The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1) Read online

  greyareas triptych

  The Hunting Command

  Slipping

  Theseus of Ship

  Each book in the triptych can be read as a stand alone novel (in different but overlapping genres); together they tell their own story.

  THE HUNTING COMMAND is part kidnap-procedural / part political thriller / part origin story; it introduces Kai Degen: a dark, modern-day Robin Hood. Think Danny Ocean channelling Jack Bauer.

  The US Vice President’s motorcade is attacked in Vienna: vehicles are wrecked, agents are incapacitated, the VP is taken. $1billion is demanded. But the plot’s architects are unaware that their plan has been hijacked.

  Previews of SLIPPING and THESEUS OF SHIP can be found at the end of THE HUNTING COMMAND.

  greyareas triptych

  THE

  HUNTING

  COMMAND

  macalisterstevens

  THE

  HUNTING

  COMMAND

  COPYRIGHT

  This is a work of fiction. It draws from historical record, however all characters and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  © 2015 macalisterstevens

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.

  THE

  HUNTING

  COMMAND

  for Louise and Belinda

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PART 1

  1. POSTLIMINARY

  2. OPENING

  3. CHOICES

  4. BRIEFING, BEER & BULLETS

  5. WAITING

  6. SUSPECTS

  7. MOTIVES

  8. FUNDING

  9. BETRAYAL

  10. CONNECTIONS

  11. BONHOMIE

  12. SACRIFICE

  13. CASUALTIES

  14. BREAKING NEWS

  15. EYE OF THE STORM

  16. INFLUENCE

  17. RECRUITMENT

  18. SERVICES RENDERED

  19. ASSESSMENTS

  20. THE RETURN

  21. NARRATIVES

  22. OBSERVATION

  23. DECISIONS

  24. DECEPTION

  25. DISCLOSURE

  PART 2

  26. CONSPIRACY

  27. RELOCATION

  28. DISCOVERY

  29. MASQUERADE

  30. DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE

  31. REUNION

  PART 3

  32. CONSEQUENCES

  33. EXPOSURE

  34. PERNICIOUS AMBITION

  35. AMERICAN DREAM

  36. CARNAGE

  37. VICTIMS

  38. ENLIGHTENMENT

  39. BREAKTHROUGH

  40. COMMUNICATION

  41. RECOVERY

  42. REGULATION

  43. ALIBI

  44. LOOSE ENDS

  45. ENDGAME

  46. COMPLETION

  47. DOMINOES

  48. CODA

  CHARACTERS

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Preview of SLIPPING

  Preview of THESEUS OF SHIP

  PART 1

  Those who deny freedom to others, deserve it not for themselves.

  Abraham Lincoln

  1. POSTLIMINARY

  No good deed goes unpunished pretty much summed up Sammy Kincade’s take on life. Altruism had no place in his world. But Kincade was Virginia born and bred, and southern hospitality still swished around his veins. ‘You hungry?’ he asked the Colombian. ‘I can send one of my guys. You want a burrito?’

  The Colombian glared at him. ‘Do I look Mexican?’

  Did he look Mexican? Of course he fucking did.

  The spic had been a moody son-of-a-bitch from the get-go … but this was a well-paid gig, so Kincade kept his hell yeah to himself. However, machismo demanded some kind of retort: ‘Have a corn dog, have a slice of pizza, go fucking hungry. No difference to me. Only trying to be mein fucking host.’

  The Colombian lobbed a nod behind Kincade, towards the wooden stairs leading up out of the basement. ‘You are not needed here.’

  Kincade turned and climbed. ‘No need to be all gushy.’ Old, loose wood protested at each sullen stomp. ‘You’re welcome. No trouble at all. Happy to help. Mi casa es su casa. Or is that too fucking Mexican for you—’

  The door at the top of the stairs slammed shut, cutting off Kincade’s carping.

  The Colombian accepted that there were advantages to using Kincade and his men rather than importing his own crew, and the Americans had been well-organised and capable—they had hijacked the prisoner transport effectively and their local knowledge had yielded this abandoned farmhouse for the Colombian to work in—but useful gringos were still gringos.

  Sunlight speared through a trio of mesh-covered windows along the top of the wall behind the Colombian, stretching his shadow across the floor to a leaning tower of detritus. Timeworn dolls huddling in a split cardboard box, assorted paint-dribbled tins, and rusted, busted tools were piled on top of the tattered grey upholstery of a now three-legged sofa that Kincade’s men had pushed against the far wall. The centre of the basement was now clear, apart from a sturdy wooden stool and the gringo kneeling next to it.

  The Colombian stepped forward, reached down and pulled the hood from the gringo’s head. He squatted and studied the anxious blinking that was corralling moisture into the corners of the gringo’s eyes. ‘How are you liking the irony?’ the Colombian asked.

  The gringo—silenced by duct tape—responded by dropping his chin to his chest.

  ‘You know the word Lugarteniente?’

  The gringo looked up and shook his head.

