Budapest/48: A Ryan Lock Story

by Sean Black

  Lock closed the drapes, walked back into the room and flicked on the lights. On the bed was a black gun case, his welcome present, arranged by the negotiating team, per his request. He flipped it open to reveal a brand new SIG Sauer P229 with three fifteen round magazines. He didn’t foresee having to use it, but the people they were dealing with were hardly boy scouts. It was better to be prepared for all eventualities.

  He took the 229 from the case, and checked it over. Robertson had estimated that they’d transfer the cash by electronic transfer in the morning, and then collect the package in the late afternoon. That would give Lock time to head to a nearby range in the morning and fire some rounds. The car and driver they’d be using would be parked outside, ready to deploy them as soon as the call came. Spending time at the range would beat waiting around at the hotel with the others.

  Lock unpacked quickly. He placed his body armor vest on a hanger in the wardrobe, and laid out his dark gray Hugo Boss suit, fresh underwear, and a clean white shirt. He secured the hotel room door and took a quick shower, scrubbing off travel grime. He dried off, got dressed, left the SIG in the room safe, set up another small motion activated camera next to a desk lamp as a precautionary measure, and left the room.

  He caught up with Ty at the elevator. Ty was wearing slacks and a sport coat, which was about as dressed up as he got. “You get your present?” Lock asked him, hitting the button to take them back down to the ground floor.

  “Sure did,” Ty said. “Box fresh. We get to keep them once we’re done here?”

  Lock thought it over for a moment. “I can ask Robertson if he’ll ship them.”

  The elevator slowed and then stopped at the second floor. The doors opened to reveal Robertson. He was flanked by a young man in his twenties whom Lock assumed was the team’s communicator, András. To Robertson’s left was a young woman of similar age whose looks were like a dictionary definition of the phrase ‘jaw dropping.’ Lock wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting Yuksia Vertov to look like. All he knew was that he hadn’t expected this.

  Next to him, Ty’s tongue was threatening to roll out of his mouth. Lock quickly reminded himself that they were here for a short time and not a good time. He shook hands with Robertson.

  “Impeccable timing,” said Robertson, stepping into the elevator and making the introductions.

  Lock shook hands with András. When it came time to shake hands with Yuksia, she held his gaze, as well as his hand, a little longer than was necessary. “So you are the famous Ryan Lock,” she said in a softly accented voice. “James has told us many stories.”

  Lock tried to think of a snappy come back but came up blank. The elevator doors opened. She dropped her hand from his.

  “After you,” said Lock, ushering her out ahead of them. She smiled, turned, and walked ahead with András, leaving Lock to talk to Robertson as they walked the short distance across the hotel lobby to the Gresham restaurant. Ty had caught up to the two young Hungarians and was running his usual game on Yuksia.

  “How was your flight?” Robertson asked.

  “Very pleasant. Oh, and thanks for the welcome gift,” said Lock, referencing the two SIG 229s.

  Robertson held up his hands, palms open. “Those are off the books. Nothing to do with me. Not officially in any case. But I figured that as these people are an unknown quantity, you might feel more comfortable carrying.”

  As the maître d’ ushered them to a circular table at the back of the long room, Robertson nodded to the street outside. “Budapest is hardly the wild west, but I guess they have their problems with organized crime like everyone else.”

  “So what do you think went down?” Lock asked Robertson. “I mean a KR case involving a British national in Eastern Europe doesn’t fit the usual profile.”

  They took their seats, Lock next to Robertson. Across the table, Yuksia seemed to be studying him. It made concentrating on what Robertson was saying abnormally difficult. She had long, soft, chestnut hair, with eyes to match, and bone structure that would make a supermodel envious.

  “You have to remember, Ryan, that most KR cases are quietly settled without anyone being any the wiser. But you’re correct, this isn’t a typical case,” Robertson said.

  Lock took a menu from the waiter. They ordered water for the table. The waiter melted back into the background.

