‘The clan is controlled by three brothers, Arjan, Korab and Valon. Intelligence points to Korab being the dominant force within Albania, but he lacks imagination. He focuses on drug related activities, but, because of the power of the Fifteen Families, that gives the Varoshi clan very little room for growth in that arena.’
The Badger waved at the screen: Korab (and his Czechoslovakian Wolfdog) shrank into a corner. Valon (and his wine glass) and Arjan (and his sheen of sweat) shared the centre of the screen.
‘Valon is more of a lateral thinker. Through an extremely slick campaign of bribery and donations, Valon has set up the youngest brother, Arjan, in the Czech Republic.’ Arjan’s image swelled to overlap Valon. ‘Arjan has integrated himself into legitimate circles and runs a number of seemingly above board businesses, including three courier companies. We suspect the courier companies are being used to transport stolen or counterfeited goods and that at least some of the other businesses are money laundering conduits. But the Czech authorities have no evidence of any improper activity.’ The Badger lobbed a raised eyebrow at Němcová.
Němcová shrugged.
The Badger dropped his eyebrow and continued. ‘Arjan is also a vociferous supporter of various groups pushing for full independence for Kosovo. And that brings us to Valon.’
On the screen, the diner and the jogger swapped places.
‘Valon has links to a number of powerful individuals in what was the Kosovo Liberation Army. After the KLA was disbanded, a large proportion of the leadership entered politics. Many from the lower levels joined the Kosovo Protection Corps. And others sought murkier opportunities, some of whom were recruited by Valon Varoshi to specialise in human trafficking. Specifically, they abduct young women for sexual exploitation within Kosovo, Macedonia, Greece and Italy, and they force children into begging-cons, mainly in Greece.’
The Badger gestured towards Němcová. ‘UNMIK is represented here because of the interconnectedness of the Varoshi clan and a number of Kosovo’s influential political forces.’
Němcová said, ‘I’m involved in a sister operation.’ She smiled at Degen. ‘If you join the club, I’ll tell you all about it.’
The Badger said, ‘Our intelligence suggests Valon Varoshi’s ambitions include having a stake in the running of an independent Kosovo and building a power base in central Europe by replicating Arjan’s Czech Republic successes in Germany. Arjan is to be the acceptable public face, while Valon builds profits by expanding prostitution and extortion operations throughout Germany and beyond. However, this will bring them into conflict with other gangs, primarily Russian mafia. And that conflict will be bloody. We cannot allow it to take place on German soil, or any other part of the EU for that matter.’
The Badger placed the remote on the table and folded his arms.
Silence.
Degen shifted his gaze to the Owl. And waited.
The Owl held the eye contact. He said, ‘The Albanian clans rarely cooperate with each other. There is no centralised authority. They are organised around family ties, but they will use outsiders for one-off jobs. We believe Valon Varoshi’s ambitions in Germany present us with an opportunity to infiltrate his organisation.’
‘And you think they’ll be less suspicious of an Austrian than they would a German national.’
‘Maybe,’ said the Badger.
‘Probably not,’ said the Owl. He shrugged.
The Badger sighed—Degen guessed this disarming honesty was actually part of their pitch—and the Owl said, ‘Look, infiltrating an Albanian crime clan is extraordinarily difficult. Any advantage is worth exploiting.’
Degen looked from the Badger to the Owl, glanced at the Europol stiff—all three poker-faced—then over to Němcová as she shoulder-pushed herself off the wall, thrust hands into pockets and tilted her head, her body language admonishing any inclination to refuse the mission. That’s why she’s here, Degen thought. He’d assumed Němcová was their credibility, offering him someone he could identify with more than the desk-jockey-types. But actually she was there to shame him if he turned it down. Well if they were that sneaky …
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘how would it work?’
Degen’s Jagdkommando unit was rotated out of Kosovo. Within days of their return to Wiener Neustadt, Degen was selected to take part in special training with the British Special Boat Service on the Falkland Islands. But instead of heading to the South Atlantic, Degen returned to Kosovo, where Kai Degen became Dierk Wald.
