Names of the Dead
Page 6
“Then beat the shit out of him! This whole affair is rapidly turning into a clusterfuck. I’ve got an Afghan trade delegate on a life support machine while that prick is running around playing detective! If they link those drug-dealing ragheads to us, we’re fucked. Get Interpol on the phone. I want that arrest warrant cancelled.
Right now!”
“Yes, sir.”
Spinks held his head in his hands as Ferguson scurried from the room. The Afghans were already going crazy. If the press knew that Washington and shady middlemen were trying to buy some Afghan drug dealers there would be a feeding frenzy. The President could fall. It could unravel a plan that had been ten years in the making.
And it wouldn’t stop there. There’d be a line of liberal asswipes waiting to buttfuck anyone involved in the operation. But once the deal was signed with the ragheads then Langley would be calling the shots.
He brought up a file on the screen and checked the updates. Montrose took off with someone in a car. But it couldn’t have been Kessler. Or what would have been left of Montrose could be mopped up with a sponge. It was Kessler calling the shots. Spinks stopped for a moment and looked at the cell phone in his hand. The sooner this shit was over, the better. He tapped in a message.
Interpol Arrest Warrant has been sent out for Kessler.
Kessler was the ‘go to’ guy for the oil companies. The master at sanctions-busting and shady deals. He had form for fixing deals for everyone from Serbian warlords to Saddam. He was tied into the network of ‘fixers’ who had connections that Langley could only dream about. He would know what to do.
Time to force the issue. He picked up the desk phone. “Get me a print out of Montrose’s profile. And the psychiatrist’s report. On plain paper.”
I’m not using email, he thought, that was about as secure as a chocolate fireguard. “And get a message to all agents in Rome. Extraordinary Rendition Order. I want Montrose bound, gagged and face fucking down on the floor of a jet to Langley in one hour.”
The cars and taxis flew past as Montrose stood at the edge of the sidewalk on Corso Vittorio Emanuele. A diversion. And I fell for it. But what about that chick, Gabby? Who’s she working for?
He stuck his hand in the air, but the taxis ignored him. What have you got to do to get a taxi in this town? Throw yourself in the road?
On the far side of the street two Carabinieri leaned against an Alfa Romeo, cigarettes hanging from their mouths and machine pistols dangling from their sides.
Cops. They can take me straight to the Interpol office. I’ll let the CIA thank me later. No point in going back to the old man’s house, sonny-boy would be long gone.
He scanned the approaching traffic, readying himself for a dash between the cars. This reeked of Spinks. I’ll bet the CIA knew about the heroin all along. That’s why they cancelled the gig in Naples. They cut a deal with the Afghans. One of them gets to sell his heavy hand luggage and the rest of the gang take a sack of dollars and sign up to the oil deal. They probably all took a cut. Shit, they probably owned all the poppy fields. It must have been a helluva surprise when I turned up with Dr. Glock and his patented cure for drug dealers.
Bouncing on his toes, he steadied himself and then darted for a gap in the traffic, accompanied by a blast of horns. He stopped on the other side and grinned at the cops. He began to pull out his Interpol badge when the iPhone rang. Jeez, not now, Boss, I don’t need this.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Montrose, I have done as you asked.”
His breath caught in his throat. The old guy?
The cops ground out their cigarettes and stood up.
Montrose struggled for words. “You . . . You’ve done what?”
“My son. You wanted to meet him, is that not correct?”
Is he crazy? What the hell is he doing?
“Are you there, Mr. Montrose?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m all ears.”
“I understand, Mr. Montrose, that the sole reason for this meeting is to provide a witness to the psychiatrist who examined you, to prove you were acting in a reasonable manner when faced with a threat.”
“Absolutely. That’s all I need.” Holy crap, he’s going to drop right into my hands.
“Then we are happy to oblige. My son will also confirm that he was there to meet the Afghans. The bribe will not be referred to in any way. Though I also expect quid pro quo. You will confirm with
your superiors that my son is no longer a suspect. Is that clear?”
It’s clear you have no idea of the shit that’s heading your way. “That works for me. Let’s do it.”
“Then my son will meet you at the psychiatrist’s office in ten minutes.”
He’s mine. “Yeah, that’s great. Listen, what’s his full name? I got to make sure they let him in.”
“You don’t need to know that. You just need him to talk to your psychiatrist. How far away are you, Mr. Montrose?”
He looked down the river as it curved gracefully south towards the Coliseum. “Ten minutes, or less.”
“My son will be waiting for you.”
“Maybe, but let me make one thing crystal fucking clear. I need only your son. I don’t want your Armani monkeys turning up.”
“I assure you he will be alone. You have nothing to fear.”
