by Chris Allen
"Yeah." Morgan wondered where the big guy was going with this. "You looked up what, exactly?"
"Vukasin Petrovic," answered the Key. "The name Vukasin is Serbian for wolf."
There was a long silence as Morgan considered the possible breakthrough. Could it be that obvious?
"Morgan, listen, you leave this to me. That was just meant to be FYI. I'll get Mila to check it out. I'll brief you when you get back."
"OK, Key," he said. "You may be onto something. Great work, mate. Talk soon."
Finally, a glimmer.
Checking the time, Morgan moved away from the monument and chose a position diagonally opposite the spot where the meet was scheduled to take place. He made sure he had a clear visual of the area and the approaches to it, adjusted his Ray-Ban Wayfarers, pulled a well-worn black baseball cap down, found a bench and waited. To anybody walking by he looked just like any other man, probably a foreigner on a break, enjoying the late afternoon warm weather.
Morgan was following the threads that led from Dobrashin Petrovic - formerly known as Durad Lazarevic aka Interpol's star informant - straight back into the bowels of the Serbian mafia machinery. Or so he hoped.
When Intrepid uncovered that Petrovic was his actual identity and that he'd been a soldier in the Bosnian Serb Army serving under Drago during the war, a spotlight immediately fell upon the information he'd provided to the Interpol case officer in Tirana regarding Milivoj Serifovic, not to mention his motives. The fact that his deposition led to the arrest and delivery of Serifovic to the ICTY certainly added weight to his legitimacy and supported his claim that it was the increased reward that had brought him out of hiding. Adopting the false identity of Durad Lazarevic, he claimed, was to protect himself from retribution. But none of that was holding water any more. His active participation in the kidnapping of Charlotte-Rose Fleming had changed everything. At that point, Do-brashin Petrovies raison d'etre had become very gray. It was Morgan's job to make it black and white.
What was clear was that he was a double agent, on the payroll of the Serbian mafia. The challenge now was to determine just how involved he was and with whom.
The paucity of information regarding how Petrovic had actually made himself known to Interpol Tirana in the first place had alarm bells clanging back in London, and now the attention was directed to Petrovic's Interpol case officer, Lorenc Gjoka.
Davenport had done everything but kick over furniture in his office after discovering there'd been almost no due diligence conducted by Interpol before Intrepid was given the green light to arrest Serifovic. The possibility that the arrest had been part of someone else's grand plan, potentially even a factional power play within the Serbian mafia, had almost sent the general into a fit. Morgan recalled his last, very clear mission brief from his chief. It was the only time Morgan had ever heard the old man utter an expletive.
"Whoever his case officer was, I want a microscope over every aspect of his miserable life, from the day he was born until right fucking now. If there's any possible chance that he's linked to the Wolf or the Zmajevi, or whoever these bloody animals are, then stay with him and don't come back until you have him and Dragoslav Obrenovic in chains."
Satisfied that there appeared to be no unexpected supernumeraries buzzing around, Morgan moved around to the north-eastern corner of the park and took up the agreed position on the low white wall, with his back to the monument, facing the Ethem Bey mosque, the government buildings and the clock tower on the other side of the street. As planned, he put his day sack down upon the wall to his left, indicating to his contact that the coast was clear. If he'd placed the day sack to his right, it would indicate that they'd been compromised and the meet would be aborted.
Bang on schedule, his contact arrived. Moving in from the south, she stopped just short of Morgan, feigning the delight of an aunt catching her first glimpse of a much-favored nephew after an extended separation.
"My dear boy," she said. Both hands came up to her face and a broad smile shone through the shutters. "It's so nice to see you."
Morgan immediately stood, leant forward and gave his faux aunt a warm hug and peck on the cheek.
"How are you, Aunty?" he said. "Mum says hi."
The approach had been agreed well in advance of the meet. It was simple and appropriate given their respective ages. Above all, it was totally normal.