Degen’s Jagdkommando unit had been stationed near the capital, Pristina. But as Wald, he was sent to the southern city of Prizren. There, as an officer of the Austrian Military Police, he would be part of an UNMIK investigation into two days of rioting that had resulted in nineteen deaths, hundreds of injured and the destruction of the entire Serb quarter.
During the unrest, Serbian Orthodox church leaders and UNMIK police officers had complained they’d received no support from the 3,600 strong peacekeeping contingent barracked in the city. The German commanders had argued they’d been bound by their rules of engagement not to interfere. The animosity of the peacekeepers towards the investigators provided credibility to Degen/Wald eschewing KFOR crankiness for local largesse.
Finding hospitality in a city dominated by ethnic-Albanians was never going to be a problem: crime clans apart, they were friendly people. Degen/Wald became a regular of a bar named after a nearby landmark, Ura e Gurit (the Old Stone Bridge), rubbing shoulders with old men arguing over the good old days of Titoism and younger men passing judgement on sportsmen and pop princesses. Degen/Wald listened and laughed and frowned in the appropriate places, all the while treading the line between showing interest and not being drawn into taking sides.
His first encounter with Jehona Zlatar was scheduled a few weeks later.
Jehona was attractive. She was a widow. She had no desire to stay in Kosovo and a return to her native Albania held even less appeal. She’d been asked to be part of the UNMIK charade. And she had agreed. Her price was a new beginning.
Jehona’s husband Skender had been killed in the last weeks of the Kosovo War. She hadn’t contradicted the assumption of her friends and neighbours that Serbian soldiers had been responsible for Skender’s death. But of all the reasons Jehona had to hate Serbs, Skender’s death wasn’t one of them.
Skender, a Bosniak (one of the smallest ethnic groups in Kosovo), had thought it prudent to limit his circle of associates to fellow Bosniaks during the conflict. Unfortunately, that small group had included Hajji Osmanović, a black marketeer, who pushed his luck too far and fell foul of the Kosovo Liberation Army (lofty nationalist rhetoric, but questionable execution of their professed ideals). Skender’s great misfortune had been to be standing nearby when the KLA’s blunt retribution had been meted out.
Jehona had mourned. And carried on as best she could.
Then the peacekeepers had arrived, and she’d found herself teaching Gheg Albanian to KFOR troops. Months, years passed. Life was bearable, but empty.
And then Kaspar Pfaff had come to see her. The German made his offer and sat back patiently stroking his black and grey beard while Jehona considered his proposition.
She’d stated her price. He’d said yes.
For most of the flight on the German military helicopter, Jehona had felt nauseous. She’d thought she was suffering from motion sickness, but after a while she’d realised her queasiness was the result of a mix of anticipation, nerves and guilt.
Her part in the German’s plan had required Jehona to spend time with an UNMIK policeman, Dierk Wald, convincing those who knew her that they had fallen in love. Wald was tall, muscular, not pretty handsome, but he had a manly attractiveness. If you liked that sort of thing. And Jehona did. But from the start she’d known their relationship was an association of convenience, a means to an end, nothing more than part of a contract.
At first, their long walks were peppered with stilted conversations about Kosovo’s history, and their e
venings in restaurants were dominated by descriptions of Albanian cuisine. But after a while, topics moved away from Ottoman rule and cabbage, and Jehona began to look forward to her time with the Austrian. He told her about Vienna: its operas, its grand balls in palaces, its dancing white horses. And his stories almost made her wish she’d asked for a different reward.
The helicopter had landed at a military air base in Italy, where two German policemen had been waiting to escort her to Rome. During the five hour drive Jehona had escaped her nausea by curling up on the back seat of their large black vehicle, and she’d managed enough broken sleep to make the journey seem short. When she’d woken for the fourth time they’d been approaching Fiumicino Airport. There had been a flicker of excitement, quickly extinguished by another wave of guilt: to get there she’d had to die.
