Hunter

by Chris Allen

  Everything ached like hell, although the shower had done a heap to ease his general malaise.

  Morgan walked back out into the room, found two miniature bottles of Glenfiddich, poured them into a glass, took a not-ungenerous swig and began to dress. He'd been told to await a call from London and, in the meantime, prepare for travel while Intrepid continued to track the seaplane. He'd been told that a Boeing E-3 Sentry from NATO's Airborne Early Warning and Control fleet had been diverted from maneuvers with the Italian Air Force. Intrepid would be waiting for confirmation on a definite direction or, better still, a target location from NATO before sending him to follow it. As he finished pulling on a T-shirt, his sat phone rang. He looked at the Tag. It was 9.30pm. Hell of a day.

  "Morgan," he answered.

  "Alex, it's Mila," Haddad began. "NATO has been tracking the Harbour Flight DHC-3 for three hours. I'm told it took a while to locate because it was flying so low."

  "Where's it headed?" Morgan asked bluntly. He needed to be pointed in the right direction, and fast. "It can't be going too far, the range on those things isn't up to much."

  "We've been through all that here," she answered testily. "Fully fueled, it has a range of 1500 kays. That's a considerable area when you plot the circle over a map of southern Europe."

  "OK, so where is it now?"

  "Albania," Haddad answered. "We've just confirmed that it came down near a place called Himare."

  Albania. Why the hell had they taken her to Albania? Hang on. He remembered something the general mentioned that the others were working on. Coming in from another angle, Davenport had said.

  "What about—?" Morgan began, but Mila Haddad was way ahead of him.

  "Yes, Mr Braunschweiger is on the ground in Tirana already. Without much to go on, we're banking on them taking her to a city apartment we've had under surveillance for some time. Anyway, he'll meet you at Tirana airport and brief you there."

  "Great. When do I leave?"

  There was a knock at Morgan's door.

  "That will be Superintendent Pizzuto," Mila answered confidently. "She'll take you to Malta International Airport where a private charter is waiting for you. Wheels up at 2200 hours. You better get a wriggle on.

  "Roger," he replied. "Wait, one more thing."

  "Go ahead."

  "The big Serb. The one who has her." Morgan's eyes were closed as he recalled an image. Something he'd seen that day. Something important. "He had a tattoo, I could only make out the tip of a wing and the end of a tail—a dragon, or something like that, high on his chest. Angry looking thing. Left side. Could you look into it?"

  "Done," she replied. "Now get moving."

  Chapter 40

  HIRAME, ALBANIA

  Under cover of darkness the 18-foot aluminum tender cut through the surf undetected, all the way to the distant, desolate southern end of the long beach. Keeping the 115 horsepower outboard motor down in the low revs, the handler skillfully brought the vessel out of the water and onto a sandbar with hardly a sound. He was used to it.

  The tender had rendezvoused with the de Havilland 500 yards off the coast. Far enough out for the seaplane's engine to be nothing more than a distant murmur out on the dark sea. Extra fuel for the plane was handed over and, while the pilot and Muscles got on with refueling, the big Serb and the boat handler transferred Charly awkwardly across to the boat. By the time they'd hit the beach, the DHC-3 was already lining up for takeoff. The pilot had accepted the seaplane as part payment for his role in the abduction. He'd fly it back to Italy, not too far, and after lying low for a while, would get on with refitting and rebranding it. Piece of cake.

  On the beach, the big Serb, Muscles and the boat handler wrangled Charly from the boat into a van that sat idling on a track that led back out onto the main coast road. Nobody said a word. The van was a legitimate hire: white with two back doors and no side windows; completely anonymous.

  Gagged, tied and wrapped in a dirty blanket, Charly was bundled into the back with the big Serb and Muscles. As soon as they were in, the doors were shut and the driver, one of the local hired help, got moving. He knew where he had to go. The handler returned to the boat and headed off into the darkness.

  The whole process took thirty minutes.

