Reckless

by Andrew Gross

  He finally found him sitting alone at a table near the far end of the bar, sipping a beer.

  Thibault was looking directly at him.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Naomi wound her way down to the farmhouse. She waited a few minutes to make certain Thibault wasn’t coming back. It had become dark, and the path down was treacherous with sliding rocks and false steps, even with her flashlight, causing her to stumble and almost fall several times along the way.

  Thank God Ty was following Thibault.

  As she watched the house her blood started to race. The dark silence of the unfamiliar valley and realizing just what she was about to get herself into gave her one of the deepest feelings of loneliness and isolation she had ever felt. She begged her heart to calm down. There was no one there, nothing to be afraid of. She kept telling herself that this was the right thing to do. Still, her heart wouldn’t quite respond. A thought passed through her that would have made her laugh if she wasn’t so afraid: What’ve you gotten yourself involved in, Naomi?

  She wasn’t a desk agent anymore.

  When she was certain Thibault wasn’t returning, she darted across the mountain road, careful to avoid leaving imprints from her sneakers in the gravel. She moved over to the arched, wood-planked front door. The latch was locked. Shit. She poked her light through a crack in the shuttered window. She couldn’t see much. The lights inside were dimmed.

  She hurried around the side. It was a stone and stucco cottage, could have been built a hundred years ago. The brush that crept up to the side of the house was sparse. Cautiously, she peered in through a cracked shutter. She could see an open kitchen with a large stone hearth. She tried the door off the kitchen. The iron latch didn’t budge either. Damn. She continued on around back.

  She knew she had the time, the time to sort it all out and be careful, but her heart was thumping and she wanted to get this over with, and she didn’t want to take the chance that someone, anyone, might show up at the house. She peered into what looked like a bedroom window. She knew if she had to she could break the pane of glass. They knew where Thibault was. They knew what car he was driving, what name he was traveling under. They could always find him. Busting the window would blow their secrecy. But what was important was finding out what he knew.

  She checked the shuttered windows along the back and, to her elation, saw that one of them was cracked.

  She slid her fingers underneath the sill and jerked upward. To her relief, the window lifted. She wiggled a space just wide enough for her body to slip through and climbed inside. She was right; it was a bedroom. In fact, it seemed to be the one Thibault was using. His clothes were strewn haphazardly about a chair; the open suitcase she had seen Maria Radisovic bring in was on the floor. The bed was mussed.

  She was in.

  In the front room she spotted a breakfast table in a nook outside the kitchen that Thibault seemed to be using as his work space. There was a small TV that was hooked up to a satellite. There was a laptop set up on the table. Some books, papers stacked around. Naomi sat down and inserted a download flash drive in the USB port and tried to log on. Not surprisingly, the prompt came up for a password.

  Damn.

  Thibault had to have records. Records of who he communicated with. His financial interactions. The money flow. She was certain she’d find all that inside. The thought passed through her that maybe she ought to just take it. That it didn’t matter anymore, this cat-and-mouse. What was important was to track the trail to someone higher. Where this conspiracy led.

  She tried to bypass the security but it proved to be futile. Pulse racing, she turned her attention to the papers scattered all over the table. She rifled through the files, mostly financial papers—partnership agreements, corporate documents, deal brochures. She had no idea if these were legitimate or part of Thibault’s illicit doings. But he’d brought them with him, so she assumed they must have some value. She laid them out on the table and snapped pictures of the cover pages, focusing on the corporate logos. There was a stack of business cards bound together by a rubber band. Naomi unfastened them and began to leaf through.

  Most seemed like legitimate contacts from around the world. Thibault’s network. JP Morgan, Citi, Reynolds Reid. She even came upon James Donovan’s card and those of other securities traders from different firms, which made her wonder if they might have been more potential victims. She laid them all out on the table, snapping digital shots. She came across one that made her heart come to a stop.

  The black, embossed logo of Ascot Capital.

