Hunter (22 page)

Absently looking up into the appalling weather, 
Colonel Hamba knew he had stumbled upon the glaring gap in Demaci's account. How, if he was where he said he was during the attack by the pirates, would Demagi know that the body of the security man was retrieved by the Maltese authorities? Or even that the man's body was full of bullet holes, face down in the water? Most importantly, not once throughout the entire deposition did Demagi make any inquiry or display any concern whatsoever as to the whereabouts of this Charlotte-Rose Fleming, who he claimed to be the other victim.

"I've got you," Hamba said to himself. He would return first thing in the morning to continue his interrogation of Demagi and he would get to the bottom of the foreigner's story then. Meanwhile, food and wine was required and there was a particularly attractive, buxom and very lonely divorcee waiting for him at his favorite restaurant in downtown Mandia.

Striding purposefully around the reception desk, Hamba pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed.

"This is Colonel Hamba," he said, awaiting acknowledgment. "Send my car around to the reception area of the hospital and tell the duty officer I want a guard placed outside the foreigner's hospital room immediately. Mr Demaci is not to leave until I return in the morning."

PETRELS, ALBANIA

As last light fell into step with the thousands of tired workers spilling out onto Tirana's sidewalks and the city's peak hour got into full swing, Alex Morgan followed Lorenc Gjoka's Mercedes at a discreet distance through the rapidly congesting streets. Like any other city in the world, Friday night had arrived in Tirana and anticipation of the weekend ahead had begun. But for Morgan, it was highly unlikely that his Friday night was going to be anything but dangerous. His anticipation was driven more by a desire to make it through alive than just getting through Saturday and Sunday without a hangover.

Morgan was amazed at how recklessly Gjoka drove, stopping and starting unexpectedly, changing lanes at speed, weaving erratically through the busy traffic. Red brake lights blazed like distress flares, drivers executed aerial dog fight maneuvers to get clear of him and horns blasted relentless broadsides in his wake.
Jesus! The
guy was a moving disaster zone. It was obvious he was using his cell phone while blindly negotiating his way through the melee. Who was he calling that couldn't wait? His mistress? An airline? The railway? Or what if it was backup? Had Morgan been compromised? Instinctively, the Intrepid agent dropped further back into the traffic to reduce 
his chances of being seen. Regrettably, this also made it harder to keep track of Gjoka in the early evening peak, but Morgan knew where they were headed. He'd pick him up again on the outskirts of town if he had to.

Despite the aggravating demeanor of this annoying little rat, Morgan kept reminding himself not to underestimate the man. Morgan had no idea what to expect at the chateau. What if the whole mistress thing was just a ruse? A guy with Gjoka's experience would have to have an extraction plan. He'd be a fool not to. No, whatever else he may be, one thing he definitely was not was a fool. Gjoka was a survivor.

Morgan shifted his mental image of Gjoka from annoying little rat to irritating cockroach.

Up ahead the erratic attack against other drivers continued. If his driving alone was anything to go by, Gjoka was rattled. Nobody would drive this badly normally, especially not a cop. The man was feeling the pinch. The surveillance team were right to call forward the arrest. Morgan had the distinct impression that this was a man in a desperate hurry, and not just to get laid by his mistress in the mountains.

Before long they had crossed the aqueduct that fish hooked around the bottom of the city, and were heading south along the E852 route. The traffic crush eased and the narrow road became a meandering snake through the hills, not much more than an old horse track that had at some point been widened and sealed. In no time it became dark and Morgan strained to keep the old Mercedes' red tail lights in view, as houses and shopfronts close by the road's edge shot past in a blur. He raced through one settlement after
another, while in the distance the lights from lonely villages up on the hillsides sailed slowly across the blackened landscape like the lights of distant ships at sea.

Approaching the village of Lunder, Morgan saw a Euro Drin services center and felt hungry. Food would have to wait, he realized disconsolately. It'd be close to midnight, he reckoned, before he'd even get a chance to eat. More importantly, he'd scoped Lun-der on the GPS and had stored it as a mental trigger to remind him that the road would soon do a long sweep around to the south-west before a natural left turn near Stermas would bring him back to a heading due south.

The road toward and beyond Stermas ran around a long finger of land that ran back up into the mountains, its tip pointing ominously in the direction Morgan was heading. He had to contend with the frustration of regularly losing sight of the old Mercedes through all the twists and turns that led into Petrele. Where there were straight stretches he'd chance a bit of extra speed to keep up. It helped, marginally, but soon he was across the Mulleti Bridge, and the road closed in and trees with white-painted trunks and low stone walls appeared on either side. He took the right-hand fork toward Petrele and as the car climbed the hill into the village, Morgan could see from the lights in the distance just how high and remote he was up here: Tirana was now a flat cluster of sparkling gold. The road continued in a series of tight hairpin turns up to the center of the village and as he finally reached the top he saw the silhouette of the castle tower Therese St Marie had told him to look out for.

