The Perfect Instinct Read online

  This whole complex was something of a fortress right here in the middle of Trieste. And it just so happened that a dude following him this morning and taking photos lived here, or at least the vehicle he was driving was registered to someone at this address. He needed to get into the complex and have a look. Man, he wished it was dark out. He could sneak over the wall and get a lay of the land and be back out lickety-split. But it wasn't even noon yet. No way he could wait this thing out until dark and still get done what he needed today.

  He set the shopping bag down and squatted on his haunches while leaning against the wall. His left thumb tapped along to the rhythm of the Lynyrd Skynyrd tune playing for the last four minutes. The classic slow ballad about a gal with a day of the week for a name had another three minutes and some seconds of fantastic guitar playing to go. This tune, off the band's first album, was one of those that basically demanded a fan play air guitar. Lance smiled at the image of him and a couple of teenage friends aggressively nodding heads and jamming along to the tune playing on a juke box at a pool hall back in Tulsa.

  One would have to be a prescient statistician to connect the dots between Tulsa and Trieste and all he'd done during the decade in between.

  Think. Put it together. He closed his eyes and listened to the final moments of the Lynyrd Skynyrd song, working through the basics of the story.

  A voice message with two words left for Marta five days ago.

  No sign of Elena after more than 24 hours in Trieste.

  A wild goose chase that felt a lot like an ambush.

  A phone call, a ride and a place to crash provided by a sailboat captain who was obviously much more than a sailboat captain.

  A guy taking photos and following him and likely the one who tipped off the police. The vehicle he was driving leads back to here.

  And finally, this complex of buildings; something really screwy going on here.

  He opened his eyes and exhaled. Had to be.

  This is Elena's operation. He tracked her down. Knew he would, just figured it would be more of a direct line than this screwy circuitous route. But here he was.

  So, why all the fuss. He'd been noodling over this question for five-plus days now, from Colorado to the Adriatic. Why make the call to Marta on a message line all but left for dead? What could be so troubling that Elena felt the need to call in the biggest chip she had to play yet remain completely hidden?

  From the get-go, Lance feared a set-up. He was afraid this was all a trap to lure Marta and was glad to come in her place. But enough already. He only had another 22 hours and change to solve this little mystery and get out of town. He'd promised her.

  Lance shimmied back up to his feet and walked along the wall back to the main area of the parking garage and then back out to the side street and down to the main thoroughfare.

  He still had several items from Marta's list to flesh out. He would also work through the plan developing in his head in relation to this complex. It involved sneaking and climbing and skulking. Hopefully no killing. But never say never.

  Chapter 17

  Because there was no direct line of communications between Smelinski and Elena, Gregor was forced to deal with her through truly clandestine channels. She was crazy serious about never revealing any connection with him or the KGB. Elena kept an icy cold distance between them. Annoying.

  Smelinski had two other resources stationed in Trieste. They were good, if not ultra-productive. One was a reporter for the local paper. The other a supervisor at the city's busy seaport. These agents allowed Gregor the Terrible to keep tabs on politics, law enforcement and business, as well as the general goings on in one of the region's busiest ports.

  The additional peripheral resources provided Smelinski a robust picture of the area and it's surprisingly nefarious goings on. So why did he feel so ill at ease taking the final bite of whitefish for his lunch?

  It was the coded message report received from the reporter this morning. The incident at a local bar smacked of change and disharmony and instability. But why? It was just an individual walking into a bar brandishing a gun. Nothing alarming in that. Happens all the time, everywhere.

  It was the individual's intent - locating Elena.

  People do not look for Elena. It just isn't done. She was given her charge by Marta and fulfilled it to precision. No loose ends. No leaks. No one creating a scene and looking for her in a Trieste bar.

  But then the assailant proceeded to shoot the Ukrainian in the foot and take out his men. This required special skills.

  The timing was wrong, all wrong. Elements were coalescing around a major delivery to and through the port according to multiple accounts. Anything disrupting this natural flow of illicit goods could throw any number of carefully cultivated relationships out of balance. Especially if this had anything to do with Marta, or worse, her Black Angel.

  Smelinski needed more information. He needed it now.

  He wiped his mouth, set the napkin beside his plate and nodded to the waiter across the room in the Lubyanka's private executive dining room. Smelinski ate lunch here most days when he was in Moscow. And he preferred to eat alone. No talking.

  He thanked Ivan, the waiter who served him for 30+ years, and rose to leave. During his walk through long halls and up three sets of stairs, Smelinski worked through the timing and players and plans in place in Trieste.

  The only thing Wyrick knew for sure was that he'd been lied to. He didn't give a flying flip about Trieste and the illegal cargo moving through the city's port. Smuggling happened in virtually every port across the globe. Stopping it was not just virtually impossible, it was totally impossible.

  Rodrigo was in Trieste to keep an eye on it and alert anyone when anything more dangerous than drugs and guns was moved through. He provided excellent details around several shipments over the years. But the Captain had also undoubtedly turned a blind eye to a good amount of troublesome goods. He probably played a part in some of it. Had to. That was the job -- get in deep. Breaking rules and the law came with the territory.

