Wald nodded.
Lachkovic pushed up and back. ‘I was led to understand my security personnel were among the best Albania had to offer.’
Wald shrugged. ‘They probably are. Low bar though. Guessing that’s why you wanted to see me.’
Lachkovic’s new view included a dark-suited Albanian—who should have been standing in the hotel corridor—slumped on the sofa at the far end of the suite.
‘He’s alive,’ Wald said. ‘If you’re going to be in Tirana a while longer, I can give you the names of a couple of guys I’d have to kill to be sitting here.’
‘I’d appreciate that. I think.’
‘So ...’ Wald lowered the Glock onto his lap, keeping his forefinger resting on the trigger guard. ‘What can I do for you?’
Lachkovic had assumed he would be allowed to dress before they talked business. Apparently not. So he said, ‘I need someone to supervise the transportation of a number of items. Someone who can guarantee safe delivery.’
The route was straightforward. Drop down from Tirana, cross the Greek border a little over two hours later, continue south-east until joining the E90 and head east, passing through Thessaloniki and continuing on through Alexandroupoli, then into Turkey and the E84, then the E80 to Istanbul, arriving no more than thirteen hours after leaving the Albanian capital. The thirteen hours was important. Dren Jashari didn’t know why. But he did know the word was out that the Varoshi clan had been charged with delivering something of extreme value, and that meant trouble was a possibility. With that in mind, Wald had added a few detours onto lower class roads to add unpredictability to their journey.
Between them, Jashari and Wald were fluent in, or had a reasonable knowledge of a dozen languages, but they had hardly said anything to each other since leaving Tirana. They were now an hour into Greece.
Wald pointed and said. ‘Pull over at this place. Five minute stop.’
Grunting an acknowledgement, Jashari slowed and pulled into the dusty lot of a gas station with attached mini-market. A Greek, his face and clothes equally creased and grubby, appeared and filled their Opel Vivaro.
Their motorcycle escort caught up, and while the three riders, propped against their powerful machines, kept watch over the van, Jashari and Wald made their way to the restroom. On their way back, Wald pointed to his watch then flashed five fingers at the bikers. They were to hold back again.
Jashari had been expecting them to travel with a number of other vehicles, but he accepted the logic of Wald’s strategy: a convoy would attract attention, and the speed and mobility of the motorcycles provided increased options and greater adaptability in the event of an attempted interception.
‘Another stop in two hours,’ Wald said, climbing into the Vivaro to take his turn behind the wheel. ‘Rest.’
Jashari responded with another grunt, the only noise he’d uttered since they’d stopped. He swung into his seat and closed his eyes. No one who knew Jashari would ever describe him as gregarious, but he was being particularly taciturn. And the root of that uncommunicativeness was wariness.
Of all the criminal organisations bound by family ties, the gangs within the Albanian mafia were the groups most accurately described as clans. Unforgiving discipline within the Albanian criminal hierarchy ensured nothing was more important than family and loyalty. In that respect they eclipsed their Italian counterparts. Trust began and ended with blood and marriage.
Jashari had identified the Varoshi clan as a rising crime gang, and reasoning they would offer more opportunities than one of Albania’s powerful Fifteen Families, Jashari had worked diligently to earn the opportunity to marry into the Varoshi family—for the ambitious Albanian gangster, creating and maintaining the illusion of love was a core skill—and he had immersed himself in the ideal of blood and marriage. That meant an instinctive mistrust of outsiders.
Wald was an outsider and a foreigner. And Jashari had been instructed to watch the Austrian and evaluate his skills and trustworthiness. There was a certain irony to that directive originating from the outsider/foreigner Lachkovic. The American had been vouched for by the Varoshi clan’s Sicilian partners, and, to his credit, Lachkovic had shown an Albanian’s caution regarding Wald: the cargo Lachkovic needed to be moved from Tirana to Istanbul wasn’t in the back of the Vivaro. This was merely a test run, the Austrian’s audition. Not that Wald had been made aware of that. And not that any of those facts reduced the risk of someone attempting to relieve them of their (bogus) cargo.