"It was built in the fifth century, you know. In fact the whole place is pretty much all that's left of an ancient castle,' she'd said when she called to check that he'd received the images she'd sent through.

Made sense to build a fortress up here, he thought with a soldier's instinct for defenses; dominate the high ground. In daylight you'd be able to see for miles in every direction. How appropriate for Gjoka to establish his little hideaway up here, albeit one with a distraction.

Driving carefully through the streets of the centuries-old village, Morgan saw the tail lights of the Mercedes extinguish up ahead. He pulled into a parking bay for sightseers. There were a few people about, so his presence wasn't unusual. Through his wing mirrors, he watched Gjoka lock his car and stride into a small local restaurant. Turning in his seat to get a clearer view, he saw the man approach a thirty-something woman at a table by the window. As she stood to kiss him, Morgan noticed that she was quite a bit taller than Gjoka.

The two of them sat down at the window table, chatting. She traced bright pink fingernails seductively along his forearms, he squirmed excitedly in his seat and then they started to peruse the chef's specials. Morgan wondered if Gjoka would order from the kids' menu.

Perhaps he was going to ditch the wife, and the mistress was going to flee the country with him instead. This guy just got lower and lower on Morgan's snake scale.

MAHDIA, TUNISIA

Raoul Demaci was sitting up in the hospital bed, agitated and impatient. Where was he? It was taking too long. The trip back to Tunis International Airport would take them two hours. There wasn't time for delays.

A policeman had been placed on guard duty outside the room. According to the idiot colonel, the policeman was there to keep Mr Demaci safe from any possibility of reprisal or second thoughts by his kidnappers.

But Demaci was no fool. He knew Hamba was suspicious. Waiting around until morning was too dangerous and, besides, it was never what Demaci had had in mind.

"Excuse me, officer," he called weakly from the bed.

After a few moments the door opened and a middle-aged, overweight policeman with iron-gray hair and a full, walrus-style moustache wandered in. His expression was one of disinterest and mild annoyance. He didn't like having his working day extended without notice just to babysit a wealthy foreigner.

"Yes, sir?" the policeman said.

"Would you please tell me the time?"

"Yes, sir. It is—" he consulted his watch, " —4.45pm." "Thank you. It's possible that a person from my
company may arrive soon. I'd be very grateful if you would show him in."

"I wasn't aware that any visitors had been authorized by Colonel Hamba, sir,' replied the policeman.

"It's all been arranged," answered Demaci, smoothly dismissing the man's concerns. "I was allowed to put a call through from the police station in El Djem, before we left to come up here. I've asked that some clothes and toiletries be brought in. That's all."

"You know this person?"

"He's from our office in Tunis," replied Demaci. "He's a young man, dark hair, average height and build. His name is Dmitri. He should be here very soon.

The policeman looked warily at Demaci. The duty officer had been clear that this man was to be treated with utmost caution, but the policeman also didn't want any complications tonight. He was sure that this foreigner would be the type to cause trouble over every little thing. Besides, if he just had some clothes being brought in, what harm could there be in that?

"OK," he said. "I'll keep an eye out for him. But you know that you're not to leave the hospital."

Demaci's face suddenly became fierce and his blue-gray eyes blazed like a fanned flame. His deep voice cut across the room like the delayed report of heavy artillery firing on the horizon.

"What did you say? I cannot leave? Am I now your hostage?"

The words hit the old policeman with a crack, unnerving him. He stood quietly dumbfounded. The ferocity of the man was completely unexpected. On 
the surface, it appeared that the foreigner was simply making an inquiry but, in reality, he was issuing a warning.

"Well?"

"No. No, sir,' the old man replied unconvincingly. "It's just that my superiors want you to remain safe ... here in the hospital, where we can take care of you."

A stony silence crept into the tiny room and felt like ice. The old man found himself riveted to the floor, unable to move.

After a while Demaci said, "Fine, show Dmitri in when he gets here. I'd like some coffee."

The old cop turned on his heel and headed for the staff kitchen.

Watching the empty doorway, Demaci forced himself to take a deep breath. The urge to lose control was overwhelming. He had to remain calm for just a bit longer. Soon Dmitri would arrive; then he could start getting everything the way it was always meant to be.

As he heard footsteps echoing along the narrow corridor, the tranquility of the moment was callously invaded by the face of his old mentor forcing its way into his thoughts.

