The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1)

by Macalister Stevens

  ‘Your price. Name it,’ demanded the Chairman.

  ‘It’s not my price you need to pay.’ Degen stood. ‘I’m here for someone else. And she wants Zuzu’s petals.’

  The Chairman looked at him blankly.

  ‘That’s something your money can’t buy.’ Degen scooped up the knife. ‘But she has an alternative request.’ He glanced down at the pages of Gray’s Anatomy. Then he pulled the blade from its scabbard.

  46. COMPLETION

  Tamara glanced at Mel; she was plugged into the news channel again. She couldn’t get enough of the scandal, the outrage, the demonstrations, the political point-scoring, the debates, the accusations, the excuses.

  TV networks had expected the safe return of the Vice President to dominate their schedules for a few days. They’d been wrong. Before the VP had arrived back in the United States, the Billionaire Ripper story tore its way to the top of the news agenda.

  A super-rich American businessman had been found dead in his Washington DC home. A post-mortem examination revealed he had been a transplant patient, and that the organ—a kidney—had been removed; it had not been the work of a skilled surgeon. The bloody nature of the death would have been enough to grab headlines, but the Billionaire Ripper had left evidence of the victim’s involvement with an international criminal gang specialising in harvesting organs from kidnapped young women. Copies of that evidence, and documents implicating a number of other wealthy recipients in Europe and North America had appeared in the inboxes of news editors around the world. And then it had been revealed that the Ripper’s victim had been a person of special interest in the FBI’s investigation of the Vice President’s abduction.

  The news equivalent of a perfect storm.

  Tamara had merely skimmed the headlines. It was all too awful, and she couldn’t bear any more misery. Baba Yana had died during the night.

  That news had stunned Tamara. Over the last few days she’d sat for hours enthralled by tales of Baba Yana’s life: her teenage years during the Second World War, and the pride she felt in her nation’s protection of Bulgarian Jews; her certainty that the post-war vote to abolish her country’s monarchy had been rigged; her disgust that Bulgarian troops were sent to Czechoslovakia to help crush the Prague Spring; the year she’d spent in East Germany with her late husband, an engineer, who had been assigned to a project in East Berlin; and the tough times between the collapse of the Eastern Bloc and twenty-first century growth. Baba Yana had seen so much change, some of it grim, some of it inspiring, and some of it hilarious: apparently footballers’ shorts used to look like hot pants. Baba Yana was a storybook grandma come to life. And now she was gone.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Tamara turned from the window. A dark-haired man, mid-thirties, stood in the doorway. ‘Are you Tamara?’ he asked. The face was broad, and Tamara could see Baba Yana in his eyes.

  She nodded.

  ‘My name is Mikhail Draganov. My grandmother was—’

  ‘Baba Yana.’

  Mikhail smiled. And Tamara saw even more of Baba Yana.

  ‘Yes,’ Mikhail said, ‘Baba Yana. She spoke of you when I visited. She was very fond of you.’

  Cheeks flushed and eyes misted. Tamara dropped her head to hide her face.

  She heard Mikhail take a step forward. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I did not mean to upset you.’

  Into her chest, Tamara said, ‘It’s okay, I’m fine, just, you know ... tired.’

  ‘I am sorry, I will leave you, I was being selfish, forgive me.’

  As Tamara looked up, Mikhail stepped back and turned. She called after him, ‘No please, don’t go. What was it you wanted?’

  Without turning, Mikhail said, ‘I could not make it to see Baba Yana last night. Work.’ The last word dripped bitterness. ‘I wanted to be sure she was not alone.’ His voice cracked on alone.

  ‘Oh no, she wasn’t. I popped in to see her after her visitor left.’

  Mikhail turned. ‘Baba Yana had a visitor last night?’

  ‘Erm, yes. Tall man, short light-brown hair, he was sort of good-looking in an older kind-of-way. A bit older than you. He gave her that small pot-thing.’ She pointed to the object in Mikhail’s hand.

  He looked down. ‘It is an urn. With ashes. I was going to ask you about it.’ Mikhail stared at the ceramic. ‘Did Baba Yana say anything about the man who visited?’

  ‘Not much really. She seemed very content after he’d gone though. I spotted the pot, eh, the urn and asked what it was. She smiled one of those big Baba Yana smiles and said it was a kept promise.’

