Rise of the Order (2 page)

“I think so,” the man said, his voice wavering.

“Let's go,” Jake yelled. “We gotta move.”

Albrecht crawled out from under the table and Jake grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of the bar.

“What about those two?” Albrecht asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Out on the sidewalk now, the sirens getting closer, Jake said, “They're dead. Where's your car?”

Albrecht fumbled in his pockets and, his hands shaking, produced a set of Mercedes keys. Jake grabbed the keys and pressed the Open button, which flashed a set of lights and beeped open a silver Mercedes across the street.

They both ran and got in, Jake behind the wheel. Seconds later Jake crossed the Donau Canal, got onto a northbound road and drove along the east side of the canal. Slow and easy, Jake thought. Across the canal, two polizei cars, lights flashing, rushed toward the bar.

The black Skoda Fabia RS drove slowly along Vienna's Mariahilfer Stasse a couple of blocks from the West Bahnhof. The driver, a sturdy man whose shoulders extended beyond the bucket seat, wasn't worried about destination, but was more concerned with how to reach their eventual goal. His thick left hand grasped the steering wheel tightly as they rounded a corner, and then he shoved the stick into third. Noticing a piece of white on his leather sleeve, he casually brushed it away, before downshifting into second for another curve.

He glanced sideways at the man in the passenger seat, his old friend Rada Grago, his chin shoved out defiantly, the deep scar resembling a cleft. Grago's hair was longer than Miko had ever seen it; it was also dyed platinum now, and the man ran his fingers through the thick locks, a nervous habit. His Brother in the New Order had failed, true, but the mission had not been a complete failure. Maybe this was better, Miko thought. Now they could make that piece of shit grand master sweat like the swine he was; he'd be constantly looking over his shoulder, like a hockey defenseman waiting for a retaliatory strike after just checking a star player into the boards, ready to shit his pants with every auto backfire. Better to toy with the man.

“I'm sorry, Miko,” the passenger said in Czech. “I have failed.”

Miko Krupjak smiled at his old friend, snatched a radish from a plastic bag, and shoved it into his mouth, crunching down on the spicy vegetable. Miko had been waiting around the back of the bar, picked up Grago, and then drove off. Down the road a kilometer, Grago had wiped his prints and then thrown the shotgun into the Donau Canal.

“Grago. You killed two of the Grand Master's guards,” Miko said. “That's something. We'll get Albrecht.”

Grago waved his hand in front of his face. “How do you eat those?” He rolled down his window a few inches and continued. “The man he had met there,” Grago said. “He moved like a cat stalking a mouse. A second more and I would have been killed. This man was not like the two Brothers who normally protect the Grand Master.”

“An outsider?”

“A professional,” Grago said. “I'm sure of it.”

Grago knew one when he saw one, Miko thought. After all, his Brother had spent years working for the old Soviets in his native Prague. And during that time, Grago had himself gained the moniker “The Butcher of Prague.” True, part of this came from his daytime profession, his cover story, as an actual butcher. But his brutality had raised him to unofficial enforcer level with Czech Security Information Service (BIS). Unofficial, because the BIS was not supposed to be brutal like the old KGB had been during its glory days. Grago's transformation from his past to the Brotherhood had been gradual, yet he had taken to his vows of chastity and obedience with great enthusiasm. Poverty was no longer required of them, and that suited Miko and Grago just fine. They had seen enough of that in their youth.

Miko shook the bag of radishes toward Grago, but the passenger shook his head vehemently. “We'll move forward with the plan, Grago,” Miko said, taking another radish into his mouth. “What can one man do?” He let out a resounding fart.

Grago sighed and then laughed. “You eat those and then wonder why you have gas?” He opened his window and waved his hand.

The driver smiled and turned around a corner on his random path to nowhere.

●

A few miles away in the silver Mercedes, Jake drove around the outer edge of Schonbrunn Palace. Lights lit up at the yellow structure that occupied more than five square blocks. When he reached the western edge, he turned south on a small road and pulled over to the curb. Across the street was a tall wall, the other side of which lay the expansive gardens of the palace. The rain had slowed some, but the streets were still slick.

