The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1)

by Macalister Stevens

  Tamblyn’s file, even the redacted version Porter had been given, was an interesting read. The sections relating to Tamblyn’s CIA career were, unsurprisingly, a series of thick black lines broken up by a sprinkling of conjunctions and indefinite pronouns. But the CIA redactors had been less profligate in their use of the Company black marker pen regarding Tamblyn’s life after the Agency, which included: a spell as an investigator for the US Senate Commission on Foreign Relations; acting as a consultant for Mycroft & Fry, a political risk analysis firm; providing technical advice for a spy movie franchise; and most recently, sitting on the board of The Kasteel Group, a private security company with divisions offering a range of services, from bouncers on nightclub doors, to security contractors (the private military industry’s preferred euphemism for mercenaries) who trained police or military forces of foreign states.

  Seven months ago, Tamblyn had dropped everything and disappeared. The Kasteel Group had received a letter of resignation—effective immediately—and a DC law firm had overseen the sale of Tamblyn’s home and the conversion of his other assets into cash. Tamblyn’s behaviour was attributed to acute mid-life crisis.

  Every US law enforcement and intelligence agency was now involved, in some capacity, in the search for Tamblyn. Finding the former CIA officer had become one of the FBI’s top priorities. But Porter had a hunch he should keep Special Agents Breckinridge and Jamieson on familiar ground.

  Brad Weaver’s coffee was accompanied by the ballistics and fingerprint reports from Vienna. The coffee sat cooling, untouched, as Weaver contemplated the uncomfortable implications of Spencer Tamblyn being incriminated in Rikki De Witte’s shooting.

  Tamblyn was innocent (of that killing): he’d been dead for seven months. Therefore his fingerprints being found on the rifle De Witte had been shot with cast doubt over the actual circumstances of Tamblyn’s death. The evidence at the scene (which Weaver had organised the cover-up of) had supported Dierk Wald’s recounting of Tamblyn dying at the hands of Matthew Morton Willoughby, but that account had to be questioned now that Wald had gone rogue. No, not rogue, that implied Wald’s allegiance had changed. Evidently, Wald had been pursuing his own agenda for some time.

  ‘You were right, sir,’ said Jamieson. He turned to Breckinridge.

  ‘We found connections between Tamblyn and Lachkovic,’ she said. ‘Nothing direct, nothing a lawyer couldn’t easily dismiss as circumstantial or mere coincidence. But, it is interesting that Tamblyn was on the board of The Kasteel Group. Significant chunks of that company’s shares are owned, or controlled, by four members of the Carpenters’ Club. Tiziano Bazhunaishvili, Walter Dundee, Joel Epstein, and Ryan Lachkovic.’

  ‘Lachkovic must have shared some cheese and wine with Tamblyn,’ chipped in Jamieson.

  EAD Porter half-smiled at Jamieson’s inverted snobbery.

  ‘Additionally,’ said Breckinridge, ‘The risk assessment firm Tamblyn consulted with, Mycroft & Fry, has been engaged by several companies with current or previous contracts with Lachkovic & Associates.’

  ‘Thin.’ Porter shook his head. ‘Pale, scrawny and undernourished.’ He shrugged. ‘Let’s put some meat on those bones.’

  34. PERNICIOUS AMBITION

  When Tatjana was eight, she’d tripped at the top of stairs. The fall broke an arm, blackened an eye and gave her a nasty gash on her chin that would leave a thin scar. The care she received at the local hospital made a lasting impression: Tatjana decided she wanted to work with children. When she was older, Tatjana became a trainee nurse, but she never finished her training. Instead Tatjana was raped more than 400 times. Not that the men violating her thought of themselves as rapists, after all they had paid to have sex with her. They’d even paid for her drinks. At least they’d assumed the drinks were for her.

  At first, until persuaded by beatings to keep quiet, Tatjana had asked the men to help her. Many of the men didn’t speak Serbian or English. They hadn’t understood Tatjana’s appeals, remaining ignorant of her desperation to escape from the bar. They never found out the bar’s owner had bought her from the men who’d kidnapped her a few streets from her home in Novi Sad. If the men who’d paid to have sex with Tatjana thought anything about her pleas, it would have been to curse their luck for choosing a chatty one. They hadn’t known what to think of her tears, apart from ignore them. Some complained, asking for a discount and settling for a free drink.

