by Mark Greaney
With training on anything from basic firearms handling all the way up to battalion-sized field tactics, KWA mercenaries stood ready to train the armies, rebel groups, and private security forces of the world.
Klossner’s company did not field hit men or spies, per se; his was not, on the surface anyway, a cloak-and-dagger outfit, but his specialty was dealing with nations and organizations that had difficulty securing high-quality instruction cadres from abroad because of issues of politics, corruption, or human rights abuses.
And there was an especially shadowy side to Klossner’s operation that did not show up in the accounting books. It was known by all who hired KWA to train or lead their troops that the foreign mercs they employed could be offered off-hours work in a covert direct-action realm.
If one worked as an employee of KWA, one knew that his contract might have him training or organizing paramilitary forces in El Salvador or cold-blooded rebel marauders in South Sumatra, but he also knew he might also “moonlight” running black ops in these war zones himself.
KWA’s stable of talent was well paid, but most people who worked for the German security firm didn’t do so because it was their first choice. Instead, most KWA employees worked there because they were encumbered by something that kept them from being employed at one of the upper-tier security companies around the world. They had criminal convictions, they had been tossed out of other organizations for violating rules of engagement, or they fought drug or alcohol addictions.
Or else they were just evil.
Boiled down to its essence: Lars Klossner was a bad guy who contracted bad guys to go fight for and train bad guys. His was a closed loop of dirty.
* * *
• • •
After his walk through the center of Munich, Lars Klossner and his security turned onto Max-Joseph Strasse and then entered the vestibule of an ornate apartment building. They were buzzed in by the lobby guard, and then the entourage headed for the elevator. Outside on their right, the silver Mercedes rolled into a large lighted garage, and the garage door closed quickly behind it.
While the driver parked and shut down his vehicle, a private elevator took Klossner and his detail up to his vast third-floor penthouse, and here the protectee waited in the hallway with a pair of his men while the other two checked out his living quarters to make sure it was safe to leave their boss alone for the night.
After the all clear, Klossner stepped into his private quarters, while his security men retired to their end of the penthouse, took off their leather coats, and unslung their weapons. They pulled earpieces out of their ears, and only then did they relax. The chatting came instantly and easy, and when the driver of the Mercedes arrived a few minutes later, all five of them grabbed beers, called their wives and girlfriends, and began watching an FC Bayern soccer match they’d recorded during the week.
In his quarters, Klossner turned on his stereo, undressed, and took a hot shower. Afterwards, he toweled off and wrapped his rotund frame in his robe. He’d just begun brushing his teeth when he looked up into the mirror over the vanity.
Something moved in the low-lit bedroom behind him.
Lars Klossner looked harder into the mirror, the toothbrush hanging from his mouth, and he saw a figure in black leaning against the far wall of the bedroom. The man held a suppressed pistol in his right hand against his thigh, business end down.
The man’s left hand rose; he held something in it. Suddenly the music stopped. The man by the wall tossed the stereo remote onto the bed.
The toothbrush came out, the German spit and washed his mouth out with bottled water, and he spit that out, too. He looked back into the mirror at the man standing there in the dim light.
Klossner turned around slowly, facing the figure in the darkness. “Wer sind Sie?” Who are you?
“Speak English, Lars.”
The German flicked his eyes to the door. “I have bodyguards, you know.”
“Yeah? Is that what you call them?”
Klossner’s face twitched a little. The door remained closed; there was no sound of footsteps rushing up the hall.
“Dead?” he asked.
“Nah,” the figure replied. “Just oblivious. You can call out to them if you want to . . . but you really don’t want to.”
The man with the American accent stood by a light switch. To Klossner’s surprise, he reached over and flicked the switch with the tip of the suppressor of his pistol.
Several lamps in the room turned on simultaneously.
The German blinked hard again. “Mein Gott. Violator? Is that you?”
* * *
• • •
Court Gentry used the tip of his Gemtech suppressor to flip the lights back off, enshrouding himself and Klossner again in the dim.
“No one calls me that anymore.”
“Ah, yes. Now you are the Gray Man.” The skin on the heavy German’s face suddenly looked almost as white as his beard. “How did you get in?”
Court had slipped in through the garage behind the Mercedes, then knelt behind the vehicle, removed his shoes, and crammed them in his backpack while the driver turned off the engine and climbed out. He’d followed the driver up the three flights of stairs, staying one floor behind him on the ascent, and timing his soft footfalls so he’d remain undetected.
When the driver unlocked the back door to Klossner’s penthouse, Court began racing up the stairs on his stocking feet, pulling a folded envelope from his back pocket as he went. The driver entered the hallway, and the hydraulic closer began pushing the door closed behind him. Court was rushing to the other side of the door, still silent but taking the stairs three at a time now. Just as the door met the door frame, Court slid down onto his knees on the landing and shoved the envelope forward between the latch in the door and the strike plate in the doorjamb. The thick folded paper impeded the automatic latch from slipping into the strike plate mortise and locking the door, and this prevented the door from locking when it closed.
