The Vice President snorted a sour half-laugh, spluttering, ‘Very funny.’
Häussler smiled and patted the Vice President’s shoulder on his way to his own chair. Not too long now, he thought. They were nearing the endgame.
The team tasked with interviewing the residents of the apartment block included Rauffenburg and Wangermann.
‘Sigmund Florian Leopold Pfeifenberger, but call me Florian. I’m an artist.’ The artist smiled. Vacuously.
Rauffenburg glanced at the jumble of artwork around the open-plan space. ‘Yes, I can see that,’ he said, noting down the artist’s full name in his pad.
Wangermann was taking a closer took at the melange of styles.
‘It’s a series of self portraits,’ said the artist, moving to stand a little too close to Wangermann, ‘I call it My Many Faces.’ He waved around the apartment, his hand fluttering like a large, clumsy butterfly at the paintings, sculptures and collages.
Wangermann stared at a multicoloured face made from rolled up Monopoly money stuck onto an Austrian-edition board. He liked the simplicity of the street-name blocks acting as a frame, but apart from that, he thought it was shit. But better than the rest of the poorly executed, derivative crap on display. ‘Interesting,’ he said.
‘Interesting! Is that a polite way of saying you don’t like it?’
Wangermann turned to the now pouting artist, attempting to form some positive thoughts about the work. ‘Um …’ He had nothing.
The artist flounced to a large armchair covered by a paint-splattered throw. He spun melodramatically and huffily dropped into the chair, crossing his arms and legs simultaneously. ‘How may I help you?’ he spat.
The apartment door slammed behind them.
‘You couldn’t think of one nice thing to say?’
Wangermann shrugged. ‘How would you like it if someone said they were making Marillenknödel, but instead of apricots they used chickpeas?’
Rauffenburg grimaced. ‘That’s disgusting. Why would anyone ruin a good dumpling by doing that?’
‘Exactly.’
Apparently satisfied he’d made his point, Wangermann strode to the next apartment. Rauffenburg followed, frowning at the idea of chickpea dumplings.
Leaning against the door, Kai Degen peered through the peephole. He heard a muffled reference to dumplings, then the two police officers moved out of sight.
Degen turned and took in the art-filled apartment. He tipped his head to one side, then straightened, stepped forward, back again. Nothing helped. Florian really was quite talentless.
The artist had been given a break from his usual Lächelnkellner assignments; he was on a special two-day dining gig (no being rude and no walk-outs required) and he would be breakfasting on coffee and pastries in the café at the top of Leiner on Mariahilfer Strasse, with instructions to stay in the furniture store until midday. He would then move on to a restaurant/bar on nearby Stiftgasse for one of their extremely generously portioned meals for lunch before travelling to the other side of the Danube to check in for a night at an hotel opposite the United Nations building. By the time Florian returned home—to discover the apartment three floors above and the pavement three floors below were crime scenes—the police would have moved onto a different aspect of their investigation. The police would have no reason to re-interview Florian. And Florian wouldn’t think of approaching the police, not with his little circle of associates having such a bohemian attitude to Marijuana.
Degen pulled out a phone, checked the time and sent a pre-typed text to Dominik: Time to go. Pack up your stuff. Leave the place tidy. A cleaner would ensure all traces of Dominik would be gone before the young woman who lived in the apartment returned from her two week holiday (the trip she had won in the prize draw that she didn’t remember entering), but that was no reason for Dominik to be let off from taking responsibility for his mess. Degen had seen some of the young Pole’s previous living spaces.
Satisfied that his adaptation of the plan had played out acceptably, Degen decided to rest for half an hour before he slipped out of the building. Dropping the body on the street had originally been scheduled for a few hours later, and bringing that segment of the plan forward would shake things up stateside, which meant there might be no time for a break later. He sunk into the throw-covered armchair, and as he closed his eyes, Degen made a mental note: find Florian somewhere that specialised in salads; he would be a useless double if he got fat.
