The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1)

by Macalister Stevens

  Taking endless establishing shots of Viennese architecture, the cameraman was happier than a pig in shit, which just added to Jerome’s irritation. This was a bullshit assignment. The US Vice President justifying playing tourist in the Austrian capital by crowbarring in face time at a summit organised by the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime was not news. Not real news. Seriously, when it came to the US Vice President, who gave a shit about who, what or where? Certainly not Sean Jerome. The West Bank or Bogota or Seoul, that’s where Sean Jerome should be, reporting on important issues, not covering goddamn photo-ops.

  A cascade of explosions shook him from his funk.

  12 years ago

  Nestor picked up the suitcase Galina had borrowed from Doctor Papazov and slung it in the luggage compartment of the dust-caked minibus. Galina was in her seat, smiling down at him. The smile he returned felt wrong on his face. But it was too late now. He turned to face the Albanian, whom he had earlier introduced as his uncle.

  ‘Pretty, pretty, pretty,’ rumbled Besian Beqiri as he shifted his gap-toothed leer from Galina. He clamped a hand on Nestor’s shoulder. ‘Well done.’ Beqiri’s other hand slipped a grubby envelope into a pocket of Nestor’s linen jacket. ‘Your commission.’

  Fingers at Nestor’s side twitched, but he kept his hand away from the envelope. Checking if the agreed amount was inside would be a mistake; Nestor had seen the Albanian’s reaction to a perceived slight once before, and the experience had been as gruesomely educational as it had been cautionary. ‘She sings too,’ Nestor blurted.

  ‘So you said.’ A phlegmy chortling gurgled in Beqiri’s throat. ‘And I look forward to her singing for me a few times before she sings for my customers.’ The Albanian’s chuckling drained as he slid his hand from Nestor’s shoulder up behind Nestor’s head. Rough fingers cupped the back of the young Greek’s skull.

  Nestor swallowed.

  Beqiri said. ‘I wager you would be interested in a duet or two. Yes?’

  Nestor glanced up at Galina. ‘Eh …’

  The Albanian pulled Nestor close and hissed, ‘I insist.’

  12 years later

  She watched the Secret Service agents drag their Vice President away from the sniper fire. It had taken years to reach this moment. Not long now, she thought.

  3. CHOICES

  The Austrian Federal Chancellor’s face filled the screen. Given the circumstances, grim was appropriate, but it wasn’t flattering in close-up. ‘Extremists will never win,’ he began. ‘They may wound us. But the scars we suffer will never cause us to shrink from the pursuit of justice. And we will have justice.’

  Kai Degen listened to the carefully crafted rhetoric for a minute before muting his phone. The news-feed images switched from the Federal Chancellor’s press conference to torn, twisted metal and warped, cracked glass. And we will have justice. No, not by everyone’s measure, Degen thought, but at the very least, he would keep his promise.

  The slim grey folders each contained three photographs: a grainy traffic camera image of a tall figure, back to the lens; a still from TV news footage of wrecked SUVs smoking on the Schottenring section of the Ringstrasse; and a print of an emailed jpeg showing the front page of that morning’s Der Standard being held below the bewildered face of the Vice President of the United States of America.

  Diether Adler (Team Leader) glanced round the briefing room table. Next to him, Matthias Haas (Weapons Specialist) rubbed at phantom bristles on a smooth chin. Opposite Haas, Oktav Buzek (Engineer Specialist) shook his head and shifted uneasily in his chair. And across from Adler, Roland Manz (Communications Specialist) flicked a briefly raised eyebrow at him; Adler nodded.

  The four had talked very little on the forty-five minute drive to Vienna from the Jagdkommando barracks in Wiener Neustadt. Buzek, ever the wannabe bookmaker, had offered good odds they were to be additional security at the Federal Chancellery, but no one had taken him up on the offer. Smart money lay with a different reason being behind their summons to Ballhausplatz: Kai Degen.

  The representative from the Federal Chancellor’s Office stood at a window, gazing down at the legion of foreign and domestic journalists laying siege below. Adler didn’t envy them: Vienna during August was sweltering, and although it was still mid-morning, the temperature outside was already in the low twenties.

  ‘That assemblage will be wilting soon,’ said the Nationalrat smoothster. He turned to his aide. ‘They’re being fractious enough as it is. Please organise regular cool refreshments for the press.’

