The Skorpion Directive Part 1

Skorpion Directive, The.

by David Stone.

for Catherine Stone Catherine Stone

And in memory of RSM Ted Adair, Governor General's Horse Guards:

"I am not unwell . . ."

My sincere thanks to Chris Pepe, my very patient editor, Barney Karpfinger, my very patient agent, and to Inge de Taye, Cathy Jacques, Debbie Fowler, Barbara Wojdat

A scorpion and a crocodile reached the edge of a broad, swift-running river, and both paused a moment on the bank. The scorpion, who could not swim, asked the crocodile to carry him across it. The crocodile was reluctant, fearing that once they had set out upon the river the scorpion would sting him. The scorpion replied that if he were to sting the crocodile in the middle of the river, he would die as well.

The crocodile considered this, and then consented to carry the scorpion across the river. But when they reached the middle of the rus.h.i.+ng river, the scorpion coiled and stung the crocodile many times.

Dying, the crocodile cursed the scorpion for his malice, but the scorpion answered that the crocodile knew what kind of creature he was when he agreed to carry him across the river and the crocodile should not be amazed when a scorpion behaves like a scorpion. The river, wiser than either, killed them both.

-Traditional, possibly from Egypt

Vienna

SCHOTTENTOR RING, UNIVERSITY DISTRICT, 1908 HOURS LOCAL TIME.

Micah Dalton, riding a crowded escalator up into the cold blue light of the Schottentor trolley station, was instantly spotted by a member of the uberwachungs-Dienst uberwachungs-Dienst, in this case a twenty-eight-year-old cut-crystal blonde named Lasha Seigel. Seigel had been a.s.signed the trigger trigger position, the trigger being the most likely member of the Overwatch Service to have First Contact with the target. position, the trigger being the most likely member of the Overwatch Service to have First Contact with the target.

HumInt obtained by the Cousins-they would not reveal the source-indicated that Dalton was likely to surface at the Schottentor subway stop at some point in the early evening of this day. Seigel had therefore taken up her trigger post at daybreak, in a vacant office on the fifth floor of the Volksbank, on the far side of Wahringer Stra.s.se, and had remained there ever since, fixed, alone, without relief, mainly because her boss, Rolf Jagermeier, was a Pfennigfuchseres Arschloch Pfennigfuchseres Arschloch, a blunt Teutonic curse that, when sounded out, needs no translation. The rest of the "box" team would commence der Aufzug der Aufzug-the lift, the active mobile surveillance operation-as soon as Seigel established First Contact. Which, to her credit, she managed to do three seconds after Dalton cleared the escalator exit. In another two seconds she had a digital camera with a thousand-millimeter lens zeroed in on Dalton's face. And as soon as she had it focused, down in his lizard brain, Micah Dalton sensed . . . something. something. Nothing as specific as a surveillance lens, or the adrenalized young woman behind it. Just a sudden and skin-crawling sense of unease. In his current state, this was not surprising. Nothing as specific as a surveillance lens, or the adrenalized young woman behind it. Just a sudden and skin-crawling sense of unease. In his current state, this was not surprising.

He had not slept for two days, and his weary mind was far away in London, recalling the murder of an Uzbek courier on an escalator very much like this one. He became aware that his pulse rate was also climbing, but thinking about the Uzbek's murder could be the cause of that as well, since Dalton had been the murderer.

The Agency had gone to no end of trouble to recruit this Uzbek, whose family was supposed to have a direct connection with the largest al-Qaeda unit in Tashkent, and they were not at all pleased to learn that he had already been doubled by the Albanians, or at least that's what Dalton had been told, by Tony Crane, the head of the CIA's London Station. Dalton, whose time in the Fifth Special Forces had given him some intimate and b.l.o.o.d.y contact with the Albanians, didn't think they had enough tradecraft to double a decaf mocha latte.