  The men who had understood Tatjana had a variety of techniques for dealing with her off-putting pillow talk. Some would turn her over and push her face into the pillow. Some found a couple of slaps did the trick. Some would conveniently lose their language skills. Some just didn’t care.

  All of those fine manly specimens had one thing in common: they were all serving with the NATO-led peacekeeping force deployed to Kosovo. Officially they were KFOR, but the locals called them The Internationals. They were warriors from forty nations sent to make life better for all Kosovo. But the influx of forty-five thousand foreigners with—from the perspective of a poor region—pockets filled with money to burn had not proven to be good for all Kosovo. It had mainly benefited criminals.

  Officially, military commanders cautioned their men against frequenting brothels, even those that impersonated nightclubs or sports bars or, in one bold warping of reality, participatory improvisational theatre. But Tatjana had recognised officer insignia on the epaulettes of some of the jackets hung behind a door, or draped over a chair, or hastily dropped at the foot of a bed.

  Many peacekeepers obeyed orders, followed guidelines and took their responsibilities seriously. Others were tempted: some merely dabbled, some crossed lines. But prosecution of an International was rare. If Internationals were caught in grubby establishments they shouldn’t have been near, wrists were slapped. Or, if the circumstances warranted it, they were returned to their home country: the equivalent of being sent to the naughty step.

  However, from time to time complaints were made against the owners of the bars and brothels. Investigations were carried out, and cases were occasionally brought to court, mostly when the appropriate official hadn’t received the appropriate inducement to lose the appropriate evidence. But even when a case made it to trial with its evidence intact, a conviction could still be appealed. And defendants released pending appeal rarely felt obliged to show their faces again. Those defendants who did turn up, did so smiling, their grins growing wider as prosecution witnesses failed to appear, their whereabouts unknown (to everyone but the defendants).

  Tatjana had been one of those disappeared witnesses.

  Werner Fuchs, Leif Vikström and Alojzy Zawadzki hadn’t known each other prior to being recruited by Rikki De Witte, though they’d all known De Witte. All four had served in Kosovo, albeit in different parts of the region. But they’d all spent off-duty time in Pristina. And they’d all found their way to Besian’s Bar.

  De Witte was a regular, and he was very matey with the owner, who had had a recent run in with the authorities. The chumminess of Besian Beqiri and Rikki De Witte and the evaporation of Beqiri’s legal inconveniences were not unrelated. De Witte interceding had earned him more than affable banter and free drinks. The price of eliminating an UNMIK protected witness had been a cut of the bar’s takings.

  Of course De Witte knew Beqiri would be miscalculating revenues, but the Dutchman had let that go. He had his eye on life after the military. That would be a few years away, but forward planning was one of De Witte’s strengths. He’d realised he had few skills easily transferable to civilian life, and he’d known his future would almost certainly be in the private military industry, preferably as an independent contractor. For that he would need to recruit his own teams, each crew handpicked for individual assignments. And with that in mind, Besian’s Bar was an excellent venue to talent spot.

  Leif Vikström felt uneasy. The plan had been for Fuchs to remain in the Waschküche—to guard their rear and act as support if necessary—while Vikström and Zawadzki cleared the l
oft space. As they had been expecting, the loft was a similar size and layout to the loft they had trained in. They had also been expecting to find the Vice President with two complacent guards. They had not expected a circle of unconscious or semi-conscious men with duct tape over their mouths.

  An explosion below. Heat and smoke surged up the stairway. Gunfire. Even if Fuchs had survived the blast, he’d be dead now. Vikström raced for the cover of a metre-wide section of supporting wall. He made it two seconds before several submachine-gun magazines were emptied into the loft, ripping apart plaster, paintwork, timber and the circle of bodies.