A sharp elbow interrupted Jashari’s micro-nap.
‘Look.’ Wald slowed the Vivaro.
Ahead, parked across the driving lane, was a vehicle bearing the white-with-thin-blue-stripe livery of the Hellenic Police. An officer stood in front of the patrol car, waving down the Vivaro. Behind him, another officer leaned on the driver’s side of a dusty Volkswagen Golf convertible (roof down), talking to the male driver while the female passenger looked on. No other vehicles were in sight.
The Vivaro stopped ten metres from the patrol car. ‘Move into the driver’s seat.’ Wald said, opening his door. ‘Do not leave the van.’
‘They’re just checking that seatbelts are being used,’ said Jashari, climbing out of the van. ‘They do it all the time on this road.’
‘Stay.’ Wald stabbed a forefinger at Jashari, then strode towards the policeman in the middle of the road. Tucked into the back of Wald’s grey jeans, was a Glock.
As he neared the officer, Wald’s right hand eased behind and towards the Glock’s grip. Two metres from the policeman, the Glock was drawn. Wald’s left hand cupped his right. Two shots cracked the still, warm air. The policeman staggered a step backwards, then dropped. The officer next to the Golf reached for his weapon. Too late. Two more shots. The second policeman slumped over the Golf’s bonnet and slid to the tarmac.
The engine of the Golf coughed to life, but Wald raced to the car and pushed the Glock into the side of the driver’s neck. The engine fell silent.
Wald took a step back, swept the Glock between the couple, said something—Jashari couldn’t make out the words—then the couple raised their hands. Wald, keeping the Glock on the car’s occupants, glanced over his shoulder at the fallen officer, then said something to the couple. Both lowered their left hands, then almost immediately raised them again. Between thumb and forefinger, each dangled a handgun by its grip. A single nod to the side from Wald, and the couple leaned forward and let their weapons slide down the Golf’s windshield and clatter onto the bonnet. Wald held out his left hand. The driver lowered his left hand again, then passed something to Wald: a phone. Wald thumbed some numbers, put the phone to his ear, waited ...
In Greek, Wald shouted, ‘Help! Help! He killed two policemen. Help!’ Wald fired two shots into the Golf. The driver slumped. The woman screamed. Two more shots. Silence.
Jashari quickly climbed behind the wheel of the Vivaro. Wald tucked his Glock into the back of his jeans. He used his shirt to wipe the phone, tossed it into the Golf, then scooped up the handguns from the bonnet and walked back to the van.
As Wald reached the Vivaro, the motorcycle escort pulled up. ‘Ignore this,’ Wald ordered. ‘Check in front.’ The bikers nodded and gunned their machines ahead.
Wald swung up, clunked the passenger-side door shut and waved the handguns: both Smith and Wesson Sigmas. ‘Glock wannabes,’ he sneered. Wald stuffed the Sigmas behind his seat. ‘Road safety was not their priority.’ He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at whatever their cargo was. ‘Other things on their minds.’
‘Wald said he was suspicious because the Golf was on the far side of the patrol car. If it had been a genuine police check point, the Golf should have been between us and the cops. Then when he got up close, he spotted the first cop had a SIG Sauer, a P228. Greek cops are issued with Heckler & Kochs.’
Valon Varoshi lifted his Çaj Mali to his lips, filled his nostrils with the aroma of the added cinnamon, took a small mouthful, swallowed, smacked his lips and said, ‘T
hank you Dren.’ He waved Jashari away and turned to Ryan Lachkovic, saying, ‘I can highly recommend this.’ Varoshi took another sip. ‘Mountain Tea has many health benefits. Many anti-oxidants. Good for the immune system.’ He chuckled. ‘The Bulgarians claim it is natural Viagra.’
The door of the hotel suite clicked shut and they were alone. Varoshi put down his tea. ‘I am satisfied.’
‘Good enough for me,’ Lachkovic said.
‘When you have confirmed the date of your client’s arrival in Istanbul, the appropriate arrangements will be made here.’
The date was confirmed. The arrangements were made. The delivery was completed without a hitch. Ryan Lachkovic was pleased. Dierk Wald was paid. Valon Varoshi was intrigued.
