No. It was smarter to bide his time, wait for a clear opportunity and, in the meantime, stay healthy.
The old woman hadn’t been as difficult, or as deaf, as Trommler had feared. In fact she was eager to help. And chat. ‘My name is Elisabeth Pichler, but my grandchildren call me Oma Sissi,’ she had immediately volunteered. ‘I have eight grandchildren, all darlings. Except my youngest boy’s son. Horror. Three years ago he sneaked up to the loft to play at running away from home. Strange child. The brat lit a fire. Luckily he didn’t get many flames from the damp twigs he gathered in the park. The little wretch was coughing for hours.’ Frau Pichler had briefly chuckled to herself; but Trommler had missed that narrow window. There had been two more family stories before Trommler had been invited inside, and Frau Pichler had kept talking all through Trommler’s sham measuring. During the seamless segueing of three more anecdotes, Trommler had edged back to the front door, and then Frau Pichler had offered to show Trommler the loft: ‘If you’re going to do a job, do it properly.’
Trommler had hoped the climb to the top floor would result in some respite from Frau Pichler’s commentary. It did not. The old dear needed the help of a walking stick, but there was little wrong with her lungs. At least she wasn’t in a band.
‘The loft doesn’t get used now, not since everyone got washing machines, but years ago we had a washing rota. My wash day was Wednesday. Wednesday morning. And my drying time was from midday on Wednesday until midday on Thursday. Of course we only needed to leave washing to dry overnight during the winter months, in the summer our clothes dried in a few hours. It gets very warm up there when the sun is shining, ah, here we are.’
They rounded a corner and Frau Pichler shook her walking stick at a plain white door at the end of the hallway. Screwed to the door was a thin black plaque; in plain white capitals was the word WASCHKÜCHE.
‘You’ll find this interesting, an insight into how life used to be for women before they had lasers instead of measuring tapes.’ Frau Pichler shot a disapproving squint at Trommler’s bag.
Lucky she didn’t know there was an unladylike semi-automatic and a police radio in there too, thought Trommler.
‘On the other side of this door is the room where we washed all our clothes and sheets by hand. We warmed the water in large cauldrons, they’re still there, you’ll see them, and then we would take the washing up the stairs to the loft to dry. The washing lines and the pegs are still up there, gathering dust. Oh. That’s odd.’
Frau Pichler rattled the key in the Waschküche door’s lock. ‘The key won’t turn,’ she said, her tone instantly tetchy.
‘Would you like me to try?’ Trommler offered.
Frau Pichler grumbled something unintelligible, then stepped back, leaving the key in the lock. Trommler twisted the key. No movement. She applied more pressure. The key refused to budge. Trommler pulled out the key, studied it, then bent to look at the lock. She said, ‘Frau Pichler, this looks like a new lock. I don’t think this key fits it.’
‘A new lock?’ snapped Frau Pichler. ‘But this is a communal area. Every resident should have access to it. If the lock has been changed I should have a key for it.’
Trommler gestured towards a door a little way down the hallway. ‘Perhaps the occupants of this apartment have access to the loft, or know why the lock has been changed.’
Frau Pichler scowled. ‘No one lives there. It’s been empty for at least a year.’
Empty? Trommler looked around. And frowned. ‘We didn’t pass any other doors on this floor. Is that the only apartment on this floor?’
‘Of course. I thought you said you worked for the management company.’
Trommler turned towards the stairs and muttered, ‘What about the man with the pads over his eyes?’ The question hadn’t been for Frau Pichler, and Trommler didn’t register whatever the old woman’s response was. Instead she reached into her bag and pulled out her radio.
Degen’s attention switched from the tablet showing the feed from the pinhole-camera outside the Waschküche to his phone. The finger he’d held over the Send icon stabbed the screen: Pursuit imminent. Dom has eyes on street. He will advise you direct.
Degen switched to Contacts. Scrolled. Selected. Dialled. Waited. Gave instructions.
Gunther Rauffenburg exploded out of the unmarked van, quickly scanning the south side of the Burggasse.
