Deathlist (26 page)

‘Roughly six minutes ago, old fruit.’ Hawkridge paused. There was the sound of paper rustling in the background. ‘To a company called Divine Pleasures. They’re based in Paceville over in a town called Saint Julian’s. North of your location.’

‘What time did they ask for the girls?’

‘Soon as possible, old fruit.’ Hawkridge cleared his throat. ‘It seems our Serbian friends are an impatient bunch. They’re sending out two ladies at this very moment. Blondes.’

Porter glanced down at the detailed map of the area spread out across the kitchen table. Saint Julian’s was situated five miles to the north of Valletta. He found the address and quickly calculated the route. A cab ride from the Paceville district to St Paul’s Street would take twenty-five minutes, max. It would take Porter and Bald maybe five minutes to drive down to St Paul’s from the apartment. Maybe eight minutes in traffic. They’d have to bug out of the apartment in the next few minutes in order to set everything up in time for the intercept.

He said, ‘What are their names?’

‘Sapphire and Charity. Not real. Obviously.’

Porter said, ‘Nationality?’

‘Romanian.’

‘Got it.’

Porter hung up. Punched in a ten-digit number and put in a call to Devereaux on the mobile burner the Aussie was packing. Gave him the description of the two hookers and their ETA.

‘Just make sure those girls don’t reach the penthouse,’ said Porter.

‘On it, fella.’

Then Porter killed the call. Turned to Bald.

‘Well?’ the Jock asked.

‘We’re on,’ Porter said.

At that moment the bathroom door swung open and the two Firm lasses swaggered out in their whore kit. Bald took one look at them and dropped his jaw so far it almost thudded against the kitchen floor. The girls were unrecognisable from the two plain birds who’d stepped off the plane at Luqa. Ophelia wore a skin-tight red mini-skirt and a pair of six-inch platform heels, with a tight black crop-top that barely stretched across her smooth breasts. Evelyn wore a pair of knee-high leather fuck-me boots and a black lace-fringe dress that reached teasingly down to her arse. The pair of them had more curves than a Monte Carlo racetrack. They were caked in make-up and the blonde wigs completed the look. Bald could feel a boner coming on as he checked the spies out.

‘Okay,’ Ophelia said coolly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘We’re ready.’

Bald grinned. ‘That’s one way of putting it, love.’

Evelyn shot him a look. She had a stern, businesslike manner about her. Professional. But something about her told Porter that she could put on a sexy pout when the mission called for it. That’s what made them so dangerous. And why they were so good at their job. They understood that a compelling disguise was about more than slapping on some eyeliner and a blonde wig. These lasses could change their entire personalities at the drop of a hat.

Ophelia turned to Porter and said, ‘Do you want to tell us who’s who?’

It took Porter a moment to compose himself. Just staring at the spies reminded him that it had been a while since he’d last got a bird in the sack. Not since the breakdown of his marriage. A hot feeling stirred up inside him just then, but he quickly blocked it from his mind. He had a mission to complete, and a pair of Serbs to grab and torture. Everything else was secondary to revenge. That’s how it would remain until they had avenged all those who had died in the Brecons.

He said, ‘One of you is Sapphire. The other one’s Charity.’

Evelyn rolled her eyes. ‘With names like that, who’d ever think they were prostitutes?’

Ophelia said, ‘Anything else we should know?’

‘The girls are from Romania. You’ll have to wing it. Say there’s been a mix-up at the agency.’

‘What’s the name of it? The agency.’

‘Divine Pleasures. They’re based over in Paceville.’

‘Imaginative,’ said Evelyn.

Porter stiffened his jaw and said, ‘Just focus on getting us inside the apartment. We know that Kavlak and Petrovich like to crack open a bottle of vodka and have themselves a party before they get down to any action. That’s your best window of opportunity to spike their drinks.’

‘We know.’ Evelyn sounded impatient. ‘We’ve been through this already.’

‘Then we’ll go through it again,’ said Porter, forcefully. ‘It shouldn’t take more than seven or eight minutes to knock the Serbs out. Make sure you don’t overdo it on the drugs or you’ll put them in a coma. Once they’re out cold, get on the blower and ring the number for my burner. Hang up as soon as I answer. Then we’ll enter the building. We’ll be close by in the getaway car. If there’s any problems, activate the transponder in your purse.’

