De Witte and Øster appeared to be leads, but investigations cul-de-sac’d. The ransom demand was a resource-sucking wild goose they were obliged to chase. The death of the Turkish surgeon was a confusing curve ball. The CIA connection snapped attention in a completely different direction. And now a bomb blast with twenty-ish casualties (body parts were still being counted) had many fearing the worst.
But not Feiersinger. He was certain the US Vice President would not be among the scorched meat currently being analysed and categorised by police forensics experts. More misdirection. Another slap to keep the authorities from focusing.
The site of the explosion—an apartment building in Lerchenfelder Strasse, just a kilometre from Parliament—had prodded rumblings from the fringes of the informal cross-party truce that had been in place since the US Vice President’s abduction. Of course it was unreasonable for anyone to blame the Federal Chancellor for any of the events of the last thirty hours, but in the theatre of party politics, reasonableness rarely had more than a walk-on part.
Since the American Vice President’s kidnap, everyone had been on the back foot, constantly forced into the position of being reactive. Feiersinger was convinced they had to take the initiative. Well, not so much they. He had to take the initiative.
An aide ushered in the Americans.
Feiersinger had expected the US Secret Service agents to baulk at the idea, but, having just suggested the kidnap of their Vice President could be merely a side-show, Feiersinger was now witnessing a tableau of shifting body language: a frown, a wry smile, a shrug, a sigh. It seemed the Americans had already had an exchange of views on the subject.
‘That possibility has been mooted,’ Wells said.
Her amateur nonchalance amused Feiersinger. Time to bring in the Jagdkommando.
Diether Adler and Matthias Haas were back in Ballhausplatz 2. But not the utilitarian office they’d been parked in the previous day. This time Feiersinger had been waiting for them in one of the Federal Chancellery’s more opulent spaces, the Haerdtl Room: high ceiling, enormous chandelier, contemporary tapestry on one wall, a massive gold-framed mirror on another, colossal oval conference table in the centre of the room.
‘Used for informal meetings,’ an aide had confided while showing Adler and Haas the way.
Adler wondered just how informal their meeting would be. They stepped into the Haerdtl Room. Feiersinger wasn’t alone. He and another man and a woman occupied three of the thirty-odd chairs circling the table. Feiersinger drummed on the table’s felt covering, although his fingers made such a languid, delicate motion that he could easily have been stroking the grass-green surface. An indicator of stress? With a slightly slumped posture, the politico’s smooth shell certainly seemed a little less impervious.
The drumming/stroking stopped.
Feiersinger regarded the Jagdkommando soldiers with eyes that reflected too few hours sleep. ‘Gentlemen, thank you for coming,’ Feiersinger said in English, his voice carrying a faint rasp of strained weariness. He motioned towards the people to his left. ‘Special Agents Molly Wells and Gibson Ellis. Of the US Secret Service.’ Feiersinger introduced Adler and Haas, and then waved at the seats to his right.
As Adler and Haas sat, the aide handed them folders. A nod from Feiersinger indicated they were to look inside. But before the files could be opened Feiersinger provided a pre-emptive précis: ‘The FBI is exploring connections to a former Austrian Military Police officer they suspect may be involved in the US Vice President’s abduction. Our Federal Police are assisting. They are also investigating the death of a Turkish surgeon. So far, there is no apparent link between the Turk and the Vice President. And a possible CIA connection to the De Witte shooting has come to light.’
Feiersinger followed up with a telling piece of editorialising. ‘I’m beginning to feel like we’re pawns.’ The raptor Adler had previously glimpsed in Feiersinger unfolded. ‘I don’t like being a pawn. Pawn’s get sacrificed.’
‘The ransom demand will change.’ The absence of bet-hedging phraseology was quite deliberate. Feiersinger had cast an eye over the events of the last thirty hours with a seasoned misdirector’s eye. He wasn’t indulging in speculation. He had no doubt. Feiersinger turned to his aide. ‘Die Landkarte, bitte.’