Forensics techs circled the MUV. They had taken their photographs, and now they had to figure out the best way to remove the corpse from the Sharan’s crumpled roof without contaminating whatever evidence there was to be found on, in and around the vehicle.
Timo Stoger looked on, unsure of how he should feel about the body not being the Vice President. His team had completed a search of the building, and having found no sign of the VP, or any obvious kidnapper candidates, they had left the residents to be quizzed by inspektors. Bar being debriefed, Stoger’s part was over.
Over at the Sharan, one tech frowned, said something to a colleague, who raised a latex-gloved hand to shade his eyes as he looked towards the morning sun, then lowered his hand to touch the Sharan’s bonnet. Stoger took a couple of steps towards the techs to hear what was being said.
‘I thought this was the vehicle the kidnappers used.’
‘That’s what I was told.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Stoger asked.
‘This side of the building has been in shade all morning,’ the tech said, pointing at the Sharan’s bonnet. ‘The vehicle’s surface is cool. All of it. If it had been driven in the last hour, the bonnet would be warmer.’
25. DISCLOSURE
The Austrian police liaison stood in the corner of the office, phone to his ear, nodding silently. Gibson Ellis sat across from Molly Wells, studying his shoes.
The liaison stepped out of the corner, pocketing his phone. ‘The body has been identified,’ he said.
Ellis tore his gaze away from his footwear.
‘Özgür Yilmaz. Turkish. A doctor. A surgeon in fact. A transplant specialist. Police in Istanbul have confirmed he was reported missing a week ago while vacationing in Fethiye. It appears he was being held prisoner in the Meidling District apartment he was thrown from. The apartment was rented six months ago to a Bulgarian woman, Galina Petrova Draganova. Police are attempting to locate her whereabouts.’
The liaison paused; Wells knew bad news was coming.
‘In addition,’ the liaison said, ‘the camera crew … they have both disappeared. Their equipment was found in a stairwell. Federal Police have established that the camera and microphone were stolen from an ORF news crew around the time Inspektor, um, Officer Trommler raised the alarm about the three men in the Burgasse apartment. We must assume the man and woman seen entering the Meidling District building were part of the kidnap gang.’
Wells wondered what the German was for clusterfuck.
The liaison glanced at Ellis, then back to Wells’s glare and said, ‘Also, it has been established the vehicle Doctor Yilmaz plunged into was not the same red Volkswagen Sharan spotted by Investigator Rauffenburg. Identical licence plates, but it appears the Sharan at the crime scene has been there for at least twenty-four hours. We must conclude the Vice President’s kidnappers wanted to draw us to that apartment building.’
Wells dropped her head into cupped hands. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, but a montage of images flickered in front of her anyway: the three men on the stairs taking their time, ensuring they were seen; the three of them climbing into a red VW Sharan; the driver waiting, allowing the police detective just enough time to note the plates; that Sharan being parked somewhere undercover—a private garage maybe—while a police helicopter swooped over its twin; the kidnappers waiting for the tactical teams to show up at the building where the second Sharan had been sitting for more than a day; the withdraw-or-else warning being sent shortly before two of the gang, posing as a camera crew, drew the SWAT
personnel forward, thereby creating (for many of the millions of consumers of broadcast and online news sources) a plausible cause-and-effect reason to throw someone out a sixth storey window.
‘We got played.’ Wells opened her eyes and lifted her head. ‘They wanted us to see that man die,’ she said, bitterly. ‘A demonstration. To show us they have the will to kill the Vice President if their demands aren’t met.’
Werner Fuchs sealed the black plastic bag by tying its handles in a knot. Inside were the key and fob for the red Volkswagen Sharan and a pair of white eye-pad dressings. Fuchs had felt a stab of vulnerability when Leif Vikström had first taped the pads over his eyes, but he had quickly shaken it off. After all, Fuchs, Vikström and Zawadzki were a team. At least for a little longer.
