The bar was close to Kraków’s main square, and, being just a short stagger from a taxi rank, it was handy for tourists attracted by the bar’s popularity with locals and its stock of flavoured vodkas. Mango, pineapple, lemon and grapefruit were common requests, but the favourite tended to be hazelnut, a fact known to a group of twenty-something Poles who had embarked on a drinking game that required them to knock back a shot every time that flavour was ordered. Their resilience was being tested by a gaggle of middle-aged women from Liverpool each of whom sported a fluorescent pink sash with a black-lettered warning that Kimmy was 40 and Naughty. Kimmy and friends had repeatedly declared hazelnut vodka to be delish, ace and the gear.
At a corner table, Kai Degen watched one young Pole’s pride wrestle with his gag reflex as Kimmy ordered another round. Then Larissa Němcová appeared in the doorway. Degen stood and waved her over. As Němcová slinked her way through the crowd, Degen lifted a bottle of Żubrówka from its ice bucket and poured vodka into four glasses. Scott Macrae and Ernst Ebner had arrived a few minutes earlier.
Němcová reached their table, and Degen gestured towards the empty chair in the corner. ‘That is so sweet, you saved me the gunfighter’s seat.’ She smiled at Macrae and Ebner. ‘Hello boys. Been a while.’
They nodded hellos, Němcová slid into the empty chair, and Degen placed a glass of vodka in front of her. She scooped it up and said, ‘Na zdrowie.’ The men raised their glasses, repeated her toast, and all four gulped down their vodka.
‘So,’ said Degen, ‘having slept on it, how do you feel about getting the band back together?’
PART 3
Justice will not be served until those who are unaffected are as outraged as those who are.
Benjamin Franklin
32. CONSEQUENCES
9 days ago
The kebab was incredibly tasty, the way they always were after a skinfull. Spicy sauce dribbled down his chin. He halted his meandering march, wiped his face with the heel of his lager-can hand, licked at the sticky pinkish smear on his wrist, then took a swig of beer. He sniggered to himself: his assimilation into London life was complete. He sunk his teeth into the stuffed pita bread. Sauce-coated onion and tomato spilled out and bounced off his thigh. He shrugged at the splodgy stain and staggered on towards his Palmers Green flat, wondering if his flatmate would still be up. It was well after 1am, but he was in the mood for some late-night two-player bloodshed.
He turned a corner. Masticated meat splurted from his mouth as he folded, doubling up, coughing and choking from the blow to his belly. Blurring large shapes moved around him as his legs gave way. A heavy weight forced him onto the tarmacked pavement. He kicked out, connecting with something. His legs were pushed to the ground. Firm grips round his ankles. A weight across the back of his knees. Pain! Something had jabbed into one of his buttocks. He tried to struggle, but couldn’t move. Every limb was pinned down. He tried to shout, but a gloved hand had clamped over his mouth. He could do nothing, nothing but breathe heavily through his nose. What was happening? Why? Why hold him down? What where they ... doing? What did ... they want? What had ... he ... done? When was ... it going ... to ... end? Feeling ... heavy ... limp ... shrinking ... dark ... small ...
Nestor Persopoulos’s only movement was his slow breathing. Lucas Lacroix and Scott Macrae judged it safe to release the Greek’s limbs.
‘Be nice if rendering someone unconscious was as easy as it is in the movies,’ Lacroix said.
Roger Sherman grunted something and nursed the shin that had taken a blow just before he’d thrust the syringe needle into Persopoulos’s rear.
‘Right,’ said Macrae, ‘let’s get this little shit into the ambulance.’
‘Remember Galina Petrova Draganova?’
He did. He hadn’t thought about her in years, but he remembered. He could see her smiling down at him from a dusty minibus. But Persopoulos shook his head.
‘Lie to me again and I’ll hurt you.’ The bearded man took a step closer. ‘Do you remember Galina Petrova Draganova?’
Persopoulos nodded.
‘How do you know her?’
‘We were friends. Years ago. When we were at school.’
‘And when was the last time you saw her?
An image of Galina sobbing as he held her down.
‘Don’t lie.’ The bearded man raised a fist.