No matter. According to Tony Crane, the inconvenient Uzbek needed his ticket punched. Crane was a languid blond-haired Back Bay princeling with a perma-tan, a history degree from Oxford, and a Harvard Yard drawl. His only firsthand experience of incoming fire was facing a forehand smash on a clay court. Nevertheless, Crane labored, with some success, at least among the young and gullible on the staff, to create the impression that he and sudden death had been roommates at Choate. Crane wanted "the hit" done in a memorable memorable way, "so those way, "so those f.u.c.king f.u.c.king Albanians would get the Albanians would get the f.u.c.king f.u.c.king point." point."

Crane's XO, Stennis Corso, known as Pinky behind his back, a round, seal-like little man with tiny pink ears and bright pink cheeks and soft pink hands that were always raw from too much scrubbing-no one at London Station cared to know why-had a hopelessly mad crush on Dalton at the time, so Dalton got the a.s.signment as a kind of burnt offering from Pinky, whose private pa.s.sion for Dalton had tented Pinky's hand-sewn Quaker bedspread for over two years.

Dalton resented the a.s.signment bitterly: he didn't mind a necessary combat killing, but he deeply despised murder. Nevertheless, he had stayed on the Uzbek for a couple of weeks, realizing pretty early on that, for a double agent supposedly steeped in guile, the fragile old man had the situational awareness of a mollusk.

On the day marked for what Crane liked to call "the hit"-the Friday of the Victoria Day weekend, a three-day holiday in London-Dalton had stalked him for hours, checking for countersurveillance, waiting for his moment, which, as these moments often do, presented itself on an escalator, in this case the one inside the Marylebone tube station. He could still see the old man's tweed coat, draped over his narrow bony shoulders like a shawl, his yellow-gray hair, damp with sweat, his left hand shoved deep into his coat pocket, a few inches of his spine showing above a grimy white s.h.i.+rt collar, as he rode the escalator up into the rush-hour clamor of a London afternoon, his right hand, clawlike, gripping the worn rubber rail. The Uzbek was deep inside himself, curled up inside his thoughts like a cat in a closet.

In the final seconds of his life the old man, perhaps sensing Dalton closing in, turned sharply, his blue lips tight, his cheekbones jutting out, his milky eyes widening. Dalton showed his teeth in what he quite mistakenly imagined to be a disarming smile and put four subsonic .22s into the old man's lungs, the man's shocked breath a short, sharp puff of peppermint and whisky straight into Dalton's face.

The chuffing crackle of the Ruger, the silenced muzzle pressed hard up against the man's woolen vest, was no louder than a dry cough, barely heard above the shuffling din of the crowds, the roar of the subway, and the rattle-clank-rattle rattle-clank-rattle of the ancient cast-iron escalator. Four in the lungs looks a lot like a fainting spell to anyone pa.s.sing by, and everyone did just that. of the ancient cast-iron escalator. Four in the lungs looks a lot like a fainting spell to anyone pa.s.sing by, and everyone did just that.

The Uzbek's clothes reeked of Turkish tobacco. His teeth were too large and unnaturally white, like little slabs of plastic, the gums a lurid pink. Baltic work, very likely. Dalton had seen enough of that sort of Stalinist dentistry in the blackened mouths of bloated corpses all over Kosovo.

He caught the man's body as it fell, holding the Uzbek up, pasting a worried look on his sharp-planed, cold-eyed face for the benefit of the other people on the escalator, all of whom glanced quickly away, avoiding involvement of any kind, flowing easily around the two of them like water over stones.

Dalton dead-walked him to a nearby bench, kneeling down in front of him as if he were offering roadside a.s.sistance, keeping his pale blue eyes fixed on the man's face. Dalton was ashamed of feeling not much of anything as he watched him struggle for one more breath, watched his cheeks blooming pink, and then fading slowly to gray.

The Uzbek, his coal-black magpie eyes fixed on Dalton's, had said something with his final breath, a prayer, a curse, a question, but Dalton spoke no Uzbek, and the man did not try to say it again in English, so although they were quite close together, locked in this obscene intimacy, the old courier died alone.

