He took a deep breath, wondering if he had any right to heap yet another burden onto the man’s shoulders. “I sent Konstantin to investigate Denison. He found information that led to one David Habersham.”
“I know about Habersham. He’s one of the Four Evangelists. Tony told me.”
Sir Charles heard the spike of bitterness in his man’s voice. He let it go. “Konstantin went to pay Habersham a visit at his house in the Netherlands...”
Frost cut him off. “The Hague! Kristijan Pavic’s trial.”
The deductive leap hit Sir Charles like a slap. “Jude. News reports from The Hague. NOW!”
“On it.”
The computer display vanished from the plasma screens and was replaced by feeds from Reuters, BBC WorldWide, Sky News, and CNN International. Different faces were reporting the same news. The old man looked at the oldest, most dignified figure, trusting his white hair and elder statesman vibe, his eyes drawn to the graphic ticker running across the bottom of the screen: Suspected War Criminal Pavic Abducted on the Eve of Verdict.
So that’s their game.
Or is it just the opening move?
“What’s happened?” Frost asked.
“You don’t know?” How was that possible? It was Frost’s deductive leap that had directed them to look for this news. “Pavic was abducted from his hotel room.”
Lethe supplied more details: “They killed the security team. No witnesses. Seems to have happened around midnight.”
“Okay Ronan, is this what it’s all about? Pavic?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “No. Maybe. It’s part of it, but... shit. I can’t deal with that right now. Not yet. Jude, you got that number for me?”
Lethe glanced at Sir Charles, waiting for a nod of permission. The old man nodded. “I do. And to answer your next question, its GPS signal puts it in Rome.”
“Pinpoint it. Exact coordinates.”
Sir Charles sensed that Frost was about to sign off. “Ronan, there’s more. It’s Konstantin. He’s...He hasn’t made contact in over five hours—”
“Did you hang him out, too?” The words fairly smouldered over the line, but before he could defend himself from the barb, Frost continued, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. I know why you had to do it. At least I think I do.”
“I’m not asking you to drop everything and go find Konstantin, my boy. Just take Denison and get somewhere safe until I can sort this out.”
“Tony’s dead.” There was no anger in Frost’s voice, only that same crushing weariness. “Lethe, I need those coordinates. Text them to this number. I have to go. The police are coming.”
“The police? Ronan—” But Frost was already gone.
Sir Charles turned to Lethe. “Where is he?”
“Rome. Piazza Barberini. Only a few klicks from the signal he asked me to trace.”
“He said the police were—”
“On it.” Lethe busied himself at the keyboard. “I’m in the Carabinieri network...Of course, it’s all in Italian, so... Nope. There it is. He’s right. Units have been despatched to Piazza Barberini.”
“Do something to help him.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, and frankly I don’t really care. Send them to a different street, change the description they’re working from. Tell them Frost is working for Interpol. Just do something... Anything.”
“Fine. But contrary to popular opinion, I am not a sodding miracle worker,” he muttered.
“And send Frost what he wants.”
“Already done.”
The call hadn’t relieved any of his anxiety; Frost was far from safe; Denison’s fate underscored the seriousness of what Frost was still up against. And the news out of The Hague also added more uncertainty.
How were the Four Evangelists involved?
Why were they involved?
And what in God’s name had happened to Khavin?
“Sir, I think you should see this.” Lethe said. For once there was no inflection in his voice. No excitement at having made a grand—impossible—discovery.
Sir Charles glanced over at him, and then followed his gaze to the images playing out on the plasma screens. The news ticker now read: Extremist Group Threatens to Execute Hostages.
A line of text indicated that the images on the screen were from a live webcam feed.
It could easily have been a still picture.
Two figures were seated in front of a large red flag upon which was emblazoned the double-headed eagle of the Kosovo Liberation Army and the silhouette of a scimitar crossed with an assault rifle. He recognised one of the seated figures as Kristijan Pavic. The accused war criminal looked lost, bewildered, as he blinked against the harsh glare of a camera light.
The man beside him, bound and gagged, was Konstantin Khavin.
20 What the Light Conceals
Location Unknown—0415 UTC (approximate)
Konstantin squinted, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of his captors.
He had seen nothing but the dark interior of his hood for...how long? Hours? Long enough for his eyes to become so accustomed to the darkness that the brilliance of the portable studio light felt like a red-hot poker being driven into his corneas.
No more than half an hour had passed since he’d come around. The plane had landed, presumably at some remote airstrip where no one would notice hooded and bound captives, being bundled out of the cabin. He’d been transferred to a motor vehicle—a panel van, or a small lorry. The subsequent drive lasted no more than fifteen minutes. After that he’d been moved a short distance to the place where he now sat. During all that time, he’d heard nothing more than the occasional hushed whisper, too soft for him to make out what was being said, and with his head covered, had seen nothing at all.
Then, with painful abruptness, everything changed.
The hood was torn off, and the blinding beam of an umbrella light that was brighter than the sun skewered him. A few seconds later, he heard a voice, speaking clearly—albeit distorted by some kind electronic device—in English, but the words weren’t directed at him.
