Zara's Game

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Zara's Game Page 5

by Jo Black


  ‘There’s no option, if he ever found out we knew, and didn’t save her...’

  ‘You have already given everything you can for her, I do not think you have to fear his vengeance, you deserve his gratitude and respect.’

  ‘We save who we can, right?’

  ‘Of course. Get some rest. He is a good doctor; he will take good care of you along with the housekeeper. I will speak to Dufort.’

  ‘Thank you Vincent.’

  Vincent spoke briefly to the doctor then headed out of the apartment. Hunter sunk his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes, a sense of relief that the burden he was carrying was finally shared.

  Dufort A.K.A “The Frenchman” was an information broker, he had no allegiance to any cause or regime and merely acted as an escrow agent to allow the free-flow of information between other actors who couldn’t be seen to be doing business with each other. His only client qualification was the ability to pay, a price based on the value of the information he offered. From the C.I.A and S.I.S to Mossad and various freelance arms dealers, military contractors, and assassins, if you wanted information on anything within the clandestine world then Dufort could usually be relied on to provide it. As a long-serving agent of the French Intelligence Service, Vincent knew Dufort’s history perhaps better than most — albeit what he knew was still vague and based on hearsay. Dufort came from a family that over centuries had built up an astonishing network of informants and sources across the globe, and had provided intelligence since before the Napoleonic era. His protection from reprisals was his neutrality; he was useful to everyone — if loyal to none.

  Vincent lit another Gitanes as he stood leaning over the perimeter wall in front of Sacre-Coeur church on the Montmartre hill. Staring out over the glittering skyline of Parisian rooftops to the south, he pulled his collar up to shelter from the biting chill of the autumn cold breeze when his discrete earpiece radio let out a brief burst of background static. ‘He’s approaching from the West,’ Vincent’s scout reported. While Vincent had little to fear from Dufort — who couldn’t operate from his home city of Paris without Vincent’s department’s tacit approval, he was still as wary as everyone else when meeting such a connected mover in the dark-world of intelligence.

  Dufort approached and stood next to Vincent. They didn’t look at each other. ‘It is a cold evening,’ Dufort said with a deep inhaled breath then slow sigh.

  ‘Winter is coming,’ Vincent responded with a resigned nod.

  ‘I was a little surprised to get your call, to be honest. I wasn’t aware of anything within your department that would require my services.’ It was an arrogant statement. Of course Vincent knew Dufort had a source inside his office, he had sources everywhere — that’s how he operated, but to openly taunt Vincent with the fact was a little rude, even by Dufort’s normal lack of etiquette standards. He resisted the temptation to rise to the bait and deflected.

  ‘It is a personal matter.’

  ‘Hmm. I see,’ Dufort said. His face folded into a brief sneer over the irksome summons to attend at short notice on such a cold night when likely as not Vincent was going to call in a marker; his lowly French civil servant grade salary didn’t quite meet the level needed to cover Dufort’s usual fees.

  ‘I need you to get a message to someone.’

  ‘Just a message? No information?’

  ‘Just a message.’

  Another sigh of indignation at the assumption Dufort had the time to play messenger boy.

  ‘Who is the recipient?’

  ‘Alex Green.’

  ‘The Dragon?’ A raised eyebrow from Dufort.

  ‘The Dragon,’ Vincent confirmed. A disguised, but nervous swallow from Dufort. ‘You know where he is?’

  ‘Azerbaijan. Baku. Dealing with the Chechens on behalf of the Kremlin I would expect. He has been somewhat busy in the Caucasus for a while. No charge for that information.’ Dufort flashed an insincere smile. ‘He is never exactly discrete, as you know...’

  Vincent nodded. ‘So you can get my message to him?’

  ‘Is it likely to be well-received?’

  ‘I’m not Alex’s enemy, if that is what you are implying.’

  ‘That is not what I meant, and you know it.’

  ‘No, it will not be well received.’

  ‘Then that makes things...more difficult.’

  ‘That is why I am asking you. If I wanted to know where Alex was I would go down to their embassy and ask the Russians.’

  ‘So why don’t you?’

  ‘It needs to come from a neutral party. Let’s just say it’s better if Alex has time to calm down before he shoots the messenger.’

