J. Jones - The Third Place

‘I have just the thing for you,’ Monsieur Philipot said.

They were in his watch shop which sold very few watches. ‘This one requires someone of your skill level. As I understand it, there has been an attempt already on the target, but it was poorly conceived and the execution was even worse.’ He laughed out loud at his unintentional pun, spitting a damp crumb of cheese onto Klavan’s coat. Philipot was the sort to snack most of the day; he always had a plate of cheese and wurst handy.

When Philipot told him who the target was, Klavan could only marvel at the audacity of such a deed. Then, learning who his prospective employers would be, he better understood.

He took the train that very night for Paris, where he was able to catch the Orient Express to Vienna and from there through Budapest to Belgrade. He found a hotel and bathed, arranged his materials, and then went to the address supplied by Philipot.

It was on a quiet backstreet in the center of Belgrade. There, in a third-floor walk-up, he met four young Serbian military officers, their leader a captain in the General Staff of the Serbian Army. He went by the code name of Apis; the others were not introduced. They spoke in German, though it was clearly a language Apis hated. He knew of Klavan’s history, and that he was on the run from the Russians.

‘We sometimes look to Mother Russia for support,’ Apis told him. ‘At other times, we use whatever agencies are available to us. Our Black Hand has a long reach.’

It was the first Klavan had heard of this secret organization. He eyed the mustachioed Apis carefully. Fearing a trap, he had wired himself with explosives at the hotel, for he would not be taken alive. The Russians would not send him off to one of their godforsaken work camps.

‘So, Herr Klavan, you can trust me. I assume you prepared some sort of insurance for this visit. You may rest assured that you are worth more to us alive than dead or in the hands of the Russians.’

He snapped his fingers and one of the other officers handed him a black satchel. Apis opened it to display fresh bank notes: French francs and British pounds.

‘Our down payment. The rest will be made available to you via Monsieur Philipot upon the successful completion of your mission.’

Apis named the target and the final price.

‘The means are up to you. We will provide what support we can, but you are on your own. This affair does not come back to Serbia. If captured there is no one who will believe a word you tell them. Your previous exploits in Vienna have seen to that. And if you decide to simply disappear with our money without fulfilling our little contract, I would advise you simply not to try it.’

‘The long reach of the Black Hand?’ Klavan had said it with a slight smile, but he knew there was nothing humorous about Apis.

‘Exactly, my friend. I believe we understand one another.’

The cafe door opened once again, cutting these thoughts short.

‘Goodnight, Kleinman,’ a tall, thin man said to another person inside as he closed the door and locked up.

Klavan sighed in relief. It was the under waiter.

The waiter headed north out of the Inner City toward the Danube Canal. Klavan kept a half block behind him. The waiter had the demeanor of a man headed home after a hard day’s work, which might make Klavan’s job easier. It was just after ten at night, and there were few pedestrians about, especially with the cold. A sharp blast of chill wind bit into him as they neared the canal. The waiter suddenly stopped as he approached the broad expanse of the Franz-Josefs-Kai paralleling the canal. Klavan quickly ducked into a doorway as the waiter looked in back of him. A late horse-drawn tram made its way along the broad boulevard that also served as a dockland for produce. The waiter made his way across the street toward the Stephanie-Brucke, obviously on his way into the Second District across the canal.

Klavan needed to make his move now. There were no pedestrians about and he made a dash across the street, catching up to the waiter as he began to cross the bridge. He had his pistol drawn and had it to the man’s head before he could react.

‘Make a sound and you die,’ he said.

The man’s eyes grew bigger, the whites showing as they stood under the lights at the foot of the bridge.

‘Cooperate and you live,’ Klavan said, his voice controlled. He jerked his head to a flight of stairs leading down below the bridge to a promenade and docks closer to the water level.

‘What do you want?’

‘Your money. Now move and no one gets hurt.’

The man’s eyes surveyed the scene, but there were no other pedestrians about, no street traffic.

Luck is with me, Klavan told himself. ‘Move or die here,’ he hissed.

The waiter shuffled toward the steps, Klavan in back with the gun against his back.

Reaching the bottom of the steps, Klavan shoved the man to the right, under the bridge and out of sight. He felt more confident now. Halfway home.

‘Here,’ the man said, pulling out a crumple of bills from his pants pockets. ‘Take it. That’s all I have. I don’t carry a wallet.’

Klavan said nothing, merely fixing the man with his icy gaze.

‘Take it,’ the man pleaded, holding out the bills. Klavan’s silence unnerved him. Then his eyes went to Klavan’s hands and a sudden recognition struck the waiter. ‘Mother of God, it’s you. The man from the cafe talking to Herr Karl the day he died. You were the one who killed Herr Karl. I saw you. I followed Herr Karl that night. You must be the one.’

The words chilled Klavan more than the wind off the Danube Canal.

‘Who have you told?’ The words were uttered with almost a sweetness that again caught the waiter off guard.

‘You’ll never get away with this. Werthen will see to that. I swear-’

He was about to scream out when Klavan clapped his hand over the man’s mouth, his left cupping the back of the man’s skull. A quick twist and he broke the waiter’s neck.

He let him drop to the cobbled promenade, a lifeless rag doll.

Focus, he commanded himself. No way to make this look like an accident now, not with a broken neck. So concealment was the thing. He looked around and found a stack of heavy cobbles under the bridge left for repairs. He stripped the long coat off the man, found no belt but there were suspenders. Even better. He took out the knife from its leg sheath and cut the suspenders in two. Then he trussed several of the heavy cobbles in the man’s coat like a satchel, binding it at the top with one of the suspenders. The other he tied to this bundle and wrapped it around the man’s waist, tightly securing it.

There were voices overhead – a woman and a man.

‘Come on, dearie,’ the woman said. ‘We can go below. Nobody will see. A nice fast one for you.’

He would have to kill them as well. Which actually might be a good idea. It would surely take attention away from a waiter gone missing.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ the man said. ‘Too cold for outdoor sports.’

‘Oh, you’re a comedian,’ the woman said in a shrill tone. ‘Feel this. It’ll warm you up.’

‘Give it a rest, will you?’ the man replied. ‘I’ve got a wife waiting for me at home.’

‘But she won’t do what I could do for you, dearie.’

He heard footsteps clapping on the bridge overhead, moving away, crossing the bridge. One pair only.

‘Go ahead!’ the woman shouted at him. ‘Go home to your sweet little frau. You don’t know what you’re missing.’

Soon, he heard her leaving the bridge and going back to the quai. He waited another five minutes before moving the body over to the edge of the dock and letting it down gently, without a splash, into the murky waters of the canal. It sunk immediately.