‘Thanks,’ said Ophelia. ‘But we can handle ourselves.’

Porter stepped towards the spy. Placed a hand on her shoulder and fixed his gaze on her.

‘These guys are fucking killers. They shot dead Regiment men in cold blood. Take it from me, love. If they find out who you are, they won’t hesitate to put a bullet between your eyes.’

Ophelia adjusted her bra and said, ‘You don’t need to worry about us. We know what we’re doing. We’ve done this sort of thing before.’

‘I bet you have,’ said Bald. ‘What are you doing after this?’

‘Getting on a plane,’ Ophelia replied. ‘And definitely not calling you.’

‘You’re missing out, lass. Us Scots are harder than those poofs from down south.’

‘I’ll have to take your word for it.’

‘It’s time,’ said Porter, checking his watch. ‘Let’s do this.’

The two operators slid out of their chairs. Ophelia grabbed her clutch purse, containing the two small vials filled with GHB and an emergency transponder.

Then they made for the door.

1959 hours.

Twenty-one minutes later an unmarked taxi pulled up on the corner of St Paul’s Street and Saint Lucia. Two women climbed out of the back seats and stepped out into traffic. One of them paid the driver, and the guy took off. Then the women crossed the street and strutted towards the apartment block at number 215.

Devereaux saw them from his position thirty metres to the west of the taxi, behind the wheel of the Ford Transit. He’d been sitting there for the past two hours, watching and waiting. Coles sat alongside him, cracking his knuckles and chewing tobacco furiously. They were parked directly outside the apartment building, at the side of a steep and narrow street flanked by ancient baroque buildings. In the distance Devereaux could see the streets leading on a sharp decline all the way down to the old fortifications that ringed the city. Like a ski slope made out of concrete. Beyond the fortifications stood a narrow band of sea, gunmetal and choppy in the January gloom.

The apartment block looked like any of the other buildings lining Valletta’s cramped streets. Five storeys high with a limestone façade that had faded in the sun, overhanging balconies on each floor and Venetian blinds on the windows. The main entrance was a two-metre-high wooden door with a pair of stone lion heads fixed either side of it. The street was deserted. Had been for the past forty-five minutes. The government workers had clocked off for the day. The tourists had migrated to the bars and cafes on Old Theatre Street a hundred metres or so to the north. Everyone else had gone home.

Devereaux saw the two whores immediately. Hookers dressed the same the world over. They didn’t go for subtle. Not unless the clients were paying big bucks for the girlfriend experience and taking them out on a date. Most punters wanted something trashy-looking in something leather and tight that didn’t leave a whole lot to the imagination. These two more than fit the bill. They were dressed in matching black mini-skirts and platform heels and low-cut tops. One of them was maybe five-five and had the whole petite thing going on. Her fake breasts were tightly packed into her strapless white tank top. The other one was taller and slightly darker. She was all legs. Every inch of the two women screamed
hooker
.

‘They’re here,’ said Devereaux. ‘Let’s go.’

They slipped on their black ski masks. Sprang open their side doors and debussed from the Transit. Glanced up and down the street. All clear. The hookers were five or six metres away. Strutting towards the entrance to the apartment block. They moved slowly. They had to. Wearing heels that high, moving fast wasn’t an option. Petite was rooting around in her clutch purse. Legs was fiddling with her mini-skirt, hitching it even higher.

Neither of them saw the two masked men in dark clothes pacing towards them.

Not until it was too late.

‘Hey,’ Devereaux called out.

Legs turned to face him. An instinctive reaction. Someone calls out to you, you stop and turn to see who it is. Devereaux stepped forward and flattened his right hand into a solid palm. He thrust out with his arm as his front foot hit the deck, pushing through and throwing his body weight into his palm strike. He aimed for the hooker’s solar plexus, at the top of the abs and just below the sternum. Devereaux kept his arm muscles relaxed. He didn’t need to hit her very hard. A solar plexus strike isn’t flashy, but the best attacks never are. Devereaux had once seen a guy knock a Muay Thai fighter out cold with a single well-aimed palm strike.