Persopoulos flinched, the handcuffs bit into his wrists and dug into his spine as he shrunk back into the chair. His eyes darted about the loft, hoping for … he didn’t know what. A miracle? But he knew there would be no miracle. No rescue. No way out. His only option was to cooperate, hope they’d let him go, or at least not hurt him … not too much.
‘I ... years ago, many years ago. I haven’t spoken to her in a long, long time. Not since we were teenagers.’
‘And the last time you saw her, was she happy?’
Persopoulos pictured Galina weeping as she tried to cover herself with the clothes Beqiri had torn off her. He shook his head.
‘Now you know why you’re here. You won’t be alone for long.’
Pristina’s rain-lashed streets had motivated many guests to re-evaluate their tolerance for the little-more-than-passable cuisine offered by the hotel restaurant, and most of the diners were now gathering in the bar for post-dinner drinks. Vacant seats were few. The stool second from the end of the bar was unoccupied, but it was next to a gap-toothed leer that repelled any thoughts of occupancy. The end of the bar was Besian Beqiri’s regular spot, and he liked his space.
A woman sashayed into the middle of the room, passing various open-mouthed, wide-eyed male patrons, her black skin-tight spandex catsuit jump-starting even the most sedentary imagination. She eyed Beqiri for a moment, then walked towards him, smiling sweetly into his lascivious stare. She slid onto the empty stool next to him and, in lightly accented English, she purred, ‘You look interesting.’
‘You look like superhero-lady.’ Beqiri dialled down his leer to what he likely considered a smoulder. ‘A sexy superhero-lady.’
The woman tilted her head. ‘If only.’ She leaned closer. ‘Truth is, if anyone is in need of a hero …’ She laid a hand on her chest. ‘It is me.’ She slid a key towards Beqiri. ‘The door to my room sticks. Could you help me? I’d be very grateful.’
The leer returned.
Ten minutes later the woman’s room door swung open before Beqiri. And cool, soft breath lapped at his ear: ‘My hero.’ Then cool metal pushed into the back of his neck. ‘Do not make me shoot you.’
7 days ago
The hood was pulled off. Beqiri squinted. Bright light streamed through windows between sloping rafters. He was in a loft. A large loft. Above a factory or an old apartment building. And he had company: a circle of faces, each silenced by a strip of silver duct tape, watched him with droopy-eyed indifference. They all sat on slatted metal chairs, held fast to their seats by thick cable-ties—round their ankles, their knees, their thighs, their biceps—with their hands cuffed behind their backs. The chairs had been bolted to the floor. Beqiri straightened into a marginally more comfortable position.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, Beqiri recognised faces in the circle. Next to Beqiri was Saban Çoçaj: he administered the narcotics used to subdue Beqiri’s whores, making them compliant. Then Zamir Nallbani: he supplied the narcotics. Next, two unfamiliar faces. Then a face he knew but couldn’t put a name to: belonged to the Gjoka clan. Next to him another Gjoka: Jorgji Gjoka maybe. Then a younger man, late twenties, his face streaked by tears and snot: he seemed familiar, but Beqiri couldn’t place him. Next, Tariq Kelmendi, whom Beqiri hadn’t seen in a long time: he used to help Beqiri break-in the whores—Tariq had enjoyed breaking their spirits—but he’d been arrested, convicted and jailed for smuggling in the Czech Republic years ago. Then a third from the Gjoka gang, Ervin Ahmeti: the one who brought the doctor to take blood and tissue samples from the bitches. Next to him: well, well, the doctor himself, Harxhi. And another unk
nown face completed the circle.
Footsteps behind him. Beqiri turned his head. A tall fucker—muscles, black t-shirt, black combat pants, Glock at his hip, poker-faced—moved slowly round the group, pointing to a small wooden crate in the centre of the circle. Beqiri became aware of the ticking of the half dozen clocks of different shapes, sizes and colours sitting on top of the crate. Each clock faced outwards so that everyone in the circle could see at least one clock face.
