Fatal Network Page 6

  In a few minutes, where the only sound had been that of a pendulum clock, a slight man with silver hair shuffled in and sat behind a large oak desk. His gray wool suit was of high Western standards. Italian.

  Isaac Lebovitz looked at the man with the bag and collected his thoughts on how he wanted to begin his negotiations. He tapped his forehead with his finger in time with the clock on his desk. "I see you have the bag, Mr. Dalton," Isaac said. "I'm sure we can come to a reasonable agreement."

  "Please, call me Jason," said the man with the bag. "I've come a long way and I'm tired, but we must take care of business."

  "I agree," Isaac said. "Patience is not an American virtue. Let's see what you've got."

  Dalton unzipped the bag and removed a computer disk, a small wooden box, and a stack of papers. He stood up and plopped the papers on the oak desk.

  "These are schematics and diagrams that will be helpful to your engineers and developers," Dalton said. He stood with his hands on his hips waiting for a response.

  Isaac leafed through the pages quickly as a child tears into his toys at Christmas anticipating each new one and then swiftly moving on to the next. When finished, he looked up. "These will be very helpful. What else do you have for me?"

  "The disk is also significant," Dalton said. "I got them from a different source. They correspond to international marketing strategy and economic forecasts, and could be even more helpful than any technical advantages you may receive."

  This was a welcome bonus for Isaac. He had asked for this type of information, but wasn't sure if it was possible this soon. His Hungarian government had moved too slowly, frustrating him. He considered himself patient to a fault. But the time for patience had passed.

  "I'll have my people look at the disk before we can come up with an overall price," Isaac said. "Could your people get the chips?"

  Dalton opened the small wooden box. It was lined with layers of foam with cut-outs where the chips were inset. With the precision of a surgeon, he pulled a small chip out of the foam with his thumb and forefinger. He handed the small chip to Isaac.

  Isaac accepted the chip in the palm of his hand. He then pulled out a magnifying glass and viewed the chip as carefully as an Amsterdam diamond dealer examined a gem.

  "This is the fast one you talked about?" Isaac asked, not an expert but trying not to be totally computer illiterate.

  "Yes! Your company could become the Intel of Eastern Europe with this chip," Dalton said. "And the last of the information, of course."

  Isaac smiled. That's what he wanted more than anything now. His headquarters was in Budapest, but once he shifted into full production, he planned on having facilities in all of Eastern Europe with marketing throughout Europe and the United States.

  "Jason, you must be tired. My maid has prepared a room for you upstairs. Why don't you get some rest before we negotiate."

  Dalton nodded in agreement, picked up his bag, which now only contained a few extra clothes and toiletries, and retired to the comfort of a feather bed.

  Isaac Lebovitz rocked back and forth in his high back leather chair. The clock on his desk ticked loudly without bother to him. His hearing was diminished from the constant bombardment of German artillery during the long campaigns of World War II. His large stone house, passed down from generation to generation, survived that great war and many before. Even the scourge of Communism had not crumbled its foundation in poverty.

  The information that Jason Dalton was selling far surpassed Isaac's expectations. Even though his English was far from perfect, having been taught first by American soldiers and then at Budapest University, he could tell that the management and marketing information could transform his company into a great East European conglomerate.

  Isaac knew that this was the time to bring back the respect of his family name. Not only the wealth, but the esteem.

  As the wooden door to the study opened, Isaac swiveled in his chair to see who had broken his thoughts. The maid had left for the day, so it could only be the American businessman.

  "I feel like a new man," Dalton said as he limped in and took a seat. "Are you ready to make me an offer?"

  Isaac studied the American. "Yes...but how is your ankle?"

  "Sprained, I think. I guess I'm not much of a sailor."

  They looked at each other as though a chess match had just begun-neither flinching an eyelid, the clock still ticking loudly.

  Isaac broke the silence. "While you slept, I had my men check over the chips and the documents. We can use information like this, but I need more."

  "That's not a problem," Dalton assured him.

  "The chips are impressive...better than anything I've seen in Hungary or through other sources."

  "The Russians don't even have these yet," Dalton boasted.

  That brought a smile to Isaac's face. For most of his adult life his country had languished in the backdrop of left-over technology from the former Soviet Union. Now he had a chance to push his country forward into a market-based economy with high technology.

  "Not even the Russians?"

  "No! In fact, the Germans and the Brits have shifted their emphasis to transputer technology instead of enhancing current computer technology. So, I'm certain they don't have a chip this fast either."

  "Even if they do, that's not the point!" Isaac said. "More than just the technology, I want the Eastern Europeans to have what Western Europe has had for decades. The Russians denied us that affluence after the Great War."

  Dalton rose from his chair and walked over to the book shelves. Some of the titles would have surely been banned at one time or another in Moscow or Budapest, but Yugoslavia, and more recently Croatia, had allowed more freedom.

  "I want to help you and your country, but I need proper compensation," Dalton said. He paused for a second and then turned and looked directly at Isaac. "I don't want cash, at least not initially. I want a partnership."

