St. Nicholas Salvage & Wrecking

by Dana Haynes

  They made a hundred thousand euros by the end of the year and five hundred thousand by the end of the next. All of it tax-free.

  They had a list of enemies by the middle of their first month together. That happens when you arrest people and sneak them across borders to The Hague.

  As their profits and their profile grew, the partners created a false front. Honestly, they needed two—one to hide their profits and another to hide from their families.

  A Cyprus-based firm handled the legal and insurance paperwork for maritime salvage operations. Cypriot banking is byzantine enough that the new company would never have to show clients or a profit. The money that poured in was expertly cloaked.

  For the world at large, Fiero and Finnigan used their contacts to create false identifications for themselves as independent researchers for some far-flung subsidiary agency of the European Union. Finnigan hired a burnout bureaucrat from Manchester who’d retired to the Cypriot city of Gazimağusa, and he churned out two or three breathtakingly dull reports under their names per year. Should anyone look—and nobody had—a paper trail of pristine dullness lay scattered about them like hedge trimmings.

  They also signed a nonaggression pact with the Central Intelligence Service of the Cyprus Police. In one of their very first cases, they had stumbled upon a con man who’d stolen nearly a half-million euros from the police retirement fund. The partners got the money and returned it, no questions asked, no finder fee expected. An Inspector Rafael Triadis, Nicosia Division, had called upon them shortly thereafter to figure out what their game was. Put simply, they were going after criminals, but without the traditional protection of being in law enforcement or connected to any government. They needed a safe haven. In return for which, they would offer their services to Inspector Triadis on occasion.

  Triadis had served as a soldier in Sarajevo during the years-long siege in the 1990s. He held a fierce loathing for war criminals. They reached an agreement and Triadis had even thrown in an introduction to his cousin, who owned an empty office over a Turkish restaurant in Kyrenia.

  Now all that was needed was a name for the company.

  One night over way too much vodka, they came upon St. Nicholas Salvage & Wrecking.

  The origin of the name was the partners’ secret.

  C02

  Bruges, Belgium

  The club wasn’t easy to find. It featured no signage out front. It was up a narrow flight of stairs, tucked above the office of a legal advocate, and nobody would think to enter through the door unless they were seeking an attorney—not a drink. The illuminati of Belgium’s international diplomatic corps had used the place for years as a clandestine spot for those times when one wanted complete anonymity. Many affairs of state, and affairs of the heart, began in this nameless place.

  Katalin Fiero Dahar looked the part. Michael Finnigan didn’t.

  She wore a slim black suit with stilettos. He wore blue chinos and a blue, unstructured jacket—and thought the blues matched. He was the only one who thought so. They walked up the narrow steps, Fiero in the lead, toward the hush of the bar and away from the murmur of the street. She looked back over her shoulder, shaking laser-straight hair out of her eyes. “We need to see about getting you a suit.”

  Finnigan said, “This is a suit.”

  She blinked at him and smiled.

  Thomas Shannon Greyson waited for them at the bar. English, matchstick lean, aristocratic, and charming, he knew the waitstaff by name, knew what football clubs they fancied—although he didn’t visit the nameless club but a few times per year. He turned as the duo entered, beaming at them.

  He presented a Champagne cocktail in a tall crystal flute to Fiero. Bubbles glistened from the top. “The Champagne is from a vineyard outside of Troyes,” he said, his voice pure Eton. “The brandy is a little Armagnac hors d’âge that I’ve grown fond of. The bitters I discovered in a deplorable cathouse in Trinidad.”

  Fiero took the glass.

  He handed Finnigan a larger glass. “Pabst.”

  “Sweet.”

  Shan, as he was known to friends, led the way deeper into the gloom of the distinguished club, to an oxblood-red wooden booth with heavy, drawn curtains of green baize. They sidled in, Shan on one side, the partners on the other. The Englishman already had a whiskey and soda waiting. He favored them with his satyr’s grin, lifted his glass an inch.

  “To St. Nicholas Salvage & Wrecking.”

  They sipped.

  “Been meaning to ask you for ages: Where did you come up with that name for your company?” he asked, turning to Fiero. “Michael is Irish Catholic but you’re Muslim, so I assume it has nothing to do with Kris Kringle.”