Nothing.
Kurt Wangermann threw open the driver’s door and stepped onto the road without taking his eyes from the north side. ‘Anything?’ he called.
‘No,’ said Rauffenburg. ‘Go.’
They sprinted in opposite directions.
Rauffenburg skidded to a halt at a side street, which ran down to another main road. Faces, backs of heads, he checked each person on the street. Nothing. He flashed ID at an approaching middle-aged couple. ‘Did you pass two men assisting a blind man?’
The male gaped, as though confused by the question.
‘Yes.’ The female turned to point. ‘They turned left—’
Rauffenburg was already racing down the hill.
23. DECISIONS
Special Agent in Charge Molly Wells had managed to fit in almost five hours sleep, and she’d woken feeling refreshed. But now, almost three hours later, she began to doubt she’d had any rest at all, and she’d lost count of how many times her coffee mug had been refilled. While she’d slept, Washington had kept up its steady stream of intelligence, mostly generated by other agencies, and on her arrival back at the embassy, there had been little else for her to do but read reports while she waited for the Austrian police to carry out their low profile door-to-door.
Washington had been keen on the door-to-door, but the locals had resisted, arguing it would be an ineffective use of resources. However a phone call from the White House had been the beginning of a domino effect of nudges, back-scratching and barely concealed threats that resulted in a small army of Federal police being drafted in from Graz, Klagenfurt, Linz and Sankt Pölten. They filled the gaps created by dressing Viennese officers in civilian clothes, arming them with clipboards and assorted plausible pretexts and sending them to knock on doors in the hope of flushing out the kidnappers, or at least uncovering a clue to their whereabouts.
‘If nothing else, we’ll know where they’re not,’ Wells had said to the openly unconvinced liaison from the Federal Police. Of course it was a weak argument, but she was used to wading through bullshit, and she had no problem shovelling it if that’s what DC wanted. She was quite happy making a career out of never breathing through her nose.
Wells alt-tabbed to another file: the latest serving of Alejandro Quintero related analysis from the DEA. For analysis, read speculation, she thought.
Special Agent Kang appeared at the office door, looking maddeningly fresh. ‘We’ve caught a break.’ He grinned. ‘Local police may have spotted the VP being moved.’
Klara Trommler had called Rauffenburg with her suspicions and described the three men she’d seen on the stairs. She’d then identified herself as a police officer to Frau Pichler and sent the old woman down to her apartment. As Frau Pichler scurried away, Trommler had reported to her superior and been ordered to take up a safe position where she could monitor the doors to the Waschküche and the (unoccupied) apartment on the same floor and wait for support from EKO Cobra.
With teams based across the country, the Einsatzkommando Cobra could have a counter-terrorism unit on site in any part of Austria within an hour. Following the abduction of the American Vice President, several units had been deployed in Vienna to back up WEGA, the city’s own tactical team. The EKO Cobra specialists had arrived at the apartment building within five minutes, and Trommler had been sent to the ground floor to be debriefed. EKO Cobra quickly reported that the apartment, the Waschküche and the loft area were all clear and safe to enter, and they withdrew to allow the police to examine the areas. Trommler had been assigned to assist the team of investigators. She wasn’t sure if her inclusion w
as a reward for her earlier work, or a solution to a manpower issue. But she didn’t care. And she allowed herself a small grin as she climbed the wooden stairs from the Waschküche to the loft.
The last stair creaked and, although she knew she didn’t need to, Trommler couldn’t help ducking a little as she stepped up into the loft area. The roof sloped down to the floor on either side of her, but the middle section offered ample headroom, and there was plenty of space to move around. The loft was empty, except for Frau Pichler’s clothes lines, which had been taken down and wound into loose loops on the floor, pegs still attached.
Trommler heard the step behind her creak and groan a couple of times. Two investigators appeared beside her, one on each flank. Rudhart, the senior officer said, ‘There’s a fair amount for Forensics to check in the apartment below. What have we got here?’
