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

  Adler decided to assume Feiersinger was thinking out loud; Adler had already given the politico his assessment: Although he wouldn’t rule out there being a demand for a ransom, Adler expected the motivation behind the US Vice President’s kidnapping would soon be revealed to be an ideological one. And that would mean there would be a hierarchy. Those behind the US VP’s kidnapping would have put together a number of subcontractors, each responsible for a team allocated a specific task. There would be a strategy of limiting information among the subcontractors, reducing the possibility of loose lips. If the Dutchman De Witte had been involved in the abduction, it would have been as a subcontractor in charge of a cell. De Witte’s shooting had likely been the severing of a link in a chain of cells. It was possible Degen had been recruited to lead a separate crew, or to coordinate a number of cells. But if that were the case, it was extremely doubtful Degen would have spent half the day hanging out at the MuseumsQuartier: you don’t leave your best player on the bench for a cup final.

  So Feiersinger had a decision to make: let Degen go, or have him arrested. An arrest would require Degen to appear before an investigative judge within twenty-four hours. The complete absence of evidence would see Degen immediately released. Feiersinger’s authorisation of a Jagdkommando team to find Degen (which, in view of Degen’s easy-going cooperation, looked to be overkill) could be argued to be an understandable response to earlier events, but reasonable investigation was in danger of stretching into legally questionable action.

  It was obvious to Adler that Feiersinger would make the politically astute move of convincing himself Degen was a dead end. At the moment, Feiersinger was covered. Pushing the Degen hunch any further was just too risky. Particularly with De Witte and Øster presenting more tangible connections to the VP’s abduction.

  12. SACRIFICE

  Gibson Ellis closed the good work email from Washington. Spotting a link between Rikki De Witte and Alejandro Quintero had also earned Ellis a couple of back-slaps and a few thumbs-ups from various agents, plus a high-five from one of the embassy secretaries. He wished he could share in the lightened mood. Ellis checked his watch: his replacement would arrive soon.

  ‘You wanted to see me boss.’

  James Kang stood at Ellis’s door; one foot inside the office, the other outside. Much like me, Ellis thought. ‘FBI and DEA are coordinating with Europol,’ he said. ‘They’re putting together a list of Quintero’s European contacts. There may be a few doors to knock on soon.’ By then Kang would be calling Molly Wells boss. ‘In the meantime, we’ve to move the Dane.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘The Austrians want Øster ...’ Ellis turned from Kang’s frown and read from his monitor: ‘The Austrian Federal Ministry of the Interior was happy to accommodate the US Secret Service by authorising the initial interrogation of the suspect Kolinkar Øster to take place at US Embassy facilities, however, in accordance with standard protocols, please expedite transfer of Kolinkar Øster to the Bundespolizei, blah, blah, blah.’

  ‘And we’re just going to—’

  Ellis held up a hand. ‘We’re going to play ball Jimmy. They want Øster in a secure location. And we’re hardly in a position to brag about our security arrangements, are we?’

  Kang opened his mouth, his jaw hung slack for a moment, then clamped shut.

  ‘You go with Øster,’ Ellis said. ‘Take Calhoun with you. See if some fresh air will ease his funk.’

  The pot calling another pot a pot, thought Kang. He nodded and left Ellis to his depressed chi.

  The only agent taking Ranger’s abduction harder than Ellis was Daniel Calhoun. Kang found him at his desk. At least Calhoun was staring at his monitor, not the wall. Kang slapped Calhoun’s shoulder. ‘Get your jacket. Field trip.’

  ‘Another one!’

  Glad he had decided not to break the news in person, Feiersinger lowered the handset from his ear, placed it on his desk and waited for the tinny tirade to end ...

  ‘—it’s on-going? On-going! This is unacceptable ...’

  A second gun battle in the middle of Vienna had always been a likely possibility. Feiersinger had hoped it would be part of a Jagdkommando action to retrieve the Vice-President, not an operation by the American’s kidnappers to rescue one of their own.

  Feiersinger stopped paying attention to the words. The yelling would be over soon. He would guide the Chancellor back towards a more considered frame of mind and they could all get back to their jobs. For Feiersinger that would mean damage control. When the shooting stopped.