  “My mother’s Muslim,” she corrected. “What can we do for you?”

  By you, she meant Madame Hélene Betancourt of Switzerland, the ranking judge of the International Criminal Court. Their company, St. Nicholas Salvage & Wrecking, had now done work for Judge Betancourt on five other occasions, but they never met with her. Nor would her name come up in this day’s conversation. Although the company was well paid for its work, no agency on earth would ever be able to link the money back to the venerable judge.

  Bounty hunting, by and large, is both illegal and vulgar.

  Hence Thomas Shannon Greyson, in his bespoke suits and besotted by his own self-image, was the perfect go-between.

  The Englishman turned his gaze on the American. Finnigan looked as disheveled as usual, with his mop of wavy black hair and a half-day’s growth of beard. Michael Finnigan was one of those men who develop a five o’clock shadow at ten in the morning.

  “It is good to see you, Michael. How’ve you been?”

  “Drunk. You?”

  “Sometimes; not as often as you’d think.”

  Fiero had never been good at small talk. She asked again, “What’s this about?”

  Shan reached down onto the bench beside his coat and produced an iPad, with a flash drive sticking out of the side like an arrowhead. He swiped it open and turned it to face the partners. “There’s this fellow lives in Serbia. Lazar Aleksić. He’s an extremely bad person, and Our Mutual Friend would like very much to see him appear before the International Court.”

  Fiero studied the image: he was a youth, midtwenties, blond and handsome. Shan reached over and used a fingertip to bring up more images: The blond kid skiing. The blond kid at a bar with a looker in a strapless gown. The blond kid amid the crowd at a bullfight, smoking a cigarette and laughing hysterically.

  She looked up at Shan. “Why?”

  “Which part?”

  “Why arrest this man, and why us? Start with the first part.”

  “He’s pimping underage refugees to pedophiles throughout Europe.”

  Fiero said, simply, “Ah.”

  “If I’m right, this tumor of a human is running girls and boys throughout half of the eurozone. Dozens, maybe scores of kids. Syrians, Afghans, Egyptians. Anyone fleeing to Europe for a new life. And our young Master Aleksić is on absolutely nobody’s radar. Not the local police. Not Interpol. Nobody.”

  Finnigan reached over and made the images disappear. He expected a PDF and found it: a file on Lazar Aleksić. He started scanning the details.

  Fiero said, “That explains why him. Now: why us.”

  “Three reasons,” the Englishman said. “The first is this: As our Michael is about to tell you, we have a great deal of smoke, but no fire. We need an independent agency that will link Lazar Aleksić to his victims. Second, he never leaves Belgrade, Serbia. Where, I assure you, he is surrounded by an army of underlings with firearms. He’s also bought protection from the Serbian Police.”

  Finnigan was scanning the PDF on the tablet computer. He drained his beer. “This all you’ve got?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Fiero leaned in toward the American and placed a
n arm on his shoulder, resting her chin on the back of her hand. She peered at the screen as Finnigan scrolled through the document. Shan Greyson waited, watching.

  They were an unusual pair, he thought. Lovers? One suspected so, at first. But they acted more like siblings. Or at least very good friends. Shan fancied himself an avid reader of others’ body language, and he had trouble figuring out what the principal owners of St. Nicholas Salvage & Wrecking were to each other.

  Finnigan said, “Guy’s mobbed up in Belgrade?”

  “He is indeed.”

  Fiero brushed long hair away from her face. “You said there was a third reason why the judge … sorry, why you wanted to hire us?”

  Shan finished his drink and checked his watch. “There is. Come. I’d like to show you something.”

  Four blocks away, an association of international attorneys was just finishing the dinner portion of their annual conference. Shan Greyson led the way into the auditorium, handed several folded bills to a waiter, and took the partners to the back of the room, where the coatracks stood sentinel.

  The speaker for the evening was the director of the Levant Crisis Group at the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. The director had a patrician’s frame, an actor’s profile, and a resonant baritone. He was a man born to make speeches. He had silver hair and a conservative suit and a sky-blue enamel lapel pin shaped like a dove in flight.

