by Chris Allen
His piercing gaze turned upon the three men standing in front of him. His loyal and trusted lieutenants. One was his son. No, he had nothing to gain and everything to lose by selling out his father. Drago looked at the other two as a hungry lion looks at a herd of unsuspecting wildebeest. One, no doubt with the support of the other, had showed his true ambition by instigating the attempt on the American woman without approval. The ten million euros Interpol had put on Drago's head was a lot of money. How long would it take before one or both sold him out again? How long before Interpol finally caught up with him because of their direct or indirect actions? Paranoia coursed through his body like molten lava. Coldly, mechanically, he reached to the waistband of his trousers, withdrew an automatic and shot the two men dead.
He dropped the gun on the desk and walked around to his son. His open right hand came up and struck his son across the face with a slap that would have knocked anybody else to the ground. Then, he grabbed his son's face with both hands and held his head steady so that the two of them were just inches apart, each staring intently into the other's eyes.
"My boy," Drago began, "if you want to inherit this from me then you must show me you can keep these fucks under control. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," the son answered, nodding despite his father's vice-like grip.
"Yes, what?" Drago growled.
"Yes, sefa," he answered.
"That's better;' he said, releasing his son's face. He walked back around his desk and sat down. "We have to deal with this quickly before I have half of Interpol crawling up my fucking ass. I want those fucks in The Hague to shit their pants if they dare even mention my name!" Drago spat the words across the room, thumping the desk to underscore his fury. "Where is the Wolf?"
"I don't know, sefa," replied the son honestly. "He is impossible to keep track of lately."
"Well, fuck him. You find him. I want him here; he works for me. Remind him of that if you have to:' "Yes, sefa."
"He told me he was working on a backup plan to get at the American. I want to know what it is. I want some action from the Wolf. No more fucking talk. Get him now and get those two pieces of shit out of here!"
Chapter 7
THE RED LION, WHITEHALL, LONDON
"We always seem to find our way back here," remarked General Davenport. "Why do you think that is?"
"It's pretty simple, sir," replied Morgan good-humoredly. "We're not office types. Occasionally we need to escape. And the promise of good single malt scotch like this is its own reward."
"Well, there is that, of course: Davenport conceded with a smile. He took another drink, savoring the bite of the liquid as it warmed his chest, casting an appraising eye over his agent. "I must say, my boy, I'm pleased you've finally acquainted yourself with my tailor. You are looking decidedly less scruffy these days."
"Well, I hope you don't expect a thank you for that backhanded compliment," Morgan said with mock indignation and a broad grin. He straightened within his expertly tailored worsted suit of blended gray, complemented by a pristine white shirt, a black tie and a white pocket square folded precisely to provide the merest strip of white across the top of the pocket. All thanks to the impeccable workmanship of Davenport's personal tailor, Somerville & Son, who had rooms just off Savile Row on Conduit Street. "Anyway, it was time for an upgrade."
"Mr Somerville has done an outstanding job. It's important to look the part as much as be the part in this game, Alex. Where I'm likely sending you in coming weeks, I can't have you turning up looking like a bloody drifter"
They laughed. Morgan was happy to acknowledge his previous "comfortable" standard of dress, as the general once referred to it, and while he still preferred jeans and sports coats when off the clock, he had begun to enjoy his new bespoke wardrobe.
"What do you have in mind for me next, then, sir?" Morgan asked, reaching for his scotch. He had only recently returned from delivering Serifovic into the custody of the ICTY. But Morgan already knew that the attempted assassination in Seattle overnight of an ICTY judge would have a direct implication on his next assignment.
"I want you to stay with the Serbs. I'm scheduled to attend a meeting in New York tomorrow with Interpol, and I'd like you to join me," Davenport replied dryly.
"Of course," Morgan replied. "Anything specific?"
