Hutch, the blond-haired guy, spoke first, his delivery, slick and impatient, along the lines of who the hell are you and what do you want? Sensing that he was a major and unwelcome interruption in the guy’s shift, Tallis repeated his spiel.
‘We usually have advance warning.’ Hutch surveyed him with pale eyes like lasers. ‘There’s no record of your intended visit. Got ID?’
Tallis feigned surprise. ‘Not on me. Must be some kind of administrative cock-up.’ Slowly, leisurely, he slipped his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘I’ll call my boss, see...’
‘Not necessary.’ It was the one he’d christened Starsky. Equally wired, his eyes kept snapping towards the door and his left leg twitched as if he was dying to be somewhere else. ‘Who’s it in connection with?’
Tallis flicked a smile, made plenty of eye contact. ‘We’re looking into the activities of Draza Mirkovic.’
‘The Draza Mirkovic?’ Hutch cut in.
‘Guy from Belgrade. Long criminal history: arms smuggling, cigarettes.’
‘And your interest?’
‘It’s in relation to an on-going investigation.’ He could still do official speak when necessary.
Starsky’s leg stopped twitching.
‘Know where I can locate him?’ Tallis persisted.
Starsky exchanged glances with Hutch. Both seemed momentarily stunned, then burst into raucous laughter. Tallis looked from one to the other, a bemused smile creeping over his face. What the hell was going on? Starsky was first to recover.
‘He won’t be in much of a state to receive you. However, if you insist.’ He chuckled. ‘Know the Mirogoj Cemetery?’
Tallis’s smile faded. Images of a gated entrance, a domed church, arcades and pavilions and wide, open walkways and gardens flashed through his mind. Mirogoj was one of Europe’s most beautiful burial grounds. All religious groups could be found interred there.
‘Dead, where he belongs,’ Hutch said, his voice like ice. ‘Killed in a shoot-out with rivals last year.’
‘Looks as though your intelligence is bullshit,’ Starsky said.
Couldn’t have put it better himself, Tallis thought, cursing Goran, who obviously believed the information would never be followed up.
Fortunately for him, the two Croatian officers were keen to eject him before he wasted any more of their time. Close call, he thought, as he strode out of the copshop, pride bruised.
In need of a cold drink, he headed towards one of the outdoor cafés on Bogiviceva and ordered a beer that cost him almost double what it would have done back home. Taking a pull and savouring the astringent taste of alcohol hitting the back of his throat, he thought about the latest piece of information and how it fitted into the general, if hazy, picture. He’d sensed that Goran was spinning a line, but he hadn’t expected so blatant a lie. In hoping to throw him off the trail, Goran had badly miscalculated; Tallis was no quitter. Although he still had no idea where Dario was, what he was up to or why the need for secrecy, gut feeling told him that Jana’s fear was genuine while Goran’s motive was protection borne out of duty to his older brother. Came back to the same old: why?
Tallis ordered another beer, kicked back, watched the young bloods strut their stuff like peacocks on the pull. His mind, however, forensically studied the latest turn of events.
In the intelligence arena, the goal was protection of the truth if it belonged to one’s own intelligence agency, and its revelation if it were foreign. To this end, much of his work involved clandestinely digging up secrets. In his experience, truth became a casualty of dirty tricks on all sides and consequently had a hard time surviving. Notwithstanding this, he was good at his job. He delivered. But this was different. This was not some foreign power at play, some unseen foe. This was family. This was personal.
And that made him vulnerable.
Suddenly hungry, Tallis found a ritzy cellar restaurant off the main square and ordered and ate carpaccio of tuna, followed by pasticada, veal stewed in wine, the lot washed down with a bottle of fine and expensive wine from Istria. After a nightcap and espresso, he returned to the jeep. A new zero-tolerance law had been brought in with regard to drink-driving, but that was fine by him. He wasn’t on official duty and he wasn’t planning on driving that evening. The thought of another night at Jana’s drove him crazy. He’d catch a tram and check into a bed and breakfast in one of the quiet streets near the bus station, but first he needed to retrieve his bag.
