Atta Zimler, also known as the Algerian, swung open the stylish French doors, causing the first abrupt rays of dawn to invade the sixthfloor suite of the elegant Athenee Palace Hotel. As he peered from the narrow balcony, which overlooked the famous Piata Revolutiei below, he couldn’t help but notice the long, oddly shaped shadow created by the Iuliu Maniu statue, which sat in the center of the historic square. Wrapped in a luxuriant hotel robe, Zimler sipped his Turkish espresso and contemplated the upcoming day’s events. He wiped his mouth with his napkin as he ran through the checklist in his head.
He’d always been a careful man, organized, some might even say obsessively meticulous. He knew the outcome of each of his actions in advance, along with the potential reactions of those around him, and he planned for every possible scenario. He credited this preparation for his ongoing success in his chosen line of work—preparation, and a total lack of emotion. Had anyone else been in the room, they would not have been able to discern from his calm demeanor that he was in the process of formulating the minute details of the murder he would soon carry out.
Turning back to the room, he set his cup on the dining room table, removed his robe, and folded it neatly over the chair. Clad only in his undergarments, he lowered himself onto the Oriental rug and began his daily rapid-fire routine of fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and as many leg raises as he felt were needed. By the end of the workout he was breathing heavily, though not exhausted in the least.
For years he had trained his body far beyond the capacity of most human beings. He had mastered karate, judo, and aikido. His strength was not obvious, not like those American bodybuilders and football players. But that was what served him. He was stronger than most athletes, yet on the street, he looked like everyone else. He had accepted that most people were either too stupid or too self-involved even to notice him.
After a shower Zimler extracted some clothes from his Louis Vuitton suitcase. Today would be casual—an imported silk shirt from Italy, nicely tailored linen pants, leather shoes from Spain. As he dressed, it occurred to him, albeit briefly, that it would be the last time he could wear these particular items.
The phone rang. A male voice on the other end was direct and emotionless.
“Is this the Algerian?”
“Who is calling?” Zimler countered while simultaneously fastening the last button on his shirt.
“I am calling on behalf of someone who has a serious problem.”
“Oh?”
“His mail keeps getting returned…”
“Sounds like he has a bad mailman.”
“Yes,” the voice responded. “A very bad mailman. The mailman needs to be eliminated.”
“Is that what you are really after?” Zimler asked. “The mailman?”
“Well…the bigger problem lies in the delivery system.”
“I would have to concur. I assume you are calling because you have agreed to the price?”
“Yes.”
“And the other terms as well?”
“Yes, yes,” the voice on the other end replied.
“Then we have an understanding,” Zimler concluded. “However, if at any point in the future you fail to make the correct deposits in the designated accounts at the proper times, I will immediately discontinue our relationship.”
“Yes. We understand that. When will you begin your work? My superior would like to have the technology in his hands as soon as possible.”
“Certain events have already been put in motion,” the Algerian assured.
“You know,” the man on the line offered, “we have chosen you because of your…well…your reputation.”
“Of course.”
“Please, don’t fail us.”
“You needn’t concern yourself about that,” Zimler stated confidently. “I’m not about to compromise my reputation.”
With that, Zimler ended the conversation.
Twenty five minutes later, the Algerian rode the hotel’s mirrored elevator down two flights to the fourth floor. He waited until the hallways were clear before making his way to room 417, which he knew was unoccupied. From his right pants pocket he pulled out a pair of latex gloves and put them on. From his left pocket he took out a magnetic programming device, similar in size to a standard deck of playing cards. Zimler then extracted a blank hotel room card key from the magnetic box and inserted it into the room’s door lock.
Nothing.
He then slid the electronic card key back into the device and punched in a new code using the numeric pad on top of the box. He tried the key again.
The door opened.
Zimler smiled, entered the empty room, and closed the door securely behind him.
And waited.
Yergi Banica was clearly nervous—and it wasn’t simply because he was running a few minutes late. Having already parked his car on the north side of the Piata Revolutiei as instructed, he quickly made his way across the square toward the hotel. His mind was on euros—ten thousand of them to be exact. His job, teaching political science at the Romanian University of Craiova, paid little, barely enough for him to get by in his small apartment with his much younger new wife. Personally, he didn’t mind the close quarters, but he knew Elena aspired to better things.
Yergi was of average size and, although not unattractive, had added those few extra pounds that come with age. He knew he was lucky to have found his beautiful Elena, lucky that she found him interesting, lucky that she had agreed to marry him. He knew about her unsavory background, but he didn’t care and never talked about it with her. And he was well aware that his luck could end if his financial situation remained unchanged. But as luck would have it, his finances were about to improve.
A year earlier, Yergi had been approached by a Russian student in one of his political science classes. The student was friendly, bright, and engaged in his studies, but that was just a ruse. In reality, the young man wanted to know if the professor would be interested in earning a little extra money. All Yergi would have to do is slip him some details about the political persuasions of some of the more radical professors and wealthy students on campus. Yergi was old enough to have lived through the KGB and their successor, the secret Russian Federal Security Bureau. So he knew what they were asking of him; to be their informant. He really wouldn’t be hurting anyone, he rationalized, just passing along little innocent bits of information. Besides, the extra money would come in handy.
As an unintentional side effect, this new arrangement actually brought Yergi a newfound sense of confidence. Always trying to impress his wife’s younger friends, he’d let it slip a few times after several drinks that he was a man who knew things, a man with connections. He might have even jokingly referred to himself as a spy. Yes, he even privately entertained the idea he was an Eastern block equivalent of James Bond.
But then, three weeks ago, Yergi received a strange phone call. A man who claimed to be an Algerian had learned of him through an associate and asked if he might be able to provide information about a certain American defense contractor. At first, Yergi was suspicious. Why would this man think he could get this information? Did he know about Yergi’s connections with the FSB? And who was this “associate” who had recommended him?
Then he became more practical. The Algerian was offering twenty thousand euros for the information, half now, half upon delivery. It was more than enough money for him and Elena to move away and start a new life together somewhere else. So he turned to the young FSB agent he’d been working with and offered him a deal—to exchange half of his upfront payment for any information that could be found pertaining to the American, Joshua Jordan. But did the young FSB agent have access to that? He said he would see what he could turn up.
A week later Yergi received a copy of the FSB’s comprehensive dossier, which included pictures, biographies, personal data, and all manner of classified details on the American in question. This should make the Algerian happy, he thought. Yergi allowed his imagination to drift about freely once again. Perhaps he and Elena could move near the sea. She loved the sea. And she would love him.
As he turned the corner and the Athenee Palace Hotel entrance came into view, Yergi’s dreams of his future abruptly morphed into nervousness. Shaken, he concluded it was the promise of wealth that had his nerves jangling, and not any potential danger. Certainly he could trust the Algerian. After all, the man had already paid ten thousand euros in advance, half of which was secure in Yergi’s small apartment near the university. And he was moments away from being handed another ten thousand. Yes, the transaction would go smoothly. He had exactly what the Algerian wanted.