The Killing Ploy

THE KILLING PLOY

By

Steve Haberman

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2020 by Steve Haberman

Discover these titles and more at:

www.murderthrillermysteries.com

Murder Without Pity

Darkness and Blood

Winston Churchill’s Renegade Spy

Due out next year: Where the Bodies Lie

Fate! Cruel, merciless fate!

Anon.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

THE BEGINNING OF IT ALL

CHAPTER 1

SEARCHING FOR ACCOMPLICES

CHAPTER 2

A SCREAM IN THE DARK

CHAPTER 3

A MEETING AT THE GULAG

CHAPTER 4

THE PRAGUE COLLOQUIUM

CHAPTER 5

FINAL THOUGHTS

CHAPTER 6

EDEN ON THE PACIFIC

CHAPTER 7

ENTRY 74

CHAPTER 8

ARMAGEDDON’S DEVILS

CHAPTER 9

A MISSING COMPUTER OR TWO

CHAPTER 10

CRYPTIC THURSDAY

CHAPTER 11

CONCHO’S

CHAPTER 12

EXIT T. J.

CHAPTER 13

A FILE ON BOY SCOUT

CHAPTER 14

A TINGE OF SUSPICION

CHAPTER 15

SUNDAY AT THE BEACH

CHAPTER 16

THIEVES’ REMORSE?

CHAPTER 17

LAWYERING UP

CHAPTER 18

RE: ERNST GUNTHER

CHAPTER 19

CLOSE AND PERSONAL

CHAPTER 20

PANIC

CHAPTER 21

SANCTUM SANCTORUM

PART TWO

HUNTING A GHOST

CHAPTER 22

AKA BILLY FOSTER

CHAPTER 23

A SPECIAL PROJECT

CHAPTER 24

TRIGGER MAN’S FILE

CHAPTER 25

EVENING AND MORNING CHATTER

CHAPTER 26

A DANGEROUS OLD MAN

CHAPTER 27

MI5’S MAN

CHAPTER 28

TYING UP A LOOSE END

CHAPTER 29

A PLAN MADE

CHAPTER 30

A LOOSE END UNDONE

CHAPTER 31

NO CLUB FOR A GENTLEMAN

CHAPTER 32

PARIS

CHAPTER 33

INQUIRY AT THE OFFENBACH

CHAPTER 34

A SHIVER OF FEAR

CHAPTER 35

INCIDENT AT CHÂTELET-LES-HALLES

CHAPTER 36

TABLE TALK

CHAPTER 37

THE KITCHEN TABLE DEALER

CHAPTER 38

7:35 A. M. RENDEZVOUS

CHAPTER 39

BRUSSELS

CHAPTER 40

THE MAN IN APARTMENT 219

CHAPTER 41

IF IT BLEEDS, IT LEADS

CHAPTER 42

THE RUMOR

CHAPTER 43

EVASION TO THE COSMOPOLE

CHAPTER 44

FLESHING OUT THE TALE

CHAPTER 45

THE THIRD SECTOR

CHAPTER 46

THE PRESS CONFERENCE

CHAPTER 47

VIENNA

CHAPTER 48

STUART THE APOSTATE?

CHAPTER 49

WE SEEM TO HAVE A LITTLE PROBLEM

CHAPTER 50

PARIS/VIENNA

CHAPTER 51

MORE DIRTY WORK

CHAPTER 52

VIENNA

CHAPTER 53

BLOOD AND FOOTPRINTS

PROLOGUE

Pablo de Silva crouched behind the stone wall that edged the boulevard and Stadtpark in Zurich's Old Quarter. Still no snatch teams in sight. Worst case, he feared, a CIA no-show, and he'd have to pull the trigger. A clean shot across, if lucky, whenever Billy Foster reemerged from the Franz Joseph Hotel. No bodyguards bunched close to that American-turned terrorist to hinder his aim. No freezing up either; that humiliating Berlin incident hopefully behind him.

A sudden flurry of movement. He relaxed his grip on his gun, peeked above the wall, and froze his gaze, stunned. Still another one? An eighth bodyguard exited the grand hotel's main entrance and trotted down the steps to join the others in front. He scanned for anything threatening before dumping suitcases on the sidewalk next to the piles of other luggage, apparently not caring about the wet, dirty pavement. Eight against one now. Jesus. How many more were inside? Pablo glanced at his wristwatch. 9:38. Nineteen minutes since he had phoned in sighting Foster. Dammit guys, where the hell are you?

