Hans Hartvik E-Book

Hannu Mänty

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 522

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The List is the first instalment of the HANS HARTVIK series. Hans Hartvik is an international headhunter. He is a successful headhunter for an international company and leads an almost perfect life. But, Hans Hartvik is also a contract killer who goes by the name Hans Kiefer. Hans Kiefer is an operative for a secret organisation called MUMS (Murder University of Managements), which is headed by Schröder, Putin and Bush. MUMS has made a list. It is a hit list and contains many names, the most famous of which is Osama Bin Laden. Hans‘ mission is to eliminate him. Books two and three of the List series will be out soon!

Leseprobe

I dedicate this book to my children, with the following advice: Be bold and be silly and do everything you can to live your lives without regret.

Daddy

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

1

2 September 2001, London

I stepped out of the Grange St. Paul’s Hotel in London at 3:00 p.m. and right into Sir David Jones’ Jaguar. I had just finished the London assignment and was really quite happy in my job as a headhunter, but not with the way this day was going. This time round, I was only in London for four days and had made it almost physically intact and injury-free for this part of the project. Mentally, I didn’t have to give any more thought to whether this job made any sense or I was doing anything wrong, much less illegal. I’d covered this ground so many times before. I was doing the right thing, even though it meant killing people. I killed in order to save lives.

It was my eldest daughter, Elisabet’s birthday and I called home to my wife, Päivi, asking her to put Elisabet on the phone. I sang Happy Birthday to her in my gravelly voice and she giggled on the other end of the line, exclaiming, “Daaaddy, stop!” I told her I would be home late that night and she shouldn’t wait up for me, but rather get to sleep at bedtime. I would see her in the morning, give her a big hug and a nice little gift. Elisabet always expects me to bring her home something nice from my trips. I had started this little tradition because I love Elisabet and all my children above all else.

After a phone call and hotel breakfast, I left the Grange St. Paul’s and headed toward the Thames. Even though I had been gearing up and preparing myself for this day for two months, it still managed to sneak up on me quite suddenly.

My mission was to take out three of Osama bin Laden’s closest business associates, who handled the cash flow and investments for his criminal organisation all over the world. They had made an agreement with some American general for the purchase of two specialised nuclear devices. Fortunately, an organisation called MUMS had got wind of the deal and kidnapped the general, giving him a new directive and forcing him to do exactly as instructed. I joined the project on behalf of MUMS, serving as the general’s aide-de-camp, who would handle the negotiations with bin Laden’s associates.

The price was four billion dollars for two devices, which were in North Carolina under the general’s command. All the details had been agreed upon in three separate negotiations held earlier in London, and all that was needed now was a final confirmation of the deal. bin Laden’s associates had used different names each time we met. And each time I met with a different person. The first time I met a Mr. Eyre, with the meeting place—if you could call it that—being the world-famous London Eye. The meeting was brief, but intensive. We met next to the ticket booth, where I was to stand wearing a blue baseball cap. And, when Mr. Eyre arrived, he only uttered the words: “Fireball and code”. That was my cue to hand him a small envelope, which contained nothing more than an account number. But, this was no ordinary account number – it would be receiving their down payment of one billion dollars. This would then set in motion a process, in which bin Laden’s organisation would get their hands on two nuclear devices in the United States. It was at this meeting that I was given envelopes, containing instructions on the next meeting.

The second meeting happened on the very next day with a different person. His name was Mr. Code. My job was to give him the detonation schematics for activating the nuclear devices, provided that the control units for them would first be replaced. I met Mr. Code in front of Big Ben. This time, I was supposed to wear a yellow baseball cap and red sneakers. I was holding nothing but a plastic bag, into which I had put folders holding the detonation schematics. This was also a matter of ensuring security on the street, as we didn’t have to worry as much about some junkie being tempted to grab a briefcase right out of my hand. A plastic bag isn’t quite the target for thieves.

Mr. Code showed up, as agreed, and the exchange was made without any fanfare. He handed me yet another envelope.

The third meeting was a bit longer. I met a Mr. Beer in a pub called Zizzi, which was located right on the Thames. The purpose of this meeting was to outline the details for the fourth and most important meeting, during which we would hand over information on the precise location of the nuclear devices in Charlotte. There, we would grant bin Laden’s men access to the site with tricks to extract the devices. They would also be provided with new control units to work with the detonation schematics. At the same time, they would transfer three billion dollars to our account. The meeting had gone well – we managed to agree on all of the precise details for the following meeting. That meeting would be held at Lloyds Banking Group.

I would be forced to act and react to situations quickly and on their terms, as it was they who had suggested meeting at Lloyds. Sir Jones sat on the Lloyds board of directors and he rang me on my Nokia mobile immediately after I had called my contact at MUMS regarding the situation and next transfer – in other words, the next meeting at the bank. Sir Jones wanted to meet me straight away and was already on his way to my hotel by taxi. Everything happened quickly – perhaps too quickly.

I guessed that I had approximately ten minutes to get ready for the meeting with Sir Jones. I guessed wrong. Only six minutes had passed when I heard a knock on my door. Upon opening the door, I was greeted by an extremely tall and lean Englishman. Sir David Jones was surely over two metres tall and around fifty years of age, but he was certainly in better physical condition than many top judokas in their thirties. Sir Jones didn’t say a word – he just put a finger to his lips and motioned me to follow him. Because I was ready to go, I simply closed the door and left with him. We didn’t take the lift, but rather followed the emergency exit instructions and used the stairs, descending five floors and ending up in the alleyway next to the hotel. It wasn’t until this moment that Sir Jones addressed me by asking: “Mr Kiefer?”, to which I replied: “Sir Jones?” Once that was established, he suggested that we go to the nearest pub for a chat, as there were eyes and ears in the hotel.

