Twenty-Eight
Will walked across the Auguststrasse apartment and stood opposite Peter. “I’m going to be away for a day or two, to see if Patrick really can’t get access to the Rubner files. It’s our last remaining lead. In my absence, you’re in charge.”
Peter said in a sympathetic tone, “This isn’t your fault.”
Will sighed. “It’s a fact that most of my initiatives have just provided a handful of names and haven’t got us anywhere nearer to the paper.”
“Perhaps this guy Rubner’s not linked to any of this.”
“Maybe.”
“You think you might be able to persuade Patrick to go over the director’s head?”
Will shook his head. “I think you’re right. He wouldn’t win that battle. And that means I’m about to fail again.” He stepped away from Peter, then paused. “The section’s losing its teeth, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
As Will exited the Auguststrasse apartment, Mikhail turned on his vehicle’s ignition, engaged the gears, and slowly crawled forward. The MI6 operative was one hundred yards ahead of him. He’d keep him at that distance until the man hailed a taxi or got into a private vehicle.
His large handgun was tight against his beltline, ready for use the moment the British intelligence officer led him closer to the whereabouts of Schreiber.
Will walked quickly across the concourse of Berlin Hauptbahnhof, Germany’s biggest train station. It was early evening, and the station was crowded with commuters. He found a pay phone, shoved twenty euros into it, and dialed an international cell phone number.
Patrick answered, “Yeah?”
“It’s me. Can you talk?”
“Hold on.” The line was silent for thirty seconds. “Can now.”
“Okay. Are you able to cut through the bureaucracy to get to the files Suzy asked about?”
“Possibly, rather than probably. But either way, it’s almost certainly a nasty one-way ticket for us if I try. Bureaucracy and self-interest’s a pile of crap. What’s this about?”
“I need you to get on a plane.”
“When?”
“Now. Or as near to now as possible.”
“Where am I going?”
“Israel.”
Patrick said tersely, “That’s a long flight.”
“Please, Patrick.”
“You’re sure it’s going to be worth my time?”
“No.”
Silence. “It had better be worth my time.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“To do what?”
“We need to meet the in-country head from your organization.”
“Okay. I’ll get the meeting set up through the normal channels.”
“No. It’s imperative you set it up yourself. No one else must know.”
Silence for seven seconds. “Give me a call back in thirty minutes and I’ll give you details.” He repeated, “What’s this about?”
Will smiled. “It’s about unblocking crap.”
At four the next morning, Will was in a taxi heading toward the airport. He felt tired and knew that he’d have to get some sleep on the flight, but right now his mind was too active to allow him to rest.
Understanding Rubner’s role was key. Will suspected that once Rubner had been given Lenka Yevtushenko’s name, he had been involved in coercing the Russian to steal the paper from the SVR. But Langley was blocking Will accessing information on Rubner, so his plan was now to approach someone who almost certainly would have been a customer of Rubner’s CIA intelligence reports, intelligence that could indicate whether Will’s suspicion that Rubner had been manipulating his CIA handlers for his own ends was correct.
And one of the biggest customers of all would have been the CIA Head of Tel Aviv Station.
Mikhail watched Will check in at the El Al desk. He frowned, having no idea why the MI6 officer was travelling to Israel, as it was highly unlikely that Schreiber was in the Middle East. In any case, this presented him with a problem. If the MI6 officer obtained information in Israel that could pinpoint Schreiber, he’d relay that information to his men in the Auguststrasse safe house, who’d then immediately deploy. Stuck in Israel, Mikhail would have no chance to follow them. But he would also be taking a huge gamble if he let the officer out of his sight.
He made a decision.
Twenty-Nine
Kronos sat in a cafe in the arrivals section of the Frankfurt airport, studying the people who were exiting passport control as well as those who were moving across the concourse. He ignored most individuals, instead focusing only on those who were dressed in the uniforms of pilots. He’d discounted all of the thirty-two pilots he’d seen during the last five hours, as only four of them had been wearing the insignia of the Dutch carrier KLM, and they’d been no good to him as it was clear they were about to fly out of the airport. He needed a Dutch pilot who’d landed and was about to go off duty.
He took a sip of his coffee, checked his watch, and casually flicked through the pages of Die Welt while occasionally glancing over the top of the newspaper. Wearing an expensive suit and overcoat, and with an attache case by his feet, he looked like every other businessman who was traveling through the place. If challenged by airport security, he would explain that he was waiting for a colleague whose flight had been delayed. Every thirty minutes, he’d checked the arrivals board to update his knowledge of flight arrival times. Currently, there were seven flights that weren’t running on schedule. He also knew exactly what time every KLM carrier was due to arrive.
One of them had landed thirty minutes ago from Amsterdam Schiphol. Its pilots would soon be walking into view.
He’d thought through every possibility. The pilots could use private vehicles to exit the airport before he had a chance to follow them, could use taxis but not declare their destination until out of earshot within the vehicle, could be met by loved ones or KLM limousine drivers who’d whisk them away without declaring where they were going, or could get changed into civilian clothes in a secure part of the airport and then use a hidden exit. That didn’t matter, because he was prepared to wait here all day and night until a Dutch pilot walked up to the external taxi rank and announced his destination to the driver. When that happened, Kronos would be standing right behind the man and would hail the next available taxi to take him to the same location.
Most likely it would be a hotel. He hoped so, because hotel rooms were easy to break in to.
But it didn’t matter if it was somewhere else.
Among many talents, Kronos was adept at burgling the most secure complexes.
Four men walked into view.
Kronos kept his paper motionless as he fixed his gaze on them.
All were wearing KLM pilot uniforms.
They walked across the concourse, past a group of teenage girls who gave them admiring glances while giggling and nudging each other, then stopped and shook hands. Three of them walked off but not in the direction of the main exit.
They were no good to him.
The fourth pulled his trolley suitcase behind him as he moved toward the exit. The blond man looked to be in his early thirties, and the slight smile on his face suggested he was happy to be in Germany.
The assassin folded up his newspaper, placed cash on the table to pay for his coffee, grabbed his attache case, and followed the pilot toward the taxi rank.
Thirty
Will drove his hired Jeep south, away from Israel’s Ben Gurion airport. Soon he was on Highway 6, heading toward the Negev Desert. Around him were lush fields of grass, and the temperature was in the mid-seventies; it was nothing like the harsh winter he was used to in Europe.