  Isaac raised his brows. "A partnership? This is a surprise. I assumed you would ask for cash. Isn't that what most Americans want?" he asked.

  "I'm not your normal American!" Dalton blared, his hands talking as much as his mouth. "I like to take risks, gamble. If the stakes are high, so much the better. I've worked for a lot of companies that failed to take risks, and most of them are out of business. The strong ones, those that see an opportunity and grasp it, survive and thrive."

  There was an uncomfortable pause as they stared each other down. Isaac finally smiled. "I like your attitude. The Communists told us for so long that we were nothing without them...we actually began to believe them. Most of the older people accepted the inevitability of Communism. Only the young people of your generation in our country decided that enough was enough. They want more for themselves and their families. The more they know about the West, the more they want to be like Western people."

  "Have you read all of these books?" Dalton asked.

  "Yes! It was either that or watch the latest techniques in collective farming on the television."

  "Ah, I see."

  He wasn't like a normal American, Isaac thought. The patience he was now showing was either a reflection of the sleep he had just received, or perhaps a true desire for a commitment. Nevertheless, it was refreshing.

  "Would you like a drink, Jason?"

  "Yes, please. Whatever you're having."

  Isaac Lebovitz pulled a wooden panel down from behind his desk revealing a well-stocked bar. After a few seconds of mental debate, he selected a fine French Cognac and poured two snifters to the right level.

  Dalton accepted his glass and twirled the contents allowing the aroma to rise to his nose. "Exceptional...as our partnership will be."

  The growth of a new aristocracy pervaded the scarcely lit room with the warmth of a fine French brandy. And the clock slowly ticked on the desk with a patience that was soon to be overcome by the will of an old aristocracy with new ideas. Isaac sat back in his chair, smiled, and tapped the side of his forehead with
his finger.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 10

  BONN, GERMANY

  Jake Adams eased his rental Passat against the curb and cut the lights and engine. He had thrown Gunter Schecht a similar transmitter to the one he had found on his car. It allowed him to remain easily undetected far behind Gunter's Mercedes.

  Thick dark clouds shrouded the gold-glassed headquarters building of Bundenbach Electronics in eerie darkness. Only a few lights on the top floor remained lit.

  Gunter Schecht punched his card into a slot and a mechanical arm rose for him. He drove slowly into the underground parking ramp marked employees only.

  Maybe Jake finally had a break in the case. He knew who tried to kill him, and now who that man worked for. But what type of work did Gunter do for Bundenbach Electronics? He made a mental note to check into that company later.

  Gunter Schecht would have to face his boss alone. He used his credit card key to enter the executive elevator. He got off on the top floor and hesitated by a window overlooking the Rhine. The green grass that lined its banks were a stark contrast to the frozen Eifel Hills he had experienced yesterday morning.

  Gunter yanked his pants up higher, tucked his shirt in, and snapped the bottom of his black leather coat. He entered the four-digit cipher code on an unmarked door, opened the door, and closed it behind him. The door led to a small, short passageway with a locked door on the other end. The walls were bare and the compartment reeked of stale cigarettes. Like all other passageways in the building, this one was monitored by closed circuit cameras. He looked up at the camera and tried to smile.

  He knocked on the door three times. He couldn't remember if it was supposed to be three or four times, but he figured he was being watched anyway so why would it matter?

  A large man, larger than Gunter's driver, opened the door. He said nothing as Gunter passed him. The man closed the door and propped himself against the wall next to it, guarding the exit.

  Gunter sat down in one of two mahogany-red, leather chairs with gold studs. He wondered why under such tense circumstances he still found time to admire the quality of the textured leather, and the almost fresh fragrance it maintained. The boss must have smoked exclusively in that hallway, he thought.

  "Would you like a beer, Gunter?" the boss asked, as he got up from behind his heavy wooden desk and went to a small cooler built into a bar in the corner of the large office.

  "Yes, please. I could use one," Gunter said.

  Even though Gunter knew he was the best man working special projects in the company, he also knew that no one was indispensable. The boss opened the large bottle of Bitburger Beer as if he were trying to seduce a Fraulein. His dark burgundy suit was tailored perfectly. He looked at Gunter with his light blue eyes like a hunter views his prey just before pulling the trigger. Gunter accepted the beer and took a large gulp.

  "You know, Gunter, this project is the most important one we have going right now," the boss said, sitting down again. "In fact, it could change the way we do business for the next ten years. Only the strong will survive."

  "I understand the consequences," Gunter said.

  Gunter knew that his prior association with Jake Adams was important to the boss. His inside knowledge of Jake made him the perfect man for the job. He would get the job done-whatever was asked of him. He retired from German Intelligence with a small pension when Bundenbach Electronics offered him a substantial pay increase. But this had been the first time Herr Bundenbach had asked him to dissuade someone.

  "You came a little too close to killing Adams," the boss said.

  "He won't die that easily," Gunter explained.

  "A little too close," the boss repeated.

  Gunter stretched back in his chair and took another long gulp of beer.

  "I know you're a professional, Gunter, but will you find it difficult to kill Jake Adams at some point?" the boss asked.

