A Matter of Loyalty

By Mike Monczunski

In Frankfurts notorious red light district a British military officer is found dead. German detective Lars Kubach and his temporary British partners uncover an international conspiracy behind a bloody civil war in Nigeria.

Faced with offi cial denials and lies the detectives go beyond the murky suspects and enter a web of questionable loyalties involving the Russian Mafi a, a shadowy French arms dealer and their own intelligence services.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781469115405

Mike Monczunski

not provided

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Frankfurt Germany Sunday Morning

Beethoven’s fifth jars Detective Lars Kubach’s sound sleep. Face down he feels for his T-Mobile and squints at the screen.

It’s two AM. The caller ID reads Jens Meier.

Massaging his silver brush cut Lars sits slumped on the edge of his couch.

Kubach here. he mumbles in a gravel voice.

Sir I’m at the black hole . . . It looks like we got a dead Englishman.

I’ll take the relic.

‘The relic’ is a burgundy 89 Volvo 740 GLE.

Minutes from the main train station, Frankfurt’s infamous Rotlichtviertel is three side streets of neon lit brothels, budget hotels and sleazy bars.

On Elbestrasse, Lars cruises past the red tube framed windows of EROS HAUS, CUPID’S, and LUV PLATZ.

Leather jacketed men stare hard from the Venus Erotik’s entrance as he slows for a changing light.

Lars follows the line of haloed streetlights to two low rise apartment buildings. The black hole runs between them.

A slant parked Polizei car has its spotlight trained on the narrow cul-de-sac.

The relic’s headlights briefly illuminate Meier’s waiting silhouette.

The blue eyed spiky blond clean shaven trainee offers a handshake.

Morgen, what do we have? Lars says looking serious with his trench coat collar upturned.

Morgen sir. An officer responded to a one-ten and found the body.

Meier points, the spotlight stops at a face down corpse.

White male, one point eight meters . . . red hair . . . designer slacks . . . a dress shirt . . .

Lars looks up from his crouch and waits for Meier to finish taking pictures.

No broken bones, bruises or visible wounds. An Englishman you say?

Yes sir. Here is his wallet.

Three one hundred Euro notes, a Sexy Kitten business card and a military id . . . Colonel Sir Marcus Vanderbilt age forty four, Royal Nottingham Reserves. He’s quite a ways from home.

What do you think? Meier asks.

His loafers are genuine leather. Lars grins removes one and shakes it; a key falls out.

Interesting, he murmurs.

We’ve got company. Meier says.

Lars head snaps left. A windowless black van reverses next to the relic. The rear doors slide apart; two men in windbreakers jump out and unfold a wheeled gurney.

We’ll handle this. The taller one grunts as they brush past.

In under a minute they slide Sir Vanderbilt’s sheet covered body into the van. Lars and Meier share curious glances.

Something’s not right.

Badge held high Lars races to the driver side and taps the rolled up window.

I need to see some ID.

The dark skinned passenger tilts his homburg hat and turns his face. The bearded driver gives Lars a drill sergeant glare and floors the accelerator.

Lars leaps back from the squealing tires. Hands on his hips he shakes his head watching the van roar off. Meier races up holding a slip of paper.

I got the plate. he says. If you don’t mind me saying we don’t know how Sir Vanderbilt died.

Let’s call it a night. Chief Baumann is not going to like this.

CHAPTER 2

Frankfurt Morgue 6 A.M.

A wary eye on the snowy haired visitor, Coroner Gerhard Schmidt peels back the white sheet from Sir Vanderbilt’s head.

Stroking his clipped mustache the man leans over the steel gurney; his liver spotted hands match the corpse’s deathly pallor. He cocks an eye up at Schmidt.

Cause of death? He says in German.

A massive heart attack, I found something behind his right earlobe.

Schmidt’s rubber gloved finger points at a swollen red pinhole.

An injection mark?

I believe so. Will you need a toxicology report?

It will not be necessary.

Schmidt peers over his lowered glasses. I don’t understand.

You’re not supposed to. This is a security matter. This body was never here.

Unnerving Schmidt with his serpent stare the old man slides a blackberry from his vest pocket and walks out.

