Chapter Sixteen

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Jake says through the bars. His hard luck he was arrested on what turned out to be good Friday. Then you’ve got the whole weekend shot: Easter Sunday followed by Easter Monday, which the Catholic Austrians call a national holiday.

And so Tuesday by the time the cavalry arrives. One positive: his ankle has had time to heal somewhat. He can get around fine without crutches.

“Look at my face, Jacobs.” Moody, standing at a disgusted distance from the cell, points to a mouth downturned at both ends. “This look like I’m amused, asshole?”

“I thought that was your everyday face.”

Moody throws his hands in the air and almost hits the accompanying guard in the chops. “Okay. Enough. I’ve had it. No more fucking hand-holding. You’re on your own.” Turns and starts to walk away.

“Whoa, whoa, Moody. Hold on, now. Sorry. Bad habit of mine. Apologies.”

Moody keeps walking.

“Please,” Jake finally says.

This stops Moody in his tracks. A sigh big enough to blow out the candles on a centenarian’s cake.

Coming back to the cell, he shakes his head, seeing Jake’s face. “Looks like you took a tumble.”

“Yup,” Jake says. “Fell right into this guy’s fist.”

“Well, you piss off folks, Jacobs. Always have.”

“Yeah. Think what would happen if I really tried.”

Which brings a reluctant laugh from Moody. “So I saved your ass one last time. Medical records on your pal Vosenko shows he actually did die of natural causes. Not that cancer is all that natural. The government agrees to let the B-and-E charges at the alpine hut go. Forget the court date next week. You’re free. Just get lost. And stay lost.”

“And Yuri?”

Moody squints. “Who?”

“Vosenko.”

“Oh, right. Cremated yesterday. Nobody to claim the body. No repatriation of remains. So…” He lifts his hand, palm upward, blows on it. “Disposed of.”

“I fucking would have claimed the body.”

“Yeah, but you were a guest of the state at that point. So, when I said you get lost, it’s for real. You’re booked on tomorrow night’s flight out of Schwechat for New York.”

Moody pulls a folded document out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, grabs a pen from his shirt pocket and passes them through the bars.

“You’re free to go on condition that you sign this.”

“And this is?”

“I think you can figure it out, Jacobs. Something along the lines of you will never ever set foot in this country again upon pain of lingering forever in this shithole jail.”

Jake opens the paper, scans it, and nods. “I like your version better.”

“Just sign the fucking thing, smart mouth. Your patron saint couldn’t even get you out of this one.”

“Who you talking about?”

“Come on, Jake. Everyone knows you have old BS on your side. Baxter Streat? Godfather of the CIA. He talent-spotted you at Stanford. Common knowledge. And how else do you think you would’ve made the youngest deputy chief of station ever.”

“Hard work, maybe?”

The guard meanwhile is looking at his feet, making a study of it. A doctoral student in podiatry.

But no way around it. Jake finally puts the paper against the wall, scratches his signature, and hands back pen and paper through the bars.

“See,” Moody says. “That was easy. Now comes the magic part.”

A clap of his hands, nod of his head, and the guard unlocks the cell door.

“You know,” Jake says as he edges out of the open cell door. “I’ll sort of miss the old place. Getting to feel like home.”

Out on the street, he decides he needs some caffeine and breakfast. Backpack with duffel bag returned, money and all.

Heads to the nearby Café Eiles, settles into a corner table, orders a Melange, a semmel, cheese, and a couple boiled eggs. Takes his time with the newspapers. News of the chase on the Hochschwab has made the Vienna papers, despite the best efforts of the army to keep it mum. An enterprising sod from Die Presse found a talkative soldier—could it be the officer that hit me? Jake wonders.

Long and short of it is the manhunt for Huber is front page news. Troops still scouring the Syrian Alps on foot and by helicopter, state police interviewing public facing transportation in Mariazell. Terrorism charges now on Huber for the bombing at his cabin. But after three days, nada. Which means the bastard is still walking free.

It’s almost noon by the time Jake gets there. She looks up at the sound of the bell over the door. No surprise on her face, like he’s just returning from the grocery with a loaf of bread.

“Home is the hunter,” she says.

He smiles. “Home from the hill. Literally.”

She looks at his damaged face, puts a finger to her own eye and grimaces.

“You should see the other guy,” he says, laying the corn on thick. Keeping it together, when all he wants to do is grab her in his arms and never let go.

But he’s going to have to. No longer welcome in Austria. Forever. And that’s where Tania lives. Not much of a bargaining position.

“Sorry about your friend,” she says.

Jake shrugs. Die Presse declares ‘es ist nur eine Frage der Zeit.’ only a matter of time before they catch Huber, but he isn’t so sure. But nothing Jake can do about it now. He’s out of that game. No time to join the hunt, no chance of a return match.

“Such a sad tale,” Tania says. “The son…” She shakes her head and does not finish the sentence.

“What about him?” Jake asks.

“The poor kid was always neglected. Reni was a shit parent, by the way.”

“Yeah. There are those who say she was also a shit agent.”

Tania angles her head at this, gives it a thought. Then says. “Little Daniel was seriously neglected when Reni was alive and then spent the rest of his youth in a succession of foster homes. Never knew his father.”

“Hope you’re not trying to elicit some sympathy from me. Guy’s a monster.”

