Budapest and sent off to Novak’s country palace on the Danube, far from the distractions of the city, to work on encryption software, Internet marketing, front company documentation, etc. The work was endless. But at least it was not bloody.
On the surface anyway. There was always blood at some level.
Gabor Novak was formerly from Ukraina. He had married a Hungarian woman, taken her name and nationality, and proceeded to set up illicit businesses in cities all over eastern Europe: Budapest, Riga, Prague. Before he murdered her, or so the legend went.
Imre tried to persuade him to break free of Novak’s organization, but Val knew in his bones what Imre would not understand—how far men like Kustler would go to protect their territory. Imre would have had his balls cut off and his throat slit for interfering, if he was lucky. If not, there were things that lasted much longer. Val had seen them with his own eyes, unfortunately. He wished he had not.
No, there was no way out. Until he found PSS and Hegel. Or rather, they found him, eleven years ago, after the orders had come down from Daddy Novak to groom Vajda for arms deals. Vajda’s English was quite good, thanks to Imre. Useful for doing business in West Africa. Sierra Leone, to be exact. His first gunrunning assignment.
The car stopped outside a small café in Belváros. The driver sat without turning or speaking. Val got out of the car and went in.
He found Hegel in a corner, tucking away a large steak tartare, and a heaping plateful of spicy goulash and potato croquettes. He gave Val an unfriendly look as the younger man approached.
Hegel was not a handsome man. He was grizzled, thick and square. His coarse, pitted face was heavy-jowled and scowling.
“You’re late,” he growled, wiping his mouth.
Val sat down without explanation or apology, and Hegel ignored him as he shoveled food into his face.
Hegel was an American ex–Special Forces helicopter pilot, Vietnam vet, and covert operative with Prime Security Solutions since its inception. Val had met him eleven years ago in Ouagadougou when he arrived with thirty tons of small arms and ammo, antitank weapons, surface-to-air missiles, RPG tubes, and warheads from a Ukrainian arms manufacturer, destined for the rebels of the Revolutionary United Front.
He was to trade them for a fortune in smuggled diamonds.
A plane waiting for them began to discreetly ferry the weapons to Monrovia, where the final transaction would take place.
Hegel was one of the helicopter pilots who flew the weapons into the rebel strongholds in the jungle. Val discovered afterward that he had been working undercover, investigating sources of arms that flowed to the rebels. Hegel had invited him to go on a weapons run, and out of curiosity and boredom, Val had gone along. They stopped because of mechanical difficulties in Moidu, a small town in the jungle.
By chance, they were there when rebels attacked the town.
It was a massacre. The rebel soldiers were children and teenagers themselves, crazed out of their minds on palm wine and cocaine, armed with the assault rifles and rocket launchers he had just sold to them. They sliced, hacked, and gunned down everything they saw.
Val had seen a great deal of violence in his life, but when he saw the young pregnant girl ripped apart before his eyes by two young thugs with machetes, something tipped inside him. He didn’t remember the dynamics of the fight, how it went or how it ended. It was just a blur of noise, blood. Hegel had dragged him out of it. Alive, amazingly.
He’d awakened in a hospital bed in a fog of agonizing pain and saw Hegel beside him. The man’s metallic gray eyes were looking him over. Coldly, appraisingly. As if considering his purchase.
Hegel told him about Prime Security Solutions, a private mercenary army equipped with armored fighting vehicles, gunships, fighter planes, all manner of weaponry. It provided its clients with military training, VIP protection,
On the surface anyway. There was always blood at some level.
Gabor Novak was formerly from Ukraina. He had married a Hungarian woman, taken her name and nationality, and proceeded to set up illicit businesses in cities all over eastern Europe: Budapest, Riga, Prague. Before he murdered her, or so the legend went.
Imre tried to persuade him to break free of Novak’s organization, but Val knew in his bones what Imre would not understand—how far men like Kustler would go to protect their territory. Imre would have had his balls cut off and his throat slit for interfering, if he was lucky. If not, there were things that lasted much longer. Val had seen them with his own eyes, unfortunately. He wished he had not.
No, there was no way out. Until he found PSS and Hegel. Or rather, they found him, eleven years ago, after the orders had come down from Daddy Novak to groom Vajda for arms deals. Vajda’s English was quite good, thanks to Imre. Useful for doing business in West Africa. Sierra Leone, to be exact. His first gunrunning assignment.
The car stopped outside a small café in Belváros. The driver sat without turning or speaking. Val got out of the car and went in.
He found Hegel in a corner, tucking away a large steak tartare, and a heaping plateful of spicy goulash and potato croquettes. He gave Val an unfriendly look as the younger man approached.
Hegel was not a handsome man. He was grizzled, thick and square. His coarse, pitted face was heavy-jowled and scowling.
“You’re late,” he growled, wiping his mouth.
Val sat down without explanation or apology, and Hegel ignored him as he shoveled food into his face.
Hegel was an American ex–Special Forces helicopter pilot, Vietnam vet, and covert operative with Prime Security Solutions since its inception. Val had met him eleven years ago in Ouagadougou when he arrived with thirty tons of small arms and ammo, antitank weapons, surface-to-air missiles, RPG tubes, and warheads from a Ukrainian arms manufacturer, destined for the rebels of the Revolutionary United Front.
He was to trade them for a fortune in smuggled diamonds.
A plane waiting for them began to discreetly ferry the weapons to Monrovia, where the final transaction would take place.
Hegel was one of the helicopter pilots who flew the weapons into the rebel strongholds in the jungle. Val discovered afterward that he had been working undercover, investigating sources of arms that flowed to the rebels. Hegel had invited him to go on a weapons run, and out of curiosity and boredom, Val had gone along. They stopped because of mechanical difficulties in Moidu, a small town in the jungle.
By chance, they were there when rebels attacked the town.
It was a massacre. The rebel soldiers were children and teenagers themselves, crazed out of their minds on palm wine and cocaine, armed with the assault rifles and rocket launchers he had just sold to them. They sliced, hacked, and gunned down everything they saw.
Val had seen a great deal of violence in his life, but when he saw the young pregnant girl ripped apart before his eyes by two young thugs with machetes, something tipped inside him. He didn’t remember the dynamics of the fight, how it went or how it ended. It was just a blur of noise, blood. Hegel had dragged him out of it. Alive, amazingly.
He’d awakened in a hospital bed in a fog of agonizing pain and saw Hegel beside him. The man’s metallic gray eyes were looking him over. Coldly, appraisingly. As if considering his purchase.
Hegel told him about Prime Security Solutions, a private mercenary army equipped with armored fighting vehicles, gunships, fighter planes, all manner of weaponry. It provided its clients with military training, VIP protection,
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