It was well after dusk. Perhaps if he’d been sober, perhaps if he hadn’t been in unfamiliar surroundings, perhaps if he hadn’t had his guard down, he would have seen them coming out of the shadows. But he didn’t. The crack to the back of his head knocked him out cold.
CHAPTER THREE
Tallis was furious. Piecing together the turn of events, not easy with a blistering headache, he believed he’d been driven in the boot of a car, probably the same VW he’d spotted the day before, hauled out and dumped in his present surroundings. Blindfolded, hooded and cuffed with his hands behind his back, he was unable to make accurate observations other than that he could smell damp and hear water. It was also freezing, indicating a basement. He was aware of others, but so far nobody had spoken. He sensed how this played out. They, whoever they happened to be, were using intimidation to make him feel isolated and abandoned. It worked. Loneliness swept over him.
He took a deep breath, wondered how the hell he was going to improvise his way out of the situation, a situation, he was forced to admit, that he didn’t yet fully understand. His greatest fear was that he had fallen into the hands of the Mafia. Didn’t matter which variety. Serb or Croatian, too many had fought like animals during the war. And if he had fallen unlucky, Tallis could already write the script: torture, intense pain and certain death. Somehow training and experience didn’t compute with some of the very nasty things that could be done to him.
A voice penetrated the cloak of darkness. ‘Who are you?’
Tallis registered surprise. What did an American want with him? Then he almost let out a groan as a bleak picture of an unofficial detention centre in Turkey flashed in front of his eyes. This was swiftly superseded by memories of an American called Koroglu, an agent with the Central Intelligence Agency. Surely, this wasn’t a case of settling old scores? Whatever the truth, it wasn’t good news. The Americans might not be monsters, as they were often portrayed, but they still carried out a mean line in interrogation - off the record, of course - in spite of their President’s declared opposition to it.
He inclined towards the voice, tried to keep his own steady and detached. ‘If you are who I think you are, you know damn well who I am.’ They’d have no doubt checked his mobile phone.
The hood came off, leaving the blindfold on, a relief of sorts. Next followed a hard slap. Judging by the trajectory of the blow, he guessed the deliverer of rough justice was also his interrogator. Cheek throbbing, Tallis gathered himself for what surely lay ahead. The question was repeated, louder this time. Keep it simple, he thought, believing that he, at least, possessed one clear advantage: he could afford to tell the truth, a refreshing change. He leant forward and spoke with controlled aggression, as a man with right on his side.
‘My name is Paul Tallis.’
‘What’s your connection to Dario Garich?’ Same voice. Same no-bullshit tone.
‘My connection?’ He paused. The unsavoury feeling he’d experienced earlier coiled in the pit of his stomach. Why was this American interested in Dario? His hesitation cost him. The ensuing blows were double-sided. Tallis felt the pores in his skin swell with sweat.
‘What the hell is this about? Dario is a family friend.’
‘You’re Croatian?’
‘I’m British. The Croatian roots are on my mother’s side.’
‘You speak the language?’
‘As a matter of fact I…’
‘So you were able to tip off your friend.’
‘Tip him off about what?’ Tallis was genuinely mystified.
Rather than answering the question, his interrogator posed another. ‘You found Garich?’
‘No.’
‘You were intending to find Garich?’
‘Well, yes,’ Tallis said, uncertain. What’s the problem? he thought.
‘Why?’
‘Look, can I sit down?’
‘No.’
Fine. Start again, Tallis thought. ‘I was told he’d gone missing.’
‘By whom?’
‘My mother.’
‘Who lives where?’
‘In the UK, Herefordshire. SAS territory, if you’re interested.’
His questioner wasn’t. Another man spoke. ‘Where is Garich?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You sure about that?’ A note of menace hinted at unrestrained violence. Keep talking, Tallis thought, sweating heavily. Keep stalling.
‘Positive,’ he said. ‘I don’t…’
‘What do you know about him?’