“I’m on my way. Looking forward to it.” More than you will ever know. He stared at the phone then punched a fist in the air. He looked up to see the cops pulling off their sunglasses. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. The old guy could be lying about the goons. They’d have lookouts. If they see me turning up in a meat wagon they’d get Blondie away and make sure he wasn’t found, arrest warrant or not.
He spun on his heel and looked south, bringing up the map on the iPhone. Could make for a short career. The CIA will kick my ass right back to the US of A. Yeah, whatever. At least I’ll get a decent cup of coffee.
He tapped in the psychiatrist’s address. The map showed all the roads marked with one-way arrows, in every direction except south. And all the traffic was heading the wrong way. A deadened thump and tinkle of glass came from the Vittorio Emanuele Bridge and the traffic squealed to a halt, accompanied by a cacophony of horns. It’s gonna be quicker by foot. He dodged between the stationary cars, peeling off his jacket.
When I haul this bastard in Spinks can kiss my ass. The Italian Police and Interpol will have to process the Arrest Warrant, and there will be nothing Spinks can do about it. Once it was on the system, everybody would know. He checked the screen. If one bridge traffic flow goes west, the next bridge has gotta go east.
He slid to a halt and shielded his eyes against the sun as he looked down the river, then he ran for the Principe Amedeo Bridge.
CHAPTER 9
Montrose checked the street and the lines of parked cars. No goons. No one hiding in alleyways. No one walking about with a finger in their ear, talking to their cuffs. He stood before the door and was about to lift his hand to the buzzer when he noticed it was ajar. They’re expecting me. He stood in the cool hall for a moment, then turned and threw the bolts. If any goons are coming behind me they’ll have to knock.
He ran up the steps and stopped just outside the psychiatrist’s office. No voices. No movement. He twisted the handle and stepped in.
The secretary’s desk was empty. He took a pace forward. Her chair was lying on its side.
What the hell? On the desk, he saw a spray of blood and saliva glistening on fragments of teeth. Oh, sweet Jesus, no . . .
He jerked his head from side to side, searching around for a weapon, and grabbed a metal paperweight from the desk. The sweat chilled on his face as he turned to Richmond’s office.
The door was open. Edging forwards he saw a pool of dark, red blood spreading towards him. His heart thumped against his chest as he nudged open the door with his foot.
The secretary lay across the chair, her neck twisted to a sharp angle and her head hung limp, blood caked across her swollen face.
Montrose gasped in a lungful of air and could smell a sweet stench. Beaten to death.
The desk fan rotated slowly, gently ruffling the secretary’s skirt.
Why?
He stared down at the blood. It slowed as it coagulated. Why didn’t they shoot them? He felt the paperweight slip from his hand.
Because I haven’t got a gun.
He jolted at the sounds of distant sirens. My prints are all over this room. He looked down at his hands and searched frantically around for a cloth, then stopped. You’re fucked,
He ran, kicking open the door, and hit the stairs, sliding on the polished stone. He fumbled at the bolts on the door and glanced out onto the street. The sirens were louder. Walk away. Just walk away.
The gelato vendor smiled as he stepped out into the street.
Positive ID. They have me by the balls. Keep walking. He turned into the first side street and picked up the pace.
His iPhone beeped in his pocket. He brought up a text message. What the hell is that? He stared down at a picture of a USB memory stick. The phone rang in his hand. Blocked Number. He lifted it to his ear.
“You’ve been a bad boy, Connor. You should have walked away,” said Gabby.
The chick at the café?
“We heard about the arrest warrant. I thought we had an agreement? Oh, and you shouldn’t have killed . . .”
“I didn’t kill him. You know that.” He ducked into a piss-stained doorway. “You’re a lying, drug-dealing scumbag. The old guy has got fuck all to do with the trade negotiations. And you’ve killed two innocent people.”
“You can be sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No way can you pin this on me.”
“Oh really? That’s not what it looks like, I’m afraid. I understand that there is a great deal of evidence against you. But I know of something that may interest you. You remember a certain aged gentleman, the one you chatted to in the car. The one that gave you a way out? The way out you didn’t take?”
The old bastard.
“Well, his friend was very upset when he heard about an arrest warrant.”
“Kessler?”
“Yes, you found his name. You are so clever. Anyway, Herr Kessler has a USB memory stick with a recording of the security camera at the psychiatrist’s office. Apparently it’s very revealing. Have you checked your text messages recently? He’s sent you a photo.”
“Yeah, I got it. So what?”
“The memory stick contains a video recording. From the security camera at Doctor Richmond’s office. It shows the murders being committed. More importantly, not being committed by you.”
“There’s no video. That’s the worse bluff I’ve ever heard. You know where you can shove your memory stick.”
“Check your email. A more technologically astute colleague of mine has sent you a little video clip. If you want to see the remainder, you’ll do what you’re told. It isn’t difficult, Connor.”