  As his aide nodded and withdrew, the politico seemed to glide the two or three steps from the window to the table. Leaning between Adler and Haas, he rapped a manicured nail on Adler’s copy of the image of the ruined vehicles. ‘It’s incredible this was accomplished without loss of life,’ he said.

  Was that admiration in his voice?

  Adler decided he was merely picking up on the echoes of the glass-half-full bullshit the Austrian government would have spewed at their apoplectic American counterparts. The slick suit at Adler’s shoulder had neither the training nor the experience to fully appreciate the stunning combination of planning, skill and audacity required to snatch someone from the US Secret Service. And to leave the agents with nothing more serious than a few cuts, scratches and severely bruised pride ... Wow!

  The smoothster had introduced himself as Elias Feiersinger. Like most of his kind, he cloaked his raptor ruthlessness in talk-show-host charm, and he had welcomed them with firm, friendly handshakes, thanking them for attending (as if they had a choice).

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Feiersinger said, ‘I think it’s fair to say it’s been a sweaty ball-sack of a morning.’ Apparently a talk-show-host with a potty mouth. ‘And this butt-crack ...’ Feiersinger held up the traffic camera still from Adler’s folder, ‘just shat all over our relationship with the USA.’

  Adler called on his guard-duty stone-face to avoid laughing: Feiersinger’s attempt at barracks-speak was the vocal equivalent of dad-dancing.

  Feiersinger continued: ‘Both the Federal and Military Police are caught in an operational tug-of-war with the Americans. As you can imagine, some well-toned political muscle is being flexed.’ That last turn-of-phrase fitted the smoothster more than his previous coarse language.

  Holding up the traffic camera image, the politico circled the table, and Adler thought he glimpsed a little of the raptor personality leaking from Feiersinger’s movement.

  ‘I’m told the four of you may be uniquely placed to remove the whiff of faecal matter from our international standing.’ Feiersinger had added an edge to his tone. He wiggled the grainy image of the tall figure. ‘I’m told this individual may be someone you know, that he may be someone who served with you in the Jagdkommando. And I’m told that you are best qualified to bring him in.’ Feiersinger tossed the photograph onto the table. ‘It needs to be done with the minimum of fuss. And it needs to happen quickly.’

  There was no actual evidence the tall figure with his back to the traffic camera was Kai Degen. Police techs had worked out the man’s height: same as Degen’s. But that was it.

  No indisputable photographic proof.

  No eye-witness confirmation.

  No forensics.

  So why was the former Special Forces Vizeleutnant a suspect? Because he knew about abduction.

  Since parting company with the Austrian military, Degen had been involved with a number of companies specialising in Kidnap and Ransom insurance. Those companies listed Degen as a crisis consultant specialising in ransom management, which was corporate lingo for victim retrieval, which, when pressed, they defined as an extraction employing deadly force where necessary.

  ‘Euphemism-wrapped activities put Kai Degen in harm’s way for a fee based on a percentage of an unpaid ransom,’ Feiersinger had said. ‘If I had his talents, the prospect of pocketing a much larger sum might tempt me to switch sides. What do you think? Could Kai Degen be behind the American’s abduction?’

&n
bsp; The four Jagdkommando had said nothing. But the glances between them had betrayed their acceptance of the possibility.

  And now, clad in Kevlar, Haas and Buzek followed Glocks in two-handed grips through the doorway of Degen’s modest Hernals District apartment.

  No one was home. No surprise. No booby traps either.

  ‘I’d have taken us out along with this whole floor,’ said Buzek.

  ‘I’ll let the suits know when they get round to knocking on your door.’ Haas nodded at the splintered doorframe and the still smoking hinges. ‘Minimum of fuss?’

  Buzek shrugged. ‘I’ll tell the police forensics team it’s clear to come up.’

  Waste of time, Haas thought. If Degen didn’t want to be found …

  Matthias Haas couldn’t have known it, but he’d been witness to the change in Kai Degen. It happened on pale, dry earth four thousand kilometres from Vienna.

