Interquels

by Macalister Stevens

  Degen knelt beside him and said, ‘They’re alive.’ He pointed to the motionless Kevlar-clad team on the floor. ‘This time.’ Degen stood. ‘Next time you’ll need body-bags.’

  He walked to where the door had been and without turning said, ‘Tell Brandt I said hello. And let him know his operations in Vienna are next on my list.’

  As he stepped into the hallway of the trashed brothel, Degen pulled out a phone and sent a text message to Larissa:

  Our fat friend sent chums round to play. Ended in tears. Horticultural success though.

  Degen made his way out of the building, ensuring his face avoided the in-plain-sight CCTV lenses. That was the kind of precaution both Brandt’s people and the Dutch police would expect. Degen knew there would be concealed cameras, and he was counting on them registering enough of his features to make an identification. Tommy Amberson—Degen’s tech guy—had created digital disguises for both Degen and Larissa. Soon, someone in Brandt’s employ—probably a low-level civil servant—would access those files. Brandt would be informed that the pain in his sizable arse was an Axel Ziegler; known associate Valentina Vankova. Amberson originally gave Larissa the surname Zmatlíková, but she’d vetoed that: ‘I had that name once before, undercover with the BIS.’ That operation for the Czech Security Information Service had not ended well. ‘Besides, Ziegler and Zmatlíková … we’d sound like a circus act.’

  Degen’s phone buzzed. A reply from Larissa:

  Munich fun. Gardening went well here too. Plant taken root.

  LONG GAME (abridged)

  CHAPTER 8

  Vasiliy Vladimirovich Korikov was a powerful man. He knew it. His men knew it. His partners knew it. And, most importantly, his rivals knew it. Weakness could be fatal. It was also bad for business.

  Kadir Özçelik contemplated this as he sat quietly, a thumb and forefinger slowly stroking his moustache as he watched Korikov’s men work on one of the Poles. Özçelik glanced at Korikov, who was passing the time reading the financial pages of various European newspapers. The Russian was no more interested in the messy business of information gathering than Özçelik, but Korikov understood it was important for him to demonstrate the uncompromising ruthlessness being deployed in the wake of his daughter’s kidnapping. The information gained here would be useful, but everyone in the room (including the Pole) knew this was primarily a marketing exercise.

  Özçelik felt nauseous. But not because of the torture he was witnessing. Ever since Istanbul had replaced Beirut as a key port for heroin trafficking in the 1980s, his family had profited hugely from the narcotics trade, and decades of ever increasing profits hadn’t come without inflicting a certain amount of pain. Violence was often required to balance the books, and Özçelik certainly had the stomach for the show the Russians were putting on. The torture didn’t make him feel ill, but the details being revealed did.

  Germany was key to Özçelik’s heroin distribution. A number of Polish crime gangs operating there were keen to grab some of his business. After information that a particularly pushy Polish outfit was running its operation from a brothel in Munich had reached Özçelik, he had sanctioned an unannounced visit to the premises. Money, drugs and women had been confiscated. The women included a Yevgenia Vasilievna Korikova.

  Russian women used a feminine form of their surname, their middle-name was based on their father’s first name, and in everyday conversation their first names were converted to a diminutive. A diminutive for Yevgenia was Zhenya.

  Kadir Özçelik had immediately contacted Korikov’s people. Yevgenia Vasilievna Korikova had been returned to her father, who had invited Özçelik to view the debriefing of the Poles. It wasn’t an invitation Özçelik could decline without looking weak, and now he was hearing first-hand that the trail of Korikov’s daughter’s abduction led back to one of Özçelik’s closest allies: Luitger Brandt.

  Reading people was a useful skill in a number of professions, including the law. Prosecutors needed to read witnesses, defence lawyers needed to read juries, and legal counsel to men such as Vasiliy Korikov needed to read their clients. Roman Mikhailovich Tokarev studied his employer. Korikov’s eyes remained on his newspaper, but it was clear to Tokarev that his employer’s thoughts were elsewhere; a decision had been made.

  There were times to counsel caution or urge restraint, and there were times to remain silent.

