The Trafficker: A Michael Thomas Thriller

by Gavin Reese

  Michael stepped back to the couch but watched König while he did so. Breathing on his own, but no other motion. He set the tranq gun on König’s low coffee table and turned his attention to the couch. After sliding it back into place, Michael ensured its metal feet came to rest in the same divots it had long ago pressed into the carpet and padding. With his gloved hands, he rubbed the streaks and small indentations made by its temporary repositioning. There. After another hour, no one should notice I spent time back there.

  Michael retrieved the tranq gun and walked over to his felled target, grateful for the man’s predictability. He knelt beside König and glanced forward, to the suppressed 9mm that had tumbled onto the storage room’s tile floor. That asshole would’ve put real rounds in me without a second thought. Michael looked at his watch while checking König’s pulse. Still ticking along at about fifty. “You’re doing alright, Alfred,” he offered. “Good thing for you that I don’t take this shit personally, or I might be tempted to give you the third dart.”

  Michael rose and went about his preplanned preparations. He started by holstering the tranq gun and its final chemical dart on his right hip. That’s another mistake from Isadore’s apartment that I’ll never repeat. If anyone else gets into the office, I gotta have this thing with me and ready to go. If I leave it lying around again, I might end up starting that prison mission after all. Let’s hope I don’t ever have more than one dart worth of problems.

  Before Michael traveled to Vienna, John had explained their new tranq darts contained a faster-acting anesthetic that almost immediately overwhelmed the central nervous system but metabolized very quickly. The compound might prevent accidental deaths like that dealt to Pietro Isadore, but Michael still had to periodically check König’s pulse and breathing. He’ll start waking up in about thirty minutes, and he should be coherent in an hour. The easy part will be getting ready. After that, I have to convince Alfred König to humble himself before God.

  February 19, 3:35PM

  König’s Office. Vienna, Austria.

  Still dressed in the blue coveralls, Michael lifted the last narcotics-filled duffel bag from König’s large bank of wall cabinets. He slowly stepped over to the countertop in the center of the room and placed it next to the other open bags. Be a shame to sully my cassock and collarino while moving all this goddamned dope around.

  “Bin ich tot?”

  Michael turned to the quiet, unexpected voice. König laid on the floor where Michael had placed him. Facing toward the far corner of the room, the dealer of death tugged against his restraints. Michael realized that he had never heard König’s voice. Not what I expected, but he might grow more authoritative and commanding as the drugs wear off and he understands that he’s not dead yet.

  Although nearly flat on his back, a custom set of padded nylon straps bound König’s limbs and held them in mechanically weak positions. His arms were bent with his elbows above his head and his hands behind his neck. His legs, also bent, placed his knees above his hips, which were rotated out so that each foot was nearly sideways in front of his groin. The two primary straps crossed his torso behind his back; one set passed over the left side of his torso and tied his right elbow to his right knee, the other connected his left knee and elbow around the right side of his body. Not unlike the mechanical principle behind crucifixions, König’s efforts to extend one limb collapsed another. He could not sit up, roll to one side, or make use of any major muscle group to escape or resist. In addition to limiting his movement and resistance for the little time Michael would spend with him, the restraints had been primarily designed to prevent bruising and suspicious ligature marks that might compel a medical examiner to label a death as “suspicious” or, worse, “homicide.”

  Michael first ensured the narcotics bags were stable and in-place before walking over to examine König. He considered how he wanted to first present himself to the subject. I never got this chance with Isadore, he died before I could get back to him. The cassock will make me more sincere and believable. Michael unzipped the coveralls and stepped out of them to expose his priestly garbs.

  “Hallo? Wer ist da? Bin ich tot?” König heard Michael’s movement and tried to look up toward the sound, but his body position and the remaining anesthetic stymied his efforts.

