The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1)

by Macalister Stevens

  A half dozen jaded smiles and a few cynical laughs.

  The White House Press Secretary took a sip of water to eke out enough time for McCarey to comeback.

  ‘But isn’t it the case that Alejandro Quintero has both an axe to grind with the US and links to the Dutch mercenary shot dead in Vienna earlier today?’

  ‘Well, it is the case that the Drug Enforcement Administration recently assisted the Colombian authorities in a consultative role during a crack down on a number of drug smuggling and money laundering operations, but would that provoke a Colombian drug lord to seek revenge in such a way?’ The White House Press Secretary shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I guess we’ll have to find one and ask him. Um, sorry Pierce, been a long day, what was your other point?’

  ‘Alejandro Quintero’s connection to Rikki De Witte, the mercenary murdered in Vienna just a few hours after the Vice President’s abduction.’

  ‘We have indeed confirmed links between Señor Quintero and Rikki De Witte, but at this time I’m not aware of anything conclusive linking De Witte to the Vice President’s kidnapping. A number of different lines of investigation are being pursued, but many of the details must remain confidential at this time.’

  That’ll do the trick, he thought. ‘One more question, um, Deanna ...’

  ‘They are bullshitting lying puss buckets.’

  Alejandro Quintero laughed. Joaquin had always had a way with words.

  ‘Alejandro,’ Joaquin said softly, ‘they will come after us. They will come after you.’

  Quintero nodded at the old man. Joaquin Parera was only fifty-five, but in their business that was long-lived. Joaquin had retired. Meaning he had accepted he wasn’t young enough to continue carrying out his enforcer duties. So he’d opted for a new role in Quintero’s organisation: wise counsel. He looked the part too. He had long ceased his daily ritual of shaving his scalp, and he now sported a horseshoe of long greying hair around the back of his head. He’d grown a grey-flecked beard, and he’d affected a need for reading glasses. He’d also cultivated a round bulge where once there had been a six-pack. However, the muscle was still there. And Joaquin’s reflexes, though slower, were still deadly. To the younger Lugartenientes surrounding Alejandro Quintero, Joaquin appeared to pose no threat, but beneath his old-sage camouflage, Joaquin Parera was still the merciless killer Quintero had known all of his life.

  Quintero sighed. ‘I know they will come.’ He reached for his wine glass. ‘But they will not find us. Not for a while.’ He breathed in the wine’s aroma, detecting apricot. ‘However, hide-and-seek is not a game we can play forever. Perhaps we should choose a different approach. Something bold.’

  22. OBSERVATION

  After a few hours of enforced appreciation of the kidnappers’ playlist, the music had been replaced by an audiobook: an actor’s autobiography, read by the author. He had seen most of the actor’s movies, and he had heard a number of the anecdotes before—he’d met the actor at a couple of fundraisers during his campaign for the Senate—but the change to his entertainment had been welcome. The music had been tolerable, but the companionship offered by his internal monologue had proven to be limited. Boredom had crept into the mix of thoughts and emotions swirling through his head. It had been a relief to be distracted by the charismatically delivered tales of high-jinks in old Hollywood.

  After a while, his attention had started to drift. He dozed, missing chunks of narrative. He lost the ends of stories and the beginnings of others. And then he realised he was dreaming.

  The soft, delicate music of his dream stayed with him when he woke; his captors had swapped the audiobook for music with a light classical feel. He wasn’t sure if it was bona fide classical music or the kind composed for spas and relaxation classes. But it was pleasant enough.

  He stretched and realised he was on his back. Had he been moved? He probed with cautious fingertips … apparently the armchair he was chained to reclined, and his captors had covered him with a light-weight blanket. The air in the loft had cooled; he felt a slight breeze. He shifted, found a slightly more comfortable position and allowed himself to drift into the soothing music. Being rested might be critical to his survival.

  ‘Kidnapping can be broken down into three main types. Express, Ideological, Professional,’ Special Agent Gibson Ellis had said.