  The average submachine-gun’s rate of fire was about 1000 rounds per minute, but the average submachine-gun magazine held just 30 rounds. The shooting stopped after a few seconds, followed by the click-clunking of magazines being changed. The thumping of Vikström’s heart competed with the ringing in his ears, and he pushed his back into the wall. It was at least twenty centimetres thick, otherwise he’d be dead. Which he would be soon if he didn’t think of something; he had seconds before the reloaded submachine-guns began sweeping the room.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ An American.

  ‘Fucked up is what it is.’ Another American. ‘Check the bodies.’

  US Special Forces? A rescue team? Should Vikström surrender?

  A groan. ‘Pomóż mi.’ It was Zawadzki.

  A single shot.

  Vikström sagged a little: a rescue team would take prisoners; this was a clean up crew. He’d been set up. He and Fuchs and Zawadzki had been suckered. Their own fault. Too greedy. Too … ah, screw this.

  Vikström swung round the side of the wall, firing his Heckler & Koch UMP’s thirty rounds into the masked, black-clad, body-armoured figures gathered round the circle of slumped and bloodied bodies. Two of the clean up crew died instantly. The other four returned fire. And then the detonator in the crate in the centre of the circle of bodies received a signal. Searing heat engulfed everyone and everything in the loft.

  Pocketing the phone he’d used to signal the detonator in the crate, Scott Macrae raced down the apartment building’s spiral staircase. As he reached the landing two-thirds of the way down, he heard booted slaps on the stairs below. It would be O’Leary: the Irishman had been bawling in Macrae’s earpiece since the loft explosion. Macrae waited.

  O’Leary rounded a corner and stopped. ‘MacAndrew,’ shouted O’Leary, ‘what the fu—’

  Macrae swung his Sig Sauer from behind his back, put a bullet in the Irishman’s chest—he knew O’Leary wasn’t wearing body armour—then double-tapped with a bullet to the head. O’Leary’s body tumbled down to the next landing. It had barely come to a halt when Macrae caught up with it. He grabbed hold of O’Leary’s belt and hauled the corpse the rest of the way to the ground floor, then bellowed, ‘Schmitt!’

  Schmitt and O’Leary had remained in the team’s black VW Transporter parked outside the apartment building. Macrae’s weeks undercover with the Coalition’s prime back-up team had been spent sussing out the crew, all of whom were now dead, bar Schmitt. Macrae hadn’t taken to O’Leary—the Irishman had been a smartarse—but Macrae liked Schmitt.

  The German driver threw open the heavy hard-wood exterior door, and stood gaping at O’Leary’s crumpled and bloody form on the floor.

  ‘He’s bad,’ Macrae said, ‘give me a hand.’

  Schmitt stepped inside and bent down to examine O’Leary. Macrae shoved his Sig between Schmitt’s shoulder blades and squeezed. Schmitt fell forward onto O’Leary, and Macrae put a bullet in Schmitt’s head. Shame, but …

  As Macrae exited the building, he pulled out his phone. He slid behind the wheel of the VW and thumbed Degen’s number.

  ‘Good work,’ Degen said. He hung up and flicked to his Contacts. His thumb stabbed the number he wanted. He put the phone to his ear.

  Dringing. Then: ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi Ryan. Your clean up crew is a little crispy.’ Degen smiled at Lachkovic’s gasp. ‘Were you expecting some other news? Sorry, the Vice President is still hale and hearty. Me too, thanks for asking. You, however, should watch your back. They’ll come for you next. You’re the link between me and them. My guess is your personal bodyguard has a secondary function you’re unaware of. Oh, and you might want to consider riding the bus, who knows what kind of tinkering his chauffeur buddy has been up to.’

  Degen hung up, took the back off the phone, flicked out the battery, teased out the sim card and dropped the various pieces into different bins as he headed to the gate. His flight was boarding.

  35. AMERICAN DREAM

  A Nobel laureate, a novelist, a restaurateur, a baseball legend (legendary for swearing at least), a photographer, a couple of models, a Blues Brother and a former TV vampire slayer (the sexy brunette, not the cute blonde) were just some of the people featured in a magazine article celebrating Famous Albanian-Americans.

  Also on the list was a self-made billionaire known for his philanthropy, his art collection and as a popular raconteur on the political fundraiser circuit whose many tales often referenced his humble beginnings.

