The Skorpion Directive Part 13

"Well," she said, closing her eyes, "you surely did that that. Clandestine warned us about you. We should have listened better."

A beam of light caught them. He looked up as Brancati and Veronika Miklas came up the walk. Brancati dropped the beam onto the huddled shapes at Dalton's feet, the light playing on the fresh blood on the cobblestones, on Leah Trent's white wet face as she stared wide-eyed back into the glare.

Brancati, seeing the man with what looked like a severe head trauma, started to come forward "Micah-"

Dalton stood up, lifted a hand, palm out.

"He's okay, Allessio. He's okay. I didn't hurt him."

Brancati, giving him a hard glare, brushed by Dalton, kneeling down to check the man out for himself. Dalton, feeling suddenly weak, put a hand on the stone wall of Galan's villa, steadying himself.

He closed his eyes, trying to get some equilibrium again, stunned by the depth of his anger and what he had contemplated doing in the rush of it, what that was saying about his mental state. When he opened his eyes again, Veronika was standing in front of him, staring intently into his face. Her expression was remote. "You did . . . this this ?" she asked in a shaken tone. ?" she asked in a shaken tone.

Dalton looked around at the people on the ground. Leah Trent was sitting on the stones, her cord cuffs in pieces at her feet, her arms wrapped around herself, her face wet, her mouth a little open, slumping into herself, obviously sinking into shock.

"I do," he said, his face hardening in light of her disapproval, her chilly stare, "what is necessary necessary."

"Crocodile," she said in a whisper mostly to herself, cold judgment in her eyes. She went past him and knelt down beside Leah Trent, putting a hand on her shoulder and speaking in the low, soothing tone one would use with an injured animal.

Brancati came over to him, his face grave.

"We must deal with these people," he said. "They have no identification papers, but I think they are truly Bureau of Diplomatic Security. My men have taken another four, all dressed the same way, down at the Savoia. A total of seven men, according to the Trent woman. She admits that they are a covert team, sent in to take you without the problem of extradition. This does not surprise me. The CIA did much the same a few years ago on the streets of Milan. I have called for a police launch. My people will hold them in the a.r.s.enale for a few days incommunicado. I will question them further. One will need dei punti dei punti-st.i.tches-for his face. Also, he has a broken nose, and I think a commozione cerebrale- commozione cerebrale- a concussion. And the woman, I think she is in going into shock. The third one did not receive . . . your attention . . . so much, so he is unhurt. The woman will need to be hospitalized"-here he gave Dalton a look of reproach, shaking his head-"but she will survive. a concussion. And the woman, I think she is in going into shock. The third one did not receive . . . your attention . . . so much, so he is unhurt. The woman will need to be hospitalized"-here he gave Dalton a look of reproach, shaking his head-"but she will survive. Allora Allora. It is done. What do you wish to do now?"

Find a bottle of scotch and climb inside, he was thinking. What he said was, "Finish this. That's what I wish to do, Allessio. Find out what's going on and finish it." he was thinking. What he said was, "Finish this. That's what I wish to do, Allessio. Find out what's going on and finish it."

THE medieval door to Galan's flat had been taken from a ruined villa in San Sepulcro. Beside the silver plaque with 8B GALAN engraved on it, the door carried the signature images of that famous old Tuscan town-macabre skeletal figures carrying scythes and swords and axes, grinning masks of death dancing and prancing-carved into three-dimensional cartouches and surrounded by demons from the underworld-imps, dragons, spiders, scorpions, vipers coiled around bundles of bones. The skeletons glared down at them in the glow of the hallway lamps as Brancati fished around in the pocket of his coat, finally pulling out a ring with several large bra.s.s keys on it. medieval door to Galan's flat had been taken from a ruined villa in San Sepulcro. Beside the silver plaque with 8B GALAN engraved on it, the door carried the signature images of that famous old Tuscan town-macabre skeletal figures carrying scythes and swords and axes, grinning masks of death dancing and prancing-carved into three-dimensional cartouches and surrounded by demons from the underworld-imps, dragons, spiders, scorpions, vipers coiled around bundles of bones. The skeletons glared down at them in the glow of the hallway lamps as Brancati fished around in the pocket of his coat, finally pulling out a ring with several large bra.s.s keys on it.

