by Mark Dawson
She was asleep now, laid out across the seats with her head rested against her balled-up sweater. Ziggy looked through the window as they headed north, heading through the towns of Neum and Ploce. The dark sea was to their left, with the ghostly shapes of the islands of Otok Sipan and Mljet just visible against the dawn’s light on the horizon.
* * *
MILTON SPENT two hours searching the house for anything that might be useful. He had the shotgun and plenty of ammunition, but there were no other weapons to be found. He located the burglar alarm, worked out how to isolate the motion detectors in the garden and activated them. He went from the ground floor to the top, checking that all the doors and windows were locked. Bachman was coming, he knew, and he wanted to make sure that he would not be able to mount an attack without him knowing about it first.
He found a roll of duct tape in a cleaning cupboard. He went back to the kitchen, opened the larder and marched Shavit outside again.
“Sit down, please,” he said, pointing to a wooden dining chair.
The old man did as he was told. He saw the tape and realised what Milton was planning. He didn’t need to be told what to do; he rested his arms on the armrests and positioned his ankles so that they were pressed up against the chair legs. Milton picked at the end of the tape and wrapped it around Shavit’s wrists and ankles, then took the rest and spooled it around his midriff and the back of the chair. When he was done, the old man couldn’t move.
“This isn’t very comfortable,” he said.
“Sorry about that.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“So you keep telling me. It’s getting tedious.”
“Just run. Give yourself a chance.”
“Be quiet,” Milton said.
“Put some distance between you and Avi. You know what’s going to happen if you stay here. He’ll kill you.”
Milton sighed. He tore off a final strip of tape and stuck it over the man’s mouth.
* * *
THEY ARRIVED at Split at a little after six in the morning. It would be a long trip back to Australia. The best route appeared to be to fly Qatar Airways to Doha, lay over there for five hours, and then continue on to Melbourne. The trip would take thirty hours, and the first flight out wasn’t for another six.
They queued at the Croatia Airlines desk, but then, as they were the next to be called up, Matilda turned and walked away. Ziggy paused, caught between the clerk beckoning him to step forward and the need to follow Matilda. He turned, shrugged an apology, and hurried away to the seating area where Matilda was pacing back and forth.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I can’t do this.”
“What?”
“Leave. I can’t.”
“We have to leave. You heard what he said.”
“I know what he said. But…” She paused. “Look, you know him better than I do, right?”
“Maybe.”
“And you’re okay with just leaving like this?”
“Milton knows what he’s doing. And he can definitely look after himself.”
“But you met Bachman.”
Ziggy tried not to think about what had happened. “Milton knows what he’s doing.”
Matilda sat. “What if Bachman doesn’t come alone?”
“Look, I don’t like it, either.” He sat, too. “But you think either of us would be able to help?”
“Maybe we could—”
He spoke quickly, cutting her off. “I thought I could help him, a long time ago. My leg, the reason I walk with this limp—that’s what happened when I tried. It took me a long while to realise it. I’m not a hero. I’m not suited to it. And if we go back there, I can tell you what’s going to happen. We’re not going to help Milton. Not at all. We’re going to get in the way. We’re going to give him a distraction that he doesn’t need, and we’re going to make it more likely that we all get killed.”
Her eyes, which had been bright and lively, lost their spark as he spoke. Her face drained of animation and, as he finished, her hopeful expression was replaced with disappointment.
“Come on,” he protested. “You know this is the best way.”
“I can’t,” she said and, before he could say anything else, she turned and walked back to the exit.
“Matilda!” he called.
She didn’t turn back.
Once again, Ziggy was caught. He watched her as she pushed the doors that opened into the bright sunlight outside and knew that he should follow her. But then he remembered where following her would lead—and, more importantly, to whom it would lead—and he was frozen to the spot. She paused and, finally, looked back at him. She saw that he was not minded to follow and, without any change in the determined set of her expression, she turned away and walked out into the sunshine.
* * *
AVI BACHMAN and Malakhi and Keren Rabin landed at Split airport. They had flown on diplomatic passports, and Keren Rabin had carried her bags in a white sack that had been printed with diplomatic stamps. The sack was tightened with a drawstring and then secured with a padlock. They had each been scanned, but, thanks to the ersatz letter from the Israeli embassy in Canberra, the diplomatic bag had not been searched. They passed through immigration without incident and made their way into the busy arrivals lounge.
“We need to go south,” Bachman said. “Dubrovnik.”
The two of them exchanged a nervous glance, and Bachman could see that something had changed between them.
“What?”
“We’re done.”
“What do you mean?”
“Our instructions were to make sure you arrived here, but that’s it.”
“Your instructions? Instructions from whom?”
“From the director.”
“You spoke to him? When?”
“Before we left Australia. He was very clear. You’re on your own now.”
“Has he thought about that? Has he thought it through? Has he forgotten what I can do with one fucking phone call?”
