He stood, picked up his briefcase, and walked out of his office. He addressed his personal assistant with a simple “I’ll be at lunch.” She nodded and noted the time. Verbaken walked down the hall, pausing at the door to the men’s room. He nudged the door ajar but didn’t go in. Verbaken felt a twinge of trepidation as he looked around to make sure no one was watching. Then he skirted across the hall to the File Room. He knew it would be empty at this time of day.
Rules at the Intelligence and Security Staff Department were very strict, especially when it came to removing files from the building. Anyone wishing to take something from the File Room had to perform a bureaucratic song and dance that involved way too much red tape. A paper trail was kept and the chances of questions coming up were great. It was best for him simply to take what he wanted and smuggle it out. After lunch he could reverse the procedure, replace the file in the cabinet, and no one would be the wiser. After all, he was one of the top-ranking officials in the department, having been with the Belgian Military Intelligence and Security Service for ten years.
Verbaken went to the cabinet marked “B” and used his own key to unlock it. He pulled the drawer out and quickly thumbed through the manila folders until he found the one he wanted. He removed the folder, shut the drawer, and locked the cabinet. He moved to a worktable, and then slipped the folder inside his briefcase. After snapping the case shut, he walked swiftly to the File Room door. Verbaken opened it slightly and peered out. All clear. He moved into the hall and walked toward the elevators, pushing open the men’s room door as he passed it. His assistant was most likely paying no attention, but at least he had gone through the motions of using the washroom before going out.
It was a beautiful day in Brussels. Verbaken left his discreetly disguised building, which was located just off the Grand-Place, the magnificent square that was considered the centerpiece of the city. Symbols of Belgium’s royal history bordered the Grand-Place on all four sides, and Verbaken, a native Belgian, was usually impressed daily by the marvelous display of ornamental gables, gilded facades, medieval banners, and gold-filigreed rooftop sculptures. Today, however, the dazzling sights of the fifteenth-century Gothic Town Hall, the seventeenth-century neo-Gothic King’s House, and the Brewers Guild House meant nothing to him. His mind was elsewhere.
Verbaken walked briskly through the colorful, narrow, cobblestoned streets to the intersection of Rue de Chêne and Rue de L’Etuve. He paid no attention to the tourists who were snapping pictures of the famous statue of the urinating little boy known as Manneken-Pis. Verbaken glanced at his watch and noted that he was still on time. There was no need to hurry, so he decided to stop momentarily and stand with the crowd. He was pretty good at spotting a tail, and he carefully scanned the people that had been behind him. He didn’t think he had anything to worry about, so he moved on.
Verbaken eventually arrived at the Metropole, the only nineteenth-century hotel in the famed city. Located in the heart of Brussels’ historical Place de Brouckère, the Hotel Metropole was more like a palace than a hotel. Verbaken had always wanted to have a second honeymoon there with his wife. She loved the mixture of styles that infused the interior with an air of luxury and richness of materials—paneling, polished teak, Numidian marble, gilded bronze, and forged iron. The place had a decidedly soothing ambience.
Once he was inside the building, Verbaken felt more comfortable with what he was about to do.
ON the sidewalk in front of the hotel, two men dressed in expensive Armani business suits sat at a small round table with cups of coffee. The Metropole Café was a popular spot for lunch on weekdays and today was no different. All the tables were full and businessmen and tourists waited impatiently in line for the next available space. The two men didn’t care. They took their time as they sipped their coffees.
One of them, a Russian known only as “Vlad,” motioned to the waiter. In French he ordered a dish of ice cream. The waiter looked a bit perturbed, since the two men had been occupying the table for over an hour and hadn’t ordered more than coffee—and now ice cream. But the waiter smiled, said, “Merci,” and walked away to the kitchen. Vlad looked at his companion and shrugged.
The other man, a Georgian who went by the name of “Yuri,” started to say there wasn’t enough time for dessert but decided instead to stay silent.
