Interquels

by Macalister Stevens

  Zhenya giggled as Javier explained that in Spain their companions’ 4X4 would be called a Montero. ‘In Spanish pajero means wanker.’

  Youssef caught Javier’s pointed look at the tallest of their three companions. The man bristled and climbed into the front of the Pajero, next to the large, pink-faced driver; the third companion waited until Zhenya and Javier were aboard Youssef’s vehicle before he clambered into the back of the Pajero.

  Youssef slid into the driver’s seat of his Prado, turned towards Zhenya and Javier, gave them another one of his big smiles, then re-capped the day’s route: heading south into the mountains, they would take in the ski resort of Ifrane, the Errachidia reservoir, and the oasis town of Erfoud before passing through Rissani on the way to their hotel on the edge of the Erg Chebbi dunes. Satisfied his passengers had everything they needed for the journey, Youssef pulled out of the Palais Marzuq’s car park.

  At last, thought Pavel Ivanovich Bazarov as he blew air from his puffed up pink cheeks. He released the hand-brake and started to follow the silver Prado, but his Pajero had moved just two metres before his foot slammed the brake.

  ‘Mudak!’ yelled Bazarov.

  Next to him Golovkin scowled at the dark-haired woman hauling a suitcase across their path. The woman froze, then put her hand to her mouth, staring wide-eyed at the Pajero. Bazarov slapped the horn and Golovkin waved the dark-haired woman aside. She mouthed something and, looking sheepish, slowly dragged her suitcase out of the way. Bazarov pulled out onto the main road.

  Sudden blindness/the screech and crunch of torn metal/violent trauma.

  Bazarov punched the deployed airbag away from his face and looked through the cracked windshield. A battered petit-taxi had ploughed into the front of the Pajero.

  ‘I bet that hurt,’ said Larissa Němcová as she lobbed the empty suitcase into a near identical Pajero.

  Degen sat in the driver’s seat admiring how the petit-taxi driver was earning his huge wad of Dirhams. His name was Hassan and he gesticulated wildly as wave upon wave of furious Arabic surged from his lips. His ancient red Peugeot was a write-off, but Hassan would soon have a brand new model. More importantly, he now had the money he needed to move more members of his family out of their crowded rooms in the Medina and into larger, modern accommodation in the Ville Nouvelle part of the city.

  Hotel staff joined the scene: a well-groomed man with a name-tag on the lapel of his smart suit deflected Hassan’s verbal assault away from Mister Pink-Face, who stood gaping at the trashed front of his rental as two maids used an apron to stem the blood flowing from the head of the bodyguard in the back of the Pajero—he hadn’t been wearing a seat belt—and a porter was waved away by the other bodyguard who stomped off with a mobile phone pressed to his ear.

  Youssef pulled over while Zhenya babbled into her phone. Youssef’s French was flawless, his English was excellent, his Spanish was fair and he knew a few German words and phrases. All he understood of Zhenya’s phone conversation was nyet. She was saying no a lot.

  Zhenya stabbed at her phone and huffed loudly. ‘We go back.’

  ‘To the Palais Marzuq?’ asked Youssef.

  Zhenya folded her arms; she was plainly not happy. ‘My friends are in accident. Cannot go on trip. We go back. One friend sit up front with you. Then we go desert.’

  Youssef curbed his instinct to enquire after Zhenya’s friends. He was not looking forward to having one of them sit next to him for the next six hours.

  Aleksandr Sergeyevich Golovkin kicked a small stone. It skittered across the gravelled surface, hit a front tyre, bounced up and clunked off the Prado’s silver paintwork. The too-smiley Moroccan looked over—for once, frowning—then turned back to continue his tour-guide prattle: blah-blah-weather, blah-blah-Berbers, blah-blah-monkeys. Okay, feeding the Macaques at the side of the road had been entertaining, admitted Golovkin. But not worth hours listening to Zhenya giggling at the pretty-boy Spaniard’s lame jokes. Stopping at this mountain view-point had been a relief, but now Golovkin was bored.

  Golovkin heard gravel crunching behind him and turned. His spirits lifted as a black Mitsubishi Pajero pulled into the view-point; Bazarov and Ryakhovsky had caught up. Why hadn’t they called to tell him they were mobile?