  Chapter 41

  TIRANA AIRPORT, ALBANIA

  Hermann Braunschweiger sat behind the wheel of the surveillance team van, engine running. Even getting in the driver's seat was a squeeze, but it was better than being stuck in the back. He'd been given special dispensation to park in a space normally reserved for Albanian State Police stationed at the airport, so he could make his pick up and get going without wasting valuable time.

  In the wing mirror he could see Morgan approaching along the vehicle concourse outside the arrivals hall. Morgan had been waved through the usual customs formalities and a police officer was escorting him all the way to the vehicle. While Braunschweiger hadn't worked with Morgan before, he knew that wouldn't be a problem: he'd been brought up to speed and everything he'd heard was reassuring. The rear door opened. Morgan slung in his gear, a suit carrier and a brown leather duffel bag, then followed it in.

  "Alex Morgan," came the introduction from the back. Morgan stuck a hand through and they shook.

  "Hermann Braunschweiger," he replied. "But just call me Key. Everybody does."

  "I heard that somewhere," Morgan replied truthfully. "Care to elaborate?"

  "It's a long story. Maybe I'll tell you after we've finished this." Braunschweiger reversed the van and swung it expertly back out in the airport traffic heading toward the city.

  "You're on," said Morgan. A natural connection recognizing mutual respect and trust between two professionals emerged. "I got your message. Is this the gear?"

  "Yes, you better suit up. I'll fill you in as we go. We don't have much time."

  Morgan dragged over a large dive bag with an Albanian police crest emblazoned across the top and unzipped it. Inside was a familiar assortment of tactical gear the Key had scrounged from the special operations police: overalls, boots, gloves, holsters and, of course, tools of the trade. The weapon was an AKM, 7.62mm with half-a-dozen curved thirty-round magazines. The pistol was a Makarov 9mm. He noted that the Key was already kitted up. Morgan couldn't believe the size of the guy. The nickname was no bloody surprise. They call him the key that opens any door, Davenport had said. Morgan could just imagine the big guy being the point man on hard entries with the GSG 9. He didn't imagine there'd be much left for anyone else on the team once they were inside. Morgan was glad they were on the same side.

  He stripped out of his civilian clothes and started pulling on the work gear.

  Braunschweiger began the update.

  "Driving out here, I got word that new arrivals were identified entering one of the apartments we're watching. It's located in an old section of the city built by the Communists back in the Fifties. Three men.

  Two big guys," he scoffed, "fitting the descriptions you provided, and a driver. They turned up in a white van, similar to this one, and parked it in the dark around the back of the apartment block. The two big guys hauled a large bundle out of the van and took it upstairs. The driver followed them with bags, then he came back, jumped in the van and took off alone."

  Morgan remained silent as he got ready, totally focused on every word Braunschweiger was saying. He wouldn't interrupt or seek clarification until the Key had finished; it was the way things were done.

  "One of our people managed to get a remote CCTV micro-camera positioned in the corridor next to the elevator. Tricky job, but it means they now have a clear view of the apartment door. As the two guys were getting the bundle out of the elevator, the camera picked up a couple of feet, small feet, poking out of the end of the blanket. It's not much but—"

  "It's enough," Morgan replied. "How long do we have before we get there?"

  "Twenty minutes," replied Braunschweiger.

  "Great." Morgan took a full magazine from the dive ba
g and locked it onto the AKM. "Do you have a plan?"

  "Do I have a plan?" Braunschweiger looked confidently back at him through the rear-view mirror and grinned.

  Chapter 42

  TIRANA, ALBANIA

  The naked concrete, glass and steel of the apartment complex reeked of Cold War austerity.

  The perfunctory checkerboard design and anonymous facades gave an impression that the people who lived here had moved in and been forgotten. Only the occasional flicker of a television screen through a faded, weather-worn curtain betrayed the fact that anybody lived here. Lived? Nobody lived here, thought Morgan as a cold wind howled between the buildings. The hundreds forced to inhabit cesspools like this had simply run out of options.

  "So, we're sure they're still up there?" Morgan asked through the black ski mask, his voice a deep whisper in the darkness.