He was about to set the key into the lock-a brand-new dead bolt with DIEBOLD engraved on the face-when Dalton put a hand on his arm. Brancati stepped back and watched while Dalton ran a fingertip carefully up the jam and then across the top of the door. He brought his hand down and showed Brancati a single white hair, with a black root.

"I forgot," said Brancati. "From Cora."

"Cora?" asked Veronika, still distant but not quite as cold. Brancati glanced at Dalton and looked back at Veronika.

"Galan has a cat. He named her after Cora Vasari, a woman he much admired," said Brancati with a sidelong glance at Dalton. "He always takes from this cat a hair and sticks it somewhere around the door so he knows if somebody has been in the flat while he was out. The windows on the terrace are barred, so this is the only way in. Maybe we should take out our pistols anyway."

He slipped the key into the lock, pulling out his Beretta as he did so. The well-oiled tumblers clicked heavily, the latch gave way, and the door swung slowly open, revealing a darkened living room, and, beyond that, a kitchen and an open door leading to a bedroom and the terrace.

Galan's flat was a spare, monkish s.p.a.ce, with two antique wooden chairs set across from a battered green leather couch with an old bronze reading lamp. There was a tiny wood-burning stove, stained with four hundred years of soot. On the walls were several very small but well-executed oils, scenes of the Chianti District, atmospheric studies of rolling golden hills marked with the slender spires of cypress trees, a study of the Amalfi Coast, and what looked like a watercolor of the Negev.

There was a heavy oak sideboard holding a Seabreeze record player, next to that a small bar with some dusty bottles of Chianti and an ice bucket. And there was a collection of photos-his long-gone wife and children, Dalton knew-as well as a new-looking and very striking silver-framed portrait of Cora Vasari sitting on a big bay horse, looking down with a playful smile at the camera, her long hair cascading over her shoulders, the quintessential Hussar in a trim military tunic that fit her lush body very well, jodhpurs, gleaming black boots with silver spurs.

Dalton registered shock, seeing this photo, and a red rush of guilt. Although she was cut off from him, being sheltered from his chaotic effect by her family in their seventeenth-century villa in Anacapri, she was still the last faint promise of a normal life beyond the Agency, beyond the life he was leading.

Past the sideboard, under a cork bulletin board filled with papers and notes, stood a plain wooden table with a very modern desktop Dell on it, and a wide-screen monitor, which was dark, the tower shut down.

To the right, a galley kitchen, spotless in the dim glow of a hallway sconce, dishes stacked neatly in a drying rack, a linen dishrag folded carefully in thirds and draped over the tap.

To the left was an open door into a tiny bedroom with a sloping wooden roof. There was a single bed with a table next to it, some hardcover books piled on the table, and on the far side of the bed a set of heavily barred leaded-gla.s.s doors leading out to the terrace. Through the translucent gla.s.s, they could see the lights of the Campo Novo Park on the other side of the Ormesini Ca.n.a.l. The flat smelled of tobacco smoke and coffee, dust and decay, and carried a whiff of the ca.n.a.ls under that.

If a flat can be filled with absence absence, this one was.

As a precaution, Brancati went through the place while Dalton and Veronika waited in the living room. Dalton was feeling a searing sense of sadness welling up as he looked at what Galan's life had come down to: a nearly penniless, crippled old man surrounded by a few sticks of cheap furniture and some worthless souvenirs in a shabby little flat in shabby little Cannaregio, as cramped and gloomy as his homeland had been sun-filled and blue-sky open, the sun-warmed paradise he would never see again as a living man. And waiting for him at the far end of this life like a cobra under his pillow, a death more terrible than any nightmare, dying in agony, torn apart on a tin table, surrounded by hate. It occurred then to Dalton that since he was on the same road, he might be looking at his own future.