The Arabic voices of Foster's security detail carried in the drizzly chill of the Saturday morning quiet. Some shouted into cell phones. Others paced in circles arguing with each other. All sounded panicky to flee their Swiss hideout. All heavily armed probably to protect their most wanted charge. If he could fire off even one clean shot he had, he guessed, only seconds to clear out before they gave chase, ripping loose with their weapons.

Eight, maybe more, against one, if those snatch cars didn't show. Block it out, he warned himself. Focus just on your target, which he did, after a bitter ironic thought. The CIA intended to abduct a top jihadist inciter of human bombs just as it had once kidnapped him....

PART ONE

THE BEGINNING

OF IT ALL

CHAPTER 1

SEARCHING FOR ACCOMPLICES

Security House, a CIA satellite facility in some northern Virginia woods.

Five o'clock on a wintry Tuesday morning may seem an unwise hour to seek an accomplice in a plot to undermine. But in his years with the Agency's Eyes and Ears Unit, Stuart Bishop had learned to pick up allies whenever he could. He knew the youth in question, Jake Strummer, was still on shift alone, and, he suspected, susceptible to persuasion as he punched in numbers on his speakerphone on his desk. Jake, Stuart Bishop here, he boomed out in his bar-friendly manner as he meandered around his office. Haven't had the pleasure till now. I wanted to catch you before you clock out, congratulate you on your high marks in our training program. Before long, you'll be snooping around Europe like the rest of us. Welcome aboard.

Pleasure's mine, Mr. Bishop. I've heard lots 'bout you and some of the things you've done. All I can say is, whatever it takes to get the bad guys, I'm game.

"Hey, that’s the spirit. And Stuart, please. Just plain, old Stuart. When George moves up and I take over, you can call me Mr. So, how are things out your way at the apartment?"

Easy peasy. The safehouse is stocked with food. No intruders. And Pablo has pocket change.

You lucky son of a gun, you. I'm jealous. A friendly reminder. Make sure your cell is in the guy’s bedroom before you take off. He'll get a wake-up call around sixish.

You got it. Any problems with his snatch?

With those guys, Jake? No way. They're pros. Stuart felt he was establishing a good rapport with the support staffer. The Guatemala City media have received Pablo's personal items and photos in their mail this morning and think some gang kidnapped the son-of-a-bitch off the street. They're going nuts over it. The capital's become a magnet for bandits, etc. I've been monitoring them, while boning up on him.

Didn't you run him once? I thought you were up to speed.

Not after Berlin. After what happened there, I read the summary damage assessment and washed my hands with the guy. Couldn't bring myself to read the unabridged report. When George Hart himself shuffled him off to Guatemala, I thought good-bye, good riddance.

Well, he's back.

Yeah, tell me about it. I pulled an all-nighter reading the complete report. It's the stuff of nightmares for any poor soul who has to work with that guy.

Don't you think you're being a bit harsh? George said he was a crack shot once and one of the best at evasion.

A mild rebuke. George must have gotten to him beforehand, explained his views on Pablo. "You got that right." Stuart said. He was good at many things once, Jake. Sailing, mountaineering, whatever, before Berlin. That was then; this is now. Look, don't take my word for it. Read that full report.

Well, we'll see.

Stuart puckered his lips, irritated. He sat down at his desk and spoke directly into the phone. You know what they say, Jake? Once bitten, twice shy. He's become an operational risk.

I guess so.

I guess so said, Stuart realized, without conviction. Don't know about you, he replied, trying another way to persuade, but a guy freezing when a terrorist is attacking a fellow agent tells me one hell of a lot.

Guess George believes in second chances. Cowardly or courageous, only time will tell.

There you go, Stuart said with forced goodwill. We agree on something. Well look, I've enjoyed our little chat and again welcome abroad. I look forward to meeting you in person. He punched the disconnect.

Maybe, he worried, he had pushed too hard. He flipped through notes on members of the unit equivocal about forcing Pablo to resign until he found the page with the name Jake Strummer. In it, he jotted down the result of their chat: The unit's grad wasn't swayed. Stuart understood he still had much work to do with the fence-sitters.

CHAPTER 2

A SCREAM IN THE DARK

Katarina screamed, "Shoot! Shoot! Pablo, please dear God shoot!" Her almond eyes filled with fear, she stared at him through her wild tangle of hair. "Shoot him for God’s sake!"

Pablo de Silva jerked awake, sweaty with panic. He caught the outline of a photo of the Lincoln Memorial on the opposite wall and recalled where he was, in a dim room in D. C., not in a Berlin train station. Katarina’s Arabic features twisting in pain, the terrorist withdrawing his bloody knife from her belly faded, and he realized his phone was ringing.

