“Because he died without telling us, and it did not appear that he much wanted to die.”

That sank in for a moment. Sauvage slammed the back of his head against the wall of the van in frustration. He knew there would be no getting away from these men, and they wouldn’t leave till they had Bianca Medina in hand. He decided he’d better work with them to get this done fast so they could get out of his life of treason against his nation. “How many men do you have here in Paris?”

Malik did not answer, and when he did he equivocated. “I have enough.”

“Come on,” Sauvage said. “I need to know your manpower. We will have people to tail, locations to monitor. I have all the intel from the Police Judiciaire, but it’s only me now. I need help to cover known FSEU locations to find the woman.”

Still Malik did not speak. Sauvage could tell he wasn’t used to handing over information about his force. “Look, man. I don’t want to have to go to Eric and put you in the crosshairs—”

That did the trick. Even though Malik was in charge, it didn’t seem like he wanted to cross swords with Eric. “There are fourteen of us. All paramilitary and intel operations trained. We’ve been pulled from work all over the continent. This includes a three-man unit of communications specialists, with equipment capable of jamming mobile phones and Internet.”

“Fourteen.” Sauvage nodded. “That’s a lot of guns.”

“What is your plan to find the woman?” Malik asked.

Sauvage’s actual plan had been to run for his life, but he wasn’t going to tell Malik that. Instead he said, “I have gone back to images we have of Free Syria Exile Union personnel for the last few years. Public events, photos on social media, images captured by police or other cameras around the Halabys. From this we are identifying members who were associated with them back before they were involved with the rebellion itself. We can put tails on all the main players to see where they go, who they meet with.”

Malik said, “That could take time. We need to know where to go by the time Eric gets here.”

Sauvage cocked his head a little. “This guy, Eric. What’s his connection to Syria?”

“I do not know. What I do know is that he has the power to order assassinations on behalf of the regime. That’s enough for me to know to do what I’m told. If you are smart, this will be enough for you, too.”

The van began to slow; the door was opened on Sauvage’s right. Malik cocked his head towards the door. “That is all.” The vehicle jolted to a stop now. “We are giving you one chance to survive this, unlike your three associates. Find the woman, or find us someone who can lead us to the woman. Do it quickly, or Ahmed Azzam himself will order your death.”

Sauvage’s knees went weak, but he fought through the sensation, and he climbed out of the van. He found himself back in the parking garage, next to his Renault, and as the van rolled off, he saw that both Clement’s body and his vehicle had disappeared without a trace.

CHAPTER 24

Lars Klossner didn’t go anywhere without his bodyguards. It wasn’t that he was particularly paranoid by nature—no, it was that people actually were trying to kill him.

Munich is a statistically safe city—safe for most everyone not named Lars Klossner. But the forty-seven-year-old German had spent two decades cultivating a reputation that necessitated the four German and Austrian ex–special forces close-protection detail who moved in box formation around him whenever he was in public, and the armored Mercedes G65 utility vehicle that rolled along nearby, driven by an armed driver in constant radio contact with the detail.

It was past midnight now, and Klossner had spent Friday evening at his regular table at Zum Durnbrau, a traditional German restaurant that began its life as an inn in the fifteenth century. After dinner and drinks he enjoyed an evening walk through the city center, and he pretended that he was just one of the crowd, even though his “mates” were actually his bodyguards and his silver Mercedes rolled along behind, ready to swoop in and cocoon the big German within two inches of steel armor, then race him out of the area.

The list of people wanting to end Klossner remained fluid. Right now he was aware of two contracts on his life, but his feelings would be hurt to learn there weren’t at least two or three more.

As he walked through the crowded Marienplatz in the city center this cool and clear Friday evening, he certainly didn’t appear to be a man who needed any more security than anyone else in the square. He had a Santa-like beard and a massive, Santa-like belly, and though he was obviously a middle-aged man he was dressed like a German hipster: a designer hoodie and a 2,500-euro puffy jacket, 1,600-euro eyeglasses, and a red knit cap that made him look like he was posing for a catalog that sold adventure wear to those who had never sniffed a whiff of adventure in their lives.

Although he didn’t stand out as a dangerous individual, Klossner was a man who had forged great success in the industry of violence. He ran a network of security experts that performed all manner of military training on four continents. From Bolivia to Gabon, from Guyana to Niger, from Indonesia to Yemen, Klossner Welt Ausbildungs, GMBH, provided top-flight private military instruction to anyone who could pay.

With training on anything from basic firearms handling all the way up to battalion-sized field tactics, KWA mercenaries stood ready to train the armies, rebel groups, and private security forces of the world.

Klossner’s company did not field hit men or spies, per se; his was not, on the surface anyway, a cloak-and-dagger outfit, but his specialty was dealing with nations and organizations that had difficulty securing high-quality instruction cadres from abroad because of issues of politics, corruption, or human rights abuses.

And there was an especially shadowy side to Klossner’s operation that did not show up in the accounting books. It was known by all who hired KWA to train or lead their troops that the foreign mercs they employed could be offered off-hours work in a covert direct-action realm.

If one worked as an employee of KWA, one knew that his contract might have him training or organizing paramilitary forces in El Salvador or cold-blooded rebel marauders in South Sumatra, but he also knew he might also “moonlight” running black ops in these war zones himself.

KWA’s stable of talent was well paid, but most people who worked for the German security firm didn’t do so because it was their first choice. Instead, most KWA employees worked there because they were encumbered by something that kept them from being employed at one of the upper-tier security companies around the world. They had criminal convictions, they had been tossed out of other organizations for violating rules of engagement, or they fought drug or alcohol addictions.

Or else they were just evil.

Boiled down to its essence: Lars Klossner was a bad guy who contracted bad guys to go fight for and train bad guys. His was a closed loop of dirty.

* * *

? ? ?

After his walk through the center of Munich, Lars Klossner and his security turned onto Max-Joseph Strasse and then entered the vestibule of an ornate apartment building. They were buzzed in by the lobby guard, and then the entourage headed for the elevator. Outside on their right, the silver Mercedes rolled into a large lighted garage, and the garage door closed quickly behind it.

While the driver parked and shut down his vehicle, a private elevator took Klossner and his detail up to his vast third-floor penthouse, and here the protectee waited in the hallway with a pair of his men while the other two checked out his living quarters to make sure it was safe to leave their boss alone for the night.

After the all clear, Klossner stepped into his private quarters, while his security men retired to their end of the penthouse, took off their leather coats, and unslung their weapons. They pulled earpieces out of their ears, and only then did they relax. The chatting came instantly and easy, and when the driver of the Mercedes arrived a few minutes later, all five of them grabbed beers, called their wives and girlfriends, and began watching an FC Bayern soccer match they’d recorded during the week.

In his quarters, Klossner turned on his stereo, undressed, and took a hot shower. Afterwards, he toweled off and wrapped his rotund frame in his robe. He’d just begun brushing his teeth when he looked up into the mirror over the vanity.

Something moved in the low-lit bedroom behind him.

Lars Klossner looked harder into the mirror, the toothbrush hanging from his mouth, and he saw a figure in black leaning against the far wall of the bedroom. The man held a suppressed pistol in his right hand against his thigh, business end down.