After exchanging obvious pleasantries and Aunty taking a let-me-look-at-you moment, they sat down on the wall and fell into comfortable, familiar conversation. A few minutes in and they changed tack.
"Therese St Marie," she said. "Pleased to meet you."
"Alex Morgan," he replied.
Therese was in her early fifties; her accent made her Belgian, he thought. Her long hair, which she wore tied back into a ponytail, was naturally auburn and she liked to keep it that way. Her dress was casual, loose fitting to the ground. Underneath it she wore ankle boots. She had dark brown eyes, a fair complexion and a warm, genuine smile.
It was not common practice for the paths of agents and surveillance crews to cross out in the open, far from it. But time was against them today and things had to get done. Besides, the moment this meeting was over, Therese St Marie was booked on the next flight out of Albania.
Therese was one of Intrepid's most experienced covert surveillance operatives. A couple of weeks ago she'd been leading the crew supporting Hermann Braunschweiger's operation across the other side of the city. Their work had been critical to the success of the operation that resulted in Charly's rescue. This time, Therese and her team had been covering the movements of the Interpol case officer who first brought Dobrashin Petrovic in from the cold.
"So, what do you have for me?" asked Morgan.
"Our man is Mr Lorenc Gjoka." She pronounced it perfectly - Morgan knew he'd struggle with it. "He's an ethnic Albanian, in his mid-fifties and married with a couple of young adult children. A small man, a little under 5-and-a-half feet tall in the old currency. Fair-skinned and bald on top but consistent with the vanity of many older, conservative men, he insists on preserving a ridiculously fat ribbon of gray hair around the sides and back of his head - all that he has left. At least he's resisted the comb over." They both laughed as she continued: "He walks very quickly, always forward and up on his toes; trying to get himself more height, you know. His hands are small like a child's and he constantly rubs them together. Other than that, there are no particularly remarkable physical attributes. Due to his size he is very easy to lose track of in a crowd, which he uses to his advantage. Unprofessional of me to say but he's a slippery little weasel. So, you must be on your toes, too."
"Got it," Morgan said. He liked her style. "When can I expect to see him?"
"He's due out of his office soon. The Interpol Tirana office is five minutes' walk from here, but don't worry. He leaves at precisely 4.45pm every Friday afternoon. He has an apartment with his wife here in the city and normally he dutifully goes home to her every night after work; but not on Fridays. Today he'll walk across this square at approximately 4.50pm and get into his car, that old white Mercedes back there." She gave an almost imperceptible nod behind her. "You parked where I told you?"
Morgan nodded. It was also close by.
"Good. He moves the Mercedes there during the lunch hour to avoid the peak-hour traffic crush near his office. As soon as he gets into that car he heads straight out of town to a chateau. He has a mistress, a local woman. All we know is that the chateau is hers, and it's just outside a small town called Petrele, fifteen kilometers due south of the city along the E852 route."
"OK, great," he said. "Got any pics of this guy?"
"I'll send some to your phone," she replied. "Other than that, it's up to you. Once I leave here, the team will begin a staggered withdrawal from this task. We're all leaving Albania tonight, so you'll be on your own. You'll receive a call shortly from Amir, a member of my team. Amir will hand over to you by phone when the target is here in the square and when you con
firm with Amir that you have eyes-on. Clear?" Morgan nodded.
"OK, give your aunty a hug then,' she said. They both stood and embraced as warmly as they had in greeting. "Good luck," she said finally, turned and, in seconds, disappeared into the mob.
For the next couple of hours, Morgan played tourist, acquainting himself with the local area and stopping for coffee at a little cafe off the square. Eventually, as time ticked by toward H-hour, he received the call from Amir, spotted the target and the handover from the surveillance crew was complete.
As he kept his eyes locked upon Lorenc Gjoka, scuttling across Skanderbeg Square toward his dilapidated old Mercedes and off to his weekend squeeze, Alex Morgan was seized by the reality that he was in fact, once again, on his own. And while normally that wouldn't be a problem, since he'd been taking on the Serbian mafia he'd learnt to expect the unexpected.
