Steal, page 13
“I’m just trying to give you fair warning.”
“Consider me warned.”
I chuckled. I couldn’t help myself. Elizabeth was about to figure out what was happening.
I was counting on her all along.
“Our ride’s here,” I said. “Are you ready, partner?”
She took one look at the white van with tinted windows that rolled up in front of us and immediately knew that this was no Uber. The giant logo on the side read MR. FIX-IT, framed by a wrench and hammer. Nice touch.
Julian lowered his driver’s-side window, flashing a toothy grin beneath his Manchester United cap. He always sounded a little more British when he was excited. “Who’s up for a bit of mischief?” he asked.
CHAPTER 51
Who would’ve thunk it? The best way to break into the Hungarian consulate is not to break into the Hungarian consulate. You break into a Hungarian bakery instead.
“Are you guys sure this is going to work?” asked Elizabeth.
“Absolutely not,” said Julian.
I wish he’d been kidding. He really wasn’t sure.
We were parked across the street from Eszter’s Pastries on the Upper East Side, “Home of All Things Sweet and Hungarian,” according to the shop’s Facebook page.
As for Julian’s intel, that came from what was commonly referred to in the CIA as the hab file. If you were on the agency’s radar and did anything on a habitual basis, it was noted in the hab file. For instance, the Hungarian consulate in Manhattan ordered a breakfast pastry assortment each morning from Eszter’s.
Of course, that didn’t explain why we were about to break in to the place. The specifics behind it were a bit complicated. Julian took a crack at it for Elizabeth’s sake, but, suffice it to say, he didn’t exactly simplify things.
“You see, the entire Hungarian consulate has an STC rating over 50, while the ambassador’s office meets every ICD 705 requirement, and the main conference room is a permanent skiff, complete with an RF-shielded door,” he’d said. All of it with a straight face, no less.
For anyone not possessing a PhD in advanced intelligence gathering, an RF-shielded door is one that prevents radio frequencies from getting in or out. These doors are commonly used with “skiffs” (colloquial for SCIFs, or Sensitive Compartmented Information Facilities), which are relied on by governments, and anyone else with good reason to be paranoid, to negate listening devices and eavesdropping. There are both permanent and temporary skiffs, the latter usually erected when presidents and other high-ranking officials visit foreign countries and need to be assured of their privacy. Either way, all skiffs must meet certain standards, including those mandated by Intelligence Community Directive (ICD) 705. Requirements include having a sound transmission class (STC) rating above 50, a level of soundproofing sophisticated enough to mute your neighbor’s Mötley Crüe CD at top volume.
In short, the Hungarian consulate was like a big can of Raid. It was really good at repelling bugs. We couldn’t just walk in the front door and hope to plant a listening device somewhere.
But there was another possibility. A back door. Literally.
The consulate had a loading dock that was serviced by a guarded alleyway. While the loading dock itself was rarely used, it had a separate door that was opened frequently by staffers taking cigarette breaks. That’s how the pastries from Eszter’s came in at approximately 8 a.m., Monday through Friday. A delivery van would drop them off at the small gatehouse in front of the alley, and a guard would walk them back. That guard was supposed to use the front entrance of the consulate and have the pastries run through their X-ray machine like every other delivery, but that meant a much longer walk to the kitchen, which was right off the loading dock.
That’s what happens when routines become ingrained. People cut corners. And if those people happen to include a security guard at the Hungarian consulate, the CIA was going to know about it.
Not that the US government is habitually bugging foreign embassies on its soil. That would be crazy, right? Unheard of. Rootin’ tootin’ Vladimir Putin nuts.
But if we had to, it’s good to know we could. Wink-wink.
“Okay. Wait a minute, though,” said Elizabeth, after taking all this in. “You guys left out the most important part.”
She was right. We had.
CHAPTER 52
It was two in the morning, and we were sitting in the back of Julian’s mobile office, Mr. Fix-It—an old FBI surveillance van that he reconfigured after it had been put out to pasture. Naturally, the Bureau knew nothing about this repurposing. Almost no one did.
“Which part don’t you get?” asked Julian.
“I go in just before the night shift wraps up. I get that,” she said. “I knock on the front door, flash my badge, get someone to open up for me, and then give a reason why I need to see the kitchen.” She glanced down at the piece of molded plastic in her hand that Julian had given her. It looked like a tiny wishbone. “I jam the lock with this little doohickey when closing the door behind me, which leaves the front of the bakery all clear for you two.”
“So far, so good. Technically it’s not even breaking and entering. It’s just entering,” said Julian. “Easy-peasy, right? A piece of torta.”
“A what?” asked Elizabeth.
“That’s Hungarian for ‘cake,’” he said. “It’s also the answer to your question. The part we haven’t told you yet.”
“Yes. Once the night shift leaves. What exactly are you two doing?” asked Elizabeth.
Julian reached into a small black duffel bag by his feet, pulling out a pastry box. “Behold,” he said, lifting the lid. “A yeast cake with almonds. Otherwise known as Hungarian coffee cake.”