  47. DOMINOES

  Amsterdam, Netherlands

  Location is everything. Not much of an epiphany. In truth, more the backwash from a surge of self-pity: Kolinkar Øster had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But blaming bad luck was nonsense. He’d made his choices. Self-responsibility kicked back in, and he took another look around the bar. Dark wood décor did a fair job of mimicking the smoke-stained cosiness of a Dutch bruin café, but—located in the heart of Schiphol Airport, not by an Amsterdam canal—this place lacked the atmosphere of the real thing. Transient clientele: that was the problem. No regulars. Just passing-through-patrons keeping to themselves. And that meant no diffusion of camaraderie. Just a soulless one-roomed theme park that sold beer. Maybe location wasn’t everything, but it played its part.

  Øster checked the drinks of the two Americans he’d picked out half an hour earlier; their glasses were almost empty. That was Øster’s cue. He ordered two beers and while the barman poured, Øster kept an eye on the men. Both were clean-shaven, both had short, neat haircuts, and both were dressed in smart suits: one wore a midnight blue two-piece, the other a charcoal three-piece.

  Øster glanced towards the window at the end of the bar. His reflection was swathed in hangover chic: slept-in t-shirt, ratty jeans, shabby leather jacket, finger-combed hair, a face darkened by stubble and not-quite-faded bruises. Tyler Durden’s dad, he thought.

  The beers arrived, served Dutch-style: each glass had a large frothy head trimmed flush with its rim. Øster carried the drinks over to the men. They looked up. Øster set down the beers. He smiled and said, ‘Nice suits.’ Some situations required a light touch. But blunt had its place. ‘Why don’t you just stamp FBI on your foreheads?’

  The bar-babble dropped to nudge-and-nod accompanied muttering. Øster felt stares fix on him, and the suits exchanged damned-if-I-know looks.

  Awkward silence.

  One of the suits caved. ‘Sorry, buddy, we’re not FBI. We’re just—’

  ‘Just what?’ demanded Øster. ‘Lawyers? Commodity brokers? Mormons?’

  ‘Wh—’

  ‘Bullshit,’ spat Øster. ‘Obvious. That’s what you are. Misdirection. Sacrifices I’m supposed to spot. You want me to be overconfident.’ Øster slapped a hundred euro note on the table. ‘To buy drinks for the rest of your surveillance team. The ones I’m not supposed to notice.’ He threw in a sneer. ‘Subtlety is just better dressed sneakiness.’

  ‘Uh …’

  Øster fought off a wince: that line had seemed fine in his head, but out loud it was a little too Cantona-esque. He glanced towards the barman, catching a concerned frown. Time to go: involving armed airport security wasn’t part of the plan. Øster turned and strode out of the bar. Although, still limping from the injuries he’d sustained in Vienna, the striding was more about attitude than actual motion. He stopped a few steps from the bar, letting Schiphol’s bustle flow around him.

  Øster disliked airports. The amount of spatial awareness on display was always inversely proportional to the number of people ambling about. And Schiphol irritated him more than most. Schiphol encouraged ambling. The Dutch seemed determined to disguise departure lounge internment as aero-tainment: fashion boutiques, jewellery outlets, electronics stores, book shops, gift shops, a flower shop, a supermarket, variously themed bars and cafés and restaurants and fast food franchises, plus a play area for kids, and a gym, and a
sauna, and a library, and a museum, even a casino. Øster just wanted somewhere footfall-free and quiet where he could read until his flight was boarding.

  He checked an information board—still no gate number—then he looked back into the bar. The barman had lost interest, but the suits were staring at him. The three-piece shrugged, pocketed the hundred euro note, raised a beer towards Øster and took a long drink. Not Mormons then.

  Nor were they FBI. Their suits were expensive, so maybe they really were lawyers or commodities brokers, thought Øster. The actual surveillance team wouldn’t be FBI either, or even Americans. They’d be Dutch nationals acting for the hotchpotch of US security services working together—grudgingly—in an inter-agency task force.