  Ascot was the investment partnership in Dubai that was linked to Crescent Bay in Toronto, the company that bought Donovan’s house.

  The name on the card was Hassan ibn Hassani.

  Her pulse rocketed. Hassani was the contact overheard on the phone with Marty al-Bashir in London. That had started the whole thing rolling.

  The planes are in the air.

  Thibault knew him. Hassani. Ascot was also a link in the chain of funds that went to pay off James Donovan. Not enough to prove a thing, to seek an indictment. But enough to hand over to the FBI and Interpol. Enough to widen the investigation. Everything was knitting together.

  Naomi snapped away.

  She wasn’t making any distinctions. Everything there could be important. She shot receipts, plane tickets. Even what looked like a ski-lift ticket. From Gstaad, the posh resort in Switzerland. Naomi took a look at the date: 06/26. The summer before. Maybe just a memento. It cost forty euros.

  She snapped it anyway.

  With haste, she threw the pack of cards back together, reattaching the rubber band. She checked her watch. Fifteen minutes. She felt comfortable that she had more time. She turned back to the computer and saw the download flash drive had connected and tried to enable the password-busting program to do its work. No way she was going to leave it behind.

  That was when she saw a light flash outside and heard a vehicle coming up the road.

  Naomi’s blood froze. Oh, shit.

  Someone was here.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  The lights were from a car coming up to the house. The sound of the tires on the gravel knifed through Naomi like a heart attack.

  Could Thibault somehow be coming back?

  Where the hell was Ty?

  The thought that Thibault might have somehow ambushed him and had now come back for her sent her heart into a frenzy. Her throat suddenly got very dry and her blood was pumping at what felt like ten times its normal rate. She checked the table one last time. Everything seemed in order. She hastily threw the camera in her pack and headed back into the bedroom.

  She pressed against the wall and took out her gun.

  She heard the car door slam. Footsteps coming up the walk. Then a loud knock on the door. And a woman’s voice. Which came as a slight relief to her.

  “Franko? Franko?”

  It was Maria Radisovic. Thibault’s mother. Naomi wasn’t sure what to do. Stay in the house? Leave?

  Then suddenly she realized she had left her flash drive connected to Thibault’s laptop.

  Oh, God… If Thibault ever saw it, they were completely blown. She made a move to run out and retrieve it, but the door handle started rattling, scaring her.

  “Franko?”

  Naomi ducked back in.

  Suddenly she heard a key in the lock at the front door. The door was pushed open. Naomi squeezed herself against the wall.

  The woman stepped into the house. It was Maria. Naomi recognized her instantly from the day before. She was in a light-brown parka against the chill and a cloth hat pulled over her hair, and she was carrying what Naomi took to be a bag of groceries.

  “Franko?” she called out one last time. Then she started muttering loudly in Serbian, no doubt upset not to have found him there.

  Then Naomi saw she wasn’t alone. She had a dog with her. It looked like a shepherd. Her heart started to pound. She was trapped there now. The woman had gone into the ki
tchen and was placing the groceries into the fridge. Maria pulled out her cell phone and punched in a number. Whoever she was calling didn’t answer. Naomi was sure it was Thibault. Maria flicked it off in disgust.

  The dog started exploring around the house, going from room to room, as if it was familiar with the place.

  It was only a matter of time before it alighted on her.

  Naomi pulled back the action on her Colt. She wasn’t sure what to do. She’d never used it, not like this. Only firing at a faceless, remote enemy in Iraq. Not an old woman.

  She felt a chill and realized she had left the bedroom window wide open. There was a draft that went around the entire house. Maria would find her way back there.

  Shit.

  “Katja, Katja?” The woman was calling the dog. Her voice started to get closer. “Katja…”

  Naomi backed inside the room and hurried over to the window. This was one time she was lucky she was small. She lifted her front leg through and adroitly climbed out. Then she leaped to the side and started to lower it gently. Not quite all the way.

  She heard the dog come into the room.