  “So,” said Lock. “Why this guy?”

  “My job doesn’t involve the whys,” Robertson said. “I’m not a cop. I’m simply here to make sure that Michael gets back home safely and to minimize the ransom payment. But if I had to make a guess I’d say it was a simple case of opportunity. You say the wrong thing to the wrong person, or flash your money somewhere you shouldn’t, and voilà, all of a sudden the wrong kind of people take an interest in you.”

  “So who do you think he ran into?” pressed Lock.

  Robertson pursed his lips. “No idea.”

  “You’re not curious?” Lock asked.

  Across the table, Yuksia was still studying him with a quiet intensity. Part of him was already hoping that the transfer would hit a non-fatal snag and he’d get a few more days in Budapest.

  Robertson pressed his fingertips together, the gesture giving away a hint of the academic he’d been before he’d realized he could make ten times the money in the private sector actually resolving conflicts rather than telling others how they should resolve them. “My being curious isn’t going to help Michael Lane get back home. I’d say that once we do the de-brief with him we may be able to work out who set him up, assuming that’s what happened. Then again, we may never know. Anyway, this isn’t part of your remit either.” He half-turned in his seat. “Why do you care?”

  Lock wasn’t about to go into it at dinner. “Would you happen to have a key to Lane’s apartment?”

  “Why would you want to take a look at the man’s apartment?” said Robertson.

  Lock shrugged. “It’s probably nothing, but there was something in the report that I’d like to check on. Like I said, it’s probably nothing.”

  Robertson smiled. “Well, I think Yuksia has a set of keys. I’m sure she can arrange access for you. You want to go after dinner? I don’t think you’ll have time tomorrow.”

  Lock glanced across at the table. “Maybe I should leave it.”

  Robertson waved him away. “Yuksia?”

  She glanced across at the two men as the waiter returned to take their order. “Would you mind showing Mr.. Lock Michael Lane’s apartment?”

  “Of course,” she said. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Chapter Five

  The sudden exposure to light made Michael Lane wince. The headache that had sat sullenly in the middle of his skull for the past few days flared up. Looking down he saw the same dirty, bare floor boards. His backside was numb from sitting in the same position for too long. He had pins and needles in his legs. His lower back ached, and he was hungry.

  Narrowing his eyes, he looked up at the hulking figure standing over him. In one hand, the man held the blindfold he had just removed. In his other hand was a suit carrier. He laid the carrier down on the bed in the corner of the room. He walked behind Michael and untied the short length of rope around his wrists. Finally, he helped Michael to his feet.

  Michael caught a whiff of garlicky body odor. His stomach lurched. A huge hand clamped around his bicep and the man led him towards the small en-suite bathroom.

  He was usually allowed a shower every day or every second day. It depended on which of the four regular guards were on duty. The biggest of them, the one he was with now, usually avoided letting him shower. Michael guessed it was because it required extra effort on his part, and the guard was lazy.

  As Michael’s eyes adjusted to the light from a bare lightbulb overhead, he saw something different lying at the edge of the sink. It was an old fashioned safety razor - the kind that used regular razor blades. Next to it was a can of shaving foam. When he was allowed to shave it was usually with a cheap, pl
astic disposable razor.

  The guard pointed at the shower and then at his new shaving kit. The gesture was accompanied by a grunt. The guard turned and walked out of the bathroom, leaving Michael alone.

  Michael stood there for a moment. He stared at himself in the mirror. He had dark patches under his eyes. His skin was pale and oily. What muscle tone he’d had was gone. He was skinny-fat from a lack of exercise (before he was kidnapped he would run along the Danube most mornings and hit the gym after work), and the constant stream of heavy Hungarian food and sweets he was fed. One thing he hadn’t been able to accuse his captors of was starving him. At times he had felt like a turkey being fattened for Thanksgiving. Judging by the suit carrier and the safety razor it looked like Thanksgiving had finally arrived and he was going to be freed.

