Chapter Twelve

The next day they’re up early, check out from the hotel after breakfast, not a word about Lechner. One of those things that get buried along with all the other evil memories. A graveyard of evil memories.

Brave faces, a new day. Autopilot.

Vosenko once again proves his skills with fork and knife, laying waste to four eggs, several strips of breakfast ham, two side dishes of fruit, and most of the half-loaf of country bread accompanying the feast.

Where does he put it all? Jake wonders. Man’s rail-thin and never seems to do so much as a woman’s push-up to maintain form, while Jake is pressed into his night-time schedule of physical abuse to stave off an incipient and depressingly pear-shaped body.

Jake figures the Intercontinental will be happy to see their backs; not making much of a profit on their special room-plus-breakfast offer. Not to mention the body count.

They’ve made plans, need to be on their way. Outside, it’s turned chilly, smells of snow. Early spring was always an unreliable season in Vienna, Jake remembers.

They make their way to the Wien Mitte railroad station and there, they first pay a visit to the North Face outdoor store on the station’s upper-level shopping mall. They get outfitted in sturdy hiking boots, backpacks, rainproof down jackets against the early spring chill, down sleeping bags, water bottles, and even some juice packs and a ton of protein bars. Just in case. They stuff their original small duffle bags containing weapons, money, and passports in the backpacks. Pay for it all in cash.

As they are transferring these items, Jake notices that Vosenko has also brought along the screen shot of the Reckoning site.

“Never know when you’ll need it,” Vosenko says. “Especially now the site is dead.”

Right, Jake figures. Whatever.

Tricky part next. Getting rid of the two watchers who tailed them from the Intercontinental. They’ve got to be courtesy of the Interior Ministry.

He and Vosenko head down a wide sweep of stairs to the platforms below. Vosenko’s noticed the pair, as well. Abbot and Costello. No need for a conference call, they’ve got it covered. Standard fuck-them-and-chuck-them technique both sides of the Cold War. A and C look like they were barely out of nappies when the Wall came down; doubtful they’ve read the musty tomes on surveillance techniques.

There’s a train waiting at the platform, a local bound for Baden bei Wien.

He and Vosenko buy tickets from an automatic vending machine on the platform, loiter at a newsstand, scanning the headlines: The Pope is asking for justice for the poor; Russia has lost one of its top generals in the Ukraine invasion.

Just as the doors are about to close on the train, Jake waves at a man descending the stairs as if he’s a friend, accomplice. Fellow’s wearing a padre collar, so Jake figures he’ll be okay later.

As A & C both jerk around to see the recipient of the wave, he and Vosenko jump on the train just as its doors are closing.

Jake has to restrain himself from waving at the disgruntled pair of police goons as the train pulls out of the station. They’re yelling at each other, one fumbles a cell out of his pocket, drops it on the platform, cracking the screen. Sweet justice.

Ten minutes later, they detrain at Wien Meidling on the outskirts of Vienna and catch the 10:58 train from the Hauptbahnhof in Vienna re their backup plan. Heading for Bruck an der Mur. Find a compartment on their own, nestle into the warm seats. No pissing about with rental cars, knowing that would be too easy for the state police to track.

Not bad for a couple of has-beens, Jake thinks. He has to admit that he is almost enjoying being back in the field, back in the game, scrubbing surveillance like the old days. But part of him is still back in bed with Tania, the warm smell of sex coming from under the eiderdown. Too many wasted years without love.

They are headed for the heart of the Austrian province of Styria where they can catch local transport to the village of Kragossen.

The train speeds through the countryside, and Vosenko pulls a book out of his pack. In Russian. Could be the Bible for all Jake knows; never a Russian language specialist.

Vosenko makes an occasional cough of laugher as he reads.

No, Jake decides. Definitely not the Bible. He lets fifteen minutes pass before speaking. “I’ve been thinking.”

Vosenko takes his nose out of the book. “I am happy for you.”

“Seriously. About Huber. Okay, so the guy’s been trained how to kill. That very much fits the profile of whoever the enforcer on Reckoning is.”

