Blood Money

[Serbovia]

PROLOGUE

19th of September 2006

The Old Fox Bar & Billiard Hall
Karl Wieder-Strasse 22
Northeastern Borough,
Neuhafenstadt
Newhaven State,
Confederate Eastern States

"Ain't I seen her somewhere before?", Francis Hughes said as he drew in from his Implaria's Finest Cigarette, gazing at the picture of a woman somewhere in her mid-30s held in the hand of the man seated on the opposite site of their backroom table. Hughes knew he'd seen her before, but couldn't put a name to the face. White, though largely unremarkable by appearance, she likely wasn't anyone Hughes had encountered personally. She was someone, though, someone Hughes perhaps might have seen on television or a newspaper.

"Yeah, the state legistlature", the man on the other side of the table replied. Alex Neithardt was a top lieutenant in the Three Cities Mob, to be specific the head of the Neuhafenstadt section which Hughes and the man seated next to him - Jochen Petrov - were a part of. Its name came from the three biggest cities in Newhaven State, itself the biggest state of the Twin Islands which occupied roughly a half of their Southern portions - Neuhafenstadt, Freihafen and Heng Sha. Significant among the various gangs and criminal groups in the Eastern States in that it did not discriminate according to ethnic background, the group had originally been established as a loose coalition of local crime bosses fighting an influx of Yujini Triads and assorted street gangs into their territories.

"Katerine Sikorsky", Neithardt continued, the name ringing bells to Hughes who finally realized where he'd seen that face.

"She a commie in the state legistlature", Neithardt continued, handing the picture along with a set of papers to Hughes and Petrov, "As of late, she's become a problem for us and some of our associates. You two are dealing with that problem tonight."

Hughes raised his eyebrows, drawing in again from the cheap mass-market cigarette while studying the papers Neithardt had given him. It caused something vaguely resembling a minor shock in the veteran mob torpedo. Torpedo, Hughes reminded himself, not a hitman or a gunman. In the slang used by white gangsters in the Eastern States, a "torpedo" was among the top tier of criminal footsoldiers, a veteran valued for his experience and tenacity under fire. Being called that was taken by career criminals as a sign of respect, and one calling a torpedo worthy of his title by any lesser title would soon learn the gravity of his mistake.

The papers were lacking of any official identification, but Francis Hughes knew they'd have to had come from someone on the take within the police force. Included was Sikorsky's itinerary for this evening's departure to some meeting with other Red locals - Hughes didn't bother to read the details on that one - down to the exact route she'd be taking from her home to the Neuhafenstadt International Airport. Another A4 was an overview of the security arrangements at her home - no close protection personnel except during official events, but a home alarm system and a personal portable "panic button" for her and her family that connected to Neuhafenstadt Central Dispatch. In addition, there was a mention of a 9mm subcompact pistol registered to Sikorsky, concealed carry being a commonplace in Newhaven State due to permissible firearms laws.

Francis Hughes didn't like the idea, but hits had come and gone. In a way which any person in regular employment would've considered disgusting, Hughes prided himself on his "professional abilities" and the ability to execute given tasks in spite of their difficulty. Thus, he remained silent. Petrov, on the other hand, didn't.

"This is some assassination shit, chief", the Kryobaijani-Germanian torpedo voiced out as he went through the papers, "Not like we'd be doing in some regular guy, you know?"

"I know", Neithardt replied calmly, his voice not betraying any emotion whatsoever. The mob lieutenant was legendary for his calm and recollection, which at times astounded even Hughes.

"You'll get a car and your guns from the usual place, bring in some shitty clothes on your own because we'll want to make this look like a rip-and-run gone wrong", Neithardt continued with seeming ignorance of Petrov's concerns, staring the two torpedos in the eye, "owing to assassination shit, extra head money will be waiting for you once you're done with this. So, are you two in or out?"

They were in. Had always been, and both of the men knew that.

 

[Serbovia]

PROLOGUE

19th of September 2006
Albatross-Strasse 6
Central Borough,
Neuhafenstadt
Newhaven State,
Confederate Eastern States

They'd embraced at the door before Katerine had finally departed to her car parked outside of their house. This time, she'd be away for a week in Freistadt visiting her party's national office in conjunction with other Newhaven Socialists.

