© 2003 Brian J. Underhill
“You’re late.”
Sara Wagner sat in the passenger loading zone outside Schiphol International Airport with both hands on the wheel of her black Jaguar XKR. She didn't even favor the man outside her window with a disapproving glance. “I’m never late,” she said evenly, looking at the line of parked cars in her rear-view mirror.
She glanced through the passenger window at a second man standing nearby. In contrast to the agent who had just spoken, he was gray-haired, flabby, and wore glasses. He looked about nervously, twisting a ring on his left hand. “That the guy?” she asked, turning her gaze to the agent for the first time.
“Yeah.”
Not much of a talker, this one. Sunglasses, briefcase – no doubt concealing something deadly – and a trendy two-piece suit. He looked like just another corporate up-and-comer, but Sara Wagner knew better. She looked him up and down again. He looked familiar – probably delivered others to her in the past – but Wagner couldn't recall his name. With a mental shrug, she dismissed the attempt, then looked from the agent to the middle-aged man and back. “Anything I should know?”
The man shook his head, his chin up, his gaze scanning the surroundings, never meeting her own. “No,” he said simply.
“All right,” Wagner said. “Load him up.”
The agent moved around the car without a word and opened the passenger door. “Get in,” he intoned, gesturing to the nervous man.
It took a few seconds for the man to move, and when he did it was quirky and sudden. He was more than nervous; he was downright scared. Wagner rolled her eyes and cursed her employer for giving her another skittish civilian to deliver. They were always the worst. Defecting scientists, lawyers with stolen patent ideas, businessmen with proprietary information – all the same. All a pain in the neck.
As her new passenger got in, he yanked the car door closed too quickly, too hard, and the Jag shook in annoyance at the vulgar treatment. “I’m Newt,” the man said. Wagner could hear the fear in his voice. “I need to get to the consulate….”
Wagner cut him off. “No names,” she said. “And I know where you’re going.” Without waiting for a reply, she jammed the six-speed into gear and dropped the clutch swinging abruptly into the airport traffic. She pulled on her Ray-Ban Predators to block the hot afternoon sun and slipped a wireless earpiece – a modified Bluetooth model with heavy encryption – into her right ear.
Her passenger – an American by his accent – struggled to fasten the modified racing harness around his flabby bureaucratic body. “My luggage…” he complained.
“Someone will get it.”
It took about as long for the American to strap in as it did for Wagner to spot their tail. She knew they’d be there – they were always there. It had become almost a joke, knowing that anywhere she went someone from the Agency would follow. Whether she was actually on a delivery run or just out clubbing, they were always there – and she loved to play with them.
The man next to her – Newt, as if it mattered – cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. Wagner didn’t know if it was discomfort or fear, and she didn’t really care. Her job was to pick the man up at the airport and deliver him in one piece. She glanced in the rearview mirror, watching the unmarked, but horribly obvious, blue sedan settle into traffic three cars back. A second look told her all she needed to know about the car and the men in it. A plain four-door Opel Vectra. Probably even had that horrible stain-resistant interior. These guys were pathetic. Who brings the family four-door to a car chase
She narrowed her eyes, searching the traffic patterns in the mirror. It wasn’t unusual for the Agency to put a second or even third car on her tail if they knew she was on a mission. This Newt fellow’s arrival hadn’t been the most well kept secret of late, and she knew for a fact that Agency goons were practically swarming around The Netherlands this week. It seemed impossible that the Vectra was her only dance partner today, but time would tell.
She glanced sidelong at her passenger and caught him staring her direction. “Eyes on the road, Romeo,” she said. Obediently the man flicked his gaze forward, causing her to smile. Too easy, she thought.
“They said they’d send a limo,” the man muttered.
Wagner faked a pout. “What, you don’t like my car?”
She could see him looking her way again, out of the corner of her eye. “No,” he said hesitantly, “it’s not that.” He paused several seconds. “I just thought…”
Wagner smirked. “A hot car and a hot chick, and you’re complaining?”
Newt turned abruptly away once again and stammered something unintelligible. Wagner suppressed a smile and downshifted.