Never underestimate your enemy, he reminded himself; even a little rodent like Gjoka. He had a feeling he'd be reminding himself again before the night was out.
No backup. No lifeline.
No second chances.
Chapter 54
MAHDIA, TUNISIA
"Am I able to see him now, doctor?" asked the police district director, impatiently. "It's been two hours already. I must speak with him."
"Very well,' replied the doctor, older than the policeman, but only just. He was not in the least bit rattled by this blustering, oafish, self-important man. "You may see him for ten minutes, that's all. Then my staff will ensure he gets more rest and you will be out."
With that the doctor turned smartly on his heel, the edge of his long white coat flaring out wide like a cape and, clipboard in hand, he disappeared down the corridor.
"Asshole!" exclaimed the exasperated policeman to no-one in particular. He removed his cap and marched briskly into the room where they were treating the foreigner.
Youssef, who had been diligently keeping watch over his charge while the medics fussed about, leapt to his feet as his district director appeared. Youssef had recognized him from the photograph in the station office.
"Who are you?" demanded the director.
"Police Officer Youssef Ali Hassan, sir,' he answered with parade ground snap. "From the Securite Publique division in El Djem. I was instructed to bring the gentleman here and remain with him until you—
"Very well,' the senior man said abruptly. "You have your notepad?"
"Yes, sir,' Youssef answered, and produced it from his tunic pocket.
"Excellent," the director replied. "Be seated. You will transcribe my interview with this man. I will let you know when to begin."
Youssef Ali Hassan saluted and sat down.
A nurse finished taking the patient's blood pressure and left without a word.
"I am Colonel Habib Ali Bach Hamba of the Sfirete Nationale," he announced haughtily, his monstrously festooned uniform similarly trumpeting his position and status. "I am the district director for this area, and I am responsible for your safety and wellbeing while you are under the protection of the Tunisian Republic."
"Thank you, colonel," Demaci responded from the bed. "I'm honored to have such an important host, but it is not necessary. I don't intend to be here long. I really must be getting home. There are people waiting for me; wondering what has become of me ..."
"That is all in hand, I assure you. I have advised Interpol," the colonel lied, "that we have you under our protection and they will dispatch a representative from their office in Tunis first thing in the morning to begin the arrangements for your repatriation. In the meantime, there are some details I am obliged to discuss with you. I'm sure you understand."
"Very well, colonel," Demaci said.
Chapter 55
TIRANA, ALBANIA
Sitting behind the wheel of a late-model VW Passat hired at the airport, Morgan kept his eyes glued to the pigeon-toed figure of Lorenc Gjoka, scurrying nervously across Skanderbeg Square toward his Mercedes. It was almost dusk. Soon he'd lose all the natural light.
Never in a million years would anyone walking past suspect this ordinary-looking, harried little man of being at the center of an attempt to subvert the course of international justice. Exactly the extent of his involvement and just where he sat in the criminal hierarchy was yet to be determined, but from what Morgan and the Key had pieced together from Simovic—the big Serb, and informant-turned-double agent—and Petrovic, this guy Gjoka was up to his neck in it.
They knew that in his guise as Interpol case officer, it was Gjoka who had manipulated acceptance of Pet-rovic as a reliable informant, including passing him off under the assumed name Lazarevic; and that he had orchestrated the subterfuge to bring down the fugitive war criminal and leader of the Serbian mafia in the Mediterranean, Serifovic, who Morgan subsequently arrested in Corfu. Straightforward enough, but the big question was: Why? Some internal Serbian blood-letting? Retribution for some past wrong? Or a management reshuffle Balkans style?
Intrepid was leaning toward the latter.
