Hunter (19 page)

EL DJEM, TUNISIA

Youssef Ali Hassan, the young policeman at his desk diligently filling out a report regarding a tourist being robbed, had no idea his day was about to change.

Youssef took his responsibilities very seriously. He had only been with the police, the Stirete Nationale, a few months and was yet to become jaded by the monotony and relentlessness of compiling police reports. He happily tapped at the prehistoric computer, fastidiously checking every word, comma and period to ensure his report was submitted at the best possible standard. His station, located on the Avenue Mohamed, was a stone's throw from the amphitheatre which, Youssef loved to boast, was featured in the Russell Crowe movie
Gladiator.

It was only 74 degrees Fahrenheit outside but the humidity level was an oppressive 83 per cent. Youssef had a small fan, decades older than the computer, sitting beside him on the desk, directed straight at his face and chest. Still, sweat dripped from his arms onto the veneered bench top and his uniform, pristine when he'd started his shift, clung to him like wet plastic wrap.

Just as he reached the end of his report, his day rocketed out of control.

There came the sudden thud of someone collapsing against the high bench top that served as the station's customer service area and as a barrier to unauthorized entry into the inner sanctum. Startled, Youssef was on his feet.

A man's muscular arms were folded upon the bench top and his head was cradled within them. His thick dark hair was matted with the white dust of the surrounding countryside and his skin was the color of fresh sunburn. He was dressed in Western clothes that, despite their obvious state of disrepair and filth, looked expensive.

"Can I help you, sir?" Youssef offered nervously, gently shaking the man by the shoulder. His clothes, like Youssef's, were also sticky and wet from the humidity. He wore no jewelry, although there was a pale band of skin on the left wrist where a watch would usually sit, and as he lifted his head to speak, Youssef saw lips red and cracked from dehydration. A pair of piercing gray eyes emerged as lids heavy with exhaustion opened. The stranger raised himself slowly, holding the bench with both arms to keep steady.

"Officer, could I trouble you for some water," he began, his voice deep, but raspy and weak. "And perhaps if I could sit ..."

Youssef lifted the entry panel that gave access into the office area and carefully ushered the man in. He sat him down at an empty desk, walked to a back room and returned with a large pitcher of water and a plastic cup. Without a word, Youssef filled the cup and held it to the lips of the stranger, who gratefully relieved him of it with both hands and drank it dry. They repeated the process until he was ready to speak.

"Thank you, officer," he said. "So very much."

"How can I help, sir?" Youssef asked. "Have you been in an accident?"

"No, nothing like that," the man replied. He leant back in the chair and rubbed his hands across his face, collecting his thoughts, ready to begin.

"My name ... is Raoul Demaci."

BERLIN, GERMANY

"Do you think he's ready?" asked Morgan quietly.

"I'm not sure. Do you think he would appreciate more sleep?" Braunschweiger replied. "Perhaps we should ask him."

"Good idea."

Alex Morgan walked to the center of the dimly lit, perfectly square room and took a seat at a perfectly square table. There was only one door into the room and no windows. The walls, floor and ceiling were all once highly polished concrete, but the room had lost its sheen long ago. A single fluorescent tube shone unsteadily in a rusted metal cage, fastened to the ceiling and too high to reach. The walls were light green and plastered with the graffiti of previous occupants, and there'd been plenty of those over the years. Four decades of them, in fact, before it had been closed down, because the politics of the world had changed. The Cold War was over and places such as this had become unpalatable with modern governments. Of course, that didn't mean the location could not still be useful.

Hermann Braunschweiger was familiar with this place. Berlin was his old patch. He'd pulled some strings.

The table was made of metal, like the two chairs that sat on either side of it. The table and both chairs
were bolted to the floor. Directly beneath each chair, a worn D-shaped metal nub protruded from the cement floor; an old tether point for restraining subjects to the chairs. Only one of them was in use today. Around the table were well-worn scuffs in the cement, like cattle tracks, where a great deal of pacing had once occurred.

"You awake?" Morgan asked.

After a few moments the man in the opposite chair replied, "Who are you? I know your face."

The greasy hair was still greasy, hanging lower over the narrow shoulders, Morgan thought, and the scratchy beard was a bit thicker now, still the same red and brown mix of tumbleweed. But the shifty brown eyes, yellowing teeth and cigarette-stained fingers were what Morgan remembered most of all from their first sight of each other. That had been in the offices of Interpol's Special Representative to the UN in New York with Tappin and Ryerson. Unfortunately, that particular meeting had been cut short before they'd had a chance to get to the bottom of the man's past.