Already? Oh, shut up. His abduction in Guatemala City, that frenetic drive to the airport, the shout to rev the engines, and landing afterwards outside Washington had all happened moments ago, it seemed. He’d enjoyed little sleep in that safe house. Yet there the Agency was calling, he felt certain. No mercy at all.

6:30 on his wristwatch. He flopped a rebellious arm over his eyes. Let them wait. He’d rest in the unthreatening dark while he could. Safety was too fragile to abandon quickly. No telling what they wanted.

Finally, he couldn’t ignore the call any longer. Crap. He groped behind to the headboard. There, cold metal and enamel, a lamp. The encryption cell phone, too. Then the gruff, unforgiving voice of Thelma Grubbins, loyalist to Hart, on the line without greetings. What? George is back in the States? he mumbled in sleepy reply to her summons.

Yep. The one and only is here. Stuart, too. George is sending a driver around. You get face time with G. H. in an hour at Security House, pretty boy.

Christ, come one, Thel. I arrived late last night. He yawned and felt achy from his kidnappers' rough up.

One hour, she snapped and hung up.

No mercy indeed, he thought as he hung up too.

The phone rang again. You’ll stay the day, Thelma added, after a mucous-loosening cough.

Some gratitude, he thought after he had punched off again. He’d bribed and hacked into Guatemalan government computers in the dead of night to discover the movements of Interior Ministry forces. Idled away hours in the capital’s grubbiest cafés, hoping to overhear useful gossip. Risked more than he cared to think about in that dangerous Third World backwater. Yet no apologies calling at that hour. No explanation why George wasn’t in Paris. Her message in the harsh imperative, Miss Thelma Grubbins, George Hart’s go-to gal and hatchet lady, the same as ever.

On the bedside stand, he spotted plastic containers of pills to help him sleep, to boost his appetite and spirits. He had forsworn them; the side effects were too harsh. Langley had provided them anyway. No thanks, guys. You and your meds and time-heals-all-wounds shrinks have done more than enough to me.

He kicked the blanket off in disgust, when he noticed how damp his boxer shorts and bed sheet were from his nightmare and how parched his mouth felt. He gulped down a glass of water on the nightstand. Kudos to you guys for, at least, understanding dehydration from night sweats.

Even in sleep, he couldn’t escape violence. Some days he wished he could suffer partial amnesia. Forget Berlin and Katarina’s murder and his loss of courage. Forget he’d signed with the Agency. He’d given enough.

CHAPTER 3

A MEETING AT THE GULAG

The driver was a hefty man packed into a military style coat. A glance his way, Pablo noticed, passed for a greeting as he hopped in. They sped west in the fast lane through morning traffic in silence. When he asked why the hurry, the driver just shrugged. If there was an emergency, that man could at least tell him something, he thought. But he took the hint; he’d have to wait.

At last they reached an office complex in some northern Virginia woods. Pablo leaned forward, awed at the towers ahead and the lore he’d overheard about them. Within them, the CIA had plotted strategies against the then Soviet Union and its allies. But when the Cold War ended, the Agency had all but abandoned the brick-and-glass high-rises. It sold them off discreetly to a Japanese syndicate that had crammed into each of the stories lone practitioners and partnerships of CPAs, lawyers, and therapists.

All but one tower, that is, the CIA had sold. That one, a satellite facility, retained its secretive self as well as the complex’s group name, Security House.

The driver escorted Pablo to a side door marked as a service entrance, lit by a lone bulb overhead. Fifth floor, Capital Export/Import. Without another word he turned and walked away.

Damn it, Abdul, we hear terrorist chatter too. London, Paris, Berlin. All over. Why do you think we’re busting our ass on this? But we don’t know where in Europe they'll strike. Stuart Bishop, unshaven and with untidy hair, stood in the center of the room talking on his cell as he glanced at Pablo.

Pablo smiled back reflexively, while he waited by the door in respectful silence.

Pal around with them. Funds from that Saudi foundation must go elsewhere besides mine victims. Are any aiding terrorists? Think, man, think. Right, I’ll hold.

Stuart, in a whisper, addressed a man silhouetted against the middle window to his right. He's demanding more pay. Then: Still here, Abdul. Right, I’ll look into it. Remember, you’re one of our best assets in France. Find the end of that Saudi money trail, the world is yours. He snapped shut his cell and clipped it to his belt. Greedy little prick. Middle East cell phone traffic to Europe spiking off the chart, George, and he's trying to extort us. He jerked out a document from his briefcase. How much longer we keep filling his food bowl?

For now, promise him whatever. We’re at war, Stuart. In war you risk, George added, before looking over his shoulder, alert to Pablo. Well, well. Our wayfarer son. He shuffled past the desk toward him with a too bright smile and a hand extended.

