The Hunting Command (Grey Areas Triptych Book 1) Page 7

  His thoughts slipped back to the report from Vienna he had just read. The tone was positive, and Porter knew there would be back-slapping rippling across the Atlantic. It was premature, but understandable; necessary even. The business of recovering the Vice President involved more than investigation and arrests. The morale of a nation was at stake. And that meant politics, in all its various shapes and shades, would colour and tug at decisions made over the next few days.

  Porter opened his eyes, replaced his spectacles and picked up another document. It was from the Baltimore field office, written by a Special Agent Breckinridge.

  The Governor had never cared much for his brother. As kids, through their teens and into adulthood, his brother had been a constant irritant: The Governor did extra chores to save for a GI Joe action figure; his brother called a radio station competition and won the version with the cool new kung-fu grip. The Governor made the high school basketball team; his brother was a quarterback. The Governor dated the Prom Queen; his brother married a model. The Governor studied law at Cornell; his brother got into Yale. The Governor’s official residence was the Executive Mansion of their home state; his brother’s address was Number One Observatory Circle, Washington DC.

  For his brother, luck wasn’t just a lady, she had Moses-like powers to push aside all choppy waters and ensure smooth, easy passage to any promised land his brother set his sights on.

  Shortly after securing a second term, the President’s running mate had suffered a fatal heart attack, and the inter-party manoeuvring, strategising and general horse-trading to find a successor had weaved a path to the Governor’s brother. Just two years after becoming a senator, his brother had been sworn in as the Vice President of the USA. Un-fucking-believable.

  His Deputy Press Secretary informed the gathered hacks there would be no questions. The Governor made his statement, allowing his voice to crack in the penultimate sentence as suggested by his Speechwriter. The hacks ignored the Deputy Press Secretary and asked their questions.

  ‘Governor, have you spoken to the Second Lady?’

  ‘Sir, do you expect a ransom demand?’

  ‘Who do you think is responsible?’

  ‘Is the upbeat reporting of the arrest in Vienna giving false hope? Have you resigned yourself to never seeing your brother alive again?’

  The Governor paused. Blinked. Then continued stepping down from the podium. As he exited the conference room, he heard one of his aides berating the last journalist. His name was Jackson, Jarvis? No, Jardine, from some network affiliate. He wasn’t usually that pitbullish. Or prescient.

  ‘Don’t worry Governor, I can flush that little turd.’

  He gave an acquiescent nod to his Deputy Press Secretary and followed his security detail to his next engagement.

  ‘Nice to see you again Governor,’ said Ryan Lachkovic. The Governor looked like a photoshopped version of his brother: the tan was slightly deeper, the skin seemed smoother (according to People magazine, both were the result of a regime involving extra virgin olive oil), the teeth were brighter (though that could have been down to the contrast with the darker skin), and the hair, styled in the same immaculate politician’s coif, seemed glossier. However, the comportment was a little too slick and polished: focus groups scored the Vice President higher for trustworthiness and sincerity. Lachkovic would need to have someone work on that.

  The Governor thrust out a hand as he crossed the restroom. ‘I hope we’re not going to meet like this too often in the future.’

  ‘We’re not meeting like this now,’ Lachkovic said.

  The Governor flashed a smile. ‘Of course not.’

  Ryan Lachkovic sipped his mineral water. The Chairman sucked at his teeth: he was too rich, too powerful and too old to care about après brunch etiquette. ‘Glad to hear the Governor hasn’t discovered any unextinguished embers of fraternal affection.’ The Chairman chuckled. ‘Ambitious son-of-a-bitch.’

  In fairness, the Governor’s ruthless streak was crucial to The Coalition’s strategy, but Lachkovic was sure their newly anointed preferred candidate for the upcoming presidential election was aware that string-puller condescension was part of the price for a ticket to the White House.

  The creasing at the corners of the Chairman’s eyes disappeared. ‘How concerned should we be by developments in Vienna?’

  Lachkovic sipped more water. ‘The Dane’s arrest is an unfortunate blip. But he had completed the task he’d been recruited for. His arrest will have no impact on the remainder of the operation.’