Lorenc Gjoka now knew that his so-called reliable informant, Petrovic, had been outed as a double. He would have found out through official Interpol channels long before his criminal network reported the arrests of Petrovic and the crew in Albania. He also knew that the microscope had now swung toward him. In fact, with a less-than-gentle nudge from General Davenport, pressure to explain his association with Petrovic had already been brought to bear upon Gjoka by his Interpol superiors in Tirana. As expected, he hadn't reacted well and so he'd been put on notice that an internal investigations team was being sent in from Interpol headquarters in Lyon. He was forced to surrender his passport. The strategy worked. Gjoka panicked and Therese St Marie's surveillance team confirmed that he was preparing to skip the country.
Now it was Morgan's job to bring him in.
*
Alex Morgan never ceased to be amazed at how inaccurate first impressions could be.
His own initial take on Gjoka was that of an anxious schoolboy type who struggled every day with being ill-treated and undervalued because of his diminutive size, driven by the need to prove that he could outdo the big boys.
The official intelligence on Gjoka read of an ambitious, dedicated man who, after completing his twenty-seven months of compulsory military service, joined the Directorate of State Security in 1978, aged twenty-one. Surviving the fall of the Iron Curtain, his career continued unabated with the establishment of the Albanian State Police. The scant information available suggested a career-obsessed individual who stopped at nothing to further his purely self-serving interests. Personal friendships and loyalties were of little importance to him.
Clearly, in Morgan's view, it was the attraction of promotion and power associated with entrée into the elite Interpol club that would have given Gjoka his sense of ultimate recognition and acceptance. But simply making it all the way to the hallowed halls of the Interpol headquarters in Tirana would not have been enough. Backstabbing colleagues and stepping on subordinates without compunction was like rolling over in bed for him. Morgan had come across his type before. They were treacherous because they were so petty, always looking for the next opportunity to feather their own nests. Morgan's skin crawled at some recollection and he mentally shook the memory away.
Watching Gjoka now in his car and turning over the ignition, Morgan wasn't surprised to see him suddenly pull into the busy traffic, causing those behind to stand on their brakes, honking horns and cursing from their windows. There was no reaction from the Mercedes. To Gjoka, these people didn't exist.
Well, Morgan thought, still with the mental picture of a nerdy little kid dressed up in loose-fitting grown up clothes, the time had come to give Mr Gjoka some long overdue payback.
Chapter 56
MAHDIA, TUNISIA
Colonel Habib Ali Bach Hamba had no intention of reporting to Interpol the sudden appearance of this foreigner who claimed to be the victim of a kidnapping along with some famous American woman. Besides, Hamba ha
d never even heard of this Fleming woman - how famous could she be? The whole thing sounded too far-fetched, even a little suspicious. No, Hamba would not risk the embarrassment of bothering his superiors until he was absolutely sure of the facts. Then, if the man's claims did stand up, Hamba would be praised for his meticulous handling of the situation. He would make the report once he was satisfied with the man's story.
And so he began, gesturing for Youssef to commence the transcription.
"Perhaps we could begin by confirming your name,' said the colonel. "For the record, you understand."
"Of course. My name is Raoul Demaci and I am a proud citizen of the Republic of Montenegro. Unfortunately, my passport was taken from me, I presume by the kidnappers, so I have no way of formally identifying myself."
"Don't concern yourself, Mr Demaci. We've made arrangements with your embassy and they have confirmed your citizenship details." Another lie. "A new passport is being prepared for you as we speak. In the meantime, I must talk to you about the abduction. Do you feel prepared to discuss this now?"
"Yes, I'm fine. Please ask whatever it is you need to know."
"I must say, Mr Demaci, you seem very well adjusted for a man who has spent almost a month as a hostage." It was more a question than an observation. There was not much that got past Colonel Hamba.
"Well, it may seem that way, colonel: Demaci replied uncomfortably. "To a large extent, I am in reasonably good shape. But I feel as though I came to terms with my captivity when I realized that my kidnappers were more interested in my lady friend than me."
"How do you mean?" Hamba asked.
"It became apparent early on that my friend, Ms Fleming, was the target of their terror. I initially thought they had targeted me, given my financial situation, and that they would be seeking some kind of ransom in exchange for my safe return. I was wrong."