  The Pajero stopped.

  Golovkin sighed; a man and a woman occupied the vehicle’s front seats. Golovkin squinted; the woman looked familiar.

  Zhenya turned as the door of the black SUV swung open. A dark-haired woman stepped out, raised a weapon in a two-handed grip, shot Golovkin twice, marched forward, aimed at Youssef’s leg, fired, stepped over Golovkin’s corpse and smashed her gun into Javier’s beautiful face. The woman holstered her gun and pulled another weapon from behind her back. She pushed it into Zhenya’s torso and depressed the trigger. Zhenya’s muscles rapidly contracted and relaxed: again and again and again. Her nervous system overwhelmed, she collapsed.

  Someone the size of the bodyguard wouldn’t have been rendered unconscious by the Taser, but the pretty girl was much smaller and she blacked-out.

  Degen lifted her easily.

  He took her to the Pajero while Larissa inspected the writhing driver’s wound. Her thumbs-up meant he’d be fine. She checked the driver’s pockets and confiscated his mobile phone.

  Turning to the cowering young man, Larissa held out her hand. ‘Móvil. Ahora,’ she demanded.

  Without looking up, he dropped one hand from his bleeding face, fumbled in a pocket, then held out his phone.

  Degen watched Larissa back away from the driver and the now-not-quite-so-pretty young man. Don’t worry son, Degen thought, it’ll add character.

  As she stepped back over the bodyguard, Larissa asked, ‘¿El cadàver?’

  ‘Tengo su móvil y su pistola,’ Degen replied. He motioned for her to get in the car. ‘Vamos.’

  LONG GAME (abridged)

  CHAPTER 4

  As he pulled his blade from the slave trader’s neck, Degen kept his hand firmly over the man’s mouth until the thrashing and muffled gurgling stopped. Degen eased the body to the deck, wiped his hand on his wetsuit and moved along the boat towards the cockpit.

  The yacht’s owner had no idea his expensive craft was part of the sex slave industry. He’d bought the boat a few years ago, but lately he hadn’t had the time to take it out much more than once every couple of months. Like many yacht owners in Mallorca, he’d found increased mooring fees a powerful motivation to rent out his toy when he wasn’t playing with it. Enter Aguilo y Sureda, a yacht management company founded by two veterans of the Superyacht Cup. Señor Aguilo and Señor Sureda excelled in their front-of-house roles. Yacht owners looking to offset the cost of their pricey pastime were drawn to the pair’s charm, sailing celebrity and passion for all things yacht related. All things bar the nitty-gritty of the business side of yacht management. That, they left to their silent partner, Luitger Brandt, who delegated supervision of the company’s operations, particularly the more clandestine activities, to Niklas Blücher.

  Blücher stepped up from the yacht’s saloon, chewing. In each of his large hands he gripped a well stuffed half-baguette. He looked up at the figure silhouetted by the cockpit lighting and held out Ramon’s snack (the one Blücher hadn’t just taken a sizeable bite out of). Food exploded from Blücher’s mouth as the silhouette kicked him hard in the chest.

  Bread and slave trader tumbled backwards. Degen followed, pinned down the man and looked up, ready to launch himself at any potential threat. The saloon was clear. Degen glanced at the cabin doors, knowing that behind them would be drugged young women, traumatised by violence and threats, and controlled by false promises and lies. They were valuable cargo: each young woman could earn their intended owners around a quarter of a million dollars in their first twelve months of sexual slavery. Degen had a different plan. Unfortunately it involved keeping the scum beneath his knee alive.

  Blücher guessed he’d been working at the ropes for over an hour. His wrists were raw but �
�� there, his left hand was free ... now his right. He tore away the blindfold. The saloon was empty.

  Rising to his feet, Blücher listened for a moment before moving cautiously to the galley area. The chef’s knife he had been using hours earlier still lay on the chopping board. Knife in hand, Blücher took a step towards the radio. He thought better of it and eased back towards the table and his mobile phone. As he typed, he cursed his thick fingers:

  Hijacked. Took us at the buoy. Unknown number. Boat moved. Now off small cove between Peguera and Camp de Mar.

