Chapter Five

 

 

December 16

Café Moskva

Vienna, Austria

 

Justin parked his armored Volkswagen near the SPAR supermarket on Vorgantenstrasse, the next street parallel to Engerthstrasse. He did not want Smirnov or anyone on his team—who could be in the meeting or observing the meeting from a distance—to see what he was driving or the direction of his arrival. Then he cut through the park near the apartment complex across from Café Moskva and circled the block, looking for anyone tailing him. He searched the faces of a few people loitering near the intersection, then glanced at a couple of drivers waiting inside their parked cars.

Nothing jumped out at him.

Then his eyes took in the windows and entrances of the apartment buildings around the area.

Again, nothing to worry about.

He glanced at his wristwatch when he had completed the loop. He still had about five minutes before the meeting. Justin tightened the black scarf around his neck as a sudden wind gust attempted to rip it away. He glanced at the cloudy gray sky and wondered how long it would be before snow blanketed the city.

He took the phone out of his jacket pocket and scrolled through the logbook. He found the number of Karolin, his girlfriend living in Germany, and decided to give her a quick call. He dialed and Karolin picked up after the second ring: “Hallo, Justin, how are you, honey?” Her high-pitched voice held a tinge of concern.

“Pretty good, sweetheart. How about you?”

“Oh, I’m worried about you. I saw in the news about a shooting at a mosque in Vienna. Were you . . . did you have anything to do with it?

“Karolin, you know I can’t talk—”

“About your work, Justin, I know that,” Karolin’s frustrated voice cut him off. “But I don’t need details. I just . . . I need to know if you’re okay.”

“Yes, I’m okay, sweetie. And sorry, I don’t want to sound like a jerk and shrug off your concerns. But I can’t tell you much.”

Karolin exhaled. “All right, what can you tell me, Justin?”

“That I love you, and I’ll see you tonight, as planned.”

“I love you too, Justin. And you promise we’ll go to the concert tonight?”

Justin hesitated for a moment. “I . . . I can’t really promise that, in case something happens with work.”

Karolin let out a sigh. “So you’re telling me that maybe, perhaps, if no crisis happens tonight, then you’ll make some time in your busy schedule for me, right? Is that what you’re telling me, Justin?”

Justin clenched his teeth and shook his head. He drew in a deep breath, then said, “Of course not, Karolin. I’m saying that I don’t want to disappoint you. I’ll do my best, all I can, to make our date night—dinner and a show, and all. But you know with my job, it’s difficult to make promises.”

“I know, Justin, we’ve been through this before.”

“Yes, we have, so let’s not turn it into a fight, shall we?”

“Fine, we won’t,” Karolin said, but her voice indicated she was already on the verge of starting an argument. “I’ll expect you at 7:30 as planned. Let me know if work happens and you can’t make it.”

“I’ll do that. Love you.”

A moment of hesitation, then Karolin said, “Ditto. Bye, Justin.”

“Bye, Karolin.”

Justin hung up and held the phone tight. He wished he could promise Karolin he was going to be there for her. But he could not. Not in these circumstances, when the number one priority was to find al-Nueimi as soon as possible. He shook his head. I’ve got to make time for us. I shouldn’t repeat the same mistakes I’ve made with Carrie and Anna. No, this time will be different. I will make it be different.

He sighed and glanced at his watch. It was almost time. He returned the phone to his pocket, and headed in the direction of Café Moskva.

The street in front of the café was lined with sleek black Mercedes sedans and a couple of silver Land Rovers. A group of large men in gray and black suits were standing near the entrance. Justin pegged them as bodyguards and drivers of the people enjoying meals and drinks in the café. Its windows were mirrored, so he could not see how many were inside, but judging by the number of musclemen outside, there had to be more than a dozen.

Justin neared the group without making eye contact with anyone, but observing their every move, especially their hands. It was drilled into his mind ever since he was a young recruit to always watch the hands, as those could kill. Kicks, head-butts, knee blows were rarely deadly. A well-placed round, especially at this close distance, would end a man’s life in a heartbeat.

One of the men in the group—one of the smaller ones, with a shaved head that did not hide his balding problem—was standing in the path leading to the café’s door. Justin tried to sidestep him, since the man did not move. He let out a low laugh and whispered something to his friends in Russian, which Justin translated as An Austrian idiot walks into a Russian bar. The man scowled, and his friends laughed.

Justin slowed down and shrugged. “I’m neither Austrian, nor an idiot,” he said in Russian to no one in particular.

