Hunter (28 page)

INTERPOL HEADQUARTERS, LYON, FRANCE

By early evening, Braunschweiger had sifted through literally days of CCTV footage.

He'd forgotten how many times he'd reviewed the scenes captured from the apartment block in Albania, where the
Zmajevi
had taken and held Charly. He found himself constantly tracking between the vision of the guy who, at the time, they'd referred to only as the friend of Lazarevic - really Dobrashin Petrovic - and the stuff Dave Sutherland had obtained of the guy who had murdered Judge de Villepin. Despite the deliberately altered appearance, it was definitely the same man, thought the Key, although neither his brother, Dobrashin Petrovic, nor the big Serb, Ivan Simovic, had willingly identified him as Vukasin Pet-rovic. That said, there'd been enough in their reactions to questions about the friend in Albania and de Vil-lepin's killer in France, to create a sufficient level of certainty in the minds of the Intrepid agents that it was in fact, the same man: Vukasin Petrovic, the Wolf.

France. France? Braunschweiger was in France, so what the hell was bugging him about it?

Time for more coffee and some food, he thought. He dialed up to the cafeteria and arranged for a meal to be brought down. Then he went out to the coffee room and fixed another strong pot. Walking back into 
the mini-operations room that had been his home away from home for the past twenty-four hours, Braunschweiger couldn't get his mind off coffee or food. Was there something there?

Sitting back down at the console, his eyes caught a name listed within his email inbox: Sutherland, D.

That was it. Dave Sutherland had managed to acquire from the local authorities in Bordeaux some additional CCTV footage that clearly showed Judge de Villepin out and about. The Key immediately began tapping on the keyboard and brought it up on the screen.

The digital location stamp on the top right corner of the screen, next to the date-time group, said Rue Sainte-Catherine #13, Bordeaux. The scene was a long shot taken along a section of Rue Sainte-Catherine from a camera that must have been situated on a pole 12 feet up, around the height of the awnings along the shop fronts. Perfect. It showed a strip of small restaurants, cafes and shops and, in the middle of the shot, having coffee and reading a newspaper at an outdoor cafe, was Judge de Villepin.

Braunschweiger spent the next forty-five minutes watching the footage in real time, enduring the infuriating stop-start of the time-lapsed digital images. Occasionally he would stop and scroll back to check something that had caught his attention before resuming again. But it was toward the end of the footage that he stopped suddenly, rewound and then paused. He leant forward to the screen to get a closer look before transferring the detailed snapshot up onto a much larger monitor to his right.

He'd paused the footage on a man, tall, dark, good 
looking and well dressed, who had been speaking into a cell phone and then turned away from a shop front. In the action of turning and walking away, his face had been captured perfectly for a split second by the CCTV camera. Gold!

With an expression somewhere between disbelief and elation, Braunschweiger's gaze switched back and forth between the CCTV image from Bordeaux on one screen and the passport photo and the picture Charly had provided of Raoul Demaci on the other.

"Scheisse!"
he said. "No fucking way?'

There was no doubt in his mind - they were a definite match.

SUNSET HILL, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, USA

Early on Saturday afternoon the weather in Seattle was sunny, albeit cool. A strong wind was blowing across Puget Sound and the yachts down at the Shilshole Bay Marina bobbed up and down on the swell, their hundreds of masts tipping erratically left and right like a bunch of unsynchronized, out-of-control metronomes.

The Wolf parked his car on 34th Avenue. He was now familiar with the street and the approaches to the Clancy house because he'd memorized the map and walked the ground during the night. As planned, he'd made it back to the hotel by 4am. He slept deeply and untroubled until mid-morning, ate breakfast in his room, checked emails, slept some more, then showered, dressed and headed out. He dressed casually but well, with expensive jeans, sweater and a tailored sports coat. His shoes were made for trekking, with reinforced toes and good traction. Not in the same league as his clothes but expensive for what they were. Necessary, too. You never knew when you'd need to stomp on a head, kick the shit out of someone or just shoot and run.