“Members of the United Nations and the so-called International Court of Justice: You have abdicated your responsibility to punish the crimes of the criminal... the butcher... Kristijan Pavic. You have failed to dispense justice, and so God has found you unfit to render judgement any longer.”
Shapes gradually began to emerge from the haze of light.
There was another bound captive seated, slumped, less than a metre away from Konstantin. He recognised him as the man he’d attempted to rescue a few hours ago. Now he had a name to go with the face: Kristijan Pavic.
With each passing second, Konstantin could distinguish a few more details about his surroundings as his eyes adjusted. He was in an austere room with bare white walls and a concrete floor, the latter mostly covered with a sheet of black plastic. There were no decorations, aside from the enormous red flag, which Konstantin could just make out when he twisted his head. The only other furniture was a pair of folding metal chairs propped against the wall opposite the flag.
He and Pavic were not alone.
A figure dressed all in black—black tactical boots, black fatigues, black balaclava to conceal facial features—stood behind a tripod-mounted camera positioned alongside the studio light. Three more men, similarly black-clad, stood around the perimeter of the room, each with an H&K sub-machine gun slung over a shoulder. Konstantin didn’t care about them right now. His attention was drawn to two men who weren’t making an effort to conceal their faces. That fact guaranteed he wasn’t going to walk away from here alive. It changed everything for him. It meant that there was no extra risk, no matter what he did. The end game would always be the same if he failed. One was David Habersham; the other the man who had brought Pavic to Habersham’s Dutch estate—Lorenzo Martedi. Konstantin noted that Martedi was watching the scene play out with an eager expression—bloodlust—while Habersham looke
d more like he was about to vomit.
Someone moved behind Pavic, another black-clad figure, who Konstantin realised was the source of the monologue. “Now you shall see what justice really means.”
Something flashed in the figure’s hands—something metallic that reflected the light in just such a way that it seemed to be ablaze with supernatural fire—and was pressed to the side of Pavic’s neck.
The Serb’s expression remained confused but showed no hint of fear.
Khavin knew that look.
Pavic was in denial; he still thought this was some kind of elaborate stunt, theatre that would end with some ridiculous political demands.
And then, with the first cut, his eyes came alive with horror.
A foul odour assaulted Khavin’s nostrils—the iron tang of fresh arterial blood, the pungent ammonia of a bladder and bowels involuntarily voiding their contents. Pavic’s mouth worked but the only sound he could manage was a gurgle; the blade had already cut through his trachea. He didn’t even clutch at his throat. The faint noise ceased as shock overcame the man, and then the merciful release of death.
Konstantin remained detached, mind racing. It would be too easy for panic to set in, aghast, transfixed by the horror of what he was witnessing. He couldn’t let that happen. Even so, for a few seconds, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the gruesome spectacle of the dark clad executioner sawing relentlessly through Pavic’s neck.
Habersham rushed for the exit door, hands pressed to his mouth, chest and shoulders heaving.
Pavic’s severed head hit the floor with a sticky wet thunk.
Since waking on the plane, he’d known this moment was coming. There was a way out of this, there had to be; he just had to figure out what it was. Not bargaining, not pleading. Action.
I’ve got about thirty seconds to come up something, he thought, wildly.
He strained against the zip-ties holding his wrists together, but his arms were numb all the way to his shoulders and the plastic ties dug into his wrists so deeply he was already bleeding. He couldn’t tell if his extremities were even moving, much less if the bonds were loosening.
The executioner bent over, grasped Pavic’s head by the hair—the formerly silver mane now streaked red, matted with gore—and displayed it to the camera.
“Justice is served,” said the eerily distorted voice. “The butcher Pavic is dead. But you who sought to deny the people of Kosovo repayment of this debt have become sharers in his crimes, and now you also must face God’s judgement.”
The executioner let Pavic’s head thump to the floor once more, and then moved toward Konstantin.
With a snarl, he redoubled his efforts to break free.
The executioner took a position behind Konstantin.
He felt a keen steel edge press into the side of his neck.
“This Russian agent was sent to protect Pavic,” the executioner declared. “He will be the first to share the butcher’s punishment. He will not be the last.”
“Fuck you and your fucking mother,” Konstantin Khavin rasped. “You’re not taking my head.”
A strange warbling sound issued from the electronic voice-masking device.
The executioner was laughing.
Konstantin planted his feet on the floor and pushed off as though trying to jump despite being bound. In the same motion, he thrust his head straight back, ramming the back of his head into his executioner’s midsection. It was little more than a glancing blow and accomplished nothing save to force the black clad individual to retreat a few steps.
He was more successful with the second part of the desperate manoeuvre.
The chair tilted back on its rear legs, and then crashed to the floor.
The fact his limbs were numb didn’t make it hurt any less as the full weight of his body fell against the chair’s back, crushing his arms and pinning them to the floor.
He savoured the sensation; pain meant there was still a chance to wake his body up.