  Tokarev shifted his gaze to the Turk. It was possible—likely even—that Özçelik was guiltless, that he knew nothing of Brandt’s involvement in poor Zhenya’s abduction, just as Brandt could be unaware that his operatives had mistakenly seized a deadly rival’s cherished daughter and sold her to a brothel. But actual guilt or innocence no longer mattered. Brandt and Özçelik either knew, or they should have known. Tolerating incompetence was as much a sign of weakness as turning the other cheek. And the absence of weakness was imperative. Uncompromising retribution was the only recourse.

  Tokarev bent down to Özçelik’s ear. ‘I would appreciate a few minutes of your time.’

  Özçelik blinked a few times, stood and followed Tokarev. As they climbed from the basement to the restaurant kitchen—one of Korikov’s legitimate operations in Munich—two of Korikov’s men took up the rear.

  ‘I did not know,’ Özçelik said evenly.

  Tokarev reached the top of the stairs and held the door open. As Özçelik passed him, Tokarev said, ‘I am inclined to believe you.’ But that was immaterial.

  LONG GAME (abridged)

  CHAPTER 9

  Oskar Schäfer’s pride hurt much more than the gash below the large band-aid on his cheek. The failure of the hand-picked team of mercenaries deployed to protect Brandt’s Benelux interests was the source of Schäfer’s dented self-image, not the insignificant wound from the paperweight-turned-missile that had flown from Brandt’s hand as he’d roared, ‘See to it personally.’

  Cameras—CCTV and hidden—had captured the one-man assault on Brandt’s Rotterdam hub: The building’s security team being taken out. The large wall safe being blown, exposing documentation the Dutch police would later discover incriminated several high ranking civil servants and influential businessmen. The whores being ushered into the street with armfuls of cash from the (supposedly secret) compartments built into false walls. The breaching of the heavy basement doors where a shipment of designer drugs was being stored prior to shipment to Scandinavia, followed by the torching of the stacked boxes. And finally—after the arrival of the response team—the devastating close-quarter combat techniques that felled the four mercenaries without the need for a bullet or a blade.

  It had been infuriating to watch.

  Brandt’s mood was worsened by the Dutch police discovering the hidden cameras; he would have preferred to limit police interference. However, the footage had provided images clear enough to allow identification of the bringer of all that chaos. His name was Axel Ziegler: Austrian; ex-EKO Cobra (Austrian counter-terrorism special operations tactical unit); no permanent address; unexplained affluence.

  That had given Schäfer something to work with. And now, Ziegler was across the street.

  Schäfer had received information that Ziegler—using the name Schmidt—had taken a room at a five-star hotel next to the Schottentor U-Bahn station. And he had company. A woman identified as Valentina Vankova: Czech, background unknown, sometime security consultant for businessmen from former USSR territories.

  Looking past the late afternoon traffic speeding along the Schottenring, Schäfer checked the hotel entrance; sooner or later Ziegler and/or Vankova would show themselves. Schäfer wouldn’t make the mercs’ mistake and attempt to take them in the building—it seemed Ziegler revelled in that kind of situation—so Schäfer would wait.

  All of the hotel’s exits were now covered by appropriately disguised lookouts. A rotation of fake businessmen were holding fake meetings in the lobby. A fake Würstel seller was installed in a real Würstelstand on one corner. A fake down-and-out had a stack of the homeless
magazine Augustin outside the U-Bahn entrance next to the hotel. And Schäfer and four other fake policemen sat in their recently appropriated police van across the street. Schäfer would be patient; an opportunity would present itself.

  ‘You were right, Brandt’s sent his top dog,’ Larissa said, stepping back from the window. She tossed her binoculars onto the chaise longue next to Degen, who smiled as he finished reassembling his Glock 17—the Glock 26 had already been cleaned and was back in its ankle holster.

  ‘How would you like to do this?’ asked Larissa.

  ‘If we offer solo targets we’re more likely to lure Schäfer into a vulnerable position,’ Degen said.

  ‘I suppose I could force myself to do a little window shopping.’

  ‘You head for Mariahilfer Strasse. I’ll hold off, then pull the rest of them towards the Rathaus. If you don’t draw Schäfer, try not to leave any bodies. We want surgical precision, not a bloodbath.’

