Someone had sworn—Tall-Guy—then gasped as a gun muzzle levelled with his face.
Blam!
The Glock moved to Thick-Necked-Guy’s lager-splashed, blood-spotted chest.
Blam! Blam!
The Glock swung round to Short-Guy’s blood-streaked face. The eyes had been wide, unbelieving. After all, they were made men. Un-fucking-touchable.
In New York maybe.
Blam!
With black tape stretched across his mouth, cable ties binding his wrists to pipes running along the far end of the kitchen, and a dishcloth held in place by tightly wound tape making an effective blindfold, Rudi had seen nothing. He flinched as Degen tugged at his shirt.
‘Relax Rudi. I’m just returning your nametag. It’s almost over. The police will be here soon. You’re safe.’
Degen had stepped out of the bar. Volkan Dağ and Murat Kavlak had been waiting outside: Dağ by the door of the bar—keeping lookout and discouraging any would-be-customers while nursing the vestiges of his second cigarette—and Kavlak in the driver’s seat of the Americans’ Volvo. Degen had glanced at Dağ’s feet. ‘Pick up that shit,’ Degen had said.
Dağ had looked down at the cigarette stub next to his shoe. As he bent he’d said, ‘Sorry, you’re right. Because of DNA.’
‘No.’ Degen walked to the car. ‘Because it’s litter.’
It was odd, the memories that surfaced when someone died. Degen supposed it said more about the person remembering than the one remembered.
Degen’s journey from Schubertring had been haunted by should haves: Should have devised a better plan. Should have had more than a two-man team. Should have sent Lucas along. Should have left Øster in police custody. Should have anticipated that framing Øster would spook the conspirators in America. Should have let Øster take his escape route.
At least Øster was merely injured, not dead, as the authorities were claiming; Degen had received that scrap of good news from his source at Ballhausplatz shortly after slipping out of the hotel at Schubertring. Degen’s strategy called for Øster to be a distraction, and Øster better served that purpose if he was alive.
Perhaps Degen could have eliminated more risks, but the cold, bare truth was that the plan had been a good one. It should have worked. Would have worked. If not for the unlikeliest of variables. Degen couldn’t have foreseen the actions of US Secret Service agent Daniel Calhoun.
Degen opened his eyes. On TV, another replay of phone-shot video: a badly wounded Calhoun, on his knees, head bowed, then lifting his arm, steadying his aim and firing into the path of the fleeing motorcycle. Some might judge Calhoun’s efforts reckless, or suicidal, or insane. Degen had a different word. He raised his beer to salute Calhoun’s redemption.
14. BREAKING NEWS
His office in the J Edgar Hoover Building had a superb view. When he needed to reflect on a tricky issue, or piece together seemingly disparate thoughts or ideas, Executive Assistant Director Xavier Porter often spun his chair and gazed across Pennsylvania Avenue at the clock tower of the Old Post Office Pavilion.
It hadn’t been a post office for some time. Or for very long. The building had become much loved in recent decades, but there had been little affection for it in its earliest days. During the years between design and completion, the Beaux-Arts style had grabbed the attention of American architects and tastes swung away from low clustered columns and rustication, so that by the time the grand-opening ribbon was eventually cut, in 1899, the building was considered an architectural ugly duckling. Brand new, but old fashioned. By the Twenties the building hadn’t been a mail depot for years, and there were calls to bring in the wrecking crews. Only a lack of funds during the Great Depression had saved it.
Saved, but not safe.
A stream of government agencies used the building to house their staff overflows, but none of them accepted responsibility for it. The interior became increasingly shabby, and the soot-blackened exterior drew increasingly loud grumbles, eventually attracting the attention of residents of another building further along Pennsylvania Avenue. And if the White House wanted the area to be improved, a demolition order was inevitable. But Seventies’ people power had brought about rescue, renovation and listing on the National Register of Historic Places.
