Mr. Happy

 One of the Transnistrian powers-that-be. (Reluctantly) helped the agents after they proved their mettle by taking care of a little matter with the new star-player of his favourite soccer team's nemesis.

Chapter 4: Keeping Mr. Happy happy

 The atmosphere that shrouded the boat was that of a tense sweat, the pulses of Marek (Dot) and Benoit (L’Eboueur), still racing from the chase, along with the fresh voices of Carrol  and Martha screaming through the phone line.

Kostya and his men busied themselves around the small vessel, muttering to themselves, the barely audible tones mentioning payment and money with great frequency. After several silent minutes, Kostya pulled out his phone and began dialling numbers, the recipient of his call was clearly not picking up, as he redialled it several times before turning to face Benoit and Marek, a look of frustration on his face.

Kostya engaged the two men in conversation, his tone that of a man who was ready to start a fight, Carrol was not answering his calls, he was concerned about getting payed. Benoit soon learned it was futile to argue, the six men on board all clearly paying attention to the conversation, some giving off smirks as Benoit’s Russian wording slipped in places. As Kostya grew more frustrated, explaining that Carroll always answered and that the trouble was spreading, Marek interjected, offering to pay personally for the transport services of Kostya and his men.

This seemed to put Kostya at ease, handing across a piece of paper with his financial transfer details for one of his many Western Union accounts.

After discussing where and how to make port, Kostya seemed to be more than happy to arrange a vehicle with a sum of cash waiting, as long as it was included in his Western Union account.

Moldova was the closest port, secondary was the ability to disappear, Marek and Benoit asking where the best location would be in order to remain safe and invisible. Kostya continued his muttering to his fellow sailors, the location of Transnistria entering the conversation.

Advising the two that due to the response that could be seen regarding their escape, the helicopters, police and militia, the two would not be able to use any kind of public transport.

Transnistria was the prime place to disappear, the unrecognised state between Ukraine and Moldova resembled the wild west, everything can be bought and sold, moving through the state was dangerous, but made it hard to track two men in such a volatile place. The former home of the Russian 14th Army, the main revenue flowing into the country was through the businesses and factories that developed weapons and arms, both legal and black market varieties.

The boat began its approach of the Moldovan coast in the town of Mayaki, a small village not far from the border to Transnistria, Kostya had arranged a car and cash. Marek and Benoit parted company with Kostya, the car itself, an old Nissan Pulsar was waiting, an envelope containing $10,000 in the glove box.

Leaving the boat behind, the two carried with them only the essentials that had on hand, pistols, knives, communications and personal effects, the small pack Benoit still wore rattled with loose items as the Pulsar bounced along the rocky road. Deciding to rest, Marek kept watch for any form of hotel that seemed low key and secure while Benoit struggled to keep his eyes open behind the wheel. Pulling into a small car park of an even smaller hotel, Marek paid for a room and tipped the night manager for use of one of the three public use laptops in the lobby, taking it with him to the room before grabbing everything possible from the car of any use.

Benoit was the first to clean himself up, the barely warm water thundering down the pipes as he washed the blood and dirt from his body under the low pressure of the shower, his mind still repeating the images of his magazine running dry as the monster in front of him grabbed him.

Barely able to walk, Benoit was asleep before his head hit the pillow, Marek taking the opportunity to take inventory of his person. He was intact, barely scraped by the previous night's encounter.

Marek opened up the internet browser of the laptop, using his time to research the names of the companies listed on the paperwork he had gleaned from the documents within the crates of weapons and equipment they had found. Overwatch Security, a Private Military Company specialising in protection of high profile individuals. Populated by mostly Latin American ex-military soldiers, recruitment was underway across the Russian Federation. Head Office in Bolivia, however offices globally located. Inspecting the photos listed on the site regarding personnel, several high ranking individuals revealed what appeared to be prison style tattoos poking out of the tops of collars and from under sleeves. Baldak shipping was far less informative, a simple website with contact information about quotes. The bare bones information suggests a small road based freight company that operates in the Ukraine. As he peered at the grainy screen, Marek felt his mind jump back to the eruption of bone and brain matter that exploded from the head of the black clad giant, then watch it turn to face him.

Two hours had lapsed as Marek stared blankly out from the semi frosted window, a strange noise caught his attention. Turning to see Benoit passed out on the bed, the sound came again, almost like that of a frog, or small animal, emitting from under the bed. Stepping closer and picking his pistol up from the table next to him, Marek could see the back pack Benoit had kicked under the bed, the noise came again.

