Interquels

by Macalister Stevens

  Korikov bristled.

  Tokarev quickly added, ‘But as a law abiding businessman you will inform the police of the plot.’

  ‘Why would the Spaniard kill Özçelik?’

  ‘Özçelik was part of the plot. He returned Zhenya to you in exchange for money. Javier double-crossed Özçelik for the money. I can arrange for an appropriate amount of cash to be found. With fingerprint and DNA evidence of course.’

  ‘And you believe this will result in the Spaniard being prosecuted?’

  Tokarev smiled. ‘We don’t need that. There will be sufficient evidence to require an investigation. And the Özçelik family will not wait for a court case before exacting their own justice. Javier will be dead and discredited. A very poor witness.’

  Korikov inhaled deeply. Exhaled slowly.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Do it.’

  Korikov stood. ‘I must talk to Zhenya. And while I do that, you will find out all there is to know about Axel Ziegler.’

  PRICE TAG (first draft

  CHAPTER 9

  ‘You changed the plan, right?’ Hannah looked from Kai Degen to Scott Macrae then to Larissa. ‘You adapted. You rescued Javier.’

  ‘No.’

  Hannah turned back to Degen. ‘You left him? But his cover was blown because of you.’

  ‘The plan was to nudge Brandt and Korikov into a war. We had withdrawn to Macedonia. We were too far from Berlin to put together a recovery team.’

  ‘But you contacted the police. Told them to move in. An anonymous tip. Yes?’

  ‘I argued against that,’ said Macrae.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The police would have arrested Korikov. That would have weakened his organisation. Brandt would have taken advantage. The objective was to bring down Brandt, not make him more powerful. We always knew there would be collateral damage. There’s always collateral damage. Consequence of every plan.’

  Hannah scowled at Macrae. Then glared at Degen.

  ‘That’s enough boys,’ said Larissa.

  Degen glanced at Macrae. ‘By arguing against saving Javier, Scott was playing Devil’s Advocate. He wasn’t very good at it. He caved. It took just six words.’

  Hannah turned to Macrae.

  He shrugged.

  She looked back at Degen. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Let’s think of a different plan.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘Tommy hacked into the security company with the contract to monitor Korikov’s villa. Fire services turned up first, then police. Closely followed by several TV film crews; leaking the story was Tommy’s idea. Javier was recovered unharmed.’

  ‘What about Korikov and Brandt?’

  ‘Not the point of the story,’ said Degen.

  Silence.

  Hannah sighed. ‘Okay. I get it. There was no way for you to know Javier was undercover. And I can’t predict all of the consequences of framing Todd.’ She imagined Todd on the end of a prison shiv.

  More silence.

  Hannah sighed again. ‘So what do we do?’

  Degen smiled. ‘We think of a different plan.’

  ‘Such as ..?’

  ‘Todd’s stolen car,’ said Macrae. ‘We steal it. Again. From him.’

  ‘So he’ll be in the clear,’ Hannah said, frowning.

  ‘As far as theft is concerned,’ Degen said. ‘But that doesn’t mean he gets away with hurting M’lady.’

  Hannah raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me more Loxley.’

  ‘Do you know the passwords to his social media accounts?’

  Hannah nodded.

  ‘Then all we need is Rohypnol. And a little imagination.’

  Darcy smiled. The thieving beggar; the car theft and the Rohypnol were slices of her past. No doubt he’d spin it as homage. She returned the manuscript to the printer.

  The notebook was still open. She read the last entry again:

  No change.

  Amy still auburn.

  Kids still kids.

  Good for you, Darcy thought. She closed the Moleskine, and placed it back in the drawer. She'd leave a note for herself to check up on him for a few more weeks, and if all remained stable, drop the surveillance to monthly. Perhaps after a while she'd give settling down a try too.

  In the meantime, she’d give Schrödinger’s cat a few more strokes.

  PART 6: RIPPLES

  9 years ago

  Lindberg stepped out from behind the dumpster, Glock 26 at his side.

  Mitchell held a Colt Mustang in his right hand.