  Chad was, and had been for some time, a mess: poverty, corruption, ethnic tension, interfering neighbours. Same old shit. But then Sudan’s same-old-shit spilled over the border and the world decided to do something. Not something to put a stop to the same-old-shit, just the usual well-meaning sticking plaster response. In poured humanitarian aid. And the foreign troops to protect it. Hass and Degen were among the fifty Jagdkommando included in the force sent by the European Union, and that deployment would turn out to be Degen’s last.

  The Jagdkommando were in Chad primarily to protect the bulging refugee camps near the Sudan border, but the Austrian Special Forces troops were also tasked with providing security for the melange of politicians and NGO officials who would arrive in Abéché to visit one or more of the dozen refugee camps east of the city.

  ‘Who have we got this time?’ Haas had asked.

  Degen’s reply dripped disapproval. ‘A high-flyer from a giant pharmaceutical.’

  Matthew Harriott had noted a number of celebrities and savvy politicians were expressing—in up to 140 characters—their sorrow and outrage at the plight of the refugees from Darfur. With humanitarian concerns trending :’-( and ahead of an official announcement of a hefty donation :-) Harriott and a small team had made their way to Abéché to look for some emotive photo-ops; Harriott’s VIP treatment came via his authority to distribute large amounts of cash and product for the right causes. Images hadn’t been hard to find, and at one point a member of Harriott’s team had said, ‘This is ... words fail me ... man, this will get us coverage we couldn’t buy.’

  There had been a brief narrowing of Degen’s eyes, but neither he nor Haas had commented. Not their place. Their job was to keep Harriott’s people safe, not to judge them or to educate them or to slap the shit out of them. Though Haas had daydreamed.

  On the way back to Abéché, their small convoy of three Iveco Light Multirole Vehicles (three Jagdkommando and two of Harriott’s team in each LMV) stopped at another photo-op. A battered blue truck, stuck in a wadi, had been stripped of everything useful that could be easily transported. As had the bodies strewn about the churned up mud.

  ‘Your people stay in the vehicles,’ Degen told Harriott, throwing a look that left Harriott’s objection stillborn.

  The drivers and Degen kept Harriott’s people company in the LMVs: partly to enforce Degen’s order, but mostly in case a hasty evac was needed. While three Jagdkommando took up covering positions, Haas and the team’s medic checked the bodies for signs of life. There had been none. Haas reported back to Degen. ‘Looks like aid workers, no security.’

  Degen nodded and ordered a redistribution of Harriott’s people, splitting them between two LMVs. While they headed back to Abéché, the third LMV remained at the wadi with Haas and four other Jagdkommando to wait for a truck with a team of investigators and a supply of bodybags.

  The sun had been set for three hours by the time Haas’s team returned. After grabbing some food, he stretched his legs before turning in. Haas hadn’t been surprised to come across Degen staring into the cloudless sky: recently, that had become Kai’s nocturnal ritual.

  ‘Anything interesting up there?’ Haas asked.

  ‘Lots of extra stars.’

  Haas looked up … beautiful.

  They were quiet for a moment, then Degen said, ‘The aid workers were hit by mercenaries from across the border. Probably Sudanese government funded.’

  ‘Yeah ...’ Haas rubbed at his chin. ‘It wouldn’t take us long to find them. We could ... you know.’

  ‘No. Not in the mandate. Against the rules. It would be wrong to order the team to act as vigilantes.’

  Haas was sure there would be plenty of volunteers, but he said nothing more.

  They stood for another minute or so, silently appreciating the night sky.

  Then Degen sighed, and said, ‘If we were in Vienna right now, because of the street lights, we’d see about two thousand fewer stars.’ Degen dropped his head and stared at the ground. ‘It’s a shame we have to be here to see things more clearly.’

  And that had been it.

  That had been the change.

  ‘Feel free to be theatrical,’ Adler had told Haas and Buzek. Wherever Degen was—no one had really expected it to be at his apartment—word would get to him that someone had blown his door off its hinges. ‘When he finds out it was us, Kai will be in touch,’ Adler had said. ‘Best way to find someone who doesn’t want to be found is to have them find you.’

  Roland Manz had been sceptical. He liked Degen. Respected his skills. But theirs was a second-hand friendship, via Adler, whose team Manz had been part of since promotion had prised Adler from Degen’s team (just prior to the Jagdkommando deployment to Chad). Manz understood the bond Adler and Haas and Buzek shared with Degen, but if Degen was involved in the abduction of the US Vice President, Manz doubted they could rely on what they thought they knew about Degen. Manz had been gratified there was a Plan B.

