It's Personal

by Philip Bond

  “Sounds like the north verses the south in the US.”

  “Maybe there’s your reason.” Harry seizes the obvious… “You the black American investigating the German sociological divide?” Excitedly adding… “Gives you the perfect segue into his immigration role; minorities’ integration.” Bubbling… “I’ll be the producer, you the journalist.” To Brigit … “Make the budget fifteen thousand Euros?”

  “Twelve only, no haggling.” She’s emphatic!

  “Birgit, we have enough to go to air. It’s our responsibility to publish, not prosecute.”

  “I agree. You two back to Berlin. Have the special to put together, we do.”

  Live in Three, Two

  The studio is dark except for where Harry sits on a stool. Three cameras, each with a teleprompter frame, Harry dead centre. The studio director calls… “Going live in five, four, three…”

  Using his fingers for two and one, he points… “So that is where and why they come but the real question is, who brings them. Who profits from their misery?” She follows the cue to camera three… “The short answer is criminals and profiteers. Aircraft owned by Bereit-Air were involved in transporting drugs from Somalia to the United States. That was 1995. Shifting the timeline along to 1999 and the Balkans, Bereit-Air is contracted to fly humanitarian aid into Kosovo, principally from Germany. In recent months, their contract is revised to include flying cargo both ways. Armaments fly into various locations in Montenegro, Macedonia and Romania.” Vision of passengers departing the aircraft at Geilenkirchen is broadcast with Harry’s voice over… “The aircraft returns to NATO Base Geilenkirchen, with passengers, women and girls. Slaves destine for the European sex trade.” Harry turns into camera two as it goes live… “We have witness accounts identifying pseudonym of a particular person involved in this horrendous business.” Vision cuts away the interview with Tefta. Off camera is Harry’s voice… “Do they harm you?” They edit the tape muffling Tefta’s voice to focus upon her teary eyes. Then it is the voice of the interpreter… “One man has tattoo on left shoulder and another on stomach saying nine-inch nail with arrow pointing to penis. He hurts me.”

  “I want to know if she hears names, any names.”

  “While he assaults me, his cellphone rings. He talks to man called Tallboy.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I know this, because he gets off me to sit on the bed. He is heavy on me.”

  Vision cuts back to Harry… “Tallboy.”

  Again, the studio camera cues to Harry… “This is not the first time I have heard the pseudonym Tallboy.”

  The director keys file vision from Australia showing edited news reports from Harry and others covering the drug story and the subsequent shootout. They go live back to Harry… “The name Tallboy is used by Lloyd Sanders, who was until late last year the CIA station chief residing in the US embassy in the Australian capital Canberra.”

  Changing camera… “Lloyd Sanders disappears under mysterious circumstances immediately following the discovery of the mammoth drug shipment hidden in the packaging of a major art exhibition. People die in that shootout.” Once more for effect, she changes camera… “We found Lloyd Sanders in Camp Bondsteel Kosovo, the headquarters for the United States military commitment to KFOR, apparently reprising his entrepreneurial activities.”

  A different camera… “Three nights ago, a KFOR surveillance mission is attacked by Serbian militia intent to disguise the passage of a truck convoy transporting women and girls to a waiting Bereit-Air aircraft in Niš Serbia.” The director keys the vision with Harry continuing voice over, “Serbian officials told CNN these are pupils from a Serbian monastery bound for holidays in the Ukraine.” The director rolls the vision Matt records of the aircraft arriving at Geilenkirchen. Harry continues the voice over… “The information given to the base commander is that these same women and girls from Niš are pupils from a monastery in Macedonia destine for a German holiday. Credit to the US base commander, he acted immediately holding the passengers and turning them over to the Westphalia police.” Back to Harry’s darken studio… “We gained access to interview some of the women.” The director rolls edited highlights as Harry refreshes with the running sheet. Then the studio director counts down and cues… “So, what now? The passengers are having their individual circumstances investigated and assessed. It is pointless returning them immediately to their homes to face an uncertain future. These armed gangs continue marauding selectively across Kosovo coercing ethnic Kosovars. KFOR, especially the United States military, must investigate how Lloyd Sanders can conduct his entrepreneurial activities within the region with immunity. KFOR needs also to look at its operations. Surrounding each of the zonal HQs are a plethora of bars and brothels where girls begin a short apprenticeship into prostitution. KFOR, the military force tasked to protect Kosovars, nurtures a cancer infecting the vulnerable. Harry Reisner reporting for CNN.”

