Once Dead Read online

  Petor shut down the laptop, packed it into its case, and headed for the door. While Rachel was sleeping her drug-induced sleep in the back of the panel van, it wouldn’t do to keep her waiting any longer. Rolf’s instructions had been very specific in this regard. No harm would come to his wife. Petor was to drug her and deliver her to the Gottfried Clinic, where Dr. Frieda Dortman would admit her. Tomorrow, Dr. Dortman would release a statement to the press that Rachel Koenig had suffered a nervous breakdown and would be undergoing treatment for an indefinite amount of time. In the meantime, the Koenig family requested that the press and public respect their right to medical privacy.

  Parked outside Hotel Zugspitze, the blue panel van was backed into a spot at the back side of the parking lot. Petor opened the driver’s door, shut it behind him, and moved into the back to check on Rachel. A quick check of her vitals yielded the expected results; she would be out for at least two more hours. Petor removed a needle from his medical bag, pulled two CC’s of a clear liquid from a small vial, and turned it up to squeeze the air and a single drop of liquid from the syringe.

  Inserting the needle into a vein on her right arm, Petor administered the injection that would add an additional eight hours to her slumber. When next she opened those pretty blue eyes, she would find herself in Dr. Dortman’s care. By the time she was ready for release, she would believe that she really had suffered a nervous breakdown.

  Petor moved back to the driver’s seat, started the engine, and began the long drive from Garmisch-Partenkirchen to Berlin. Once he dropped off Rachel, he would have to inform Rolf Koenig of his mission’s failure, something he most definitely was not looking forward to.

  He only hoped he would be given an opportunity to make amends for his failure.

  CHAPTER 51

  Although the heavy downpour stopped around eleven p.m., a steady drizzle continues. It lifts a knee-high fog that swirls through the narrow streets. It clings to my skin, a thick, wet blanket that seeks to quench the little illumination that manages to cut through this night’s gloom. My damp cloak brushes my legs as I step away from the corpse but, in thrall to my hammering heart, I barely notice.

  Nature is a vicious bitch, a cat that plays with an injured mouse, dragging out the wretched animal’s misery right up until the moment that it guts and consumes its prey. I am far more merciful, inflicting a few moments of terror as I strangle the woman unconscious before carefully lowering her body to the ground on my left. Twin slashes across her throat sends her permanently into the dark. The removal of selected organs happens post mortem.

  In the distance, a bobby walks beneath a street lamp, his night stick casting a swinging shadow. Stepping deeper into the shadows, the bloody knife clasped firmly in my right hand, I watch the bobby move along Berner Street. The interruption means I won’t get to finish the ritual, not with this victim. But I can’t just leave tonight’s promise unfulfilled. It isn’t my way.

  Having watched the bobby turn the corner, I exit this dark space the way I entered it. A shadow within shadows, I move out of the narrow yard between numbers 40 and 42 Berner Street, feeling something pull me toward a new target somewhere in the Whitechapel night.

  “Dinner’s ready.”

  The call woke Jack, pulling him from the shabby Whitechapel alley into a bedroom that occupied the far end of a campsite trailer in the Austrian Alps. The vivid dream was one he had experienced before and, as usual, it took him several moments to work his way out of it. When the dreams took him, they always felt more like memories than dreams. But they weren’t his memories and he didn’t want them in his head. He just didn’t seem to have a choice in the matter.

  As much as he’d struggled to bring himself to terms with Calcutta’s lingering aftermath, as much as he wanted to believe these dreams were just PTSD-induced recurring nightmares, he couldn’t make himself believe it. Somehow, the deathbed deal he’d made in that nineteenth-century London back-alley had been the real thing and he was just going to have to learn to live with it.

  The H&K subcompact lay on the nightstand to his right, but he didn’t remember placing it there. He barely remembered crawling beneath the covers. How long had he been asleep? Judging by the gathering twilight, perhaps six hours.

  Two soft knocks on the closed bedroom door preceded Janet’s voice. “Jack, are you alive in there?”

