by Chris Allen
A policeman had been placed on guard duty outside the room. According to the idiot colonel, the policeman was there to keep Mr Demaci safe from any possibility of reprisal or second thoughts by his kidnappers.
But Demaci was no fool. He knew Hamba was suspicious. Waiting around until morning was too dangerous and, besides, it was never what Demaci had had in mind.
"Excuse me, officer," he called weakly from the bed.
After a few moments the door opened and a middle-aged, overweight policeman with iron-gray hair and a full, walrus-style moustache wandered in. His expression was one of disinterest and mild annoyance. He didn't like having his working day extended without notice just to babysit a wealthy foreigner.
"Yes, sir?" the policeman said.
"Would you please tell me the time?"
"Yes, sir. It is—" he consulted his watch, " —4.45pm." "Thank you. It's possible that a person from my company may arrive soon. I'd be very grateful if you would show him in."
"I wasn't aware that any visitors had been authorized by Colonel Hamba, sir,' replied the policeman.
"It's all been arranged," answered Demaci, smoothly dismissing the man's concerns. "I was allowed to put a call through from the police station in El Djem, before we left to come up here. I've asked that some clothes and toiletries be brought in. That's all."
"You know this person?"
"He's from our office in Tunis," replied Demaci. "He's a young man, dark hair, average height and build. His name is Dmitri. He should be here very soon.
The policeman looked warily at Demaci. The duty officer had been clear that this man was to be treated with utmost caution, but the policeman also didn't want any complications tonight. He was sure that this foreigner would be the type to cause trouble over every little thing. Besides, if he just had some clothes being brought in, what harm could there be in that?
"OK," he said. "I'll keep an eye out for him. But you know that you're not to leave the hospital."
Demaci's face suddenly became fierce and his blue-gray eyes blazed like a fanned flame. His deep voice cut across the room like the delayed report of heavy artillery firing on the horizon.
"What did you say? I cannot leave? Am I now your hostage?"
The words hit the old policeman with a crack, unnerving him. He stood quietly dumbfounded. The ferocity of the man was completely unexpected. On the surface, it appeared that the foreigner was simply making an inquiry but, in reality, he was issuing a warning.
"Well?"
"No. No, sir,' the old man replied unconvincingly. "It's just that my superiors want you to remain safe ... here in the hospital, where we can take care of you."
A stony silence crept into the tiny room and felt like ice. The old man found himself riveted to the floor, unable to move.
After a while Demaci said, "Fine, show Dmitri in when he gets here. I'd like some coffee."
The old cop turned on his heel and headed for the staff kitchen.
Watching the empty doorway, Demaci forced himself to take a deep breath. The urge to lose control was overwhelming. He had to remain calm for just a bit longer. Soon Dmitri would arrive; then he could start getting everything the way it was always meant to be.
As he heard footsteps echoing along the narrow corridor, the tranquility of the moment was callously invaded by the face of his old mentor forcing its way into his thoughts.
"Yes, Drago," said Demaci to the empty room. "I will fix everything, but you better be prepared for when I come back to fix you."
There was a knock on the half-open door, a man appeared and Demaci threw his arms up with relief.
"Dmitri," he exclaimed. "What has taken you so long?"
"I'm sorry, sefa," Dmitri replied deferentially. "There was a bad accident on the outskirts of town. The news broadcast is blaming the weather; it's terrible out there. Just as I was attempting to get through, the police blocked the roads to allow for ambulances and fucking fire trucks. Is there a problem?"
"Yes, I can't wait until the morning. These fucking cops are suspicious, so my plan to get them to legitimize my return from captivity has gone to shit." He grabbed the bag of clothes from Dmitri and began to dress. "We must leave tonight. The only thing that matters now is that I get to Seattle before they have time to warn her. Have you booked the flights?"
"Yes, sefa," Dmitri said eagerly. "Just as you ordered; I've booked one at 8.30 tonight and another, the last flight, leaves at 2.45am. We still have time to fly this evening if we hurry. It's an Air France flight. Two stopovers: Marseille and Paris. Arrives in Seattle at 1.10pm local time tomorrow. I've also booked the midday flight and two more tomorrow night, to be safe. All booked and paid for."
"Good, we don't need to worry about those other flights; we'll take the Air France at 8.30 tonight and you will go as far as Paris. I will travel on my own from there."
"Yes, sefa. Here's your new passport. It's an EU, in the name of Adolfo Mendosa. Spanish."
"Excellent work, Dmitri. Quickly, let's—"
They turned to find the old policeman standing in the doorway holding a steaming, hot cup of coffee. His face smothered by uncertainty.
"What is happening?" he asked. "Why are you dressed? I said—"
"Now, now, officer," Demaci responded, full of charm as he walked over and relieved the man of the coffee. "Thank you for this and, as you can see, my friend, Dmitri, has arrived with my things."
It only took a matter of seconds but those seconds were the last few in the old policeman's life. While Demaci talked and skillfully distracted his attention, a thin blade appeared in the palm of Dmitri's right hand.
Chapter 59
PETRELE, ALBANIA
Morgan checked the time on the Passat's dashboard clock. It was 9pm.
He'd been forced to wait, impatiently, while Lorenc Gjoka and his mistress whispered sweet nothings at each other over dinner and, rather than looking obvious by sitting in his car the whole time, Morgan had found a small café on the other side of the square where he could keep an eye on them. He was pleased that he actually had time to eat something - he'd been on the go ever since he'd left Berlin at midday. In this job, he mused, if the jet-lag didn't kill you, starvation was always just a few steps behind. But now he was back in his car again; Gjoka was paying their bill over in the restaurant and his mistress was waiting by the Mercedes.
The dinner had been innocent enough and the two of them appeared to be in high spirits throughout - albeit with an undercurrent of nervous tension, which supported Morgan's prediction that they were going to take off together. What did bother Morgan, though, was that during the meal, he'd noticed a large black van doing randomly timed drive bys of the restaurant. It had driven past three times that he'd seen. It was impossible to be sure if the two were related, but it kept him on his toes. He'd made a note of the registration plates.
Morgan watched as the Mercedes pulled away from the restaurant and drove out of Petrele, heading south along Rruga Durishtit, the road leading to the chateau. He waited. He knew the house was only a few hundred yards along the ridge line. If he followed straight away he might as well have asked them for a lift. He was confident that they would be returning to her house to collect personal effects and either leave immediately or get a good night's sleep and take off first thing in the morning. Otherwise, why would Gjoka drive all the way up here and stop for a private, romantic meal? Morgan's money was on them leaving immediately. He checked the dashboard clock again and, satisfied that a few minutes had passed, he drove off.
Cruising with excruciating slowness along Rruga Durishtit, there was absolutely no other traffic and, importantly, no lights. As he drew closer to the house, Morgan switched off the headlights of the Passat and kept the speed around 5 miles per hour. The tires crackled and popped along the loose gravel surface of the unsealed road. It was only one lane wide and at some of the hairpin turns along the way, old car tires had been stacked in low walls three or four layers high to warn of the dangerous conditions b
eyond. Nothing but world class safety standards out here, he mused. It took all of Morgan's concentration to negotiate the road in total blackout without going over the edge.
When he finally reached the last bend in the road before the house, his heart almost stopped.
In the pitch darkness of a moonless, starless night with a gentle breeze whistling through the treetops on the hillside, Alex Morgan heard a blood-curdling scream.
Chapter 60
SUNSET HILL, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, USA
It was almost lunchtime when Charlotte-Rose Fleming sat down to the piano. But today the music eluded her. Her fingers lay dormant upon the keys, unwilling to cooperate.
Charly felt utterly conflicted over her feelings about Raoul Demaci and her escalating interest in the elusive man from Interpol, Alex Morgan.