  ‘Shit, man, it’s you.’ Lindberg shoved his Glock into the back of his jeans and he held up his hands. ‘Got spooked there.’ He took a couple of steps towards Mitchell.

  Mitchell raised his weapon.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Lindberg took two more steps. ‘What’s going on?’

  Mitchell said, ‘Trust issues.’

  ‘Trust?’ Lindberg feigned indignation. ‘You want to know about trust? I’ll show you trust. Stick that gun in my chest.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go on.’ Lindberg moved closer. ‘In my chest.’

  Mitchell pushed the Colt into Lindberg’s chest.

  ‘Now, answer me one question,’ said Lindberg.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Rama-langa-ding-dong.’

  ‘Wha—’

  Mitchell’s moment of confusion was all Lindberg needed; two blinks later a Krav Maga move put the Colt in Lindberg’s hands. He took four steps back. ‘Hands on head. Down on your knees. Now.’

  ‘I fucking knew—’

  ‘You know shit. On your fucking knees. Or I put bullets in them.’

  Mitchell glared … then exploded forward.

  Lindberg got off two shots but momentum and a final few seconds of fury sent Mitchell crashing into him. Lindberg stumbled backwards, pushing Mitchell to the side, but a flailing arm caught Lindberg’s trailing leg; he lost his footing, and the back of Lindberg’s head thwacked against the dumpster.

  The world swirled. He felt sick.

  He rolled off his back onto his knees. And puked.

  The world still swirled. He tried to blink his vision into submission. But the effort hurt.

  Lindberg squinted at Mitchell’s body … Mitchell had his phone.

  He tried to stand, but he collapsed onto his face, his cheek scraping along the tarmac.

  ‘Don’t go down there.’ It was a woman’s voice; it sounded far away. ‘I’m calling the police.’

  The voice had a phone.

  Lindberg reached towards the voice.

  Phone.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d said it or just thought it.

  But now thinking had become too hard; it hurt. He let the swirling world darken.

  Zoran Kasun glanced over his shoulder. Njörður Sindrason looked back from behind the wheel. Not long now; they would go together. Not that Njörður knew his role was martyr; a pawn to be sacrificed. But an important one. Njörður’s profile would add meat for the news whores to chew on.

  Kasun sucked in a long breath ...

  Time.

  He reached into a pocket, and pulled out a phone. He didn’t need it to trigger the devices—they were set to detonate in fifteen minutes—but the sniper didn’t know that.

  Kasun exhaled. Time for one last brea—

  In Jason Barber’s ear, the director in the Production Control Room said: ‘Breaking news after this VT. Autocue loaded.’ In the remaining seconds of the Singapore riot pre-rec, one of the director’s assistants coached him on pronunciation. And then he was live:

  ‘Breaking news. Armed police in Iceland have shot and killed a number of suspects believed to be plotting to destroy a whaling fleet. We understand two of the suspects are Njörður Sindrason, a high ranking member of self-styled eco-radicals Cetus Bellator; and Zoran Kasun, an ex-Special Forces officer with the Serbian military.

  ‘Iceland’s top police official has described the circumstances of the shooting as without precedent.
This is the first time an operation involving armed Icelandic police has resulted in a death.

  ‘According to so far unconfirmed reports, the suspects where in possession of a Radiological Dispersal Device, a so-called Dirty Bomb.

  ‘One moment …

  ‘We are receiving reports from Reykjavik …

  ‘Yes, it’s just been confirmed that there has been an explo— Correction two explosions on Iceland’s mainland.’

  3 years ago

  ‘Zoran Kasun and Anton Edilov were fucking idiots. Their big plan screwed big time with the bankers and the equity traders and the hedge funds scumbags. Did that give them their fucking Utopia? No. It fucked America. Fucked Europe. Fucked Japan. Opened the fucking door for Russia and China. Carved up three continents between them. United fucking States of America let them do it. Why? Because when you don’t have a pot to piss in, you don’t go to war over someone else’s shit.’

  The rant had erupted out of the general bar babble somewhere off to Brynja’s left; she had no idea what had triggered it, and she didn’t want to know.