Slapping Benoit on the foot, Marek grabbed one of the straps of the backpack, Benoit grunting and sitting up straight, pistol in hand. Marek gave hand signals to cover him as he opened the pack. The noise again sounded, Marek unzipped the bag and emptied its contents on the floor.

Benoit’s tools fell to the floor, flashlight, pistol magazines, knife, spare phone earpiece and charger. The webbing of a vest he had grabbed from his victim in the warehouse also fell from the bag. The sound, the message tone for the phone stuck in one of the pouches. Benoit, gave Marek a semi sarcastic and frustrated look before flopping back to the pillow, within moments, snoring loudly.

Marek inspected the phone, pulling some of his personal cabling from his pockets and plugging it into the laptop from the lobby, making sure to not enable any kind of location sharing. Using his expertise, accessing the messages and information within the phone, the chatter was regarding the sheer magnitude of the response being issued from the previous night's activities. The militia in its entirety had been called into action, border patrol and military assets also called to arms, specialists being deployed to hunt for two men. Grainy photos of both Marek and Benoit had been shared with matching descriptions, pulled from traffic cameras during the chase.

Separate message groups mentioning Romanian and Hungarian border security going into extreme lockdowns. Following that thread, Marek could see that the communication seemed more restricted and only certain responses being included, clearly going to people higher up the food chain than the owner of the phone. Search parties had been sent out across the water, Odessa forces scouring for any sign of the two who had escaped. Breaking the messages into groups, Odessa communications coming from what seemed to be local resources. Hungarian and Romanian messages from another, Militia and mentions of specialists coming from another. Marek concluded that whoever owned the phone was not part of the upper levels of the Liski Mafia, yet wasn't at the bottom of the ladder either.

Waking Benoit, Marek explained the messages, both of them concluding that if the Odessa search parties get to Kostya, he would betray them in a heartbeat. Both decide to move quickly to secure clothing, new vehicles and regroup. Staying in the hotel for a day, Marek and Benoit took shifts, one would sleep for four hours while the other did a supply run. Food, clothing, vehicle. Over four sleeping shifts, the two had secured a stolen, mid 2000’s Subaru Forester, civilian clothing, standard dried food and burner phones.

Taking the wheel, the two hour drive to the Transnistrian border seemed to take minutes, both men silent and nervous for men of their training. Turning a corner, the car was halted, a soldier standing guard, a Russian BTR blocking the road. Approaching the car, the soldier’s face was wide with a smile as he motioned for Marek to roll down the window. The negotiations were painful, the BTR finally rolling out of the way of the car as $2000 left the car. The soldier, smiling as he tucked the money into the pocket of his defaced Russian army uniform, telling them to head to Tiraspol, the capitol.

Driving carefully along the gravel roads, Benoit keeping his eyes on side streets, Marek doing the same, both recognising that any form of escape would be seriously hindered by the road conditions.

Entering the capitol, Marek and Benoit made their usual decision, a place to stay that was not flashy, yet not the bottom of the barrel. Choosing a modest establishment, the two began their planning, Marek with little knowledge of the independent state, Benoit only familiar with one name, a fixer from several years ago who entered the area, Mr Happy, only knowing the name from a document he once read for a previous Russian operation. With no way to contact the mysterious Mr Happy, Marek took the reigns, logging back into the laptop through his secure channels, contacting a Slovakian associate known only as Holub “The Pidgeon”, a man who has come through with equipment and transport for Marek on several occasions when in the area. Asking him to reach out through the Transnistrian network to request a meeting with Mr Happy. 

The response came quickly, simply acknowledging the request and advising to wait for further instructions. As the two continued their routine, checking their equipment and getting as much rest as possible, within two hours, another email from the Pidgeon arrived. 8pm, the Golden Bough.

As Marek and Benoit entered the Chinese restaurant, the establishment seemed unusually modern for the surrounding buildings, immediately both men felt underdressed. The man at the door asking them for their reservation. The mention of Mr Happy’s name saw the two escorted to a private dining section towards the kitchen, a dividing wall keeping it out of view from a large section of the main dining area.

Within a few minutes, a large man dressed in a suit entered through the kitchen door, he opened a bag and held it forward requesting any arms to be placed inside. Both Marek and Benoit removed their blades and pistols, placing them in the bag, the man motioning for both to stand and prepare to be patted down. After patting them down, the large man took the bag of belongings and stood next to the door he had entered through.

