by Chris Ryan
Heading for the jetty.
0528 hours.
He wasn’t going to tell the Tiger, Ninkovic decided.
Not yet, anyway. He had thought it through, weighed up the pros and cons and decided that the best course of action would be for him to handle the situation personally. Demonstrate his leadership. Once he’d found Kavlak and Petrovich, or at least knew what had happened to them, then he would call Brozovic and explain. Even if the news was bad, the very fact that he, Ninkovic, had taken charge of the situation would present him in a better light. It might spare him from the Tiger’s rage. And there was no way he was going to suffer because of the actions of two dumb fucks way down the food chain. No way at all. As soon as he was done fishing, he’d get on the blower to Ivanovic. Tell him to get to Valletta and personally find out what the hell had happened. Knock on some doors, pay some bribes, bash a few skulls. Do whatever it takes to find them.
He was feeling better already as he strolled towards the jetty with his fishing gear. As he drew near he heard a voice calling out from the direction of the grounds. He turned and saw the other bodyguard approaching him. Vukic. He was new to the job and cautious, and panicked every time Ninkovic so much as stepped outside. The 2i/c threw up his arm and motioned for Vukic to halt.
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘I’m going fishing for a couple of hours. Don’t disturb me.’
Vukic stopped and nodded dutifully. ‘Sure, boss.’
The bodyguard did a one-eighty and trudged back in the direction of the cabin, thirty metres up from the jetty. Ninkovic waited for him to leave, then swung around and made his way down the jetty. It was a rickety narrow thing that extended across the lake for twenty metres from the water’s edge. Dawn had broken and there was a thin grey haze hanging just above the lake, wisps of it burning up like fumes under the rising sun. There was no sound out here except the soft slap of the water against the jetty’s wooden posts and the occasional distant cry of a bittern bird. The scene had a soothing effect on Ninkovic. He soon forgot about his troubles as he set his gear down and reached for his fishing rod. The lake had been a magnet for trout and pike lately. He was confident of getting a good bite that morning.
Ninkovic took the end of his line and tied a hook onto the end of it using a simple clinch knot. He baited his hook with a worm from his bait box before casting his line into the waters. Then he sat himself down on the edge of the jetty. Stared out into the sea, and waited.
That’s when he heard the splash.
It came from directly beneath the jetty. A sudden sharp noise, like something breaking through the surface of the water. Ninkovic instinctively looked down. His guts turned to ice as he saw two pairs of arms reaching out of the lake and clamping hold of both his legs. Before he could react Ninkovic felt himself being dragged off the jetty into the waters below. He released his grip on his rod and tumbled head-first into the lake, the freezing water stabbing at his exposed flesh like a million needle points. Ninkovic let out a garbled cry for help that bubbled pointlessly towards the surface. Then he caught sight of the two divers grabbing his legs and pulling him deeper, and his confusion instantly gave way to fear. He screamed again, desperately kicking out as he tried to break away. But Bald and Porter both had a firm grip on the Serb, and the light from the surface began to fade as they dragged him deeper underwater.
Ninkovic kicked out again. But it was a weak kick. The fight was draining out of him now. Every part of his body screamed for precious oxygen. Bald kept a firm grip on him. He wrapped his arms around the guy’s legs while Porter slipped his arms through the harness attached to the spare air tank he’d been carrying. Then he shoved the mouthpiece into the Serb’s piehole. Ninkovic didn’t resist. It was a simple survival instinct. If he spat out the mouthpiece or tried to fight back against his captors, he would drown. He had a hundred per cent chance of dying, versus a ninety-nine per cent chance if he was taken captive. Ninkovic’s desire to live was stronger than his fear of whatever the two operators might have planned for him.
The plan had worked perfectly. With their rebreather systems cutting out any noise or air bubbles, Porter and Bald had been free to lurk directly under the jetty with their heads just above the water’s surface, watching Ninkovic through the gaps between the wooden slats. Once the target had perched himself at the end of the jetty, the operators had made their move. Now they dragged Ninkovic back towards the fishing boat, five hundred metres to the east. It seemed to take an age to reach the boat but finally they hit the starboard side. As soon as they broke the surface Porter ripped out the Serb’s mouthpiece. Ninkovic retched, coughing up mouthfuls of water and gasping for breath. Devereaux grabbed him by the scruff of his drenched parka and hauled him up onto the boat deck. Then Porter and Bald climbed onboard, turning off their rebreathers and taking out their mouthpieces. Devereaux kept his Zastava M90 aimed at Ninkovic. Both operators kept their diving kit on. They would be needing it again soon enough.
