The Berlin Conspiracy (The Division Book 4)

by Angus McLean

  Archer relieved him of a pistol of some sort, slipped it into his waistband and let the guy fall back to the ground. He followed him down, keeping the pressure of the gun barrel against his eyeball, and dropped a knee onto his gun arm to pin him there.

  ‘Fuck you, cop,’ the shark hissed through the pain, ‘you fuck. You can’t do this.’

  ‘Oh, I’m no cop,’ Archer replied softly, digging the Browning in a bit harder. ‘I’m much worse.’ He let that sink in, letting the guy’s mind churn it over and turn him inside out.

  ‘What…what you want?’ The guy was in serious pain, and was trying to wriggle his arm out from beneath Archer’s knee. Archer leaned in harder, grinding the bones into the concrete. The guy squealed again and Archer caught the distinct whiff of urine.

  Clearly this guy was a force to be reckoned with in his own crew, but he wasn’t used to playing with the big boys.

  ‘I want information,’ Archer told him. ‘You give it to me, and you’ll live. You don’t…’ He let the threat hang there and do its thing.

  ‘What…ahhh… what…you know?’

  ‘The Russian guy upstairs,’ Archer said, ‘where is he?’

  ‘Up…stairs…ahhh, fuck…thirty-one.’

  ‘That’s it. Where is he?’

  ‘Upstairs.’

  ‘No.’ Archer gave the pistol some body weight, digging it into the guy’s eyeball. It must have hurt like fuck, because he smelt a fresh waft of urine as the guy let loose. ‘I’ve been to his apartment; he’s not there. Where do I find him?’

  ‘Upstairs!’ The guy was pleading now, his voice getting higher and more desperate every time he spoke. ‘I tell you!’

  Archer leaned down, almost nose to nose with him now. ‘I said I’ve been there. I don’t have time for your bullshit. Lie to me again and I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out, understand you little cunt?’

  The guy tried to nod, but it was hard with a pistol shoving his head back against the ground. ‘Not thirty-one… he live in different…one…ahhh, fuck, Jesus…he…live in…twenty-four…the end one.’

  His face was screwed up with pain, probably waiting for the hammer to fall. Archer was tempted.

  ‘Any security there?’

  ‘No…just him.’

  ‘Guns?’

  ‘I…probably.’

  ‘Who else lives there?’ It didn’t really matter; Archer was going in anyway.

  ‘I think…nobody…just the Russian.’

  Archer nodded. He was pretty sure the shark was telling him the truth. It would take bigger balls than he had to lie in these circumstances. He pushed up, releasing the pressure on the guy. The shark immediately pulled his injured arm onto his chest and cradled it. His left eye remained screwed tight shut.

  Archer frisked him, relieving him of two phones and a folding knife, plus a wad of cash. He tucked them into his pockets and straightened up, looking down at the guy. He raised the Browning, aiming it at the shark’s face. He slowly lowered the hammer and snicked the safety back on.

  The shark unscrewed his eyes and looked up at him, his face a pale blur in the darkness. He seemed to realise he was going to live. With the relief came a misplaced sense of bravado.

  ‘You fuck,’ he panted, ‘I see you again and I’ll…’

  ‘You’ll what? Piss your pants again like a little girl?’

  The shark opened his mouth to speak again, and Archer cut him off with a vicious stomp to the crotch. A shriek of pain cut the air and Archer pushed down, grinding the guy’s balls under his heel. He felt not a shred of sympathy for the guy. As far as he was concerned, someone who could peddle human misery like he did deserved far worse.

  Without a word, Archer turned and headed back towards the stairs.

  ***

  Apartment 24 was at the far end of the third floor. The door was closed and the curtains drawn.

  Archer slowed as he passed the neighbouring unit, and could hear a TV coming from inside. He carried on to Semenov’s door and paused to listen again. Nothing.

  He rapped on the door and stepped back. It gave Semenov a good view through the peep hole plus it gave him room to put a boot to the door if he needed to – although, going on the door downstairs, he’d likely break a foot if he tried to smash it in.