When the Marylebone crowds thinned out Dalton set the Uzbek gently back on the bench, put a copy of The Times The Times on his lap, and arranged him into a plausible counterfeit of sleep. Then he stood up, tucking the Ruger into a copy of on his lap, and arranged him into a plausible counterfeit of sleep. Then he stood up, tucking the Ruger into a copy of h.e.l.lo h.e.l.lo magazine with the skull face of Victoria Beckham scowling from the cover, and walked out of the tube station and into the crowds on Harewood Row, under a hazy twilight sky filled with blue and gold light, an evening, as it happened, very much like this evening in Vienna five years later. magazine with the skull face of Victoria Beckham scowling from the cover, and walked out of the tube station and into the crowds on Harewood Row, under a hazy twilight sky filled with blue and gold light, an evening, as it happened, very much like this evening in Vienna five years later.

Lasha Seigel, in the office on the fifth floor of the Volksbank, tightened the focus of her lens and clicked another digital shot of Dalton pausing at the top of the escalator, time-marked it, and hit SEND.

This time Dalton felt a second and much stronger ripple of unease. Something about this evening in Old Vienna was . . . not right. He paused for a moment, looking to his left to glance at a poster advertising a Senegalese rapper-poet named Goebe.

Galan's mark, the tell- tell- a slash of blue marker on the lower left-hand corner-was there, as required by the protocols. Its presence stated that, in Galan's professional view, it was safe to go forward to the contact point. Of course, Dalton had been told that kind of thing many times before, and sometimes it had even been true. a slash of blue marker on the lower left-hand corner-was there, as required by the protocols. Its presence stated that, in Galan's professional view, it was safe to go forward to the contact point. Of course, Dalton had been told that kind of thing many times before, and sometimes it had even been true.

The fact that his meeting was with Issadore Galan, an ex-Mossad agent now running the agenzia di spionaggo agenzia di spionaggo for the Carabinieri in Venice, made it important to push his luck. Galan disliked face-to-face meetings and avoided them unless he had something to say that could not be safely said in any other way. for the Carabinieri in Venice, made it important to push his luck. Galan disliked face-to-face meetings and avoided them unless he had something to say that could not be safely said in any other way.

Dalton pulled in a breath, let it out slowly. If Galan had made a tradecraft error here in Vienna-as unlikely as that was-there was only one way to confirm it.

He paused for a moment, gathering himself, taking in the city.

Vienna, like most aging harlots, was at her best in the twilight: Baroque facades lined the Ring District, richly detailed five- and six-story wedding cakes in pink and cream stone, coffer-roofed, every available inch of wall surface covered in gilded nymphs, onyx satyrs, alabaster cherubs, copper putti, bronze Valkyries, winged stallions with nostrils flaring-all of this Dream of Ossian Dream of Ossian imagery overlooking a maze of streets packed with earnest little Austrian eco cars bustling up and down the avenues under a glittering web of trolley wires, like fat white rabbits, late, too late, for a very important date. imagery overlooking a maze of streets packed with earnest little Austrian eco cars bustling up and down the avenues under a glittering web of trolley wires, like fat white rabbits, late, too late, for a very important date.

It had rained hard most of the day, clearing around seven, turning the Viennese sky into a luminous California sunset. The Ring smelled of wet stone, early-spring mosses, diesel fumes, and, floating on the misty air from a student cafe across the Stra.s.se, Stra.s.se, the biting tang of fresh dark coffee. the biting tang of fresh dark coffee.

In this threshold moment, Lasha Seigel took one last chance to pull in tight on the target, filling her lens with the glowing image of a taut, muscular man, narrow-hipped but broad at the shoulders, a little less than six feet, with longish blond hair, a slightly cruel face made of angles and edges, deep-set eyes hooded by the downlight. He was too well dressed to be a student or a tourist, in a long blue overcoat over navy slacks, a blue V-neck sweater, a scarf of pale gold silk, expensive black wingtips.