Court breathed a sigh of relief; he’d made it with barely a tenth of a second to spare.
A latch clicking into place makes a distinctive sound, and this door had not clicked, so Court knew there was a chance the driver on the other side of the door might return to investigate. He reached across his body with his left hand, drew his pistol upside down, and held it that way towards the door right in front of his face.
He waited for a minute, but the door he held unlocked did not open, and the driver did not return, so eventually he stood slowly and quietly, and he opened the door just enough to look into the hall.
The hall was clear, and Court was inside Klossner’s penthouse.
* * *
• • •
But he didn’t tell Klossner any of this now. When he did not answer the question of how he got in, Klossner said, “Ah . . . yes. A magician never reveals his secrets.” After a pause the German spoke in a grave tone. “There are only two reasons you would show up in my house. Either you have come looking for work . . . or . . .”
Court replied, “I’m not here for the other reason.”
Klossner let his relief be known with a heave and a long sigh. He put his hand on his heart for a second. Court thought he was joking, feigning a heart attack, but from the look of the big man he didn’t know if the man might, in fact, have been having some sort of cardiac episode. Klossner lowered his hand with a smile, however, then stepped into the bedroom with his hands away from his body. He moved laterally along the wall and lowered himself down onto a settee. “How long has it been? Four or five years? It was Ankara. You were a burned Agency asset, working freelance, if memory serves. You didn’t have your nickname yet.”
“A simpler time,” Court joked without smiling.
“For you, maybe. A team I sent to Turkey had just lost a contract because the man they were protecting was assassinated right unde
r their noses.” Klossner looked around. “Circumstances not unlike this, actually. I found out who did it, and offered you a job, because I saw what you were capable of. I actually thought I might dip a toe into the contract killer industry.”
Court did not reply.
Klossner waved his hand. “You took one look at my operation . . .” Klossner laughed now. “And you kept on walking. Not your cup of tea, as the English say. You found me immoral. Dishonorable.”
“Like I said . . . A simpler time.”
The German considered this, then bobbed his head towards a stocked mirrored bar along the wall. “Care for a drink?”
“Nein, danke.”
“If you aren’t here to kill me, we can party all night.”
“I’m looking for work. Something to get me out of Europe, quickly and quietly. Something that pays.”
“I’ve never had a job applicant show up in my bedroom with a suppressed Glock in his hand.”
“I couldn’t be sure if you still held a grudge about Ankara.”
“I’m a businessman, Violator. That was business.” He shrugged. “And if you want to work for me now, that’s business, too.”
“Any openings?”
Klossner raised an eyebrow. “As much as I’d love to employ you, I must admit the fact that you killed your last employer in St. Petersburg gives me a moment’s pause.”
“Not true.”
“Not true that you killed him, not true that it was in St. Petersburg, or not true he was your last employer?” When Court said nothing, Klossner shrugged. “Whatever, no harm done. Gregor Sidorenko was a madman. Bad for the security industry at large. I’m glad you slotted him.” He added, “I just hope killing the boss isn’t your new trademark.”
Court holstered his suppressed pistol under his jacket.
“And they also say everything that happened in Washington, D.C., a couple of months ago was you. All the attacks and killings there.”
“Sounds like someone is giving me too much credit.”
The German smiled again, and this time it did not fade. “That’s a good line, but the problem is, I do know some of the things you’ve done in the past, so I know you are one of the few out there who actually lives up to his hype.”
“I’m here looking for work, so far be it from me to discourage you from your belief that I am a superhero.”
The German laughed harder than before. “It’s nice to see you again. Wasn’t at first, I must say. Who wants to meet the Grim Reaper in their bathrobe?”
“I’ve got to get off the continent,” Court stressed. “I’m willing to go anywhere, as long as I can get out of here.”
Lars Klossner looked at the American with a curious eye now. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
Court stood silently against the wall.
“Right. None of my business. Let me think . . . A job in Caracas just fell into my lap. It’s not your speed, really, a little simplistic for you, small-arms training for a rebel outfit that’s in need of some—”
Court interrupted him. “Think bigger.”
The German did so. “Ukraine?”
“I said out of Europe. Ukraine is in Europe, Lars.”
“That it is . . . just thought you might want to see Kiev again.”
Court didn’t blink at this reference to his past, and Klossner let it go. The German rubbed his thick cheeks. “Well . . . there is something else, but you’d have to get your hands dirty. Very dirty. The Violator I knew four years ago wouldn’t have touched this, but if the news can be trusted, you might have changed, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Where?”
Klossner hesitated. “The job is in Syria.”
Court faked a little chuckle. “No thanks. The Free Syrian Army rebels are floundering. I’m not going to be the last rat to jump onto that ship before it goes down.”
Klossner waved a hand in the air. “No. Not the FSA. Not the Kurds or the Turks or the Americans or the Iraqis.” He shrugged. “This is work for the other guys.”
Court nodded slowly. “I see.”
“I’ve heard all about your moral code. I’m sure that’s cost your handlers a mint in the past. If you do the job in Caracas, it might align more with your sense of right and—”
“I’ll work for the Syrian regime. I don’t give a shit. Not anymore.”
