by Chris Allen
"Lazarevic. Durad Lazarevic," he answered weakly, his voice faltering as the words tumbled unconvincingly from his lips.
"Your real name," Morgan responded.
There was a long silence. All that could be heard was the breathing of the three men in the room. The Intrepid agents waited.
"Name?" Morgan asked again, still deadpan.
The man began to fidget, nervously gnawing on ragged fingernails and looking around the cell. His head swiveled back and forth between Morgan and Braunschweiger, with the stilted, artificial movements of a child's wind-up robot, knowing all along that he'd been found out. His arrest, caught red-handed with the girl, their hostage, had taken him and his accomplices way beyond any pitiful protection assumed identities could provide. He was exhausted from the constant stress of living under the fear of surveillance and capture. He scratched his head, shuffling on the seat of the metal chair. One leg was locked in an involuntary spasm.
Looking at him, Morgan knew that his nerves were shot.
"You've got thirty seconds," Morgan said.
Beside him, the Key slowly, deliberately lifted his left arm - bigger than any normal person's leg - and made a show of observing the sweep hand of his watch.
"Twenty-five,' he said.
The subject couldn't take his eyes off Braunschwei-ger. The guy was a monster; sounded German.
"Fifteen," counted the Austrian.
The strength of his resolve to maintain a strong silence was now inexplicably locked in a death struggle with the incessant tick tick tick of the sweep hand as it crept ominously toward its deadline.
"Ten."
He was shaking uncontrollably now, chewing his nails furiously, unable to stop himself from bursting forth with whatever they wanted to hear.
"Five," announced the Key.
Sweat formed an oily slick across his forehead and thick droplets oozed from dark pores, down his face and through the scattered tussock of his beard. His wretched body wriggled and squirmed upon the chair like a schoolboy desperate to be excused but too petrified of the teacher to ask.
"Four. Three."
The fingernails were down to their quicks. The man was about to lose it.
"Two," Braunschweiger declared with finality.
As the sweep hand crashed home and the Key announced "One," the man arched back then fell forward in the chair, both hands grasping either side of his head, the chain ratcheting through the D-ring in the floor.
"Dobrashin Petrovicr he screamed at the top of his voice. "Fuck! Fuck!"
It was the first time he had admitted to that name in a very long time. The release he experienced was both terrifying and cathartic.
"Thank you," said Morgan without emotion or any other reaction to the man's obvious torment and conflict at confirming his identity. Morgan wrote it down.
"Date and place of birth?" he said.
"Come on, you obviously already know,' Petrovic pleaded. "Why must we do this? Give me a cigarette, then I'll tell you what you want to know."
"There's no smoking in here," repeated Morgan dryly. "Date and place of birth?"
Petrovic was now looking up at the Key for support, incredulity scratched all over his face, but getting none. He went to stand.
"You ankles and wrists are shackled and the chain is tethered to the floor beneath your chair," said Morgan. "Remain seated. Date and place of birth?"
Petrovic dropped back down and slammed his hands hard upon the metal table. The impact crashed around the room like a dozen empty garbage cans being hit by a car. The chain rattled madly. Morgan and Braunschweiger were unmoved. They sat impassively, waiting for the frustration to abate. When the echo retreated and the room fell once again into ominous silence, Morgan simply looked at Petrovic.
"Thirtieth of April, 1968," Petrovic answered. "Zeleznik, Belgrade, Serbia."
"Father?"
His elbows sat awkwardly on his knees and his face was buried in his hands. His breathing was heavy and labored. The nervous fidgeting, head scratching and nail biting were obviously set to continue until the interview process was concluded. Morgan and Braun-schweiger didn't care. They needed information and would stay put until they had it. No matter how long it took.
"My father;' he began hesitantly. "My father is Branko Petrovic, born Dobanovci, Belgrade, on the twelfth of January 1945."
"Mother?"
There was a long pause.
"Mother?" Morgan repeated.