Her heart rate rose perceptibly as she studied Dalton's uncompromising face in the lens. Back at the Office, during their final Tactical Briefing, trying to drive home just how dangerous this target was, the unit chief, Nenia Faschi, had told them that the Serbian Mafia, who had tangled with the target several times last year, were calling him the Krokodil. Krokodil. Seigel had to admit he had that . . . Seigel had to admit he had that . . . look. look. The voice of Rolf Jagermeier, in his Mobile 2 unit in front of the Regina Hotel, came up in her earpiece. Jagermeier had seen the transmitted image from her digital camera, checked it with a file photo in his laptop. The voice of Rolf Jagermeier, in his Mobile 2 unit in front of the Regina Hotel, came up in her earpiece. Jagermeier had seen the transmitted image from her digital camera, checked it with a file photo in his laptop.

Ja. Das ist Dalton. Gehen Sie in die Stra.s.se, mit dem Aufzug.

Yes. That's Dalton. Get down on the street with the Lift Team.

Double-clicking her throat mike to let Jagermeier know she had heard and would comply, Seigel noticed that the Viennese, a wary people, were giving this Krokodil Krokodil a certain s.p.a.ce. She packed up her gear, stopping at the door to see that she had left no traces, and slipped out into the deserted hallway, heading for the stairs, thinking, as she came hurriedly down the darkened hall, a certain s.p.a.ce. She packed up her gear, stopping at the door to see that she had left no traces, and slipped out into the deserted hallway, heading for the stairs, thinking, as she came hurriedly down the darkened hall, He can't lose us in the Ring. Too many buildings, too much street light. He can't lose us in the Ring. Too many buildings, too much street light.

Across the Stra.s.se Stra.s.se, Dalton was thinking exactly the same thing: this was bad ground for a covert meeting. Too brightly lit, too many rooflines, too many long walled-in blocks, and no room at all to maneuver. A cattle chute to the slaughterhouse A cattle chute to the slaughterhouse, Dalton's CQB instructor at Fort Campbell would have said. Exposed, lines of fire from every angle, fully in enfilade, no chance to get to cover. It must have been h.e.l.lish to fight in the streets of Vienna during the war, although the Panzers and the Stukas would have been a great help.

There was a broad open s.p.a.ce to his right-Sigmund Freud Park, looking threadbare and tired after a hard Austrian winter-and, on the far side of the park, he could see the floodlit yellow hulk of the Regina Hotel. To the left of the Regina, the twin spires of the Votivkirche glittered like silver spikes against the fading glow of the evening sky. A red-and-cream trolley rumbled past on steel tracks, heavy as a Tiger tank, shaking the ground under his feet. A young blond woman in faded jeans and a mud-brown ski vest popped out of a door in the Volksbank Building across the street, clearly in a hurry. She glanced in his direction, seemed to flinch away, and then she jerked her head around sharply, turning north on Wahringer Stra.s.se, lugging her camo-colored backpack, melting quickly into the street crowds. That jumpy glance, and her body language as she headed away from him, that was all it took.

His vague ripples of unease hardened into a near certainty. He made the professional decision to a.s.sume he was under surveillance. It was the only safe thing to do. But surveillance by whom?

Possibly the KGB.

He had, just a few weeks ago, exposed a KGB mole buried deep inside the U.S. Army, in the process decimating a KGB network in Istanbul and Kerch, so the KGB had no reason to love Dalton. And these days the KGB-who had changed their official name to the FSB in 1991 but who were still thought of as the KGB by every opposing agency-were thick on the ground in Vienna, now that over two hundred thousand Chechen refugees had made their way here.

Or it could be the Serbs and Croats, who had declared a vendetta against him ever since he had run a small but extremely brutal private war against the Serbian Mafia in Venice. Another contender would be the Singaporean SID, whom Dalton had managed to p.i.s.s off quite spectacularly only a few months ago.

