The Protectors (3 page)

I didn’t bother sending a response. She knew I’d come.

For no particular reason other than I wanted to, I dressed the part. The leather-bound chest was beaten and old, heavier than I remembered. I removed it from the attic and threw it on my bed. Once opened, it revealed the wrappings of an old life: the ankle-length black duster, the long-sleeved body armor with subtle stitch holes across the chest where a missing capital
P
had once been sewn, and shiny combat boots with a few tricks hidden in each sole. I left the tight-woven pants in the case—the gold bands down the sides looked badass in publicity shots, but in real life that comic-book crap just seemed ridiculous. My black jeans would have to suffice. The duster might have been part of Knockout’s signature “look” also but it was too important to leave behind—tough, thick leather and lined with Kevlar—and let’s face it, a duster didn’t stand out quite as much as gold-striped hot pants.

Other than the garish pants, only the webbed belt had a burst of color—the buckle with its golden
KO
in block letters. Seeing the initials made one corner of my mouth curl into a grin. Still, I took a black marker from the kitchen and painstakingly colored over the letters. The object here was low profile, not a comeback tour.

Call me cheesy, but God, it felt good to put everything on. The instant the coat draped over my shoulders I felt more powerful, more in control of my own destiny. After being parked on a beautiful reservation for five years, sometimes it was tough to remember who I actually was . . . but not when the belt clicked around my waist.

I was Scott McAlister, the man who could knock people out with his
mind.
The goddamn leader of the Protectors.

Time to be a hero.

CHAPTER 4

I
n my defense, “low profile” seemed like a reasonable expectation.

The United States of America had a vested interest in making sure the Protectors were kept as far from the limelight as possible, and they did their job with relish. Knockout had vanished. I hadn’t worn my getup in over half a decade. The CIA cut off all requests for interviews, retrospectives, and the occasional “where are they now?” segment. No one knew where I lived, and even if they did, the reclusive guy sequestered up on the mountain had a fake name and background that could withstand even the closest scrutiny. Combine those efforts with the fruit-fly attention span of the American public, and you can actually convince yourself.

No one remembers.

Then you walk into an airport at rush hour and realize the true nature of the American memory: less than 25 percent of people remember the headlines from last week, but 75 percent can recite entire scenes of
The Princess Bride
from 1987. Halfway to the ticket counter, I knew there weren’t enough black markers in the world to make me low profile. Like a stone thrown into a pond, recognition spread out from me in a circular wave through the crowd. I tried my best to look unaffected, but I enjoyed it. Although everyone may have deeds they wish no one could remember, I don’t believe anybody truly wants to be forgotten. Even the TSA guys’ mouths dropped a little when I got to security. The titanium plates hidden beneath my Kevlar chest armor set off the detectors, but they waved me through anyway—didn’t even
need to show my special dispensation card signed by the president. One of the younger guys started to protest, but the old-school supervisor shut him down with “Don’t be an idiot.”

The flight to Zurich offered the perfect opportunity to strategize. But my thoughts kept drifting to Lyla—from anger and regret about our past, to the excitement of seeing her again, to fear over what she was planning next. It was a relief when we finally touched down, to feel the pressure of time return. I was surprised at how easily the tactical options came then. Not for meeting with Lyla, but for the more immediate goal—ditching the formidable surveillance team waiting for me.

As soon as I got the email about the “best food in Switzerland,” I knew fondue was about to show up on a lot of CIA expense reports. We’d had a long, unexplained delay at our New York stop, which reeked of Agency interference—keeping me safely on the tarmac so the pursuit team would be able to beat me to Zurich by a fair margin and make preparations for my arrival. I knew these “preparations” would not be of the warm-and-fuzzy variety. Tucker’s sniper insurance policy was unneeded and unwanted. Besides, I wasn’t sold on the purity of their motives: they could just as easily decide to clean up two potential liabilities for the price of one if I was unable to dissuade Lyla. She’d anticipated this, which is why she’d given me the clue in the first place.

