The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1)

by Macalister Stevens

  The smile wasn’t returned. Her focus was back on the road. ‘You heard Porter. There’s no saving the day. Only avenging it. The ransom won’t be paid.’

  ‘Two armoured trucks are to arrive at each location within the permitted sixty minute window. Each truck is to be manned only by a driver, and each truck should contain five million dollars in the denominations specified. After each pair of trucks arrives at their destination, the drivers are to tape the keys for each vehicle to its windshield, then walk in opposite directions, one east, one west. They should remain at least four hundred metres from the trucks and await instructions.’

  The Director of National Intelligence paused to slurp down some coffee. The White House Chief of Staff ran a thumb up and down the handle of his own coffee mug.

  ‘Okay,’ said the Director of National Intelligence, ‘Let’s break this down. There are a number of possible scenarios we’re facing. These scenarios fall into two categories. One. This is about money. Two. It is not.

  ‘Let’s take a moment to imagine the kidnappers expect the money will be in the trucks. Frankly, it’s hard to believe the people who pulled off what happened in Vienna this morning could be that dumb. Or naïve. Unfortunately we have to consider that possibility. So, just in case some morons turn up, the FBI will have SWAT teams at each of the drop points within the United States. We’re in negotiations with the governments of the fifty nations with designated drop points within their borders, and within the hour we expect to have either confirmation of the availability of local special forces or permission to deploy US personnel.

  ‘Each drop point has been evaluated with regard to the likelihood of successfully detaining anyone making a move on the trucks. Until the international negotiations are complete these assessments are provisional, but they range from a confident ninety-five percent expectation of success in Anchorage, to a disappointing, but unsurprising seventeen percent chance of success in St Petersburg. The Russians are trotting out all the right sound-bites, but taking into account the mutual lack of trust between the GRU and our agencies, plus the influence of the city’s criminal element, well, place your bets elsewhere, because if we were to put ten million dollars in two trucks and leave them in St Petersburg, not only could we kiss the cash goodbye, the trucks would be broken up and sold for spare parts within hours.

  ‘So, we’ll be using up favours, scratching backs, greasing palms and tying up millions of dollars worth of equipment and manpower knowing the operation will almost certainly be a waste of time and effort. And that, may be the whole point.

  ‘This could be misdirection. It’s possible the perpetrators want something else, and they’re planning to have our attention and resources tied up while they go get it. The motivation for this could be financial or it could be of a terrorist nature. Federal agencies and local law enforcement across the country have been advised to maintain the elevated alert level status imposed this morning.

  ‘The unanimous judgement around the table at the last meeting of the IC was we’ll be incredibly lucky if that’s all we’re dealing with.’

  The White House Chief of Staff frowned.

  The Director of National Intelligence continued, ‘If the Vice President’s kidnapping is about the money, or is a feint to distract us from some other event, we can deal with that, we can respond appropriately. But a third possible motivation is humiliation.

  ‘We consider it highly probable the purpose of the Vice President’s abduction is to tear an enduring hole in our credibility. Some would say the damage has already been done. There are parts of the Middle East where they haven’t stopped dancing in the streets since the news broke, and of course our favourite South American el presidente isn’t missing any opportunity to gloat.

  ‘However, things are likely to get a whole lot worse after the deadline for the Vice President’s execution has passed.

  ‘If the threat against the Vice President’s life is carried out, there’ll be another wave of sympathy and condemnation, but then we can expect bolder posturing from anti-American elements. We’ll be portrayed as weak, too decadent and powerless to protect our most powerful people. There’ll be a surge in support for fundamentalism, which will be exploited by terrorist group recruiters.

  ‘And if they don’t execute the Vice President, the whole thing gets drawn out.’

  Another pause.

  ‘We believe that is exactly the perpetrators’ game plan. To be blunt, it would have been better if this had been an assassination.’

  ‘I suggest you edit out that last thought when you brief the President,’ the White House Chief of Staff said. He tapped at his coffee mug. ‘Recommendations?’