  His first job had been as a general dogsbody for a small construction company. His surname had been too tricky for the tongue of the owner, resulting in him being referred to as the Boy. That had rankled a bit, but he’d supposed it was better than Gofer.

  As the Boy, he'd spent a couple of months heaving drywall about sites. Then he'd learned to fit it. And he’d picked up various bits of carpentry advice from the tradesmen, plus pointers from the electricians and tips from decorators. Then he'd noted the communication skills of the sales team and the owner's management techniques. And he'd realised he could be much more than a dogsbody.

  He'd worked hard. He'd studied. He'd saved. And he'd spotted an opportunity: the rundown house of a recently deceased elderly man whose sole (distant) relative wanted a quick sale. With a mortgage arranged and his savings swallowed by the deposit, he’d quit his apartment to move into the ramshackle building and set about using the skills he'd acquired to fix it up. He’d lived frugally—indulging in fine wines and rich foods would come later—with every spare cent put aside for building materials. He’d slept only enough to get by, with almost every waking hour of his free time spent labouring at his steadily improving property. His nickname at the construction company changed from the Boy to the Worker. He’d liked that.

  His efforts had paid off. The hefty profit from the sale of the restored house allowed him to work fulltime on his next project. When he gave notice at the construction company, the owner had shaken his hand warmly and said, ‘Your own man. Nothing like it son.’ The owner had grinned. ‘Guess we’re going to have to give you a new name.’

  For the rest of his time at the company they’d called him the Boss. He’d really liked that. So much so, he decided to keep it, encouraging his ever increasing number of employees to call him Boss rather than use his name. And when he’d made his billions and eased into a less hands-on role, he’d taken a new name: he became the Chairman.

  The Chairman pulled his gaping bathrobe together, sipped his tea and scanned the magazine article: He chortled at the transcription of the former Chicago Cubs manager’s profanity-riddled tirade from 1983. He didn’t recognise the models. He remembered meeting the former vampire slayer at an Oscar party. And the photographer had taken pictures of his current wife.

  His wife’s parents had been Arbëreshë, an ethnic Albanian minority found in small enclaves in southern Italy. Would that make her Arbëreshë-American, or Albanian-American, or Italian-American? The Chairman had never understood the need in so many Americans to define themselves by a subset. It seemed to him a slap in the face to those parents, grandparents, or great-grandparents who had toiled and saved and sacrificed to ensure their descendants would be citizens of the world's greatest nation. Being American had always been enough for the Chairman.

  That's not to say he hadn't ruthlessly exploited his own mixed ancestry. He'd never found it exp
edient to label himself a Swedish American or a Portuguese American, but having Albanian and Italian grandfathers had been very useful. Those Sicilian family links had allowed him access to various funding opportunities to increase his property portfolio. For years everyone had been happy with the arrangement—which had required some quid pro quo laundry services—until an ambitious branch of the family became a little too demanding. That’s when his Albanian clan connections had provided a useful counterbalance to the pushy Italian relations.

  While the Chairman straddled two criminal tribes, he’d never thought of himself as a criminal. He was merely a businessman making the most of his contacts and their skills and resources. Eggs and omelettes. It was the American way.

  And, with his fortune made, it was the American Way and the challenge of redefining it that had replaced the allure of money-making. Power was the key, but the time of genial and portly father-figures in the White House had long passed. America preferred its presidents to be young and dynamic, even though that wasn’t necessarily what it needed. Besides, eight years wasn’t nearly enough time to bring about the changes the Chairman envisioned.

  The stratagem he’d set in motion was very much a long game, but if successful, the result would be a reinvigorated United States built on greater responsibility and accountability, both for the individual and those in office. The faux politics of spin and clever evasion would not be countenanced. What would matter would be policy not personality, honesty not humour, a candidate’s ability not his wife’s smile.

  But removing the veneer of self-serving razzamatazz from contemporary politics would not be a gentle process. It would be painful: The country would mourn its Vice President. It would rally behind his brother, who would sweep to the presidency on a familiar wave of slick soundbite-driven drivel. And then the self-interest, the deal-making, the corruption, the murder at the heart of that presidency would be exposed. The people would never allow politics to be the same again.