Yuri checked his pocket to make sure the passkey was still there. The Metropole still used old-fashioned skeleton keys for the rooms, and it had been a simple matter to steal a master from one of the maids earlier that morning.
Several minutes went by and still neither man said a word to the other. The waiter brought the ice cream and, as a hint, laid the bill on the table. Vlad almost complained that they weren’t ready to leave yet, but Yuri gave him a look. Vlad thanked the waiter and smiled.
As Vlad scooped the dessert into his mouth, Yuri continued to scan the pedestrians on the sidewalk. It was the usual midday crowd—businessmen, tourists, beautiful women, not-so-beautiful women . . . and then he spotted the mark.
Yuri nudged Vlad with his foot. Vlad looked up and saw a man carrying a briefcase make his way through the café to the front doors of the hotel.
Dirk Verbaken.
Vlad quickly put money on the table, took one last spoonful of ice cream, and stood with Yuri. They both adjusted their neckties and then discreetly followed the lieutenant colonel inside.
An objective observer might guess that the two Russians were bankers, for they appeared to be men that worked with money. Perhaps they were lawyers. Or maybe they were corporate executives from very large firms. They exuded an air of sophistication, worldliness, and wealth, and that was precisely the image they wanted to project.
None of it, of course, was true.
VERBAKEN knocked on the door and noticed movement in the peephole. After a moment the door opened to reveal a stocky American in his thirties. He was dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants with a wet towel hung around his neck. Beside his left leg he carried a .22 caliber Beretta Bobcat.
“Lieutenant Colonel Verbaken,” the man said.
“Hello.” The Belgian spoke fluent English.
“Come in.” The man held the door open and Verbaken stepped into the room. The man shut the door and locked it, then turned to Verbaken with his hand out. “It’s good to finally meet you in person. Rick Benton.”
Verbaken shook Benton’s hand and said, “I think I pictured you older.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Benton said. “Please sit down. Can I get you something to drink?” He led Verbaken into the suite’s sitting room, which was equipped with a large wooden desk, a minibar, a television, a glass-top coffee table, green chairs and a sofa, a cupboard with a full-length mirror, potted plants, and a large window that opened onto a terrace.
“Some water is fine if you have it. You know, I’ve lived in Brussels all my life, but I’ve never been in a room in the Metropole,” Verbaken said.
“It’s a very nice place,” Benton said. He went to the minibar, fetched two bottles of springwater, and joined Verbaken. He looked at the Belgian and asked, “I assume you brought it?”
Verbaken nodded. He set his briefcase on his lap, opened it, and handed the file to Benton. “I’ve got a little less than an hour,” he said.
Benton glanced at the number of pages in the folder and said, “Shouldn’t be a problem. I can snap pictures of each page with this.” He showed Verbaken the Operational Satellite Uplink that the NSA provided to him.
“I don’t suppose you ever met the subject in question?” Benton asked.
Verbaken shook his head. “No, no, that was before my time. I joined the service a couple of years after the man was killed. There may be one or two of the senior staff who knew him. Very interesting guy.”
Benton nodded and snapped a shot of the first page. “Have you heard any more about our friends in the Middle East?”
“No more than what you already have. I’m still looking into it, though. You m
ight say it’s a pet project of mine,” Verbaken answered. “Have you been to Belgium before?”
“Yes, a while back. I wouldn’t mind being stationed in Europe instead of in that cesspool over in the Middle East,” Benton said. “Believe me, this is a vacation coming here.” He continued snapping pictures of the file’s pages with the OPSAT.
Verbaken chuckled. “I can imagine.”
“Have you ever been to the States?”
“Three times. My wife and I—” Verbaken was interrupted by a knock at the door. The man froze and his eyes widened.
Benton held up his hands. “Don’t worry. I ordered myself some lunch. That’s room service.” He grabbed the small Beretta and went to the door. After looking through the peephole, Benton opened the door to a small man in a white coat.
“Room service,” the man said in English.