  Almost 160 guests of the international conference on international law had attended the dinner to hear his keynote address. The attendees sat around white-clothed tables and ate prime rib. There were no vacant seats. Liveried waitstaff provided wine and coffee as the guest of honor took the podium without the aid of notes—and spoke for forty-five minutes straight.

  Finnigan, Fiero, and Shan Greyson stood in the back and, the way the lights hit the stage, it was unlikely the speaker could spot them. Attorneys at the rearmost tables could see them; several kept turning to eye the tall, dark woman in the slim suit and stiletto heels. Fiero didn’t appear to notice. Finnigan did, and smiled.

  The UN official spoke with passion about the tsunami of immigrants pouring into Europe from Syria, Afghanistan, Sudan, South Sudan, Iraq, Libya, and Egypt. He spoke about the Christian mission of Europeans to help the downtrodden, but also about the enormous burden this had placed on the economy of each member nation. He set the historic landscape, comparing this to the great, forced immigrations of World Wars I and II. He talked with granular detail about the Schengen Agreement, which allowed for free and unfettered border crossings for both people and freight between European nations. He praised the history and ethos of Islam, but warned of the dark stain of Islamist forces.

  He was an electrifying speaker, even in English, which wasn’t his native tongue. When he wrapped it up, the room rose as one in a spontaneous burst of applause. Photojournalists bathed the lectern in strobes.

  The speaker moved to the head table and kissed a plump little woman in a cashmere sweater and pearls. She beamed benevolently at him; clearly the doting wife.

  As the applause continued, Fiero leaned toward the Englishman. “We know where the UN stands on the refugee crisis. What’s this got to do with your Serbian bastard?”

  Finnigan leaned in. “Also, you said there were three reasons you wanted us involved.”

  Shan said, “Right you are. My enfant terrible is Lazar Aleksić. And our fine speaker for the day, the director of the Levant Crisis Group at the United Nations High Commission for Refugees, is Miloš Aleksić. Lazar’s loving dad.”

  He pointed toward the wife at the head table. “Marija Aleksić, Lazar’s mum.”

  Finnigan scratched his stubbly cheek. “Holy shit.”

  Shan said, “Indeed!”

  A waiter walked by with a tray of Champagne flutes held shoulder-high. Fiero snagged one, en passant, and drained it in a go.

  “We’re in.”

  C03

  London, England

  Rare was the Friday night that didn’t find Jane Koury and Lanni Connors meeting for drinks at Callahan’s in Bayswater. The pub was a favorite of young journalists and journalism students, providing cheap beer, half-decent wine, and a relatively good chance of not getting groped at the bar. Jane and Lanni seldom missed a weekend together of chardonnay and moping.

  Both had been out of school for two years. Both were underemployed; Jane working for peanuts at three news websites, Lanni waiting tables and writing for free on entertainment sites for the exposure. They’d known all the way through school that things would be tough once they got out. But the actual reality of it hit them like a lorry.

  Which was why Jane’s wicked grin caught her best mate by surprise that Friday.

  “Good lord!” Lanni set down the drinks and huddled in for a good chat. “You’ve met someone!”

  “Have I? I have hell!” Jane laughed. Like a lot of second-generation Syrians, she dressed in typical London fashion—tonight it was jeans, a sweater, and suede boots. Her grandmother might not have approved, but nobody Jane’s age wore anything resembling traditional Arabic clothing. At least, not in her circles. She was young—only twenty-two—but thanks to a round face and petite build, she was constantly mistaken for a teenager. It was a source of great humor—and possibly a bit of resentment—from the taller and curvier Lanni, whose ancestors had sacked the Scottish coast in longboats.

  “I’m not seeing anyone,” Jane said. “I’ve got the most brilliant idea ever. ’Bout my career.”

  Lanni rolled her eyes. “I’d like a brilliant idea about my career. Remind me again: What’s my career?”

  Jane reached over and squeezed her hand. “You’re going to be writing for the London Times before you’re thirty and running it by forty. Fact.”

  “Not at the pace I’m—”

  Jane held up a hand and said, “Fact! It’s science, and you can’t argue science. Reporter by thirty. Managing editor by forty. Shut up and drink.”

