The Skorpion Directive Part 7

She said nothing for a time, staring out at the autobahn. They were pa.s.sing a string of river barges towed by a fat little red tugboat with blue flowers painted on its funnel. A little blond boy on the foredeck, s.h.i.+rtless, was waving cheerfully at them as they blew by. Veronika, deep inside her thoughts, waved back at him anyway.

"Maybe . . . Jurgen Stodt."

"Who's he?"

She looked unhappy but managed to get it out.

"For a time . . . we were together. Last year. He works with me on the Overwatch. You saw him last night? Tall, skinny, he shaves his head now . . ."

"Wears big floppy hiking boots? Leaves the laces undone?"

"Yes. That's him."

Dalton didn't say what he thought of Jurgen Stodt's street skills, but if he'd managed to get more out of Veronika Miklas than the back of her hand he was better than he looked.

"Could you trust him?"

Veronika shrugged her shoulders, her cheeks reddening.

"He's a big, floppy puppy. He makes those . . . floppy puppy eyes . . . at me still. He's really very sweet. Yes. He would do it."

"Would he keep his mouth shut?"

"Jurgen? Goodness no. He'd wet himself and roll over on his back as soon as somebody raised his voice. He's afraid of everyone, and especially Nenia Faschi. But would that matter if he could get the video first?"

Dalton shook his head.

"No. It wouldn't. How would you get in touch with him?"

She patted her laptop.

"He's addicted to his Treo. Never shuts it off. Day and night. We could find an Internet cafe, I could send him a message, check for a reply at the next cafe down the road? Could they-whoever they they are-trace that?" are-trace that?"

"Yes. But that video's worth the risk."

They cruised on for a time, pa.s.sing through downtown Vienna and on out into the lowlands. The land was emerald green and rolling, dotted with white-walled farmhouses and the silvery spikes of church steeples.

"These are very bad people, Micah. Do you have any idea who they they are? He says 'your old friend.' Is it someone you know?" are? He says 'your old friend.' Is it someone you know?"

"I know a lot of people who don't like me very much. Only a very few of them are capable of getting an edge on a man like Galan and then doing what they did to him."

"Your friend Galan. He was there?"

"Yes. In the trunk."

"Oh, Micah . . . I'm so sorry. Was it very bad?"

Dalton told her a little. Not much. It was enough. They were pa.s.sing through the middle of Vienna, lost in the morning traffic stream. There was no obvious pursuit. No choppers in the air.

In the far north behind him he could see a pillar of smoke rising into the sky above the green dome of Leopoldsberg: Issadore Galan's funeral pyre.

"You said only a few people could-how you say-get an edge on Galan? What does this mean?" on Galan? What does this mean?"

"It means outmaneuver and defeat him. And there were very few men who could do that. There was a freelancer named Kiki Lujac. He used to work for Branco Gospic, and then he went into business with the KGB. He might do something like this. But this note-Lujac was fluent in English, well-educated, polished-he would never write a note like this. Besides, he would have taken pictures of the process and then put them on the Net. That was his . . . trademark."

"We don't know that he hasn't. Where is he now?"

"n.o.body knows. He was seen in Garrison, upper New York State, last winter. The FBI and NSA security people tore up the eastern seaboard looking for him, but they never got him."

"Is there anyone else?"

"There was an old Comanche I ran into a while back. He'd have loved this kind of thing. But he's dead now."

"You're sure?"

Dalton thought but did not say, Pretty sure, Veronika, since I put a couple of .357s into his face, hacked his head off with a hatchet, stuck it in a beer cooler with some dry ice, and FedEx'd it to a state trooper in b.u.t.te. Pretty sure, Veronika, since I put a couple of .357s into his face, hacked his head off with a hatchet, stuck it in a beer cooler with some dry ice, and FedEx'd it to a state trooper in b.u.t.te.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure."

"Anyone else?"

"Yes. A few. But this thing . . . it feels . . . Muslim."

"Do you mean al-Qaeda."

"No. Not their style. Too . . . byzantine. They like to blow up discos and incinerate office workers. This is more like the Chechens. Or the Albanians. Or the Serbs."

"Slick. That name. Didn't the man, the one you called Smoke, didn't he call you Slick?"

"Yes. And he had an accent, sounded Balkan, maybe Russian. Lots of Muslims in the Balkans. And Yusef was definitely Muslim."

"Have you ever operated against al-Qaeda?"

