The Insider Threat (31 page)

J
acob walked through the lobby, his pants a little wet from the last trip, a product of having to clean off the blood. He scanned the chairs, but the mistress still had not returned.

He’d come back from killing Fart Boy—a ridiculously easy event, as it turned out—only to find her gone. He’d hoped that she would remain until after he was complete with all three, thereby giving him a shot at removing her as well, but it wasn’t to be.

He went back up the stairs for the third and final time, thinking about the mistress. The fact that she’d shown up to the hotel meant she was more persistent than he’d given her credit for. It also meant she’d be back, sitting and waiting. Eventually, she’d grow tired of anonymous stalking and would start asking questions. That could potentially derail their entire plan.

It wasn’t a given. The attack was close, and it would quite probably take her longer to even determine that something was wrong, then much longer to figure out what that was. Especially if the mistress had to wade through a foreign police department. It wasn’t like she’d call the wife, demanding answers. Or would she?

Such a conversation would be the only thing that would cause an immediate collapse of the card house they’d built. The church would become involved, the emails to parents dissected, a brief moment of confusion at the conflict between the mistress’s story and the mail, then the Vatican would be contacted with a demand to speak to Chris, the official chaperone on a once-in-a-lifetime visit to see the pope. If the Lost Boys showed up in that firestorm, pretending to be the group, they’d be arrested immediately.

Something to think about.

He exited the stairwell and refocused on the immediate mission. He reached the room and knocked. Devon answered, looking more sober than the last time Jacob had left. He stood back from the doorway and said, “Last guy’s fallen asleep. I let him. Got sick of keeping him happy.”

Jacob handed him the first two passports and said, “Start working on these. You have the passport photos for myself and Carlos, right?”

“Yeah. You know these have electronic chips in them, right? This isn’t like what I used to do on the block, ripping pictures for driver’s licenses.”

“I know, but we aren’t crossing any borders. Won’t matter. The only thing I’m worried about is the hologram. You used to be able to work through those on the DLs. It’s no different here.”

Devon shoved them in his pocket and said, “You want me to wake him up?”

“Not yet. He’s the last connection we have. You sure you’ve got all of their email addresses? You know how often they talk to their parents?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s all good. They’re set for today. Next contact is supposed to be tomorrow, after they get to Rome.”

Jacob nodded and leaned over, slapping the foot of the last victim. “Hey, you ready to go? It’s getting a little chilly outside. Everyone’s waiting on you.”

The boy sat up, confused for a moment, still a little tipsy, but nowhere near as drunk as he had been before, when he was cheering on Fart Boy.

He said, “I don’t think I want to go. You guys head out without me. I’m going to bed.”

He put his head back into the pillow and Jacob said, “No, no, no. It’s all for one and one for all. You’re going.”

“No, I’m not.”

Jacob jerked him off of the bed, one hand on his collar and another on the waist of his jeans. He slammed him into the wall and said, “Yes, you fucking are. Nobody’s riding this one out. I came all the way back here to get you. You didn’t want to go, you should have said so before I left last time.”

The boy cringed in confusion and fear, his sleep-and-alcohol-addled brain trying to gain traction. He said, “Okay, okay. Sorry. Sorry. I want to go.”

Jacob pushed him toward the door, nodding at Devon.

The boy opened it and said, “Isn’t he coming?”

“No. He’s tired.”

“What?”

Jacob pushed him out the door without an answer. They walked down the stairs in silence, the boy out of fear, Jacob because he was reflecting on the mistress and missed opportunities.

Had he been paying more attention, he would have caught the signs. Seen the suspicion building in the chubby teenager in front of him, along with a latent dose of courage. But he was thinking of bigger problems.

They reached the lobby, the boy pushing open the door leading to the alley. Jacob turned back, looking one last time for the mistress, failing to see his target watching him. Waiting. He caught a flash of sharp movement and whipped back around. He saw the door swinging back, empty.

He darted forward, catching a glimpse of the teenager lumbering down the flagstones in the alley, then turning the corner.
Jesus Christ. I’m worrying about the mistress and that little shit is going to destroy everything.

