He passed a small park on the right with its trees standing bare and forlorn under the gray cloud-covered sky. Off to the left, another big structure loomed — part of the University of Vienna. He deliberately slowed down just a little to let the trailing BMW and motorcycle close up a bit. For the moment, it was vital that they stay on his tail.
Just past the university building, Flynn took a sharp left, curving around onto a one-way street that led almost straight back in the direction he’d just come. He tapped the gas pedal, speeding up again. A slight smile crossed his face when he caught sight of both of his persistent followers hurrying around the bend after him. Right now, he’d bet they were starting to sweat. This narrow road ran straight to the American embassy. And whatever unpleasantness they had planned for him would be a complete nonstarter if he pulled in and parked under the watchful gaze of the embassy’s U.S. Marine guards.
But instead of continuing on toward the embassy, he made another left turn to drive back toward Währinger Strasse on a side street that paralleled the northern side of the massive university building. It was exactly the sort of precautionary circling maneuver anyone checking to see if he were being tailed would make. Both the BMW and the motorcycle reacted by slowing down a little and dropping back a few yards.
Flynn headed on down the little road. Dozens of cars, most belonging to faculty members, were parked in angled spots on the left. At this time of day, every place was taken. Here we go, he realized, feeling his pulse accelerate. He flashed his headlights once.
In response to his signal, a dark green Audi four-door sedan backed out of its parking place near the end of the block and drove away. It turned the corner at the intersection and disappeared.
Without hesitating, Flynn pulled straight into the now-empty spot, killed the Skoda’s engine, and hopped out. He didn’t bother wasting time locking the car. Nothing inside would tie it to him or to the Quartet Directorate. Instead, he ran to the intersection. There, taking advantage of a momentary break in the traffic, he darted south across Währinger Strasse. Horns blared in sharp protest, but he ignored them.
About fifty yards away, the tram he’d seen earlier was just arriving at its next scheduled stop. Brakes squealed shrilly as it slowed and then came to rest. Doors whooshed open. He gritted his teeth, lowered his head and ran even faster.
With a final burst of speed, Flynn jumped aboard the last car just as the doors closed. Frantically, he grabbed a railing next to the door to keep from colliding with the elderly woman who’d gotten on just ahead of him. She glared at him in outrage. “Entschuldigen Sie, gnädige Frau. Ich bin in Eile,” he apologized. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m in a hurry.”
“So viel liegt auf der Hand, junger Mann!” she said tartly. “That much is rather obvious, young man!” With a dismissive sniff, she turned away and moved down the aisle toward an empty seat.
Great, Flynn thought wryly. This was one more chapter to add to his planned magnum opus, How Not to Win Friends and Influence People in Foreign Countries. He glanced back through the tram’s rear window as it pulled away. The silver BMW that had been following him had braked to a halt at the intersection he’d just sprinted across — apparently unwilling to make an illegal left-hand turn in front of so many witnesses, especially with a police patrol car parked near the tram stop. As he watched, it turned right instead and accelerated away up the street.
He smiled to himself. By the time that BMW managed to make a U-turn in this traffic, it would be stuck blocks behind the moving tram.
The motorcycle rider tailing him was bolder. Risking a traffic ticket, he revved his engine and sped across the street to slot in behind the tram. He got lucky. Either the cops weren’t looking in his direction, or they’d simply decided the biker’s illegal turn wasn’t worth making a fuss over.
Flynn shrugged. One down. And another to go.
Watching the situation unfold both on his digital map and in real time video from the drone flying overhead, Skoblin snarled a litany of obscenities. Linnik and Zaitsev were out of the picture for now.
A new message from Voronin popped up on the side of his laptop’s screen: capture request denied. execute your original orders.
Skoblin stared at the decrypted message in disbelief. Moscow’s timing was impeccably bad. A minute ago, it would have been relatively easy to carry out a simple assassination. Now, with two members of his kill team completely out of position and still headed in the wrong direction, it would be much harder. Furiously, he clicked his mike. “Fadeyev! Do you have a shot at the target?” he demanded.
“Maybe,” the other man’s voice said over the purring roar of his motorcycle engine. “But it wouldn’t be clean. I’d hit a lot of other people on the tram.”
“Der’mo. Shit,” Skoblin muttered. The ex-GRU assassin’s assessment was undoubtedly correct. Firing a long burst of 9mm rounds into the back of the tram would be certain to kill or wound many of its passengers — turning what was supposed to be a carefully targeted hit into a major terrorist incident. And though Voronin wouldn’t shed any tears over the deaths of innocents, he’d be furious if Skoblin and his team triggered a high-profile international counterterrorist investigation that could threaten the Raven Syndicate’s operations. “Hold off for now,” he ordered. “But stick with that tram. The line ends at the Schottentor, so this bastard will have to get off there.”
“He could be making for the U-bahn,” Fadeyev warned. “There’s an entrance to the U2 line at the station.”
Mother of God, Skoblin thought. The other man was right. He’d counted on their drone to keep the enemy agent in sight even if he managed to evade all his other tails. That wouldn’t be possible if the man switched to Vienna’s subway system. They would lose him completely. He felt cold. Voronin would never overlook a failure of that magnitude. He leaned forward. “Listen closely, Dmitri. If he makes a break for the U-bahn, you dump that goddamned motorcycle and stick with him.”
“Got it.” There was a brief pause. “And then?”
Skoblin gritted his teeth. “He can’t ride the fucking subway forever. So the moment, he’s back out in the open, you take your first clear shot and put him down. Is that understood?”
“Understood,” Fadeyev acknowledged calmly.
Skoblin sat back, glowering at the drone’s eye view of the red-and-white tram as it squealed and rattled toward the end of Währinger Strasse. This situation was quickly spinning out of his control.
Ten
Nick Flynn edged his way toward the front of the crowded tram car as it swung onto tracks that ran around an elongated oval at the intersection of several major streets. Schottentor, the Scottish Gate, was once a part of Vienna’s massive medieval walls. But those fortifications had all been pulled down in the mid-nineteenth century. They had been replaced by the Ringstrasse, the Ring Road, a wide and beautiful boulevard that encircled the core of the old city — with its ornate palaces, public buildings, museums, and churches.
The tram shuddered to a stop.
Flynn let several of the other passengers get off first before making his move. Instead, he stood aside until people waiting to board were starting to swarm around the door. Schottentor was the terminus for ten separate lines, so trams were constantly arriving and departing. Satisfied that he had enough cover, he stepped out onto the platform and, as politely as possible, pushed right in among the milling crowds. There was no sense giving the motorcycle rider still on his tail an easy shot.