More recently Federal bean counters had decided the Old Post Office Pavilion was surplus to requirements, and they had struck a deal to turn it into a 250 bedroom luxury hotel. The deal included continuing to allow the public to be guided by Rangers from the National Park Service around the building’s 315 feet high clock tower.
Porter liked to take the tour now and again. The 360 degree view of the capital from the observation deck was magnificent. And his fondness for the Old Post Office Pavilion meant he’d taken an interest in the recently passed Civilian Property Realignment Act.
The Federal government owned more than a million properties—maintaining them cost the taxpayer in excess of twenty billion dollars per year—and tens of thousands of the properties were shamefully underused. The Civilian Property Realignment Act passed the fates of those offices, silos and warehouses to a Commission responsible for trimming the excess.
So when Special Agent Breckinridge’s report had suggested that the financial implications of the proposed Federal Land Reinstatement bill may be a motivation behind the kidnapping of the Vice President, Porter had wondered if the Civilian Property Realignment Act had been the tip of a spear.
And then a report from an agent at the field office in El Paso had suggested that very same thing.
Agent Troy Brumby’s report was one of many examining the likelihood of US-based organised crime being behind the Vice President’s abduction, and his research had dovetailed with an ongoing investigation into extortion, fraud and money laundering.
Threats and intimidation had allowed mobsters with connections to a Philadelphia crime family to remove the board of a Texas-based publicly held company, the Fifth Flag Financial Group, and replace them with people under their direct control. FFFG’s new board then approved a number of acquisitions, among them Democr@cy, a company providing eBalloting and voter information technologies. Except not only had Democr@cy yet to develop any software, it hadn’t hired a single software engineer, or purchased a single computer. However, following its sale to FFFG it did have a number of very satisfied former shareholders in the Philadelphia area.
FFFG’s new board also made charitable contributions. The most substantial sum was to the Aequus Ludus Foundation, an organisation primarily interested in setting up and running boarding schools serving disadvantaged students. The foundation saw lobbying Congress regarding educational issues as part of its remit and it had hired a crack team of Washington lobbyists: Lachkovic & Associates. Coincidentally, the fee paid to Lachkovic & Associates by the Aequus Ludus Foundation and the donation the Foundation had received from FFFG was a near match.
In addition to acquisitions and charitable donations, FFFG had also boosted the war chests of several Super PACs (Political Action Committees, which were permitted to take unlimited contributions from corporations under a Supreme Court ruling of a few years back). Agent Brumby had researched the politicians benefiting from the unlimited political spending of these Super PACs, looking for connections, but the politicians’ views on health care, immigration, foreign policy, abortion, gun ownership and gay marriage were so diverse even the world’s most optimistic optimist high on a drug that made them ludicrously more optimistic wouldn’t expect that particular group of people to reach any kind of consensus. Ever.
But there had been one overlap: their uniform support for the Civilian Property Realignment Act and the proposed Federal Land Reinstatement bill. One of the major lobbying firms involved in supporting both the Act and the proposed bill was Lachkovic & Associates.
Agent Brumby had included brief notes on Lachkovic & Associates, which included a biog of its founder.
And then there had been the report from Agent Dawn Augen in Buffalo. She ha
d provided briefing notes on European specialists identified by Interpol and Europol as likely to be on the wish-list of anyone putting together a team capable of kidnapping the Vice President.
Rikki De Witte was among the top ten names, but as Porter had already received a lengthy briefing on the recently deceased Dutchman, he had skipped Augen’s slimmer commentary and moved onto the other candidates.
Cédric Bacconnier (French):
Currently contracted to provide training for a new Special Forces unit being put together in Tunisia ahead of the country hosting the Africa Cup of Nations.
Leon Becker (German):
A senior security consultant for a Geneva-based investment group. Becker had apparently embraced life behind a desk and developed a corporate waistline.
Kai Degen (Austrian):
Patchy details suggested he had links to several companies providing K&R insurance. The Austrian authorities had already questioned and released Degen.