Pablo stared ahead, unable to reconcile the chief he had known and his chesty build of a football lineman with the shambles of a man before him. George, he said, gripping his hand, which felt oddly limp, and did he detect the smell of liquor?

You remember Stuart, George said.

Stuart merely nodded at him before returning to studying the thick document.

George, Pablo noticed, had turned gaunt, as though suffering a wasting disease.

My wife brought some kolaches, if you want any, George said.

Kolaches, a Czech pastry...that Guatemalan rumor was true, after all, Pablo realized. Devout Catholic George must have divorced and remarried that East European analyst.

Other gossip, though, concerning his sister’s murder in a Nairobi bombing had seemed too outrageous to believe. A depressed George no longer caring if the Agency planned to move his unit out of the Paris embassy to a more secure building. Parisian police arresting an unkempt George for vagrancy. George, supposedly on vacation, but really ensconced at the Hôtel de Crillon, across from the American embassy, fixated on checking French-provided security. Pablo had heard much he hadn't been able to verify until now. Now the man stood just feet away, looking like he had suffered an internal breakage and let himself go, making the whispers seem true. One George had died. Another, a fatigued stranger, had been born.

On a table next to a sofa between the desk and near wall, Pablo noticed his photos of the corrupt generalissimo, still in their envelope.

George handed him a cup of coffee. Palace intrigue, and here I am. In this gulag for consultations and tests for supposed stress. He sagged down into the sofa and waved Pablo over to join him.

Palace intrigue? Stuart noted, still off to the side. That’s sugarcoating it. They dumped us in the boonies because you blew the whistle on Nairobi.

Someone had to call it an intelligence fiasco, Stuart. George faced Pablo. So, pleasant flight?

Flying for hours in a little tri-engine? Pablo said, after tasting the coffee. It was too strong for more than another polite sip. It might keep him awake. He had trouble enough sleeping.

Listen mister, Stuart said, unpleasant folks in Guatemala City suspect, A, you work for us. And B, you used drop sites for intel about a drug cartel. Your hotelier cover got awfully thin. You should be damn thankful you're out of there.

There’s been a murder in a Paris hotel that might interest you, George said.

Pablo glanced across to George, his shift in the conversation as graceless as his rumpled appearance.

Hotel security found an American, a Greg Bradford, dead in his suite, George continued, with his passport missing. The hotel alerted the police. They notified the FBI’s legal attaché at our Paris embassy, who put us in the loop. We've since learned he was VP at RCB-Defense Systems, a San Diego high-tech outfit with big time security issues, including a missing laptop. Here. He pushed across the table two glossy color photos.

Pablo glanced at the first one. A jagged gash on the crown of the victim's bloody head. Brain matter oozing down his dark hair. Blood pooling on the carpet. Pablo felt his stomach lurch. Nuns raped; newlyweds shot outside his hotel; Katarina murdered; he had witnessed too much violence to linger over still more. He nudged both back without looking at the second one, without comment.

So far, George said, "the FBI hasn’t found witnesses or prints, but Stuart and I have theories. Terrorists might use the passport for a hit. Or maybe Russian organized crime paid Bradford for his defense secrets. San Diego is, after all, in the technology coast that runs through Los Angeles. For whatever reason, they might have killed him and faked a terrorist act to throw us off. Stuart and I lean toward a major terrorist attack.

The head of Covert Ops/Europe has tasked me to find an agent from my unit, past or present, to liaise with the FBI on this Bradford murder. The murder did, after all, happen on our turf, the Continent. I’d like you on board. Are the missing passport and laptop connected? Something more involved? Something bad may be out there, but we need more than a hunch. Don’t worry, there’ll be little chance of violence. It’s strictly fact-finding. See if this murder has a foreign angle. That’s it. If so, we’ll take it from there.

And in return?

You become your own man, George said. No more paperwork tedium or trying to please rich hotel guests. No more waiting for the occasional drop.

His hunch had been right. Langley had put watchers in at the hotel. Bastards.

You’ve voiced unhappiness about Guatemala, George continued. Hell man, here’s your chance to get the old juices flowing again.

They must have also contacted the Swiss authorities to let them read his letters to his brother in prison. Still, the thought of no more case officer breathing down his neck intrigued him.

A man with pockmarked, street-rough features stepped inside the office. Johnny Rake, senior communication chief, brushed aside his headset’s microphone. Paris, line two.

