by Chris Allen
"He's my best man, my dear, which is exactly why I chose him to find Charlotte."
Madeline smiled, sipped from her wine glass and looked across with great affection at one of her oldest friends.
"Peter would be so grateful to you," she said, almost in a whisper. "He gave up so much for me, you know. His career and so on."
"He did it without a second thought, Madeline," Davenport replied truthfully. "You meant the world to him."
"I know, dear." She paused for a moment. "When Charly came along he was absolutely besotted; the two of them were like peas in a pod from the very beginning. Even though my work kept me away from home a lot, all those long hours and whatnot, I always knew Charly would be OK because she had Peter."
"And her music!" said Davenport. "Peter was so proud of her."
"She misses him terribly. We both do. I don't know what I would have done if anything had happened to her. She's all I have."
Davenport remained quiet.
"Nobby, I'm not allowed to say this but I'll say it anyway. We've got to catch that reprehensible bastard, Drago. I know we don't have any actual proof that he was behind Guy's murder or Charly's abduction but by God we both know that he was. When I think of all those poor souls who come before the tribunal as witnesses to the atrocities of the war, what they've been through ... well, he has to answer for what he's done, once and for all. It's not right that he's managed to elude us all this time. Enough is enough."
Chapter 47
Half an hour later, Morgan was with Charly in the upstairs sitting room. She was finishing a green tea while tinkering at an old drinks cabinet, as Morgan enjoyed a strong black coffee. He stood looking out across Puget Sound, enjoying the occasional flickers of light from boats trundling past. The mountains had all but disappeared, the dark cloak of evening pulled across them. Thankfully, winds at high altitude were shunting clouds across the sky like carriages in a railway yard, allowing the full brightness of the moon to flash through the gaps, offering brief but sensational glimpses of the mountain tops.
"Beautiful;' he said.
"Well, aren't you just the charmer," said Charly playfully, walking back over. "It is beautiful, though. My favorite view in the whole world is right there."
She sidled up beside him, contentedly. Morgan instantly felt charged by her closeness within the quiet privacy of the room. He looked into her eyes and smiled.
"I can see why," he said.
"Here you go, major;' she said with a wink, handing him a short, fat crystal glass with ice cubes clinking within a pool of Irish whisky and cream liqueur. "I developed a taste for this in Australia during a concert tour a couple of years ago. Thought you might appreciate a nightcap."
"Ah, Baileys. I know it well. You read my mind," replied Morgan.
He put down his coffee and took the glass from her. Their fingers touched. It was electrifying. Charly caught her breath.
"You know, contact like that." She looked up at him mischievously. "You better be careful. I could take you down, right now."
"Oh, is that right?" he said, responding to the challenge in her voice. "Should I be worried?"
"Well, I haven't been sitting around on my tush all this time, Morgan. I've been getting some serious self-defense lessons from the marshals. It's been great!"
"That's fantastic," he said, genuinely. "Great skills to know and it's good for you at the same time. How did that come about?"
"I was talking to the girl who runs all these guys about what she does; she's really kickass. Anyway, I asked her about her training, one thing led to another and, now the team knows that whoever's on shift, they take it in turns to run me through some moves. Ever since the kidnapping ... well, I just want to know how to get myself out of dangerous situations, you know? I've had quite a few sessions. I'm getting pretty good."
Charly fell silent for a moment, deep in thought as Keith Emerson's "Piano Concerto No. 1" played quietly in the background. They both took a drink. Morgan enjoyed the soothing warmth of the liqueur. It was an old favorite, familiar and comforting. For a moment he was a young lieutenant again, serving with the battalion in East Timor in '99. He recalled it vividly, sitting on an ammunition box back in Dili after a few long days on patrol, tin mug in hand, drinking warm Baileys one of the boys had managed to scrounge from some aid workers. Then Charly's soft voice gently broke the silence.
"After what happened to me," she began, "you know, I felt like I just had to do more to take care of myself."
