by Mark Greaney
Talyssa Corbu looked into the woman’s eyes and felt certain now this Croatian knew all about the pipeline, and she saw Corbu as a potential threat.
The Romanian kept control of her voice. “It’s my job, Captain. Just as keeping people safe here in Dubrovnik is yours.” She took a pen and a notepad from her purse and jotted down the address of her room, well aware of a tremor in her hand. “Here is where I’m staying. I’ll be here for several days, I imagine.”
The captain looked at the paper, then back up at her foreign guest. “This location. A small third-floor pension in the Old Town? Are things so tight at Europol that they send you to a backpacker’s residence?”
Harry had told her that her accommodations would cause suspicion with the police. This was by design, although it was yet another gamble that might cause her to be held in the station while her dubious story was checked out. She fought tears of dread, controlled her voice as best she could, forced a smile, and said, “It’s fine. Fewer questions on the monthly expense report if I keep costs down.”
“I won’t hear of it. Let me put you in one of our better hotels. A single call and I can have you in a room at the Marriott. Close by.”
Corbu felt herself losing it. The captain was already trying to take control of her, to put her somewhere she or men involved in the pipeline could easily access her.
“No . . . thank you very much, but my accommodations are of no concern to me. I’ll just stay where I am.”
She stood now, as did the captain.
The middle-aged Croatian said, “One more question. I have to ask. Were you, in any way, involved with what happened to Chief Vukovic?”
Talyssa was quick to answer—perhaps, she recognized after the fact, too quick. “No. Of course not. I was on my way to speak with him when he disappeared.” She held out her hand for her credentials. Once they were returned, she thanked the captain and left the police station, all the while terrified someone behind her would call her name and ask her to step into some side room, where her liberty would be stripped from her.
* * *
• • •
I sit against the wall of a bank, the car in view up a street to my right, the front door of the police station ahead on my left. I know I told Talyssa I’d be waiting for her in the car, but I haven’t survived this long by sending an agent into the enemy’s hands possessing knowledge of my exact location. No, I got out just after she disappeared from my view, and now I’m waiting for her, careful to do my best to keep myself low profile and out of sight of any cameras.
At this point I’m so worried about the girl that I’m fantasizing my way through an intricate one-man attack on the police station to rescue her, Terminator style. But even in my imagination, it doesn’t go as well for me as it did for Arnold Schwarzenegger.
Probably because I’m no cyborg.
No, if they do keep Corbu for questioning, then there is nothing I can do but hope like hell they release her in one piece, and not in many pieces tossed into the Adriatic Sea.
I lean back against the wall of the bank, my eyes shifting regularly to the front door of the police station in the distance. The rain has stopped, but the low clouds and mist are hastening the onset of darkness. I check my watch and see that Corbu has been inside less than thirty minutes, although it seems quadruple that.
Then the door of the police station opens for the dozenth time since Talyssa entered, but this time is different, because I see what I’ve been praying for. The young redhead in the black raincoat is alone, moving at an assured pace back in the direction of the car. She seems okay, so I begin looking behind her, curious if anyone follows her from the station.
No one exits the building while I watch, which is very good news.
A few minutes later I meet her back at the Vauxhall, and she is agitated.
“Where the hell were you?”
“Making sure you weren’t followed.” I climb behind the wheel. “Get in.”
She heaves her chest, annoyed by me, but she does as I ask.
I fire up the little car and I drive off without saying another word.
SEVENTEEN
It’s only when I’m deep into the late-afternoon traffic and I’ve scanned all my mirrors and convinced myself there is no tail that I begin talking to her.
“Well, they let you out, so that’s a win. You okay?”
I can feel the tension in her and I worry she’s about to cry, but she takes a few breaths and answers me. “I’m okay. I was very scared.”
“You were very brave.”
“Just desperate.”
The comment means something, but I’m not going to pursue it now. I ask, “Do you think they found you suspicious enough to check out your story?”
She looks down at her hands. I can see them shaking. “Suspicious enough? The police chief didn’t believe a word out of my mouth.”
“Good.”
“She’s a woman. And I’m sure she’s involved.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Just . . . just the way she acted. We are fellow law enforcement professionals. There should have been a courtesy extended. I mean . . . there was, at first. But then I mentioned the pipeline and the Consortium, and she turned to ice before my eyes. She showed no respect for the trafficked women. She dehumanized them, as is often the case with those who exploit them.”
I find myself wishing I had been in the room to evaluate the chief for signs of deception. Still . . . Talyssa seems to know what she’s talking about, so I take her word for it. It’s not enough proof to snatch this police chief and pump her for info like we did Vukovic, but it’s good information nonetheless.
I ask, “Does it surprise you that women can be just as terrible as men?”
“No . . . I guess not. But in this type of crime? It’s just extra horrible that it is someone of the same sex doing the exploitation. Isn’t it?”