  ‘Best result is we find the Vice President. We do that, we win. Give them their due, the Police in Vienna clamped shut routes in and out of the city incredibly quickly, and we’re confident the Vice President is being held within the city. We can’t go jackbooting through the streets of Vienna, but we need to put pressure on the Austrians to allow some kind of a door-to-door search. They could use a public safety pretext. A gas leak, burst water main, noisy neighbours even, whatever it takes.’ The Director of National Intelligence held a beat. ‘Failing recovery of the Vice President, we need someone to blame.’

  The White House Chief of Staff’s mug-tapping stopped. ‘Uh-huh …’

  ‘There are the usual suspects: Russia, China, Saudis, etcetera. But a strong case has been made for pinning this on Colombian businessman-slash-capo, Alejandro Quintero. Could even be true. Upside, being heavy-handed won’t fly in Europe, but in South America ...’

  The thought didn’t need to be finished. The White House Chief of Staff had been sold on the idea.

  Executive Assistant Director Porter tossed the latest communiqué from the CIA onto his desk. It was another round of circumstantial dot-joining pointing the finger at Alejandro Quintero. Porter wasn’t convinced, but the Langley farmboys, backed-up by the DEA, were unwaveringly keen on the idea, so he would keep his scoffing in check. For now.

  Reading reports and playing inter-agency politics hadn’t always been a typical day for Xavier Porter. His pre-desk life had included working violent-crimes cases as a detective with the Philadelphia police department. For a time he had been undercover, but that assignment had ended with a knife wound to his leg (if, as Porter insisted, the left buttock counted as part of the left leg).

  After becoming a special agent with the FBI, he had been a member of the New York Division SWAT team working with the Organised Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force. However, he hadn’t been required to shoot anyone until his transfer to a drug and money laundering task force in Puerto Rico. A Caribbean drug gang—moving drugs from the Dominican Republic to Puerto Rico before onward shipment to the USA—had been cornered in one of Old San Juan’s narrow cobblestone streets, where they had opted for a gun battle over surrender, arrest and expensive lawyers. Porter had taken three lives that day.

  A move to Oklahoma as Supervisory Special Agent saw Porter involved in investigations into Indian Country crime, civil rights issues and complex white-collar crime, all requiring less and less gun-play. By the time Porter had been promoted to Supervisor and Program Coordinator of the White-collar Crime Squad he had forgotten when he’d last needed to draw a weapon.

  The remainder of Porter’s path to the comfortable chair behind his large, expensive desk at FBI headquarters in Washington DC had been via seating of ever-increasing status in the Counterterrorism Division, the Weapons of Mass Destruction Directorate and the International Operations Division. Midway through Porter’s briefing of Special Agents Breckinridge and Jamieson, he’d realised he hadn’t been this hands on in a long, long time.

  Porter picked up the Interpol-compiled file on Kolinkar Øster. Formerly of Jægerkorpset—the Hunter Corps of the Royal Danish Army—Øster had been an exemplary soldier and an excellent marksman. After leaving the military he had acted as a bodyguard for a Malmo-based industrialist. His former employer’s response to th
e suggestion Øster had been involved in the abduction of the Vice President had been incredulity. But who would want to believe they had put their life in the hands of an amoral criminal, or worse, a terrorist? Most recently, Øster had returned to Copenhagen after inheriting a small bookshop from an uncle. The bookshop was not doing well. No wife, no partner, no children. His only living relatives were a couple of cousins in the Waddensee area: a fifty-six year-old male heading up a project to tackle invasive non-native oysters; and a fifty-two year-old female teacher, married to a dentist. Øster was a dead end.

  Porter’s cell phone rang: it was Breckinridge. Turning to gaze at the Old Post Office Pavilion, Porter put the phone to his ear and asked, ‘What are the headlines?’

  ‘Lachkovic confirmed the Aequus Ludus Foundation is on his client list, but claimed to have no knowledge of Fifth Flag Financial Group. The name Dierk Wald registered something, but he laughed it off, said he thought it was the name of a singer in a rock band.’

  ‘Your assessment?’

  ‘Unconvinced,’ said Breckinridge.

  Guessing he was on speaker, Porter said, ‘And you Agent Jamieson?’

  ‘The air was so thick with bullshit I wanted to light a match.’

