Page 66 of The Last Kingdom

“So please, go to Munich. Visit Lehmanns and see if there is anything to find. My instincts tell me there is.”

As did his own. But there was still the matter of Luke, who remained embedded, and what Koger was doing. “I need you to do something.”

“Of course, what is it?”

“Prince Stefan’s spy has been useful, but he could prove a problem. Take him out of the picture. Make it splashy and public, but nothing traceable back to you. His usefulness is minimal, but I need an open field to run in without worry of being caught. It’s time to get the prince out of your business.”

Fenn smiled. “Consider it done.”

Chapter 35

Munich

6:35A.M.

JASON RIFE ENJOYED HIS BREAKFAST OF BELGIAN WAFFLES ALONGwith a few strips of crisp maple bacon. The Germans knew how to make a waffle, he’d give them that. And fry some bacon. But beyond those two particular talents, he didn’t really care for Germans. And why would he? They tried to conquer Europe twice in one century.

Talk about ambitious.

He finished off the waffle and emptied his coffee cup. The server promptly appeared and offered a refill, which he waved off. The service here, at the Strada, was top-notch. One of Munich’s finest hotels. Nothing like the budget-rate dumps he’d been forced to endure while still with the CIA. Contrary to what Congress and the general public thought, the spy business did not include an open checkbook. James Bond ordering the most expensive bottles of champagne and caviar? No way. There were rules. Per diems. Oversight on what you spent. And consequences when you didn’t follow the rules. Thankfully, he was not subject to those any longer.

Thirty-four years he spent with the CIA.

A lifetime. A career.

Then he was fired.

No warning. No reason. Justit has been determined that your services are no longer needed and your employment is hereby terminated, effective immediately.

He, along with forty-five others, were there one day, gone the next.

He’d suspected politics as the main culprit, the agency using the opportunity of a change in presidential administrations to purge itself of what it regarded as “problems.” He’d risen to the level of a senior field officer and had handled some really delicate situations. Sure, he’d had his share of mishaps. Who didn’t? But he also was no fool. So it seemed a bit naive that his superiors thought he would just accept the termination and move on. Amazingly, a few of those fired had done just that. But another group of fourteen men and women decided that if the company had no loyalty to them, then they would return the favor.

So they formed the Scythe.

They’d debated on where and when to first strike, deciding that their initial objective would be centered on Germany and something known as the last kingdom. He’d heard tales about it back in the days when his services were needed. And he knew that Derrick Koger was here working an operation relative to it. He also knew that the White House was involved, through the NSC, having dispatched their own operative. Thank goodness for friends in high places. Have enough of those and secrets were hard to keep.

The last kingdom was a remnant from the past, one of many hidden away at Langley. The CIA was so big, so compartmentalized, its past riddled with so much crap, that no one could ever exhaust the information in its files.

But the real secrets—the ones that mattered—

Were never, ever, written down.

He left the hotel and drove from Munich twenty miles south to the Alpine foothills. Every turn in the road found a new wintery vista. A succession of broad wooded valleys accommodated the highway, a backdrop of snow and evergreens stretching to a distant blur. He half expected to see dancing elves and kobolds. Traffic was moderate, the morning rush hour still lingering, so it took nearly an hour to find the cluster of snow-topped wooden chalets with stylish canted roofs. The whole thing looked like some Christmas card, snug and serene among the woods. This area was full of blue-collar, working families, most earning pensions at the manufacturing plants not far away. The locale was also the base for a team of his Scythe associates who’d assembled there over the past week. One of three locations scattered across southern Bavaria with men and women awaiting assignment.

He eased his rental car off the highway, slowing and turning in through an opening in a low wooden fence. He’d called on the way and informed the occupants he was coming. The day was cold, the sky sunny and cloudless, the morning mist already gone. Being higher in elevation here, south of Munich, the snow from last night had accumulated in respectable amounts.

He stepped from the car.

The front door opened and one of his associates exited.

Terry Knight.

His old friend was fifty-three, short and stout with a moderate amount of wiry brown hair dusted with an equally moderate amount of gray. They first met fifteen years ago. Knight had many areas of specialization. Safecracking, forgery, surreptitious entry, electronic surveillance, sabotage, and just about anything else a field officer might require to get the job done. He’d worked for Technical Services as one of their “handymen.”

“How are the other two?” he asked Knight, a curl of smoke issuing from the chimney stack.

“Still sleeping. They said that was really cold water.”

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