A tap, a click, and then one of the monitors flashes black, flickers, and then we have a duplication of the view through Anselm’s scope, targeting reticle included. It’s trained on the doorway of the building, but from a great distance. The building itself is a small box in the scope’s field. As we watch, the view suddenly jumps, once, twice, and then the building is much larger.
“That is better, I think, ja?” Anselm’s voice. The reticle pauses over a small patch of shadows in the doorway. “This is the main honcho. The one in charge of this shitshow, locally. I saw his face for a moment when Apollo entered. I itch to put a bullet in him. I have seen him before, through my scope and have nearly done so. He is no good of a person, involved in many bad things. Alas, I must wait yet, I think.”
“Name?” Lear asks.
“Uri Djakovic.”
Lear taps the name into a screen, and a face pops up. Ugly, scarred, scowling, a mug shot from some arrest or warrant. Information pops up beside the face, a litany of nasty shit he’s been responsible for.
“Known associates?” Harris demands.
“Hmmm. Nobody I’ve ever heard of,” Lear answers, running a finger down the list of names. “Seems like mostly local lowlifes. His biggest hit was three years ago. Mossad nailed him for an arms deal in the Hamas, but couldn’t put hands on him. It was a fuckin’ bloodbath, it looks like. They want his ass but bad, boss.”
“Ja, that is Uri,” Anselm says. “Arms dealing, drugs. Murder for hire. He will do anything, if you pay him enough. He is muscle for many unpleasant characters in the world of European crime. This is the first time I have heard of him crossing the pond, however. Usually he stays in his own backyard.”
Lear is still scanning the very long list of known associates. “Wait, I know this name—Sven Rasmussen.” A pause, as Lear racks his memory. “Why do I know that name? Anselm? It ring a bell for you?”
“Sven Rasmussen? It does. I cannot place it, though. Search it. Perhaps that will help.”
Lear is already typing. “On it. Okay. Yeah, so Rin, your boyfriend was right—I’d bet big money this is the work of Richard Spaulding. This guy down there, Djakovic, he’s done work for Sven Rasmussen, who is generally accepted to be the right-hand man for none other than Richard Spaulding. I can’t verify the connection, not without evidence, but it all links.” Some more typing, a pause, and a different mug shot pops up, of a Slavic man with a hawk nose and frightening, pale blue eyes. “Oh, and guess what? Mr. Rasmussen was just released after five years of a ten-year sentence in a Polish prison for attempting to murder a judge. And why, you ask, would Rasmussen do five years in a Polish prison? Why try to murder a judge? Well, that judge put out a warrant for…you guessed it, Mr. Spaulding, who is wanted in Poland for sex trafficking, extortion, money laundering, a whole bunch of stuff. I guess Spaulding didn’t like that and sicced his dog Rasmussen on him. Only, the judge is a former Special Forces operator turned lawyer and then judge, and foiled the murder attempt. Got away with his life, but Rasmussen fled…only to be picked up at the border. His release was kept quiet, and no one is quite sure how it was approved in the first place. Suspicion is someone was paid off, threatened, or both.”
“This sounds like a Ludlum novel,” Harris says.
“Sure does.” Lear cackles. “And bingo! Guess who’salsowanted in Poland in connection with that same attempted murder plot?”
“Djakovic?” I ask.
“Got it in one. He was ID’d as the getaway driver. Local CCTV cameras picked him up.”
Harris grunts. “Spaulding has enough pull to get his henchman out of prison after attempting to murder ajudge?”
“Seems so. Interpol actually just reported his last whereabouts were aboard a train headed for the west coast of Spain.”
“Spaulding’s whereabouts, or Rasmussen’s?” I ask.
“Rasmussen, sorry. Spaulding’s location is unknown.”
“But if we can find Rasmussen…” Harris prompts.
“We find Spaulding,” Lear confirms. “And if we can find Spaulding, we might have Yelena.”
Harris straightens, arms crossing, staring at the mug shot still pulled up on the screen. “Anselm, you and Duke head to Europe. Find Rasmussen. Do some recon, when you do. See if we can get a location for the girl. We’ll put in two full-fire teams for the snatch itself, when it comes. But for now, we just need intel, real-time, boots-on-the-ground, eyes-on-the-target intel.”
“Ja, understood,” Anselm says.
“Duke is standing by with the jet, so get what you need and head for the airfield.” Harris addresses the ceiling. “Colin, you copy?”
“Affirmative.”
“Still have eyes on?”
“No one in, no one out, so far,” Colin reports. “Not sure what’s going on. Okay, wait—there’s a van approaching. Yes, it’s turning in. Stand by.”
“Mark is on the move,” Lear reports. “Heart rate picking up. Walking. There’s the van—” he touches the thermal imaging screen, indicating the van as it arrives. “And there’s our mark, getting in. One, two, three, four with him, not including the driver.”
“Colin, keep eyes on the van,” Harris commands.
“Copy.”