“That’s not for us to say.”
They backed away from him. He felt a blast of heat in his cheeks and he was gritting his teeth so tightly that his jaw started to ache. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, he was able to manage a bloodless smile.
“What are you going to do?”
“We’ve been recalled. We’re flying back to Tel Aviv.”
He nodded. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need anyone. He would do it alone.
He took the white diplomatic sack and turned away. He left them behind him without another word.
* * *
ZIGGY PENN was stuck in a slow-moving queue for security. He had already checked in. He had purchased a ticket to Seoul. It was a long flight, with a four-hour stopover at London Heathrow, but he had started to look forward to setting up a new life for himself in Korea. There would be opportunities for him there, chances to build something new without having to worry about the foolishness that he had allowed himself to slip into while he was in Japan.
He took his boarding pass from his pocket and ran his finger against the edge of the paper. He was excited by the possibilities of what he might now be able to do and, yet, there was something that was making him uncomfortable. There was an ache in his stomach. He knew what it was.
Milton.
He thought of what Matilda had said to him before she left to go back to the villa.
He had retorted that Milton could look after himself, and he could—so why did he feel so bad about leaving?
Milton had saved his life in New Orleans all that time ago. He had ignored strict protocol to locate him and then he had ensured that he received the medical attention he needed to save his life. Ziggy had worked with him again in an effort to repay the debt, and maybe he had done that. There had been the situation with the gangsters in Tokyo, and, again, Ziggy had reciprocated with the hack on the Mossad’s systems that had led them all to this ju
ncture. They were square. Milton had said so, and Ziggy agreed. He didn’t owe him anything.
And yet… why did he feel like such a louse for leaving like this?
“Excuse me,” said the traveller behind him. Ziggy looked at the weary impatience on the man’s face and then turned back to see the gap that had opened up between himself and the rest of the queue.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and, instead of following the others towards the X-ray machine, he stepped out of line.
The man raised an eyebrow in surprise, but quickly hurried forward. The gap in the queue closed as the travellers jostled for position to present themselves to the ministrations of the machine and the indifferent attendants beyond it.
Ziggy turned his back on them and hurried to the exit.
Chapter Fifty-Three
ZIGGY HAD just missed the bus back to Dubrovnik. He could have waited for the next one, but that wouldn’t depart for an hour and he wanted to find Matilda before then. There was a Hertz desk inside the terminal and he went back to hire a car, paying for the rental with one of his fake cards. Matilda had a head start of half an hour. The coach would travel at an average speed of fifty-five or sixty miles an hour and had several stops along the route. If he drove as fast as he dared, he should be able to catch it up before it reached its destination.
He hoped so.
* * *
AVI BACHMAN hired a car from the Hertz desk and set off for Dubrovnik. He drove carefully, below the speed limit. There was no rush. Milton was waiting for him. And haste would get him killed.
He glanced up in the rear-view mirror. A car was approaching recklessly fast. He tightened his grip on the wheel and watched. He was just outside the town of Slano, halfway between Split and Dubrovnik. It was a three-lane highway here: one lane either way, with a third that alternated between northbound and southbound traffic. This stretch of the road offered southbound traffic only on the single carriageway, with two lanes heading north. There was a reasonable number of cars and trucks proceeding in both directions.
The car was an SUV. It closed up to within twenty feet. Bachman looked in the mirror, frowned, and checked for a second time. His face broke into a grin of surprise as he realised that he knew the driver. The SUV swerved out from behind him and passed, just barely merging into the correct lane again before a big eighteen-wheel rig thundered by, its air horn blaring in annoyance.
Ziggy Penn.
What?
Bachman remembered him from New Orleans. He had kidnapped him during Mardi Gras and used him to lure Milton out to the abandoned amusement park where he had meant to kill him. They had spent long enough together for Bachman to extract the information he needed to understand his role in that unfortunate situation, and, now that he saw him again, he was able to make an educated guess as to what had happened to Victor Blum’s support. Penn was a hacker.
Bachman had been sure that Milton would send him and the girl away.
What was he doing still here?
Penn and the girl were distractions. They could easily become leverage.
Bachman had dropped the white diplomatic sack onto the passenger seat next to him. He reached over, driving with one hand as he used the other to unfasten the padlock and draw open the mouth of the sack. Inside it was a Glock 9mm and a box of ammunition. He put the pistol on the seat and covered it with the bag.
He looked ahead again. Penn was accelerating away from him. The road was open, the traffic a little more sparse, and Bachman slowly increased the pressure on the gas and picked up speed himself. He would stay a quarter of a mile back. He didn’t need to be closer.
He knew where Penn was going.
* * *
ZIGGY PULLED over before the bus turned into the station and waited. It was busier than when they had taken it earlier, and he watched a dozen people disembark before he saw Matilda get off. She paused on the pavement, looking left and right, a little perplexed. She was looking for a taxi. He put the car into gear and drove ahead slowly until he was close enough to wind down the window and call out.
