The shadowmaker, p.23
The Shadowmaker, page 23
Harwick crossed his arms. “Do we know where they were going?”
“No,” said Tisdale. “It was several hours before the security footage was flagged. They were in the international terminal, but the cameras never picked them up at a specific gate.”
“Flight logs? Passports?” Harwick pressed.
Tisdale rubbed his mustache with a few slow, methodical strokes. “They were probably using fake identities. But the whole thing seems a little odd. If Krunoslav is bringing in a new prize, he should be tightening his security, not sending it out of the country.”
“That’s not all,” Miles added. “Henry Sirola skipped town this morning as well. I tailed him from his apartment to the airport.”
“Interesting,” Harwick noted. “Any idea where he was going?”
“He boarded a flight to Milan, had a layover at JFK. He’s traveling with a woman.”
“What woman?”
“Her name’s Isabell DiMarco: thirty years old, honors graduate from Vanderbilt. She’s a linguistics instructor for XT Security. Prior to that, she worked as a consultant, spent eighteen months in Italy as an advisor to Shaun Leffler.”
“Shaun Leffler? The arms dealer?”
“That’s the one.”
Harwick lifted his eyebrows. “So what? She works for Ružaro now? What’s her role?”
“She acts as a coordinator for teams that deploy abroad,” Miles explained. “She knows the culture, knows the landscape—sorta like a babysitter for a bunch of wily animals.”
Harwick was intrigued now. “And what’s in Milan?”
“A buyer,” Miles reasoned. “Like I said before, Martović and Sirola were tasked with setting up a fence. The four clowns who left yesterday were probably Sirola’s advance team.”
“And who was the buyer he met with in Sorrento last week?” asked Harwick.
“Hamad Al Hassani. He’s a well-known real estate mogul from Qatar.”
“You think he’s meeting with him again in Milan?”
Miles cocked his head to the side. “Only one way to find out. We need to get eyes on Milan.”
Harwick shot a glance to Tisdale, who pressed his elbows onto the desk. “The FBI doesn’t have that kind of reach,” Tisdale bluntly pointed out.
“Yeah, I know. Let me make a phone call, see if the NSA has an asset in the area. What time does Sirola’s flight land?”
Miles checked his watch. “Three and a half hours.”
* * *
A tall, slender American walked unnoticed through the parking lot. Milano Malpensa Airport was the largest in northern Italy, and on this brisk October afternoon, tourists were zooming in and out at dizzying speeds.
The American entered Terminal 1 through a sliding glass door and pushed across the pristine gray-and-white striped floor. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his wool peacoat and kept his head down as he walked.
He brushed past several retail shops—Gucci, Bulgari, Rolex—before stopping at a small bookstore to browse the new releases. After a quick inspection, he continued on to baggage claim.
As he walked slowly within a dense crowd, he glanced up at the flight board. Delta Flight 1795 from JFK would be arriving right on schedule.
* * *
The best he could do was try to calm her anxious nerves. As the plane prepared to land, Isabell’s crippling fear took over. Henry reached down and slid his fingers into hers. “You okay?” he gently asked.
“You know I’m not. But I’ll feel better when we’re on the ground.”
It was a soft landing, and like always, the Italians on board applauded the aerial achievement.
As they came to a stop outside the gate, Henry and Isabell grabbed their luggage and fell in line with the other passengers. They all rumbled through the jetway like a tired herd of cattle, then spilled into the terminal and fanned out in different directions.
Henry and Isabell pulled their travel cases behind them as they marched onward. A long hike up the corridor brought them to customs, where a young man in a white uniform waited behind a thick glass window. Henry handed their passports through a small slot and, after a thorough examination, the agent handed them back.
They continued on to baggage claim and waited for ten minutes until a black duffle bag dropped onto the belt and circled its way toward them. Henry snatched it up and pushed his way through a gathering crowd. “What now, princess?” he asked.