  ‘I’m Schett,’ said the police investigator, ‘Your babysitter.’

  Feiersinger had used the word liaison, but Manz knew when someone was covering their arse. Having a police officer tag along offered a degree of indemnity for the politico if having a Special Forces team chase around the city after an ex-Jagdkommando became an issue with the press.

  ‘You look like tourists,’ said Schett.

  With uniforms swapped for baggy chinos and loose-fitting casual shirts (covering lightweight ballistic vests and concealing Glocks at their sides), Manz and Adler now stood in an office in the section of Ballhausplatz occupied by the Austrian Federal Police.

  ‘So,’ said Schett, ‘do you need me to show you the sights?’

  Manz bristled. Schett smirked. And Adler pushed a folder into Schett’s chest and said, ‘Lucas Lacroix. Born Montreal. At one time with the Protective Policing Service of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Now a private security freelancer listed as an associate consultant of Kai Degen by a Zurich-based insurance company with a well-funded Kidnap and Ransom division. Your colleagues in immigration say Lacroix is in the country. He has given an address in Vienna. We would like to pay him a visit.’

  ‘Frankly, I’m a little insulted you don’t think I’m involved,’ said Lacroix.

  ‘They are not saying you are not involved,’ said Schett. ‘Just that you are not organ grinder material.’

  Lacroix looked over Adler’s shoulder at Schett. ‘Good to know.’

  ‘We need to speak to Kai to rule him out,’ said Adler.

  Lacroix slid a lopsided smirk at Adler. ‘Sure you do.’

  The Canadian had answered the door of the Landstrasse apartment in sweat-soaked running gear. He’d checked Schett’s ID, eyed Adler and Manz and invited them all in, apologising for his dire need of a shower. The apartment was a typical corporate let: compact open-plan living space; pristine chrome in the kitchen area; decorated throughout in tasteful shades of grey. Adler, Manz and Schett had declined the offer of seats at a small dining table and stood opposite Lacroix, who was perched on a corner of the unmade double bed, sipping wate
r from a plastic bottle.

  Lacroix swept a hand around the room. ‘As you can see, there’s nowhere for anyone to hide here. I had a drink with Kai the day I arrived in Vienna, that was two days ago, but I haven’t seen him since then. And I don’t have a phone number for him. Do you?’

  No, Adler did not. And the Canadian would know that. The K&R insurance business had made Degen cautious, and he used only prepaid mobiles; each call Adler had received from Degen in the last few years had been from a different number.

  ‘So how did you and Degen organise your drink?’

  Adler glanced back sharply at Schett. The police investigator seemed incapable of saying anything that wasn’t mockery-coated. Adler turned back to the Canadian. ‘He,’ Adler made a small flick of his head back at Schett, ‘… is a dick.’

  ‘Hey!’

  Adler ignored Schett. ‘But if you want to be a dick too, I can have him arrange a police interview room where we can continue this conversation.’

  Lacroix shrugged. ‘We arranged to meet up via Facebook.’ He looked at Schett. ‘It’s a thing on the Internet. It’s easy to check.’

  Schett said nothing. Adler asked, ‘And you are in Vienna doing what?’

  ‘Bit of recon for a client. Bruno Durán. He has a collection showing at Vienna Fashion Week next month.’

  Manz frowned. ‘A fashion designer needs your services?’

  ‘The idiot used fur.’ The Canadian mimed shooting himself in the head. ‘And he’s surprised he’s had death threats.’

  Adler presumed that would also be easy enough for Schett to check. ‘How do you know Kai?’ he asked.

  ‘Hmm ...’ Lacroix looked down, sighed, then said, ‘You’ll know I was with the Protective Policing Service in Canada …’ Lacroix glanced up and Adler nodded. ‘One of my last details involved a trip on a train. The wife of our dignitary wanted to experience the Rocky Mountaineer, and the dignitary was important enough for a special trip from Vancouver to Whistler to be arranged. My team were carrying out a walkthrough at the rail station on the night before the trip, getting a feel for the area, and while we were there, there was a fatality nearby. A guy lay down on the tracks. It’s not the kind of thing we could just shrug off and ignore, so we looked into it.