by Chris Allen
"Who the fuck are you people?" he asked contemptuously, poison in his voice. "And what the fuck are you doing with us?"
"Well," Morgan replied, "as I said to one of your countryman not so long ago, consider us facilitators. Nothing more. Now get up."
Morgan hauled him to his feet, walked him to the gear, helped Drago step awkwardly into the padded legs of the jumpsuit, and began to pull the suit up over Drago's body.
"Don't forget, bud," Sutherland said. "Leave his wrists cuffed and zip his arms up inside the suit. Strap the suit arms into the harness, so they don't flap around. I'll do the same for this guy."
"Roger that," Morgan replied. "How long we got?"
"Five minutes for the first aircraft and ten minutes after that the second will come through. He nearly ready?"
"Yeah," said Morgan.
"I asked you what you're doing with us," Drago said. This time the voice was less venomous. Fear was starting to play a larger role.
"It's very simple. We're going to put you on a plane," Morgan answered truthfully, pulling on his own suit. "And you'll be pleased to know that there are no queues with our airline. You'll go straight from here to your seat."
Drago fell silent. Somehow he didn't think it was going to be as simple as that at all.
Morgan and Sutherland began shoving their weapons and parachute gear into large bags that they attached to their harnesses.
Two minutes later Morgan and Drago were harnessed in a macabre parody of spooning, with Morgan behind to control the prisoner. Sutherland was just tightening the last few straps on the harness supporting him and the Wolf. They were soon in exactly the same configuration. The harnesses were each connected to 150 yards of high-strength, braided nylon cable. At the other end of the cables were inflatable blimp-shaped balloons that Morgan and Sutherland began inflating from helium gas tanks. Once the balloons were inflated, Sutherland, who was taking the Wolf up on the first lift, released his balloon and the cable pulled skyward to its maximum length.
"Now we wait, Petrovic," said Sutherland.
But there was no answer. The Wolf remained totally silent, despite also having the duct tape removed. He was beaten. He knew it.
"Thirty seconds, Alex," Sutherland said via the radio headset. "See you back there."
"I think you owe me a beer for this," Morgan responded. "Good luck."
The deep rumble of the first Hercules came in overhead and before Sutherland had time to reply, he and the Wolf were gone.
*
"OK, so now it's our turn, Drago," said Morgan.
"What the fuck just happened to them?" Drago gasped, hardly attempting to mask his terror. He was breathing heavily, his head was completely shrouded within the thickly padded hood of the illuminous suit. The drawstring of the hood had been pulled so tightly that only his nose and mouth were open to the air. Drago was completely out of his comfort zone, in the grip of a fear he had never known.
Morgan released their balloon and the cable began to feed skyward.
"Well," Morgan began, "We're using something called surface-to-air recovery. The CIA developed it back in the days of the Cold War. On approach to pick us up right now is a Hercules fitted with a big V-shaped hook on its nose. It'll catch our cable in its hook, balloon gets cut off, and we trail along underneath until the team onboard winches us in. Like I said before, it's very simple."
Drago was speechless. He had no concept of what was about to happen to him and trying to understand it all was overwhelming.
"Thirty seconds," said Morgan. "I hope we can find you a good suit. You're going to need it in The Hague."
EPILOGUE
AS LONG AS YOU WANT
Chapter 99
THE INTERNATIONAL CRIMINAL TRIBUNAL FOR THE FORMER YUGOSLAVIA (ICTY)
THE HAGUE, NETHERLANDS
THREE MONTHS LATER
Major General Reginald "Nobby" Davenport CBE, DSO, MC, took his seat discreetly at the back of the public gallery of Court Room 1 and watched with a mixture of great sadness, accomplishment and anticipation as the wheels of international justice began to turn once more.
It was almost impossible to fathom the depth and significance of the hatred, jealousies and private conspiracies that had all given rise to this day, nor the actions that had been necessary to bring these men to justice. Lives had been lost, trusts had been betrayed and personal traumas endured by those burned by the fire of the Zmajevi. Despite it all, Davenport mused, none of the events that had occurred recently, which finally brought about their arrests, held a candle to the crimes for which these men were actually here to answer.
During the Balkan wars of the early 1990s, men such as Obrenovic presided over many serious violations of international humanitarian law, and perpetrated executions and atrocities on a mass scale, including torture and rape, among their standard operating procedures. Waging a campaign of immeasurable violence, amounting to the systematic destruction of a civilian population, their crimes against humanity and campaign of genocide resulted in the deaths of over 140 000 people, with millions more affected by the bloodshed, driven from their homes into a bleak, uncertain, terrifying future.
But, finally, justice had prevailed.
Through the paneled glass to his right that separated the gallery from the courtroom, Davenport saw members of the prosecution preparing themselves ahead of their opening statements. To his left were the defense team shuffling papers, talking in hushed tones, similarly preparing. He didn't envy them at all. The prospect of genuinely being obliged to mount a defense for a cold-blooded monster like Dragoslav Obrenovic was abhorrent to Davenport. But still, justice must follow its course.
