Chapter Three
The Toy Symphony flowed, through the iPod then out of the ear-thing into the runner’s head. Snug in his pocket, a tiny aluminum and glass machine, a bundle of wires and a chip, run by a battery the size of a dime. Gave him energy, gave him that edge and he sprinted another twenty yards before bounding up the stairs to the promenade. The Alsatian stopped ahead, paused and he drew level with it. Slumped down and caught his breath. Great effort, doing well -- a good daily run along the beach kept everything in check. Being active; retirement demanded a routine. Still in shape. Everybody knew him and the formidable dog, they were regulars. Not a soul knew who he really was…just another ‘running man’. They were everywhere these days. Beat the hell out of pruning roses.
He finished the daily torture-session not too far from the gaze of the golden mermaid statue and stretched. A pleasant time of year; not too many tourists. He squatted, rubbing his bad knee, he turned and he saw her; the lady with the crash-helmet under her arm…the ‘rider’.
She’d appeared, shaggy windswept hair, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket that was padded. In the distance a red and silver motorcycle matching the colors on her jacket was propped against the curb, looked like a candy bar or a child’s toy. He removed the earpiece so he could hear properly. The motorcycle-rider was saying something. Playing with Tikka, his beloved dog.
“He’s lovely. Is it okay to touch, does he like strangers?” She knelt and scratched under its chin. It panted and licked her hands, sticky glue-like drool; didn’t bother the rider. “You know I had one just like him when I was young, he’s so cute.”
The accent suggested a more recent immigrant family background, difficult to place. Certainly a career military type, well over the age of national service. Fixated by the dog, his own personal chick-magnet…not that he cared.
“It’s a she,’ replied the running man. “I can give you the breeder’s details, if you’re interested. Supplies canines to the air force…”
“Nah…my room’s way too cramped.”
So interested she’d lost concentration in anything else. Finally, turned to the running man and handed him a cell phone, one with an inbuilt camera. Knelt down next to it and asked him to photograph her. He snapped several images of them and the shore in the background. Nice shots, he checked them, handed the thing back. She took it in one hand then handed over another of the same model. Identical, one of those gimmicky things with a hundred tiny buttons designed for a child’s fingers.
Strange. This puzzled him. “More?”
“Not quite,” the rider replied; serious, businesslike. “At exactly twenty hundred hours today, a call will be made on this hand set. She held the cell in front of her, made her point. “Please take it. We need to contact you. We may need your assistance.”
He straightened up. “Assistance…? Who exactly is ‘we’?”
“You shall receive a call on this very ‘phone in a few hours, so do not misplace it; it’s a secured line and we would like it returned to us. I would like to collect you in front of your place. Tonight.”
The stranger paused and glanced at the surrounds, up and down the promenade. With the warm breeze and late onset of a Mediterranean fall the coast was unusually quiet. Sometimes they had residents, other times tourists came. Depended on the security situation. Trouble in the region and nobody came, bank on that, they stayed away in droves.
“This one’s big,” she replied offhandedly. She turned to face him, eye-contact for the first time. “Rather big. I shall see you in a few hours at your place, yes?”
“Do I have a choice?” he demanded.
“Not particularly. Thanks for your time…Major Lowenstein…”
Caught his breath. He hadn’t been addressed by rank for several months now, this came as a jolt. Ambushed.
At least she hadn’t saluted, in a public place and all.
She stood and pocketed her own phone -- the one with all the shots of her and the dog -- in her jacket and turned on her heel. Flipped the helmet over her head, mounted her motorcycle and disappeared. Quick as she’d materialized. As she sped off the cycle made a deep low rattle, lasting long after out of eyeshot. An Italian beauty, a poor man’s supercar, only with two wheels.
He snapped the leash on the dog’s collar and started the run home. He always knew his former employers would be keeping tabs but calling him into meetings, being accosted by strangers…caught him off-guard. When he arrived home the dog ate but had no desire to; no appetite despite the workout, the salt air and the breeze.
They arrived at a secluded shop front that evening. Had some secondhand junk in the window like electric guitars, drum-kits. Heavy grills over the shop, typical of a pawnbroker. The call had come as promised, came at eight in the evening, now it was late. The lady who loved dogs and expensive motorcycles, it was her; she’d collected him. In uniform, with her sidearm and beret under the left epaulette. Made the effort to tidy up a little. An officer, a captain. She punched a number once and then cancelled the call. The guard, a junior officer, unlocked the glass door and he followed the two of them through a passage way with another guard standing by an inner door. No swipe cards, no surveillance, no fingerprint readers or magnetic latches. Discrete and practical, uniformed guards who didn’t even bother to salute. Inner circle; nobody knew the place existed. In the room were two government officials. An officer and a nameless civilian who greeted them by their first names.