  Stares from the tavern’s bouncers had calmed the debate by the time the barman returned with the two bottles of vodka she’d paid for in the region’s latest currency. Brynja picked up the bottles, and …

  ‘You know you paid over the odds for those, don’t you luv.’

  The voice was male, behind her, slightly to her right. She also sensed movement to her left. Placing the bottles back on the bar, and without turning, Brynja said, ‘No trouble.’

  ‘No, no luv. Just passing on a little bit of home turf know-how that’s all.’ The accent was obviously English, but they were in the port town of Yarmouth, Nova Scotia: once known for its vast lobster hauls, but now the black market hub for the Bay of Fundy.

  ‘You don’t sound like a local.’

  ‘Well these days home is where the heart is. And my heart is a little lonely. What do you say to some diverting company?’

  Brynja turned. The voice belonged to a moderately appealing face framed by short red hair. His clothing was a surprise: navy whites. Not military though. Brynja knew there weren’t any warships in the area; and besides, wrong uniform for late autumn, especially one this chilly. A glance at the epaulettes confirmed Brynja’s suspicion: cruise ship. Three stripes on each shoulder, white between the stripes: that meant hotel staff, likely a Purser. But Brynja doubted Mister Almost-handsome had ever concierged. Since the Six Cities, every cruise ship she’d come across had been appropriated by the kind of people she once would have labelled organised crime. They were still extremely organised, but post-Six Cities their activities were subject to legal sanctions that were, at best, the equivalent of throw cushions: primarily decorative.

  To these organised entrepreneurs, a cruise ship was an invaluable asset: plentiful supply of cabins for whores, built-in casino and bar facilities, easier to defend than a building, and if business slowed down, the whole operation could be moved to a more lucrative location. They were floating fiefdoms, and the uniforms reinforced the paramilitary image they liked to project. That the uniforms once belonged to assistant bar managers, chief housekeepers or sous chefs didn’t make the muscle squeezed into them any less dodgy to be around.

  The tavern was enjoying a busy night. When Brynja had entered, every chair and bench had been taken, but now there was a free table behind the Purser. One of his shipmates—thick neck with greasy long hair held back from his face by a thin, black Alice band—sat in one of the chairs recently vacated by three now-scowling men who had shuffled into the crowd. His epaulettes had two and a half stripes on white: an Assistant Food Manager perhaps. The presence Brynja had felt at her left (now on her right) had the nose and ears of a prize-fighter. His two and a half stripes on red denoted a Nurse. Brynja almost laughed.

  But, poker-faced, she said, ‘I have somewhere to be.’

  ‘And that’s over here.’ The Assistant Food Manager stood and pulled out the chair next to him.

  Brynja glanced at the Nurse. He was blocking her path to the exit. She looked the Purser up and down. ‘You sure you want this?’

  The Purser grinned. ‘Luv, I insist.’

  Brynja shrugged. ‘Okay.’ She turned to the bar. The barman had moved away, polishing glasses that likely didn’t need polishing.

  ‘Hey!’ Brynja rapped her knuckles on the bar.

  The barman looked over.

  ‘Four beers. Premium.’ Premium meant bottled, and chilled.

  The barman shot a quick look towards the shipmates before reaching into a large bucket of iced water for the beers. He placed them in front of Brynja. All four bottles still had tops on; if you had money for premium, you had money for a gratuity for use of a bottle opener.

  ‘These are on us,’ said the Purser.

  This time Brynja did laugh. She grabbed a beer, spun, and swung. The bottle exploded against the Purser’s temple. The Nurse moved forward. Brynja’s right leg shot out. A crack. A yelp. And the Nurse crumpled. The second beer bottle thwacked down on the back of his head. It didn’t break, so she brought it up and clobbered the (dazed) Purser again; this time he went down. The Assistant Food Manager tossed his table aside as the third bottle left Brynja’s hand; he had time for a half-step towards her before the heavy base of the bottle thunked into his forehead. He dropped to his knees, eyes rolled up in his head, then he flopped on the floor.

  Brynja turned, used the edge of the bar to prize the top off the fourth bottle, and took a long. long swallow. She banged the bottle down on the bar and pointed to the fizzing maelstrom within. ‘Half empty or half full?’ she asked the barman.