"How are you really doing, Charly?" he asked.
She didn't answer immediately but took him by the hand and led him back to a long sofa at the back of the room that would, he was sure, command a magnificent view of the Sound during daylight. They sat together, close.
"Alex, I need to ask you something but I'm a little, actually I'm very uncomfortable about it. God! I don't know where to begin."
"Ask me anything." Morgan replied. "Take your time."
Charly brought a hand up to her heart and took a deep breath. Morgan couldn't take his eyes off her.
"It's about Raoul, the man I was with when we were kidnapped," Charly began, blushing unexpectedly. "I know you're not allowed to talk about these things. It's your work and all ..."
Her voice trailed off and she turned her eyes away from Morgan and looked out into the darkness.
"I'm afraid there's still no news, Charly," Morgan offered. For some reason, despite the fact that her boyfriend was still missing, he felt an adolescent twinge of jealousy. What the hell was he thinking? "It's clear you were separated once you hit dry land. You were taken north, of course. But, we've had absolutely no luck with regard to Raoul. Interpol has taken the lead on finding him now. Our only priority was to get you back and arrest the people responsible."
"Because of the impact on Mom?"
"Yes," he said frankly. "When an ICTY judge is threatened or somehow at risk, it's our responsibility to sort it out."
"But aren't you Interpol, too?"
"Charly, I really can't talk about that."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I understand. I just feel so guilty about Raoul and I guess I'm hoping I can get something done to find him."
"Why would you feel guilty?" Morgan asked, suddenly thinking of Arena Halls. Damn it! Was that a pang of guilt or regret over her? No. Arena had been the one to close things down, not Morgan. "Interpol is still giving it priority. There's nothing you can do."
"I know, but the further this whole shocking episode gets behind me, the less I think about him. I mean, we hardly knew each other at all. That was the whole purpose of the trip, I guess." She searched for an appropriate way to explain it all that hopefully wouldn't be completely humiliating in front of Morgan. "I mean, I'd been taking things slowly with him at first but, as much as he seemed keen to ... move things along—" she blushed at her own choice of words, "—he didn't really deliver. Oh God, that sounds really terrible. I mean, nothing ever happened—"
Morgan smiled politely. "You don't have to tell me this stuff, you know."
"Anyway, now that I'm home and I'm safe and then," she looked up at him in a way that betrayed her, "—am I a terrible person?"
"Charly, it's obvious you still have genuine concern for his safety. But I suppose, based on what you've said, the two of you were in the early stages of getting to know each other when this happened." At least I hope it had only gone that far. "The fact that you care enough to make sure people are still looking for him is testament to your character. There's no need for you to feel guilty and I don't think you're a terrible person, at all." He meant it. In fact, in Charly's company, he realized that his own memories of Arena were retreating. That didn't mean he didn't still care for her, in some way. It was just life. Whatever the circumstances, when you have to, you move on.
"Thank you," she said, much more at ease. "You have a disarming knack for making everything seem OK. I've not been able to talk about any of it since—" She stopped, collecting her thoughts again. "I mean, I
've been seeing a shrink here at the house. Mom insisted; Nobby, too, I'm sure. And she's been great. I'm beginning to feel much better. But I couldn't bring myself to just talk about it, other than how it made me feel. How would a complete stranger understand what I'd been through? But after sitting beside you at dinner, I felt like I could talk to you about all of it."
"Sometimes strangers are the best ones to talk to; especially professionals. You have no baggage or boundaries with them and they're skilled in guiding you through your thoughts." Morgan spoke from experience. "But, in lieu of a professional, I'm here. If you need to download, you can."
"I don't consider you a stranger at all."
A candle flickered and Charly's eyes sparkled, capturing every note of orange brilliance from the flame's delicate outburst. She sat less than a foot away from Morgan, resting her head on her arm, perched on the back of the sofa. She pushed a hand unaffectedly through her hair and a trail of red curls tumbled down over her shoulder, falling like scarlet silk upon her chest.
