by Chris Allen
When Hamba turned around, Youssef's face was perplexed. His eyes, mouth, nose and cheeks twitched and squirmed as he tried to comprehend the extent of the grave error of judgment he was being accused of.
"But, I ... I..." he stammered, "I was following protocol."
"What?" demanded Hamba. "What protocol?"
"In accordance with station operating procedures and Securite Publique standing orders, any report submitted directly to a district director must be copied to the chief of staff, care of Headquarters Securite Publique in Tunis, sir,' Youssef answered, searching for reassurance that he had actually done the right thing. "I thought this is what you would have expected."
Protocol.
Hamba took a long draw on the cigarette that was already nearing the end of its short, contemptible life and blew the smoke across the desk at the young, inexperienced officer. He thought about the night he'd been having with the busty divorcee before the peal of his cell phone tore him from her clutches and saw him standing over the bloodied corpse of a dead cop in the room he'd been in just hours before.
He should have immediately looked into this apparent kidnapping of the pianist Fleming. Obviously,
now he knew all about it, knew who she was and that her kidnapping had occurred but, on the orders of Interpol, it had been kept a closely guarded secret. Had Hamba taken the time to actually read the daily operational updates that were disseminated to district directors by headquarters in Tunis, he would have known. But now his desire to avoid ridicule and get to the bottom of the foreigner's story in his own time had cost him dearly. The humiliation was unbearable. His lack of judgment no doubt career ending. He had been summoned to Tunis to explain his actions while this snotty-nosed kid was supposed to be commended for his initiative.
Meanwhile, the lines of communication between his office in Mandia, the Securite Publique headquarters in Tunis, and Interpol headquarters in Lyon were running hot.
For Hamba, hindsight was a cruel mistress.
Chapter 69
SUNSET HILL, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, USA
"So, how long do you think you'll be gone?" asked Charly.
"Only one or two nights, honey. Three, tops," Madeline answered.
"Couldn't I come along?" She really wasn't comfortable about her mother's impending absence, but Charly knew she had to go: Great Aunt Dominique had taken a bad tumble. Now in her late eighties, she was very particular about whom she wanted around her at a time like this. So, childless - she'd never married after the love her of life was killed in action at Normandy - Dominique had called for her favorite niece, Madeline Clancy.
"I don't think that's a good idea, darling," replied Madeline, handing Charly a cup of tea from a freshly brewed pot. "You enjoy some peace and quiet. Besides, you've got your very own US marshals protection detail out there, watching over you 24/7. And you can keep up your sessions," she said. "I'm sure you'll be fine."
"But I thought they'd be going with you?" Sitting at the kitchen table, looking across Puget Sound, Charly suddenly thought of Alex Morgan. She found herself wishing he was around.
"Some will go with me and some will stay here. Don't worry, it's all arranged." Madeline caressed her daughter's face the way she had throughout Charly's life whenever her girl needed comforting. Charly tilted her head against her mother's warm hand. "I'm only going to Ellensburg. Two hours' drive, literally down the road. So, not far at all. I'll go down, check on Aunt Dominique and, if need be, I'll get her back into the hospital for proper care. Then I'll be straight back here."
"So, what will I do around here for the weekend?" Charly asked, feigning adolescent obstinacy.
"Play the piano, read a book, get some rest," Madeline replied. "I'm sure you'll think of something. But absolutely no boys!"
They laughed.
There was a knock on the back door. A US marshal was standing there looking in apologetically. Madeline opened it.
"Good morning, Stacey," Madeline said.
"Good morning, Judge," replied the marshal. "Sorry to interrupt. We're all set out here, ma'am. So, whenever you're ready to roll ..."
"Thank you so much," Madeline replied. "I'll be out in a few minutes."
The door closed again, and mother and daughter hugged and said their goodbyes.
As Charly watched her mother disappear to collect her final bits and pieces and heard the front door click shut behind her, she couldn't help but feel anxious at the prospect of being left alone in the house, despite the protection detail.