Whoever it was, the Austrians were old hands at the spy game, and neither the KGB nor any other foreign security service would be allowed to run a surveillance operation without the permission, and perhaps the a.s.sistance, of the OSE, the osterreichische Spionage Abwehr Einheit. osterreichische Spionage Abwehr Einheit. Austria had an official policy of neutrality-had ever since 1955-but that didn't mean that allowances could not be made when it served the state. Austria had an official policy of neutrality-had ever since 1955-but that didn't mean that allowances could not be made when it served the state.

Dalton had met, and respected, Austrian special forces soldiers doing UN work in Bosnia and Kosovo, and Galan had once told him the Austrians had a detachment in permanent position on the Golan Heights. The Austrians had a more muscular definition of "neutrality" than the Swiss, and lately they had been taking "advice" from the KGB about their Chechen refugee problem.

It wasn't out of the question that they had also been taking "advice" from the KGB about a troublesome CIA officer named Micah Dalton. Well, there was only one reliable way to find the answers to all these questions, and that was to draw these unknown watchers out.

To do that, he had to move.

So he moved.

CLa.s.sIFIED UMBRA EYES DIALINTERNAL AUDIT COMMITTEEFile 92r: DALTON, MICAHService ID: REDACTED

Preliminary logs from BDS/WEIN have been entered as STET. Committee concurs with BDS After-Action Report a.s.sessment that DALTON detected the OSE Surveillance Team almost immediately after reaching the exit of the Schottentor station and that DALTON then commenced aggressive CS in an attempt to draw out and identify the members of the OSE/UD team a.s.signed to contain and monitor him.

There are conflicting reports concerning the reasons for the establishment of an OSE Overwatch operation on DALTON, although preliminary investigation suggests that it was done on behalf of an OGO (Other Governmental Organization) the ident.i.ty of which must at some point be made part of this record.

The purpose of Dalton's visit to Vienna is unknown as of this writing, but it is a matter of record that he was traveling undeclared and in a private capacity, and was in no way charged with legitimate Agency matters, which, in view of the subsequent deaths and injuries that took place, allows for the argument to be made that there can be no official Agency liability for the actions of a private American citizen abroad.PARTIAL/INTERIM/ report continues.

MARIAH VALE/OD/DD/EXECUTIVE SECRETARIAT.

Dalton walked slowly north along Wahringer Stra.s.se, crossing into the edge of Sigmund Freud Park, making a long lazy loop through the area, scanning the darker places, watching the people around him, checking out the cars and buses, the dim forms of people half seen in the evening shadows. Since the a.s.sumption was that he was already being watched, there was no reason to be tricksy about his countersurveillance tactics, no point ducking into alleyways or changing direction sharply, trying to force a watcher to react, to look sharply away, to suddenly find the window of a closed shop utterly fascinating. He wasn't interested in losing these watchers; he wanted to isolate and identify them, establish the size, shape, and professionalism of the unit.

Nor was it worth trying to convince these people-whoever they were-that he wasn't worth watching; that decision had obviously already been made. He had to a.s.sume there'd be a box team on the street already, probably at least eight people, more likely twelve.

One person would have the Eye-have Dalton in direct line of sight. Usually this person would be behind him, on foot, probably no farther back than thirty yards. There'd be a backup watcher another twenty yards behind the Eye, ready to overtake and step into the Eye position if the first watcher felt he was closing up too tight or if Dalton did anything that might compromise the Eye. And there'd be a third third watcher across the street, moving in the same direction as he was, probably one of those ordinary-looking people over there who were already level with Dalton right now. watcher across the street, moving in the same direction as he was, probably one of those ordinary-looking people over there who were already level with Dalton right now.

The Eye would be in radio contact with the mobile units-very likely unremarkable sedans-always with four doors, since the "box team" members would be constantly switching in and out of the mobile units to prevent the target from seeing too many familiar faces.