  Suddenly self-conscious about being rude to the international drug trafficker he soon intended to kill, and well aware of the accompanying irony, Michael hurried to place the coveralls aside. He strode over to König’s left side and looked down at his subject. When the man gazed up, Michael saw a mix of fear and wonder in his eyes. He hasn’t even looked at my face yet, he’s still focused on the garb.

  “Bin ich tot? Ich muss tot sein ... und es sieht so aus, als würde ich gefickt.”

  Michael smiled pleasantly and wished he knew more German. “Hallo, Herr König. May we continue in English?”

  His subject scowled. “This can't be right, God doesn’t speak English...”

  Michael smirked at the man’s deeply rooted ethnocentricity. “I’m pretty sure he speaks everything, Herr König.”

  The subject made eye contact with Michael, and wonder became his prevailing emotion. “Who are you, and where are we? Why can I not move?”

  Michael reminded himself to keep to his Apostolic pseudonym. “I’m Father Andrew, and we’re inside your hidden storage room. You’re restrained right now, both by mechanical devices and some lingering chemical effects from the anesthetic.”

  “Anesthetic? What did you do to me? You’re no priest. Why are you here?!” König weakly fought to escape the restraints and see the rest of the room. “Aaaghhh. Augggghhhhhh!”

  Michael patiently watched König’s struggle and kept a close eye on any progress he made. Having only used the restraints during the final hours of his clandestine training program, Michael had never deployed them on a real absolution subject. My greatest fears always come back to Isadore. Even if his death doesn’t send me to Hell, he’ll haunt the rest of my days.

  “Let me out. You have to let me out, or the police will have their way with you! Austria’s not as Catholic as it used to be!”

  Michael knelt down beside König and placed his left hand over the man's heart. König tried to back away but couldn’t do so. “Herr König, there is much that I must now try to explain to you. The two most important of them are, first, we are very short on time, and second, I am not here to negotiate with you in any way or for any thing. I am only here for one purpose, and that is the eternal salvation of your soul.”

  In apparent disbelief, König stared at him for a silent moment and then burst out in laughter. “You must be joking, yes? My ‘eternal salvation?’ Come now, everything in life is negotiable, everything has a price. I’ll concede that you appear to have leverage at the moment, but I would argue that we’re both facing significant criminal charges and years of incarceration. Perhaps there is a way we can each avoid our respective prison cells, unless, of course, you believe Austria doesn’t care to punish burglary, kidnapping, and extortion. What do you really want from me, Father Phony?”

  Michael sighed, and realized he should have expected such a reaction. Even if he weren’t so arrogant and accustomed to controlling his environment and the people around him, he’s still a human being. He’ll have to go through all the stages of grief before he can arrive at acceptance and free himself from his sins.

  “This phase you’re in right now, Herr König, is ‘denial,’ and you’re already skipping ahead to ‘negotiation.’ That’s good, it’s progress. I understand I’m asking you to process and accept what must all seem unbelievable given what you think you know about the world and your place in it. I imagine your limited understanding of the Church and our dogma will further hinder this process. Let me see if we can speed this along.”

  Michael rose and retrieved his messenger bag from the center countertop. He moved back to König’s left side and sat down where his subject could readily see him. The first item he revealed to K�
�nig from inside it was a handwritten note. Michael allowed the man to read it for himself. König shifted his eyes and whispered the words as he read them. His voice grew more ragged and desperate by the time he finished reading and looked up at Michael. Tears welled in his eyes.

  “It looks like my writing, but I most certainly did not write that! I do not wish to kill myself! None of that is true, I mean, well, no. I maintain it is all fabricated!”

  Michael removed another set of documents and showed them to König, who didn’t reply. He looked over the pages as Michael presented them, and he clearly recognized and understood them.

  “Yes, so, I did help Altüss Bulaji open his business, but that’s nothing criminal! I’ve done nothing wrong!” A tear streamed down from the corner of his eye and ran onto his earlobe.