  Jack rubbed his face with both hands, rolled out of bed, and wrapped the white towel back around his waist before opening the door.

  “It’s debatable.”

  She laughed and handed him two large shopping bags. “Throw on some clothes. I’ve got dinner and a glass of wine breathing on the table.”

  “Five minutes.”

  He closed the door and dumped the contents of both bags on the bed.

  Two pairs of jeans, two black pullover shirts, two button-down shirts—one blue, one tan—a brown leather jacket, a belt, a pair of hiking shoes and a pair of Nike running shoes, plus several pairs of boxers, briefs, and socks. In addition she’d purchased a cap and a pair of dark sunglasses. The second bag had a fully-stocked shaving kit, a Gerber survival knife, a gym bag, and a first-aid kit. Thoughtful girl. Observant too, based upon how well everything fit.

  When he stepped out of the bedroom, the smell of pork cutlets, potatoes, and gravy made his mouth water.

  For the first time this day, Jack took the time to really look at Janet Price as she carried a platter to the small dining table. Wearing dark slacks over lace-up boots and a navy blue pullover, she’d let her shoulder-length brown hair down. Catching his gaze, she smiled.

  “Well, you look better.”

  Jack walked to the table, leaned over, and breathed in. “Smells great.”

  “Have a seat. First food, then talk.”

  “I like the way you think.”

  Jack finished his plate before Janet had gotten halfway through her cutlet, picked up his glass of Bordeaux, took a sip, and slowed down. Seeing her studying him, he leaned back in his chair.

  “I’ll wait until you finish.”

  She set her fork down, lifted her glass, and swirled the red liquid within it. “I’m finished. I had lunch while I was out shopping.”

  “Okay. Then I have some questions.”

  Her brown eyes locked with his.

  “Fire away.”

  “You never got back to me with the answer to my Roskov question. Why not?”

  She took a sip from her glass, then set it on the table.

  “That’s the reason I had to find you. I couldn’t tell you the answer because I don’t know it.”

  “You’re trying to tell me that the NSA doesn’t know where Roskov has gone to ground?”

  “No. President Harris has ordered Admiral Riles to route all information concerning Roskov and Rolf Koenig directly to the CIA for analysis. I’ve been cut out of the loop.”

  Jack didn’t like that answer. Why would the president directly disrupt the flow of intelligence information?

  “Who at CIA?”

  “Deputy Director Nolan Trent.”

  Finally an answer that didn’t surprise him. If Nolan Trent had ever had Jack’s back, it was only to stick a knife in it. But how in hell did Trent get the DCI to involve the president in this?

  “Did Riles give you any indication what CIA is working?”

  “Not directly. But he told me to stay on you. He also implied that the only intelligence data I would be denied was that specifically related to Vladimir Roskov or Rolf Koenig.”

  “Stay on me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Janet rose from her chair, grabbed her wine glass, and moved to the couch, a series of actions that Jack imitated.

  “Like I said the first time we met, Riles thinks you’ve gotten yourself involved in something much bigger than it appears. This presidential directive has only made him more certain of it. It’s pretty clear that people higher up the food chain than Roskov want you dead. Riles wants to know why.”

  “How did you
find me?”

  “I didn’t. Rachel Koenig’s disappearance made the press. I figured someone might be trying to use her to bait you. So I found her, or rather her car. I’d been watching it and the bed and breakfast for several hours when you showed up. It’s pretty clear from the fact that the police didn’t find any bodies that she was already gone when I got there.”

  “And when I staggered out of the burning building, you conveniently drove to my rescue?”

  “I don’t pass up opportunities.”

  Once again, Jack was struck by Janet’s calm self-assurance. She leaned toward him.

  “I’ve been thinking about what this is all about. Assuming you pose a threat to a high-profile CIA operation, they might come after you, but not like this. They’ve pulled out all the stops on this one. Someone killed Rita Chavez in Paris and framed you. The question is why?”

