Bad Luck in Berlin: An Exclusive Short Story

CHAPTER 4

They weren’t there for Victor. That was immediately obvious and a welcome surprise. They were waiting for Deák and were as unsophisticated in conducting surveillance on him as he was unknowledgeable in how to counter it.

The first was positioned by a marble column with a clear view of the entrance corridor and the exchange booths. He was far too ugly and short to be a professional watcher, whatever his level of skill. Anyone with even the remotest level of awareness couldn’t fail to notice him. And with his height-restricted line of sight, even the sparsest crowd could defeat his attempts at observation. He was about thirty, squat and wide with natural strength; a Turk or an Armenian whose face hadn’t looked good even before frequent brawls had flattened his large nose off-centre and given him a prominent scar that divided his left eyebrow. His black hair was thick and curly and his cheeks were red with shaving rash.

He didn’t own the clothes he was wearing. The top button of the white shirt was undone, but not to be casual, because the collar couldn’t stretch around the circumference of his tree-trunk neck. The jacket of the sharkskin suit was big enough for his shoulders and chest but the cuffs hid those of the shirt beneath and hung almost to the first knuckles of his thumbs. The trousers bunched up at his shoes, which were the only items the correct size. He looked uncomfortable too. Not only because the clothes didn’t fit, but because he’d never worn a suit before in his life.

He’d stood with the slumped shoulders and hands in pockets of someone bored of waiting, but his back straightened and his shoulders squared when he saw Deák near. As Deák passed him, predictably oblivious to his presence, the watcher turned his head to nod several times. Victor followed the guy’s gaze to where the second watcher stood among the roulette tables.

He was less ugly than his associate, but probably still had a hard time with the opposite sex. He was much taller than the squat guy, six two or maybe three if he got rid of the slouch, and had a lean but solid frame of about one hundred and ninety pounds. He was young, twenty-four or — five, but had advanced receding hair scraped back with a monstrous quantity of product. The look had probably cost him half a tub but would endure a hurricane. The casino lights bounced off his huge forehead in pools of pure white. His eyes were overlarge and his mouth was half open as he indiscreetly chewed gum. He had a different heritage to the squat guy — a fair-skinned central European, almost certainly a native German. His black suit fitted as it was supposed to, but he seemed almost as uncomfortable wearing it as the squat guy was in the one lent to him. A funeral and wedding suit then, making an uncommon appearance tonight.

He nodded back to the ugly Turk or Armenian with the flat nose and then his gaze locked and tracked Deák as he crossed the casino floor. It was a large but simple room, and unlike the modern super casino, not intentionally designed as a maze to confuse and disorientate. There was a single bank of slot machines along one wall, present only for the amusement of those grown bored by the lack of attention from their serious gambling dates. The main space was dominated by tables for craps, baccarat, poker and blackjack. There were several roulette wheels, catering for both American and French versions of the game.

The croupiers and cocktail waitresses wore white and were easy to spot amongst the many players in mostly black evening wear. The mahogany panelling, thick carpet and ceiling frescoes continued in from the entrance corridor and lobby. The room was brightly lit and filled with the quiet noise of cards being turned, balls dropped into spinning wheels, dice rolled, and muted cheers or exclamations of dismay.

The third watcher was more challenging to spot, but only because he wasn’t on the casino floor when Victor entered. The other two watchers checked their phones and then looked at a man as he emerged out of the door leading to the restrooms. The new guy was older than the others, approximately fifty, with hair that was mostly grey and cut as though time had frozen somewhere in 1989. His beard wasn’t quite as grey as the hair, and it was fastidiously maintained. He was a little fleshy at the waist but moved with the confidence of someone who knew they could handle themselves. Like the tall guy, he was a fair-skinned German and his suit was the correct size, but unlike the others, he was at home in the attire.

He was more relaxed too, and more focused. The leader. He used a cell phone to type out a message. More instructions, or perhaps simply some reassuring words for the other two to help ease away their nerves. The squat man spent a moment reading it and then slipped his phone away. The tall guy between the roulette tables spent longer absorbing the information, head bowed, his scalp glowing through the slicked thinning hair.

They barely caused a blip on Victor’s threat radar. None of the three so much as looked his way. Their focus was far too fixed on Deák to notice anything else, significant or not. It would take a concerted effort to get them to notice him. They were far too unsubtle for cops and didn’t display anything approaching the skill level of other professionals. Everything about them said that this was amateur hour; they had the look and manner of low-level criminals, gang enforcers not smart enough to be making big money but picking up plenty of work breaking bones and filling shallow graves. The squat guy and the tall young one were typical muscle, while the fifty-year-old had been them twenty years before but now wore a suit every day and only dirtied his hands when he had to. Seniority through age and experience, not ability. The result was a three-man crew that knew how to fight but had no idea how to make sure they went into that fight with every possible advantage.

This was nothing to do with Farkas. The crew hadn’t followed Deák here. They had been waiting for him. They had known with absolute certainly he would come to them. If they had that level of inside information they would also know what he was doing during the day. They hadn’t been waiting for him at the airport or at his hotel and they hadn’t followed him around the city because they had no interest in knowing where Farkas would be staying. This was all about Deák. It could be purely business — the inherent danger of the gangster’s lifestyle — or something personal. Whatever the reason, the three-man crew were after Deák’s blood. They didn’t know how to do anything else.

Victor slid on to a stool at a medium stakes blackjack table where he could watch Deák from a discreet distance and keep track of the crew. They wouldn’t try anything in the middle of a crowded casino floor, not with numerous security personnel around and a multitude of cameras watching, and especially not without weapons. They were here to keep watch on Deák until he left and didn’t have the confidence or know-how, or maybe even patience, to set up surveillance outside.

The exact reason why Deák was marked for death was unimportant to Victor. He didn’t need to know who had paid three thugs to kill the man, whether enemies here in Berlin or rivals back home in Hungary, but he couldn’t let them see the job through. Adorján Farkas, Deák’s boss and Victor’s target, wouldn’t be so keen to come to Berlin if the scout he sent ahead as an added layer of protection turned up gutted in some back alley.

Then, Victor might have no option but to attempt the contract where Farkas was most secure and when he would be no doubt even more cautious after the death of his most loyal man. Alternatively, Victor’s employer might cancel the contract. Not exactly a disaster in itself as Victor cared little if the CIA handler achieved his goals, but if those goals were unachievable perhaps Victor’s services would no longer be required. He didn’t know much about his employer, but he knew enough to be considered a liability if his paymaster decided he was of no further use.