Blondeau felt queasy. The man called Lacroix hauled him to his feet as the side door of the van swung open. Air blasted into his face and a whining roar assaulted his ears. He squinted into the wind; the van’s headlights picked out the black curves of a helicopter. Two men climbed out and rushed towards the van. Blondeau recognised one of them: Philipe Cochet, his company’s head of security. He was safe.
No. He was not.
Blondeau turned to Lacroix and shouted, ‘The kidnappers, they threatened me, made me tell them ... corporate secrets. Sensitive commercial information. Did you recover any recording devices?’
Lacroix shook his head, then leaned in to Blondeau’s ear. ‘Getting you out unharmed was our priority. The police have been informed of the location of the farm where you were being held. I’m sure they will catalogue all of the evidence they find.’
Blondeau relaxed; a word to the right contact and he would be safe.
Lacroix watched the helicopter rise and swing away. Then he walked to the van’s passenger-side door and climbed in. ‘You hear that?’ he asked.
Sokol nodded and reached into a pocket. He smirked and produced a red and black flash drive. ‘He can bribe as many gendarmes as he likes. Pay-offs, embezzlement, fraud. It’s all here. His testimony is safe.’
44. LOOSE ENDS
A successful criminal organisation required access to many skills and attributes. On paper, the Varoshi brothers had covered most bases. Korab had muscle and balls to spare. Valon had imagination, determination and ruthlessness in equally generous measures. And while Arjan had a smattering of all of his brothers’ traits, his chief talent was being a gifted chameleon; he was effortlessly charismatic and convincing in any situation.
‘You’re a bullshitting genius,’ Korab had once said.
But it had been Valon who had seen the potential in his younger brother’s ability. Valon had also seen the opportunities in setting up Arjan in the Czech Republic: the country’s position in the heart of Europe meant easy access to both eastern and western European markets; and, more importantly, the Czechs had a layer of public officials for whom bribe-taking was as natural and regular a part of life as shitting.
With Arjan’s charm at the helm, the Varoshi clan built up a sizeable portfolio of legitimate businesses, all underpinned by the strategic distribution of cash-filled envelopes, ensuring contracts were awarded, inspections were passed and eyes were averted.
By championing a number of charities, Arjan gained a reputation for philanthropy, receiving various awards. Thanks to another batch of cash-stuffed envelopes, those handing out the honours had no idea the charities were mostly money laundering shells. The charities were also named as beneficiaries of offshore trusts based in the British Virgin Islands and the Cook Islands, however the charities received no monies from the trusts, which existed only to facilitate tax avoidance and even greater money laundering.
Arjan also dabbled in the art world, collecting a few modest pieces here and there to display in his home in Prague’s upmarket Malá Strana and in his offices in Prague and Brno, though these were the visible tip of a much more extensive and expensive collection that remained out of sight, for a while at least.
The idea of using art theft as a way to bankroll the Varoshi clan’s expansion plans had been Arjan’s. The stratagem was relatively simple: steal some art, then sell it somewhere like Italy, where—if the piece had been bought in good faith and if at least three years had passed without the piece being identified as stolen—the law permitted the new owner to keep the piece. Of course, the good faith buyers were in league with the Varoshi clan, and they kept the art hidden. After three years, the art was sold to a legitimate collector, or used to secure bank loans.
Art theft had never been a core activity of Albanian crime families, and the Varoshi clan had needed to recruit specialists. But the timing of one specialist had been unfortunate: the thief hadn’t reckoned on the wife of the wealthy collector he was robbing having a secret liaison with a friend’s husband at what should have been an empty holiday home. The thief had sought a deal, offering information that suggested a possible connection to Arjan Varoshi.
The Varoshi name had been a red flag for the Czech national intelligence agency. The BIS took an interest in illegal economic and industrial activities deemed to be a threat to the state, and the Varoshi clan had been under scrutiny for some time. The BIS, mindful of the Varoshi clan’s connections in Kosovo, had installed an agent at UNMIK, and that same agent had a background that made her an ideal candidate for an undercover operation targeting Arjan Varoshi.
