St. Nicholas Salvage & Wrecking

by Dana Haynes

  He tapped the roof of the limo twice and slid into the back. “To Amsterdam, please.”

  He pulled out his mobile and checked his emails and messages. No word from Katalin Fiero or Michael Finnigan, but then again, they’d warned him they were about to go dark. He wondered if that meant they were moving against the younger Aleksić.

  He glanced up, noticing that the car hadn’t moved. Heinrich hadn’t even turned over the engine.

  He leaned forward. “Heinrich?”

  His driver leaned against the window.

  Dead.

  C41

  Kosovo

  For radio communications, they decided on the following call signs: Fiero would be Sweeper, and Finnigan would be Keeper. McTavish was Defender. That left Bianchi as Wing Back, Lo Kwan as Midfielder, and Fekadu as Striker.

  Finnigan had to write it all down on the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger, just to remember the silly call signs. God knows he tried to instill a little civilization to the group. “Or, we could go with point guard, shooting guard, high and low post, center … Yeah? Anyone? No?”

  They blinked at him like he was speaking Etruscan.

  “Fine. Whatever. What’s a sweeper?”

  They drove from the farmhouse outside Sarajevo in the back of a boxy, top-heavy Renault Trafic, painted to resemble a laundry truck, which Bridget Sumner had scrounged up from her chaise lounge with parasol, overlooking the bright blue Med.

  Fiero took the wheel. She chose back roads, the provenance of which was provided by the same military satellite photos that Bridget had procured for KSF Operating Base Šar. They didn’t rely on the GPS device in the truck—chucked it out the window, in fact, because if the truck fell into the wrong hands, a GPS device with its backed-up memory storage can become a liability. Fiero drove the laundry truck within two kilometers of Šar and parked it under a cluster of pine trees, well back from prying eyes.

  The team checked their equipment. Everyone wore black fatigue pants and lace-up boots, plus black undershirts and light ballistic vests. They also wore radios clipped to the back of their vests, with ear jacks and voice wands.

  Finnigan and Fiero carried their own handguns: A fifth-generation Glock 17 for him, chambered for 9mm bullets, which, for his money, was second to none in performance and durability. Fiero also preferred a 9-mil, but she liked the SIG-Sauer P226 Tactical Operations gun. Many women prefer a smaller gun for smaller hands, but Fiero had crewed racing yachts and had excelled in archery in college; her wrists and hands were strong enough for the full-size weapon. To compensate for the size, she favored the lighter-weight anodized alloy frame. Fiero wore hers slung low to her long thigh because she’d trained as a kickboxer and disliked a holster that limited her ability to pivot and strike.

  A cop from a cop’s family, Finnigan also carried a Halligan bar—a door-breaching tool that looked part pry bar, part hatchet, part tire iron. The thing could open virtually any door, if you didn’t mind leaving a smashed doorframe in your wake.

  The four soldiers-for-hire favored the Browning Fabrique Nationale GP35 handgun, for its pure stopping power.

  Fiero, McTavish, and Bianchi carried Canadian-made C8 assault carbines; the standard assault weapon for Fiero, and the heavier C8SWF for the guys, with its longer, heavier barrel and under-slung grenade launcher. McTavish had been trained in the British Special Air Service, where he’d first been introduced to the C8 and its curved, thirty-round box magazine. He adored his gun. He’d never given it a name, because to McTavish, that was a fetish only slightly less weird than guys who have a nickname for their penis.

  Beyond his Browning auto, chambered for .357 SIG ammunition, Lo Kwan also carried a wide array of knives and a small machete. He looked absurdly bulky under both a ballistic vest and the kind of fisherman’s vest favored by photojournalists, his Velcro-secured pockets bulging with explosives, triggers, timers, and det cord.

  Fekadu, the distance-shooter, strapped an Accuracy International AW50 to his back. His kit included a long, state-of-the-art sound suppressor, and he chose subsonic rounds so he could shoot from afar with a minimum of noise. The AW50 was as reliable as the traditional L96A1 sniper rifle, but designed to take out armored vehicles. With the use of an infrared scope, it could even eliminate targets inside bunkers by shooting straight through walls. The recoil was ferocious, but Fekadu figured the rotator cuff damage was a price worth paying for a gun that could essentially kill a Buick.

