The Hunter

by WOOD TOM

Chambers placed both hands on the table. ‘Okay, this is what we’re going to do. We’re going to contact German intelligence straight away and get them to put the address under immediate surveillance. Let them know what kind of person they’re dealing with. I don’t want them trying to apprehend him, just keep him in sight. I’m not having anyone else getting killed because of this. Alvarez, as soon as you’ve finished briefing them, I want you on the next plane to Germany to see what you can find out. Call me from Munich. If he’s still there you’ll have as much support as you need.’

  When Alvarez was off the phone it was Ferguson who spoke. His thick silver hair, normally swept neatly backwards, was looking a little unruly today. ‘The chances of this killer still being in possession of the information are slim at best. If his job was to intercept Ozols and take the drive, then he will be delivering it to his employer – he won’t be off chasing leads in Germany. That makes no sense whatsoever.’

  Chambers sighed. ‘Maybe it was his employer who tried to have him killed. Saves paying him. Or maybe he’s already done it. But until we have more indication on who sent him, this is our best approach. We’re against the clock here; as soon as that information is delivered, those missiles are going to vanish in a matter of days, and the next we hear about them will be when someone uses the technology against us. If there is a slim chance the man who killed Ozols might have gone to Germany, then so must we.’ Ferguson didn’t look convinced. ‘Unless you have any other ideas you’d like to share with us.’ The challenge in her voice was obvious.

  Ferguson’s expression was one of quiet contempt. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. Procter looked at Chambers. Evidently she wasn’t bothered about getting the old guy’s back up whatever his history.

  Maybe there was a pair dangling between her legs after all.

  CHAPTER 16

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Tuesday

  18:32 CET

  Victor walked through Place Neuve and passed the Grand Théâtre. The city was alive with people, tourists out for a good time and locals happy to have finished the working day. Victor cast a fleeting glance at the Grand-Théâtre, wishing he had the chance to take in a performance, something by Puccini or Mozart perhaps. Instead he walked back and forth among the crowds to throw off any shadows.

  The sun had set, and no one noticed him as he passed through the streets of the city. It was after dark where he really belonged. In the daytime he could hide within a crowd, but at night he could be invisible. In front of him walked a couple, arms entwined, stumbling slightly and laughing. They were so enraptured with each other they wouldn’t have noticed him whether he’d let them or not.

  From Munich he’d travelled to Berlin and then on to Prague before heading to Switzerland. It had been a long and tiring journey, but Victor never travelled in straight lines. He veered off into a side street, taking an indirect route to the train station. It was brightly lit, busy with suited commuters. Like most of Geneva’s males, Victor was dressed in a thick overcoat, gloves, and hat. He was glad of the cold that forced everyone to pile on the layers, blending the crowd into a mass of conservative colours. Even a whole team of expert shadows would have their work cut out following him in such a place.

  He hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours, and he was very aware of the fact. Sleep deprivation slowed the mind as much as the body, and now more than ever Victor needed to be at one hundred per cent. But while on the run he couldn’t rest until he knew he was safe. Every hour spent asleep gave his enemies a chance to get closer to him.

  He consumed a bad sandwich and a strong coffee in a small café while he waited for his train. When it arrived he waited for the last possible moment before climbing on board and sat with the window to his right, at the rear of the carriage. From Geneva Victor travelled north, the train winding through the mountains.

  He’d lived in Switzerland for several years, finding its climate, people, and lifestyle to his liking. Living at altitude gave his endurance a significant boost, plus the country’s secretive banking systems and relaxed attitude to firearms suited his vocation particularly well.

  The train took Victor through the Valais, Switzerland’s third largest region, or canton. The region contained the Rhone valley, which fed Geneva’s famous lake. It was late when Victor stepped off the train in the village of Saint Maurice. Snow fell heavily, and he pulled his collar up and hunched his shoulders. He’d bought appropriate clothing for the mountains in a boutique at the train station and changed on the train.

  The village itself was isolated, far away from the closest town, consisting mainly of wealthy foreigners who only spent a few weeks of the year in their expensive log chalets during the ski season. It was a place where few people knew their neighbours and where no one was surprised to see strange faces and vehicles. Victor, coming and going frequently, never appeared suspicious.

  At one of the world’s most expensive grocery stores he bought whole milk, free-range eggs, a selection of fresh vegetables, English cheddar, soya and linseed bread, and smoked salmon. He resented having to pay the extortionate amount of money to the woman behind the counter, but he knew it served him right for living there.

  He walked through the rest of the village with the two bags and his attaché case held in his left hand. He used the side streets instead of the main road. There were few people about, and when he was finally sure he wasn’t being followed, he headed off into the trees, moving in a half-circle around to where his chalet lay a mile away from the main cluster of buildings. He moved carefully through the dark forest, knowing the way without needing to see properly.

  When he saw through the trees the chalet illuminated by the moon and starlight he wanted to rush inside and collapse on his own bed. He desired nothing more than to sleep, than to forget his life for eight hours straight, but discipline made him stop and squat down, looking for signs of intruders. It was almost impossible to believe that anyone would know where he lived, but after Paris he was taking no chances.

