“And if it’s accurate?”
“Max gets a big bonus. As for tonight, he’ll either have more about that, or else he’s got something new for me. Limo drivers, housekeepers, babysitters, secretaries-all of them are sources for a good informant. The problem for us in the professional spy game is it’s harder than hell to get to them ourselves. That’s how much the world’s changed.” Cowboy paused. “I’ll be honest with you. I don’t like that Herb wants you to do the meet. I’ve never been ordered to let someone else handle one of my assets. This is your first time, right?”
“Right,” Bay said. “Are your other assets as productive as Max?”
“Some are. Some aren’t.”
“It’s incredible how many you have.”
“I know what I’m doing. I hope like hell you do, too. This is where we wait.”
They stopped alongside the tall paned-glass windows of Café Militant. Cowboy pulled open the brass-handled door, and they stepped into a spacious, high-ceilinged room from the extravagant past. The brass fixtures glittered, the crystal chandeliers glowed with soft light, and the marble-topped tables shone. Although nearly every table and booth was filled, the place emanated a kind of happy solitude. That was Vienna for you- the populace was together but alone. Teaspoons tinkled and newspapers rustled as patrons glanced up.
The liveried waiter approached, very erect, gold-rimmed menus in hand.
“Servus, Herr Ober,” Cowboy greeted him in German with the perfect inflections of a native Austrian.
Satisfied that the unexpected would not intrude, the patrons returned to their reading. The waiter straightened approvingly and led them across the aged parquet floor to a velvet-upholstered booth. It was faded royal purple.
Without a glance at the offered menu, Cowboy solidified his credentials: “Tsvoh melanges, bitte.” He ordered the coffees using the colloquial word for two, tsvoh, instead of tsvai.
With an approving lift of his head, the waiter vanished. Cowboy took out his cell phone and laid it on the table, preparing to receive the call from Max. The device was actually a Secure Mobile Environment Portable Electronic Device-an SME-PED computer handheld. With it one could send classified e-mail, access classified networks, and make top secret phone calls. Created under guidelines of the National Security Agency, it appeared ordinary, like a BlackBerry, and while either on or off secure mode could be operated like any smart phone with Internet access. All the covert officers carried the handhelds.
“Not all of your assets are unknowns surely,” Bay said. “I’d heard you were a master at recruiting.”
“When I was working in West Berlin in the old days, we used a system called the BAR code. BAR stood for ‘befriend, assess, recruit.’ Sounds simple, but it can be blown in a heartbeat. To give you an example, I remember one potential who was a file clerk in the East German embassy-he had access we liked. He also had a mistress with three children in addition to a wife with two kids. Debt up to his nose hairs. One of my people had gotten him to pull a couple of inconsequential files for money. This was the point at which he could go either way-back off and risk we’d rat him out, which he probably figured we wouldn’t, or go in deeper for a lot more money, which would’ve been a death sentence if he were caught. So I had my man bring him to a safe house. As soon as he stepped inside the door, I walked across the room with a big-ass smile, my hand outstretched, and introduced myself by saying, ‘My friends call me Cowboy.’ The guy’s shoulders relaxed, and a silly grin filled his face. I expressed sympathy for a man with so many family obligations, talked about how each of his children had a right to a first-rate education and wouldn’t it be great if they could all escape to the West. I respected the guy. By the time we’d finished off a bottle of Stoli vodka, the guy was ready to pawn his soul.” He sighed happily. “Ah, for the good old days.”
The waiter arrived with two frothy, milky coffees.
Cowboy reached for his. “Viennese roasts can’t compare to the Illys and Lavazzas of the world, but they’re still damn good.”
Bay liked melanges, too. He sipped the hot drink.
Cowboy checked his Rolex.
“Is Max late?” Bay wondered.
“Relax.” As Cowboy drank deeply, his cell phone rang. He snatched it up and read the screen. “Max is calling.”
Bay nodded casually while his heart rate sped.
Cowboy listened, then spoke into the handheld in Russian, “Give the boy your report, and he’ll pay you just the way I do. This is out of my hands, Max, but he’ll take good care of you. Where do you want to meet?” He ended the connection. “He’s unhappy I won’t be there, but he wants the money. You won’t have a problem. Remember, show him respect. That’s the answer for the Chechens. Threaten him, and you’ll get a shiv up your ribs.”
“I don’t have any reason to threaten him.”
“I know you don t, but it’s what he thinks that matters.” Cowboy left euros on the table, and they walked out of the café. On the street, he relayed the directions. “Herb is an ass. He should never have put you in this position. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Edgy, Bay walked off through the lamplight. Down the street a door opened, and the mournful sound of a jazz saxophone wafted out. Rain droplets floated ghostlike in the night air. Passing an alley, he peered into the darkness. Empty.
He continued on and turned the corner. Six shops later, he came to another alley. Glancing along the street, he assessed the few walkers. There were no cars in the pedestrianized Innere Stadt.
At last he entered the alley. Brick buildings towered on either side, and trash cans stood next to padlocked doors. There were lights high on the buildings, but as he progressed deeper into the dark passageway, the lights were shattered. Chest tight, he could not see well enough to spot anything. He took out a tiny flashlight and beamed it onto the cobblestones.
“Stop,” a voice ordered in Russian. It was deep, gravelly. “You are?”
“Cowboy sent me, Max,” Bay answered in Russian. Then he remembered Cowboy’s story about West Berlin. “My friends call me Bay.” He smiled warmly and stretched out his hand. He could just make out a tall, shadowy form.
The shadow was motionless. “Turn off your light and resume approaching.”
As he walked again, Bay let his hand drift down. “I was in Chechnya a few years ago. The mountains are even more beautiful than Switzerland’s. Are you from Grozny? I ate at the Hollywood restaurant there. Great food.” What he did not say was most of the patrons were armed, and closing time was dicey. “I’m sorry you’re in exile. We’d like to help you and your family. If you don’t want to go back to Chechnya, we can arrange papers for you to have a better life here in Vienna or somewhere else.”
But Max did not rise to the BAR code conversational bait. “I am wearing infrared glasses,” he warned. “I am watching you. Do not remove your weapon. Give me the money.”
Bay felt the comforting weight of the 9-millimeter Browning holstered in his armpit. “I’m sorry, but no, Max. First tell me how you found out about Lebanon’s nuclear projects, then I’ll give you the cash.” He started to reach into his trench coat pocket.
“Stop!” Max ordered.
“You want to be paid, don’t you?”
The voice lowered menacingly. “Continue.”
Bay took out the fat envelope and held it up. “It’s all here. Five thousand beautiful euros.”
“Show me-slowly.”
Bay opened the envelope, fanned out the cash, then returned it to the envelope. “Tell me about the Lebanese, and of course give me the intel you brought for Cowboy.”
“The Lebanese are not my friends as Cowboy is, so I have written the information for him.”
Heels clicked on the cobblestones toward Bay. A gloved hand extended. But instead of offering the promised small folded note, the hand ripped away Bay’s envelope.