"Yes, Drago," said Demaci to the empty room. "I will fix everything, but you better be prepared for when I come back to fix you."

There was a knock on the half-open door, a man appeared and Demaci threw his arms up with relief.

"Dmitri," he exclaimed. "What has taken you so long?"

"I'm sorry,
sefa,"
Dmitri replied deferentially. "There was a bad accident on the outskirts of town. The news broadcast is blaming the weather; it's ter
rible out there. Just as I was attempting to get through, the police blocked the roads to allow for ambulances and fucking fire trucks. Is there a problem?"

"Yes, I can't wait until the morning. These fucking cops are suspicious, so my plan to get them to legitimize my return from captivity has gone to shit." He grabbed the bag of clothes from Dmitri and began to dress. "We must leave tonight. The only thing that matters now is that I get to Seattle before they have time to warn her. Have you booked the flights?"

"Yes,
sefa,"
Dmitri said eagerly. "Just as you ordered; I've booked one at 8.30 tonight and another, the last flight, leaves at 2.45am. We still have time to fly this evening if we hurry. It's an Air France flight. Two stopovers: Marseille and Paris. Arrives in Seattle at 1.10pm local time tomorrow. I've also booked the midday flight and two more tomorrow night, to be safe. All booked and paid for."

"Good, we don't need to worry about those other flights; we'll take the Air France at 8.30 tonight and you will go as far as Paris. I will travel on my own from there."

"Yes,
sefa.
Here's your new passport. It's an EU, in the name of Adolfo Mendosa. Spanish."

"Excellent work, Dmitri. Quickly, let's—"

They turned to find the old policeman standing in the doorway holding a steaming, hot cup of coffee. His face smothered by uncertainty.

"What is happening?" he asked. "Why are you dressed? I said—"

"Now, now, officer," Demaci responded, full of charm as he walked over and relieved the man of the 
coffee. "Thank you for this and, as you can see, my friend, Dmitri, has arrived with my things."

It only took a matter of seconds but those seconds were the last few in the old policeman's life. While Demaci talked and skillfully distracted his attention, a thin blade appeared in the palm of Dmitri's right hand.

PETRELE, ALBANIA

Morgan checked the time on the Passat's dashboard clock. It was 9pm.

He'd been forced to wait, impatiently, while Lorenc Gjoka and his mistress whispered sweet nothings at each other over dinner and, rather than looking obvious by sitting in his car the whole time, Morgan had found a small café on the other side of the square where he could keep an eye on them. He was pleased that he actually had time to eat something - he'd been on the go ever since he'd left Berlin at midday. In this job, he mused, if the jet-lag didn't kill you, starvation was always just a few steps behind. But now he was back in his car again; Gjoka was paying their bill over in the restaurant and his mistress was waiting by the Mercedes.

The dinner had been innocent enough and the two of them appeared to be in high spirits throughout - albeit with an undercurrent of nervous tension, which supported Morgan's prediction that they were going to take off together. What did bother Morgan, though, was that during the meal, he'd noticed a large black van doing randomly timed drive bys of the restaurant. It had driven past three times that he'd seen. It was impossible to be sure if the two were related, but it kept him on his toes. He'd made a note of the registration plates.

Morgan watched as the Mercedes pulled away from the restaurant and drove out of Petrele, heading south along Rruga Durishtit, the road leading to the chateau. He waited. He knew the house was only a few hundred yards along the ridge line. If he followed straight away he might as well have asked them for a lift. He was confident that they would be returning to her house to collect personal effects and either leave immediately or get a good night's sleep and take off first thing in the morning. Otherwise, why would Gjoka drive all the way up here and stop for a private, romantic meal? Morgan's money was on them leaving immediately. He checked the dashboard clock again and, satisfied that a few minutes had passed, he drove off.

Cruising with excruciating slowness along Rruga Durishtit, there was absolutely no other traffic and, importantly, no lights. As he drew closer to the house, Morgan switched off the headlights of the Passat and kept the speed around 5 miles per hour. The tires crackled and popped along the loose gravel surface of the unsealed road. It was only one lane wide and at some of the hairpin turns along the way, old car tires had been stacked in low walls three or four layers high to warn of the dangerous conditions beyond.
Nothing but world class safety standards out here,
he mused. It took all of Morgan's concentration to negotiate the road in total blackout without going over the edge.

When he finally reached the last bend in the road before the house, his heart almost stopped.

In the pitch darkness of a moonless, starless night with a gentle breeze whistling through the treetops on the hillside, Alex Morgan heard a blood-curdling scream.