The Wolf of Sarajevo by Matthew Palmer

Hochdeutsche was more than adequate, and it was the one language other than English that all members of the team had in common.
    The lawyer had recovered from the initial shock. He did not seem especially surprised at what had happened. With the kind of clients Gisler routinely dealt with, Klingsor supposed that kidnapping was no doubt an ever-present risk.
    â€œWho do you work for?” Gisler demanded, once Echo Four had removed his hand. He tried to stand up, but Echo Four pushed him back onto the floor of the panel van using just enough excess force to make the point.
    â€œTell me who you work for,” Gisler insisted again.
    â€œYou don’t want to know,” Klingsor answered. He put as much menace as he could into the phrase. He wanted Gisler afraid. As he spoke, he leaned forward and let his jacket open up far enough that the well-padded lawyer could see the butt of Klingsor’s Glock sticking out of its holster at his waist.
    â€œDo you want money?” Gisler asked. “I have money. Enough money.” The fear was already starting to eat away at his bluster. That was good.
    Klingsor said nothing and his team was disciplined. They followed his lead. He wanted Gisler to imagine the worst. His thoughts would settle inevitably on his own particular and personal fears. He would do a better job of frightening himself than Klingsor ever could. Quiet was most effective in raising anxiety, and anxiety made men like Gisler talkative.
    It was a twenty-minute drive to the parking garage. The building was only half finished. The company that owned it had recently sold it to another developer with an address on Cyprus that was little more than a post-office box and a tax credit. That company was controlled by Klingsor’s employer. The deal would ultimately fall through. But for now, work on the garage had been suspended while all involved did due diligence. They would have it all to themselves.
    Echo Three unlocked the gate, and the van took a circular ramp down three stories into subterranean Geneva.
    â€œIt’ll be quiet down here,” Klingsor explained to Gisler. “And private. We have some things to discuss.”
    â€œWhat do you want from me?” Gisler asked. The lawyer did not try to put on any kind of display of false bravado. His double chinquivered with evident fear. He was sweating heavily, Klingsor noted. His shirt was already soaked through at the collar.
    â€œJust one simple little thing,” Klingsor said.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œBe patient.”
    The van stopped. Klingsor opened the door and Echo Four hauled the lawyer to his feet by the collar of his bespoke suit jacket. The sound of ripping cloth testified to both Echo Four’s freakish strength and Gisler’s substantial bulk.
    A plain steel door was set in the wall of the garage next to where the van had parked. Klingsor opened it with a key from a chain around his neck and Echoes Three and Four hustled Gisler inside. The room behind the door was little more than a raw concrete cube. In the center of the room was a dentist’s chair. A metal table held a range of tools, some sharp and shiny, others dull and blunt. A car battery sat at the far end of the table with a pair of jumper cables lying next to it.
    It was all for show.
    Klingsor had no intention of torturing Gisler. It was not that his organization was above that sort of thing. But that was not his department. There were specialists for that, and Klingsor respected what they did. They were professionals. Klingsor, however, was an expert on human psychology. The manipulation of fear. He was quite good at it, almost an artist, really. And that is what this was, a kind of performance art. He could leverage the full range of emotions. Greed was a reliable old standby, and lust had its place, particularly with the young and naïve. But fear was his favorite. It made the strong weak and the weak bare their souls. If Klingsor did his job