  There was only one problem. He didn’t want to put back on a plane to London. Not yet anyway. At least not until he knew she was safe.

  Chapter Six

  It was close to eleven o’clock by the time Yuksia’s Skoda Fabia car pulled up outside Michael Lane’s apartment on Hild Ter in Budapest's District 5. Despite being talkative at dinner, as soon as Yuksia had got into her car with Lock, she had gone quiet. As she drove the short distance from the Four Seasons to the apartment she would sneak glances at him under the pretext of checking the traffic in her rearview and side mirrors.

  Once she had squeezed the Fabia into a parking spot, she fished in her handbag for the set of keys to the apartment. As she handed them to Lock her fingertips brushed against his open palm. They looked at each other for a little longer than was comfortable. Lock’s hand closed around the keys and she looked away. Whatever temporary spell that had fallen between them was broken.

  “Would you like me to come with you?” Yuksia asked him.

  From an operational point of view it didn’t matter whether she accompanied him or stayed in the car. “Always good to have another pair of eyes,” said Lock, getting out of the car.

  Yuksia joined him on the sidewalk. The street was quiet. While Yuksia was wearing the same dress she’d had on for dinner, Lock had changed into jeans, sneakers, a sweatshirt, and slightly over-sized black wind breaker that concealed the shoulder holster that was holding his SIG 229. He had caught Yuksia sneaking a glance at the gun as he got out of the car.

  They stood together at the heavy metal and glass doors that led into the foyer of the apartment building. Lock worked his way through the two keys on the key ring until he found the one that opened the door. He pushed through, Yuksia close enough behind him that he could smell her perfume.

  The elevator was an antique affair with a manually operated metal grille door. Lock hauled it open. Yuksia stepped in. He joined her inside and hit the button to take them to the third floor.

  The elevator juddered into life. Yuksia gave a nervous laugh. It was a slow journey up. They would have been quicker taking the stairs. Lock didn’t mind. They both defaulted to standard elevator behavior by staring straight ahead in silence. The only thing that was different was how comfortable he felt with the silence and her standing next to him. He glanced over at her. She smiled and looked away. He had to remind himself that he was here on business.

  Finally, they reached the third floor with another grating shudder. Lock hauled open the two metal grilles and they stepped out into the corridor. Lock opened the door into the apartment and stepped inside. Yuksia followed.

  The building may not have looked much from the street but the apartment was pretty impressive. The main area was a thousand square foot kitchen/dining area/living room. There was a bathroom and two large bedrooms, each with their own en-suite bathroom. The furniture was sleek and contemporary. Large canvases of brightly colored modern art adorned the walls. There was a large flatscreen television on the far wall, and a 5K Retina iMac on a desk in the corner.

  Lock began the search in the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator before moving onto drawers and cupboards.

  “What are you looking for?” Yuksia asked him.

  Lock stopped. He glanced up from a drawer full of knives. “What I always look for. The absence of the normal. The presence of the abnormal.”

  He moved through into the master bedroom. Yuksia followed. Lock crossed to a dresser and began opening drawers and rifling through the contents. “What would you expect to find in the apartment of a married man living on his own?”

  Yuksia shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Lock closed the final drawer. “Porn on the computer? A little too much alcohol? Maybe some drugs if he’s working long hours in a high-pressure environment like finance? Coke, uppers, Modafinil to keep him focussed and on top of his game.”

  Lock threw open a wardrobe. He slid back the hangars with Michael Lane’s suits and shirts. Nothing. He reached down to open the first of two lower drawers. He stopped, and plucked out a piece of skimpy black lingerie. He dug further down and came up with more flimsy pieces of silk material

  “Either Michael Lane was a cross dresser? Or maybe he had company the morning he was kidnapped?” he said.

  “Maybe his wife left them here after a visit?” Yuksia offered.