Morgan was getting seriously distracted. He was enjoying the Baileys but mostly he was enjoying watching and listening.
"When I was taken to that cave, I honestly thought I was going to die," she began. "Those men were such animals, Alex. I still can't believe the things they said to me, what they wanted to do to me, what was in store for me. Every moment I was expecting ... the worst."
Morgan's eyes asked the question.
"No," she answered. "They were happy to hit me but, apart from one of them putting his hands on me when I was tied up in the back of the car—" she shuddered, "—they didn't try to touch me that way; just lots of talk. Thank God it never came to anything more." She took a drink.
"They were locals, Charly. Paid to hold you for somebody else. Of course, you weren't to know that."
"And you said a while ago that they had taken me to get to Mom. Is that right?"
"We're almost certain of it. Your mum has really led the charge against the last few guys who've been eluding the tribunal. Since she's been president of the ICTY, three of the biggest targets have been arrested, leaving only Drago Obrenovic still at large. He's desperate to keep it that way and he'll stop at nothing to make sure of it."
"But what could they hope to gain by taking me?"
"When their first attempt on Madeline failed, a wall of security was literally dropped around her and the other judges overnight." He gestured outside, referencing the team of US marshals who were on protection duty out there 24/7. "Making it impossible for these guys to try another direct attempt on her, or the other judges for that matter. We believe that by taking you they would have hoped to somehow lure Madeline out from behind the perimeter. We're not sure exactly how they planned to do it - a ransom drop, or whatever - because, thankfully, we stopped it in time."
Charly nodded and gently brushed his leg in a comfortable, familiar display of gratitude.
"That doesn't mean they won't try again," he added. "That's why all this security has to stay in place until we at least have Obrenovic in custody."
"I was horrified at what happened to that one the others called boss," she said. "I mean, I turned away, I couldn't stand to watch. I was terrified. But I knew what happened." Morgan nodded. "It's strange, because when I realized that he was dead, I actually felt good. In a bizarre way, I felt that I'd been protected by that big ape who came in and - took me away."
Morgan was amazed at how well she was holding it together. He was about to tell her so when she stood up, walked to the drinks cabinet, grabbed a handful of ice and returned with the bottle of Baileys. She dropped ice into their glasses and gave them both a generous top up. Charly clinked her glass against his with a wink and sat back down, closer than before.
"There's something else I was going to ask you about," she said. "But, for some reason it escapes me. Shit! It was important, too."
"Well, leave it for a moment and it may come back to you."
"Yeah, good idea." She took a sip of her drink. "When you appeared in that plane - my God! I had no idea what was going on. But something told me that you were there for me. I just knew it."
"How did you know? I must have looked like a bloody madman."
She laughed. "Oh, you did, that's for damn sure. But when I was growing up, this house was filled with my dad's closest friends. We always had visitors from his days in the army. Men like Uncle Nobby." She paused. "Men like you. I always felt so safe. So cared for and protected. I can spot 'em. I guess I just forgot what they looked like. And then you came along."
Morgan shifted self-consciously. "It's what we're trained to do, Charly."
"No, Alex Morgan, it's more than that. It's who you are. That's what I saw in your eyes." Now she was getting self-conscious. She changed tack. "When you disappeared out that door, I was sure you'd been killed. But sure enough, there you were later that night, like it was all in a day's work."
He laughed. "Working for your Uncle Nobby, it pretty much is."
Charly shuffled over the last few inches between them and nestled herself comfortably against him. Her body felt so soft and fragile and the aroma of Lady Vengeance perfume that enveloped him was seductive.
"Do you mind?" she whispered from his chest. "I just want to be held."
Chapter 48
LOCATION: UNDISCLOSED
"So, where does this leave me now? Am I to throw myself at the mercy of the Interpol dogs or those fucks in The Hague? A noose is around my neck and the harder I try to tear it off, the tighter it gets!"
