Aboard Austrian Air flight 87 bound for JFK, Jake has plenty of time to think. And plenty of room. Have to get kicked out of countries more often, he thinks. Got an upgrade to business on the red-eye. Keep the jokes coming, he tells himself. Blot out the loss of her.
He pulls out Daniel’s cell, been saving it for down time. Sets it next to the bourbon he ordered. First drink in days. Too lost in emotion while still in Vienna to attempt focus. Half-expected Tania to show up at Schwechat at the last minute. A movie ending, her racing down the long hallway to the departure lounge, reaching him just before he boards. A long embrace, shared promises of being together forever.
But, no. He actually looked over his shoulder as he entered the gangway. Nada.
So now focus, asshole. And to do that, he takes out his own phone, scrolls the contact list until he comes to Tania Palacek, her married name. Can’t even remember her maiden name. Not that kind of affair, obviously.
Already creating a new history, making it a small, tawdry thing from decades ago.
He’s researched the married name, Palacek. From the Czech, diminutive for ‘thumb.’ So, a nickname for a small person or someone with a damaged or missing thumb. Wants to remember her that way. A distortion. An aberration. Needs to erase her from his mind. Goes to ‘Edit,’ scrolls to the bottom and is about to click on ‘Delete Contact.’ Symbolic, maybe, but he needs her out of his life. As she wants him out of hers. Close down that painful pulsing passion. Done. Finished. Then he holds back. Plenty of time to do that, he tells himself.
Takes a sip of the whiskey instead, powers up Huber’s phone. And is faced with a passcode to enter, having failed the face ID. He’s got the night to figure it out. Ten failures, he knows from setting up his own cell. Phone gets erased after the tenth failed attempt. If Huber selected that option when setting it up. And why wouldn’t he? Only an idiot doesn’t, and especially someone up to his eyeballs in murder.
Stop questioning and get with it, Jake tells himself.
He needs a project. Get his mind off Tania—permanently off.
It’s a four-digit code, so forget the obvious: Carlo. That takes five numbers. If he knows his man, the passcode is a word converted from letters to numbers using the phone keys. Second obvious: 7364, RENI.
Nope.
Defining words. ALPS. Nope.
KILL. Huh-uh.
FLAK. Hell no.
WIEN. Shit.
DANI. Screen goes black.
Well fuck me. Then he remembers this is just for one minute. Gives him some time to get it together again.
But no love with the old favorite ‘1234’ once the screen comes on again. Five minutes of black screen this time, and then a Bronx cheer for CODE. Which puts him on ice for fifteen more minutes.
Enough time to finish his bourbon and wave the stewardess down for another before things get all cozy onboard with lights out for nigh-nigh time.
Mess up on number nine and I’ll have an hour to think about it, he knows. And then number ten? Most likely sayonora baby.
He doesn’t want to have to get to ten. Think. Be creative. Outside the box.
A newish phone. Huber did not seem the type to have much splurge money, ergo, it must be connected to Reckoning. Which takes him back to the beginning, origins. Carlo. The putative father. But still no confirmation that Carlo is actually the one responsible for Reckoning. Or the magister ludi. The puppet master. The fourth mole covering his tracks.
Conjecture. Connecting the dots. Intuition. Gut. So not something Jake wants to risk do-or-die number ten on.
Ergo, use the name Carlo for number nine.
Inspiration hits. Yes, five letters, but only four spaces. So, he taps the number 2, which stands for both C and A. Then ‘7-5-6.’
Bingo! Phone opens to a selfie of Daniel Huber in full military gear, hugging a sniper rifle.
Sweet.
Opens the email first. And holy shit. A motherload. Dozens of communications in the in-box, plain text, bold-faced head: Carlo. The most recent from five days ago. Day he kidnapped Tania. All from a Gmail account.
He makes himself hold off on the most recent, scrolls down through dozens of earlier emails until he comes to the first one on the phone. From Carlo at a Gmail account almost six months ago.
“I am happy to hear you received the phone I sent. I hope that will make it easier for us to get to know one another. I want to make up for the missed years. I want to claim you as my son at long last. And I want to ask for your forgiveness.”
He reads through five or six such emails—buttering the boy up. Getting all fatherly and cloying. Jake checks the ‘Sent’ list, reads some of Huber’s replies. Monosyllabic, limited to a “thank you” or “And I missed having a father.” Pathetic little moans of pain, not because Huber’s English was limited. Jake senses strong emotion behind such cautious replies. As if Huber was afraid to open up too much, too soon.
And then a month into what is mostly a one-way communication, Carlo pulls the trigger.
“I need to tell you about your mother. I miss her so much. As you do, I am sure. And she was taken from us both. Cruelly killed. Left dying on the steps of a church. Those responsible must be made to pay. Will you join me in this project?”
And hey-howdie, now Carlo gets a real response:
“I will join forces with you. I will make them pay. Every one of them. I have been trained to kill. Give me orders!”
“Sorry sir.” Stewardess standing over him, a pained smile on her face. “Time for the cabin lights to go out.”