“Thanks for being here at such short notice,” said the officer, addressing Lowenstein. “We realize this may be unexpected, considering your recent departure from the service.”
The running man tried to remember the face. Read the name-badge. Sure he knew the guy from somewhere. This was no reunion.
The running man read off the tag: “Colonel Hirsch…what do I owe the pleasure?”
“We thought it’d be nice to catch up. Touch base. Just see how you’ve been keeping.”
“Cut the crap, Colonel. Why me? I’ve only been out for a few months.”
“For me it’s been a few years indeed, Mister Lowenstein,” replied Hirsch. “Pardon me…Major.”
The civilian dropped a document on the desk…the preliminary…the interrogation. Then he started: “Some years back you were employed with our office in the Far East, this is correct?” he asked.
The running man looked at the civilian and the motorcyclist he had met earlier, and then the colonel. Wanted answers. He knew the colonel’s face and possibly had met but they never spoken. Nobody replied. The colonel whispered something in the rider’s ear and she stepped out latching the door behind. Only three of them now.
The civilian continued. “You must know the place well. Would you agree, about 1999 I think, both yourself and another of ours were involved in ‘Operation Scissors’ would I be right in saying so?” He beamed at the reaction. “Cast your mind back…Bangkok, Thailand, a commercial job.”
The running man stiffened and stared at the spook but still did not reply. Didn’t need to…cast his mind back. Like being exposed to a bully or hated teacher from way back, on one of those reality TV series. The nerve! It made him uneasy. The caper itself was not as potentially embarrassing as some had been, rather an irritating waste of resources. Meant to be top secret, between himself and his controllers at home -- nobody in the embassy had known. Yet these two did.
‘Scissors’ was a mud collection against an expatriate, a visiting trade official of a certain foreign mission belonging to a friendly country. A close ally. Care was needed. The authorities in that ‘friendly country’ had blocked a lucrative export deal involving of all things navel oranges, on decisions everybody knew was junk science; that same market imported tons of the things from California. Political science more to the point.
The operation had been one of those freelance enterprises, fairly low risk to the service but it did have the potential to be e
xtremely nasty for the subject on the receiving end. Exactly how things turned out; the main target -- the trade official -- had a predilection for underage boys. The spooks had it in their heads the subject engorged himself on a non-stop diet of bargirls every time he passed through Thailand; how wrong they’d all been. Getting the evidence made Lowenstein and his sidekick physically sick.
To this day the running man had regretted not abandoning the operation and simply handing everything to his contacts in the Royal Thai Police. He had seen the job to its conclusion however, with the hope of some lucrative export dollars in the pipeline; trade deals that would magically appear once his work was done. All efforts had proven futile when the official in question was discovered face down minus his privates in a flea riddled guesthouse behind the diplomatic enclave. Skull crushed and gray matter all over the floors and walls of a place called the ‘Friendly Inn’. Friendly indeed. Somebody got to the subject first; the spooks missed that one too. They’d all bailed out, the deal had collapsed, all evidence duly shredded and the subject deceased. Even the containers of oranges had ended up unmarketable; the underwriters dumped them someplace like Fiji. Supplier went broke. In hindsight the name ‘Scissors’ had been most apt.
The very reference to the project meant two things: a lot more players were aware of his involvement in what was meant to be ‘unofficial’ and secondly there would be many things the top brass knew about the running man’s past. He bristled.
“Gentlemen I can only confirm I was placed in Bangkok from 1990 until 1999. I am unable to discuss any details of my placement there, apart from the fact I was under the auspices of our diplomatic mission.”
Somebody’s done their homework and done it well.
Lowenstein kept glancing at Hirsch, trying to place the colonel. It came to him.
“De Castella…D’Angelo…?” The running man raised his finger up.
“Di Righetti, as I remember it,” the colonel said. “But trust me, I’m not from Rome.”
It figured. Been a while back. They’d been integrity testing everyone…that company representative, floating round trying to poach lists of defense contracts from those in the industry. Offering generous kickbacks, commissions. The running man didn’t fall for it. One or two others did though…landed them in jail.
He’d been around way too long. Lowenstein had known something was up and reported the encounter -- even offered to trap the guy; bring him in. Never heard anything back at all. The Italians simply weren’t that generous. Now the guy was right here in front of him.
“You still need to tell me, why did you drag me here? I have retired. Surely others can do this.” The running man argued and pleaded. Fell on deaf ears.
