One Minute Out Page 33

  With a head bob by Hall in the direction of the exit, the point man on the Cage detail opened the door and the entourage began filing out. It was eleven forty-five p.m., nearly nine hours after they’d arrived at the safe house.

  Cage walked along through the surprisingly cool July night, wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief as he did so. He wasn’t feeling great right now; he’d done enough Viagra, cocaine, and ecstasy this afternoon and evening to flare up his angina to the point where it felt like a steam hammer was pounding around inside his chest.

  For Ken Cage, a full day of sex required no small amount of external assistance, and the side effects of all the stimulants were as wearing on him as the physical activity itself.

  He’d slept for a few hours after his exertions; the girls had been moved to the market in the early evening so there was nothing else for him to do, but it was an uncomfortable sleep with the drugs pumping through him.

  He put away the handkerchief and, from the same pocket, pulled out a few Valium he’d staged there to calm his heart, swallowing them dry.

  Still, despite his chest pain, he felt he’d had a pretty good day. He’d had sex with three of the girls, all of whom would be sold off in the next few hours to Saudi sheiks or Asian billionaires or diamond-level prostitution agencies in Belgium or Holland.

  He’d been rough with the merchandise, even rougher than usual, in no small part because he was frustrated by the events of the past few days. In all his working life, this was the first time that some entity seemed to have a personal stake in upsetting one of the most lucrative veins of his wealth. He’d dealt with rival operations, mobsters in competition with mobsters who worked for him, but that was just business.

  But this? This uber killer chewing his way along the pipeline? This was something else.

  And Cage was angry at his employees like he’d never been in the past. At Hall for showing fear and doubt when up against one lone man, and at Verdoorn for being unable, despite all the resources Cage had afforded him, to find and end this persistent threat.

  As the entourage turned down a narrow side street, he looked up to the roofs and immediately saw a man looking down on them. He didn’t say anything to Hall, because he knew this would be one of Jaco’s guys, and Hall would only freak out until this was confirmed.

  He walked on, thinking about the girls who would be sold off tonight. He’d looked over each and every one. He’d also paid a short visit to the cream of the crop here. The two girls he’d ordered sent to Rancho Esmerelda and been waiting to get his hands on both occupied their own quarters on the third floor, and Cage had gone to visit them both. He found Sofia to be compliant, but Dr. Claudia Riesling had told him she’d administered a large amount of Xanax to the eighteen-year-old Hungarian shortly after her arrival because she hadn’t had time enough with the girl to bring her into line.

  Maja, on the other hand, had not been drugged. Cage found her inquisitive, obstinate, the same free spirit he’d encountered in Bucharest months earlier. She had nothing but questions about where she’d go and who she would be around, and Cage thought, a few minutes into their conversation, that the doctor should have plied her with pills, as well, before he came.

  But Maja had not been any real trouble, per se. Claudia had told Cage upon his arrival that she’d worked especially hard with the young Romanian, and she felt that her psychological reprogramming had been successful.

  Cage had not laid a finger on either of the Rancho Esmerelda–bound women. There would be time enough for that when they got to Southern California in a couple of days.

  Now it was approaching midnight, and the entourage walked through the Calle Larga Vendramin after being dropped off by a pair of eight-meter-long speedboats a couple blocks from the casino. The boats had rumbled away, and everything was perfectly silent around Cage apart from the men’s footsteps in the narrow alleyway.

  The coke was wearing off; he told himself he’d need one more line when he got to the market.

  His phone chirped in his pocket and he answered it loudly and abruptly, showing that perhaps his coke had not, in fact, worn off to the extent he’d first thought.

  “Yeah? Who is it?”

  “Daddy,” a young female voice said, “it’s Juliet.”

  Cage shook his head to clear his mind. He’d been thinking of sex and drugs and hit men and bodyguards, but quickly he had to morph himself back into the family man role he played.

  “Hey, honey. How are you?”

  “Mom won’t let me go over to Madeline’s tonight. It’s summer. I’m bored here. Can I tell her you said it’s okay?”

  Cage sighed and continued walking while talking to his twelve-year-old daughter, his voice echoing off the stone buildings all around him.

  * * *

  • • •

  Chris Travers took the call on his sat phone at midnight, just as he found a position on the Rialto Bridge that gave him incredible sight lines along the Grand Canal. The phone was Bluetoothed to his earpiece, so he flipped off the interteam radio and took the call, stepping away from the group of tourists he’d blended with to avoid detection by Gentry. “Zulu Actual.”

  “Iden, six, six, four, November, Alpha, India.”

  He recognized the voice of Suzanne Brewer, an operations officer who worked directly for Deputy Director Hanley. He recognized her identity code as well.

  “Iden confirmed,” Travers said. “My iden is forty-six, Bravo, Sierra, nine, Kilo.”

  “Roger, Zulu. Be advised, I have new targeting information for you. Target can be located in or around the Casino of Venice, in Carnareggio, two zero, four zero. Be advised that while we believe he is working alone, the area will likely be populated with third-party hostiles, forces from the Mala del Brenta crime organization.”

