Hunter

by Chris Allen

  "So, Your Honor," Ryerson was saying, "as I see it, you were on your way home and stopped for coffee when these guys made their move. Is that right, ma'am?"

  "Yes, Mr Ryerson," Judge Clancy replied. "I had already collected my coffee and was walking back to the car. I know it sounds like a cliché, gentlemen, but it all happened very quickly:'

  "I understand, judge," said Ryerson. "I noted in your statement to the Seattle PD that you had your personal distress beacon on you at the time."

  "I have it attached to my keyring, just as I'd been advised by the police when I returned to Seattle from The Hague. If I'd pressed it any damn harder I think I would have broken my finger." There were smiles around the table.

  The fourth person to fall into Tappin's sights was someone he knew only by reputation. Sitting to the right of Vallincourt, he was also tall and solidly built. Late fifties, impeccably dressed, salt-and-pepper hair brushed straight back and beard precisely trimmed. Major General Reginald "Nobby" Davenport, chief of Intrepid. Davenport carried himself in a way Tappin could only put down to absolute, unequivocal self-assuredness. A former British SAS officer injured chasing Scuds across Iraq during Desert Storm. Rumor had it that he led the SAS assault on the Iranian Embassy at Princes Gate in London back in 1980. Nobby, he thought. Where the hell do the Brits come up with these nicknames?

  "Well, it's important that you were carrying it, Madeline," Davenport said, "and that your instincts told you to use it."

  Tappin noted Davenport's use of the judge's first name. It was familiar, almost intimate, indicating they knew each other well.

  "The activated beacon was picked up by Seattle dispatch," Ryerson added. "But it was pure coincidence that there was a squad car so close at the time. I think you know already, judge, that those officers responded to what they saw. If they hadn't been there at that moment ... well, I don't mean to belabor the issue."

  "I'm absolutely aware of how lucky I was to have those officers nearby, Mr Ryerson. And, of all things, one was the son of one of my oldest friends, no less. Still, what more could I have done?"

  "Don't get me wrong, ma'am," said Ryerson. "You did everything that you'd been advised to. And, that's my point. This attempt on you, coming in so close to the arrest of Serifovic and the threats against the tribunal and all, necessitates that we make drastic changes immediately to ensure your safety while you're back home on US soil."

  "What do you have in mind, Pat?" asked Vallincourt.

  While the general discussion between Vallincourt, Clancy, Davenport and Ryerson continued, Tappin turned his attention back to the last person at the table, the gunslinger. So far, he'd been introduced only as Major Morgan, nothing more. Morgan had arrived with Davenport, quietly taking a seat toward the end of the table, to the right of his chief and left of Tappin. An Intrepid agent? Had to be.

  Tappin had only heard conjecture about this new covert arm of Interpol; in fact most of the anecdotal intelligence getting around on the law enforcement grapevine was all rumor and speculation. Some kind of black ops outfit, apparently - the existence of Intrepid had never been officially, or unofficially, confirmed by Interpol and there was no evidence of it on any reports or documentation that he could find. As a professional courtesy ahead of this meeting, Vallincourt had given Tappin and Ryerson the most cursory overview of Davenport's role within Interpol, but nothing more. As Tappin's eyes came back around to survey Morgan, he realized that the Intrepid agent had been watching him the entire time. When Tappin saw he'd been caught out, Morgan simply gave him a knowing nod, as if to say, I know what you're doing. But there was more to it than that. The look also said, Don't worry. I've been doing exactly the same thing.

  "So, I'm very interested to know what the United States Marshals Service has in mind." The voice that broke in on Tappin's thoughts belonged to Davenport. "Mr Tappin?"

  "Ah, well, general:' he began slowly, catching up on the threads of the conversation he'd been monitoring. "With respect to everybody present, we normally do things our way, you know. We're not keen on a committee-style approach to making these kinds of arrangements. It makes things complicated and when we have too many chiefs - well, things get missed, big holes start appearing in the plan and things go pear-shaped real quick. My director asked that I put that on the table from the get-go."

  "I couldn't agree more, Mr Tappin," said Davenport diplomatically.