  Hands on hips, Larissa tried an as-if-I-would face. Degen just laughed.

  Larissa Němcová stepped out of the lift into the hotel lobby. Two dark-suited, square-jawed men with thick necks sat at a table that provided a view of both the lift doors and the main exit. Larissa spotted the micro-pause in their conversation as their eyes flickered her way for a fraction of a second. She was wearing her shortest skirt and the amount of leg on view demanded more attention than that.

  Amateurs.

  Kai Degen lifted his phone to his ear. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Frankly, I’m a little irked,’ replied Larissa. ‘Apparently I only merit one of the goons from reception plus the homeless guy. And he didn’t even have the sense to ditch his copies of Augustin before trailing after me into a furniture store. As he followed me, the store’s security followed him. Probably worried he’d take a nap on their expensive bedding. Honestly it’s the most pathetic tail I’ve ever had.’

  Degen cursed silently. ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Walking to the Rathaus as arranged.’

  ‘Be careful. Schäfer’s better than this. There must be another team, one he’s kept out of sight. Come back to the hotel, use the U-Bahn. And when you get to Schottentor, drop the homeless guy under a train.’

  Oskar Schäfer had pulled both of his men from the hotel lobby, sending Kraus to shadow Vankova, while Meyer took Schäfer’s place in the police van. Schäfer intended to spend the rest of the evening supervising from the comfort of a nearby café-bar. He took his place at the window table two of his men had been occupying for most of the afternoon. He was about to order a strong coffee when wailing sirens dopplered past the café-bar. Schäfer squinted at the flashing lights of an ambulance and a (genuine) police van as they screeched to a halt near the Schottentor U-Bahn entrance next to the hotel.

  Schäfer’s phone rang. It was Meyer. Schäfer hit Accept: ‘What?’

  ‘According to the police radio, someone’s gone under a train.’ Meyer said. ‘What do we do? Stay put or pull out? Going to look odd if a van of cops doesn’t help out.’

  Schäfer opened his mouth to answer, but he was struck dumb by the sight of Ziegler striding across the Schottenring towards Schäfer’s men in the van.

  A small rucksack swung from Degen’s left shoulder as he weaved between crawling cars and their rubber-necking drivers. Degen ignored the activity around the U-Bahn entrance; his focus was on the police van and its occupants.

  Three metres from the van, Degen stopped. He pulled the rucksack from his shoulder and lifted it up for the vanload of fake cops to get a good look.

  All five frowned at him.

  Degen lowered the bag to the ground, then kicked it. The bag scraped to a halt under the van. Degen held up a mobile phone and as he backed away from the vehicle, he mouthed the word Boom.

  The van’s doors burst open and five blurs surged onto the street and sprinted in different directions. Degen ran forward and jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Five seconds later, Schäfer’s face appeared at the front passenger door. Directly behind him stood Larissa, close enough to hide the weapon Degen knew would be pressing against Schäfer’s spine.

  Larissa pushed Schäfer into the back of the van, and climbed in after him. ‘Tasered his café buddies, as requested,’ she said as the van reversed away from its five open-mouthed recent occupants. ‘Shall I give this one a jolt too?’

  ‘No,’ Degen said. ‘Give him ten seconds to order his second team to stand down. If he doesn’t, shoot his knees out.’

  Tomas Bietak scowled and considered sending his team in anyway. Schäfer was expendable, or at least he should be. But Bietak hissed the stand down order into his comms mic. He relaxed the white-knuckle fist gripping his phone and thumbed the screen until Meyer’s number appeared.

  Meyer answered after one ring. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Take the men dressed as police and get into the hotel. Search Ziegler’s room. Look for clues. And when we find Ziegler and his bitch, we kill them.’ Bietak wanted to add like we should have done hours ago, but instead he hung up, sucked in a long breath and thumbed for another number.

  Brandt glared at his phone. ‘Answer that!’

  Marrero looked away from the large hatbox on Brandt’s desk. ‘It’s Marrero. The boss is busy.’ Marrero frowned. ‘What kind of complication?’

  Brandt snapped his fingers.

  Marrero handed over the phone. Then took an involuntary step backwards.