  The SIG Sauer P229 quivered: Calhoun’s training had deserted him. Bullets clunk-clanked into the other side of the German-made multi-purpose vehicle he and Kang were hunkered behind. The MPV was solid, and it had been fitted with bullet resistant polycarbonate and multi-layered ballistic nylon armour, but there was a difference between bullet resistant and bullet proof.

  ‘Damn near the same trick they pulled this morning,’ spat Kang.

  What had appeared to be a police motorcycle outrider had sped up to the lead Federal Police VW Golf Estate in their convoy and slapped a rounded object against the car’s hood. The object turned out to be an updated version of the sticky bombs used against tanks by the British during the Second World War.

  The impact with the hood had activated the sticky bomb’s short fuse. The outrider had dropped back. And the sticky bomb’s explosive had ripped into the lead vehicle’s engine. As though stomped on by a giant foot, the VW’s rear end tipped up and the car tumbled twice before screech-scraping to a crumpled stop.

  The second vehicle, a Mercedes Sprinter adapted and armoured for prisoner transport, had stopped a metre from the wreck. But a second police VW had ploughed into the back of the Mercedes van. Calhoun and Kang, in the rear vehicle, had time to brake. But then the suppressive fire had begun from a Würstelstand on the other side of the road. The Secret Service agents and the Austrian police officers—a few injured, all shaken—had quickly spilled onto the street, seeking cover behind their vehicles.

  Fucking ironic. That’s what Calhoun wanted on his gravestone. There he was, risking his life to safeguard a lead that could potentially expose his own part in the VP’s abduction. He could just stay out of it. Should stay out of it. But ...

  Calhoun blew out a long breath and willed away the trembling. He reached for the P290 sub-compact strapped to his ankle, then tucked it into the back of his belt. In one fluid movement Calhoun rose and spun round, lifting the P229 in a steady two-handed grip towards the muzzle flashes from the Würstelstand.

  ‘Danny!’

  Ignoring Kang’s call, Calhoun stepped away from the attempt to pull him back. Kang’s fingertips clawed air, but Calhoun was already firing.

  Blam! Blam! Blam!

  Moving forward steadily.

  Blam! Blam! Blam!

  Shoulders blading to make himself a smaller target.

  Blam! Blam! Blam!

  Stepping into the middle of the road.

  Blam! Blam! The slide of the P229 locked backwards: the magazine was empty.

  Movement in the Würstelstand. The shooter was shifting position, gaining a better aim at Calhoun.

  Kang sprung up, aimed over the roof of the MPV and fired three shots towards the Würstelstand. The shooter spun round and down, disappearing inside the stand.

  Anxious, angry shouts pulled Kang’s attention towards the Mercedes Sprinter. At least two of the Austrian officers were down—looked like crash injuries not bullet wounds—and were being attended to by shaken comrades. One officer yelled into his radio.

  Ducking low, Kang made his way towards the Sprinter; he reckoned next to the van was a better position. As he moved, Kang glanced towards Calhoun. A dark oblong fell from Calhoun’s hand to his feet. Before the empty magazine hit the ground Calhoun had clicked in a replacement.

  The howl of an engine, the squeal of tyres. A motorcycle raced past Calhoun. It took a moment for Kang to realise the engine’s roar was competing with the r
apid snarl of an Uzi. He hit the ground. Engine and Uzi fell silent. A metallic thunk. The motorcycle growled to life again, then sped off.

  Shifting into a crouched position, Kang looked towards Calhoun. On his knees, head heavy on his chest, Calhoun’s empty fingers hung limply above the handgun on the ground.

  Thwoooooom!

  Temperature and pressure around Kang distorted instantly as a wall of dense air slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. His ears were ringing, but he could make out the thrumming of the motorcycle returning. From the Würstelstand, the suppressive fire started again—klunk-thunk-clank.

  Crawling back to the front of the MPV, Kang risked a look: still hunched on his knees, Calhoun reached behind his back, then lifted his head and pointed forward.

  Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!

  A screeeeeching crunching crash. More muzzle flashes from within the Würstelstand. Calhoun jerked. Slumped. Flopped forward. As his face hit the tarmac, his sub-compact skittered along the ground in front of him. He stretched towards his weapon. His fingers extended. Twitched. Fell limp.