Per Haaland (Norwegian):
Contracted to head security for a Scandinavian oil company operating in Nigeria. Recently wounded when militants attempted to storm an oil barge in the Niger Delta.
Yves Lefèvre (French):
In Montreal on a book-signing tour. After writing two military biographies so dry they had been accused of contributing to desertification, his historical romance novel had been an unexpected hit.
William Richardson (British):
Leading a group of mercenaries (believed to be back-door-funded by the UK government) operating in Somalia and tasked with tackling pirate attacks on commercial shipping.
Pyotr Shishkin (Russian):
Currently an inmate at Moscow’s Lefortovo Prison.
Oleg Torbinski (Russian):
Reportedly receiving palliative care in a St Petersburg hospice. The US Consulate was in the process of confirming that was indeed the case.
Dierk Wald (Austrian):
For the last few years his whereabouts had been unknown, but his file included unconfirmed links to an Albanian crime family some years ago, suspected involvement in various unlawful mercenary activities in central Africa and several private security contracts, including one with a large international pharmaceutical.
Porter had referred back to Agent Brumby’s report ... and yes, Lachkovic had once worked for the same pharma-giant. That’s when Porter had arranged for Breckinridge and her partner to come see him.
A stack of reports towered in the left corner of EAD Porter’s desk. Two buff folders lay on his right side and a third sat in the middle. He tapped the middle folder. ‘Interesting report,’ he said. ‘Good work.’
Grace Breckinridge kept her expression professionally neutral, but she had stored the swell of pride. She would allow herself a huge grin later, probably on the drive back from DC.
‘Agent Jamieson, you have any input into this?’
‘Nothing deserving of any credit sir, all Agent Breckinridge.’
EAD Porter nodded. ‘What do you think of the report?’
‘It’s got legs,’ Jamieson said. Then added, ‘Sturdy legs.’
Porter nodded again. ‘I tend to agree.’ The buff folder received a few more taps. ‘There’s been a development.’ Porter slipped two sheets of paper from beneath the folder. He held out a sheet for Breckinridge, then passed the other to Jamieson.
Breckinridge scanned the page. Glanced at Jamieson. He sucked in air between barely parted teeth.
‘They sent this to the main news outlets,’ Porter said. ‘We were hoping for some restrained cooperation, but it’s too big a story. That information is about to go public.’
POT VIDEO, CUT TO STUDIO, CUE ROB:
‘We interrupt that report to bring you startling breaking news. The Vice President’s kidnappers have made a chilling ransom demand. One billion dollars, within thirty-six hours, or the Vice President will be executed. The FBI has confirmed the communication is genuine, although the specifics of that verification haven’t been released. One thing we do know, US government policy is to reject any demands for ransom. Carmen has more.’
CUT TO CARMEN:
‘Thanks Rob. The White House and Capitol Hill are reeling from this shocking news. After hours of aching apprehension across the nation, the motivation behind the most daring kidnapping in history has been revealed. And, to the surprise of many analysts, it seems that motive has nothing to do with politics. The Vice President has been abducted for profit.’
WIDE SHOT:
‘Carmen, one billion dollars is an extraordinary amount of money. Can the kidnappers really expect that sum to be raised in such a short period of time?’
PAN TO GRAPHICS BOARD, ROLL DOLLAR SIGN:
‘Well Rob, let me put that billion dollars into perspective …’
CUE WATER DROPLET:
‘It’s less than zero-point-one-five percent of the US Defence Department budget …’
CROSS-FADE TO NAVY SUB:
‘It would buy half a nuclear submarine …’
SLIDE TO AIRCRAFT:
‘Or half a stealth bomber.
SPIN TO PARTY LOGOS:
‘According to projections, one billion dollars will be less than a quarter of the combined spend on the campaigns of the candidates to be our next President.
DROP-DOWN SUPERMARKET AISLE:
‘And Americans spend one billion dollars on potato chips every six weeks.’
CUT TO ROB:
‘But Carmen, one billion dollars is still a lot of paper money to gather in one place.’
