The Utopia Experiment

40

The wind had died down and, while there were no stars visible, the rain still seemed to be holding off. Smith and Randi stayed in the center of the empty road, taking a different route back to their car. It was quiet enough that they could hear Johannes throwing the deadbolt on his door and Smith felt a little regret at the sound. He could have spent the next ten years in that place exploring the secret history of the Cold War. And of Christian Dresner.

Randi finally managed to connect with Star and he leaned in toward her phone as they walked.

“Hey, Randi. How’s Germany?”

“Cold. I need you to find someone for me. Gerhard Eichmann. He escaped East Germany with Dresner back in the seventies.”

“An actual name! I like working with you better than Jon.”

“That hurts,” Smith said loud enough for her to hear. “But since you bring it up, how’s that going?”

“Don’t be sad, Jon! You know I love you. But as far as how it’s going, I’m not sure yet.”

Out of the corner of his left eye, Smith spotted a shadow moving between two buildings. It was probably just a stray cat or loose awning, but he immediately began scanning the both sides of the street. “You better hurry. I have a plan and I might just beat you to it.”

“I’m not worried.”

He spotted what looked like a human shape around the side of a van rusting away in an alley just ahead. Randi gave an almost imperceptible nod to indicate that she saw it, too.

Once again, he was missing the Merge that he was becoming increasingly reluctant to use. It was a little frightening how quickly he’d become reliant on it.

“Careful, Star,” Randi said, still speaking casually. “He’s a lot brighter than he looks.”

In the end, he didn’t need sophisticated vision enhancement. Two men emerged from the shadows and ran into the street in front of them as two more closed from the sides. A quick glance back confirmed what he already intuitively knew. One more behind.

“Gotta dash,” Randi said into the phone. “Talk later.”

“Looks like five total,” Smith said quietly.

“Yeah, but they all look like morons.”

It was a fair observation. Each had either extremely close-cropped hair or a shaved head. Neck and face tattoos complemented heavy jackets and boots with jeans partially rolled up. At least one swastika was visible — on a silver chain hanging around one man’s neck.

They kept moving forward, not stopping until they were a meter or two from the men blocking their path. The ones coming in from the sides didn’t seem to be in a hurry and the one in back had slowed to a crawl, giving himself room to intercept if they should make a break for it.

The question was what exactly was happening. Was this just bad luck — the not-so-surprising result of wandering around a bad neighborhood at an hour when the skinheads were just heading home to sleep it off? Or was it something more?

“I’d suggest you move on, son,” Smith said in German. “We don’t have anywhere near enough money to make this worth your while.”

The one on the right, probably no more than mid-twenties, seemed to hesitate. He was undoubtedly accustomed to generating a lot more fear in the couples he mugged. The one on the left just stared hungrily at them with wet eyes reflecting the glow of a security light behind them.

“Maybe there’s more money in this than you have in your wallet. And I think we will enjoy the woman very much,” the nervous one said, then glanced behind him at a car parked at the edge of the intersection. Smith had noticed it earlier, but until now hadn’t seen the figure standing in front of it.

With the question of whether this was just an unfortunate coincidence answered, it was probably time to move on to just how they were going to stay alive.

“I can guarantee you that she won’t be as fun as you think.”

The men at three and nine o’clock stopped a few paces away and the footsteps behind went silent at what Smith estimated to be five meters. It was a practiced pattern designed to deal with bolting prey — almost certainly perfected over a number of years of petty muggings.

“What do they want?” Randi said in Russian, feigning terror and checking the faces around them for comprehension. The Soviets hadn’t controlled the country since before these men were born and it appeared that none of them could understand the language of their former masters.

Smith responded soothingly in the same language, reaching out and giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “The one to my left is probably seventeen and the one behind is too far to do much quickly.”

“Surprise is on our side,” she said, making her words sound like panicked babble. “But once they move in, we’ve got problems. I say we take out the leader and Crazy Eyes. That might be enough to make the others decide the paycheck isn’t big enough.”

“Speak German!” the one she’d dubbed “Crazy Eyes” shouted.

“She doesn’t know how,” Smith said, again trying to sound soothing. He wanted to find a way out of this without killing anyone. They were young and had no idea what they were into. The problem was that flying commercial had left them with no guns and Randi was right about the dangers of letting them attack first. “Now, I’m asking you again. Move on.”

They all laughed — the humorless braying of young men who enjoyed violence when they were confident in their superior position.

“Or what?” their leader said. “Are you are going to kill us?”

“Probably.”

More laughter, but the man who had spoken didn’t join in. He was a little older than the others and didn’t seem quite as stupid.

“You’re going to get us killed with all this hand wringing,” Randi said, no longer bothering to play the role of frightened woman. “Crazy Eyes goes first. Their ringleader’s yours.”

“Wait! We might be able—”

But she didn’t wait. She reached behind her for the six-inch knife she’d brought in her checked luggage and with an underhand flick of her wrist sent it spinning through the air. Smith recognized that it was too late to stop this and launched himself forward.

The speed of her action and dim light made it impossible to follow the weapon, forcing him to make a few quick assumptions. The chest was the easiest target but getting good penetration would be almost impossible at this range. No, Randi would take the riskier approach. She always did.