As they merged from the A4 onto the A10, she dropped the Jaguar into fifth and let the engine settle. The car cruised nicely at a hundred-twenty kilometers an hour – a bit over the posted limit – but was capable of nearly three times that when she needed it. She glanced back at her tail again, watching the traffic behind her as intently as the traffic ahead. It didn’t take long before she spotted the second car.
It was a sporty two-door, two lanes to her left. A BMW 3-Series Coupé from the look of it – the wide air intake slats and xenon headlamps were unmistakable on the new models. Unlike her black XKR, the Beamer was silver and drove with a full set of driving lights. It contrasted nicely with the blue sedan, which stood out simply because of its inconspicuousness. Another driver might have ignored the sports car, since so many dotted Holland’s autosnelwegen. But not Wagner. She hadn’t built her rep by being just another driver. “Never overlook the obvious,” she muttered.
“What?” Newt had stopped fidgeting and seemed to have settled in for the ride.
“We’re being followed,” she said, though to her it seemed a case of stating the obvious. The reaction on the man next to her was profound and sudden.
“What!?” He tried to spin around in his seat and look behind him, but the racing harness stopped him. He turned one direction, then the other, then finally reached to unfasten the harness.
Wagner kept her left hand on the wheel, but shot out with her right and grabbed the harness buckle between Newt’s legs. He jumped suddenly and grabbed her hand with his, struggling. “Don’t,” she warned, her voice broaching no disagreement. “You may need that.”
The color drained out of the bureaucrat’s face as she stepped on the accelerator. The Jaguar’s engine growled in response and the car picked up speed.
“What’re you doing?” Newt asked, his voice even more tremulous than before.
“Trying to find out how badly they want you.” The car gained speed slowly – she wasn’t trying to lose them, just make them work to keep up. The distance between them grew, until both the Vectra and the BMW realized what was happening and picked up speed as well.
She smiled to herself. She’d spent the night at De It – arguably the hottest club in Amsterdam – playing cat-and-mouse games with the men for hours. This was no different. She doubted any of her companions ever realized who was the cat and who was the mouse. At least until it was too late.
“Look,” Newt began, “I’m not sure this is such a good idea.”
“Little late for that, isn’t it?” Wagner flicked her gaze from the road in front of her to the tailing cars and back. A single glance at the speedometer showed the Jag approaching one-fifty and still climbing. This was going to be fun.
“No, I… I really don’t think you should be doing that.” The man was holding stock still now, his fidgeting long forgotten. One hand gripped the racing harness; the other clutched the door handle.
Wagner scoffed and dropped the car into sixth, listening to the engine as it settled down again and found its rhythm. One seventy-two, the speedometer claimed. It felt more like seventy-two. She loved this car.
“Look, Newt,” she said, eyes going back to the mirror. “I don’t know the first thing about you, and I don’t care to. But fact is, I’m getting paid a whole lot of money to get you into Amsterdam in one piece and without any complications.” A glance in the mirror showed that the sedan had all but vanished into the distance, but the silver BMW was keeping up. “But if you’d rather,” she continued, “we can pull over and you can hitchhike into town.”
After a moment of silence, Newt cleared his throat again. “No,” he said simply. “That’s not what I meant.”
Wagner smirked, knowing full well it wasn’t what he meant. She also had no intention of dropping him off anywhere. She hadn’t failed a run in years; she wasn’t going to start now.
As the klicks dropped away under the Jag, Newt stayed mostly silent. Wagner knew she’d have to make her move soon, or lead the Agency men in the BMW on a lengthy chase around the city. Fun, but she didn’t want to hear any more whining from the passenger seat.
She adjusted her earpiece and tapped a three-digit number into the cell phone mounted on her dash. The phone dialed automatically, and seconds later a female voice answered.
“Rijnhart B.V., hoe kan ik uw doorverbinden?”
“Lijn veertig,” Wagner said simply, speaking Dutch just as the woman had. The phone clicked twice and another voice answered. This one was male, and spoke English.
“Line forty,” he said.
“This is Sara Weiss,” Wagner said, using the name designated for this op. “I have a delivery for box seven.”
“Box seven,” the man on the phone repeated, his voice distant and cool. There was a momentary pause. “We’ll have a representative meet you at the door.”
“Good,” Wagner said simply.
“Thank you for calling Rijn– “ Wagner ended the call abruptly.