A metre long map of Europe, pock-marked by small red circular stickers, unrolled onto the table.
‘The ransom drop-points in Europe,’ Feiersinger said. ‘Local police forces have been scurrying about to secure not only the specific locations, but also routes in and out of these cities.’
The Americans gave we-know-this nods. Wells said, ‘We are anticipating a change in instructions. Contingency plans have been made. We believe it highly probable the final drop-sites will be switched to locations outside these cities. The armoured trucks will be most vulnerable in transit. Mobile SWAT and Special Forces teams are being prepped in each of these areas.’
‘Of course.’ Keen to avoid a game of tell-each-other-what-we-already-know, Feiersinger moved on quickly. ‘But,’ he waved a hand at the red-dotted map, ‘I would draw your attention to the distribution of the drop-sites. I find that most interesting. Of the fifty non-US sites, thirty are in Europe. With the exception of Denmark, Scandinavian countries have been excluded, as have the Baltic nations. Perhaps logistics is at the heart of this decision.’ Feiersinger flicked a finger at various parts of the map. ‘Excepting smaller states such as Andorra, Liechtenstein and San Marino, almost every other European nation has been allocated a drop-site, bar two. Austria and Albania. And I believe their exclusion is significant.’
Wells appeared to be about to butt in again, but Feiersinger denied her an opening. ‘Given the already heightened security, one might expect Austria to be excluded. As for Albania, there may be a number of reasons why the perpetrators would shy away from there. Perhaps it is again a matter of logistics, or because potential interference from Albania’s virulent criminal element presents too great a risk to their getaway plans. But those explanations are predicated upon the assumption the perpetrators believe the USA will actually pay the demanded one billion dollars.’
Feiersinger studied the faces of the Americans. Good, he thought, they didn’t believe the money would be paid either. ‘If we discount that assumption,’ Feiersinger continued, ‘to my mind there are two possibilities for there being no drop-point in Albania. Either, the perpetrators do not wish an increased police presence in that country, or the perpetrators wish to draw our attention to Albania. Interestingly, the latest report from the FBI in Washington is awash with Albanian connections.’
Wells maintained a reasonably blank poker-face. Piqued interest creased Ellis’s brow. The Jagdkommando pair sat impassively, no doubt patiently waiting for the part where Feiersinger required them to do some dirty work. He would be coming to that.
‘I’ll return to Albania in a moment,’ Feiersinger said. ‘Let us now consider those who have kidnapped the Vice President. And by that, I mean the people actually in possession of your Vice President.’ He looked to the Americans. ‘I believe that group has split from the primary perpetrators—those who initiated the kidnap plan—and that your Vice President may be caught up in some internal conflict.’
The look Ellis threw Wells smacked of I-told-you-so.
Feiersinger said, ‘Let us assume the Turkish surgeon was not a victim of unfortunate happenstance, that his kidnapping, his transportation from Turkey, his incarceration for a week or so and his dramatic death were not the result of some extraordinary quirk of fate. In which case, there are three possibilities.
‘One, there is a connection between the Vice President and the Turkish doctor. This seems unlikely, as a large number of people have been looking very, very hard to find a link, but so far, no relationship has been established.
‘Two, the very fact there is no connection is the reason the surgeon was chosen. It could be the intention was to tie up resources on fruitless investigations. If that is the case, they have bee
n extremely successful, but they would have achieved the same results by choosing a victim closer to Vienna.
‘Or three, the rogue group chose the surgeon because he has some significance to the primary perpetrators.’
Feiersinger turned to the Jagdkommando soldiers. ‘Assuming the death of the Turk was the splinter group throwing down a gauntlet to the primary perpetrators, how would you interpret the explosion in Lerchenfelder Strasse?’
