The Grey Falcon
By J.C. Williams
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places , and events are used fictitiously. No representation that any statement made in this book is true or that any incident depicted in this book actually occurred is intended or should be inferred by the reader.
Prologue
He looked out at Belgrade, a city he loved, in a country he loved – Serbia. His fourth floor office afforded a view of long shadows cast by tall buildings as the sun descended late this first day of May.
Looking down once more at the note in his right hand and the picture in his left, he sighed deeply. He knew this moment would arrive one day. Today was that day.
He read the short note one more time. It was written in Serbian Cyrillic:
Branko Nebojsa,
1,000,000 €
49 211 5559876
Pajovic
Only three words and two numbers, but they said volumes.
He thought about it. My name. My real name. Discarded twenty years ago. Next was the price for the photos. Even though only one was sent, there had to be more. A phone number. Germany area code. And, the sender’s name. Nebojsa knew the name - the photographer. The general, Mladic, had ordered the photographs. He thought it would help recruiting. He was wrong. Now, it was documentation of genocide and of those involved.
Nebojsa looked at the photo again. Black and white somehow made the scene even more poignant. A ditch. Many bodies. A row of armed men and boys standing over the carnage. The picture was worth a thousand words. Damning words.
He took a burner phone from his bottom drawer and left the building.
His call was answered on the third ring.
”Da.” They spoke Serbian.
“How was your trip to Vienna,” the caller asked, naming the city to meet in.
“I leave day after tomorrow.” The other specified when he could be there.
“That’s good. You must try the Die Metzgerel.” Nebojsa had agreed to the day and suggested a restaurant. The restaurant was code for a designated meeting place.
“I will. Thank you.”
They met in two days as planned. Nebojsa shared the note, the picture, and gave instructions.
-----
A week after their meeting, Jovan Zevic looked out of the fourth floor window at 27 Brunstrasse. The same meeting place in Vienna. He stood back so anyone searching the windows would not see him. He had no need to look anyway. After all, there was an array of video screens in the apartment connected to cameras with an encompassing view of the street and sidewalks below. In addition, the fourth floor hall, stairwell, back courtyard, and roof were displayed in black and white. Zevic had been here for an hour, having entered through another apartment building around the corner, checked an app on his phone connected to the video surveillance, and crossed the roofs to 27 Brunstrasse.
He had traversed that path many times in the last ten years. The apartment was the headquarters of the arms business that had made them both rich. Branko was the brains, Jovan the brawn.
Zevic texted the bartender working at the Treff Punkt on the ground floor of 27 Brunstrasse. The name of the bar was appropriate, Zevic thought – meeting place. In addition to the bar, there was an interior design business at street level. Five floors of an eighteenth century patrician’s home had been divided into twenty-two one and two-bedroom apartments. It was a popular neighborhood. Only two apartments were vacant. A half flight of stairs from the street led to a front door and a long hall. The hall, in turn, led to a back exit door, a set of stairs leading to the upper floors, and a locked door leading to the basement. The basement was small, occupying a space between the bar on one side and a decorator shop on the other.
Zevic watched the screen showing the bar. He saw Branko Nebojsa leave the bar and walk through a small storeroom into an office. Another screen showed Nebojsa unlock a door to the shared basement. He would make his way through the halls and many floors to arrive at apartment 403 where Zevic waited. Nebojsa had been in the bar for the last thirty minutes. Anyone watching for him outside would think he was still in the bar. Anyone who checked on him would learn he was in the office. That was understandable. After all, he was the owner of the bar and the entire building. 27 Brunstrasse was one of a hundred properties Nebojsa controlled throughout Europe, some under his name, others under layers of shell companies.
As always, Zevic felt protective of the younger man. They were like brothers, growing up together in Bosnia, standing side by side in the war even though they were just boys, and fleeing together to Croatia and then Austria as refugees.
They greeted each other warmly, handshakes turning to hugs.
“Branko, you look well. Are you?”
“I am well. How are you?”
“I am fine, but bored. I feel retired.”
Nebojsa nodded. He knew that when he asked Zevic to stop the arms dealing that had made them rich, it would be hard for his friend, but he needed to disassociate himself from Zevic, or remove Zevic from the risk of arrest. The choice was easy. He needed his friend.
Nebojsa reassured Zevic. “The time is close. You will be busy soon.”
“Good.”
“Did you find Pajovic?” Nebojsa asked.
“Yes and no. Pajovic, the photographer, is dead. Pajovic changed his name to Rauch when he reached Germany. It is his son that sent the note and has the photos. The son is not the father. Christoph Rauch is nervous.”
“You met him?”
“Yes. I told him we had to meet face to face to set up the exchange. He picked the place. I gave him ten thousand euros as good faith. I had him followed. He lives alone. He lost his job a year ago. I think he drinks. His wife took their two children and moved out four months ago. He is in debt.”
“Did you search his home?”
“Not yet. The photos could be anywhere. He says he does not have the negatives.”
“Do you believe him?”
Zevic shrugged. They both knew it didn’t matter.