"My mother was born Ljiljana Komljenovic. She was born in Pane'evo, Belgrade on the first of May, 1946. Both deceased. Killed during the war in '93. And my brother—" He stopped suddenly. He'd gone too far.
This was new, thought Morgan. Simovic hadn't mentioned anything about Petrovic having a brother. "Name?"
"You have what you want. That's all I'm saying. Fuck you!" He slammed his hands down upon the table again.
"Brother's details? Don't make me ask again."
Dobrashin Petrovic fell deathly silent.
Morgan and Braunschweiger watched him intently. Intrepid already knew the details he'd provided about himself and his parents. Mila Haddad had provided that information the moment the dubious bone fides of the informant Lazarevic, now confirmed as Do-brashin Petrovic, had been substantiated.
So far, the interview had been purely the beginning of what was going to be a protracted information-gathering exercise. By asking questions they already knew the answers to they would get him talking, compliant, and confirm whether or not he was going to bullshit them. Their objective was to establish links between Petrovic and Drago. Morgan also had to explore the possibility of a connection between Petrovic and a former Serbian enforcer, apparently known only as the Wolf, who everyone back in London was suddenly very interested in.
Morgan had not been across this Wolf development, but Braunschweiger had brought him up to speed after they'd wrapped up the arrests in Tirana. The latest word from Intrepid headquarters was that the Wolf was believed to still be operating and, as a result, had now emerged as the prime suspect in the assassination of Judge de Villepin.
That made Petrovic's clumsy, unintentional reference to a brother a revelation.
There'd been nothing about a brother in any of the available intelligence summaries, nor any reference made throughout their lengthy interview with the big Serb, Simovic, back in The Hague.
Simovic's deposition had centered only on specific information he knew about Drago, which was all helpful in adding to the outstanding charges against Drago in the ICTY. The downside was that Simovic had absolutely no knowledge as to Drago's current whereabouts. That was the most closely guarded secret of the Zmajevi and only the very inner sanctum, Drago's most trusted few, were in that loop.
Inevitably, Simovic would be required to testify against Drago, which he seemed resolved to do in order to save his own skin. But it dawned on Morgan that Simovic hadn't given up anything at all relating to PetroviC, a brother, or the Wolf. Had he deliberately been avoiding discussion of the Petrovic brothers? If so, why? Was he more fearful of them than of Drago? It occurred to Morgan that at the time of the arrests in Tirana, his gut had told him that Dobrashin Petrovic appeared to be in the management role, albeit frontline, while the big Serb - Simovic - and his offsider Muscles had been doing the heavy lifting stuff.
But right now, Dobrashin Petrovic himself had overstepped his own boundaries and was struggling with the prospect of giving up his brother's name. Finally, they were onto something. The agents remained silent, Morgan seated with his notepad and pencil ready to scribble down the information, and the Key standing like a fortress behind his colleague.
After nearly two minutes of silence, Petrovic let out a long sigh through shaking hands, his tired face full of betrayal and shame. He raised his eyes to the flickering fluorescent tube and said, "I have a brother, actually a cousin, but we were raised as brothers."
"Explain please?" asked Morgan.
"He is the son of my father's brother. He was orphaned as a ba
by when his parents were killed in a car accident." He stopped for a moment, recovering the memories and details. "My parents were without children. They adopted him and raised him as their own. Two years later, I was born. Like I said, we were raised as brothers."
"Name and date of birth?" Morgan pressed on. "Vukasin Petrovic," he said. "February 27, 1966." "Where?" asked Morgan.
"What?" said Petrovic absently.
"Where was he born, exactly?"
"Same as my father. Dobanovci, Belgrade, Serbia." "Is he still alive?"
Dobrashin Petrovic's face was back in his hands. A deep, primal groan came from within and manifested itself as a series of short sobs that he struggled to, but eventually did, bring under control.
Morgan asked again: "Is Vukasin Petrovic still alive?" After a sharp intake of cold air, Petrovic answered. "Yes."
