The last of the five to arrive at Pam’s suite was Steffen Engel, the only one to have been court-martialed out of the KSK—because he’d killed three recruits during CQB drills. Though it was never proved to be deliberate murder, he was cashiered because it had been his obligation as a drill instructor to make sure no serious harm came to his trainees.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.
“I brought your weapons, papers, and walking-around cash,” Pam said. “And I brought something else.”
Like the others on the team, Engel stood under six feet, and except for an almost permanent scowl on his square face and deep-set eyes under thick dark hair, he was unremarkable-looking. He easily passed for everyman wherever he went, and he was just enough of a chameleon to smile pleasantly whenever the need arose. But like a lion he lived for the kill, and even Pam understood that he was a force to be handled with care. It was the main reason she’d picked him from the applicants whose résumés she’d read on Soldier of Fortune. If anyone could finish an op no matter the trouble, it was Engel. She didn’t like him, but he was perfect for her kind of wet work.
“The operation is on?”
“Yes, come meet the others you’ll be working with. They’re in the dining area.”
The other four were seated around the table large enough for six: Rolf Woedding, the first she’d hired and the most ruthless; Friedrich Heiser, at twenty-four the youngest of the team; Klaus Bruns, whose mother was Russian and father was East German; and Felix Volker, five eight, the most heavily built of the men, and, in Pam’s estimation, completely insane. He actually believed that he was Hitler and Eva Braun’s grandson. She never disputed the belief with him.
Volker looked up. “Steffen, I thought I caught a whiff of something rotten coming through the door.”
Engel scowled; it was obvious that he was surprised. “Fuck you too, and the rest of you as well.”
“This is the team,” Pam said, from the head of the table. “I don’t much care if you get along on your own time, but for now pay attention because the most important mission of our op is on for tonight.”
“It’s a definite go, then?” Engel asked.
“Yes,” Pam said. She passed each of them an iPhone. “Programmed are the names, addresses, and brief bios of your targets. You’ll each do three tonight. They’re all in the immediate Norfolk–Virginia Beach area and I’ve grouped them in the general vicinity of each other to minimize your travel time. Once you’ve eliminated one target you will immediately go to the next, erasing the first from the phone on the way.”
“Fifteen in one night will create a hell of a stir,” Volker said, the happiest anyone had seen him in a while.
Pam passed out their new passports and other papers, as well as tickets on separate airlines for destinations ranging from Mexico City to Caracas. They were to make their own arrangements for getting to San Diego for the next phase. “You’ll be leaving first thing in the morning, and I’ll send word when I expect you to be in California. But the delay will not be very long.”
No one objected.
She passed out bundles of cash, $15,000 to each of them, along with the Glock pistols, silencers, and ammunition.
All of them checked the pistols’ actions and loads before they looked at the passports, papers, travel documents, and cash. The KSK had trained them to be thorough. First priority: make sure of your tools.
“Fifteen tonight—if nothing goes wrong—which makes seventeen,” Heiser said. “Leaves seven more? From the original team.”
“Plus one.”
They all looked up.
“Kirk McGarvey,” Pam said. “Anyone heard of him?”
“Former CIA director,” Volker said. “Supposed to be some kind of badass. But I’d heard that he bought the farm down in Cuba a while back.”
“You heard wrong. And he’s gotten himself involved in trying to save some lives. He might even be here in Norfolk tonight, the white knight in shining armor.”
“Could be a problem.”
“Whoever takes him down gets a bonus—four hundred thousand euros.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting the gentleman,” Bruns said.
“Good to know, Klaus. But you’ll have to earn the bonus before you spend it.”
“The bastard is ancient.”
“Fifty.”
“Leicht,” Bruns said. Easy.
“I hope you’re right. It’d be the best bonus I’ve ever paid.”
“Do you think this man will be a problem?” Volker asked.
“It’s a real possibility,” Pam said. “One that we have to consider. But think on this: the man did serve as the CIA’s director, but before that and since then, he’s been involved in what they call ‘special projects.’ Black ops.”
Volker nodded. “The man is an assassin.”
“A very good one.”
“I understand. He’s just like us.”
Pam nodded. From what Naisir had told her, McGarvey was nothing like her operators. The man was a killer, for sure. Like a James Bond. But he worked for his country, not for money.
“Of course one can never be certain about that aspect, because the man is wealthy in his own right,” Naisir had said. “Worth at least several millions.”
“Yet according to you he teaches philosophy at some small college in Florida. How much sense does that make?”
“From our way of thinking, not much. But be very careful, Ms Schlueter, that his study of Voltaire does not blind you to his formidable abilities.”