Rudolf Bauer sighed. On the other hand, he did enjoy the fact of his wife's political career meaning a lot of absence which in turn meant quiet at home - Rudolf was doing a doctorate at the Newhaven State University and needed a lot of private time for his academic projects - but then he did find himself lonely at times. And worrying over his wife, for in a city such as Neuhafenstadt someone willing to stand for the common man - as Katerine had done in her position in the state legistlature - ended up making lots of powerful enemies.

Rudolf had on multiple occasions said to Katerine that his insistence that the 9x19mm Schräderhafen sub-compact and the panic button connected to police dispatch she carried in her purse sufficed for personal defense was dangerous, but she'd hear none of it. Katerine had always been an independent, strong persona, probably the very reason by Rudolf had asked her for a date four years ago when they'd met in a trade union conference in which Rudolf had taken part as a lawyer for the Confederate Association of Stevedores. Though they lived in an anonymous middle-class rowhouse in a street full of anonymous middle-class rowhouses relatively safe from the perils of crime, Katerine had stepped on some powerful toes in the city during her career. It was them that Rudolf worried about, not desperate drug addicts or gangbangers.

With Katerine now gone off, Rudolf figured that he could use the time to get acquinted with a bottle of Franconian import smoke beer he'd picked up from the local beer store, a new discovery he'd never even heard of before he'd picked it up from the store's shelf of monthly changing specialties. He'd done all his week's work already anyhow. Rudolf left the lobby and went through the house's living room to their kitchen, grabbed his favorite beer glass...

...and dropped it on the floor just as the all too familiar sound of gunshots begun ringing outside in the Albatross Street. The glass shattering on the floor, Rudolf Bauer ducked for cover just as his self-defense instincts kicked in. He'd latel remark that those had been the slowest thirty seconds of his life, as he lay on the floor motionless. When the gunfire stopped, Rudolf counted that whoever was shooting must have gotten off at least twenty shots in that half-minute time. A sound of running steps from the street told Rudolf that someone was running away, and he gathered sufficient courage to step up to their porch.

No. What awaited him was a shock, as Rudolf Bauer watched the two figures in the distance - unrecognizable with the darkness of the evening and their black hoodies - run off with Katerine's purse and her laptop bag. He saw his wife lying motionless on the pavement next to their car, her head and torso riddled with bullet wounds. The scream he let off echoed in the street as neighbors begun to appear in their windows to watch the unfolding calamity. Police sirens echoed somewhere in the distance, but Rudolf didn't notice them.

When the first responding patrol of the City Police arrived on the scene they found Rudolf Bauer standing motionless on the empty street, his blank eyes staring at Katerine Sikorsky's corpse. His world had died that evening.

 

[Serbovia]

Confederate Marshals Service Regional Office for Newhaven
Neuhafenstadt Confederate Building
Konföderierten-Platz 2
Central Borough,
Neuhafenstadt
Newhaven State,
Confederate Eastern States

The special task force of Marshals, Revenue Service Investigators, Confederate Attorneys and Intelligence Service internal officers had been granted near unlimited overtime for the continuation of their inquiry regarding the unfolding corruption scandal already shending shockwaves through Newhaven's high society. As a result, the space occupied by the Marshals Service in Neuhafenstadt's center of Confederate authority was packed to the brim even on a Sunday. City and state police were still kept out of the investigation to their chagrin, a necessity the task force had been allowed, for the extent of corruption especially within the State Police - their three policemen now in investigative custody over corruption charges had been Dignitary Protection, an elite unit - remained unknown.

In his corner room, Chief Deputy Marshal Peter Hamann sipped his morning coffee while going over the pile of assorted e-mails and papers on his plate, everything from reports by task force investigators to call requests by higher-ups in Freistadt. Everyone wanted everything from Hamann since he'd as the senior Confederate law enforcer of Newhaven State had taken command of the detail investigating the web of corruption and organized crime centered around Minister-President Bergmann. Not an easy task by any means given the attention the case had received.

Had it been just favors for corporate backers, everyone would've probably ignored the revelations about Johan Bergmann, Hamann cynically mused. Such was the state of things in the Eastern States, where political power had always stood on economic power. The way of the land, many said. Bergmann had just been unfortunate enough to extend those dealings to the Three Cities mob, even to the point of having sanctioned the murder of an opposition politician in an unforgivable travesty and perversion of democracy. And he'd fallen out of favor with the Con-Rep- Agrarian coalition, so the shot-callers in Freistadt were more than happy to see him go away. Such was politics.