Directly ahead of him sat the judges, resplendent in the red-fronted gowns of the tribunal. There were three of them: two men sitting either side of a woman, the chief judge. All three were members of the Trial Division of the International Criminal Court, the ICC. They'd been seconded to ICTY in order to conduct the trial of Obrenovic when Madeline Clancy and her colleagues had necessarily recused themselves.
A registry official located in front of the judges stood and addressed the court.
"Your Honors, this is case S-L-0-5-0-6-A; the prosecutor versus Dragoslav Obrenovic."
"Thank you, Madame Registrar,' replied the chief judge formally. "I'd like to have the appearances please. Prosecution first, followed by the defense."
Over a number of minutes both leaders of the prosecution and defense introduced the respective teams. All were noted officially for the record.
"Thank you, everybody. I note also for the record that Mr Obrenovic is present as well," the chief judge announced, looking across to her right at the accused.
Davenport couldn't help but return his gaze toward Obrenovic. Many within Court Room 1 that day would not be aware just how much he had been cleaned up prior to his appearance before the tribunal. The long hair had been cut into a neat, respectable short back and sides and the beard was gone. What remained was a tired and aged but still recognizable caricature of the former brigadier general of the Army of Republika Srpska, made infamous the world over by the news footage and press coverage of him taken at the time of the war. He sat behind his defense team in a baggy gray suit, with headphones to assist in the translation process, looking for all the world like a poor old man who had somehow been mistaken for a horrible, calculating, brutal killer.
As Davenport's eyes remained fixed on Obrenovic, he heard the familiar tone of Madeline Clancy's voice in his ear.
"I want to hear the prosecution's opening statement," she whispered conspiratorially as she sat down behind him.
"Really," Davenport replied over his shoulder. "Is that the only reason you're here?"
"No," said Judge Clancy emphatically. "I really just want to watch this bastard squirm."
Chapter 100
THE RED LION, WHITEHALL, LONDON
Alex Morgan laughed as he saw a young guy bounce off the Key on the way to the bar. The Key didn't even notice. Juggling gla
sses, Braunschweiger returned to their high bench by the window, underneath Lord Stanley's picture, and placed the drinks down: a pint of Guinness for Morgan, Pilsner for the Key and Budweiser for Sutherland. It was their fourth round.
Since wrapping up the ICTY mission, their services had been in high demand by Interpol and the UN but unlike that operation, the three of them had been off on solo missions in different corners of the world. They were finally enjoying some much-needed downtime. It was rare for the three of them to be in the same city at the same time and, on the very rare occasions that it occurred, they seized the opportunity to get together over a beer.
"So, Dave,' Morgan began, "tell us about that latest railway track down the side of your face. Rope burn?"
Morgan was referring to two parallel lines - one slightly longer than the other - that ran down Sutherland's right cheek. They were healing but still scabbed. Morgan also knew that Sutherland loved to share war stories about his injuries.
"Yeah, man,' Sutherland began. "I was fast roping from a Colombian police chopper a week or so ago - when I was picking up that cartel boss, remember? Anyway, halfway down this massive wind hit us and—"
Morgan's head instantly dropped to his chest feigning sleep, snoring loudly.
"Asshole," said Sutherland.
"Ah, I think you have a visitor, Alex," said the Key, gesturing toward the front door of the pub.
Morgan turned to see the spectacular Charly Fleming standing at the door, looking straight at him. She was breathtaking in black: fitted jeans, knee-high boots and a loose-fitting sweater, with a pale gray scarf thrown around her shoulders. A pair of Ray-Ban tortoiseshell Wayfarers were in her hand. As she walked toward him, the three agents fell silent. All eyes in the bar turned to watch her.
"Boys," she said, hardly even looking at Morgan, but she placed her hand on his shoulder before he could stand up. "How are you all this evening?"
"F-Fine," Sutherland stammered, standing. "It's great to meet you finally, Charly."
"I'm guessing from the accent that you're David. Texas, right? And, you of course, must be the Key."
"Fraulein," the Key replied, almost knocking over half the bar as he stood and shook her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"And you," Charly replied. "I've heard a lot about you two from this one. I think we're all very lucky to have you guys in our corner."
"I didn't know you were already back in town," said Morgan, responding to her kiss on his cheek. "How did you know we'd be here?"
"Oh, I have my ways." She smiled that incredible smile. Her arm was around his shoulders now. "Besides, I wanted to surprise you. I'm in town for rehearsals with the London Philharmonic ahead of my concert series with them at the Albert Hall. I'm in London for an extra two weeks!"
"Fantastic," said Morgan genuinely. "So how long do I get you for?"
"As long as you want," she replied, with a seductive flash in her eyes. Then she whispered in his ear "I want you right now."
"Urn, before we need to start drawing blinds around you two," Sutherland piped up, "can we get you a drink, Charly?"
"I'm afraid not, Texas," she replied, cheekily flicking her eyes toward a stretch limousine outside. "I'm double-parked. I just thought I'd try my luck and see if I could entice Morgan here away from you two and all this beer for an early dinner. I hope that's OK?"
*
Half an hour later, Morgan had been discreetly smuggled into Charly's suite, The Trafalgar, to avoid the paparazzi routinely stationed within prime clicking distance of the Ritz.
