Reckless

by Andrew Gross

  Naomi, leading the way, never even slowed.

  They finally made it to the top. They kneeled down on a rock and looked over the ridge Maria Radisovic had driven up to.

  “Look!” Hauck pointed to a stucco farmhouse. Some animal pens built along a sloping hillside, maybe for sheep or oxen, but no sign of any livestock around. An earthen well dug along the side of the house.

  White smoke rose from the chimney.

  “Someone’s there.”

  A black Audi was parked along the side of the house in back, almost hidden from view.

  The cargo hatch open, Maria Radisovic’s Opel was pulled up in front.

  Hauck peered through the binoculars. She had unpacked the car and gone inside. He guessed he was gazing at an abandoned farm. Maybe in the family or something they had rented. He muttered to Naomi, “What would you be thinking about why an elderly women needs to bring stuff way out in the sticks like this? Food. Booze. Tobacco.”

  “I’d be thinking maybe it’s for someone she wants to hide,” Naomi said, watching over the ridge.

  They had to wait a few minutes. Fifteen or twenty. The sun made it hot up there, and they opened up some water.

  Finally, the front door of the farmhouse opened back up.

  Maria came out first. She was followed by a figure Hauck recognized instantly. He zoomed in with the binoculars. The man was dressed in a blue plaid shirt, rumpled pants, and leather work boots. He was heavyset and broad shouldered. He looked like any anonymous worker from the town.

  Except that Hauck saw his face.

  “And I’d be thinking you’re right,” he said, rolling over and passing the binoculars to Naomi. “Agent Blum, say hi to Dani Thibault.” He grinned triumphantly.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Inside the farmhouse, Dani Thibault was going crazy.

  He’d been cooped up at the old family farm for a week, unable to communicate with anyone, nervous to even show his face in town, even though he’d hadn’t been there for fifteen years. He was virtually in prison, yet he knew he had to remain there, at least for a while, until things calmed down.

  He went out for a smoke and looked around the foggy valley. It was a perfect hiding spot. He was in one of the most remote mountain regions in Europe, and having driven through the EU from Paris under an identity no one could trace, there was no way anyone would have tracked him here. He was sure he had gotten out before anyone would have known he was missing. He had communicated only through a private e-mail address with his mother. Franko Kostavic had disappeared fifteen years ago. And if it did somehow come out, if some old-timer recognized his face and put it together, in his family’s old village, surrounded by friends who felt the same way, he would be celebrated as a hero for what he’d done in the war, not turned in.

  But it wasn’t the police or the U.S. government he was primarily worried about. No…

  On his way there, in Germany, he had stopped and e-mailed the man who had recruited him at a designated cyber address. Thibault wrote that the trail of money he had received and recordings he had made of their communications were in the secure possession of a lawyer in Switzerland with instructions to share it with the U.S. government should Thibault not be around to call in and instruct him not to every six months. A simple plan, he had to admit, but a safe one. All he wanted was his freedom in return for what he had done. His silence was guaranteed.

  Ultimately, Thibault knew, there were places he could go where no one would ever find him and new aliases he could adopt. Just like he had done before. He possessed all the funds he would ever need. He knew how to sniff out people, vulnerable people. The instinct came to him like the scent of a hare to a hound.

  His only regret was that he couldn’t get even with Merrill. To make her pay for her betrayal. That was driving him nuts. She was a horny little bitch and his only amusement now was the knowledge that he had let free urges from deep inside her she would not so easily satisfy with someone else.

  Unfortunately, the thought of her brought his own physical urges to the surface. Up there, what prospects could there be? Filthy barmaids or mountainous old farmer’s wives. He was used to having the most desirable women in the world. Maybe he would go into Novi Pazar. No one knew him there. There were places he could go. Women found him instantly attractive. He knew he radiated something mysterious to them, a side he had played up his whole life. Using women had never been a difficult thing for him.