  ‘Tell me,’ barked Brandt. His face folded into a grimace. ‘Fix it.’ The phone flew past Marrero and shattered against the wall behind him. Marrero glanced over his shoulder, then back at Brandt.

  ‘Take this away.’ Brandt said. ‘Fucking Russians.’

  Marrero stared at the hatbox. What could Kadir Özçelik have done to merit such atrocity.

  LONG GAME (abridged)

  CHAPTER 10

  Oskar Schäfer’s blood pooled between his feet. It had gushed from the cut above his left eye, then dripped steadily onto the warehouse floor as his head hung limply. Schäfer no longer felt the discomfort of the rope binding his raw wrists to the hook above his head. The wrists, the cut and swollen eye, the bruised and battered ribs and stomach muscles, they all merged into one engulfing ache. The beating had been thorough, but Schäfer had given away nothing.

  ‘Tough bastard,’ said Vankova.

  The bitch would find out just how tough and how much of a bastard one day, Schäfer silently promised.

  ‘We’ll see,’ said Ziegler. ‘But that will do for now.’

  Schäfer winced as he was lifted off the hook and dropped onto a chair. As he concentrated on breathing without moving his ribs too much, he was vaguely aware of a tap running. Schäfer lifted his head and opened his right eye. Ziegler was standing next to a large sink, now stripped to the waist and washing off Schäfer’s blood.

  Ziegler half-filled a battered metal bucket. He said, ‘Let’s have a proper look at you. See what damage we’ve done.’

  A cool, stinging, refreshing wave sloshed over Schäfer’s face and chest. Schäfer licked at the water on his lips, thankful to taste something other than blood. He lifted his head again. Ziegler was leaning close, studying him.

  Schäfer blinked to clear the vision in his right eye. He saw tattoos. Including an elaborate star on Ziegler’s shoulder. It meant that this man had status, that he had earned the rank of thief-in-law. But it only signified this for one group of people: Russian mafia.

  Pieces fitted together. Ziegler was close to the Czech bitch. She had built up connections with various Russian millionaires, and no-one made millions in Russia without shady connections; there would be a link to Korikov somewhere.

  The timing of the escalation in Ziegler’s harassment—when the cartels were about to meet—couldn’t be a coincidence. The Russians had refused to take part, despite the massive profits Brandt’s proposals could bring. Could the Russians be planning to strike at the cartels and put Brandt’s plan into operation for themselves? With Br
andt preoccupied with Ziegler’s assaults, Korikov would have an advantage.

  Anger coursed through Schäfer. He would survive this. And he would kill Ziegler. And his Czech bitch. And their Russian boss.

  Degen scrubbed at the fake tattoo on his shoulder.

  Larissa, perched on the end of the bath, said, ‘It all went to plan. They found the warehouse and rescued Schäfer.’

  ‘Let’s hope Oskar bought it.’

  ‘Oh he bought it. Despite the mess you made of his face, I could see he was adding two and two and getting five. Now it’s just a question of whether Brandt strikes first or Korikov does. Either way, it’s going to be a nasty war.’

  Degen dried himself. Larissa watched for a moment, then stood, leaned in and kissed the red blotch where the star had been.

  ‘Korikov will come out on top,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’ Degen dropped the towel and put his arms around Larissa.

  ‘And then what?’ she asked.

  ‘Like you said, we’ll catch up with those tattooed fuckers later.

  ’

  PART 5: PRICE TAG

  10 days ago

  There was no-one in the house to hear her heels clack on the hardwood floor, but Darcy Hannah slipped off her shoes anyway. It was a tree falling in the forest thing. No noise equalled it never happened. Daft, but everyone had their quirks. Darcy padded from the alarm system control box she'd just circumvented—disabling the phone line to the security company had taken nine seconds—and her flashlight led the way to the author's study.

  The chair—one of those ultra-designed for super-comfort sci-fi looking things—had been swivelled away from the desk. Darcy sat down and spun 240-ish degrees the long way round to face the desk. She leaned to her left and slid open the bottom drawer. Inside was a large, black notebook: a Moleskine. Darcy placed the notebook in front of her and flicked to the last entry: