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CHAPTER
ONE: "Out of Sight, Out of Mind"
The Sightings October 2: Innsbruck, Austria Special Interpol Agent John Dreyer, a transplanted German-American, scratched his head idly and looked at his watch—2am. Though he had just finished a long stint observing the murky, illicit comings and goings at the old Stirner hotel on Mueller Strausse, Dreyer couldn’t sleep. He walked aimlessly along the now deserted avenue, trying not to think about the things he’d seen and done this last week. He believed in his job but it wasn’t easy on the conscience. A slight flicker of movement caught his eye. The man in the shadows was quiet and self-possessed. “Who is that guy?” thought Dreyer. He couldn’t take his eyes off the man; something about him seemed so strangely familiar. The figure moved away effortlessly. Dreyer followed as discreetly as he could, wondering why he felt so drawn to this unknown man, trying to get a glimpse of his face. Then briefly, the pale ghostly aura of the street light lit up the stranger’s face. “Oh no, it can’t be!” exclaimed Dreyer almost aloud. “He’s dead—or so I was told at our branch headquarters in Paris. But the eyes were unmistakable. No one has eyes like him. It’s Jurgen.” Dreyer had dismissed the strange rumors that only a few Interpol agents were privy to but now…”The eyes don’t lie,” he thought excitedly. “Jurgen lives.” Dreyer knew he should report the sighting but was reluctant to do it. Though he had only met Jurgen once, Dreyer liked him immensely. “The man has integrity, and that’s rare in this business,” reflected Dreyer. “And,” he thought mirthlessly, “I don’t trust Section.” Dreyer decided to remain silent. Oct 4: Biggin Airport, London The early morning fog hung like steely grey cotton over the tarmac of the small private airfield, muffling every sound. In spite of the poor visibility, an old Citabra, with the name "Nemesis" painted on the side, was warming up for takeoff. Two men walked briskly toward the plane--the pilot and a passenger with his coat collar turned up around his face and a wide-brimmed hat pulled down to cover his eyes. Two mechanics getting ready for the day had been observing this scenario. After the three men had disappeared into the plane, the older mechanic turned to his junior partner and said, “ I swear I’ve seen that mysterious passenger before. He looks like someone who should be dead. Don’t tell anyone I said this. We could both be at risk.” The younger man turned pale and whispered, “How do you know all this?” “I just do, that’s all,” the other muttered brusquely. “Forget I said it.” The plane quietly taxied down the runway, soon losing itself in the fog. October 7: Paris John Dreyer sat idly stirring his latte at Café du Chat Jaune, an outdoor cafe on the Rue Mouffetard in the Latin Quarter. He loved this café because it wasn’t trendy; he could actually sit and reflect here without the usual hubbub and noise of more popular cafes. The café had seen better days; the awning was ragged, the tables worn and grooved, but Hans found its seediness oddly comforting. Glancing up from his reverie, Hans was taken aback as a man with a slouch-brimmed hat walked by. For an instant, he thought he saw an unexpected face. The man stopped a few meters away with his back to Hans. A small, balding man came up to the taller man and said something in English that Hans couldn’t quite make out. The taller man responded “Ich verstehe sie nicht” as if he couldn’t understand the other man, but a faint American accent betrayed him. He turned away from the little man abruptly and hurried away. “This is totally freaky,” Hans thought. “I’m creeped out. I’ve spotted him again. But that can’t be. I saw him in Innsbruck and that was a fluke enough. He can’t be here now. My overactive imagination is playing tricks on me.” Hans jumped up to follow the man but it was too late. He had disappeared into the shadows. Hans pondered this bizarre turn of fate. “What’s going on? Was it really him?” Hans shook his head as if to clear the fog from his brain. “No way am I reporting this, “ he muttered. “They’ll think I’m crazy.” He stared into his now cold latte and sighed. |