Following the abduction of the US Vice President, the three had made their separate ways to the address they’d been given by Dierk Wald. They had keys for a top floor apartment and the loft above, which was near identical in size and layout to the loft the US Vice President was being held in by a different cell. Shortly after their recruitment by De Witte, Wald had come to Fuchs, Vikström and Zawadzki with a new deal—double their fee for a double-cross—and their sub-cell would soon take charge of the American.
Wald had called each of them to inform them of Rikki De Witte’s shooting: ‘Part of the original Coalition plan. It has no impact on our schedule.’
Fuchs had worked with De Witte on five previous contracts. De Witte had been a skilled and charismatic leader. But that didn’t mean Fuchs felt bound by any fealty to the Dutchman. Vikström and Zawadzki shared that view. As independent contractors, their loyalty was to their pockets. The news that De Witte had been killed on the orders of their faceless employer(s) made their own double-cross even easier to rationalise.
Kolinkar Øster’s arrest and subsequent death during a rescue attempt had caused them more concern: Was it connected? Had Øster been sloppy? Or unlucky? Or had he been set up? The effort to free Øster cast doubt on that last scenario. Of course it could be it wasn’t a rescue attempt at all, and Øster’s death was in fact the desired outcome, but if so, why go about it the way they had? It would have been simpler to deploy one man on a roof with a rocket-propelled grenade: game over.
That guarded speculation apart, they had rested during the day, taking turns on watch, and then after dark they had gone through a dry run in the loft.
The covert door-to-door by the police had been a blip, and they had been mystified by the blind man charade, but they had followed their instructions and their evacuation of the apartment had gone smoothly.
The female driver who’d picked them up had instructed them to stay put for an hour and had given them directions to a second apartment, where they would find replacements for the equipment they’d hidden under floorboards in the last apartment. Then she’d tossed them a pack of cards and blown them a kiss goodbye. Fuchs had been disappointed that she’d left, but he’d enjoyed watching her rear as she’d slinked off.
The three mercenaries exited the underground car park, having left the Sharan in a corner bay. Fuchs was happy to be stretching his legs. Zawadzki pointed to a waste bin. Fuchs nodded and lobbed the bag. The trajectory was perfect; the bag looped through the air and clanked as it hit the bottom of the bin. Fuchs glanced at the map the driver had left. He got his bearings and led the way.
The liaison stepped into the corridor—he had another phone call to make, this one requiring privacy—and Gibson Ellis slowly and deliberately closed the office door. He stood for a moment, ran fingers through his hair, then turned to face Molly Wells. He said, ‘This is going to sound crazy.’
Wells noted there was a different tone to Ellis’s voice. He seemed to have shrugged off his self-pitying languor. About time. Wells gestured to the chair on the other side of her (formerly his) desk.
Ellis sat. ‘I don’t think this is a real kidnapping,’ he said evenly.
Wells hadn’t been expecting that. She offered a non-committal, ‘Uh-huh?’
Ellis said, ‘I think the Vice President is collateral damage in something else.’ He paused, then asked, ‘How do you make sense of what happened earlier this morning?’
It took a moment for Wells to decide Ellis hadn’t been asking a rhetorical question. They’d just been through this, but she decided to indulge him—at least he’d stopped being so slappably mopey—and she said, ‘The kidnappers lured the police to the building where they were holding a different kidnap victim, and they threw him out a window to make a point, to send a message: look what we just did, pay up or the VP dies.’
‘Okay,’ said Ellis, ‘let’s consider these kidnappers. They’re very smart, highly organised, incredibly well trained. So far the only real setback they’ve had is losing two men when they failed to rescue the Danish merc.’ Ellis wasn’t quite in the same loop as Wells, but he’d made the need-to-know list regarding Kolinkar Øster’s status: recovering from his injuries in the middle of a Jagdkommando garrison.
Wells opted for a quip. ‘You starting a fan club?’
Ellis didn’t laugh. Or smile. Or blink.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Tell me what’s on your mind.’