Porter dropped to one knee beside Ninkovic. The Serb was lying on his back on the deck, shivering inside his drenched clothes. His eyes frantically flicked between Porter and the business end of the M90 rifle. Porter eyeballed the Serb for a long beat. Then he pointed to the rifle Devereaux was holding and said, ‘Listen to me very carefully. If you make a single fucking sound, we’ll kill you. If you try and escape, we’ll kill you. If you fail to answer any of our questions, we’ll kill you. Got it? Nod if you understand.’
Ninkovic steadied his erratic breathing. Confusion spread like a virus across his face.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Us?’ Bald cut in. ‘We’re the fuckers you’ll wish you never met, pal.’
Ninkovic’s expression hardened. He looked again at Porter. ‘You can’t arrest me like this. I have rights. Tell those fuckers at the Hague that we had a deal.’
‘We’re not here to arrest you,’ said Porter. ‘We’re here because you killed our mates. Fifty-five of them.’
Something like fear flashed in Ninkovic’s eyes. His face went through a bunch of different expressions. Terror, disbelief, denial. Finally it settled into pure anger. ‘You’re SAS?’
Porter nodded.
‘What did you do to Kavlak and Petrovich?’
‘They’re stuffed in the back of an Alfa Romeo, mate.’ Bald grinned. ‘What’s left of them, anyway.’
Ninkovic glowered at the Jock and spat on the deck. ‘Animals! They were good men.’
‘They were murdering cunts,’ Bald said. ‘They had it coming. Unless you want to join them, you’d better tell us what we want to know.’
Ninkovic hacked up a laugh. It sounded dusty and hoarse. Like it had been gathering dust in his throat. ‘Why should I tell you anything? You’ll kill me anyway. It makes no difference.’
Porter merely shrugged. Ninkovic looked left and right, like there were two piles of reasons either side of Porter and he was trying to decide which one was bigger. He closed his eyes for a long beat. Then he opened them and nodded.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Brozovic,’ said Porter. ‘Where is he?’
Ninkovic laughed and shook his head. ‘You’re going after the Tiger? You’re crazy. He’ll kill you before you can get near him. He’s got serious protection. Bodyguards, bulletproof cars. All that shit. He’s worth more alive than dead.’
Porter creased his face into a deep frown. ‘Brozovic?’
Ninkovic nodded. ‘He’s got friends.’
‘What kind of friends?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’ Ninkovic smiled triumphantly. ‘You didn’t think Brozovic was acting alone, did you? No. He had outside help. During the war. Funding. Intelligence. Weapons.’
Bald shook his head. ‘That’s a fucking lie. The weapons came from Deeds. He was smuggling them to Brozovic. We know that already.’
‘Deeds?’ Ninkovic laughed. ‘He was just a transporter. A middleman. Nothing more. Or did you really think that a low-life British soldier would have
the brains to strike a deal with Brozovic all by himself? You give him too much credit.’
‘Who, then?’ Porter demanded. ‘Who was helping Brozovic?’
‘Friends,’ Ninkovic replied with a shrug. ‘I don’t know their names. I never meet them. All I know, I heard from Brozovic. They were big people. Important, you know. Connected. They gave the Tiger the money, guns . . . everything he needed. One of them, he was an American. Strong accent. Texan, maybe.’
Bald snorted. ‘Why the fuck would the Yanks support Brozovic?’
‘Because they know that Brozovic is different from the others. He’s a crusader.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Porter said.
Ninkovic let a knowing smile play out on his thin lips. ‘You still don’t get it, do you? Brozovic is more than a warlord. He’s a hero.’
‘To the Serbs, perhaps.’
Ninkovic shook his head. ‘To people in the West as well. Because he stood up to the Muslims. The Tiger saw what was happening in Kashmir. In Lebanon, in Kosovo. He could see the Muslims were taking over and if we didn’t do something about it then they would conquer Europe as well. So he made a stand. That’s why the people loved him for it. They saw him as a saviour.’