“Even Shelley’s creature had a creator,” she says. “One of you folks, the father was. Reni once told me so when she’d had too many glasses of wine.”

“His father was American?” Jake asks.

“Yes, American. But I also meant CIA.”

This gets his attention. “Does he have a name?”

“Reni wasn’t that drunk. She just called him Carlo. A pet name, obviously. Not very American sounding. Not very CIA.”

Jake’s eyes widen, feels his pulse kick in. The codename Vosenko had heard for the mythic Soviet mole in the CIA. The name he saw scrawled on Reni’s picture to Armitage.

He tries to control his emotions, to compartmentalize again. But it’s no use.

“You’re sure about that name?”

She nods. “I just thought it was so damn silly. It stuck with me all these years.”

Screw the compartmentalization, he finally decides. That’s what ruined it for me and Elin, he thinks. Almost me and Anne, too. He is not going to make that mistake again. He’s been given a second chance and is not going to blow it this time.

So, he tells her about the importance of codename Carlo.

And that he has to leave Vienna tomorrow night and never come back.

“Come with me,” he says. “We can make a life.”

“White picket fence, Jake? A sweet dream. But just a dream. I can see it in your eyes. You’re out of play now with Huber, on your way out of Austria. So, you’re going to track down this Carlo, right?”

“Yes. I have to be honest with you. I am going to try.”

“And where does that leave me? Waiting at home with a pot of goulash on the stove for her man? I’m too old for that, Jake. We’re too old for that.”

He feels the same hopeless despair now that he did on the summit of the Hochschwab, waiting for a sniper bullet in the back.

She sees the look, and adds: “So do what you must. Find Carlo. And then come for me. Well,” she smiles. “I guess you can’t do that now. But call. Call for me. I’m not going anywhere.”

He comes close, looks into her eyes, feels a wave of emotion so strong he wants to cry. “I love you, you know that? I mean,” and he hits his chest above his heart, “really love you.”

He pulls her to him, embraces her, never wants to let go. It lasts for what seems minutes. She leans into him, he can feel her weight now, as if giving it to him. Part of him. The beating of her heart on his chest, her breath warm on his neck.

When she pulls back, her eyes are misty. “Don’t fuck with me this time, Jacobs, okay?”

“Only in the most literal sense.”

Which earns him a sock on the shoulder. She’s got sharp knuckles and it damn well hurts.

“You leave tomorrow night,” she says. “So where are you staying tonight?” A teasing smile.

“I know of this charming little pension on the Bibergasse. The matron is said to share her favors quite freely, given the right clientele.”

She fists up, ready to strike again.

“No, no, wait.” He jokingly protects his bruised shoulder with his right hand. “Am I invited? We could have a night out, something we were never able to do before. Have a good meal…”

“I think we’ll stay in.” She runs a forefinger down his check. “The matron has found the proper clientele.”

He feels his heart swell at this, like a kid in first love. “Hey, in case you change your mind, here’s my cell.” He scrawls the number on a sheet of paper on the counter, notices her arming her middle knuckle again and speedily adds, “I might be a bit late. An errand to run.”

“In that case…” She writes out her own cell number in a tightly elegant script. “And don’t damn well be late. Not much time for us.”

Gives her a long slow kiss.

The old, stooped man outside the bookshop watches this touching scene with extreme interest.

A lover, he thinks. A weakness.

Huber is pleased with himself, evading the mountain troops chasing him, the helicopters overhead. He made his way to Mariazell after hiding in the brush off the path until sunset and the picking his way in the dark of night over the narrow mountain paths with the aid of a LED head lamp, keeping his ears attuned to the whump of copter blades, ready to turn the light off if the sound got close.

In Mariazell, he stole an old Volkswagen van off the street deep in the night, and made it to Vienna at first light. Since then, he’s been hiding out in his special bolt-hole, hiding in plain sight in a way. Hard to miss his little home away from home where he keeps another cache of weapons and explosives and old clothing. Disguised himself in a tattered old overcoat two sizes too large, and a hat that pulls down to put his face in shadows. He’s got a backpack on with necessary tools of the trade, waiting for his chance with Jacobs. To finish his work. A good soldier.

Papers called Jacobs an ‘American agent and person of interest.’ A washed-up old CIA operative is closer to the truth, Huber tells himself. Read that the Ami was being released this morning, and so was able to follow him from the Liesl to a café and then a beeline for this bookshop.

Jacobs leaves the bookshop, passing him now, and does not give the tramp a second look.

Huber smiles at this, his chest filling with a sense of accomplishment. He should take Jacobs here. His right hand goes to his pants pocket, touches the sharp edge of his combat knife. Come up from behind, a quick slash across the throat. A silent kill.

A glance around, though, and there are others in the street. A policeman on patrol not a dozen paces away. A tail on Jacobs? Probably, after what he read in the papers. Persona non grata, never allowed back in the country.

The opportunity gone. Jacobs passes out of the street, his movement okay now, only a slight limp, Huber notices. Plenty of time for him to heal while sitting in jail.

No tears spilled at this missed chance. There is still a better way to get at him, Huber figures, looking in the bookstore window again at the woman who now wipes an actual tear from her eye. Something familiar about her. Can’t figure it out. But there’s obviously a strong connection there for Jacobs. What lengths will he go to in order to save her? Huber wonders. Time to find out. He pats the knife in his pocket. This should be fun.