The Bergamese Sect (14 page)

Matt turned away, a lump of stunned terror in his dry throat.

Chapter 9

Jeff Lewis threw his sandwich onto the dashboard and fumbled with the map, unable to fold it up again. Annoyed, he stuffed it between his feet and trampled it flat.

‘
Keep on this road for another thirty miles,’ he said to the man driving.

Lewis sat in an old Seat as it raced through farmland south of Warsaw. He was in his early thirties, but looked much older. A scant figure, he was tall with jet-black hair, his features conveying an overwhelming sense of purpose. Those who knew him, and there were few, relished the remarkable ease with which he performed his duties, the unbelievable cool he displayed in difficult situations. He was a professional, and people could tell.

Next to him sat Steve Linsky, intent on the narrow road ahead of them. A few years Lewis’ junior, Linsky was almost a rookie, but had the most valuable asset a partner could ask for – reliability.

The battered car was straining under Linsky’s foot as he steered it clear of the dangerous ruts lining the grassy edge of the road. The evening was growing rapidly dark and the road was almost deserted. A few farm trucks were scurrying between market towns and the odd cyclist glared at them as they swept past at a hundred miles an hour. They were in a hurry.

Lewis reached over to the back seat and grabbed an aluminium briefcase. Hauling it over the driver’s shoulder, he dropped it into his lap, fiddled with the combination lock and snapped the lid open. Inside, foam compartments held various devices, the largest a small tablet computer nestling in the lid of the case. Lewis tapped it gently and the touchscreen flickered into life. From the case, he took out a flexible plastic semicircle, placed it over his skull and positioned the tiny earpiece and microphone by the side of his head. He plugged the headset into the tablet device and keyed in a sequence of numbers. The screen began reporting on the progress of his call. A few seconds went by.

‘
Dougherty’s,’ a woman’s voice said in his ear. ‘How can I help?’

‘
Yeah,’ replied Lewis casually. ‘Can I get a pepperoni with extra cheese, an’ do you do raspberry Jell-O?’

‘
Sure,’ the woman said cheerily, ‘can I get your name and address?’

‘
Yeah, Adams. It’s 4221A, East 13th Street, just past 21st.’

‘
Okay, that’s one pepperoni, extra cheese and a raspberry Jell-O. Be about twenty minutes?’

‘
Sure.’

The line went dead, but Lewis stayed connected. The woman was busy routing his call through a secure link. She had no idea where the call was heading, where it had come from, or who was making the call. She just checked off the meaning of the order, deciphering the fake address, and patched his call through to the number on the screen in front of her.

Normally, Lewis wouldn’t risk the exposure of unscheduled communication, but things had got out of hand, and they’d been in Poland less than two days. He needed some assurances. Not decisions – he was more than capable of deciding which course of action to take – just some simple assurances.

He waited a moment. The device was conversing with security gateways at the other end, setting up encryption schemes. Several clicks and pings told him the link had been made.

‘
Confirm ID,’ a man said.

Lewis recognised Petersen’s voice. He sounded tired. ‘Gallipoli,’ Lewis responded. He tapped an icon on the tablet so Linsky could hear the conversation.

‘
What can we do for you?’

‘
We have a problem here,’ Lewis said calmly. ‘A big problem.’

There was silence on the other end of the line. Lewis could almost see Petersen’s angular frown creasing his face, the overworked man rubbing the sting from his eyes.

‘
What sort of problem, Gallipoli?’

‘
Someone else is after the target,’ Lewis responded, looking over at Linsky. A faint smile flashed between them as they waited for the response from Petersen. They knew him well and enjoyed his lack of emotion.

‘
Who? You mean someone within the NSA?’

‘
No,’ Lewis answered, ‘I don’t know. I doubt it.’

‘
Hold on a minute, Gallipoli.’

The line went silent again. Linsky glanced over at Lewis, raising his eyebrows, wondering what Petersen was up to. The distraction caused the car to veer slightly and a wheel hit the rim of a rut. A crunching noise shook through the vehicle. Linsky adjusted the steering and mouthed an apology.