  The studio goes black as music and credits roll. Matt moves towards Harry. Birgit’s also on the studio floor… “Powerful journalism, Harry,” she touches Matt’s shoulder… “You also Matt, your vision frames the moment. You two work well together. Harry, I offer you the full-time position, but of course, working with this man.” She still has her hand on Matt’s shoulder… “Something you must know, Helmut Sperling disappears.” Adding… “Last known boarding a flight to Malta.”

  “Malta,” Matt’s eyes light… “I know where and know someone who can help locate him.”

  Brigit’s intrigued… “Who?” Not Harry.

  “Someone from my past,” you can almost hear Matt’s brain ticking over… “Naftali Levin.”

  Still intrigued… “Why him?”

  “Last I hear, he lives in Malta,” a wily smile breaks out on his face… “Naftali will know where to find him.”

  “Malta,” Brigit raises concern.

  Harry too concerns… “You’re going to stand out; can you telephone him?”

  “Babe,” it’s his authoritative voice… “This isn’t the sorta thing you discuss over phones. Naftali, won’t open unless there’s something in it for him, has to be face to face.”

  Double teaming the questioning… “Who is this Naftali Levin?”

  He’s not about to reveal source details… “Someone from my past.” Especially to Brigit.

  “Do you really need to go back to this world?” Harry displays a complete lack of enthusiasm.

  “Babe, if we’re going to finish this, yes.”

  “You’re going to Malta then?” She knows her man.

  “Yep.”

  *

  Weather delays leaving Berlin and, fifty minutes behind scheduled Malta arrival time… “Move quickly, we must.” Naftali’s unsettled.

  “Problem.” He has only the carryall bag.

  Ignoring the question… “You fly out when?” He leads quickstepping towards the exit.

  Dodging idle bodies transiting ‘picketing’ the concourse… “08:00 Sunday.”

  “Accommodation you have?”

  Hurriedly keeping pace with the casually idle, accidently brushing two with his carryall, Matt offers hopefully… “Got a couch?”

  His companion isn’t too forthcoming instead revealing… “A problem there is, know you are here, they do.”

  “Who,” that’s concerning… “Who knows?”

  Again, ignoring the question… “Turn off your cellphone now!”

  “It’s off.” He turns it off before boarding the aircraft… “Want to bring me up to speed.”

  They’ve made it through the airport into the carpark… “One familiar with your past resides here. Discover only this day I do, aware you travel here.”

  “Who?”

  “Grigori Vinokurov.”

  In recognising the name, he questions… “That FSB guy, from Bosnia?”

  “The same.” A smile breaks out on Naftali’s face.

  “Smacked his ass,” memories refresh… “Guess he’s after a rematch?” />
  “Believe so I do.” Naftali leads through the herded autos.

  “So, I’d better deal with it.”

  “As I recall,” the foreboding hint… “tenacious is he.”

  “Damn, didn’t want to hand here.” Realities hit… “Looks like I have no choice. He’ll want to take care of business.”

  Arriving to his car… “No doubt.”

  Instincts kink in… “I’ll dictate time and place, where is he now, how do I get there?”

  Response anticipated… “A villa,” Naftali’s research… “On Gozo he has,” adding… “Only for business does he leave.”

  He’s obviously prepared… “How do I get there, discreetly?”

  Correctly anticipated… “Someone trusted I have.” Arrangements are made… “Ferry you across, return on completion.” Adding the serious… “What weapon do you wish?”

  “That’s my past, Naftali.” He’s a changed man… “Not going to harm him.”

  Surprised, urging a rethink… “Know you this man my friend, to reason is pointless. I provide you the Glock.”

  He’s reconsidering… “I’m going to at least try.” Arriving to the auto, Naftali unlocks… “Let’s go meet my ferry master.”

  “Drive we do,” firing the ignition… “In Ta’ Xbiex is he with boat.”