  Lanni did as she was told. Her best friend had more faith in her trajectory than Lanni did herself. Which was why she hadn’t revealed to Jane that she’d been gathering brochures for doctoral programs in English literature. If she were going to be a Poor Underemployed Londoner, she might as well be Dr. Poor Underemployed Londoner.

  “So, what’s your daft plan?” Lanni asked.

  Jane unfolded a page from the Guardian. The newsprint was folded precisely, which was Jane’s way with everything. It showed a map of the Middle East and Southern Europe, with the Mediterranean as a big blue blob on the left.

  “Hundreds of thousands of refugees are making the trip, by foot, from Syria to Turkey, to Europe. Hundreds! Of thousands!”

  “I know!” she said, shaking her head. “Breaks your heart.”

  “I don’t want to break hearts, I want to break stories. Lanni … I’m going.”

  Lanni sipped her white wine. “Where?”

  “Syria.”

  Lanni then, promptly, spat white wine across the Guardian.

  “You’re not! That’s rubbish! There’s no tourism in Syria these days! Nobody’s going there but the Red Cross and soldiers!”

  “And journalists.”

  “No!” Lanni said adamantly. “Reporters aren’t! Do you not know how many journalists have died in the last couple of years in Syria? Gobs!” She said gobs as if it were a finite and measurable number, divisible by itself and one.

  “My uncle lives in Hama. He’s an editor. I’ve already written to him, told him my plan.”

  “Which is what?” Lanni’s voice ratcheted up in disbelief. This didn’t seem like Jane’s usual but brief foray into a new career opportunity, but instead something she’d thought out.

  “I’m flying to Beirut. One of his photographers is meeting me there and driving me across the border. I want to focus on refugees. I’ll join one of the routes moving north. I plan to interview chil
dren; just children.”

  “You’re not!” Lanni protested. “Love, that’s bonkers! You’ll be at risk!”

  Jane shrugged. She reached over to her tote, which shared the third chair with Lanni’s bag, and produced an airplane boarding ticket.

  Lanni shrieked, and suddenly all eyes in the pub were on her.

  “Shhh! God, everyone’s looking!”

  “Jane,” she replied in a muted tone, “this is barking mad! You can’t! It’s dangerous!”

  “Less so since ISIS, or Daesh, or whatever, was kicked out,” she said. “Only Damascus and the cities around it are still at war. The rest is just … well, refugees.”

  “But—”

  “And I’m in good shape. I’ve hiked through Ireland and Wales,” Jane said. “I’ve run half marathons! I’m in great shape. And I look like this,”—she pointed with both index fingers at her youthful, round face—“so kids always open up to me.”

  “You don’t speak Arabic!”

  “Hello! Koury? I speak Arabic with a Syrian accent. Look …”

  She produced her driver’s license. Lanni peered at it.

  It wasn’t made out to Jane Koury. It was made out to Jinan Koury.

  “That’s my real name. Nobody calls me that, but it’s my name.”

  Lanni realized that tears were forming in her blue eyes. “Is this for real then? You’re doing this?”

  Jinan Koury of London grinned at her best mate, cupped both of Lanni’s hands in her own. “I am! I really am!”

  C04

  Kyrenia

  St. Nicholas Salvage & Wrecking owned a seaplane, currently revving up in the waters of Amsterdam. Finnigan decided he’d rendezvous there with Lachlan Sumner, their pilot, and bring it down to their headquarters in Cyprus. Sumner, a rangy New Zealander, had flown for oil companies, putting down planes everywhere from Alaska to Qatar. There was pretty much no place he couldn’t fly to.

  Fiero hopped a flight to Berlin to see an old friend from her intelligence-service days.

  The articles of incorporation for St. Nicholas Salvage & Wrecking were a bit arcane and not easy to track down. The company was headquartered in Kyrenia, Cyprus, which meant, technically, that it was a Cypriot company. But since 1974, the island had been split lengthwise—two-thirds Greek, and one-third Turkish. To the government of Cyprus, and to all but one of the 193 members of the United Nations, the island had one government and a Turkish occupying force. To the Turks, the island featured two independent nations, much like Haiti and the Dominican Republic.