  It took half a minute before he heard movement behind the door. Presumably Semenov had checked the peep hole and knew who he was talking to.

  ‘Yes, what do you want?’

  ‘We need to talk.’ Archer made a point of looking around him. ‘In private.’

  ‘We have talked. The deal is done. No refunds.’

  ‘I don’t want a refund.’

  ‘Then you go away. I have no need to talk to you.’

  Archer sighed, looking exasperated. ‘We have a problem. Your man ripped me off.’

  There was a pause.

  He guessed Semenov was assessing his options. He could try and fuck Mr Smith off but there was the chance it would just attract attention. He couldn’t call the cops, and calling in some heavy support would bring more attention and also took time – besides, he wouldn’t be able to get hold of his sidekick just yet. The only other option was to deal with the problem right now, which would mean he’d be armed.

  Archer held his hands up for the peephole, palms open. ‘Look man, I haven’t got time to fuck around. I need what I paid for, then I can fuck off and leave you alone.’

  ‘What you mean, he ripped you off?’ Semenov was naturally suspicious and still not opening the door, and Archer couldn’t blame him.

  ‘He took my money and fucked off. I don’t have my papers, man. I need to get outta here.’

  ‘Who sent you here?’

  ‘The young guy down in the garage, the pimp. Long hair.’ He threw the guy under the bus without hesitation. If it meant he suffered some street justice later then so be it.

  ‘I meet you downstairs. Ten minutes.’

  Archer shook his head, looking properly pissed off now. ‘No, how do I know you’ll turn up? I need that passport, man, or I’m fucked. You come and sort it out now.’

  There was another pause, before he heard the rattle of a security chain followed by a lock opening. The door cracked open and Semenov peered out at him. A pistol was in his hand, pointing at Archer’s gut.

  ‘Step back, walk in front,’ he said.

  Archer did as he was told, keeping his hands out to his sides, clearly visible. He led the way to the stairs and started up. Reaching the top, he stopped and waited. Semenov was slow on the stairs and watched him carefully. The Kremlin’s former master forger wore a brown cardigan that was badly pilled, beige polyester slacks and fluffy slippers. In another world he’d be a doddery grandad. Maybe he was in his private life.

  Semenov had the pistol tucked under his cardy now, and gestured for Archer to move on. They got to the door of apartment 31 and Semenov unlocked it before ushering Archer inside. He shut the door and hit the lights, pointing Archer to a seat in the lounge. The pistol was back in view now, and Semenov took out a cell phone with the other hand.

  ‘You speak to my friend?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. He told me to fuck off and laughed at me. He had a gun.’

  Semenov frowned and thumbed the keypad on his phone. ‘This is not right.’

  ‘I think he has a discipline problem,’ Archer said, ‘you need to watch him.’

  Semenov said nothing, but glanced down at the phone to hit Send.

  Archer was out of the seat and on him before the older man even registered what was going on. He ripped the pistol away, elbowed Semenov hard in the side of the head and hip threw him to the floor.

  Semenov’s glasses went flying and his lungs emptied with a gasping whoosh. Archer pinned him down with a knee on his chest and jammed the barrel of the Browning under his chin.

  ‘Catch your breath,’ he said softly, ‘because you’re going to start talking.’

  Semenov gave a weak nod, his chest heaving. Archer eased off the weight to let hi
m recover a bit.

  ‘I’m looking for a man,’ Archer told him. ‘He came to you recently for papers.’

  ‘This…is…my job.’ Semenov licked his lips nervously. ‘I do papers…for people. What man?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. He’s a big player, a terrorist. Arms dealer.’

  He saw a flicker in Semenov’s eye; he knew who Archer was talking about.

  ‘What…nationality?’

  ‘You tell me. When did he come?’

  ‘I think of…a man. He come…yesterday. He got papers.’

  ‘Name?’

  Semenov managed a small smile despite his predicament. ‘Mr Smith,’ he said. ‘I have many Mr Smiths, you understand.’

  ‘I get that,’ Archer acknowledged, ‘but you know this man, so stop fucking about. I don’t have a lot of time, Mr Semenov.’

