Now, after driving for almost an hour and a half, from Autobahn 6, to 63, to 67, and finally 3, they exited and headed toward the center of Frankfurt am Main.
“Are we sure your contact will be home?” Franz asked. His coughing settled down somewhat with his constant smoking.
“He’s there,” she said, slowing her car and turning onto a residential side street where three-story stucco row houses lined both sides of the street. “Some of our assets have been watching the place.”
She slowed the car to a crawl as she approached the address, and noticed the green VW Passat a block away from the target, a single man at the wheel. Christ. Mr. Obvious. Toni pulled in behind the VW and parked.
“Let me talk with this guy,” she said, disturbed.
She got out and went to the passenger side. The driver opened the door for her. He looked about twelve, a slight man dressed sharply in slacks and a leather jacket, with bright blue eyes and dark brown hair.
“It’s cold this morning,” the man said.
Toni took a seat and said, “No shit. Has our guy gone anywhere?”
“No ma’am. That’s his car there. The ancient gray Beemer.”
“That’s silver,” she corrected. “What about a back entrance?”
“My partner is back there.”
“Army intel?” she asked him, knowing the answer.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You call me ma’am one more time and I’ll cut off your nuts and feed them to you.”
“Yes…I understand.”
“Great. As I go in you call your little friend and tell him I’m doing so. Also describe what I look like, along with my partner. I don’t want any friendly cross-fire. You understand?”
“Yes. You want me to follow you in?” He reached for his gun inside his jacket.
“No. You stay here. But if you see him running to his car, you drive up there and box him in. His car is stuck between those other two. You put your car in there and he has no way out.”
“Understand. Second floor. First floor is an old woman. Third floor is a young couple. Husband is at work and the pregnant wife is at home. There’s no buzzer to get through the first door.”
“Okay.” She gave him a reassuring smile and got out. Jesus, they’re getting younger every day, she thought. She nodded her head to Franz, who took that as a sign to get out.
Franz met her on the sidewalk and the two of them walked arm-in-arm toward the apartment on the right. To anyone watching, they’d appear as a father and daughter out for a walk.
“You’ll need to let me deal with this guy,” Toni whispered to Franz.
“All right. But I thought I’d be the muscle for once.” He smiled at her.
They turned up the front walk and climbed a few steps to the entrance. She felt like they were being watched. Inside, they both drew their weapons and headed up the stairs to the second level. Franz stood back away from view of the peep hole, while Toni, gun behind her back, knocked lightly on the door, a sunny disposition across her face.
She saw movement at the peep, an eyeball, and then heard the door unlock and swing open. Standing in front of her was a rough-looking character of fifty-seven years, two months and five days. Sergei Lobanov Kozerski, former KGB and SVR officer, and reportedly retired in the last few months. But Toni knew the old KGB and the SVR never really retired anyone, unless it was with a bullet in the back of the head.
“What can I do for such a beautiful woman this fine morning?” Sergei asked her in German.
She simultaneously smiled, shoved the gun in his face, and thrust her foot against the closing door. The man reluctantly backed into his apartment, followed closely by Toni and then Franz.
“Let’s use English,” Toni said. “Have a seat.”
The Russian sat down onto a sofa, his hands on his knees and his expression insinuating pain upon Toni.
Glancing about the room, Toni noticed the large computer work station, with a line of servers cooled with liquid, and two 24-inch LCD monitors side-by-side on a large desk with empty Coke cans lined up in rows like soldiers at attention. Empty Coke cans also overflowed a garbage can and under the man’s desk.
“If this is rip off,” Sergei said, “you come to the wrong place. I have no money.”
“Right,” Toni said. “You spent it all on your computer equipment.” She hesitated and nodded for Franz to check out the rest of the apartment. He led with his gun into the back rooms.
“What do you want?” the Russian asked.
“Just some information,” she said. “I get the answers I like and you get to keep your little enterprise going. If not.” She shrugged. “Things will be a little different.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m your worst enemy or your best friend. You’ll have to decide.”
His mind seemed to reel out of control. “I don’t get your accent. You look Italian. I would have to guess Italian Intelligence.”
She laughed as Franz came back into the room carrying an additional automatic handgun, which he broke down and shoved into his pocket. Then Franz started rifling through drawers in the adjoining kitchen.
“You might want to forget who I am,” Toni said. “And worry how you might survive the rest of the day.”
The Russian thrust his hands out, palms up. “What have I done?”
“Sergei Lobanov Kozerski,” she said, and then rattled off his specifics, including some of the more important highlights from his career. As she spoke he seemed to sink deeper into the couch. “And now, she said, you run an internet enterprise. Some legitimate but mostly illegal. You were one of the first to start running massive e-mail SPAM attacks, collecting personal banking information. By the way, I think most people know that there’s no more royal family of Masovia.”
Sergei smiled. “Hey, if people are stupid enough to believe in such things, they should give me some of their money for compensation.”
“Right. But I’m more concerned about a more recent scam.”
Franz started coughing into his fist uncontrollably.
“Your friend doesn’t look too good,” Sergei said. “I think he needs a doctor.”
Franz washed his hands and went to the refrigerator, finding a bottle of vodka in the freezer. He poured himself a glass and shot the clear liquid back down his throat.
“You’ll need a doctor if you don’t answer my questions,” Toni assured him, her gun pointed at his head.
“Okay. So you’re not Italian Intelligence. What then?”
Franz came into the living room, walked past the sofa, and smacked the man across his head along the way. “Answer the pretty lady’s questions.” Then he continued his search of the apartment.
Sergei mumbled in Russian under his breath.
“He might not understand Russian,” Toni said, “but I do. And I don’t think he’d like you calling his mother that.”
The Russian pointed his finger at Toni. “You’re American spy. The Agency.”
“I’m not important,” she said. “But if I was, I’d put a bullet in your head right now. Stop this illegal business of yours. Maybe pull you out of here and place you in a prison on some island where you’d live your life making big rocks into small rocks. But I’m not. You had the Italian part right, though. Very good guess. But I’m on the other side there.”