By the very least, Johan Bergmann would go to prison, as would his associates. The Three Cities gangsters would be put on trial for the many acts of racketeering they'd committed, with authorities now having had the opportunity to arrest the group's Neuhafenstadt leadership in one fell swoop. Still, Hamann knew that much would go ignored, for no one with power wanted the investigation to delve too deep into the web of political and economic power that defined the Eastern States high society. Bergmann would be made an example of, and with all likelihood the press would feast on his indulgences for a couple of weeks, then moving on to the next topic that made for a good headline.

At the age of 52, having comfortably settled in the position of a desk cop - and already developing the baldening and the beer belly that came with it - Hamann had no interest in fighting against windmills. He'd get his superiors the results they wanted, and then he'd move on. Over his thirty or so years in law enforcement - the first ten within the New Germania State Police and the rest with the Marshals - Hamann had realized that being a police officer had nothing to do with the grandiose fantasies of ridding the world of evil that younger officers more often than not had. Instead, the police were that part of the state's machinery which kept the state working, a necessity of sorts for the systems.

In fact, the former Minister-President of Newhaven State was already looking to strike a deal in exchange for leniency and protection from the ire of Three Cities, especially once he'd realized that by the very least he was looking at a long prison sentence or even the needle for his role in the Sikorsky murder. A wiretap in his house had yielded him talking to Alex Neithardt - the Three Cities boss in Neuhafenstadt - about the killing, and Confederate prisons were notorious for their bad reputation. Unless they could buy protection for money, people such as Bergmann didn't survive in prison for very long. And Hamann was very satisfied for that, considering that through him they could get a load of Three Cities gangsters put away for a long time.

In actuality, what Freistadt was hoping for was a conviction for Bergmann and a focus on his connections with the Three Cities mob and the businessmen in dealings with him. What they didn't want, on the other hand, was for the investigators to delve too deep in the Confederate Republican elite in Newhaven. And Hamann was quite fine with that. After all, the police was there to keep the system running, not to destroy it.

 

[Serbovia]

The Bergmann Villa
Grünberg Island
Western Borough,
Neuhafenstadt,
Newhaven State,
Confederate Eastern States

"Do you want to go to prison, Mr. Bergmann?", Peter Hamann asked, then waited for the former Minister-President of Newhaven State to answer.

Johan Bergmann was a broken man, that much was obvious to Newhaven's Chief Deputy Marshal and the woman seated beside him, the state's Deputy Attorney-General Marie Weissmüller. Hamann knew that the man had grown amongst opulence, born into a rich family with his father a prominent Newhaven mining entrepreneur, and now he was being stripped of everything. Hamann had seen plenty of mobsters and drug dealers and the like during his career, and something many of them had in common with each other was that they'd grown in relative poverty and what had sparked their life of crime had been the sight of richness that those successful in their criminal careers had provided. Bergmann was different. Peter Hamann wasn't a psychologists, but he guessed that the veteran politician had in his life become so used to getting his way that the consequence had been a man who did not hesitate to use even the most extreme of measures to achieve that outcome.

A court order had frozen all of his assets pending the completion of the criminal inquiry, due to beliefs of embezzlement and corrupt payoffs received from businessmen and organized crime figures, with the exception of portions deemed necessarily for personal sustenance. Alas, "personal sustenance" did not include service staff, so Bergmann had been forced to put his personal assistant, cook, cook's assistant, gardener, two maids and two driver-bodyguards on indefinite unpaid leave. His wife Louise had moved into a hotel, and was said to be considering a divorce. Though his two sons had both arrived to the city ostensibly to provide support for their father, at the moment the only ones Bergmann had for company were the team of Confederate Marshals enforcing his house arrest.

A horde of journalists awaited at the entrance to Grünberg Island, a gated suburb for Neuhafenstadt's rich only connected to the mainland by a single bridge and protected by an armed private security service. However, they were at the entrance, not anywhere near the Bergmann Villa where all inside were Bergmann, Hamann, Weissmüller and the team of Marshals guarding Bergmann. The peace was evident in the three-floor Colonial Baroque villa's lawn terrance where they were having their meeting.

"The Confederate government's willing to offer you a deal", Weissmüller continued, "In exchange for your full cooperation the prison sentence you will be facing...."

