“The shipment left Russian airspace an hour ago. It should arrive at your facility in St. Martin by nine o’clock.”
“This is good news. I’ll fly down to the island myself first thing in the morning.” The sound of footsteps brought the man’s head around. He waited while a slim, dark-skinned, dark-haired maid set a tray with glasses and a glistening pitcher of what looked like carrot juice on the heavy limestone top of a nearby table, then withdrew. “No more complications?” he said, going to splash juice into two glasses.
“Nothing to worry about.”
“Oh?” Walker looked up, an eyebrow quirked in question.
“The CIA is sending one of their men to Kaliningrad.”
Walker set down the pitcher hard enough to rattle the ice. “Christ. They know?”
“They don’t know jack shit.”
“They obviously know something.”
Boyd felt a muscle jump along his tightened jaw. One of his boys had gotten sloppy a couple of days ago, blabbing on an unsecured line about the U-boat and dropping tantalizing hints about what they had planned. Boyd had taken care of the guy, but the NSA intercept had stirred up a hornets’ nest at the FBI and with Homeland Security.
“They know someone salvaged the U-boat,” he said. “But they’re still convinced they’re dealing with a bunch of rag-heads. They’re too busy raiding mosques from here to Timbuktu to cause us any trouble.”
“Then why are they sending this guy to Kaliningrad?”
Boyd took the glass Walker held out, but made no move to taste it. Walker was always drinking this shit. When Boyd drank, it was either good Tennessee bourbon, or French cognac. “It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing there for him to find. It’s all been cleaned up.”
“You’re sure?”
Boyd tamped down a spurt of annoyance. In the last thirty years, he’d faced down everything from rabid Sudanese tribesmen to hostile Congressional hearings and interfering presidents; he wasn’t going to lose sleep over one lousy CIA agent. “Don’t worry. It’s under control.”
The warm breeze gusted up, bringing them a faint burst of laughter from somewhere out on the water. Walker took a sip of his juice. “You keep saying that. What if he does find something?”
“He won’t. He’s being taken care of.”
“Taken care of?”
“You have to expect casualties in any operation. The CIA is about to suffer one.” Boyd glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a plane waiting to take me to Washington. Let me know when your people have had a chance to assess the shipment.”
Walker frowned. “You’ve been called to Washington?”
“Not over this shit.” Boyd realized he was still holding the glass of juice in his hand and set it aside. “I’ve been asked to testify before some Congressional hearings next week, and I’m flying up early for this reception the White House is giving tomorrow.”
“You mean the one President Randolph is hoping will kick-start a new Middle East peace process?”
“Yeah. That one.”
Walker drained his own glass and set it aside with a rare suggestion of a smile. “If they only knew. We’re about to present them with the solution to that whole expensive can of worms, free of charge.”
13
Berlin, Germany: Sunday 25 October 1:00 P.M. local time
“I’m sorry, Mr. Aldrich,” said the unsmiling young woman behind the check-in desk at the Berlin Royal Hotel. “We have no record of your reservation.”
Jax slid the reservation number across the desk. “Yes, you do.” He’d called Langley from the airport and had them book the room as soon as he heard Aeroflot was canceling their only flight of the day to Kaliningrad. It was standard procedure, but Jax should have known better than to follow it. Langley was always screwing up this kind of thing.
The hotel clerk pecked at her computer terminal with Teutonic efficiency and frowned. “The name on this reservation is James Aiden Xavier Alexander.”
“That’s it,” said Jax. “The Company is always making that mistake.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t-”
He kept his smile in place. “Yes, you can. Call the number that made the reservation.”
“But-”
“Just call it.”
Ten minutes later, room key in hand, Jax crossed the lobby’s polished marble floor toward the elevators. Out of habit, he was aware of the people around him without in any way appearing to be watchful. Two teenaged American girls in low-slung jeans walked toward him, their heads together, laughing. A svelte blonde with pouty lips hung on the arm of an aging Greek with a tanned, lined face who was waiting for his car to be brought around. A bony man in a tweed jacket read a newspaper in one of the upholstered chairs near the bar. When Jax passed, the guy in the tweed jacket folded his newspaper and stood.
As Jax waited for the elevator, the man in the tweed jacket came to stand beside him. Jax studied the guy’s reflection in the elevator’s shiny doors. He appeared to be in his early thirties, with dark hair, a prominent nose, and sharp features that might have been Slavic. He carried his newspaper tucked under his left arm and he wasn’t looking at Jax.
The two teenaged girls, still giggling, pushed past Jax as soon as the elevator doors opened. Jax and the man in the tweed coat entered behind them. Jax pressed 6. The girls hit 10. The man in the tweed jacket maneuvered so that he was behind Jax and stood with his gaze fixed on the doors as they snapped shut.
It was one of the dictates they taught you in spy school: always stay behind the man you’re tailing. Simple, useful information.
With a polite ding, the elevator whirled up to the sixth floor. Jax stepped out. The bony man in the tweed coat followed.
Jax felt his pulse beating in his neck.
The man followed Jax down the hall, dropping back slightly.
Setting down his carry-on bag outside room 615, Jax inserted his key card in the lock and heard it buzz open. Pushing down the handle with one hand, he was reaching for his bag when the man in the tweed coat closed on him, a suppressed Walther in his hand.
Jax felt the man’s left hand in the small of his back and understood how the next few seconds were meant to play out: the assassin would shove Jax into his room and then shoot him in the back.
But Jax was already bending for his carry-on bag. He closed his left hand around the handles of the bag and just kept bending, reaching between his ankles with his other hand to grab a fistful of the guy’s pant leg and jerk it up. The assassin had two choices: he could either let Jax dislocate his knee, or go down.
He went down. Jax heard the man’s breath leave his chest in a little huff as his back slammed into the carpet. Jax spun around, the guy’s ankle clamped between his two legs. The gunman swore, his body rolling involuntarily to one side, gun hand down.
He squeezed off two suppressed shots. The first went wild, shattering an overhead light and raining down broken glass. The second round thudded into the wall beside them.
“You sonofabitch,” swore Jax, slamming his carry-on bag into the guy’s right hand. The gun clattered away, spinning some two or three feet.
The killer rolled onto his stomach, scrambling after the gun. Jax dropped with a knee in the guy’s back and grabbed a fistful of dark hair. Yanking the guy’s head up with one hand, he closed his left hand on the guy’s chin, jerked his head back-
And heard his neck snap.