  The stupid old Bahraini had said it. It was his dick that would get him into trouble.

  Yes, he was going crazy there. So be it, Thibault thought. He stared up at the hills. It was like he felt someone watching him, but he knew that was impossible. They’d held in secrets for centuries.

  He stamped out his cigarette. His was just one more.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  They watched Thibault for another day from the same hillside, perched high on the ridge. Naomi snapped several photos. Thibault. His car. Its plates. She sent them immediately back to Washington.

  They deliberated about what to do.

  Thibault never strayed far from the cottage. Once or twice he came out for a smoke or to bring in wood from a shack, as the nights were still cool. Once he took a short walk along a nearby brook. The next day, Maria Radisovic came back around noon. This time Hauck and Naomi were there ahead of her. She brought along a suitcase that seemed stuffed with clothes, and Thibault came out of the farmhouse and took it in for her. He puffed on a cigar and stamped it into the ground. Before going in, he gazed around the secluded valley—almost directly at the spot where he and Naomi were located, making Hauck duck back. It was almost as if Thibault had sensed someone was watching him.

  Then he went back inside.

  The options they faced were complicated. They could arrest Thibault themselves, but that would mean bringing in the Serbian police. Anything else would be unlawful. Which no one wanted. That would only create a public legal battle over extradition. Without a formal treaty and with local lawyers dragging it out, a thing like that could go on forever. And once the government became aware Thibault was actually Kostavic, who knew how that would play out? They might lose whatever negotiating leverage they had.

  The next best option was something more clandestine. Bring in professionals. Call in a team that could subdue Thibault, disable him, and sneak him out of the country across the border with Romania or even Macedonia. Back into U.S. hands. The new international antiterrorist accords gave them broad powers. But apprehending a Serb in his home country, doing a covert abduction in a friendly state—that would never fly. That wasn’t exactly part of the current U.S. presidential administration’s foreign policy theme.

  They had found him. But time was running out and they felt their viable options slowly drifting away.

  “What’s the goal here?” Hauck asked atop the ridge, swigging water as the day grew hot and long.

  He had come to a decision on his own.

  “Apprehend him,” Naomi said. “Find out what he knows.”

  “You can always apprehend him. We know what car he’s driving, what name he’s traveling under. You can always petition the local government to hand him over. Whatever the case, he’ll be facing serious charges here. And you’ll know where he is.”

  Naomi stared at him quizzically. “So where are you heading, Ty?”

  “You want to find out where this leads, right? What’s important is discovering what’s behind those murders?”

  She nodded, going along.

  “What we need to do is get inside that farmhouse.”

  He turned and focused back on the house, not elaborating further. He could see Naomi weighing what he’d said in her mind. She wasn’t a field agent. She worked behind a desk. Her job was to fit together the threads of financial conspiracy and assess the threat. In the army, she’d been an investigator. Going in there, on the fly, without the backing of her bosses in DC, like some kind of operative—that definitely wasn’t the way careers were made in Wash
ington. She’d be crossing a huge line.

  Some time later, after Hauck figured she’d stowed the idea away as a bad one, she turned. “How do we do that?” she asked.

  Hauck grinned. He’d been waiting for her to reply, “Over my dead body!”

  “Thibault’s used to being a public person. He’s going to have to leave that farmhouse sometime.”

  She sat back against the ledge and nodded, not so much in agreement as in coming to grips with the idea. Finally she replied, without turning, “Anyway, if anyone’s going in that farmhouse, it’s going to be me. I know what I’m looking for.”

  He waited a moment. “You ever done anything like that before?”

  She looked at him without answering.

  “I’m just saying, this isn’t exactly music theory at Princeton, Naomi.”

  “Any more than it’s handing out traffic tickets in Greenwich.” Her glare suggested there wouldn’t be much negotiating on this.

  “Okay.” Hauck turned back to the binoculars, suppressing a smile.