He was lying back with his eyes closed and head resting on a towel, luxuriating in the warmth of the water and the sensation of her soft skin brushing against his legs. The oil-scented water lapped at his chest and the aroma soothed his mind of all the stresses and dangers of his profession. This wasn't the first time they'd been together over the past three months and Charly was really coming through after the trauma she'd experienced. She was a fighter. Morgan liked that about her.
"What are you thinking about, action man?" he heard her coo across the surface of steamy water.
Morgan opened his eyes and looked at her. She'd tied her thick copper-red hair back in a loose bun and her face was perfectly framed by thin wet strands that were curling around her chin and dripping into the water.
"I was thinking about you actually," he said. "Thinking about this moment, being with you in this huge bath, naked."
Charly's legs moved slowly against his beneath the surface and a devilish grin broke across Morgan's hard features.
"What is it with those eyes?" Charly said quietly. "I can never work out what color they are and they are constantly full of mischief"
"My eyes are officially listed as camouflage," Morgan responded. "As for the mischief, I guess you see what you want to see. Don't you think?"
"Windows to the soul, handsome," she whispered.
Morgan felt her legs pull away and watched captivated as slowly, enticingly, Charly lifted herself from the water, bringing her body toward him. Streams of water cascaded from her shoulders and over her breasts while, beneath the surface, her fingers danced across the top of his legs, her thumbs trailing along the inside of his thighs.
"You seem to be ready for me," she said, pausing for a moment. Morgan gasped a deep, involuntary breath as her hand found him beneath the water and her full breasts pressed against his chest.
"Alex," she said, serious for a moment as she began kissing him. "How long do you think we can make this last?"
"As long as you want," he replied. "Any ideas?"
"Do you remember what we did in Tuscany last month?" she said, her warm breath upon his ear.
"How could I forget?" Morgan's hands were gliding across her body now, his fingers lightly exploring those familiar, fabulous curves as he looked up into her eyes.
Charly laughed deliciously at the memory, holding Morgan's gaze with an intensity he found electrifying. Her lips were just inches from his. The water was churning around them, stirred by the simmering energy of their bodies. "Do you remember how it started?"
Morgan looked straight back into her eyes and smiled sinfully. He remembered.
Seductively, Charly peeled away from Morgan, allowing her naked body to slide over him with her arms outstretched and her fingernails running the gauntlet from his shoulders and along his muscled arms. With effortless grace she emerged from the water and sat provocatively upon the edge of the bath. Morgan's gaze remained fixed on her as Charly raised her arms, untied her hair and tousled it until it fell in a beautiful vermillion waterfall over her shoulder. Then, stepping from the bath, she turned from Morgan and walked slowly away across the room, confident in the allure and power of her body. Rivulets of oil-scented water streamed from her skin to the floor, drawing Morgan inexorably towards her with every sodden footprint left upon the tiles. At the door she stopped and glancing over her shoulder at him, she said, "Well, handsome. I hope you remember exactly how I liked it last time."
Acknowledgements
I would like to offer my most sincere thanks to the following people, without whom etc ...
My beautiful wife, Sarah, and our boys, Morgan and Rhett. I write every word for them.
My agent Jacqueline Pascarl. Cate Paterson and Tom Gilliatt at Pan Macmillan. Publisher extraordin-aire Joel Naoum and his team, Anne Treasure and Mark Harding, at Momentum.
Special mention must also go to: Laraine and Malcolm Grigg and Cameron Gumley.
And finally a huge thank you to Maria Sykes, Connor Turley, Hannan Le, Major Andrew Somerville, Major Tony Kaine, Brigadier Andrew Dudgeon AM, Commander David Bachi, David Geoffrey Wilson and Barry Pickering.
Chris Allen writes escapist action thrillers for realists, having seen and done it all.
Serving in three Commonwealth armies across two decades and four continents, one of the paratrooping elite, Chris saw the world from under a billowing parachute, often by night, entering foreign countries with the usual passport-stamping o
bligations eschewed.
Exiting military life with injuries, Chris transitioned into humanitarian aid work during the East Timorese emergency, served with three major law enforcement agencies in Australia, protected Sydney's most iconic landmark in the wake of 9-11 and between 2008 and 2012 was the Sheriff of New South Wales, one of the oldest law enforcement appointments in the land.
Chris's literary brainchild, Intrepid, the sword of Interpol, is a culmination of his military and law enforcement experience. Intrepid is the Intelligence, Recovery, Protection and Infiltration Division: the razor-sharp, ultra-secret, black ops division of Interpol, established to operate across the world, regardless of borders, politics or race.
Stay in touch at intrepidallen.com facebook.com/intrepidallen twitter.com/intrepidallen youtube.com/ intrepidallen
First published by Momentum in 2012
Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
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Copyright © Chris Allen 2012
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
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Australia
Hunter: Intrepid 2
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Cover design by Matt O'Keefe
Cover photo by Lisa Pearl Photography lisapearl.com.au
Edited by Sarah Fletcher
Copyedited by Kylie Mason