‘
Lewis?’ came a voice. It was Walsh, foolishly using his agent’s real name.

‘
Yeah.’

‘
What’s happened?’

‘
The target has been attacked.’

‘
Attacked? You were there to observe,’ the Assistant Director exclaimed.

Walsh appeared critical by his bad choice of words. The two agents looked at each other again. A glance between them said everything; Walsh should have known better.

‘
Not by us,’ Lewis went on, keeping his irritation hidden.

‘
What do you mean?’

‘
We were watching discreetly. Another group turned up and began shooting.’

There was silence again at the end of the line. Walsh was waiting for more explanation but Lewis had none. ‘Was the target hit?’

‘
No, but they could easily have killed them all.’

‘
But they didn’t?’

‘
No, they left the target unharmed, although they killed one of the accomplices. Two of the attackers were killed in the exchange, but the target was allowed to escape. It suggests they want the target alive.’

Another silence, this time as Walsh considered the situation. ‘Were you compromised?’

‘
Yes,’ Lewis admitted. ‘In fact, we also came under fire once the target had escaped.’

‘
How did they know you were there?’

Lewis and Linsky glanced at each other again, the corners of their mouths upturned. Again, Walsh wasn’t chastising them – he just sounded like it. The Assistant Director didn’t like what they were telling him.

‘
I don’t know,’ Lewis went on. ‘We were perfectly concealed. But they knew we were there, that’s for sure. Have you got other operatives out here? I think we should know.’

‘
No, there’s no one else on the case.’ Walsh’s answer was immediate.

‘
Then who the hell are these guys?’

‘
I’m not sure. What are their motives?’

‘
Can’t tell. They’re certainly keen to dispose of the accomplices, but they want the target alive, same as us.’

‘
I see. Could you identify any of them, or give me something to go on?’

‘
No, we didn’t have time; we took off quickly. Didn’t get anything that might help trace them.’ Lewis questioned Linsky with a quick glance but the driver shook his head with nothing to add. The two men waited. Walsh could be heard talking with Petersen in a muffled tone. The length of the pause was beginning to unnerve Lewis; then Walsh was back on the line.

‘
Okay, we’ll send in a team to look the scene over. If we find anything we’ll let you know.’

‘
And what do we do in the meantime?’ Lewis asked.

‘
Are you still tracking the target?’

‘
Yes.’

‘
Have you got a spike on them yet?’

‘
No.’

‘
Then just keep on top of them.’

‘
And what about these other guys?’

‘
Just keep your heads down. We’ll get a fix on them and advise later. Whatever you do, don’t lose the target. Protect them if they’re attacked again. And don’t take orders from anyone else, and I mean
anyone
. I need to check this out. If you can’t get hold of me, assume your orders haven’t changed. I’ll be in touch.’

The line went dead and Lewis powered down the tablet. He folded the communications case away and threw it on the back seat.

‘
Walsh sounded confused,’ Linsky said.

‘
So am I. Let’s just catch that train, Steve,’ Lewis said whilst picking the map up from between his feet.

―
§ ―

On the eighth floor of the Masheder Building, Walsh was not in a good mood. He stormed away from the console where he’d been talking with Lewis, tapped Petersen on the shoulder as he passed, and said ‘my office’ as he disappeared through the door.

Petersen sighed gently and rose from the desk. He could tell he wouldn’t be going home at five today, but then, he never did.

In his office, Walsh took his chair, clasped his hands over his stomach and stared at the ceiling, blowing through his lips as he thought. Petersen waited.

‘
Hell!’ Walsh said at last. ‘What’s going on, Petersen? Who’s after the target?’

Petersen was at a loss. ‘Who else knows about the target’s importance?’ he said.

‘
No one,’ the Assistant Director replied, gently brushing the side of his face and leaning precariously in his chair. He looked uncharacteristically worried.

‘
And Sebastian? Are there any other agencies involved?’

