Darcy swiped her phone awake and thumbed the e-reader app …
LONG GAME (abridged)
CHAPTER 1
Every city had low-lives scuttling about in the dark, but they were much less obvious in Vienna. Vienna felt safe. And Vienna was safe. Comparatively. The city’s criminal upper class preferred it that way. They enjoyed the culture, the style, the prestige, the luxury: fine restaurants and the opera for wives; luxury hotel rooms for mistresses and whores. Luitger Brandt favoured a hotel located in the Haas Haus in Stephansplatz.
Kai Degen glanced up at the building’s curved glass façade, and the reflection of the 860 year old cathedral opposite; futuristic and Gothic facing off at the intersection of Vienna’s most popular streets. Outside the Haas Haus was the Graben U-Bahn entrance, beyond which the Graben itself stretched out with its designer outlets, ornate statues and al fresco eateries. Further to the left lay Kärntner Strasse, offering ambling tourists and better-dressed locals coffee, cake and chocolate all the way up to the Opera House.
And then there was the odd-man-out.
At the wall surrounding the stairs leading down to the Kärntner Strasse U-Bahn entrance stood a man most passers-by wouldn’t have given a second glance to, but Degen recognised the scowling weariness of a sentry. One of Brandt’s men.
Degen considered taking him out: Marching forward, black long-coat snapping cape-like behind him; halfway, holding arms out wide, as if approaching a long lost friend; the sentry, uncertain, waiting too long; Degen’s arms shooting forward and the mechanics of pivot points combined with the force of Degen’s blow sending Brandt’s man tumbling backwards onto the ridged metal steps of the escalator below; a broken body—limbs at odd angles—gathering a crowd, some panicked, some thumbing the camera app on their phones, eventually one having the presence of mind to hit the escalator’s emergency stop button.
But no. Police would be called; no need involving them. Not just yet.
Degen stepped over Luitger Brandt’s unconscious guard and swept his Glock around the suite: Chrome high-stools stood at a breakfast bar topped in golden sienna marble; it was cluttered with remnants of room-service provided food. A solo silk stocking clung to the back of a large L-shaped white-leather sofa facing the curving glass wall through which the cathedral loomed. A shirt, a pair of high heels and one sock were scattered across the dark wooden flooring. An oval, smoked-glass topped table was littered with mini-bar refuse. Muted porn flickered behind a discarded pair of trousers draped over an outrageously large flat-screen.
When Degen had sent the guard crashing through the suite door there had been a squeal from the bedroom. No-one had emerged. No further sound.
Keeping his eyes on the ajar bedroom door, Degen rolled the guard enough to allow the suite door to close. Then he reached inside the man’s jacket and pulled the guard’s weapon from a shoulder-holster. Dumb choice: slower draw than a gun at the hip. The weapon was a Walther PPS. Nice looking gun. Degen slipped it into a long-coat pocket.
Degen’s Glock led the way to the bedroom. A naked female cowered against the headboard of a king-sized bed. She was in her teens; the tarty makeup didn’t disguise her youth. A selection of cakes and pastries on a large silver tray sat at the foot of the bed. Sticky crumbs and lines of icing sugar clung to the girl’s abdomen. She glanced at the closed bathroom door.
Degen raised his left forefinger to his lips. He pointed the Glock at a robe on the floor. ‘Come with me,’ he said quietly. The Glock tracked the girl as she scooped up the garment and followed him; as he backed up, the girl gathered her clothing.
He stopped at the suite door and reached into his coat. He produced a small white card; it was blank apart from a hand-written mobile phone number. ‘If you want out, call. The number’s good for three days.’
The girl took the card. Degen opened the door. The girl rushed out.
Degen closed the door and propped Brandt’s unconscious muscle against it.
Back in the bedroom, the bathroom door was still closed. Degen moved to the handle side of the door frame; he crouched low, reached up, turned the handle and pushed open the door.
Blam! Blam! Blam!
Degen admired the grouping of impacts on the opposite wall. ‘You missed,’ he said casually. ‘Toss out the gun. Don’t make me come in there and get it. I doubt you washed your hands first.’
The weapon—a Glock-wannabe Smith & Wesson Sigma—bounced on the bedroom’s lush carpet.