  Geared up and carrying rucksacks, the six of them took off from the cluster of trees at 0100 hours. They hiked east through a field of barley, then up a craggy hill, down a steep and rocky slope, and up the next hillside. They did this two more times. At the top of the final hill, McTavish spotted a felled tree that would make good cover, and they hunkered down. The tree was backlit from the glow of KSF Operating Base Šar, less than a kilometer away.

  Lo Kwan pulled binoculars out of his backpack and scanned the scene. “One … sorry, two guards at the gate,” he whispered. “Guard in the tower by that training field. Helipad but no helicopter. Lights in the admin building. Lights in Barracks One, Two, and Three. No lights, Barracks Four and Five. Also, one armed guard outside Barracks Three.

  Finnigan said, “The refugees.”

  McTavish stuffed chewing tobacco into his cheek. “We play by Mighty Quinn rules.”

  Finnigan glanced at Fiero.

  She nestled close to him, her hair up in a French braid. “Mighty Quinn: All without, or all within. Either we do this quietly and kill nobody, or we shoot every target we see.”

  He said, “The former’s better.”

  She said, “Sure,” and turned to the mercenaries. She tapped Lo Kwan on the shoulder. “Can you take the guard in the tower quietly?”

  “Of course.”

  She turned to Fekadu. “If Lo Kwan can get you the tower, can you control the whole base?”

  The Ethiopian nodded. “Much of it.”

  She nodded, turned to McTavish. “Midfielder and Striker take the tower. Keeper goes for the motor pool …”

  Finnigan checked the writing on his hand, thinking, Oh, right, that’s me.

  “… while you, me, and Wing Back take Barrack Three. Clear?”

  Brodie McTavish spat tobacco into the roots of the felled tree. “Now that,”—he grinned—“sounds like a feckin’ plan.”

  C42

  Belgrade

  The guard outside the Ragusa Logistics high-rise called inside to alert everyone that Major Basha had arrived.

  The major rolled his Explorer down the ramp and into the hundred-unit parking garage that stored Lazar Aleksić’s ever-growing classic car collection, including the Escalade, Stingray, Jaguar, and a gold-plate Humvee so ugly and useless it made Basha’s head swim. The rest of the garage was echoic and empty, without even proper oil stains on the poured concrete floor.

  Basha buttoned his suit jacket and strode up to the guard at the elevator, who called upstairs to have the lift sent down.

  He rode up to the penthouse alone, reminding himself not to pistol-whip the stupid young gangster-wannabe, with his insipid blond highlights and his cocaine habit. Idiot, Aleksić might be, but not so dumb that Basha had unfettered access to the kid’s trucking company, or his organized-crime connections throughout Europe. The youth was still useful, and he knew it.

  The elevator car was still four floors from the penthouse when Basha began to hear the reverberant backbeat of hip-hop music.

  He stepped out of the elevator and faced the night-shift sergeant, a soldier who’d been with Basha for three years and who had a good head on his shoulders. “The boy?”

  They spoke up to be heard over the rap music.

  “Clubbing for a while, sir. Came back early. I think he’s waiting up for you.”

  Basha checked his watch. It was just a bit past 1:00 a.m.

  He r
olled his eyes—the sergeant nodded and smiled—and strode into the living room.

  Lazar Aleksić stood, playing a classic arcade pinball game and drinking Dom Pérignon out of a Big Gulp cup with a clear plastic dome and a fat red straw. He wore an Oakland Raiders jersey and, around his neck, braided gold chains as thick as rattlesnakes. His back was to Basha, his attention thoroughly on the pinball game.

  Basha strode to the sound system and shut it off.

  “Who the fuck—” Aleksić spun and realized who it was, cutting off his response in midsnarl. “Hey, ah … Major.”

  Basha scanned the expansive room with its view of Old Town and the Slava and Danube rivers. Belgrade sparkled at night.

  “We have several refugees at our base,” he said. “You promised buyers for six girls and four boys.”

  Aleksić took a long sip of Champagne through the plastic straw. “Uh huh. Yeah. Sure do. You said France is shut down?”

  “It is,” Basha said, without explaining why they could not sell any slaves via the French route.

  “No problem, no problem. I have a broker in Krakow; he’ll take them. Honestly, I have a buyer right here in Belgrade. He wants two. We could move them today.”

  Basha said, “Two of what?”

  Aleksić shrugged. “I don’t think he’s all that picky.”

  Basha didn’t want details about the perversions of the buyers. He just wanted to count their money. He nodded.

  “So that’s twelve, total,” the young man said, nodding quickly. His eyes were wildly dilated. Basha noticed that his hair now had coppery red highlights, along with the blonde. That annoyed the major even more. “And, ah, let’s make it lucky thirteen.”

  “You have a thirteenth buyer?” Basha was thinking. Lt. Akil Krasniqi had reported that nineteen youths had just been transferred up from the refugee camp in Macedonia. Depending on what happened with the St. Nicholas fools and the International Criminal Court, these nineteen might be the last of the commodity for weeks or even months to come. Any of them that Aleksić could sell, they ought to. Any he couldn’t … well, digging ditches is a time-honored make-work project for soldiers. And ditches aren’t that different from graves.

  “I’m …” the youth wet his lips. He slurped more Champagne, his cheeks caving. His eyes glanced toward the buttery leather couch and the low, glass-topped coffee table. “I want one of them. The Muslims. For me.”

  Basha checked his watch. He had a plane to catch. “Why?”

  Aleksić hesitated.

  “What is it?”

  The kid wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his too-long Raiders jersey. “I just want one. Okay. I don’t need to explain why. I’ve got the trucks, and I’ve got the buyers, right? And we’ve got more of the little freaks than we do buyers. At least for now. We can afford for me to … use one.”

  Basha shook his head. “You’re not happy fucking every tart in heels at the clubs, that’s none of my business. If you—”

  “Don’t want to fuck ’em,” Lazar Aleksić said. His eyes glanced toward the coffee table again.

  The table, under which one of his whores had bled to death.

  Basha began to see. “You want a girl who …”

  “… no one will miss, right. Yes. Like … her.” Aleksić didn’t know the name of the girl he’d picked up at Club Obsidian. He hadn’t known then, and he hadn’t known when Basha shoved an ice pick into her heart. “You know … the girl you …?”

  Basha nodded. “I know.”

  “Well?”

  It was a tricky question. If Basha’s unit was moving heroin, and if their distributor was using the product overly much, Basha would simply have him killed and move to a different distributor. But slave trafficking was a tougher—if more lucrative—prospect. The distributors weren’t exactly falling from the trees. And it wasn’t quite the same as dealing with a junkie to sell junk. That was inherently stupid. This was just … risky.

  He said, “How old?”

  Aleksić shrugged. Nerves made him stutter. “I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Older, I suppose. Yes. Older.”

  Basha drew his mobile phone, the one with the security encryption built in. He placed a call to the officer of the day at KSF Operating Base Šar. Basha wasn’t worried that it was 0130 hours. Soldiers work when the work is needed.

  A voice answered after three rings. “Sir.”

  “Major Basha,” he barked. “Krasniqi?”

  “Yes, sir. I have the watch.” The lieutenant tried not to sound like he was struggling awake.

  “The nineteen,” Basha said, not using specific—criminally actionable—nouns, despite the encryption software. “Are they all of the same age?”

  “Ah …” He could hear Krasniqi gulp water, trying to wake up. “Yes, sir. More or less.”

  The younger they were, the higher the price they could demand among the most disturbed buyers. “Are there any that are older?”

  “Ah … one sir. A girl, Syrian, I think. She looks … I don’t know, eighteen maybe? Nineteen?”

  Basha said, “Get three of them up here tonight. The older girl, plus one boy and one girl. Bring the other ten up tomorrow. Understood?”

  “Sir.”

  “Good. Any problems there?”

  Krasniqi said, “None whatsoever, sir.”

  “Good. Out.”

  Basha hung up. “Ten for your buyer in Poland. Two for your buyer here. And ah … let’s call it a sales bonus. Shall we?”

