Читать книгу Look-Alike - Meredith Fletcher - Страница 13

Elle’s mind buzzed as she rounded the corner of the alley and stepped onto the sidewalk. She automatically swept the street, looking for suspicious pedestrians, parked vehicles and passing cars. Nothing pinged the personal warning system she’d developed since becoming an intelligence agent.

Sam remained behind her, alert and ready. Remembering how they’d met in Berzhaan, how Sam had beaten her in an unarmed fight, Elle knew her twin could take care of herself. But the situation Elle was leading them into was doubtlessly going to turn ugly fast. She had a history with the man they were going to see.

“The place we’re going,” Elle said, “is going to be dangerous.”

“All right.” Sam never missed a beat or showed any sign of hesitation.

“The men we’re going to see are killers,” Elle continued. “Jan, the man we want to talk to, will have at least two bodyguards. The store he runs is a cover for his other business. He traffics in drugs and weapons, but he has a lot of contacts and knows a lot of things. Tuenis Meijer is someone he’ll know.”

“Good.”

“He may also try to kill me on sight.”

“Why?”

“A couple years ago, I cost him a major portion of his business and almost got him killed. I also put him in the hospital because I nearly burned his face off.”

“That would do it,” Sam said lightly.

Elle glanced at her sister. Sam looked a little tense. Then Elle focused on the street in front of her. She was feeling nervous herself. Jan wasn’t a good man to meet under any circumstance. The history they had made it worse.

For just a moment, Elle wondered why Sam wanted Meijer and what her twin wasn’t telling her. Elle didn’t like walking into operations without knowing everything that was going on. If it had been anyone else, she wouldn’t have been involved. But this was her sister. Family meant everything to Elle. Her parents, the people who had raised her and loved her, had taught her that.

She just hoped there would be no regrets and both of them would live through the experience.

They passed a small group of street hookers complaining in English, German and French about the slow business of the night, the weather and assorted personal problems. Pedestrian traffic flowed around them, barely slowed by even the most aggressive sales tactics.

The front of the shop that was the sisters’ destination held a large picture window garishly outfitted with provocatively attired mannequins sporting black leather, masks, whips, chains and furry handcuffs. Two of the kneeling mannequins had red ball gags in their mouths. Monitors played movies featuring paddling, restraints and degradation. Neon tubing advertised Sex Videos, Sex Aids and Fantasy Sex.

Elle went through the door without hesitation. The bell overhead rang to announce her arrival. Five people were inside. Jan stood behind the counter while his two bodyguards sat at a small table beside a rack of DVDs with covers that left nothing to the imagination. A young couple peered at a swing contraption made of leather and wood that Jan was showing them.

Jan was a thick-bodied man with a bored air. His dark hair was neatly clipped and gold chains hung around his neck. He wore a New York Yankees baseball jersey. As he looked up to greet them, recognition flared in his gray eyes.

“Hella,” Jan called in English, scrambling to reach under the counter. “Kill her.” Then he did a double take, seeing Sam behind Elle. “Kill them both.”

The scarlet neon from the tubing played over the burn scars on Hella’s face. He moved smoothly, showing years of practice. He was at least fifty, his hair white with age, smooth shaven like someone’s kindly grandfather. The coat slid away from the cut-down double-barrel 12-gauge shotgun hanging from a whipit sling on his right arm.

Elle ignored the bodyguards, trusting Sam to handle them. With the men spread out inside the sex shop, the danger was spread across two fronts.

Sam stepped toward Hella, got in close and blocked the man’s attempt to bring the weapon to bear on Elle, who was closing the distance on Jan. The shotgun erupted in a deafening blast. Neon light shimmered on the picture window as the concussive wave hammered the plate glass. The swarm of double ought buckshot cut a mannequin in half, blowing the top part off the bottom in a popcorn spray of hardened plastic.

The couple at the counter dove to the ground and covered their heads. The woman screamed hoarsely and didn’t stop.

