramatic.”

Oh yeah? I have a long face? I’d better watch myself, but the thought of a guy hitting this girl revolts me. Hugging her seems the only thing to do. Anyway, let’s change the subject. “And the other point?”

“When you behave like a human being, you’re not at all objectionable. Now get dressed. I ordered room service. We’ll leave for the bank as soon as we’ve eaten.”

I like being with this woman. I feel good at her side. With her, I’m not anxious or on edge. She feels something for me, and that makes me happy. At least one piece of good news this week.

Eytan pushed the
right sleeve of his camouflage jacket up to the elbow. He heaved a sigh and let it fall back down to his wrist. The marks on his skin had always depressed him. Surgery could easily get rid of the ugly blemishes. But would he still be himself? He’d asked himself the same question dozens, even hundreds of times. It would haunt him as long he lived. That’s why he hated inaction. With idleness, reminiscences wormed their way into his mind, slipping through the crack of boredom. And for the last two hours, Eytan had been bored stiff.

As usual, he’d picked up his gear as soon as he arrived at the hotel—the same one as the odd couple he was tailing. After loading up with guns and clips, he took a quick shower and shaved his head, chin and eyebrows. A chat with the receptionist revealed the lovebirds’ room number and the strange fit Mr. Ingalls had thrown in the lobby, causing panic among the guests.

He couldn’t say why, but Eytan was starting to feel a kind of affection for his “client.” This walking-disaster case amused him. It was a change from the usual bastards he had to deal with—double agents, terrorists, shady diplomats.

The black Mercedes was still parked on the avenue outside the five-star hotel, with a perfect view of the parking garage exit. In theory, the tinted windows guaranteed its occupants’ anonymity. In theory. Two hours’ waiting didn’t even touch the surface of Eytan’s bottomless well of patience, but he had a furious urge to have some fun. He strode over to the Mercedes and knocked on the driver’s window. A good twenty seconds later, it opened a fraction, barely an inch. Not enough to see inside.

“What do you want?” asked a baritone voice, speaking German in a dialect specific to the Zurich area. Luckily, Eytan knew some of its subtleties.

“Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Grossmünster Cathedral. Which way is it?”

Another few seconds ticked by. “No idea. Ask in the hotel. Have a good day.” Polite but brisk. The window closed to end the conversation. As he straightened up, Eytan’s wallet dropped onto the road and skidded under the car. He cursed and hunkered down to pick it up.

With Eytan on his knees and stretched under the vehicle, the car’s occupants could see only his broad back. Having retrieved his wallet, Eytan Morg stood up and gave a friendly wave in the direction of the taciturn driver.

Crossing back to the hotel, the agent grinned to himself.

“Don’t screw with me.”

T
he punch hit fresh air.
The little blonde spun away from right hooks and uppercuts with astonishing ease. The guy’s technique wasn’t too shabby, but she was simply too fast for him. Overbalancing slightly, he pivoted and aimed another kick at the young woman. She blocked and immediately riposted with two straight lefts to her opponent’s face.

Crouching behind one of the many trashcans on the dark street, Eytan enjoyed watching Blondie’s athleticism, complete mastery of combat techniques and marvelous speed and coordination. Of course, she was in her current situation because of a glaring error that should have been fatal. Letting her pursuers catch up with her in this alleyway would get her bawled out by the worst instructor in the most pathetic intelligence service in the world. Luckily, rather than blowing her away, the two goons appeared to be under orders to capture her and get information out of her. Easier said than done.

The two guys were the slippery type. Lithe and sinewy, they were overconfident as they closed in on their prey. Before he could finish his sentence—inaudible from Eytan’s vantage point—the first attacker was sucking up a headshot that sent him flying into the garbage bags, his nose a bloody mess. The second guy didn’t make the same mistake, attacking cagily, his guard high.