  Michael had been told to expect the anesthetic to cause wide and rapid mood swings. “Alfred, we’ve been reading your emails. We know about the failing business, and how you chose to save it. We know about the partnership with the drug cartels, about the shipments, about the overdoses, and that you chose to both ignore the deaths as they happened and to import more death before the last round of bodies had been laid to rest.”

  “And, if I confess my part in all these, these allegations, what then? You let me go and turn me over to the police?”

  “No. If you reconcile your sins and absolve your soul of your conduct, then you have the only chance possible to meet God with a clear conscience and, perhaps, enter the Kingdom of Heaven. If not, you know as well as I do where you’ll spend the rest of eternity.”

  König smirked as though he held the upper hand. “You know, some of your American cops got in trouble some years ago for manipulating a suspect by appealing to his Christian convictions. Lost their whole case, as I recall. Perhaps it’s not too late for you to stop this charade, because you won’t leave here with anything deemed admissible in court.”

  “Alfred, please listen carefully,” Michael pleaded as he leaned over the man. “We’re not in America. I’m not a cop. I don’t care about admissibility because I’m not here to gather evidence. I’m here to send you home. I will kill you tonight but, if you allow it, I’d like to save your soul in the process.” Michael stood and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “No, that’s not right! If you are a man of God, as you claim, you must give me the chance to turn my life around. You have to allow me the time God allows to find Him, according to my own free will!”

  “I am giving you that chance, Alfred, but you need to accept that the time is now, and there’s no sand left in your hourglass.”

  “Pope Cornelius has declared all death penalties abhorrent! You can’t kill me, not unless you’re willing to put my murder on your conscience!”

  Michael sighed and reminded himself to be patient. I can’t deprive him of a reasonable chance to reconcile himself. I should’ve expected to allow time for him to work through all these stages, that’s my fault for not being better prepared. “That’s where you’re wrong, Alfred. His Holiness forbid participation in all state-sponsored death penalties carried out to punish criminal offenses. I’m not here on behalf of a state or any government, and, more importantly, I’m not here to punish you. I’m here to save you.”

  “How do you intend to do that? To allow me to confess my sins, get right with God, and then altruistically decide to face whatever punishment the Austrian government doles out? I’ll just confess everything, along with my crippling addiction to the same drugs I’m accused of peddling. They’ll sentence me to a few years’ imprisonment, most of that suspended as long as I participate in rehabilitation. I might lose some assets the government knows about, but I’ll soon be a free man while you’re still rotting away in a cell after everything you’ve done to me today!”

  Michael needed a few minutes out of König’s sight to finish his preparations and consider when to proceed. He stepped back to the counter near the middle of the storage room. After donning two new pairs of black medical exam gloves, he cautiously retrieved a vial of fentanyl citrate from König’s narcotics stores. Michael held his breath while dissolving the deadly substance in distilled water, well aware of the powder’s potential for airborne contamination. “I’m not to spill blood if I can avoid it, Alfred, so I’ll give your mortal shell the same ending you provided to all those addicts who died alone in alleys, flophouses, and bus stations all over the continent.”

  “You can’t go through with this! I’ve seen your face, and I’ll testify against you! I’ll tell them what you did here, even before I confess to my own crimes! You can’t use threats to get me to say anything!”

  “I don’t know why you still don't believe me, Alfred. This morning was your last sunrise. I’m not threatening you with anything. I am, however, promising you two things: I’m only interested in saving your soul from eternal damnation, and you won’t live to harm another human being. Your body dies tonight, Alfred, there’s no way around that, but your soul doesn’t have to go with it. You can still live in the warm embrace of God’s love, but only you can make that decision for yourself. I can’t force you, and it wouldn’t be effective, anyway, right?”

  “I don’t believe you. I’m just not sure if you’re lying about your position with the Church or what it is you’re after. I regret nothing, I’ve done nothing, and I’ll admit nothing.”

  “Well, let’s keep that under consideration, Alfred. I have a few items of evidence to sort out and leave for the cops to find in the next day or so. I’ll leave you right where you are for now, and I suggest you decide how you want to spend the rest of forever.”

