In any case, the food was better than average for airline slop, and even an airline can’t ruin the booze when it is still in the bottle. With enough alcohol in him, sleep came fairly easily, and the first-class seat was the old-fashioned kind instead of the new gollywog with a hundred moving parts, none of which were comfortable. As usual, about half the people up front watched movies all night. Every person had his own way of dealing with travel shock, as his father invariably called it. Jack’s was to sleep through it.
THE WIENER schnitzel was excellent, as were the local wines. “Whoever does this needs to talk to Granddad,” Dominic said, after the last bite. “He may know something that Pop-Pop can learn from.”
“He’s probably Italian, bro, or at least somewhere along the line.” Brian finished off his glass of the excellent local white the waiter had recommended. About fifteen seconds later, the waiter took note of it and refilled the glass before vanishing again. “Damn, a man could get used to this eatery. Beats the hell out of MREs.”
“With luck, you may never have to eat that crap again.”
“Sure, if we just continue this line of work,” Aldo responded dubiously. They were essentially alone in a corner booth. “So, what do we know about the new subject?”
“Courier, supposedly. He carries messages in his head—the ones they don’t send via the ‘Net. Would have been useful to pick his brain some, but that’s not the mission. We have a physical description, but no photo this time. That’s a little worrisome. He doesn’t sound all that important. That’s worrisome, too.”
“Yeah, I hear you. He must have pissed the wrong people off. Tough luck.” His pangs of conscience were a thing of the past, but he really wanted to bag one closer to the top of the food chain. The absence of a photo for ID was indeed worrisome. They’d have to be careful. You didn’t want to hit the wrong guy.
“Well, he didn’t get on the list by singing too loud at church, y’know?”
“And he ain’t the Pope’s nephew.” Brian completed the litany. “I hear you, man.” He checked his watch. “Time to hit the rack, bro. We have to see who’s coming tomorrow. How are we supposed to meet him?”
“Message said he’d come to us. Hell, maybe he’s going to stay here, too.”
“The Campus has funny ideas about security, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, it’s not like the movies.” Dominic had himself a quiet laugh.
He waved for the check. They’d pass on dessert. In a place like this, it could be lethal. Five more minutes and they were in their beds.
“THINK YOU’RE clever, eh?” Hendley asked Granger over the secure phones in both their homes.
“Gerry, you told me to send an intel weenie, right? Who else can we spare out of Rick’s shop? Everybody’s been telling me how sharp the kid is. Okay, let him prove it at the sharp end.”
“But he’s a rookie,” Hendley protested.
“And the twins aren’t?” Granger asked in reply. Gotcha. From now on, you’ll let me run my shop my way, he thought just as loudly as he could. “Gerry, he’s not going to get his hands wet, and this will probably make him a better analyst. He’s related to them. They know him. He knows them. They will trust and believe what he has to say, and Tony Wills says he’s the brightest young analyst he’s seen since he left Langley. So, he’s perfect for the assignment, isn’t he?”
“He’s too junior.” But Hendley knew he was losing this one.
“Who isn’t, Gerry? If we had any guys available with experience in this line of work, we would have put ’em. on the payroll.”
“If this blows up—”
“Then I go up in smoke. I know that. Can I watch some TV now?”
“See you tomorrow,” Hendley said.
“‘Night, buddy.”
HONEYBEAR WAS surfing the ‘Net, chatting with somebody named Elsa K 69, who said she was twenty-three years old, 160 centimeters in height, and fifty-four kilograms in weight, with decent but not exceptional measurements, brown hair, blue eyes, and a nasty, inventive mind. She also had good typing skills. In fact, though Fa’ad had no way of knowing it, it was a man, fifty years old, half drunk and rather lonely. They chatted in English. The “girl” on the other end said “she” was a secretary in London. It was a city the Austrian accountant knew well.