He broke open the door, sprinting to catch up and pulling out his cell phone. He hit speed dial, slipping on the stones as he rounded the corner. The boy was on a bridge, crossing a canal. Jacob took off again, running just to keep him in sight. Carlos answered, and, midstride, Jacob said, “Where are you? Have you docked?”

“No. I’m still coming in. What’s wrong? Why are you out of breath?”

Shit.

Jacob hung up, the use of his phone having caused him to lose distance. He increased his pace, seeing the target dart to the left into another alley. Jacob kept pushing, driving his legs, getting into the zone, like he did when he ran from the police. A blackout feeling where nothing existed but the stride and the escape.

Back then, he knew they would eventually quit if he could only keep them running. The fear then had been the speed of radio, and now the roles were reversed. He had no one to radio, and the kid had every incentive not to get caught.

But he was chubby. Out of shape. A fat altar boy. He probably hadn’t run more than a block in his life. Jacob could catch him.

Jacob rounded the corner and saw the boy leaning against a wall, gasping for air less than seventy meters away. The boy heard Jacob coming and began to run again, now a shambling trot. Jacob closed the distance to him just as he crossed another bridge, passing into a darkened square with a fountain in the center. For the first time, the kid remembered he had a voice. He stopped running and began shouting, screaming for help, the noise echoing off of the black stone. Jacob reached the far end of the bridge and saw a light flick on in an apartment overlooking the square.

The boy heard his footsteps, turned, and shrieked. Still running full-out, Jacob slammed him into the concrete of the fountain like a lineman sacking a quarterback. Stunned, the boy feebly fought for his life. Jacob saw another light come on and punched the boy in the face, then dragged him kicking into the shadows of the bridge. The boy kept struggling, releasing a keening wail over and over. Jacob wrapped his hands around the boy’s neck and slammed his head into the concrete corner of the first step of the bridge.

The initial blow shut the boy up. The second and third caused his head to crack open, warm blood flowing over Jacob’s hands and arms. The boy’s legs twitched, then grew still.

Jacob saw steps leading down into the water below the bridge and dragged the body out of sight, hearing murmuring from the windows above. He sat still, listening. He heard something
clank
, wood on wood, then a fragment of a song. He caught a light on the canal, coming his way.

Gondola.

He put his cell phone in his mouth and slipped into the water, dragging the body under the bridge. He waited, one hand holding on to a spike coming out of the rough exterior of the bridge, the other holding the arm of the body.

The gondola glided by, the gondolier serenading a couple wrapped in an embrace, both completely unaware of the grisly scene they were passing. When they were out of earshot, Jacob swam back to the steps, remaining out of sight of the window. He called Carlos.

“We’ve had an issue. I had to kill the last kid here, on the island.”

“You’re shitting me. What happened?”

“Not worth talking about. I’m in a canal right now. I think east of you, but definitely north of our hotel. Where are you?”

“At the dock. What do you want me to do?”

“Fucking come get me. We need to dump this guy, and you and Devon need to pack up for the train.”

“What do you mean? What about you?”

“There’s one more thing here that needs to be taken care of.”

O
mar threaded through an outdoor eatery in a courtyard just east of the hotel, still within the pedestrian area of Toptani. He was sweating profusely and walking with his hand in his jacket pocket, drawing curious glances from the patrons.

He went through one café and entered another, the only demarcation being different-colored umbrellas and chairs. He wanted to stay within the population, keeping to areas that would prevent the Israelis from hunting. He was sure they would value operational secrecy over brute force, but he was in a dilemma. He needed to get to the airport, and to do so, he’d have to leave the safety of numbers, walking the street looking for a cab. He knew there was a stand east, on the canal road, but it was a canalized route. He’d have to walk straight down the road, the canal to his right and the road to his left. All it would take would be a simple van riding parallel to him, three seconds of chaos, and he’d be theirs, either dead in the street or tied up in the back.

He should know. He’d done the exact same thing to innumerable innocent victims in the lucrative trade of hostage ransoms in Syria. Germans, Turks, Swedes, rich Iraqis and Syrians—he’d taken many men. Some had lived, and others had died, but all had been captured with simple tactical procedures that he knew well. Procedures that were tailor-made for his walk to the taxi stand.

