Madrigal sat on the veranda alone, looking out at the sunset. He had left instructions that he did not want to be disturbed while he considered what had happened and the appropriate response. The fact that it had been possible for the attackers to strike so surgically meant that they must have had access to inside information, but this was not his prime concern. He knew that any organisation as sprawling as theirs could not be totally protected from infiltration. What worried him most was the progression, the dangerous precedents that were set with each new incident. The Alliance needed to appear unassailable.
None of their enquiries in Europe had yielded any firm proof of Kosovar involvement. He had tried to ensure their investigation had been conducted discreetly. The Kosovars themselves had recently raised the subject of the attacks, mentioning that word of some disturbances had filtered back to them. One could infer that this demonstrated their innocence. Then again, maybe that was their intention.
He placed a call to Raul Cervantes and asked him to come over. Cervantes was the number two in the Colombian organisation and the only person he trusted. They had known each other since they were teenagers and he had learnt to rely on the big man’s judgement. People often underestimated him because of an apparent slowness which he was only too happy to exaggerate, but Madrigal knew better. Even more valuable than Cervantes’ capacity for violence and his unwavering loyalty was his well-developed intellect. When Cervantes arrived, he strode in casually and slumped in the other chair. Whereas other people would tread lightly around the drug lord, Cervantes had known him too long to stand on ceremony.
“We’re going to have to move against the Fifteen Families,” Madrigal began.
“Based on so little?” Cervantes asked. “We have no proof!”
“You know about the hijacking?”
“Yes, yes,” the big man replied. “But there’s only the captain’s questionable assertions that the hijackers were Eastern European!”
“I know, but combined with the attack on the refinery in Mexico ...”
Cervantes shook his head.
“I can’t believe we’re ready to risk a war. Luis, can we even be sure we’d win?”
If it had been anyone else, Madrigal might have dismissed them as cowards, but he had seen Cervantes prove his bravery countless times over the years. “You think they can match us?”
“Maybe not financially.” Cervantes shrugged. “But then they don’t have to contend with a hostile state initiative backed by a foreign superpower. Not to mention some of the fucking lunatics they can call on.”
Madrigal knew all about the Kosovars’ ties to various fundamentalist groups but did not see what choice he had.
“If we don’t move, the Alliance will fall apart.”
“Why do you say that? Has that asshole Zaragosa demanded action?”
“No, but I can’t afford to wait until he does. If I don’t take the initiative now, later it will look like I’m buckling to internal pressure. That would bring its own problems.”
Cervantes knew he was right but had deep misgivings about the direction they were taking. They sat in silence for some time, the oppressive weight of Madrigal’s decision hanging over them.
“Okay, then we need to decide what it is we want from the action,” Cervantes said at last. “Are we aiming to wipe the Kosovars out?”
“Jesus, no. I just want them to back off, if they are behind the attacks. Even if we could take them off the board completely the cost would be too high and who knows how it would affect our access to Europe.”
“Then we’ll need to ensure that they can survive whatever we do.”
“Yes but on the other hand, if our action is too weak, it might encourage them further.”
“Not to mention providing Rodriguez and the others with something else to fucking stir things up.”
“Exactly. Tell me, you’ve had some dealings with Lubomir Uka, how did he strike you?”
“Careful, a planner, someone who takes his time and tries to see the bigger picture. He balances out some of the other more impetuous leaders of the Fifteen Families.”
“That was my impression as well which is why any targets we select should belong to him. If we were to move against one of the others there would be no subsequent opportunity to broker a truce, regardless of how much control we exercised.”
“You’re hoping Uka will see sense and convince the others to go along. It’s a big fucking gamble, what if he can’t do it, what if we’ve misread him?”
“Then we’ll have to deal with it,” he said matter-of-factly. “Any suggestions on what we should target?”
“I know Uka controls a number of heroin refineries and depots in Ankara. It should be possible to draw up a list of four or five of the less crucial ones.”
“Perfect,” the drug lord nodded, “the material loss would be minor but it would still make a statement. There’s one more thing we need to consider however.”
“What’s that?”
“After the attacks, someone will have to approach Uka, explain the restraint we showed and stress that this should be seen as a conclusion to matters.”
The two men locked eyes.
“I’ll do it,” Cervantes said.
“You’re sure?”
“Who else can we trust?”
Madrigal leaned forward and tapped Raul’s knee.