‘An accident is best,’ Kaspar Pfaff had said. ‘Therefore, Jehona will board the bus running from Mitrovicë to Tirana when it stops at Prizren. The bus will break down between Prizren and the village of Zhur.’ Pfaff had air-quoted break down. ‘A small convoy of KFOR vehicles will pass by and stop to offer the bus passengers transportation back to Prizren. Jehona will be the only passenger in the rear KFOR vehicle. It will fall behind the rest of the convoy. The driver will lose control of the vehicle.’ More air-quotes for lose control. ‘Tragically, Jehona will not survive the resulting crash.’
Pfaff had paused. Almost like a nano-memorial, Degen thought.
‘There will be an inquiry,’ continued Pfaff. The driver will be exonerated of any culpability after it is discovered the accident was caused by fuel spillage from an unknown vehicle.
‘Dierk Wald will nevertheless blame the driver, assault him and be appropriately disciplined before leaving the Austrian Military.’
Degen’s initial reaction had been, ‘Too involved and overly complicated.’ He’d then said that the best covers relied on as few fabrications as possible and that involving KFOR in a civilian death would result in media attention.
Pfaff had listened to Degen’s concerns, then said, ‘I understand. And in many cases I would agree with you. However, this situation is different. We have created convincing paper trails, from birth certificates to military records, for both Wald and the driver, but authentic media reports and newspaper clippings will add an extra layer of authenticity to the life we’ve created for Wald when his background is probed. And it will be checked. The Albanian Mafia is deeply suspicious of outsiders.’
Degen had nodded, once again appreciating the innate deviousness of the planning.
The minutiae of the plan had been kept from Jehona. She didn’t know much—she’d been instructed to tell her friends and neighbours about a trip to visit her sister in Tirana—but she knew she’d never see Tirana again. And she knew her sister would grieve.
A smiling bombshell in an Alitalia uniform checked Jehona’s seatbelt was fastened. The aircraft began taxiing to the runway.
‘Not long.’ The German policewoman in the seat next to Jehona smiled. Her name was Sabine; she’d been waiting for Jehona and her escorts at the airport. ‘Just ten hours,’ Sabine said, ‘and you’ll be in New York.’
New York, new name, new life.
Wald’s assault on the KFOR driver and the disciplinary action it resulted in took place only on paper. Files were created, entered into record and archived. Meanwhile, a different set of paperwork extended Degen’s attachment to the British forces in the Falklands.
Documentation for the KFOR driver showed he had been rotated out of Kosovo, and, while on leave in Germany, he had died when his vehicle had smashed into a wall running along a quiet, poorly lit road. No other vehicles were involved. No one else was hurt. There were no witnesses. According to North Rhine-Westphalia police reports, Dierk Wald (now a civilian) had been interviewed regarding the accident, but there had been nothing to suggest Wald’s involvement. No one attended the driver’s funeral, not even the driver; he had resumed his usual duties as a specialist within Department One of the Landeskriminalamt.
The Badger and the Owl had originally planned for Wald to be arrested in connection with the driver’s death, but Degen had suggested Wald be merely questioned.
‘I’d get away with it,’ Degen had said, ‘so Dierk would too.’
A rabble of thoughts had tugged at the Badger’s face for a few moments. Then he’d acknowledged Degen was right with a snorty laugh.
30. DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE
10 years ago
Degen jabbed an elbow into Jashari’s side. ‘Look.’
The Opel Vivaro slowed as it approached the car sporting the white-with-thin-blue-stripe livery of the Hellenic Police. A little forward of the vehicle stood a uniformed male waving them down. Behind the patrol car was a dusty Volkswagen Golf convertible. Its roof was down, and a female passenger looked on as the male driver spoke with a second uniformed male.
The Vivaro stopped.
‘Move into the driver’s seat.’ Degen opened his door. ‘Do not leave the van.’
Jashari whined something about checking seatbelts.
‘Stay.’ Degen barked, then advanced towards the closest uniform.
Degen’s right hand slid round to the Glock tucked into the back of his belt. Two metres from the uniform, Degen drew his weapon and fired twice. The uniform staggered a step backwards, then dropped. The uniform next to the Golf reached for his holster. Degen fired another two rounds. The uniform slumped over the Golf’s bonnet and slid to the tarmac.