There was no box at Box Seven. There would be no receptionist, no Rijnhart Corporation. Box Seven was a safe house in the Jordaan section of Amsterdam. She had no idea what her employers planned for her passenger once she’d dropped him there, nor did she especially care. Her job was to deliver him to the safe house without incident, and that’s exactly what she was going to do.
“Box seven?” Newt asked, cautiously it seemed. “What’s that about?”
“I need to get my Christmas gifts out early,” she said.
Newt sighed. “Look, lady, I don’t know what your problem is. I only asked…”
“Then don’t,” she said, cutting him off again. “You don’t really want me to try and carry on a conversation and break two hundred klicks at the same time, do you?” She suppressed a smile. As if she couldn’t do that.
“Two hundred…”
Wagner glanced down. One seventy-seven, actually, but who was keeping track.
Now that the sedan was out of sight, she eased off the accelerator a touch, letting the BMW catch up. It wouldn’t do to lose both tails too soon. They’d just hand her off to another car if she managed to ditch him on the freeway. Instead, she’d lose the BMW at the time and place of her choosing – as always.
She soon slowed the Jaguar to the posted limit, and they cruised in silence for several minutes until Wagner spotted the Geuzenveld/Centrum exit. The ramp dumped off the A10 and onto the Jan van Galenstraat, a spacious four-lane that separated the Baarsjes District from the Bos En Lommer. She was headed toward De Jordaan – where the safe house was located – which would give her plenty of time and space to give those Agency boys a dance they wouldn’t forget.
A smile played at the corners of her lips as the silver sports car followed her onto the Jan van Galenstraat. Her smile broadened. It meant that the drivers were either inexperienced, or they had no hand-off man handy. Either was fine with her.
As they rolled down Galenstraat, a single car separated her from her covert pursuers. She slowed the Jag to a crawl, forcing the car behind her to go around her and prompting the driver to throw her a single-finger greeting as he roared past. She ignored the gesture and picked up speed again, forcing the BMW to fall in behind her. The first part of her plan was complete – the driver of the silver car was surely uneasy about following his prey this closely. And if he wasn’t, he should be.
She kept up a steady pace, slowing when the BMW began to drop back, forcing him to stay close. She’d have to make a move shortly; if the driver didn’t know he’d been made, he’d know it soon enough. And then he’d probably hand her off to an alternate tail instead. And she couldn’t have that.
When they reached the broad Grootplein – with its unimpressive statue of Hugo de Groot – she considered making a loop or two around the square. It would be fun, but it would also give the agents in the BMW one more reason to call for a hand-off car. Instead, she crossed the Singelgracht canal and entered De Jordaan – the oldest, narrowest part of Amsterdam, and home to Box Seven.
Box Seven was to the north, but Wagner
took the next right and headed south to the spacious Rozengracht. She
needed a narrow street to execute her plan, but a wide escape route like the Rozengracht
couldn’t hurt. After another turn or two, making sure the BMW stayed close,
Wagner found what she needed. The narrow road dead-ended into a T-shaped
intersection, complete with a red light, and the Rozengracht was only a
block away. Perfect.
The Jordaan district wasn’t meant for high-speed chases. Many of the cramped roads – including the one she was on – were little more than one or two car-widths across. She halted the Jaguar abruptly, plainly startling her passenger. As the traffic in front of her cleared, she took her place at the intersection, but stopped again.
After several moments passed, Newt finally spoke up. “Uh… green light.”
She watched the silver car in her rear-view mirror in silence, hoping they wouldn’t tire of waiting and simply open fire. Her Jag was lightly armored, but it wasn’t invulnerable. Still, they’d told her that her passenger was useless dead. The Agency surely felt the same way. She hoped.
Newt gestured toward the intersection. “Go, already.”
Horns began blowing from somewhere behind the BMW, but she refused to budge. Instead, she turned off the car and stuffed the keys into the pocket of her leather jacket.
“Wha…?” Newt gestured almost randomly and sputtered a few more syllables, his eyes widening.
“Shut up,” she said, her voice hard. “And stay here.” The light turned from green to yellow, then red.
“What’re you doing?”
She shot him a hard look. “Maybe my English needs work,” she intoned. “Halt den mund.” She enunciated the German words as if speaking to a child. “Bleib hier.” She smiled sweetly. “Better?”