“She” was real enough for Fa’ad, who soon got deeply into the perverse fantasy. It wasn’t as good as a real woman by a long shot, but Fa’ad was careful about indulging his passions in Europe. You never knew if the woman you rented might be someone from the Mossad, who’d be just as happy to cut it off as to take it inside. He didn’t fear death much, but like all men he did fear pain. In any case, the fantasy lasted almost half an hour, which left him sated enough to take note of the “handle” in case “she” showed up again. He could not know that the Tyrolean accountant made a similar notation in his Buddy File before retiring to a cold and lonely bed.
WHEN JACK woke up, the window blinds were raised to reveal the purple-gray of mountains about twenty thousand feet below. His watch showed that he’d been aboard about eight hours, and had probably slept for six of them. Not too bad. He had a mild headache from the wine, but the wake-up coffee was good, as was the pastry, which combined to get him semi-awake as Flight 94 cruised in for landing.
The airport was hardly a large one, considering it was the flagship port of entry for a sovereign country, but Austria had about the same population as New York City, which had three airports. The aircraft thumped down, and the captain welcomed them all to his homeland, telling them that the local time was 9:05 A.M. So, he’d have one day of heavy jet lag to deal with, but with luck maybe he’d be approximately okay tomorrow.
He cleared immigration easily—the flight had only been about half full—recovered his bags and headed outside for a cab.
“Hotel Imperial, please.”
“Where?” the driver asked.
“Hotel Imperial,” Ryan repeated.
The driver thought for a moment. “Ach so, Hotel Imperial, ja?”
“Das ist richtig,” Junior assured him, and sat back to enjoy the ride. He had a hundred Euros, and assumed that would be enough, unless this guy had attended the New York City school of taxi driving. In any case, there’d be ATM machines on the street.
The drive took half an hour, fighting the rush-hour traffic. A block or two from the hotel, he passed a Ferrari dealership, which was something new for him—he’d seen Ferraris only on TV before, and wondered, as all young men wonder, what it might be like to drive one.
The hotel staff greeted him like an arriving prince, and delivered him to a fourth-floor suite whose bed looked very inviting indeed. He immediately ordered breakfast and unpacked. Then he remembered why he was here, and picked up the phone, asking for a connection with Dominic Caruso’s room.
“HELLO?” It was Brian. Dom was in the gold-encrusted shower.
“Hey, cuz, it’s Jack,” he heard.
“Jack who—wait a minute, Jack?”
“I’m upstairs, Marine. Just flew in an hour ago. Come on up, so we can talk.”
“Right. Give me ten minutes,” Brian said, and headed into the bathroom. “Enzo, you ain’t gonna believe who’s upstairs.”
“Who?” Dominic asked, toweling himself off.
“Let it be a surprise, man.” Brian went back to the sitting room, not sure whether to laugh or barf as he read the International Herald Tribune.
“YOU GOTTA be fucking kidding,” Dominic breathed as the door opened.
“You ought to see it from my side, Enzo,” Jack answered. “Come on in.”
“Food’s good in Motel 6, isn’t it?” Brian observed, following his brother.
“Actually, I prefer Holiday Inn Express. I need to pick up a Ph.D. for my curriculum vitae, y’know?” Jack laughed and waved them to the chairs. “I got extra coffee.”
“They do it well here. I see you discovered the croissants.” Dominic poured himself a cup and stole a pastry. “Why the hell did they send you?”
“I guess because you both know me.” Junior buttered his second.
“Tell you what. Let me finish breakfast and we can take a walk down to the Ferrari dealership and talk about it. How do you like Vienna?”
“Just got here yesterday afternoon, Jack,” Dominic informed him.
“I didn’t know that. I gather you had a productive time in London, though.”
“Not bad,” Brian answered. “Tell you about it later.”
“Right.” Jack continued his breakfast while Brian went back to his International Trib. “They’re still excited at home about the shootings. Had to take my shoes off at the airport. Good thing I had clean socks. Looks like they’re trying to see if anybody’s trying to leave town in a hurry.”