Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Deception

“According to Swiss authorities, one of the dead has been tentatively identified as an Iranian businessman, Hooshang Norouzi, whose company had an office in Zurich.”

First Norouzi, then Karif, he thought. The Gardener was covering his tracks. He felt an anger grow inside him, a sick rage that almost made it impossible to think. He was as angry as he had ever been in his life. Breathe, he told himself. Control it. Use it.

“ Bueno , let’s take his photo,” the photographer said in Spanish, assuming the prisoner would understand Spanish if he didn’t speak Catalan.

Two of the policemen faced Scorpion away from the TV. One of the them stood him against a wall in front of the camera. He tried to control his breath as he took in what had happened in Zurich. He had to get out of here now, he thought. As the guard positioned him for the photograph, the man grabbed between his legs as if to frisk him again but whispered in Scorpion’s ear in Spanish, “Estare esperando por ti, puta.” I’ll be waiting for you, bitch.

Thinking, Boy, did you pick the wrong time, asshole, he slipped his leg behind the guard’s leg and swung his handcuffed hands with all his might at the side of the man’s head, smashing him so hard into the wall with the cuffs that he could hear the skull crack. He didn’t wait for the guard to fall, the legs already buckling, but turned toward the other three policemen. Two of them had started toward him, while the third fumbled for his police whistle. The police photographer, who had been about to take his mug shot, reached for a telephone.

As the biggest guard reached out to grab him, Scorpion executed a Brazilian high kick to the head while using an aikido grab and throw to take down the other charging guard. With the two of them on the ground, he jumped with both knees on the first guard, knocking the wind out of him, and smashed his cuffs across the bridge of his nose, effectively blinding him. Jumping to his feet, he kicked the man in the head to finish him, whirling to face the second guard, who was getting up from the floor.

A straight-fingered thrust to the windpipe with both handcuffed hands had the second guard gasping and choking. Then he grabbed the man by his hair and smashed his head against the corner of a desk. The guard crumpled, the side of his head pouring blood.

The fourth guard had managed a small bleat with his whistle and was starting to blow again, his cheeks bulging, when Scorpion caught him with a knee to the groin. As the doubled over, expelling air with a whoosh, Scorpion smashed him into the photographer, taking both men and the camera down. He jumped on top of the photographer, landing on his face with his knees, ramming the man’s head against the floor. The fourth guard, getting up, swung at him. Scorpion sidestepped the punch and caught him in a guillotine choke hold in the crook of his elbow, cutting off his air and, more critically, the flow of blood in his carotid artery. The guard went unconscious within a long fifteen seconds. Then Scorpion got up, saw the photographer stir, and kicked him in the side of the head, finishing him off.

He looked around. The entire fight had taken less than forty-five seconds. Catching his breath, he searched the first guard’s pockets and found the handcuff keys. The fact that the cuffs were hinged made the positioning of his hand and wrist awkward, but not impossible. The lock clicked and the first cuff opened. With his left hand free, it was even faster opening the second cuff.

He took off his clothes down to his underwear. The fourth guard, the one with the whistle, was closest to his size. He stripped the police uniform, ID, and the PK380 pistol and holster off the man, checking the magazine before putting on the uniform, then walked out of the room and down the hall to the stairs. By the time he reached the ground floor he could hear shouts from above. At the main entrance he nodded to the desk sergeant, who looked at him oddly, as if trying to remember who he was, but didn’t say anything. As he walked out the front door he felt a tingling in his back, as if any second the desk sergeant would call him back.

He passed a pair of mossos dragging in a Gypsy, who was shouting in Catalan, “Creus que tots els gitanos es un lladre!” Something about the cops thinking every Gypsy was a thief.

“Only because it’s true,” the mosso said as Scorpion passed them. Walk, don’t run, he told himself, coming around the corner to Via Augusta. He knew there wasn’t much time. The police would be after him any second.

There were dozens of motor scooters parked in a line in the tree-lined passageway bisecting the street. He was about to steal one when he spotted a taxi and waved him down. The driver hesitated, perhaps wondering why a mosso needed a taxi, but picked him up. As they drove down the avenue, the driver kept eyeing his uniform. When they were a good kilometer from the comisaria, he told the driver to pull over.

“Take off your clothes,” Scorpion told him in his bad Spanish.

“Que?” the driver asked.

“Your clothes. I want them,” he said.

The driver shook his head. “No, senor .”

Scorpion fished in the pockets of the uniform, found forty-five euros in the wallet and pointed the Walther at the driver.

“I’ll give you forty-five euros,” he said, “o te mato.” Or I kill you.

The driver hesitated. He looked at the Walther, then at Scorpion’s eyes, and nodded slowly. They sat in the taxi and took off their shirts and pants. In a few minutes the driver wore the police uniform and Scorpion was in the driver’s clothes. He handed the man the money, got out of the taxi and motioned him to drive away.

When the taxi was gone, Scorpion walked for several blocks. He was on a quiet street of older apartment buildings with balconies and wrought-iron railings. Here, as in many places in the city, scores of motor scooters were parked in rows on the street. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, he used the lock pick taped to the bottom of his foot to unlock one and start it. He drove down the street, crossing Avinguda Diagonal, not far from where he had run from the tram, and drove on for several kilometers. In a narrow street, almost an alley, he left the scooter and walked back to his hotel.

The minute he got back to his room-before he even washed his hands, which still had traces of Karif’s blood-he grabbed one of his prepaid cell phones and called Shaefer’s number. Although it was after midnight, he wasn’t surprised when Shaefer picked up on the first ring.

Before Shaefer could speak, Scorpion said between clenched teeth into the phone: “Flagstaff. I told you to pull them, you son of a bitch.”

“You realize this is an open line?” Shaefer said.

“Go to hell,” he said.

“I’m already there,” Shaefer said, and Scorpion knew the deaths of the Gnomes had hit him hard too. “The Pickle Factory’s going nuts,” suggesting the CIA, not to mention everybody in Washington, was scrambling trying to find someone to blame for the deaths of four agents.

“They deserve it,” Scorpion said.

“You’re on hold, pending further notice,” Shaefer told him. What Shaefer didn’t say was that he was in the crosshairs of someone higher up looking to hang him out to dry for the four deaths.

“No, I’m not,” Scorpion replied.

For a long moment Shaefer didn’t say anything. He was Scorpion’s closest friend in the CIA and knew him well enough to know that regardless of what the DCIA ordered, Scorpion was going forward. Scorpion could feel Shaefer trying to decide. Because of orders from higher-ups, Shaefer had betrayed their friendship in the Ukraine operation and regretted it. Now he had to make the same decision again. Scorpion waited for him to figure it out.