  "No!" Gunter said callously. "Do you want us to continue?" Gunter looked at the boss for approval.

  The boss glared at him, his hands in front of him as if praying. "Let's keep Adams alive for a while and see what he's up to," he said. "I need to know what he knows. Does he still work for the CIA? Find out! If he is working for Teredata, like we originally thought, then he'll have to go, of course. I can't have government agents dragging us down, and I won't be undercut or underbid by anyone. There's too much at stake. Our research staff has still not figured out the chips. So I still need Charlie Johnson for a while."

  Gunter looked up quickly to the boss. "I thought we had everything from him?"

  "Let me do the thinking," the boss said. "Just find out about Adams for now."

  "No problem." Gunter finished his beer.

  Jake was just about to turn the keys to start his Passat when he recognized a man in an old blue BMW less than a block away. He thought his eyes were deceiving him, but at that distance he couldn't be mistaken. The BMW belonged to a German customs officer named Herbert Kline. Herb worked out of Bonn, at least he did the last time Jake saw him, so it should have been no coincidence that he was there. But why was he sitting out in front of Bundenbach Electronics? Kline had a reputation, earned or not, of being less than efficient. He was old enough and had worked long enough within the customs agency to be a secure, tenured bureaucrat. The agency couldn't fire him, and the criminals would rather keep him around alive with his incompetence than replace him with a talented newcomer. At least that had always been the rumor. With the limited exposure Jake had with him, the rumors were unfounded.

  Jake needed to leave undetected. He had parked with the nose of his car just in front of a road that ended on his. Starting the car, he made a quick right turn onto the side street. The Passat slowly gained speed. Looking into his rear view mirror, Jake was convinced that Kline had not seen him.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 11

  PISA, ITALY

  Toni and Kurt drove swiftly along Via Bonanno Pisano catching a glimpse of the white marble leaning tower from time to time between buildings.

  "I told you I'd show you Pisa on a Saturday night, kid," Toni quipped.

  "Try Sunday morning."

  "Close enough!"

  She turned left on Via Volturno and crossed the Arno River. Kurt tried to keep up with the street names, but after crossing the river and turning left to parallel it, he lost track of where he was. The streets were poorly marked in this squalid part of town.

  "Where in the hell are we?" Kurt asked.

  "The Pisa most tourists don't see. Consider yourself lucky," she said with a smile.

  Lucky or not, he knew they had a long evening ahead of them. One that would bring him to the very brink of his training.

  The Alfa Romeo finally turned down a narrow alley that was both dirty and wretched. After a few blocks, when at times it appeared that the narrowness would rip the outside mirrors from the car, Toni pulled as close to one side as she could and stopped. They both got out on the driver's side. Toni pulled a key from her purse and opened a large metal door. Then she opened the trunk, Kurt and she quickly pulled Lt. Budd from within, and quietly closed the trunk again. Kurt put him over his shoulder and carried him inside.

  After the door closed, Toni turned on a small overhead light that partially lit the sordid nature of the tiny corridor. Chunks of wood and metal lay strewn across the cement floor, and the smell of urine and rat feces permeated throughout.

  "Nice place, hey, kid? It reminds me of home in New York," Toni said with a piercing echo.

  "Is it okay to talk here?"

  "Yeah, no problem," she said, fumbling through her keys. "The Italians let us use this place. Most of the people have moved out of this neighborhood. Some developer wants to convert these buildings into trendy apartments overlooking the river. But we've still got a few more years to work out of here. The funding has been slow, and the bureaucracy even more so."

  Toni opened the door at the end of the corridor. The room inside was a stark contrast to th
e alley and outer corridor. The furniture was old and worn, but it looked clean. The kitchen area had a metal table and chair set that could have been from the '50s, but it too was at least clean.

  "Put him in the far back room and lock the door," Toni ordered.

  Kurt carried him back, turned on the light and plopped the lieutenant in a small cot.

  The room that Lt. Budd would now call home was designed to look like a prison cell. It had one small cot, a disgusting sink and toilet, and a cement wall. The wall was notched in groups of five marking off over sixty days for one visitor. The first few notches were deep and defined, but toward the end they were barely visible. The overhead light was actuated by a rheostat so its intensity could be overwhelming or virtually nonexistent. The door had a peep hole to look in, and it opened from the left side instead of the right. Kurt saw why when he noticed the walls in the hall were painted darker at the end than at the front, and a black curtain hung about midway down the hall to keep the kitchen and living room lights from interfering with the intended effects.

  When Kurt returned, Toni had two cold beers opened.

  "Thanks! I could use one," he said. "That's an interesting room you have there."

  "Psychology is the most important aspect of a proper interrogation," Toni informed him.

  "Is it totally sound proof?"

  "Yes. He can yell all he wants, and we couldn't hear him out here. That goes both ways. We can talk freely."

  Kurt had heard of such rooms in his training, but the Naval Investigative Service operated under more controlled conditions. All of their interrogation rooms were on Naval bases or air stations. He had never seen a shipboard facility since he was recruited to the NIS.