The next day, Tom Lyth drove the Audi to one of the city’s numerous underground automated car parks and simply walked away.
Under the driver’s seat, he had concealed a small pyrotechnic device that would trigger in three hours’ time, igniting the interior and destroying any useable evidence inside. Then he took a taxi to meet with a Prism black market contact who could provide him with a fresh set of wheels, this time a Lexus, which he then drove to the Burgtheater and parked in one of the side streets to the rear of the magnificent old building. With time to spare, and time to conduct a bit of anti-surveillance, he made his way along Herrengasse on his way to see a one-man intelligence network known in the trade as The Vizier.
The Vizier wasn’t interested in political, economic or geopolitical intelligence; the various nation states had their own intelligence services for that. He let those big boys play their own games. But if you wanted to get the cold, hard, very latest up to date data about which criminal gang was doing what, which assassin had been contracted for a hit, which terrorist group had scored an own goal (which seemed to be the thing when they couldn’t get a decent bomb-maker), or who was blackmailing which government minister – you went to see The Vizier.
Tyberius C. Romanov, the Vizier, was a whole lot of secret information packed into a dwarf-sized body. He was vastly rich and rude as a matter of course. He didn’t care who he upset, and in his time he had upset some very powerful and ruthless individuals with his infamous tongue-lashings. He didn’t care, because he knew he was protected. Everyone used the Vizier. He was a conduit for actionable intelligence. The Americans, the Russians, the Chinese, MI6, Mossad, terrorists, gangs and freelancers alike all used him. They needed him and therefore he was fireproof.
The only thing that he cared about was money and a decent cup of the speciality coffee to which he was addicted. No one knew where he got his information from and no one dared to ask. Every day, he would leave his expensively furnished and tastefully decorated apartment and be collected by his driver/bodyguard, a hulking giant and former Pakistani Special Forces commando, who would drive him. His small frame would be beautifully dressed in the suit of the season along with a matching cravat. He was both dandified and lethal. All that mattered was that from one of the best tables in the infamous Café Central that he regularly frequented, tucked away in his regular corner, laptop in front of him and fawned upon by the waitresses as they brought him his Kaisermelange – a drink that was a heady mix of strong coffee, whipped cream and brandy – he ran one of the most effective private intelligence operations of the last twenty years.
The Vizier had orphans and down-and-outs, Fagins, hookers, spies and criminals that were his sources of information, not to mention his extensive logical and cyber-based skills. The Vizier was a Hub. But to get to the Vizier you had to go through his protection; the bodyguard. And the bodyguard had a sixth sense about who was allowed to speak to his master and who wasn’t. The bodyguard was armed… probably, and willing to use the weaponry… definitely. A sly nod and a wink and it got you either thrown out or allowed access to the high table.
Fortunately, the Fisherman and the Vizier were old business acquaintances so access was easy. Under the watchful eyes of the bodyguard who was pretending to read that day’s edition of Die Presse, but was in reality scoping each intruder that approached his ward with a silenced 9mm, the Fisherman entered the Café Central and walked directly to the Vizier’s table.
“You are looking skinny. You not eating properly?” said Romanov. His voice was the gargled whine of a small child. It was both strangled and shrill at the same time.
“I’m keeping active, it keeps me in shape,” said Lyth. “May I join you?”
The Vizier indicated for his guest to sit. “It’s been several months since we spoke last. I assume you are here on… business?”
Lyth nodded. The Vizier did like to play his little warm-up games, but knew that it was just a formality; the little dwarf was all business, social niceties were very much second place.
“What do you want to know?” asked Romanov, slowly stirring the large coffee cup with a spoon as his eyes tried to read his new guest across the table.
Ah, there it was, down to business, thought Lyth. The Vizier conducted a series of taps and clicks on his laptop, allowing Lyth time to order a coffee while he thought about how to pose his question. In the end, he decided that simple and straightforward was best.
“There is something going on here in Vienna that I don’t know about. I’d very much like to find out who instigated it and why,” he said finally.
The Vizier smiled to himself; of course he did. In the intelligence game everyone is looking for someone else. Eventually, the little man said, “I’m not hearing a click?”
Lyth reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. He scrolled through and tapped several times. “How much?” he said.
The Vizier held up two fingers; two thousand US Dollars. It was an opening gambit. You had to pay for the privilege of the Vizier’s company before he even opened his mouth. Lyth tapped again and the transaction was complete. “It’s done.”
The Vizier nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. “So… please continue.”
Lyth moved cautiously. “I’m looking for a team. They are something unusual, out of the ordinary and have possibly been operating in Europe over the last few months or maybe longer.”