“It’s pretty bad.”
“What now?” she asks after a moment more collecting her thoughts.
“You gave them the address of your flat?”
“I did.”
“Then what comes next depends on your level of commitment.”
I’m watching the road while I drive in the direction of the Old Town, but when Talyssa doesn’t answer, I look to her. She is staring me down with anger, and I realize I just said the wrong thing. Quickly I add, “I didn’t mean to question your commitment to your sister. I just mean that the more risk you take tonight, the larger the chance that the opposition will take the bait.”
“What sort of risk?”
“Well, we can do this a couple of different ways. I can take you someplace where they won’t find you, and then I can haul ass back to overwatch your room. If they come for you tonight, I’ll be able to photograph them and, hopefully, identify them. Maybe even follow them back to somewhere associated with the crimes, or grab one of them tomorrow.”
“That sounds like a good plan. No?”
“It’s the safest for you, but there’s a way we can increase the odds they’ll make their move.”
“How do we do that?”
“We walk you through the city, with me trailing you. We make it obvious you’re here alone, and I look for someone tailing you. Then, tonight, we put you in your flat, just where you told them you’ll be.”
“And then they come to kidnap me?”
“Exactly. If the police have watchers or informants around your hotel, we’ll make it look so easy for them, they’ll have no reservations about snatching you.”
She bites her lower lip and closes her eyes as if she’s just willing this to all go away. “Are you making it too easy for them?”
“If you do as I say, I won’t let them get you.”
She replies, “If someone comes, how will you know it’s someone from the Consortium?”
; “Let’s just say I have pretty good asshole radar.” This doesn’t translate well to Romanian, apparently, because I get no response. I add, “Trust me. I’ll know.”
“You ask for a lot of trust as a man who has told me little about himself.”
“That’s fair. What do you want to know?”
“What is your background?”
“Meaning?”
“Are you a member or former member of the U.S. military, American law enforcement, or an American intelligence agency?”
“I can’t answer that. Sorry.”
“Okay, you won’t tell me about your distant past. Tell me about your recent past. You assassinated General Babic, saw the women being held there, and then left them behind, running away to save yourself. Am I correct so far?”
“Not very charitable, but also not wrong.”
“And you kill for money, yes?”
She’s drawing conclusions here, but she happens to be right. I think about giving her a non-answer, but I need us to keep up this relationship if I’m going to recover the women. I say, “Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no.”
“You are a hit man, then.”
This lady’s not going to be president of my fan club any time soon, I can see that plainly. “I operate. I’ll leave it there. Not all jobs are like the Babic op.”
I turn into a parking garage right outside the pedestrian-only Old Town along the coast. As I look for a place to park, Talyssa says, “These women. What is it about them that is making you do this? I mean . . . why are you even here?”
It’s a variation of a question I ask myself over and over. “They were in a bad situation, and I might have put them in a worse situation. I feel responsible. If I can help . . . I want to do that.” I add, “And I also want to help you find answers about what happened to Roxana.”
“But why?”
“Because sometimes I have to do what’s right.”
“But you are a killer.”
“I said ‘sometimes.’” I park the car while she thinks. When she doesn’t speak, I say, “I only kill bad people.”
She chuckles mirthlessly, showing me she thinks I’m joking. I don’t reply, but she adds, “Is it maybe that you aren’t so interested in saving people, but are more interested in the action? The danger? The killing? I mean, why else would someone do what you do for a living?”
Damn, she’s hitting close to home, and I don’t like it. I say, “I didn’t choose this life. Let’s leave it there.”
“But you are here now, when you could go anywhere else and do anything else. Do you like to kill? You don’t seem like a psychopath.”
This is her first compliment. “Thanks,” I reply. “This is what I do now. I’m good at it, even though it’s a shitty thing. I figure I might as well use it for good.”
“You kill people for ‘good’?”
We’re sitting in the still car, looking at each other. “You know what Ratko Babic did, don’t you?”
“Of course. I was a baby then, I guess, but I’ve heard the stories. Still . . . that was a long time ago. What is the point in killing an old man now?”
“I like the thought of terrible people hiding out, running scared, because even though they were bad a long time ago, they know that there is someone dangerous out there who hasn’t forgotten about what they did. If there is one chance in a million that the bogeyman is going to come for them to make them pay for their past sins in the present, it will terrorize them. Even if I can’t get to everybody out there who deserves a visit from me, I can give a lot of assholes sleepless nights, and that’s better than nothing.”
“You are a strange man.”
Also fair.
I reach into my backpack and pull an earpiece out of a charging cradle and hand it to her. I pull a second, identical unit out of the cradle and put it in my ear, then cover it with my brown hair, which is plenty long enough to hide it. I say, “Put it in and let your hair cover it. It can transmit and receive, and the charge will last at least sixteen hours. The silicone cap will keep it in place. You could fall off a bridge and it won’t come out. I’ve got another set to switch to if necessary.”