  Then, shortly after, Maria. “Katja…” A loud sigh. She seemed to look around petulantly, angry at the mess. Naomi backed away, hugging the house. The woman came to the window. Naomi heard her grunt. She pressed herself against the side of the house and tensed her finger on the trigger guard, her heart beating wildly. What would she do? Please, please—she gripped the gun—don’t stick your head out…

  Muttering, the woman tried to jam the window shut. She seemed to get it most of the way. Naomi’s pulse started to relax. She didn’t want to back away into the darkness, just in case she was seen. In case the dog might notice. She just stood there, frozen. Her heart beating at a steady pace. For what seemed like an hour.

  At some point she heard the front door open again. The woman called the dog into the car. The car engine started up.

  Naomi shut her eyes in relief.

  As the car drove away, she went back and tried the window. It opened again. Thank God.

  Why hadn’t her phone rung?

  Where the hell was Ty?

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Hauck turned away from Thibault, glancing at the overhead TV, the European soccer match. He ducked back into a huddle of rowdy beer drinkers, who erupted in whoops and cheers every time the attack went down the field their way. He signaled to the bartender and pointed toward a local beer.

  Every once in a while he glanced through the bodies to where the Serbian was sitting. Thibault had ordered a meal. He consumed it quickly, what looked like a plate of sausage and sauerkraut, and it seemed whatever attention he may have directed toward Hauck had now been transferred to his dinner. Hauck checked his watch. By now, Naomi was likely done. He ought to check in. He could always pick Thibault up from across the street. He lost himself again inside the crowd of drunken fans.

  A minute or two later, he saw Thibault glance at his cell and motion for a check. A young waitress came up and the Serb threw some bills on a tray, chatting flirtatiously; she seemed no older than a college student. Then he took his leather jacket from the chair and headed out through the crowd. He came within a few bodies of Hauck, who turned, taking a swig of his beer. In the frosted mirror he saw that Thibault never looked his way.

  Hauck breathed easier. He must’ve been imagining it.

  He waited about thirty seconds, threw a few bills on the counter for the beer, then wandered back to the rear and out the rear entrance. He waited a few seconds and made his way around to the front. There were a couple of locals there huddled around, smoking, conversing loudly. Hauck glanced along the street and saw Thibault’s black Audi still parked on the sidewalk.

  But Thibault was nowhere to be seen.

  Hauck tucked his cap down over his eyes and thought about calling Naomi. There was an alley off to the far side of the bar that seemed to lead down toward a perch over the river. Losing sight of Thibault made him nervous. Maybe he had crossed the street. Maybe he had gone to meet someone. Hauck looked around and didn’t see him. He stepped around the side to the alley and looked down there.

  No one.

  Then something with the force of a bus collided with the back of his head.

  Hauck went down. His brain grew all fuzzy. His eyes glazed over and the next thing he knew he was on his knees. He knew something was deadly wrong, then a second later he felt another rattling blow to the back of his ribs.

  The air went out of him. His face hit the ground.

  “Who the fuck are you?” a heavily accented voice demanded. In English. Which, through his haze, worried Hauck even more. There was a knee dug into his back and the attacker dragged him up by the collar. “I know you. I’ve seen you somewhere before. Who are you? You’re not from around here.”

  To Hauck, the words had the feel of a distant echo, slamming around in his dulled head. Not to mention the pain radiating in his ribs. He pushed himself up off the ground, trying to clear himself, knowing that how he replied and what happened next might mean his life.

  How had Thibault found him? How had he been made?

  The Serb reared back and kicked him again, this time in the stomach. Hauck doubled over and fell again, the air shooting out of his lungs. Thibault flung him against the brick wall.

  “Who are you?” he shouted again. He patted Hauck down before Hauck could fully regain his senses. He found the Sig tucked into Hauck’s waist. The Serb removed it, chuckling a derisive laugh, then pulled back the bolt and thrust the barrel against Hauck’s head. “I don’t forget a face. I know I’ve seen you. Where? Who sent you? You’ve got three seconds to fill me in, or I spill your brains all over this alley.”