  ‘I see. So it’s true then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They took Zara Scott.’ Vincent threw his cigarette over the wall immediately. He lost his usual Gallic cool demeanour and turned quickly to Dufort and stared at him angrily. ‘What do you know about it?’

  Dufort immediately sensed the threat and shrugged it off. ‘Just what is in circulation. She was taken in Pakistan.’

  ‘Do you know who by? Do you know where she is?’

  ‘That kind of favour, I’m afraid it would be too expensive to fulfil on your marker.’

  ‘If something happens to her...’

  ‘I’m told she is safe. For now.’

  ‘Then you tell your friends, keep it that way, or they will find I might decide the rules don’t need to be upheld.’

  ‘That would be unwise. And emotional. They are reasonable people Vincent. When they get what they want she’ll be released. That is why we have rules. And why we must all abide by them. Without rules we have nothing but anarchy, and that suits none of our interests.’ Vincent’s rage settled into a seething stare back towards the Eiffel Tower. ‘I won’t deliver your message. It is not in my interests to be implicated in introducing Alex Green into an already delicate situation. I will however fulfil the marker you have.’ Dufort took out a small piece of paper, he wrote an address on it and a time. ‘Be at this address between 12.00 a.m. and 2.00 a.m. He will deliver your message to The Dragon.’

  Vincent took the paper and read it. ‘Harry McNish. Colonel Harry McNish? Head of Section Thirteen?’

  ‘Alex’s mentor. I’m told they have been estranged of late, but I have no doubt that some bonds of loyalty are never broken. If you want to keep The Dragon on a leash, you need to make sure you speak to his original master.’

  Dufort departed. Vincent stared at the paper. An address in Amsterdam. His earpiece fizzed with static. ‘Do you want us to follow him?’

  Vincent looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘No. Let him go. Bring the car down to the usual bar. I will meet you there.’

  6

  Vincent pulled his jacket up and headed briskly down the west bank steps and long narrow alley before turning south down the cobbled street leading to the small corner bar, Le Progres. Full of locals, he pushed through them, catching the attention of the barman he ordered a beer on the way to the payphone in the back. He punched in a short code that gave him access via his office to a secure line then entered a number from his notebook. It rang three times. ‘I need to speak to our houseguest.’

  ‘One moment.’

  There was a short delay. ‘Hunter. It’s Vincent.’

  ‘This line secure?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What did you get?’

  ‘Dufort knows who has Zara. And where she is.’

  ‘Did he spill it?’

  ‘No. I could force the issue but we don’t have time, in any case Dufort would make sure it got back to them. We have to move quickly now, he will no doubt sell the information on that we are looking for her.’

  ‘What about The Dragon?’

  ‘He won’t send the message. He gave me a name. McNish.’

  ‘Colonel H? Section Thirteen?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Of course. If The Dragon is the anti-Christ then Nish potty-trained him to p
iss and shit fire. You think he will co-operate?’

  ‘Dufort said their relationship is strained, he did not say why. But Nish put Zara and Alex together, so let us hope he feels some moral responsibility to act.’

  ‘I don’t believe moral responsibility and McNish are relatable concepts. He’s probably the only person on the planet who doesn’t fear breaking that kind of news to Alex though.’

  ‘He’s in Amsterdam.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. You need me to come and support you?’

  ‘No, I have good connections there. You need to stay where you are and rest. How is your situation?’

  ‘This housekeeper you hooked me up with is mothering me to death. She tried to give me a goddamn bed-bath this afternoon, for her own reasons rather than my hygiene I suspect. Couldn’t you have got someone younger?’

  ‘Of course, but she would not cook for you or clean your pants.’

  ‘I’d settle for a hot mademoiselle, a takeaway, and a trip to the launderette.’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve spoken with Nish. I missed the flight so I’m going to drive.’

  ‘You be careful Vincent. Nish is like Alex, but older and more bad-tempered.’

  ‘We’re all older and more bad-tempered. Imagine what Alex will become when he is our age.’

  ‘We better get Zara back then, maybe she can tame The Dragon.’

  ‘If anyone can, Zara can. I guess she is fireproof. I will check in with you soon. Get some rest.’

  ‘Stay lucky.’