WIDE SHOT:
‘Yes Rob, but the ransom demand isn’t for one lump sum. Ten million dollars in cash is to be dropped at each of one hundred different locations worldwide.’
CUE MAP GRAPHIC, INSET CARMEN:
‘Fifty of those locations are in the USA, one in each state. The other fifty locations are spread throughout Europe, Asia, the Middle East, Africa, Central and South America.’
CUT TO ROB:
‘Carmen, that sounds like a logistical nightmare.’
CUT TO CARMEN:
‘You’re right Rob. If the ransom were to be paid, apart from the difficulties involved in making the funds available in each of the hundred locations before the thirty-six hour deadline, there are security issues, particularly in many of the drop points located outside of the United States. A lot of resources are going to be tied up if the kidnappers’ demands are going to be met.’
‘It won’t happen,’ Executive Assistant Director Porter said evenly. ‘A happy ending is unlikely. We’ll almost certainly have a new Vice President next week.’
Jamieson shot a glance at Breckinridge. She’d said much the same thing a short while ago. He knew it was likely everyone in the FBI, hell probably everyone in the country, at some point in the last few hours would have had the same dark little thought: the VP was coming back in a body-bag. But water-cooler pessimism was one thing, someone like EAD Porter saying it out loud was different. It felt like a band-aid being ripped off a wound that really needed stitches. The band-aid wasn’t a solution, but there was some comfort to be had while it kept things together. With the band-aid gone, the seriousness of the injury was a little harder to cope with.
The EAD eased back into his chair, looked at the agents for a moment, then said, ‘What happens with the ransom will happen. There’s nothing we can do to influence that decision. Let it go ...’ Porter leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers clasped. ‘However, what we can do is find the people behind this.’
The band-aid was back.
Ryan Lachkovic owned three cars: a Federal Elise with a 6 speed manual Lotus gearbox; a 6.5 litre turbo GM diesel V8 Hummer H1; a 1969 Corvette Stingray Coupe L88, with a big block V8 with solid-lifters and Can-Am-spec cylinder heads.
He rarely drove any of them.
Instead he travelled in the back of his favourite perk—arguably Daimler’s most decadent vehicle—a gleaming white Maybach 62 Landaulet, upholstered in ivory Nappa leather, with a V12 biturbo engine
.
In the driver’s compartment, behind the wheel, sat Alex Shala. He was a tough Albanian-American, who had been brutally successful on the stock car circuit and, in a life Lachkovic never asked about, calmly proficient as a getaway driver. Next to Shala was Vilson Bogdani, an Albanian immigrant, equally brutal and proficient, but with a different skillset. Both had been in his service for six months.
The already luxurious Maybach had been fitted with a few extras, including an adapted compact drinks cabinet at Lachkovic’s elbow, stocked with a selection of single malts. He checked his watch: just gone 4pm. A little early, but Lachkovic poured a generous measure of eighteen year old Laphroaig. He felt like celebrating: twelve hours since the Vice President had been taken and, with the exception of a few minor tweaks, things were going to plan. Lachkovic took comfort from those tweaks. He raised his glass, caught the sweet, spicy peatiness of the single malt’s aroma and made a silent toast, a line—attributed to a nineteenth century military strategist whose name Lachkovic couldn’t remember—that Wald had once quoted: no plan survives contact with the enemy.
A sip.
The immediate tang of smoke faded, a brief nuttiness, followed by a sweet warmth and a faint hint of heather.
Lachkovic took a larger mouthful and activated another customisation. The vehicle had been fitted with smart glass, and the panel between the passenger compartment and the chauffeur area opaqued, becoming a solid white sheet. Another flicked switch, and the side windows darkened and a video projector converted the dividing glass panel into a television screen. A projector didn’t provide as bright and crisp a picture as a real TV, but the projector solution allowed Lachkovic a larger screen without taking up any additional space. Besides, high definition viewing was wasted on C-SPAN content.
The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1) Page 9