  “I’m an investigator,” Hauck said, ribs exploding, more of a gasp.

  “An investigator? For whom?”

  Hauck took a look behind him. He saw no one in sight. Thibault had spoken to him directly in English. Not even a pretense that he was from around here. He now realized his mistake had been made back in New York. At the restaurant he had followed Thibault to. That was where he had first been spotted. Not here.

  And he knew he’d better say something that would buy him some time. And fast. “From back in the States.” He sucked in a breath. “I’m looking into the death of Marc Glassman.”

  “American?” Thibault turned him around and looked directly into Hauck’s face, more of a sneer. “How did you find me?” He pushed the barrel of the gun into Hauck’s head. “There’s no cavalry here in Serbia, Mr. Investigator. How did you know I was here?”

  Hauck knew he had to come up with something. Thibault was an ex-Scorpion. Trained at this. If he had shown no qualms about shooting dozens of innocent townspeople in a ditch, surely he’d have none about pulling the trigger here, with his survival at risk.

  “Bank records,” Hauck gasped, straining for breath. He looked the Serb in the eyes. “You sent money here.”

  The answer seemed to shock him. Hauck stared, weak-kneed, into the Serb’s glowering eyes. “Bank records, huh?” He sent another hard blow into Hauck’s ribs. Hauck gasped, air rushing out of him, his ribs seeming to cave in.

  Thibault yanked him up again by the collar and forced him farther down the alley, away from the street. He flung Hauck over a railing above the river as Hauck desperately tried to catch his breath. He could hear the whoosh of the water rushing below. Thibault took him by the back of his head and cocked the gun against it. Hauck’s insides froze. He looked down. There was some kind of mill close by, and a waterfall. A drop of maybe thirty feet. Hauck realized the roar of the current would conceal the sound of any blast.

  He knew he couldn’t fight him. He was defenseless, still reeling from the blows. Any resistance would only earn him a blast from his own gun.

  Thibault forced him farther over the edge. “Who sent you, Mr. Investigator? Who else knows I’m here?”

  “No one,” Hauck said, the spray from the rushing water splashing onto his face.
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  “Don’t lie. I smell lies, the way I smelled you. Are you ready to take a swim? You may make it through the current, but I wouldn’t recommend it with a bullet to the back of the head.”

  A winch of fear began to tighten in Hauck’s gut. He knew he had only seconds, and whatever he said, it better be the right thing. It better buy him some time.

  “Franko Kostavic,” Hauck yelled, shutting his eyes as he waited for the hammer of darkness to bludgeon his brain.

  It never came.

  A few seconds passed. Thibault jerked him back up. He turned him around, pressing the gun sharply into Hauck’s ribs. His eyes smoldered with determination and anger. “How do you know that name?”

  “I traced it. I took your DNA. I followed you in New York. To a restaurant. Alto.” Hauck thought, What does it matter now if it buys me a few seconds? “That’s where you saw me before.”

  As it sank in, Thibault smiled. His face had a certain submission and resignation in it. He dug the gun in deeper into Hauck’s gut. “Then you know this is like a walk in the park for me; isn’t that what you Americans say? A slam dunk. Tell me why you’re here. Tell me what it is that has brought you all the way to Serbia. What it is you are about to die for.”

  A final fear rose up in Hauck. But not for him. For Naomi—whom he had left helpless. He prayed he hadn’t put her in danger. Two other faces came into his mind. It was strange, he thought, who came to mind.

  Jessie. A feeling of such terrible sadness. Would she even ever know?

  And April. The glint on her proud face. See, I was there for you, he thought.

  I kept my promise.

  “I’m here to make you pay for what you’ve done,” Hauck said, looking back at him. Over Thibault’s shoulder, he saw two people come into the alley. He looked in his assailant’s eyes and smiled.

  “In another life, perhaps,” the Serb said, raising the gun. “But in this one, your job’s done.”