“Listen, I want you to be careful, you’re not to participate directly in the raids. Conduct the meeting with Uka and then get back here.”
“He’ll see sense, don’t worry,” Cervantes replied, pushing the doubts from his mind.
“Okay, start preparations and let me know when we’re ready to review.”
Larsen watched the three bodyguards get out of the car and scan the immediate vicinity. Once Bajo, the enormous bodyguard, was satisfied he leant back into the rear of the car to give the all-clear to Dobroshi. The four men entered the lobby of the apartment building and left the driver to start circling the district until the appointed time. Larsen was satisfied after two weeks of surveillance that the information had been solid.
The traffickers lived like kings, enjoying the very best Prague had to offer. The judiciary were in their pocket. They flaunted their extravagant lifestyle, secure in the knowledge that no one could threaten them. It hadn’t been difficult to find a disillusioned narcotics officer who had finally had enough. A generous supplement to a modest salary was all it had taken. Detailed reports of the main traffickers’ movements were produced and, based on them, Larsen had chosen Nisret Dobroshi as the target.
Dobroshi kept a beautiful young Czech girl in the upmarket apartment building and got away to visit her as often as work and domestic arrangements permitted. The two subordinate bodyguards always waited in the lobby while Bajo ascended the stairs with his charge. Larsen knew from previous reconnaissance that Bajo waited in the hallway outside the apartment. He took a deep breath and exhaled, finding a calm centre. In many ways this was the pivotal operation, more risky than anything that had gone before, but if he succeeded it would tip the scales. He focused, moving himself to a place where he would be able to do what was required.
“We will train you, harder than you ever believed possible and teach you all there is to know about weaponry and tactics,” the drill sergeant told them.
The sixteen new recruits stood on the tarmac at Flyvestation Aalborg as the driving rain beat down on them and the incessant wind howled. Although the sergeant spoke loudly they had to strain to hear him as the gusts whipped his words away. “Many of you have had extensive training already. We will add our experience to help mould you,” he continued. “But all of this will count for nothing, if you lack one thing.”
The recruits stood rock-steady, eyes firmly locked straight ahead.
“Can you tell me what this thing is?” he asked one of them.
An uncomfortable pause then the nervous attempt at an answer. “Courage?”
The sergeant snorted dismissively and turned on his heel, pacing away from them. Coming around to face them he delivered the answer. “Willingness.” The sergeant let it sink in before continuing. “Most individuals will split every challenge they are faced with into three categories. Things they’re happy to do, things they do not want to do but are willing to suffer and finally those things they would never consider,” he explained. “Like a traffic-light, green, yellow and red. If a person is willing to attempt something, really attempt it, with every fibre concentrated on success, this is green. But if he perceives it to be too dangerous, too far beyond his capabilities or if he merely makes a half-assed attempt to save face, he is in the red zone.” He scanned the line, examining individual recruits.
“Many people will say with total conviction they could not kill another human being. Put these same people in a position where someone is threatening their child and watch what happens. What’s changed? Their willingness to act! Circumstances have conspired to push their green zone far beyond its perceived limits.”
A smile broke across his craggy features.
“We will repeatedly put you in situations where you will become accustomed to diminishing that red zone. We will challenge you, again and again. Most of you will not last. Those that do will understand all about willingness.” He nodded, almost to himself. “Those that do will be Jægere.”
This was green.
Using the key he had obtained, Larsen entered the basement’s laundry room via an exterior door. The internal door to the laundry led to the rear stairway, which converged with the main staircase between the lobby and the first floor. To protect Dobroshi properly, one of the bodyguards should have been positioned on this landing while the other watched the elevator. But months of the same routine, in a city that held no surprises, had bred complacency.
Once he got to the second level, he pressed for the elevator to climb the last couple of floors. The lift door was an old trellised affair that ran up the centre of the staircase, allowing people on the stairs to see in. He assumed a stooped posture and coughed hoarsely. Combined with the threadbare clothing, white wig and pale make-up, he looked like one of the many callers to the retired jeweller living across from Dobroshi’s mistress – elderly, decrepit and unthreatening. Bajo stared intently at the lift’s occupant through the grille while it ascended. Unlike his subordinates downstairs, he was a veteran with years of hard-earned experience and could not be easily circumvented. Everything depended on overcoming him without alerting Dobroshi. The intelligence Larsen had been given did not specify Bajo’s proficiency with arms, although Larsen assumed he was a rated marksman. What Larsen was aware of, though, was the man’s ability in unarmed combat, enhanced by his prodigious size and strength. He was perfectly suited to the role of close-quarter protection. His gaze never left the old man who stepped from the elevator, wrestled to close the door and, still struggling to regain his breath from the effort, shuffled down the hall.