  Vincent hung up the phone and returned to the bar where his colleague was waiting. He took three deep sips of his beer. ‘We’re going to Amsterdam. We missed the last flight so we’re driving.’

  ‘Should you be drinking then?’

  ‘It’s fine. What I meant was, I’ll be sleeping, you’ll be driving.’ Vincent slid his colleague’s beer next to his own and gestured at the barman. ‘Mineral water with gas for my friend. He’s got a long drive.’ His colleague shook his head as Vincent downed his beer. Reluctantly he picked up his water. Vincent toasted him. ‘Salut.’

  Vincent’s state security service provided black Mercedes E55 AMG made light work of the desolate empty AutoRoute heading northeast across France, to Belgium and The Netherlands beyond. Vincent snored softly in the reclined passenger seat, forcing his driver to turn the jazz up a little to compensate as he hammered the kilometres down through the night, with little regard for speed limits thanks to his vehicle’s state registration’s immunity to any form of fines or prosecution. The most tedious chore was refilling the tank as the over-bored AMG engine filled its boots guzzling down the expensed premium unleaded at a single digits per gallon consumption rate. They were pulling in for the first fill of the morning somewhere between Rotterdam and Amsterdam when Vincent finally awoke. As his assistant refilled the tank Vincent got out the car and immediately lit a Gitanes with no regard for being stood on a forecourt full of flammable liquid then headed briskly inside to the services to order coffee and breakfast. His assistant joined him, collapsed into a chair and yawned. Vincent pushed across a cup of black coffee. ‘You have no stamina. When I was your age I could have done the entire Le Mans twenty-four hour race single-handed.’ Vincent checked his watch. ‘We will be in Amsterdam in two hours. You can sleep all day at the hotel.’ Vincent studied the various early-morning patrons of the services before turning his attention back to his colleague. ‘Did you notice anyone tail us out of Paris?’

  His colleague shook his head. ‘The road was deserted most the way.’

  ‘Good.’ It had occurred to Vincent that Dufort may have sold him out the minute they had parted company. But then perhaps Dufort was relying on Nish to do his dirty work for him. Vincent was under no illusion that his arrival would be un-announced, or the purpose of his visit a surprise to Nish.

  ‘You have met this guy before?’ his colleague asked.

  ‘Yes. More than once.’

  ‘What is he like?’

  ‘If he shakes your hand, make sure you still have all your fingers when he lets it go.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘What about this other guy? The Dragon?’

  Vincent stared at his young colleague then took a deep breath and stared out the window. ‘You don’t want to know. He doesn’t usually operate in Paris, or France. So if you are lucky your paths will never cross.’

  ‘And if I am unlucky?’

  Vincent looked at him. ‘Then it is better to be ignorant. Forearmed is not forewarned with The Dragon. Finish your breakfast. I want to get to the hotel, get a shower and some sleep.’

  ‘You slept all night.’

  ‘That was not sleep.’ Vincent finished the last of his coffee and held out his hand. ‘Give me the keys. I will drive from here.’ His colleague handed over the keys. They headed outside. Vincent stopped as they approached the car park and patted his colleague on the shoulder. They both looked towards the car where two thuggish looking twenty-something males were walking round the E-Class. One of them tried the door handle. Vincent and his colleague discretely took out their pistols, checked they had rounds chambered and then hid their firearms under their jackets. They split a few metres apart as they made their way briskly towards the car approaching from the back of the two men, as they reached them they quickly brought their pistols up to mark their targets.

  ‘Hands where I can see them! Turn around slowly!’ The two men stopped in their tracks. They slowly raised their hands up half-heartedly and turned around. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Vincent asked the man stood by the driver’s side of the car.

  ‘I was just admiring your car. It is AMG. Very nice,’ the man replied in a heavily Slavic-accented English. Vincent stared at the man and his accomplice, trying to determine the nature of the threat. Normally he wouldn’t have been so quick to bring arms to bear, but being stuck between Dufort and Nish, either could conceivably have them marked, and something wasn’t right about the characters taking an interest in their car. Professional car thieves perhaps or petty gangsters. Thankfully for Vincent the two-tone horn of a local Dutch traffic Volvo estate made its presence felt.