She'd never known such confusion. Truth be told - and despite the views of the tabloids - she was not the type to gavotte from man to man; quite the opposite. More than anything, her interest in Raoul was a curiosity born more from end-of-tour fatigue and a desperate need for escape; that, and the fact that the relentlessness of his platinum-laced pursuit basically wore her down. At a time when she normally would have shunned such an overbearing approach, she found her misgivings about him vastly outweighed by the prospect of a couple of weeks of seclusion, floating around on a luxury yacht in the Mediterranean.
She hadn't actually taken the time to consider how she felt about Raoul Demaci and now it was too late. If anything had happened to him, she'd never be able to forget it. His death would always be inexplicably linked to the first and last time she would ever throw
caution to the wind and allow a foolish, selfish whim to take control of her. And then along came Alex Morgan.
She smiled and a warm feeling enveloped over her.
Charly gave up on the piano and went back to the sofa she'd shared with Morgan that night. She took up the small Union Jack cushion he'd commented on - a souvenir from a visit to Windsor Castle years ago and nestled into the corner where he'd been sitting. Holding the cushion affectionately against her chest, Charly allowed her memory of him to consume her thoughts.
"My God," she whispered, "what the hell are you doing to me, Alex Morgan?"
Chapter 61
PETRELE, ALBANIA
Alex Morgan found a gap in the trees off to his left and drove the car down an overgrown track, masking it from sight. He pulled on a black sweater, lowered the window and eased himself out into the darkness. The moment his feet touched the ground, Morgan knew he was on enemy turf. There'd be no turning back.
With the SIG Sauer P226 in his right hand, Morgan moved cautiously along the edge of the gravel road, stopping every few feet to listen. He could just make out the mumbling of men's voices close by. No more screaming. He thought he heard a sob, so he stopped to listen some more. Still incoherent mumbling, but the tone spoke volumes. This was a one-way conversation, a monologue with no emotion or room for negotiation. He pressed on slowly, silently, until he found a small track to get him off the roadside and up to a vantage point closer to the house.
Morgan crept through the low-lying shrubs, careful not to disturb any of the branches, leaves or twigs littering the track. As he approached the crest of a small mound he could see the dim glow of an overworked light globe from the house. He was less than 20 feet away and the voices became clearer, with one in control and the other pleading for clemency. Morgan had never heard Gjoka's voice, but surmised that it was him doing the pleading.
Morgan realized they were speaking English. Second language, he thought. So, the unexpected visitors were not Albanian. Otherwise, they'd be dealing with Gjoka in his native tongue. That told Morgan two things: they were not local police and Gjoka was in serious trouble.
Morgan flattened himself to the ground and slithered upward inch by inch. When he got there he positioned himself with only the top of his head close to the base of a shrub so he wouldn't be seen. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light.
The house was a converted two-story farmhouse, a hundred years old by the look of it, built from locally mined stone with old wooden window frames that were faded and worn. The driveway and the small area by the side-door entrance to the house was dry gravel, much like the road. But Morgan's review of the house ended there.
A single low-wattage globe barely lit the area but he could see the Mercedes and right behind it the black van he'd spotted doing laps in the village. Not good. It was only a short, very narrow driveway up from the road and once that van had come in, Gjoka and his mistress were blocked in with no way out.
Morgan could see four men, big guys with too much time for the gym. They were dressed in standard-issue black everything, heads shaved to the scalp. Don't fuck with the baldies, he thought gloomily. Then he realized that they all had identical goatees; thick and well maintained, like some kind of membership badge. One of them had Gjoka by the collar, pushing him inside the house. Gjoka was trying desperately hard not to go. He must have known he wouldn't be coming out alive. When Morgan eased forward to get a clearer view of the house, he could see why.
Lying on the ground in front of the Mercedes was the mistress. Her throat had been cut and blood was gathering in dark pools in the wheel ruts of the driveway.