  "Yes, sir," whispered the younger man. "Three men and the woman. Sleeping like babies."

  "I'm sure she's not," Morgan said. He checked his watch - its luminous hands read 2.30am. "Your men ready?"

  "Of course," the policeman replied. "We're always ready!"

  The Intrepid agent, smiling beneath the ski mask, knew the feeling. Every specialist group the world over considered themselves the best at their game and, most importantly, ready for anything, anytime, anywhere. Especially on their own turf. Morgan was glad to have them in his corner.

  "OK, then," he said. "Let's get to it."

  Morgan turned from the policeman and crept over to Braunschweiger, who was surveying a construction waste chute on the side of the target apartment building across the street. The building, identical to the one they were in, dated from the time when high-density towers emerged all over those European cities flattened by war or carved up by the Allies when the spoils were being dished out. It was an archetype of the post-war period. Concrete decay, rust and age had all but beaten it to crumbling rubble.

  On Braunschweiger's orders, and in total silence, the waste chute had been lowered into place by police officers before Morgan and the Key had arrived on the scene. It was a long gray tube made of heavy-duty canvas and it hugged the wall from the roof down to the sixth floor where it then curved toward a large rubbish skip at the side of the building. The chute was located away from the street, but still visible from the stairwell where Morgan, Braunschweiger and the police commander crouched. Most importantly, it was conveniently nestled against the balcony of the target apartment.

  "Happy with your little construction over there?" Morgan asked.

  "Yes,' Braunschweiger replied, eyes still fixed on the chute. "It's perfect."

  "Done this before?"

  "No, but every idea needs a chance to blossom from theory into reality,' Braunschweiger answered grandly. Not that Morgan could see it, but there was a broad grin beneath the Key's ski mask.

  "Well," Morgan said, "I'm willing to give anything a try."

  "After you." Braunschweiger gestured to the door.

  Morgan and Braunschweiger pulled black combat assault helmets down over their ski masks and made final adjustments to weapons and gear. They'd opted not to carry the AKMs, but to stick with the Makarovs. The police officers would carry the AKMs, just in case heavy fire power was required.

  Moving from the shadows, the two Intrepid agents sprinted to the corner of the target building, then split. They raced noiselessly through the silent corridors and stairwells of the sleeping, crumbling building. The plan was simple: they would enter from two points, Morgan through the ceiling and Braunschweiger, no surprise, via the front door.

  Up in a filthy apartment on the twelfth and top floor, their unsuspecting targets slept.

  Moving as quickly as his frame allowed, Braun-schweiger arrived at the twelfth-floor landing. Two Albanian special operations police officers were waiting. They would go in with him. By silhouette alone, the police could see that Braunschweiger was well over 6 feet four and easily 260 pounds.

  "Do you have the ram?" Braunschweiger whispered. "Here," answered one of the officers.

  "Do you mind?"

  Both police knew it made sense, and handed it over. Braunschweiger grabbed the two-person, 40-pound battering ram like it was a set of car keys.

  "Danker' he said.

  Up on the rooftop, Morgan was making his way to the entry point, ankle deep in leaves. It was freezing and clouds of warm breath spun in the moonlight about his masked face. A police officer sat poised over a rooftop access hatch, rocking slowly back and forth on his haunches. When Morgan arrived, the policeman soundlessly removed the cover, laid it to one side then guided Morgan down into the black void of the roof.

  "Good luck," he said.

  Morgan patted the officer's shoulder, said, "Thanks, mate," and dropped into the darkness.

  The policeman closed the hatch, ran to the roof's edge and located the top section of the construction waste chute. Quietly he released a slipknot in the rope that fastened the top of the chute to an ancient heating system on the roof and began to slowly lower the circular opening down until it was perfectly aligned with the top of the balcony railing of the target apartment. Satisfied, he refastened the rope. Ready.

  A mile away, two unmarked black vans rolled out of a side street.

