However, just because someone wanted to vanish didn’t mean he could. Nobody lived in a post-office box. The real trail had to begin within the CIA itself. Marks obviously didn’t punch a clock, so someone had to be his primary contact — if it wasn’t his boss at the top of the food chain, which would be Marty Atkins, then at least the intermediary between a plan and the man.
Marty had included an abbreviated history on the field operative who dealt with Marks. The CIA identification photo showed a man of thirty-three, with a square jaw and a slightly sloping brow that seemed bigger because he made no attempt to cover the creeping baldness. Instead, his brown hair was cut very short, very exact, with the touch of a stylist. The face was deeply tanned. It was not a Florida tan or the product of a tanning booth or a liquid spray but, rather, the product of months of working outdoors beneath a hot desert sun. Squint lines burrowed at the corners of brown eyes that looked straight at the camera lens. The name was Lucas Gibson. The thing that leaped out was that he had no military record. Swanson flipped back through the pages and there was no mention of Gibson serving. Why would Atkins leave out something so important and basic?
Swanson puzzled over that as he finished his drink, then went into his room to start packing. Arrangements had been made, and he would be on a plane across the Atlantic first thing tomorrow.
The gray German sky began leaking as night fell, dragging a curtain of light rain up the River Spree, along with white blades of lightning and the smell of burned ozone. Pedestrians ran for cover to wait it out. Kyle Swanson paid the fare on the taxi meter and dashed across a sidewalk and up the stone steps of the Restaurant Äpfel. He brushed away drops clinging to his coat as he stepped inside. A tiny Asian hostess, tightly wrapped neck to knees in a crinkly black dress, smiled with emerald eyes. “Guten tag.”
“Hello,” he responded, peeling out of his damp topcoat. “Do you speak English?” Her nametag read “Aurora.” He was guessing Filipina.
“Of course,” she bubbled in silky reply. “Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes, I’m meeting another gentleman. The reservation is for Herr Schmidt.” That was one of the most common surnames in Germany, and similar to using Jones in America.
“Herr Schmidt is already waiting at table, sir. Please follow me.” She spun and walked confidently down the aisle, her doll-like figure pulling all male attention away from other matters. She pushed through the potted palms that lined the back wall and opened a set of pocket doors to reveal a private dining area. Luke Gibson was sipping a drink.
The Berlin rendezvous was frequented by foreigners who enjoyed dining later than the average German. The menu mirrored eateries in New York or London. Marty Atkins wanted the men to meet at a neutral site and keep things as far as possible from Washington. Swanson had flown in via London, with time to spare. Gibson was spirited out of Afghanistan aboard a private plane of the Air Branch of the CIA Special Activities Division, the latest incarnation of the infamous Air America from the Indochina days. Reality does not die; it just changes names, and the agency always needed its own birds for special work.
“Ah,” Gibson said with a grin. “So you’re Kyle Swanson. From everything I’ve heard, I expected you to be about nine feet tall.”
Swanson sized him up. Usually a soldier’s lifestyle slides inexorably away when he becomes a civilian and sheds that skin. The demanding military schedule, the regimentation, the automatic authority, the chain of command, and even the physical bearing erode, for his life no longer depends on such things. Luke Gibson was way beyond that. He was squared away, but in a totally civilian manner, as if born to wear a trooper’s uniform without ever having done so.
They didn’t shake hands. Swanson gave his coat to Aurora, who withdrew and closed the doors. A low cello melody oozed from hidden speakers and the lighting was subdued, a combination that provided a sense of isolation in the huge city. He eased into a chair and got down to business. “Where can I find Nicky Marks?”
Gibson took a slow sip from a heavy crimson drink, savoring it. “Well, hello to you, too. They create a helluva Bloody Mary here. Finlandia vodka, the usual veggies and crumbles of bacon. Bacon improves everything.”
Swanson leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “I’m not here to talk about bacon, and it’s too late in the day for a Bloody Mary. Director Atkins said you’re the Marks contact.”
Gibson avoided the challenge by raising his glass again and drinking before he answered. “It’s a good drink, no matter what the time or place. You remember in the MASH movie, about Korea, how the new surgeon demanded an olive in his martini? Some things make the world a better place.” Gibson took the slice of celery from his drink, bit off a piece, and crunched. Swanson remained silent.
Finally, Gibson spoke again. “Yeah, Nicky was one of mine; apparently, he’s decided to go out on his own. He’s a very talented boy, and with a high market value. You won’t find him.”
Swanson felt a sudden jolt of anger, remembering the cemetery explosion that desecrated the grave of his good friend. “Can you still contact him?”
“Let’s hypothesize about that for a moment, Mr. Swanson. If you went rogue and did something horrible, would you ever let anyone find you?”
Swanson studied the calm man across the table and was reminded of the proverb that the eyes are windows to the soul. Gibson was unflustered, outwardly open and friendly, but if the old saying was accurate, then Swanson was looking at a rat’s nest of a soul, a place filled with spiders and screams. “Maybe you didn’t understand me, so I repeat: Can you still contact him?”
Gibson pushed his drink aside and folded his hands as the grin vanished. “Don’t patronize me, Swanson. Nicky is in the wind. As the boys and girls at Langley probably told you before you left, all his accounts have been closed, his apartment was abandoned after being wiped clean, the hard drive on his company laptop contained nothing of value because it had been drilled multiple times, and none of his friends have a clue where he went. His girlfriend says he dumped her two weeks ago. There has been no activity on cell phones, because he only uses burners. Nicky is in the fucking wind.”
Swanson filtered that. If Marks had dumped the girlfriend two weeks ago, that meant the assassin had laid out his getaway before even showing up in Mexico. That suggested meticulous planning. “I’m getting tired of you dancing around my question, Gibson. Can you or can you not contact this shitbird?”
“I tried right after I got the summons from Atkins. No luck.” He shrugged. “I was out in the middle of Afghanistan at the time. I don’t know where he is.”
“Or why he bailed?”
“Probably money, because it sure as hell wasn’t out of loyalty or idealism, or any flag or religion. As I said, Nicky is gone.” Gibson spread his empty hands palms up.
“Then we have both wasted trips to Berlin.” Swanson prepared to rise but stopped at a passing thought. “What was his hook to Mexico?”
“Unknown. To me, the whole thing smacks of drugs. Maybe some cartel hired him. Those people throw around good paychecks for this line of labor. He had done some enforcer work before, back in the day.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“About six weeks ago, in Kabul. Nicky was cool then. He seemed perfectly normal. At least, as normal as he ever was.”