The food at St. Moritz was indeed billed on the menu as the best food in Switzerland when I’d taken her there almost six years earlier. We’d shared a laugh over the mistranslated phrase while sitting in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the middle of London’s theater district. Talk all you want about cryptography and algorithms—the best code ever created is a simple inside joke. Lyla knew I’d need a relatively close place to dump my tail, but more important to her, she didn’t want it to be down the street from where she was staying. Zurich was less than five hundred miles from London—close enough for me to get to her easily, but far enough away that the CIA wouldn’t find her by accident while looking for me. Well, “easily” might be overstating, but at least it would be . . . different.

Okay, who am I kidding? It was fun.

First things first—a trip to the restroom. And yes, I did relieve
myself: of the two GPS locators hidden in my clothes. I’d always known about them, but never felt the need to share the knowledge until absolutely necessary. When you deal with government agencies, information conservation is your best friend. The locators were tiny, but cutting-edge—they drew power from ambient signal energy from nearby sources—a cell phone, a microwave, a radio or television—and were effective for years without having to worry about batteries or wires. I removed both but held on to them; might as well let the CIA’s technical wizardry work
for
me, after all.

My walk out of the airport was slow and deliberate. I wanted to make sure I could separate out anyone in the terminal who wasn’t a pure-of-heart traveler. It was easier to accomplish in Zurich than in Denver, thankfully, as Europeans apparently have shorter memories than Americans when it comes to celebrity worship. Didn’t take long to spot my five shadows—each dressed differently, each a different age and body type—but all given to nagging glances every time I came around pillars or in and out of shops. There would be at least two more outside in vehicles, ready to move as soon as I did, but it’d be impossible to pinpoint them. I went to the taxi stand outside, knowing my best bet was to get on the move.

I had the driver take me to a restaurant—any restaurant—in the city center, so long as it sat toward the end of the Bahnhofstrasse, the main strip. Didn’t matter which one, so I told him to pick his favorite. Like all good cabdrivers, he decided on the establishment that probably kicked him back the biggest fee for dropping off tourists, a small noisy place called the Rheinfelder. I took my time paying the tab and figuring the tip, fumbling with my Swiss francs just enough to give the team plenty of opportunity to see where I was going, and watch me walk through the front door. Up until the restaurant entrance, it was vital to keep the spooks close, let them find my rendezvous location, and begin to set up camp. Part of me hoped the team would give me a little credit and assume I’d try to lead them astray, but sadly, overestimating my abilities has never been the Agency’s strong suit.

Regardless, once I made it inside the Rheinfelder, the strategy changed. Now it was all about greasy-fast speed: I had to get through
and out the back before the team had a chance to lock it down. They’d assume I would get a table and wait, so there wouldn’t be any harm in taking five minutes to coordinate the surveillance. Good idea, except I planned on being in the building no longer than thirty seconds. I sliced past tables and made it through the dining room without trouble, ready to drop anyone who lingered in the way. To their credit, the implacable Swiss don’t get too upset when hunkered down over a plate of veal. I paused in the kitchen long enough to dump the GPS locators on top of a microwave. If they bought me even five minutes’ hesitation, it’d be plenty. Once in the alley out back, I turned and sprinted with everything I had for my real destination, down at the end of the strip.

The Hauptbahnhof train and bus station in central Zurich was possibly the easiest place to get lost in all of Switzerland. Hundreds of departures and arrivals every hour, with thousands of passengers moving in all directions. Those passengers were from every country in Europe, dressed in a wide array of clothing, speaking fifteen different languages. Loudly.

I danced through huddles in the crowd, across the massive marble-floored chamber toward the old-timey status board. Hundreds of people milled underneath the flickering display of arriving and departing trains, eyes searching the numbers, tracks, and times. I only cared about the top line—the next departing train.

Madrid, ten minutes, track nine. Perfect.

Once away from prying eyes, I could redirect to London at my convenience, but for right now, destination was far less important than timing. I needed to be gone, and fast.