“Pah! Don’t waste your time! There are hundreds of operators like that,” scoffed Romanov.
The Fisherman continued. “There is something else. I don’t know why, but I have the feeling that they are not mercenaries in the classic sense. They are tech-focused. Does that narrow it down?”
The little man sidestepped the question, but his interest was piqued. “You know that I never question you about your work or what you are involved in. You are a good customer. People come to me all the time, like you, requesting my services. Some want information; others want logistical support – guns, safe houses, finance at times. Though I am primarily known for information services, my scope is wide. Certain clients are more important to me than others, hence why I don’t mind passing on details about them. It’s an almost Darwinian process; small fry inevitably end up getting killed, while the bigger fish do tend to continue and thrive. Like you, my dear Fisherman.”
There was silence for a while as Lyth sipped at his excellent coffee. He decided to press the point home. “There was a man who was part of this team. I recognised him, but from the past. I thought he was dead. His name was Azrael.”
“Never heard of him, how did he die?”
Lyth shrugged, feigning ignorance. In fact, he knew how Azrael had died. He had been responsible for his assassination. “I don’t have those details,” he lied.
The Vizier tapped at his laptop, swiping across the screen several times until finally he settled on the piece of information he was looking for. He raised an eyebrow and then a frown came across his face. “This man that you are looking for, he has a reputation as a serious operator. But the information that I have is that the man was killed in a CIA targeted drone strike in 2005?”
“That is what I understood also, and yet I looked at his face several days ago.”
The Vizier raised an eyebrow to that. “And there is no chance that you are mistaken?”
The Fisherman shook his head. “I have a talent for recognising faces from the past.”
The Vizier nodded and turned the laptop around so that the Fisherman could see a photograph of the man he was looking for. The photo was in black and white and had been taken in profile. It showed a man in military fatigues issuing orders to a group of fighters in a compound somewhere. The man had a serious look about him; a dangerous focus. The Vizier turned the laptop back around again and said, “He is an assassin and, if what you say is correct, then he is evidently adept at escaping from the Americans’ cross-hairs.”
“So what current information can you tell me about this man?” asked Lyth.
“I’m not hearing a click?” said the Vizier, holding up two fingers. Another two thousand dollars!
Lyth’s phone was pulled out again, his fingers tapped the screen and more money was transferred into the account of the little information broker.
“Azrael was his cover name, his real name was unknown. The files say that he was part of Saddam’s intelligence organisation before the fall of Iraq and then, when the wars came, he flipped sides and threw his lot in with the Jihadis. Rumour has it his family was slaughtered in a US missile strike in 2003 and it pushed him over the edge. Although, again, it’s just a rumour and is not definitely confirmed,” said the Vizier.
“What else?”
There was more tapping at the keyboard. “He has a reputation as a killer and a ruthless operator. In fact, he was that good that he was ‘loaned’ out to other groups to train them.”
“What did he train them to do?” he asked.
The stubby fingers played over the keys. Finally he said, “The information that we have is that he was in command of a special security squad. As its commander, he was in charge of hunting down spies, traitors, enemy agents, that sort of thing, or I suppose anyone that the Jihadis didn’t like, then his team would assassinate them.”
“Interesting, but what happened to him?”
The Vizier shrugged and skimmed through the file on his screen. “Again, we have the rumour mill to rely on, but it seemed he fell out of favour; there is mention of an internal power struggle within the groups and he evidently, rather stupidly, chose the losing side. He went on the run until the CIA drone strike took him out. Who knows, maybe his own people sold him out to the CIA.”
The Fisherman sipped at the last of his coffee and pondered. The information that the little man had given him only confirmed what he already knew and offered no real new intelligence. When the Fisherman had had dealings with the Iraqi in the distant past, the man had already hunted down and double-crossed any number of CIA sources on the ground. That was why he had been targeted by the CIA’s Drone assassination program.
“Tell me more about his people, his network?”
“Not much to tell, again… it’s only…”
“Let me guess, rumours,” interrupted Lyth.
The Vizier frowned. “The Iraqis’ network wasn’t the usual rubbish. This one was orchestrated, professional, discreet and, so far, unobserved, consisting of ex-Iraqi intelligence or Republican Guard Special Forces units. As I say, they were a serious bunch. Azrael’s speciality was throat-slitting. His skill was running assassination operations, specifically the penetration of enemy networks. That’s all I can give you for the moment.”
The Vizier had apparently had enough of the consultation; either that, or the Fisherman’s credit had been used up. He closed the lid of the laptop. Business was over for now. “Who knows?” he gargled. “No one has been able to get close enough to him to find out! Maybe he did escape the CIA drone strike, drones are not always accurate. Maybe he escaped and turned freelance, a mercenary. After all, everybody needs money?”