Jake put the car in park and shut down the engine. Then he turned to the passenger and owner of the car and said, “What was that all about?”

“I told you. . .we are under attack,” Albrecht said, his breathing somewhat calmer, but the shock still hanging onto his face, an ashen mask of disbelief.

If he had no wrinkles before, he soon would, Jake thought. “Did you know the shooter?” he asked.

Albrecht shook his head. “How would I know a murderer?”

“What about the two men at the bar? When you entered you didn't even look at them. And they had barely touched their beers.”

The Grand Master was about to speak, but he hesitated, as if looking for the right words. When the words finally came he said, “They were Brothers of the Order.”

“Worked for you?”

“Yes.”

“They were tactically flawed,” Jake said, somewhat callously.

“They're dead,” Albrecht said. “Trying to protect me.”

“They should have split up and selected a spot on the end of the bar with a full view of the room,” Jake said. “Then when I came in they wouldn't have to try to catch a look in the mirror. And if anything went down, which it did, they would have been protected from the bar. At least long enough to pull their weapons. Plus, they kept their jackets on. A dead giveaway they were carrying weapons.”

“They were Brothers, Mr. Adams. Former Austrian Army.”

Part of Jake wanted to drive back and pick up his car, find a hotel for the night, and then drive back to Innsbruck in the morning. The other part, the part that hated being shot at under any circumstances, wanted to hunt down the shooter, cut off his balls, and use them for salt and pepper shakers.

“All right,” Jake said, “what now?”

Albrecht looked confused. “I thought you would know what to do next.”

It wasn't like Jake had never been in a situation like this before. Yet, most of the time he was on the hunt, not the hunted. He preferred it that way. “First we need to find a place to hide you,” Jake said. “Then you hand over everything you know.” Hiding him would be fairly easy, but keeping him in place without Jake babysitting would be another matter. He sure as hell couldn't play nurse-mate while he sought the guy who had tried to kill Albrecht. He also had a feeling the local Polizei would be a problem, looking into the death of Albrecht's two men.

Albrecht shook his head. “I can't run and hide. What kind of signal would that send?”

“A better signal than your murder,” Jake assured him.

“Good point.” The Grand Master thought and then added, “I have a place in Kitzbuhel. I could go skiing.”

“No. They'll know about it.”

“Then where? Christmas is in two weeks. I have events I must attend.”

“Listen. Someone's trying to kill you. If you go about like business as usual, you could not only endanger yourself but those around you.”

Albrecht must have been thinking about his two dead Brothers when he slowly nodded his head in agreement.

“Great.”

●

Across town at the Donau Bar, police cars had cordoned off the street for two blocks. Sitting behind the wheel of his unmarked dark green Polizei Mercedes, Kriminal Hauptkommisar Franz Martini adjusted the intermittent wipers to clear the freezing rain. Martini had taken over his new job six weeks ago, coming from his native Tirol. At times like this he wished he was still in Innsbruck, where they would be getting snow at this time. Snow he could deal with. But this?

At his age, early fifties, Martini knew this could be his last post before retirement. A retirement that could come early if murders like this continued in Vienna. He glanced up at himself in the rearview mirror. His once dark hair was now entirely gray and thinning. His normal mustache was replaced by a narrow goatee, and even that was almost entirely gray, covering a strong jaw with a hint now of a double chin.

The passenger door opened and Martini's assistant, Jack Donicht, slid onto the leather seat and slammed the door behind him. Donicht had followed Martini from Innsbruck. The two of them had worked together for twenty years.

“Looking for dark hairs?” Donicht asked, a smile barely revealing his imperfect teeth.

“Smart ass. I hear Schmidt in Linz is looking for someone with your qualifications.”

“Schmidt? My God. He eats small children, I hear.”

“Just a rumor,” Martini said. “What do you think?” He raised his chin toward the front of the bar.