‘With an operation as well planned as the Vice President’s abduction,’ said Adler, ‘there would be at least one back-up team. If the group holding the Vice President has gone rogue, the second team would be sent to wherever the Vice President was to have been held. They would have expected the Vice President to have been moved, but they would have to check. Whoever is running the rogue group would have known this or at least presumed this would be the case. Therefore, it is reasonable to suppose the killing of the Turk was intended to draw the second team to Lerchenfelder Strasse where they could be eliminated.’
Feiersinger tilted his head towards the Americans. ‘Do you have a better explanation?’
Before Wells could speak, Ellis said, ‘Makes sense to me’.
Wells shot a narrow-eyed glance at her colleague. ‘Let’s go with that for now,’ she said. ‘What’s that got to do with your idea about the ransom demand being changed? Do you think this rogue group will ask for more money? Gold? Diamonds? The release of political prisoners? Details of who shot JFK? A tour of Area 51?’
Feiersinger smiled away the woman’s sarcasm. ‘No, none of those. I believe they will ask for immunity.’
‘What?’ Wells shook her head in disbelief. ‘And why would they be given immunity?’
‘Because they’ve been protecting the VP,’ said Ellis.
Feiersinger was simultaneously impressed and peeved. He’d been looking forward to revealing that insight.
Wells let loose another incredulous ‘What?’
‘Tranquilliser darts,’ Ellis said. ‘Their snipers could easily have picked off my men. Instead, the VP’s security detail was herded towards a marksman with a tranquilliser rifle. They wanted there to be no casualties.’
‘What about Calhoun? He was a casualty,’ spat Wells.
‘Danny was reckless, irresponsible. You know that. If he’d maintained position behind the vehicles he would have been safe enough. Until Danny made his move, all of the shooting had been suppressive fire.’
‘Even so,’ said Wells, ‘how do you make the leap to they’re protecting the VP?’
‘Molly, we’ve had this conversation. If this kidnapping is for real, it’s not about money, it’s ideological. And that means ultimately the VP dies. If that’s the endgame, why worry about shooting a few Secret Service agents? My gut tells me my men are alive because the people who took the VP intend Ranger to live.’
Wells huffed and shifted her glare from Ellis to Feiersinger. ‘Is this what you believe?’
Feiersinger nodded.
‘You’re saying the VP was snatched from his security detail to protect him.’
Another nod.
‘Protect him from whom?’
Feiersinger turned to Ellis, deciding it was better to let his case be made by the American.
‘From the primary perpetrators,’ Ellis said. ‘If this rogue team hadn’t snatched the VP, another team would have.’
‘Gibson, listen to yourself. Why would a bunch of mercenaries turn into goody-two-shoes angels?’
‘Maybe they’re police or agents undercover—’
‘They threw someone out a window. They blew up who knows how many people in that loft.’
Ellis clamped his mouth shut. He ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. Feiersinger decided to fill the silence. ‘I don’t believe the rogue group are affiliated to any law enforcement or security agency. Official or unofficial. And I don’t believe the rogue group’s motives are entirely altruistic. Whatever their agenda, it involves inflicting damage on the primary perpetrators.’
An exasperated exhale from Wells. ‘I’m still not hearing a reason to believe this rogue group has acted to protect the VP.’
Judging from the tightened muscles on Ellis’s face, a frenetic search for a convincing case was being conducted behind the Secret Service agent’s eyes. Feiersinger knew that hunt would be called off soon, because there was no concrete proof. Not yet anyway. In the meantime, all they had was Ellis’s instinct and Feiersinger’s ability to surf misdirection. Feiersinger knew that wouldn’t be enough for someone like Special Agent Wells, but convincing her wasn’t the purpose of this meeting. Feiersinger was covering himself (and the Federal Chancellor): we tried to tell you he would be able to say.
Ellis sighed, and in a weary near-whisper he said, ‘Molly, nothing else comes close to making sense.’
‘Sorry Gibson, I’m just not as motivated as you to believe the VP was abducted for his own good.’
