The Trafficker: A Michael Thomas Thriller

by Gavin Reese

  I’ve only got a few seconds until König gets inside the building. Michael hustled to the office doorway and swiped the access card across a small sensor to unlock it.

  thuck

  He opened the heavy door, ran out into the hall, and turned left, away from König’s apparent inbound path. Can’t get forced into killing another target without reconciling their sins! I don’t want to know what John and his minders do for a second failed assignment!

  Michael hurried along one of his pre-planned escape routes. Once he'd turned a corner and stood beyond the reach of König’s surveillance cameras, he slipped his black packable down jacket off, which revealed a bright white, lightweight ski-style jacket. Michael untucked the hood from its collar and scrunched the down jacket into a small ball that he concealed in his new oversized interior pocket. As he approached the downstairs lobby, Michael chose a deliberate path along the wall to his left to avoid a surveillance camera that watched the front entrance. On his previous scout of the building, he’d discovered a service entrance down a short hallway that would allow him to leave unrecorded. And then König and the police won’t have any way to tie the intruder on his surveillance footage in black clothing to the man in the white ski jacket on the street outside. The cops might have a reasonable hunch, but that lead oughta run cold pretty fast.

  The service entrance placed him on the Operngasse sidewalk near mid-building on the east side of the Tourist Information Center, right between the main access to the south and the one closest to König’s office at the northeast corner. Michael scanned the street and saw no sign of his target. To avoid cameras he’d identified to the north, he strode south and waited for a small break in the traffic to cross to the other side of Operngasse. Turning back north at the Royal Opera House grounds, he slowed his pace. He must be inside the building. My camera feed in the hotel room should capture anything I miss before I get back up there.

  Michael contemplated his next course of action. How now, brown cow? John’s recurring words propelled him toward a decision. I can trust my equipment enough to stay down here. Use the tech gear in the hotel as a second set of eyes. I can stay on the street and give König time to show me his hand. Michael strolled toward the Hotel Sacher until he reached Café Oper Wien, an upscale local coffeehouse that leased space on the west side of the Royal Opera House building. Michael had read about its rooftop terrace and late service hours. Both oughta come in handy for keeping watch over Herr König and whatever he does next. He opened the door and held it for an elderly, well-dressed couple who waddled out onto the sidewalk.

  “Danke shen,” the man offered to Michael.

  “Ja, bitte shen.” He smiled at the couple, and then realized his mistake. Michael turned his head away, covered his face with his forearm, and coughed. Gotta get better about resisting social norms that create memories for the strangers around me. Everyone I meet is a potential witness, especially if these two are known regulars here or paid with a credit card the cops can use to track them down for an interview later. He sighed and shook his head. Back to work.

  Michael stepped inside the café and walked toward a green Aufgang sign that identified the interior stairs. Need to get upstairs and see how he reacts to the alarm. The intel suggests he’s too vain to threaten his social status by hiring mercs that could turn on him, but it wouldn’t be unreasonable for a man in his position to have an extensive security detail, even if he isn’t dirty. Vienna’s got a long history of international espionage and organized crime, so men in König’s position would commonly use such things. Considering that he heads an international shipping and logistics support conglomerate, there have to be dozens of criminal organizations benefitting from his services. Any one of them might, at any time, decide that he’s wronged them in some unknown way, even if they’re misinformed. Michael smiled at a silver lining in the night’s stalled investigation. This will tell me a lot about his paranoia and preparedness. If a goon squad rolls up in a van, I’m gonna rethink my methods.

  February 15, 7:57PM

  König’s Office. Vienna, Austria.