  “I’ll do just that, Father.” König smirked like he still held some unknown ace card. “Do you have the time?”

  February 19, 3:43PM

  Stockerau Airfield. Stockerau, Austria.

  Rogelio emerged from the rear passenger side of one of the black Toyota Land Cruisers he’d bought for this operation. With all the money that’s at stake, who gives a shit about spending an extra hundred-thousand euros? König’s gonna pay me back for them, he just doesn’t understand that yet. He watched the nine-passenger Gulfstream G200 jet slow as it entered the private hangar he’d rented for the next three days. As the long, automated door rolled shut, Rogelio strode toward the plane’s hatch. This unknown group of alpha dogs needs no doubt about who they answer to.

  Glancing up into the cockpit as he passed by, Rogelio saw the pilots both rushed to simultaneously shut down the engines and open the plane for him. Good. At least they know who the fuck they’re working for. He stopped at the hatch and, as the turbines fell silent, Rogelio slapped the door several times. Ignoring the immediate pain in his hand and wrist, he stepped back and glared into the small passenger window ports. Several faces pressed close to the glass and then disappeared from sight. None of those self-proclaimed badasses wanna stare back. That’s very good.

  The hatch opened and descended on its hydraulic controls. Rogelio stepped away and positioned himself to block the bottom of the stairs. The pilot stood in the doorway and nervously tried to greet him. No one spoke in those tense moments, and the only noise came from the door’s small, whirring motors.

  crutch

  The hatch finally contacted the hangar’s smooth concrete floor, and Rogelio rushed up the stairs. The pilot, who had just started down, yanked himself back into the plane and made way for Rogelio to enter. As he stepped into the luxurious but cramped cabin, Rogelio glared first at the flight crew. “Get back inside,” he seethed in Spanish. They retreated into the cockpit and closed the door behind them. Rogelio turned his focus to the overdressed operators standing in the passenger cabin. They look like a private flight of manicured Mexican businessmen.

  “Anyone here know who I am?!” He scanned the group, many of whom slowly lifted a hand to respond. “Good. My people tell me you’re exactly the men I need for this operation, but they’ve been wrong before. By accepting this job, you’ve taken your lives and put them in my hands. I will not
be disappointed! You can either leave this country as rich men, or you'll never leave at all. The choice is yours. Get your shit out to my trucks so we can get to work! Meet me outside, but do not load your gear yet.”

  Rogelio turned and stomped down the stairs. Chaos erupted behind him as nine men struggled to grab their belongings and escape the confined space to follow him. The sound of their efforts echoed around the hangar’s cavernous interior. By the time he reached the back of his SUV, the first operators had caught up to him.

  “Line up,” he commanded while removing a metal coffee can and a bottle of lighter fluid from the cargo area. Rogelio dropped the can on the floor in front of the men. “Throw your bags on the ground in front of you, and then move three positions to your right.” To give the men time to comply, Rogelio removed a Cuban cigar from his inside coat pocket, cut off the end, and lit it with a butane torch. Seeing that they had made the necessary adjustments and awaited further instruction, he continued. “Now. You all had very specific packing instructions before you left Culiacan, Mexico. Search through the bags in front of you. Anything personal goes in the can. Anything that can identify your teammate as Mexican goes in the can. Anything that could be used to identify them as Santa Lena goes in the can. Any mistakes that came with you can be overlooked and forgiven now, but there won’t be a second chance. I will reward any of you that finds something in your compadre’s luggage. Go to it.”

  Rogelio dragged deep and hard on the cigar and watched the men frantically search through each other’s bags. For several minutes, nothing hit the can. He walked along the line of open bags, which all generally held the same set of equipment: AK47 rifle with folding stock, five loaded extra-capacity magazines, body armor with Polizei placards, Kevlar helmet, and black gloves. Each man had brought a personal duffel bag, and those most concerned Rogelio.