Without thinking, Bay reacted. He slammed a kagi-zuki hook punch toward Max’s chest, but Max was already backing off. The blow fell short as Max pivoted and smashed a foot in an expert yoko-geri side snap kick into Bay’s side, the sharp heel bruising. As Bay lashed back, a second blow from the foot struck his temple. He fell hard, his head hitting the cobblestones.
As if from a great distance, he heard Max warn, “I work only with Cowboy, boy.”
In pain, Bay tried to speak, to roll over, to get up. His mind swam. He heard someone moan, then realized it was he. A wave of nausea swept through him.
Wiping sweat from his face, Bay limped back around the corner. He ached everywhere, and his head throbbed. But his brain was clearing. The good news was no ribs were broken. And that was the only good news. He did not like what he was thinking.
There were few people out now. He passed the first alley, heading toward the Café Militant. A sense of eerie desertion filled the street. As he neared the café, the looming figure of Cowboy, peering through his damp eyeglasses, stepped out of a dark doorway and joined him. The jovial expression on his face vanished as he took in Bay’s appearance.
“What in hell happened to you?” Cowboy said.
“You were right. Max was unhappy not to be working with you tonight.”
“You didn’t insult him, did you? Chechens are thin-skinned.”
“No, and I didn’t threaten him either. The bottom line is Max didn’t give me any intel. He took the money, beat on me, and split.”
“Christ! What in hell have you done. He was one of my best assets! I told Herb this wasn’t a good idea. Fucking Herb. He should’ve been sent back to Langley long ago to some desk job where he couldn’t screw up an operation!”
“I did get some good information about Max.” Bay spoke slowly to be certain Cowboy understood every word.
“What?”
“His identity.”
Cowboy stared. His broad face stretched in surprise. “Jesus, who is he?”
“Give me back the five thousand euros, Cowboy.”
“What in hell are you talking about?” he demanded.
“Your boots. The sound of them on the cobblestones. The hard heel that slammed into my side and skull.”
“You’re delusional. Max rattled your brain.”
“Then there are your unknown assets who’re needing small fortunes of money every month,” Bay continued grimly “Your Jaguar. Your Rolex watch. The fact that ‘Max’ knew I had a weapon. When I finally peeled myself off the ground, I felt along the back of the alley. There’s a door that opens onto the alley on this street. You ran down it to get to the meet before I did. You’re Max, you asshole.”
Bay saw Cowboy’s hand twitch, and there was a sudden movement of air. Instantly Bay reached for his Browning, but almost invisibly Cowboy’s Glock had appeared. The taller man took one step back and pointed it at Bay’s heart.
“Now I know how you got that Phi Beta Kappa key,” Cowboy rumbled. “Smart little shit, aren’t you. Take your hand out of your coat.”
As they stood facing each other on the lonely street, Bay felt fresh sweat bead up on his forehead. Slowly he removed his hand and lowered it to his side. “I’ll bet you’ve been making up all your unknowns’ intel-including the story about Lebanon. How could you do that?”
Cowboy blinked. “God knows the cops won’t care if I erase you. By now they may have already identified you as being with the station-”
“Why, dammit!”
Emotions played across Cowboy’s face, finally settling into chilly neutrality. “Goethe said something like this-the most important things aren’t always to be found in the files. We make up history as we go along, and only a few of the million or so viewpoints ever make it into the files or the history books. You’re wondering how I ‘could do it,’ so I’ll tell you about Nick Shadrin. You know the name?”
Bay shook his head. Nerves on fire, he tried to figure out how to take down Cowboy or at least escape.
But Cowboy’s gaze was alert, and his pistol steady. “Shadrin was a Soviet defector back in the fifties. His real name was Nikolai Artamonov, and he became a spy for us. Then in the late seventies he vanished here in Vienna. Some said he died accidentally from too much chloroform when the KGB kidnapped him. Others said it was natural causes and we buried him quietly to hide it from the KGB. But the story I like was he’d been KGB all along. After twenty years acting secretly against us, his mission was over, and he wanted to return to his family in Moscow. Mossad found out and cut a deal with the KGB to not blow the operation if they’d exchange some key Jewish dissidents being held in the Gulag. Imagine it. The Vienna Woods. The dead of winter. A cluster of shriveled Jews, the KGB and Mossad weaponized to their fangs, and Nick Shadrin. To this day they’re still covering up the exchange. Neither wants us to know our foe and supposed friend conspired to serve their own interests and give us a black eye. So here’s the point. History’s an imaginary construct. It’s half-truths and lies. If you’re on the front lines and paying attention, you get hit with deep disappointment. At the same time, you’re freed. You realize it’s just a game, and the objective of every game is to separate the winners from the losers. That’s why I do it.”
Now Bay understood. “What you’re really saying is there are no rules for you.”
“Or for you either. You’re young. I’ll teach you everything I know and give you a cut. Pretty soon you’ll have your own string of unknowns. You’ll learn to maneuver. How to make the best plays. If you want to end up at the top of the mountain at Langley, I can help with that, too.”
Bay had a sick taste in his mouth. “You poor, sorry bastard.”
Cowboy’s head snapped back as if he had been slapped. His finger tightened on the trigger.
“Go ahead, shoot,” Bay dared. “I’d rather be dead than do what you do. You could’ve stayed one of the best. What a contribution you could be making! Disappointed? Hell, you’re not disappointed. You quit, then you turned. You’re a failure.”
An ironic smile spread across Cowboy’s face. “Ah, another case where history will be written more than one way. But then Vienna’s the place. You have a lot to learn, but I suspect you’re the type who’ll do it.” He turned on his heels and ran east.
“Stop, Cowboy!” Bay hurtled after him, his head throbbing. “Come back to the station with me. It’ll be better for you if you’re the one who tells Herb. Cowboy, stop!”
Although Cowboy was in his fifties, his long legs ate up the distance, while Bay ached with every stride. His muscles were weak. Pushing himself, he drew on his years as a runner, but Cowboy remained ahead.
At the Parkring, cars roared past. Their headlights were cones of white light, their taillights bloody streams of red. Cowboy jumped into a dark green Jaguar XK8 parked at the curb. Even at a distance, Bay could hear the power of the engine as it revved. Still running, he watched as the car slid into traffic. But then the Jaguar suddenly shot out from the congestion, careening off at an angle.
“No!” Bay bellowed.
Bolting up over the curb, the car smashed into a thick telephone pole. The hood cracked open, and white steam rose wraithlike around it. The ear-bleed noise of the blasting horn filled the air. As traffic slowed, a police siren began to scream. Pedestrians gathered around until Bay could no longer see the Jaguar.
Breathing heavily, he pushed through the crowd. The horn was quiet, and a police car was stopped at the curb. Angrily he wiped his sleeve across his wet face. The driver’s door to the Jag was open, and a policeman was leaning inside.