We stepped into the nearby Patch pub, where we ordered a couple Magners. We drank in silence for a time, savouring the subtle, seasoned flavour of the ciders. At the same time, I noticed that I was beginning to feel some hunger pangs, but now was the time to get right down to it – food would have to wait. And, indeed, Sir Jones got straight to the point. He explained that we had had a bit of luck, because the terrorists were long-standing clients of the bank. They not only trusted the bank, they also believed that no one suspected them, due to their legitimate business involvement in both the petroleum industry and consulting all over the world. Sir Jones was also on the MUMS payroll, which meant that we were already on the same side and had no reason to provide assurances to each other as to what our objectives were. Our job was quite simply to eliminate three terrorists. We hashed out the details over three drinks, and the plan for the next morning was set. Sir Jones was no killer. He was a banker and facilitator of a great many things. I was the killer.

The next morning, Sir Jones would be receiving the terrorists in accordance with their wishes. It was his task to organise the facility and technical aspects of the plan for us. Based on the plan we worked out together, he would also be providing me with the requisite supplies for our meeting as well as taking care of the business at hand. Now was the time for action.

I would be walking approximately a kilometre and a half to the bank. I wanted to get there with a clear mind and physically ready for action, if such a need arose. My objective was to kill all three businessmen – in other words, the terrorists. I was personally motivated to kill them, because, by doing so, I would be saving hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of lives all over the world. I had no hangover from the three drinks from the night before, as I drank more than a litre of of bottled water when I got back to my hotel room. Just to be safe, I also took a Burana tablet from my suitcase and washed it down with some water.

2

I woke the next morning at six o-clock on the dot. I set the clock alarm and requested a wake-up call from reception as a failsafe. The clock woke me up at precisely six, but did not get the wake-up call until 6:10 a.m. A bit bothered by the lack of promptness, I called down to reception. When someone on the other end picked up the phone, I said to them: “Good morning! Time to wake up!” and then hung up the phone, laughing at my little jab at the hotel. I put on my running clothes and shoes, stashed my keys in my pocket and left the hotel. I decided to take an easy two-kilometre run to get my blood pumping. I headed down toward the Thames from the hotel and the sun was just beginning to peek above the horizon, bathing London’s streets in light, even though the street lights were still on.

My morning run went quickly, and I was back in my hotel room showering within fifteen minutes. I got myself together and strolled leisurely down to the breakfast buffet in the spacious, airy lobby to

load up with the required carbohydrates, sugar and protein. A balanced meal in every way to carry me well through the day. Before leaving, I checked my emails on the laptop. I had a few messages from clients and one from a trainee, who had participated in an international headhunting case. He brusquely declared that he no longer wanted to be part of the process. A brusque, short statement with no explanations. On occasion, a trainee might have some personal or work-related matters to attend to, thus forcing them to quit. I also checked my spam folder, where I might find some instructions from MUMS. They were usually disguised as an advert for a toner supplier, but were always addressed directly to me and, in some cases, to my immediate co-workers. This time, however, there was nothing to be found.

I walked down to the Thames and began to saunter along the riverfront walk. I enjoyed the sunshine, which was something of a rarity in rainy London. I walked at a deliberate pace, making sure I wouldn’t get sweaty, which is, in my opinion, always unpleasant when wearing a suit. This feeling effectively kills any sense of self-confidence – it’s quite distracting when your dress shirt begins to stick to your body. Of course, this is a different story when you’re working out. Sweating is very much part of the deal. My attire for the day consisted of a tailored black suit from Turo and black Lloyd dress shoes. This was, after all, a business meeting in a bank, and I had to dress the part. The Turo suit was adequate in terms of quality, but it had a suitable amount of stretch for any physical activity I might run into today. My white Jousipaita dress shirt complemented the outfit, which was accentuated by a navy blue Boss tie. Indeed, I presented a convincing picture for the bank’s elegant conference room.

I arrived a bit ahead of time at Lloyds Banking Group. The building was a stately, castle-like edifice, positively oozing prestige and centuries of age. It was built in the 17th century and had been renovated and remodelled over the years in a manner befitting its venerable status. The dark grey façade was skilfully fitted with tinted glass windows, which gave the bank a dignified, elegant air. I was carrying a dark brown briefcase, which contained only a Dell laptop, a black notebook and three rather valuable ink pens. Because Lloyds is a commercial bank, it offered no clear invitation for a casual visitor to enter. I had to press a black buzzer next to the oak entrance doors. The door opened and I stepped into a state-of-the-art security vestibule, where three armed guards faced me. They were all extremely fit security professionals in their thirties. One stood slightly out of sight behind a metal security gate, watching my every move. The two others instructed me to remove my suit jacket and shoes. I did as I was told, removed the jacket and shoes and handed them to one of the guards. He inspected them whilst one of the other guards patted me down to check for any weapons I might be carrying. He then went to inspect my briefcase. He opened my laptop and used a scanner to see if there was anything to suggest that it contained an explosive device. The guard also checked the pens by writing with each one on a piece of paper. The entire inspection took only two minutes. I had already put my shoes back on when a stone door hidden in the side wall of the vestibule opened to reveal a smiling Sir Jones.