  He placed the shopping down and spent an hour circling the building until he was satisfied no one was inside or nearby. The chalet was sheltered on all sides by dense pine trees, with a single narrow path only usable by rugged four-wheel-drive vehicles leading to the main road. Victor’s own Land Rover was parked in a freestanding garage. It was too dark to see any recent tracks in the path or footprints in the snow around the building, but he saw and heard nothing to suggest anyone was nearby.

  Inside the ornate wood and steel-reinforced front door, he breathed a little easier but still took the time to check the interior thoroughly. The chalet was five years old, Victor the only owner, and it was built in the traditional Savoyard chalet style with slate roof, wooden beams, stone walls, and a log fire. Its two storeys had four bedrooms, far more than Victor really needed, but chalets here were not built with a single occupant in mind.

  It had no conventional alarm. If someone broke in Victor did not want the authorities alerted and snooping around. Instead he had custom-made motion sensors linked to high-resolution security cameras, and sensitive microphones that covered every corner of the building. Each item was carefully disguised, and the cameras and microphones were programmed to only begin recording two minutes after they were tripped. In this way they should remain undetected by anyone sweeping for electronic bugs when they first entered a room.

  All the windows were fitted with three-inch-thick polycarbonate and glass laminate windowpanes that would stop even high-velocity rifle rounds. The reinforced front and rear doors and frames would take more than a hand-held ram to get through. Few windows opened and none fully.

  Victor examined every room in a set order in a set way. Everything was in its place, and nothing was there that did not serve some purpose. There were no photographs, no items of any personal significance. Nothing to show who he was or where he had come from. If anyone ever did get into the chalet, they would leave with almost no information about him.

  He was pleased to find n
othing had been recorded by his security system. He opened the door to the small boiler room and checked the control box for tampering. Should he enter a certain code it would set a three-minute timer that would detonate the C-4 carefully positioned around the ground floor. One day he might have to leave in a hurry and never come back.

  Once he was satisfied, he put the groceries away and was finally able to relax. He treated himself with a long shower. Outside his chalet he never took them. Back to the door, naked, unarmed, pounding water blocking all other noise – even the most skilled target was defenceless in one. Victor had killed enough people in them to know they were death traps. Here it was safe though. His body ached. He noticed he’d lost a couple of pounds too, but two days on the run tended to make an effective diet programme. Plenty of decent food and rest would put him right in no time. He had no significant injuries, and, considering what had happened, he knew he was fortunate to be in one piece. Thinking of food made his stomach groan.

  When he couldn’t ignore the hunger any longer he dried himself, checked the house once more to satisfy his paranoia, and made himself a large cheese and salmon omelette with the groceries he’d bought. He followed it with a protein shake loaded with vitamins and minerals before taking a half-empty bottle of Finnish vodka from the freezer. He went into the lounge, sat down in front of his rosewood piano, and tore the seal from the bottle.

  Victor poured himself a glass of vodka and rubbed a smear from the piano with his sleeve. The piano was an 1881 Vose and Sons Square Grand he’d found rotting in a Venetian dealership. He’d bought it for a good price and had it couriered to Switzerland to be repaired but not restored. Victor found a certain beauty in the absence of perfection. The piano had existed for several times longer than his own life span, and it wore its battle scars proudly. He played a little Chopin until he found his eyelids drooping.

  Later, he poured the last of the vodka into the glass and used the piano to help him stand. He headed upstairs slowly and lay down on his double bed, the single pillow hard beneath his head.

  He fell asleep with the glass on his chest.

  CHAPTER 17

  Munich, Germany

  Tuesday

  22:39 CET

  Alvarez shivered as he left the building and nodded to the German police officer smoking a cigarette nearby. The officer’s return nod, Alvarez noted, was somewhat half-hearted. Evidently he did not appreciate the task of questioning the building’s occupants that Alvarez’s presence had won him.

  German intelligence had been very cooperative and had agreed to Alvarez’s request on just the vague information the company have given them. News of the Paris shootings had reached across the border, and the Germans were keen to help.

  As with the French authorities, he told them nothing of the missing flash drive. His priority was to recover it rather than to apprehend Ozols’s killer, but it wouldn’t do to tell that to members of another nation’s intelligence service. They would want to know what information the memory stick contained, and the best way to answer that would be to take possession of the drive.

  He climbed into his rental car and drove back to the hotel. It had been a long two days, and the strain was showing in the face that looked back at him in the bathroom mirror. He had another progress report to give to Langley, but he would need an hour’s sleep before he started it.

  His achievements were limited at best. A man matching the assassin’s description had been let inside the building by a neighbour. There was no evidence Ozols’s killer had been inside Svyatoslav’s apartment or had found or taken anything, but that didn’t surprise Alvarez. Svyatoslav’s financial and phone records were being assembled, and Alvarez did not relish the thought of having to pore through them.

  The neighbour, Mr Eichberg, had provided another description and aided a sketch artist. The assassin had shaved his beard and cut his hair, but the remaining identifying features could’ve been anyone’s. He couldn’t have had the decency to have a big nose or a cleft chin, Alvarez thought bitterly.