George reached for the phone on the table. How’s my Number Three doing? he asked. After listening a moment, he snatched a pencil and pad on the table. His what's missing? All good-natured pretense gone, he scribbled rapidly. Screw hospital rules. Stay by his side till he regains consciousness.... Don’t argue with me again. Just do it. You’re his concerned wife, sister, whatever. See if he mumbles anything. Without waiting for any reply, he cradled the phone and turned to Stuart. That woman’s got too much of a mind of her own. Get her transferred, when we return to Paris.

Then to Pablo: A few hours ago, the French found an American at the Hotel Royale Bonaparte, a Carlos Dean, with his head nearly bashed in. His papers showed he’s a senior VP at the same defense contractor as Greg Bradford. His money was still on him. His passport wasn't. Pablo, at least hear us out about liaising with the FBI.

Pablo caught as much of a plea as a prideful man could utter. And he noticed something in the moist, brown eyes. George, clever? Yes. Resourceful? Of course. But in agony? Never until that moment had he thought that way about his former chief. Yet pain from his sister’s murder showed. Pablo said he wanted to hear more.

Splendid! George clapped his thighs exuberantly. The FBI is already looking into Mr. Bradford’s death and seeing if there's a terrorist angle. It’s detailed Nick Vickers, a top counterterrorism special agent from their New York field office to San Diego. He’s taken over from an alcoholic on leave. He'll work with the Joint Terrorism Task Force there. Watch your back with him. He doesn’t always let the right hand know what the left is doing.

Does anyone in this business? Pablo wondered. I’ll keep that in mind. If I agree, what about the hotel staff after I leave?

Oh, we’ll deal with that. George dismissed further discussion with a contemptuous wave; Pablo’s concern seemed the minutest of problems. "Stuart, give our boy some background in your dacha." He pushed himself up and moved to his desk, already absorbed in another part of his day’s agenda.

Stuart Bishop led the way out grim-faced, like a man instructed to attend a funeral.

CHAPTER 4

THE PRAGUE COLLOQUIUM

Stuart led him past a room where, on the far wall, clocks ticked off the times in four European capitals. What was all that palace intrigue and Nairobi talk about? Pablo asked.

Bad stuff—the details in my office where I have your undivided attention—happened in Nairobi while you were in Guatemala. That bad stuff blew back to George.

And the European angle?

The bad stuff started in our bailiwick, Europe. Many working there, George included, missed the warning. He accepted responsibility, while fingering some Langley mullahs…a big no- no. Now it’s a grilling over his health plus justifying our Eyes and Ears budget. The mullahs really want him out of the Agency. But George won’t let them squeeze him. After Nairobi, Langley recalled him from Paris for an accounting. He defiantly brought some of his section to continue our work. Here we are.

The room was drab, Pablo noticed. A heater in the far corner. A card table in the middle, two metal folding chairs on either side. Beside the nearest one to him a trash basket with FOR SHREDDING taped to its side.

Stuart pushed shut his office door. Christ, it’s the Arctic in here. He dropped his briefcase onto the carpet, crossed to the heater, switched it on, then smiled bitterly as he sat down. Since Nairobi, those mullahs have ensured we’re the last to get fed. So we have to make do here till George can finagle more funding.

He flipped to a page of a legal pad filled with writing. The background to understand our urgency, he began, not waiting for Pablo to sit. "George is still too upset to brief, so the honor's mine. Last year’s colloquium, an academic front to the uninvited. But for those privileged to attend a de facto camp for Agency officers, needing R&R, and the trigger for all that's followed." He paused, letting the cryptic comment hang, while he took a quick sip of coffee.

The organizers held it, he continued, in a Czech castle in some woods where attendees could relax during the day. Nighttime offered a banquet. The third evening during dinner, a waiter slipped George a sealed note. When he slit it open, he noticed familiar writing, so off he went, curious, to one of the towers. On the last of the steps he heard a voice greet him and recognized it immediately. Count Dracula’s.

Vlado? Pablo asked, surprised.

"None other than, and a top Czech intelligence officer these days. Still with that sickly pallor and black hair greased back. They embraced, of course, two former Cold War opponents, now allies. They chatted awhile before Vlado came to the point: an anonymous tip received, a police raid on an apartment in Prague, and disturbing documents uncovered. Among them, a business card from someone in the Saudi Embassy and a few bank deposit receipts. A paymaster for terrorists, according to Vlado. George thought that assumption flimsy, but said he’d mull it over.

"The next afternoon, Pablo, a shock to everyone…rushed good-byes from George to stunned friends and a taxi to Prague’s airport. So much for R&R.

"Back to our Paris embassy to arrange a closed-door meeting with Senate Intelligence. Then the crush of, what seemed at the time, weightier issues: drugs, arms smuggling,