  Alfred hurried down the hallway toward his office. He glanced down at his phone again, and the motion-alarm app now reported that the system had reset and all was normal. Not taking any chances, regardless of what the technology says. As he closed in on the doorway, Alfred put his phone away and withdrew a compact Heckler & Koch semi-auto 9mm pistol from his overcoat’s inside pocket. Concealing the handgun from his own cameras, he used his free hand to wave his RFID access tag over the door’s lock sensor.

  thuck

  As soon as the door’s magnetic and mechanical locks released, Alfred shoved it open and pressed into the room, his small pistol pointed out in front of him. Despite his expectation, the office lights didn’t come on. I left them set on ‘motion,’ didn’t I? Alfred reached over to the switch with his left hand and slid its control to the ‘up’ position. As the lights clicked on, motion to Alfred’s right drew his attention. He swung the weapon there and pointed it straight at his own reflection. Goddammit, the curtains are open!

  Alfred hid the handgun in his coat pocket despite having an Austrian Waffenpass that allowed him to own and transport the pistol. He even held a rare concealed weapons permit the EU issued to its most privileged and elite citizens. Still can’t have the police show up to question me about defending my own property! Alfred stepped over and closed the thick privacy curtains even before he finished sweeping the office. Once he’d secured his privacy, he again withdrew the pistol and stepped around his desk. Nothing there. Alfred kept the gun out and checked the bookcase. Still locked. He withdrew a smaller RFID key tag from his pants pocket and waved it over its concealed sensor.

  thuck

  Alfred pushed the pistol out in front of him and followed it into the storage room. A quick scan revealed no intruder, so he checked inside the room’s tall storage cabinets. No one. Dammit. After assuring himself that none of his currency duffels or narcotics bags were missing, Alfred stepped back into his office. He pulled the bookcase closed and waited until he heard the lock re-engage before striding over to his desk. Not yet ready to put it away, he set the pistol on his desktop, pointed away from him and toward the door. What the hell set the motion alarm off? The exterior door alarm should have triggered first.

  Alfred looked at the egg-sized motion sensor that sat on an end table next to his couch and near the middle of the room. From its position in front of the closed curtain, a small green LED light atop the device showed it was working. He retrieved his smartphone, and its corresponding app confirmed the device functioned normally. The Festung app alerted me to an intrusion, but that doesn’t make sense. Nothing should set off that alarm unless it’s preceded by the door’s intrusion alarm.

  Alfred scanned the office, this time looking for benign explanations for the alarm. The HVAC unit kicked on and ruffled leaves and petals on the fresh-cut flowers that stood in a vase on the coffee table. He pondered the movement as the alarm’s cause. Better to check all my sources. Alfred settled into his desk chair and opened the bottom-right drawer that housed his camera monitors. A few commands on the touchscreens reversed the footage until an uninvited stranger appeared in the hallway before his office door. An overwhelming sense of fear and vulnerability overcame him when the intruder used an access card to enter the room. Who are you and what do you know? How did you get my security card?

  Alfred spent several minutes manipulating the footage until he’d identified two images that best revealed the man’s face and profile. They’re not good, but they might be good enough for an identification. Police Commander Nowak would jump at the chance to help find my intruder and ensure I become indebted to him. He still struggles to move upward into Viennese social circles. His parents named him ‘Gerhardt’ to help him fit in, but the man’s so Slavic he may as well be a double-agent for Russia. Nowak wants access to the life I can help introduce him to, and he's certain to feel obligated for my help. Having him believe I o
we him something wouldn’t be a bad thing.

  A sudden question gave Alfred pause. What if the intruder is police? If that’s the case, and the government is taking notice of me, then I have no choice but to ask Nowak to look into it. If a man in my position didn’t come forward seeking police help, they’d assume I had something to hide and continue digging. After all, it would be natural for a man of my prestige to request quiet assistance from a man like Nowak. His response will surely reveal any police involvement, even though he won’t intend it.