Brancati came back from the bedroom, putting his Beretta into his holster, his face showing as much sadness as Dalton was feeling.

He walked over to Galan's computer, pressed the ON b.u.t.ton, and they waited for the machine to cycle up. The monitor opened up with a flaring light, showing them the ENTER Pa.s.sWORD bar. Brancati pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, held it out at arm's length-his eyes were going-and punched in a series of letters, numbers, and special characters.

The screen flickered, and Galan's desktop came up, the screen saver a photo of Jerusalem taken under a full moon, the hills bathed in a silvery light.

Brancati sat down at the chair, touched the keys, and pulled up a list of doc.u.ments. All of the doc.u.ment t.i.tles were in Italian and, according to Brancati, a duplication of the same working files Galan had carried on his office computer.

A quick look at the contents of the drive showed nothing else. Galan's relations.h.i.+p with computers did not extend to the Internet and, from the look of his file history, barely reached beyond e-mail and Word doc.u.ments. There were no hidden files, no family photos, and, aside from the initial pa.s.sword, no serious attempt had been made to encrypt anything.

"We will go through them," said Brancati, "but I have already looked at his worksheet at the a.r.s.enale and these are identical. As you can see, Galan did not keep very much on computers. He was an old-fas.h.i.+oned man and did not trust them. Most of his ongoing cases he kept in his head. I do not see very much here. And it is unlikely that if he had anything he wanted you to see that he'd put it on a computer that could be hacked into so easily. But there is this one file-"

He tapped the screen, indicating a t.i.tle in a strange script.

Brancati looked over his shoulder at Dalton and Veronika. "It looks like Yiddish. Can either of you read it?"

They both shook their heads, so Brancati hit OPEN.

The file contained only one thing, a photo of what looked like some sort of abstract artwork.

"Perfetto," said Brancati with a note of frustration. " said Brancati with a note of frustration. "Che cosa e questo? What is this? Galan is buying paintings?" What is this? Galan is buying paintings?"

Veronika, her curiosity overcoming the coldness she was feeling toward Dalton, leaned in, touched the Yiddish letters.

"You could cut and paste these into a translation program. If you want to, I can do it for you."

Brancati, thinking it over, stood up and offered her the chair. Veronika sat down, hit a few keys, got a translation program up, cut and pasted the characters into it, asking with a nice sense of tact, thought Dalton, for a reply in Italian.

The program ticked over for a moment, and then she got:

Which, in spite of the violent confrontation they had just been through and its disturbing aftermath, made them all smile.

"Well, it must have meant something something," said Brancati. "Issadore did not play games with his computer. This is there for a reason. We should have a copy."

Veronika asked Brancati if he had a flash drive.

"This is Venice," he said, puzzled. "We don't drive drive in Venice. For myself, I have a launch?" in Venice. For myself, I have a launch?"

"I think she means one of these," said Dalton, picking up a storage stick and inserting it into the computer's USB drive.

Veronika gave him a tentative smile, some of her former warmth returning.

"If you like, Micah," she said in a friendlier tone, "I'll see if I can copy all of his most recent e-mails. If there are any drafts, I'll copy them too."

"Yes," said Dalton, smiling back. "If you would, great."

Brancati seemed a little uneasy about letting a woman he knew nothing about have that kind of access to Galan's computer, but she went to work with such obvious speed and skill that he accepted it after a sidelong look at Dalton.

The two men stepped back, giving Veronika some room to work, and turned to consider the room.

"You're right," said Dalton. "Galan wouldn't have left anything important in the computer or anywhere else obvious. But he wanted me to come here. To his flat. So there must be something here. Something he wanted me to see."

"I agree," said Brancati, tugging out a cigar and firing it up. "But it will take us days to go through this place."