‘Bullshit. He’s just a butcher. Nothing more.’
Ninkovic smiled. ‘Of course you would say that. You’re fucking SAS. You betrayed us in the war. You forgot the debt you owed to Serbia.’
‘What do you mean?’ Porter said.
‘Our fathers fought and died for the British in the Second World War.’ Ninkovic’s voice trembled with rage. ‘The Croats, the Ustaše, massacred hundreds of thousands of our families. Or did you forget this while you were busy protecting the Muslim scum? We lost everything defending the West, and how did you repay us? By siding with a bunch of thieves and murderers and rapists. The Tiger told us, ‘‘Never forget this betrayal. Never forgive.’’’
Porter shook his head. ‘I thought Brozovic attacked us because of Zvornik? Because of the bombing.’
‘That was part of it. But he hated the SAS anyway. Killing his brother, that pushed the Tiger over the edge.’
‘I’ve heard enough of this crap,’ Bald snapped suddenly. ‘Tell us where we can find Brozovic.’
Ninkovic fell silent for a beat. His eyes drifted to the water lapping up at the edge of the boat. In the grainy dawn the lake was dark and shiny. Like slick from an oil spill. The Serb 2i/c swung his gaze back to Porter.
‘He’s in Switzerland. A town called Genthod. It’s a few miles north of Geneva. All the Formula One drivers and pop singers live there. He has a mansion over that way, just up from the harbour. Place is a fucking fortress. I’m talking bodyguards, cameras, fences. There’s even a moat. You’ll never get inside.’
Porter felt a cold sensation tingle down his spine. He’d expected Brozovic to be hiding deep inside Serbia, or maybe further east. He recalled what Deeds had said to him back at the safe house in Fuengirola. Brozovic went deep underground after the bombing. No one’s been able to find him. Not the Brits. Not the UN. Not even the Yanks.
He’s been hiding right under our bloody noses the whole time, thought Porter. He’s been here all along.
He shook his head at Ninkovic. ‘How has he managed to stay off the radar? He’s in Switzerland, for fuck’s sake. It’s not bloody Somalia.’
‘Brozovic said it was the ultimate hiding place,’ Ninkovic replied simply. ‘It’s easy to stay anonymous there. As long as you have the money, the Swiss don’t give a shit. He has fake papers and a legit business in case anyone asks questions. Some kind of an investment fund. His kids, go to school under different names.’
‘Kids?’ Bald asked.
Ninkovic nodded. ‘A boy and a girl. They’re enrolled at some rich boarding school over in Rolle. All the Russians and Saudi royals send their children there. The whole town is used to people keeping a low profile. You turn up in a motorcade with some bodyguards, nobody looks twice.’ He caught his breath and blinked water out of his eyes. ‘I can take you to him, if you let me go.’
Bald and Porter exchanged a quick look. Each knew what the other was thinking. They were on the same wavelength. We don’t need Ninkovic. We’ve got everything we need from this sack of shit.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Porter.
Desperation flashed in Ninkovic’s eyes. ‘I could set up a meeting. You could strike a deal with Brozovic. The Tiger can be very generous, you know. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s paid money to get someone off his back.’
‘You’re wasting your breath.’
‘Please,’ Ninkovic begged. ‘I can help you. Anything you need. I know all the secrets.’
He started blabbing on about Brozovic and the Red Eagles and anyone else connected with the organisation. Anything that might allow him to barter for his life. But Bald and Porter had stopped listening. They slipped their mouthpieces back on and switched on the valves on their rebreathers to get the air circulating again. There was a brief struggle as Ninkovic backed away from them and tried to scrabble across the deck, but the floor was wet and slippery and he didn’t get very far. They clamped their hands around his bicep. Porter held him in place while Bald fixed a weight belt around his waist. Then they took Ninkovic and tossed him over the side of the fishing boat.
The Serb let out a terrified scream as he hit the water, his arms flailing. Bald and Porter slipped into the water after the Serb and dragged him beneath the surface. A furious torrent of bubbles rose to the surface as Ninkovic struggled against the dragging weight of the belt strapped around him and the two killers. He thrashed about wildly, clawing at Bald and Porter and trying to kick himself up towards the light. But the combined weight kept pulling him down.