"Actually even more provided your involvement in the Sikorsky murder is proven", Hamann cut in dryly.

"Indeed. What I was about to say is that we are interested in lessening your burdens, so to say, by offering you a lighter sentence under special conditions in exchange for your cooperation."

"What kind of 'special conditions'?", Bergmann inquired. Hamann wasn't sure if he'd seen a glimmer of hope in the man's face.

"Mabini Confederate Prison", Weissmüller replied, and Hamann thought that he'd heard uncertainty in the woman's voice. Unlike him, sometimes described as a well-adjusted bureucrat, the Deputy Attorney-General seemed to be in some eternal crusade of justice in spite of her age of forty-one. Though sometimes astounded by this element of her's, the Deputy Chief Marshal guessed that her professional drive had its positive sides as well.

Mabini Confederate Prison was a special institution of the Justice Ministry's Prison Service. Nicknamed "The Cage Hotel", it had separate sections for criminals turned witnesses who were considered too dangerous to be put into regular witness protection, white-collar offenders and discretionary "good conduct" inmates. It differed radically from regular Eastern States prisons notorious for their conditions, allowing inmates apartment-like housing and amenities such as electronic appliances and unrestricted gym and library access as well as extensive visiting rights together with other comforts. The task force together with higher-ups in Freistadt had surmised that Mabini would be an attractive prospect to Bergmann as he'd otherwise face the prospect of ordinary imprisonment.

"I see", Bergmann said, cautiously intrigued by the proposition, "In exchange for what?"

"As said, your full cooperation", Marie Weissmüller replied, "Now, we do not intend to conduct an interview at this point, just to explain to you what the agreement you'd sign entails..."

A hour later, Peter Hamann and Marie Weissmüller left the Bergmann Villa, satisfied of their work of the day.

 

[Serbovia]

The Bergmann Villa
Grünberg Island
Western Borough,
Neuhafenstadt,
Newhaven State,
Confederate Eastern States

Deputy Marshal Bayani Sinangtala yawned as the sun's first rays set in from East over the Colonial Baroque houses, shrub and brick fences and Calamondin trees of Grünberg Island, the upcoming bright day doing nothing to relieve his boredom after ten out of twelve hours of guard duty at the gate of the compound where Newhaven's former Minister-President remained in house arrest. The copious amounts of caffeinated drinks he'd consumed during his shift had had an equally limited effect. His physical presence stood next to a Marshals Service SUV parked outside of the villa compound's entrance, a GAL 85 carbine hanging from his neck in a tactical sling, but his mental presence was already at the hotel and the comfort of his bed.

He'd definitely expected something else when his supervisor up in the service's Dinangat Office had asked if he'd be willing to be seconded to a "major anti-corruption detail". Though, Sinangtala supposed, it made sense for him to be on the guard detail as a regular member of the Security Unit which held the responsibility for guarding Confederate court officials and buildings as well as others such as endangered criminal witnesses. He tried to tell himself that guarding the detail's main target must have been a task of highest importance, but to no avail. Contrary to what you saw in those Occidental action films, close protection was rather dull even if this task wasn't close protection in the traditional sense being that the Marshals were also keeping Bergmann from escaping. Still, this task was especially dull, with not even overzealous journalists to look out for given that they were being kept well back by the gated community's own guards.

"One, eleven, vehicle inbound."

The voice in his radio earphones brought the Deputy Marshal out of his boredom as the Protective Police officer stationed at the far end of the street, which connected into the island's main throughfare, let out a call. No one had visited the villa since Deputy Chief Hamann and that prosecutor woman had come in yesterday.

"Roger", Sinangtala replied to a microphone on his tactical vest, then turned to the two Protective Police uniforms accompanying him at the gate, "Heads up, guys."

Sure enough, a black Eiffellandian-made Audi A6 pulled up to the gate, its driver's window opening to reveal the driver, a bald and slim Germanian-looking man in his mid-30s wearing a black business suit. His face was familiar. Sinangtala tied a name to that face when he saw the ID card the man produced from the breast pocket of his suit. Stefan Bauer was the Confederate Intelligence Service's liaison to the detail by the virtue of the investigation's national security aspects.