"This attempt on Judge Clancy, the presiding judge of the ICTY, was obviously a move to derail the tribunal and Interpol's investigations into the last remaining fugitives of the Balkans War Crimes indictments. I've arranged for her to join us in New York. I'd like to get as much detail as possible on exactly why these ICTY judges have been sent into hiding."
"I heard all the judges had been sent off on indefinite leave; something to do with threats the tribunal had received, targeting them specifically. Is that right?" Morgan asked.
"Yes," replied Davenport gravely. "The threats implied an attack upon the judges while in session at the tribunal in The Hague. The decision was made to close the court under the pretense of technical difficulties with equipment, and the judges were all given an indefinite leave of absence. They opted to return discreetly to their private residences until the all-clear was given. Madam Clancy returned home to Seattle."
"So, what have they done with the others now? Have they all been recalled to The Hague?"
"Not yet." Davenport looked genuinely concerned. "I imagine the tribunal's chief of security will be attempting to make contact with them all and Interpol will be making arrangements with police in the various countries to provide additional protection while they are at their homes. But short of just locking them all away, the best solution has yet to present itself."
"Which way do you think they'll go?" Morgan asked.
"I think they'll upgrade security arrangements at court and at the judges' residences back in The Hague. Meanwhile, they have little alternative but to allow them all to remain at home - under strict security, of course - until arrangements in The Hague have been finalized."
"Makes sense," Morgan said. "I guess that means we need to leave it in the hands of tribunal security and Interpol for now. In the meantime, where do you want me?" He took a drink.
"Making a hit on an ICTY judge near her private residence sends a message. It says: We can get you, wherever you are. It scares the hell out of witnesses preparing to give evidence before the tribunal and it strikes the fear of God into the remaining judges. But you don't arrange a hit like that without a reason."
"Drago getting nervous?" Morgan suggested.
"Precisely, which is exactly why the chief prosecutor of the tribunal and Interpol's secretary general are adamant that the investigations and ongoing hearings must get back on track as soon as possible:' Davenport took a drink. "We have Karadzic, Hadzic, Mladic and now, thanks to you, that other delightful creature, Milivoj Serifovic. We're closer than we've ever been to finding Drago's exact whereabouts. So, I need you to familiarize yourself with him, Alex. You have to get to know everything there is to know about this man. Because, when the time comes, there won't be any margin for error:'
"I'm across his background, sir," Morgan replied. "Drago is the subject of an Interpol Red Notice and he's the last remaining fugitive of the 160 or so indicted by the tribunal since 1993. Interpol suggests he's been able to elude capture for so long by operating under the protection of the Serbian criminal grid and there's strong intelligence indicating that he heads an arm of the Serbian mafia made up exclusively of former members of the security forces who operated under his command during the Balkans War."
Davenport nodded. "The assassination attempt on Madeline Clancy was undoubtedly on Drago's orders. The fact that it occurred at the very time you were arresting Serifovic is of interest, though. The would-be assassins could not have known we were moving on Serifovic."
"Perhaps Drago's intelligence was a bit off," Morgan surmised. Davenport raised his eyebrows. "Well, it's possible his network reported that Interpol was closing in," Morgan continued. "Thinking i
t was him they were closing in on, Drago takes immediate preemptive action against the tribunal; sending in people to kill one of the judges. But in reality it was Serifovic we were arresting, not Drago Obrenovic."
Davenport nodded his agreement and both men fell silent for a moment, drinking and considering the possibilities.
"According to Interpol Belgrade, Drago wouldn't risk exposure under any circumstances, not even for one of his most trusted comrades. Which suggests that he was not actively communicating with Serifovic," said Davenport. "If he had been, he would have warned Serifovic that Interpol was closing in. S Serifovic would have been prepared."
"Serifovic wasn't prepared," said Morgan. "Although that big bastard, Zupan, certainly gave me a run for my money. I could really have used our new guy. What's his name? The German!'
"Braunschweiger. Austrian, actually. Hermann Braunschweiger; built like a tank," Davenport replied. "You know, they had a nickname for him in the GSG 9. They called him Der Schlüssel."