The big house felt very empty.
Chapter 70
OFFICE OF THE COMMISSIONER OF THE METROPOLITAN POLICE
NEW SCOTLAND YARD, BROADWAY, LONDON
"It's good of you to see me, Sinclair;' said Davenport as he entered the office of his old friend. "Thought I'd drop in while my people are downstairs ransacking your database; I realize it's short notice."
"Not at all, Nobby. Glad we could be of assistance," replied Sinclair Hutton, commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. The two men had known each other for many years. They trusted each other implicitly. "I understand they're doing some profiling and looking for particular name references?"
Hutton headed straight for the emergency scotch, as he called it, which he kept discreetly tucked away. It usually came out when Davenport visited. It was well past 7pm anyway.
"Yes, that's right," said Davenport. "Ms Haddad, my executive officer, has a theory. Initially I thought it was a bit thin, but, in light of latest developments and her developing a profile of our principal person of interest, I want her to see it through. It's a strong line of inquiry and working with your people will not only shave hours off the process of trawling the databases, it will contribute significantly to the profiling work she's commenced."
"I take it this is about Tunisia?"
"You've seen the Interpol Blue Notice, then,' Davenport replied.
"I have."
He handed Davenport a glass and the two of them slumped into lounge chairs away from Hutton's desk. Outside, the early evening had settled in across Westminster and the lights of the city were taking their place in the nightscape. The relative austerity of Hutton's office compared to the warmth of Davenport's was no reflection of the man. It was firstly an inheritance, but also a consequence, of the building's post-war, utilitarian design, which began in the late 1950s and continued into the Sixties, when the old-world traditional architecture of surrounding Westminster was surpassed by the urgent need for functional office space. The straight lines, stainless steel and one-way reflective glass made the New Scotland Yard complex a standout in the area. More obviously, however, it was the simple revolving sign out on Broadway bearing the location's name that had become the real landmark; a beacon of British law enforcement.
"So, how badly is this affecting your operation?" asked Hutton.
"Well, it's not insignificant," the general offered with his trademark understatement.
"And when did it all happen?" While Hutton was aware that Interpol had issued a Blue Notice, he wasn't yet across the details. It simply wasn't a matter for the Metropolitan Police. "All I know, so far, is that a Blue Notice has been issued in relation to a Raoul Demaci who, as I recall, was the man kidnapped alongside your goddaughter, Charly. Now I know from our last chat that your men recovered her from Albania, thank God, but this Demaci chap was supposedly still missing. So, if he's been a victim in all this, then why now is there suddenly a Blue Notice out for him?"
Interpol notices were standard fare for Davenport and Hutton. Urgent alerts dispatched to law enforcement agencies around the world, they covered an extensive range of issues and were color coded to instantly alert international authorities to the significance of the subject matter - red, black, blue, yellow, green, orange and purple. The Blue Notice just issued regarding Raoul Demaci meant he was a person of interest urgently wanted in relation to a criminal investigation.
"It all happened yesterday in Tunisia," Davenport began. "From what I can gather,
Demaci - who's been missing for weeks now, ever since Charly's kidnapping - appeared out of nowhere at a police station in a small town called El Djem. He told local police his name, that he was a kidnap victim and that he'd been released by his kidnappers just outside the town. He was taken straight to a hospital in Mandia, the closest city, for treatment and observation, where he was eventually interviewed by police."
"How extraordinary," said Hutton.
"It gets better. According to the police report that accompanied the Blue Notice, a police officer who'd been guarding Demaci was killed some time around 5pm yesterday, in the very hospital room where Demaci was situated; exactly the same time as it is here in London, by the way. So, a little over twenty-four hours ago. Nobody saw anything and the hospital doesn't even have CCTV, so there's nothing we can check there either. The only thing we do know is that the policeman made an entry in his notebook indicating that Demaci had told the officer he was expecting a visitor, named Dmitri who, surprise, surprise, was expected to arrive around 5pm."