  Semenov’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. ‘So you know who I am. Why your interest in me, Mr Smith?’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about you, I just want this guy. Who is he?’

  ‘I have no name. He is an American; that is all I know.’

  ‘You made him a passport?’

  ‘Of course.’ Archer applied more pressure to the Browning under his chin and Semenov grimaced. ‘Please, enough. I am an old man, I am no threat to you.’ He looked Archer in the eye. ‘I knew this day would come. Time will always run out. Please, let us sit like gentlemen. I will tell you what you seek to know.’

  Archer got up and watched the other man make his way painfully to the couch. Archer remained standing, the Browning in his hand. He knew he should have cleared the apartment but time was against him. His senses were pinging flat out but he was satisfied they were alone.

  ‘Are you going to kill me?’ Semenov’s tone was calm and controlled, like he was discussing plans for the evening with an old friend.

  Archer gave a thin smile. The barrel of the Browning didn’t waver. ‘That’s up to you. Start talking.’

  Semenov sighed. ‘I do not like to talk about my clients, it is not a good business option.’

  ‘It’s a better option than a nine mil in the head,’ Archer reminded him. ‘Stop fucking about.’

  Semenov nodded his agreeance. ‘I gave him a new passport, Australian. The name was Vincent Granger.’ He spelled the surname. ‘The date of birth was July 5th, 1957.’

  ‘What else did he tell you?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Semenov looked mildly amused. ‘I simply supply documents, Mr Smith. I have no interest in their travel plans.’

  ‘You have a photo?’

  Semenov shook his head. ‘No.’ His eyes flickered as he said the words. ‘It is part of the deal.’

  ‘Bullshit. You took a digital photo, like you did with me.’

  ‘I gave him the memory card,’ Semenov said quickly. ‘He was very insistent.’

  ‘You’ve dealt with him before,’ Archer said, following his gut now. He knew Semenov was lying, but instinct told him it wouldn’t take much to make him talk. ‘You’ve kept a photo. I bet you keep photos of all your customers.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ Semenov said, looking curiously at him. ‘Privacy is essential in my line of work.’

  ‘Insurance policy.’ Archer smiled thinly again, knowing he was on the right track. ‘So if you ever got caught you’d have something to trade with.’

  ‘Mr Smith,’ Semenov protested, ‘I am a man of honour. How dare you…’

  ‘You’d sell your clients to save your own hide,’ Archer retorted. ‘I want that photo.’

  ‘Mr Smith…’

  Archer took three fast steps forward, raising the Browning, and Semenov cowered away. ‘Okay, okay. I have a photo of the man. You may have it.’

  ‘Very kind of you.’ Archer stepped back. ‘Get it.’

  ‘It is in the cloud.’

  Archer frowned, taking a moment to click that the man was talking about a cloud-based server.

  He watched Semenov carefully as the older man took out his smart phone and got the connection. He had Semenov hold the phone out and use just one hand, hoping to ensure the man didn’t delete whatever data he had. He didn’t have time to shag about with obtaining passwords and codes.

  The Russian brought up a photo on his phone and turned the screen for Archer to see. It was a standard head and shoulders passport shot, but Archer knew immediately that it was the man he’d seen in Croatia, the man he’d nicknamed the Boss. Dark hair swept back, dark eyes, high forehead. Intense-looking. Maybe in his mid-fifties.

  He snapped a photo of the screenshot and tucked his phone away, before relieving Semenov of his own device.

  The Russian looked up at him as he stepped back again, his eyes shrewd. ‘So now you are going to kill me, Mr Smith?’ he said. ‘It is hardly sporting behaviour, is it?’

  ‘We’re not playing games, Semenov. People’s lives are at stake.’

  ‘Who do you work for?’ Semenov had a distinct aura of calm about him, still in his conversational mode.

  ‘It doesn’t matter who I work for.’

  ‘Do they know what you are truly like, Mr Smith? A loose cannon, I think they say?’

  Archer knew the Russian was playing with him now, but couldn’t resist giving a snort. ‘I’m no loose cannon, Semenov. What I do, I do for a purpose.’