“Yeah, no problem.” A hand quickly covering the screen. “I’ll just use the reading light.”
“Thank you, sir. Should I take your glass?”
“Not if the bar’s still open.”
Which brings an actual smile. “Well, it’s a bit late, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Only if it’s not a problem.” Playing the gent. He’s enjoying this. Feels a mutual attraction. Tells himself that it’s going to be easy getting Tania out of his head.
She takes the glass. “In that case, thanks for being considerate. Sleep well.” And she’s sashaying her way down the aisle. Last call missed.
So much for mutual attraction. Old dog, Jacobs. Just get women in general out of your head.
Returns focus to Huber’s phone. Jumps to the most recent emails:
“I am happy to hear your ordeal on the mountain is over. I would advise keeping a watch at a certain bookstore in the Inner City. Bookshop Zentrum. It is operated by a woman Jacobs had an affair with when posted in Vienna. He may be renewing that relationship.”
Son of a bitch, he thinks. How the hell did Armitage know about Tania? But then, very little ever gets past Armitage. During his time in the Agency, he was famous for keeping an eye on anybody that might offer competition. Always looking for something to hold over potential rivals.
Jake spends another hour scrolling through earlier emails until he finds the one he’s looking for.
“I have selected our first perpetrator. He is the most important for you, the one who pulled the trigger. A fine start. I list his contact information below. Will Sanderson. Some call him ‘Sandy.’ I repeat, he killed your mother. Shot her like an animal. Did not give her a chance. I leave the punishment to you. Death, of course. But how you get there is up to you. Good hunting, my son.”
And now Jake clicks out of the phone. Enough for tonight.
He feels light-headed after reading he last email. No doubt now. Carlo is the puppet master. And Carlo has to be Armitage. He was the one who put the 1988 op in motion. He chose the team. He ordered the hit on Reni. The op to lift Vosenko was all bullshit, simply a ruse to kill her. It makes sense now, Helen’s telephone conversation that Tania overheard all those years ago. Telling the person on the other end that Reni was a double, playing both sides. That she needed to be dealt with. Called Reni a traitor. And Tania assumed Helen was talking to a man: “Think it was a man. Just the way she was talking, like running uphill. Not an equal. Women recognize that sort of thing.”
Armitage. Had to be him. Huber’s father. And he gave the hit to Sanderson. So, my theory that Sanderson was tortured to make him give up Driscoll’s name is bullshit, Jake figures. He was tortured for pleasure, for pure revenge. To make him scream for his own death. Armitage basically ordered Huber to make it a painful death. And sitting in that car that night in 1988, Sanderson going on and on about how stupid the op was. How it was dinosaur time. Like he wanted no part in it.
Already creating his own alibi in case things went wrong. Later they would say no way he was the shooter—look how he tried his best to stop it.
All theater. In fact, the op went exactly according to plan. Vosenko was never the target. It was Reni the double agent; she was meant to die. And his own career went south because of the op.
A yawn. Sleepy, but mind still clear. A further thought. Maybe Armitage wanted Reni eliminated for another reason. Armitage recruited her and now it seems clear he also impregnated her. Was she blackmailing him to get the gig as an operative? Holding paternity over him? Was that why he wanted her dead? Or was it something even bigger? To cover up him being a mole for the Sovs. After all, if Reni was working both sides, maybe she got wind of a mole called Carlo.
Plenty of possible reasons Armitage wanted Reni dead. And now Armitage wants to get rid of all the people involved in that op.
Or is Reckoning pure horseshit? Not about Reni at all, but Armitage’s op to cover up his own past. I’m researching the whole fourth mole angle, he thinks, and Sandy was making calls to all the wrong folks, picking at that same scab. So, Armitage weaponizes his own son to clean up his mess, cover up his past. Convinces him it is about payback for his mother’s death, but it is actually designed to get rid of those who might be able to finger him as a Soviet mole. Including Vosenko, who actually did pick up office chit-chat about a mole called Carlo.
Driscoll? Still collateral damage to make the revenge plot look real, like adding his own name, Armitage, to the list. He feels a sudden chill as this final piece of the puzzle fits into place. Armitage used Huber as his killer. But now that Huber is dead, what will Armitage do? More cleaning up? Who is left besides me? he wonders. Helen. That’s a possibility. She’s definitely on the track of the fourth mole, too. Need to warn her, but airplane mode is on until they land at JFK.
And then another thought, one that puts a dent in the tidy puzzle he’s put together.
Why the hell did Huber leave all these emails on his phone? Pure carelessness? An insurance policy of sort to show it wasn’t his idea to begin with? Or hubris that he would never get caught, or nobody could crack his four-digit key?
And how could a finicky, meticulous prick like Armitage ever let him keep such emails?
Exhaustion suddenly overcomes Jake, but before turning out the reading lamp and putting a blanket on, he tells himself he’s going to have to go through every damn one of these emails to see if Armitage warned Huber to delete them after reading. And top of the agenda after landing—warn Helen and then get the hell to Armitage’s house and confront the bastard.