Reckless

by Andrew Gross

  “Not just yet,” Hauck said.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  The two men approaching from down the alley stepped closer. Unsteady, bantering loudly in Serbian, they were probably drunk. Maybe they had come down there to take a piss. Or puke into the river.

  Hauck didn’t care. They were the cavalry to him.

  Thibault glanced around when it was clear there would be witnesses to what he was about to do. Annoyance crossed his face. They came to a stop about ten feet away when they came across Thibault, who looked to them like he was roughing up a drunken customer.

  One of them was short and squat, barrel-chested. In an open striped shirt and a black leather jacket. The other was taller, in a kind of soccer sweatshirt. A shaved head and long sideburns and a rough, Slavic face.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” the shorter one muttered in Serbian, gesturing at Thibault in an animated way.

  Thibault shouted something back, which Hauck took to be the equivalent of “Get the fuck away,” flashing the gun in his face.

  The two men’s eyes widened. Hauck harnessed his strength. Maybe as they went away he could spin Thibault around.

  But instead of fleeing, the two men simply raised their hands in a defensive manner, their drunkenness making them seem more annoyed than afraid, still not leaving.

  Thibault pressed the gun sharply into Hauck’s ribs. “Don’t think I wouldn’t do it…”

  At the end of the alley, another man and a woman poked their heads in to see what all the commotion was about.

  Suddenly, there were witnesses. A small crowd.

  The two Serbians were shouting at Thibault and waving their arms at him, cursing. Even with the gun, Thibault was no longer in control. He didn’t know what to do. If he shot Hauck, he’d have to do the same to several others. Or leave witnesses. There was no way to escape. And the last thing he needed now was to be on the run from the local police; avoiding that was even more important than killing Hauck.

  Hauck realized these people were saving his life. Seizing the moment, in full sight of everyone, he pushed Thibault aside. He met the Serb’s gaze with a victorious grin.

  “Go on, get out of here,” the tall one with the sideburns said. In English now. “This is not how we treat visitors in Serbia. This man is clearly drunk. We know what to do with his kind here.”

  They thought they were saving some poor tourist from a mugging.

  Hauck nodded at the man with gratitude, then glanced back at Thibault, who, he could see, was flashing through his options. Should he kill him? And then, how many? What he was interested in was survival. Enraged, but helpless to do anything about it, he let Hauck pull away.

  Relieved, Hauck stepped down the alleyway, quickening his stride and praying Thibault wouldn’t reconsider and put a bullet in his back.

  A small crowd had built up at the head of the alley, sensing the altercation. He looked back. Thibault was seething, but the two men were cursing at him brazenly. Taking it out on him like they were from the local chamber of commerce.

  Whatever. Hauck let out a grateful breath. For the moment, they had saved his life.

  His thoughts flashed to Naomi. She must have been going crazy, wondering where he was. He ran out of the alley, dashed down the street to where he had left the car, jumped in, and pulled out of the side street. He didn’t like leaving Thibault. The man had been behind April’s death. At least three others. Not to mention the poor guy in France whose identity he had taken.

  But if Naomi had found something, they could turn him over to the Serbian police now.

  He took off down the street, looking back to see Thibault coming out, still trying to get free of his tormentors, shouting after him. He had to get back first. He took his cell phone out and called Naomi.

  “Where the hell are you?” she answered, obviously waiting, picking up after the first ring.

  “On my way to you. Get back to where we keep the car. I’ll meet you there.”

  “You wouldn’t believe what happened,” she blurted in relief. She told him about Thibault’s mother and how she had come to the house.

  “Yeah, I’ve been up to my arms in a bit of a hot sink as well,” Hauck said. “With her son.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Hauck raced back through town to Thibault’s farmhouse to pick up Naomi. A flickering reel of questions bombarded him.

  Who were the two men who had just intervened and saved him? Just a couple of drunken locals? One had addressed him in English. Had Hauck said something first? Whoever they were, their timing was impeccable, and they had surely saved his ass.

  And what had Naomi found? Had she linked Thibault higher up the chain? Part of Hauck ached at leaving the bastard who had orchestrated the murder of four people free. Not to mention what he had done in Bosnia. Thibault might well be coming after him. He could be getting in his car right now.

  Mostly, he realized just how lucky he was to simply be alive.

  He made the twenty-minute trip to Sebecevo in under fifteen. He found the turnoff and drove his Ford down the bumpy, deserted road, through the wooded glade that was completely dark this time of night, past the steep incline up to Thibault’s farm. He dimmed his lights, just in case the Serb was following him. He found the thicket of trees where they had been hiding their car.

  Naomi stepped out of the darkness.

  He breathed in, relieved.

  She opened the passenger door and hopped in. Her face was taut and nearly white with worry, but seeing Hauck, being in the car, her color began to return.

  “You okay?” he asked. He reached out and squeezed her arm.

  “Yeah.” She nodded. “You?”

  “Yeah,” he said, exhaling, “now.”

  Something inside made him almost want to reach over and give her a hug—they had both been through hell—and, in his hesitation, he could see Naomi felt the same way.

  Instead, he just asked, “Did you find something?”