Varoshi had been aware of Wald for some time. Wald had made his base in Tirana, but he had made no overtures to the Albanian crime families, and none of the jobs Wald took encroached on any Albanian clan’s turf or interests. Tirana seemed to be merely somewhere to return to after Wald’s engagements abroad were complete. Wald represented no threat to the clans. So they left him alone.
After the Sicilians had requested the Varoshi clan aid Ryan Lachkovic, Varoshi had sourced the item the American needed, but for the transportation of the item, Lachkovic required someone of a calibre and experience Varoshi had been unwilling to divert from clan business. Varoshi had suggested Lachkovic consider using the Austrian.
Lachkovic’s background check on Wald had made interesting reading, throwing up two surprises: the fact Wald had been with the Austrian Military Police; and the events that ended his career. Varoshi had expected a tale of corruption, perhaps involvement in some black market trade, but instead there was a tragic love story.
Wald had been part of the UN force sent to Kosovo. He had met a widowed Albanian named Jehona, who was teaching the Gheg dialect to KFOR personnel. A relationship developed. But it had been cut short. While travelling to Tirana to visit her sister, Jehona had been involved in an accident involving, of all things, a KFOR vehicle.
Following disciplinary action related to an assault on the driver of the KFOR vehicle, Wald and the Austrian military had parted company. Wald had disappeared for a short time, then surfaced in Tirana as an independent contractor providing security to officials from an Austrian banking group while they negotiated the takeover of an Albanian bank. While in Tirana, Wald had contacted Jehona’s sister, Donieta. Shortly after that, Donieta had emigrated, her move to North America funded by Wald.
When the bankers returned to Vienna, Wald had stayed on in Tirana. The Austrian had decided to extend his portfolio beyond personal protection jobs by hiring out the skills he had picked up in the military to projects requiring a moral flexibility. And those projects involved Wald making frequent business trips.
Like many Albanian criminal gangs, the Varoshi clan had developed close links with Italian crime families, particularly following a crackdown on mafia operations by Italian authorities. This had resulted in the Sicilians franchising a number of drug and prostitution operations along the Adriatic coast to Albanian clans. That apart, the Albanians kept other ethnic groups at arms length. But Valon Varoshi wondered if Wald’s skills warranted affording that policy a little elasticity.
18. SERVICES RENDERED
9 years, 10 months ago
The charming, stylish main square of Bratislava’s old town had been split into two triangular areas by the diagonal channel carved out by two lines of utilitarian metal barriers. On podiums either side of the channel, skimpily dressed young women hip-swayed and pelvis-pumped as they twirled flaming balls on the end of ropes, which gave the square the appearance of an outdoor circus-cum-lap-dancing club. The square was the finishing line of a late-evening race through the city, and, with the lead runners reported to be just a few minutes away, the volume of the crowd’s expectant chatter was increasing. The evening’s experience depended on which side of the cold grey metal the spectators occupied. In one triangle, locals and curious tourists queued at wooden stalls for beer and richmans, while across the barriers, the significantly less crowded VIPs were brought wine, cocktails and canapés at their tables.
From his position overlooking the square, Dren Jashari viewed the milieu through binoculars. He stopped scanning when he found Wald. The Austrian was studying the mayonnaise-coated ham, cheese and cabbage stuffed into the bread roll in his hand. He took a bite, grimaced and dropped the richman in a nearby bin.
Across the square, the flag of the Greek embassy hung limply in the still evening air. Below the embassy, in the area of the square cordoned off for VIPs, sat Luther Falck, chatting and laughing with assorted companions. Wald nodded towards Jashari’s position: he was going in. As Wald leapt over the closest barrier, Jashari put down the binoculars and switched on the laser sight attached to his Dragunov sniper rifle.
Based in Vienna, with operational hubs in Mallorca and Rotterdam, Luther Falck was one of European crime’s rising players. He eschewed the bound-by-kinship archetype of the Albanian clans and the Italian families, preferring a leaner model for his criminal organisation: a tight core of permanent members, with a large pool of freelance specialists brought in for specific assignments.
