Bad Luck in Berlin

by Tom Wood

  The internet would have provided enough information with which to compose a shortlist, so Victor expected Deák had no more than half a dozen locations to visit before close of business today, then the evening off to make the most of the trip before catching the flight back home tomorrow without having to rush in the morning.

  Deák’s taxi dropped him off at his hotel, and that he spent over an hour in his room before reappearing told Victor he’d been right in his prediction.

  Deák strolled through the hotel lobby in the same silvery suit he’d arrived in, but it had benefited from a few minutes with a press or steamer. He wore a new shirt, and his jaw-length hair was wet and pushed back behind his ears. He looked alert, if not wholly refreshed. A shower and strong coffee, but no actual rest.

  He opted to walk, which made shadowing him simple, especially as he hadn’t had the most rudimentary training in counter-surveillance. He didn’t take any of the most basic precautions. He even walked slowly. The idea that someone might follow him seemed an alien concept. He was a poor choice for a scout, but Farkas had sent him based on loyalty, not competence.

  If Deák’s role was solely as an information gatherer and the final decision was left up to Farkas, Victor would need to survey each and every one as a potential strike point before Farkas’s arrival. But in the same way Farkas would use Deák’s intel to decide which was safest for his stay, Victor could do the same to narrow down the list to arrive at the most likely to be used.

  His employer, with considerable power and resources, could no doubt help Victor to do so with blueprints and schematics and anything else he might need, but the less contact Victor had with the nameless CIA officer who had recruited him, the better. This was Victor’s first contract for the man he’d met just once. His years of working freelance had taught him to trust no one – which was one of the primary reasons he was still alive – and those who paid for the services of a killer he trusted least of all.

  CHAPTER 3

  Victor spent the day following Deák around Berlin, mostly on foot and sometimes on the subway, but only for notable distances. The Hungarian liked to walk, and knew his way around the city, no doubt having scouted for Farkas before, and only occasionally had to consult his phone for directions. Deák met up with several realtors outside townhouses or apartment buildings in wealthy neighbourhoods and Victor waited nearby while he was shown around inside. Victor timed the duration of each visit and watched Deák’s reaction when he reappeared. After leaving a realtor he would immediately make a call on his cell to report to Farkas how the location met with his criteria. Victor didn’t speak Hungarian well enough to effectively read Deák’s lips, but he could decipher some of what was said, and body language was universal in portraying positive and negative.

  By the time he returned to his hotel, Deák’s movements were sluggish and he yawned every few minutes. He had met five different realtors outside three townhouses and two apartment buildings, with the latter apartment building resulting in a viewing lasting over twice the mean duration. That made six locations scouted, and from Deák’s calls to Farkas, two had been greeted with a stronger reaction than the others: a townhouse in the financial district and a grand building in Prenzlauer Berg where Deák had viewed a single apartment.

  It was nearing seven p.m. when Deák set out once again, too late to be conventionally viewing any potential accommodation, and the relaxed body and arrogant strut confirmed to Victor that Deák didn’t plan on spending the evening working. He was out to enjoy himself. Shadowing him therefore wasn’t imperative to learning where Farkas might be staying in a little over a week, but Victor had learned a long time ago that seemingly unessential forays could provide the most useful intelligence.

  From the background information on Deák and the route he was walking, Victor wasn’t surprised to find him heading for a casino. The Golden Talisman was one of Berlin’s premier gaming establishments and attracted a high-rolling clientele. Exactly the kind of place where someone with a love of gambling would want to spend an evening.

  It was located less than half a mile from Deák’s hotel, and Deák’s lack of caution while walking was even more obvious at night than it had been during the daylight. He took short cuts through dark alleyways and unused side streets, even circumventing a block by cutting across the ground level of a multi-storey parking garage that would have provided an assailant with the perfect spot for an ambush. Victoria would have envied such blissful ignorance to danger.