After two-and-a-half minutes, Ninkovic lost consciousness. His limbs went limp and his head sagged forward. Porter and Bald held him down for another ninety seconds. After four minutes the Serb was dead. The operators released their grip and let the weight belt slowly drag Ninkovic down towards the bottom of the lake.
Thirty minutes later Porter, Bald, Devereaux and Coles were shuttling back to Zlatibor in the two rented Skodas.
0728 hours.
The team checked out of the Aventinus two hours after the kill. Ophelia and Evelyn were waiting for them at the reception desk. They’d stayed behind at the hotel while the operators had moved in on Ninkovic. That was a basic rule of undercover ops. If you arrived as a group, you left as a group. You drew less attention to yourself that way. If the girls had checked out in advance of the others, it would have looked unusual. A member of hotel staff might have asked why. Or they might assume that there had been some falling out with the rest of the group. They might remember the detail and mention it to the police.
Porter settled their hotel bill in cash. Twenty-five thousand Serbian dinars. A hundred and fifty quid. For six people, for three nights in a shoddy hotel with no heating. The woman behind the desk didn’t wish him a pleasant trip. Didn’t raise so much as a smile. Hospitality in Serbia was about the same as the rest of eastern Europe. It didn’t exist. Something to do with all those years living under Communism, Porter figured.
They drove west in the rented Skodas. Retracing their route to the Serbian border with Bosnia. Two and a half hours later they nosed the Skodas into the long-stay car park at Sarajevo airport and debussed. The team had agreed in advance to split up at Sarajevo. Bald, Porter, Devereaux and Coles would head on to Geneva to hunt the Tiger. Ophelia and Evelyn would return to London.
‘This is where the hard part begins,’ said Bald. ‘It’s time for the lads to take control. Shame you lasses won’t be around to watch the fireworks.’
‘Tragic.’
Bald grinned. ‘At least you got to see a real man at work, eh? Not like those suits back in London.’
Ophelia rolled her eyes. ‘You can’t imagine.’
‘I’ll be seeing you around.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You really won’t.’
> With that, the two spies gave their backs to the operators and sauntered off towards the departure gate. Bald admired the view for a little while. The he turned to Porter and winked. ‘Reckon I’ve got a shot at that when we get back, mate.’
Porter laughed. ‘Yeah, Jock. In your dreams.’
Once the spies had thinned out the rest of the team paced over to the SwissAir desk and checked for the next available flight out of Sarajevo. There were no direct flights to Geneva from Bosnia so they bought four tickets to Zurich and paid using Porter’s credit card. They could rent a motor at the airport and hammer it down to Geneva in a few hours. At 1325 they boarded the Airbus A320 bound for Zurich and settled into their seats.
Twenty-four days after the attack on Selection, they were going after the last name on the deathlist.
Radoslav Brozovic.
THIRTY-FOUR
Geneva, Switzerland.
1803 hours.
They arrived in Geneva in the fading winter light and rented a Honda Civic from one of the long line of car rental desks outside the terminal. Before they’d flown out of Sarajevo, Porter had located a bank of payphones in the departures hall and put in a call to the antique dealership in Berlin. He left a message for the Firm on the answerphone, explaining that they were heading to Geneva and that the team had int on the whereabouts of Radoslav Brozovic. He checked in on the payphones once again at Zurich, calling the numbers station in Austria. There was a new message waiting for him. Porter listened and then decoded the sequence of numbers. It simply said, Message received.
Geneva was a three-and-a-half-hour ride south-west on the A1 motorway, a three-lane stretch of blacktop as smooth as polished glass. The sky was cloudless and the sun was bright and cold and crisp. They shuttled past Bern and Lausanne and Nyon and hit Geneva a little before six o’clock in the evening. Porter steered the Civic south on Rue de Lausanne, motoring past the Palace of Nations and the Parc Mon Repos. Past the train station at Cornavin they arrowed onto the promenade running parallel to Lake Geneva and crossed over the Pont du Mont-Blanc bridge leading to the southern side of the city. They slid past the Jardin Anglais and took Rue d’Italie south for a hundred metres, then hung a right onto Rue de Madeline. At 1821 hours they pulled up outside the Hotel Dauphin.