“Enforcer?”

“Yeah, the guy who—”

“I know the definition,” Vosenko says. “But enforcer as compared to who or what?”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking about. It was Huber who was in the States for the Sanderson killing. Video proves that. He probably did Driscoll, too. But that means travel, and travel means money. I doubt a mountain guide makes all that much. And Huber may know how to use his hands, but it’s not real clear the same goes for his brain. All of this takes some planning, thinking up the whole Reckoning scenario. Setting up a website, that needs a bit of skill even with all sorts of website builders out there.”

A nod from Vosenko.

“That’s it?” Jake asks. “Your response?”

“I concur.”

“And…?”

“I urge you to keep thinking.”

Jake clamps his own urge to call him an asshole. Instead, he says, “One thing works in Huber’s favor of being both brains and brawn, though. Sandy’s death. I take that as a torture-kill. Kid could’ve read about our 1988 op in your book, but wouldn’t know fuck all about Driscoll from that source. Obviously took some convincing for Sandy to give up Driscoll’s name. Why else such brutality?”

“Perhaps to cause the very doubts we are now discussing. Make us focus on the wrong person.” Vosenko rubs a forefinger across his upper lip. “I like your original idea better. Brawn, not brain. So, who might be behind Reckoning if not Huber? Who else might seek revenge?”

“Huber’s father and Reni’s lover,” Jake offers. “Whoever the hell he is. Maybe he really was in love with her?”

“Strange way of demonstrating it,” Vosenko says. “She never mentioned another man.”

“She never told you she was working for me, either.” Jake pauses. Then, “Huber was born in 1983. Reni came to my attention in 1986 as a potential operative. I don’t know a hell of a lot about her before then.”

“And now whose intelligence agency was deficient?” Vosenko asks with a high degree of snark. “No background checks on an agent? That would’ve earned me a trip to the gulag.” Vosenko pushes himself back in his seat, breathes deeply. “No. Huber is not working alone. That is clear. He has some evil genius behind him and I assume the only way we discover that person’s identity is by taking Huber alive.”

“Armitage?” Jake asks. “He’s got the kind of convoluted, torturous mind to concoct the scheme.” And again remembers the picture of Reni signed to ‘Carlo.’ A stretch? But he keeps Armitage right up there on his list.

“And motive?”

Jake sighs. “That’s a problem. Why? What does he gain? He has a picture of Reni in his home, but then I have one, too. She liked to give them out as presents. But all this to seek revenge for her death? Don’t think they were that close.”

Vosenko sighs. “A complicated woman, Reni.”

“But Armitage was the one to talent-spot her, to pick Reni out of the cleaning detail. So, what if Armitage is the fourth mole I’ve been researching? He had access to agent info as Deputy Director of Operations. What if he knows about my researches? Wants to stop them. Sandy was on about it, as well. Called Armitage several times about his theories of another mole. Drunk.”

“And you know about Mr. Sanderson’s phone calls how?”

“Armitage mentioned them himself. Said he advised Sandy to use gum on them.”

Vosenko looks confused. “Gum. Chewing gum?”

“Right,” Jake says. “A joke. Talking about the actual animal. Primitive but effective way to get rid of the buggers. Stick some gum down their entrance holes and the moles are attracted to the sugar. Once they start chewing, they’re done for. Their mouths get all stuck together and they can’t eat or drink. Die of terminal dehydration or starvation.”

“Charming. But why would Armitage make mention of Sanderson if he was the one who had him killed? Would that not raise your suspicion, as it clearly has?”

“The grand guignol,” Jake says. “Armitage is the shadow player, games within games, all a distraction. Cause for doubt.”

“What about Driscoll, then?” Vosenko asks. “Did he also have suspicions of a fourth mole?”

“Not that I know of.”

“And then, why me?”

“I’ve already given that one some thought. Maybe Armitage was spooked that you know about him from other KGB sources. Have some information that could out him as the fourth mole. Like a codename? Carlo/Carla? Sound familiar? And Driscoll is added to the body count for cover. Armitage makes it look like revenge when really it’s all just to cover his tracks as a double agent.”