  20. THE RETURN

  7 months ago

  A low mumbly grumbling accompanied Ryan Lachkovic’s effort to raise his head. He blinked a few times, sucked in a long breath ... it became a yawn, then a sigh.

  ‘It’s been a few years since I’ve woken to find someone perched on the end of my bed,’ he said, sleepily. ‘Thanks for not holding a gun on me this time.’

  Dierk Wald smiled.

  Lachkovic pushed himself into a sitting position. ‘I thought I’d improved the quality of my security, as you suggested last time. Does that mean there are corpses littered around the grounds?’

  Wald shook his head. ‘No. This bunch is an improvement, but you still need an upgrade.’

  ‘Hmm ... I’ll give it some thought. In the meantime, what’s brought about this déjà vu experience?’

  ‘I hear you’re recruiting. For a particularly ambitious extraordinary rendition.’

  Lachkovic forced another yawn to disguise his surprise. And concern. How the hell had Wald found out about the project? He smoothed out his gurning yawn into a blank expression. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Really? You’re going to make us do the dance?’ Wald tutted. ‘Okay.’

  Wald fished in a pocket and tossed a small black pouch onto Lachkovic’s lap. Lachkovic loosened the draw-string and shook the contents into his hand. It was a ring. Gold, with an oval red stone. Wrapped around the stone were the words Virginia Military Institute.

  ‘That belonged to a southern gentleman named Matthew Morton Willoughby,’ said Wald. ‘As a student at VMI, he’d participated in the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps programme, and after graduating he could have accepted a commission, but instead of becoming an officer, Willoughby opted for life as an enlisted man, with the 1st Marine Division. He became a sniper. A phenomenally good sniper. His VMI class ring became a lucky charm. He kept it in that pouch most of the time, except for special occasions when he slipped it on a finger when he thought he might need a boost of good fortune. It kept him safe, it kept him lucky. For a while. But, as they sometimes do in combat situations, things happened. Willoughby left the service.

  ‘But what do you do in civilian life when the highlights of your résumé are a history degree and being an exceptionally talented killer? Willoughby could have been a teacher I suppose, but killing people pays better. He chose the superior pay. A choice that recently brought him to the attention of Spencer Tamblyn.’

  An eyebrow twitched.

  ‘I can see Spencer Tamblyn is known to you,’ Wald said, ‘so let’s move straight to the part where Tamblyn is tasked with putting together a number of individuals possessing both unique skills and malleable ethical viewpoints. Tamblyn identified Willoughby as a prospect. On paper that seemed like a reasonable appraisal. After all, Willoughby was a well trained, highly skilled assassin for hire.’ Wald nodded towards the ring. ‘Except Tamblyn didn’t factor in Willoughby’s keepsake.’

  Lachkovic glanced at the ring, sighed and said, ‘He didn’t choose an easy life, or chase ambition, he chose to be where he thought he could best serve his country.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Wald said. ‘Just because that didn’t work out, it didn’t make Willoughby any less of a patriot. Cold-blooded killer or not, Matthew Morton Willoughby wanted no part of whatever Tamblyn suggested, and that made Willoughby a potential security threat.’ Wald drew a thumb from one ear down and along his neck. ‘Unfortunately, for your man Tamblyn, Willoughby saw that coming.’

  ‘And how do you know all this?’

  ‘Serendipity. One of Willoughby’s contracts brought him into conflict with one of my clients. I was asked to resolve that conflict. Tamblyn approaching Willoughby postponed that resolution. And then curiosity kicked in. I made a move after Willoughby took out Tamblyn. And Willoughby was quite chatty towards the end.’

  ‘They’re both dead.’

  Wald pulled a duh face. ‘That’s what all the past tense was about.’ He smiled. ‘Which means you’ve got a vacancy,’ he said, chirpily. ‘A well paid one, I gather.’

  ‘Wald’s CIA file is slim. Mostly copies of reports from Interpol and Europol. He certainly knows how to keep a low profile,’ Brad Weaver said, passing the thin dossier to Lachkovic.

  Lachkovic brushed aside curiosity’s tug. He would open the file when Weaver had gone.