"And then this Demaci chap just vanished again? Without a trace?"
"Correct," said Davenport.
"Whatever became of the police report or the statement Demaci made? Wasn't any of that fed to Interpol?"
"No," Davenport replied. "Apparently the senior officer who questioned him at the hospital - a Colonel Hamba - suspected that Demaci's story didn't add up and decided to sit on it overnight with a plan to resume questioning the next morning; which would have been this morning. A simple tactic, I suppose. If he thought the man was a fake, then he'd want to give Demaci the time to stew and think again about what he was saying, before their interview carried on. However, in the interim, the police officer was murdered and Demaci vanished."
"Do you think Demaci's implicated in the officer's death? I have to say, straight off the bat, it sounds like he may be."
"I'm afraid I have to agree with you, Sinclair, but we've had to look at it from both angles. I mean, for all we currently know, he could have been snatched back."
"It may not have been your Demaci, at all. Have you considered that?"
"The thought had crossed my mind."
"And it's taken twenty-four bloody hours for this critical information to reach you," Hutton noted angrily. He had no involvement in Intrepid's current operations, but he knew and shared the frustration of his friend. It was part of the job.
"Astonishing, isn't it," Davenport said, somewhat despairingly. "I've been trying to speak to both Madeline and Charlotte for the best part of an hour but haven't had any success getting through. Although we've already advised the US marshals who are protecting them both around the clock. They'll advise Charlotte of Mr Demaci's reappearance ... and subsequent disappearance."
"You think he might make contact with Charly?"
"It's hard to say. At this stage, as you've already noted, we're not even sure whether or not he was involved in the murder of the policeman, or if he has once again been taken captive"
"How are Madeline and Charly?" Hutton asked. "I haven't seen them in years."
Hutton had met Madeline, her late husband, Peter, and their daughter, Charlotte, via Davenport many years ago, and their three families had often socialized together while the Flemings were based in England. But as the years passed, Peter had been killed, Nobby had divorced, Charly had gone on to become an international star, and the family get-togethers had sadly become few and far between.
"They're much better now," Davenport replied. "But they've been through a great deal in these past weeks."
"I can only imagine." Hutton took another drink; the scotch bit hard at the back of his throat. He changed tack. "Now, tell me about this theory of your XO's that necessitates you and your people storming into the Yard and ransacking my world-renowned database."
"Well, it's quite interesting," Davenport began. "My XO, Ms Haddad, actually began unraveling all of this when she identified - within the pages of my notes from the war, mind you - a Serbian enforcer known only as the Wolf. His name is Vukasin Petrovic and, as the Wolf, he is now one of only two outstanding fugitives of the ICTY remaining in our sights. The other one, of course, being Drago Obrenovic."
"Big fish, indeed," Hutton said.
"For years, dating back to the Balkans War, Petro-vic has been known in the underworld as the Wolf." Davenport finished his drink and shook the empty glass at Hutton who, as any genuine friend would, rectified the crisis immediately. "Now, based on her profiling of Vukasin Petrovic, Ms Haddad's theory is that for a variety of reasons, the man would be inclined to stick with aliases that also mean wolf."
"It's quite a stretch, Nobby," Hutton scoffed.
"Less than an hour ago, I would have been in total agreement with you, Sinclair," Davenport replied. "However, her explanation of it in terms of his criminal psychological profile converted me and that is the element I expect she is discussing with your people right now. But it doesn't end there."
"I'm listening;' said Hutton.
"Just minutes before we left the office to come here, the news of this Raoul Demaci debacle finally reached
us from Tunisia in the form of the Blue Notice. She immediately checked the meaning of the name Raoul; a curiosity, more than anything—"
"Don't tell me," said Hutton.
"Raoul happens to be an old French form of the German Radulf meaning wise wolf."
"Bloody hell," he said. "So, what does she hope to achieve by trawling our databases?"