"Good morning, an unscheduled call, sir?", Sinangtala said to Bauer. They had no scheduled visitors to Bergmann today. As the Audi's rear passenger windows opened to reveal two more men, both older than Bauer, the Deputy Marshal took his notebook from one of the tactical vest's pockets to mark down the names on their Intelligence Service IDs. More of them, huh? He hadn't seen the other two, according to their cards Jürgen Niemann and Karl von Kronach from the KND's Domestic Bureau, previously.

"Special circumstances", Bauer replied calmly, "I have the highest access rights to the prisoner."

The Deputy Marshal nodded in acknowledgement. The KND liaison did indeed have such rights, as did Deputy Chief Hamann and his Revenue Service counterpart heading up the detail too. Still, the sudden visit by three KND spooks struck him as odd. Marshals and Revenue agents were the only ones supposed to be interviewing Bergmann after he'd apparently agreed to cooperate yesterday, and they were only due to come in later in the morning. Well, not as if it was his concern as long as the permissions were intact.

Sinangtala gestured to the two uniforms to open the sturdy iron gate leading into the grounds, and the black KND Audi rolled up inside. As he watched the car go in, Deputy Marshal Bayani Sinangtala couldn't shake off the thought that something here was wrong.

 

[Serbovia]

The Intercontinental
Neugermania-Strasse 22
Central Borough,
Neuhafenstadt,
Newhaven State,
Confederate Eastern States

In the evening of the day of his meeting with the former Minister-President of Newhaven State, von Kronach glared contemplatively out of the large windows of his eight-floor room in what was arguably the most luxorious hotel in Neuhafenstadt, possibly in the entire state. The raindrops hitting against the windows served as a constant reminder of the monsoon rains that, as the weathermen told, were due to engulf the whole of the Northern Islands in a matter of weeks. Alas, not even the famous Implarian Monsoon could cure this city of its corruption. Neither could he, though.

All the more shocking that been those truths of the underbelly in the unofficial capital of the Northern Islands that Johan Bergmann had revealed to Karl von Kronach during the several hours that the trio of Nachtrichtendienst officers - only Bauer actually working for the department's Domestic Bureau - had spent in his villa. The recorder that had documented the conversation in which Bergmann had rendered an extensive account of the dealings he had undertaken during his political career burned, at least in a metaphorical sense, in the breast pocket of von Kronach's business suit like hot lead. As did the encrypted flash drive which von Kronach had personally recovered from a safe deposit box at the local branch of the First New Germanian Bank, where Minister-President Bergmann had kept copies of his illicit accounting and archives as an insurance of sorts against his enemies, in case any harm should come to him.

Together, the two items amounted to nothing less than a Holy Bible of political blackmail, documenting years of shady backroom deals, bribes being accepted and given and numerous dark secrets of the underbelly of Confederate politics. That someone such as Karl von Kronach, a man with a career of twenty-something years in Confederate intelligence services, was unnerved by their content served as proof of the power that they held. Anyone appreciative of such power must have been aware that the information contained there must never reach the public.

His hands found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter adorned with the emblem of the Confederate Foreign Ministry. Von Kronach had deliberately urged the reservation of a smoking-permitting room from the hotel for himself and Jürgen Niemann, whom the senior officer had dismissed for the duration of a phone call he was about to make. After lighting up a cigarette he took a satellite phone which had laid on a table in front of him. The first speed-dial button resulted in a call which would leave von Kronach's call encrypted, connect to a communications satellite and finally arrive at another similar device right now with all likelihood in Vesper, Cantignia. That device belonged to Constantin Tännhauser, the Presidential Security Advisor.

"Are you able to talk?", von Kronach opened after drawing in from his cigarette, inhaling the smoke and then puffing out some of it.

"Yes", the low voice at the other end said, "We're having a break from the conference. Some of these people make me wish that you could get alcohol elsewhere than at the embassy."

"What I'm about to tell you will make you wish that too, if Vesper hasn't already", von Kronach said dryly, "I met with Bergmann."

"Is it that bad?"

"Yes."

"Verdammte scheisse", Tännhauser hissed.

"Under the circumstances I'd view it best that we not talk about this over the phone, not even on a secured line", von Kronach replied and drew in again, "Suffice to say Steinhauser won't be very pleased either."

"Keep it under the lid, I'll meet with you once I'll get home."

"Already on it."

"Good."

At the conclusion of the call, von Kronach noticied hat he'd spent his cigarette far quicker than he'd wanted.