As the ballet went on, Blondie continued to find openings, but her punches began to lack penetration. She wasn’t dealing with a beginner. Toe to toe, the fight swung in the guy’s favor. Eytan wondered why she didn’t draw the pistol he glimpsed now and then under her jacket. Both of them were taking unnecessary risks in the hope of obtaining vital information. No prisoners was the only rule. A true professional wounds, interrogates, kills. By flouting the basics of the job, apprentice agents come to a sticky and early end. How many had he seen trip up by underestimating the realities of life in the field?

The guy with the smashed snout was coming around. And it looked like he’d learned his lesson. Sprawled in the garbage behind Blondie, he drew his gun. Eytan immediately leapt out of his hiding place, unsheathed two knives from his waistband and sprinted hard. Attacking from his position, with two leaping, spinning, spiraling warriors duking it out, was taking a risk even for a fighter of his caliber. To hell with discretion. Leaving a young lady to die here wouldn’t further his investigation and would bring dishonor on him.

He covered the twenty yards in a flash. The first blade buried itself in the neck of the guy fighting Jackie, who stared in dismay as he keeled over, spurting blood. The second landed between the eyes of the first attacker, who slumped back into the garbage with no hope of a second resurrection.

Eytan stood facing Jackie, who looked like she didn’t know whether to be grateful or afraid. “Agent Jacqueline Walls, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“You know me? Who are you?” she gasped, out of breath.

“A friend. For now. You messed up by letting Jeremy go into the bank alone. I don’t know who these guys are, but they’re not amateurs. Did you seriously think they wouldn’t spot you? You hoped to catch them out by keeping an eye on Corbin from a distance?”

Jackie shrugged sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Incompetence and stupidity! You should have anticipated that a second surveillance team had been assigned to the job.”

Before she could protest, Eytan went on, “You still have a lot to learn in the art of staying discreet. Now run along, and stick close to your client. I’ll take care of the stiffs.”

“You’re with the Agency?”

“Not really.”

Without batting an eye, Jackie drew and leveled her gun at Eytan’s face. “Tell me who you are. Fast! I’m in no mood for bullshit games.”

Eytan towered over her and stared into her eyes. “Child…”

In a flash, he grabbed the gun and twisted it back on its owner. It was so fast and controlled, Jackie couldn’t resist.

“Strike fast.” Another sudden movement knocked the young woman backward. At the same time, a slap sent the gun flying out of her hand. By the time Jackie’s butt hit the deck, Eytan had caught the weapon and was pointing it at her.

“Kill without blinking.” Eytan tossed the automatic into the trash. “Those are the basics of our trade. Do your job, and stay alert. I won’t be able to get you out of every hole you dig. The stiffs are all yours now. My regards to Dean.”

He turned and strode back to the street. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Jackie picking herself up, already dialing a number, surprised to be breathing, most likely.

The bank vault
looks like Fort Knox. Armed guards at every steel door. Basically, the architect designed a marble-lined bunker. The Swiss are hospitable but a touch too obsequious. Wealth has that effect. I didn’t catch his name, but it doesn’t matter. Klavich, Kravich, something with a Slav ring to it. A tight ass. His pigeon-toed, knock-kneed shuffle proved it with every step. Like a master of ceremonies at the court of Louis XIV.

Along the way, I give a little wave to all the security cameras. It’s dumb, but it cracks me up. I feel kind of buzzed—a side-effect of the gunk in Jackie’s injection, maybe. In fact, I’m floating on air. Back to reality. One huge door, two guards and three cameras later, we enter the small box vault, as my escort calls it. Good news. I won’t have to drag a huge parcel around with me. He steps aside and ushers me in. Hundreds of little doors line the walls. Boris—I’ve decided the name suits him—opens one up and removes a brown rectangular box about a foot long. He exits after pointing out the button I need to press when I’m done. I wonder if the john works the same way.

I remove the lid of what could be a regular shoebox. Inside, I find a gray file closed with a red tab, a road map folded in four and something the size of a pack of cigarettes wrapped in brown paper. I stuff everything into my backpack. I’ll examine it later with Jackie.

I hit the button. Let’s get outta here. Am I going to take a bullet in the head as soon as I set foot on the street?