Chapter 9: A Tale Of Two Phones, One Target

Less than 10 miles from the people hunting for him on a hunch, a man called Jorgen stared at a red wire in his left hand, then shifted his gaze to a black wire in his right.

Mein Gott, it's chilly in this place, he thought to himself as he shivered in his black hoodie.

Biting his lip, he carefully soldered the bare copper tips to points on a cellphone circuit board—no bigger than your palm—and slid it back into its housing, carefully replaced the phone's battery and taped it into place.

Jorgen brought the device back to life, the green glow of its screen a welcome contrast to the harsh fluorescent light of his table lamp.

Leaning back in his chair, he fished a disposable phone from his pocket. He held his breath, pulled up the only pre-programmed number in the phone. 

"It has to work this time," he muttered. "We only have a day left."

Jorgen bit his lip and pressed "call." The sound of its ringing filled his head as he stared hard at the first phone and at a small blasting cap that sat on top of his work table.

Dee-Dee-Dee-Dee-Dee . . .

The second phone's ringtone echoed through the basement of Jorgen's rented house, when it was suddenly joined by a little "pop." It might as well have been as loud as the 2,000-pound bombs Jorgen had seen dropped on insurgents when he fought with the German Army in Afghanistan. Jorgen's eyes bulged with delight.

"Traudel! It works!" Jorgen erupted.

He thought, All those evenings of trolling the internet for scribblings of arrogant imperialist soldiers and those disgusting theocratic insurgents have paid off.

The floor above Jorgen burst to life as Traudel and Gunter bounded down the stairs into the basement, like kids on a picture-perfect Christmas morning.

"Oh, fantastic, Jorgen!" Gunter said. He and Traudel practically shouted in unison, slapping Jorgen on the back.

Traudel's excitement flashed in her eyes, cold and vicious.

"Those capitalist pigs will get what's coming to them tomorrow," she hissed through a toothy smile. She was the brains of the trio and the mastermind of their shared plot, as quick to cite a passage from the Communist Manifesto as she was the latest cause for alarm in Frankfurter Rundschau, the lefty newspaper published in her German hometown of Frankfurt.

"They forced our country to fight in their war so they could conquer Asia and its oil," Traudel reminded her companions. "They tried to enslave yet more workers in service to their boundless desire for a painless corporate empire."

At this, Traudel gave a dismissive snort.

"We'll make them pay, Jorgen—thanks to you," she said.

"I hope that idiot congressman got our letter," Gunter said, grinning. "He calls himself 'the courage of the Franks.' Let's hope he comes to witness his precious mall collapse into a heap of dust."

"Did you send him the other clue?" Traudel asked. "If he didn't understand our first letter, he's sure to understand this one." 

***

Tim Mistle jerked his head up. 

What time was it? Where was he?

As he rubbed his bleary eyes, it all came flooding back: The car ride from Holly's house with Ivey and Meredith. Holly's tires squealing as she pulled up next to them in the parking lot of Ivey's dilapidated  apartment complex. The exhausting, knock-down, drag-out fight he and Holly had on a flea-bitten couch in Ivey's living room (if you could call it that), conducted in hoarse whispers so their daughter, Kayla, wouldn't wake up.

Holly and Mistle had fallen asleep on each other's shoulders, Holly's exhaustion outweighing her anger. 

Across the room, Meredith's silent phone vibrated in her lap, startling her awake. She had nodded off with her arm around Kayla. She slipped her arm away and tiptoed into the next room to answer her phone. She looked at her phone—it was Congressman Frankenmuth, Meredith's boss.

"Meredith, I just got a strange text a minute ago. It's in German, and I know you're fluent," the congressman said to her. "I'm forwarding it to you now. Can you translate it?"

Meredith felt her gut tighten as she looked down at the text that popped up on her phone. She rushed to tell the congressman she would get back to him and then hung up without waiting for a reply. She hadn't told him about the first letter they received at his office, and now there was this text.

Meredith padded in her stockings to Ivey and shook his shoulder.

"Uncle Hank? We've got to go—now," she said, her eyes bulging.