“Bring it right in,” Benton said, holding the door open. The waiter rolled in a cart that held three covered dishes. “Put it over there by the window.” Benton looked at Verbaken and asked, “Would you like to order some lunch?”
“No, no thank you,” Verbaken replied. “I’m not very hungry.”
“Suit yourself.” After the waiter placed the cart, Benton tipped him and showed him out the door. Once again he locked the door and resumed his position over the file. “You were saying?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. America.” Verbaken took a sip of water. “My wife and I went on our honeymoon there. New York City. Fascinating place.”
Benton took another shot and then took the time to examine the contents of his meal. He laid the pistol on the bed and lifted the lids on the food. “Mmm. Looks pretty good. Creamed potato soup with smoked eel, salmon flaky pastry with Sevruga caviar, asparagus, and a bottle of Duvel beer. Can’t beat that, eh?”
“I’m sure it’s delicious.”
“Sure you don’t want anything?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Benton frowned. “Wait a second. I asked for a basket of bread. And butter. Damn.” He went to the phone, picked up the receiver, and punched the button for room service.
“Yeah, this is Mr. Benton in 505. I ordered some bread and butter with my lunch. It’s not on the tray. Uh-huh. Okay, thanks.” He hung up and moved back to the file to snap another photo. “They’re sending it up.”
“Go ahead and eat,” Verbaken said. “I don’t mind.”
Benton smiled and left the OPSAT on the table with the file. He moved to the cart but was stopped by the sound of a key in the door.
“That was fast,” Verbaken said.
“A little too fast if you ask me.” Benton leaped for the Beretta, but the door exploded inward before he could reach it. Yuri thrust the suppressor-fitted barrel of a Heckler & Koch VP70 in Benton’s face, preventing him from reacting.
“Don’t move, gentlemen,” Yuri said, keeping the gun trained on Benton. “Back up, please, and raise your hands high above your head.” With his other hand he placed the hotel’s master passkey back into his pocket.
Benton did as he was told. Verbaken went pale.
Vlad drew a gun of his own, a Glock, and pointed it at the Belgian. “Don’t get up on our account,” the Russian said.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Verbaken whispered.
Vlad struck the man across the face with the Glock. “I didn’t say to talk,” he said.
Verbaken held his hands to his cheek and bent forward.
“Keep your hands in the air, please,” Vlad ordered.
The Belgian complied, revealing an ugly scrape on the left side of his face.
Yuri motioned to the sofa. “Sit down over there, please,” he said to Benton. “Keep your hands up.”
Benton moved slowly around the coffee table, next to the food cart. With the speed of a cat he grabbed a knife from the cart and threw it at Yuri. The Russian, however, was faster. He snapped his body sideways as the knife flew past him and hit the wall. The Heckler & Koch recoiled twice—thwack thwack. Benton jerked backward and crashed into the food cart, creating a sickening cacophony of breaking glass and clanging pans. The American eventually rolled off the cart and fell to the floor, facedown.
In a panic Verbaken jumped to his feet and ran toward the door. Thwack thwack. This time Vlad’s silenced Glock performed the dirty work. The Belgian slammed into the door and slid down slowly, leaving a bloody smear.
After a few silent seconds, Yuri observed, “Well, that didn’t go very well.”
“Not too smooth,” Vlad agreed. “Messy.”
“We’d better hurry. That made a lot of noise.”
Vlad nodded and went to the copier. He took the sheets of paper from the table—the stack that had already been photographed and the pages that hadn’t. He put the paper back in the manila folder, picked up Benton’s OPSAT, and dropped it on the carpet. He then lifted his hard-heeled shoe and brought it down forcefully, smashing the device.
“Do we need anything else?” he asked his partner.
“Look in the bedroom. See if his laptop is there. Bring the American’s weapon if you can find it quickly,” Yuri answered. Vlad grunted and went into the bedroom. Yuri walked over to Benton’s corpse and kicked the man’s head.
“Fuck you,” he muttered.
Vlad returned with a laptop and a Five-seveN, the weapon of choice for NSA intelligence officers. “Look what I found.”