The Fisherman sat for a moment running through the information in his head. He certainly had a lot more information than he did an hour ago. There were still many unanswered questions, still many gaps in the jigsaw, but it was a start.
“Is there anything else or are we done?” complained the Vizier. “I do have other customers waiting.”
He nodded his head towards the door. Lyth turned around and noticed that the huge bodyguard was engaged in conversation with a nervous-looking Chinese man; the Vizier’s next customer. “The Chinese are buying up intel at the minute like it’s going out of fashion,” he said. “They are some of my best customers!”
The Fisherman nodded and pulled out a plain envelope from his jacket. “A gift for you, my friend, just some currency that I picked up. Perhaps you can make use of it?”
The Vizier smiled and discreetly pocketed the envelope. “It’s very much appreciated, I’ll be sure to give you a credit for your next purchase.”
The Fisherman nodded and left the café. The envelope contained photographs of an elderly British politician who had been covertly photographed performing a sex act on a young male prostitute, something that his political enemies would make great capital out of. The information had been passed to the Fisherman by one of his sources, who in turn had gotten it from… who knew where?
Still, it was important to feed the intelligence machine; after all, what was information if not a currency of the modern age?
Tom Lyth came out of his meeting with the Vizier both satisfied and frustrated. He decided to walk through the streets before returning to the Lexus, letting his mind digest the information that he had just purchased.
Ideally, he would have liked a bit more information for his money, but you learned to play with the hands that you were dealt in this game, and while it hadn’t been a complete waste of time – he had, after all, had the identity of the mysterious terrorist confirmed – what he would have liked would have been more actionable intelligence about his current location. All he knew was that an assassin that he thought was dead was actually alive, he was holding Sabina, and he had his phone number and was somewhere hiding out nearby in Austria. It wasn’t perfect, but he had, in the past, survived with less information and thrived.
Once he was back at the Lexus, he dialled a number from his contacts list and waited until the call was answered.
“Is the line secure?” asked the Seer.
“Switching to secure in 5… 4… 3… 2…” replied Lyth. He pressed the side power button on the smartphone which activated an encrypted audio safety feature. If there was anyone listening in to their conversation, all they would hear from this point on would be useless static and white noise. The Fisherman’s phone, along with his personal weapon – his knife – was one of the most useful pieces of equipment in his arsenal. It had cutting-edge technology built into its software, could do things far superior to anything that was commercially available and it had saved his life on many occasions.
“How is Vienna?” asked the Seer. Lyth had no idea where in the world the spymaster was at this current time, it could be Delhi or Washington D.C. or Marrakesh. Wherever she was, she sounded professional and alert as usual.
“We hit a problem. That’s why the late check-in.”
“Tell me everything,” said the Seer.
So Lyth told her the events of the past twenty-four hours; the ambush, the taking out of the opposition, the kidnap threat and now the intelligence that the Vizier had provided about a supposedly long dead Iraqi terrorist.
When he was finished, there was a moment’s silence. He knew what she was doing; she was working the problem through in her keen mind, looking for the inconsistencies. Where there could be a leak, and who would be in a position to have that level of information… “Where is the safe house? Do you feel it’s compromised?” she said.
Tom Lyth frowned at that level of information risk, especially from someone like the Seer. “At the moment no, I don’t think we are compromised. I can give you the address of the safe house if you want… but do you think that’s operationally wise?”
“It is if we want to plug a leak! I want to run it through the system, carefully, cautiously, and see if we get a bite at a juicy piece of information like that,” she said.
He felt like a fool. That was an amateur error on his part; after all, if you wanted to catch a spy within a system, you had to leave a trail for him (or her) to pick up. Much chastised, he rattled off the safe house address to her.
“Excellent. I’ll run it through selected parts of our intelligence network and see if we get a bite. Do you need new resources?”
“At the moment, no. We are embedded and safe, and until we hear back from the kidnappers I think it’s more of a risk to move,” he said.
“I agree. I want you to carry on with the operation. Sailfish is our primary concern. We need him. The knowledge in his head is the priority. Everything else is secondary.”
“Even the death of the girl?” questioned Lyth.
“You know the game that we play, Fisherman. The girl has been useful, but for us she would be a regrettable loss, nothing more. Keep me in the loop and check back in a few days,” said the Seer, before cutting off the call.
The silence filled the interior of the car as he sat there organising his thoughts. He knew the Seer was correct, hell, she always was, but there were times that he thought she was one hardnosed bitch.
He was glad she was on their side.