Degen stood.
Holding his own weapon in a low-ready position, he gave the inside of the bathroom a quick glance: a seriously overweight man, naked except for one sock, sat on the toilet with his hands in the air. Luitger Brandt.
Degen swung into the bathroom doorway, adopting a classic two-handed Weaver stance with his Glock aimed at Brandt’s hairless chest. ‘Palms on knees,’ he said.
Brandt obeyed.
‘Taking a gun to the toilet. Issues much?’ Degen crinkled his nose. ‘That is some weapons grade shitting. Courtesy flush?’
Brandt glared.
‘Not joking.’ Degen shifted his aim to Brandt’s forehead.
Brandt reached behind, flushed and returned both hands to his knees. Good, Degen thought; Brandt understood his role in this scene was that of bitch.
A loud thud, followed by a couple more. Someone had pushed open the suite door. Brandt’s sentry outside the Haas Haus must have seen the girl. Or the guard he’d incapacitated had missed a check in.
‘Boss!’
Hope and bold insolence flared in Brandt’s eyes.
Degen took a few quick steps back into the bedroom and glanced briefly towards the doorway leading to the lounge. He switched the Glock to his left hand, and kept it trained on Brandt; his right reached into the long-coat pocket where he’d deposited the Walther PPS. He pointed the Walther at the wall to the side of the door between the lounge and the bedroom. He waited. Judged. Heard the slaps of shoes on wood. And squeezed four times. Bullets ripped through the partition wall; something heavy thump-slumped onto the lounge’s flooring.
Degen stepped back into the bathroom; defiance drained from Brandt’s face.
‘Not bad.’ Degen held up the Walther. ‘Sits nicely in the hand. Slim design makes it good for concealed carry. Magazine only takes eight rounds though.’ He re-pocketed the Walther.
Switching the Glock to his right hand, Degen stepped forward, crouched and shoved the Glock’s muzzle into Brandt’s chest. ‘Great thing about this hotel is the superb soundproofing. Well known for it. But then, taking into account your hobbies, I’m guessing that’s why you use it.’ Degen shoved the Glock under both of Brandt’s chins. ‘I could empty the magazine and no-one would know until the maid found you in the morning.’
Brandt swallowed. ‘What do you want?’
Degen tilted his head towards the bedroom. ‘The girl. She should be spending this evening studying for exams. Or chatting with friends. Or holding the hand of a boy her own age. She should not have a creepy scumbag licking sugary treats off her naked body.’
Silence.
‘Let’s be clear. I’d be happy to see you going the way of Lenny Bruce and Elvis Presley.’ Degen dropped the Glock between Brandt’s thighs and tapped the porcelain. ‘But then I’d have to repeat all of this for whoever takes your place.’ Degen stood, stepped back a couple of paces. ‘So, divest yourself of all criminal enterprises involving the trafficking of women. Or our next meeting won’t be so cordial.’
Brandt grunted.
Degen sighed. ‘I’m guessing you’re going to be a dick and not take me seriously. As an incentive to adjust that attitude, I’ll be showing a special interest in all of your seedy activities. Particularly the ones involving deliveries to your nastier business associates.’ Degen holstered the Glock at his hip. ‘If that doesn’t do the trick, I’ll come back and shoot you in the face. We’ll see if that motivates your successor to be a little smarter.’
Brandt’s bulk exploded towards Degen. A
smooth sidestep took Degen out of reach and a hard shove to the back of Brandt’s head sent the naked mobster smacking into the door frame. The bathroom wall shuddered with the impact. Brandt folded to the floor, leaving a red smear where his face had hit the bright, white paintwork.
Degen’s boot nudged the mass at his feet. Brandt was out.
Wiped free of prints, the Walter PPS was dropped next to Brandt’s hand.
‘A little something extra for you to have to bribe your way out of.’
LONG GAME (abridged
CHAPTER 2
The child’s wails stopped, teased a moment of false hope, then continued the polyrhythm with the cheesy cabaret version of a Beatles song vibrating up from the hotel lounge. Larissa Němcová stepped out of the bathroom, her scowl hidden by the towel she used to dry her hair. ‘Worst jazz session ever.’
