Countdown to Midnight

Eight

The district around Israel’s embassy was a mix of mostly nineteenth- and twentieth-century structures. Some were elegant homes in brick or stucco or stone, now usually broken up into separate flats and business offices. Others were plainer, slab-sided concrete apartment blocks, though even these were often lined by open-air balconies whose window boxes, in the summer months, would be awash in bright flowers. Most of these buildings backed onto yards full of trees and gardens — currently bare-limbed and dormant under gray winter skies.

Several streets over from the embassy, a four-story-high Art Nouveau building was under extensive renovation. Scaffolding and debris netting obscured its ornate exterior. The original owners had run out of money halfway through the project, leaving the partially gutted structure to fester for several months as an eyesore in the neighborhood. Spray-painted graffiti — a mix of art and obscenity — covered a wood fence erected around its ground floor. Then, about a week ago, new owners had bought the building, apparently with the intention of finishing the long-delayed renovation effort. So far, however, the only sign of any new work was a dusty blue electrician’s van parked along the curb just outside the construction fence.

Inside the back of the windowless van, Viktor Skoblin rubbed at his bleary eyes. Then he took another long drag of his cigarette. Irritably, he stubbed it out on a workbench that ran the length of the compartment, adding another scorch mark to the dozens already scattered across its rough surface. Maintaining around-the-clock surveillance on the Israelis with his team’s limited manpower meant twelve-hour shifts for everyone.

He scowled. At least the men he’d assigned as outside watchers were able to move around. In fact, it was vital. Periodic changes of clothing, position, and even vehicles were necessary to make it harder for those in the embassy to figure out they were being spied on. Unfortunately, the same relative freedom didn’t apply to him. As the Raven Syndicate’s senior operative in Vienna, it was his task to coordinate the whole operation. And only the radios and computer gear crammed into the back of the van made that possible.

With a grunt, Skoblin squirmed around in his chair, making yet another futile effort to make himself more comfortable in the cheap folding seat. For a man of his large build and overall size, being forced to spend hours locked inside this cramped vehicle felt like some new form of torture.

Abruptly, the voice of one of his watchers crackled through his headset. “Roter Kurier zum Versand. Red Courier to Dispatch.”

Skoblin keyed his mike. “Dispatch here. Go ahead, Red Courier.” Although their transmissions were automatically encrypted and sent over little-used frequencies, they stuck to German. There was no point in risking anyone overhearing a barrage of Russian-language radio calls over the airwaves of Austria’s capital city.

“I’ve got a new delivery just arriving,” the watcher reported. “It could be a hot item. Do you want the specifications?”

The big man tapped a key on his laptop, bringing up a street map on the screen. Icons showed the assigned positions of every Raven Syndicate agent currently on surveillance duty around the Israeli embassy. And right now, the former GRU captain tagged as Red Courier for this shift should have an excellent view along the street out in front of the embassy building. “Copy that, Red Courier,” he radioed.

“On the way,” the other man replied tersely.

A new window opened on Skoblin’s laptop. Immediately, the zoomed-in cellphone video uploaded by his underling started playing. Though slightly jerky, it was still clear enough to make out details. He watched closely as a sky-blue sedan, a Skoda Octavia, drove up and parked directly across from the embassy’s front door. That was a spot reserved for important and expected visitors.

He tugged at his chin. By itself, the car make meant nothing. The Czech-manufactured Octavia was one of the bestselling automobiles in Austria, with thousands on Vienna’s crowded streets at any one time. On the other hand, he thought, it was just the sort of unobtrusive vehicle he’d have chosen himself if he wanted to avoid drawing unwelcome attention. In contrast, the genuine diplomats assigned to the embassy seemed to favor more expensive, more conspicuous BMWs, Audis, and Mercedes.

On the screen, a fit-looking man emerged from the car and walked across the street to the embassy. He flashed an ID to the guard on duty there and went straight in.

Skoblin froze the thirty-second video, ran it backward, and then watched it intently a second time. Somehow, this new visitor didn’t strike him as being just an ordinary diplomat or a businessman, and he was definitely not a tourist. His movements were too careful, too precise… too controlled—as though he were completely aware of his surroundings at all times. In the Russian’s experience that was the mark of a soldier, especially one with experience operating deep in hostile territory.

No, he thought darkly, something about this man rang a very loud bell in his subconscious. An alarm bell.

Quickly, Skoblin copied individual frames from the cellphone video into a separate folder — selecting only images that clearly showed the newcomer’s face. Once that was done, he fed them into a special facial recognition program supplied by the Raven Syndicate’s computer specialists. Several seconds passed while this program compared his chosen images pixel by pixel with the photographs he’d snapped just before shooting Arif Khavari.

They matched.

A cruel, satisfied smile settled on the ex — Spetsnaz officer’s wide face. “Finally,” he growled. His thick fingers pounded across the laptop’s keyboard as he rapidly composed a short, coded alert message to Moscow: PRIMARY TARGET SPOTTED. WILL ENGAGE AND DESTROY AT FIRST AVAILABLE OPPORTUNITY.