‘Not much,’ said Trommler, a little deflated. The most interesting thing she could see was an ancient Bakelite switch screwed to a wooden post. Cabling from the switch ran up the post and along wooden beams to the basic fittings of evenly-spaced dangling bare light bulbs. The bulbs were lit, but they were redundant. Bright sunshine poured through four windows positioned between the sloping rafters on the left. Trommler could make out the undersides of the roof tiles, and she could see thick pipes running down to the floor then into a dark corner the sunlight couldn’t reach, plus a row of ancient fuse boxes set in a narrow concrete support wall in the centre of the loft. Nothing out of the ordinary. Why change the lock? There had to be something up here, Trommler thought.
The investigators moved forward, waving flashlight beams into the shadows, running latex-gloved hands along the tops of beams, checking behind supporting walls, opening the squeaking metal doors of the fuse boxes, prodding at floorboards.
Trommler watched them, feeling surplus. This was just a pat on the head, a small treat before she returned to her usual uniform-clad duties. She had nothing to contribute.
She glanced out of one of the windows. Rooftops stretched out towards the spire of the cathedral, and beyond that she could make out the Millennium Tower. Great view, she thought …
She turned.
The opposite section of roof also had windows fitted between rafters, but black fabric had been stapled over the frames, blocking out the sunlight. Why?
Trommler strode to the nearest window, which, like all the others, was hinged at the top. She pushed the bottom of the window with one hand. It barely moved. She heaved with both hands, tightening her stomach muscles to help her support the weight as the awning window swung out and up. Trommler imagined she looked like a weightlifter caught mid-jerk.
‘Need some help?’ Rudhart leaned in, grabbed the metal stay dangling from the window and slotted the end hole over the peg at the bottom of the frame.
Trommler felt the stay take the weight. ‘Thanks.’ She let go and hunched down to peer under the blacked-out glass. The building across the street had a roof terrace.
There was a thunking-clunk to the side; Trommler turned to see Rudhart give her a small wave from the next window. ‘What’s so interesting?’ he asked.
Trommler pointed at the terrace opposite. ‘The people in that building have a picnic table, chairs and a chimenea. My guess is the terrace is used often. I’d say these windows were blacked out so the neighbours wouldn’t see whatever was going on up here at night.’
Behind Trommler, the other investigator—his name was Schett—said, ‘But there’s nothing up here.’ Trommler bristled at the man’s dismissive tone.
Trommler and Rudhart ducked back inside. She watched Rudhart give the loft a 360 degree look. He walked to the door leading down to the Waschküche, did another 360. ‘Maybe it’s the layout,’ he said.
Trommler glanced at Schett; he looked as clueless as she felt.
‘There are old apartment buildings like this all over the city,’ Rudhart said. ‘So there are other lofts much like this one, maybe even identical. Could be that’s what makes this place significant.’
Giving the Federal Chancellor good news made a welcome change: ‘Investigator Rauffenburg confirmed sighting three men matching the description given by Inspektor Trommler. They were in a red Volkswagen Sharan, that’s a fairly large people-carrier. It was driven by a woman. The vehicle sped off before Investigator Rauffenburg could take any action, but he did see the registration number. Details were quickly passed to all relevant departments. Within twenty minutes a police helicopter spotted the vehicle, stationary outside the entrance to an apartment block in the Meidling District. The area within a kilometre radius has been cordoned off. A forensics team is en route to examine the vehicle, and a WEGA tactical team is preparing to start a sweep of the apartment block. If the building is clear, the search will extend to the cordoned off area.’
Shrill, relentless dringing ripped Laila Porter from a dream. She hated that ringtone. ‘No can do honey,’ Xavier had said when she’d asked him to change it. ‘I’m an Executive Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. I can’t have Crayzee Calypso, Ra-Ra-Rumba, Show-Bert, or Tweetlee-Dee going off in my pocket. I need my phone to sound like a phone.’
The trouble was it had just sounded like a phone fifty fricking minutes after it had last sounded like a phone. Laila rolled onto her back. Xavier was sitting up, holding that darn phone to his ear. What in tarnation had happened now? She stared at the ceiling and listened to Xavier’s end of the conversation.