With hands thrust inside the pockets of his coat, walking in the general direction of the house with affected nonchalance, he felt through the coat's lining 
for the pistol grip of the Accu-Tek HC-380 semi-automatic shoved into the belt of his jeans. It had been left for him at hotel reception by a local Serbian underworld contact. He'd decided against the pancake holster that came with it because he didn't want to have to explain it in the first few seconds of reuniting with the woman. Without the holster, he could dump the gun anywhere and retrieve it when he was ready.

As he approached the house, he saw a cop sitting in a smart-looking black SUV in the driveway facing out into the street. That's number one, he noted. Number two would be stationed at the rear of the house.

He saw the SUV was parked under a balcony to the right of an enclosed porch and so wasn't visible from within the house. The cop was checking him out from behind the wheel.

The Wolf maintained his casual indifference and kept walking, all the while whistling as he walked.

Both the US marshals on station at the Clancy house that day could hear the strange whistling from the easygoing guy strolling down the street, but neither were familiar with the tune. If they had been, it might have saved their lives.

As the Wolf prepared to enter the rear of the Clancy property through a cluster of trees that had overgrown the back fence, he reluctantly brought to a close his personal rendition of the inspirational and movingly patriotic "Boz
^.
e pravde". It was the Serbian national anthem, "God of Justice".

SEA-TAC AIRPORT, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, USA

From the moment he set foot inside the US frontier at Sea-Tac Airport, Alex Morgan had a taste of the celebrity treatment.

Met in the customs arrivals hall by a US marshal, he was waved straight past the customs formalities. His luggage, along with his gun, was retrieved from stowage and delivered to him on a trolley by a US Customs officer. At the same time, an officious and very respectful young guy suddenly appeared, introduced himself as airport customer service, and took control of Morgan's trolley.

Morgan signed for his gun, leaving it within the sealed, reinforced travel case, and handed the paperwork back to the Customs officer, who countersigned it. After shaking hands cordially, the marshal led him through the labyrinth of the airport's back corridors and office spaces, only accessible to those officially authorized to be airside. Eventually they arrived at a nondescript exit door at the end of a long corridor and walked out into the cool of late afternoon. Morgan was comfortable enough in his suit, but he was glad that he'd thought ahead and carried the trench coat with him rather than pack it into his luggage. Speaking of luggage, the kid with the trolley seemed to be struggling; he was nowhere to be seen, though Mor
gan soon heard a squeaky wheel approaching from behind.

The marshal handed Morgan a set of car keys and walked him over to an immaculate white Dodge Charger SRT8 waiting for him directly opposite the door. The trolley guy finally caught up with them, his jaw visibly dropping at the sight of the Charger. "Sweet wheels," he said. But with a stern look from the marshal, he shut his trap and began packing Morgan's luggage in the trunk.

"Now, who do I have to thank for this little beauty and the red carpet?" Morgan asked the marshal. They'd barely spoken a word throughout the entire rigmarole.

"The car is courtesy of the United States Marshals Service, major," answered the marshal genially. There was military bearing in the guy, Morgan noted; looked like he'd done some time. "As for the red carpet, I think someone big in London called someone big in Washington and, well, it's all way above my pay grade, sir." He smiled. "I just do as I'm told!'

"I get it," Morgan replied, slightly embarrassed. "I really appreciate your help, mate. Sorry if you got dragged away from duty just to come out and shepherd me around."

"Don't mention it," the marshal replied. "My partner and I are due out at the house in about an hour for shift change with the other team, Joe and Sam. I'll check in with you then."

"Sounds good!"

Morgan shook the marshal's hand warmly and jumped behind the wheel, instantly withdrawing his SIG Sauer P226 from the travel case and reinstating it to operational readiness.

The marshal's cell phone rang in his pocket; he took it out.

"It's my boss, I better get this. Ah, major. About the car," he added as the phone continued to ring. "I was told to tell you one very important thing."

"Go ahead,' Morgan replied.

"If you break it, you bought it."

"No worries," Morgan replied with a laugh. "If I mess it up, tell 'em to send the bill to my boss."

A huge toothy smile appeared on the man's face. He banged the roof twice and said, "Keep your powder dry, man," and then answered his phone.