It looked delicious. All sliced up and ready to eat. I was hungry, too, but I knew this was hardly a snack for us. I also knew one of those slices was not like the others. So did Elizabeth now.
“Which one did you put it in?” I asked.
Julian pointed at the slice closest to him. “That’s our baby right there,” he said. “No, wait.” He cocked his head, thinking for a moment. He turned the box around in his lap, then turned it around again. “Ah, hell. Maybe it’s the other end here. I can’t bloody remember,” he said.
Elizabeth looked horrified. I started to laugh. “He’s joking,” I assured her. “It’s right in the middle.”
“Three slices in from the left and three in from the right. The exact middle, no matter how you look at it,” said Julian. “Just make sure the meeting’s early enough so no one eats it before you get there.”
She wasn’t amused. Or convinced. Of any of it. “Are we really doing this?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Julian. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
“Someone discovers it and we all go to jail for espionage,” she said.
Julian shrugged. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
Elizabeth stared at me. I smiled back. “Dicey enough for you?” I asked.
BOOK THREE
You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet
CHAPTER 53
Charlie Rexson had committed economic suicide.
At least that’s how most of the townspeople of Hensonville in upstate New York had pegged it. Some of them had even said as much to his face. And among those, a few managed to insert another adjective between “you’ve committed” and “suicide.” It rhymed with trucking.
But Charlie didn’t care. He’d owned his gun shop in Hensonville for more than thirty years and had already squirreled away enough money to retire comfortably. Not that his healthy 401(k) was the main reason he did what he did. No. What prompted Charlie to write the opinion piece that, in turn, started the boycott of his business was a crisis of conscience. That stupid devil of a kid, all of nineteen—the one who the FBI apprehended before he could shoot up a shopping mall in Albany—had tried to buy an AR-15 from Charlie only weeks before. The kid had passed the background check. Everything about the purchase was legal. But there was something about the way the kid looked at Charlie. Something off. And for no other reason than gut instinct, he refused to sell him the AR-15.
Charlie didn’t blame the owner of another gun shop who ended up selling the rifle to the kid. He blamed himself. For years, decades even, he’d bought into the slippery-slope theory. To pass any gun control law was to pass every gun control law. The left wouldn’t know how or when to stop. Unless you never let them get started.
Now, thanks to one crazy-eyed kid, Charlie had experienced a change of heart, saying as much in the local newspaper. Universal background checks. Elimination of the gun-show loophole. A purchase age of twenty-one rather than eighteen for all guns. These safeguards were a matter of common sense, Charlie wrote, not the beginning of the end of the right to bear arms. If he could come to terms with that—someone who made his living selling guns—couldn’t everyone else?
Apparently not.
It wasn’t as if the townspeople lit torches, gathered in a field at midnight, and decided to never set foot in Charlie’s shop ever again. It was just understood. If you were pro-gun in Hensonville, you were now anti-Charlie.
So when the brass bell jingled above the door to Charlie’s shop a week after the piece ran, Charlie didn’t even have to look at the man to know he wasn’t a local. And when he did look at him, he knew for sure the man wasn’t a local.
The median household income in Hensonville was $39,167. This man’s watch alone, a giant gold Rolex, was easily worth more than that. Charlie eyed it when the man reached up to adjust his black fedora.
Of course, Charlie was just happy that someone—anyone—was willing to come into his shop. It was his first customer since the boycott began.
“I wasn’t sure you were open,” said the man, closing the door behind him.
Charlie could feel the blast of cold air all the way across the shop to where he was standing, where he always stood, behind the counter. The forecast had predicted snow that night. Only a few inches, though.
“Oh, sure. Definitely,” said Charlie. “We’re open, all right.”
“It’s just that the parking lot—there were no cars. A little slow today, huh?”
“Lucky for you, you just missed the morning rush.”
The man smiled. “Yes,” he said. “Lucky for me.”
He walked toward the counter. The closer he got to Charlie, the more expensive his long black overcoat looked. Is that cashmere?
“So what can I help you with? What brings you in?” asked Charlie.
The man gazed left and right over Charlie’s shoulders, eyeing the crowded display of shotguns and semiautomatic rifles that hung on the wall. “Hunting. That’s my purpose,” he said. “I’m here to hunt.”
“You’ve certainly come to the right place, then,” said Charlie. “I’ve got every option for deer you could possibly want.”
The man smiled again.
Funny when people hear the word hunt. They always just assume it’s an animal.
CHAPTER 54
“What’s your name, by the way?” asked Charlie.
“Hans,” said the man, extending his hand. “Dr. Hans Kestler.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Hans.” He had a firm grip, thought Charlie. A surgeon, perhaps? “Now tell me, did you have a specific gun or two in mind?”
“Not exactly, but that one over there is catching my eye,” said Hans.
He began walking to his left, all the way to the end of the long counter. Charlie followed.
There are certain rules that any good gun shop owner lives by. First, you never fully turn your back on a customer. Second, you stay with that customer wherever they go. The first rule is about safety, the second about sales. Gun buyers need engagement to pull the trigger, as it were, on a purchase. You never just tell them about a gun. You preach it. You make them believe in the depths of their soul that owning this gun is the secret to true self-empowerment.
