The Socotra Incident Read Free Page A

from her flight were already on the carousel by the time she reached it. She looked around at the milieu of people, wondering which one was her contact. The code phrase was simple: “New York” for all clear and “Chicago” if she’d picked up a tail or unwanted attention from the local authorities.
    Her suitcase emerged from the center of the carousel and spat out onto the conveyer belt. She picked it up and carried it toward the customs station. As an army officer, she’d carried a duffel bag in each hand and a rucksack on her back as she deployed to and from Iraq. Carrying one suitcase shouldn’t have bothered her, but a woman with a $5,000—assuming it wasn’t fake—purse and $300 shoes simply didn’t carry her own bag, not when the airport offered a luggage trolley for a mere eight euros.
    “Excuse me,” a deep voice said from behind her. A man who was a foot taller than her, with sun-darkened skin and a build that belonged in a strongman competition, smiled at her. His left arm was in a sling; a cast started at his knuckles and disappeared into an uncuffed shirt.
    “Have the time?” the man asked.
    Natalie set down her bag and looked down at her watch. “Sorry, I’m still set on New York.”
    The large man nodded, reached past her with his good arm, and grabbed her bag.
    “Go through the leftmost customs station. Then find the blue BMW waiting for you. Plate ends in three one four,” he said and walked off with her bag.
    Natalie opened her mouth to protest the loss of all her packed clothes but caught herself. This would all make sense soon, she hoped.
    The customs officer she’d been directed to waved her past with a wink. For all her training on penetrating a country’s customs and immigration controls, her experience in Vienna had been underwhelming.
    Once outside, Natalie caught site of the distant Alps; snow still lay on the peaks, even this late in the spring. Taxis and limos jostled for position against the curb as she scanned the area for the BMW.
    A minibus pulled away, and she found her next contact. A whipcord-thin man in a black suit and limo driver’s hat lounged against the open trunk of a blue BMW. The driver noticed her and tipped his hat. He had a V-shaped face and barely any chin under a short beard peppered with gray.
    Natalie walked over, thinking how ridiculous it would be if he expected her to get in the trunk. Such a thing was inevitable, her instructors had promised.
    The driver took her carry-on without a word, tossed it into the trunk, and slammed it shut. He opened the driver’s door, furrowed his brow. Natalie got the hint and let herself into the rear seat.
    The driver pulled into traffic and drove them away from the airport.
    Natalie let the awkward silence continue for a few minutes. This was as far as her instructions took her. If she’d been compromised at the airport or if her contact hadn’t found her, she was to check into the Vienna Hyatt, act like a tourist for two days, then fly back to New York.
    “Excuse me. Where are we going?” Natalie asked.
    The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror with eyes the color of glacier ice. He put a gloved finger to his lips.
    The car turned off into the business district full of high-rise buildings and cars that were many times more expensive than what she rode in. They drove into a parking garage beneath one of the high-rises. The driver waved a key fob over a sensor at the drop-down arm blocking their way in. An armed guard took a phone call, looked hard at the driver, then raised the boom.
    The parking garage was almost empty; a few sports cars were parked far from each other. A stretch limo took up four parking spaces across from an elevator entrance.
    The car stopped at the elevator, and the driver held a key card to Natalie.
    Natalie took the card, which was bare of markings.
    “What am I supposed to do?”
    The driver pointed his thumb at the elevator doors. The lock on her door popped open.
    Natalie rubbed