"Days I don't have," said Dalton, beginning to pace slowly around the main room, trying to put himself inside Galan's mind. Brancati walked over to the row of pictures and picked up Cora's portrait, turning it over to see if something was taped to the back. There was nothing. He checked the others as well but without much conviction.

"It must be on his computer," he said, frustrated and suddenly very tired. "There's no other logical place. Galan was a very precise precise man. Not a fanciful man. He usually meant exactly what he said." man. Not a fanciful man. He usually meant exactly what he said."

Dalton stopped pacing, looked across at Brancati.

"And what exactly did he say?"

Brancati considered it.

"If you mean, what message did he leave, in his own flesh, it was two marks. The figure 8 and the letter B B."

"Yes," said Dalton. "Exactly."

He walked over to the front door, pulled it open, and tapped on the silver plaque screwed into it.

"Eight B. Does Galan have a toolbox?"

That brought a wry smile from Brancati, his lined face creasing up, his eyes bright.

"You have never seen Galan trying to fix anything," he said, walking over to the plaque and studying the screws that held it in place. He pulled a small cigar-cutting tool out of his s.h.i.+rt pocket, used the edge of it to pry the plaque off the door.

The plaque popped away, leaving a rectangle of unpainted pine underneath it. Taped in the middle of the rectangle was a tiny microchip. Brancati pulled it carefully away from the wood, peeled the tape off it, and held it up in the light.

"Bravo, Micah," he said with a wry smile. "Well done."

THERE were three items on the microchip, which was neither encrypted nor pa.s.sword-protected. Two were Word files, and the third was a JPEG. Veronika opened the first Word file, t.i.tled simply DALTON ONE. It appeared to be a copy of a news report. were three items on the microchip, which was neither encrypted nor pa.s.sword-protected. Two were Word files, and the third was a JPEG. Veronika opened the first Word file, t.i.tled simply DALTON ONE. It appeared to be a copy of a news report.

BELGRADE (Reuters)-Four former paramilitaries were sentenced on Thursday by Serbia's war crimes court to prison terms ranging from 15 to 20 years for the killings of 14 Kosovo Albanians in 1999, a spokeswoman said. They were found guilty of partic.i.p.ating in the murder of Kosovo Albanian women, men and children in Podujevo, northern Kosovo, on March 28, 1999, court spokeswoman Ivana Ramic said. The youngest victim was a 21-month-old infant, and five children were wounded."Zeljko Djukic, Dragan Medic, and Dragan Borojevic were sentenced to 20 years in prison while Midrag Solaja was sentenced to 15 years in prison when the court determined he was under 18 when he committed the crime," Ramic said.The men belonged to the notorious Skorpions paramilitary group. Some of its members have been convicted of killing Bosnian Muslim captives during the 1992-95 Bosnia war, and one was found guilty of killing ethnic Albanians in Kosovo. NATO began an air campaign against Serbian forces on March 24, 1999, to halt the killing of ethnic Albanian civilians in a two-year counterinsurgency war. The campaign ended in June 1999 when Serb forces withdrew from Kosovo.

"Podujevo," said Veronika with a wary glance at Dalton.

"Yes. And the Skorpions. I remember them."

"This is the place Micah won't talk about," she said with a warning tone. "The man he fought in my apartment, he has my e-mail address and he sent us a picture of this Podujevo."

Brancati wasn't following.

"You know about these Skorpions?"

"Yes," said Dalton. "I've gone up against a few."

"This Podujevo," said Brancati carefully, since he could see that the situation between Dalton and the Miklas woman was developing some stress fractures, "this village means something personal to you, Micah?"

Dalton sighed, and his light seemed to dim.

"Yes. Veronika got the e-mail from Galan's server. I think she's right, that it was sent to her by the man who killed Galan. There was a picture of a burned-out building, rows of charred bodies, and two men in black BDUs with KLA insignias, one holding a fragment of a Paveway missile-an American air-to-ground weapon-and the other one lifting up a sign in Serbian, roughly translated as 'American murderers did this.' "

No one spoke for a while, but the question was circling in the air above them like the Mariner's albatross.