  “To trigger me.”

  “Sure. But I think it goes deeper than that. That killing was designed to trigger someone else, too.”

  The realization hit Jack as the words left Janet’s lips. “Director Rheiner,” he said.

  Janet nodded. “It was obvious that you would take it hard, but they made it personal to the DCI. The killer posted the torture killing of a CIA analyst on the web. Not just any analyst, but a close friend of Director Rheiner.”

  “And Nolan Trent happened to step in to ask for special resources to nail the hitter.”

  “Convenient.”

  In his head, another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Still Jack couldn’t see what it was trying to show him.

  “But what’s the Koenig–Roskov connection? I don’t believe Roskov is blackmailing him.”

  “I don’t know. And now that I’m cut off from the raw data on those two, it’s going to be a lot harder to find out.”

  “And that’s where I come in?”

  Janet stood, walked to the window, and stared out at the moon rising over Lake Plansee. “Riles told me I was going to have to get creative to fish out the answers. It looks like he thinks you’re the real bait.”

  Jack moved up to stand beside her. The moon, its reflection in the alpine lake, the surrounding Alps, Janet standing beside him—all combined to bring a single word to his lips.

  “Perfect.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Jacob Knox knew all about patience. It was the key difference between a professional hunter and a rank amateur. Amateurs beat the bush, seeking to frighten hiding game into the open. Even when this tactic worked, the amateur found himself poorly prepared and poorly positioned for the kill shot. The professional studied his prey, learned its patterns, and positioned himself to wait for the game animal to come to him. Jacob was a patient man. But it didn’t mean he liked waiting.

  His just-finished phone conversation with Nolan Trent hadn’t helped that. Either Roskov or Koenig had tried another hit on Gregory, this time in the Bavarian Alps. Once again the attempt had failed and once again, Gregory’s subsequent whereabouts were unknown. Jacob wasn’t particularly worried that one of these hits would succeed, thus robbing him of the satisfaction of killing The Ripper personally. He didn’t think these amateurs had it in them. But they were screwing up his setup. Every one of these attempts distracted and delayed Gregory from following the trail that led to Jacob.

  The added delay was more than irritating. The whole point of this operation was to ensure that Gregory didn’t interfere with Rolf Koenig’s space launch, but as long as The Ripper was alive, that remained a distinct possibility.

  He’d completed his analysis of security at Roskov’s Kyzylorda warehouse complex. Surrounded by an electrified chain-link fence with triple concertina razor wire along the top, a total of six warehouses provided temporary storage and loading for a variety of goods, some more legitimate than others. Day and night security cameras monitored every entrance as well as the driveways between buildings. Four backup generators protected the facility from external power loss. A tunnel connected Warehouse Five to another warehouse, five kilometers to the southwest, to allow cargo to be shipped out without being seen. Right now the primary purpose of the other warehouses in the facility was to mask the activity in Warehouse Five.

  In addition, Vladimir Roskov employed a security detail that consisted of three shifts, each with two guards at the entry gate, two guards at each building, and a rapid reaction squad of five.

  Jacob knew that if he wanted to get in, none of these precautions would matter. He didn’t think they would bother The Ripper either. But when the attack happened, they would funnel him to Jacob and that would be sufficient. Before any of that could occur, he had to get Gregory back on target.

  By the time Jacob’s call was patched through to Vladimir Roskov, his irritation had come to a low boil.

  “What’s the problem?” The growl in Roskov’s voice didn’t improve his mood.

  “I want to know why your people are screwing up my operation.”

  “Your operation?”

  “Damn right. Trent didn’t send me here to sit on my ass. I thought The Ripper had already made it abundantly clear that he’s out of your thugs’ league. I’ve gone to significant trouble to put him on a trail that ends in a kill zone in Kyzylorda. The last thing I need is your people delaying his arrival while they get themselves killed.”

  “The Ripper got lucky. I’ve almost had him twice in a row.”

  “Almost won’t get it done.”