Everyone else would maintain radio silence. If Dalton turned right or left on a side street, the Eye would walk straight through the intersection, letting the backup watcher take over as the Eye while the third watcher across the street would close in and take up the second position. The first Eye would either be cycled back to a mobile unit or redeployed in the third position, across the street from and level with Dalton. All of this movement would be fed constantly to the control officer in one of the mobile units.

Control would have a grid map of the city. The Brits, who had refined this kind of ad hoc street scramble into an art, called it a Spot Map. Control would track the reports coming in from the Eye, maneuvering the outlying box team to keep every alley and side street covered, switching agents in and out, pulling some back, closing in new ones, singles, pairs, breaking them up, mixing and matching as they moved, always at least three watchers keeping the target, Dalton, in the line of sight. A skilled team could do this sort of thing all day and all night, and no civilian would ever detect the operation. But there were were things to see for those who knew how to look. things to see for those who knew how to look.

For one thing, none of the watchers, if properly trained, would ever make eye contact with the target. Which meant that if the blonde coming out of the Volksbank were part of a surveillance unit, they had some training issues to deal with. Generally, by elimination, anyone pa.s.sing him on the street who did did give him a direct glance could be disregarded. give him a direct glance could be disregarded.

The entire unit would also have gone gray gone gray, n.o.body would be wearing standout clothing-no reds, no blacks, no flashy jewelry. Green, gray, brown-mud colors-would be the choice. Since they all spent so much time walking, they tended to wear comfortable shoes-sneakers, rubber-soled slippers, hiking boots. They'd also be carrying bags, and wearing coats and sporting hats that could be taken off to alter their appearance-clothing baggy enough to hide radios and cameras.

They'd have tics, even the best of them: touching ears or wrists where their mikes would be, rearranging uncomfortable belts and straps holding their radio gear. Some of the newer ones would have that happy-sappy aimless look-no clear focus, too obviously trying to look casual-"loitering with intent," his instructor at Camp Peary had called it-instead of walking with the oblivious self-absorption that quite often allows experienced agents to get very close to the target without being sensed.

Dalton looked for all of these indicators as he came slowly north past the park, checking, a.s.sessing, rejecting, rechecking, looking at the streetscape and the crowds through any reflective surface, stopping now and then, as if he were uncertain where he was going, very aware of any change in the rhythm of the pedestrian traffic around him, his breathing steady and calm, keeping his adrenaline under control.

Twenty-five minutes later he had reached the intersection of Wahringer Stra.s.se and Rooseveltplatz, and he was reasonably certain that the rusted gray four-door Audi with the tinted windows parked near the cab stand in front of the Regina Hotel was part of the surveillance unit, as was the rat-brown Opel idling in front of Charlie P's Irish Pub. He picked that one out when a traffic cop ticketed a car doing exactly the same thing a half a block away while completely ignoring the Opel.

And he suspected that the young woman in a dull-green peasant head scarf, sitting in the trolley that had just rumbled past him, was the edgy blond G.o.ddess with the backpack who he had seen coming out of the Volksbank across from the Schottentor trolley station.

There was a couple across the street, on the far side of Rooseveltplatz, sitting on the low pillared fence that ran around a grotesque red stone pile. Dalton had seen the woman standing at the bike stand in Sigmund Freud Park, quite alone, supposedly trying to unlock one of those bright yellow rent-a-bikes from the automated lock-stand. Now the same girl, in a different jacket, was necking with a tall, bald young man in a leather car coat and jeans and a pair of unlaced hiking boots made of what looked to be dried cow pies.

Finally, the rather splendid young woman standing a yard behind him at the traffic light, fiddling with a cigarette and paying him no attention whatsoever, had spent most of his long walkabout through the park and up Wahringer Stra.s.se at a steady fifty feet back, keeping pace with him almost exactly.