  A senator’s security needs were handled by either the state police on home turf, or, when in Washington DC, the Capitol Police, but as a soon-to-be-Vice-President, the Senator’s security had become the twenty-four hour responsibility of the US Secret Service.

  The Senator/soon-to-be-Vice-President had been doing his best to stifle a yawn, and Ellis had felt some sympathy for the man, after all, US Presidents and Vice Presidents didn’t get kidnapped. Statistically he was far more likely to be assassinated than abducted. Skipping over that nugget, Ellis had continued with the Senator’s security briefing.

  ‘It’s important for a kidnap victim to work out which type of situation they find themselves in,’ Ellis said.

  The Senator straightened out of the slight slouch he’d slipped into.

  ‘Express kidnapping happens in various parts of the world,’ continued Ellis, ‘but it’s most prevalent in Latin America, where the victims are more often than not foreign nationals working for large companies—corporate execs and engineers mostly—snatched by street gangs spotting an opening for a relatively low ransom pay off. It’s an opportunistic crime, and the Secret Service doesn’t permit that kind of opportunity.’

  The Senator smiled and nodded.

  ‘Professional kidnapping is also unlikely to be an issue. As the term suggests, the people involved in this type of kidnap are highly skilled specialists. They are incredibly well-organised criminal groups. Kidnap and Ransom is their prime income source. K & R is their business. A great deal of preparation goes into each kidnap. They research such things as security procedures, windows of opportunity, insiders likely to be vulnerable to coercion, and so on.

  ‘The number of Professional kidnappings is much greater than official statistics suggest. This is because this type of kidnapping is handled discreetly and often the abductions go unreported. This is how Professional kidnappers prefer things to go. They don’t like fuss.’ Ellis had taken a moment to glance at the other agents in the room. ‘And the amount of fuss involved in getting through us to get to you makes kidnapping a United States Vice President too damn risky.’

  A mini-chortle from the Senator.

  ‘Ideological kidnapping is another thing altogether. Fuss is what that’s all about. An Ideological kidnapping is about high profile demonstrations of strength and ability. And about crushing morale. The abduction is not an exercise in raising funds, it is a weapon.

  ‘In the case of an Ideological kidnapping, negotiations will be protracted, perhaps deliberately confusing, with unrealistic and inconsistent ransom demands. This extended cat-and-mouse negotiation period is the score the Ideological kidnapper is aiming for. They offer hope, they draw out tension, they dangle a successful resolution teasingly close, before they abruptly execute the victim.’

  No smiles. No chortles.

  ‘Speak to most Kidnap & Ransom experts, they’ll tell you that if you’re kidnapped you should stay calm, you should be cooperative, you should be patient, you should not try to escape, you should wait to be released after successful negotiations or to be recovered by a rescue team. And that advice is sound in the event of an Express or Professional kidnapping.’

  Ellis sucked in a slow breath. ‘But in the case of an Ideological kidnapping, a lot of standard K & R thinking gets trashed. If you find yourself in a situation where all you have to lose is a few hours of life, and if you get a chance to make a break for it, take it.’

  ‘Good morning Mister Vice President.’

  Uhhh?

  No music.

  ‘I am about to raise the back of your chair. Do not be alarmed.’

  The blanket was pulled away, and he felt himself r
ising ... the chair clicked into an upright position.

  ‘A toilet break. Something to eat. Then we are going to transfer to a new location.’

  ‘If kidnapped, here’s what you do ...’ Ellis had held the Senator’s gaze, thinking: yeah, yeah, it’ll never happen, but humour me, it’s my job. ‘In the initial stages of the kidnap,’ Ellis said, ‘make as much noise as possible. Struggle. Draw attention to yourself and to your abductors. It may not prevent you from being taken, but it will increase the chance of witnesses remembering critical information.

  ‘However, once you are out of sight of any witnesses, switch to quiet cooperation. If your abductors move to use drugs to sedate you, let them, the alternative may be violence. You should avoid injury at all costs. You need to be in as good physical shape as possible to exploit any opening for escape.