  ‘It means deputy. I am Lugarteniente to a powerful man. That man is also my friend. My friend has many Sicarios and Halcones. The Sicarios are our soldiers. The Halcones are our eyes and ears. Our Halcones tell us that you and your friends tried to do a very bad thing to my friend.’ The Colombian shrugged. ‘But your friends are your friends no more. They want you dead.’ The Colombian waved a finger in the gringo’s face. The gringo recoiled, bringing his hands—still in US Marshal handcuffs—up for protection. The Colombian gently pushed the hands down. ‘You need new friends,’ he said softly. A wide grin spread across the Colombian’s face. ‘I could be your friend.’ The grin melted. ‘Or not. Up to you.’ The Colombian straightened and gazed down at the gringo. ‘Would you prefer we were friends?’

  An uncertain nod.

  ‘Good.’ The Colombian reached down, hauled the gringo to his feet, and guided him to the stool. ‘Sit.’

  The gringo sat.

  ‘You have provided the FBI with information about your former friends and their involvement in the abduction. You will share that information with me. I also want to know everything you have not told the FBI.’ The Colombian ripped the duct tape from the gringo’s face. ‘If you do this I will be happy, and we will have a drink to toast our new friendship.’ The Colombian bent down and pulled the shoes and socks from the gringo’s feet.

  ‘What …’ The gringo cleared his throat. ‘What are you doing?’

  From a back pocket, the Colombian produced a set of secateurs. ‘If I am not happy with what you tell me, you will need smaller shoes.’ He raised his free hand and studied the gap between forefinger and thumb. The gap was the length of the gringo’s big toe. ‘About this much smaller.’

  The gringo�
��s eyes widened.

  The Colombian sniffed and crinkled his nose. He waved the secateurs at the gringo’s crotch. ‘I see we will not need a toilet break for a while. Let us begin.’

  2. OPENING

  12 years ago

  Galina Draganova knew it was over. Nestor Persopoulos had made too many mistakes, and now he’d lost his queen.

  Nestor tugged at the tuft of dark hair under his bottom lip … then he tipped over his king and stretched a hand across the chessboard.

  Galina unleashed a wide grin.

  ‘You smile like your grandmother,’ Nestor said.

  True, but how could he know that? Since Nestor’s arrival, Baba Yana had been atypically smile-free; the young Greek’s joke about being part of a culinary espionage ring there to steal Baba Yana’s recipe for tripe soup hadn’t been the wisest opening line. Though to be fair to him, Nestor hadn’t known that Baba Yana often grumbled about Greece receiving the credit for yogurt and cucumber soup, stuffed vine leaves, moussaka and other Bulgarian dishes.

  There had been only one way to sorbet the situation: chess in the park.

  Ah, thought Galina. When she’d gone to her room to fetch her chess set, Nestor had been alone with Baba Yana. No doubt wanting to look anywhere but into her grandmother’s critical gaze, Nestor must have noticed Baba Yana’s shelf devoted to assorted photographs featuring highlights from Galina’s seventeen years: triumphant early steps; snow angel; modelling her first school uniform; learning to swim; hoisting her first chess trophy; singing at a cousin’s wedding; and—the centrepiece of the display—a beaming Baba Yana holding her infant granddaughter.

  Nestor mimed tipping a hat. ‘And you are an even better player now.’

  It had been a year since they’d last played. They’d been on a park bench then too, in Aristotelous Square in Thessaloniki. Both of their schools had been knocked out in the quarter finals of an international chess championship taking place in Greece’s second city, and Galina had been lured away from watching the remaining matches by Nestor’s offer to show her the sights. Nestor, easy on the eye and a year older, had been a charismatic guide. Galina’s crush had been inevitable.

  They’d kept in touch, practising English in long letters, managing one a week for a while, but their correspondence became shorter, and less frequent, eventually withering to a postcard (of the snow-capped Pirin Mountains) that Galina had mailed four months earlier.

  But a few weeks ago Nestor had sent a rambling mishmash of gossip, second-hand anecdotes and stories lifted from music magazines. Galina would have preferred something a little more personal, but she’d been pleased to hear from him.

  She’d been part way through a first draft of a reply when another letter had arrived. This one was brief: Nestor had an uncle working as a chef at a hotel in Sidirokastro, just over the border, and the uncle had arranged for Nestor to work there during the summer, which meant Nestor was just sixty kilometres from Galina’s home in Sandanski. And he wanted to see her.

  And now here he was, sporting a soul patch, a linen suit and a confident swagger. Like the rakish one in a boyband.

  12 years later

  ‘They’re playing party politics. It’s shameful.’

  ‘Of course it is honey, but you’re the one who wanted to be in showbiz for the ugly,’ said the Second Lady, rolling her eyes am-dram style.

  The Vice President laughed.

  His wife laughed.

  And US Secret Service Special Agent in Charge Gibson Ellis released the breath he’d been holding. He was no Dr Phil, but experience had taught him that husbands and wives should never debate politics, especially when they were video chatting while four and a half thousand miles apart. Thankfully the Vice President’s wife always slipped in their private joke at the right moment to deflate his bombast.

  She glanced at her watch. ‘I reckon we’re minutes away from one of Gibson’s wind-it-up coughs.’ She raised her voice a fraction: ‘Is that right Gibson?’

