The Enemy

CHAPTER 9

Berlin, Germany

According to the dossier, Adorjan Farkas would be arriving in Berlin the next day for a maximum stay of seven days. He would then return to his native Hungary, where, Victor presumed, either the Hungarian would be an exponentially harder target, or his killing would lose its value. A lifelong member of the Hungarian mob, Farkas was now fifty-two years old and making a name for himself outside the typical organised crime industries of drugs, extortion and prostitution, most notably in international people trafficking, and arms dealing.

The latter was why, the dossier stated, Farkas was to be removed from existence. In particular it was because Farkas was currently making a lot of money buying assault rifles from manufacturers in Eastern Europe and illegally selling them on to buyers in the Middle East. Farkas didn’t seem like a particularly high-value target on the global scale of bad guys; there was probably more to it than just the arms sales. The absence of a specific motive was further evidence of Victor’s need-to-know status. Farkas was likely part of a chain Victor’s handler wanted disrupting, and killing the Hungarian was either the simplest, or perhaps the only way of stopping the guns he traded killing Americans further along the line. Though, having had saved the life of one arms trafficker already, Victor knew that nothing was necessarily as obvious as it appeared.

Aside from an exact motive, the rest of the information on Farkas was particularly extensive — a lengthy biography, lists of associates, personal details and so on — but mostly useless. Recent photographs and Farkas’s location were the most important, and sometimes only, information Victor needed. Precious few other facts were relevant to the completion of the job. And as those who compiled dossiers didn’t operate in the field, what was relevant to them and relevant to Victor could be very different. Still, given the specifics for this particular job, it was better to have too much information than too little.

Farkas had to be blown up. No accident, no suicide, no gunshot wound, no slit throat. Farkas could only meet his end via high explosives. And only the explosives supplied by Georg would do.

Again, Victor hadn’t been graced with an explanation, but, as with the motivation for Farkas’s demise, he had a reasonable idea why this death had to be so particular. Blame. His employer wanted the spotlight for Farkas’s murder to shine on some individual or faction, and whoever those people may be, the explosives Victor used would implicate them.

He examined the cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine he’d acquired in Hamburg. Usually referred to as RDX, the compound was a common military- and industrial-use high explosive and one of the most destructive of all explosive materials. With the addition of some chemicals and motor oil, RDX formed plastic explosives like C-4, which Victor would have preferred to work with, but unfortunately he didn’t have that luxury.

The fourteen pounds of RDX Victor had collected from Georg’s van was packed in seven two-pound military-use blocks. Whereas plastic explosives were malleable, RDX was a hard white crystalline substance. With the blasting caps that accompanied the explosives, Victor constructed a compact bomb from a single block of RDX that had more than enough power to kill one man from several yards away. Using all fourteen pounds would have formed a devastatingly powerful device, but its larger size would render it problematic to transport, too difficult to plant secretly, and would make if difficult to fulfil one of the contract’s requirements. Despite the obvious risks associated with using a bomb, Victor’s employer had stated there must be no collateral damage. Not that Victor needed to be told. He wasn’t in the habit of killing bystanders, but with explosives that was always a possibility, and the primary reason he didn’t work with them.

Georg hadn’t supplied any remote detonating equipment, so Victor needed to place the bomb somewhere only Farkas would trigger it. He could form an ad-hoc remote detonator by rigging a cellular phone to the blasting caps and using a second phone to trigger the bomb, but Victor wasn’t keen on that idea unless he had no other choice. Such a bomb would require him to be in visual contact with the target at the time of detonation, which not only limited where the bomb could be placed, but also forced Victor to be in close proximity to the assassination. That and the fact that the one time Victor needed full service could very well be the exact moment when he had zero bars.

From the information supplied, however, Victor had a rough plan in mind.

For his stay in Berlin Farkas had rented out the penthouse in a block of luxury holiday apartments. He would have an entourage with him — anything between three and five of his mob subordinates — all of whom, based on Farkas’s previous trips abroad, would stay in the penthouse too. There was no intelligence on whether or not they would be armed.

The weather was cold but sunny in Berlin when Victor passed the apartment building. It was a grand structure in the heart of Prenzlauer Berg, one of Berlin’s most desirable districts. Four beautiful stone storeys rose from the street with one subterranean level beneath. Maybe two or three apartments per floor with a single penthouse.