  Could something have gone wrong, and my Mexican partners are making good on their threats? The fentanyl shipment will soon land in Koper, so it’s doubtful that they would attempt to harm me before I pay the millions I’ve promised for their cargo. Alfred considered the reality before him, including the possible discovery of the additional partnerships he’d formed against his agreement with the Santa Lena cartel. The Mexicans might try to kill me someday over a perceived slight or betrayal, but money is almost always more important to such men. There are degrees of betrayal, and my ancillary partnerships are all of the lowest possible order. The Santa Lena leadership would yell and threaten me first, just to give me time to pay them off, but, as long as I don’t lose their confidence and we’re all making money for each other, all else can be forgiven. I can’t afford threats to our future shipments and the luxurious lifestyle I’ve earned and deserve. This must be rooted out.

  Alfred looked back down at images displayed on his surveillance monitors. No matter who this man was, he must be identified and stopped. He printed two 8x10 full-color photos of his unknown adversary and stared at the man’s face. Who sent you?

  Stefanie. The epiphany struck him so sharply that Alfred knew its truth. My wife’s again sent someone to spy on me. It wasn’t the first time she’d squandered some portion of their assets on private investigators. I would confirm her suspicions, if she cared enough to ask. Stefanie knows I keep mistresses from time to time. No woman can be expected to satisfy a man’s every need at all times, it’s just unrealistic. The domestic staff did mention she hasn’t been home for a few days now. Alfred searched his memory for anything he might have done to motivate her to leave, go stay with her sister in Munich again, or hire someone to follow him around. Nothing. Ever since our trip to Mexico last year, I’ve been careful and discreet.

  Mexico. Their trip reminded him of the news article. Did she see Don Chava’s picture on the news? His death didn’t change anything for me, and it’s been so long ago now that I’ve earned the trust of his former underlings. No, that can’t be it, Stefanie’s a terrible liar and she could never hide anything that big from me. I know my own wife better than that. She’s far more worried about being kept in our lifestyle, a little thing like drug shipments and dead addicts wouldn’t bother her that much. It’s not like any of the deceased could have ever afforded to buy her clothes and purses anyway. Such people haven’t the means to own anything with Stefanie’s logo on it.

  The access card. She has a card to the outer door, but not to the storage room. He logged onto his computer and directed its web browser to his security system’s online portal. After providing his credentials, Alfred’s innards broiled with rage and righteous indignation when he read the recent access list:

  Zeit -- 19:47 Std

  Name -- Stefanie König

  ----

  Zeit -- 19:57 Std

  Name -- Alfred König

  February 15, 8:02PM

  Café Oper Wien. Vienna, Austria.

  Michael stayed outside on the cold coffeehouse balcony for about ten minutes before König emerged from the north side-entrance of the Tourist Information Center building across the street. Hope the thermal in my hotel room’s still working. It’d be nice to see where König went inside the office. Without realizing it, he will have told me where to find everything that’s important to him.

  Michael watched his target stride out into the slow-moving theater traffic, forcing the drivers to slow and yield to his will. Unlike most major cities, no one resorted to their horns this time. König’s the only one down there who doesn’t give a damn about being rude.

  After König disappeared from his sight, Michael stepped back inside the coffeehouse. He’s headed back to the Hotel Sacher to the northeast. No need to follow him right now. To avoid letting his target set eyes on him, Michael stopped at the counter and ordered a black coffee. He moved to a table that allowed him to place his back to the wall and his eyes toward the entrances to consider what little he’d learned that night.

  The bookcase doesn’t make sense. Why did he try to manipulate it before he locked up and left the office earlier? Is there a hidden compartment there, maybe behind the bookcase? Maybe it’s new to the office and he’s got a nervous tick about it being flat against the wall? As he considered more possibilities, Michael kept coming back to the most reasonable explanation. He’s gotta be hiding something behind it. Just like people nudge concealed guns to make sure they’re still in place, I bet König’s got something back there he wants to stay hidden. His interior office space doesn't match the doors in the hallway, and it’s shallower than I expected. Maybe the adjacent office has a storage room, or the entrance down the hall just goes into a reception anteroom and the main office is behind that. Either way, I’ve gotta find a way to get back into his office and see what that bookcase is hiding.

