Deception

CHAPTER ONE

      "I'm in," Landon Lewis muttered, the wire-thin Combat-net microphone tapeded tightly against his temple. "Two ticks to reach the balcony."
      "Ten -four," was the muted reply.
      Resisting the urge to shake the stoop and stand taller, Lewis increased his gait. At first glance, he appeared to be in his 60s, but then even older, with a wrinkly forehead, lentigo spotted face, and puckered double chin. If anyone looked closer, and no one did, they might have ascertained a certain frugality: the band-aid cushion at the nose bridge of his tortoise shell glasses; the checkered russet suit with signs of repair at the elbows, cuffs and knees; and the long-lensed camera hood held together by a weathered strip of silver duct tape.
      Ninety seconds later, Lewis stood at the balcony rail overlooking the Shottenhammel Festhalle while the optics of a Nikon DX2 whirred to life. A quick scan of the crowded floor below through the viewfinder followed by a slower second was all it took to locate Per Hoppert. Lewis frowned. Hoppert was CIA. Once that meant something. But today, with resourceful operatives easily commanding middle six figure salaries, Central Intelligence's eighty thousand plus benefits no longer attracted the cream of the crop. With a lack of qualified applicants, too many openings were filled with the thinking that it was preferable to have someone mediocre in place over not having anyone at all. The policy was flawed and Langley had a lot of Hopperts running around.
      Lewis' frown deepened. Six months earlier, he'd had another run-in with Hoppert. Preston Lane, his cover employer, had been contracted to monitor the extraction of a black-market arms dealer in Austria. It was a bullshit assignment, but good work had become scarce with the new Director of Central Intelligence (DCI). When Lewis arrived in Leinz, the operation was already underway at a café frequented by the dealer. Hoppert's plan, if you could call it one, was to insert his men in two-minute intervals, with the thinking that the dealer and his bodyguard wouldn't suspect anything until the team had achieved tactical superiority. Hoppert's plan unraveled the moment the third operative entered. A gunfight ensued and spilled out into the street. When it was over, the dealer, bodyguard, and five others lay dead. Hoppert attempted to twist the events into a success of his making, but Lewis' report poked holes in everything from the site chosen to the foolish inclusion of a team member known to the dealer. Hoppert's planning, or lack thereof, was the difference between the capture of someone capable of ratting out contacts and sources of supply to someone who would never speak again.
      A commotion near the main entrance kindled and grew. Lewis swiveled the D2X ninety degrees and zoomed in. The Mayor of Munich had arrived. The noonday kickoff, an inevitable complication to an already problematic setting, was about to begin. With the ramped-up festivities, should anything go awry, it would be nearly impossible to pick out the signs until it was too late. Lewis watched the Mayor shake hands with local dignitaries, kiss a baby's head and wave to the crowd, all the while his entourage formed in a line. Mock-reluctantly, the Mayor pried himself from his fans and took the lead. Positioning his arms at waist level, his elbows bent and shuffling as if to drive make-believe wheels, he propelled the entourage onward.
      "It's the bier train!" yelled someone.
      "No, it's not," cried another. "It's the queer train!"
      The crowd groaned at the response.
      "Yeah, well, don't take all year!" hollered another.
      But the Mayor was unfazed and continued his animated procession up onto the elevated center stage. When he held the polished brass King Ludwig spout high for all to see, the cheers trumped the jeers ten to one. Now the Mayor, his eyes twinkling, his facial expressions comical—one minute Teutonic arrogant and the next slapstick silly—began to alternately scold the spout and then plead for the tap to cooperate. "Benehmen Sie sich jetzt! Now behave!" "Zerstäuben Sie bitte nicht! Please don't spray!"
      Laughter rumbled.
      The Mayor moved closer to the stage edge and cupped his left ear. The laughter grew louder. He grinned wide and cupped both ears. The response was deafening. For a moment the Mayor reveled in the din before raising his left forefinger to naughtily pursed lips. An obedient hush blanketed the Festhalle. He nodded to the bandleader and a drum roll ensued.
      The Mayor held the spout against the ceremonial first keg and rapped it with an oversized rolling pin mallet. Once. Twice. Three times. The crowd went silent. The tap was in. They waited breathlessly for the pronouncement. Ja oder Nein? Which would it be?