  ‘Oh, the greater good,’ Semenov mocked him. ‘Does this greater good help you sleep at night, Mr Smith?’ His eyes were dark and glittering. ‘Does it stop the nightmares for the people you kill?’

  ‘I sleep just fine,’ Archer replied coldly, his grip tightening on the butt of the Browning. ‘The only nightmares I have are for the people I couldn’t save.’

  ‘Oh, how heroic you must feel. You wrap yourself in your security blanket of ignorance, thinking you are doing good, saving the world. It must be wonderful to be so…altruistic.’

  ‘Not altruistic,’ Archer started to say, catching the tiniest flicker of movement in Semenov’s left arm. Even as he raised the Browning the other man’s hand was coming up, pulling a compact pistol from between the cushions on the sofa.

  Archer fired, one shot that was loud enough to echo in the small apartment.

  The bullet took Semenov high in the chest and his mouth gaped open. His lips moved soundlessly, his eyes bulging, his body stiffening as if held in an electrical current. The entry wound leaked red onto his shirt front. His left foot twitched briefly before rolling to the side and resting.

  The body slumped backwards, the head lolling towards the ceiling, before it began to slip slowly sideways. It came to rest halfway down the back of the couch, slouching awkwardly.

  Cordite hung in the air and Archer’s ears rang. He slipped the Browning into his waistband and looked at the body. Semenov was staring at the door as if seeking help that would never come.

  ‘Maybe not altruistic,’ he finally said, in answer to the dead man’s jibes, ‘but at least I’m not a fuckin’ terrorist.’

  He headed for the door.

  Chapter 24

  The drive from Vienna had been circuitous but steady, avoiding main roads and anywhere likely to be subject to cameras or checkpoints. There was little traffic on the road and he stuck to the speed limit.

  It was unlikely that the killing would attract too much attention, if it had even been reported to the authorities yet, but there was no point in being careless.

  He diverted towards the Elbe River and found a lookout spot overhanging the dark water. He stripped the Browning down, wiped it clean and threw the pieces one by one into the river, hearing a decent plop with every throw. The river was long and winding and in theory he could have stopped anywhere along its banks to ditch his gear. Only if he was seen here would this particular place become an area of interest for the authorities, otherwise the gun was now effectively gone for good.

  He made his way back into a small town he missed the name of and found a public toilet to clean up in, washing his exposed surfaces and ditching his clothes in a storm water drain, secu
ring them all in a bundle and dropping them into the darkness.

  Freshly changed and rehydrated, he drove further on before pulling off the road long enough to place a call to Ingoe.

  It was a succinct conversation. The Ops Officer was neither surprised nor saddened to hear of Semenov’s demise, although he noted that it was now even more vital that Archer was not detected in Austria.

  It took only a few seconds to send the target photo through, then Archer was on the move again, eager to put some distance between himself and Prague.

  He jumped back onto Highway 8 and crossed the border with no issue, making his way past Dresden and north on Bundesautobahn 13 towards Berlin. Trucks blasted past on their way to and from the industrial hub, hauling heavy loads into the darkness beyond the cones of his headlights. He turned off short of the capital, following his nose to a town called Zeuthen.

  He avoided the town centre and parked up in a lay-by area off a secondary road that seemed to be popular with budget travellers. There was a camper van off to one side, all in darkness.

  Archer killed the engine and lights, locked the doors, and set his watch alarm for 05:00. He reclined his seat and curled up as best he could, getting a few hours’ much-needed kip before continuing on his way.

  A service centre stop gave him the opportunity to freshen up and stretch his achy body. He washed down one of yesterday’s bratwurst in a stale bun with a large coffee before driving on, and made the capital by eight.

  Berlin was already alive when he arrived.

  He dropped the car on the second-to-top level of a multi-storey car park, sitting for a few minutes to watch for any followers. Not seeing anyone didn’t mean they weren’t there, so he took the stairs down to street level and beat the feet, taking a walk down random streets for twenty minutes. He called the Ops desk while he did so to report his safe return to Berlin.