  Kang leapt to his feet and fired again into the Würstelstand—the shooter fell to the side, then forward, over the counter and tumbled to the pavement. Kang turned towards the Sprinter. A sticky bomb had torn a large, ragged hole in the van’s side.

  A few metres away, wedged in the wreck of the lead VW, was a bloodied tangle of motorcycle and rider. Next to a streak of tyre marks, lay another body. Facedown. Unmoving. It was Øster.

  Clusterfuck, thought Special Agent in Charge Molly Wells. She re-read the situation summary: VP missing. No credible claims of responsibility. No word from the abductors since early morning. The predictable jurisdictional turf wars. One assassinated Dutch mercenary with links to a Colombian drug lord. One arrest quickly followed by a broad-daylight assault on a police convoy resulting in more deaths, including one agent.

  Wells looked up and said to the Federal Police liaison, ‘It says here that during the attack on the vehicles transporting the Dane, a number of Austrian inspektors were injured. Is inspektor a rank, or a term for detective, or …?’

  ‘Apologies. The embassy staff and Secret Service agents I have been dealing with thus far are familiar with that term. In the Bundespolizei, an Inspektor is what many police forces refer to as a Constable. In the USA, a Police Officer. I should have translated that for you. So sorry.’

  Wells didn’t need any help translating superciliousness. ‘Thank you.’ She smiled thinly and tilted her head towards the door of her office. ‘I’d like to confer with Agent Ellis.’

  The liaison’s returned smile added another layer of condescension.

  Don’t let it hit you in the ass, Wells thought as the liaison closed the door behind him. She said, ‘This gig is a Poison Chalice.’

  Gibson Ellis nodded, but Wells could tell she didn’t have his full attention; her predecessor had cloaked himself in self-pity. So much for bonding over the shit-end of the stick he had passed to her. Wells wanted to send Ellis away too. Get him out of the building. Out of the country. Out of her sight. But her instructions were to keep him nearby. Ostensibly, Wells was in charge in Vienna. In reality she would be a marionette for Washington’s micromanagement. And she had been told Ellis was to remain part of the team. Wells figured that at some point it would be necessary to offer the media a head on the other end of her dipped-in-shit stick.

  13. CASUALTIES

  ‘We have names for the assailants. Police have identified the shooter in the food stand and the motorcyclist as Volkan Dağ and Murat Kavlak. Thugs for hire. Both Austrian-born, of Turkish descent.’ Feiersinger looked up from the file on his desk. ‘Names familiar to any of you?’

  As one, Adler, Buzek and Haas replied, ‘No.’

  ‘I see.’ Feiersinger shuffled through papers. ‘Well, several teams of investigators have been assigned to probe into Dağ’s and Kavlak’s recent movements and activities. In the meantime, Øster is officially dead. And I expect you to keep him safe until it’s time for him to be officially alive again.’

  Adler glanced at Buzek and Haas. Neither seemed thrilled with the assignment. He certainly wasn’t.

  Feiersinger ignored their frowns. ‘I’ve arranged Øster’s discreet transfer to the Jagdkommando garrison at Wiener Neustadt. I’m counting on you to make the most of your home advantage.’

  ‘I’ll need Manz,’ said Adler. ‘Can you arrange the police to step up their surveillance of Lacroix?’

  Feiersinger nodded. ‘I’ll attend to that. Although it appears Lacroix is preoccupied with purchasing pastries.’

  ‘What about Degen?’ asked Haas.

  ‘He was voluntarily assisting with enquiries when the police convoy was attacked.’ Feiersinger held up a hand. ‘I know, that doesn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t involved, but …’ Feiersinger sighed. ‘He’s been released.’

  Degen informed the police he was staying at a hotel near the Schubertring section of the Ringstrasse, close to the Stadtpark. Before he was officially released, members of a surveillance team acquired a pass key and found suitably sneaky places in Degen’s room for their tiny microphones.

  An hour after his release, Degen was keeping the surveillance team entertained by first singing in the shower and then by choosing a Til Schweiger comedy from the on-demand movie selection. It wasn’t until the absolute silence that followed the end credits that the team suspected they had been given the slip.