Moving through the door, a second man in a suit entered, smiling from under his large moustache, his voice full of laughter as he greeted the two of them. He took a seat across from Marek and Benoit, picking up a menu, ordering for the table, he then allowed the two to choose what language they preferred to converse in, giving no indication as to why he was here.

A long discussion began regarding the current situation. It became clear that Mr Happy was aware of the two men, he was aware of the Mafia hunting them, he was also aware that the two of them brought more trouble than he may be willing to help with. As the conversation flowed, Mr Happy made several thinly veiled threats regarding how his business in Transnistria was regarding cleaning, making “stains” disappear. Nodding their heads and allowing Mr Happy to dominate the conversation allowed Benoit and Marek to find out how much he knew as he willingly volunteered information without knowing it. Sharing that the hunters love to torture, mame and murder, big people were upset regarding the actions of the two, his main desire, to keep the unhappy parties out of Transnistria.

Finally able to speak, Benoit began his pleading for assistance, desperate to find out what can be done. Mr Happy, shaking his head as he weighed up the risks of helping two wanted men. Smiling again, he pointed towards a light coming through the window, telling the two to look. A bright light was radiating from down the road, a large Football stadium standing tall against the grey wash of the city buildings.

Mr Happy continued his domination of the conversation, a deal forming in his words, expressing his love for all things football, and favourite team, FC Tiraspol. His tone then turned dark as he continued on the topic, explaining another wealthy individual who backs his team's rival, FC Sharif, and even built the brand new stadium for them. Most recently a young Nigerian named Abesoli was imported to be added to the team. He motioned for the large man standing guard at the door to hand him the previous day's newspaper. Flipping through the pages, a large photo of the young man clad in FC Sharif apparel.

Making his debut for FC Sharif, the unbeatable juggernaut of the local sporting community, the deal became simple. Mr Happy decided, if Marek and Benoit wanted assistance, Abesoli was not allowed to take to the football pitch, something he was scheduled to do in 48 hours. Complicating the matter, the two were to prove that they can move like ghosts, no evidence, no witnesses, no identification and most importantly, no death.

With little choice but to accept the deal, Marek and Benoit enjoyed what was a better meal than either man expected within the independent nation, before taking their leave from Mr Happy, his instructions still ringing in their minds, communication through the restaurant only, no additional help.

Once inside their lodgings, Marek immediately sat back at the computer, researching Abesoli and the online version of the newspaper article, the colour photo revealing more than initially seen. At least two guards in the background, a private playing field and a house resembling that of Carrol’s where they had enjoyed burgers for what felt like an eternity ago. Reading on, Abesoli had a reputation, night clubs and intoxication a common factor in his celebrity life, a small smile cracked Marek’s mouth as he could only find three night clubs within the capitol that anyone with any self respect would frequent.

Making sure his pistol was still loaded and tucking it back in the holster at the small of his back, Benoit decided that the practice fields were their first location, his reasoning being that if a game was to occur in two days, the team would most likely be practising within the city. A bus was parked across several car spots in the car park of the practice field. The overhead lights cast a clear glow over the field and surrounds. As the Subaru parked in the shadow of neighbouring structures, both Marek and Benoit counted the vehicles and heads through the binoculars they had picked up at the small kiosk close to the Chinese restaurant. Three cars were parked close to the bus, modest yet modern sedans. On the far side of the field, two black SUV style vehicles, similar to those that had been driven by Danilo and his men in Bosnia sat stationary. A head count on the field showing a full football, trainers and staff. Of the men on the pitch, only one was clearly different, clearly Nigerian. 

As Marek and Benoit watched the players begin their cool down routines, all gradually disappeared inside the small structure off to the side of the field. Within half an hour, many of the players were changed and heading back towards the bus, trainers and staff hopping into the sedans close by. Another few minutes and the black SUV’s roared to life as the Nigerian player exited the building, five men in suits waiting for him at the cars. Escorted inside the lead vehicle, the two dark SUV’s began to move.