“There’s a car waiting for us outside. Follow me,” she ordered.
Henry slung the bag over his shoulder and grabbed the handle of his travel case.
Isabell led him up the escalator to a sprawling atrium, where the floor-to-ceiling windows offered a small glimpse of Milan’s world-class museums, luxury hotels, and five-star restaurants. They continued outside into the cold night and dodged their way through a parade of oncoming cars. After crossing the street and taking the stairs down to level 2B, Isabell pulled a key fob from her purse and pointed it into the shadows. The chirp of an alarm and the flash of headlights revealed a black Audi A6 tucked along the far wall.
Their footsteps echoed across the deck as they hurried toward it. Isabell quickly opened the trunk and Henry tossed their bags inside.
A rush of foreboding adrenaline suddenly shot through his veins. It was a reaction he’d learned to respect—a survival mechanism that had been coded into his DNA. And as he scanned the parking garage, his instincts told him something was off.
“I think I left something inside,” he said to her over the roof of the car.
Isabell could sense his trepidation. He never left anything behind. “All right,” she replied nervously. She tried to keep her voice even. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, just need to go back and look for something,” he said as he broke into a light jog across the parking deck.
He reached the staircase and darted upwards, two steps at a time until he reached the top. As he crossed the street, he brushed past a tall, slender man in a gray peacoat. Their eyes locked briefly. Henry continued on into the building and across the atrium to a set of elevators in the northeast corner. He waited patiently for the doors to open, then rode down to the main level and began a steady walk toward baggage claim.
After years of training, he knew what to look for: the slick hair, the firm build, the beady, hunting eyes, and now, the gray peacoat.
With a firm breath, he arrived at baggage claim; the crowd had swelled considerably since he and Isabell had left only minutes ago. He barged his way through an irritable mob to the other end of the baggage carousel. He gazed out over the sea of travelers and noticed the beady, hunting eyes and gray peacoat as they rushed down a set of stairs toward him.
Henry flashed a devilish smirk and retreated down a narrow hallway leading to a stairwell. He scrambled back up to the main level and sprinted toward the exit. With his arms braced in front of him, he burst through the door and landed outside just beyond the transportation depot.
He calmly tugged at the collar of his jacket and began an easy stroll up the sidewalk. As he coasted along, he heard the utility door blow open behind him. He picked up his pace and continued across the street to the parking deck, only this time, he took the stairs to the top level. The perfect hunting ground.
As he reached the top of the staircase, he turned his eyes to a set of storm clouds gathering above. Then, with a formidable inhale, he vanished into a maze of parked cars.
The tall, lanky American eventually appeared. His dark eyes scanned the lot from one end to the other. Henry glided along the side of a large blue van, one foot at a time, until he was within feet of his prey. The American could sense him now—suddenly aware that he’d been lured into an ambush.
Henry steadied himself behind the van, then struck with lightning speed. He swept low with a kick that sent his target to the pavement. The man landed with a deep thud and a displaced kneecap. Henry followed up with a quick left jab, then a hard right to the jaw. The American now lay flat on his back, groaning in pain, semi-conscious.
Henry knelt down and began sifting through the man’s pockets. After a quick search, he pulled out a passport and held it into the air.
“You have no idea what you’re doing,” the man snarled through blood-stained teeth.
Henry read the name on the passport: Gerald Oliver. Surely a fake, he thought. He lifted himself to his feet and tossed the passport onto the guy’s chest. As he made his way back to the staircase, he shook the sting from his right hand. He arrived at street level and shuffled toward the crosswalk, panning his eyes through the dark night.
Seconds later, a black Audi roared up and came to a stop. He slung open the passenger door and dipped inside.
“What the absolute hell was that?” Isabell asked as she stomped the gas pedal and accelerated past the terminal.
“We had a tail,” he explained calmly.