‘It’s only a baby,’ said Degen.
‘And of course we’d get the room next to the little monster.’
‘It’s three rooms away.’
Larissa froze mid-towelling. ‘Okay, that’s impressive.’ She resumed drying her hair. ‘Can I at least shoot the keyboard player?’
Degen shook his head. ‘We’ll be leaving for Palma as soon as you’re ready.’
She sighed. ‘Using a family hotel as cover is one thing, but why you booked a three star is beyond me.’
‘Three star hotels are more honest.’ He lay back on the bed and studied the ceiling. ‘If members of staff are pleasant, it’s because they’re nice people. They’re not expecting fat tips from three star guests. Means there’s no reason to give bullshit smiles.’
A scoffing noise from Larissa.
Degen ignored it. ‘And you don’t see any mismatched couples.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Rich ugly men aren’t going to impress vacuous tarts by taking them to a three star hotel. If an attractive woman is with a man at a three star hotel it’s because she actually likes him.’
Larissa’s towel flew across the room. Degen’s right arm twitched behind his head as he fought the reflex to bat it away. The towel flapped into his face.
Through a wide grin, Larissa said, ‘That was very sweet of you.’
Degen laughed and launched a pillow at her. She caught it, blurred into a spin and hurled it back at him. Degen sat up, caught the padded missile with both hands and was immediately knocked onto his back as Larissa followed half a second behind. She pinned his arms down, looked into his eyes and said, ‘I think you implied I’m a vacuous tart.’
‘And I think you just implied I’m ugly.’
She studied him for a moment. ‘Meh.’
She kissed him. And rolled off the bed and grabbed the dress draped over the room’s only chair.
As she slipped into the black and orange halter neck, Degen swung onto his feet and said, ‘You’ll need these.’
Larissa turned. Degen’s arms were outstretched. In one hand, a pair of black panties. In the other, a Glock 43 subcompact.
Taking their cue from Palma’s meandering tourists, Degen and Němcová held hands as they strolled along the side of the artificial lake of the Parc de la Mar. Prior to the building of a waterside main road, the sea had reached the city walls, reflecting La Seu: the island capital’s emblematic Gothic cathedral. The sculpted lake recreated the effect.
Undercover work had its advantages.
‘Lovely spot,’ Larissa murmured. ‘Certainly attracts lots of people.’
Degen nodded. He was idly profiling the throng, noting differences between the obvious Brits and the obvious Germans: generally the Germans had paid more attention to the way they were dressed, and the Brits had paid less attention to a sensible sunscreen regime.
Larissa tilted her head towards him and said softly, ‘It’s a shame their innocent escape to the sun aids the likes of Luitger Brandt.’
Degen guessed that if asked to name the EU’s top five organised crime hot spots, most of these holidaymakers would plump for southern Italy, and some would guess the Baltics, and maybe one or two would identify Bulgaria/Romania. They’d be right. But Degen suspected they’d be surprised to learn the other two main hubs were Benelux and Spain. Perhaps they’d then remember that the presence of a hundred or so British criminals sheltering around the Marbella area had once earned that particular piece of coastline the moniker Costa del Crime.
But Spain had gained its hot spot status for much more than being a bolthole for a few gangsters. Spain’s close relationship with hardcore international illegal activities had fallen below the public radar mostly as a result of the cartels operating there deliberately avoiding the grandiose violence typical of more high profile criminal enclaves. This restraint was due to Spain’s value as a secure base for money laundering. The last report Degen had seen estimated ten billion dollars annually passed through Iberia.
And that was where the holidaymakers came in. Spain’s massive tourist sector had provided numerous ways to clean dirty money: everything from investing in restaurants and other tourist services, to the building, buying and renting of holiday apartments, bungalows and villas. Additionally, the constant presence of foreigners made it easy for the criminal groups to come and go without drawing undo attention. And that made Spain an excellent venue for the meetings required to set up large-scale deals between different cartels.
Information regarding one of these criminal conventions had reached Degen. It would take place in a few weeks in Mallorca. Hosted by Luitger Brandt, a number of criminal groups would attend, each representing their nationality’s specialist activities: Colombians—cocaine; Moroccans—hashish; Turks—heroin; Arabs—arms trafficking. The Russians, displaying the aloof imperiousness that accompanied having a hand—or more accurately a fist—in every pie, had not RSVP’d.