“Welcome, Mr. Hartvik – what a pleasure it is to meet you!” This didn’t faze me in the least, as I was accustomed to playing this role. “Thank you very much, Sir Jones. The pleasure is all mine. How lovely it is to visit your famous bank!” We shook hands as if it was for the first time in our lives and this was just a normal business appointment. The guards continued to monitor the situation with intense, unblinking eyes. I could easily see that these were top-flight security guards, ready for action. They had received special training.

Sir Jones showed me in to a dedicated lift, which took us to the third floor. We stepped out of the lift into the corridor of a completely modern office, which stood in stark contrast to the ultra-traditional exterior of the building. I followed Sir Jones along the right side of corridor for around ten metres, along which there was not a single door on either side – just a stone wall painted an elegant silver from the floor up to eye-level and then gold up to the ceiling. Spotlights in the corridor gave me the feeling that I was walking through one of Egypt’s ancient pyramids, as the ceiling was skilfully painted with images borrowed from the age of pharaohs. But, this was no time to admire the scenery – we went straight into a conference room on the left. Upon entering the room, I noticed that it was extremely well equipped for holding conferences and negotiations. It had a long, glass conference table surrounded by ten leather chairs with silver frames. There was a serving table at the back of the room, fully stocked with drinks and fresh fruit. I saw that everything was in order and ready to go – at least technically. We were therefore ready for the meeting, provided that Sir Jones had taken care of his end. We sat down and Sir Jones opened the festivities: “We’ve made all the necessary arrangements as per your wishes. If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.” I noticed that he stressed the word “all”, which meant that the equipment I had ordered was in place and ready for when the time came. “Thanks very much, Sir Jones,” I said with a smile, and then asked: “Any idea as to when my partner will be arriving?” Sir Jones looked at his watch and said: “They should be pulling into the sub-level garage any minute now.” At that instant, the mobile in Sir Jones’ hand rang. He answered with a pleasant “Yes?” and then listened to the person on the other end of the line for a moment. I noticed that Sir Jones was thinking intently about something as he listened to the person on the line. He then responded, providing instructions. I could hear them quite clearly as there was no other noise in the conference room. Sir Jones said: “Let them hold on to those and send them straight here. Then, go to points two and four. Thanks very much.” Sir Jones turned off his phone and smiled at me. “Your associates have arrived.”

I was a bit nervous whilst waiting for them to come up to the conference room, but I knew that nervousness would evaporate quite nicely when the door opened. I enjoyed the situation and my adrenaline level began to climb. I was ready.

3

There was a knock at the door and Sir Jones moved quickly to open it. Three familiar men, the ones whom I’d already met with, entered the room. They were dressed in sharp Armani suits and, being the professional that I was, I noticed immediately that two of them had the tell-tale bulges of concealed weapons under the left arm. This, however, caused me no concern, as I understood that the worst threat was always the person. Sir Jones politely introduced himself and wished us all a productive meeting before leaving the room and softly closing the door behind him. Just before closing the door, he looked me dead in the eye without betraying anything in his facial expression. I was now on my own and I simply had to trust what Sir Jones had told me about the bank building and arrangements made. I also hoped that the equipment would work. In most cases, the equipment provided by MUMS worked flawlessly, but on one occasion a technical failure nearly cost me my life.

Muhamed II bin Laden, Hamir Mirt and David Stenson were the names of the men sitting at the conference table with me. I knew their names because they were widely known in business circles. What was not widely known was their position as key financial operatives for al Qaeda. The task right now was for the clients to transfer three billion dollars to the bank account I had specified and provide them with information on nuclear devices in the United States. Lloyds Banking Group was the bank chosen by these terrorists. The bank would confirm the transfer of funds once they had received the co-ordinates of the devices.

I stood up and fetched a water pitcher from the serving table, offering to pour each of them a glass. All of them declined, so I poured myself a glass. Taking a swig from the glass, I cleared my throat with some emphasis to indicate that we would begin. “Gentlemen, shall we get right to it, then?” This was no question – indeed, it was a proclamation. I pulled my laptop and notebook out of the briefcase and placed them on the table. Muhamed II bin Laden took out his own laptop. I quickly surmised that he was the highest-ranking of the three. He was the financial brain of this terrorist cell, and the other two protected him and established business fronts. In actual fact, these two men were the bodyguards of Muhamed II bin Laden, who was related to Osama bin Laden himself.

Muhamed II bin Laden said: “The transfer has been made. I would like to see the map and data now.” I smiled because I knew there was no turning back at this point. “Of course. But, I would need to see a confirmation receipt in your online bank first.” The look that Muhamed II bin Laden shot me a look that could have killed. He stood up with his laptop and walked over to me, placing it on the table in front of me. I looked at the screen and saw the DenizBank online interface, which showed that three billion dollars had been transferred to my account at Lloyds. I smiled in my mind’s eye as Muhamed II bin Laden circled back around the table and sank heavily into his leather chair, which groaned under his roughly 80 kilogram frame. However, my face showed no emotion, no response. Now it was my turn. I opened my briefcase again, pulled out a pen and opened my black notebook, which contained a small, neatly folded map. I slid the map out of the notebook and opened it, laying it flat on the table. Muhamed II bin Laden leaned forward in his chair,as did his two colleagues. Holding the pen in my right hand, I leaned out over the table and pressed the pen rather hard into the map, circling a spot in the middle.