“So I just talk and—”
“And I’ll hear you, so don’t say anything bad about me.” I’m joking, but she’s not in the mood. I can see her stiffening up some, knowing she’s about to become live bait in waters where predators are lurking.
She puts in the earpiece and adjusts her short red hair, slings her purse over her shoulder.
“Wherever you go,” I say, “I’ll be watching.”
“Just don’t kill anyone.” She turns and starts walking out of the garage.
“No promises,” I mutter to myself, and I wonder if she’ll be singing a different tune before this evening is over.
Quickly I reach into my backpack, pull out a black T-shirt and a gray long-sleeved shirt, and reach for a ball cap, but decide against it. Nobody around here is wearing a ball cap, other than the occasional American tourist, so it won’t do a thing to help me blend in. Instead I grab a pair of eyeglasses with uncorrected lenses, and I put my pack over a shoulder. Before Talyssa disappears onto the street I am moving into position behind her.
* * *
• • •
She eats a leisurely dinner in an outdoor café, and then strolls the length of Stradun, the main street of the Old Town, where I almost lose her in the heavy crowd of tourists. But I have the benefit of being in comms with her, so I ask her to slow, and soon I’m back in position.
My eyes scan the scene robotically. I’m not looking for people watching her; that would be impossible in such a crowd. Instead my brain is taking in data quickly, only the information relevant to my work, and weeding out anything extraneous. As I shift my eyes to the left and right, I search for likely places for surveillance personnel to position themselves, and then I look at the clothes and hair and age and sex of the people in those places. I can narrow down ninety percent of the public in just a few seconds, and then my eyes lock onto anyone filling out a general threat profile.
The watchers, if there are any, could be either male or female, but they will probably be male, between twenty-five and fifty-five, wearing some sort of clothing a local would wear, and an overgarment or outer garment that covers their waist so they can hide communications gear and/or a weapon.
I pay special attention to those with facial hair, but also those with military-length haircuts, not because I think the Croatian military would be involved in this, but rather because those involved might be regular police, and they often have specific grooming standards that must be maintained.
Even if they are working for some mob element.
If someone fits all the criteria, then I’ll look at their attire, their shoes, their fitness level, and, if they’re wearing them, their sunglasses and their watch.
Trust me, it doesn’t matter where they are from, from Brazil to Hong Kong, there is a look to those in the game.
Not me; I’m careful. I’m not wearing anything tacti-cool and I’m not built up like a linebacker. And, unlike others who do this sort of thing, I keep my eyes moving, but my head doesn’t swivel left and right like I’m guarding the damn president.
But I’m on the lookout for those who do.
It’s exhausting work. My eyes and my brain tire, but I’ve been doing it for so many years I know I can keep it up as long as I have to.
As Talyssa turns off Stradun to head south, I don’t see a tail, but I do see two men who might be interested in her. They aren’t walking behind, but are instead leaning against the wall of the old bell tower between a pair of arched passages that lead directly to the Old Port, a marina just outside the walls of the Old Town. Both are in their thirties; they are thick, tough-looking guys with close-cropped hair, jeans, and tracksuit tops. They’re just smoking and talking, but my eyes lock o
nto them because of their appearance, and once Talyssa passes their position, I see them turn their heads her way and focus on her exclusively.
Got ’em, I think, but I quickly check my enthusiasm. These guys look like cops, and I’m on the lookout for dirty cops, but these could just as easily be clean cops unaligned with and unaware of the pipeline, ordered by their superiors to find Corbu in the Old Town to make certain she is, indeed, alone.
I want to tail or capture dirty cops, and I don’t know if these two are bad guys or just two dudes on the job for what they assume to be legit reasons.
The men do not follow the girl, but I see one of them speak into a mobile phone, and I imagine he’s notified someone else ahead of Talyssa so that person can pick up the surveillance.
I normally wouldn’t walk right past two guys who are either opposition assholes or else doing the bidding of opposition assholes, but I don’t have time to take this slow, because for all I know they’ve radioed ahead to a snatch team, and their aim is to roll up my agent before she even arrives at her room.
That would be ballsy on their part; it’s only nine p.m., the sky has cleared, and there’s still some light out, and the narrow passages of the Old Town are full of shoppers and diners and tourists. But they could try it, and I can’t let them succeed if they do.
I slip past the two men; they are still watching Talyssa as she disappears in a crowd up a passage leading to a long and high stairwell to the south in the direction of her hotel.
The men take no notice of me at all.
A minute later I’m heading up the stairs behind the Europol analyst, and I see a second pair of men, so identical to the first it’s almost laughable. These two are also static, and as she passes their position, I see one of them reach for his phone, then begin speaking into it.
I’d lay money on the fact that there is at least one more set of goons up closer to her flat, and this guy in front of me is in comms with them now.