Ellis said, ‘Does the US government make deals with extortionists, terrorists, or kidnappers?’
‘Officially, no. In practice …’ Wells shrugged.
‘Is the US government’s official policy of not making deals with extortionists, terrorists, or kidnappers well known?’
‘Certainly.’
‘If the US government were to deal with extortionists, terrorists, or kidnappers, would that be done in secret?’
‘Definitely.’
‘Given the glare of worldwide publicity surrounding the Vice President’s abduction, would you agree it would be almost impossible for the US government to give in to the kidnappers’ demands?’
‘Nothing is impossible, but it is extremely unlikely the White House will sanction paying the ransom.’
‘Is it plausible that the kidnappers would not be aware of this?’
‘Not really. They’ll have figured that out.’
‘Let’s imagine the ransom were to be paid. They want one billion dollars delivered in ten-million-dollar batches, in cash, to a hundred different locations worldwide. How much of it would you expect them to collect and get away with?’
‘Ultimately? Zero. Even if they somehow whisked all that cash out from under the noses of the SWAT teams and the snipers and the drones and the satellites and the roadblocks and everything else we’d deploy, that cash would be coated in SmartWater or somesuch. The moment any of that money surfaced, whoever was trying to spend it would find themselves in the eye of a shitstorm.’ Wells paused, wondering if that assessment was accurate.
Absolutely.
But she hedged when she continued. ‘Of course, that’s just my opinion. What do I know? I don’t have the necessary skillsets or connections to do what they’ve done. But these people? I have to be honest, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve thought of a way to pull it all off.’
‘Sounds like you should be joining that fan club.’
A raised eyebrow from Wells.
A smile from Ellis. Not an especially warm one, but at least it wasn’t a scowl.
‘But,’ Wells said, ‘as we’ve established, they’re not dumb, they’ll know we won’t be paying up, which means the most likely situation is that this is grandstanding of epic proportions by a group, or groups, of extremists. This is an Ideological kidnapping and they’re running circles round us. You’re right, this isn’t about the ransom money.’
‘That’s not what I said.’ Ellis paused, then very deliberately said, ‘I don’t think this is a real kidnapping.’
‘You think the VP is in on it?’ Wells wondered if the conversation had been a mistake after all.
‘No.’
It had been an emphatic no. Wells was relieved.
‘The Turkish surgeon,’ Ellis said, ‘why him? Why abduct someone in T
urkey? If the point of throwing him out of the window was to send us a message, why not grab someone locally? Even in Vienna, there are plenty of homeless people no one would notice had gone missing.’
‘Other agencies are looking into that.’ Wells decided she’d been patient enough. ‘Gibson, those bases are being covered. There’s no need to worry.’ She almost winced; that had been a little too patronising.
‘Well, Molly…’ Ellis stood. ‘Let’s hope the bases they’re covering include the one where Yilmaz splatting into a minivan isn’t a message aimed at us at all, but is intended for someone else.’
The female voice paused, then said, ‘Putting you through now.’
A faint buzzing … then an unfamiliar brittleness. ‘Explain.’
Lachkovic knew the edge of suppressed fury in the Chairman’s voice could only be caused by the latest news from Vienna. The trouble was, he had no explanation. He said so.
Silence. Abruptly ended by: ‘Find out.’
In Degen’s pocket was a phone that would ring only in extreme circumstances. It trilled. He fished it out. Number withheld. It could only be one person though. He thumbed Answer and said, ‘I presume you got my message.’
‘What is going on?’ demanded Ryan Lachkovic.
‘For you, something called Zugzwang.’
Degen hung up.
PART 2
You may choose to look the other way but you can never say again that you did not know.
William Wilberforce
26. CONSPIRACY
4 years ago
Harley Street, City of Westminster. Regents Park at one end, Cavendish Square Gardens at the other. And in between, a one hundred and fifty year reputation for medical excellence. Harley Street had been a brand long before admen first uttered the word.
The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1) Page 16