Without waiting for a reply, she opened the door and stepped out, unzipping her jacket and moving toward the front of the car. She opened the hood, then stepped to the side and shrugged helplessly at the men in the silver BMW. She could imagine the indecision on their faces as they struggled to make sense of her actions. But as cars behind them began jockeying around Wagner's supposedly stalled Jaguar, the BMW suddenly found itself trapped by countless irate Dutch drivers, all trying to make their way toward the green light turning the tiny street into a cluttered parking lot.
Wagner smiled innocently, and sauntered up to the Agency car. She rapped on the tinted window with her knuckles and waited. Seconds passed as the agents inside struggled with her bold approach. Soon the window crept downward, revealing a pair of men in casual street clothes. Their faces showed an entertaining mixture of uncertainty, confusion, and caution. Oh, how she loved to play these guys.
“Excuse me,” she said, forcing an innocent smile. “My car won’t start. Will you help me?”
The driver looked from Wagner to his partner, but neither man spoke. Maybe they don’t want to play, she thought. Disappointing. Time to increase the stakes.
“And while you’re at it,” she said, smile still in place, “you really have got to stop following me.”
A pause, then the agent in the passenger seat spoke. “Uh . . . we don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was a horrible liar; young, inexperienced. Probably be dead within a year.
As the window started back up again, she reached inside her jacket and whipped out a compact Glock 26. She shoved it into the rapidly diminishing gap, looking quickly around to see if her action had been noticed. The window stopped, the agent’s eyes widened, and Wagner’s smile disappeared.
“No, seriously,” she said. “You really don’t want to try to follow me.” Neither man spoke. She shook her head in wonder. She waited for some kind of reaction, but got none. “Do you have any clue who I am?” she asked.
The driver shook his head a little, shifting his hands on the steering wheel. A split second later Wagner heard the faint, high-pitched whine of a charging electrical system.
She shook her head disapprovingly and clucked her tongue. “Boys, boys,” she said, now careful not to touch any metallic parts of the BMW. “You really want 20,000 volts flying through my body while I’m holding a pistol to your heads?” She had no clue if the electricity could actually detonate a round in the gun, but it sounded good. “Now look,” she said sternly, the smile completely gone, her eyes locked firmly on the two men. “I’ve tried to be nice, but enough is enough. You’ve got thirty seconds to get out of my sight. Take the next left and don’t look back, got it?”
The men were silent, watching her, but the driver flicked his gaze to his mirror and back. Wagner narrowed her eyes. Was it possible they already had another car on her? Was there someone behind the BMW that could take a handoff? She suddenly lost interest in her little game, and stepped away from the car, keeping the pistol hidden inside the window. She shot a glance behind them, looking for whatever the driver was looking for, but the street was a nightmare of cars, bicyclists, a stalled tram, and angry horn-honking Dutch drivers.
“Get lost,” she said at last, quickly pulling the gun back and shoving it under her jacket once again. She turned and walked calmly toward her car, again glancing left and right to see if anyone had noticed the little encounter. She let out her a sigh. It wasn’t the most fun she’d ever had with agents, but it would have to do. And who knows, maybe they’d actually listen for once. But she doubted it.
She reached the Jaguar and leaned in through the driver’s side window. “We’ll be leaving soon . . .” she began, then stopped and waited for Newt’s gaze to shift from her chest to her face. “We’ll be leaving soon,” she repeated, when his gaze finally met hers. “When we do, just shut up and hang on. No talking, no questions, no complaining. Got it?”
Newt blinked as if chastised, then looked away, apparently more embarrassed than fearful now. “Fine,” he said simply.
Wagner walked to the front of the car, closed the hood, and watched the BMW as it inched past. It wouldn’t take them long to circle or call in another tail – if she didn’t already have one – so she'd have to move fast. She climbed in the Jag and fired it up, the engine obediently roaring to life without hesitation.
“Hang on,” she said, strapping her own harness.
The BMW had turned left, just as she’d told them to. She expected them to circle the block or flip a U-turn in the middle of the street, but instead they simply pulled over to the curb and stopped.
“Great,” she muttered. If they didn’t plan on following her, they were probably handing her off. The BMW driver had probably spotted the hand-off vehicle and was willing to turn her over to someone else. Wagner had no idea who. But there was a sure way to find out.
