The Skorpion Directive Read Online Free PDF

time sending in Jürgen Stodt, the tall, bald kid Dalton had observed necking with a girl at the intersection of Rooseveltplatz and Währinger Strasse.
    Stodt now wore a shapeless cloth shooting cap—backward, of course—and a very nice Burberry overcoat to hide his baggy jeans. Dalton would have recognized him anyway—the cow-pie boots alone would have been enough—and he tried hard not to laugh out loud as the kid moonwalked slowly by the entrance to the bar, trailing his ragged laces, looking maniacally interested in a rack of tourist magazines.
    Stodt sent Jägermeier a couple of clicks on his wrist mike to confirm that the target was still there and then continued his lace-dragging, boot-schlumping progress through the lobby and out the exit that led onto the grounds of the Votivkirche.
    As soon as Stodt had pushed through the heavy glass doors, Dalton got up from the bar, laying down a fat sheaf of euros. He smiled at the old Hussar, who gave him a sharp salute, his long, sad face cracking into a sideways grin for just a moment.
    “Sie haben ihn eingeschläfert, glaube ich, mein Herr.”
    Dalton considered the old man for a long, taut moment.
    “You think I have put whom to sleep, Cesar?”
    Cesar looked down at the velvet cloth in his hands, moved it in a small circle to clear away a nonexistent speck, and then looked back at Dalton, his face suddenly quite stern.
    “ Die Überwachungs-Dienst. The bloody OSE.”
    “Really,” said Dalton, showing his teeth in a sideways smile. “And why do you say that?”
    Cesar shrugged, raised a shaggy white brow.
    “ Die gottverdamten Sozialisten . They are always in and out of here. They use the washrooms, pissing all over the walls, fucking Bolsheviks. They never pay the attendant. They hang around in the lobby, scratching their arses and picking their noses, and bringing down the tone. Their street boss is a penny-pinching arsehole named Rolf Jägermeier. Squats at my bar, taking up two stools. Drinks kaltes Wasser and stuffs gesalzene Nüsse down his face. Never the smile, never the tip bigger than Stalin’s pizzle. You are amerikanischer Soldat ?”
    Dalton considered lying but decided against it.
    “What gave me away?”
    Cesar touched the Warsaw Cavalry pin on his lapel.
    “You knew this. What it means. Did not have to ask. And you carry yourself like a soldier. May I ask what unit you are with?”
    “I started out with the Fifth Special Forces at Fort Campbell in Kentucky. Since then I have . . . diversified.”
    That got a broad smile, with more than a little of the Cossack in it. “Why are the Socialists interested in you? Are you spy?”
    Dalton smiled, this time more convincingly.
    “If I were spy, I would deny it.”
    “And if you were not . . .”
    “I would of course deny it.”
    Cesar’s seamed face cracked into a predatory grin.
    “ Ja . I would deny it too. I do not wish to be . . . unverschämt ? Impertinent?”
    “Please. Be my guest.”
    “On your honor as a soldier, do you mean to bring harm to any civilians here in Wien? To do any violence or damage to innocents?”
    “In no way. I’m here to meet a friend. And then quietly go.”
    Cesar said nothing for a full minute. Dalton felt his appraisal. It was not unlike standing in front of an open furnace.
    “ Gut. Ich glaube Ihnen . I believe you. Do you wish to shake off these Socialist Welpen ?”
    “It would be . . . useful.”
    Cesar nodded, his face hardening.
    “There is a subcellar hallway that leads to the Votivkirche—”
    “There is? Why?”
    Cesar shrugged, turned his palms upward.
    “This is an old hotel. In the time of Der Kalte Krieg —even before—in Wein there are always tunnels. In the old days, for lovers and thieves and Hungarians. Later, for the Bolshies and the Nazis and the black market. Wein is a raddled old whore, but she still keeps her secrets. Do you love your very expensive coat?”
    Dalton turned around, looked down at his long blue overcoat.
    “I have