‘Your time is almost up,’ said the tall fucker, continuing his casual saunter. ‘You’re here because of the lives you helped steal. Hopes, dreams, ambitions, all ripped from hundreds of women. Beaten, drugged, raped. Day after day of brutal intimidation. Their bodies used and abused again and again. To make money. For you.’ The tall fucker stopped and looked Beqiri’s way. ‘One girl had a thin scar here.’ He ran a finger across his chin. Beqiri guessed that was supposed to be significant. It meant nothing to Beqiri.
The tall fucker resumed circling. ‘I would happily put a bullet in each of your heads just for her. But that’s not going to happen. Too quick. Too easy. Another woman was called Galina. Her story had a different ending. It took place on an operating table in a basement. Her body carved up for spare parts. Her organs sold for extra profit.’
The tear and snot stained face across from Beqiri crumpled as duct tape muffled the young man’s uncontrolled blubbering. Beqiri recognised him then: Nestor, the Greek lad who had provided a half dozen or so young bitches years ago. Beqiri guessed Nestor must have brought him the Galina skank they were being lectured about. The tall fucker was a preaching moron. Business. Just fucking business. Beqiri’s brand of entrepreneurialism and that of the slick tycoons in their flash penthouses paid for by cheap labour and surreptitious practices came from the same shelf. Different product. Different market. But the same basic principle: supply and fucking demand.
Crouching beside the snivelling Greek boy, the tall fucker said, ‘How many times do you think Galina cried? How deep was her despair?’ The tall fucker stood. His eyes met Beqiri’s.
Beqiri forced a defiant glare.
‘But,’ the tall fucker said, ‘I suspect you’re not the types to spend the time you have left reflecting on that. So let me give you something to ponder …
‘What is in the crate? Is it packed with napalm? Horrific stuff. Sticks to your skin. Burns through to the bone.
‘Or is the crate filled with Fiddleback spiders? They have a nasty bite. You don’t feel it, but eight hours later, agony. Then blisters, delirium, vomiting, probably necrosis.
‘Or perhaps there’s a canister of nerve agent in the crate? That is truly evil. First you drool uncontrollably, then you piss and shit yourself. Convulsions next, before you finally asphyxiate.’
The tall fucker gave a fake shudder.
‘Or am I just going to leave you here without food and water until your tongues swell and crack?’
The tall fucker paced round the circle and disappeared from Beqiri’s view. Then Beqiri felt a presence at his ear. The tall fucker said, ‘What would you do with you?’
Beqiri turned his head, but the tall fucker was gone. Beqiri heard a door open. And close.
33. EXPOSURE
‘Jesus H!’ Brad Weaver growled. ‘Why not just turn up in a circus clown’s car?’ He threw a paint-stripping glower at the saffron yellow roadster parked next to his black sedan. The cars were pointing in opposite directions, with driver windows rolled down, the idea being they’d be able to talk face to face, which would have been fine if Weaver’s Honda Accord hadn’t had a nine inch height advantage over Ryan Lachkovic’s road hugging Federal Elise.
Ceding higher ground wasn’t in Lachkovic’s nature, and it had been a long time since he’d had to put up with snarky shit. ‘I’ll get a grandpa car for next time,’ he snarled.
Weaver seemed to be on the brink of barking back, but any gibe was bitten back and traded for a more even, ‘Your message indicated you needed a quorum decision. I hold the Chairman’s proxy.’ The group Weaver represented constituted a third of the Coalition, and the Chairman’s proxy assigned Weaver enough authority to sanction any necessary amendments to the agreed strategy.
‘Good enough. You’ll have read the police reports from Vienna?’ Lachkovic asked.
A curt nod.
‘It seems our project manager has gone off site,’ Lachkovic said, sticking carefully to non-incriminating language. ‘Attempts to query the treatment of our associate from Istanbul through agreed-upon communications systems have been ignored. I interpret the involvement of the Turkish element as a blatant threat to the Chairman’s position. I gauge this, and the deviation from the agreed work schedule, to be a precursor to either an attempted renegotiation of the terms of his employment, or the opening salvo of a hostile takeover of the European operation.’
‘Agreed,’ Weaver said.
‘I recommend terminating the contract immediately and bringing forward the clean up operation.’
Weaver nodded. ‘Action it,’ he said. ‘I’ll inform the rest of the Board.’