Morgan's quizzical expression asked the question.
"It means 'the key.' Considering the man's size, it's a rather delicate nickname, don't you think? Some eccentric Germanic humor, no doubt, but according to the head of GSG 9, if they needed to get into anywhere, he could open the door simply by putting his shoulder to it. Hence, the key." They both smiled at the idea. "But, all that aside for now, you can see why I've had to keep our involvement strictly out of the mainstream," he said. "I know it limited your backup options, Alex. But the mere suggestion that Drago is able to gather intelligence on the progress of Interpol investigations is enough to warrant my precautions."
"I understand, sir." Morgan trusted the general's judgment completely, despite certain implications in the field. But more than that, he could see that there was something else troubling his chief. He allowed Davenport to gather his thoughts.
"The attempt on the ICTY judge was a warning. That's obvious," Davenport stated. "And we know that the arrest of Serifovic will send Drago into survival overdrive. He'll be looking at any means possible, whatever it takes, to keep himself clear of authorities and prolong his freedom."
"So, you're expecting him to ramp up his counter-offensive?"
"I have no doubt of it," Davenport replied. "But are we thinking about this coldly and objectively, or are we allowing Drago's obvious counteroffensive strategy to limit our consideration?"
"You think we're being played?" Morgan asked.
Davenport took a long pull at his scotch and leant heavily against the wide ledge directly beneath Lord Stanley's portrait. He remained silent for a while, absently stroking his beard, the lines of his face set deep in contemplation. Morgan respected the general's silence and, easing his way through the rest of his own scotch, watched the traffic going past on Whitehall.
"The more I think about these recent successes - Mladic, Hadzic and Serifovic - the more I am drawn back to the common denominator in all of them." "The informant?"
"Precisely, my boy," Davenport replied emphatically. "Precisely. The informant."
Chapter 8
BORDEAUX, SOUTH-WESTERN FRANCE
La belle au Bois dormant, the sleeping beauty! Guillaume Rene de Villepin loved this graceful city, his home that lay serenely upon the banks of the Garonne. Her history could be traced for millennia and, for those who elected to pay no heed to the centuries of bloodshed or even the discovery of Neanderthal remains at Pair-non-Pair, it was a history written exclusively in commerce, culture and the arts. Her streets and architecture, Place de la Bourse, Rue Ausone, Cathedrale Saint-Andre, all conjured so many memories. And, of course, the wines. The wines! A quarter of a million acres of the world's finest grapes grew here. How he loved to come home. It was his life, his sanctuary. His heart resided here. Here he was a citizen. Here he was anonymous. Here he could be himself with none of the responsibilities, scrutiny or stresses of his real life - his life under the spotlight in The Hague.
Guillaume, or simply Guy to those who were close enough to be invited to call him that, walked briskly but relaxedly along the Rue Sainte-Catherine in search of coffee. The de Villepin family had lived in the Aquitaine region for many centuries and if truth be known, there was a time when the Bordeaux de Villepins were considered noblesse de chancellerie, landed gentry, much favored by royalty. Of course, La Revolution francaise had changed all that.
Soaking up the beauty and promise of his homeland, Guy de Villepin took a seat on a rickety metal chair and rested his arm on an equally rickety metal table just outside the entrance of his favorite cafe. He ordered coffee and, with little genuine interest, thumbed through a copy of Le Figaro that had been left on a seat nearby. From here he could watch the world go by, basking in the peaceful enjoyment of his brief leave of absence. Liberté!
Despite the joy he felt at being back in Bordeaux, de Villepin could not help but turn his mind to what he had left behind. To be so threatened - with death - and to constantly live under its power and menace was taking its toll. Not only upon him but also upon his colleagues. The work was so important and to consider the possibility that these threats could be realized made him cold to the bone. Theirs was much more than a mere job of work. It was a vocation. He, like his colleagues, was committed. He had sworn an oath to carry out his duty and now he'd been forced to flee. He and the others had been ordered into hiding, scurrying like frightened mice. How could this be happening? He suddenly felt ashamed that he had acquiesced to the decision. Still, he was here now and nobody knew him.