  "What do you have in mind, marshal?" asked Vallincourt bluntly, not wanting to get bogged in a jurisdictional pissing competition.

  "OK." Tappin shifted in his seat. "We'll be providing rotating teams of US marshals for round-the-clock protection of the judge." Turning to Madeline Clancy, he said, "That'll include whenever you're at your residence, ma'am, away from the residence, or when you're in transit to or from the residence, even if you're only going for coffee, until you're required back in The Hague. As far as I can gather, we're talking about a month or so. We currently have a team of technical specialists on standby in Sunset Hill, ready to install a new home security and duress system that will be patched directly through to our field office in Seattle. And as soon as you arrive on the ground at Sea-Tac Airport, the senior US marshal responsible for coordinating the protection details will be there with her team to meet you."

  "I'm really very grateful, Mr Tappin," said Madeline Clancy. "I'm just sorry to be such a bother to everybody."

  "This is what we do, Your Honor," replied Tappin. "The marshals will collect you and your luggage and will drive you home from the airport. It's about a forty-minute drive from Sea-Tac to your home, so you'll have ample time to get acquainted and to go over all the details."

  "I very much appreciate you all allowing us to be involved, particularly the US Marshals Service, Mr Tappin," Davenport said. "I have absolutely no intention of stepping on anyone's toes, and I offer my full support for the protection strategy you've just described. With that in mind, I would like to take a moment to clarify our involvement."

  Davenport received a number of nodded responses of agreement. "We will remain at arm's length, nothing more than observers. But we will be looking with great interest for any opportunities that Dragoslav Obrenovic or his confederates may present. It's clear that he is feeling uncomfortable as a result of the endeavors of our colleagues at Interpol and through the excellent work of the tribunal." He nodded respectfully to both Vallincourt and Clancy. "And should his discomfiture cause Drago to act in such a way as to present us with an opportunity, our involvement will immediately move from the sidelines to the playing field. My intention will be to insert Major Morgan here at the appropriate juncture to exploit those opportunities and apply pressure to best effect. Madeline, one final thought has occurred to me. Perhaps we could discuss your daughter?"

  Chapter 10

  SAINT SEURIN-FONDAUDEGE, BORDEAUX

  Guy de Villepin's home away from home, un second chez-soi, was a luxurious, very private apartment housed within what had once been a magnificent eighteenth-century mansion. He had owned the apartment for many years and when he'd finally grown tired of its aging decor, he'd decided to have it completely renovated. Gone were the dreary wallpapers and brocade curtains that had hung too many years beyond their useful life. The dark, dank carpets were also gone along with most of the old furniture. He had kept a few favorite pieces for nostalgia's sake. For the rest, there were just far too many memories, too much sentimental clutter to constantly remind him of the highs and lows, the joy and the pain of his solitary journey through these many years. Now, as he pottered about preparing an early meal for one lamenting the failure of the building superintendent to respond to his calls to attend to a broken electrical socket in the kitchen - he delighted in the quiet simplicity of the contemporary, minimalist design he had selected and the sense of calm and contentment he felt when he returned to it.

  De Villepin strode purposefully into his living room then - drawn by some recollection - went instead to his bedroom, rummaged through his travel bags and returne
d to the living room with a compact disc. It was a gift from a colleague: So proud of my little girl. Enjoy during our enforced sabbatical! Madeline x, an attached note read. He smiled and took a moment to examine the small square cover and the face of a beautiful young woman sitting at a grand piano. Her hair, the most vibrant copper-red, was tied back from her face in a very regal way, yet had been allowed to cascade in a firestorm of wild curls and waves, just visible behind the exquisite line of her bare shoulders. Her skin was almost pure white, her eyes - deep and soulful - sky blue above pouting lips, full and wide and even redder than her hair. The style was old Hollywood and she captured it perfectly. Pommettes charmantes, he thought.

  He placed the CD into the player and to the enchantment of the opening bars of Debussy's "Clair de lune", he wandered back to the kitchen to continue his meal preparation.

