“Me and an outside information conduit.”
Fisher nodded.
“It wasn’t me, Sam.”
Fisher almost said, Convince me. It wasn’t necessary. He’d known Anna Grimsdóttir too long, and the expression on her face told Fisher she was telling the truth.
“So that leaves a conduit. Moreau?”
“No chance.”
“The mole, then,” Fisher replied.
“Has to be.”
“And you’re sure about that part?”
Grim nodded. “There’s a cutout. Code name is Sting-ray. He or she was in the Russange-Villerupt area the same time you were. Someone on the team is getting fed. We just don’t know who or why.”
“I’d like to think we could rule out Hansen.”
“Me, too. But we can’t. Not yet.”
“Ames.”
Grimsdóttir sighed. “He’s a weasel, but beyond that there’s nothing that points to him.”
“He took a couple of shots at me — at the Esch-sur-Alzette reservoir.”
“He reported it to Hansen. Fell on his sword. Said he got a little jumpy and fired warning shots.”
Fisher considered this and shrugged. “It happens.” Fisher changed topics: “Put their feet to the fire,” Fisher said. “Right now, they’re pissed off and frustrated. Threaten to pull them out of the field if they don’t tell you how they got to Vianden. Hell, threaten to investigate them, kick them out of the program, take away Christmas. They’re good, all of them, but they’re green. Use it.”
Grim nodded. “I’ll do it.”
“By the way, who are the other two? The blonde and the Japanese Vin Diesel.”
At this Grimsdóttir laughed. “Maya Valentina and Nathan Noboru. I’ll download their bios to your OPSAT.”
“You may have a problem with Noboru. When I came out of the bunker, he was seconds away from getting a bullet in the head. Two men — one short and stocky, the other tall, anemic looking.”
“Those would be misters Gothwhiler and Horatio. Mercenaries. Noboru did a job for a group called Gothos a few years back, but there was a woman and child involved, so he aborted mid mission. Gothos stiffed him, so Noboru hacked into its account and liberated his fee — he only took half, though, since he didn’t do the woman and child.”
“Interesting. I think I like him.”
“You said, ‘seconds away,’ ” Grimsdóttir prompted. “I assume that means you—”
“I did. Seemed like the right thing to do. Where are you with the data from Ernsdorff’s server?”
“Still working on it. Heavily encrypted stuff, but there’s gigabytes’ worth, so at least we know we’re digging in the right place. Hopefully, I’ll have something in a few hours — at least a direction I can point you.”
“I’ll need something to satisfy Hans.”
“You’ll have it. How soon?”
“I meet him in Hammerstein tomorrow.”
For the sake of appearances, when Yannick Ernsdorff had come to Third Echelon’s attention Grimsdóttir and Fisher — who was already on the run and well established in the mercenary community — had looked for other agencies with an interest in Ernsdorff’s activities. They found their stalking horse in Germany’s BND, the Bundesnachrichtendienst, or Federal Intelligence Service. Fisher’s BND contact, Hans Hoffman, hadn’t specified what kind of information they were seeking, instead giving Fisher plenty of latitude. “Whatever you can find, ja?” had been Hoffman’s vague instructions, which told Fisher that the Germans were in just the initial stages of mounting an operation against Ernsdorff or against someone Ernsdorff serviced. Either way, during the months running up to Fisher’s penetration of Ernsdorff’s estate the BND had supplied him with dribs and drabs of peripheral intelligence, which he had dutifully funneled back to Grimsdóttir at Fort Meade. None of the information had been, in and of itself, earth shattering, but it had given them a few insights into the man. Now Fisher had to report back to his customer and turn over the information he’d gathered — at least such information as Grimsdóttir deemed juicy enough to satisfy them but benign enough to keep the BND behind Third Echelon’s own investigation. Until they were done with Yannick Ernsdorff, he needed to remain untouchable.
“When are you going to have your come-to-Jesus meeting with the team?” Fisher asked.
“Hansen’s set to call in within the hour.”
“Keep me posted.”
“As soon as I have something, I’ll call. The safe house is solid. You won’t get any unexpected company. Stay there, get some rest.”
“Twist my arm.”
“Hang in there, Sam. I think we’re in the last innings.”
Fisher nodded and smiled wearily. “Unfortunately, that’s usually when the rain starts falling.”
Ignoring the instincts that had for the past year kept him constantly moving from city to city and country to country, Fisher took Grimsdóttir’s advice. He had a long, hot shower, washed his clothes, then laid out all his gear, inspecting and cleaning each piece until satisfied everything was working as designed. At three o’clock he walked down the block to a sporting goods store and bought a Deuter Quantum 55+10 backpack, large enough to accommodate all his gear, and an assortment of kayaker’s dry bags, then found a grocery store and bought some fruit, cheese, sourdough bread, sliced turkey and roast beef, and a six-pack of Berliner Kindl Weisse, then returned to the brownstone and ate at the dining room table.
At five he heard a soft double bing from upstairs. He walked into the office and touched the phone’s SPEAKER button. Grimsdóttir’s face appeared on the LCD. “You look a little better,” she said.
“I feel a little better. Might be the two Berliner Kindl Weisses, though.”
“What?”
“German beer.”
Grimsdóttir screwed up her face. “Too stout for me.”
Fisher shrugged. “What do you know?”
“I talked to Hansen and his team. I think I talked them down. Rattled their cages a little bit. It won’t last forever, though — especially with him. He knows something’s off about their mission, but at least for the near future he’s willing to take some things on faith.”
“Good. And Vianden?”
“They took some initiative and played a hunch. They still buy that you’re freelance, and they assumed Luxembourg had something to do with a job. Noboru still has contacts in that world, so he came up with a few names of players that are still in the know. Ames made a few calls and got a hit.”
“Explain.”
“It’s a small world you’re in, Sam, and somebody of your caliber stands out. According to Ames, it was just a matter of asking about jobs in Luxembourg and U.S. government covert operatives gone bad, so to speak. Nobody had your name, but somebody had Ernsdorff’s. They drove up from Luxembourg city, started scouting the area, and the rest is bad luck.”
“How did they catch up to me after I lost them the first time?”
“Police scanner. Something about a man with a gun in a campsite.”
“Hippies were robbing my Range Rover.”
“Pardon me?”
“Forget it. So, you buy it — Ames’s story?”
“It’s plausible.”
“Do we know who Ames got the tip from?”
“Somebody named Karlheinz van der Putten.”
Fisher smiled. “I know the name. Half-German, half-Dutch guy. Used to be Fernspäher — special-forces reconnaissance unit. He’s got to be in his sixties by now. His nickname was Spock.”
“Why, does he have some kind of ear fetish? Something sexual?”
“Not so much sexual as surgical. He used to take ears as trophies.”
“Very nice,” Grim muttered. “Well, his trophy days are over, evidently. According to Noboru, van der Putten went into the information business.”