  ‘We’re good ma’am,’ Ellis white-lied; the Vice President was scheduled to be at the United Nations Office in Vienna in forty-four minutes.

  The Vice President reached out a hand to his laptop monitor and his fingertips brushed the side of his wife’s face. ‘In any case,’ he said, ‘you should be asleep.’ It was morning in Vienna, but the middle of the night in Washington DC.

  For an eternally-long two minutes, Ellis studied the carpet while the couple cooed their goodbyes. Then the Vice President closed the laptop and turned to Ellis. ‘Bet your toes curl every time you have to hear us do that.’

  ‘All part of the job, Mister Vice President.’

  ‘But you’d rather take a bullet.’

  Ellis smothered a smile.

  12 years ago

  Galina finished re-setting the board; Nestor would be black. She opened and said, ‘Better luck this time.’

  Nestor winked and made his first move. ‘Still singing?’

  Galina responded. ‘All the time.’

  Nestor gave his pawn a nudge forward. ‘Still good?’

  Galina smiled as she closed down his advance. ‘Baba Yana says I sound like an angel.’ She clasped her hands together and made a faux innocent face.

  After a few quiet moves, Nestor went on the attack. ‘Do you want a job?’

  Galina laughed. Then she tutted and muttered, ‘Zugzwang.’ The chess term meant she would be at a disadvantage whichever move she made next. She opted for what she hoped was the least risky option. She smiled sweetly.

  Nestor pressed forward, making the most of his advantage. ‘Well?’

  Galina’s smile ebbed a little. Nestor didn’t appear to be joking. She looked down at the board … and gave ground. ‘What kind of job?’

  ‘The hotel has been let down,’ he said, ‘they need a singer for the summer.’

  Galina looked up. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Very.’ Nestor grinned. He had just moved his queen. ‘Checkmate.’

  12 years later

  He caught his reflection in a window across the street. The cut of his dark suit hid the handgun at his hip, and although the shadow of a nearby tree obscured his face, he could make out the curly white wire behind his left ear. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses; now he really looked the part.

  In his ear, the US Secret Service command centre—based at the US embassy—alerted the agents on duty that Ranger was on the move. Soon the route the Vice President’s sixteen-vehicle motorcade would take from the Ambassador’s residence to the Vienna International Centre would bring it close to his position. And the snipers placed on nearby rooftops would guarantee Ranger was redirected his way.

  12 years ago

  Baba Yana filled her glass with rakia that she’d distilled herself; the alcohol content was around fifty percent—she didn’t like it too strong. She took a sip. Set the glass back down on the kitchen table. Said nothing.

  In a near whisper, Galina said, ‘You don’t approve.’

  Baba Yana gazed at her glass as though she and the rakia were silently communing. Then she said, ‘It is not my decision to make. You must ask your father.’

  Galina sighed.

  When her older brother Mikhail had been offered a scholarship for engineering undergraduates at the prestigious Imperial College London, her father had travelled with him and found work in the English capital. They had rooms in a house in a place called Stepney.

  Galina’s father had tried, and failed, to persuade Baba Yana to lift her ban on a telephone in her home. She liked to talk—it was one of her favourite things—but only when it suited her, not at the ring of a bell. ‘I’m not one of that Russian fellow’s dogs!’ were often the last words on the subject. However, Baba Yana’s oldest friend, Doctor Papazov, had no issue with telephones, and once a month he would receive a visit from Galina and her grandmother.

  While they waited for Galina’s father to call from London, Baba Yana and the retired doctor would reminisce, their anecdotes peppered with good-nature
d teasing; the pair referred to each other as Old Man Papazov and Old Woman Draganova with an affection that made Galina wonder if they’d ever been more than just friends-since-childhood. Galina looked forward to their stories and their gentle flirting almost as much as the conversations she had with her father when he called.

  But that month’s call had been six days earlier. So, that was that. Nestor and the hotel needed a decision soon. They couldn’t wait three weeks.

  ‘Don’t be sad,’ Baba Yana said. ‘Just because something can be done, doesn’t mean it should be done.’ Another sip of rakia. ‘A cow can be led up stairs, but cows can’t walk down stairs.’ Baba Yana smiled. ‘Would you have a cow live in your room?’

  The thought dissolved a little of Galina’s disappointment, and she returned a quantum of her grandmother’s smile. ‘If it meant I could be paid to sing, I’d plant grass at the foot of my bed. Enough for a herd.’

  Baba Yana pursed her lips, tapped her rakia glass … then said, ‘Tomorrow we will ask Old Man Papazov if we may make a telephone call to London.’

  Galina’s elated squeal ricocheted around the kitchen.

  12 years later

  The motorcade comprised a third of the vehicles that would have been used to transport the President. As with the Commander-in-Chief, when abroad, the Secret Service did not allow the Vice President to travel in any vehicle other than those they’d had flown in from the United States. For this trip that meant one of five specially adapted SUVs (black, of course). Towards the rear of the motorcade were two fifteen-seater vans for journalists; Sean Jerome and his cameraman were in the van designated Press One.