Larissa Němcová was born in Český Krumlov, but her father, a painter, moved the family to Brno; he’d been attracted by the free-thinking arts community of Kamenná Kolonie, a huddle of tiny houses and narrow streets built illegally in an abandoned quarry. Very Bohemian.
Although she’d shared her father’s love of art, Larissa inherited none of his talent. So, partly to impress her father, she’d studied. Diligently. But then there had been a boy. ‘There’s always a boy in these stories,’ she’d once said to Kai Degen, rolling her eyes. ‘And he’s always no good.’
This boy was in fact in his thirties, and his no-goodness involved the theft of valuable paintings. Fast-forward through a brush with the police, a decision to turn her life around in the military and a meeting with a BIS recruiter, and Larissa Němcová had found herself almost full-circle as Tereza Zmatlíková: art thief. That had been the sister operation she’d told Degen about after she’s helped the Badger and the Owl persuade him to infiltrate the Varoshi clan’s presence in Germany.
The Varoshi’s unlucky-thief (turned informant) had been unable to provide any concrete connections between Arjan Varoshi and any criminal activities; he’d had no contact with Arjan, only middle-men—that was how Arjan Varoshi operated: at a distance—but the recruitment of the alluring Tereza Zmatlíková had slackened Arjan’s caution. He had known better than to conduct any business with the strikingly attractive thief, but he had engineered a meeting in an appropriately innocent environment.
Arjan had pursued Zmatlíková, who’d pitched her resistance with just enough coquettish subtext to keep him from giving up, and that had ensured Zmatlíková received invitations to parties, opening nights, awards dinners, product launches and countless other events that involved lots of people. No invitation could have been interpreted as a date, but each gave Arjan the opportunity to flex his considerable charm.
Němcová’s role as Zmatlíková had been close to gaining her access to Arjan’s inner circle, where she would have had the opportunity to unearth some actionable evidence, but a cash-filled envelope had found its way into the wrong hands at UNMIK, or the Czech police, or maybe even BIS. And she’d been exposed. She’d had to kill three of Arjan Varoshi’s men making her escape.
A safe house. A debriefing. A bath. A change of clothes. An hour’s sleep. And then they had come for her. To the safe house. She’d been sold out again; an enraged Arjan Varoshi had significantly increased the size of the envelopes.
The two BIS agents tasked with watching over Němcová had been killed by the shots that woke her. She’d grabbed the CZ 75 from the bedside table and rolled to the floor, aiming the handgun at the bedroom door. The section chief in charge of supervising BIS safe houses had ordered all internal doors to be fitted to open outwards, his thinking being that should a safe house be compromised, doors hinged outwards gave the occupants a sliver of advantage: a door can’t be hauled open as fast as it can be kicked in.
Thudding footsteps had approached her door. Němcová estimated three men, guessed a fourth was hanging back. She’d aimed low and fired at an angle that would rip through the legs of anyone near the door; anyone further back would be caught in the chest. She’d emptied the magazine, then sprung to her feet, reloading as she threw herself at the door. It crashed open, revealing three bodies on the floor and a fourth man standing across the hall, staring at her. She put four bullets in his chest
. As he fell, she put a bullet in the head of each of the bodies on the floor, then another in the head of the fourth.
The fourth had been armed with a Mac-10 machine pistol. If he’d been trained, instead of being a thug with a showy weapon, Němcová would have been dead as soon as she’d thrown open the bedroom door. She picked up the Mac-10 and checked its owner’s pockets. She found a spare 30 round stick magazine, tucked it in the back of her jeans and lifted a Glock and two spare magazines from the other bodies. She checked outside: two cars, a driver in each.
After emptying the Mac-10 magazines into the vehicles, Němcová had reached into the gore-splashed interior of the lead car and fished out the fob that would open the gates to Arjan Varoshi’s Prague home.
Arjan dominated the next day’s headlines: Prominent Businessman Slain. Philanthropist Killed in Home. Mob link to Malá Strana Murder.