Vosenko sticks his nose back in book, and utters: “Again, the simplest way to solve this puzzle is by taking Huber. That is why I am brushing up on this.” He waves the book he’s been reading. “A manual for apprehending adversaries in the field.”

“And that’s what you’ve been laughing at since we left Vienna?”

“The author is quite amusing in his description of the dangers.”

Jake doesn’t ask about who the dangers might affect—adversary or pursuer. Doesn’t want to know.

He closes his eyes for a time, trying to relax, to think ahead. No plans yet for what they do when they reach their destination. It’ll come, he tells himself. The trains have improved since he was last in Austria; no rhythmic clicking on the rails now, just a smooth flow. Misses the old rhythm. The clicking and clacking measured adventure for him back when. Something new and dangerous, perhaps. Out of his ken, at the least.

He nods off for a time, awakes with a startle reflex, his legs jerking as if he’s falling. Vosenko’s sleeping, but suddenly Jake feels an urgency. Looks at his phone. Only an hour to go before they hit Bruck. They need to start making plans.

“Hey, Vosenko. Wake up, man. We need to do some planning.”

Vosenko doesn’t stir.

“Vosenko.” Louder this time.

Not a budge.

Jake is suddenly on alert, remembering the guy’s condition. Gets up, puts a hand to Vosenko’s shoulder. “Yuri,” he says. “Wake up.”

But he’s so still, Jake cannot even make out that he’s breathing. Now comes a rush of blood to the head, an oh-shit moment. “Jesus, Yuri, wake up.” Shaking him now.

Nothing. He remembers the pills, but it’s not like Vosenko’s having a seizure now. The opposite. But he grabs Vosenko’s pack, truly spooked and breathing like he’s run a mile. He digs through the pack for a moment.

“A thief now too?” Vosenko says, eyes still shut.

Jake jumps at the voice. “You son of a bitch. You scared me.”

Vosenko yawns, stretches. “Did I discern panic in your voice?”

“Fuck you.”

“It is nice to know one would be missed.”

“Bugger off, Vosenko.”

“And what is so urgent I need to be awakened in the midst of a beautiful dream?”

“We need to plan what the hell we’re going to do once we get to Kragossen. Remember, Huber’s a trained sniper. Probably has his own little sniper rifle. All we’ve got is popguns by comparison.”

“They were sufficient to deal with your friends from Belfast.”

“We’re not on the moors now.”

Vosenko yawns again, rolls his neck to loosen it. “Two things in our favor.”

A pause but Jake is damned if he’s going to ask what those two things are.

Another yawn, and Vosenko says, “Number one, there is the element of surprise. Huber does not expect us to know this is a trap, a set-up. He surely believes that we think the bit of clothing malfunction in the mirror was an accident, not an invitation.”

“Agreed,” Jake says.

Vosenko looks at him, as if expecting Jake to ask for number two, grows weary of the game and offers it: “And number two, is the number two. You and me. Two to his one. We outnumber Huber.”

“This does not make me feel any better,” Jake says. “So, what you’re saying is we don’t need a plan.”

Vosenko shakes his head, irritated. Or peckish, Jake figures. Getting near his lunch hour.

“I see it this way,” Vosenko says. “We discover the location of the man’s cabin in Kragossen. We reconnoiter, try to take him the easy way at night when he is sleeping. Best option.”

A realization strikes Jake like a knee in the balls. Almost takes his breath away.

“You never worked in the field, did you?”

“A Rezident, I remind you.”

“But no tactical shit. Right?”

“That was left for those of lower grades with brute training.”

“Fuck me,” Jake says. “We’re a couple of amateurs.”

“I hope you recall the incident at my cottage.”

“Blind fucking luck that we both weren’t killed there. And I came to you because I figured you were the one with the training. Jesus, I’m an idiot.”

“I know Kragossen. Visited there many times with Reni. Know the surrounding mountain paths.”

“Huber’s a goddamn mountain guide, Yuri. Figure he knows the lay of the land better than anybody.”