The man threw a menacing glance at Justin, then one of the man’s friends jumped in, “He wasn’t talking about you,” he said in Russian, in a low voice, but with an edgy tone. “He was telling a joke.”

“Yes, a hilarious joke about an Austrian idiot,” the man said in a gruff voice.

Justin shrugged again. “I’m sure it’s very funny. Have a good day, gentlemen.” He reached the café’s door.

“Yes, you too. And be careful where you step. You might fall and break something,” the small man said, wanting to have the last word.

Justin ignored the man’s parting shot and not-so-subtle threat, and pulled open the heavy wooden-and-glass door. The café’s interior was bright, with beige-painted walls and large blue and gold chandeliers. A hostess with long blonde hair in a short red dress approached him from behind the reception desk. “Mr. Hall, right?”

Justin frowned, but was not really surprised. He did not know Smirnov even by name, while the man even knew how he looked. While it was not unimaginable for SVR to know the identities of other foreign intelligence agencies, it was unexpected. Smirnov had done his homework. I wonder what else he knows about me, whether it’s in the CIS’s files or not?

He nodded at the hostess. “Yes, I’m Hall.”

“Your party is waiting for you. This way.” She gestured toward the left. “Follow me, please.”

Justin walked behind her and took in everything. Most of the light brown tables and booths were occupied, with men in suits and ties, but also with a few well-dressed women; many were chatting in low, hushed voices. The hostess led him near the back of the café, to a raised rectangular section. This area had eight large couches set in pairs around a large black-mantled fireplace. Four men were sitting on the couches near the step-up, sipping from small clear glasses and talking in inaudible tones. The next set of couches was empty, and a man was sitting on the furthermost one to the right.

The hostess said, “Sir, your guest has arrived.”

Smirnov stood up. He was as tall as Justin, who stood five-foot-ten. The wrinkles on Smirnov’s face and the receding grayish hair made him look ten, maybe even fifteen years older than Justin, who had just turned thirty-seven. Smirnov was dressed in the trademark black suit, crisp white shirt, and a black-and-white tie with a large knot. A pin in the shape of the Russian flag was fastened to his right lapel. He wore rimless silver glasses that hung at the tip of his long aquiline nose.

He said to the hostess, “Thank you, dear,” then held out his hand for Justin. “Welcome, Mr. Hall. I’m glad to meet you.”

Justin shook Smirnov’s firm hand. “My pleasure.”

“Please, take a seat.” He gestured to the couch across the small coffee table, at the left of the fireplace.

Justin unbuttoned his jacket and sat down. The fire crackled and a spark bounced against the glass enclosure.

“Something to drink, Mr. Hall?” Smirnov gestured at his small glass on the table, half-full with a clear drink Justin guessed was probably vodka.

“No, I’m okay.”

“What, you don’t drink when on the job?” Smirnov’s voice indicated his complete surprise.

“You’re right.”

Smirnov shrugged. “You Canadians, like Americans or Brits, don’t seem to enjoy life. You’re . . . what’s the expression? Yes! Uptight. A little vodka helps a lot. It takes the edge off. Have a drink.” His voice grew warmer and the accent became more pronounced.

“I’m okay, thanks.”

Smirnov frowned. “You’re missing out, but . . .” His voice trailed off, and he dismissed the hostess with a hand gesture. He waited until she was beyond earshot, then asked, “So, how are things going, Mr. Hall?”

“You can call me Justin, and things are fine.”

Smirnov reached for his glass. “Considering the shootout, I wouldn’t be so certain.”

Justin shrugged. “What shootout?”

“Let’s not play games, Justin. We’re beyond that.” He leaned forward. “I’m referring to the shooting at the Al Mustafa Mosque.” Smirnov dropped his voice to just above a whisper. “I’m glad you’re okay, since I heard it was a fierce firefight.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

“Agreed, we both have. And that’s why I asked you to meet me. It may not seem like it at times, but we, Russians and Canadians, or the Western world in general, are fighting a common enemy. Terrorists of all creeds, flags, and nations. You agree, right?”

Justin nodded. “Yes.” He wanted to add, But we don’t invade or bomb an entire country. However, his comment would not have been helpful. Plus, it was not true, considering Canada’s army and special forces had been engaged in numerous battles with terrorists stretching from the mountains of Afghanistan to the deserts of Iraq and Syria.

“So, if we’re fighting a brutal enemy, that is targeting all of us indiscriminately, it only makes sense for us to unite, so we can effectively fight back. If ISIS gathers terrorists from all nations, Muslim or not, why should we respond by fighting in isolation? Why should we hide intelligence from one another? Or even worse, argue among ourselves?” He gave Justin a puzzled look.