Konstantin twisted his body and kicked his legs out, rocking the chair madly back and forth as he tried to roll onto his side. If he could just break the zip ties, get his hands free, then he would have a fighting chance....
A fist slammed into his gut, driving out his breath and snuffing the guttering flame of hope that his act of defiance had roused.
As soon as he’d lashed out at the executioner, the three black-clad guards had moved in, swarming over him like piranhas in a feeding frenzy.
Another punch landed, and then another.
There was nothing he could do to fight back, no way to defend himself or lessen the impact of the relentless blows. They came in methodically, but with gleeful abandon. Again and again the three men pummelled. “Hit me,” he snarled through bloody lips. “Go on you worthless sacks of shit. Hit me. Harder! Fucking harder!” He spat blood.
As the darkness engulfed him Konstantin felt a measure of relief.
He was going out on his own terms.
When the bastards took his head he wouldn’t feel a thing.
21 Red Horse
Rome—0516 Local (0416 UTC)
“COME ON! MOVE!” Frost yelled at the windscreen. He held the phone against the steering wheel, tracking his progress on its GPS map display as he half-wove half-crawled through the streets of Rome.
The early morning commute was already well underway, but every time he hit a major road the traffic moved briskly. It was only the narrow streets where things slowed down because there wasn’t room for two cars to pass at once. True to their reputation though, the Romans lived life on the edge without a care for their personal safety as they hammered their engines, treating the streets of the Eternal City as their personal Grand Prix track.
The biggest problem he faced was reversing his instinctive reflexes; the Italians, like everyone else in the world, drove on the wrong damned side.
Lethe had dumped the coordinates for Lili’s mobile to his phone before Frost reached the car. There had also been an accompanying message: “The signal is stationary. I’ll update you if it moves.”
He hadn’t had another text from Nonesuch.
The map showed the layout of the city. While Frost couldn’t make out street names, which would have meant nothing to him anyway, he could clearly distinguish some of the city’s more noteworthy landmarks— the enormous oval of the Colosseum; the serpentine curve of the Tiber River, snaking past to the west; and just beyond that, the distinctive outline of Vatican City. Even the piazza was easy to make out, situated just to the south of what looked like an enormous park.
His destination was not so well defined.
It showed only as a green dot, surrounded by a maze of lesser streets and narrow alleys, just beyond what appeared to be a railhead.
It was close, but since he didn’t have wings, getting there meant following the circuitous roads of the one-way system marked on the GPS map with a green line that stretched from the dot to his own present location.
He bullied his way onto one of the main roads—Corso D’Italia—and then put the pedal to the floor.
As he’d raced from the piazza, he’d passed a police car, lights flashing and siren blaring, on its way in. It hadn’t slowed or turned around. Frost’s car was just one more anonymous Fiat on the road, but that would change as soon as bystanders who had witnessed his departure supplied a description of the car. Once that happened, the carabinieri would be able to isolate him using CCTV and traffic cameras and all of the tech Lethe would have used in their place. They would get the vehicle’s license number, and then in short order, would have access to the car’s GPS locator chip. In less than ten minutes, they’d have a helicopter in the air, watching every move he made, and relaying the information to ground units who followed at a safe and discreet distance. When he finally stopped, they would move in.
Frost didn’t care about any of that.
His gaze flickered from the view through the windscreen to the display on the phone screen, and back again repeatedly.
He was only peripherally aware of the city now as it flashed by; it was an indistinct blur of sand coloured shapes and dark verdure, all illuminated by the glow of street lamps and the approaching sunrise. He was focused on the green dot, the ever-shortening line that marked his route, and trying not to run into the car in front of him.
Frost veered south, onto the Viale del Castro Pretorio.
His destination was less than a kilometre away, just to the east of the thoroughfare, and with each metre that passed, he felt adrenaline surging in his extremities and pooling in gut.
The green line indicated a turn. He whipped the Fiat hard to the left, ignoring the red light and the squeal of his tyres sliding across the asphalt. He couldn’t ignore the fact that the entrance to the intersecting street passed through an arched opening in a high wall—a pedestrian bridge, or maybe one of the damned Roman aqueducts everyone was always talking about. The opening was wide enough for two lanes of traffic, but a cluster of red taillights clogged the arch and the street beyond. Unlike the boulevard, where traffic had moved like blood through an artery, this street was clotted with creeping commuters waiting on traffic signals and looking for empty parking spots.
Swearing, he jammed down on the brake, felt the car shudder as the anti-locks engaged, and felt the Fiat slow—but not nearly fast enough. He wrenched the wheel to the right, futilely looking for more room to bring the car to a full stop. There was none.
The Fiat fishtailed.
Frost was jarred violently as the wheels bounced up over the low curb, and was hurled bodily from his seat as the car smashed broadside into the wall.
He slammed into the door, his head crunching hard against the window.
He didn’t feel any pain, not even from his wounded arm. That was probably a bad thing, but he was still conscious and all his parts still seemed to be working.
The driver’s side door was completely blocked, the immense stone wall pressed up tight against the fractured windows.
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