"Not since I joined the Agency. Before that, yes. With the Special Forces. In the Horn of Africa, Afghanistan. Waziristan. The Army had me in Kosovo and Bosnia for a while, before I got on with the Cleaners, and there was a heavy Muslim factor in that sector, although when I was there we were fighting to protect protect them from outfits like the Serb Skorpions. Maybe this Smoke guy was someone I knew. His fighting style was hard-core Special Forces. I think he might even be Spetsnaz. But if we had ever locked horns, it was sure as h.e.l.l before he got all burned up. You see this Smoke guy now, you're never going to forget him." them from outfits like the Serb Skorpions. Maybe this Smoke guy was someone I knew. His fighting style was hard-core Special Forces. I think he might even be Spetsnaz. But if we had ever locked horns, it was sure as h.e.l.l before he got all burned up. You see this Smoke guy now, you're never going to forget him."

Blood-red veins.

Pale green light.

Once again, something deep in the well of his memory, something dark, began to rise, a shapeless, cloudy horror full of blood-red veins, wrapped in pale green light.

He waited for the memory to declare itself, but instead it sank back again, clouded over, and was gone.

Veronika glanced over at Dalton and then back at the highway rolling toward them. Beyond Vienna, as you go south and west, the land grows craggy and begins a gradual climb toward the Alps and the mountain pa.s.ses that lead down into Italy. Far in the southwest, the sun was glinting off a row of white shark's teeth: spring snow in the high pa.s.ses.

"So your friend did not betray you?" she said in a soft voice after a long silence.

"No," said Dalton. "He didn't."

"What will we do now?"

"We try to get to Venice. It's what Galan wanted me to do."

"Did you set that up before . . . all this?"

"No. He left me a message."

"How?"

Dalton told her.

"Merciful Christ."

"You think so? That hasn't been my experience."

"What do those marks have to do with Venice?"

"Galan has rooms in Cannaregio, on the Fondamenta degli Ormesini, across from the Tempio Israelitico, in the old Jewish quarter."

"The Ghetto?"

"Yes. He has a flat on the top floor of a little villa, with a terrace overlooking the ca.n.a.l. The number of his flat is 8B."

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

Security cameras outside the Westbahnhof station Auto-Park in Vienna confirm that DALTON and MIKLAS arrived there at 0821 hours and that it appeared from their actions that some sort of physical intimacy had taken place, which is common in hostage situations if rape is a component.

Although the main security camera at Leopoldsberg malfunctioned, peripheral cameras confirm that DALTON and MIKLAS were next seen in the parking lot of the castle at 0917 hours, just prior to the explosion of a brown Saab.

In the confusion of the blast, which killed one and injured two police officers, the authorities lost track of the pair, and their current location or direction remains unknown.

MOSSAD confirms that the body found in the trunk of the Saab was that of GALAN, ISSADORE-a former MOSSAD agent currently in the employ of the Italian Carabinieri in Venice. BDS officers from the Vienna station have been dispatched to Venice to interview the local officials.

As GALAN, ISSADORE, was an Israeli citizen, The MOSSAD have expressed a desire to a.s.sist us in our inquiries into this matter. As a courtesy and at the request of the Consulate, we have notified the MOSSAD of DALTON's last known GPS coordinates, as well as a description of his vehicle.

Actions considered at this time/date after consultation with Commander PEARSON, DD of Clandestine Services, and his Adviser Pro Tem, D. CATHER, former DD of Clandestine, with the DNI in attendance, include but are not limited to the possibility of an official Joint Task Force Liaison with elements of the FBI, the BDS, and the Justice Department, under the aegis of the Audit Committee's Official Mandate: (op cit: Presidential Finding F2391).

No conclusion has as yet been reached, pending final decisions from POTUS/DNI.

LEGAL IMPLICATIONS:.

The Secretariat, having consulted with General Counsel Dir/CIA Justice and DNI, takes note that new POTUS Intelligence ROE Policy mandates that, since all subsequent events that occurred in the early hours of the following morning had their predicate cause in DALTON's aggressive response to the possibility of surveillance by Parties Unknown to him, Presidential Finding F2391 requires that legal responsibility for these outcomes must devolve upon DALTON and not upon this Agency or the U.S. Government, since DALTON was not acting in any official capacity as a CIA employee but as a private citizen.CONCLUSION:

We bear no legal responsibility for and offer no protection to no legal responsibility for and offer no protection to DALTON, MICAH, in this matter. This is the DALTON, MICAH, in this matter. This is the official position official position of the United States Government and as such will be communicated to the relevant authorities in Vienna, the UN, Tel Aviv, INTERPOL, and the ICC officials in Bonn. No statement will be issued to the media or the press concerning this matter until it has been resolved by the investigating authorities or by external events. of the United States Government and as such will be communicated to the relevant authorities in Vienna, the UN, Tel Aviv, INTERPOL, and the ICC officials in Bonn. No statement will be issued to the media or the press concerning this matter until it has been resolved by the investigating authorities or by external events.