Chapter 52
EL DJEM, TUNISIA
Under a cloudless, pale blue sky, police officer Youssef Ali Hassan raced through the streets of El Djem, heading north-west. With the red lights flashing and the siren wailing, Youssef pushed the dusty black and white Renault fast through the back streets and alleyways toward Tlesla, Ksour Essaf and onward to the coast. A stream of whitewashed walls, crumbling abandoned homes and lonely sidewalks flashed past, eventually making way for the beginning of endless miles of brown dirt and empty fields, punctuated by pockets of acacia, date palms and desert grass.
Youssef's brow was set with purpose, duty and more than a hint of excitement, on this, his very first important assignment. He was carrying a kidnapped foreigner to the hospital in Mandia for examination and had been ordered by his officer-in-charge to wait with the man until the Securite Publique district director, Colonel Hamba, arrived to collect him. Youssef knew the route to the coast well - he had family in Rejiche - and estimated the trip would take an hour. He thought about how proud his father and mother would be when he would visit them later on his way back to El Djem. Finally, he had a great responsibility.
As the aging Renault finally cleared the city limits, the deep, croaky voice from the back seat interrupted Youssef's dreams of accolade and prestige.
"Officer, could we do without the sirens now?"
"Oh, yes, of course, sir,' Youssef replied, reluctantly flipping the switch that quelled the siren; but he kept the lights flashing overhead.
"Is there any air conditioning? It's very hot back here."
"I'm sorry, sir," said Youssef, slightly embarrassed. "The air conditioner does not work in this car. Are you able to reach the window handle? Otherwise, I could stop and do it for you."
"That's very kind. I can manage."
"How are you feeling now, sir?" asked the young policeman, eager to make a positive, professional impression on the man.
"Fine," the foreigner replied, suddenly dismissive. "Thank you."
Raoul Demaci shifted uncomfortably upon the hot black upholstery of the police car's back seat, grabbed the old window handle on the door he was leaning against and began to crank the window open. It came down in a series of jerky movements, steaming-hot air forcing its way into the car. Eventually, it was as open as it was going to get. It made little difference to the temperature, but did serve to provide sufficient background noise to make conversation impossible.
Demaci preferred it that way. He had too much on his mind to get caught up in mindless chatter with a street cop.
Looking out to the north, the endlessness of the arid Saharan landscape came as a somber reminder of his relevance and place in the world. Camels, palm trees, sand and mosques. Little had changed out here in a thousand years. The world continued to turn as generations came and went. How petty and insignificant were the individual ambitions of men. The insatiable desire to conquer, dominate and exploit, so much a part of the primal genetic coding, drove some men, himself included, to do anything in order to succeed; no matter the cost. Was it worth it?
Mentally leaping the tracks to escape that particular express to nowhere good, Demaci turned his mind instead to what was next in store for him. No doubt there would have been plenty of effort expended in searching for him. Where had he been all this time? Who had he been with? What had he been through? Why had he suddenly been released? He expected the full raft of questions by the authorities when he was eventually handed to the senior echelons; especially when they realized who he'd been with at the time of the abduction. Whatever their interest was, once he'd navigated his way through the treacle of their procedures and back-slapping, there was only one person he was focused on being reunited with.
At the thought of it, a churlish grin tugged at his left cheek.
So, the policeman, Youssef Ali Hassan, and the recently returned abductee, Raoul Demaci, were silent and would remain that way until they arrived in Mah-dia, and while fate had brought these two men together, each performing a pivotal role in the life of the other, their pasts and futures could not have been more different.
Chapter 53
TIRANA, ALBANIA
Alex Morgan stood in Skanderbeg Square in the dead center of Tirana, taking a moment to admire the country's monument to fifteenth-century lord and Albanian national hero George Kastrioti Skanderbeg. Or plain old Skando to his mates, Morgan thought with a wry smile.
From where he stood, Morgan could see a variety of the city's landmarks: Tirana City Hall, the Palace of Culture and the National Historical Museum, plus a few embassies and hotels. There were people everywhere, locals and tourists moving across the square, stopping to chat, sitting on the grass or generally taking in the surrounds. It was cloudy and, despite the lateness of the afternoon, still warm, verging on hot. Morgan was glad he'd dressed practically: the polo shirt and light chinos were perfect; any more and the humidity would have him sweltering.