The traffic light was a long one. Just to raise her hackles a bit, Dalton took out a pack of his ridiculous Sobranie c.o.c.ktails-long gold-tipped cigarettes in a range of colors from turquoise to rose pink to canary yellow-selected a blue one, turned around and said, "Bitte, Fraulein. Haben Sie ein Feuerzeug?" "Bitte, Fraulein. Haben Sie ein Feuerzeug?"

The woman flinched very little, smoothly recovered. She looked a bit royal, and was quite handsome in that d.a.m.n-your-eyes-my-family'sin-Debrett's style that made him think of Mandy Pownall. Slender, an aurora of wild auburn hair, strong bones, and dark, intelligent eyes. Her pale cheeks bloomed a bit as she fumbled in her purse, an Hermes, but by the time she offered him her heavy silver Art Deco lighter with an insignia inlaid in ebony she had a fine cool smile in place, although in her eyes there was a faint flicker of fear. Dalton lit his Sobranie, studying the insignia as he did so-VRM-waved the cloud away, smiled, and handed the lighter back to her, saying, " Vorzuglich, Fraulein. Wie Sie sind." " Vorzuglich, Fraulein. Wie Sie sind."

Exquisite, Fraulein.

As are you.

She held his look for a moment, quite steadily. The light changed. She smiled carefully, and turned to walk on in front of him. Dalton stayed where he was. As spectacular as she was-far too showy for any halfway competent box team-he had no doubt that she was the Eye. And now she would have to cross over Rooseveltplatz ahead of him, forfeiting her position to her backup. In order to indicate that she had to surrender the Eye, she would either give the couple across the street some visual indication-they were still locked in a pretty convincing embrace-or she would call it in to her Control.

There was a spherical and hairless little man, carrying a Burberry raincoat, standing at a phone kiosk about a hundred feet back, apparently absorbed in a vigorous debate with someone on the other end of the line. He would be the second watcher. And in a moment, if she handed off, he would become the Eye.

Halfway across the broad avenue, her back rigid and her shoulders a little too straight, she reached up to brush a strand of fine hair away from her left ear, holding her hand there for just a moment. Dalton saw a tiny black rectangle against the white skin of her wrist, a microphone. She had just called it in.

She reached the far side of Rooseveltplatz and disappeared into a crowd of students without a backward glance. On the far corner, the couple was breaking apart-one last air kiss-the boy trudging off toward the Pension Franz, dragging his bootlaces, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, and the girl on her cell phone.

As he watched her, something off to his left in the middle distance caught his eye. The head-scarf girl who had gone by in the trolley-the blonde he had first seen leaving the Volksbank-walked out from under the arched entrance of the Regina Hotel and got into the gray four-door Audi, which immediately pulled away.

On the far side of the street, the girl with the cell had ended her call and was now walking in the same direction as he was. Behind him, the round fat man had put on his Burberry raincoat, opened an unnecessary umbrella, and was now following Dalton at the regulation fifty feet.

There you go, thought Dalton. We have now officially confirmed the surveillance We have now officially confirmed the surveillance. Isn't that just peachy Isn't that just peachy.

Now what?

CLa.s.sIFIED UMBRA EYES DIALINTERNAL AUDIT COMMITTEEFile 92r: DALTON, MICAHService ID: REDACTED

Within hours of the events of (REDACTED) BDS Incident Unit conducted NEGID Field Interviews with OSE/UD Aufzug Unit Commander Rolf Jagermeier as well as civilian employees of Regina Hotel and were able to a.s.semble a detailed narrative of DALTON's movements and decisions as they related to the events that subsequently took place. These interview transcripts have been entered into Audit Committee logs as STET.

As well, NSA extractions of DALTON's BlackBerry usage in the relevant time frame have been provided through the Inter-Agency Enforcement Agreement. These have also been entered into the Audit Committee logs.

Report segments follow. PARTIAL/INTERIM/ report continues.