Following at a safe distance, Marek and Dot had the tail lights of the trailing SUV in view at all times, following through the streets and alleyways. Making a sharp turn and coming to a stop the two SUV’s break lights lit up the road, Benoit slowing to a crawl as Marek exited the car, allowing Benoit to keep driving past and not appear suspicious. Looking down the alley as the earpiece of Marek’s phone came to life with Benoit’s voice. Marek watched as the man who was now clearly visible as Abesoli was ushered through a large steel door. Benoit had circled the block, the main street showing that they had entered the rear of a large night club.

Parking a short distance from the front entrance, Benoit met Marek a block down from the club, having assessed that neither would be allowed to enter in their current wardrobe. The damp street lights had little effect as Marek made an almost invisible entrance to a closed clothing store, Benoit following once Marek had established that cameras and alarms were non existent. Within 15 minutes, the two were dressed as regular players, their basic, yet clean looking suits showing a sense of class and style that was not often seen amongst the regulars of the club who all seemed to be embracing the returning popular fashion of skinny jeans.

Dressed as they were, the bouncer at the door did not offer any resistance, allowing them entry without pause. Inside the club, not packed with people, but enough to conceal themselves in a crowd, Benoit moved to the bar while Marek took up a position across the room, ordering a beer from a nearby waitress. Both in constant communication, it was Benoit who spotted Abesoli first, a staircase leading to a VIP section, there he was on a red velvet lounge, his arms draped around two separate girls in dresses that left little to the imagination.

A plan started to formulate in their minds, a single staircase, one way up and one way down, two bouncers on the stairs, three private security in close proximity to their principal. Any sort of panic, and this club would become a stampede. Confident in his ability to get close, Marek began his part, making his way to the stairs, his goal, get close, close enough to befriend Abesoli, Benoit however, he was the distraction, luring the guards away until the main distraction breaks free.

Benoit passed Marek as he entered the bathroom stumbling as he walked, his attempt at appearing drunk had clearly been seen by the bartender and security, dragging the waste bin into a cubicle, he spun the toilet roll out so that within moments it was empty, streams of paper all across the floor. Lighting a match and watching the flame take hold was all he needed to see.

Marek gave the bouncers on the stairs little reason to move, looking him up and down, seeing the clear signs of aristocracy and grace in his movements, the head gesture of the bouncer allowing access to Marek. Drawing from his early life of wealthy company and posh neighbours, he let his first sigh of relief as he ascended the stairs. At the top, he was looked up and down by the private security, three of them, taking what seemed to be little notice of him, but enough to show that they knew he was present.

Cracking his neck as he exited the bathroom, Benoit took a large gulp of wine, the half filled glass within reach still smeared with the lipstick of its owner who was not paying attention. Swallowing the mouthful, he then turned to the stairs and attempted his ascent. Mingling with random VIP patrons, it was not long before Marek felt the brush of napkins enter his pockets, thinking to himself that in a past life, he had a good night based on the current interest. Two phone numbers in two minutes, both owners walking uncomfortably as they passed him in their ridiculously high stiletto shoes. pulling the folded napkins from his pockets, he made eye contact with Abesoli who had seen the exchange, winking and smiling.

Benoir let out a loud and friendly greeting as he tried to pass the first bouncer, only to be met with a shake of the head and an extended arm to push him back down the stairs. The bouncer was shocked at the sudden pain that gripped his wrist, his face in disbelief as he felt his body begin falling down the stairs past the noisy patron. Benoit had taken hold of the extended arm, twisting it and ripping the bouncer forward, the 200lb Russian toppling as if he was made of straw. Without missing a stride, Benoit continued upward as he vocalised his hatred of elitism in clubs.

From the balcony of the VIP section, Marek brought Benoit to the attention of the Private security, pointing and laughing, positioning himself in a somewhat defensive stance between the stairs and the female patrons of the VIP area, more importantly, closer to Abesoli. 

From behind, Benoit felt the hand of the second bouncer grab him by the belt, spinning on his heel. Benoit let his knee fly, breaking the bouncer's nose in a shower of blood. Turning back around and continuing to move up the stairs, Benoir singing insults as he walked. Marek again moved in a defensive fashion, positioning himself between the patrons and the oncoming threat on the stairs. A firm hand on the shoulder from one of the private security guards moved Marek out of the way as he moved aggressively towards Benoit. Marek took the opportunity to move closer to Abesoli.

The security guard lunged with a powerful punch at Benoit, who’s fake drunken rampage seemed to give him the confidence to keep advancing, slipping the punch effortlessly with over emphasised movements. The second bodyguard of Abesoli moved towards his colleague to assist with the menace. As he took position, the sprinklers of the club burst to life, showering all patrons in a mist of water, smoke began to erupt from the bathroom as the door was pushed open by an unsuspecting patron.