Nebojsa opened the duffel bag that he brought. “Here are the million euros. Jovan, get the pictures and the negatives. Bring my money back.”
“I will.”
“And, get his silence. Why did you give him ten thousand?”
“The money has traces of cocaine. His home will have clues to a storage locker. The locker will have drugs. It will look like his involvement in drugs caused his death. Everything will cost you less than fifty thousand.”
Nebojsa smiled. He knew Jovan was smart, sometimes smarter than himself. Their enemies usually underestimated Jovan’s intelligence. But, they never underestimated his physical capabilities, two inches taller than the average six-foot Serb or Bosnian, with broad shoulders, and a chiseled, naturally mean look that stared down even the hardest of gun runners.
----
Two days later, Zevic stood across the street from the Dresden State Museum. He checked in with his German team. One was ready to hack into the security surveillance system. Two were at the front entrance. They reported Christoph Rauch had just entered. Two more were at each of the three major exits. The Zwinger Palace housed the museum and was a sprawling maze of multiple floors and long halls.
Zevic gave the ‘go’. “Gehen,” he said into his earpiece.
An associate disabled the security camera system. Zevic carried a briefcase wearing flesh-colored gloves, up three flights, to the room Rauch specified.
He stopped at a bench in front of an eighteenth century old master’s painting and sat next to Rauch.
“Herr Rauch, do not be nervous. You are almost through this.” He spoke English, having learned through his enquiries that Rauch did not know Serbian and only spoke German and English.
Rauch’s voice was a whisper and his dry mouth and throat made it squeak.
“Okay.”
Zevic slid the briefcase on the floor to Rauch. “One million euros.”
Rauch quickly looked inside. “Minus the ten thousand?”
“No, that was extra.”
“For what?”
“For the negatives.”
“I told you I do not have them. I did not find them.”
Rauch hurriedly passed a small white envelope to Zevic. Zevic counted twelve photos. He put the envelope in his jacket pocket.
“Okay,” Zevic said. Causally he asked, “How did you recognize Nebojsa?”
“There was a man in the photo that looks like him. The photos looked twenty years old, so I knew it wasn’t him. I think it is his father. But there was a boy next to him with a family resemblance. I thought maybe it was his son. The Teufel Junge, the Devil Boy, Davo Decak.”
“So you do know some Serbian.”
“Stories from my father.” Rauch’s confidence was growing. Zevic needed him confident, rational, and thinking clearly. Getting him to talk had succeeded.
Zevic asked, “Christoph, why should I believe you that there are no negatives?”
“You have to trust me. There are none. This is the last you will hear from me.” Rauch looked directly at Zevic.
Rauch’s eyes turned to fear. “You were there, too. In the pictures.” He swallowed hard.
Zevic handed an envelope of photos to Rauch, saying, “I will trust you. You should trust me also.”
Rauch looked at the photos. His wife outside her apartment. His two children with his wife at a playground. A photo of the children at their school.
Rauch’s hands began to shake.
Zevic looked at the painting on the wall. “Herr Rauch, English is not our first language. I want to be sure you understand our arrangement. Do you understand?”
Rauch nodded.
“I need to hear it,” Zevic said softly.
“I understand.”
“Good. Keep those pictures of your family. I have more. Leave now. You’ll get a ten minute head start.” Rauch didn’t move. Zevic took the envelope from Rauch, opened the briefcase, and dropped the family photos inside. He pushed the briefcase against Rauch’s leg. “Gehen.”
Rauch stood slowly and nervously walked away.
Zevic alerted his team and then waited patiently for sixty seconds, knowing that Rauch would panic and think an emergency exit was better than walking out the front of the museum. He was right.
Zevic took a last look at the painting, a nativity scene, as he stood and started for the central stairs. He passed the emergency exit that Rauch used a half minute earlier.
Suddenly the door flew open. Rauch stumbled through, two hands clutched to his stomach, trying to stop a flow of blood. Patrons screamed and guards responded. Zevic quickly crossed to the opposite stairs. He heard on his ear-com the voice of the team member assigned to the exit used by Rauch. “Package secure. Gehen. Gehen.”
-----
Zevic had only descended one floor when the security alarms sounded. Quickly he decided to go to the basement. He had a plan.
He pulled a fire extinguisher off the wall and smashed the window of the closed door leading to a work and storage area. Luckily no one was there, or they exited when they heard the alarms. There were paintings in the process of being restored, benches where metal artifacts were being cleaned, and several tables of porcelain objects including many vases.
Zevic couldn’t risk being stopped with the photos on him. His likeness was too evident. He took the top off a vase and dropped the envelope in. He could put together a robbery team tonight and come back. Ducking down a hallway, he saw a locker room. Five minutes later, dressed in maintenance coveralls, Zevic left the museum.
June 16
12 days to Vidovdan
Chapter 1
Chad Archer shrugged off his trench coat and loosened his tie. The museum was hot even though outside it was raining and the temperature was dropping to fifty degrees. He often commented that London’s weather was similar to his hometown of Boston, only more rain.
