Bad Luck in Berlin: An Exclusive Short Story

CHAPTER 5

Deák played roulette with a system. He made notes on a notepad to track numbers and bet exclusively on red, sometimes betting on two or three balls in succession and then sitting out a number of games before rejoining when he felt the time was right. From the sporadic exclamations of joy and the increasingly large pile of chips sitting before him, Deák was beating the odds. Victor watched from his blackjack table and did his best to stop himself counting the cards so as not to win too often. No one noticed a loser in a casino. Everyone noticed a winner.

The young tall guy with the receding hair played roulette at a nearby lower stakes wheel, but wasn’t having the same kind of success. The squat Turk or Armenian with the flat nose sat at a slot machine but couldn’t manage playing and watching at the same time, so rarely inserted a coin. Both guys visibly relaxed more the longer Deák played, growing comfortable and confident in the routine, knowing they hadn’t been made, and happy to have at least achieved that new feat. The grey-haired leader wandered around the casino floor, playing the occasional game of poker to pass the time and not paying Deák too much attention because his subordinates were doing that for him.

Victor doubted the crew had an elaborate plan waiting to go into action. They would keep it simple. It was three against one. It was their turf. There was no need to over-think things, assuming they were even capable of over-thought. When Deák left they would follow and move on him as soon as the first chance presented itself, when he was alone and vulnerable, stabbing or shooting him, maybe after delivering a message so he knew why he was about to die. The route back to his hotel would present them with plenty of opportunity. Whether they had guns or knives or both they would be stashed outside in the trunk of a car parked nearby.

Stopping them killing Deák wouldn’t be too complicated. Stopping them killing Deák without him noticing would be somewhat more challenging. If he felt under threat, he would no doubt report that to Farkas, who could then cancel his trip and put Victor’s position with his handler into jeopardy.

A little after ten p.m. Deák checked his watch, gathered up the large stacks of Golden Talisman chips and had them exchanged for cash. He looked a couple of thousand euros up. A two hundred per cent return for less than two hundred minutes’ work.

The local crew were predictable in their response. There was lots of obvious eye contact and nods and messages sent and received as they prepared themselves for what would come next. The tall young guy left while Deák was still exchanging his chips, and Victor pictured him heading for the car, both to get the weapons from the trunk and to sit with the engine idling. The leader with the grey beard and grey hair and the squat Turk or Armenian moved closer together and edged nearer to their target, ready to tail him as he left the casino.

But Deák didn’t leave. He headed for the casino bar.

The two men didn’t expect that. There was a moment of confusion and indecision after Deák passed them by. The older man motioned for the other to stay with Deák and then set about typing a message to inform the guy outside of the change in circumstances. If he had been alone in his surveillance on Deák, Victor would have remained on the casino floor, knowing Deák had nowhere to go. He didn’t want to get too close to the Hungarian if he could help it. Deák wouldn’t notice, but after his success at the roulette wheel CCTV cameras might be pointing his way and security personnel could be watching too, suspicious of his good fortune, and there was a chance they would pick up on Victor’s interest in him. The squat Turk or Armenian in the ill-fitting suit followed Deák from a distance that said either he didn’t have the same concerns or he didn’t consider them. Victor took a wild guess on the latter. But that was why the man wouldn’t last three months doing what Victor did, while Victor was still alive after ten years in the world’s most dangerous profession, even if his last contract had cost him his freedom.

He entered the bar a minute later, despite the risk. The crew hadn’t tried anything at the roulette table, but they had been expecting Deák to leave. Now they were improvising. It would be almost as idiotic to try something in the bar or the bar’s restroom should Deák use it, but underestimating a person’s stupidity could be as dangerous as underestimating their intelligence. Jails the world over weren’t exactly overflowing with geniuses.

A horseshoe-shaped bar dominated the room with a lone female bartender working behind it. Booths lined the wall opposite and the rest of the space was filled with small round tables and chairs cushioned with red velvet. The floor had the same thick carpet as the rest of the casino and polished flooring formed a band that bridged a two-foot-wide gap between the edge of the carpet and the bar.

Deák pushed his hair back behind his ears while the female bartender poured him a large Scotch on the rocks. He then fanned out the thick wad of his winnings as though he was a magician performing a card trick. He stepped back from the bar and adjusted his footing to make sure everyone in the room could see his wealth and success.

The routine had the desired effect. Other patrons couldn’t fail to notice. The wealthy high rollers, cooling their heels between trips to the baccarat table, looked on with measurable disdain. The unsuccessful, using the last of their money to wash away the bitter taste of defeat, gazed at Deák with palatable loathing and envy. The card sharps, taking a break so the pit boss didn’t notice their uncharacteristic run of luck, willed the Hungarian to try his hand on the poker tables so they might relieve him of his burdensome weight of cash. Two hookers, squeezed into cocktail dresses as small as bathing suits and looking for work, readied themselves to help Deák celebrate his good fortune.

Victor found a spot at the bar and shared a raise of eyebrows at Deák’s lack of class with an elderly couple in tailored evening wear, sitting on stools before a pair of tall multicoloured cocktails. The watcher with the brawler’s nose stood a few feet away.

Deák was making an exaggerated play of struggling to control the sizeable fan of euros, which was probably harder to deal with than he’d expected, but finding this out gave him an even greater opportunity to pose. Only four people paid Deák’s routine little or no attention. Victor and the squat Turk or Armenian, whose focus on Deák had nothing to do with his success at the roulette wheel, the female bartender, who had to witness such ridiculous displays on a regular basis, and a man sitting on his own at a corner table, whose gaze momentarily flicked in the Hungarian’s direction but whose expression showed no change.

That man caused Victor’s threat radar to announce a warning.