"And did did the Americans do it?" asked Brancati finally. the Americans do it?" asked Brancati finally.

Dalton stared at the page for a time, his features hardening up. They began to think he wasn't going to answer, but he did. "Yes. We did that."

Veronika seemed to diminish, as if something tangible was leaving her body. She did not look at Dalton again for a while, but she listened to what he had to say and never forgot it.

"How?" asked Brancati.

Again, a very long and difficult silence.

Dalton let out a long breath and began in a low, flat tone as if reciting a line of dry statistics.

"Podujevo. It's in northern Kosovo. NATO was trying to stop the Serbs from ma.s.sacring Albanian Muslims. I was part of that operation, just not a well-known part. We had Nighthawks overhead. There were a few Predators, but we weren't a.s.signed one."

"Who was we we ?" asked Veronika in a soft voice. ?" asked Veronika in a soft voice.

"We were a Special Forces hunter-killer unit. We were boots on the ground, and we had air cover to take out targets we indicated. We worked all over northern Kosovo during the NATO bombing campaign, trying to protect Bosnian Muslims from the KLA extermination squads. My fire team had been inserted into the Podujevo area during the night, a HALO drop. The idea was to light up, use laser beams, to paint targets for the strike fighters upstairs. We had two F-117 Nighthawks committed to lay down GBUs-sorry-Paveways. They're a kind of precision laser-guided munition. They home in on a target identified by a laser beam, marking it. That morning, we lost a Nighthawk to a Serb SAM over Belgrade, so we knew we had a limited time frame to make a difference on the ground. We saw a large group of KLA holing up in this building, no markings on it. Turned out it was a mosque. So we set up a strike with the Forward Fire group, painted the building up with our lasers. The Nighthawk laid down some Paveways. We blew it to bits." were a Special Forces hunter-killer unit. We were boots on the ground, and we had air cover to take out targets we indicated. We worked all over northern Kosovo during the NATO bombing campaign, trying to protect Bosnian Muslims from the KLA extermination squads. My fire team had been inserted into the Podujevo area during the night, a HALO drop. The idea was to light up, use laser beams, to paint targets for the strike fighters upstairs. We had two F-117 Nighthawks committed to lay down GBUs-sorry-Paveways. They're a kind of precision laser-guided munition. They home in on a target identified by a laser beam, marking it. That morning, we lost a Nighthawk to a Serb SAM over Belgrade, so we knew we had a limited time frame to make a difference on the ground. We saw a large group of KLA holing up in this building, no markings on it. Turned out it was a mosque. So we set up a strike with the Forward Fire group, painted the building up with our lasers. The Nighthawk laid down some Paveways. We blew it to bits."

Here Dalton stopped, seeing again in his mind that huge swirling cloud of red-and-green fire, smoke rising up, the shattering roar of the strike. His own unit, five men, their black-painted faces lit up by the fires of the burning building, pulling back into the hills. A two-day hump to their extraction point. And the after action, the Damage a.s.sessment Board verdict that they had just incinerated a mosque crowded with civilians.

Neither Brancati nor Veronika Miklas had anything to say. It was obvious to anyone watching that Dalton was in a very private h.e.l.l and nothing they could say would relieve him. After a moment he came back to the surface, finished the story.

"Well . . . What we didn't know at the time was that a hundred and fifty-six men, women, and children had been herded into that mosque two days before and held there while the KLA lured us in. They had a tunnel dug in the bas.e.m.e.nt. They made quite a show of going in and out for days. They knew we had a lot of eyes in the air and that we'd pay a lot of attention to that kind of concentration of troops-"

"But in the days before, you were not on the ground," said Brancati, "not when they did that. How could you know?"

"We should have checked out that mosque up close before we targeted it and we didn't. I got aggressive, and all those civilians died . . ."