"Who I am isn't important," Morgan asserted. "But the questions we are going to ask and the answers you are going to provide are. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he said dolefully. "Where am I?"

The man was slumped in the seat, confused and disoriented from lack of sleep. He had been well prepped by the team, Morgan noticed. They were experts in getting subjects, especially subjects like this one, ready for interview without resorting to pain and suffering - that would be against the rules; although, no doubt civil libertarians would argue the

finer points of exactly what defined "pain and suffering". It meant little to Morgan. He had a job to do and he knew the realities of what creatures like this were prepared to submit other human beings to in order to prolong their own existence.

"Would you like some water?"

"I need a cigarette," he said. "Just a cigarette, please."

"There's no smoking in here," Morgan replied matter-of-factly. "Maybe later, when we're done."

The man's fingers clenched until his knuckles whitened. He was struggling. One simple strategy Morgan knew the prep team had used was to give the subject an unlimited supply of cigarettes for a couple of weeks before withdrawing them completely thirty-six hours ago. It had worked, Morgan noted. This guy was a chain smoker and his addiction, along with some carefully managed sleep deprivation, had his nerves on a knife edge. That was helpful.

"Would you like some water?"

The man nodded. "Yes."

Morgan pulled a small notepad and pencil from his suit jacket while Braunschweiger brought over a plastic bottle of water, unscrewed the lid and placed it down on the table in front of the man. At this, the man opened his eyes properly and looked at the two agents, one seated, one standing 3 feet from him. The expressions on their faces confirmed the magnitude of his dire situation.

"What is your name?" asked Morgan, the pencil in his hand poised over the notepad. His tone was deadpan, unemotional. The timbre of his voice was calm and measured.

"Lazarevic. Durad Lazarevic," he answered weakly, his voice faltering as the words tumbled unconvincingly from his lips.

"Your real name," Morgan responded.

There was a long silence. All that could be heard was the breathing of the three men in the room. The Intrepid agents waited.

"Name?" Morgan asked again, still deadpan.

The man began to fidget, nervously gnawing on ragged fingernails and looking around the cell. His head swiveled back and forth between Morgan and Braunschweiger, with the stilted, artificial movements of a child's wind-up robot, knowing all along that he'd been found out. His arrest, caught red-handed with the girl, their hostage, had taken him and his accomplices way beyond any pitiful protection assumed identities could provide. He was exhausted from the constant stress of living under the fear of surveillance and capture. He scratched his head, shuffling on the seat of the metal chair. One leg was locked in an involuntary spasm.

Looking at him, Morgan knew that his nerves were shot.

"You've got thirty seconds," Morgan said.

Beside him, the Key slowly, deliberately lifted his left arm - bigger than any normal person's leg - and made a show of observing the sweep hand of his watch.

"Twenty-five,' he said.

The subject couldn't take his eyes off Braunschwei-ger. The guy was a monster; sounded German.

"Fifteen," counted the Austrian.

The strength of his resolve to maintain a strong silence was now inexplicably locked in a death struggle
with the incessant
tick tick tick
of the sweep hand as it crept ominously toward its deadline.

"Ten."

He was shaking uncontrollably now, chewing his nails furiously, unable to stop himself from bursting forth with whatever they wanted to hear.

"Five," announced the Key.

Sweat formed an oily slick across his forehead and thick droplets oozed from dark pores, down his face and through the scattered tussock of his beard. His wretched body wriggled and squirmed upon the chair like a schoolboy desperate to be excused but too petrified of the teacher to ask.

"Four. Three."

The fingernails were down to their quicks. The man was about to lose it.

"Two," Braunschweiger declared with finality.

As the sweep hand crashed home and the Key announced "One," the man arched back then fell forward in the chair, both hands grasping either side of his head, the chain ratcheting through the D-ring in the floor.

"Dobrashin Petrovicr he screamed at the top of his voice. "Fuck! Fuck!"

It was the first time he had admitted to that name in a very long time. The release he experienced was both terrifying and cathartic.

"Thank you," said Morgan without emotion or any other reaction to the man's obvious torment and conflict at confirming his identity. Morgan wrote it down.

