Defection Games (Dan Gordon Intelligence Thriller) by Haggai Carmon Page B
Authors: Haggai Carmon
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much higher rent.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“At any rate, I’m leaving in a few hours.”
I was bothered, but couldn’t pinpoint why, exactly. As soon as André left, I bolted the door and went to André’s room. It was still a complete mess, as if he were my own son. Sneakers strewn on the floor, a half-eaten croissant on the nightstand, fallen stacks of textbooks. I searched his closet and dresser and found nothing. Then I went through Monica’s clothing. Other than some black garters and kinky underwear, all looked innocuous. I sat on the bed and looked around. I moved the prints on the wall — two Klimt reproductions — and found nothing but dust. “ You’re a paranoid,” said my inner little devil, “but keep on looking, even paranoids are sometimes right.” Under the bed I found a big suitcase, but it contained only shoes, some leather pumps, and high-heeled boots. As I pushed the suitcase back under the bed, though, it was stopped by something. I turned the lights on and could see a floorboard slightly raised; its edge was stopping the suitcase. I pushed the bed aside. I found a screwdriver in the kitchen and used its edge to lift the board. Fuck — was it?
Yes.
Sitting in a cavity under the floorboard was an FHN Five-seven pistol. The Five-Seven from FN Herstal is a single action with a 5.7X28mm caliber, with a range of 2,100 feet, nicknamed “cop killer” because it easily penetrates body armor . I pulled the gun out using a towel, careful not to smudge or to add any prints. The Five-Seven is made of lightweight polymer, I knew that, but I was still surprised at how light it felt. In all my work — Mossad and CIA — I’d never held or even seen one up close before — so what the hell would a Sorbonne student be doing with a ‘cop killer’? Or maybe the gun was Monica’s? It was so light — the perfect gun for a woman, perhaps? Underneath the gun sat a plastic bag. Inside were two passports, seven credit cards, three driver’s licenses, and a wad of Euro bills, at least €10,000 - approximately $12,000. There was a note attached: “Pension 1 for December.” I examined the passports: one German, one Swiss, and one Austrian. All passports and driver licenses had Monica’s photo, DOB June 12, 1978, in East Berlin, when it was still part of the Communist Democratic Republic of Germany. However, the names on the passports and driver’s licenses were different; Gertrud Maria Schmitz, Marita Klara Haas, and Alexandra Emma Bayer.
Ha! She is 28, not 22 , I told my inner little devil. You were right. On the other hand, maybe these dates of birth were fake like the documents. I took snap shots with my digital camera, but had to make a quick decision: be satisfied with the snap shots or run to the copy center, risking that Monica would return to the apartment. I opted for the latter. I quickly collected the passports, the driver’s licenses, and credit cards; put the floorboard back in place; and ran to the door. I stopped. What if the gun is also Monica’s? I returned to the bedroom; pried up the floorboard again; recovered the gun and its magazine; and put back the board. I copied the serial number of the gun and hid the gun under my coat, then went to the copy center and quickly scanned the documents and sent them to three different email addresses, each for one passport. Since my notebook computer’s encryption facility could have been compromised, I again used the copy center’s public Internet access. For additional safety, I used the Agency’s innocuous looking email boxes in Gmail, Hotmail, and Yahoo. “I attach a copy of my son's new live-in girlfriend’s passport, please ask the travel agent to see if a work visa could be issued.” I sent a fourth email with the gun’s serial number without explanation. The fifth email to a different address just said, “Look what I found in my son's apartment, a serial number.”
I returned to the apartment. Thankfully it was
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“At any rate, I’m leaving in a few hours.”
I was bothered, but couldn’t pinpoint why, exactly. As soon as André left, I bolted the door and went to André’s room. It was still a complete mess, as if he were my own son. Sneakers strewn on the floor, a half-eaten croissant on the nightstand, fallen stacks of textbooks. I searched his closet and dresser and found nothing. Then I went through Monica’s clothing. Other than some black garters and kinky underwear, all looked innocuous. I sat on the bed and looked around. I moved the prints on the wall — two Klimt reproductions — and found nothing but dust. “ You’re a paranoid,” said my inner little devil, “but keep on looking, even paranoids are sometimes right.” Under the bed I found a big suitcase, but it contained only shoes, some leather pumps, and high-heeled boots. As I pushed the suitcase back under the bed, though, it was stopped by something. I turned the lights on and could see a floorboard slightly raised; its edge was stopping the suitcase. I pushed the bed aside. I found a screwdriver in the kitchen and used its edge to lift the board. Fuck — was it?
Yes.
Sitting in a cavity under the floorboard was an FHN Five-seven pistol. The Five-Seven from FN Herstal is a single action with a 5.7X28mm caliber, with a range of 2,100 feet, nicknamed “cop killer” because it easily penetrates body armor . I pulled the gun out using a towel, careful not to smudge or to add any prints. The Five-Seven is made of lightweight polymer, I knew that, but I was still surprised at how light it felt. In all my work — Mossad and CIA — I’d never held or even seen one up close before — so what the hell would a Sorbonne student be doing with a ‘cop killer’? Or maybe the gun was Monica’s? It was so light — the perfect gun for a woman, perhaps? Underneath the gun sat a plastic bag. Inside were two passports, seven credit cards, three driver’s licenses, and a wad of Euro bills, at least €10,000 - approximately $12,000. There was a note attached: “Pension 1 for December.” I examined the passports: one German, one Swiss, and one Austrian. All passports and driver licenses had Monica’s photo, DOB June 12, 1978, in East Berlin, when it was still part of the Communist Democratic Republic of Germany. However, the names on the passports and driver’s licenses were different; Gertrud Maria Schmitz, Marita Klara Haas, and Alexandra Emma Bayer.
Ha! She is 28, not 22 , I told my inner little devil. You were right. On the other hand, maybe these dates of birth were fake like the documents. I took snap shots with my digital camera, but had to make a quick decision: be satisfied with the snap shots or run to the copy center, risking that Monica would return to the apartment. I opted for the latter. I quickly collected the passports, the driver’s licenses, and credit cards; put the floorboard back in place; and ran to the door. I stopped. What if the gun is also Monica’s? I returned to the bedroom; pried up the floorboard again; recovered the gun and its magazine; and put back the board. I copied the serial number of the gun and hid the gun under my coat, then went to the copy center and quickly scanned the documents and sent them to three different email addresses, each for one passport. Since my notebook computer’s encryption facility could have been compromised, I again used the copy center’s public Internet access. For additional safety, I used the Agency’s innocuous looking email boxes in Gmail, Hotmail, and Yahoo. “I attach a copy of my son's new live-in girlfriend’s passport, please ask the travel agent to see if a work visa could be issued.” I sent a fourth email with the gun’s serial number without explanation. The fifth email to a different address just said, “Look what I found in my son's apartment, a serial number.”
I returned to the apartment. Thankfully it was
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