Elle felt bad for them. They’d appeared a little embarrassed just to be in the sex shop, and the negative experience they were going through was partly her fault. But they’d provided the distraction she’d needed that allowed her to get close to Jan. Now the trick was to keep them safe. She didn’t want innocent blood on her hands. Even as she moved, she kept track of her sister, hating the fact that she was distracted. It wasn’t professional.

Sam put a hand on the top of the shotgun to push it down to the floor just as Hella discharged the second blast. Pellets tore holes in the linoleum and shredded leather outfits and rattled chains.

With the shotgun empty, Sam released the weapon, slid back, then delivered a snap-kick to the front of Hella’s knee, another to his crotch and—when the man bent over—a roundhouse kick to the face that drove him sideways.

By that time, Jan was bringing up the weapon he kept beneath the counter. Elle placed her hands on the countertop and vaulted over almost effortlessly. Balanced like a gymnast, she drove both feet into the center of Jan’s chest.

A painful explosion ripped from Jan’s lips as he stumbled back and slammed against the wall behind him. Shelves filled with sex toys tumbled down around him, but he fought his way back up, cursing vehemently. Elle landed on her feet and threw herself at Jan again, reaching for the weapon. She caught sight of Sam using Hella to block his partner’s efforts to get at her.

The second man had cleared his pistol and brought it up but couldn’t get a clear shot because Sam kept his partner between them. Moving quickly, Sam stepped around Hella and caught the man’s gunwrist with one hand while with the other she rammed the Y between her thumb and forefinger into the man’s throat. He hurked and dropped to his knees.

Shifting, Sam scooped up the fallen pistol. It was a Heckler & Koch .45, heavy and solid. Oil gleamed on the black metal barrel. She slid into a modified Weaver stance, left foot in front of the right, left palm cupped under her right palm.

Hella groped for the shotgun with one hand. He held two fresh shells from his jacket pocket in his other hand.

Voice calm, as if she were in situations like this all the time, Sam spoke in English, modeling Jan. “Touch the weapon and I will kill you.”

Evidently Hella believed her. His hand withdrew from the shotgun.

Elle stopped admiring Sam’s technique and fought Jan for the pistol. Although the man was larger than her, she maintained leverage over the weapon. If he got free, she knew Jan would kill her and Sam without a second’s hesitation. Unexpectedly, she broke the hold she had on the pistol and sunk in on Jan. She moved like an automaton, delivering devastating elbow and knee strikes in bruising syncopation. The style was Krav Maga, the close-in fighting katas often used by Israeli Mossad and special forces.

Jan stumbled back. For a moment, he dropped to the floor, then fought his way to his feet. The pistol bounced away. He reached for a wooden dowel on the wall behind him, part of the erotic swing kit he’d been showing the couple.

Elle reached into her pocket and pulled out a flick knife. Expertly, she flipped the weapon twice, baring the blade and locking the handle grips together, then drove the sharp point through Jan’s hand and impaled it on the wall. She didn’t even think about the pain she caused her opponent.

Her father had taught her to distance herself from such things. Pain was a tool she’d learned to use just as she’d learned to use weapons and martial arts. Many agents were too squeamish to use such tactics. In the beginning, Elle had felt a strong reluctance to employing measures like this, but time often meant lives. Her father had told her that.

On one mission, Elle had been with a senior agent who hadn’t used methods like this to get an answer quickly. The woman they had tried to save, a mother of two who’d been taken as a kidnap victim for ransom, had suffocated in a shallow grave before they reached her. It was a lesson Elle had never forgotten.

With a man like Jan, Elle never hesitated to go to extremes early. It saved time.

With a cry of pain, Jan stood as if transfixed. He swore in English and Dutch and French.

Not even breathing hard, Elle kept her hand on the knife handle. She distanced herself from her own emotions, going numb inside as her father had taught her. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” she asked.

Jan cursed at her.