“You’re right. We should exchange actionable intel—without any expectations of political support or gains of any kind, by any side,” Justin said in a warm tone, careful not to make his words come across as accusations.

Smirnov nodded. “I’m glad we’re on the same page on this matter.” He pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, then reached for a black leather briefcase near his feet. “And I’m glad I made the right choice of approaching you with this file and not the CIA.” He pulled out a black folder and held it in his hand. “This contains all we know on al-Nueimi.”

Justin glanced at the file, then his eyes went to the men sipping what he suspected was vodka. Even if they were eavesdropping, Justin doubted they could hear Smirnov’s words because of the distance, the crackling fire, and the café’s background noise.

“We first started to track his activities after an ambush on a small Russian military force just outside Aleppo. Al-Nueimi was either among the jihadists or provided support during their withdrawal from the ambush, killing three officers. At the time, he was operating under the name of Rafie al-Essawi.”

Justin’s forehead creased into a deep frown. Why don’t we know about this?

“Your look tells me you had no idea about al-Nueimi’s past.” Smirnov tapped the folder with his hand, then passed it to Justin. “You thought he was forced to serve by ISIS butchers who took over his city. That’s a common claim by many former ISIS fighters: join ISIS or die. If we believe them, no one ever fought with ISIS of their own accord.”

Justin nodded. Smirnov was not completely wrong. While there were some people pressed into service against their will, many others joined ISIS or other terrorist groups knowing full well what they were doing. Perhaps they were misguided or had great expectations. In any case, they had chosen to be a part of the bloodthirsty army, and should suffer the consequences of their actions.

Justin opened the folder and glanced at the first page. It contained a picture of al-Nueimi waving the black ISIS flag, the mark of the plague that was tormenting Iraq, Syria, and beyond, and a clear sign that the Austrian asset was more than a simple driver and mechanic. Is this photoshopped? No, even SVR wouldn’t be so bold as to doctor pictures and present them as evidence, trying to con another agency.

He glimpsed through the rest of the pages, containing personal information on al-Nueimi, his family, and his ties to ISIS and other terrorist networks. Most of it was intelligence Justin had not seen before. I really need to talk to Claudia. We should have known about this. I should have known about it. “How did you find al-Nueimi in Vienna?”

Smirnov sipped his vodka, then said, “We followed the trail, ever since he disappeared from Mosul. The evidence brought us here. Once in Vienna, it was only a matter of time.”

Justin nodded. “And when did you actually find him and make the connection between him and my agency?”

Smirnov’s face formed a grin. He seemed to think about his reply, unsure of how to phrase his answer. “Two of our men got really close to locating him at the end of November. Then they spotted him at the refugee camp. It just happened to be when he was talking to one of your agency’s operatives.”

“It just happened, huh?” Justin’s voice expressed everything but conviction about what Smirnov was referring to as coincidence.

“Yes, they were just lucky, I guess.” Smirnov shrugged, then placed the empty vodka glass on the table. “Al-Nueimi was talking to a petite brunette. Martinez, I believe, is her name.”

Yes, Claudia.

Justin glanced back at the report, then thought about al-Nueimi disappearing in early December. He leaned forward and said, “Here’s a theory: the man vanished shortly after your team found him. Perhaps he spotted the surveillance, got spooked, and disappeared.”

Smirnov cocked his head. “Are you implying it was my men’s fault that you lost your asset?”

“No, nothing of the sort. But I find it interesting that the timing matches almost perfectly.”

Smirnov shrugged. “Justin, you’re overanalyzing. Sometimes there really are coincidences, although both of us don’t like to see or accept them. But here’s another theory: Perhaps al-Nueimi was ordered to go to London on another assignment. Let’s say he was sent to Vienna to give disinformation about ISIS operatives and their activities, or worse, to infiltrate a Western intelligence agency. He tries the CIS, and when he realizes he’s getting nowhere—assuming he got nowhere,” Smirnov’s grin stretched across his face, “—he moves on to another task.”

“That’s a pretty bold theory and quite far-fetched.”

“True, but not impossible. We’ve seen such attempts in the past, from Chechen terrorists attempting to frustrate our operations in the North Caucasus region. They would provide us intelligence of little value, which led to our capturing unimportant foot soldiers. That took our attention and resources away from high-profile terrorists and their leaders.”

Justin nodded. He disagreed that was the case with al-Nueimi, but the SVR’s file on the asset seemed to be very comprehensive. If this is true, it shows some serious errors on our part. “All right, let’s assume you’re right. What’s al-Nueimi’s assignment in London?”