The sound of the alarm seemed to have no effect for a moment, just long enough for Benoit to scream his last insult at the bodyguards and leap over the rail of the staircase as he screamed his best end of the world rant, running for the exit. The sight of a screaming man running for the exit seemed to wake the patrons up from their stunned silence, all turning to panic and fear.

The third bodyguard of Abesoli began trying to move his charge, Abesoli not willing to move, his arms tightly around his girls and alcohol, eyes rolling from intoxication as he protested. Caught between their principal and a moving crowd, the two guards who had fronted the stairs to block the threat struggled against the bodies trying to get past them to the stairs. Marek sprung into action, offering aid to the guard who was trying to move Abesoli, taking hold of one of the girls and Abesoli, helping lift them from the lounge. Grateful for the assistance, the guard yanked at the football player, who still refused to be helpful, his hand still clinging to an open champagne bottle. Marek moved in lifting Abesoli and taking hold of his arm above and below the elbow joint. A nod from the bodyguard meant that Marek now had free reign, a quick twist and pull caused Abesoli to scream and recoil from Marek and his security guard. In the confusion Marek took a step back before turning on his heel and vaulting over the railing of the balcony, the crowd below all now in the vicinity of the exit, his landing was clear. His feet hit the floor boards firmly, jarring them as he staggered towards the exit, no one in pursuit.

Waiting by the car, Benoit could see Marek emerge from the front doors of the club. Giving a nod and then hoping in the driver's side, starting the engine and collecting Marek on the corner, his jarred ankles and feet grateful for the lift. Back in the safety of their lodging, although not the relief they were used to after a successful operation, Benoit and Marek did feel a slight sense of achievement. Benoit took out his phone and made the reservation for the Chinese Restaurant, making sure to get the timing right with the kick off time for the local game. 

24 hours to kill before a televised football match would decide if the two would make it out of Transnistrian territory alive. Both took the opportunity to rest in shifts as they had been  doing, allowing themselves the luxury of eight hour shifts. Marek slept as Benoit made his way down what appeared to be one of the main market streets of Tiraspol, what resembled stable food and fresh clothes now in his possession. During Marek’s shift, he continued his never ending search for information, choosing to research methods of leaving Transnistria in the event that a broken arm would not keep a football player on the side lines. 

The two men dressed appropriately for dinner, arriving with enough time to allow for their pat down to occur without interrupting anyones gaze from the 90 inch flat screen that was now residing against the back wall. As Mr Happy joined them, his only question was if he was going to still be Mr Happy.

The players took to the field on the large screen, Abesoli, not amongst them. For 90 minutes the restaurant was void of conversation, yet filled with celebration as the historic 0-0 match concluded.

After a quarter of an hour in celebratory jeers, Mr Happy finally turned his attention to Marek  and Benoit who had been waiting patiently.

Mr Happy explained the outcome of the Club fire, commending them for their ability to be unseen in terms of blame. Looking at a subheading on the front page of the newspaper, it appeared that Abesoli was being praised for rescuing patrons in the horrible fire. Marek and Benoit listened intently, Mr Happy revealing that the two now had friends in Transnistria, even though they were wanted. The Liski mafia had put prices on their heads, however not brave enough to hunt on the streets of Tiraspol themselves, the local assets would remain unsuccessful. Mr Happy also gave a new deadline, within 48 hours both men would receive new papers and an escort out of the state, both men seeking to get closer to Austria, without letting it be known that Vienna was their destination. Bratislava seemed the best option to them, across the Slovakian border and closing in on Austria.

Mr Happy would arrange transport, the new papers being enough for travel, however his words were stern regarding the opposition. Advising that the two were still being hunted and that the papers were only good for transport, not official check points and border crossings. Benoit probed Mr Happy for any and all information regarding the people hunting them, Mr Happy only able to offer the names of the organisations he knew, mainly the Liski mafia along with other support groups within the same circles.

As Marek and Benoit rose from the table, Mr Happy offered the two of them one last piece of advice in regards to ongoing support. He made it clear that people can only hunt when they have supplies and support, to make it harder for their enemy, Marek and Benoit should start hurting the Mafia in an invisible way, not head on, but through finance and business. Damage their ability to generate finance for support would be just as valuable as a new identity.