  A drawing had been issued to police forces across Germany, but Alvarez knew the killer would not have hung around. He was most likely out of the country long before Alvarez had even arrived. All CCTV footage at airports and train stations were being checked by the authorities as a matter of course.

  Alvarez took the hair clippers from his suitcase and gave his head a once over with the number two attachment. He had a brief hot shower and afterwards lay down on his bed to sleep but couldn’t make it happen. A few years ago, when he couldn’t sleep, he would have grabbed the phone and spoken to Jennifer, but there was no one to speak to these days. Alvarez kept people at arm’s length without having to try, and, even when he made an effort to bend his elbows, he just found his arms were still longer than those of most people.

  Some women seemed to like the challenge of getting close to him, but once they realized it wasn’t going to happen they bailed. Mostly sooner, but in Jennifer’s case later. He thought about calling to speak to Christopher, but it was hard talking to his son when he saw so little of him and the kid called someone else daddy.

  A ringing phone woke Alvarez. He launched himself off the bed and grabbed it from the sideboard. He saw by the clock that he had been asleep for only a few minutes.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Alvarez, this is Gens Luitger of the BKA. We met earlier today.’

  The BKA – the Bundeskriminalamt – Germany’s equivalent of the FBI. Luitger was a high-ranking and well-respected officer in the organization, and, from the short time Alvarez had spent with him, he seemed extremely competent. His English was flawless, with only the occasional trace of an accent.

  ‘Yes,’ Alvarez said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m good,’ Luitger answered. ‘And I have some good news for you. I’ve had people checking for lone-travelling men in their thirties who’ve exited the country, and I believe we have had some luck. Yesterday a British national by the name of Alan Flynn boarded a flight to Prague, out of Berlin. This is odd because Alan Flynn is currently residing in a secure mental-health hospital in the north of England. The man using Alan Flynn’s passport also matches your target’s description.’

  The second British one he’s used, Alvarez thought. ‘How sure are you?’

  ‘As sure as one can be.’

  Alvarez detected a slight difference in Luitger’s tone, as if he had been offended or insulted by Alvarez’s question. He understood why. Luitger wouldn’t have phoned unless he thought the information was sufficiently reliable.

  ‘Do you have his face on the security cameras?’

  ‘No, unfortunately our mutual friend was lucky enough not to have been picked up by the CCTV cameras. At least his face wasn’t.’

  Alvarez smiled to himself. ‘No, that’s not luck, that’s him all right. Thank you for calling me so promptly.’

  ‘That’s no trouble. I feel it is important for our security services to aid one another whenever we can, even if our leaders would not always agree.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘How do you want to proceed? My people will continue the investigation as best we can, but I think we might have to accept the suspect is already out of Germany. If so, my authority stops at the border.’

  Alvarez’s mind was already running in fifth gear trying to sort through all the possibilities. He needed to get the new information out to Langley as soon as possible. If the killer had gone to the Czech Republic, then things were not looking good. He would need to speak to Kennard to update him and find out what, if anything, had been discovered in Paris. He realized Luitger was still on the phone.

  ‘That’s fine, my friend,’ Alvarez assured, despite feeling dejected. ‘You’ve done more than enough already.’

  They said their good-byes and Alvarez hit a speed-dial number. After a few rings Kennard answered. The guy sounded tired.

  ‘John, get this: the killer did pay a trip to Svyatoslav’s apartment,’ Alvarez said.

 
; ‘Did he find anything?’

  ‘That’s the million-dollar question.’

  ‘What about you, you find anything?’

  Alvarez shielded the phone while he sneezed. ‘According to the BKA the killer took a plane to the Czech Republic.’

  ‘The Czech Republic?’

  ‘Prague to be exact, but by now he could be anywhere.’

  ‘What the hell is this guy up to?’

  ‘That would be the billion-dollar question. You got a pen? Write this down.’

  Alvarez gave Kennard a list of instructions then hung up. He sneezed again and hoped he wasn’t coming down with a cold. That would be just his luck. He picked up the phone and called room service for a big pot of strong coffee. It was going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER 18

  Paris, France

  Tuesday

  23:16 CET

  Kennard flipped his phone closed and considered carefully for a moment. He was at the killer’s hotel with the complete crimescene report, doing a walk-through, trying to get an accurate picture of everything that had happened in case they’d missed anything. The French police were still pretty damn unhelpful, but at least they left him to it.

  Now that Alvarez had briefed him about the situation in Germany, Kennard abandoned what he was doing. He hurried through the hotel and out onto the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. It had been sealed off in front of the hotel from junction to junction on the previous day, almost immediately after the killings. Kennard remembered watching the harried-looking policemen at either end of the cordon as they tried their best to divert the angry morning traffic.

  Now it was as if nothing had happened. The only barriers still in place were within the hotel itself. Outside, Parisian motorists whizzed too fast down the road in their pathetically small cars, hitting their horns each and every chance they had. It seemed not to matter if there was real cause.