From Ellis’s expression, it was clear that had been a low blow.
A cough. One of the Jagdkommando. Adler said, ‘Forgive me Agent Wells, but it is not necessary to be convinced of the threat of global warming to accept recycling is a good idea.’
Wells couldn’t have looked more surprised if Arnold Schwarzenegger had walked through a wall and asked her to join a Mariachi band. Feiersinger almost laughed.
‘The scenario Herr Feiersinger and Agent Ellis are suggesting is neither impossible nor implausible,’ Adler said. ‘Surely it is prudent to at least consider the possibility.’ He gestured towards the map, and turned to Feiersinger. ‘You said Albania was significant.’
39. BREAKTHROUGH
Grace Breckinridge was warm and cosy, and she didn’t understand why there was an old woman in her bedroom.
‘Sorry to have to wake you dear.’
Breckinridge snapped awake, sat up quickly and blurted, ‘Mrs Joosten.’ She swung her legs off the sofa and slipped on her shoes.
‘EAD Porter was called into another meeting,’ said Mrs Joosten. ‘So I gave you an extra twenty minutes.’ A warm smile.
Breckinridge blushed. She’d told herself she would just rest her eyes, that there was no way she’d actually relax on an FBI Executive Assistant Director’s sofa, but ...
Mrs Joosten tilted her head towards the door. ‘If you’d like to freshen up, you have a little over ten minutes.’
When Breckinridge returned from the restroom, Mrs Joosten handed her a mug of coffee and an envelope. ‘Your Seattle tickets and flight itinerary.’ Mrs Joosten’s eyes twinkled. ‘I’ll keep you informed of Special Agent Jamieson’s progress.’
And then Breckinridge was ushered into EAD Porter’s office. The cushions on the sofa had been smoothed out and returned to their corners, and between them sat Special Agent Colm Reynolds, his hands cupped around his own coffee, as he waited to begin his report.
Tommy Amberson glanced at the laptop on the breakfast bar ... zero activity. He knew that would be the case. The machine was monitoring the tens of thousands of dollars worth of hardware in the basement, and if any message or alert had arrived the laptop would have shrieked at him. Amberson was confident his placing, deleting and amending of files in the databases of various agencies would not be detected. Problems would only arise if someone looked out the original hard copy files. Unlikely. But possible.
His gaze drifted back to the trees surrounding the half acre of land that came with the house. Amberson could have set up his tech-hub anywhere, but Kai Degen had liked the symmetry of locating Amberson and his equipment in the Fairfax County town of Vienna, especially as it wasn’t far from Dulles Airport.
Amberson sipped some water, and threw a glance at the fridge behind him. Chilling inside were a dozen bottles of Stiegl Weisse—an Austrian beer—that Degen had sent from the other Vienna. He wasn’t a big drinker, but Amberson enjoyed an ice-cool beer poured into a freezer-chilled glass after the successful completion of a job.
Barring an emergency, his work was almost done, most of
it completed months ago. Repeats of the fire inspection ruse had allowed Amberson to find unpatched vulnerabilities in the networks of two civilian government agencies. And by exploiting those weaknesses he’d acquired administrator privileges to access the on-site police workstations, which had second network cards allowing access to an FBI mainframe. Similar work had allowed hacks of Europol, Interpol and Austrian military databases.
Amberson was particularly proud of the fake FBI reports he’d created. Before he’d started typing at his keyboard, the Fifth Flag Financial Group and Democr@cy hadn’t existed. Neither had the FBI agent who’d sent the report, nor the agent who’d forwarded the Interpol suspect list he’d also fabricated. It had been Amberson who, tongue-in-cheek, had suggested the names Troy Brumby and Dawn Augen. At first, no one had gotten the gag. ‘A Brumby is a wild horse in Australia,’ Amberson had explained.
Scott Macrae had chuckled. ‘Trojan horse, very good. Still don’t get the other one though.’
The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1) Page 24
