LOST AND LETHAL Page 4

  Azzur reached into his brown leather satchel on the floor, removed a tablet, and placed it in front of her. “Everything we are about to discuss, as well as additional task-related information, is contained on here. When you power it up, a running countdown clock will appear in the upper right-hand corner. When the clock reaches zero, the hard drive will automatically be wiped clean. Your clock will reach zero at midnight tonight. Study and commit all your task instructions and information to memory before then. Do you understand?”

  Molka nodded. “Yes.”

  Azzur used the remote to bring up the satellite photo of the airstrip on the wall monitor again. “There is no cellular service in the region you’re heading. Besides antiquated landlines, electronic communication is only available through handheld two-way radios and satellite phones. Tariq has a satellite phone preconfigured to communicate with the satellite phone you and Uri will have. Tariq will not know the exact day or time of your arrival. He was only given a three-day window in which to expect you. Tomorrow being the first.”

  “Satellite phones can be encrypted,” Molka said. “Why not just call him and let him know we’re on the way?”

  “Always assume all electronic communications are being monitored and deciphered, including when using the latest encrypted devices. Therefore, a strict communication blackout should be observed until the last possible moment: which is when you land. My communication security policy with projects is also contained on your briefing tablet for you to study and memorize.”

  Molka’s face mocked excitement. “Can’t wait. So what is the time frame for this task?”

  “You will depart at 4AM tomorrow to arrive at the airstrip at approximately 7:30AM. You will then spend the day contacting Tariq and making the exchange for Ibis. You will then fly out at first light Thursday morning to arrive back here before noon.”

  Molka grinned. “Just in time for another delicious souvlaki lunch with the ridiculously beautiful terrace view.”

  Azzur blew smoke. “You will act as the task security specialist.”

  “And when you say task security specialist, you mean securing the money?”

  “That is correct. Since Tariq does not know the exact day or time of your arrival, he will not be waiting for you at the airstrip. After you contact him, it will be at least an hour before he can reach your location from Mucize. You will use this time to conceal the bag containing Zoran the Great’s courtesy fee.”

  “Conceal it where?” Molka said.

  Azzur clicked the remote to another satellite photo. “Here. That large ravine in those hills is a quarter kilometer due east from the airstrip. Study the topography photos and maps carefully on your briefing tablet so you can swiftly locate the ravine upon arrival. I cannot stress this enough.”

  “Ok,” Molka said. “And I’ve always been pretty good with maps anyway.”

  “After landing, you, and you alone, will carry the bag with the money up into the ravine and bury it. The bag contains a watertight case holding the money, and an entrenching tool is included in your joint gear bag.”

  “How big and heavy is the watertight case holding the four-million Lira?”

  “The case is the size of two standard briefcases stacked atop one another. It contains 20,000 notes in the 200 Lira denomination. The approximate weight is 20 kilograms. Nothing you cannot handle.”

  Molka’s brow furrowed. “Alright. And you want me to bury the money because....”

  “Because this will allow you to keep it securely under your control until you personally verify Ibis is still in Zoran the Great’s possession and that Ibis still wishes to defect to our country and depart with you.”

  Molka grinned. “You don’t think Zoran the Great might be just a bit upset when we tell him that I hid his money because we don’t trust him?”

  “He will be irate. At first. Then you will tell him this as your reason: ‘A stranger too quick to offer you their trust can never be trusted.’ That statement is also in your briefing tablet. Memorize it.”

  “What’s that statement’s significance?” Molka said.

  “It is an old proverb of Zoran the Great’s tribe. He will understand your reasoning and respect you after you say it.”

  Molka’s eyebrows rose with sarcasm. “Or he might cut off my head and let his fighters play football with it.”

  “One final word on the money you are securing. It is not the Counsel’s. It belongs to the hard-working people of our country who have generously provided it to us to use as a tool for the greater good of our nation.”

  Molka’s eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I am saying, should you and Uri decide to abandon your task, fly to Istanbul, and split the money for a luxury way of life, dissuade yourself of that immediately.”

  “And if we don’t dissuade ourselves?”

  “I will dedicate my life to finding and eliminating you.”

  Molka grinned and leaned forward. “Oooo…I love a good threat.”

  Azzur moved closer. “I have never made a threat I failed to carry out.”

  Molka sat back. “No worries. My parents didn’t raise a thief.”

  Azzur nodded. “Good enough. Questions?”

  “First, let me go over this task again to make sure I have it. Our objective is to extract a high-value defector, code named Ibis, who is under the care of a warlord named Zoran the Great. We first fly to a remote airstrip in southeastern Turkey. When we land, I bury the cash courtesy fee that our country is paying Zoran the Great for sheltering Ibis. We then make contact with Tariq, who will take us to meet Zoran the Great. I confirm Ibis is still with Zoran the Great and that Ibis still wishes to defect to our country and leave with us. We then recover the money from its hiding spot and give it to Zoran the Great in exchange for Ibis. Finally, we take Ibis to the airstrip and fly him back here.”

  “That is correct. Your recall is good. Likely from your time with the Unit where you received many briefings.”

  Molka frowned. “Too many.”