  Travers scribbled this all down on a small pad. “Got it. Interrogative: where did we get this information?”

  “That’s ‘need to know’ only, Zulu. Just treat the intel as credible.”

  Need to know? Travers thought. Why wouldn’t the guys on the ground need to know where the hell the CIA was getting intricate location and disposition-of-forces intel?

  He didn’t argue, but he did ask another question. “Do we know the time when the target should arrive at this poz?”

  “Time, now, Zulu. Get there ASAP.”

  “Roger that. We’re en route.”

  Suzanne Brewer then said, “As per the DDO, the subject is to be taken alive. Is that clear?”

  Travers sighed in disbelief now. Court Gentry was his friend, more or less. At the very least they had fought and bled alongside each other. Travers had been given the rules of engagement already, so he knew Gentry wasn’t hostile. Gentry was just being Gentry, doing his own thing, and the DDO wanted his ass dragged back to the East Coast so he could be put back in service.

  Yeah, he might not want to go, and he would try to escape and evade. Gentry might even throw a fist or try out some of his whiz-bang judo shit. But neither side was going to pull guns on each other.

  Court was a good man in the Ground Branch team leader’s book, despite what the Agency brassholes said about him from time to time. There was no way Travers or his team was going to kill him, and Brewer’s stressing of the rules of engagement just made him dislike the already dislikable woman even more.

  But Travers was a good soldier. He kept his voice much more dispassionate than he felt as he replied, “Alive. Understood and wilco.”

  He then transmitted on his interteam radio. “Listen up, Zulu. New target coordinates, one klick my poz on foot to the east. Everybody flex over there, and double-time it.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Here I am, in yet another dark room, in yet another congested European city, looking out yet another dirty window in search of yet another group of assholes.

  At times like these I can’t help but wonde
r if I should have gone to college.

  I’ve been working at the packed restaurant and nightclub downstairs for the past two hours, carting ice to the bartenders, changing out kegs of beer, and schlepping cases of wine and liquor down two flights of stairs, then schlepping the empty bottles out to a loading dock in the back.

  But at a quarter till midnight I slipped away from my assigned duties, picked an office door lock on the second floor, and found an overwatch position above the alleyway that looked directly out towards my objective.

  I’m sitting in the dark, staring down on my target location, waiting for something to happen.

  The Casino of Venice is in an ornate palace with a simple facade, tucked away in a tiny square surrounded by taller structures. Next door to it is a square building with a pair of large red wooden doors on the other side of a stone forecourt with an impressive iron gate. I see several people milling about inside the gate, all male, all dressed in fine suits. These don’t look like security, and they don’t look like Italian mafia to me.

  So I’m guessing these shitheads are the buyers.

  I’m assuming there are more inside, and I’m also assuming the women from Mostar have already been brought in, either via the passageways in front of me and off to my left or else through some sort of back entrance. The building does back up onto a small canal, so I know I may miss some of the comings and goings, but I also know beggars can’t be choosers, and this spot gives me a good chance of getting a look at some of the players.

  I pull out my camera and begin taking pictures of the men I see, all the while scanning the buildings, windows, and alcoves within sight. I take it to be a one hundred percent chance that the Consortium will be on the lookout for me, and they’d be idiots not to put surveillance at the front entrance to tonight’s market. But despite my searching, I don’t see any threats except a couple of goons standing at the casino door.

  Still, I know they are out here somewhere.

  Close to me, hunting me.

  I keep shooting images, but soon I hear a voice in the alleyway off to my left. I don’t move closer to the window to improve my angle so that I can get a visual on the noise, but instead I patiently wait for whoever is talking to come into view.

  Finally a group of seven or eight men, all in business suits, walk together in a tight profile, casting one long shadow as they pass in front of a streetlamp. One of their number is talking loudly, in an animated fashion, as if he is on the phone. I can’t make out the words, but I can hear that he’s speaking English.

  I focus on the middle of the cluster of men as they turn and begin down the alleyway towards the casino entrance. I see the top of a bald head, barely visible among the much taller men around.

  I see a phone to his ear and realize he’s the one speaking.

  Who the hell is this guy?

  I don’t know why I’m asking myself that, because I know. He’s American, short, bald, and obviously important.

  This is exactly how Roxana Vaduva described the Director of the Consortium.

  Holy shit, I say to myself.

  If Roxana was aware that the man she knew as Tom was going to be in Venice tonight, she sure didn’t tell me. I saw no signs of her trying to deceive me back on La Primarosa, so I’m guessing she had no idea he’d be making an appearance.

  This makes me wonder if she was correct about her going to the USA after the sale.

  And it also makes me worry, because if the Director is here, it may mean he’s already raped her.

  I close my eyes and fight to push the thought out as a wave of guilt washes over me. I tell myself I could have found a way to get her off that boat, even if she didn’t want to go. I know I could have but, if I’m being honest with myself, I know exactly why I didn’t do it.