Klossner scratched his snow-white hair. “I’d love to hear the story about what turned you into a black hat.”
The room remained silent, and Klossner took the hint quickly. He said, “Never mind, then.”
“Tell me about the job.”
“You’d be working with a militia.”
“A militia?”
“Conventional wisdom in the West is that Azzam runs his military. That’s a fable. The Syrian regime is no longer a true centralized state; it’s a union of warlords, with a warlord politician at its center. In fact, it is very fractured, very tribal down there. A lot of different militias, offshoots of the military, all under the Azzam regime coalition. And they fight among themselves, as well. One of the most corrupt nations on Earth, because Azzam has to let all these warlords and chieftains rape the nation economically so they will continue to give him their support. I’ve been there three times in the past three years, and I can tell you, it’s a crazy place full of crazy people. Militias aligned with the regime but also affiliated with organized crime, and now you add in the Iranians and the Russians running around like they own the place.” He sniffed. “Regular civilians are caught in the middle.”
“If the Russians are there, why are the militias hiring labor from you?”
“The Russians are in the air, conducting special operations in the countryside, that sort of thing. They have Chechen and Ingush Muslim Special Forces down there, as well. But they are on their own, not folded in with the locals that support Azzam. The militias are all trying to professionalize so they can retain some power when the war ends. The Sunnis are helping Azzam now, but the fight will really be on when the rebels die off and ISIS dies off and the foreign enemies of Azzam give up.”
Court feigned casualness in his next question. “Who’s the client?”
“You’d be working for one of the roughest of all the regime-aligned units down there. They are called Liwa Suqur al Sahara. Heard of them?”
Acid fired into Court’s stomach now, but he didn’t even blink. “The Desert Hawks Brigade.”
The German grinned yet again. “You are a pro, Violator. Of course you know all the players, even in that quagmire. I have forty-three contractors positioned there right now at different bases for the Hawks and there’s something like a dozen different PMCs plying their trade down there with other groups. Most of what my boys do is training . . . but . . . there is extracurricular work that comes up. What the Desert Hawks Brigade have my guys doing after hours . . . it’s shit the fucking Chechens wouldn’t even touch.”
Court felt unease in the pit of his stomach, but he didn’t let on. He feigned thinking it over, then said, “This will do. I need to get to a place where I won’t be tracked.”
“Well . . . you can’t get much more off-grid than a free-fire zone in the Middle East. You want the job, it’s yours.”
Court breathed slowly, careful to not give off any cues as to his true feelings.
“I’m in.”
“Sehr gut,” Klossner said with a nod. “An Aussie guy working at the Hawks Brigade base in Babbila near Damascus just got a kneecap shot off in an ISIS attack on his convoy on Monday, and I had a guy ready to replace him going down tomorrow. I can bump him and send you instead, if you like. Or we have a couple of openings at other bases around the country, but I figured you’d rather be near civilization.”
“Damascus will do fine. I appreciate it.” It was better than fine. Court had been prepared to ask point-blank to be stationed
near the capital in the event he was being sent to some backwater. He couldn’t believe his good fortune.
Klossner looked at his watch. “Gut . . . I have to get my people to work on your papers all night, but we can do it. You’ll fly from Munich to Beirut in the morning. There we have an arrangement with a charter airline that will do the short hop up to Latakia. It’s on the Syrian coast, and the air base there is controlled by the Russian air force, so we don’t violate the no-fly zones in the interior.” Klossner winked now. “Hate to have you blown out of the sky on the way in. Anyway, the bad news about the Damascus base is that to get there you’ll have to truck across country . . . and it’s not exactly the most peaceful drive these days. Another military company lost a couple guys on the highway recently, but it’s nothing a man like you hasn’t seen before.”
“I’ll be fine,” Court said, but he was already second-guessing this surefire way of his to infiltrate Syria.
Klossner shrugged. “I’d be a son of a bitch if I didn’t fill you in about the loss rates. They are high, but I guess you’ve experienced worse in other theaters.”
“Tell me.”
“Let me put it this way. I’ve been sending operators into Damascus for three years, and in that time, eight out of ten of my guys have made it out in one piece.”
Terrific, Court thought. His cover identity had a built-in twenty percent casualty rate. He was even less optimistic about the chances of his actual operation, which would no doubt be several orders of magnitude more dangerous.
Klossner stood and crossed the room over to Court now. The big man kept his hands away from his body, and Court was sure this was to keep his dangerous visitor at ease, but it made Court worry that Klossner was going to try to get him in a bear hug. Instead he stopped a few steps away from Court by the wall. “Normally there would be a physical, but you look pretty good to me. Have to ask, though . . . you aren’t doing drugs, are you?”
“No drugs.”
Klossner scanned Court up and down like he was livestock at a sale. After a few seconds, he said, “You’re different. Not physically. I just mean . . . taking this job, knowing you’ll be working for the Azzam regime. You’re sure you’re not on something?”