Less than three minutes had passed since my sprint through the restaurant, and I imagined the confusion of the surveillance team . . . the likelihood they’d send someone into the Rheinfelder as a spotter, then panic and send agents in all directions. Even a novice field operative would realize the train station was my true objective. My body felt the pressure: pulse rapid, breathing ragged, unable to calm down or move slowly. The suffocating feeling of being chased—a far cry from drinking hot chocolate in a mountain cabin. Funny how much your life can change in less than ten hours.

Forcing myself to gear down to a trot, I made my way along the steps to the long series of departing trains. Track nine was about halfway down the concourse, and there were a number of benches and seats where passengers could wait before boarding. Most of the Madrid travelers were already aboard by the time I made it to the train, but several remained in the concourse, saying their goodbyes or conducting last-minute business.

I noticed a red-faced, well-dressed businessman speaking animated French on his cell phone, sitting on a bench up against the wall. Alone and seated, he made things so wonderfully easy, in spite of my lack of French. I raised my eyebrows and motioned to the seat next to him, asking permission. He acknowledged me with a head bob, and moved over to one side to accommodate. I looked around the immediate vicinity, waited for a moment when no eyes were on us, and dropped him hard.

His hand fell away from his ear, but I was quick enough to nab the phone before it clattered to the cement and drew attention. I draped one arm around his sleeping shoulders to stabilize his upper body and used my free hand to slip the phone back into his jacket pocket, trading it for his ticket to Madrid. I was out of practice, but the exchange was smooth enough. I sat next to him for another minute, every precious second of which was torture, but necessary to allay suspicion if security cameras caught our exchange. A guy sitting quietly next to his buddy with an arm around his shoulders didn’t exactly scream robbery. When enough time had passed, I rose and said goodbye to my sleeping friend, patting him on the shoulder before moving down the concrete pier toward the train. I walked all the way down to the front passenger car and boarded there, choosing a rearward-facing window seat. I wanted a nice, unobstructed view of the entire length of the train, just in case the bloodhounds were closer than I thought.

The final minutes before departure were a tension-packed suckfest. My eyes flicked between my watch and the concourse outside the window, back and forth, over and over. When I finally redirected a single glance to the passenger compartment around me, I noticed a young woman in a seat across the aisle, watching me with a wary
expression. Only then did I realize how conspicuous I was: a sweating, out-of-breath man staring out the window while obsessively checking his watch. Thus reminded, I worked on slowing my pulse and breathing down to normal—and the young woman worked on sleeping all the way to Madrid. When the departure call came over the intercom, I took one final look out the window before declaring victory. And of course that’s when I saw the bloodhound leaping down the steps, taking them three at a time.

Didn’t look like a government agent—jeans, sweater, and a brown sport coat—but that was the point. The best ones were chameleons; they blended in and avoided notice. He could have been a computer programmer running to catch a train. Or a college professor scrambling to pick up his arriving fiancée. But luckily even the good ones have tells. He reached up to his naked ear at one point—mouth moving—while dodging pedestrians in the concourse, and that’s all I needed to see. Programmers and professors don’t communicate with invisible earbud microphones.

Sure enough, he maneuvered through the crowd directly to track nine. I saw him flash an ID to the conductor outside the last car at the far end of the platform, gaining entry only seconds before the train started the slow lurch out of the station. In spite of my glass-half-empty nature, I was pleased. They couldn’t
know
I was on the train; they only
suspected
. They did the logical thing and sent a runner after the next departure—there wasn’t time to check surveillance cameras or talk to witnesses. No doubt other runners were being dispatched to the next few departing trains as well.

The true dilemma would have been if he’d
missed
the train, or if I’d been forced to drop him on the platform. They’d have no choice but to call ahead to Madrid and have another team waiting for me, at which point I’d have to start all over again. But this turn of events . . . this was an opportunity to make sure I got away clean. I felt a little sorry for the panting bloodhound. If he knew I was on the train, he’d think I was cornered, which could not have been more wrong.

He
was trapped with
me
.