Larsen focused totally on his laboured progress and it took him ten seconds just to cover the short distance to the bodyguard. Once Larsen passed him, he sensed the big man relax ever so slightly, letting some of the tension ease from his frame. The surprise was total when the bent-over figure twisted back fluidly and drove the knife up towards his throat. Years of combat drills enabled Bajo to react quickly enough to prevent a fatal strike and he managed to deflect the knife’s arc with his extended forearm. The blade lodged painfully in his shoulder inches from his neck. Normally, in this kind of confrontation, he would have drawn the assailant close where he could use his natural advantages to quickly end matters but the risk of the attacker worsening the injury was too great. He struck out at his assailant’s chest with the heel of his left hand in an attempt to drive him back and create some distance between them. Larsen managed to turn his torso enough to prevent the blow from landing with full impact and was only knocked back a half step. Even so, the effect of the partial blow was enough to convince him that he could not survive a protracted struggle in such a confined area. Bringing his left knee up to waist height he struck out and down with his foot, driving it in viciously just above the bodyguard’s right knee. Bajo’s leg collapsed and he crumpled forwards towards the floor. As he fell Larsen grasped the hilt of the knife with both hands and with all the strength he could muster drove the blade through the heavy muscle across the throat. The blade sliced through the larynx, severing his opponent’s air supply abruptly.
The dead bodyguard tumbled to the floor and Larsen sagged against the wall, battling to control his breathing. He pushed himself up, aware that time was short. Removing the suppressor-fitted Glock from his coat, he used a second key to quietly enter the apartment. Any concerns that the struggle might have disturbed the apartment’s occupants were put to rest by the sounds emanating from the bedroom off the hallway. He pulled the dead bodyguard’s heavy bulk inside the apartment before slowly opening the bedroom door to reveal the sight of Dobroshi, a million miles away, eyes closed, lost in pleasure as the girl straddling him worked industriously. Though her back was to him, she must have sensed his presence because she stiffened in mid-motion, disturbing her lover’s bliss. The trafficker opened his eyes and looked as if he had trouble believing what he saw. Before he could command himself to move, Larsen shot him twice, once in the head and once in the chest. The girl shrieked and tried to push herself off the bucking corpse but her hands slipped on the blood-slicked torso. She inhaled sharply, gathering herself for a powerful scream. Larsen quickly grabbed her and placed a hand over her mouth. Stepping close, he applied pressure to the base of her throat. Once she slipped into unconsciousness, he bound and gagged her, leaving him free to complete his work undisturbed.
Cervantes was quite satisfied with how well things had gone. Three attacks in four days, all carried out faultlessly, creating exactly the effect Madrigal had wished for. The effort involved in exercising such control would not have been wasted on Lubomir Uka, whom he had travelled to the Macedonian city of Skopje to meet. He didn’t think his optimism about reaching a settlement was misplaced; while there was no doubting the Kosovar’s ability to use violence when it was needed, it had taken more than mere bloodlust to get him to where he was today. Uka kept a close eye on all areas of their operations and stamped out any activity he viewed as inconsistent with the long-term goals he had defined. While he may have been willing to approve some speculative forays against the Alliance, Cervantes could not see him pursuing it any further. The Kosovar chief had to see that a continuation down the road they were on would be disastrous for everyone. This was not to say he wasn’t nervous; a certain amount of negotiation and diplomacy were still required.
He was relieved of his firearm before being granted access. His companions were instructed to wait in the courtyard outside while he headed in alone. Regardless of his confidence concerning his task, he felt quite vulnerable when he was led into the darkened study. Uka, seemingly oblivious to his arrival, sat behind a large desk studying a photograph under a lamp, which provided the sole source of illumination. Guards stood around the perimeter of the room as motionless as statues. He yearned to get this over with and his discomfort grew as the silence dragged on. Finally, Uka placed the photograph face down on the desk and looked up at him. In his late forties with dark skin and a slightly receding hairline, he possessed a natural air of authority.
