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

at Peter. “I want it clear. This has priority over anything you are doing. It is highly confidential, do not tell anyone. Find that briefcase.” He turned and stepped away from the table.

“And what about the money? Peter added.

“What?” Jessup turned back. “The money? Yes. Find the funds, of course.”

Peter nodded as Jessup joined the other executives and walked out the door that led to the CEO’s office. His bullshit meter had spiked into the red.

He stood alone, looking around the boardroom and wondering why he had to remind Jessup of the money. What the hell could possibly be in that briefcase that is more important than a billion dollars?

Resting in the back of his Lincoln Town Car, Chapel pushed a speed dial number on his phone and put it to his ear.

“I am happy to report you may proceed as you have planned.”

He waited and listened.

“Yes. It is good news,” he replied, watching the lights pass through the tinted windows of the armored sedan. Chapel brushed his hand down his flowery-patterned tie and nodded as the caller spoke, then he cut in.

“Will he be an issue?” Chapel laughed. “Does it make a difference?”

12

The Streets of Belgrade

Belgrade, Serbia

Even a day later, Nikola was still upset that his six surveillance cars had lost Bridger so soon after the American left the Dva Jelena restaurant. The man had managed to evade his team within the crowds of Bajloni market on Dzordza Vasingtona. Nikola assumed the Spy Devil had found a taxi and changed cars before Nikola could call his contacts at the taxi companies to track him down.

He hadn’t told Taube what had happened.

Nikola was not a novice. Formerly a professional soldier, he became, as he called it, a babysitter for a very—very—rich old man. Nikola sometimes lamented that he was once as close to a special forces soldier as Serbia could have—trained in special operations by both the Russians and NATO. He fought in Kosovo. Like many of his peers, he took advantage of the lucrative market in the Balkans and other warzones by becoming a mercenary for hire.

Now, he had his own security company but only one customer—a ruthless and powerful old man. A man who had spent decades selling weapons to all bidders—sometimes to both sides of a conflict. A well-paying man.

Nikola jammed the earbud into his ear.

As he waited with his driver in a black Volvo outside the Hotel Moscow, Nikola pulled out this throwaway pistol—a semi-automatic Zastava CZ 99 with the identifying serial numbers rubbed off. It was a reliable weapon for the purpose. No reason to use his Glock. After he shoots the man in the head, he will drop the Zastava by the body. No reason to risk getting caught with it before he could toss it in the Danube.

“He is sitting in the Pastry Shop,” his man in the hotel lobby said through the radio.

“It is a good choice,” Nikola replied as he looked down Terazije Street at the impressive façade of the historic hotel. “It has windows looking out to a wide square and streets. It would be hard to approach him without being seen. Multiple exits.”

After his men lost Bridger, Nikola called down his list of hotel sources last night, hoping that the man was not hiding in a safe house somewhere in Belgrade. After three hours, he got lucky. A man fitting Bridger’s description had checked in several days ago under the name Bobby Jones.

Using a public hotel was poor tradecraft. Nikola expected better from the famous Spy Devil.

“He is leaving. Heading for the front door,” the sentry in the lobby said.

“Walking out the front door. Going left on Terazije,” another voice announced.

“I will follow him on foot,” Nikola informed the teams.

“What if he gets into a cab?” his driver asked.

“Stay in your positions near the hotel. I will radio my location as he moves. Team 6?”

“No counter-surveillance detected.”

Nikola stepped out of the car into the crisp morning air of Belgrade. He moved across the street in quick strides. From a block away, he saw Bridger suddenly turn around and walk directly toward him. Nikola had no choice but to pull an amateur move and join some strangers looking in a jewelry shop window. He let Bridger pass behind him and let him go halfway down the incredibly long block before he turned to follow. The road became narrower and the foot traffic less heavy as they approached Andrićev Venac promenade.

Bridger cut left by the gardens and into the walking area. Nikola followed. For the next forty-five minutes, he continued to follow as Bridger walked the busy streets. Stopping. Crossing. Doubling back. Nikola marveled and felt fortunate to witness the smooth and deliberate moves of the man he had heard so much about. It took all his own skills to avoid detection.

Several times, Bridger moved through narrow choke points to funnel anyone who might be following. And each time, Nikola was forced to wait. He lost Bridger twice but fortunately caught a glimpse of a figure walking the street after a frantic search. Nikola checked his watch. It had been two hours since they had left the Hotel Moscow. Nikola realized he was drenched in sweat.

He noticed Bridger’s pace slow slightly as he veered onto Lomina Street, a narrow canyon side street lined on both sides with cars, apartments, shops, and graffiti-decorated abandoned buildings. Nikola moved slowly from one recessed doorway to another, keeping the cars and few people on the sidewalk between him and Bridger. He saw Bridger move down one side of Lomina, cross, then walk back in Nikola’s direction on the other side.

Bridger stopped about thirty feet away in front of a graffiti-covered corrugated steel door. Above it was a semi-circular awning frame—missing the glass—with a broken yellow sign declaring “Hostel 40” hanging from it.

As Bridger unlocked the door, Nikola pulled his Zastava CZ 99 from his belt and sprinted across the street, closing the thirty-foot gap in just a few seconds. He