My lungs began to protest and a slight cold sweat broke out on my forehead. I opened my eyes and inhaled deeply. I had counted slowly to a hundred and twenty, adding a few seconds just for good measure. I was fairly certain that two minutes had elapsed since I drew the circle on the map with my pen. The nib of the pen had released a cloud of gas that spread instantly over a five-metre radius. Just one whiff of this gas would immediately render anyone unconscious. Muhamed II bin Laden and the two other terrorists passed out in an instant, without knowing what had happened. I leaned gently back into my chair, as I had to hold my breath for roughly ninety seconds. The effect of the gas in the room lasted for roughly one minute. For safety reasons, MUMS had instructed me to hold my breath for at least ninety seconds. But, I wanted to use this opportunity to test my lung capacity by holding my breath for as long as two minutes. I could manage this because I had played water polo for the Vaasa Dolphins during high school. Part of the training regimen every Saturday was to hold your breath for two minutes. Under normal circumstances, this wasn’t difficult. But the adrenaline in my blood made holding my breath much more challenging. Now, there was no time to lose. I had to be extremely precise in my task as well as efficiently quick.

I opened the conference room door. The corridor was empty, as it should be. I looked down the ceiling line both ways to spot the security cameras and could see that the red power indicator lights were off. Naturally, I had noted the glowing red LEDs on my way in. Sir Jones had thankfully taken care of this detail. I returned to the conference room and quickly placed my laptop, notebook and pen back into the briefcase and then laid it on a chair. I took off my suit and shirt, draping them carefully over another chair to keep them from wrinkling, and then set my shoes on the floor next to the chair.

I undressed in just a few seconds and then banged on the front of a brown cabinet in the corner of the room. I knew that the cabinet door would open by giving it a good smack. Inside, I found a pair of black Adidas running pants, black Adidas running shoes and a t-shirt, all sized to fit me. All black. I pulled them out and put them on in just twenty seconds.

All three terrorists weighed roughly 80 kilograms and were all solidly built men, so I had to repeat the same procedure for each of them. The first thing I had to do was get them all into the lift. I knew that I only had three minutes left to do this. If I didn’t make it in time, I would be caught on the security cameras and the whole mission would be a wash. This shouldn’t happen, at least not during such an easy task. So, I jumped into action.

I hoisted Muhamed II bin Laden and the two other terrorists up and over my shoulder and lugged each of them around ten metres down the corridor to the lift. I remembered to chock the conference room door open with a binder I found on the side table. Otherwise, I would have locked myself out after the first trip. All three terrorists were lying in a heap on the lift floor next to me and I pressed the -1 button for the basement level. The lift doors opened to reveal some sort of foyer, which had three doors facing the lift. I recalled Sir Jones’ instructions: “Go to the left – there you’ll see a dark brown oak door, which leads to the sauna complex. The door will be open and you’ll find the equipment inside.” I dragged the first terrorist off of the others and out onto the foyer floor, followed by the two others. I released the Hold Door button and the lift went back up immediately. Someone above had called for it. This was the riskiest part of the mission for getting caught. If a bank employee were to come down to the parking garage, they would jeopardise the entire job. That was something I could ill afford. But, even though I always try to minimise risk, this was one I had to take.

I hoisted the first terrorist, Muhamed II bin Laden himself, up onto my shoulder and carried him into the sauna complex. This sauna set-up was one of the most beautiful I had ever seen, even though I have been in countless sauna all over the world. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to stop and admire the elegant appointments. I headed into the washroom area with the terrorist still slung over my shoulder and laid him down next to the showers, where there was a large jacuzzi filled with water. I quickly checked the water to see if it was as I had ordered. Indeed, it was filthy water straight from the Thames – hardly the kind of water you’d want to bathe in, much less swim. I went to fetch the other two terrorists and dumped them both in the same heap next to the jacuzzi. As I was putting the last man down, I heard a sound that stopped me cold. What was that? I tensed up to listen and held my breath. After a few moments, I didn’t hear anything and resumed my task. Then I heard it again clearly. A woman’s voice. “Peter – are you there?” I could hear a clear, woman’s voice through the door and realised that she was approaching the sauna complex as she called out for Peter. I rushed to the door and listened through it to hear what was happening. The woman called out: “Peter – it’s me, Anne. Are you there?” I stood behind the door holding my breath, hoping that this Anne woman would leave as soon as possible. Suddenly, I head a key being inserted into the lock of the door. I had locked the door so that I could work in peace. There was only one thing I could do now. I grabbed the door handle tightly and held it turned all the way up with my right hand. By doing this, when the woman turned the key in the lock it would turn, but when trying to pull the handle down to disengage the bolt, it wouldn’t move. I’d used this trick with my kids many times when playing hide-and-seek. The woman kept trying to pull the handle down, but it wouldn’t budge. She eventually gave up. After a few moments the woman sighed and left. I heard her walk back to the lift and press the button. Hearing nothing more, I assumed that the woman had gone back up. She didn’t find Peter down here.

I was now in a rush, with the hardest, but most important part of the mission in front of me.