  But Rodrigo didn't need to lie to Wyrick about seeing anyone who resembled one Lance Priest in the last 24 hours. No benefit in doing so. Wyrick shook his head and finished typing an email to an associate. He closed the application and logged in to see the latest chatter. The messages were still delivered via an old-fashioned CRT screen -- the green screen. He isolated the filter in the archaic mainframe application to focus his search on anything pertaining to or emanating from Trieste.

  Intelligence operations across the world were now using this wonderful little World Wide Web to capture and report activity and incidents. And little beings called webcrawlers were going out and grabbing up all this information and sending it to folks at the NSA and CIA and similar organizations across the globe. In just 30 seconds, Wyrick was able to gather that another incident occurred this morning involving a male individual in his mid-to-late 20s believed to be associated with the shooting incident overnight.

  The suspect was approached by local police at a filling station, pulled a gun and escaped on foot. He essentially disappeared into thin air. The basics of the report didn't provide much. Being approached by police officers during daylight hours did not sound at all like Lance. But the next part about fleeing on foot and disappearing without a trace. That sounded a whole lot like Preacher.

  Wyrick sat back in his chair. He looked at his watch and did the math in his head. Trieste was six hours later. It was evening and dark over there already. The time when Preacher comes out from hiding.

  Chapter 18

  List checked off. Additional contact points evaluated.

  Back at the complex and ready to move in under dark of night.

  James Taylor singing about the elements and a friendship lost.

  Lance spoke with her briefly earlier to provide an update. He dialed again now. His procerus pulled his brow into a furrow while flaring his nostrils between ring two and three.

  The sound changed. It
was a series of tiny clicks followed by a hollow whine. When Marta answered during the third ring, he said one word in Chinese, "Wait." Ten seconds later, he added, "Listen."

  They were silent another 20 seconds. Somewhere along the line, amid the static and translation of data packets to analog then digital and analog between earth and the heavens, another human was listening in. There was at least one more party on the call. The tiny clicking sound persisted. It was a listening, recording device. It polluted the line, if you knew what to listen for.

  "Two." Marta whispered the word and severed the line.

  "What the hell?" Lance whispered as he sat on his haunches across the street from the apartment complex he tracked Mr. Uzi back to earlier. He dropped the cell phone to the ground, stood up and stomped on it. It was crushed into several pieces. He bent to retrieve and make sure the SIM card was destroyed. He twisted it between his fingers as he worked through this latest information and a few dozen questions.

  Who had found them and how? Why were they being tracked? How long had they been monitored? Not cool.

  His mind raced to Seibel and Wyrick and NSA and then veered into Marta's past with Smelinski. He ended the list with Braden and China. How hilarious would that be? The Chinese tracking he and Marta and catching them speaking Chinese. Funny.

  But he wasn't smiling.

  No way to stop spies and snoops and spooks and creeps from being who they are. But the word had been passed along to anyone smart enough to have a good sense of wanting to live to leave Lance and Marta alone. Anyone tapping into their phone conversation was breaking this rule.

  He considered the potential of this being a random act. The NSA, for instance, taps and records 15 to 20% the telephone conversations coming into or outbound from the U.S. Could be as simple as that.

  But it wasn't.

  The tracking and listening devices attached to the phone relay he and Marta just heard were not passive. They weren't mere recording machines or computer software gathering digital files. This was active detection and listening. A sub-routine was at work forwarding their conversation to another relay or network. That was the clicks.

  He learned a great deal of this from Wyrick during a few hours they were stuck together one evening after Preacher basically kidnapped the surveillance expert. Wyrick kept talking about his craft and Lance kept cataloging the information in his cranial repository.

  Nothing is ever easy and nothing, not a thing, is what it seems. Lance knew this universal law better than most. A man is not a man. He is an amalgamation of everything that brought him to a point in time. A bullet is not a missile exploded from a metal tube. It is the raw material and time and place and intent of the human who loaded the weapon, pulled the trigger. A lie is not an untruth. It is a story told in an effort influence another human.

  Behind a human listening to Lance and Marta's cell phone conversation in Chinese from far eastern Italy to the southern Rockies is a directive, a plan conceived by another human. Someone issued the order to track them.

  Shoot up 1,000 feet, then 10,000 and up to 100 miles to see it all. The Adriatic, Europe; spin the Earth across the Atlantic to the Mid Atlantic east cost. Washington, D.C. and the surrounding chaos of government and lies and down to Langley, Virginia and the web of deceit emanating from this heart of empty corruption. And then west to Colorado and mountains and escape and then south to Santa Fe and her. And see the world and look for connections in a broken world and see that binding it all together is nothing more than lies. And know that your truth lies in this glue.

  Push aside thoughts about baby weight gain accelerating each week after week 35. Babies gain approximately a half-pound each week from here on out.