      "O'Zapft ist!" exclaimed the Mayor.
      In unison the tent erupted with cheers of delight, as the Spaten bier, brewed especially for the festival, began to flow.
      Begrüßen Sie den Oktoberfest! Welcome to the Oktoberfest!
      Now in grand procession, dozens of attractive barmaids appeared, carrying in each hand three and four pint mugs full of bier. The young Fräuleins all wore festive costumes: dirndl dresses with white knee-length unterhosen, laced black mieder bodices, bright colored trachenrock and contrasting schuertze aprons. Not surprisingly, it was those dirndl dresses designed to position bust lines in prominent and exaggerated fashion that were favored by the men.
      "When you order a big bier, you deserve a big cheer!" cried a voice from below.
      Lewis peered over the balcony. It was a stout Fräulein with an equally recitative voice. She held a liter mug high above her head for all to see.
      "Zicke zacke, zicke zacke; hoi, hoi, hoi!" she cried.
      "Zicke zacke, zicke zacke; hoi, hoi, hoi!" applauded the crowd.
      Ee-goo-gah! echoed the Alphorn, its song a baritone delight; at the same time a bevy of youthful and handsome waiters appeared, each wearing leather lederhosen shorts, ornate hosentraeger suspenders with unique quersteg breastplates, split loferl socks and matching federhuts.
      Kaboom! bellowed the bass drum. The Oktoberfest party was in full swing.
      Lewis trained the D2X back on the center stage where the Mayor's grandstanding continued and an oom-pah band played crowd-pleasing songs.
      Ein Prosit. The Ketchup Song. Anton aus Tirol. Songs Lewis recognized and knew, but he was not there to please those senses; he was there to assist a hastily called defection and did not like what he saw.
      Behind his age-altered appearance were intelligent blue-gray eyes, slight aquiline nose and a sandy shade of close-cropped light brown hair. The ill-fitting suit procured at a second chance clothes store masked a fanatically-fit 34-year-old athletic frame. On his left wrist he wore a digital chronograph—not some flaunt-in-your-face expensive stainless brand, but a practical Timex with a durable resin strap. A small tattoo bled from below the wristband, the colors vague but the design clear: a pair of arrows intersected by a sword. Lewis zoomed the D2X out.
      Dividing the tent into sectors, he searched each for the smallest hint of temerity: a hesitation here, a nervous glance there; the passage of an object lacking a natural reciprocal return. But as keen as his observation skills were, he was faced with an impossible task—a hired killer, or worse yet hit team, could be concealed anywhere amongst the gyrating crowd. At the main entrance, Lewis spotted a squat-framed Asian wearing a dark blue silk jacket and matching longevity cap. He zoomed the D2X in. The man's small eyes, flat face and thick-rimmed oval glasses matched the camera phone pic circulated by Hoppert.
      Kaboom! bellowed the bass drum.
      "Your Gook's arrived," he hissed into the Combat-net.
    "Korean," corrected Hoppert, a few seconds later confirming the defector's presence. "I'll draw Choi away from the entrance. Keep your eyes out for trouble. For the record, I don't like the setting any more than you."
      For the record? Aryan dumbass. "Then why didn't you pick someplace neutral? A park for crying out loud. You're a local. Didn't the Englischer, Botanischer or Hirschgarten come to mind?"
      "We don't have time for this," snipped Hoppert. "Choi wasn't in a negotiating mood."
      "Then you get him into one!" Lewis nearly screamed.
      Several months earlier, Hai Tao Choi had been in Bologna attending an International Atomic Energy workshop. By chance, Hoppert was staying at the I Portici Hotel and the two met in a restaurant following a wine mix up and joined tables. Dinner and wine led to after dinner limoncello digestivos, and as the empty glass count mounted, inhibitions fell. Choi bemoaned the Pyongyang bureaucracy and hinted at a desire for less restrictive governance. Hoppert confided his connections could make a defection happen. The adumbration hit home, and via text messaging, escalated in the subsequent months. When Pyongyang cleared Choi to attend a follow up conference in Munich, an agreement was reached. But Hoppert, still smarting from the failed Austrian Black-op report, kept the defection talk to himself. When he finally requested backup, the timing could not have been worse. Every European asset was far from Germany, laid up, or in the case of one, in Lisbon tying the knot. Lewis, with the Preston Lane founder, had been in Serbia getting familiar with the latest model Škorpion sub-machinegun. A quick flight was arranged. But without knowing the exact location of the defection, the best the three could do was divide the city into zones. Hoppert had only been a block from the Theresienwiese fairgrounds, Lewis a few more, when the cell call came in.