  Outside, the Golden Talisman had an unassuming façade that didn’t advertise its services beyond simple signage. Inside, the lobby had a luxuriant, opulent décor. Mahogany panelling ran along the walls. Crystal chandeliers glinted overhead and illuminated the intricate frescoes depicting mythological beasts and fabulous riches that decorated the ceiling. The carpet was thick enough to mask the sound of marching boots.

  Berlin had several much larger and more well known casinos, but the Golden Talisman catered purely for wealthy patrons and serious gamblers. The minimum stakes were large enough to discourage first-timers and casual players that found themselves inside.

  Two huge guys in dinner jackets were stationed at the far end of the lobby, before the corridor that led to the cashier counters and the casino proper. One used a metal-detecting wand to scan Deák while another checked the contents of his pockets. Victor had expected such a level of security and had left his weapon – an FN Five-seveN handgun – in a bin on the opposite side of the street. With less in his pockets and not draped in jewellery, Victor was past the gorillas in a fraction of the time it took Deák.

  The Hungarian exchanged cash for what looked like about a thousand euros in chips of various denominations and headed straight for the American roulette wheels.

  It took Victor less than a minute to spot the three watchers.

  CHAPTER 4

  They weren’t there for Victor. That was immediately obvious and a welcome surprise. They were waiting for Deák and were as unsophisticated in conducting surveillance on him as he was unknowledgeable in how to counter it.

  The first was positioned by a marble column with a clear view of the entrance corridor and the exchange booths. He was far too ugly and short to be a professional watcher, whatever his level of skill. Anyone with even the remotest level of awareness couldn’t fail to notice him. And with his height-restricted line of sight, even the sparsest crowd could defeat his attempts at observation. He was about thirty, squat and wide with natural strength; a Turk or an Armenian whose face hadn’t looked good even before frequent brawls had flattened his large nose off-centre and given him a prominent scar that divided his left eyebrow. His black hair was thick and curly and his cheeks were red with shaving rash.

  He didn’t own the clothes he was wearing. The top button of the white shirt was undone, but not to be casual, because the collar couldn’t stretch around the circumference of his tree-trunk neck. The jacket of the sharkskin suit was big enough for his shoulders and chest but the cuffs hid those of the shirt beneath and hung almost to the first knuckles of his thumbs. The trousers bunched up at his shoes, which were the only items the correct size. He looked uncomfortable too. Not only because the clothes didn’t fit, but because he’d never worn a suit before in his life.

  He’d stood with the slumped shoulders and hands in pockets of someone bored of waiting, but his back straightened and his shoulders squared when he saw Deák near. As Deák passed him, predictably oblivious to his presence, the watcher turned his head to nod several times. Victor followed the guy’s gaze to where the second watcher stood among the roulette tables.

  He was less ugly than his associate, but probably still had a hard time with the opposite sex. He was much taller than the squat guy, six two or maybe three if he got rid of the slouch, and had a lean but solid frame of about one hundred and ninety pounds. He was young, twenty-four or -five, but had advanced receding hair scraped back with a monstrous quantity of product. The look had probably cost him half a tub but w
ould endure a hurricane. The casino lights bounced off his huge forehead in pools of pure white. His eyes were overlarge and his mouth was half open as he indiscreetly chewed gum. He had a different heritage to the squat guy – a fair-skinned central European, almost certainly a native German. His black suit fitted as it was supposed to, but he seemed almost as uncomfortable wearing it as the squat guy was in the one lent to him. A funeral and wedding suit then, making an uncommon appearance tonight.

  He nodded back to the ugly Turk or Armenian with the flat nose and then his gaze locked and tracked Deák as he crossed the casino floor. It was a large but simple room, and unlike the modern super casino, not intentionally designed as a maze to confuse and disorientate. There was a single bank of slot machines along one wall, present only for the amusement of those grown bored by the lack of attention from their serious gambling dates. The main space was dominated by tables for craps, baccarat, poker and blackjack. There were several roulette wheels, catering for both American and French versions of the game.