She turned. He realised, as soon as he spoke, that a sudden address like that might frighten her, especially given the circumstances, but the alarm on her face evaporated quickly as she recognised him.
“Shit,” she said. “You made me jump.”
“Sorry.”
“I thought you were leaving?”
“Changed my mind,” he said. “You were right. I just missed you at the station, so I drove.”
She came closer to the car. “You don’t have to be here. You didn’t want to.”
“I know I don’t, and I didn’t. And, for the record, I still think it’s crazy. I still think Milton can look after himself.”
“So?”
“So maybe you’re right. I can’t just leave like this.”
She nodded. “You know the stupid thing? I’ve been doubting myself the whole way. I don’t even know where the villa is. I only realised when I was on the bus. I was just going to ask around.”
“Have you called him?”
“I don’t have his address or his number,” she said. “Have you?”
“I thought about it, but I know what he’ll say.”
“That we shouldn’t come.”
Ziggy nodded. “We might as well just go to the villa. We can talk to him there. Get in. I’ll drive you.”
* * *
MILTON WAS watching the front of the house when the security lights at the end of the drive flicked on. He saw the car turn off the road, heard the crunch of the gravel as it rolled towards the villa. He took his binoculars and focused on the car.
Two people.
He gritted his teeth in frustration.
Matilda and Ziggy.
He had told them to leave. He had been very clear about it. He didn’t want them here. He didn’t need them here. They would make things much more complicated.
He turned back to the room. Shavit was asleep in his chair, the duct tape still secure around his wrists and ankles.
Milton stayed at the window, standing to the side so that he presented the smallest possible target should Bachman be out there with a long gun. He stared out into the darkness beyond the car. There was an outside chance that they were being followed, but the approach was much too dense and gloomy for Milton to be able to see if anyone was sheltering within the margin of the trees. The car stopped next to the Jaguar and Range Rover that had been there before.
Nothing happened. The two of them stayed in the car. It was below Milton now, and the angle made it impossible for him to see in through the windshield, but there was no movement.
And then the doors opened.
Ziggy came out of the driver’s door first. Milton was looking down on him and he couldn’t see his face. He could see, though, that something was amiss. Ziggy stayed close to the car, looking back inside. His body language was wrong, too. Defensive. Unsettled.
The passenger’s door opened and, at the same time, the door behind it.
Milton felt sick.
Matilda got out.
Avi Bachman stepped out behind her.
He had a pistol in his right hand. It was pointed at Matilda and, as she hesitated, he came close to her and pressed it into the small of her back.
Bachman put a hand on Matilda’s shoulder and drew her back so that he could look up at the house.
“Milton!” he called.
Milton gritted his teeth in frustration.
“Milton! I know you’re in there.”
Bachman moved Ziggy around the car so that the three of them were closer together. He stood behind them both, using them as a shield.
He clenched his fist and drummed it against his thigh.
“You have a problem?” Shavit said. Milton had removed the tape and now he wished he hadn’t. There was a mocking tone to the old man’s voice.
“Be quiet.”
Milton hurried over and collected the shotgun from where he had propped it against his chair.
“And I told you to be quiet. Don’t make me tell you again.”
“Or what? You’ll shoot me? I don’t think so, Mr. Milton. You need me.”
He went back to the window, flicked the latch and pushed it open.
“I’m here, Bachman,” he called down.
“My friend?”
“He’s fine.”
Milton looked down. The security floodlights lit up the area with the parked cars. Matilda and Ziggy were both looking up at him, their faces pale with fright.
“Let me talk to him.”
Milton stepped back and looked at Shavit.
“Kill them and go, Avi!” the old man shouted, his voice an angry rasp. “Don’t worry about me.”
Milton went over to Shavit, reversed the shotgun and drilled the butt into his unprotected gut. Shavit gasped and wheezed as the air was punched out of his lungs.
* * *
AVI BACHMAN led them around the side of the house. His left hand grasped the girl around the shoulder to keep her close. The pistol in his right hand was pressed tight against her spine.
He had watched as Ziggy Penn had collected Matilda Douglas at the bus station. He had followed them as they drove out of town and forced them off the road when the moment presented itself.
He had them both now.
Penn would have been a good enough prize, but the girl was a bonus. He thought about her. Milton and Matilda had been travelling together when the Rabins had picked him up. What was she? Was she significant to him? Milton denied it, but Bachman didn’t believe him. There was something between them. A vulnerability that he would be able to exploit.
“Keep walking,” he said in a calm, quiet voice. “Around the back.”
Penn was frightened. Bachman could see it in the way that his hands were trembling. It wasn’t an unreasonable reaction. Penn knew what Bachman was capable of doing. The girl had more about her. She had held his eye with a steady glare when he had stepped out of his car with the pistol raised, but she was scared, too.