  ‘Careless of them to leave evidence around. Not the level of competence I was led to believe we had paid for.’

  ‘It is disappointing,’ Lachkovic admitted, ‘but the cell system Wald put in place means the Dane knows nothing that could be of any use to law enforcement. In fact if he were to tell everything he knows it would merely bolster the De Witte fiction.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  The Chairman clasped his thick fingers together and rested them on his bulking belly, nodding quietly, looking for all the world like a kindly blend of Colonel Sanders and Father Christmas. ‘I would suggest,’ he said, ‘it would be expedient to ask our project manager to arrange a little insurance.’

  Under Chapter 84, subsection (i) of Title 18 of the United States Code, the role of lead agency in the event of the assault, assassination or kidnap of the President, Vice-President or Presidential staff fell to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The subsection also stated the FBI could call for assistance from any federal, state, or local agency, including the armed forces. The FBI was running the show. On paper.

  But Gibson Ellis knew there would be manoeuvring among the various agencies, their top pay-grades executing a complicated choreography to reach a position where, depending on events, they could share credit or dodge blame. However, there was no fancy footwork that would help Ellis or his agency. The US Secret Service had lost the Vice President. More accurately, Ellis had lost the Vice President. Ranger had been his responsibility, and Ellis’s tenure as Special Agent in Charge would be over soon.

  His computer pinged: an email from the Department of Homeland Security. Ellis clicked it open … another updated list of what they were calling Viable Perpetrators. Ellis pushed his fingers through his hair as he half skimmed the list, wondering which VP took the VP. He didn’t notice any additions and decided he would pay more attention to the next update. That was if he still sat behind his desk when the update came through.

  Ellis’s replacement would be touching down at Vienna International Airport within the hour. He’d expected to be on the next plane back to DC, leaving behind the debacle Vienna had turned into, to face certain censure. But Ellis wasn’t being sent home. He’d been instructed to stay on in Austria to assist Special Agent (soon-to-be) in Charge Molly Wells in any way he could. The phrase cruel and unusual punishment came to mind.

  He gulped down a mouthful of black coffee. Ellis had never understood the coffeehouse enthusiasts’ desire for megachocochattanoogaccinos. At least Vienna offered quality coffee with a minimum of fuss, he thought, taking another slurp. He opened the CIA file on Rikki De Witte that he had printed out a few minutes earlier. He slid back into his chair and idly flicked through the file, knowing he should be more professional, but his heart just wasn’t—

  He snapped out of his slouch. There was a reference to a money laundering investigation Ellis had been involved in a few years back. He turned to his keyboard and typed in the file number next to the note in De Witte’s dossier, then cross referenced it with one of the names on the Viable Perpetrators list. On his monitor, light blue darted across the grey progress bar and a new file appeared. It included a number of images. Ellis scrolled through them …

  ‘Holy shit.’ On the screen was Rikki De Witte receiving a man-hug from a smiling Alejandro Quintero.

  Rikki De Witte had first experienced the pub quiz while serving in Afghanistan. A quiz team of British soldiers (calling themselves The Bowens) had been
a man short and they had press-ganged De Witte into joining them in a grudge match against The Kabul Canucks, an undefeated team from the Royal Canadian Air Force.

  ‘Question Eight. Only two South American countries do not use Portuguese or Spanish as an official language. Name those two countries and their official languages.’

  One of the Brits had leaned towards the centre of the table. ‘English in Guyana. And French in French Guiana?’

  ‘No, no, no!’ De Witte had said loudly. Then, more quietly, he had explained, ‘French Guiana is not a sovereign state, it is a part of France. The other answer is Suriname.’ He’d beamed a wide grin. ‘They speak Dutch.’

  The rest of the team had, for a reason lost on De Witte, called out, ‘Super, smashing, great!’

  A few years later De Witte would visit Suriname.