She dropped the clutch and the Jaguar catapulted into the intersection. The tires squealed as she cranked the wheel to the right and spun the car away from the BMW. Her right rear tire bounced over the curb, leaving a track of rubber as blue-white smoke filled the air behind her as the car began to grip the road in earnest.
Newt let out a gasp and babbled something incoherent, then grabbed his harness with both hands.
Wagner cut hard to the left to avoid slow traffic, and raced down the left side of the narrow road for half a block before cutting back into her own lane. Several car horns blared in anger as she cut off more than one driver before weaving into oncoming traffic again.
Her eyes searched the crowded street for openings as she mentally traced a winding path between cars, bicycles, and a slow moving tram. A sidewalk ride was out of the question, for regularly placed steel posts insisted that the cars stay on the road, ostensibly where they belong. Scant seconds passed before she yanked the wheel back into her own lane in hopes of following the path she’d mapped in her head.
“I don't–” her passenger managed.
“Shut it!” she snapped, whipping the car first left then right as she snaked through the exceedingly narrow labyrinth of metal and concrete. “You do not want to distract me.”
The Jaguar cleared the tiny street at last and Wagner spared a glance at her mirrors. The BMW was nowhere in sight, but a second car – something small and red – shot out of a side alley and skidded into the street behind her. “Mist,” she muttered, falling back to her native tongue. “Ein Carrera.”
“What?”
“A Porsche Carrera GT,” she said, looking back and forth between the road and the mirror. This guy must be important, she thought.
“So?” Newt sounded both worried and confused at the same time.
“Porsche has over 20,000 racing wins – sixteen at Lemans alone – and they’re all wrapped up in that car.” She glanced back at the red coupe, worriedly chewing her lip and admiring the Carrera at the same time.
“Racing wins?” Newt skewed around in his seat to try to catch a glimpse. “Someone’s chasing us . . . in a race car?”
“Six hundred horsepower V10, twin-flow manifold, two throttle tracks, Helmholtz resonators just to be cool. Six-speed transmission with a single-mass flywheel and ceramic composite clutch,” she intoned. “Need to know more?”
Newt worked his mouth once or twice but nothing intelligible came out.
Wagner knew she couldn’t outrun the Carrera in a speed contest, especially if it was as heavily modified as her Jag. Her speedy escape down the Rozengracht suddenly became a bad idea. She’d have to out-drive the Carrera, using the narrow streets and alleys of De Jordaan, where speed didn’t matter as much as guts and computer assisted suspension.
She swung her gaze forward again, judging the cross-traffic in the upcoming intersection. She stomped down on the accelerator, and the Jag’s supercharged V8 responded with more than 400 horsepower, slamming both occupants against their seats as the car rocketed forward and shot between cars with only inches to spare.
The squeal of tires behind her was followed by the crunch of metal and glass as other drivers overcorrected and slammed into one another. She hoped the pile-up would stop her pursuers, but she doubted it. But maybe she could gain a few more seconds lead-time.
“Those people–” Newt began, looking wide-eyed over his shoulder. “We have to stop.”
“And do what?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “Give them a lift?”
“Someone might be hurt!”
She sighed and shifted gears again, slipping the Jaguar onto a narrow, one-lane gracht and racing along the canal toward Box Seven. “If you're so worried, call the fire department.”
The man looked over his shoulder again, then at Wagner, then reached inside his jacket and pulled out a cell phone. He had punched in a single number when Wagner lashed out with her right hand and slapped the phone to the floorboards.
“Knock it off,” she said, frowning. Idiot. She grabbed the lapel of his coat in her right fist, steering the car with her left. “I've had it with you! You knew what you were getting into when you signed on for this. Now shut up or I'll shut you up!”
She'd never actually struck a passenger before, but she was sorely tempted. This buffoon was even worse than most. Fortunately, he was apparently cowed into silence, though he belligerently shrugged off her grip in an ineffective and childish stop-touching-me gesture.
Wagner shifted again, then tapped three keys on her own cell phone, searching her mirror for the Carrera. Still there.
“Rijnhart B.V., hoe kan ik–”
“Lijn veertig,” she interrupted. The phone clicked twice.