The blow stunned Legs. Devereaux’s palm struck her just below the breastbone with a jarring blow, causing her diaphragm to spasm. She formed an ‘O’ with her mouth and doubled over. Coles struck out at Petite before she could let out a scream. She folded at the waist and dropped to her knees, retching and gasping. Devereaux grabbed Legs by the arm. Yanked open the side door on the Transit and shoved her roughly inside. Legs didn’t fight him. She couldn’t. She was too busy trying to breathe. Coles hauled Petite to her feet and bundled her into the back of the Transit alongside Legs. Then the two operators climbed in after the hookers and pulled the side door shut. They bound the whores’ wrists and ankles with zip wire. Stuffed rags in their mouths and pulled blindfolds over their eyes. Legs started to scream through her gag, kicking out at the Transit’s back door. Devereaux knelt beside her.

‘We don’t want to hurt you,’ he said calmly. ‘If you stay quiet, you’ll be free in a couple of hours. You have my word. But if you make trouble, you won’t leave us any choice. Nod if you understand.’

Legs stilled. Then she nodded. It made sense. A Romanian hooker in her thirties working in Valletta. She’d probably been threatened on multiple occasions. By boyfriends. By pimps. Probably by some of her clients too. Probably had a gun pointed at her before. She’d made it this far in life. Therefore she was a survivor. Therefore she wouldn’t do anything to upset her captors. She would cling to the promise of freedom and concentrate all her energies on surviving through to that moment. Petite took her lead from Legs and stopped struggling as well.

Devereaux climbed back out of the side of the Transit. Left Coles to watch over the two hookers. Then he hopped into the front cab, fired up the engine and bulleted west down St Paul’s Street. If the girls were going to struggle it would be in the first few minutes after they’d been snatched. Devereaux would do a couple of loops of the old town, so that their cries would be drowned out by the Transit.

The first part of the operation was complete.

2002 hours.

Forty metres to the east, Porter and Bald watched the Transit pushing west down St Paul’s.

They had moved into position twelve minutes earlier. The two operators sat up front in the Alfa Romeo, with the two spies in the rear passenger seats. They’d parked on the crossroads of St Paul’s and Triq L’Arcisqof, next to a retro British sweet shop called Bertie’s and a tacky jewellers called Kaufmann & Co. Both men were packing their Beretta 92s, strapped to shoulder holsters concealed beneath their sherpa-lined denim jackets.

Porter nodded at Ophelia and Evelyn in the rear-view.

‘We’re on,’ he said. ‘Get moving.’

The spies grabbed their clutch purses and stepped out of the Alfa. Then they crossed the street and beat a brisk path towards the apartment block. Bald got an eyeful as they approached the entrance. The pair of them had cracking arses. The birds were stern and posh and sexy all in the same breath. They weren’t normally his kind of woman, but Bald could swear that the one in the leather boots had been giving him the eye back at the apartment. He whistled.

‘Fuck me. Those lasses look the part all right.’

Porter grunted. ‘Let’s hope those Serbs have got a solid lead on the 2i/c. Because if they don’t, we’ve hit a fucking dead end.’

Bald grunted. ‘They’ll know. If those Serbs fought under Brozovic back in the day, they’ll have a handle on where the lieutenant’s hiding.’

‘And if they don’t?’

Bald shrugged. ‘Then we’ll slot the fuckers anyway.’

There was a hardness to his voice that told Porter he meant every word. Porter still wasn’t sure what to make of Bald. He respected the Jock’s abilities as an operator. But the more he thought about what Bald had said in Puerto Banus, the more he was convinced that the guy had lied to him.

There was no way that blonde in the Piano Bar was a solicitor. She didn’t look the type. Even if she was, why would Bald meet her in the bar of a posh London hotel and outside the safe house, instead of her own office? No. Something else was going on with Bald. Porter was certain of it. Maybe there were drugs in the envelope? Dirty money? He couldn’t know for sure. But he’d heard the rumours doing the rounds at Hereford. The ones that said Bald had his fingers in more pies than Mary Berry. He wasn’t to be trusted, the other lads said. He’s dodgy.