  She looked back, eyes wide. “Yeah. Enough to tie him to Hassani.”

  “Then we better get out of here.” Hauck threw the car back in gear. “Thibault made me. You don’t want to know the details. I’ll tell you about it on the way. I was lucky to even get away. The point is, he knows we’re onto him.”

  “Then I have to go back in,” Naomi said, putting her hand on his arm to stop him. “I have to take his computer.”

  Hauck shook his head. “No way. He could be on our tail right now. No time.”

  He flipped a U-turn, careful not to drive off the embankment, and headed back toward the main road, lights dimmed, praying they wouldn’t run headfirst into Thibault, who might have been heading back to the house.

  “Give me the gun,” Hauck said.

  “What?” Naomi hesitated, as if this was another veiled slight.

  “I don’t want to argue.” His tone was charged with urgency. “Please, just give me the gun.”

  Naomi stared, for a second angry, then took it out of her belt and placed it in the cup holder between them. Hauck took it, checking the bolt while he drove. He placed it next to him on the driver’s seat. He proceeded down the rocky road with caution, fearful Thibault might turn in at any time. To his relief, they made it back to the turnoff to Novi Pazar without any sight of him.

  Hauck swung a left back toward town. He was starting to feel better now.

  For the first time in an hour his heart rate came back to something approximating its normal pace. “I’m glad you’re okay,” he said. He looked at her and gave her a teasing wink. “I hear these old ladies around here can be pretty tough.”

  “I got what I went in for,” Naomi said. “You’re the one who seemed to have the trouble.” Then, seeing he wasn’t amused, she asked, “What happened?”

  “Thibault recognized me from New York.” Keeping an eye out for Thibault’s Audi, Hauck took her through how the Serb seemed to catch sight of him in the bar, how he had waited outside, suckered Hauck in the alley.

  Then
everything after.

  Naomi’s eyes widened in horror. There was also a measure of concern in them.

  “My God, are you alright?”

  “Yeah, I guess I’m alright.” In truth, his adrenaline had stopped and now Hauck’s ribs were aching and the back of his head felt like one big, throbbing knot.

  “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Hauck breathed in and focused on the road as it climbed the pass. “I know.”

  For a while, they drove on in silence. Naomi seemed stunned by his tale, how close he had come to death.

  Finally she said, “I found a business card with an e-mail address for Hassani among Thibault’s things. I don’t know what’s behind these killings, but it’s clear Thibault was just the point man who carried them out. They were part of a larger plan. I’m gonna call in when we get back. I’m certain now they’ll issue a warrant through the right channels to pick up Thibault. He may have more in his computer. We know the name he’s using for himself and what car he’s driving. He can’t get far…

  “More than that,” Naomi, said, looking at him, “I’m just glad that you’re okay.”

  He looked back at her and saw something in her eyes. “Me too.”

  They sped back to the outskirts of Novi Pazar. Maybe Thibault was already on the run. He could have gone back to his mother’s, Hauck surmised. He could have exchanged their cars. If so, they already had the license plate number of Maria Radisovic’s Opel. He wouldn’t get far. The guy was in a real bind now. He had to decide whether to stand trial in the U.S. for the murders of four people or waive extradition and be put on trial for war crimes here.

  As they neared the city, Hauck noticed lights flashing up ahead. A bevy of police cars to the side of the road.

  Hauck slowed as they approached. “What’s that?”

  “Probably some drunk driver,” Naomi said. “You saw firsthand, these people here hit it pretty hard.”

  “Yeah, they do.”

  He tried to make out what was going on. A car had spun into a ditch. Half the police cars of Novi Pazar seemed to have been called in. A gray-clad uniformed policeman was on the road, waving traffic through. Hauck wished he could just lower the window and flash his credentials, like back home, ask what was going on.

  Naomi said, “Looks bad.”

  As they inched closer, Hauck caught a glimpse of the color of the disabled car, which was pitched forward. Black. Then he saw the make.

  Audi.

  He turned to meet Naomi’s frozen gaze.

  It was Thibault’s car.

  He slowed to a virtual stop. Hauck made out the figure of a man slumped over the wheel.

  The thick head of black hair. The black leather jacket.

  It was Thibault. No doubt.

  Naomi uttered, “Oh, my God…”

  There seemed to be no visible damage to the car, but a blotch of blood oozed from the side of the lifeless Serb’s head.

  This didn’t have the feel of any automobile accident.

  As they passed, Hauck saw that two words had been scrawled on the Audi’s rear windshield. In large, bold letters that looked like smeared blood. Thibault’s blood, Hauck realized. Normally he wouldn’t have been able to make out anything written in Serbian, but these two words needed no translation.

  DONJE VELKE, the letters read.

  The Bosnian town where the massacre Thibault had been accused of overseeing had taken place.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  They drove on past Thibault’s car in silence. Naomi was ashen faced, numb. Even Hauck felt a hole in the pit of his stomach.

  Thibault had been executed for what he had done.

  Who was responsible? Who had pegged Thibault for Kostavic? What flashed through Hauck’s mind was the scene back at the river, the two drunks who had seemingly wandered up at the right time. They had spoken to him in English. As if they knew.