Smith was already reaching for Crazy Eyes’s neck when the knife passed by and lodged there. Dead center, but her rotation was off a bit. Not so much that it didn’t penetrate a good inch into his windpipe, though.

Shouts rose up around them, but he barely heard, concentrating on getting hold of the knife’s hilt before the others could process what was happening. Smith drove it in the remaining five inches before yanking it out and spinning, building enough momentum to ram it deep into the lead man’s stomach.

Randi was already running toward the car in the intersection when Smith pulled the blade and followed. The young man wouldn’t die, which was a good thing, but really just an ancillary benefit. Stomach wounds were nasty and had a tendency to demoralize everyone around.

Smith had made it only ten meters when the expected wailing started from the wounded man, but so did the pursuing footsteps. When he looked back, all three of the uninjured men were chasing at a full sprint. Apparently concern for one’s comrades wasn’t one of this group’s virtues.

He ducked a wrench thrown by the man in the lead, but focused on the one who had stopped to dig a hand desperately into his jacket.

“Gun!”

Randi kept going, but crouched and began zigzagging as the first shot sounded. Smith did the same, daring another quick look back to confirm that they were holding the gap to their pursuers. Youth, adrenaline, and rage couldn’t quite overcome the disadvantage of too many cigarettes and heavy boots.

Ahead, Smith could hear the sickly sound of a starter motor as the man who had been watching tried to get his engine to fire. Randi was pulling ahead and he said a silent prayer that she would just run past the car and into the darkness.

As usual, though, his prayer was ignored. Another bullet passed by and Smith crouched lower as Randi ran full-speed into the side of the car, slamming an elbow into the driver’s-side window. It was old enough that safety glass hadn’t been an option and it shattered all over the man as he tried to jerk away.

Smith collided with the rear quarter panel as Randi threw open the door and dragged the man onto the pavement.

All three of their pursuers were almost on top of them and Smith tossed her the knife. She pulled the man to his feet and pressed the crimson blade up under his chin. Hopefully, they cared about him more than the friends they’d left bleeding on the pavement.

The three skidded to a stop a couple meters away. The one with the gun tried to get a bead on Randi, who was hidden behind the bulky older man.

“You have a knife,” one of them said. “We have a gun.”

By way of response, Randi pressed harder with the weapon they were so unimpressed with, breaking the skin under the chin of the man she was holding.

“Stop,” the man said, slurring a bit because he couldn’t move his jaw without being cut deeper. “If I’m dead, none of you gets paid.”

At this point, it seemed unlikely that any of them were going to get paid anyway, but none of the remaining three was smart enough to realize it.

“Get out of here,” Smith said.

None moved.

“Get the hell out of here!” he shouted. “Run!”

They finally did, heading back up the road, right past their fallen comrades, and into the gloom.

Randi shoved the man behind the wheel and slid into the backseat while Smith ran to the other side and dropped into the passenger seat.

“Drive,” Randi said and the man twisted the key. This time the engine caught.

He looked terrified as they pulled onto the empty street and accelerated into darkness deep enough to resist his dirty headlights.

“Where’d the money to pay those assholes come from?” Randi said.

“I don’t know.”

“Cut his finger off, Jon.”

“No! I swear to you. I got a text asking me to do this. The money was wired from an offshore account.”

“When did you get the text?”

“A few hours ago.”

“How many hours.”

“I don’t know. Four?”

“Shit,” Randi said, pulling out her phone and dialing. It rang a few times but, to her obvious relief, was eventually picked up. Johannes’s tinny voice was clearly audible in the confines of the car.

“Randi? Is everything all right?”

“Are you still at the warehouse?”

“Yes.”

“Someone knows we were there. They—”

“Yes, I was afraid of that.”

“What? Why?”

“Konrad. He made an unauthorized phone call, but I don’t know to whom. When I questioned him about it, he tried to kill me. Can you imagine? After everything I’ve done for him? I’m afraid I had to shoot him.”

“Thanks for the warning,” she said sarcastically.

“And thank you for coming here and ending my life as I know it.”

“Look, I’m going to send some people—”

“No, you’ve already done quite enough. The first thing I did when I started this business was make preparations for my retirement. Good-bye, Randi. We won’t see each other again.”

She severed the connection and leaned up between the seats. “Why does this son of a bitch still have ten fingers?”

He began to protest in panicked, rapid-fire German again, but Smith tuned him out. The man’s age, dull eyes, and cheap suit suggested that he was nobody — a former low-level Stasi agent who used the endless supply of neo-Nazi idiots to make a buck. Whoever they were up against wasn’t stupid enough to reveal their identity to him.

Smith’s foot bumped something under the seat and he pulled out a small bag stuffed with euros. He handed it back to Randi, who immediately started counting.

“I’m a little insulted at the amount,” she said. “But it’s definitely enough to get us upgraded to first class with a little left over for a decent dinner in Frankfurt.”

“That’s not your money!” the man sputtered, eyes widening enough to suggest that he’d already committed the funds to men who expected those kinds of commitments to be honored.

Smith shrugged. “Then maybe you should try asking her to give it back.”