  “Questions?”

  “Just one. I packed an outfit for operating in rough terrain, as you suggested. What about the weapons I requested?”

  “You will find them in a gear bag already waiting in your room here.”

  “Good,” Molka said.

  “Also, give your passport to Uri. He will secure it with his inside the aircraft should you need them.”

  “Ok. Are we done?”

  “Yes.”

  Molka stood.

  Azzur stubbed out his cigarette butt. “I am going into the city for a nice dinner and then for some drinks. What would you say to joining me?"

  “I would say I’m going to ask the caretaker for a simple sandwich, and then I’m going to study my briefing tablet and then go to bed.” Molka moved toward the door. “If you don’t mind, I have to get up early and complete a task tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Munich, Germany

  Chasseur Restaurant

  Tuesday, 8:00PM

  The trendy 5-star restaurant featuring trendy European cuisine and trendy European décor was overbooked and filled to capacity as always.

  Hopeful standby diners crowded the attached bar, and many others waited in a line outside.

  The restaurant’s slicked-back-haired, black tuxedoed maître d' crossed the main dining area and climbed the steel stairs to a loft office with one-way tinted windows overlooking the satisfied feasting patrons.

  The maître d' knocked and opened the office door and entered. The gray-walled, gray-carpeted room contained a gray steel desk inhabited by an early 40s white male. He exhibited a lean muscular fitness under a tight, classy dark blue suit. His short, side-parted hair was ash blonde, his eyes were an attentive blue, and a pointed nose jutted over a close-cropped ash-blonde beard.

  The man looked up from a stack of papers on his desktop and addressed the maître d'. “How goes it down there, Perry?”

  “Good, sir. But great if we had a
nother one hundred seats.”

  The man grimaced. “I know this only too well.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir, the party in the Trophy Room wishes to meet the owner.”

  The man time checked a gold watch. “Oh, have they arrived already?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. Please tell them I will be by when they finish their entrées.”

  “Not them, sir,” the maître d',” said. “Just one gentleman.”

  “A lone gentleman reserved the entire Trophy Room for himself?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What is his name?”

  “The reservation was made under the name Monsieur Deuxième, and he speaks French. But I do not believe Monsieur Deuxième is his real name, nor do I believe he is French.”

  The man gazed past the maître d' and rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand. “How intriguing.”

  “Yes, sir. He wishes to meet with you now.”

  The man’s eyes focused on the maître d'. “And I, him.”

  The Trophy Room private dining area in the Chasseur restaurant’s basement offered a dramatic departure from the gender-neutral trendiness upstairs.

  The space featured unapologetic masculinity in the form of a heavy, lodge-like mahogany table set for 20, hunter green carpet, blood-red walls—displaying big game taxidermy mounts and vintage hunting rifles—and a separate menu created for serious carnivores.

  Sitting at the table’s head, the brown-skinned man calling himself Monsieur Deuxième carried a full beard, dyed pure black, and short receding hair which was pure gray and aged him in his late 60s. He wore a charcoal suit jacket over a black dress shirt buttoned to the top with no tie. An unfiltered cigarette smoked in a brass ashtray before him, and beside that lay a black leather folder and a phone.

  The man from the upstairs office approached Deuxième and spoke good French with a slight German accent. “Good evening, sir. I am the owner, Reinhold Jäger.”

  Deuxième smiled and spoke good French with a slight Arabic accent. “Good evening.”

  “And how is your dining experience thus far, sir?”

  “Excellent. I just enjoyed the wild boar schnitzel as a starter. Delicious.” He raised a heavy pewter goblet. “And this Franconian Riesling the waiter suggested made an excellent pairing. My compliments to your fine establishment, Hauptman Jäger.”

  “Thank you, sir. However, I am no longer a captain. It is just Mr. Jäger now.”

  “Is it? I understood you were referred to as Captain Jäger even after you left the special forces.”

  “When I left the service, I was privileged enough to work in another business with men who offered such respect. However, I am now just a humble restauranteur, Mr. Jäger.”

  “If I might.” Deuxième reached into his coat’s inside pocket, removed a leather ID case, opened it, and showed Jäger.

  Jäger viewed the ID. “I wasn’t aware that your country’s internal security service operated in Germany.”

  “We do not.” Deuxième repocketed the leather case. “I came here strictly to see you on a matter of a job offer. Will you join me, please?”

  Jäger occupied the seat to Deuxième’s right. “May I ask who recommended me?”

  “A mutual acquaintance, Colonel Qasim.”

  Jäger pursed his lips. “I see. Well, I have not spoken to Colonel Qasim in nearly three years. And he should not have presumed to recommend me for a job. I no longer do such work. Nor do I wish to resume doing so.”

  Deuxième took a wine sip. “I really do not think that you have a choice.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you selected the restaurant business as an alternative to being a mercenary soldier.”

  Jäger’s smile showed annoyance. “The preferred description is private military contractor. Or PMC, as the acronym obsessed Americans say.”

  Deuxième puffed on his cigarette. “By whatever moniker you choose to call your former profession, leaving it for the restaurant business has placed you in a compromised position.”