“Jesus, Henry. I’ve never actually had to use the ‘I left something behind’ trick before. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“I’m fine. We picked up surveillance back at baggage claim. There was only one, which means he was sent on short notice.” Henry turned his head and glanced out the back window. “It wasn’t FBI this time either. That was national intelligence.”
Isabell wove the sportscar through a small pocket of traffic and merged north onto SS336.
Henry slammed his fist into the dashboard. “Those fucking bastards,” he growled.
“It’s fine. Looks like we’re all clear,” she said as she peered into the rearview mirror. “But we need a new car. We have to assume they caught us on security cams.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure they did,” he said sardonically.
“Henry, what did you do?”
“I lured our tail to the top of the parking deck. He needed to be disabled.”
She snorted. “Well, there were definitely cameras up there. Was he armed?”
“No. Just a fake passport.”
“All right,” she exhaled, “we just need to find another rental car and we’ll be all set.”
The Audi pushed north through the darkness until they reached Lake Como. Isabell exited the highway at the small village of Lazzago, and they abandoned the car behind a vacant building. She tossed the keys into a trashcan as they hustled up the sidewalk on foot. After a rigorous uphill hike, they found a car rental place just beyond the main square.
Isabell took a moment to catch her breath, then stepped inside. Minutes later, she returned with a set of keys and a thin stack of paperwork. They made their way around the building to the back lot where a maroon Skoda Karoq SUV awaited them. Isabell climbed behind the wheel and started the engine.
“How much farther?” Henry asked as he climbed into the passenger seat.
“Maybe three hours. Why don’t you try to get some rest?”
As she pulled the SUV out of the lot and merged onto E35 North toward Zürich, Henry closed his eyes and allowed the whooshing sound of pavement to lull him to sleep.
* * *
Harwick clenched his jaw and slammed his cell phone onto the table. From their observation post in Buckhead, he and Miles sat in front of the window, glaring out at Anton Krunoslav’s residence. “We lost Sirola,” the task force leader announced. “At the airport in Milan.”
Miles hid his amusement with a cold stare. “What happened?”
“Our guy lost him. Sirola put him to sleep in the goddamn parking deck.”
“Of course he did. You sent an NSA bag man to put a tail on a Ružaro captain. I’m surprised the guy even made it to the parking deck. Did we get anything from security cameras?”
“Yeah. Apparently, it shows Sirola beating the shit out of him, then getting into a black Audi.”
“Was he driving?”
“No,” Harwick snapped. “I’m guessing it was his chaperone or whatever.”
“I told you these guys are tough, Agent Harwick. We can’t just cut corners like this. If you don’t have the resources to keep up with them, we’re never going to get anywhere.”
“That’ll be enough, Brennan.”
“I’m sorry, sir. It just feels like we weren’t prepared for this type of scenario.” Miles stood from the table and paced the floor. “Half of their operations are overseas. Meanwhile, we sit here with our thumbs up our asses watching an empty apartment. It’s frustrating.”
“I know it is. But it’ll all come together soon. We just need to be in the right place at the right time.”
“With all due respect, the right place is Milan!” Miles argued. “And the right time is now! How is a federal task force supposed to monitor an international crime ring if we can’t leave the country?”
“We can still get some drones in the air, but we need a location,” Harwick bargained. “And right now, I don’t know if Sirola is staying in Milan or just using it as an entry point. For all we know, he could be halfway to Spain by now.”
“For Christ’s sake! This is a huge operational failure. So what now? We just sit and wait for Henry and his team to come home?”
“I’ve got an ancillary team on route to Milan.”
“That doesn’t do us any good. Sirola and the woman have already ditched the car.”
“It doesn’t matter. Our real target is here. In Atlanta.”
Miles continued pacing the carpet. “If Sirola’s out there setting up a buyer, we’re missing a huge opportunity.”
“Dually noted, Agent Brennan. Now why don’t you go find a hot shower and a warm meal. You look like absolute shit.”