Victor spent a while exploring Prenzlauer Berg, both routinely checking for surveillance and to get a feel for the area he would be operating within. It had escaped much of the devastation of the Second World War and so had been mercifully spared the post-war development the rest of the city had endured. What was built in the late nineteenth century as a working-class district was now a very affluent part of Berlin. There were many tasteful bars and restaurants, high-end fashion boutiques, delicatessens and cafes. Victor could see why a wealthy Hungarian gangster would choose to stay in this part of the city.

He took a seat outside a cafe bustling with people on their lunch hour. Clothes stores and eateries lined the leafy street. Opposite him was the metro station, particularly clean even by Berlin’s high standards. He watched the people going about their days, especially the men in their early and mid thirties in their casual-but-stylish clothing.

After he’d finished his iced tea, Victor walked to a department store and perused the men’s clothing section. A slim young guy asked if he could be of assistance.

Victor said, ‘I’m going for casual, but stylish.’

He dismissed anything too bright or anything he would look too good in, much to the young man’s confusion. He settled on two pairs of dark jeans, some patterned button-down shirts, a cream sweater, and a tan blazer, all loose fitting. He also picked up underwear, loafers, a leather shoulder bag, designer sunglasses and a pre-pay phone from different stores.

Victor’s modest hotel was three stops along the line. He wanted to be close to where Farkas was staying, but far enough away that he would have the opportunity to conduct counter surveillance if he needed to take a direct route. In his single room, Victor changed into his new clothes. Suits were his preferred clothing for urban environments, but wearing one would make him stand out in Prenzlauer Berg, where men his age opted for more bohemian attire.

Earlier, he’d noted there were two possible locations from which to conduct surveillance — a chic coffee shop on the same side of the street as the apartment building, and a cocktail bar on the opposite side of the road. He entered the bar, bought a still lemonade with a slice of lime and sat outside.

The view wasn’t a perfect one but he could see the entrance to the building, and the bar justified his presence for what could potentially be many hours over several days. He took out a small notebook and pen and placed them on the table next to his drink. He made a record of anyone who entered or exited the building, and waited for someone who met his requirements. He was hoping to spot someone who looked like he or she wasn’t a guest — a maid or janitor perhaps — but he saw no one who fitted the bill.

Eventually, he watched a man and a woman leave the building at the same time. They were in their late twenties, a good-looking couple who knew it and couldn’t keep their eyes on where they were heading or their hands to themselves. As soon as they appeared, he could tell they were perfect for his requirements. In Victor’s line of work, love could be an extremely useful emotion to exploit.

It was easy to follow them. Even if he hadn’t been careful — which he always was — he doubted they would have seen him, let alone paid him any attention. They walked slowly, like most couples seemed to do, blissfully unaware of the amount of space on the sidewalk they took up. Annoyed singletons had no choice but to walk around them.

He followed them into a bar a few minutes after they’d entered. Inside, a lively audience of fans watched a Bundesliga game on several big screens. Victor spotted the couple at a table in one of the marginally quieter corners. He ordered a beer and stood where he could watch the couple while looking as if he was just another sports fan in for the game. The bar was warm and Victor watched the man take off his jacket and hang it over the chair. Like Victor, he had a beer, which he drank quickly. When the woman finished her white wine, the man stood up to get a second round. Placing his own beer down, Victor made his move, negotiating a path through the busy crowd while the man made his way to the bar.

Taking out his phone and pretending to write a text, he swayed a little as he squeezed past the table where the woman sat, brushing himself against the man’s jacket hanging off the chair. Victor felt the weight of keys in one of the pockets, and faked a stumble, the phone falling from his fingers. He cursed under his breath as he leaned over to retrieve it with his left hand while his right slid into the man’s jacket pocket to remove the keys. He stood up, shaking his head. In his peripheral vision, he saw the woman glance at him but there was no suspicion, just an amused smile, assuming he was a drunk sports fan.

At the bar, Victor took another mouthful of beer before leaving. He already knew where the closest locksmith was located and made his way there to get a copy cut. Returning to the bar, he handed over the keys to a barmaid, pretending he’d found them near to where the young couple sat.

The sports fans roared as the ball hit the back of the net.

It took a while to find a store that sold art supplies, where Victor bought paints, paper, brushes, pastels, and a bottle of pure graphite powder. At a cosmetics counter of a department store, he purchased a foldaway make-up brush with very soft bristles, blusher, and a bottle of perfume recommended to him by a friendly sales assistant when he asked for advice on buying for his girlfriend.