  Lock checked the size tag on the back of a lacy red bra. At least he thought it was a bra, but he couldn’t be sure. The size tag made up about a quarter of the entire surface area. “There’s picture of Lane’s wife in the file. She’s an attractive woman, but believe me, these don’t belong to her. And the size of these also kind of rules out my first theory that he might like to slip into something a little more comfortable when he gets home. The only thing he’d be able to use this for would be dental floss.”

  Yuksia walked over to him. She plucked the bra from his hands and held it up to her chest. “He was having an affair. So what?”

  Lock took the piece of skimpy material back and threw it back into the drawer. “The ‘so what’ is that kidnap victims tend not to be picked out of thin air. There’s reason to believe that the other Western businessmen who’ve been kidnapped here had gotten involved with local women. At least that was alluded to in the report. I think Michael Lane was the victim of a honeytrap.”

  Yuksia’s brow furrowed. “A honeytrap? I don’t know this word.”

  “The gang uses an attractive younger woman to get closer to the vic. That way they can gather information on him and his company. It’s a hell of a lot easier than following him or hacking his computer.”

  “Perhaps if men weren’t so easily led,” said Yuksia.

  Lock ignored that one. He walked into the master bathroom. He opened the cabinet. Among the bottles of shampoo and conditioner and a can of shaving foam was a pack of pink lady’s disposable razors. In the medicine cabinet above the sink he found a pack of blue Cialis erectile dysfunction pills. Michael Lane was young and in good physical shape. Lock doubted he’d need them for anything other than recreational use.

  Walking back out into the main bedroom, Yuksia had discovered a knee length black cocktail dress stuffed into a bag at the back of the wardrobe. She held it up against her body, modeling it for him. Not that Lock endorsed infidelity but if the woman Michael had been seeing looked half as good as the young Hungarian woman standing in front of him now, Lock could at least understand the temptation.

  Chapter Seven

  Michael stood under the limp trickle of lukewarm water and unscrewed the handle of the double edged safety razor. He lifted off the top part of the head, and gently levered out the razor blade. Stepping out of the shower, he laid the blade down on the edge of the sink, and screwed the head back into the razor’s handle. He left the water running while he quickly dried off and changed into the new clothes he’d just been given.

  Rolling up his right shirt sleeve, he reached in and shut the water off. He crossed back to the sink, and slid the razor blade to the edge where he could pick it up. He held it between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. He let his hand fall to his side as he looked at himself in the mirror. His heart was raci
ng. He took a couple of deep breaths.

  There was a knock at the bathroom door. He startled.

  “I’m almost done,” he said.

  It was now or never. If it was going to work he would have to do it as soon as the door opened. He would reach up and slash at the side of the guard’s neck. The razor was fresh out of the packet. It wouldn’t take any pressure at all to cut the man’s jugular vein.

  Another knock. “Okay! Okay!” Michael shouted.

  One last deep breath. One final look at himself in the mirror. Portrait of a man before he becomes a murderer. He could already see it unfold in his mind’s eye. The arc of his hand. The blade slicing through flesh. The first pulse of blood. The look of surprise on the bigger man’s face as he realized what had just happened.

  Michael reached out with his left hand and opened the bathroom door.

  There was no one there. The room appeared to be empty. He stepped through the door. The razor blade was still pinched between his thumb and index finger.

  It was only then that he saw the guard. He had pulled the chair into the corner of the room. He was sitting on it, facing Michael, a matt black gun in his hand. The barrel pointed straight at Michael’s chest. The guard’s free hand reached up to rub his own face.

  “Can I help you with something?” said the guard.

  Michael could hear the sound of his blood pumping in his ears. The guard was staring at his right hand. “You speak English,” he said, dumbfounded. Not once had he heard any of the guards speak anything other than Hungarian.

  The guard smiled. “You forgot to shave.”

  “I forgot,” said Michael, trying to force himself to smile at the man. “I’ll do it now.”