“You know many of the ASEAN nations; at least those who allow us entry, don’t you? You speak the language there, am I correct? You have an extensive knowledge of the Kingdom of Thailand and the Democratic Republic of Laos, would you agree with me?”
“Some knowledge, I suppose. A little conversational Thai and some Cantonese swear words. Fluent in English as well.” Irritated now. Changed the subject. “Who’s that officer, anyhow? Following me around like a-”
“The captain? I believe you two met earlier,” said the colonel. “Be aware she is on loan to us from the regulars and believe me she comes with aptitude and experience. Prior to her military career she was in the South African Police. Language skills, she’s got ‘em. Plus, we require a lady operative on board for reasons I cannot go into right now.”
“Honey trap? Bear trap more like it-”
“Not at all,” replied Hirsch. “Ari, I shall brief you and give a technical summary of why we are here tonight. You have been selected from a short-list of three candidates, one of whom shall go on to lead an operation which may extend over a time frame of anything up to six months, perhaps more. This operation is an enterprise in the Far East. Until you agree, if you do agree, I cannot disclose too much more.” The officer looked at his civilian colleague then at the running man. “Give this some thought. We can meet at oh-seven-hundred tomorrow. Go have some time alone if you wish.” He checked his watch.
The running man spoke. “What are the logistics of this? Who else knows?”
“We can only say this would involve about fifteen of our personnel, all hand-picked. As convener, should you be selected, you shall have power of veto over any participants. This mission has been underwritten to a generous budget. Furthermore it has the go-ahead from the very highest levels….”
Colonel Abraham Shimon Hirsch droned on and on, in harmony with the air con units on the wall. The running man drifted, heard it all before. That very afternoon he had been enjoying his retirement. Hoped to get back into shape. He had only been on vacation once since quitting work, to his ancestral Germany to see the concert halls and also visit the museums and galleries. He adored Europe, the culture, scenery and classical architecture. Decent beer. Snow. He considered this but the temptation to return for one last mission was overpowering. Worthwhile fee upon conclusion.
‘Top money for right applicant…’ No idea why he was here but he spoke without even thinking: “So who would take care of my dog?”
The civilian fumbled through the swamp of files at his feet and dumped the papers upon the desk. Seized upon the opportunity.
“Secrecy, financial disclosure, codes of conduct and so forth,” he said. “If you agree and if you sign we can proceed.” He removed a gold pen from his shirt pocket and placed it on the desk.
The colonel smiled. “Thank you, Ari. Welcome back.”
Lowenstein, the running man, signed his life away. He didn’t read such papers; he had done this so many times before, lost count. The captain -- whatever her name was -- had returned, she was signing the same, though she was taking considerable effort to actually read them. A first-timer, he thought; most likely head-hunted. So many years ago it had been the same for him. An ambitious sergeant; immortal and courageous…handpicked. Late 1972, the aftermath of Munich, who could ever forget? ‘Operation Wrath of God’ they’d named it. He’d been there; been part of it all when it went down.
Quiet outside. Late. Lowenstein tapped his pockets, felt like a smoke. Didn’t bring any, none on him. Hirsch sidled up next to him.
“Won’t be a moment, Ari. Captain van de Meuwe will deliver you and collect you first thing in the-”
“Forget about it. I’ll walk…sir.”
“As you wish,” said Hirsch. “It’s late though. You armed?”
“Worried I’ll get mugged, Colonel? More chance of getting struck by lightning.”
That was certainly true. Hirsch nodded, Lowenstein went to cross the road then stopped. “Colonel, one thing…the captain today…she made some remark: meant to be a big one or something like that.”
Hirsch didn’t say anything right away. They were outside now. All would be revealed soon. He nodded his head. Some nice couple walked by, right past then down the road. He waited.
“Tomorrow. Briefing will be first thing. We’ll collect you half an hour before.”
“How big, Colonel Hirsch?”
“Let’s just say it’s your finest hour, if you pull it off…sorry…when you pull it off. Same goes for me too, as it stands. Have a nice walk back.”
The running man nodded and turned, commenced walking. Same direction the couple a minute ago. A vehicle pulled alongside. The rider at the wheel. Dropped the window, then she leaned and opened the passenger door.
“Need a lift, Major?”
Lowenstein ignored her. Just kept walking. Didn’t need the company right now. ‘Everybody’s finest hour.’ Heard that one before but got him thinking…they knew all about him. Knew what he’d done and what he could get done. Dirty deeds that went back decades; he was a striker, a field operative. Not a spook. Not one of the university graduates. They did all the planning; he just went out and got the job don
e.