      "Meet inside the Schottenhammel Festhalle."
      Lewis understood why the physicist would pick a crowded setting, but for Hoppert to go along with it was insane. Plan a Black-Op—in this case a defection—as if the lives of the contact, those collateral to the operation, and not least of all, your own, depend on it. The old man's words had become instinct and more than once they'd saved his life. Even by Langley's lesser standards, agents in the field were to operate with sufficient backup and contingency plans in place . . . and more importantly, the setting chosen to minimize collateral public exposure.
      Not in the midst of five thousand faces.
      Trust your sixth sense. When something feels wrong, it probably is.
      With his honed-in-the-field intuition shrieking abort! Lewis panned the D2X across the tent. Hoppert and Choi sat elbow-to-elbow at one of the Festhalle's intimately squared tables. He scrutinized those seated with them and then those close by. Nothing looked abnormal. Everything felt abnormal.
      Now a third voice cackled over their Combat-net's. The old man had arrived. Lewis redirected the D2X to the main entrance. Chandler Evans was synonymous with the modern day clandestine Black-Op, where a target or high-level intel to be acquired was identified, thorough reconnaissance conducted, and then the hit or theft executed with no traceable trail left behind. His record of successes included penetrating the Kremlin during the Cold War and obtaining intel instrumental in facilitating its fall. Preston Lane was his brainchild. Small, but lacking bureaucratic layers that hampered formal intelligence services, Preston Lane provided Central Intelligence and Homeland Security options no longer available through more publicly known shadow companies like Blackwater, who even after a series of name changes found it difficult to operate without a CNN press crew in tow. As a testament to Evans' wily protectiveness, after a decade of high-risk assignments, Preston Lane was known only to a select few.
      The old man could have been out for a stroll in the park. His unkempt sheet-white locks, faithfully present tweed jacket and casual boating shoes sans socks were reminiscent of an aging, but fighting it all the way, college professor; though behind the scholarly appearance lurked a resourcefulness few in the field would ever achieve. Lewis wondered when, if ever, the old man ever intended to retire. Probably never, he thought, shifting his attention back to the crowd.
      When a Black-Op does go bad, rarely is it that the signs could not have been seen.
      Lewis' eyes were now drawn to a figure, a woman's. She was dressed entirely in black. He zoomed the D2X in. There was something about her actions, or lack thereof. Yes, that was it. She was not there to party; she was there to observe, to coordinate, to activate. Where were the others then? Lewis took the overview, scanning for places where he would have placed assets. With the woman as a starting point, in quick succession he picked out the tall, thin man behind Hoppert, a heavy-set hulk diagonally across the table, and a short, squat man next to the physicist whose jovial face nearly disguised a pair of dark, penetrating eyes that shifted nervously side-to-side. Hoppert and Choi were surrounded in a classic box formation.
      Professionals.
      "Sonofabitch I knew it!" he spat into the Combat-net. "Get Choi the hell outa here!" For a split-second his gaze flirted across the tent to where the old man had been but Evans was nowhere to be seen. Lewis' attention darted back to Hoppert and Choi. The tall man and his short, squat freunde were already assuming positions behind the two. Powerless to do anything from the balcony, he watched as weapons were thrust into Hoppert and Choi's backs—and the immediate effect of each arching to attention. But then the unthinkable occurred: one of the other revelers at the table spotted the attempted abduction and lunged for the tall man's weapon.
      Kaboom! The percussion was no louder than the billowing bass drum . . . then, pandemonium began to spread. Like toppling dominoes starting at the immediate table and spilling to the surrounding ones, panicked revelers rushed for Festhalle exits, but only compounded the situation, as intoxicated people collided, and frailer ones were trampled in the stampede.
      Lewis ditched the camera and baggy jacket and bounded over to and down the Galerie stairs. When he reached ground level, he elbowed his way to the nearest exit and raced outside.