  ‘And that means accepting any and all nourishment offered. Regardless of taste or how it looks, eat it. Maintain your strength. Drink whatever fluids you can get. If you don’t think you’re getting enough food or water, it does no harm to ask for more. The important thing is to be physically capable of exploiting an escape opportunity.’

  Klara Trommler felt naked. She didn’t miss her dark blue police uniform, but without a Glock at her hip, she felt exposed. Trommler smoothed down her plain beige dress and smiled as the apartment door opened. ‘Grüss Gott,’ she beamed. ‘Ich bin von der Hausverwaltung und komme um die Wohnung neu zu vermessen.’

  ‘Przepraszam, eh, Ich verstehe nicht.’

  Trommler regarded the male peering into the hallway: early twenties, long dark-blond hair hung over his face, he wore pyjama bottoms, but no top, too scrawny to be eye candy, and his German pronunciation was dreadful.

  ‘Um. Sprechen Sie Polnish? Oder Englisch?’ he asked.

  ‘English? Yes, yes I do,’ said Trommler. ‘Good morning, I am from ...’ she searched for the translation, ‘the management company for the building. I need to measure your apartment. You should have received notification of my visit.’ She paused, waiting for the bewildered look every other apartment’s occupant had given her ... and there it was. She pulled a magazine-sized leather-like portfolio from her bag and began to unzip it. ‘I have a copy of the letter. There is an issue concerning the dimensions of this building. It is necessary to survey for planning permission.’ She stopped unzipping; the bogus paperwork was in German, and if the young Pole didn’t speak German, he wouldn’t be able to read it either.

  ‘Eh, this my sister’s place, I visit. My sister at work.’

  Trommler dropped the portfolio back in her bag and pulled out a handheld laser rangefinder. ‘I need to point this at a few walls. It will take three or four minutes.’

  Pushing the hair away from his face, he gathered it behind his neck with one hand, dug into a pyjama bottom pocket and produced a thick pink elastic band, which he used to tie back his ponytail. ‘Um, I guess it okay,’ he said, ‘come in.’

  ‘Keep your eyes closed Mister Vice President.’

  The hood was pulled off. Painfully bright light stung his eyes through tightly shut eyelids, but almost immediately there was relief as soft pads were taped over his eyes.

  ‘Hold still please.’

  Glasses—he guessed they were shades—were placed over the dressings.

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  His restraints were undone. He pissed. He was returned to his chair, but this time there were no shackles. A bottle of water was pushed into one hand, an energy-bar into the other. He chomped. He gulped. He thought about ripping off the eye-pads and confronting his abductors. He didn’t.

  ‘We’re going to change your clothes now.’

  He was sure he had never been so inelegant.

  He was returned to his chair, now wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt and loose-fitting linen trousers. The clothing had a freshly washed feel and smell. Surprisingly, he felt more at ease. He sat. He waited. He listened.

  The quiet seemed unnatural. No music, no Hollywood tales. Then he realised it wasn’t quiet at all. He could hear the low rumble of distant traffic and the chirpy-squeak-tweets of birds; there must be an open window (or windows) nearby. But he had no idea what kind of bird (or birds) he heard. He had always thought bird watching was a pointless exercise. As sad a pastime as memorising baseball stats. And about as useful. Wait ... a familiar clumsy fluttering and scratching. Pigeons, he guessed. Not exactly a big clue for the Secret Service: look for a building with pigeons.

  Sheepishly, the young man grabbed some clothes from the back of a chair, waved towards the bathroom and disappeared. Trommler almost told him not to bother changing, but his absence meant she could check the apartment without going through the motions of measuring.

  The kitchen was a reasonable size, with enough space for a small table. There was a separate toilet, a large living room and one double bedroom, which was almost as large as the living room. The bedroom was neat and unmistakably belonged to a female, but the living room had undergone a visiting male makeover: unmade sofa-bed, abandoned clothing draped from other pieces of furniture, and empty, crushed coke cans on the floor next to last night’s pizza box. Trommler sympathised with the sister.