  And stand and return to your head and the end of the James Taylor classic. Burst without hesitation from the dark shadow of the alley into the street and across to the apartment complex guard station and grasp the door with gloved hand and pull the man out and to the ground and whisper into an ear. And glance up to the weight and the tons and gravity and know that your whisper is about to bring down this proverbial avalanche.

  And know this is why you are here, always. You are here, anywhere, everywhere, to cause the avalanche that will bring death and destruction and rebuilding. You are here for nothing more.

  Chapter 19

  Breath, deeply.

  Chapter 20

  In 32 seconds, he gathered from the security guard the necessary information to proceed into the apartment complex. To satisfy the cameras overhead and push any alerts back by a few minutes, he hoisted the security guard up and walked beside him from the guard booth to the building. The first floor of the structure was a parking level for tenants. He scanned the vehicles within sight but didn't see the midnight blue Porsche 911 from this morning.

  Likely, the bullet-shattered side window was being repaired.

  When they reached the door, Lance waited for the security guard, who shared that his name was Sergio, to use his key to unlock the door. Once inside, he stopped Sergio and spun him around.

  "Many people will die tonight. I would prefer that innocent lives be spared and would encourage you to turn around and leave here now. If you feel you must do your duty as a guard for a gang of criminals, then do as you will. But then, know that you will place yourself in harm's way and I cannot commit to letting you live and return to your family. Your choice." Lance snatched the key from Sergio and moved down the hall to a locked door he opened with said key.

  Once inside this door, he went down a set of stairs into another hall that continued forward. By now, he was underground and heading deeper into the hillside toward the hidden house at the rear of the complex. Sergio told him about this tunnel passageway and going this way only one time in four years on the job.

  Lance passed a camera at what he estimated was halfway to the house from the apartment building. Once past this camera, he broke into a sprint. If another security guard was doing his or her job, then he'd been spotted. It took him 14 seconds to reach the end of this underground tunnel and another locked door. He knew Sergio's key wouldn't work on this one, so he did it the old fashioned way and placed the Beretta next to the door handle and fired three shots into the lock mechanism as he kicked the door just beside the handle.

  With the mechanism damaged, the kick dislodged the door enough that a second kick with a couple of steps momentum blew the door wide open. Pieces of the lock and handle and door casing skittered across the floor in this short hallway with another door ahead, one to the right and a set of concrete stairs going up to the third door. Another camera was up on the wall in the far corner.

  He chose the steps and the third door.

  This one was unlocked, probably a false sense of security behind the other locked doors. Or maybe a simple mistake not to lock it.

  Inside this door, he found a storage space, shelves stocked with boxes of food supplies. He raced past these to the next door and a short hall and more stairs. Up he went. Speed was the key in an offensive action such as this. Move before defenses can be alerted and assembled.

  Through this next door, he found a room full of desks, an office. It was empty, but people were here just minutes before. He could feel it. And computer screens were still up on two terminals. They hadn't gone to sleep yet.

  He stepped to the door at the end of the room and into another stairwell. Up he went. His internal GPS told him he was at the level of the house on the hillside. He opened the door and stepped into another hallway. But this one was different. It was a home. Paintings on walls. Rugs on floors of rooms he passed. They were all empty. Huh.

  He continued forward into an open area with couches, television against the wall, windows to a courtyard. To the left the kitchen and finally, a human.

  She was seated on a bar stool at the kitchen counter smoking a thin cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee. Lance wondered if he finally found Elena.

  He stepped silently over behind and then beside the woman. She looked up at him from her
coffee and cigarette with tears in her eyes. She glanced from his eyes to the gun in his hand and back up and didn't seem all that surprised.

  "You just missed her, missed them. They left ten minutes ago. Otherwise you could have killed them here and saved the hassle of doing it out there." She spoke English with a thick accent.

  She was in her early to mid-20s. A fairly pretty gal with long features, like a model but not frail and emaciated.

  "I missed Elena?" He asked.

  "Yes. Her and the others. Now, I'll just beat her to it."

  Lance looked from the young woman around the otherwise empty space and back to the tear-drenched face.

  "You'll beat her?"

  The young woman sighed and wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. "Just do it. Get it over with and stop talking."

  And Lance saw the resignation, the acceptance. This woman expected him to use the gun in his hand. "So, we have a little miscommunication here. I surmise that you are not Elena and she and others just left. Who are you?"

  The woman stamped out her cigarette in the ashtray and turned on the barstool toward him. "Who are you?" She had a little attitude. It was likely her normal state.

  "I have the gun. Quickly now, who are you and where did Elena go? I need to speak with her."

  "You need to speak with her?" The gal pointed to the gun. "You snuck into this high security fortress with a gun and you say you came to speak with her?"

  Lance didn't want to prolong this any longer and took a step closer to her. "No more questions. Who are you, now?"

  She leaned back. "Katarina."

  "And you are Elena's partner, her lover." A statement, not a question.

  "Yes."

  "Then relax. I'm not here to hurt you or her. I came here to help. Elena placed a call five days ago."