He was bored and regretting that he volunteered to do recon of the smaller museums in London. Tonight was a special exhibition fundraiser at the Sir Robert Onsley Museum and Gallery. All of the attendees were by invitation. Chad didn’t expect he would know anyone. He wished Sandy were here. She liked art. He liked artifacts. Chad had less appreciation for the item than he did for the story and history behind the object. It was the archeologist in him.
Since Sandy was off with Interpol agent Tellier, following up on a pawnbroker lead, Chad thought he would contribute something productive for the investigative team. He felt at home working with the Met and with Interpol. He had done so on several occasions. However, it was harder to explain to the museum curator why an archeology professor was doing police work. She nodded politely, looked confused, but issued him an invite just the same.
The museum theft in Germany, two more in France, one in Spain, one in Austria, and one in York in just the last five weeks had prompted the international investigation team.
Chad checked out all of the exits, the ground floor delivery dock, the freight elevator, the security cameras, and the street traffic flow. The museum was a four-story warehouse loft. Multiple rooms constructed of partitions not quite reaching the ceilings created a maze. The fourth floor was extra high with a circling catwalk reached by three spiral staircases.
There was no particular reason to suspect that the Sir Robert Onsley museum was a target. So far the thefts occurred at both large and small museums. Chatter from the streets of London from CIs was that something was going to happen in London.
Despite the efforts of several top detectives and Chad’s expertise in Forensic History, they had not uncovered a pattern. The stolen objects were not major works of art, but were what Tellier described as mostly ”salable.”
Chad wandered through the museum exhibitions. Paintings, portraits, ancient Egyptian objects, and a special loan of Mayan artifacts spoke to the range of the museum’s interests. Chad particularly enjoyed a historical “through the centuries” exhibition of porcelain.
He stepped into a corner to answer his buzzing cell phone. It was Detective Inspector Saundra Moffat, his London roommate for the last year.
“Hi, Sandy.”
“Chad. Heads up. We have info that they’ll hit the Onsley tonight.”
“Really? We can get ready. No problem. There is plenty of time.”
“Sorry, Chad, I wasn’t clear. Not tonight. This evening. In seventeen minutes.”
“What? They’ve never hit during open hours. How…?”
“We squeezed the pawnbroker. He’s known to be a fence. He heard the lights will go out in Bethnal Green at nine o’clock. Their MO is to cut power. You’re the only museum we can think of in that district.”
“Damn. I mean bloody hell,” Chad kidded.
“No time to be funny, Archer boy. I’ll give you Adrien, I need to drive.”
Adrien Tellier came on the line. “We’re thirty minutes from you. It will take that much time to set up proper perimeter containment. Sandy called it in and there are Response cars and a couple Area cars headed to you.”
“I can scramble a few security people here. There’s maybe three.”
“I don’t think that would be good. We don’t want anyone hurt. Remember Germany and Spain. Security will be no match for them. They’ll be armed. How many people are there now?”
“Maybe two hundred, spread over three floors. What do you suggest?”
“They are probably planning on slicing and rolling artwork and then snatching other objects and leaving with the crowd. Maybe you can spot one or two of them and see what doors they use.”
“Okay.”
Chad heard Sandy’s far away voice saying to be careful.
He was thinking and moving. Lights will go out. People will move to the exit. There
should be emergency lighting. The thieves will probably shut down the cameras. That was their MO. The robbers will have about ten minutes before the police arrive. There would be several on the robbery team.
He climbed a spiral staircase to the catwalk and looked over the fourth floor crowd. The thieves had to have one or more on the inside now. Fourteen minutes.
He thought he could hang back when the lights went out and try to follow some of the crew. If he could hold even one, it might break the case. Unless they had a policy of no one left behind. That could turn dangerous for him. With the emergency lights he could be seen as easily as he could see them. He looked up at one of the boxes. The screws to the battery compartment were shiny. They’d been tampered with. There would be no helpful emergency lights.
Chad picked out three possibilities on this floor that might be Mister or Miss Inside. People that did not seem to join in with the other patrons. A single woman, a single man, and a couple.
The couple looked nervous. Glancing constantly behind them, moving quickly from object to object.
The single woman was making notes, but not on every item, only on a few. Notes for whom? Her team? She was not wearing high heels. Her shoes looked comfortable. For what? A dash in the dark?
The single man was older. His grey hair was long and pulled back in a ponytail. His beard and fluffy mustache were grey as well. He was stooped, leaned on his cane, and limped through the room. He looked like an artist. His long coat looked frayed and stained and two sizes too big. He had a habit of tapping his cane on the floor as he looked at objects.
Which one was the thief? Or was it all of them? There were two other floors with attendees but most were on this floor and could be seen from the catwalk. Ten minutes until darkness.
Wait. The old man had not tapped the floor at every stop. Was he marking items with his cane? Chad couldn’t see a mark. A clear mark? Maybe the thieves could see it with an ultraviolet light? Why did the old man still have his coat on? It was hot in here. Hiding something? Ultraviolet light? Radio communications? Weapons?
The Grey Falcon Page 1