The Spy Devils by Joe Goldberg (top rated books of all time .TXT) 📕

nodding his head in the direction of the distinguished guest. “Peter, Danny happens to know Viktor Bondar well. He will be a great asset.”

“Mr. Chapel,” Peter stood up as Chapel walked toward him. Peter’s hand immediately got wet and shaky. Peter was sure his heart was about to explode.

I’m in the same room with Danforth Chapel. Holy fuck.

“Peter, I have heard great things about you,” he reached out with his perfectly manicured hand and shook Peter’s. “And call me Danny.”

“Of course, Danny, sorry.”

Danforth Chapel has heard of me? Did he just walk over to shake MY hand? Holy fuck.

He wore expensive Gieves & Hawkes bespoke suits. A four-hundred-dollar cut for his full head of gray hair. Tinted Dolce and Gabbana twenty-five-thousand-dollar glasses covered money-green eyes. Testoni goat-skinned shoes. A Rolex Submariner clipped to his wrist. He completed the look with his famous flamboyant, colorful silk ties.

The Danforth Chapel Company was the world’s leading private intelligence agency. It should be, since Chapel created the industry. Discreet, successful, and expensive. Thirty-five offices, thousands of specialized employees, and connections spread across all regions of the world were the vanguard of his reach, but at its nexus was Danforth Chapel.

Danny solved problems. The kinds of problems that fit into categories such as embarrassing, scandal, blackmail, espionage, fraud, asset recovery, kidnapping, or top secret.

His problem-solving acumen had become a truism in business. If someone had been bad, they would be sent to Chapel. To the private intelligence industry, he had become a verb: “Get this company Chapeled.”

Chapel sat next to Jessup and across from Peter. He pushed back from the table and crossed one leg over the other—hands folded in his lap.

“Tell Peter and me about this case. As I understand it, George had a briefcase with him? And the loss of that case is a threat and could be used against your company?” Chapel asked.

“We need that case,” Kirkwood added.

Peter nodded that he understood, but he didn’t.

“What was in it? Why is it so important?” Peter asked.

Peter saw Chapel smile, as the others just sat looking at each other.

Wow, the silence in here just got deafening, Peter thought.

10

Serge Taube

Belgrade, Serbia

“Serge Taube. You have been a bad boy,” Bridger said as he sat on the seat across from the man.

Taube looked up to see who had made the mistake of sitting uninvited at his table. When he saw Bridger, he set his knife and fork down, paused, then carefully scanned the Tavern room of the Dva Jelena—The Two Deer Restaurant. At just after 3:30 p.m., the frontend of lunchtime, the rectangular room was filling with diners. It was a medium-sized rectangular room with tables lining the wooden walls. The light from bright lamps shone off the polished walls and framed mirrors.

The sound of the conversations echoed off the low ceiling, as did the traditional Serbian music that came down the wide staircase from the larger restaurant above.

A few tables away from Taube’s reserved corner table, three men jumped to their feet and took steps in the table’s direction. Bridger saw Taube wave them off with a flick of his fingers.

“Bridger,” Taube said with a sigh.

Taube was small. Thin. Frail-looking. Skin the same color as spent chewing gum. His gray hair was oiled and combed back from a receding hairline. His eyes were set so deep into their sockets it was hard to see what color they were. Gray goatee. A voice like a Gatling gun. He wore a thick knit wool tan sweater.

“It is good to see you again, Serge. You look well.”

“I look like shit. What are you doing here?”

“You know why I am here. I would have thought the man once labeled the biggest bad guy dealer of arms and munitions in the Balkans would be smarter than that. Especially after the U.S. and U.N. listed you as a human rights abuser a few years ago. That was after the U.N. blacklisted you and added you to the travel ban list after that nasty affair in Liberia. And after the U.S. froze your assets and barred anyone from doing business with you. Did I miss anything?”

Bridger looked eagerly at the plates of traditional Serbian food on the table.

“And because of all those illegal actions taken by your government, I have retired. It is what we bad guys are supposed to say in this situation, right?” Taube said. His blue lips curled with a smile as he speared a minute piece of beef cevapi sausage and slowly placed it in his mouth.

Bridger picked up the wine bottle off the lime green table cloth, checked the label, and nodded his head in approval. He raised the bottle up with a questioning look at Taube, who exaggerated his own nod of approval. Bridger poured, sipped, and smiled.

“Well, that is not what I hear. I hear you are still in the arms biz. Let me get this right.”

Bridger took a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and put it on the table. Holding it down with one hand, he wiped his hand over it to smooth out the wrinkles. He looked at it and read.

“You are a silent partner in a boatload of companies you indirectly own and manage. You are up to your skinny neck in all aspects of your private company’s daily operations.”

“Not true,” Taube said, still chewing on the same small piece of meat.

“Oh, come on, Serge. I thought we agreed long ago we wouldn’t try to BS each other.”

“Go on. What else do you think you know, Bridger?”

“Well, I know you are brokering and soliciting new illegal arms deals.” Bridger looked up at Taube and stared into his eyes with the look a parent gives to a naughty child. “You have friends and family signing the deals for you. By the way, how is your nephew Jovan? Still hiding in Armenia? I am sorry about that.”

When Taube didn’t answer, Bridger continued as he casually placed his hand over his ear.

“You have at least three companies, here and in