  *

  At the rear of de Villepin's apartment building, four stories down, was a small private courtyard. It was for the exclusive use of apartment owners. Of course, while the ornate, refurbished, eighteenth-century surrounding wall, guarded by clusters of maple and chestnut trees, would serve to deter the mostly well-to-do, law-abiding folk of the immediate environs, it presented anything but an obstacle to a man known in certain circles only as the Wolf.

  Enhancing his deception by using a dark corner, the shadowy figure had scaled the wall and, extracting a paperback from his coat pocket, immediately affected a casual reading pose upon a mold-stained stone bench that had sat beneath a Persian walnut tree for over a hundred years. He waited there a few moments until he heard a middle-aged couple, a man and woman, returning from their evening ritual - walking their pet Shih Tzu. He'd been watching the building for over a week and had noted the strict routine of this pair and their pampered pooch. He had timed his incursion precisely to coincide with their return. As he listened carefully to the keys rattling in the lock of the external gate that accessed the courtyard from the street behind the building, he made a small pantomime of finishing his reading and blowing his nose loudly into a handkerchief; to all intents and purposes, readying himself to return inside. Seconds later the couple and their dog were scurrying past, oblivious to his presence. The keys rattled again, this time in the doorway that led into the apartment building, and with a general flurry of polite monosyllables, charm and smiles, he bundled in behind them as if he too belonged, and made for the stairs while they chose the elevator. They of course thought nothing of it. After all, only those who lived in the building were allowed within the courtyard.

  Upstairs, blissfully unaware that an intruder had gained access to the building, Guy de Villepin was finally laying the table, preparing to serve his meal for one. From the CD, "Clair de lune" had concluded and Liebestraum No. 3 by Franz Liszt gently eased into the quiet, unassuming space of the apartment. He fussed over the setting of his table as was his custom, and selected a moderately aged red wine. Satisfied that everything was just as it should be, Guy returned to the kitchen to retrieve his meal.

  There came three harsh raps on the entrance door of the apartment.

  C'est curieux, he thought, momentarily startled. Normally, it would be a buzz from downstairs at the building's entrance foyer rather than a knock directly upon his door. Who on earth could it be? Then, with relief, he realized: Ah, le surintendant!

  "Un moment!" he cried as he bustled toward the door, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

  When he opened the door de Villepin was in mid-sentence, somewhere between commending and condemning the building superintendent for finally giving his attention to the faulty electrical switch.

  But it was not the superintendent and it took de Villepin only a second to realize his mistake. "No!" he exclaimed.

  The silenced automatic fired once and a single round penetrated de Villepin's chest directly through the heart, killing him instantly. The moment the dead man began to fall, the Wolf stepped across the threshold of the apartment and caught him easily behind the back of the neck, controlling the fall of the body and easing it to the floor without a sound. Without fuss, he quickly dragged the body clear of the entrance and closed the door. Leaving the body as it lay, he strolled unhurriedly into the kitchen, found the meal de Villepin had prepared and took it to the table.

  Chapter 11

  CARNEGIE HALL, NEW YORK

  The applause of the crowd erupted as Charlotte-Rose returned to the stage. Intermission was over, the second half was due to commence and the crowd of almost 3000 that filled Carnegie Hall's Isaac Stern Auditorium were in the palm of her hand. Across each of the five levels of the main hall, people were on their feet, clapping, stamping, whistling, crying out for more, hoping, praying that she might look their way. To leave with just a smile from her would mean everything and there wasn't a person in the hall who didn't feel the same way.

  To her legions of fans, the woman on stage was a goddess. Curvaceous and fair-skinned with a mane of fiery red curls that fell to her waist, she was every bit the superstar, renowned for an ethereal quality beyond the reach of mere mortals. Women's magazines the world over adored her and she enjoyed a level of celebrity normally reserved for the Hollywood - or reality television - elite. But she was neither of those things.

  Charlotte-Rose Fleming was one of the finest classical pianists of her time. Performing under the name Charlotte-Rose, she emerged as an overnight sensation - despite seven years on the international classical music circuit and three platinum-selling albums - when her guest appearance at the BBC Proms, including performances of Chopin's Ballade No. 1 in G minor and Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 3, catapulted her into the mainstream media. International stardom inevitably followed.