  Blücher hit send. Then panicked. He fumbled to put the phone into silent mode. He made it, just in time. An incoming call lit up the phone. Blücher put it to his ear and whispered, ‘It’s me.’

  Gap.

  ‘Why the fuck do you think I’m whispering.’

  Longer gap.

  ‘I don’t know, I was below deck. They had me tied up. I’ve only seen one of them, big fucker in a wetsuit.’

  Gap.

  ‘Haven’t seen or heard Ramon since they hit us.’

  Longer gap.

  ‘Because I fucking heard them. What does it fucking matter? Get a fucking map and look for a small cove to the left of Peguera. If you get to Camp de Mar, you’ve gone too far. How fucking difficult is it?’

  Gap.

  ‘Just get here. Fast.’ Blücher disconnected and glowered at the phone. Something creaked behind him. He spun round.

  Stepping out of one of the cabins was the big fucker in a wetsuit. Blücher stared at the Glock pointing at his chest.

  ‘You took long enough getting out of those ropes. I was beginning to wish I’d brought a book.’

  Blücher glanced up into green eyes, then back to the Glock. Two 9mm bullets ripped into Blücher’s chest.

  The chef’s knife hit the floor.

  Blücher followed.

  LONG GAME (abridged)

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘They had a sniper on the ridge,’ Oskar Schäfer said. ‘Pinned our men down at the edge of the beach while the rest made off.’

  Brandt grunted. He considered the information Schäfer had relayed. ‘And one girl was left behind?’

  A short nod from Schäfer. ‘She was still in the inflatable when our crew arrived. One of the gang tried to get to her, but fire from our men drove him back from the shore.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Brandt scowled. ‘Did you get any information from the girl?’

  Schäfer turned to Felipe Marrero. The Spaniard shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘Blücher had her drugged for the crossing. We are not getting any sense from her.’

  ‘I see.’ Brandt glanced down at his balled fist and the obtruding white edges of the note crushed within. It had been in an envelope marked Brandt’s eyes only, which Schäfer had found on the yacht and brought back unopened. The note read:

  Withdraw from all human trafficking.

  I don’t want to have to see you naked again.

  No-one knew of the condition Brandt had been left in, except Tomas Bietak; the thin-faced enforcer had found Brandt and quickly covered up the ignominious mess. Bietak’s loyalty and, more importantly, lack of ambition meant Brandt could trust Bietak to remain silent. Otherwise Brandt would have found peace of mind from the discretion only guaranteed by the deceased. His humiliation needed to be kept from both allies and enemies. And Brandt couldn’t allow the theft of his stock to go unanswered. Those responsible had to be dealt with.

  But who were they? Albanians? Doubtful. Brandt had been careful not to intrude into territories controlled by the Fifteen Families; he even had distribution deals with a few of the clans.

  Colombians? Only interested in shifting narcotics.

  Arabs? Maybe, but unlikely. Some of his most valuable customers were in the Middle East, but they had very particular tastes and a bespoke approach was required to service those predilections. An Arab gang moving in on that niche market would be wasting their time appropriating the mongrel merchandise on the yacht.

  Turks wouldn’t dare—the Özçeliks wouldn’t allow any upstart gangs to endanger their alliance with Brandt—and he had profitable partnerships with the most powerful Spanish organisations. That left the possibility of another Western European cartel. Or the Russians.

  Brandt became aware of the silence in the room. His lieutenants were waiting for instructions; business had to be attended to. The crushed note was pushed into a pocket.

  ‘Get the yacht cleaned up,’ Brandt said, not caring who took responsibility for the task. He looked to the back of the room. ‘Bietak, someone divulged the buoy position. Attend to it.’ The enforcer nodded. ‘Marrero, find replacements for the stolen stock. The girl we didn’t lose, is she in good condition?’

  ‘Yes. There has been no damage,’ replied Marrero.

  ‘Not a total loss then. From the clients the women were being shipped to, choose whichever one needs to be kept sweet most and send the girl to them.’

  ‘That would be the Poles.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Brandt turned to Schäfer. ‘Put rapid response teams together. When those thieving fuckers show themselves again I want them dealt with.’

  LONG GAME (abridged

  CHAPTER 6

  Vasiliy Vladimirovich Korikov forced the tight fists behind his back to unclench slightly. He made an effort to keep his tone even. ‘Have you found the driver of the red taxi?’