  Naomi said, “I thought this was just about your friend. The one who was murdered. You don’t have to do this either. We found Thibault.”

  “What can I tell you?” Hauck said. “I’m learning to multitask.”

  Now she was the one hiding her smile.

  They watched a little longer. Hauck’s cell phone began to vibrate. It was Steve Chrisafoulis, he noticed, relieved it wasn’t Annie.

  “Steve.”

  “Where am I catching you?” the detective asked. The reception made it sound as if he was a block away.

  “Just doing a bit of house-hunting,” Hauck said, rolling a few yards down the rise. He’d have liked to hear the guy’s reaction if he divulged he was on a hilltop in frigging Serbia.

  “House-hunting…? We got something interesting back on James Merced. You remember your skating partner?”

  “Yeah, Steve, I recall. I’m listening.”

  “Turns out he came back stateside after receiving a get-out-of-jail card from Iraq. Seemed he had a few social problems with the enlisted women over there. Harassment. Assault. Attempted rape…They gave him a less-than-honorable discharge.”

  “You don’t have to try hard to convince me, Steve.”

  “When he got home, he knocked around a bit in California and Michigan, digging pools. Then he tried to hook on as a private contractor with a security outfit back in Iraq. Global Threat Management. You familiar with that company, Ty?”

  “Yeah, I’m familiar.”

  “That’s part of your outfit, isn’t it, Ty? Talon?”

  Hauck felt a tremor tighten in his chest. “It is.”

  “Apparently they shipped his ass right back out, soon as they found out about his record. I spoke with the employment director there. Still, quite a little coincidence, don’t you think? You and he, tied to the same firm…”

  “You think that’s why he was trying to kill me, Steve?”

  Hauck thanked him, and Steve said he’d keep him posted. They signed off. House-hunting…If he only knew…

  Hauck crawled back up to the ridge.

  “What was that?” Naomi asked.

  “Real estate thing,” he said. She stared back at him. “Nothing…” He retook the binoculars. But it wasn’t nothing. It was the second time in a month he had doubts about his own firm, thought they might somehow be involved.

  The sun was out. It was hot on this hilltop in Serbia. His brow was sweating. So why did he have the disturbing feeling that he was walking on thin ice?

  “You know, I never handed out traffic tickets,” he said, focusing back on Thibault’s farmhouse. “Least not in Greenwich.”

  “That’s okay,” Naomi said. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  They waited until almost dark. For a while, in the late afternoon, Thibault came out and walked around, smoking. He leaned against the wooden fence of the animal pen, staring up at the hills.

  He had to have a plan.

  Then he went back inside.

  At the onset of dark, about seven, they went back down the hill. They’d come to a decision.

  In the car, Hauck turned onto the main road and headed back toward town.

  A gray delivery van pulled out on the road behind them, the driver waiting before they’d gone around a bend to turn on its lights. There were two men in the front who’d been sitting for most of the day. One had short, dark hair, long sideburns, and a heavy mustache.

  “To je u njima,” he said in Serbian. That’s them.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Look!”

  It was the next day, Friday, in the late afternoon. Naomi pointed toward the farmhouse. They’d been watching it all day. The sun was just beginning to set and they were about to pack it up and head back into town.

  Hauck took the glasses from her and zoomed in.

  Thibault stepped outside. He was wearing a black leather jacket and tossed a duffel bag in the backseat of the Audi. He was heading somewhere. He locked the front door.

  Hauck put down the binoculars and looked at Naomi. This was their chance.

  They had talked it over for most of the day. They had already passed back the license number of the rented Audi, and they knew for certain what identity Thibault was traveling under. What name he used to rent the car. They’d decided that if he left, one of them would take their car and follow.

  The other would go inside.

  That would be her.

  “You better get moving.” Naomi stood up and strapped on a pouch that held a Nikon digital SLR, a special computer flash drive, a pen flashlight.

  Her gun.