I looked at the jacuzzi and determined that it would have to do. I took Muhamed II bin Laden around his chest and dragged him to the edge of the jacuzzi. Then, I swung his upper body, head first, into the water. He was unconscious, but alive. What I was about to do didn’t bother me in the least, because I knew how many hundreds of thousands of innocent lives these three men had taken. I felt no remorse as I sat on Muhamed II bin Laden’s back and held his head under the water. His body did not resist, succumbing quietly to the lack of oxygen. It did twitch a few times before finally giving up the ghost. Muhamed II bin Laden was dead, thus dealing a crushing blow to al-Qaeda. I waited another minute to ensure that he was indeed dead, dragged him out of the jacuzzi onto the floor and went to finish Mirt and Stenson. Again, I felt no remorse for ending these two men – they were also terrorists. After repeating the same process, I was left with three dead bodies on the floor.

4

I had taken out one of al-Qaeda’s kingpins. In one fell swoop, I had almost completely eliminated their source of funding and put four billion dollars in my organisation’s coffers. To top things off, I would be receiving a percentage of this windfall. Not that I needed the money, mind you. My outfit compensated me quite nicely for my services. These days, money was never a problem. I was, after all, a top-flight contract killer – a headhunter.

But now, it was time for my own rescue operation. I had just killed three business executives and I would be put away for the rest of my life if I were caught. Sticking to the prescribed plan,

I opened the door to the foyer, from which I would have access to the garage. I had already searched Mirt’s and Stenson’s pockets, assuming that one of them was the driver, but actually found the car keys in bin Laden’s laptop case. This took far too much time, something which I did not have. Now, everything would have to go precisely according to plan if the desired outcome was to be realised. I fastened bin Laden’s laptop case to his belt so I could move both at the same time. A thick, 3 x 4-metre tarp had been neatly tucked behind the jacuzzi for my use. I quickly placed bin Laden’s body on top of it. My job was to drag each body, one by one, into the garage and put them next to their car. I would then sit them on the car seats. The tarp was to keep the foyer and garage floor mostly dry. Now, things were moving quickly. I found the door to the garage, just as Sir Jones had advised, and dragged bin Laden’s body through it.

There was only one car in the garage: a black Mercedes Benz S500. I was relieved to see that all the car windows were tinted. Using the remote to unlock the car, I then opened the driver door and hoisted the body into the driver’s seat, also fastening the seat belt. The body, which was already so much dead weight, was made even heavier by the water. This was not the most pleasant part of the mission – I really did not enjoy moving dead bodies. I dragged the other two bodies into the garage and sat them in the back seat. Taking the tarp, I folded it neatly up and placed it in the boot. Anyone investigating the car would find the presence of a tarp in the boot quite normal. Finally, I checked for marks left by dragging the bodies and wiped up any of the Thames water left on the floor with paper towels. The garage step was completed.

I was now ready for perhaps the most technically demanding step – all I would need was courage and speed for the next ten minutes. I also hoped that Sir Jones would be in the right place at the right time. I looked at my wristwatch for the time – it was 10:41.

I started the car, which purred nicely into life. After the initial start-up, I could barely hear any engine noise at all. I was very familiar with this make and model, having owned one myself the year before. But, I traded it in for another because I wasn’t at all happy with its performance during the Finnish winter. Even though you could easily get your driver’s licence taken away behind the wheel of an S500, its performance just wasn’t enough for me. But, it would have to do for now. I had had no advance knowledge of what car they would be driving, nor did Sir Jones. But, he guessed it would most likely be a Mercedes, as these people usually drove them or Audis. I drove the car toward the large overhead door of the garage exit and, just as Sir Jones had said, the door opened automatically when the care was two metres from it. As the door rolled up, bright sunlight poured in through the opening. We had ourselves a sunny day, a rather precious commodity here in London. By some coincidence, the sun just so happened to be angled directly at the garage door at that moment. I took it as a sign and smiled – the sun was smiling down on me. I actually would have preferred a rainy day, as there would have been fewer people about, perhaps witnessing what I was about to do. But, no matter. It was still full-speed ahead.

I eased the car forward and out onto the pavement when I suddenly noticed one of the bank security guards around twenty metres away, walking toward me. But, I wasn’t worried about the car, as all the windows were darkly tinted, making it impossible to see in. I turned left onto the street and put the car into Sport mode, so that I would be able to get as much out of it as possible in a few moments. At the same time I did this, I glanced at the petrol gauge and was very startled at what I saw there. It was alarmingly low and, to top things off, the petrol level warning light popped on. I silently cursed the three bodies in the boot: Didn’t you have enough money to put a bit of petrol in the tank? I calmed myself down immediately, as I would only need to drive two kilometres—at most—and had exactly eight minutes left. However, even though there was enough petrol for this trip, I would still have to push the car the last few metres.

I made a nice turn onto The Cut, which took me down towards Lambeth Road. I kept up nicely with traffic, following all the rules of the road. Everything was going well until I heard a mobile ring in the back seat. It was evidently in a pocket of one of the dead men. I quickly analysed what this could mean. Why did they have their mobile on during the meeting? I couldn’t come up with a sensible answer to this. Instead, I just put it down to the fact that these men weren’t businessmen, but criminals, who had ended up playing that role for some reason or other. I accelerated as I approached Lambeth Bridge – I had to make that Benz fly on the bridge. My speed increased and I overtook two cars in the right lane, returning to my own lane on the left and finding the street wide open. Sir Jones and MUMS had arranged for there to be road work on the bridge, which was now completely devoid of other traffic in front of me. It was usually packed full of cars, waiting to get across to the other side. But, the arrangements had been duly made by Sir Jones. I accelerated the car to a fairly high speed and, although I wasn’t looking at the speedometer, I knew I was now going roughly 120 kilometres an hour. I was buckled up tightly and looked to my right for some kind of ramp, which should be somewhere ahead on the bridge. At the same time, I unbuckled the seatbelt on the body sitting to my left and pushed it against the window.