  Roxana was absolutely right—she was Talyssa’s best chance for finding out who was running the Consortium.

  I left her there, on the yacht and in mortal danger, because she was our agent in place and, despite the risks to her, we needed her in play.

  I’d never tell her sister this in a million years, but it’s the truth. Roxana’s life was worth risking for me to complete my mission.

  And knowing all this does nothing to mitigate the guilt I’m feeling.

  I open my eyes, refocus on my objective, and start taking pictures like a madman.

  Soon the men enter the tiny square, then step through the iron gate in front of the house next to the casino. They walk through the small forecourt and enter through the red doors.

  I don’t get a single usable shot of the man in the middle of the security detail.

  Son of a bitch.

  All I can do now is sit here till they leave and shoot images of anyone else who comes and goes. There are over twenty women who will be lost in the wind forever unless I can ID the shitheads who are taking them.

  I settle into place, ready to wait this out.

  * * *

  • • •

  Willem Klerk stood inside a well-lit gelato shop on the Rio Tera San Leonardo, biting into a pistachio cone and gazing only intermittently out onto the touristy street, still relatively crowded at half past midnight. He was the only White Lion operative in a three-block radius, and as he listened in to the others reporting from their positions, all closer to the market, he put his own chances for sighting the Gray Man as low.

  He ate more of his gelato as his eyes focused on a pair of men walking a meter apart through the crowd. He’d noticed they were moving a little faster than others around them, and this pace set them apart at first.

  But that was not all that Klerk found remarkable in the pair. He watched them as they passed, then scanned behind them for signs of others who might be with them. He did see one man who interested him but quickly discounted him when he stopped walking and picked up a menu from a rack in front of a restaurant. Then he brought his hand to his mouth and spoke softly into his cuff mic.

  “Lion Actual. Lion Eight. I’ve got a pair of suspicious characters on the main street up here.”

  “Describe them.”

  “Subject one is white, thirties, gray jeans and brown shirt. Subject two is white, forties, off-white shirt and black pants. They have small rucks with them. They are moving with intent in your direction.”

  Verdoorn replied, “We’re looking for one man, not two. Either of them look like the target?”

  “Negative. Neither of these blokes is Gentry. But they are somebody. Maybe they’re confederates.”

  Verdoorn paused as he thought, then said, “Or maybe they’re hunting him, same as us. CIA has been after him for years.”

  “These two definitely could be from American intelligence.”

  “If they are, they might be watching you now.”

  “Negative. Saw one potential follower, a military-aged male with a pack, but he didn’t look American. These other boys are Yanks, for sure.”

  Verdoorn said, “Copy.”

  Klerk then asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  Verdoorn paused a moment, then replied, “Tail ’em. The rest of you stay on mission. Gentry is the primary target. These new fucks are just a curiosity.”

  Klerk brought his cuff mic down, stepped out onto the street, and continued eating his gelato as he slipped in behind the pair.

  * * *

  • • •

  Seventy-five feet behind the South African, a third-generation Mexican American CIA Ground Branch officer named Teddy Gonzalez put the laminated menu he’d been holding back in the rack at the outdoor café, then he brought his own hand to his mouth. “Zulu Four to Zulu Actual.”

  A second later he heard Travers’s voice through his earpiece. “Go for Zulu.”

  “Be advised, I’ve got a subject on your six. Looks like he’s made you. Can’t see him clearly, but don’t think it’s our target.”

 
“He look like he’s carrying?”

  “Can confirm he is armed with an ice cream cone. Anything else on him is concealed at my distance.”

  “Roger that, we’ll do an SDR to confirm.”

  “I’ll tail and report.”

  Gonzalez caught a glimpse of his team leader and Zulu Five as they turned left down Calle Rabbia, a narrow passageway that led to the north, away from the casino area. Their surveillance detection run would lead the potential follower away from the rest of the Ground Branch team, and it would lead them away from their target.

  He then began following the unknown subject half the distance away and saw him bring his hand to his mouth. He couldn’t tell if the man was transmitting through his cuff mic or just taking a bite from his cone.

  A few seconds later the lone man turned north on Calle Rabbia.

  “He’s still on you, Zulu.”

  “Roger that. If you’re sure, we’ll drop the SDR and lose him, head back to the target location. All Zulu elements, run SDRs to see if there are others out there.”

  Gonzalez rogered up, then said, “I can get ahead of you, check my own six, and then find a route for you guys to slip your tail.”

  “Do it,” Travers said.

  Teddy Gonzalez walked past Calle Rabbia, then picked up his pace. He made his own left at Calle Masena, walked through the darkened alley, then stepped into an open rear doorway into the kitchen of a restaurant. Slipping past the cooks hard at work, he made his way to the dining room undetected, then exited the front. Once he saw he could make his way back down to the main street from here, he transmitted to Travers with the location, confident they could lose their one-man tail easily.

  * * *

  • • •

  A few minutes later Willem Klerk’s frustrated voice came through Jaco Verdoorn’s earpiece. “Lion Actual. This is Eight. I’ve lost the scent.”