  Thibault got into the Audi and started it up.

  “Nervous?” Hauck asked. She was a desk agent, not a field agent. What she was putting herself into was definitely crossing that line.

  “No,” she answered without hesitating. Then, blowing air through her cheeks, she shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

  “Me too. Be careful going in not to trip any wires or safeguards he may have set up. Take a mental picture of how everything looks as soon as you get in. And make sure you leave everything just as you found it.”

  “You think you can manage to tail the guy without blowing your cover?” she asked, a little peeved. “But hey,” she betrayed a smile. “Thanks.”

  Thibault backed the Audi around and started to make his way down the winding road.

  Hauck said, “I better go. Whenever I get to where he’s going, I’ll check in with you.” He squeezed her on the arm. “You be careful in there, okay?”

  “You too, Ty. No heroics. Remember, I’m responsible for you.”

  With a last wink, Hauck headed down the steep embankment to where they had left the car. Thibault had a bit of a head start, but Hauck knew what he was driving and figured traffic would be light. He finally made it down to the road, hopped into the driver’s seat of their Ford, and did a U-ey in a clearing on the deserted road, starting after the Audi with his headlights off. As he passed through the woods heading back to the road to Novi Pazar, he finally caught sight of it.

  Thibault had pulled up for a moment at the turnoff. He stopped too. Then the Audi turned left on the road toward town.

  Hauck slowed, and when he got to the intersection, he put on his lights. The Audi was a minute or so ahead of him. But it was starting to get dark and they were the only ones on the road. As they climbed up over the pass, he saw the Audi’s taillights in the distance.

  Heading to Novi Pazar.

  It took about fifteen minutes to reach the outskirts of town. Hauck narrowed the distance as the main road fed into the town and traffic picked up. At a circle, he let a slower fuel truck and a minivan sneak in between them to conceal his pursuit. At an intersection, Thibault accelerated through a light that was about to change and Hauck had to zip around the truck so as not to lose him, then fell a few car lengths back.

  He was pretty sure he hadn’t been spotted. The Audi wove through the main thoroughfa
re, turned down a side street near the river, and pulled to a stop, parking on the sidewalk. Hauck slowed, passing by, and eyed a brightly lit bar with a frosted glass façade and a sign with old-fashioned American lettering that said O’FLYNN’S CHICAGO-STYLE BAR, like some garish American sports bar. Probably the local hangout. Through his rearview mirror, Hauck saw Thibault climb out, flick the automatic lock of the car, and go inside.

  Hauck continued on the narrow side street and squeezed into a spot in front of a brick building that had a yogurt billboard in Serbian with a photo of Ana Ivanovic, the pretty tennis player, on the side of it. He locked the car and stepped around the side to the main street. He pulled his cap down over his brow. In front, a man and woman came out, almost bumping into him, speaking loudly in Serbian. “Izvinite,” Hauck grunted under his breath. Excuse me. He peered inside the frosted windows. A Heineken beer sign. Inside, the bar was dark. And crowded. The din that escaped was loud.

  There was always the chance he was walking into a trap. No heroics…

  He went around the side. There was a small deck overlooking the river. Six or seven tables on it, mostly young people drinking, eating, under beer umbrellas. Hauck followed a waitress through a rear door. A wave of noise hit him at the entrance.

  He made his way inside.

  The main bar was raucous and packed with people. Women crowded the wooden bar surrounded by local types. Everyone was smoking. Some looked like businessmen; others hunched over tables, drinking beer, smoking, gesturing at the large TV screen above. A soccer game was on that a lot of people seemed to be watching. When the ball went down one side, the bar seemed to erupt in cheers. The women were laughing, chattering, looking like secretaries out on the make. The local beer, Jemel, was flowing.

  Hauck made his way up to the end of the bar and lost himself in a crowd. Just like in New York, he recalled. He looked around for Thibault, searching for his face through the haze of smoke and patrons.