  “You know the restaurant business?”

  “No. However, I do know your restaurant’s business. And while very popular and recently profitable, it is not profitable enough to stay ahead of the coming trends or to repay your creditors who have called in your loans. Should I continue to tell you what else I know?”

  “Please,” Jäger said.

  “I also know you put all your life’s savings and sweat and heart into this restaurant. And you love it more than anything you have ever done. And when it fails, you will be devastated beyond repair. And I know you are already contemplating returning to private military contractor work to avoid the sad fate of living out your years on a soldier’s pension.”

  Jäger pointed to Deuxième’s wine bottle. “May I?”

  “Of course.” Deuxième picked up the bottle and half-filled the pewter goblet at Jäger’s place setting.

  Jäger picked up the goblet and took a drink. “Mr. Deuxième, you speculate very intrusively about me and my situation.”

  “Yet you have not denied any of it. Please do so now if you can.”

  Jäger remained silent.

  Deuxième continued. “The good news for you is that we can help you hold on to your dream here.”

  “How so?”

  “By assuming your financial liabilities, of course. A Chinese investment firm we are very friendly with has purchased your loans from your creditors.”

  “I was not aware of this,” Jäger said.

  “The transaction was just finalized this morning.” Deuxième passed the black leather folder lying next to his phone to Jäger.”

  Jäger opened the folder and examined the documents inside. After a moment, he closed the folder and set it aside. “So, it appears I now find myself in your debt.”

  “Yes,” Deuxième said. “However, our terms are much more lenient. When you complete the job for us, the loans will simply be written off.”

  Jäger offered a skeptical smile. “Written off? Just like that?”

  Deuxième brushed his palms together. “Just like that. And then you will be free and clear. You will also be provided with a new, substantial interest-free loan to keep your restaurant truly profitable and ahead of the trends for the foreseeable future. And keep you from the sad fate of which I spoke of.”

  “Who is the prey?” Jäger said.

  “A high-profile traitor who crossed the border and is hiding in southeastern Turkey.” Deuxième picked up his phone and swiped to a man’s photo. “I understand you have done a job for him in the past.”

  Jäger viewed the photo. “I have.”

  “I am told in addition to several other languages, you speak fluent Turkish.”

  “I speak above average Turkish, which I picked up when my unit trained alongside Turkish special forces for several months.”

  Deuxième nodded. “That will suffice.”

  Jäger said, “My next question should be why does the prey’s—now-former—organization not go after him themselves? They are certainly capable. But to do so would require obtaining permission from the Turks. Which would, in turn, expose to the world the defection of a very, as you say, high-profile traitor and cause a major embarrassment to your country’s regime. Something they can ill afford internally after a series of recent embarrassments.”

  Deuxième smiled. “Colonel Qasim believes your ability to grasp political implications makes you even more exceptional at your human hunting specialty. I wholeheartedly agree.”

  “And now you want me to go quietly kill him. And should I get caught, your country would have plausible deniability. Well, I am sorry you wasted your time in coming here and assuming my debts, because as Colonel Qasim should have also told you, I am not a hired assassin.”

  “But you have killed for money in the past.”

  “Yes,” Jäger said. “In combat situations where the people I killed were also armed and had weapons to defend themselves.”

>   “And you maintain this position of not acting as a paid assassin even after I have presented you with the consequences of declining?”

  Jäger locked his eyes on Deuxième’s eyes. “Absolutely.”

  Deuxième smiled again. “Just as I had hoped you would say. Were it only the simple matter of assassination, we would have contracted a team to do so for much less money. However, we want the traitor located, captured, and brought back across the border alive. All without the Turks ever knowing he was there. And you are one of the few men in the world with the intellect, skills, and temperament to see this through.”

  Jäger’s face brightened. “That is obviously a much different job. And thank you for your kind words.”

  “Then do we have a deal?”

  Jäger took another drink of wine and smiled. “Well, as you said, I do not really have much of a choice, do I?”

  “Excellent.” Deuxième toasted Jäger with his goblet and drank. “You will be operating in a somewhat hostile territory due to the narcotics smuggling. Therefore, you will undoubtedly want your trusted old comrade in arms—who also speaks Turkish, I understand—Feldwebel Fuchs along for security purposes.”

  “If I am going to be shot at, there is no one I would rather have at my side than him for defense. But private citizen, Ernst Fuchs, is unavailable. He is working security for the Dutch Royal Family. And being obscenely well paid to do so, he tells me.”

  “He left that position this morning and awaits your arrival at one of our military bases near the Turkish border.”

  “I see,” Jäger said. “And when do you want me to meet him at this base?”

  Deuxième puffed his cigarette. “Tonight.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Molka’s phone alarm awoke her at 3:00AM in a large comfortable canopy bed in one of the mansion’s guest bedrooms.

  She rose and outfitted in a black mock turtleneck, black jeans, black Bates performance socks, black Bates tactical boots, and strapped her old pilot’s watch on her left wrist.

  She moved into the room’s private bathroom, stood before the mirror, put contacts in her large, oval-shaped blue eyes, and high ponytailed her long dark hair with her bangs swept right to left.