"She's narrowed down our search parameters to focus on airline passenger manifests of flights that left Tunisia over the past twenty-four hours, looking for male passengers with any names that could even remotely be associated in meaning with wolf."
"I can see where she's going but it's still a bloody long shot, Nobby."
"It's all we've got, Sinclair."
Chapter 71
DOWNTOWN SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, USA
At 4pm on Friday afternoon, the man who'd fled the hospital in Mandia as Raoul Demaci and boarded the Air France flight from Tunis to Seattle as Adolfo Men-dosa, surrendered a Danish passport in the name of Ulric Sorensen to the reception desk. When he checked into the Paramount Hotel on Pine Street his appearance had markedly changed, although the transformation was much less complex than the end result suggested.
As Raoul Demaci, everything about his demeanour and appearance reflected precisely the persona he intended to convey: a wealthy businessman from Montenegro who could afford the sort of lavish lifestyle others could only dream of. In the guise of Raoul, with his actual personal fortune underwritten by the considerable financial reserves of the Zmajevi, he gained entree into a select strata of international society that instantly propelled him into the social circles of the rich and famous. It was too easy then to appear as part of an exclusive entourage being introduced to the beautiful American pianist at a post-performance reception for her in Rome. How pathetic that she so easily fell for the treacle he would pour upon her, lavishing her with gifts and feeding her hungry ego. Never once did she stop to ask questions of him or delve into his past; blindly accepting, instead, the shallow character of Raoul that he chose to present.
Adopting the pretext of Adolfo Mendosa, a middle-aged Spaniard of modest but comfortable means, tired of the extensive travel required for his work but nonetheless engaging and humble, had been a breeze. It enabled him to both enter and exit Tunisia unnoticed by the authorities. The moment the American bitch's abduction had been successfully carried out, he left her to the babysitters and turned his attention to the task of preparing for her movement through Albania and then, as per the plan, on to Serbia, never to return.
During the weeks that followed his own faux abduction, he'd allowed his hair to become unruly and his beard to grow, while dramatically reducing his food consumption, relying largely on a protein-only diet to reduce his weight, resulting in a gaunt and weary facade. The ruse had worked doubly well when it had been necessary for him to once again adopt the persona of Raoul Dem
aci - post kidnapping - in order to pass general inspection by the Tunisian cops.
Ten minutes alone in a gas station men's room halfway between the airport and downtown produced the transformation from Adolfo Mendosa to Ulric Sorensen. With his head shaved to the scalp, beard trimmed to fashionable stubble and an outfit change that included stylish contemporary wear for an outgoing man in his forties, he emerged confidently into Seattle's late afternoon and hailed a cab to the hotel.
Ulric Sorensen flirted outrageously but respectfully with the young woman on the counter and within minutes, his room had been upgraded from a standard to an executive king.
When his luggage finally arrived and the door closed behind the bellboy, he walked over to the large corner window that overlooked Seattle, along Pine Street and down toward Pike Place Market.
Standing there quietly taking in the significance of what he'd achieved already, Vukasin Petrovic allowed himself a broad, self-satisfied smile.
The Wolf had returned to America to finish what he'd started.
Chapter 72
INTERPOL HEADQUARTERS, LYON, FRANCE
Hermann "the Key" Braunschweiger found himself once again buried deep within Interpol Headquarters in Lyon, this time surrounded by floor-to-ceiling state-of-the-art technology. Somehow he'd managed to convince the techno-boffins of Intrepid's Intelligence, Investigations and Communications Section to allow him into their inner sanctum without proper adult supervision. From what he'd heard, it was absolutely unprecedented for field agents to be allowed back here without a grown up. Maybe it was because it was a Saturday morning. Who knew? Whatever the reason, true to their word, they'd found him a mini-operations room, given him the soldiers' five on how everything worked, showed him where the coffee was and left him to it. Most importantly, there was plenty more room in here than there had been in the surveillance van in Albania. That was enough to celebrate on its own.