  “My man is still alive. When he kills Gregory, you won’t have to.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “That’s my business, not yours.”

  “Then send him a message from me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tell him to enjoy every moment he’s got left.”

  Roskov’s growl changed to a hiss. “Go screw yourself.”

  The line went dead. Goddamn Roskov. If Nolan Trent and Rolf Koenig could keep the Russian mob boss under control, there was no use wasting any more of his valuable time trying to do it. It was just what Jacob needed right now. One more major complication.

  CHAPTER 53

  Levi Elias sat next to Admiral Riles at the small conference table in the NSA director’s private briefing room, feeling tightness in his throat. His fingers moved across the touchpad to highlight a section of the report displayed on the big screen.

  “Sir, something’s not right. There are way too many coincidences happening.”

  Admiral Riles stared at the screen and nodded. “Take me through it.”

  “Let’s start with the most recent sequence. First, Rolf Koenig launches an all-out Polizei search for his suddenly missing wife, possible foul play suspected. Janet was all over that. Thought it was a trap designed to ensnare Jack Gregory. Based upon her request, we identified Rachel’s image in a traffic photo outside Oberammergau, Germany. The next day, a bomb went off on the second floor of a bed and breakfast there. Burned the place to the ground. The proprietor and a young German couple reported seeing a man stumble out of the building immediately after the explosion. He got into a black car that sped away before the Polizei or firefighters arrived.”

  “Janet and Jack Gregory?”

  “Looks like, although she hasn’t reported in.”

  “The bomber?”

  “We don’t know, but since there were no bodies found at the scene, he was there early. Probably set the bomb and departed, taking Ms. Koenig with him.”

  “Was she in on the setup?”

  “Not likely. From everything we know about Gregory, he’s extremely good at figuring out when someone is lying to him. I don’t think an amateur like Rachel Koenig could have fooled him. Besides, the Bild just reported that Rachel Koenig has admitted herself to a psychiatric clinic for the treatment of severe depression. Rolf Koenig’s press secretary issued a statement asking the public to respect the family’s right to medical privacy in this matter.

  “Then there’s this. I had a private chat with Dr. Jennings. Big John is registering a signifi
cant correlation that could tie all of the following persons and events together: Rolf Koenig, Vladimir Roskov, Jack Gregory, Nolan Trent, and the upcoming launch from the Baikonur Cosmodrome of the XLRMV-1 lunar mining mission.”

  Levi watched the NSA director lean back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of his chest. Riles’s gray eyes studied the figures Levi brought up on the next screen.

  “That’s only a little better than sixty-percent probability. Hardly a lock.”

  “I’d like permission to elevate the priority on this particular search.”

  “Denied. I’d need a hell of a lot more than that to violate a direct presidential order.”

  “Sir, we have indications that Roskov is working closely with CIA on this.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “ ‘I don’t know’ won’t get it done, Levi.”

  Levi swallowed. “That’s why I need that Big John priority search.”

  “Request denied.”

  Admiral Riles rose to his feet and Levi rose with him. As he watched his boss turn his back and walk out of the conference room, he knew he’d failed to give the old man the excuse to do what he wanted to do. It was a failure on his part. He shouldn’t have brought this to Riles’s attention without hard data to back up his suspicions. It was just going to make it harder to cry wolf next time.

  Disconnecting his tablet from the wireless display, Levi put it to sleep, and began the walk back to his office. It was all up to Janet now. Maybe it always had been.

  CHAPTER 54

  Having made a fresh pot of coffee, Jack poured two cups and moved to sit across from Janet at the kitchen table. Following his every movement, Janet could feel his thoughts shift to business. His words confirmed it.

  “The CIA has gone to great lengths to strip me of a number of my European contacts. I can establish new sources for what I need, but it will take time I don’t have. I’m willing to cooperate in your investigation in return for your operational assistance, but let’s get something straight up front. I don’t work for the NSA, not even as an independent consultant, and I damn sure don’t follow NSA rules.”