‘Codeword verification? Uh-huh, okay ... yes, that’s my understanding … that would be my advice … I know I don’t need to, but I will … believe me I’m well aware of how much sleep I’ve had, it’ll just have to do.’
Laila sat up and slid out of bed.
‘Hold on a minute.’ Xavier pushed his phone into the quilt. ‘Where are you going honey?’
‘To make you coffee.’ She opened the bedroom door, then glanced over her shoulder. ‘You are going to J Edgar, aren’t you?’
Xavier nodded. ‘Sorry, bad guys being bad guys.’
Laila smiled. ‘I just wish they’d wait until after breakfast.’
‘I’ll be sure to have a stern chat with them about that when we catch them.’
Special Agent in Charge Molly Wells relaxed her white-knuckle grip on the handset, but kept it pressed to her ear. She glanced at the message on her monitor:
Withdraw immediately. Hostage dies unless police presence retreats by at least 2000 metres. Codeword: Schrödinger.
Washington had confirmed the codeword as genuine and forwarded the message from the kidnappers to Wells, along with a brief communication:
Austrian authorities willing to withdraw tactical units. Written confirmation required. Provisional written confirmation given, contingent on on-site verbal green light.
Washington wanted the locals to withdraw their counter-terrorism SWAT team, but they wanted the responsibility on her shoulders. Bastards.
‘Tell them to pull back,’ she said.
Hauptmann Joseph Vogl opened his mouth to give the order to withdraw. But instead he said, ‘Where did they come from?’
The rest of the WEGA command vehicle had no answer. They just watched dumbly as a female, holding a microphone, and a male, hefting a video camera, ran towards the apartment building’s entrance. The woman stabbed at the entry pad, and both disappeared into the building.
‘Timo! Get those idiots out of there. Now!’
Oberleutnant Timo Stoger immediately leapt up from his position behind the bulky recycling bins across the street from the apartment block. Sprinting towards the apartment’s entrance, he shouted, ‘Dorfmeister, Bloch, with me.’
As Stoger reached the red Sharan, he heard the splintering detonation of glass above him. Instinct threw Stoger to the ground. Training rolled him onto his back, his Steyr AUG assault rifle aiming upwards. Through a shower of glass shards, a large blur smashed into the Sharan’s roof. Stoger blinked as thumbnail-sized glass slivers pinged off his helmet visor. An odd shape floppe
d over the side of the wrecked MUV. An arm. It was bent the wrong way. A pair of sunglasses smacked onto the road, snapping in two: one part skittered under the vehicle, the other bounced off Stoger’s boot.
He pushed himself onto his feet and gaped at the body spread-eagled on the Sharan’s cratered roof. The corpse was male. Its eyes were covered by red-flecked white pads.
24. DECEPTION
The body squished into the people-carrier roof for the fifth time. Gruesome repetition didn’t help; Feiersinger just couldn’t accept the scene as being real. He clicked replay, thankful there was no sound.
As flesh and bone ruptured and cracked silently, Feiersinger realised he’d been operating in the abstract: the Vice President’s abduction had registered as just the latest challenge to manage; a political inconvenience to contain, control and, ultimately, spin. He hadn’t thought of the kidnapped American as a person.
‘This footage, where did it ...?’ Feiersinger left the question incomplete, not really sure he needed to know the answer.
‘Filmed on a mobile phone,’ said his aide. ‘From inside the apartment block, uploaded onto the internet within minutes. It’s gone viral. The news channels are advising viewer caution but they virtually have it on a loop.’
Feiersinger’s aide’s assistant burst into the room. Wide-eyed, she semi-shouted, ‘It’s not him!’
Tobias Häussler tugged at the restraints around the Vice President’s wrists and ankles. Secure. He placed the headphones over the VP’s ears, reached over and hit the Play button on the mp3 player strapped to the back of the armchair. Häussler had loaded a fresh audiobook: Robert Louis Stevenson’s tale of David Balfour and Allan Breck Stewart.
The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1) Page 15