The engine of the Golf coughed to life, but Degen raced to the car and pushed the Glock into the side of the driver’s neck. The engine fell silent. Degen took a step back and swept the Glock between the couple. He said, ‘I put my foot down to create a bit of extra distance between us and the outriders, but they’ll be here soon.’
Scott Macrae and Larissa Němcová raised their hands.
Degen glanced over his shoulder at the fallen uniform. ‘They play dead really well. Best have your guns now.’
Macrae and Němcová lowered their left hands, then held out handguns between thumb and forefinger. They leaned forward and let the weapons slide down the Golf’s windshield and clatter onto the bonnet.
Degen held out his left hand and Macrae passed him a phone. Degen made a show of thumbing some numbers (although the phone wasn’t switched on), then in Greek shouted, ‘Help! Help! He killed two policemen. Help!’
Degen fired a couple of blanks towards Macrae. Who slumped. Němcová screamed. Then winked as Degen fired another two blanks. Degen tucked his Glock into the back of his jeans, used his shirt to wipe the phone, tossed it into the Golf, scooped up the handguns from the bonnet and walked back to the van.
The motorcycle escort pulled up.
‘Ignore this,’ Degen ordered. ‘Check in front.’
The bikers nodded and gunned their machines ahead.
Degen swung up and clunked the passenger-side door shut. He waved the handguns: Smith and Wesson Sigmas. ‘Glock wannabes,’ he sneered (genuinely).
9 years, 10 months ago
Degen quickly crossed the pathway cleared for the runners and vaulted the barrier a few metres from Luther Falck. Two henchmen began lumbering to their feet. Degen reckoned he could despatch them in ten seconds, but instead he pointed at Falck’s chest and said, ‘My calling card.’
Falck blanched as he spotted the bright red dot of Dren Jashari’s laser sight.
‘You could do with boosting your peripheral security,’ Degen said. He smiled. ‘May I have a word with you?’
Bodyguards were hissed aside, and a lieutenant was glowered from his seat. Degen sat, emphasising his upper hand by grabbing a beef tataki roll from Falck’s plate and by making a quip. It wasn’t a particularly witty quip, but he ad-libbed it into cocksure bear-baiting. Then he got to the point. ‘We would appreciate it if you got out of the human trafficking business, particularly in the Balkans.’
‘And if I don’t?’
Degen considered Falck’s sneer, then he
stood and said, ‘Then you had better get Keanu’d.’ Much better quipping, he thought.
‘What the fuck does that mean?’ spat one of Falck’s entourage.
A grin. ‘It means you’re going to need guns, lots of guns.’ A wink. And Degen slipped into the cheering crowd, wondering how long it would be before proving himself to Valon Varoshi would involve taking lives.
9 years, 9 months ago
Degen side-stepped the thrusting blade, snapped the skinny assailant’s neck, and pushed the body at the hulk moving towards him. A ducking move, a Cossack-style kick to the knees, four stabs to the back of the neck and it was over.
A couple of civilians stood gaping.
Before Jashari could take any witness-eliminating action, Degen snarled, ‘Fuck off!’
The young couple fucked off.
Degen hauled Dren Jashari to his feet. The Albanian grimaced, clutching at his slashed side as he resisted the idea of abandoning their plan to bundle the women from Falck’s brothel into their waiting van.
‘The police will be here soon,’ Degen said, ‘they’ll find the women in the brothel, take them away and return them to wherever they were trafficked from. Upshot, Falck loses a brothel and a small fortune in women. Same result we came for.’
‘But we don’t get the merchandise.’
‘Big picture Dren. This is a victory. Take it. Falck will get the message.’
Degen guessed pain and loss of blood from the wound inflicted by the skinny thug’s knife played a significant role in Jashari’s acquiescence. As Jashari limped to where they’d parked their van. Degen pulled out his phone and quickly sent an innocent looking pre-typed text. The on-duty operative from Department Four of the Landeskriminalamt would have Cologne police officers on the scene within minutes.
The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1) Page 19