  Donje Velke.

  “Who the hell were those people?”

  Hauck pulled the car over to the side of the road. He racked his mind to recall exactly how everything had taken place.

  “Retribution? The BIA?” Naomi thought out loud. The Serbian secret police.

  “I don’t know. They seemed to be drunk. But one of them spoke to me in English. Like he had an idea who I was. But why would Serbs have done this? What happened in Donje Velke took place in Bosnia. To ethnic Albanians. And Kostavic has been “dead” around here for fifteen years. How the hell would anyone have figured out who he was? We only stumbled on it by accident. Thibault kept pushing me: ‘Who sent you?’ He was definitely scared of someone…”

  “Hassani?” Naomi said.

  “Maybe.” Hauck nodded. “Covering his tracks.”

  “If it was Hassani, we’d better get the hell out of here. Now.”

  “No.” Hauck shook his head. “I don’t think we’re in any danger. If that was so, they definitely had the chance to eliminate us both. They didn’t seem to have much of a problem sending me on my way.”

  “I’m not talking about us, Ty,” Naomi said. “If Hassani was behind these hits—Glassman and Donovan, now this—Thibault’s gone. But there’s someone else who was involved. Someone who’s now become our only link. Who put this whole thing in motion.”

  “That guy in London.” Hauck looked at her. “‘The planes are in the air.’”

  Naomi nodded. “Marty al-Bashir. If Hassani knows we’re onto him, no way he’s going to let him live.”

  Hauck nodded. Without this al-Bashir, who was at the heart of all that had happened, there was nothing they could prove. The conspiracy ended here. With Thibault.

  “I need to make some calls,” Naomi said. “I have to set a few things up.”

  “You want to go to London?”

  “Someone’s trying to wreak havoc on the U.S. economy. Al-Bashir is the only link we have now.”

  The flicker of flashing green and red police lights lit up the rearview mirror. Hauck put the car back in gear.

  “You’re lucky,” he said, pulling back onto the road. “I just happen to be free.”

  Naomi looked out the window with a worried smile. “Whew.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  The young girl trembled a bit, clearly scared.

  Hassan ibn Hassani looked her over. She was only fourteen. Often they lied. But this one was truly a goddess. Her breasts were fully formed and he saw them quiver expectantly under her robe. Her hair was thick and soft as sable. Her eyes were dark, perfectly almond. Her lips were small yet full. There was a deepness to her that delighted him. Afraid, and yet intrigued by his attention.

  And she had never been touched before.

  “Exquisite.” Hassani smiled, signaling to the woman who had brought her that he was truly satisfied. There were twenty thousand euros for her in an envelope on the way out. Twenty thousand euros. For a fraction of that, he could fuck the most beautiful women in the world. Models, beauty pageant contestants, aspiring Bollywood starlets. But this one was a jewel. Unspoiled. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sera,” the girl replied tremulously.

  Sera. She had come from one of his villages back in the kingdom. A village that his family, sheiks for over two hundred years, still controlled. Her father had gotten into some trouble, built up a world of debts. A trifle to Hassani, who was willing to wipe the slate clean in an instant.

  For such a price.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked. He sat back in the gilded antique chair at his desk, a Louis XVI. He reached out and touched her hand. Electricity surged through him.

  She flinched.

  “Don’t be,” he said, letting his fingers fall from her hand and brush against her thigh. He imagined the heave of her delicious breasts underneath, the tautness of her nipples. “You are doing your father a great service. There, you would have nothing. And he would have been ruined. Here, you will have everything you need.”

  Here, Hassani thought with
pride, was his home on one of the many private islands that had been reclaimed from the sand in Dubai. More of a palace than a home. Modeled after a Venetian palazzo on the Grand Canal. Like a Canaletto painting, of which he possessed two.

  Desire and anticipation surged through him. Yes, he lived a complicated life. He had contacts all over the world. He had sold arms. Secrets. He had enabled those who had caused many deaths. In the prophet’s name.

  And yet he had also been a great friend to those in need—in the West. He had arranged financing for their most troubled banks. He was a conduit to the greatest wealth in the world, which these companies now needed. He was welcome in boardrooms across the globe. In government houses.

  It was necessary to tread in both worlds in these times. To serve several masters. To keep a sense of balance.

  And one of his many masters was the desire that rose up in his loins as he imagined the soft purr she would emit as he entered her before any others.

  The way Hassani looked at it, he had sent many men on the path to countless virgins in paradise.

  He was simply hedging his bet, as always.

  He would take his here.

  As he admired her, Hassani’s cell phone rang. His attention was so complete, he barely heard it. He looked at the display, disappointed that it was a call he had to take. “I’m sorry.” He sighed sadly. “I’ll need you to wait outside.”

  He took the call, imagining the thought of running his hands underneath her robe. Hearing her cry out for the first time. Having her many times, until he dumped her back in her remote village, where she would be looked at as a whore.

  “Hello,” Hassani said, lifting the phone and staring across the bay at the majestic Dubai skyline.

  “Just letting you know,” the caller said in code, “that that matter of an old debt has been finally taken care of. But I fear there’s another issue. The two bondholders have left.”

  “Left?”