MARIAH VALE/OD/DD/EXECUTIVE SECRETARIAT.

Fort Meade, Maryland 213 CAISSON STREET, SEVEN OAKS, MARYLAND, 1830 HOURS LOCAL TIME.

Nikki Turrin saw the navy blue Crown Victoria parked outside her town house as soon as she got off the Odenton transit bus. It was idling, like a whale in a lagoon, in the dappled shadows under the Civil War-era oaks that lined Caisson Street. Sunlight s.h.i.+mmered in a golden veil through the leaves and pooled on the walks and lawns where the kids were playing. A sprinkler was hissing away in the gardens in front of her place, sending a jet of diamond sparkles through the sunlight as it circled.

As she came down the walkway she checked out the plate: U.S GOVERNMENT. The windows of the car were heavily tinted, but she could vaguely discern the shapes of two men inside, one in the back and another up front behind the wheel.

The presence of an official vehicle outside her town house wasn't particularly surprising to Nikki Turrin, since she was on the staff of the a.s.sistant Director of Research and a.n.a.lysis at the National Security Agency, an ex-Marine colonel named Hank Brocius. Nikki, an auburn-haired odalisque in the cla.s.sic Italian style, kept her eyes on the rear door of the Crown Vic as she came up to her steps, s.h.i.+fting her briefcase to her left hand and, just as a precaution, freeing her right hand in case she needed the hammerless SIG she kept in a nylon holster at her waist.

The rear door cracked just as she put her right foot on the stairs, opened up wide, hinges creaking, revealing a very elderly white male, lanky and rail thin, with age spots on his hands and face. Deacon Cather, the Gray Eminence of Clandestine Services.

She knew him from his photograph on Hank Brocius's office wall. The pair had served for a time together in the same AO in Central America, Cather with the CIA and Brocius with the Marines. She herself had had a glancing contact with him during a terrorist incident at the Port of Chicago the previous fall. Cather, never aglow with health, looked like a cadaver: bony, sunken features, hooded eyes, sallow, jaundiced-looking skin stretched too tight over prominent cheekbones, teeth like yellow tombstones in bright red gums, withered, age-spotted hands, twisted and arthritic.

But his eyes were clear, alert, and seemed to radiate an icy light, as if all the fading forces of his aging body were being concentrated in his look. A subtle, cold-blooded reptile with a very long memory, he held most of the secrets of the Cold War in the stony labyrinths of his mind. And although he had recently been shunted out of Clandestine Services by the new administration, he still wore power as easily as he wore his navy blue pinstripe, his pristine white s.h.i.+rt, and the gold-and-ochre tie with its hieroglyphic pattern that was his signature accessory.

"Miss Turrin," he said in a raspy whisper, "may I impose for just a moment . . . ?"

Nikki felt a momentary chill and found herself at a loss for words. The intelligence community was full of stories about Cather and his sudden appearances, impromptu and unexpected encounters where people who got invited to share a moment with him in a car quite frequently never came back to their offices or to their homes and families.

"Of course, Mr. Cather," she said, resisting the temptation to throw her briefcase at him and bolt for her town house door.

He developed out of the car slowly like a wolf spider coming out of a drain, straightening up with an obvious effort, smiling his terrible rictus of a smile at her with as friendly an air as a man with his reputation could manage.

"Thank you, Miss Turrin. It's a lovely afternoon. Perhaps you would do an old man the honor of a stroll along the avenue?"

Towering over her like a rusted derrick, he extended his left arm in a ghastly parody of chivalry. Nikki took it, feeling the forearm bone like a dry twig under the material of his suit jacket. They walked along together, arms linked, as Cather's driver slowly eased the Crown Vic to a crawl, keeping pace with them, its motor growling and muttering like an unhappy guard dog.

Nikki saw another blue Crown Vic parked a block up, facing their way, the shadows of two men visible in the tinted gla.s.s: Cather's CIA security detail.