  The surveillance team would need access to all parts of the airport, which meant it likely most of them would be dressed as staff; a micro-smile twitched at Øster’s face: at least two lucky agents—one male, one female—would be posing as cleaners. The Dutch team would keep an eye on Øster until he boarded his flight. One, perhaps two, of his fellow passengers would be travelling solely to watch Øster. And a new team would pick up at José Martí International. But in Cuba, there would be no local assistance. The Americans would have to use their own assets, and those assets would need to ensure they stayed under the radar of the National Revolutionary Police Force, making the Americans’ observation of Øster more challenging. Øster could exploit that.

  The performance in the bar had been intended to be a curveball: People trying to evade surveillance didn’t draw attention to themselves, and Øster had publicly berated a couple of innocent travellers (apparently) because they fitted the FBI dark suit stereotype. What did that make Øster? Incompetent? Reckless? Panicked? Up to something? Øster wanted the Americans to be uncertain, to layer extra caution to their operations. Mix in the complexities of Americans operating in Havana, and perhaps there would be a crack in the surveillance that Øster could take advantage of. If not, he’d spend the rest of his life on a short leash.

  Publicly, the Americans (and the Austrians) had accepted evidence that Øster had been framed in Vienna—Øster was now free to go wherever he wished, to do whatever he desired—but in reality the Americans would be inhabiting a mindset somewhere between dubious and incredulous. They’d be patient, looking for Øster to slip up, to make contact with someone involved in the abduction.

  They’d have a long wait.

  Everyone involved and known to Øster was dead. But he couldn’t tell the Americans that. He was supposed to be innocent. Only he wasn’t. And now he was caught between two lies.

  A squeal skewered Øster’s musing. Up ahead, four ebullient young children were being herded in his direction by a solo adult. The poor guy looked … depleted. An attractive brunette appeared from behind the father. She paced past the man, paying no attention to him or the children.

  Nice legs, Øster noted.

  As his gaze dropped to the woman’s ankles, she flicked out a kitten heel, catching a foot of the lead child, sending the youngster sprawling into Øster. He caught the kid: male, about seven, its wide-eyed face beginning to turn red.

  ‘You poor thing, are you okay? Let me see.’ It was the brunette. Her English didn’t have the sibilance of the Dutch or Øster’s pseudo-American twang (most Danes of his generation drifted towards the mid-Atlantic); her accent suggested a Slavic mother tongue. She jostled Øster aside, grabbing hold of the boy. The father caught up, and as he took over fussing duties, the brunette said, ‘Sorry, I must go.’

  Øster turned, intending to take in the view as she walked off, but he was distracted by an unfamiliar weight in his jacket pocket. He slipped in his hand and touched smooth plastic: a phone. It buzzed in his hand. He lifted it from his pocket. An incoming call: caller Unknown. He thumbed Accept and put the phone to his ear.

  ‘Hello Kolinkar.’ A woman’s voice. Slavic accent. The brunette. ‘That was nice work in Vienna. We could use those skills.’ Øster scanned the ambling throng. No sign of the brunette. In his ear, she continued: ‘We can get you clear of the agents following you. Also, we can compensate you for the two-thirds of your fee for the Vienna job that remains unpaid by your former employers. If you are interested, leave the airport now. Go directly to the valet parking area in front of the departure hall. A white Prius will be waiting for you. Instructions in the glove box. If you are not interested, enjoy Cuba.’ The call ended.

  Øster lowered the phone and stared at it for a few seconds. Then looked up, searching for an exit.

  One Observatory Circle, Washington DC, USA

  ‘Lovely meal,’ said John Koenig, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin. ‘Nice wine.’

  ‘It’s from Bordeaux. A gift from the French ambassador. The Europeans are being particularly thoughtful these days.’ Richard Koenig refilled his brother’s wine glass, then topped up his own. ‘There were moments when I thought we might never do this again.’

  John took a long gulp of wine. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Listen, there’s a reason I asked the ladies to give us a few minutes.’ Spouses and offspring had made their way from the dining room to the living room on the other side of the reception hall. ‘I want to share something with you.’ Richard leaned under the table and pulled up a shoebox. ‘Take a look.’ He pushed the shoebox across the dining table.

  Another gulp of wine. John knew Ryan Lachkovic had been talking. Was Richard playing with him? Did the box contain a copy of Lachkovic’s confession, naming Governor John Koenig as a conspirator? Or did it hold a warrant for his arrest? John lifted the lid. Inside the box was a GI Joe, with gripping hands. The plastic figure was dressed in a grey suit.