Soft, snorty breathing murmured below Oliver Jamieson’s desk. After appropriating a back-support from another office, he’d stretched out with the makeshift pillow a few hours earlier. Grace Breckinridge had tried the same thing, but she’d just lain on the office floor … thinking … then after an hour of listening, enviously, to Jamieson’s nasal rumbling, she’d given up on any hope of sleep and resumed checking files and reports.
‘Are you in early too, or have you been here all night?’
Breckinridge started.
Executive Assistant Director Porter stood in the doorway. A snore from the floor answered his query. ‘I see,’ Porter said, smiling. ‘Did you get any rest?’
Breckinridge fudged with, ‘I lay down for a while.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Porter looked unconvinced. ‘You up to speed on developments in Vienna?’
‘Yes sir.’ She’d been puzzling over the elaborate execution of the Turkish doctor for the previous half hour. ‘Can’t fathom what the connection is between the VP and a transplant surgeon. As far as we know, the Vice President hasn’t had any health issues.’
‘I’ve been wondering about the significance of a transplant surgeon too. Heard of the Yellow House case?’
Breckinridge shook her head.
‘Organ theft on a massive scale perpetrated by ethnic Albanians against hundreds of Serbs taken prisoner during the Kosovo conflict.’
Breckinridge snapped her fingers at the mention of Kosovo. ‘Wald,’ she said, an excited rush washing away her fatigue. She checked a file. ‘He was stationed in Kosovo. Has Albanian connections.’
A yawn from the floor. Followed by a pandiculated, ‘Grace?’
Porter smirked. ‘I’ll leave you to brief Rip.’
Lachkovic and Weaver had met in a parking garage on the southern edge of the Adams Morgan neighbourhood of DC. Known for its multiculturalism and its nightlife, the area also boasted The Diner: open 24 hours and home of the finest banana pancakes in the capital. While he waited for his order, Lachkovic used his phone to access a twitter account; he typed a short and seemingly innocuous tweet. The clean up had been ordered.
Special Agent James Kang knocked and waited. The door opened. A scowling Gibson Ellis filled the doorway for a moment, then he stepped to one side with a brusque, ‘Jimmy.’
Special Agent in Charge Molly Wells looked every bit as grim as Ellis. ‘Agent Kang?’ she said.
‘Federal Police found something in the apartment Doctor Yilmaz was being held in. A sniper rifle.’ Kang glanced at his scrawled note. ‘A TTR-700 Tactical Take Down. Manufactured by a company in Phoenix, Arizona. It’s been fired recently. The locals are checking it against the bullet from the De Witte shooting. And they’ve got prints.’
Should anyone question why Ryan Lachkovic had parked his (ludicrously conspicuous) vehicle in the Adams Morgan garage at such an early hour, Lachkovic would claim a craving for a favourite brea
kfast. Brad Weaver had no need to legitimise his being in the garage because there was nothing to suggest he’d been there. It had been some time since Weaver had been in the field, but he hadn’t found it much of a challenge to keep his face hidden from CCTV lenses. The cameras would have recorded the plates on the black sedan he’d been driving, but they were duplicates of a similar Honda Accord registered to an unremarkable civilian; Weaver deliberately kept himself ignorant of the details.
Weaver drove from the parking garage to a vacant space on a street twenty minutes walk from his office building, which was close to the State Department. He placed the sedan’s key in the vehicle’s exhaust pipe and strolled off, confident that by the time he was brought a coffee at his desk the sedan would have been taken somewhere to have its plates changed, then parked wherever it was stored until the next time it was needed.
Someone just dropped a cat into a bag of pigeons, thought Xavier Porter. The ballistics report from Vienna had confirmed a match between the bullet retrieved from the scene of Rikki De Witte’s shooting and the rifling of the barrel of the sniper rifle found at the scene of the Turkish doctor’s killing. The match hadn’t been entirely unexpected, but Porter had been intrigued by the identity of the owner of the prints found on the rifle’s grip: Spencer Tamblyn, a former Clandestine Service Operations Officer with the Special Activities Division of the Central Intelligence Agency (the official job title of a Langley spook).
The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1) Page 21