  “So, tell me about him,” sitting comfortably it’s now the detail… “What’s his name?”

  “Filip DeMarco, retired Maltese Army Major, occasional Nullum Timorem contractor.”

  Nullum Timorem contractor, that’s concerning… “A gung-ho cowboy?”

  “Opposite,” firing the return… “Considered, measured and cautious, as you.”

  He’s relieved… “We’d best get the show on the road.”

  Naftali announcers… “Make yourself known to Constantin Reitsch. If he will talk with you, he will know where your man Helmut Sperling goes. Constantin is illegitimate to Otto Skorzeny, living also here in Malta. He creates Gewerbe Intermediary-Gruppe LLP or GIG LLP, the mirror of Skorzeny’s Paladin Group, with significance difference. Using Sperling’s aircraft and shipping assets, they move anything for profit, drugs, armaments and people. Areas of interest, the Balkans and North Africa, all.”

  “They’re partners?”

  “Do not know the exact GIG LLP ownership, my guess is yes.”

  “Helmut Sperling’s here in Malta?”

  “No, I would know if he is, not if he transits through.”

  “Transits to where?”

  “Somewhere he can disappear; Israel.”

  “I’ve heard Israel usin’ ‘n runnin’ Nazis but that’s the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s; today?”

  “If someone has a use, why not?”

  “You’re suggestin’ Israel’s implicated in drugs armaments and people smugglin’.”

  “Not all, shipping arms, definitely. All the captured Soviet weaponry has significant cash value, mostly outside recognised markets.”

  “Nationalist, sectarian and terrorist groups?”

  “Selective in the latter, not with the other.”

  “He’s a protected species then?”

  “Limited.”

  “If the German Staatsanwaltschaft wants to prosecute, they’ll somehow have to lure him out from Israel.”

  “If it can be shown Sperling’s involved in child prostitution, then no, Israeli judiciary will agree to extradition without second thought.”

  “Then the evidence will be in Germany and the Balkans.”

  “Do not forget Albania, Macedonia, Bulgaria and Romania, there too.”

  *

  It’s as if the parking space is reserved.

  “This is embassy row and that’s,” Matt offers, adding to point… “the British High Commission.”

  Naftali’s surprised… “Interest you know this. For them too he does the occasional job.” Adding ever so nonchalantly… “Shall we meet him?”

  Stepping back into a world he hoped buried… “An occasional Nullum Timorem contractor, jobs for the Brits.”

  Sensing hesitancy… “You have reservations, my friend?” Naftali questions.

  “Ahh,” yes, he’s hesitant… “Just hoped I left this all behind.”

  “Fear not, my friend,” allaying fears… “Trust Filip with my life.”

  “Okay, let’s go meet.” Striding the promenade towards the marina, he guesses… “That boat, the ten metre Baglietto cruiser?”

  “Know you boats.” Leading the way… “Correct.”

  “Some things aren’t forgotten.”

  The boat’s crisp, clean and gleaming… “Ahoy, Ħabib tiegħi, aħna ġejjin abbord?”

  A head pops out… “Naftali Ħabib tiegħi, come aboard.”

  Mid-thirties, an invitingly happy smiling face, albeit a seriously receding hairline, he’s in perfect physical condition… “Inti mhux waħdu.”

  Stepping aboard… “Bring to meet you,” Naftali gestures… “Matt Leveaux, good friend and comrade of past.”

  Fillip bounds forward with greeting arms outstretched… “Fillip DeMarco,” thrusting forth both hands as if a sword… “Then friends also we be.”

  Accepting the friendship… “Naftali speaks highly of you.”

  To Naftali, Fillip directs… “Unexpected this is, no refreshments aboard are there, delivery arrives soon.”

  Quickly Naftali returns… “Not the social visit is this; my friend here needs to be on Gozo discreetly.”

  “Ahh,” knowing the obvious… “I may guess, Grigori Vinokurov?”

  “You got it in one.” Emphasising… “I’m not here to harm, just need information.”

  “Not forthcoming is he.” Beckoning his visitors to seats… “Am I the taxi or something else?”