  ‘No, he has disappeared into the Medina. We would need an army to search it.’

  Korikov’s nails dug into his palms. He wanted to scream then get an army! at Tokarev, but Korikov forced back his rage. Tokarev was being realistic. To be otherwise would not aid matters. Korikov asked, ‘And the Moroccan guide?’

  ‘The local police are convinced he was not involved.’ Tokarev paused. ‘I am inclined to believe they are correct.’

  Korikov glanced at the young Spaniard. Javier stood in a corner, his head lowered, not daring to look up. Korikov could see why the kidnappers had not bothered to shoot him. Useless pretty-boy. Not that his daughter’s bodyguards had been in any way effective.

  Bazarov and Ryakhovsky’s weapons lay on top of Korikov’s desk. Bazarov’s Russian-made Makarov PMM looked ugly and old-fashioned to Korikov’s eye. He felt differently about the ergonomic elegance of Ryakhovsky’s Heckler & Koch P30. Easy to shoot and accurate; a good choice.

  Korikov moved to the other side of the desk and stood in front of the men he had charged with safeguarding Zhenya. Bazarov, his face even more pink than usual, fidgeted, his eyes moving from the floor to Korikov and back. Ryakhovsky stood as though at attention: shoulders back, eyes forward, patiently waiting for whatever fate had in store. A good man; it would be a shame to waste him.

  Korikov turned his gaze to Tokarev. ‘Anything else from the police?’

  The lawyer shrugged. ‘Very little. A stolen SUV found in the northern town of Fnideq may have been the kidnappers’ vehicle. The kidnappers spoke Spanish, and the Spanish enclave Ceuta is just a few kilometres from Fnideq. The Moroccan police are contacting the Spanish authorities.’

  Korikov unclenched his fists and held his hands in front of his face, remembering moments with Zhenya: the baby gripping his finger; the toddler held above his head; the six-year old being pushed on a swing; the heartbroken teenager being comforted in his arms.

  Stretching his hands towards Bazarov and Ryakhovsky, he said, ‘You are a disappointment.’ He gently tap-slapped the face of each man. ‘And an example needs to be made.’

  Bazarov swallowed. Ryakhovsky blinked.

  ‘Nikolay Grigorevich,’ Korikov said, looking into Ryakhovsky’s calm eyes. ‘You have been a useful man to have around.’ Korikov turned to Bazarov’s pink face. ‘Pasha, drivers are easier to replace.’

  Bazarov’s face paled.

  Korikov allowed a fraction of his anger into his voice. He stabbed a finger into Bazarov’s chest and growled, ‘I want his hands and feet cut off. Use them to make soup. Then feed it to the fat fuck.’ Korikov glared into Ryakhovsky�
�s eyes. ‘And I want you to do it.’

  A cold smile formed on Korikov’s face as Ryakhovsky’s cool demeanour thawed. Ryakhovsky’s eyes flicked to Bazarov.

  Tokarev asked, ‘Is that really what you want?’

  Ryakhovsky’s eyes returned to Korikov.

  Korikov sighed. ‘Of course not,’ he said softly. ‘Pasha is just a driver.’

  Ryakhovsky’s head dropped. The P30 was in Korikov’s hand.

  Korikov squeezed three times.

  Ryakhovsky dropped to his knees, then, lifeless, sprawled at Korikov’s feet.

  Korikov emptied the magazine into the corpse. Then he pushed the weapon into Bazarov’s quivering fingers and said, ‘A very nice gun. It is yours now. Make better use of it than he did.’

  ‘You!’ Korikov threw a glare at the Spanish pretty-boy. ‘You work for me now. Your job is to do anything I deem necessary when Zhenya returns.’

  The Spaniard nodded. ‘Yes sir.’

  Korikov tilted his head towards Tokarev. ‘Someone knows where Zhenya is. Unfortunately this is a problem that can only be fixed by throwing money at it. Make sure word gets out the cash is available.’

  Violence would be close behind.

  LONG GAME (abridged)

  CHAPTER 7

  Splintered wood and wrecked furniture surrounded Degen. He checked his watch—the Rotterdam police would arrive soon—then he looked down at the gasping mercenary propped against the wall.