  Degen had walked from Schubertring to Karlsplatz U-Bahn station, taken the U2 to Volkstheater, switched to the U3, but he’d gotten off one stop later at Neubaugasse, then walked to Burgasse-Stadthalle where, confident he hadn’t been followed, he took the U6 to Währinger Strasse. From there it was a short walk to the Alsergrund District apartment.

  Juan Vicente Ibáñez let him in.

  ‘Lucas?’ Degen asked.

  ‘He checked in twenty minutes ago. He had a bit of luck. The Jagdkommando withdrew and was replaced by more police. Lucas will ditch them within the hour.’

  ‘Good,’ Degen said. In a few hours the Federal Police would receive a courtesy call from the K&R division of a Swiss insurance company. The police would be told that Lucas Lacroix had requested that the company inform the authorities that he and Degen had been asked to consult on a sensitive issue for one of their clients; the company was not at liberty to discuss the details, but they could confirm that it had been necessary for Degen and Lacroix to relocate quickly and discreetly to a different part of the Schengen Area.

  ‘How is our guest?’ Degen asked.

  Ibáñez shrugged. ‘No trouble. The doc is with him.’

  From the kitchen, Ernst Ebner nodded hello and offered Degen a beer.

  There was no need to mention Dağ or Kavlak or Øster. Facts couldn’t be altered by commiserations or recriminations. Degen grabbed the offered bottle and made his way to the living room. The TV was on, volume low. Degen sat and watched the reports of the attack on the police convoy.

  After ten minutes, with the supply of fresh information depleted, the news anchor began the emperor’s-new-clothes rehashing of events while the producer in the gallery replayed the shaky phone-camera images they had scooped their rivals with.

  Degen closed his eyes.

  Volkan Dağ and Murat Kavlak had been included in Degen’s pool of freelancers for a little under two years. Initially he’d employed them for fundraising activities, and their first job had involved a quartet of Brooklyn-based Mafiosi who had chosen Innsbruck for an exchange with a group of African conflict-diamond smugglers. The Americans had been helping out some old country cousins by transporting counterfeit cash in a Volvo V70’s natural voids: within the dashboard, under airbags, inside door frames, even in sections of the engine. They would meet with the Africans, offload their phoney money, then smuggle the diamonds back to the USA.

  Degen‘s plan had been simple: intercept the Mafiosi, pose as the Americans and make the exchange, then convert the diamonds to clean cas
h via an Amsterdam dealer. They’d followed the Americans to a quiet tavern on the outskirts of Innsbruck, where Degen had switched places with the sole bartender.

  The shortest of the three wiseguys stared at the (borrowed) nametag on Degen’s chest. ‘Goot’n morg’n Rudi,’ he said. ‘Vee gets dihr?’

  Degen replied in English to avoid any further mangling of German. ‘Good morning gentlemen. I am very well, thank you. The kitchen is not open for another thirty minutes. Can I get you something to drink?’

  The thick-necked wiseguy lowered his bulk onto a stool and slapped a heavy palm on the polished dark wood of the bar. ‘How’s the wine in this joint? This one of those Hoy-riggers I’ve heard about?’

  Degen shook his head. ‘You would need to go to eastern Austria for Heuriger. We have some acceptable wines though.’

  ‘Y’know I’m a little vino’d out,’ the tallest wiseguy said. ‘Gimme a glass of your best beer.’

  Degen reached up to a shelf above the bar and brought down an ornate stoneware mug with a cream-on-black bas-relief lion-themed coat of arms design. As lager poured into the stein, Tall-Guy eased onto a stool next to his thick-necked companion and said, ‘Man, that is one helluva tankard.’

  ‘I’ll have one of those suckers too.’ Short-Guy leaned on the bar next to Thick-Necked-Guy’s other flank.

  ‘Make it three,’ said Thick-Necked Guy.

  A rich foamy head had just risen above the rim of the mug when the tiny earphone concealed in Degen’s right ear had clicked three times: the signal. The vehicle had been secured; its driver dealt with.

  Degen swung, one-handed backhand style, while his other hand reached below the bar. Stoneware shattered against the side of Short-Guy’s skull. He slumped. Thick-Necked-Guy had tried to stand, but first had to push Short-Guy off his shoulder.