It was then that I realised that the plan was about to go horribly wrong. A worker in a bright yellow uniform had just removed the ramp I needed and lugged it off of the bridge. “Goddam idiot!” I shouted in the car aloud. More adrenaline flooded my bloodstream. I was already halfway across the bridge. How on earth would I be able to get over the guardrail without that ramp? My eyes began feverishly scanning the bridge for some kind of bump or rise, which I could use to get the car just enough lift and clear the rail. Weighing in at nearly two tonnes, this car wasn’t about to get off the ground without something to give me a boost.

I didn’t want to start panicking, but I was getting close. All I had to do was get the car from the bridge into the Thames, and I had precisely two seconds to make a decision on how to do just that. I would either get this heap into the river or fail miserably, ostensibly ending my entire career. The latter was simply out of the question. I would get that car into the river all right, but it involved a very real, immediate risk of death or serious injury. I estimated my odds for success to be about one to ten. But, I was out of options and there wasn’t any time to come up with other ideas. A decision had to be made right now. One of my strengths is the ability to quickly size up a situation and make a decision. My brain processed information as fast as a computer. I decided that I would drive the car right into the Thames, with or without any assistance.

The car howled loudly, but without complaint. It was almost as if it was overjoyed to finally let it all hang out. I floored the accelerator pedal and was already over halfway across the bridge. Steering the car toward the pavement on the left—as far as I possibly could go—I then made a sharp turn toward the right, slamming up onto the pavement there and turning the wheel sharply to the left. The car swung heavily to the right. As it did so, I tapped the brakes and turned the wheel a bit more, all the way to the left. This spun the car into a longitudinal twist, with the side panels suddenly leading the way, rolling one over the other. The car crashed through the bridge guardrail and plunged rather elegantly into the cold water of the Thames. The noise that the crashing metal and vaulting car made was indescribably loud.

The car had actually spun three times around before splitting the filthy surface of the Thames. It was right at that moment that I lost consciousness. Fortunately, I didn’t smash into anything inside the car, as I had braced my legs against the floor whilst leaving some clearance around them. Right as the car went airborne, I had braced my arms against the dashboard in front of me, where they stayed until hitting the water. Then, everything went black. I had evidently hit something inside the car – or something struck me.

5

I opened my eyes and spit out the dirty Thames water. I was now completely surrounded by darkness and knew precisely where I was. I had been unconscious for perhaps a few seconds, which was the amount of time it took for the car to sink to the bottom of the river. I felt around on the car ceiling for the interior light switch. The light came on in stark contrast to the pitch black of the river bottom. The body next to me began to float into me, but I pushed it away. I tried to quickly determine which way I should go. I was where I was supposed to be—at the bottom of the Thames—but losing consciousness had not been part of the plan. I had forgot my rescue route, which was a line dropped from a barge somewhere up above by Sir Jones, who would now have to find me very quickly. I would now have to take a chance. There was no other choice.

Unbuckling the seatbelt, I extended my legs in the rising river water and got ready to exit the car. I went over what I would have to do over the next few minutes. Open the door and close my eyes, as I wouldn’t be able to see anything in the murky water anyway. I took several deep breaths until I could take no more air in and dove into the water. I had to remind myself to exhale small amounts of air as I swam. The first thing I had to do was to stop and determine which way the river was flowing, and then let the current take me. My objective was to stay underwater for as long as possible.

And that I did. Because the current was incredibly powerful, there was no need to figure out which way to go – it immediately pulled me in. There was no way that I could have imagined how disgusting the Thames water would be. It was truly disgusting.

I had now been underwater for around three minutes – half inside the car and the other half drifting along with the current. Swimming underwater in the filthy water of the Thames was unbelievably hard and my lungs were at their bursting point as I desperately clawed my way to the surface. Even though I was a strong swimmer and diver, I had to fight for my life. Fortunately, I was strong enough to make it back up. I gulped in the fresh air, whilst trying to stay as low as possible, as I didn’t know where I was. It took a few seconds to realise that I was on the right side of the bridge and fairly close to the point in the river bend where I was supposed to be. But, where was that barge and line? I floated along with the current, knowing full well that it wouldn’t be long before someone spotted me. I was also freezing in the cold embrace of polluted Thames.

At the same time, I saw a small, white tour boat built to look like a fishing vessel around a hundred metres away. It was heading toward me. At its prow stood a bald, bearded man in a green raincoat. He looked somehow familiar. He was tall. Exceptionally tall, I thought to myself as my vision began to blur. I was losing consciousness. I didn’t know why I was passing out, but I began to think of my three children at home, which gave me a boost of energy. The man on the boat deck shouted “Here!” and I smiled at him with my last ounce of strength – I realised it was none other than Sir Jones himself. He grabbed me by my collar, yanked me easily up into the boat and then quickly bundled me belowdecks, in order to keep me out of sight and help me recuperate. I had escaped by the skin of my teeth – just a few seconds more and I would’ve been at the bottom of the Thames for the rest of eternity. The mission was still on. I still hadn’t reached the finish line and was in pretty bad shape. And, to top things off, I had been injured. How it had happened was a mystery.