  He’s been mulling a plan… “Deliver me to the island yes, watch my back, I’m going unarmed to demonstrate my intentions.”

  Asking somewhat concerned… “You arrive cold there?”

  “I’m told he knows,” it’s the uncertain part of his plan… “I’m hopin’ he’s not expectin’ me so soon.”

  “Interesting,” rummaging a draw pulling out a map… “Yesterday, two Russians arrive. Not the usual accountants or investment banker are they.” Unfolding the map… “I take you here, Xlendi the small harbour and village, our start point it is.”

  Next item… “Logistics?”

  “Whatever is your wish.” Fillip is able to provision almost anything.

  Something light, fast and easily positioned… “Motorbikes, scooters?” Matt’s SOP!

  Fillip’s cousin rents them… “Scooters it is and four kilometres distant to Grigori’s villa,” he warms…. “With many electronic sensors. How do you neutralise these?”

  “Ongoing maintenance problems has Enemalta.” Naftali’s too, has been busy… “Contacts I have, alert them I have to arrange the convenient outage.”

  Matt raises the obvious… “He’s backup, surely?”

  “Solar, connected to battery.” Naftali’s reveals more of his preplanning… “Something in this we use, inverter he uses, has dialup connection.”

  “For an inverter,” Matt’s intrigued… “dialup?”

  Grigori Vinokurov’s arrival in Malta caused serious concern for Naftali. That he remained secreted on his island, never venturing to the main, allowed some comfort, however, precautions were made just in case… “Installed for special occasion.”

  “Special occasion?” Matt’s wondering if Naftali’s running another agenda, offering to both… “Understand this, I’m not going to kill him, that’s a no-win situation, he does business with Helmut Sperling; he’s in Israel and the reason I’m here. With Grigori’s help removing Sperling’s protection, the Israelis will allow extradition back to Germany to face trial.”

  “Grigori Vinokurov troubles us.” Naftali’s not impressed… “Dead is better.”

  He’s dismissive; back to business… “How many in the villa?”

  Sounding unconvinced, Naftali allows… “He, gir
lfriend, housekeeper, bodyguard and now two more.”

  “We need something to busy-out the bodyguards.” Matt’s inviting suggestions… “Something to draw them out from the villa?”

  “Street disturbance,” Naftali’s an idea… “Close is kennel for greyhounds,” smiling broadly… “Hunting dogs create much distraction.”

  Matt’s down to specifics… “What’s our timing?”

  Fillip cues… “Sundown, Xlendi harbour we go. I arrange positioning two scooters, with two more prepositioned for emergency.”

  Naftali’s turn… “Then I schedule blackout thirty minutes after arriving Xlendi.”

  “How long the power blackout?”

  “Seven minutes only,” despite his best efforts… “No more possible.”

  “I’m guessin’ you have a villa schematic, the internal layout?”

  Returning smugly… “Yes,” and very pleased with himself

  Matt, too, is satisfied… “Let’s make a plan.”

  Early evening, Xlendi is bustling with people… “Naftali, we’re arriving in the middle of a party!”

  “Don’t worry, other boats bring people, we’re just part of the crowd.”

  Fillip steers his cruiser to the jetty. Fillip and Matt alight, leaving Naftali to the boat. The four-star St Patricks Hotel is waking with early revellers gathering. The pair make their way into the Boathouse yard finding two scooters near the rear. To Fillip… “I’ll follow you.” Motoring off for the short ride to Grigori Vinokurov’s villa, apprehension grips.

  No rehearsal, only rudimentary planning, no radio communication, much can go amiss; however, Matt’s focused, trusting his friend Naftali, however, Fillip’s an unknown.

  On parking the scooters, they survey the locale. Elevated and 300 metres away is the villa. Again, rudimentary planning suggests in fifteen minutes, hopefully, the power outage happens.

  A little distance away, dogs begin howling barking and yelping; the greyhounds are loose. Timing is perfect as daylight fades to black.

  Matt declares… “Let’s move.”

  Trekking up the incline, they discover the rear defence; thorny Smilax. Thick and aggressive with razor-like edges to its leaves, slows their movement towards the fenced terrace, incurring several cuts and pricks, even the odd tear to clothing.