Smirnov shrugged his broad shoulders. “We don’t know yet, and we’re hoping you can help us, considering the intel we’re sharing. Especially since you’re on good terms with MI6 and MI5.” He lay back on the couch.

Justin nodded slowly. He was starting to understand the reason Smirnov had reached out to him. “One of your agents is in trouble? MI5 has detained him?”

“No, no, no, you’re misunderstanding me, Justin. I’m not asking for your help to get one of my men released. But we talked about cooperation, right? And as a goodwill gesture, I’m giving you everything we’ve put together in these reports.”

“But you want something in return?”

Smirnov rolled his eyes, seemingly baffled at the question. “No, I don’t expect anything in trade. But in the spirit of working together, catching al-Nueimi and stopping whatever mayhem he and his associates are plotting, it’s only reasonable to assume we’ll see the intel your agency will be gathering.”

“Yes, that is reasonable,” Justin said with a certain amount of hesitation in his voice. It did sound right, and Smirnov was hitting all the right keys. But it would be up to Justin’s boss, Flavio, to approve such a request.

“According to what we have so far, al-Nueimi has a vast network of contacts in London and elsewhere in the UK. He has been seen in a couple of London’s mosques and in the company of radical clerics and suspected jihadist supporters. The SVR believes they’re plotting something major, a large-scale attack, but we’re in the dark about the time, place, and the target. Again, if we pool our resources and work together, we can thwart their plot, whatever it is.”

“I’ll have to run this by my boss. He’ll make the final decision.”

“Yes, Flavio. He’s a good man. I’m sure he’ll approve, especially after receiving a call from my boss.” Smirnov waved his hand as if this was a done deal. “But I’m interested in knowing what you think. What recommendation would you give to Flavio?”

“I’ll have to review the contents at length and double-check the facts,” Justin said in a slow reserved tone. “If everything checks out, I don’t see any reason why we can’t share intel.”

Smirnov smiled. “Good, I’m glad to hear that. Now, since we’re talking about joint operations, I’d like you to meet one of my operatives, Arkady Krestiyev. Hey, Arkady . . .” Smirnov called out at one of the men sitting at the next table.

The younger of the men stood up, straightened the front of his suit, and crossed the distance.

“Wait, wait a moment . . . What joint operation?” Justin asked in a worried tone.

Smirnov ignored Justin’s objection. He said, “Arkady, this is Hall, Justin Hall. And this is Arkady Krestiyev.”

Justin stood up and shook the outstretched hand of the man standing next to them. “Smirnov, we still need to discuss—”

“What’s more to discuss? If our two agencies are working together, it only makes sense to bring together a strong, efficient team. Arkady was the one who found al-Nueimi in London, and he has been tracking him to mosques and other hiding places. He’ll be a valuable part of this operation, so you don’t have to start from scratch and waste valuable time.”

Justin looked at Smirnov, then at Arkady. The young Russian’s bright blue eyes showed his eagerness to become a part of the team. He sported a doorknocker beard and his strawberry blond hair was parted to the side. “Smirnov, sharing a couple of reports is one thing, but running a joint op is quite another. As I said, Flavio—”

“Yes, yes, your boss will have to approve this. But he will, I’m more than certain that he will. So, in the meantime, Arkady can bring you up to speed on this file.” Smirnov gestured toward the folder. “He can give you details and names, especially those things that didn’t make it onto the official report.” He gave Justin a small wink.

Justin dropped hard into his couch. “This . . . this isn’t part of the deal.”

“It may not be, but this is a good offer, and you know it. Unconventional, yes, but nonetheless a very good one.”

Justin shook his head. “I’ve got to think about this, Smirnov.”

“Sure thing. I hope you’ll make a decision soon. Al-Nueimi is on the move. Again. Arkady, where’s he going now?”

“We suspect he’s headed to Manchester, meeting with a group of extremists. A few of them have just returned from Syria and Iraq and have signed up for a rehab program.” Arkady snorted. “I suspect this meeting is for another purpose.” His voice had a very slight accent but was full of cynicism.

“All right, I’ll review the files and let you know Flavio’s reply.” Justin stood up.

He shook Smirnov’s hand, then Arkady’s.

“I’ll walk you out,” Arkady said.

Justin shook his head. “No, I’ll be fine.”

He nodded at Smirnov, then headed toward the exit. Let’s see how this intel matches up to what we can find out, especially from Claudia. He frowned. Yes, that’s going to be an interesting conversation neither of us will enjoy.