definitely fell into the latter category, but then this wasn’t as it seemed.
The set-up Sykes had fixed for Callo had been perfect. They were in an abandoned Cold War bunker that served admirably as a CIA black site. Some rented locals had played the parts of prisoner and interrogators for the little vignette Callo had just happened to witness, with pork chops over a camping stove providing the smell of burnt testicles. The generator was real, though, the exploding oranges were real, but Sykes wasn’t going to flick the switch. He just wanted Callo to believe he would.
Sykes’s orders had been explicit. Callo was not to be harmed in any way, which was better than he deserved, but good because Sykes had some experience of violence and he knew he didn’t have the stomach for real torture. Scaring Callo shitless was necessary, however, and a bit of roughing up was allowed so long as it left no marks. Callo wasa career criminal and a fence with fingers in lots of illegal pies, so hurt or not, today’s unpleasantness was a bit of karma for his long list of sins.
And, Sykes was surprised to admit to himself, it had been a lot of fun watching Callo squirm and beg.
CHAPTER 11
Berlin, Germany
The first of Farkas’s entourage arrived alone. Victor spotted him easily enough, walking with a certain level of arrogance, expecting others to move out of his way, giving hard stares to anyone who didn’t. The man looked about thirty with pale skin and dark hair that reached below his ears. He wore a poorly fitting suit and talked into a cell phone, shouting in Hungarian to someone Victor guessed was a wife or girlfriend.
Victor’s grasp of the language was passable at best. He’d been refreshing his understanding of Hungarian since he’d first received the assignment, but there was still a long way to go. The Hungarian kept the phone wedged between his head and shoulder as he fumbled for his key to open the door. Sipping his orange juice outside the cocktail bar, Victor couldn’t see whether the man was armed. He wrote a number one on a fresh page in his notebook and next to it listed the man’s physical attributes and tactical awareness –
None
.
It was an hour before he made any more notes. The man left the building and returned thirty minutes later, this time laden with shopping bags and carrying a tray of five coffees. A supply run then, getting essentials in for the boss’s arrival. Victor added the time the trip took and the brand of coffee purchased to his notes as well as writing
Unarmed
.
Farkas must be arriving soon, otherwise his coffee would get cold, so Victor finished his drink, gathered his things, and walked slowly along the street, a casual pace, just a local in no hurry to get to where he was going. He took out his phone, pretended to answer it, and engaged in small talk with the fictional person of reasonable wit.
The phone gave him a reason to loiter on the sidewalk outside the apartment building. He stayed a few yards away from the front steps. He wanted to be close when Farkas arrived but not close enough to smell his cologne, or lack thereof.
It didn’t take long. A black Mercedes sedan pulled up outside the building and Farkas climbed out after one of his underlings held open the door for him. Farkas appeared fit and healthy, just shy of six feet and around one hundred and seventy-five pounds. The dossier listed him as both a couple of inches taller and some ten pounds heavier. Not too important intelligence to get wrong, but it didn’t say much for Victor’s sources. Unlike the other men who arrived with him, Farkas had a tan, probably fake. Too dark and too even. He wore an expensive-looking black suit with a red shirt and red tie. It was a stylish combination, or would have been without the chunky gold chain hanging above the shirt.
Victor continued his fake conversation and drew only a passing glance from one of Farkas’s men. Three arrived with Farkas, one in his forties and the other
The set-up Sykes had fixed for Callo had been perfect. They were in an abandoned Cold War bunker that served admirably as a CIA black site. Some rented locals had played the parts of prisoner and interrogators for the little vignette Callo had just happened to witness, with pork chops over a camping stove providing the smell of burnt testicles. The generator was real, though, the exploding oranges were real, but Sykes wasn’t going to flick the switch. He just wanted Callo to believe he would.
Sykes’s orders had been explicit. Callo was not to be harmed in any way, which was better than he deserved, but good because Sykes had some experience of violence and he knew he didn’t have the stomach for real torture. Scaring Callo shitless was necessary, however, and a bit of roughing up was allowed so long as it left no marks. Callo wasa career criminal and a fence with fingers in lots of illegal pies, so hurt or not, today’s unpleasantness was a bit of karma for his long list of sins.
And, Sykes was surprised to admit to himself, it had been a lot of fun watching Callo squirm and beg.
CHAPTER 11
Berlin, Germany
The first of Farkas’s entourage arrived alone. Victor spotted him easily enough, walking with a certain level of arrogance, expecting others to move out of his way, giving hard stares to anyone who didn’t. The man looked about thirty with pale skin and dark hair that reached below his ears. He wore a poorly fitting suit and talked into a cell phone, shouting in Hungarian to someone Victor guessed was a wife or girlfriend.
Victor’s grasp of the language was passable at best. He’d been refreshing his understanding of Hungarian since he’d first received the assignment, but there was still a long way to go. The Hungarian kept the phone wedged between his head and shoulder as he fumbled for his key to open the door. Sipping his orange juice outside the cocktail bar, Victor couldn’t see whether the man was armed. He wrote a number one on a fresh page in his notebook and next to it listed the man’s physical attributes and tactical awareness –
None
.
It was an hour before he made any more notes. The man left the building and returned thirty minutes later, this time laden with shopping bags and carrying a tray of five coffees. A supply run then, getting essentials in for the boss’s arrival. Victor added the time the trip took and the brand of coffee purchased to his notes as well as writing
Unarmed
.
Farkas must be arriving soon, otherwise his coffee would get cold, so Victor finished his drink, gathered his things, and walked slowly along the street, a casual pace, just a local in no hurry to get to where he was going. He took out his phone, pretended to answer it, and engaged in small talk with the fictional person of reasonable wit.
The phone gave him a reason to loiter on the sidewalk outside the apartment building. He stayed a few yards away from the front steps. He wanted to be close when Farkas arrived but not close enough to smell his cologne, or lack thereof.
It didn’t take long. A black Mercedes sedan pulled up outside the building and Farkas climbed out after one of his underlings held open the door for him. Farkas appeared fit and healthy, just shy of six feet and around one hundred and seventy-five pounds. The dossier listed him as both a couple of inches taller and some ten pounds heavier. Not too important intelligence to get wrong, but it didn’t say much for Victor’s sources. Unlike the other men who arrived with him, Farkas had a tan, probably fake. Too dark and too even. He wore an expensive-looking black suit with a red shirt and red tie. It was a stylish combination, or would have been without the chunky gold chain hanging above the shirt.
Victor continued his fake conversation and drew only a passing glance from one of Farkas’s men. Three arrived with Farkas, one in his forties and the other
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