With that, Morgan shifted the Dodge into gear, the 470 horsepower V8 roaring a warning at the road and peeling away from the curbside. As the huge surge of unleashed power pushed him back into the sports seat, Morgan had to remind himself to drive on the wrong side of the road. He changed lanes immediately. He was looking forward to seeing Charly. Talking about the Serbs was officially why he was back in Seattle but it was more than that. He just wished he'd been able to get hold of her sooner to see how she was, but she'd been off the radar for a while. He was surprised to find himself suddenly thinking of Arena, again.
Jesus,
he thought.
Get over it. Not going to happen, mate.

He set the GPS for Sunset Hill and his sat phone started to ring.

"Morgan," he answered.

"Guten Tag, Herr
Major," came the deep, familiar grumble of Hermann Braunschweiger. There was concern underpinning the big guy's salutation. Morgan listened intently. "I take it you are now on the ground in Seattle. On the way to Sunset Hill, I hope."

"What is it, Key?" said Morgan. "Something's up." "I'm afraid so," answered the Key. "Before I begin, I suggest you step on the gas—"

Wasting no time, Morgan jammed his foot hard to the floor, the Seattle traffic raced past and Braun-schweiger took him straight to the headline: Raoul Demaci was confirmed as Vukasin Petrovic, aka the Wolf. The Key rapidly summarized for Morgan the complex stream of events, including Mandia, Marseille and Paris, that had brought the Wolf - as Adolfo Mendosa and Ulric Sorensen - to Seattle, ultimately, back to Charly and Madeline.

Morgan's hands gripped so tightly around the wheel he was in danger of ripping it from the steering column. As the Key briefed him, Morgan scrounged with one hand through the center console and the glove compartment until he found what every well-equipped, official, US law enforcement vehicle was guaranteed to be fitted with. The siren was already howling as Morgan slapped the magnetic blue light onto the roof above his head. He'd always wanted to do that. With his foot planted upon the gas pedal, the Dodge surged onward.

"Does Charly know, Key?" he yelled above the noise of the siren and his own speed. "Has she been warned?"

"The US marshals on station at the house have been warned. We contacted them the moment we had the first hint of a problem, when Mila discovered Adolfo Mendosa was traveling to Seattle. Of course, he was just a suspect then, but we weren't taking any chances."

"I was just with one of the marshals at the airport," Morgan said. "He didn't mention anything."

"It's probably just filtering down."

"Has anyone spoken to Charly or the judge?" "Charly wasn't taking any direct calls and, I believe, neither was Judge Clancy."

"Fuck me! Why not?" Morgan yelled. "Second thoughts, scratch that. No time. Just give me the latest from the house."

A large intersection was coming up ahead and all the normal people were slowing down to abide by the road rules. Fortunately, most at the back of the queue could hear Morgan's siren and were shuffling their vehicles aside to make as much room for him as possible. But Morgan didn't have time for staying in his lane. Besides, he was more comfortable on the opposite side of the road.

He wrenched the sports steering wheel hard to the left and fired the Charger directly across the intersection and into the oncoming traffic. The tires of cars and trucks crisscrossing the four-way screeched and burned as their drivers blared their horns in unanimous protest at the crazy bastard cop in the hot new Dodge. Morgan's only option was to power through, fishtailing through the jumble of vehicles and racket, a huge plume of rubber smoke trailing behind him.

"Latest update to the house was via a sitrep and comms check with the marshals about thirty minutes ago—

"Thirty minutes! Fuck!"

"Wait," barked Braunschweiger. "I'm not the only one on this, you know. Right now, Mila Haddad is talking directly to the US marshals team leader on the ground in Seattle and the general is talking to Tappin to ensure you have US top cover no matter what you

need. Right now Seattle PD SWAT are gearing up and sending a team to RV with you at the house in Sunset Hill. A second team is en route to Ellensburg by chopper—"

"Ellensburg! Why the hell does anyone need to go there?"

"Short version: the judge is visiting a sick relative. Leave that one to the marshals and SPD SWAT. We expect the Wolf wasn't aware that the judge had gone away for the weekend either. So, he'll be focused on Sunset Hill. How far away are you?"

"Two minutes."