  Michael sipped at his coffee and reflected on the payoff for his efforts that day. Good news, got some intel. Bad news, my target’s gonna be nervous and more security conscious now. He might have my image up on his surveillance footage, but he damned sure won’t have my face. Tomorrow’s a new day, and I’m running out of time to unveil König’s secrets. If I’m gonna save his soul, he needs to help me do it.

  February 15, 8:09PM

  Hotel Sacher. Vienna, Austria.

  Alfred sauntered from the opulent elevator toward his leased suite as a man who’d just regained control of his life. His cell phone rang and displayed UNBEKANNTE. Even though his cell provider couldn’t identify the caller, Alfred knew who it was.

  “Hallo?”

  “I got a message,” the once-familiar male voice announced in English.

  “Can I call you back in a moment? I’m on my mobile and I don’t get good service here.” The call disconnected as Alfred reached his room. He still hasn’t learned manners, even after all the work we’ve done together.

  Alfred put his phone away in his coat pocket, locked himself inside his extravagant suite, and walked over to the ornate wood desk and the phone that rested upon it. Authorities rarely track and record these old landlines, even in a city with such a long history of international espionage and spy games between the old Soviet Union, new-old Russia, and the West. It’s not them I fear anyway, it’s the hungry wolves driven onward by billable hours that might be my downfall. He placed the return call and sat down in a black leather desk chair.

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to call you out of retirement,” Alfred offered in English. “I think that’s what you Americans would say.”

  “That’s an expensive proposition. I doubt that even you have such means.”

  “What will two-million euros buy me?”

  “A meeting tomorrow morning in the city of your choosing. I assume you still keep your usual breakfast appointment?”

  “I do. Are you interested in the job?”

  “That down payment you mentioned gets me on a flight and gets you my company for one meal.” His intentional, disinterested tone told Alfred that their negotiation had started. “We’ll still need to discuss additional payments for whatever work you want done.”

  “I need you to dispose of my handbag.” Alfred emphasized the nickname he’d long had for his wife. A menial, seasonally replaced little thing whose sole purpose was to stay pretty enough to impress those around it. “Is that clear enough?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Whatever’s convenient. Throw it out, take it home
and keep it as your own, I couldn’t care less what happens to it along the way to its final destination, either. I hope your final price can take my flexibility into account.”

  “I understand. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “You’d best hurry, you now have a flight to catch.” Alfred heard the line disconnect and returned the receiver to its cradle. He leaned back in the chair, breathed a deep, calming breath, and looked out his windows at the Royal Opera House. Stefanie’s mistake was in hiring the wolves. They’re intent on helping her decide how many of my millions she’s entitled to, but their efforts might unveil something that jeopardizes my freedom and success.

  If I offer to pay her a lot of money right away, she’ll know something is wrong, I don’t ever give up without a protracted and bloody fight. She knows I believe in the mutually assured destruction that teams of attorneys represent. No, she can’t be bought easily, and I can’t have her investigators looking around for long. They’re time-driven worker bees whose lives are motivated by billable hours. Stefanie has her own money, a much smaller fortune that could still keep them digging for a long time to come. No, the one reasonable solution is to remove their funding source from the equation.

  With Stefanie gone, their war chest dries up and they move on to the next victim, like a parasite seeks a new host. I can’t even blame the wolves, they’re just doing what’s predictable. To that end, it would be best not to send those images over to Commander Nowak yet. I don’t want an official connection between Stefanie’s hired dogs and me. When she goes missing, I need the presumption of ignorance and lack of motive. Alfred looked back at the locked door to his suite and recalled that Stefanie also had that key, as well. In the spirit of plausible deniability, I can’t afford to request that be changed, not after today. Once she’s confirmed missing, then I can explain a reasonable fear for my own safety, that whoever took her will come after me when they can’t trade her life for my money.