‘Know?’ Tallis didn’t really understand the question. He racked his brains for something to say, something he could give them. ‘Look, I was told Dario has involvement in the cigarette business. I was led to believe he has criminal connections, that he’s upset people. Only problem with the story: I can’t find a shred of truth in it.’
Silence.
‘Well?’ he said, blending a speculative note into his voice.
He felt the air close to him redistribute. One of the men swept past. There was a noise like the clanking of chain behind. Then his arms were lifted up high behind his back, the handcuffs attached to a point on the wall so that his body tipped forward in a stress position. Tallis heard the sound of four pairs of boots against stone making an exit.
He was alone. And he was afraid.
Asim and his Secret Intelligence Service counterpart Jonathan Beckett - Jonty to his friends - had come from the top floor of the director general’s office. Weekly meetings between MI5 and SIS were standard. In theory, they provided an opportunity to exchange information to aid the prevention of terrorism. In practice, they gave each a chance to view the other with contempt. Historically, Five regarded the SIS as a bunch of arrogant underachievers good at talking the talk but poor on delivery. The SIS regarded Five as a group of pedantic, navel-gazing pen-pushers who spent their days in endless meetings. And this was one of them. But this was no ordinary get-together. This was the shape of things to come. The green ink on the piece of paper signed by C said so.
‘After you,’ Asim said, allowing Beckett to enter the lift first. He could afford to be magnanimous. As a consequence of his recent success, sweeping changes had been made, resulting in a restructuring of his little band of warriors. Asim, it was universally acknowledged, had received the service equivalent to a knighthood.
Beckett nodded, strode inside and, with sharp brown eyes, surveyed him with an analytical expression, giving Asim the impression that Beckett despised him in spite of his achievements. Unlike Beckett, Asim was part of the new breed. Ambitious, he’d been on every management and leadership course available and recognised the value of technology. Beckett was, above all, old school and deeply competitive. He spoke several languages, including Mandarin, and was extremely well connected. His work record was exemplary, and his reputation for straight talking was legendary. Taller than the average intelligence officer, he had developed a slight stoop. In spite of this, he had an enviably lean figure for a man in his fifth decade.
Beckett pressed the button for the second floor. Neither man spoke. Each held files, the contents thick with incidents involving United Nations personnel. Asim deduced that underneath the reasoned and rational façade, Beckett was a man seething with unresolved anger at being forced to work, as the saying went, outside his box. His chilly manner suggested that he didn’t give a damn about new practices, that he regarded himself as senior in the pecking order and his people superior to Asim’s. Always were. Always would be.
The doors sprang apart. Beckett exited. Asim followed him down a corridor and into a room designated for joint ‘off-the-books’ operations.
‘A catalogue of sins,’ Beckett opined, placing his file on the highly polished table with an air of deliberation.
‘Our stock-in-trade,’ Asim said, drawing up a chair. During the past six months, hostile acts against United Nations staff had risen seven-fold. A finale, in the shape of a full-on attack on headquarters, could not be ruled out.
Beckett concurred with a slight nod. He pushed the dossier aside. ‘To more immediate matters,’ he said, eyeing Asim, ‘the tracking down of Dario Garich. Been able to contact your man yet?’
‘Tallis? No.’
‘Pity. I was rather hoping we could steal a march on the Yanks, what with his family connections.’
‘Thought we were supposed to be working with them, not scoring points,’ Asim said.
Beckett flashed him a pitying look. The subtext: got a lot to learn, my boy.
Sweat poured off him. His arms felt as if they’d been dislocated from the sockets. His hands were numb, unlike the rest of his body. Pain crawled through the nerve endings. And there was a nasty extra: he kept seeing the bodies of Russians he’d killed on his last mission.
In an effort to keep his ghosts at bay, he ran through all the possible permutations behind his incarceration, even wondering whether it was a training exercise laid on by Asim. Almost hallucinating with pain, he bet a bloke from the Secret Intelligence Service was studying him from another room, feeding lines to the Yanks.