Elle wiggled the blade and the man groaned, sagged against the wall, then pleaded with her to stop.

Elle spoke in English. “The last time you saw me, you swore that you would kill me.”

Face trembling in agony, Jan stared at her.

Still holding the knife, Elle said, “Now I’ll make you a promise. If you try to kill me again, I’ll kill you. It won’t matter what information I want from you. There are other places to get it.”

Blood ran along Jan’s arm and dripped to the floor. He blinked his eyes rapidly. “My hand,” he whispered.

“Not yet. For the moment, I like your hand where it is.” Elle closed her fingers around the knife handle.

“What do you want?” Jan whispered.

“A man named Tuenis Meijer.”

“Dmitri’s,” Jan gasped. “Try Dmitri’s. There’s a girl there that Meijer thinks he’s in love with.”

Silently, Elle pulled the knife from the wall. The man cradled his injured hand to his stomach and sank down on his haunches. He gave Elle a harsh look.

Squatting, Elle wiped the blade clean on Jan’s pant leg. He didn’t move to avoid her. “Don’t think about following me. Don’t think about warning Meijer I’m coming. Do you understand?”

Jan’s reluctance to be bullied into an answer lasted only a moment. “Yes. Yes, I understand.”

“Good,” Elle said. She stood and walked away. Her eyes met Sam’s briefly. “Are you ready?”

Sam had to try twice to speak. “Yes.”

She’s never seen anyone do something like that, Elle realized, recognizing the trauma in her twin’s eyes. Then she remembered that Sam was relatively new to the field. Not only that, she’d been primarily relegated to translating documents and hacking computer systems. She was good at fighting, but violence was still somewhat new to her. She hadn’t seen the things that Elle had.

Not knowing what to do or say to ease her twin’s discomfort, hoping that she hadn’t crossed a chasm that would permanently hurt their relationship, Elle led the way out of the shop and Sam followed.

The hunt was still on. Elle gave herself over to that.

“What is the matter?” Günter demanded at the other end of the phone connection.

Joachim stared down into the dead man’s face and struggled to remain rational and calm. Panic gnawed at him with small, rat’s teeth. “I found a body.”

“Is it the man you were sent for?”

Kneeling, Joachim shone the pen-flash down and went through the dead man’s pockets with his free hand. “No,” he answered. “Someone else.”

The dead man was easily ten years older than Tuenis Meijer but was just as shaggy and unkempt.

Joachim didn’t like surprises. They tended to upset his ability to handle a situation. Everything in him screamed to get off the houseboat.

Playing the pen-flash around, he examined the floor. Neither the weapon that had killed the man nor a spent casing was in sight. Further examination of the closet where the man had been concealed revealed that he’d met his end there. Blood and brain matter clung to the closet walls and pooled on the floor.

“I’ve got to call our contact,” Joachim said.

“Yes. Let me know how that goes.”

“I will.”

“And be careful, Joachim,” Günter said. “You are very important to me. I would not see you injured.”

A pang ripped through Joachim at the coming betrayal. Despite his murderous approach to his business and the long line of bodies that had led up to his current standing, Günter seemed to truly care about Joachim.

For months, Joachim had agonized over his decision to align himself against Günter. The crime czar had family and he was good to them, even though his daughters and sons didn’t appreciate the things he had done for them. Günter’s wife, ex-wives and mistresses only used him for what they could get. Günter hadn’t had good experiences related to family or friends. He didn’t trust many people.

But he trusted Joachim.

At fifteen, Joachim had been caught looting the home of a man who fenced stolen goods. That night, Günter had been with the man. The fence had wanted to shoot Joachim and call the Stasi. The East German police agency, with all the proper payments in place, would have condoned the decision because Joachim had been a thief and Leipzig had been filled with young thieves.

Only, Günter had liked the way Joachim had stood his ground and asked that his mother and sister be spared the details of his death. They didn’t know he was a thief. They’d believed he worked at odd jobs.