  Weaver sipped his Laphroaig, made a smacking noise as he savoured the aftertaste, then produced another file, much thicker than the first. ‘I’ve checked the incidents Wald claims responsibility for and/or involvement in. His accounts match up with the records of the various investigating agencies, and in many cases Wald has information only known to the investigators and the perpetrators.’ Another sip. More smacking. ‘Impressive.’

  ‘Wald or my whisky?’ asked Lachkovic.

  The Chairman gurgled something resembling a chuckle, then inclined his round face to the man on his left. ‘Anything to add?’

  Kreshnik Xhepa said nothing.

  ‘Well?’ prompted the Chairman. ‘You have first hand experience of Mister Wald’s work.’

  Xhepa rasped the nails on one hand against his stubbled cheek. It was only very occasionally the scar beneath the bristles itched. It wasn’t itching at that moment, but, since relocating to the USA, Xhepa had found drawing attention to the scar could be a useful affectation. It set him apart, reaffirming that Xhepa was a different kind of man from these moisturised, manicured, teeth-whitened, well-groomed American peacocks.

  But Xhepa’s hand hadn’t been drawn to his face by macho one-upmanship. This time it was an unconscious act triggered by memory: a wide-eyed Olek Varoshi thrashing on a cellar floor as Xhepa squatted on his chest, choking the life from him … Olek’s grasping fingers finding a wine bottle, and the glass shattering against the side of Xhepa’s head … the jagged edge in Olek’s flailing fist gouging into Xhepa’s cheek … Xhepa ignoring the pain in his shoulder as Olek made a final desperate stabbing effort … Olek becoming limp in a claret pool of wine and blood … Xhepa feeling the moment Olek’s life ended … Xhepa’s frustration when the traitor’s death failed to diminish his anger. Xhepa had remembered Dierk Wald’s final words as he’d disappeared down the side street in Cologne: ‘Good luck cleaning up your house.’

  Xhepa had returned to Albania, along with a few others who had escaped the police raids, among them Dren Jashari and Olek Varoshi. Xhepa and Jashari had almost come to blows when Dren had refused to believe anyone in the clan would betray them. Suspicion, naturally, fell on Wald. But then Xhepa had found the evidence of Olek’s treachery: the Italian girlfriend Olek had met during his highwayman jobs; the girlfriend’s arrest on drugs charges in Germany; her freedom from prosecution purchased with information supplied by Olek. Valon Varoshi had visite
d his cousin in Durrës the night Xhepa had dispatched Olek. Valon and his cousin had drunk raki late into the night.

  Xhepa picked up the heavy crystal glass in front of him, sniffed the whisky, gulped it down and said, ‘Wald is a good choice.’

  21. NARRATIVES

  ‘I’m sure you’ll appreciate those are logistical details I cannot disclose at this time,’ said the White House Press Secretary, ‘but to answer the first part of your question, communication between authorities and the kidnappers is currently one way. We have no means to contact them directly. Initial contact was verified as genuine by means of DNA evidence. Subsequent communications are authenticated by codewords supplied by the kidnappers.’

  He looked away from the Chicago Tribune reporter to address the entire White House Press Corp. ‘I think this would be an opportune moment to direct a few comments to the various hoaxsters who have been inundating law enforcement agencies. Firstly, without those codewords, you’re wasting your time. Additionally, I’d like to point out that anyone found guilty of interfering with the investigation of the Vice President’s abduction by making any materially false, fictitious, or fraudulent statement or representation faces imprisonment for up to 8 years.’

  Gauging the time was about right, the White House Press Secretary scanned the room, found the appropriate face and said, ‘Pierce.’

  Pierce McCarey cleared his throat. ‘Can you confirm US intelligence agencies have identified Colombian businessman and alleged crime boss Alejandro Quintero as their prime suspect in the abduction of the Vice President?’

  God bless McCarey’s warped interpretation of off the record. The White House Press Secretary threw McCarey a rye smile and said, ‘Prime Suspect is a little strong, but I’m sure the FBI would be more than happy to sit down and discuss a number of topics with Señor Quintero, should he make himself available for interview.’