  After Suriname’s independence from the Netherlands, the Bauxite industry dominated the country’s economy. But other businesses saw opportunities: oil and gold reserves, agriculture, hydroelectric potential and, for a time, the international drugs trade.

  Positioned close to the continent’s drug suppliers and with links to the USA and Europe, in particular the Netherlands, Suriname was ideally placed to play a major role in drugs trafficking; for a while ten international criminal organisations were operating in the country. One of De Witte’s first post-army engagements had been providing security for a Dutch businessman on a trip to Suriname to meet with a group of Colombians. In reality, that was the limit of De Witte’s involvement with the South American drugs cartels. But The Coalition wouldn’t let that small detail interfere with the scenario they had carefully storyboarded.

  Kai Degen’s phone vibrated. It was a tweet from @blog2watch, retweeting @bcz237:

  please comment on new blog at greyareas.xyz

  Degen flicked the link to the website, and read the latest blog ...

  A green lifestyle is a worthy goal, but an unlikely prospect for those of us who enjoy holidaying abroad. An increase in tourist traffic surrendering to the pull of exotic cultures means far fewer holidays are taken at home. However, a new campaign is encouraging us all to plug into the fast growing craze for glamorous camping. ‘Glamping’, as it is known, now counts many eco-conscious celebrities among its enthusiastic participants ...

  It was a message, and the key to deciphering it was in the username bcz237, a Twitter account created specifically for this message. The letters b and c (second and third letters of the alphabet) told Degen he was looking for two three-word phrases. The numbers 237 told him to pick out the second, twenty-third, and thirty-seventh words from the blog text for the first phrase. The letter z indicated the second phrase was found by finding the twenty-sixth word after each of the words in the first phrase: the twenty-eighth, forty-ninth, and sixty-third words.

  The message read: green tourist taken. pull plug now.

  Green Tourist was the codename allocated to Kolinkar Øster.

  Degen scrolled to the comment box at the foot of the blog and typed: I’ll be taking this into account when planning my next outing.

  11. BONHOMIE

  ‘It’s him.’ Wide-eyed, Oktav Buzek hit the speaker icon on his phone:

  ‘—hear you’ve been looking for me.’

  Diether Adler leaned forward. ‘Kai, we need to talk to you.’

  ‘Hello Diether. What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘Current affairs.’

  ‘Ah. Not sure I can help you much. But it’ll be nice to catch up. It’s been a while. I’ve just ordered some food. Would you mind coming to me?’

  Adler’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where?’

  ‘The Halle Restaurant at the MQ. I have a table outside.’

  ‘We’ll be there directly.’

  ‘Want me to order anything for you?’

  ‘Not just yet. We’ll be there soon.’ Adler thumbed Disconnect on Buzek’s phone. He looked up.

  Buzek’s lips were pursed.

  ‘What is it?’ said Adler.

  Sheepishly, Buzek shrugged and said, ‘I could eat something.’

  Degen watched as Adler and Buzek crossed the MQ’s main courtyard, their casual attire concealing the possibility of violence. Degen waved to them, although he knew they would have known where he was sitting for at least fifteen minutes, a little before he had caught the winking of light (bouncing off the lens of a rifle scope) behind one of the windows in the building opposite. In addition to the sniper, men would be posted at every exit.

  He took another large bite from the burger he was holding in both hands, and he rested his elbows on the table, keeping his hands clearly in view. As Degen chewed he thought about how he would go about beating the sniper: He would wait until Adler and Buzek were seated, then he would call a waitress over and complain loudly about his food. He would quickly escalate the scene by becoming abusive to the three men at the table in front of him. When the men stood, he would throw himself at Adler—Diether would have to be taken out first, his reactions were faster than Buzek’s—then he would grab Adler’s Glock, wound Buzek, probably in the leg, and then pistol-whip Adler. Customers would be scrambling in every direction, preventing the sniper from having a clear shot. He would race for the exit beneath the sniper, quickly getting below his angle of fire. After that there would only be the sentries outside the exit to take care of.

  But there would be no need for any of that.