Further along Rue Sainte-Catherine, a man - tall, dark, with striking good looks and impeccable dress sense - stood quietly examining a shop front. There was nothing particularly out of place in either where he was standing or what he was doing. A dozen other men could easily be observed striking similar poses in both directions, perusing the various stores of the famous shopping strip. What was not obvious was that this man was watching a reflection. The reflection he was watching was that of Guy de Villepin.
The man at the window casually reached into the pocket of his designer jeans and extracted an iPhone. He tapped the screen and placed the phone to his ear. He made a play of speaking as if to a wife or girlfriend, seemingly describing items he was looking at in the window. In fact he was providing the listener with a very different description in fluent French.
"It's him. He's on his own, sitting right in front of the café diagonally opposite me. He's about sixty. Medium height. Skinny. Gray hair, well groomed. He's wearing a light overcoat with a red scarf, dark pants and black boots. Good-quality stuff, not cheap shit. Walks quickly but with a bit of a shuffle. He's wearing glasses. He needs them to read but not for walking around. Can you see him? Right, get as many pictures as you can and stay on him. I need to pull back, I've been on him for too long already. Now that you know what he looks like, don't fucking lose him. Report back to me as soon as you have him returning to his home and stay there until I reach you. Got it? Good."
The phone was returned to his pocket and the dark figure disappeared into the milieu.
Chapter 9
OFFICE OF THE SPECIAL REPRESENTATIVE OF INTERPOL TO THE UNITED NATIONS
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK, USA
Brett Tappin, assistant director responsible for the Judicial Security Division of the United States Marshals Service, wasn't happy about the meeting, but he had no choice. The director wanted him there, and when she said jump, everyone in the Service knew better than to ask "How high?"; they just jumped as high as they could first time and hoped it was enough.
Tappin, with elbows on the arms of his chair and chin resting atop steepled fingers, surveyed the others around the table with a marksman's critical eye. A former Marine sniper with service in the first Gulf War, Tappin had been with the Marshals Service, the USMS, for twenty years.
His attention was drawn to the man closest to him. He was younger than all of them, Tappin observed, about thirty-five and, by the look of him, extremely fit. He had dark hair, cut short and neat, a tanned c
omplexion, and looked like he weighed about 200 pounds. The young bastard exuded health and vitality along with that particular quality that can't be faked: a comfortable indifference to danger; it was written all over him. Tappin could spot it because he'd been exactly the same, back in the day. The guy was a gunslinger, no doubt about it.
As the meeting was getting under way, Tappin's attention turned to the head of the large oval-shaped conference table where the meeting's chair, Peter Vallincourt, was going through the usual round of introductions and pleasantries. Vallincourt, special representative of Interpol to the United Nations, was exactly what you'd expect of a former NYPD commissioner: tall, broad-chested, with a thick, walrus-like moustache, boxer's nose and eyes that sat like telescopes beneath a heavy, determined brow. He'd been around a long time and was renowned among senior figures in the US law enforcement fraternity as a total old-school hard-ass. He was the host of the meeting and this was his turf.
To the left of Vallincourt was Madeline Clancy, presiding judge at the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. Tappin placed her in her mid-fifties. She was tall, slender and elegant, in contrast to her business suit, which was dark gray and masculine, with a fine pinstripe. She had light brown hair with a reddish tinge, worn in a neat bob. Judge Clancy was the reason they were all there.
As the discussion began, Tappin continued his scan of participants, shifting his focus to the man addressing the judge, FBI Special Agent Pat Ryerson, deputy director of Interpol Washington, or more formally, the US National Central Bureau of Interpol. Ryerson was the senior Homeland Security guy with day-to-day coordination responsibility between Interpol and over 18 000 law enforcement agencies across the United States. If there was any interagency cooperation required, he was the man to make it happen.
