The city of Luxembourg started in the fourth century as nothing more than a Roman watchtower at the intersection of two roads and remained that way for another six hundred years before the construction of the Lucilinburhuc, or Little Fortress. Over the next three centuries Lucilinburhuc morphed into Luxembourg. For Fisher, who had spent a good portion of the last eighteen months traveling Europe, Luxembourg epitomized Old World charm, with rolling cobblestone streets, some barely wide enough to accommodate two cars; winding rivers and moats; and steeply sloped and spired rooflines.
Fisher got to the meeting place, a shop-lined alleyway on rue de l’Eau, a few blocks from the Grand Ducal Palace, an hour early, then found a small restaurant with a terrace overlooking a park and ordered breakfast. He hadn’t eaten a real meal in two days, so he asked for
He felt better, both physically and mentally. He had some breathing room, some time to think and plan before Hansen and his team would reappear. Whether they would be able to track him here on their own, he didn’t know, but he was doubtful: He’d paid for his CFL ticket using cash and an Emmanuel credit card; he’d changed out of his black and yellow Jeunesse Esch- fan outfit before reaching Bettembourg, and both the train and the station at Luxembourg had been all but deserted.
Fisher sipped at his third cup of Yirgacheffe, then checked his watch.
Almost time.
Ten minutes later a slight man with blond hair and wire-rimmed glasses came beetling through the park toward the restaurant. Of course, “beetling” wasn’t exactly right, was it? Fisher thought. Vesa Hytonen’s movements were more birdlike. Somehow Hytonen managed to exude both furtiveness and inconspicuousness at the same time. To passersby he was, Fisher suspected, just another funny little man — a cloistered scientist or a persnickety librarian, someone you found momentarily interesting but almost immediately forgot. If Vesa ever decided to graduate from information cutout to full-fledged agent or intelligence operative, the espionage world might never be the same.
Of Finnish and Belgian descent, Vesa was, in fact, a scientist — a biochemist — but he also held postdoctorate degrees in European literature and African history and had begun tinkering in the field of robotics and artificial intelligence, both of which were, according to Vesa, merely hobbies to help pass the time.
When he reached the edge of the park, Vesa gave no sign that he’d seen Fisher but rather turned left down the block, bird-walked his way around a couple of pedestrians, then into a bookshop. He emerged carrying a newspaper in his right hand and headed down the block away from Fisher. Vesa dropped the newspaper. When he retrieved it, he folded it lengthwise and stuffed it into his outside jacket pocket with the top headline showing. Fisher got up and followed. After twenty minutes of dry-cleaning, Fisher decided neither of them was being watched. He gave Vesa the all clear signal — a simple scratch of the ear while they waited, with some other pedestrians, at a crosswalk — then broke off. They met back at the City Central Park and sat down on a bench near a fountain.
“Good to see you again, Vesa,” Fisher said.
Hytonen darted his eyes to meet Fisher’s for a moment, then bobbed his head. “And you, and you.”
“What do you have for me?”
“I’ve been told that the man you’re interested in will in fact be at his Vianden home for the next three days.”
The man in question was a man named Yannick Ernsdorff. An Austrian in his mid-fifties, Ernsdorff had until ten years earlier worked as a legitimate, if ruthless, investment banker in Vienna. Why and exactly how Ernsdorff had chosen the profession that had occupied him in recent years was anyone’s guess, but he had become the go-to financial manager to the underworld’s uberwealthy. What Einstein and Planck were to physics, Ernsdorff was to the sheltering and laundering of money. To even get the Austrian on the phone, prospective clients had to have a minimum net worth of one hundred million dollars.
As of late, however, Yannick Ernsdorff had expanded his menu of services to include the role of banker for a very special auction, the details of which were what Fisher required before he could make his next move. With luck, Ernsdorff’s secrets would be the shove Fisher needed to set the dominoes falling.
“Security contingent?” he now asked Hytonen.
“I should have satellite imagery by this afternoon.”
“Blueprints?”
“The same. I did, however, come across an item in the news that I thought would interest you.” Hytonen handed Fisher a newspaper clipping.
Fisher scanned it. Yannick Ernsdorff, it seemed, was either a philanthropist or he’d decided the appearance of philanthropy was a deductible business expense: The previous year he’d spent three million dollars building an Outward Bound-style children’s challenge course on the grounds of his five-hundred-acre waterfront estate outside Vianden. Starting that summer, underprivileged children from across Europe could come to enjoy rock-climbing walls, zip lines, rope bridges, obstacle courses, spelunking treasure hunts, and hide-and-seek among dozens of multilevel tree-house complexes.
“Almost makes me wish I were a kid again,” Fisher replied dryly. “Please tell me this place isn’t named Yannickland.”
“Challenge Discovery Park,” replied Hytonen. “There’s a website. Many pictures and maps.”
“Go ahead.”
“One, ask about ROE,” Fisher said, referring to the rules of engagement. “Not mine. She’ll know what it means.”
“Very well.”
“Two, our Japanese friend seems to have attracted some attention. I need to know everything she knows. And three, I’ll need all their operational frequencies, both data and voice, and the makes and models of any cell phones they’re carrying.”
Hytonen nodded. He’d written nothing down, having filed the information away in his mental vault. Fisher had seen a number of keystone spook traits in Vesa, but near the top of the list was his astounding memory. Fisher had no doubt that if asked, Vesa could draw an exact map of Ernsdorff’s property from his brief visit to the Challenge Discovery Park website. Likewise, the queries he’d just recited would be passed along, verbatim.
“I will strive to have answers by this afternoon.”
“Thanks. What about the caches?”
“There are three of them within the borders of Luxembourg, and another four in northern France, eastern Belgium, and western Germany—”
“No more borders for a while.” More often than not, border crossings went smoothly, but they were in Fisher’s mind a lot like air travel: Most aircraft accidents happen during takeoffs and landings, and the odds of an incident occurring increased with repetition.
“Of course. The key codes are unchanged, and the equipment is of the penultimate generation.”
“‘Penultimate?’”
“It means—”
“I know what it means. Second to latest. I’ve just never heard anyone actually use the word in a sentence.”
“Thank you. Standard antitampering measures are in place, so if you—”
“Everything goes boom.”
“Well, yes, I suppose so,” Hytonen said with another birdlike head bob. “You’ll want to exercise caution.”
Fisher smiled ruefully. “Story of my life, Vesa.”
They made plans to meet again later that afternoon; then Fisher walked a few blocks to a mom-and-pop car agency and rented a dark green 2001 Range Rover. He used a pair of Emmanuel’s sanitized passports and credit cards; he still had the Doucet batch but would not use any of those unless absolutely necessary. He’d ridden that