  The young man’s name was Dominik. He fished out a phone from a back pocket of his jeans and quickly sent a text: Female visitor. Fake and Nosey.

  He quickly pulled the jeans over his pyjama bottoms. Then slipped a t-shirt over his head. His phone flashed. The reply to his text read: Chat. Need at least 10 minutes.

  Degen read Dominik’s text again and thought, no plan survives. He closed his eyes and saw the plan adapt, borrowing from itself …

  ‘Time to go Mister Vice President.’ A different voice. Male. Accent noticeably German, or Austrian. He felt a stab of shame that he didn’t know the difference. So much for being in touch with his roots.

  A cord was dropped over his head and a small, light object rapped against his chest. Earphones were pushed gently into his ears. Music. Loud. R&B. Ghastly. Shoes were pushed onto his feet. They were soft, almost like slippers, but with laces; and someone tied them tight. He felt a strong grip under each elbow—two different people—and he was lifted to his feet.

  The young Pole’s band was a five-piece, they were called Zombot, they were originally part of an electro-goth movement (whatever that was), but now they specialised in heavy metal versions of classic country and western songs. Trommler blinked away an image of Dolly Parton throwing horns, and she glanced at her watch. The young man had been talking for almost fifteen minutes.

  ‘Entschuldigung!’

  The tsunami of backstory halted.

  Trommler switched back to English. ‘I must get back to work.’ She waved the laser rangefinder.

  ‘Okay, sorry. My sister tell me I talk too much.’ The young man nodded at the measuring device. ‘May force be with you.’ He mimed wielding a light-saber, smirked and closed the door.

  Trommler decided she would report in after she had checked the third and last apartment on that floor. She took a couple of steps and reached for the doorbell. As she pressed, she caught movement to the side. She glanced over. Two men were helping a baseball-capped third make his way, gingerly, down the curving stairway. Corners of white eye-pads protruded from the dark sunglasses worn by the third man. He was led to the building’s lift, which Trommler had noted only came up as far as this floor.

  The apartment door clicked open, and Trommler turned. Bright blue eyes in a deeply wrinkled face studied her. Trommler sagged a little. She’d lost count of the Neubau District apartments she’d checked (keeping that tally was the responsibility of Gunther Rauffenburg in the van parked outside), but she knew exactly how many doors had been answered by retirees: seven. Those seven had been the hardest to deal with, each complaining bitterly about correct procedures not being followed.

  Then Trommler spotted the old woman’s hearing aid. Fantastic. This farcical door-to-door better be keeping the Americans happy, she thought.

  Trommler stra
ightened and smiled and sing-songed a cheery, ‘Grüss Gott.’

  The video feed from the micro pinhole-camera hidden in the plant pot outside Dominik’s sister’s apartment froze for a second, but the audio was unbroken. Degen smiled; the old woman had just offered to let the woman from the management company into the loft area. That bit of good fortune would save him involving Dominik. Degen quickly sent a text to the young man: Hold. Stay put until further instructions. Eyes on street. Be especially wary of vans. Update if necessary.

  Degen’s phone flashed: a text from Dominik acknowledging his instructions.

  Then a text arrived from a different number, from Tobias Häussler: On tour. ETA next venue 30 minutes.

  Deprived of visual and auditory clues, it was impossible to call which type of kidnap scenario he was a victim of. His abductors were undoubtedly professional. But that didn’t mean their objectives weren’t ideological.

  His instinct was that his captivity was intended to be short term. But should he interpret that as positive, or ominous? He needed more information. But the detail he wanted was being expertly kept from him. A fresh breeze told him he was now outside, but because of his R&B-soundtracked sensory deprivation he had no clue whether he was being led down a deserted alley, or being guided around Vienna’s tourist hotspots.

  He doubted an attempt at breaking free of the grips around his elbows would succeed, but perhaps he could call out, scream for help, maybe flop to the ground making his captors haul his dead weight wherever they were taking him. That might do him some good if they were in public, but if they were somewhere secluded it could earn him a swift beating.