“Line forty,” a male voice said.
“This is Sara Weiss with a delivery for box seven. Is the door open?”
“Not yet, ma'am.” In contrast to the racing Jag, the man on the phone remained distant and cool. “How soon will–”
“Two minutes,” Wagner insisted. “Maybe less.”
“Two minutes,” the man repeated. “Thank you for c– “ She punched end and yanked the wheel to the right, sending the car skidding down a narrow alley. The tires chirped but didn't lose their grip as the black car whipped around the corner and roared dangerously fast down a street that was dangerously narrow.
She took the next corner at breakneck speed, trying to keep the Carrera from gaining ground. The other driver was good – really good – and was doing an impressive job of keeping up. And if there was any car that could catch her Jag, it was the Porsche Carrera GT. She gritted her teeth and tried not to think about what that meant, focusing her thoughts on the task at hand instead.
She glanced in her mirror, searching. Several second passed, as she shifted her gaze back and forth, searching for her tail and guiding the Jaguar toward the safe house. The red sports car finally skidded around a distant corner, four or five seconds behind them. Five seconds. Plenty of time to disappear. She hoped.
As they shot across the bridge at Bloemgracht,
the Jag went airborne, slamming
them hard into their seats as it landed. Newt let out a strangled cry and held
white-knuckled to his harness, and Wagner gripped the wheel tightly as the Jag
struggled to keep up with the abuse she was dishing out.
As the two-minute mark approached, she swung onto the Nieuweleliestraat and stomped the accelerator, checking her mirror for the Carrera. No sign of it. Halfway down the block she slowed suddenly – careful not to leave telltale skid marks – and turned into a tight alley. She was sure the Carrera had not seen them turn, but she wasn’t taking any risks. She downshifted and sent the Jaguar careering down the alley faster than was safe, the old Dutch buildings on either side rushing by close enough to touch.
A green metallic garage door marked the end of the alley – the door to Box Seven – but it was closed. Wagner cursed under her breath. She lifted her foot from the accelerator, preparing to bring the Jag to a halt, when the door began rolling up into its frame. It slid upward at a crawl, and Wagner kept her foot in the air as the Jaguar coasted forward at nearly a hundred klicks.
“You're not going to . . . ”
Wagner ignored the man as she watched the black opening grow larger. She spared a quick glance in the rear-view mirror – it was clear – then dropped her foot onto the accelerator again, smiling as the Jag picked up speed.
“Holy– !” the man yelled, throwing his hands over his head and ducking. Even Wagner reflexively ducked as the black car leapt through the door and into the blackness beyond. Momentarily sightless, she stomped down on the brake, slamming them both against their harnesses. The Jag went slippery for several seconds, threatening to spin out from under her, but Wagner gripped the wheel and effortlessly slid the car to a stop.
She glanced in the mirror – the door was already closing behind them, the brilliant rectangle of light growing smaller and smaller. Her passenger was babbling something angry and incoherent, but Wagner ignored him, keeping her eyes on the alley behind them, looking for the red Carrera.
But it never came.
As the metallic door slammed down, shutting out the afternoon sun, Wagner smiled and shut off the engine. She glanced sidelong at Newt, who had stopped shouting and was staring at her, eyes wide, flecks of spittle on his lips and chin.
“Not bad, eh?” she asked sweetly. She reached out and patted his cheek, then opened her door and stepped into the cool interior of the parking garage. She could hear him yelling once again from inside the Jaguar, even after she shut the door behind her.
She walked away from the car – boot heels echoing across the cold cement floor, keys jingling in her hand – and wondered if anything good was on SBS6 this time of day.
– End –
At 18, the impulsive teen packed her belongings into a single backpack and headed to the U.S. She held a number of odd jobs in and around New York City, earning a living as a taxi driver, mechanic, and even a car thief. Her activities brought her to the attention of local law enforcement agencies, and in time she was approached by the Agency. In 1995 she signed on as an Agency courier, doing mundane deliveries up and down the U.S. East Coast. But true to form, she soon tired of the bureaucracy and the routine driving. She turned in her resignation after three years and returned to her native Europe in October 1999.
