As Ricky sped along the Bohemian Highway he noticed and recognised several other agents in cars, waving as they passed, or as Ricky passed them. He dialled. ‘This is Ricky. Get someone to the German side of the border, half way between the petrol station and the border, crash a car and set fire to it. I want that road east blocked and the police busy.’
A helicopter flew low overhead, in the direction they were headed.
‘Is that one of ours?’ Ricky asked.
The hour dragged on. Then Ricky’s phone rang. ‘There’s a who? A Mole? You mean a spy? Oh, the car-hire man, Herr Mole. Yes, put him through.’
‘Herr Ricky? Is it convenient?’ came the slow, heavily accented voice.
‘Yes, thought of something else?’
‘I have been going over the Serbo-Croat in my mind. One word could mean passport or identity paper, another aeroplane.’
‘Shit! No, not you. Thanks, you’ll be rewarded. Anything else, let me know.’ Ricky hung up then re-dialled. ‘Alert everyone, Rudenson is trying to get a fake passport, should be heading to an airport some time after 3pm. Find all airports close to this place Protovin or a few hours’ drive.’
The guard in the rear tapped Ricky’s shoulder. ‘Prague airport is perhaps forty minutes from Protovin.’
‘Shit!’
‘Vienna airport one and half hours –’
‘Shit! We’ve got to close that box!’
His phone rang again. ‘Yes!’ He listened. ‘OK.’
Ricky turned his head to address both the driver and rear passenger. ‘Serbian Intelligence are on board, Rudenson was due to fly there from Vienna tonight. They cancelled his ticket and visa, he’s now on their wanted list.’
Twenty minutes later, as they neared the Bohemian Forest, Ricky’s phone warbled, ascending in volume. He answered and listened briefly.
‘We intercepted a call to his mobile, this Yani tosser. He cried off his meeting, scared shitless, knows everyone is after Rudenson. And now so does Rudenson, his phone was switched off.’ He stared out of the window. ‘Fuck! If he’s clever he’ll go to ground.’
Ten minutes later Rudenson’s hire car was reported burning on a side road, no sign of a driver. A Volkswagen camper van moved north, driven by a woman and with two young children in the rear. She drove steadily, sobbing, the man crouching in the back holding a gun to her child’s head.
And vengeance shall be mine
1
‘Herr Shultz, say hello to Herr Wagen.’
Two K2 agents waved the arms of two drugged men now sitting slumped and facing each other in the home of Herr Wagen. They placed pistols into the hands of the two drugged and unconscious gang leaders.
‘Oh, please, Mr Shultz, don’t shoot me!’ an agent joked. A shot through the stomach elicited groans.
‘Oh, dear, I think he felt that. Sedative must be wearing off,’ the second agent noted.
‘Hey, you shot my dummy!’ the first agent protested, now shooting Wagen.
‘So, you want a fight, eh?’
Another shot, through the stomach, caused more groaning.
‘Hey! No shooting below the belt.’ He put a shot through Shultz’s knee.
‘Bastard! How is my man supposed to play football now?’ He shot back, through the arm.
‘Hey, he used to play the piano! How’s he going to play now?’ He shot an ear off.
The second man let his ‘dummy’ fall. ‘How are the police going to explain this? I think we have to make it appear as if one was trying to run away. Hold up your guy and turn him around.’
Wagen got shot in the backside and the kidneys, before being dropped onto a glass coffee table, smashing it.
‘Oops.’
‘My guy is still alive, time to call the ambulance.’
With a gloved finger the agent dialled, leaving the phone off the hook.
‘Ambulance. Hello? Hello?’ came from the phone as the agents left.
* * *
Otto lowered his phone. ‘The two main German gangs are making threats to each other. Wagen is dead, Shultz critical. Each side blames the other.’