  ‘Take care of it,’ Vincent said to his colleague. Vincent’s colleague immediately holstered his sidearm and took out his French security services’ credentials, held it up high with his other hand as the two police officers spilled out of the car with weapons drawn. ‘French Security Services, we have identification. Do not fire, we are not a threat,’ Vincent’s colleague announced clearly. The driver of the Dutch police Volvo remained covering Vincent, who remained covering the two suspects as the second officer approached Vincent’s colleague and checked his I.D.

  ‘What is going on here?’ The highly attractive blonde Dutch officer asked.

  ‘We were just finding out. These two guys were taking too much interest in our car.’

  She spoke in Dutch briefly to her colleague then returned her attention back to Vincent and his colleague. ‘We know who they are; we had a report of a Serbian gang stealing high value cars to order in the area. Looks like you caught them for us.’

  ‘We do what we can to strengthen our E.U relationships,’ Vincent’s colleague said with a suave Parisian edge to his tone and a come-hither smile.

  ‘We can take it from here,’ the brusquer driver interrupted before Vincent’s colleague could spin up his Gallic charms and get to second base. ‘You two. On your knees. You’re both under arrest.’ He walked over to detain the pair and handcuff them. Vincent holstered his pistol. ‘So what are you doing in The Netherlands?’

  ‘We’re following up on a source. Counter-terrorism. It’s classified.’

  ‘Are our security services aware of your presence?’

  ‘We have an inter-agency agreement. There’s no problem here, we are just here for a meeting.’

  ‘All the same, you have firearms that need permits.’

  ‘Look. We’ve caught two guys for you. That’s go
ing to help your arrest report. Don’t make problems for us. We’re all on the same side.’

  ‘Where are you headed?’

  ‘Amsterdam.’

  ‘Okay. Well maybe you are lucky and you can catch these guys’ boss for us as well.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ Vincent asked.

  ‘Radic. You guys should have caught him long ago; he’s been on the war crimes wanted list from Interpol for a couple of years now. Although he’s mostly making problems stealing cars, trafficking women and dealing drugs now.’

  ‘That’s out of our jurisdiction.’

  ‘Someone has to do the real police work right? Have a good day.’ The Dutch police took the pair of arrested car thieves and deposited them in the back of the Volvo. The blonde flashed a smile at Vincent’s colleague as they drove past.

  Vincent shook his head. His colleague shrugged his shoulders. ‘What? If you were twenty years younger and not married with three children...’

  ‘That smile she gave you is what makes you twenty years older and married with three children. Make a note of this Radic guy. Maybe Nish knows where he is; we can pass it on to Interpol. Then when we hand all these expense receipts in we can say were chasing down war criminals.’

  ‘From the sound of it, this Nish is a war criminal.’

  “Yes, but he’s on our side.’

  ‘He’s British, we’re French. That is not the same side.’

  ‘Welcome to the European Union, all former enemies welcome.’

  7

  Vincent, waiting inside the small corner bar on the main canal running through the middle of Amsterdam’s Red Light District, stubbed out his Gitanes in an ashtray on the table. He checked his watch and finished the last of his beer. ‘Let’s go. It’s time.’

  Vincent pushed through the crowd of drunken men to reach the exit and checked up and down the street. The usual seedy mix of sex-tourists, stoners, and partygoers ogling the lines of naked tanned flesh sat or stood provocatively in the polished glass windows bathed in red light. They made their way down the tight narrow single file alley where the real whore-mongers sought the best the district had to offer. Seasoned punters knowing the main drag was full of over-priced poor service scam artists, and the real action was to be had in the seemingly dangerous dark alleyways. Vincent and his colleague filed into the slow single line procession of men that stopped at each window and admired the wares on offer. The entire crocodile line grinding to a halt when a punter found something of interest, the door opened and the standard “How much, thirty euros suck and fuck” pre-amble was discussed before the buyer disappeared in, the curtain was closed, and the line moved forward again. Being past midnight, more than half the rooms were already occupied. Vincent glanced up at the small metal numerals that numbered the houses until he reached the door number he had memorised where an attractive Eastern-European girl was sat clad in bright white lingerie on a stool playing demurely with her hair. Vincent stopped and nodded. She got up and opened the door. ‘Hey baby, you looking for me?’ she asked in a heavily accented English.

 

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