I hunkered down in the spacious cabin, which was usually intended for tourists. Right now, the boat was exclusively at the disposal of Sir Jones, whose good friend was the owner of the tour boat company. Sir Jones tore off his bald cap and beard and began to examine me, as he noticed I wasn’t in tiptop shape. I felt pain in my right ear. As I smoothed my hair back over my ear, I found blood on my hand. My right ear was bleeding. Sir Jones examined my ear and generally kept an eye on my condition as I struggled to get out of my wet clothes. When I had clambered down into the cabin, I noticed that the clothes I had left at the bank were neatly stacked on a bench along with my shoes and briefcase. Aside from getting hurt, everything was going according to plan.

I had lucked out once again. My injury was a minor one – I had just taken a knock on the side of my head. Evidently, something inside the car had struck me when I crashed through the guardrail on the bridge, leaving me with nothing more than an external cut just inside my ear. But, now was not the time for an extensive medical evaluation. After quickly stemming the bleeding, Sir Jones directed to the stern of the boat, where there was a small washroom with a shower. I laughed to myself when I saw the “shower”, which was nothing more than a shower head perched over the toilet. I would have to shower whilst sitting on the toilet. The shower water ran into a drain in the floor and down to some sort of tank somewhere below. Even though it was a miniscule and primitive set-up, it would just have to do for now.

I washed myself down with the clean, hot water and used a copious amount of the Wash-and-Go shampoo. I actually washed myself three times to entirely rid myself of the Thames’ funk. Showered and clean, I stepped out to find a large and thick bath towel waiting for me to dry off with. Next to the towel was a stick of deodorant, after-shave and hair gel on a small ledge. Being brand-name products, they did the trick nicely. Sir Jones evidently knew my favourite brands, because the deodorant and after-shave were Boss. The hair gel, on the other hand, was some local product. I quickly finished getting myself ready. I was once again in full business attire and followed Sir Jones toward the stern of the boat, which was normally used by the crew when tourists were on board. It was warm, even cosy, back there. Sir Jones handed me a large, light brown coffee cup filled with wonderfully hot, black coffee. He then extended a croissant platter, from which I grabbed a large croissant and a jar of marmalade. I sat and silently ate – nothing brings me more pleasure than coffee and a croissant.

After ten minutes cruising downstream along the Thames, we arrived at a large dock. I noticed that Sir Jones had also changed back into his banking attire. We were ready for the next step. Sir Jones gave the skipper a light tap on the shoulder to express his thanks and we disembarked directly from the crew cabin, jumping around fifty centimetres onto the dock. We then walked two metres right into a large party tent, which had been erected on the dock. The tent was around five metres wide and ten metres long. I recalled seeing these kinds of tents on my previous visits to London. They were mainly for birthdays and private soirées, and could be hired by anyone for any kind of event. But now, the tent was all ours, with Sir Jones’ car parked right inside. A lovely deep red Jaguar S-Type, which is quite typical for a London banker.

Smiling, Sir Jones opened the boot to reveal an A4 envelope on the floor. The word “Welcome” was written on it.

I climbed into the boot immediately and was pleased to find that Sir Jones had even made sure I would have enough air by dropping the center armrest in the back seat. He winked at me, turned on the boot light and gently closed the lid. We were ready to head back to the bank. But, we would have to be extremely careful – the bank’s security staff thought I was still in the conference room, doing my thing and waiting for the next meeting. Sir Jones had instructed the security staff that I was not to be disturbed without his permission. The Jaguar began moving and I tried my best to get comfortable. It was no picnic to be lying down in the boot of a car while trying to read. Sir Jones had provided me with information on the upcoming meeting, which would start immediately when we returned to the bank and I was secreted back into the conference room.

We arrived at the bank about 15 minutes early. The whole way there I heard the sirens and horns of emergency services vehicles. The fire department was just now on its way to the scene of the accident, where the police had already been for some time, wondering what had happened. All was calm in front of the bank – for now. Sir Jones drove his Jaguar up to the garage door and rang the security centre on his new Nokia mobile. Instantly, two men appeared around the corner of the building, running toward the car to verify Sir Jones’ identity. This didn’t take long, as Sir Jones was naturally a familiar figure. The security guards merely waved at him through the window, indicating that all was well. Sir Jones wished them a good day and thanked them when the garage door began to roll up. He drove the car into the garage, where there was now another car parked. Peter Pähr, a banker with Lloyds, had arrived in his red Posche 911. Sir Jones was annoyed at the sight of the car, as he had always wanted to own one, but couldn’t due to his height. The German engineers evidently hadn’t considered the possibility of someone being over two metres tall. Sir Jones parked his car next to the Porsche, backing the jaguar into the spot while popping the boot lid open. Before getting out of the car, he stated: “5 by 5 minutes”. This told me that in five minutes’ time I would have precisely five minutes to get out of the car and over to the conference room.