Miles shook off the insult and barged out the door. Thanks to Henry’s signal, he knew Anton’s treasure had arrived the day before. And while his informant’s mysterious trip to Milan was troubling, Miles assumed it had something to do with Hassani.
But that was the game. And that’s how it was played.
CHAPTER 27
It was well past midnight as the Skoda Karoq swept along the 3W into downtown Zürich. A thick fog muted the street lights as Isabell turned left onto Dreikönigstrasse, then crept along the quiet street for several blocks before parking behind a delivery truck.
“This is it,” she softly announced. “Our hotel is one block south of here.”
Henry lifted his weary eyes and nodded.
They stepped out of the vehicle and scanned their surroundings. Henry lifted their luggage out of the back hatch and onto the sidewalk, where he took a knee and unzipped the large duffle bag. A small two-way radio was removed and with the turn of a knob, Henry brought the device to his mouth. “Tomahawk Two, this is Tomahawk One on approach.”
“Copy that, Tomahawk One. Glad you made it, see you soon.”
Henry stuffed the radio into his pocket and lifted the duffle bag onto his back. He and Isabell left the car and walked one block south before arriving at the Park Hyatt Hotel. They were greeted by a short brunette with big brown eyes and high cheek bones.
“Guten abend,” Isabell stated with authority. “We have reservations for Hailey.”
“Thank you, Fraülein.” The woman began typing away on her keyboard, the smile still stuck to her flawless porcelain face. After a moment, she handed two room cards over the counter. “You’ll be in rooms four seventy and four seventy-two. There are coffee machines at the end of each hall. Breakfast is available in our dining room every morning from six until nine.”
“Thank you very much,” Isabell replied as she grabbed the cards.
Henry followed her to the elevators. They got off at the fourth floor and turned left up the hall. Ahead of them, a stocky young man with dirty blond hair emerged wearing a pair of gray slacks and a black shirt.
It was Jack Veselko. “Look who showed up!” he called into the hallway.
A studious grin appeared on Henry’s face. He dropped his duffle bag and shook hands with the young operator. “How’s everything going?” he asked.
“Not bad. We’re all set up—eyes locked in.”
“Good. Have you met Isabell DiMarco?”
“Not in person. Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’ve heard wonderful things.”
“Thank you,” she replied with a straight face. “I look forward to working with you.”
Jack ran a hand through his thick hair. “Listen, I’ll let you two get settled in. We’re right down the hall, come check it out when you get a chance.”
Isabell allowed a bright smile. “Sounds good. Thanks, Jack.”
The young operator quickly returned to his room and shut the door.
“Henry, I’m the next one up,” she announced. “I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”
“Yeah, no problem.” He slipped his card into the reader for room four seventy. “Do you want to meet me in the ops room, say, thirty minutes?”
“No,” she replied with a look of sheer exhaustion. “I’m going to get some sleep. I’ll come see all your little gadgets in the morning.”
“Sleep good,” he said as he drifted into his room.
The place was cramped, but well-decorated, with two double beds, and a nightstand. He sat down on the bed and stretched his legs out across the quilted comforter. After a few minutes of decompression, he wandered into the bathroom. A cold shower brought his senses back to life, and once he was dressed, Henry marched into the hallway and up to the team’s command center. He rapped his knuckles against the door and a moment later, Jack slung it open and welcomed him inside.
“How was your flight?”
“Not bad,” said Henry. “Thanks for asking.”
“So, you know everyone here, I assume?”
“Of course.”
Henry leered at the other three members of his team. He knew the men well; they’d been Darius’ best soldiers. Erik Durden, notorious getaway driver and former fighter pilot; Michael Janić, surveillance and weapons expert; and Davidov Malek, audio engineer and all-around tech geek.
Henry cast a proud gaze over his crew as he made his way around the room for some quick handshakes and fist bumps. “All right, boys, let’s have some fun!” he proclaimed.
