Andrew Britton - The Assassin

Slowly, Lang complied, his mind racing, stomach churning. Once his hands were up and cocked at the elbows, the muzzle moved away.

“Turn, slowly.”

Lang turned. Will Vanderveen was standing inside the doors, holding a suppressed HK Mark 23 in his right hand. The gun was now at waist level and close to his body; he was holding it more like a useful accessory than a murderous tool. Lang instantly thought of the Glock. 40 concealed beneath his thin cotton jacket, but he knew he would never get it out in time. Behind Vanderveen, the woman stepped into the elevator. She examined the controls for a moment, then turned to face him.

“You need a key, correct? To get to the top floor?”

Lang nodded, trying to stop from trembling; even now, he couldn’t meet her eyes. “It’s in my pocket.”

“Take it out, but do it slowly.”

He did as she asked, holding it out in his right hand, but she shook her head. “Throw it to me.”

Lang could barely understand her heavily accented English, but Vanderveen, seeing the confusion on his face, quickly repeated the instructions in German. Lang tossed Raseen the key. She picked it out of the air, then turned to the controls. Seconds later, the elevator jolted upward.

For no apparent reason, Lang looked up at the sudden motion and didn’t see what happened next. Vanderveen raised the Mk23 and fired twice. The first shot pierced Lang’s heart. The second tore through his chest, coming to an abrupt halt against his spine. The German dropped to the floor of the elevator, groaned once, then went still.

The elevator shuddered to a stop, and the doors slid open.

The entrance hall in the fifth-floor apartment rivaled the foyer on the ground floor in size, but easily surpassed it in style. Recessed lighting played over neoclassical wall murals, and the antique parquet floor glistened beneath their feet. After pulling Lang’s body out of the elevator, Vanderveen checked the empty compartment quickly. There was no blood on the metal floor, and neither of the low-velocity rounds had exited Lang’s body. The doors closed, and Vanderveen paused to listen. He could hear music playing softly through a pair of double doors — Mendelssohn’s Piano Concerto No. 1. He adjusted the pack he was wearing and started to move toward the music. Raseen trailed softly behind him, a suppressed Beretta. 22 in her right hand.

The entrance hall led into a small drawing room. They skirted the cluttered furnishings and stepped into a large office. The pale yellow Regency draperies were pulled back from the massive casement windows, which overlooked the slow-moving, gray-black waters of the Spree. The office was elegantly appointed, the walls upholstered with moss green velvet, a nineteenth-century chandelier hanging from the plasterwork ceiling. Couches covered with silk cushions were scattered over the Brussels weave carpet, and at one end of the room, a series of leather-bound bookcases held a vast quantity of expensive tomes. To the left, there was a second doorway, leading to an expansive dining room. Just inside the door, an eighteenth-century desk was positioned at an angle to the windows, affording its owner a fine view of the river.

Behind the desk sat Thomas Ruhmann, his neat silver head hunched over a series of documents. He glanced at his watch as they entered and started to speak without looking up. “Karl, where have you been? I need you to…”

He looked up and trailed off, his eyes narrowing slightly. There was nothing in his face that hinted at fear; if anything, his expression was one of mild irritation. Vanderveen had expected as much; Ruhmann had not reached his current station in life by being easily intimidated.

“Who are you people? What are you doing here?”

Vanderveen was not surprised that the Austrian arms dealer didn’t recognize him. He’d changed his appearance yet again the previous day. His close-cropped hair was now black and streaked with gray; his eyes were a pale, watery blue. They had only met once before. He had appeared in his natural state on that occasion, though he had used the name Erich Kohl.

“It’s me, Thomas.” Vanderveen moved farther into the room, but Raseen hung back, tapping the Beretta against her denim-clad thigh. “Don’t you recognize my voice?”

Ruhmann’s face turned white, but it was his only concession. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly strong. “What do you want? We’ve finished our business. I fulfilled my end of the bargain.”

“Stop right there,” Vanderveen said. Ruhmann had started to move his right hand down to a drawer. “Stand up, please, and have a seat over here. I’m not sure what’s in the desk, but I think it’s best to remove any temptation.”

The Austrian complied, selecting the armchair next to the one Vanderveen had indicated in a pointless display of disobedience. Meanwhile, Vanderveen checked the desk quickly. The second drawer held a nickel-plated Walther PPK. He tucked the handgun into his pocket and started going through the rest of the drawers.

Ruhmann had turned slightly in his seat. His back was arched in indignation, his face a picture of aristocratic outrage. “Kohl, what do you think you’re doing? You’re making a terrible mistake, my friend, if you think you can barge in here and threaten me like this…”

While he was speaking, Raseen had crossed the room to take the chair opposite his. The Beretta was still in her hand, but she held it down by her side, out of view. Ruhmann could not help but look at her, and when she opened her mouth, her melodious voice poured forth. From that point on, Vanderveen became part of the furniture.

“Herr Ruhmann, we are only here to ensure our security.” She leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs, tilting her head to the side. Everything about her posture suggested a calm, relaxed disposition. “We need all of the documents pertaining to the storage facility in Canada. We need anything that might link you or us to the device, including financial transactions, and we need it immediately. You see, we have reason to believe a man from the U.S. government is on his way to interrogate you, and we wish to stop that from happening.”

“You mean you intend to kill me,” Ruhmann said stiffly.

“I didn’t say that,” Raseen pointed out softly. “All we want are the documents. You’ll have to come with us, of course, but we have no intention of killing you. You and your contacts are much too important to our organization.”

“And where is Karl?”

“I have no idea. We left him in Potsdam.”

Ruhmann seemed to draw into himself for a moment. His face was expressionless, but Raseen could see that his mind was moving quickly behind those dark blue eyes.

“You say the U.S. government is behind this?”

“Yes.”

“How did they track me to Berlin?”

“We’re not sure. They got your name from Mason, but that doesn’t explain how they tracked you here.” Raseen paused thoughtfully. “Of course, it might have something to do with the break-in at the German Embassy. I assume you heard about it.”

“Bastards,” Ruhmann hissed, his face contorting. “I told them they had to take me out of the database. I told them that a thousand times…”

Raseen waved it off. “It’s not important. All that matters is getting you somewhere safe, along with any relevant documents.”

“ Relevant documents? If the Americans are coming here, I’ll have to destroy everything.”

“How?”

“Burn bags,” Ruhmann answered absently. “They’re used by the military and the CIA. The ones I have are designed for instant use in the field. They burn the contents while the bag stays intact. I managed to get hold of them through my friends in the Bundeskabinett.”

“What about a computer? I assume you have one.”