Nick Flynn sat down across from Lieutenant Colonel Dov Tamir. Although he wore civilian clothes at the moment, the blunt-featured IDF officer’s past service in Israel’s elite parachute unit was readily apparent. The walls of his small, but well furnished office were covered with photographs showing Tamir and others in the maroon berets, red-brown boots, and winged snake shoulder flashes of the Paratroopers Brigade.

The Israeli looked up from the passport and other documents Flynn had offered to confirm his identity. They named him as Jonathan Schmidt, an international business consultant. That was the same legend, or cover, he’d used during the aborted rendezvous with Khavari.

“These are nice work, Mr…. Schmidt,” Tamir said dryly, sliding the papers back across his desk. “Very convincing. Your document specialists in Washington are quite skilled.”

“Thanks,” Flynn acknowledged with a wry smile of his own. He slid the false passport and other materials back into his jacket. He knew that Gideon Ayish had told his old friend that he was actually an operative for an unnamed “friendly outfit.” Plainly, Tamir assumed that meant he was working either for the CIA or one of the Pentagon’s own intelligence organizations, like the Defense Intelligence Agency. But he also knew the Israeli lieutenant colonel wouldn’t push any harder on the subject, since Ayish’s message introducing Flynn had emphasized the need for absolute discretion.

“So, then. I understand from our mutual friend that you have a story to tell me?” Tamir said quietly.

Flynn nodded. “Yep, that I do.” He lowered his own voice slightly. “Now, while we haven’t been able to pin down more details yet, we still learned something from Arif Khavari that we think your country needs to know. And pronto.”

“Go on,” Tamir said tightly. The fact that he didn’t ask who Khavari was spoke volumes. Clearly, the Israelis had already connected the surveillance op against their embassy to the Iranian’s death.

Clearly and coherently, Flynn walked through exactly what he’d been told by Khavari — leaving out only the fact that he’d been the one with the Iranian when he’d been murdered. If this sparked action by Jerusalem to probe Tehran’s mysterious tanker project too, so much the better. One of the strengths of the Quartet Directorate was that it didn’t play institutional power games. Four didn’t care who got credit for stopping threats against the West and its allies… only that they were stopped and stopped cold.

When he finished, Tamir sat silent for a few moments with his head bowed in thought, obviously mulling over what he’d just learned. Then he shook his head and looked up at Flynn. “Worrying indeed,” he commented. “And very strange also.”

“Then we’re on the same page,” Flynn agreed.

“Naturally, I’m grateful that you’ve shared this information,” Tamir said carefully. “But at the same time, I can’t help being puzzled by this sudden burst of candor now.” His mouth twisted slightly. “Especially since my earlier attempts to reach out unofficially to my best contacts in Washington were met with such absolute and profound silence. To be honest, I’d started wondering if I should put on a leper’s rags and have a bell rung before me in warning when dealing with your country.”

Flynn bit down on a piece of choice profanity. Knowing that the CIA’s paper-pushing ass-kissers had decided to do diddly-squat with the intelligence Fox had surreptitiously passed to them was bad enough. Learning now that Langley’s bureaucrats had also apparently decided to conceal this information from America’s most important ally in the Middle East was even more infuriating.

Tamir studied his face. “You seem surprised, Mr…. Schmidt.”

With an effort, Flynn managed to shrug and smile slightly. “A little. But I guess this is just one of those occasional screwups where the right hand doesn’t know shit about what the left hand is actually doing.”

From the Israeli officer’s pained nod, he knew he’d scored a point. If anything, the other man probably saw this as further confirmation that Flynn worked for some part of America’s labyrinthine intelligence community — which was infamous around the world for its occasional inefficiency and costly duplication of effort.

“Still, you have my thanks for this,” Tamir assured him when he got up to go. “And if there is anything I can do for you in return, just ask.”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” Flynn said calmly.

“Oh?”

Flynn looked squarely at him. “Well, I’d sure appreciate it if you could walk me out of the building and to my car to say goodbye.”

Tamir stared at him, unable to hide his surprise. “I’m quite certain that Gideon told you that we were being kept under extremely close watch here,” he said slowly.

“Yeah, he did,” Flynn assured him matter-of-factly.

“Then you must know that being seen with me will be a clear signal that you’re anything but a routine visitor to this embassy,” the other man pointed out. “You might as well put up a billboard advertising your connection to secret intelligence.”

Flynn nodded. “Yep. That’s kind of the whole point.” He let a little of his native Texas drawl emerge. “Because while it’s been nice meeting you, Colonel, this ain’t just a social call. From here on out, I’ve got my own set of orders to obey.”

Dov Tamir shook his head with unconcealed astonishment. From the look on his face, he was obviously convinced that his American guest — and those who’d given him his orders — might very well be completely crazy.

Privately, Flynn wasn’t so sure he was wrong.