  The croupiers and cocktail waitresses wore white and were easy to spot amongst the many players in mostly black evening wear. The mahogany panelling, thick carpet and ceiling frescoes continued in from the entrance corridor and lobby. The room was brightly lit and filled with the quiet noise of cards being turned, balls dropped into spinning wheels, dice rolled, and muted cheers or exclamations of dismay.

  The third watcher was more challenging to spot, but only because he wasn’t on the casino floor when Victor entered. The other two watchers checked their phones and then looked at a man as he emerged out of the door leading to the restrooms. The new guy was older than the others, approximately fifty, with hair that was mostly grey and cut as though time had frozen somewhere in 1989. His beard wasn’t quite as grey as the hair, and it was fastidiously maintained. He was a little fleshy at the waist but moved with the confidence of someone who knew they could handle themselves. Like the tall guy, he was a fair-skinned German and his suit was the correct size, but unlike the others, he was at home in the attire.

  He was more relaxed too, and more focused. The leader. He used a cell phone to type out a message. More instructions, or perhaps simply some reassuring words for the other two to help ease away their nerves. The squat man spent a moment reading it and then slipped his phone away. The tall guy between the roulette tables spent longer absorbing the information, head bowed, his scalp glowing through the slicked thinning hair.

  They barely caused a blip on Victor’s threat radar. None of the three so much as looked his way. Their focus was far too fixed on Deák to notice anything else, significant or not. It would take a concerted effort to get them to notice him. They were far too unsubtle for cops and didn’t display anything approaching the skill level of other professionals. Everything about them said that this was amateur hour; they had the look and manner of low-level criminals, gang enforcers not smart enough to be making big money but picking up plenty of work breaking bones and filling shallow graves. The squat guy and the tall young one were typical muscle, while the fifty-year-old had been them twenty years before but now wore a suit every day and only dirtied his hands when he had to. Seniority through age and experience, not ability. The result was a three-man crew that knew how to fight but had no idea how to make sure they went into that fight with every possible advantage.

  This was nothing to do with Farkas. The crew hadn’t followed Deák here. They had been waiting for him. They had known with absolute certainly he would come to them. If they had that level of inside information they would also know what he was doing during the day. They hadn’t been waiting for him at the airport or at his hotel and they hadn’t followed him around the city because they had no interest in knowing where Farkas would be staying. This was all about Deák. It could be purely business – the inherent danger of the gangster’s lifestyle – or something personal. Whatever the reason, the three-man crew were after Deák’s blood. They didn’t know how to do anything else.

  Victor slid on to a stool at a medium stakes blackjack table where he could watch Deák from a discreet distance and keep track of the crew. They wouldn’t try anything in the middle of a crowded casino floor, not with numerous security personnel around and a multitude of cameras watching, and especially not without weapons. They were here to keep watch on Deák until he left and didn’t have the confidence or know-how, or maybe even patience, to set up surveillance outside.

  The exact reason why Deák was marked for death was unimportant to Victor. He didn’t need to know who had paid three thugs to kill the man, whether enemies here in Berlin or rivals back home in Hungary, but he couldn’t let them see the job through. Adorján Farkas, Deák’s boss and Victor’s target, wouldn’t be so keen to come to Berlin if the scout he sent ahead as an added layer of protection turned up gutted in some back alley.

  Then, Victor might have no option but to attempt the contract where Farkas was most secure and when he would be no doubt even more cautious after the death of his most loyal man. Alternatively, Victor’s employer might cancel the contract. Not exactly a disaster in itself as Victor cared little if the CIA handler achieved his goals, but if those goals were unachievable perhaps Victor’s services would no longer be required. He didn’t know much about his employer, but he knew enough to be considered a liability if his paymaster decided he was of no further use.