  ‘I want you to have this,’ said Richard, smiling broadly. ‘I had the suit made specially.’

  ‘I don’t ... sorry, what does this mean?’

  ‘It means I want you to have what I have.’ Richard reined in a grin. ‘It turns out being abducted on foreign soil has several upsides. Popularity at home being among the most useful. The party has assured me the primaries are a formality, and we’ve been discussing the question of my running mate. It was a short discussion. They want the same person I do. You.’

  John’s glass slipped from his fingers.

  ‘Crap!’ He stretched out to mop up the spilled wine with his napkin.

  Richard grabbed John’s wrist. ‘Forget that. What do you think? Want to shape the country’s future? If things go according to plan, you’ll replace me in the Oval Office.’

  John stared at Richard as claret bled across the table.

  George Washington University Hospital

  Washington DC, USA

  Benjamin Franklin must never have been in hospital, otherwise he would have added hospital food sucking to his list of certainties. Oliver Jamieson bit into the salt beef, pastrami, lamb and bacon squeezed between two slabs of unevenly sliced white bread. As he chewed, he made a round-eyed face he hoped Grace Breckinridge understood meant oh my god! ‘Mmexnrah-halpnoh,’ he masticated, hefting the mandwich in salute: he loved extra jalapeño.

  ‘So if I can get your sandwich order right,’ Breckinridge said, ‘how about you put more effort into my coffee when you get out of here?’

  Real people didn’t shrug off a bullet wound and report to work the next day. Recovery rates depended on a number of factors: age, weight, pre-injury health, nature of tissue and bone damage. If he’d been lucky, Jamieson could have been discharged after ten days, but an infection had kept him in hospital for weeks. He wasn’t happy about it, but Breckinridge sneaking in food helped.

  She also slipped him updates. ‘Lachkovic’s recovery has been a lot faster than yours. He’s being transferred from Joint Base Andrews to a safe house.’

  Jamieson swallowed. ‘Do we know anything about the deal he’s been given?’

  A smile. ‘We aren’t in that loop.’

  Jamieson shrugged and took another chunk out of his mandwich.

  ‘Did EAD Porter speak with you?’ B
reckinridge asked.

  ‘Uh-hum. Eshdahdey.’

  ‘New task force.’

  A nod. A swallow. ‘Don’t catch the Billionaire Ripper before I get out of here.’

  Somewhere in Virginia, USA

  Ryan Lachkovic cursed the FBI. Fine print apart, the deal they’d made was simple enough: he’d hand the FBI his former associates and the FBI would keep him safe.

  But he was far from safe.

  Lachkovic’s fine print had included a transfer to Malcolm Grow Medical Center on Joint Base Andrews; safe was never an absolute term, but Lachkovic had felt safer on the military base responsible for the security of Air Force One.

  However, the FBI’s fine print required Lachkovic to move to an environment the Bureau (not the military) controlled as soon as his injuries had sufficiently healed. Lachkovic presumed this to be the FBI double-word-scoring: by underpinning its top-dog status in the inter-agency task force that Lachkovic was assisting; and by flexing the Bureau’s control over the course of Lachkovic’s future.

  A few hours earlier, a three-vehicle convoy of SUVs—US Marshals in the lead and rear vehicles, a handcuffed Lachkovic and three FBI special agents in the middle vehicle—had departed Joint Base Andrews and headed for an FBI safe house. He hadn’t been told the location, but once there, Lachkovic was to continue his recuperation and to continue providing the FBI with details of the Coalition and the motivation behind its abduction of the Vice President of the United States of America.

  But Lachkovic hadn’t made it to the safe house.

  The convoy had travelled from Maryland into Virginia—taking a meandering route Lachkovic presumed was the result of US Marshal Service caution rather than a faulty sat nav—and was snaking its way along a tree-lined road between Fairfax Station and Clifton when a truck had blurred from a side road and rammed the lead SUV. The way ahead blocked by wreckage, the other SUVs had skidded to abrupt immobility. There had been gunfire. Tyres had hissed flat. Then assault rifles and shotguns had surrounded the SUV occupied by Lachkovic and the FBI special agents.