The Wolf of Sarajevo by Matthew Palmer Page A

correctly, Gisler would be back at his apartment in a fewhours unharmed. At least physically, at least for now. What might happen to him when his client discovered that his lawyer had misplaced the package left in his keeping was not Klingsor’s concern.
    Echo Three stripped Gisler of his jacket and tie, and forced him down into the dentist’s chair. The chair was Klingsor’s idea, a trademark of sorts. For most people, there was an almost Pavlovian response to the chair. The association with pain was strong and deeply rooted. The chair set the right tone
.
    I am going to hurt you.
    The skin on the lawyer’s face and neck was pale and clammy. There were dark circles of fear sweat under his armpits. Klingsor bent over him. With the mask on, only his eyes were visible, eyes that Klingsor knew how to use to create the impression of a window to a dark and twisted soul. He liked to believe that wasn’t true. He was a devoted family man, with two daughters he adored and doted on. He was a good churchgoer and generous to his many friends. This was a job. But he was introspective enough to recognize the corrosive effects that this particular art form could have on the psyche. Every man had his limits.
    I’ll take a break after this job, he had promised himself, go someplace warm and lie around for a while, maybe put in for a transfer to a different department, something with less travel. He had tried that once or twice before and had been denied. He was, they had assured him, too valuable in his current position. Well, fuck them.
    Klingsor stared at Gisler from behind his mask, willing his eyes to be as cold as polished stone.
    â€œYou have something I want.”
    â€œTell me,” Gisler croaked.
    Water dripping from the ceiling had formed a puddle in themiddle of the room. There was a broken pipe somewhere. The effect was suitably dramatic.
    â€œYou are keeping a package for a man. You may not even know what’s in it. But it is very important to me. I want it. Tonight.”
    â€œI keep almost everything in safe-deposit boxes,” Gisler pleaded. “The banks are closed. They will not open until nine.”
    Good,
Klingsor thought. They were already discussing the terms of the handover. This should not be especially difficult.
    â€œTell me where.”
    â€œAll over the city. What is it you’re looking for?”
    â€œA package left in your care by a man named Marko Barcelona.”
    Gisler looked confused.
    â€œI don’t have the faintest idea who that is.”
    â€œDon’t fuck with me,” Klingsor said menacingly. “This is not a game.”
    â€œNo,” Gisler agreed. “I’m telling you the truth. What’s his real name? Maybe I know him by something else.”
    This was a problem. Klingsor did not know. Marko Barcelona was an obvious alias, but nobody seemed to know who he really was. And Klingsor’s organization was usually pretty good at that sort of thing.
    â€œHe’s the head of the White Hand,” Klingsor answered. “A Bosnian criminal organization. Sometimes he goes by Mali. Other than that, he uses no other name that we know of. It’s likely that the package contains a tape or a disc or a memory stick. Maybe it’s just the URL to a site on the dark web where it’s sitting on an anonymous server, but I will have it from you.”
    Klingsor sensed that this was the time to imply a more direct physical threat. Gisler was right on the edge. His complexion waswaxen and pale. His shirt now soaked all the way through with sweat. His breathing was heavy and ragged, and he stank of fear.
    On the table was a power drill. Klingsor picked it up and pretended to examine it carefully. It was an older Makita, covered in stains that were supposed to look like dried blood but were really nail polish. The drill bit was long and had a quarter-inch router head at the tip.
    â€œYou don’t need that,” Gisler gasped.