Within days of her arrival, she was approached by both MI5 and the German Bundesnachrichtendienst. She accepted both offers, demanding freelance status as an independent contractor. Neither agency accepted her terms, but both later used her in black missions, giving them the ultimate in plausible deniability. She has since worked for nearly every intelligence agency in Western and Central Europe, ingratiating herself into every side of the game. She has striven to prove her worth to everyone, lessening the chances of an “early retirement” thanks to a disgruntled Agency. Thus far it has worked, but her luck may not hold.
Despite her freelance status – or perhaps because of it – a Wagner remains one of the highest paid and most skilled wheelmen in Western Europe.
She revels in harassing other agents, especially Americans, and will go out of her way to introduce herself to them before showing them up. She is always polite, but can be cold and calculating when the time comes.
She rarely tinkers with cars any more, but always gives her Jaguar a once over before any mission. She spends most of her down time in Berlin nightclubs and is considered a regular at many of them. Characters trying to find her will have no trouble tracking her down when she is not on a mission – she makes no real effort to hide her whereabouts.
Wagner almost always carries a backup pistol – usually a Glock 26 – but almost never fires it (even when she is threatened). She knows the roads of most European cities like the back of her hand, and uses that to her advantage rather than staying and fighting.
Besides her native German, Wagner speaks Italian, French, and English. Her English is accent-free and peppered with Americanisms from time spent in the U.S. She speaks a smattering of Dutch and Belgian, but is by no means fluent in either.
Only a single version of Sara Wagner is provided. In a low-level campaign, Wagner’s 12th-level status will make it nearly impossible for the PCs to compete with her. In such a case, she should be portrayed as an elite agent, but her charm and insistence on “playing around” with her opponents should be emphasized. As the PCs gain levels, allow them opportunities to match wits (and car chases) with her, until one day they might actually manage to out-drive or outwit her. Because of her “superior” status to begin with, victory at that point should be especially satisfying.
For PCs from 8th to 15th level, Wagner will present a competent threat to be dealt with, and she will view the PCs as peers rather than peons. It is at this level that Wagner will probably find interaction with the PCs most interesting – they’re powerful enough to present a challenge, but not so much so that she knows she will lose. GCs are encouraged to take fullest advantage of Wagner when the PCs are around this level.
By the time the PCs reach level 15, Wagner’s skill will begin to diminish in comparison to theirs. Nevertheless, because she is built on a very focused skill/feat base, she should still be able to hold her own in her environment – car chases. She will, as always, avoid actual combat whenever possible, especially if she believes her opponents would actually be willing to harm her.
Turning Her. Because Sara Wagner is not inherently evil or particularly aligned with any single spy organization, the PCs may try to turn her to the Agency once again. They will have little success – neither Wagner nor Control likes the idea. If, however, she is beaten time and again – presumably by higher-level agents – she might be persuaded to join the Agency on a semi-permanent basis. Convincing Control will be difficult, however, and GCs should not be quick to bring Wagner into the fold – make the PCs work for it over many serials. Wagner should initially be treated as having an Adversary disposition (DC 30) for purposes of convincing her to rejoin the Agency. With time, however, the GC may lower that number based on the PCs’ successes against her.
In the event she is turned, the GC should include her in several subsequent adventures. But eventually her nonconformity will take over and she’ll be out the door once more. Allowing the PCs to recruit Wagner into the Agency for a short time, then seeing her turn freelance again, can create several plot hooks and complications.
Serial Ideas. Wagner operates almost exclusively in Western and Central Europe. She may, however, be assigned a special mission from time to time in other parts of the world. She should initially be brought into play as an unknown agent in a black custom Jaguar – even her gender may be unknown to the PCs. If they turn to Control for help, it won’t take long to identify her. Once she has trounced the PCs in a car chase, bring back her into play during another serial, and give them another shot. Eventually, the PCs should get a face-to-face meeting with her. She may even confront them herself – as in the short story that accompanies this write-up. She is easy to find in the Berlin nightclub scene if the PCs know who they’re looking for.
*Wagner has a special, limited version of the Speed Demon feat, applicable only to Driving, not Boating or Pilot. GCs may choose to give her one rank in each of those skills (dropping one rank in Hobby and one in Intimidation) to make her “rules legal,” but as written, she is intentionally not skilled in either vehicle. For roleplay purposes, she is strictly a driver, not a pilot or boater.