“And that means?”
Albrecht let out a deep breath. “Sadly, not much anymore. But at one time my predecessors would have had large groups of knights under command.”
It seemed to Jake as if this Grand Master wished for the days of old. “I meant no disrespect,” Jake said. “I understand the historical importance of the Teutonic Knights. I just don’t understand the significance today. Please get to the point.”
“The past is important for today,” Albrecht said as if scolding, his finger pointing at Jake. “The Order is under attack.”
Finally. “Attack? By whom?”
Albrecht’s eyes shifted toward the two men at the bar and the bartender before settling on Jake again. “That’s what we want you to find out.”
Jake must have looked confused, because he was. “If the Order is simply a charitable organization, who would want to do you harm?”
“We’re not entirely sure. Our priest in charge of Slovakia has been murdered.”
Now that was something Jake could investigate. “So, you want me to find his killer?”
The man nodded. “But we think there’s more to it than that.”
The bartender swooped by and set a beer in front of Albrecht, and then disappeared into a back room.
“You know my fees?” Jake asked.
Albrecht nodded, sipped his beer, and then said, “There will be a bonus for discretion. We have a reputation to consider.”
Jake almost laughed out loud. The Teutonic Knights had been less than discrete throughout history, forcing Christianity on heathen hordes that were more interested in finding enough food to eat than understanding a higher power. “Your Federal President knows,” Jake reminded him.
“We were friends at university,” Albrecht said.
“A politician to be trusted,” Jake said, “seems like an oxymoron.”
He shrugged. “He also married my sister.”
The first sign that all was not well registered in Jake’s brain as one of the men at the bar flew off of his chair, his back blown out through his coat in a barrage of flesh and blood.
Then the blast.
Jake simultaneously grasped his gun, jumped from the booth in front of the grand master, and shoved the man to the floor. The second blast came, taking off the top of the second man’s head, and thrusting him on top of his friend on the wooden floor. His heart pounding, Jake aimed toward the back room, but he had no target. To stay put, though, he would be an easy target. Move.
Keeping low, Jake skirted along the edge of the three booths toward the front door. He saw the gun barrel rise over the bar in time to dive to the floor. The shotgun blast blew a hole in the front door above him.
Jake rolled and fired three shots toward the bar, his bullets smashing through the wood. Then he scurried toward the end of the bar. He heard a swishing sound.
Peering back to where he had left Albrecht, Jake saw that the grand master had found a spot under the table. It was some protection, but not enough. Jake had to act now.
With one motion, Jake jumped to his feet, thrust his arms over the bar, and fired three more shots. Then he popped back down and ran along the bar, stopping where the two men had fallen.
Slowly, he rose up to glance over the bar. Nothing. The swishing had been the door to the back room.
Now he heard sirens, and Jake knew it was time to get the hell out of there. “Albrecht. You all right?”
“I think so,” the man said, his voice wavering.
“Let’s go,” Jake yelled. “We gotta move.”
Albrecht crawled out from under the table and Jake grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of the bar.
“What about those two?” Albrecht asked, glancing over his shoulder.
Out on the sidewalk now, the sirens getting closer, Jake said, “They’re dead. Where’s your car?”
Albrecht fumbled in his pockets and, his hands shaking, produced a set of Mercedes keys. Jake grabbed the keys and pressed the Open button, which flashed a set of lights and beeped open a silver Mercedes across the street.
They both ran and got in, Jake behind the wheel. Seconds later Jake crossed the Donau Canal, got onto a northbound road and drove along the east side of the canal. Slow and easy, Jake thought. Across the canal, two polizei cars, lights flashing, rushed toward the bar.
2
The black Skoda Fabia RS drove slowly along Vienna’s Mariahilfer Stasse a couple of blocks from the West Bahnhof. The driver, a sturdy man whose shoulders extended beyond the bucket seat, wasn’t worried about destination, but was more concerned with how to reach their eventual goal. His thick left hand grasped the steering wheel tightly as they rounded a corner, and then he shoved the stick into third. Noticing a piece of white on his leather sleeve, he casually brushed it away, before downshifting into second for another curve.
He glanced sideways at the man in the passenger seat, his old friend Rada Grago, his chin shoved out defiantly, the deep scar resembling a cleft. Grago’s hair was longer than Miko had ever seen it; it was also dyed platinum now, and the man ran his fingers through the thick locks, a nervous habit. His Brother in the New Order had failed, true, but the mission had not been a complete failure. Maybe this was better, Miko thought. Now they could make that piece of shit grand master sweat like the swine he was; he’d be constantly looking over his shoulder, like a hockey defenseman waiting for a retaliatory strike after just checking a star player into the boards, ready to shit his pants with every auto backfire. Better to toy with the man.
“I’m sorry, Miko,” the passenger said in Czech. “I have failed.”
Miko Krupjak smiled at his old friend, snatched a radish from a plastic bag, and shoved it into his mouth, crunching down on the spicy vegetable. Miko had been waiting around the back of the bar, picked up Grago, and then drove off. Down the road a kilometer, Grago had wiped his prints and then thrown the shotgun into the Donau Canal.
“Grago. You killed two of the Grand Master’s guards,” Miko said. “That’s something. We’ll get Albrecht.”
Grago waved his hand in front of his face. “How do you eat those?” He rolled down his window a few inches and continued. “The man he had met there,” Grago said. “He moved like a cat stalking a mouse. A second more and I would have been killed. This man was not like the two Brothers who normally protect the Grand Master.”
“An outsider?”
“A professional,” Grago said. “I’m sure of it.”
Grago knew one when he saw one, Miko thought. After all, his Brother had spent years working for the old Soviets in his native Prague. And during that time, Grago had himself gained the moniker “The Butcher of Prague.” True, part of this came from his daytime profession, his cover story, as an actual butcher. But his brutality had raised him to unofficial enforcer level with Czech Security Information Service (BIS). Unofficial, because the BIS was not supposed to be brutal like the old KGB had been during its glory days. Grago’s transformation from his past to the Brotherhood had been gradual, yet he had taken to his vows of chastity and obedience with great enthusiasm. Poverty was no longer required of them, and that suited Miko and Grago just fine. They had seen enough of that in their youth.
Miko shook the bag of radishes toward Grago, but the passenger shook his head vehemently. “We’ll move forward with the plan, Grago,” Miko said, taking another radish into his mouth. “What can one man do?” He let out a resounding fart.
Grago sighed and then laughed. “You eat those and then wonder why you have gas?” He opened his window and waved his hand.
The driver smiled and turned around a corner on his random path to nowhere.
A few miles away in the silver Mercedes, Jake drove around the outer edge of Schonbrunn Palace. Lights lit up at the yellow structure that occupied more than five square blocks. When he reached the western edge, he turned south on a small road and pulled over to the curb. Across the street was a tall wall, the other side of which lay the expansive gardens of the palace. The rain had slowed some, but the streets were still slick.