  CHAPTER 5

  Deák played roulette with a system. He made notes on a notepad to track numbers and bet exclusively on red, sometimes betting on two or three balls in succession and then sitting out a number of games before rejoining when he felt the time was right. From the sporadic exclamations of joy and the increasingly large pile of chips sitting before him, Deák was beating the odds. Victor watched from his blackjack table and did his best to stop himself counting the cards so as not to win too often. No one noticed a loser in a casino. Everyone noticed a winner.

  The young tall guy with the receding hair played roulette at a nearby lower stakes wheel, but wasn’t having the same kind of success. The squat Turk or Armenian with the flat nose sat at a slot machine but couldn’t manage playing and watching at the same time, so rarely inserted a coin. Both guys visibly relaxed more the longer Deák played, growing comfortable and confident in the routine, knowing they hadn’t been made, and happy to have at least achieved that new feat. The grey-haired leader wandered around the casino floor, playing the occasional game of poker to pass the time and not paying Deák too much attention because his subordinates were doing that for him.

  Victor doubted the crew had an elaborate plan waiting to go into action. They would keep it simple. It was three against one. It was their turf. There was no need to over-think things, assuming they were even capable of over-thought. When Deák left they would follow and move on him as soon as the first chance presented itself, when he was alone and vulnerable, stabbing or shooting him, maybe after delivering a message so he knew why he was about to die. The route back to his hotel would present them with plenty of opportunity. Whether they had guns or knives or both they would be stashed outside in the trunk of a car parked nearby.

  Stopping them killing Deák wouldn’t be too complicated. Stopping them killing Deák without him noticing would be somewhat more challenging. If he felt under threat, he would no doubt report that to Farkas, who could then cancel his trip and put Victor’s position with his handler into jeopardy.

  A little after ten p.m. Deák checked his watch, gathered up the large stacks of Golden Talisman chips and had them exchanged for cash. He looked a couple of thousand euros up. A two hundred per cent return for less than two hundred minutes’ work.

  The local crew were predictable in their response. There was lots of obvious eye contact and nods and messages sent and received as they prepared themselves for what would come next. The tall young guy left while Deák was still exchanging his chips, and Victor pictured him heading for the car, both to get the weapons from the trunk and to sit with the engine idling. The leader with th
e grey beard and grey hair and the squat Turk or Armenian moved closer together and edged nearer to their target, ready to tail him as he left the casino.

  But Deák didn’t leave. He headed for the casino bar.

  The two men didn’t expect that. There was a moment of confusion and indecision after Deák passed them by. The older man motioned for the other to stay with Deák and then set about typing a message to inform the guy outside of the change in circumstances. If he had been alone in his surveillance on Deák, Victor would have remained on the casino floor, knowing Deák had nowhere to go. He didn’t want to get too close to the Hungarian if he could help it. Deák wouldn’t notice, but after his success at the roulette wheel CCTV cameras might be pointing his way and security personnel could be watching too, suspicious of his good fortune, and there was a chance they would pick up on Victor’s interest in him. The squat Turk or Armenian in the ill-fitting suit followed Deák from a distance that said either he didn’t have the same concerns or he didn’t consider them. Victor took a wild guess on the latter. But that was why the man wouldn’t last three months doing what Victor did, while Victor was still alive after ten years in the world’s most dangerous profession, even if his last contract had cost him his freedom.

  He entered the bar a minute later, despite the risk. The crew hadn’t tried anything at the roulette table, but they had been expecting Deák to leave. Now they were improvising. It would be almost as idiotic to try something in the bar or the bar’s restroom should Deák use it, but underestimating a person’s stupidity could be as dangerous as underestimating their intelligence. Jails the world over weren’t exactly overflowing with geniuses.

  A horseshoe-shaped bar dominated the room with a lone female bartender working behind it. Booths lined the wall opposite and the rest of the space was filled with small round tables and chairs cushioned with red velvet. The floor had the same thick carpet as the rest of the casino and polished flooring formed a band that bridged a two-foot-wide gap between the edge of the carpet and the bar.