“Forensics just finished collecting. They're bagging the bodies now,” Donicht said. “The man in the back had his throat slit. He was the bartender. The two in the front were both killed with a shotgun. We've pulled some lead out of the front door and the wall behind the dead men. Looks like they died instantly. Didn't get a chance to pull their guns.”

Martini thought for a moment. He had checked out their guns. Both carried identical Glocks in .40 caliber. “Why were they carrying weapons?”

Donicht shrugged. “Looks like they needed them, but didn't get a chance to use them.”

“They're not law enforcement,” Martini said. “Not intel types. Both from Vienna.”

“I doubt they're Russian Mafia, then.”

“Exactly. Private security?”

Donicht wrote the words in his notebook. “I'll check it out, Franz.”

Something was bothering Martini. The bartender. “Why kill the bartender with a knife?”

Donicht looked at his notebook. “I had a question about that as well.”

Think, Franz. The bartender is killed in the back room. “What if the two men out front were not the target,” Martini said. “Private security. The two men had to be guarding someone. Maybe that person got away. Maybe he was the target.”

“Good point,” Donicht said, his pen writing that down. “That would explain the six nine millimeter shell casings we found on the other side of the bar.” Donicht smiled broadly.

“You're getting to be a real pain in the ass in your old age.”

“That's why you keep me around,” Donicht said. “And I'm six months younger than you.”

Martini watched the first body come out on a stretcher, the medical personnel trying their best to keep their footing on the icy cobblestones. When the man in front slipped and fell, his weight overturned the stretcher, which brought down the man in the back and sent the bagged body sliding onto the slick sidewalk. The two medical men flopped around on the sidewalk like fish out of water.

“You see that?” Donicht said, laughter in his voice.

“A couple of comedians. Go help them.”

Without saying a word, Martini's assistant shoved on his leather gloves, got out of the car, and scurried onto the sidewalk. Martini thought about Innsbruck again. Maybe he should have stayed there. He didn't need this promotion any more than he needed prostate cancer, which had been diagnosed in him only two days ago. He still needed to schedule surgery. Now that would have to wait. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes he had bought earlier that evening. No need to worry about his lungs when his prostate was the problem. Lighting his first cigarette in a year, Martini took in a deep breath, held it for full effect, and then slowly exhaled a stream of smoke.

●

Two blocks away in a charcoal Audi A6, Kurt Lamar gazed out into the darkness at the scene through night vision goggles. When the two ambulance personnel slipped on the ice, he couldn't help but laugh. He put down the NVGs and clicked onto his laptop computer, which was hitched up to his cell phone. He had run all of the license plates of cars from three blocks away in all directions and had been waiting for response on the owners.

Quickly glancing down the names and addresses, his eyes stopped suddenly when he read one; Jake Adams, Innsbruck, Austria.

“My God,” he said aloud to himself.

He quickly disconnected the phone from the computer and punched in a number.

“Toni?” No answer.

“Yes.” A soft woman's voice, somewhat put off.

“I'm at the scene. Ran the license numbers and got one hit.”

“Yeah?”

“A VW Golf TDI.” He paused, wondering if he should continue. Finally, he said, “Registered in Innsbruck, Austria to Jake Adams.”

When the long silence came, Kurt expected it. He didn't think it would last a full minute, though.

“Jake is involved?” she said tentatively.

“Hey, he has a way of finding trouble,” Kurt told her, something she already knew. “Does he know I'm working here?”

She let out a deep breath. “I haven't talked with him in six months. He doesn't even know I'm working here.”

Kurt had heard the story of how she had come back from an assignment to the Middle East and found Jake with another woman.

“Is it the Chinese woman?” Kurt asked her. “Remember, though, you left him.”

“I had an assignment I had to take.” Her voice was strained now.

Kurt knew some of that. Her Arabic language skills had made her nearly indispensable with her undercover work in Syria and other countries that even he was not aware of, nor would he ever fully know about. That was the nature of the beast.

“But you can't blame him for moving on,” Kurt said. “Did you talk to him in person?”