  Lazar Aleksić grinned. He slurped Champagne.

  Earlier in the day, he’d sent one of his posse—that was the American term—to nick a brand-new ice pick from a restaurant supply store, without explaining why he wanted it.

  He was ready.

  C43

  Kosovo Security Force Operating Base Šar

  No more food was coming. Mohamed Bakour was sure of it. He decided the time had come to act.

  Jinan Koury had brought them this far. She didn’t even know Mohamed’s family, not really, and he knew for a fact that she’d had several opportunities to leave Mohamed and his little sister, Amira. Nobody would have blamed her if she’d left after her friend, the photojournalist, died. She could have left them at the last checkpoint, too.

  But she hadn’t.

  And now, the wise and worldly Jinan—who was so different from any girl Mohamed had ever imagined back home!—was as lost as they were. She had no idea where they were. She didn’t know a way out. They were prisoners, along with sixteen other refugees. These soldiers had no intention of getting them to the freedom of Europe. They were in enemy hands—as doomed as if they’d fallen into the clutches of President Assad’s forces or, worse yet, Daesh.

  So it was time for Mohamed to act like the man he was.

  First, no more food was coming. That was clear. They’d given Amira half of the one tasteless sandwich they’d had for the three of them—all wilted lettuce and mystery meat. Jinan had given Mohamed the other half, but he insisted on eating only a quarter and shoved the rest back into Jinan’s hands.

  The exotic English girl had looked so grateful.

  Mohamed had come to understand that he was madly in love with Jinan, even though she was ancient; at least twenty-five. Didn’t matter. She’d captured Mohamed’s heart, and he’d do anything to show her that he was man enough to protect her and Amira.

  One of the other Syrian kids had a wristwatch with a plastic strap and numbers that glowed in the dark. Mohamed squinted at it and realized it was well after one in the morning. No more food was coming, but probably no more guards, either. At least not until morning.

  Mohamed threw off the scratchy blanket and sat up. His wood-and-canvas cot groaned a little. Like the others, he slept in his clothes. He slipped on his Adidas sneakers and crept to the toilet room. He’d seen it before, when he’d needed to go. It smelle
d of mildew and men. The grout between the tiles was black with grit or green with fungus—it was hard to tell in the low light. He’d spotted windows earlier, and now he stood on one of the lidless toilets to see if the nearest one would open.

  It wouldn’t. From what Mohamed could tell, it hadn’t been designed to open, ever.

  He climbed down, listened for trouble, then checked two more windows. They were the same.

  He crept out of the bathroom and walked softly across the barracks room. At one of the windows he glanced out and saw the glow of a cigarette from the guard outside the one and only door. The glow reflected off the barrel of a rifle slung over the guard’s shoulder.

  Mohamed snuck into the cafeteria room next, walked between its rows of tables and benches. He spotted more of the small, square windows, the same as he’d seen in the toilet room.

  No hinges, no sliders. No hope.

  He crept farther into the room, into the dishwashing area with the large fridge—empty and unplugged; the stench of old milk wafted out when he checked.

  Would the guard outside smell it? The dead would smell that, Mohamed thought.

  He found a door that led outside, but with a padlock bigger than Mohamed’s fist.

  He jostled one of three big, plastic garbage cans with his hip. Something caught his eye.

  He shoved the can away from the wall. A square hatch had been cut into the wooden wall on the same side of the barracks building as the side door, facing Barracks Two. The access hatch was more or less the same size as the thick, gray plastic garbage bins.

  Fill them up, shove them outside to be collected by … whoever, whenever.

  The hatch was a door on tracks, above and below. It also had a small metal hasp, L-shaped, and another padlock. The hasp screwed into the wooden wall and was held in place by only one screw, although it had holes for two more. Mohamed touched the L-shaped bit of metal and jostled it a little with the tip of his finger.

  He returned to the cupboards beyond the empty fridge and the big double sinks. He opened them one at a time. In the fourth drawer, he found an old can and bottle opener, the size of a stick of gum, both ends angled up, one end squared off and the other pointed like an arrowhead. He’d seen his mother open bottles of Coke with the flat end and cans of soup with the arrowhead end.