Chapter 18

18

Braun was in his Dassault Falcon 2000LXS jet, heading for a meeting in Geneva, when Dieter called.

“I just heard from our freelancers in Venice,” Dieter said. He’d been forced to use local talent to watch the station, since their Rome-based team wouldn’t make it to Venice before Schmidt’s train arrived. “Neither Schmidt nor Rogers were on board.”

“Not on board?” Braun scoffed. “That doesn’t make any sense. They had to be.”

“The watchers were in place when the train arrived, and when neither man got off, they even searched inside.”

“They must have checked the wrong train!” Braun insisted.

“I thought so, too, but have confirmed it was the correct one.”

“Then where is Schmidt?”

“He must have left at an earlier stop. I’m assuming with Rogers. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Have you tried calling him?”

“Numerous times but only got his voicemail. I contacted our Rome-based team. They were still an hour out of Venice, so I’ve told them to check security footage at the stops between where Schmidt boarded and Venice. We should know soon where he and Rogers got off.”

“Dammit, Dieter! The longer this takes, the more likely Rogers slips through our hands. I will not stand for that!”

“I understand.”

Braun stewed for a moment, his annoyance at Schmidt’s incompetence reaching a breaking point. “I want you to go to Italy and oversee this in person.”

“I’m already on the way to the airport.”

This was why Braun liked Dieter. The man had a way of reading his mind and doing what needed to be done. “Good. And one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t ever want to see Schmidt again.”

“Understood.”

Per Dieter’s instructions, the team from Rome that had been heading to Venice split into groups of two. Each group took one of the three stops between where Schmidt had told Dieter he’d boarded the train in Florence and where he was supposed to get off in Venice.

Dieter was boarding his flight to Italy when the team leader texted him that neither man had left the train at any of the stops.

That didn’t make any sense. Schmidt had been clear about boarding that specific train in Florence. Had he lied? Or had he and Rogers hopped off between stops for some unknown reason?

He shot off a text, telling the team leader to send someone to Florence to see if Schmidt had lied about catching the train.

The two men sent to Florence used the same “we’re searching for an underage relative who ran off with an older man” ruse they’d used in Bologna. The sympathetic security chief took them straight to the surveillance room, where it took only a few minutes to find video of both Schmidt and Rogers boarding the Venice-bound train.

Just as they were about to leave, the security officer helping them received a phone call.

“Pronto?” The man listened for a moment. “Where?” As the person on the other end spoke, the man glanced at Dieter’s men. “Can you give me a description?” Another pause, then, “I may know something. I will call you back.” He hung up and looked at the men again. “The person who is with your cousin, do you know what he looks like?”

“We do. Why?”

“It’s possible he has been found.”

Dieter switched his phone on the moment his plane was on the ground at the Venice Marco Polo Airport and was greeted with several message alerts.

He worked through them, his jaw tensing.

Upon exiting the plane, he called Braun. “Schmidt is dead.”

“You’ve dealt with him already?”

“Not me. I just arrived. His body was found along the tracks in the hills outside Bologna.”

“What are you saying? He fell off the train?”

“No. According to our men on-site, he was shot.”

Silence.

Dieter had to check his phone to make sure his boss was still on the line.

Finally, Braun said, his anger barely contained, “Who did it? Rogers?”

“Likely, but I don’t know yet.”

“And where is he ?”

“Unknown. The only video we have of either of them is when they boarded the train in Florence. It’s likely Rogers hopped off after killing Schmidt.”

“Have you rechecked the video?” Braun demanded.

“Already in process.”

“The video in Venice, too. By our people, not your deadbeat freelancers.”

“Also happening,” Dieter said, as calm as always. “I do have some good news.”

“Well, that would be a nice change.”

“I had a message from Jillian. She’s heard from a second source, who has no connection to the first, that Teddy Fay is alive.”

“Rumors are one thing. Has she found any proof yet?”

“Not yet.”

Braun swore under his breath. “You don’t understand how much I want it to be true!”

“Perhaps not, but I know it’s important. I’ll work with Jillian on it. If there’s proof, we’ll find it.”

According to Jillian, the second source had also claimed that Fay was currently in Europe. But Dieter thought it best not to share that information with his boss just yet.

Dieter’s phone beeped with another call. He glanced at the screen and saw that it was Hilgard, the man he’d sent to shadow the CIA’s Paris station chief.

“Sir, I need to take this call. If there’s nothing else…?”

“Just get things back on track!” Braun said and hung up.

Dieter answered the other call. “Yes?”

“Rick La Rose is at Orly Airport,” Hilgard said.

Given that La Rose was the CIA’s highest-ranking representative on the continent, Dieter thought it prudent to watch him while they carried out Braun’s revenge on the participants of Golden Hour.

“Is he picking someone up?”

“No. He’s waiting at a gate for a flight.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he going?”

“Venice, Italy.”

A smile spread across Dieter’s face. “Can you get on that flight?”

“I can try.”

“Do it. If you can’t, get on the next one.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dieter hung up and shot off a text to the men who’d been checking the train stations.

Meet me in Venice ASAP