  Morgan climbed down inside the roof cavity of the old building, the toes of his boots searching for the safety of a rafter or crossbeam. For a second he was transported back to Corfu, getting set to arrest S erifo-vic. He hoped that this roof didn't betray him like the one in Serifovic's villa had. The last thing he needed was another ceiling full of bullets. Of course, this time he had the Key for backup. He found a secure foothold and slowly lowered himself further down.

  A pinprick of light caught his eye to the left. Another policeman 20 feet away was signaling through the maze of beams, trusses and other entanglements. The officer was crouched directly above what Morgaa knew would be an internal ceiling access panel, providing direct entry into the target apartment. Yep, definitely deja vu.

  Morgan edged his way carefully along two parallel beams, working hard not to generate any unnecessary creaking from the decades-old wooden struts. He was conscious of his own breathing, heavy and rhythmic, as though a large animal was following directly behind, exhaling over his shoulder. He reached the policeman at the access panel, who shone a torch onto his watch - 2.48am. He held up two fingers. Morgan nodded. Two minutes.

  At the front door of the apartment, less than 30 feet from Morgan, Braunschweiger was riveted to his own watch.

  "Stand by," he whispered to the others.

  The two unmarked vans drew to a stop down the street but close to the building. One remained where it was while the other eased silently forward, looping around in a wide arc until its rear doors faced toward the front of the building. Soundlessly, the doors opened. A police officer emerged from the shadows of the building and slowly began to twist and maneuver the bottom of the refuse chute away from the rubbish skip so that it would discharge its contents straight into the back of the van.

  A dozen sets of eyes watched the sweep hands of a dozen watches as they ticked toward 2.50am.

  In the ceiling, Morgan was braced and ready, with hands and feet locked against beams on three sides of the opening. He was sucking in short, sharp breaths.

  At the apartment door, Braunschweiger sat motionless, coiled like a gigantic spring. His gray eyes did not flinch from the luminous face of his watch. He knew that Morgan would be waiting for the crash of the door being bashed in as his signal to move.

  Three seconds. Two.

  One.

  The Key filled his cavernous chest with oxygen, pumping the blood he would need to power one almighty thrust at the door. His right arm drew the battering ram back like a locomotive piston rod and, channelling it forward with his left, drove the ram with a kinetic impact of 40 000 pounds straight for the condemned latches of the door.

  A colossal boom rocked the apartment building. The sounds of splintered wood being torn from the clutch
es of its metal stanchions screamed into the silence. The door was off.

  At that instant, the policeman with Morgan tore the access panel off, throwing it clear. Morgan dropped in from the ceiling, followed immediately by the policeman, just as Braunschweiger burst in from the front door. They met in the sitting room only to discover Muscles erupting from the sofa where he'd been sleeping. But he was confused, shocked beyond surprise, eyes wide at the two menacing figures that had suddenly appeared from nowhere.

  "This one's mine," Braunschweiger said matter-of-factly. "You find the girl."

  Morgan disappeared toward the bedrooms.

  Muscles recovered his senses enough to foolishly have a crack at the Key. Braunschweiger responded good-humoredly, giving Muscles two free swings. The Key effortlessly dodged the clumsy attempts - left and right - before landing one perfectly placed flat-palmed strike, dropping the man easily with a blow to the solar plexus. Muscles crumpled to his knees, gasping for air. In seconds, Braunschweiger had him face down, tightening plasti-cuffs around his wrists and stretching a length of duct tape securely around his mouth and ears before then applying a second set of cuffs around the ankles.

  Morgan ran straight into the big Serb. Silhouetted by the light he'd flicked on as he ran from his room, he was unmistakable.

  Bleary-eyed, the big Serb saw Morgan's menacing silhouette within the dimly lit confines of the narrow corridor.

  "What the fuck?" he yelled.

  Like a lethally programmed automaton, Alex Morgan erupted into action without hesitation, emotion or restraint. Instinctively his eyes found the gun in the big Serb's right hand, held uselessly high, just like in the movies, and profiled perfectly by the light behind.