  Buzek and Adler slid into the seats opposite Degen. He laid down the burger and wiped his hands on the napkin he’d placed to the side of his plate (again to ensure his hands stayed in plain sight). Elbows once again on the table, Degen clasped his hands together and rested his chin on the knuckles of his thumbs. He grinned. ‘It was kind of you to instruct the sniper to be a little clumsy setting up,’ he said. ‘Is that Matthias up there?’

  Adler nodded. ‘If everyone knows the score, no one gets hurt. Just because I know it’s possible you could have snatched the Vice President, doesn’t mean I actually believe you did it.’ Adler smiled. ‘I’m not sure your balls are that big.’

  ‘Obviously someone thinks they are.’

  Although his smile drained a little, Adler’s eyes remained friendly. ‘You’re on the list.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Degen reached for his beer, took a sip and waited.

  Adler and Buzek noticed movement to their right. Claudia appeared with the two beers and the portion of kartoffelpuffers Degen had ordered when he’d spied the sniper.

  He waved towards Buzek. ‘Kartoffelpuffers are for Oktav.’

  As Claudia placed the potato pancakes in front of Buzek, Degen picked up the wallet he’d also left on the table and pulled out what he estimated to be twice the bill he and Florian had racked up. He handed the money to the waitress and said, ‘I’m really very sorry about this morning Claudia.’

  ‘Not at all—’ Claudia gaped at the notes. ‘Oh, this is too much.’

  ‘No. I was a jerk earlier. It’s the least I can do.’

  The waitress blushed, thanked him and left.

  Arms folded, Adler stared at Degen like a sceptic scrutinising a magician. ‘You’ve been here? All day.’

  Degen smiled and nodded. He picked up his beer mug, clinked it against the glass opposite Adler and said loudly, ‘Stately Home!’

  Adler snorted.

  Degen and Adler had known each other since their first posting to the Balkans with the Austrian Armed Forces Special Operations group. The Jagdkommando often trained with foreign counterparts, and Degen and Adler had been selected for a course with the Green Berets. After holding their own over two gruelling weeks, they found themselves in a bar being toasted by one of their American hosts, who, while fluent in Spanish and Italian, knew next to no German, but gamely tried to honour his guests in their native tongue by raising his glass and bellowing Schloss!

  ‘Stately Home,’ Adler said. ‘You’ll still have to come with us.’

  Degen shrugged.

  The Congressmen from New Mexico, Idaho and Utah fol
lowed Ryan Lachkovic’s secretary out of his office. Getting them in a room together had done the trick. New Mexico and Utah had nudged Idaho over his last few doubts; all three were now on board with the proposed Federal Land Reinstatement bill.

  Lachkovic checked his appointments: Matthew Harriot in thirty minutes. Harriott was one of the candidates being groomed for the gubernatorial elections due in two years. This wouldn’t be the first time the two had met: Lachkovic knew Harriott from their time in the pharmaceutical business. Back then Harriott had been a colossal prick, requiring Lachkovic to develop turning-the-other-cheek into a superpower. This meeting would be different; it may be good to be the king, but being a kingmaker had its perks.

  As there was no right to an attorney during police questioning in Austria, the only people in the interview room were Degen and two Federal Police investigators. Feiersinger and Adler watched from the other side of the one-way-glass window.

  Degen had offered no resistance. Degen had politely answered everything he had been asked. Degen had cooperated with the air of someone resigned to officialdom going about its business. Unruffled, slightly bored, his demeanour was that of someone opening a bank account, or passing through airport security, or buying a mobile phone.

  Feiersinger tutted. ‘This is frustrating.’

  Adler wondered what Feiersinger had expected.

  Turning his back to the one-way-glass, Feiersinger said, ‘I must admit, part of me will be a little disappointed if the genius behind this business isn’t Austrian.’

  Adler cocked a curious eyebrow.

  Feiersinger answered with a thin smile. ‘Warped national pride,’ he said as he turned round and gazed into the interview room. Degen was asking where he should send the bill for repairing his apartment door. ‘If not Degen,’ said Feiersinger, ‘who?’