  He looked over at the bouncers flanking the exit. Then at the white uniforms on the floor. ‘They said they’d pay. I’d say half full.’

  ‘You’re a gentleman.’ Brynja gathered up the vodka bottles and headed for the exit. A path parted for her. The two mountains of muscle at the doorway stepped aside; one nodded approval as she passed between them.

  Over her shoulder, Brynja said, ‘Make sure they tip.’

  She heard chuckling behind her.

  Prior to the Six Cities, Brynya’s equine experience amounted to watching a handful of westerns (mostly Clint Eastwood flicks) and a documentary about dancing white horses in Vienna; she couldn’t have told hocks from withers. But in a world where fuel was carefully controlled, rationed, hoarded and/or fought over, it paid to take an interest in other forms of transport. To her surprise, she’d quickly taken to horseback riding and in a short space of time had become an accomplished rider. Which made her an ideal candidate for reconnaissance duty prior to a raid.

  Rich in geothermal energy and hydroelectric power, with a long established and efficient fishing industry, and sufficient arable land to meet at least basic needs of a small population, Icelanders had fared better than many peoples. That didn’t mean they had everything they needed, but as they were descended from Norse warriors, and their numbers included a fifty-strong highly trained special operations unit, they had the heritage, the means, and the will to take what they needed.

  The Víkingasveitin operated from Ernir, a converted shallow-hulled coaster with self-load/unload capability. A raiding party and their horses would disembark, set up camp and begin scouting the area. Ernir would return to sea until required.

  On reaching the raiding party’s camp, a few miles south of Yarmouth, Brynja slid off her horse and handed the reigns to Birkir, the team’s groom. Like farriers and saddlers, grooms were once again in-demand tradespeople. Brynja marched straight to Diðrik’s tent, a heavy saddlebag under her arm.

  Inside the tent, Diðrik, Örn and Jökull were huddled over assorted street maps.

  ‘Break out the glasses.’ Brynja produced a bottle of vodka with the flourish of a magician materialising a rabbit from a hat. ‘There’s a cruise ship in port.’

  New Vikings or not, Víkingasveitin raids were not indiscriminate. As Diðrik had explained to his people: ‘If we do this, we Robin Hood it.’


  And that meant every would-be robber baron was fair game.

  ‘In position.’ Jökull and his spotter were on the flat roof of a storage facility near the ship’s berth.

  Örn was on a similar position nearby. He checked his wristwatch. ‘Diðrik, you’re good to go.’

  The vessel was a roll-on/roll-off ferry with 160 cabins for overnight crossings—what was called a cruiseferry—and with a length of 160 metres and a draught of 6 metres, its size was at the top end of ships that could safely navigate Yarmouth Harbour. Built in Singapore, it saw service between Dover and Calais for a time, and after its purchase by a Canadian company, it shuttled between Yarmouth and Portland. Now it was an asset of a cartel operating out of Boston that had claimed the Gulf of Maine as its territorial waters.

  ‘They’ve expanded their casino area into what was once restaurant space,’ Diðrik had said. ‘This entire deck.’ He’d pointed at a hand-drawn deckplan. ‘Their muscle is concentrated here. All armed; handguns only. They take breaks at irregular intervals but there are never fewer than eight of them in the casino area. There’s a guard at the top of every stairwell; all armed with submachine guns. The guards and the casino muscle are all dressed in those white uniforms. They stand out.’

  Boarding was via a single gangway. Two armed white uniforms were dockside. One of them recognised Diðrik. ‘Where’s the boy?’ the guard asked.

  ‘His birthday was yesterday.’ Diðrik winked. ‘My treat tonight.’

  The guard grinned and waved Diðrik on up the gangway.

  The night before, Diðrik and a fresh-faced Víkingasveitin rookie—Ari Stefánsson—had played father and son. Their recon required Ari to pay a visit to the brothel deck—he’d played the shy-can-we-just-talk type—and while his son had been entertained, Diðrik had been the proud, bragging father in as many parts of the ship as he could freely access.