“So which one was it?” asked Charlie, with a quick glance at the wall behind him.
But it was as if Hans hadn’t heard him, not a word. He was staring back at where they’d first been standing. “How many feet do you think we just walked?” Hans asked.
Charlie squinted. “Excuse me?”
“The distance between here and where you were when I initially walked in,” said Hans. “What is that, about ten feet?”
“Um. Yeah, I suppose,” said Charlie, scratching the white stubble on his chin. “Call it ten feet.”
“How fast do you think you can cover that? I mean, if you had to move as fast as you possibly could. I’m assuming that’s where you keep it. Under the counter by the register?”
Charlie didn’t know what the hell this guy was talking about. At the same time, he knew exactly what he was talking about. If gun shop owners have rules to live by, they also have a gun tucked away somewhere near the register—also to live by.
“I’m sorry, what exactly is going on here?” asked Charlie.
All he could think was that this had something to do with his opinion piece. The pushback had gone beyond a mere boycott and straight to scare tactics. If that was the case, it was working.
Charlie, as subtly as he could, took one side step toward the register and, indeed, the hidden sawed-off shotgun that was positioned under the lip of the counter.
“Ah-ah-ah, not so fast,” said Hans. He even wagged his finger.
But it was his other hand that froze Charlie. Hans had pulled back one side of his cashmere overcoat, exposing a Glock 20 tucked behind his belt.
“Okay, okay,” said Charlie, raising his palms in the air. “Easy now. There’s not a lot of cash in the register, but whatever’s there is yours.”
Hans glanced down at himself. His coat. His suit. His shoes, a pair of polished wingtips that shined. “Do I look like I need your money, Charlie?”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want to give you one chance before I kill you. It’s a chance to kill me first.”
“This is crazy,” said Charlie. “I don’t want to do that.”
“Trust me. You do.” Hans took a few steps back. “I’m going to close my eyes and count to three. Three’s fair, don’t you think? Ten feet in three seconds? You might just be able to make that. It’s well within the realm of possibility.”
“Please—”
“I’m going to start counting, Charlie,” said Hans. “What you do after that is up to you.”
CHAPTER 55
Elizabeth elbowed me in the ribs. “Stop yawning,” she whispered.
I couldn’t help it. We hadn’t slept. “How are you not as tired as I am?” I whispered back.
“Don’t you know? I always pull all-nighters to break into Hungarian bakeries.”
“We technically didn’t break in, remember?”
“I’ll be sure to point that out in the meeting, if need be.”
“Relax, this is going to work,” I said. “We’re halfway home. We just need to stick the landing.”
“I’m pretty sure the captain of the Hindenburg said the same thing.”
“Good one,” I said. “Max Pruss, by the way.”
“What?”
“He was the captain of Hindenburg. That was his name. Max Pruss.”
Elizabeth’s eyes nearly rolled out of her head. “It so figures that you would know that.”
“That’s not a compliment, is it?”
“Shhhh. Here she comes.”
The two of us had been waiting, side by side on a small couch, in a reception area on the top floor of the Hungarian consulate on East 52nd. A young female receptionist with a pixie haircut sat at a desk across the room, fielding calls one after the other via headset. The red, white, and green from all the Hungarian flags flanking her blended perfectly with the Christmas tree and other holiday decorations that all had the tired look of having been trotted out of a storage closet once every year since the Nixon administration.
Unlike the pastries from Eszter’s, Elizabeth and I had come in through the front entrance and passed through security. I even got the bonus full-body-wand treatment from a guard after my platinum wedding band triggered the walk-through metal detector. That’s how sensitive the machine was, and how thorough embassies and their consulates tend to be in major cities when it comes to screening. For good reason, of course.
All the more reason we couldn’t just waltz in with Julian’s transmitter.
What we could bring with us, however, was the audio jamming software that Julian had installed on our phones. If the walls of the consulate had ears—and surely they did—the software was able to mimic the effect of a Druid white-noise generator, which creates a barely detectable level of audible distortion and reverberation that renders listening devices all but moot.
Still, Elizabeth and I weren’t taking any chances when we were alone anywhere in the consulate, including a reception area. In other words, even with jamming software triggered, we whispered softly as we waited.
The wait was over. Here she comes, all right…
“Good morning, Agent Needham. I’m Dorian Laszlo,” she said, thrusting out her hand with a locked elbow as we stood.
Laszlo’s title was economic and trade commissioner. From her diction to her posture to her crisp, wrinkle-free pantsuit, she had the air of a perfectionist. She was also the perfect point of entry for us. Dorian Laszlo had substantial authority within the Hungarian consulate, but not so much that would allow her instincts to get in the way of covering her ass with the powers that be back in Budapest.
She also didn’t have a personal assistant. That was important.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” said Elizabeth. “Thanks for seeing us on such short notice.”
“You did say it was urgent.”
“I’m afraid it is. In fact, that’s why I want to introduce you to Dr. Dylan Reinhart. Dr. Reinhart is a professor at Yale and the one who first alerted my office to the situation.”