NOON

ERROR: FILE NOT FOUND. THE SITE YOU ARE LOOKING FOR HAS BEEN REMOVED.

Lars clicks the Royal Nottingham Reserves website again and gets the same message.

He logs off his Dell laptop and washes down a garlic butter and cheese brotchen with a bottle of Rosbacher.

Massaging his silver brush he crosses the creaky floor.

His second floor apartment has a bird’s eye view of Bornheim’s Parlamentplatz. A cold drizzle falls from a blanket of low grey clouds. His daily jog will have to wait.

A punching bag hangs in the corner, a gift from his ex wife Inga. Eighteen years have passed since their divorce . . . eighteen lonely years

"Your job is more important than me . . . " the bag is still twirling as he snatches his keys from his computer desk. His destination: the Kaiser Bistro.

A broomstick legged prostitute in a white mini skirt beckons Lars from the Venus Erotik’s doorway.

Lars shuts off the relic’s chugging wipers and pulls to the curb. Her cautious approach ends when he rolls down his window and flashes his badge.

Show me your identification now. He commands.

Certain that Ellie Bauer’s EU passport is a clever forgery; Lars stands under an umbrella leafing through it.

Is this your name? he barks, expecting a lie.

Shivering and hugging herself she nods. Lars follows her nervous glance to Gurov’s Pub. A leather jacketed man lingering outside turns his head.

Do you work there?

Her answer is East European accented.

Yes sometimes. I am waitress.

I don’t want to see you out here again.

His eyes narrow as he hands the passport back. A mix of relief and surprise on her sunken face, she darts to Gurov’s. The leather jacket man guides her by the shoulder inside.

An hour later Lars sets down his third Hefe Weisen and thumbs a text message.

ATTN: Hauptmann Bergen since the deceased is British Scotland Yard should be notified ASAP.

CHAPTER 3

Scotland Yard Monday Morning

A dull low wattage bulb . . . a corner file cabinet . . . a computer desk with a chair too short for his lanky frame . . .

Nicknamed London Fog Rodney Sinclair’s Scotland Yard office is a glorified closet. Sipping coffee he turns on his portable Roberts Gemini.

I’m Jordan Mayfield. Lagos. A refugee column bound for the capital was ambushed yesterday by the UNF. Their increased boldness and strength raises concern that they may have found new weapons suppliers. Reporter Richard Hawkins is in the outskirts.

"You are right Jordan, as you can hear about two kilometers away intermittent mortar and machine gun fire are being exchanged between government troops and advance elements of the UNF. Recent raids by government forces have turned up caches of weapons from the former Soviet Union. While President Agali urges calm there is growing worry that the UNF is getting stronger and are simply probing the defenses in advance of a major push . . . "

"That was Richard Hawkins, we hope for his safety as this civil war shows no sign of abating. In other news . . . "

Got a good little tiff going on down there?

The gravelly voice belongs to Chief inspector Norman Vesey; a bulldog faced potbellied man with a wispy comb over. Tucked under his arm is a rolled up copy of the Metro; he steps inside and tosses it on Rodney’s desk.

Check out page two.

Rodney reads the bold headline out loud.

British official found dead.

And where does it say he was found?

Rodney skims the article. Frankfurt Germany, is there something I should know?

Meticulously unfolding a white handkerchief Vesey wipes his bulbous red nose.

Sir John Laurence wants us upstairs in ten minutes.

The elevator chimes and Rodney steps out on the fourth floor. His oxfords’ echo in the silent hallway; he stops at a door with a brass nameplate and knocks.

Sir Laurence will be with you shortly.

A petite auburn haired secretary holds the door open and gestures to a black leather couch in the carpeted waiting area.

A stocky man with tousled chestnut hair sticks out a scarred ropy veined hand.

The name’s Liam Cotter, you can call me Lee, he says in a Scottish drawl.

Rodney Sinclair, Scotland Yard. Any idea of why we’re here?

Lee shrugs. Your guess is as good as mine.

I am Commander Sir John Laurence. Please take a seat.

A towering man in a starched white shirt and black tie sits with his arms folded on a massive oak desk facing three high backed leather chairs. Chief Vesey is already seated.