      With thousands of panicked and inebriated partiers pouring out onto the already overcrowded grounds, the understaffed Polizei would have their hands full restoring order. By the time they got around to taking descriptions and searching for the gunmen, each would be long gone. Lewis, not restricted by this first duty, circled the nearby Theresienwiese grounds, carefully, cautiously, but quickly. Past the Uhland Hauzenberger and up P. Heyse Strasse before turning west on Schwanthaler Strasse, Lewis stalked the woman in black, her minions, and Hai Tao Choi.
      Where could they have gone? A waiting car? The U-Bahn?
    His instincts said otherwise; nearby Oktoberfest parking was nonexistent, and the train too claustrophobically controlled by the very authorities the team would need to avoid.
      Widen the circle.
      He did so, now passing the Deutsches Theatre on Bayer Strasse and nearing the Central Railway Station. On the opposite side of the street he spotted the heavy-set hulk next to a light post. Lewis scanned Bayer Strasse and located the woman in black standing next to a sign post about twenty meters away. Where was Hoppert, the defector, the thin man, and the short, squat thug? he wondered. Not far; otherwise the professionals would be long gone. Now a plan came to mind: immobilize the hulk and then capture and force the coordinator to talk. Lewis closed in. For the time being the advantage was his; the abductors had no way of knowing who he was. Lewis worked himself into a position two meters behind the hulk, but something felt wrong.
      Why didn't he turn around?
      Then it became clear. The narrow cobblestone alleyway; perhaps wide enough for a motorcycle, but no more. The hulk was acting as a lookout. But why? Lewis could only think of two reasons for such continued boldness: the abduction was either to interrogate or to assassinate. He reached into his jacket, his fingers and palm wrapping around the familiar contours of his Sig Sauer and becoming one.
      Safety off.
      Then Lewis made his move, pressing the pistol barrel into the hulk's back. "Don't move!" The muscles in the hulk's neck tightened. He added emphasis to the barrel press at the same time an explosion to their right erupted. From the corner of his eye, Lewis saw the coordinator collapse. The gaping opening in her chest left no doubt the woman in black was dead. Above her stood the old man, an obscene twist of smoke drifting skyward from the Ruger leveled in his hand.
      Even before he sensed the sideways-slipping motion of the hulk, Lewis recognized his blunder. The momentary distraction had provided the professional an opportunity, albeit risky, but one he would have exercised had their roles been reversed. Certain the trained killer's hands were reaching for his piece, Lewis' reaction was quicker—by only a split-second—but enough time to smash the Sig into his neck. The effect was instantaneous: the hulk collapsed in a heap while his Glock skittered across the ground. The crowd, already jittery from the mass bier tent evacuation and the violence moments ago, panicked at the sight of a second body down. Lewis, no longer assured of the advantage of surprise, joined the masses in their mad sprawl. He was, however, not running away, but using the mayhem to reach the alleyway.
      Kaboom!
      It was a large caliber weapon. Lewis dove to the ground and rolled. More shots followed. He counted three calibers. Zing. Zing. Boom. A gun battle was taking place. But now Lewis knew he wasn't the target and a knot formed in his gut. He crawled closer, his weapon drawn, his head and ear touching the wall. It felt cool, damp, and abrasive, but he did not mind, the chiseled limestone offered protection.
      Crack!
      The small caliber retort echoed dead and was followed by an eerie silence.
      Inching closer, he peered around the corner. What he saw confirmed his worst fears: Hoppert and Choi lay in an intermingling pool of blood, and behind them, the painfully twisted body of the short, squat professional. The thin man was nowhere to be seen. With all of his senses on edge, Lewis approached the carnage. Hoppert's lips bubbled crimson.
      "You were right, Landon," he gasped. "You were right."
      You're fucking right I was right. Idiot. Holstering the Sig, Lewis rolled Choi's body aside and hoisted Hoppert up off the cold stone. The agent's chest heaved. Hoppert was alive, but not for long.
      "Conserve your strength. I'll call for help."
     Hoppert shook his head in protest. His hands clutched Lewis' shoulders. "Long Beach," he wheezed. "Two days. Container EISU7."
      The Langley operative's eyes went wide and his grip tightened.
      Before Lewis could press for more, Hoppert racked rigid in his arms.