Morgan stayed where he was until he was confident nobody had been left outside on sentry duty. He pulled away from his position, crawling backward until he reached the base of the mound and then, moving furtively through the shrubs, he made his way toward the mistress. He froze. As he reached the driveway, Morgan heard movement within the black van. A shuffling sound. Fuck! Then the handle of the van's sliding back door clicked. Morgan leapt back on his toes and vanished into the darkness nearer to the main road. His hand tightened reassuringly around the grip of the SIG.
The door eased back and a man emerged. He stepped out onto the gravel and idly lit a cigarette. He was so close that the smell reached Morgan in a second. Taking a long draw to fill his lungs with the muck, he turned and walked toward the house. Morgan watched him step around the body of the mistress. The only interest he displayed was to avoid stepping in her blood. As he reached the light by the front door, Morgan saw him properly, but only for a few seconds. Average height, he looked solidly built; big, but not as big as the others. Unlike the baldies he had hair, thick and jet black, slick with oil; like
the baldies, he also had a goatee. Although somehow, Morgan felt that the others wore theirs because of him, not the other way around.
As the man disappeared inside, Morgan waited a few seconds, gave the spare magazine pouches on his belt a reassuring tug and then crept into the house behind him.
Chapter 62
PETRELS, ALBANIA
"Do you know who I am, Gjoka?" asked the man who had entered last.
"No,' Gjoka replied, shaking. "I'm sorry. Should I? Have we met?"
Morgan managed to infiltrate as far as the base of the stairwell. He could see up through the stairs to a mezzanine level where the conversation was taking place. Gjoka was sitting in an armchair, the slick-haired man asking questions in front of him and two of the goons in partial view. Morgan couldn't see the others.
Deciding it would be prudent to listen in, Morgan remained hidden. He could be up the stairs in three bounds if need be.
"No," the man scoffed, "we've never met. I only meet people like you once."
"People like me? What do you mean?"
"People who cause problems. People who become greedy. People who should know better." The accusations rolled off the man's tongue as he stalked menacingly around the insipid creature in the chair. "People like that."
Gjoka remained silent, looking from side to side, not knowing where this was going or what he was being accused of.
"My name is Obrenovic," the man said calmly. "I am the son of Dragoslav Obrenovic. My father asked me to pay you a visit."
Gjoka's blood turned to ice. Downstairs, Morgan's did, too. His radar went into overdrive.
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"You've been a bad little man, Gjoka," Obrenovic began. "You have shown that your loyalty is for sale. My father is very unhappy about this."
"But what on earth have I done to Drago?"
"You have forgotten already, Gjoka. You have forgotten who made all this—" he waved his hand around, "—possible. This chateau, your bitch downstairs, your position in Interpol; you owe my father your life."
"I don't understand. I have done what I was asked—"
Obrenovic exploded. "Following the orders of that fuck the Wolf, over my father's? Selling out S erifovic, one of my father's oldest friends?"
The young Obrenovic stepped forward, stood over Gjoka and punched him hard. Gjoka's nose erupted blood and he bounced in the chair, screaming in agony. His hands flew up to fend off a second blow. But it came in from the opposite side, and Gjoka didn't have a chance of blocking it. Obrenovic struck the already broken nose again. Tears of pain streamed down Gjoka's bloodied, smashed face.
"I thought this was what Drago wanted," Gjoka sobbed. "Wolf told me this was Drago's wish. That it was time for S erifovic to go. I did as I was told."
"I don't believe you, little Gjoka. Those bags over there tell me I'm right." He flicked his head at the his-and-hers luggage in the corner, ready to be loaded into the car. "You were about to run. Fortunately, I arrived just in time. I would hate to have missed you."
"No, no, I'm running from Interpol," he said, blubbering, pleading his case with every word. He looked in disbelief at his hands, covered in his blood. "They already have the Wolf's brother, Dobrashin, and Ivan Simovic, too."
"And they have one of my men!" Obrenovic snarled. Morgan surmised that he was referring to Muscles, who'd been shipped back to Belgrade to face organized crime charges. "He was there to make sure the Wolf's operation went ahead as agreed. Now he will rot in Pozarevac!"