He considered returning to his hotel room. He could do so fairly easily, threading through the bar area of the Block, getting in and out, but he was sure it had already been targeted, which was why he hadn’t gone there in the first place. Abandoning it wasn’t that big of a deal. Just a loss of clothes.

Then he remembered the computer, and the messages on it. Jacob had emailed him from Venice. He hadn’t responded, but the email was in the system nonetheless. The message was innocuous, stating Jacob was continuing on with the “project,” but nobody who searched that computer would mistake it for an email from a friend. If the Israelis had known to find him at his Albanian contacts, they’d already have ripped through his hotel. They’d have the email from Jacob, something Omar needed to cauterize immediately.

He decided to ignore the taxi stand, taking the risk of entering the streets of the Block. He threaded his way past the bars and pedestrians until he found an Internet café. He surveyed the street, seeing nothing suspicious, then walked down the stairs to the basement.

He paid for thirty minutes and sent a single email telling Jacob to abandon this method of communication. He knew that whatever he put in the email would be compromised, so he simply said they would never use this email again, and he’d see Jacob soon. He hoped Jacob had enough sense to understand it meant destroying anything that had touched that email address.

He left the café, hovering outside the exit and studying the street above the stairwell, wondering if he’d see a van pull up and men spilling out.

After a moment, he jogged up the stairs and hit the street on the run, hoping to throw whatever surveillance was against him into disarray. He drew curious glances, but no action. Nobody matched his pace, which meant they were either really good, or not there. He saw a taxi idling outside a bar and raced to it, ordering the cabbie to take him to the airport. He sagged in the backseat and ignored all attempts at conversation.

Twenty minutes later, he entered the airport, going to a ticket counter for Alitalia and looking at the next departures. He saw one for Istanbul in an hour, then one for Rome in two. He decided the risk of delay was worth it, and purchased a ticket to Rome with cash. Such an exchange would have raised flags in any country in the European Union or in the United States, but here in Tirana, they didn’t care. When asked for luggage, he said he had a carry-on. When informed they needed to place a tag on the carry-on, he said it was outside and he’d bring it in shortly.

The signals he was sending were beyond strange, but nobody questioned him, Tirana still operating in the Cold War of the 1980s. He counted out a stack of Euros and took his ticket, then traversed the small airport to the baggage claim area.

He approached the lost luggage counter, surreptitiously looking at the two customs officers lounging next to a small tourist kiosk. They ignored him.

He had no name or other contact info. All he had was the ticket, and he was sure he was walking into a trap. Could Israel co-opt the Albanian government? Get them to stage a sting operation? He was so paranoid at this point, he would believe anything. But he also had no choice. He put one hand in his jacket, caressing the grip of his pistol, and presented the ticket with the other. A hatchet-faced man behind the counter took it, read the numbers, and disappeared in the back. He was gone for five minutes, time Omar spent wiping the sweat from his neck and stealing glances at the uniformed police.

The curtain parted, and another man appeared. Omar closed his palm around the butt, putting his finger on the trigger, then saw the man also glance at the police officers, a good sign. He said, “You have luggage that needs to go somewhere else?”

Omar said, “Yes. Rome.” He showed his boarding pass. The man read it, looked at Omar, and said, “You have identification?”

“Not that you need to see.”

The man squinted, debating, then nodded. He said, “Okay. You pick it up in Rome. You call Alex when you get to Rome and retrieve the bags. He’d better pay this time.”

Omar said, “Of course. Alex is good for it.”

The man went to a computer and printed out three luggage tags. He slid across the tracking bar codes and Omar glanced back at the police again, seeing them engrossed in conversation. He pulled out the pistol, slid it between the pages of a newspaper, and said, “Pack this in as well.”

The man saw the pistol and showed alarm. Omar realized he had no idea what was in the luggage, probably thinking it was simply contraband. He withdrew a wad of Euros and counted out three one-hundred notes. He laid them on the table and the man quickly hid the newspaper. His eyes slid to the uniformed police and he said, “Okay, okay, but leave now.”

Omar did, walking back through the luggage area to the departure lounge. He got in line with everyone else waiting to pass through security, surprised at how easy his escape had been. His confidence grew. Maybe all the Israelis wanted was their bitch back.

Maybe nobody is tracking me after all.