By the time his interrogators decided to return, Tallis was ready to start lying if he had to. Personally, he’d never been an advocate for torture. Aside from the human rights issues, the degrading of both victim and torturer, frightened men did not tell the truth. They said only what their interrogators wanted to hear. Right now, he’d pretty much do and say anything to get his torturers to liberate him from his agonies.
‘Ready to start talking?’ an American voice snarled.
‘Only if you release me.’
‘That’s not how it works, buddy.’
‘I told you, I know nothing of Dario Garich’s whereabouts. I know nothing other than what I’ve already said about his activities. I am here strictly as a favour for my mother, and if you really want to find the answers I suggest you go and talk to Dario’s wife, Jana, or his brother, Goran.’
Silence.
‘One other thing,’ Tallis said, forcing out the words, teeth gritted against the gamble he was about to take. ‘I don’t know what outfit you hail from but, if you want to find out what I do as my day job, the words Koroglu and Turkey might sharpen your thinking.’
Hell, Tallis thought, as they trooped back out again. Perhaps he’d succeeded only in making things worse. He imagined the phone call, the passing on of intelligence. Although he didn’t officially exist, he didn’t doubt that the Americans would match him in a secret database of spies, official and otherwise. What seemed like an hour passed, but it could have been minutes. Eventually he felt strong hands upon him. Seconds later, Tallis was sitting down, the blindfold and handcuffs removed. Someone offered him a drink of water. He blinked, flexed his arms in front of him, rounding his back, trying to get some feeling into his aching shoulders.
The guy standing closest to him introduced himself as Jon. Medium height, stocky build, short dark hair, wide jaw, nice dentistry, Tallis registered. He paid no attention to the other three. He was interested only in the organ grinder, not his gum-chewing monkeys.
‘Thank you,’ Tallis said with a penetrating stare, taking the glass of water and drinking it down in one.
‘Why didn’t you say you work for British intelligence?’
‘I don’t,’ Tallis said, unsmiling.
‘OK, why didn’t you say you work as a mercenary for the Brits?’
Mercenary? It would have to do, he guessed. ‘Because I like living dangerously.’
‘So you’re here undercover, right?’
‘Wrong. Like
I said, I’m here as a favour.’
Jon scratched his head, looked at the others, who stopped chewing and shrugged.
‘Garich is on the run from you guys, isn’t he?’ For reasons Tallis hadn’t worked out.
Jon nodded slowly. ‘Seems you don’t know much about your friend.’
‘I know enough to vouch that he’s a decent…’
‘He’s a war criminal.’
Tallis felt the breath go out of him. ‘No, you’ve got it wrong.’ People did. He should know.
Jon continued to speak. ‘The Serbs have taken a lot of heat for what happened in Bosnia, but they weren’t the only ones slitting young men’s throats.’
Tallis didn’t need a lecture. He appreciated more than most that all sides had inflicted cruelty.
‘So far forty-three of forty-four have been caught,’ Jon continued. ‘Garich is forty-four.’
‘Forty-four?’ Tallis said in disbelief. ‘Based on what intelligence?’
Jon crossed his arms, gave him a flinty look, suggesting that Tallis just wasn’t getting it. ‘Heard of the Jokers?’
Tallis had. ‘A Bosnian-Croat paramilitary group.’
‘Right,’ Jon said. ‘He teamed up with them. And believe me, Mr Tallis, there is nothing amusing about the atrocities they carried out.’
A hard lump materialised in Tallis’s throat. He’d imagined many things but not something as monstrous as this. He remembered Dario the hunter, Dario always laughing, Dario the butcher. Jesus, he thought.
‘Think you can help us find him?’
‘This puts me in a difficult position.’
‘Appreciate that, but,’ Jon said, eagle-eyed, ‘trust me. We can make it impossible if you refuse.’
Tallis glanced away, tried to think. Not easy. He felt heat, no light. Had done from the day he’d escaped from Russia and come back home. ‘Maybe,’ he said eventually.
‘Want to?’
Tallis hesitated. How would Asim feel about it?
‘You have a loyalty problem with this?’ Jon’s expression was searing.
Resolution to Kill Page 3