The BIS had covered up Němcová’s unorthodox resignation, presenting a narrative hinting strongly that Arjan’s business activities had conflicted with the interests of Russian mobsters. And that had been the straw to break the Varoshi clan. Arjan’s death (at the hands of Russians) following soon after the Varoshi set back in Germany (also involving Russians) had the taste of blood in the water, and the Gjoka clan had moved against Valon and Korab. Valon had been stabbed while visiting a cousin in Durrës, dead before the delayed-by-traffic ambulance could reach him. Korab had attempted to take the fight to the Gjoka clan, but Kreshnik Xhepa had Gjoka family ties, and blood trumped marriage. Without Xhepa, Korab’s resistance was doomed, and it ended with a shotgun blast to the gut.
Xhepa’s reward for his blood-loyalty had been dominion over many former Varoshi operations, including human trafficking and prostitution. The expansion into organ harvesting had been Xhepa’s innovation. That had increased his international contacts and had led to Xhepa spearheading the Gjoka incursion into the lucrative American market. He’d been extremely successful. But Xhepa’s past was about to bring a high-heeled reaper to the door of his New York penthouse.
Larissa Němcová smiled sweetly as the brute outside the elevator pawed at her, checking for weapons. She hadn’t brought any with her. Except the fifteen centimetre stilettos that finished off her high-class hooker ensemble. Mister Wandering-Hands would get one of those heels in his ear on the ride up to the penthouse. She’d use whatever handgun he was carrying to take out the rest of Xhepa’s men. After that, she’d improvise.
45. ENDGAME
The ebony rook swooped over the lacquered briar wood and elm and took up position next to the opposing queen. He would study the board for a while before informing his Beijing-based opponent.
The Chairman reflected on how he preferred distance matches. Seeing pieces in their place made it easier to envision the implications of a move, a luxury not afforded in face-to-face confrontations.
That thought reminded him of the detectives from the Metropolitan Police Department of the District of Columbia parked outside his home; assigned there to ensure his assent to the Chief of Police’s request for an interview the next day. But one of his legal teams would attend to that irritation in the morning.
As he stared at the sleek, concave shanks of the pieces on the board, he considered the pawns he’d sacrificed during his defence against the recent counter-attack. He had to admire the cunning, the forethought, the prestidigitation. There would need to be further sacrifices as he adjusted his strategy.
But, like the police presence outside, that was a matter for the morning.
The lower level was for staff and security. It included two offices, a fitness centre, a bedroom and a laundry. The main level also had a small office, but most of the space was taken up by a grand reception area with a gallery section of eclectic art that came together in such a way it was possible to believe it had been conceived as one piece. The second level included a library, a formal dining room, a formal living room, a sunroom and the kitchen. Four guest bedrooms were located on the third level, with the fourth level being reserved for the master bedroom, the master sitting room and the Chairman’s office.
Degen had memorised the floorplan, and he’d found the Chairman’s security and staff where he’d expected them to be: on the lower and main levels. Security had been neutralised, and the staff had been tasered and bound. Neither the DCPD officers tasked with surveillance outside, nor the Chairman ensconced on the top level heard anything.
The Chairman, dressed in casual slacks and a loose-fitting, short-sleeved shirt, sat in one of three brown leather club chairs circling a large glass coffee table. His back to the sitting room door, he was hunched over a chessboard.
Degen coughed.
Startled, the Chairman swivelled his bulk, no doubt ready to chastise an employee. Instead of a member of his staff, leaning against the door frame, was a tall figure, dressed in loose-fitting black clothing, a small black rucksack casually slung over his left shoulder and a Glock holstered at his right hip.
‘Wald!’ The Chairman stood
‘Tiziano Bazhunaishvili,’ said Degen.
The Chairman’s eyes flitted to a phone resting on the arm of a leather sofa.
‘That wouldn’t be the wisest move you could make,’ Degen said. ‘And my name’s not Wald.’