That hadn’t stopped Larissa from making a passionate case for crashing the party all guns blazing: ‘We can catch up with those tattooed fuckers later,’ she had said.
The idea of so many of the targets on his wish-list gathered in one place made Degen consider this plan for a moment, but it had only been a moment, and he’d argued that while unrestrained death-dealing would be momentarily gratifying, there was a smarter strategy that would cause the cartels more long-term damage. Larissa had pouted, but agreed.
Degen let Larissa’s fingers slip from his, and he turned as though to take in the cathedral’s golden sandstone walls. ‘I make it three,’ he said, pointing towards the floodlit building.
Larissa rested her chin on his shoulder. ‘Me too. Tubby, pink-face, leaning against the palm tree. And the pair of linen suits with folded arms looking bored. They’re not trained, just muscle. And complacent. Concealed carry by the suits, but Mister Pink-Face doesn’t seem to be armed. My guess is he’s the driver. If he has a weapon, it’ll be in their vehicle.’
Degen nodded and turned from the cathedral. He pulled out his phone and pointed it at Larissa, who adopted a mock-sultry pose for the mock-photo. The phone flashed.
‘Hey,’ she hissed. ‘You actually took that.’
Degen smiled and the two huddled to look at the phone’s screen. The out-of-focus dark blob to the right was the side of Larissa’s head, but in the centre was a clear image of a young man and woman gazing into each other’s eyes.
‘Good looking couple,’ said Larissa.
Collateral damage, thought Degen.
LONG GAME (abridged)
CHAPTER 3
Larissa gazed over the Palais Marzuq’s pool area, and down towards the distant lights of the Fès Medina. ‘This is more like it. I’m definitely a five star woman.’ She smiled at Degen and sipped her freshly-squeezed orange juice, her foot swaying with the music of the hotel bar’s resident pianist.
Degen looked down at the pool terrace, where the good-looking young couple Degen had photographed in Palma had just finished a (tourist friendly) typical Moroccan evening meal. Three men sat at a table a few metres away: the muscly pair had finished their food, but their chunky
, pink-faced companion was tucking into a wedge of M’hanncha: a pastry dessert dusted with icing sugar and cinnamon. Degen had tried it once, but it had been too sweet for his taste. Mister Pink-Face was on his second portion.
In the days since they’d left Mallorca, Degen had witnessed Mister Pink-Face eat almost constantly. On the ferry to Barcelona. Outside the Museu Picasso. Through the Ramblas. On the Barceloneta Beach. On the ferry to Tangier. On the train to Fès. The longest Mister Pink-Face had rested his jaws had been during a tour of the Fes Medina, perhaps put off by the while-you-wait chicken decapitations. Or the camel heads on sticks.
The winding maze of narrow streets in the Medina had been Degen’s original preferred location to make their move, but then Larissa had learned of the good-looking couple’s planned trip to the Sahara.
‘It’s amazing how much one can learn in the Ladies,’ Larissa had said. ‘If you boys would talk to each other when you pee …’ she’d arched an I-mean-you eyebrow at Degen, ‘information gathering would be a little more restrained and a little less bloody.’
Degen had decided he liked the current toilet etiquette just fine.
Larissa let her gaze shift to the night sky. ‘Shame we have to take them before they get to the desert. We’d see so many stars.’
Degen thought back to a conversation under a different African sky, shrugged, and set down his mint tea. ‘They’ll call it a night soon. I think we’re safe to leave them to it.’ He got to his feet. ‘Come on, we should get some rest too. We have a big day tomorrow.’
The good-looking young couple waved as they spotted their driver and guide for the next few days. Youssef gave them a huge smile. ‘Good morning Zhenya, hello Javier. It’s going to be another lovely day,’ he said, leaning against his silver Toyota Prado. The 4X4 had already been packed with the picnic the couple planned to have in the Middle Atlas mountains, and Youssef had brought water, nuts and dates to feed the Barbary Macaques they’d encounter on the way. The couple’s luggage was with their companions in their rented black Mitsubishi Pajero next to the Prado.
Interquels Page 4