“Good. Now let’s get out of here.”
After cracking the door open, Yuri made a quick check of the hallway. He nodded to his partner and they left, shutting the door behind them.
Three minutes went by before there was a knock at the door again. The silence prompted another knock.
“Room service.” It was a woman’s voice this time.
Knock knock. “Hello?”
The waitress used a passkey and pushed the door open a bit. “Room service. Hello?” She swung the door wider and saw Verbaken’s bloody body on the floor. The waitress gasped, took in the sight of the other corpse on the far side of the room, and ran from the suite screaming.
3
I live in a townhouse inside the triangle formed by I-695, York Road, and Dulaney Valley Road in Towson, Maryland. This suburb of Baltimore has a reputation for being “hip” since Towson University is located here. I guess it’s hip. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not very hip. I’m not a social guy. I don’t date, I don’t go out, and I stay pretty much to myself. When I’m not on an assignment for Third Echelon, I lead a relatively boring existence. I have no friends to speak of, my neighbors probably think I’m some kind of recluse, and the only shops I frequent are the nearby grocery store, a liquor store, and the dry cleaners in the strip mall over on York Road.
I like it that way.
The townhouse is much too large for a single man in his forties. I have three floors in which to spread out. I indulge myself in simple pleasures such as a supersize flat-screen television, DVD player, and a surround-sound system. I keep a library of reference material in the lower floor, and that’s also where my home office is. If someone were to look at the books in my library, they’d think I was a geography professor or maybe a history lecturer. For my work I study the countries of the world. I try to keep abreast of everything that’s happening politically and economically, especially in the so-called hot spots. Sometimes a single bit of knowledge about an unusual item that exists only in a given country can save your life. Knowing who’s really on your side and who’s not is of primary importance when you’re in the field. So every day I try to learn something new about a place. It keeps me sharp.
I live near Towson Town Center, a huge indoor mall that attracts all the beautiful people in the area. I avoid it like the plague. I detest shopping malls because they’re all the same. Same shops, same franchises, and the same ignorant people going about their daily business of spending money—usually someone else’s. When I need something, I go to out-of-the-way mom-and-pop shops. I can find clothes anywhere. If I want DVDs or CDs, I buy them online an
d get them mailed to me. In fact, I do an awful lot of online shopping. It keeps my personal interactions to a minimum.
I want to remain as anonymous as possible.
I cook my own meals. I’m pretty good at it, too. That’s one of the things that Sarah appreciates about me. She visits infrequently, but when she does she always wants me to cook for her instead of going out to a restaurant. That’s fine by me. Being able to cook is yet another valuable skill that’s helpful in my profession. You wouldn’t believe the number of strange and inhospitable places I’ve been where I’ve had to whip up a meal from whatever I could find around me. I’ve learned to eat some pretty disgusting stuff in my time, so being able to cook a decent gourmet meal on my own is a gift.
Although I don’t go out much, there are a couple of places I frequent. One is a gym that’s farther south on York, past the university. It’s actually just over the line separating Towson with Baltimore. It’s a funky little gym that appeals to minority toughs. Only a few white guys go there. It’s mostly Hispanics and African-Americans who are into boxing or weight lifting. I imagine a lot of them are in gangs, but they don’t bother me.
The other place I go, and on a much more regular basis, is the Krav Maga studio that’s in the same strip mall as my dry cleaners. It’s close enough that I walk there from the townhouse. And that’s where I go today after breakfast.
I put on my workout clothes—a jumpsuit, really—and make sure the security system is on. I leave the house and begin the ten-minute walk to the strip mall. It’s a fine day outside—spring has come early this year and we didn’t have a bad winter. Of course, I was gone most of the winter, so it didn’t matter. The assignment in the Far East took nearly three months. I was in Hong Kong for most of that time doing the preparation for the job in Macau. The assignment also involved a couple of trips to Singapore. Tracing the Shop’s arms pipeline in that area turned out to be more difficult than was originally predicted.