On his way back to his hotel he threw away his purchases save for the graphite powder and make-up brush. In his room, he changed into his suit and dipped the make-up brush into the graphite powder before folding it away and placing it in a pants pocket. He was running a little late for his appointment and walked slowly.

He found the realtor pacing outside the apartment building. She stood around five-seven, late twenties, smartly dressed in a navy trouser suit that gave her an air of pure business without hiding the very obvious facts she was an attractive and shapely woman. Her blonde hair was shoulder length and swept back from her face by the breeze. Predictably, her expression was one of annoyance and impatience. She checked her watch.

He was four feet away before she realised who he was. He gave her a polite smile. She didn’t smile back.

‘Miss Friedman, I take it,’ Victor said in a Hamburg accent. ‘I’m Mr Krausse. I’m sorry I’m late.’ He offered no explanation.

Without sincerity she said, ‘That’s okay.’

He acted as though he didn’t notice her tone.

‘Thank you for taking the time to show me around.’

He offered his hand and she took it. There was hardly any grip.

She motioned towards the front door. ‘Shall we?’

Friedman led him to the penthouse and unlocked and opened the door and stepped inside. Victor made sure to follow closely. The alarm system emitted a dull warning. There was a small box positioned in the far corner of the hallway where the walls met the ceiling. He couldn’t tell just by looking at it what kind of alarm system it was, but given the exclusivity of the apartments, the security system would be more sophisticated than a standard photo-sensor alarm. Probably a radar-based or more likely a passive infrared motion detector.

Radar-based motion detectors worked by emitting bursts of microwave radio energy, or ultrasonic sound waves, and reading the reflected pattern as those waves bounced back to the device. When an intruder entered the area and altered the pattern, the alarm sounded. With a passive infrared motion system, the device detected the increase in infrared energy caused by an intruder’s body heat. It wouldn’t be much fun trying to defeat either, but if human nature had its way, Victor wouldn’t have to.

He positioned himself to watch as Friedman pressed buttons on the keypad. It would have been impossible to get close enough to see which numbers she pressed without alerting her, but he could see the movements of her hand and elbow as her finger hovered over the keypad. She pressed the first button, then he watched her elbow drop, then pause, then drop again; another pause, and then it moved back up to the top for the final number. Victor repeated the pattern in his head until he had it memorised. Press, down, press, down, press, up, up, press.

The realtor guided him through the apartment’s lounge, kitchen, bathroom, and three bedrooms, the master of which had its own bathroom. Each room was lavishly decorated, leather sofas in the lounge, marble in the bathroom, stainless steel and granite in the kitchen. It had all the essentials of modern upscale living — dishwasher, huge wide-screen television, surround sound, latest games consoles and espresso machine. Everything a travelling mob boss could need.

He took his time walking around each room, examining every fixture and piece of furniture. He saw the realtor in his peripheral vision checking her watch with increasing frequency. He pretended not to notice.

Eventually he dragged it out long enough that her phone rang and he wasn’t surprised to see that she answered it without excusing herself. He nodded politely — a silent take-your-time signal — and she stepped into the kitchen to talk in private.

Victor hurried into the hallway. He removed the make-up brush from his pocket, unfolded it, and very gently swept the tips of the bristles against the alarm keypad. The fine graphite powder stuck to the oil left by Friedman’s finger on four of the ten numbered buttons. One, two, five and eight.

He heard her call finish and he lightly wiped clean the keypad with his jacket sleeve. He dropped the make-up brush into his pocket a second before she appeared.

‘Ready to go?’

As he walked towards the underground station, he put the one, two, five and eight together with the sequence he’d memorised — press, down, press, down, press, up, up, press. The code was therefore one or two, followed by five, eight and then either one or two again. There was no way of knowing which of the first and fifth numbers were one or two but it was a fifty-fifty chance. Alarms were constructed with mistakes in mind so he would be able to retype the code should he get it incorrect the first time.

Victor found that people whose jobs involved no danger were never as security conscious as they should be. For an apartment building with around a dozen properties, each with its own alarm system, to be completely secure each property would have its own code and that code should change for every new tenant. That was a lot for anyone to keep track of.

Maybe she would come back later to input a new code ready for Farkas’s arrival. It would be the secure thing to do. But in the fight between security and laziness Victor would put his money on laziness every time.