‘And neither are you dead.’ The Chairman’s tone was tetchy. He turned and sat, keeping his back to Degen. ‘Forgive my manners,’ he said. His voice had lost the sharp edge. ‘This has been a day of disappointments. Please, take a seat.’ He leaned forward and stretched his hand towards the chessboard. ‘Do you play?’
‘I take it there’s a panic button on the board or in one of the pieces,’ Degen said. ‘The alarms have been disconnected. But go ahead, maybe I missed a wire.’
‘That’s sporting of you,’ said the Chairman. He picked up the black king and, with thumb and forefinger, twisted the top half.
Degen pushed himself off the door frame and strode to one of the chairs next to the chessboard. As he sat, he slipped the rucksack off his shoulder. It thudded onto the polished floor. The Chairman gave the rucksack a brief look, then gestured towards the chessboard. ‘I take it you’re not here to play.’
‘No.’
‘Pity.’ The Chairman sat. ‘You’re quite the strategist.’ He eyed Degen for a few moments before asking, ‘Then what is it that brings you here?’
‘A few questions.’
The Chairman sat back, clasping his hands on his lap. ‘Ask away.’
Degen thought back to his conversation with Diether Adler, and he wondered if he was about to cross the line he’d tasked Diether with monitoring. He glanced at the rucksack at his feet, then he asked, ‘Is there an afterlife?’
A raised eyebrow. ‘I would have to say ... I don’t know. Perhaps, perhaps not.’
‘So, there may not be an afterlife?’
An indulgent, ‘Yes.’
‘It could be that we just get one life?’
A slightly bored, ‘Yes.’
‘And it makes good sense to make this one life as full and enriching and comfortable as possible?’
‘Naturally.’ Sounding a little impatient.
‘And to achieve that, is it acceptable to take things from other people and make those things our own?’
‘Good Lord!’ the Chairman harrumphed. ‘What do you want me to say? No? I’ll say that if you like, but it won’t be true. People want things, people take things. That’s how it works.’
The Chairman took a long breath: a salve for the cracks in his composure. Calmly, he said, ‘This building, when it was on the market, there was interest from a number of potential buyers. A deal was close to being done. But I wanted it. And I got what I wanted because I was prepared to do what was necessary and I had the resources to accomplish my goal. The land this building sits on has passed through many hands. American revolutionaries took it from the British Empire. British settlers had taken it from the indigenous Nacotchtank people. And who knows who they took it from. Have you ever heard of t
he Nacotchtank?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I doubt it. Why not? Because they weren’t strong enough to hold on to what was theirs. Everything is about strength. The strong get what they want. That’s how things work in the real world.’
‘In this real world, is it equally acceptable to take back what’s been taken from us?’
‘Of course.’
‘I was hoping we would reach an agreement on that point.’ Degen leaned forward and swept his forearm over the chessboard, sending the pieces skittering across the table’s glass surface and onto the floor. One hand disappeared into the rucksack and reappeared clutching a hard-back copy of Gray’s Anatomy. A business card protruded between the pages. Degen dropped the book onto the chessboard. Then he reached back into the rucksack and pulled out a sheathed tool-steel combat knife. Degen placed the long blade next to the book and sat back in his chair, pointing a finger at the Chairman’s side. ‘You have something that doesn’t belong to you.’
The Chairman stared at the blade and the book. ‘What do you want?’
‘To keep a promise.’
‘I’m asking what your price is. Everyone has their price.’
Degen nodded. ‘That’s true.’ He picked up Gray’s Anatomy and opened it at the bookmarked page. He flicked the business card at the Chairman.
The card landed on the plateau of fat below the Chairman’s chest. He glanced down, then picked the card off his belly. ‘What’s this?’
‘Your doctor’s card,’ said Degen. ‘The FBI will be knocking on his door in a few days. I have an associate who’s very good with computers. He’s had access to your doctor’s laptop for a few months. Been regularly downloading images onto the doctor’s machine. Images the Bureau’s Violent Crimes Against Children section will take a dim view of. Your doctor is innocent of course. But innocence didn’t matter to him when he was looking the other way regarding your solution to your health issues. What mattered was his price.’
The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1) Page 27