Günter had kept the fence from killing Joachim that night. The next night, he gave Joachim his first numbers-running assignment.

“I will be careful,” Joachim promised. He hung up the phone and reached for the third cell that he carried. His nerves jangled and the urge to run almost overcame him. He pressed numbers with his thumb and held the phone to his ear.

“Trouble?” a quiet, calm voice answered at the other end. Pitor Schultz was close to forty, a quiet man with dangerous eyes. Most people wouldn’t assume he was a threat until it was too late. For almost twenty years, he’d been an agent for the Bundesnachrichtendienst. The BND was Germany’s Foreign Intelligence Agency but they also operated inside the country when they had to.

“I’m going to send you a picture,” Joachim said. “If possible, I need the man in it identified.”

“All right. Send it.” Schultz hung up.

The BND agent’s ability to cut to the chase and ask only those questions that were pertinent was one of the things that made Joachim feel more secure about dealing with him. That and the fact that Schultz had been clever enough to catch him and compromise his freedom.

Joachim held the pen-flash on the man’s face and used the cell phone’s camera function to capture his image. A few buttons later, the image was on its way to Schultz.

Crossing to one of the houseboat’s windows, Joachim slid the heavy blinds out slightly and slowly, to peer outside. Passersby continued on their way without a glance in his direction. If a team was watching, Joachim couldn’t spot them.

He called Schultz’s number again.

“Yes?” the BND agent answered.

“You have the picture?”

“I do. I don’t know him. Is he connected to your present endeavor in any way?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Restlessness filled Joachim. He wanted desperately to be out of the houseboat. It was a floating trap.

“Be careful,” Schultz advised.

Joachim ended the call and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

The dead man rolled slightly as the boat shifted. Since rigor hadn’t set in, Joachim knew the man hadn’t been dead long.

He took out the phone that connected him with the woman and punched the Send button. Schultz had tried tracking the number at one point, but it was carefully managed at the other end. A series of ever-changing cutouts made it seem as though the end connection was in several places in the United States, South America, the Caribbean, Russia and Asia.

“Do you have the target?” the woman asked.

“No. There’s been a problem.”

“There are not supposed to be any problems.” Her voice took on icy suspicion.

“This problem was here before I arrived,” Joachim replied. Anger stirred within him. “I found a dead man on the boat.”

A brief pause stretched between them. “Who?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What about your target?”

“Not here. The target could have been taken when this…other problem came up.”

“One thing at a time. Is the computer still there?”

Joachim glanced at the computer. “Yes.”

“Is it operational?”

“Give me a moment.” Crossing the room, Joachim pulled the computer tower out, slid the cover off and checked for antipersonnel mines. Finding nothing, he left the cover off and switched the machine on. Despite his search, he still grew tense as the computer powered up.

“Well?” the woman asked.

“It’s operational.”

“Good. Now here’s what you’re to do…”

Following the woman’s direction, Joachim settled in at the computer, opened up the high-speed Internet connection available through the houseboat’s satellite dish array and allowed her access to the computer from a remote site. She—or whoever worked for her at the other end of the connection—took control of the cursor and the computer’s functions.

“While this runs,” the woman said, “I need you to stay there and monitor the computer.”

“I’m not comfortable with that,” Joachim replied. “I’m exposed here.”

“You don’t have a choice,” she said coldly.

“I do.” Joachim stood.

“Leave before I say you can and I’ll make sure your mother, sister and niece don’t live to see the dawn.”

The threat hammered Joachim squarely between the eyes. The woman knew about his family. He was certain Günter had not told her. Whatever else Günter was, he wouldn’t expose his family or anyone else’s to danger. It only proved that the woman’s knowledge of Joachim went deep.

“All right,” Joachim said. He seethed inside. He’d moved his sister and mother to Munich so his and Günter’s enemies wouldn’t hurt them. “I’ll stay here until you’re finished.” Then, if you ever cross my path again, I’ll kill you.