Dragoslav Obrenovic's hands were clawing at his own neck, dramatizing the words to their full effect. His eyes were alive with paranoia and betrayal, heightened somewhat by the daily intake of vodka. Cigar smoke sat like a heavy fog above the simmering stench of violence, alcohol and sex that saturated the room.
The Wolf hated coming here.
The man was in obvious decline. Drago's mood was blacker than the eyes in his own portrait. He'd had too much booze and the girls had stayed too long. But they were necessary distractions. Without them the Wolf knew that there would be pointless killing. In his current state of mind, Drago didn't know any other way. One of the girls was already in a bad way from the beating he'd given her. Five more minutes and he probably would have killed her.
"It won't come to that, sefa," replied the Wolf in his deep rumble. He'd already decided his next course of action. He got out of Albania just in time; any longer and he would have been caught up in the Interpol raid too. He could almost smell the surveillance that he knew must have been on them while they'd prepared to receive the hostage. A quick alteration to his clothes and a well-timed exit from the apartment building - alongside an unsuspecting woman who had no idea who he was meant that to all intents and purposes he was just an innocent resident leaving the building with his wife. He'd walked out as bold as brass. But, now he had to get back into the game if there was to be any chance of sorting out the mess. "I'll make sure of it."
"Like you made sure of that American slut?" The unexpected accusation was like a gunshot in a confined space. The echo was deafening. "And now they even have her fucking daughter back!"
Despite the vehemence in Drago's voice, to the Wolf, the dank, dark room had lost the trademark menace conjured by the total lack of natural light and the imposing ferocity of the portrait behind the desk, behind the man. Reality was very different to the legend. In many ways, the room had become a manifestation of the man himself. For years Drago reigned on the strength of his reputation, built upon his physical stature and unsurpassed record of brutality. Stories of the great general who had commanded an army, presided over massacres and tortured hundreds of Serbia's enemies breathed life into the myth like a spreading fire. He had become a beacon for the next generation of maladjusted young men looking to vent their rage against a society uninterested in the lack of opportunities it had provided them. Drago gave them their rage, nurtured their violence, made them kings, and all he expected in return was uncompromising, unquestio
ning devotion.
To his army of Zmajevi, Drago was general, legend, chief: sefa.
But over the past year, Drago had seen his closest associates - Mladic and Serifovic - all betrayed, arrested and now rotting in cells in The Hague. Behind it all: the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia and, at its helm, the tribunal's president and presiding judge, Madeline Clancy.
Since Clancy had been elected president of the ICTY by the permanent judges during an extraordinary plenary session in 2010, the pressure had not stopped and Drago's allies had fallen like dominoes. In the eyes of the Wolf, they were all nothing but tired old men, out of touch and too blind to see that the winds of change were now blowing a gale through their dwindling ranks. It was only a matter of time before those winds would be tearing away the past to make way for the future.
While Madeline Clancy had come to epitomize that which Drago feared most, she was the least of Drago's problems. When the old fool finally realized, it would be too late.
The Wolf was the future.
"Everything was going to plan with the American when I was on the ground running it. It was only when I handed over to your cousin, Simovic," the Wolf said calmly, referring to the big Serb, "that it all turned to shit. You feel you have to supervise me now with your fucking uncle's son? This is the result."
"You watch your fucking mouth," yelled Drago, gesticulating wildly across the desk. "Don't forget who the fuck you are talking to!"
Drago stormed around from his seat toward the Wolf. His eyes blazed with anger and recrimination. Drago Obrenovic was all that remained of the old guard and despite being forced to accept the unwelcome inevitability that the ICTY was closer than ever before to tapping him on the shoulder, he had an obligation to maintain the old ways and control dissidents in the ranks. The Wolf was getting far too big for his boots and the power play had gone on long enough. As far as Drago was concerned, the Wolf was still, and always would be, a subordinate.