Falck favoured Entrepreneurial Crime, which included the likes of industrial espionage and product counterfeiting, and his activities deliberately smudged the lines between his legal and illegal portfolios. This evening was an example of this blurring: his role as a co-sponsor of the race in Bratislava had been a by-product of a deal involving bogus sports products. As the self-styled Österreich Oligarch, he saw himself as a corporate raider of the underworld, someone who channelled Gordon Gekko more than Tony Soprano. That’s not to say Falck didn’t have ambitions to increase his turnover from the traditional big four—drug trafficking, money laundering, counterfeit cash, the black market—however, he wasn’t quite a major player in those areas. Not yet. But he had plans. His operations had recently expanded into the basest of markets, human trafficking.
And that had drawn the attention of the Albanians. In particular, Valon Varoshi felt his toes were being stepped on.
Falck noticed athletic movement; someone had vaulted the far barrier and was walking across the pathway cleared for the runners. The man was tall and he moved like a predator. Before race marshals had time to fire a frown or frantic wave at the man, he easily leapt over the second barricade and strode towards Falck.
As two of Falck’s bodyguards began to rise from their chairs, the man pointed a finger at Falck’s chest. ‘My calling card.’
Falck’s face paled as he spotted the dot of bright red light.
‘You could do with boosting your peripheral security.’ The tall predator smiled. It was unnervingly congenial. ‘May I have a word with you?’
Falck forced himself not to squirm, pulled his eyes from the laser dot, hissed his bodyguards aside and glared at one of his entourage to give up his seat.
The confident bastard sat and helped himself to a beef tataki roll from the plate in front of Falck. ‘You don’t mind do you?’ he asked. ‘Tension makes me peckish. Must be the excitement of the race.’ He looked up at the scowling lieutenant who had given up his seat. ‘Are you tense? You look tense.’ He nodded to the plate of snacks. ‘You want a piece?’
The thin-faced lieutenant’s nostrils flared at the marginally subtle challenge.
‘The runners are about to reach the finishing line,’ said Falck, recovering his composure, ‘so, if you’ve quite finished goading Tomas, could you move directly to your business.’
‘Not my business.’ The fucker licked his fingers. ‘The Varoshi clan’s business. We would appreciate it if you got out of the human trafficking business, particularly in the Balkans.’
‘And if I don’t?’ Falck punctuated his query with a sneer.
Varoshi’s man stood. ‘Then you had better get Keanu’d.’
‘What the fuck does that mean?’ spat one of Falck’s lieutenants.
A grin. ‘It means you
’re going to need guns, lots of guns.’ A wink at Falck, and Varoshi’s messenger disappeared into the cheering throng.
9 years, 9 months ago
Cologne wasn’t one of those cities that never slept, but it liked to stay up late. So the chances were always high that someone would come round the corner at the wrong time. It turned out to be two someones: a squiffy couple holding each other up in that stumbling, giggling-at-anything-and-nothing, post-2am loved-up-ness that frequently climaxed not in tearing off each others clothes for passionate, athletic sex, but in someone hugging the toilet for a while before waking up on a chilly bathroom floor.
Looking up from cold, damp cobbles, Dren Jashari witnessed the couple sober up instantly as Wald side-stepped to avoid a thrusting combat knife. The wiry assailant attempted to recover from his clumsy lunge, but Wald was too quick. He snapped the skinny thug’s neck and pushed the body at the huge mass of the second attacker moving towards him. The hulk-thug let his partner bounce off his solid gut, took another few steps and swung.
Wald ducked under the thick arm and plunged skinny-thug’s knife into the side of the massive body as it passed by. Seemingly unaware of the protruding blade, hulk-thug turned surprising quickly and swung again.
Like some lethal dance move, Wald dropped backwards, stopped his fall with his left hand and kicked with his right leg. Foot connected with knee. A cracking pop segued into a shriek of pain and panic, and the giant hit the ground.
Wald rolled onto his feet and pulled the knife from the writhing bulk. Four stabs to the back of the thick neck quickly returned silence to the dark side street.
The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1) Page 11