“I’ve been told that you want to deliver a postscript to your actions?”
Cervantes found something in the casual tone of the question off-putting but there was no time to dwell on it. “Lubomir, we regret the action we’ve been forced to take but we had no alternative. We want to put this dispute behind us and resume working together for mutual prosperity. I hope you’ll see how sincere we are from the restraint we exercised.” He had mentally rehearsed what he wanted to say again and again but now, that the time had come, he was annoyed with himself. Rather than the calm measured delivery he had hoped for, the words had tumbled out.
“Restraint? Please elaborate, so that I’m sure I can draw full comfort from this control you exercised.”
He recognised that Uka was determined to make him spell it out and in the process make it as uncomfortable as possible. He was obviously put out over the targets they had hit and would not admit their relative unimportance. He hadn’t expected such petulant behaviour; the Kosovar had always struck him as a wholly pragmatic man. Still, if a satisfactory resolution required his dignity to be slightly compromised, he could deal with that.
“We know that the attacks caused some financial injury and unavoidable bloodshed. It was the last thing we wished for and we want to stress that we don’t see any need for further action. We want this to end here. You must see that if we truly sought to do real injury there were other targets and ...” Raul hesitated, “... personnel we could have singled out.”
“So you targeted only what you felt was necessary to make a point? Am I to infer from this that the victims of the attacks were considered token and that I should be grateful it wasn’t much worse?”
He wondered why Uka was putting such an emphasis on the elimination of some hired guns. He was all for the use of diplomacy to smooth ruffled feathers but the Kosovar was being churlish. He had agreed with Madrigal that the meeting might get fairly heated at some stage, harsh words might be exchanged, but they had anticipated that any rancour would focus on more substantive issues like the damaged supply lines or lost inventory. Perhaps this was a negotiating tactic. If he complained strongly about the loss of contracted labour, he might think he was building a case for compensation on the material loss. If that was it, Cervantes realised he needed to adopt a stronger stance to illustrate that Madrigal’s desire to be reasonable had its limits. Uka was aware of Cervantes’, position and closeness to Madrigal; this awareness provided Raul with a degree of protection. Emboldened by this, he decided to be more direct in the hopes of getting the conversation back where he wanted it.
“Lubomir, let’s be honest with each other, this could indeed have been much worse,” Cervantes said. “You know some of the people Luis has to deal with and their tendencies. Believe me, it’s a good thing that only Luis and I were involved in deciding what to target. It’s unfortunate anyone had to die but, frankly, these men can be easily replaced.”
Uka’s nostrils flared and his face trembled. He threw the photograph he had been studying down to land at Cervantes’ feet. The Colombian looked questioningly at Uka whose stare bore through him. Stooping over, Cervantes picked up the photograph.
“Tell me again, how I should be grateful for your restraint. I must be stupid or blind because no matter how long I look at this and the others, I can’t see it at all.”
Cervantes was so riveted by the image in his hands that he barely heard Uka. A feeling of dread overcame him as he realised that Uka blamed him for what it contained. He had seen many dead bodies and more than a few had died at his own hand but the scene contained in the photograph was beyond anything he had ever witnessed.
“Who ... ?” he began.
“It’s clear to see what your intention was. You believed your visit, so close on the heels of Nisret’s torture, would have us cowering in fear.” The Kosovar shook with rage as he uttered the words but then, with a noticeable effort, quelled all outward signs of emotion. “The calculation was that the brutal slaughter would be terrifying. We would gratefully accept whatever subordinate role you’ve envisaged for us and be thankful that you stopped where you did. After all, if my cousin meant so little to you ... well, the object lesson hasn’t been wasted.”
He nodded his head and two of the guards drew their guns and fired. The bullets shattered Cervantes’ shinbones and he collapsed. The pain was unbelievable and he struggled to retain consciousness as wave after wave of agony assailed him. Uka walked around the desk and looked down at the writhing Colombian.
“Please, this wasn’t us. You must see that?”
Uka was not listening. “I’m saddened but not totally surprised. Madrigal obviously believes himself beyond our reach, unaccountable for his actions. Well, we’ll see.”
A second nod from Uka was accompanied by another explosion of pain as both of his knees disintegrated under the impact of the soft-nosed rounds. This time he did lose consciousness.
When he was revived, his suffering lingered for what seemed an eternity, before the next, final, release.