  Standing regally beside her piano upon the Ronald 0. Perelman Stage, with a smile that reached the back rows of the fifth-level balcony, Charlotte-Rose turned from her adoring fans and sat down to face the keyboard. Obediently the crowd fell silent and the lights of the main hall into total darkness. Everything remained so for almost thirty seconds and then, as an eerie expectancy embraced the room, a golden shimmer appeared to emanate from the stage like those very first tentative rays of the dawn. The soft lighting captured the spellbound audience and, as the gentle hue gathered and withdrew across the stage, only a single beam of light remained, focusing their attention perfectly upon their princess. With hands outstretched to either end of the keyboard, she began with one solid strike at the notes, launching straight into one of her personal favorites and a popular hit with the crowd, the Toccata in E flat minor by Armenian composer Aram Khachaturian.

  Her mastery of the instrument was indisputable, showcased via a repertoire only the finest players at the absolute pinnacle of their careers could ever attempt. But it was the showmanship, a combination of unbridled energy, passion, humor and seduction, that beguiled her audiences. The atmosphere and physicality of her performances were more akin to a rock concert than a classical music recital. During some of her most demanding pieces when her technical prowess was in full flight, she could captivate an already mesmerized crowd with a private smile or wickedly seductive laugh, just as she could bring them to their feet with her head thrown back, red hair whipping about her face and eyes to the ceiling in raptures of unadulterated classical ecstasy. Despite the fact that, to date, her repertoire had contained nothing but strictly classical pieces, her popularity with non-classical audiences had critics claiming her to be the most influential crossover artist ever.

  Leaving Khachaturian and giving her audience no chance to recover their composure, Charlotte-Rose moved effortlessly into Un Sospiro by Liszt. Meanwhile, behind her in the wings, her devoted assistant, Daniel, was being beckoned into the shadows by a tall, handsome, elegantly dressed man of about forty, holding an enormous bouquet of red roses. Dutifully, Daniel responded.

  "I take it these aren't for me," noted Daniel, coyly engaging the stranger.

  "I'm afraid not," the man said with a smile, his voice deep and smooth. "But I would be very grateful if you would ensu
re that she gets these the moment she leaves the stage at the end of her performance. She'll be expecting ... well, she is expecting something, from me."

  "So, you're the mystery man Charly's been keeping under wraps," said Daniel. "I can see why. Don't worry, Romeo, I'll see that she gets them."

  "The moment she leaves the stage," the man said firmly, although the charm made the order feel more like a request. "Especially the note. It's really very important."

  "Honey, I'll give them to her personally. And, who shall I say they're from?"

  "She'll know," he replied and vanished.

  A hopeless snoop, but justifying it as a result of being utterly protective of his girl, Daniel couldn't resist the temptation. There was something about this latest suitor that just didn't add up. For somebody chasing an international superstar he was far too circumspect. Laying the bouquet down on a packing crate, Daniel gently removed the card from the envelope pinned to the clear plastic wrapping. With a little guilt he looked back out to the stage and watched Charlotte-Rose for a while, then turned his attention to its message. In a somewhat messy hand, it read: Meet you at the helipad at midnight. Don't be late. Paradise awaits! Raoul x

  Chapter 12

  OFFICE OF THE SPECIAL REPRESENTATIVE OF INTERPOL TO THE UNITED NATIONS

  MANHATTAN, NEW YORK, USA

  Pat Ryerson, deputy director of Interpol Washington, led a slightly built, emaciated, nervous-looking man into a private room at the very back of the suite that comprised the Office of the Special Representative.

  The man was in his mid-forties. He had greasy, shoulder-length dark hair parted on the left and combed over lazily so that it sat in bedraggled curtains on either side of a narrow, rat-like face. The brown eyes were shifty, constantly moving and floating in deep gray craters upon a marginally less gray landscape. His patchy red and brown beard was really no more than a collection of haphazard tufts resulting from a weekly, sometimes only a fortnightly, shave. His teeth were yellowed and his breath sour from far too many cigarettes. His clothes - leather jacket, shirt, jeans and boots were black and grungy.