“Why so defeatist, Jake?”

“Not defeatist. Another ‘ist.’ Pragmatist. Looking at our toolbox here and it’s pretty damn empty.”

“Not to worry, friend.” Vosenko says it with the condescending tone you might use with a child frightened by lightning and thunder.

Jake is about to scream in frustration when Vosenko asks, “While you are digging in my pack, could you pass me one of those protein bars we purchased this morning?”

Huber has waited for the Vienna train two days in a row at the Bruck an der Mur station, and his patience is rewarded when he sees Vosenko and Jacobs get off the 10:58 train from Vienna. Men like them, he feels instinctively, do not drive themselves, at least not in a foreign country. Too easy to trace.

Huber loves it when his intuition pays off. Despite the late March chill, he is seated at an outdoor table at the station café and has a prime view of arrivals, peering occasionally over the top of today’s Kronen Zeitung tabloid.

They are wearing backpacks, but these packs seem too small for any major weaponry, even if broken down. It will be their handguns against his Steyr-Mannlicher SSG M1 rifle, the one prize from his shit time in the commandos. Their popguns against a sniper rifle that can fire accurately for over a thousand meters. By the look of their new boots, they are planning on some rough hiking.

Jagdkommando. Huber smiles when he thinks of the soldiers’ translation of that: “manhunt commando.”

He watches as Vosenko and Jacobs queue for the local bus to Kragossen. They have followed the bloody breadcrumb trail he left for them

Then he puts the paper down, working his jaw muscle.

It has taken them a day to begin the hunt. What were they up to in Vienna yesterday? And why the hiking boots?

There is no way they could have tracked me, he thinks. Discovered my identity. Or is there?

No matter. Game on.

Not the most comfortable bus Jake’s ever taken, leg room enough for a sixth-grader. He’s six-two, Vosenko taller. But Vosenko plays the nice guy and takes the window seat with even less leg room. Got his thin legs pretzeled around each other, top of the right foot lodged under the left calf. Serious leg-crossing. They’ve got their packs in their laps. All in all, not a stretch-limo experience.

“Don’t suppose you spotted our friend at the station,” Jake says once the bus jerks underway.

“Not sure,” Vosenko answers, shifting the pack now for comfort. “None to be seen clearly. There was one person, however—”

“Guy with his head buried in the newspaper?”

Vosenko nods.

“I couldn’t’ get a look at him, either,” Jake says. “Not a crime to be reading the Kronen Zeitung. Should be, though. Bit of a rag.”

Vosenko makes a noncommittal hmm. Then, “Something else came to mind. Something we have not paid any attention to.”

“You mean other than that neither of us has the skills or the plans for this gig?”

Vosenko clears his throat with the sort of intentionality that tells Jake he’s getting pissed off.

“Okay,” Jake says. “Sorry. What haven’t we paid attention to?”

“Our friend Huber. We know how he got our room number at the Intercontinental. But the real question is, how did he know where we were staying? Or if we were even in Vienna?”

He’s right, Jake suddenly realizes. Too busy staying alive to ask the most obvious question. “Following us?”

“All this time?” Vosenko says. “From Ireland? You from the U.S.?”

“There’s still my theory about Armitage being the grand master of all this. He knew I was going to meet you in Ireland. Knew about us heading to Vienna to check for the server.”

“A possibility, yes.” Vosenko taps his cheek with a forefinger. “Could Huber have tracked us the same way the Ministry of Interior did? Through our hotel registration? Which would mean he has access.”

Jake sucked in air. Not a good thought that Huber might have friends in high places. But it couldn’t be. Kid’s a complete fuck up. Loose cannon. Cashiered from the army, who’s going to make him their special friend?

But then how to explain the cooked-up charge against him of murdering Reni? He thinks some more. Vendetta. Getting even time, whatever the cost.

“Something to consider,” Vosenko says.

And as he speaks, a blue Yamaha Motocross overtakes the bus, its leather-clad rider low over the bars, speeding toward the village of Kragossen.

Neither man notices its passage.