Morgan felt the buzz of his sat phone in his pocket. "Morgan," he answered.
"Alex? It's Charly."
"Hey, how are you? Everything OK?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," she mumbled sleepily. There was a pause. "It's nice to hear your voice. I hope it's OK that I rang?"
"Of course it is?" He meant it. His eyes continued to survey his surrounds. It was good to hear her voice too. "Jesus, what time is it over there? Must be early."
"I think it's about 5am," Charly replied. "I can't sleep. Mom's always up early, I can hear her downstairs. I hope she's putting coffee on. What time is it where you are?"
"A little after 2pm," he said, trying not to imagine her lying in bed. "Still doing your self-defense sessions with the marshals?"
"Yeah, of course. I'm totally dangerous."
He heard her laugh and pictured her smiling.
"Hey, Alex, seriously, I have to ask you something." "Go ahead."
"Do you remember the night you were here, I said there was something I wanted to talk to you about, but I completely forgot what it was?"
"Sure, I remember. Don't tell me it's just occurred to you now?'
"Yeah, random, right? Anyway, it's about that security guy. The one you arrested."
"Which security guy, Charly? I'm not sure what you mean." Morgan pressed his ear harder against the sat phone. His internal alarm bells were on the verge of going off, he just knew it.
"That muscle guy, the bald one with that awful goatee. You arrested him with those other two animals when you came and got me," she said, suddenly nervous that she hadn't mentioned this earlier. "Oh God, Alex. I thought you knew. I was just so relieved to be safe again and they were all in custody. I thought you knew?' She was distressed.
"Charly, I need you to calm down, OK?" Morgan wasn't sure what he was about to hear but somehow he felt like he already knew. "Tell me exactly what you mean.
"OK, OK, I'm sorry." She was collecting herself, he could hear it. "The guy with all the muscles; he was in on the kidnapping, somehow. On the boat, I mean. I don't know how. I think he was posing as Raoul's bodyguard. They seemed to know each other, anyway. One of them was running around telling us all to get below but this guy was somewhere els
e. I thought he'd been shot, but then he turned up on the pier. He's the bastard who knocked me out when they were getting me into that seaplane."
"And he was posing as Raoul's bodyguard?" Morgan's blood went cold. His mind returned to his examination of the Florence. He'd checked the area where the second security guard, apparently Muscles, had gone down but there'd been no blood. Then, there was the round of blank ammunition he'd found on the deck. It was exactly the spot where Charly saw Raoul firing back at the pirates; firing back with blanks?
"Yes," she whispered, terrified that she'd done something very wrong by forgetting this important detail.
"OK, Charly, this is important. I'm going to arrange for one of the US marshals to come in and take a statement from you. They will guide you through everything you can possibly remember about that guy and you need to tell them."
"Yes, of course. I'm so sorry, Alex. I feel like an idiot."
"There's nothing to be sorry about," he reassured her. "You've been through a hell of a lot. It takes time for the mind to catch up on certain details that are buried after a traumatic event. We'll sort this out."
"Thank you," she said. "Thanks for being so understanding."
"Hey, nothing to thank me for. Now, do me a favor and give the marshals every single thing you can remember. No matter how petty it may seem."
After some more reassurances, they said goodbye. Morgan didn't have time to devote to that issue right now, but he knew that it was significant and needed to be followed up immediately.
He dialed a number on his sat phone.
"jawohi?"
"Key, it's Alex. I need you to follow up on something. It's urgent."
"Go ahead."
Two minutes later, Morgan had completed his call to the Key. He'd given every detail Charly had provided and would now step back and leave it with him. There was nothing more he could do from here. He had to focus on the task at hand.
"One more thing, Alex," said the Key.
"Yes, mate?"
"Petrovic, the brother," he began. "My Serbian is a little rusty so I looked it up."