"Date and place of birth?" he said.

"Come on, you obviously already know,' Petrovic pleaded. "Why must we do this? Give me a cigarette, then I'll tell you what you want to know."

"There's no smoking in here," repeated Morgan dryly. "Date and place of birth?"

Petrovic was now looking up at the Key for support, incredulity scratched all over his face, but getting none. He went to stand.

"You ankles and wrists are shackled and the chain is tethered to the floor beneath your chair," said Morgan. "Remain seated. Date and place of birth?"

Petrovic dropped back down and slammed his hands hard upon the metal table. The impact crashed around the room like a dozen empty garbage cans being hit by a car. The chain rattled madly. Morgan and Braunschweiger were unmoved. They sat impassively, waiting for the frustration to abate. When the echo retreated and the room fell once again into ominous silence, Morgan simply looked at Petrovic.

"Thirtieth of April, 1968," Petrovic answered. "Zeleznik, Belgrade, Serbia."

"Father?"

His elbows sat awkwardly on his knees and his
face
was buried in his hands. His breathing was heavy and labored. The nervous fidgeting, head scratching and nail biting were obviously set to continue until the interview process was concluded. Morgan and Braun-schweiger didn't care. They needed information and would stay put until they had it. No matter how long it took.

"My father;' he began hesitantly. "My father is Branko Petrovic, born Dobanovci, Belgrade, on the twelfth of January 1945."

"Mother?"

There was a long pause.

"Mother?" Morgan repeated.

"My mother was born Ljiljana Komljenovic. She was born in Pane'evo, Belgrade on the first of May, 1946. Both deceased. Killed during the war in '93. And my brother—" He stopped suddenly. He'd gone too far.

This was new, thought Morgan. Simovic hadn't mentioned anything about Petrovic having a brother. "Name?"

"You have what you want. That's all I'm saying. Fuck you!" He slammed his hands down upon the table again.

"Brother's details? Don't make me ask again."

Dobrashin Petrovic fell deathly silent.

Morgan and Braunschweiger watched him intently. Intrepid already knew the details he'd provided about himself and his parents. Mila Haddad had provided that information the moment the dubious bone fides of the informant Lazarevic, now confirmed as Do-brashin Petrovic, had been substantiated.

So far, the interview had been purely the beginning of what was going to be a protracted information-gathering exercise. By asking questions they already knew the answers to they would get him talking, compliant, and confirm whether or not he was going to bullshit them. Their objective was to establish links between Petrovic and Drago. Morgan also had to explore the possibility of a connection between Petrovic and a former Serbian enforcer, apparently known only as the Wolf, who everyone back in London was suddenly very interested in.

Morgan had not been across this Wolf development, but Braunschweiger had brought him up to speed after they'd wrapped up the arrests in Tirana. The latest word from Intrepid headquarters was that
the Wolf was believed to still be operating and, as a result, had now emerged as the prime suspect in the assassination of Judge de Villepin.

That made Petrovic's clumsy, unintentional reference to a brother a revelation.

There'd been nothing about a brother in any of the available intelligence summaries, nor any reference made throughout their lengthy interview with the big Serb, Simovic, back in The Hague.

Simovic's deposition had centered only on specific information he knew about Drago, which was all helpful in adding to the outstanding charges against Drago in the ICTY. The downside was that Simovic had absolutely no knowledge as to Drago's current whereabouts. That was the most closely guarded secret of the
Zmajevi
and only the very inner sanctum, Drago's most trusted few, were in that loop.

Inevitably, Simovic would be required to testify against Drago, which he seemed resolved to do in order to save his own skin. But it dawned on Morgan that Simovic hadn't given up anything at all relating to PetroviC, a brother, or the Wolf. Had he deliberately been avoiding discussion of the Petrovic brothers? If so, why? Was he more fearful of them than of Drago? It occurred to Morgan that at the time of the arrests in Tirana, his gut had told him that Dobrashin Petrovic appeared to be in the management role, albeit frontline, while the big Serb - Simovic - and his offsider Muscles had been doing the heavy lifting stuff.

But right now, Dobrashin Petrovic himself had overstepped his own boundaries and was struggling with the prospect of giving up his brother's name. Finally, they were onto something. The agents remained 
silent, Morgan seated with his notepad and pencil ready to scribble down the information, and the Key standing like a fortress behind his colleague.