Walsh shook his head slightly and pulled the corners of his mouth up in an expression of confusion. And frustration. ‘First, let’s get a team in there to take a look. Do we have anyone close by?’

‘
Sure, Ridley and Zukav are in Berlin. I could send them over pretty quickly.’

‘
Did Lewis give the location?’

‘
Yes. Yesterday. Hopefully, there won’t be much contamination from the local police. What should they be looking for?’

‘
We need to know who these other operatives are. They’re obviously tracking the target, same as Lewis, but so far, they’ve been shooting at everyone. Tell Ridley to gather anything that could give us a clue to their identity.’ Walsh paused for a moment. ‘By the way, did we get the reports from London yet? What happened exactly?’

‘
I’m still waiting for Cox to call back. He gave me a brief synopsis. The target was identified about ten minutes after the email went through. We liaised with Andrews to track his location. Luckily, he wasn’t far away and they managed to catch up with him in the street. That’s when the subversives came in. The girl killed Andrews and his partner and then took off with the target. He’s with the girl and two other men.’

‘
Andrews took out one of the subversives, didn’t he?’

‘
No, we’ve just established his weapon hadn’t been discharged. Nor his partner’s. Though there was a fatality.’

Walsh leant forward slightly, a frown on his face, clearly confused. ‘What are you saying?’

‘
One of the subversives was killed, but not by our men.’

Walsh’s face was turning white, an expression of shock freezing it into alabaster. He struggled for words. ‘Shit! Are you sure?’

Petersen just raised his eyebrows.

‘
This is worse than I thought,’ Walsh said. ‘They’ve been in it from the start.’

Petersen watched as a twinge of uncertainty spread across Walsh’s face. Suddenly, the Assistant Director thumped his forearms down on the desk.

‘
Right, here’s what I want you to do,’ he said excitedly. ‘Delve into the computer systems. Pull up anything, and I mean
anything
, that looks suspicious. No, on second thoughts, forget suspicious. Pull up everything. I want to see who has accessed any information that could have a bearing, however remote, on this case. I want statistics on accesses, downloads, uploads, anything at all. Someone’s got to that information that shouldn’t have.’

Petersen moved uncomfortably. His cheeks were turning an unhealthy pink. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘there’s no one can get to that information that shouldn’t.’

‘
Sure,’ Walsh said, ‘I realise that. I mean someone is using that information for purposes other than our own. Just take a look – see what you can come up with. Data on Sebastian and his target shouldn’t exist outside this building, and I want to know how it got out, and if possible, who got hold of it.’

Petersen was reassured that his professionalism wasn’t being questioned. He waited a moment before Walsh’s silence prompted him to rise. He left the Assistant Director leaning in his chair again and closed the door behind him.

Walking back down the corridor to the operations room, he grabbed a disposable cup of cooled water, and rubbed his tired eyes. It was going to be another long night.

―
§ ―

It was a bright morning, the sun already high in the sky, with no trace of cloud above the haze that covered the city. Walsh felt the early sun on his face. It refreshed him. The few hours’ sleep he’d grabbed had been troubled. He’d risen early and headed onto the freeway before the traffic started.

Parking discreetly by the curb, just past the entrance to Arlington National Cemetery, he headed up a path that passed a line of green poplars. Apart from a small coven of crows fighting noisily among the graves, the cemetery was deserted.

Beyond the trees, he turned onto the grass, still damp with dew, and strolled between two long rows of crosses. He stopped at a grave marked with the insignia of the Marine Corps. A long number was engraved on the cold white stone above the name of a soldier killed in Vietnam – Lieutenant Arthur Walsh.

Walsh thought of himself as a lucky man. He’d had a father he could be proud of. His service record said nothing of distinction, just a clean and healthy list of assignments and postings in which his father had performed his duty. And that’s what Walsh was proud of – he’d always done his duty. Not once had Arthur Walsh questioned the justice of what was required of him. The soldier’s son admired that supreme gift.