A framed Eton College diploma and an old Queens Park Rangers team photo hang on the paneled walls. A suited younger Sir Laurence stands smiling in the back row.

A snow haired man in a pinstriped grey vest paces behind Sir Laurence.

Rodney looks out the office windows. London’s skyline is blanketed in crawling slate grey clouds.

Please introduce yourselves, and your job titles. Sir Laurence says.

Rodney and Lee trade sidelong glances.

Rodney Sinclair age thirty five, civilian investigator Scotland Yard.

Liam Cotter, thirty interpreter Secret Intelligence Service.

Sir Laurence nods. Gentlemen we have a crisis that may have far reaching implications. This fax came late last night.

Polizeiprasidium:

Adickesallee 70 Frankfurt am Main, Germany

Priority: Urgent

Status: Secret

Message: A British Colonel, Sir Marcus Vanderbilt was found dead. Cause of death undetermined. Immediate cooperation requested from Scotland Yard.

Shouldn’t the military handle this? Rodney hands Lee the fax.

Sir Laurence rubs his furrowed brow; his booming voice turns businesslike.

To counter the inevitable speculation, we will tidy this up. You’re assignment will be to investigate and deliver accurate reports to the satisfaction of all parties. A flight departs for Frankfurt at five. Your lodging has been arranged, my secretary has your paperwork. Chief Vesey is your point of contact. You are hereby dismissed.

Rodney stands next to Chief Vesey in the elevator.

You volunteered me for this didn’t you? he says his lips barely moving.

Chief Vesey keeps staring straight ahead.

Scotland Yard is scaling back I was told I need to justify your position.

The man secretly nicknamed old steel eyes turns from the window. Sir Laurence waits for him to pack a pipe and slide a silver tobacco tin in his vest pocket.

Are you sure they can do the job? Laurence asks.

Steel eyes brings a glowing match to his pipe; he exhales. Laurence fans the billowing cherry smelling cloud.

What they find will only serve to help us. I’ll be leaving now.

Steel eyes stops in the doorway with a slivered grin.

Smile John you look uptight.

CHAPTER 4

Frankfurt Polizeiprasidium

Another rainy day. Lars mutters.

His usual half hour early he hangs up his dripping trench coat; a deadpan ARD news report on Nigeria’s escalating civil war plays in the background.

Meier looks up from his desk; he drains a Red Bull and breaks off a chocolate Ritter Sport square.

Morgen sir. I am almost done.

Lars pours coffee and smiles at the neatly stacked folders on his desk. In six months the kid has organized years of reports and case files from the twin battleship gray file cabinets on the back wall.

Did you bring the camera?

Scheisse, Jens punches his palm, Sorry Sir I forgot it.

Lars pulls a ten Euro note from his dress slacks.

Take the relic and get some breakfast. I’m going to get the ball rolling.

Polizei Datenbank, Frau Hertsch speaking. How may I help you?

Detective Kubach calling, I have a phone number, He flips over the Sexy Kitten business card. I also have a license plate, FLA 7076

Ein moment bitte.

Tapping his fingers on his desk Lars waits as the moment turns into minutes.

Herr Kubach the phone number is for the Fong Li restaurant . . . but the plate number is unavailable.

Unavailable? Lars repeats the number and waits again.

I’m sorry, perhaps you have it wrong?

Lars glances up at the cough coming from the doorway. His boss is waiting.

Never mind, thank you Frau Hertsch.

Fifty one, Chief Baumann has a receding hairline and neatly trimmed grey sideburns. A set of reading glasses dangle from neck. He holds a Styrofoam coffee cup waist high.

Good morning Lars, I sent a fax to Scotland Yard. Sir John Laurence has dispatched two detectives. I also got a phone call. Captain Jahn Bergen from the BND is coming from Berlin.

The feds are involved?

Baumann nods. Sir Vanderbilt is British military it’s out of my hands now. I want you to wait for Hauptmann Bergen.

Frankfurt Morgue

Guten Morgen I am detective Lars Kubach here to see a body.

Scanning the fluorescent lit basement hallway, Lars fishes his badge from his trench coat.

A bored brunette desk nurse bookmarks her page in ELLE magazine.

Name of the deceased. She says without emotion.

Lars sets Sir Vanderbilt’s