I watched my Polar timepiece until the first five minutes was up. I climbed stealthily out of the boot, listening intently for any noises in the garage. I could hear nothing but the soft humming of the air conditioning. There wasn’t even any sound coming from the street outside. I softly pushed the boot lid closed and began to walk, briefcase in hand, toward the door that led to the lift lobby. As I walked, I smoothed each of the arms on my suit to get rid of any wrinkles. Fortunately, the Turo suit had been the right choice for the day, as it was sufficiently well-made and did not wrinkle, no matter how careless you might be. I made it to the lift without any problems and pressed the button to call the lift down, but the doors opened immediately – the lift was already there. This stopped me in my tracks. It meant that someone had come down and I hadn’t seen them. The only sensible alternative I could come up with was that someone, maybe even more, had apparently come down to use the sauna complex. Indeed, I could hear soft noises coming from that direction. I wasn’t absolutely sure about this, but I decided to check, quietly taking a few quick steps over to the sauna complex door. I then pressed my ear against the door to see if I could hear anything inside. I heard a faint squeaking sound, accompanied by low moaning. I smiled and hurried back over to the lift door. Peter and Anne were in the sauna complex making love, which suited me just fine. I would probably not be running into them in the lift or the office corridor.

I rode the lift up, stepped out and walked around ten metres up the corridor, arriving at the conference room door at the prescribed time. The door opened inwardly as if on cue. Sir Jones stood in the doorway and ushered me in. He then left the room without saying a word. He didn’t need to – we had already worked out all the details.

I looked at my timepiece again. It felt like I had been gone for a whole day, but it was only 11:45 in the morning. I had fifteen minutes to rest and prepare myself for the next show. Part two of the production. Why on earth was he really here? I was a headhunter, receiving a commission from Lloyds Banking Group. Our firm, Johnson & Ricks, had made them an international headhunting offer. The bank needed a new director in Stockholm to head up the Scandinavian region. This director would be in charge of some two hundred employees. Our fee was approximately half of the director’s annual salary as well as all the costs incurred during the application process. The most important thing wasn’t price, it was quality, as is the case in any business.

6

At exactly noon, the door opened. Sir Jones and his assistant Bessie Harm entered the room. Sir Jones introduced us and we all sat at the conference table. Sir Jones broke the ice: “So, what have you been up to for the past hour? Did you get any work done?” I answered, smiling at him: “Yes, thank you. I’ve been able to get a lot done here this past hour.” Sir Jones continued: “I’m very sorry, but Peter Pähr seems to be a bit late, so, if we could just wait a bit for him to get here. Care for some coffee?” At that moment, the door opened loudly and in stepped a very stylish looking gentleman. He had wavy black hair, carefully styled with a touch of grey at the temples. A pair of fashionable eyeglasses emphasised his rather aristocratic eyes. I was quite surprised to find that he had blue eyes, which suggested a northern European ancestry. Peter was dressed in a youthful, but elegantly cut blue suit. Judging from the fabric, I surmised that his suit was surely ten times the price of my Turo. But, no matter – I was mentally prepared for this meeting. Immediately after Peter arrived, Sir Jones said: “Good of you to join us, Peter. Let’s get started, then. Allow me to introduce Mr. Hans Hartvik.” We smiled and shook hands and then sat down. At the same time, with an evil little gleam in her eye, Bessie asked Peter if his meeting with Anne had gone well. Peter responded rather coldly: “We moved it back to tomorrow. Let’s focus on Scandinavia now.”

Peter headed up the bank’s entire Northern European operations in France, Germany, Belgium, Holland and Poland, where Lloyds enjoyed a strong presence. And now the banking group had decided to expand its operations into Scandinavia. First on the list were Copenhagen and Stockholm, which would be followed by Helsinki and Oslo. The Baltic countries would be the third phase of the expansion. This was a very fast timetable for them, but they had the advantage of having a large bank’s capital. They could easily expand. The only challenge facing them was finding directors with the right skills and talent. I was now their go-to man for finding suitable candidates for each of the expansion countries.

We conferred for two hours, going over the desired profiles for the future directors with me leading the discussion. These candidates would all have to be willing to relocate, if necessary, even changing countries. A few years earlier, our firm, Johnson & Ricks had developed a unique profiling tool called the 2x360, which I was now using. It also gave my clients a clear understanding of what we should discuss and what to profile. We were one of the best—if not the best—headhunting firms in the world. We finished up at 2:25. Peter had already glanced at his Rolex a few times to indicate he had other business to attend to. Sir Jones concluded the meeting: “Thanks very much, Hans. I think this gets things off to a good start. The ball is in your court now. Would it be all right if I brought you back to your hotel, so you can get going?” “That would be splendid. I might even be able to catch an earlier flight. I just have to grab my things from the hotel first,” I said. “Why don’t we stop by your hotel to pick up your things and then take you straight out to the airport. I’d be happy to drop you off – it’ll give us a chance to go over a few more things.” With the meeting over, we shook hands with Bessie and Peter. They both slipped out of the conference room quickly. Sir Jones and I collected our things and headed out, walking down the corridor to the very familiar lift. As we rode the lift down to the garage, I noticed a damp spot on the floor and cursed myself for my carelessness. I hadn’t got all the water that leaked from the tarp. I would have to be much more thorough going forward.

We entered the garage again and walked to the car, but this time I would have the privilege of actually sitting next to Sir Jones in the passenger seat, instead of being stuffed into the boot. Because, I was now Hans Hartvik, top headhunter.