“I’m coming for you, and when I . . .”
“Oh, you are sweet, but you’ll have to keep your pecker in your pants for a little while longer. So, listen to me very carefully, because I think your balls are getting in the way of your brain.”
“Spit it out. What do you want?”
“I want you to disappear, Connor. I want you to vanish from the face of the earth. Just for a month. Although with the CIA and the Italian police on your cute little tail, I suspect you had that in mind already. It’s just for a month. Then you can come and see me. Clothes are optional. You can take me to dinner and I might give you a present.” She laughed. “I might give you the USB stick, too. Depends if you’re nice to me.”
“You’re crazy. They’ll never believe I did this.”
“Connor, I’ve just read your psychiatrist’s report. Not the original, this is a fresh copy. And judging by the blood stains, it’s very fresh. Between you and me, it doesn’t make for good reading. I mean, according to
this . . . Well, let’s say you’re not the kinda guy I would take home to my folks.”
“There’s no way . . .”
“Just be a good boy, Connor. Get out of town. Don’t talk to anyone. No emails, no press, no cops, no CIA. Switch your phone on exactly one month from now. I’ll call you.”
He stared at the phone as the call ended. The email icon flashed. He brought up the message, and hit a Vine link. A grainy black and white picture showed a man facing Richmond’s secretary before he pulled her across the desk and smashed her face down. That could be anyone. It’s too fuzzy. But what about the rest of it? The video ended. He stared at the phone in his hand and saw a dark stain smeared across the cuff of his jacket.
He was rubbing at the sticky bloodstain when her words popped into his head, ‘Got to look your best!’ as she picked fibers from his coat. Shit, they had it all. They’d be stuck into Richmond’s . . . He gagged, and bitter bile flooded into his mouth. Fingerprints, fibers, motive. The report? They must have had Richmond write it before they killed him.
The sirens were closer. They stopped. They’ll be waiting for backup. What did that bitch say? Dangerous psychotic? If the cops catch me, Kessler will destroy the video. It’s not as if he owes me any favors.
He spat into the doorway. The plan was simple. Get the fuck out of Dodge.
He headed down the alley, the iPhone shaking in his hand as he glanced at the map. I have to find them or I’m a dead man. They won’t let me near Kessler. And the psycho that killed Richmond will be guarding him. The old man. Get the old man. But I’ll bet he’s not at home. Or his son. The old bastard will be laughing his wrinkly face off. He let out a few slow breaths. Focus. Find him. But where? He pictured him on the seat of the Mercedes. Snappy dresser. Wait. The coat he was wearing. Yeah, I know where I remember it. The TV show. Doctor Who wears one. High class British coat. Velvet collar. Burberry? No. Crombie! And there can’t be many dealers in Rome. You think so? I’m in Italy. Even the goddam’ yappy mutts carried in handbags wear Louis Vuitton.
At the end of the alley was a small hotel. And a taxi. Two fat tourists got out. Montrose quickened his pace, waving a hand towards the driver, then punched “Crombie dealer Rome” into Google.
The tourists fumbled with their bags, examining their cash and handing over each bill in turn. Montrose slipped into the back seat. Jesus, hurry up!
The search results came up on his iPhone. Yeah, that’ll work.
He looked down at his suit. It had to go. He had to blend in. Look like an Italian. But asking an Italian taxi driver for the best suit shop in town was an invitation to a two day conversation. At the end he’d be invited home for dinner to meet his daughter and he’d be married by Christmas.
The tourists turned away and the driver caught his eye in the rear view mirror. “Where to, signore?”
“Brooks Brothers, Via San Pietro.” The iPhone rang in his hand. He recognized the number.
“Connor?”
“Hi, Boss.” He never calls me Connor. He knew. He goddam’ knew. “So, what’s up?”
“Connor, I’ll get straight to the point. I’ve got a report in front of me. It’s not good reading.”
“Really? Something to do with me?” Straight from Richmond. Before they beat his fucking brains in.
“Yeah, it’s about you.”
“What’s it say?”
“He says, well . . . He says a lot of things, but also that you threatened him.”
“I what?”
“Threatened him, Connor. Did you do that?”
“Boss, there’s no way . . . this is just . . .” He doesn’t know yet. But they’ll find
the bodies. Kessler will make sure of that. And then we won’t be on first name terms any more.
“The police are looking for you, Connor. We got to get you safe. Back to the US. They can’t touch you there.”
Yeah, they want me safe. “Boss, you’re right. Listen, tell me a bit more, what else did he . . .?”
“This ain’t the time, Connor. We’ll get you home. Report like this, we have to follow procedure. Look, I’m not suspending you.”
Yeah, that’s the first thing you should do. You really are scared. “Let me guess, psychotic, immediate danger, on the verge, that kind of thing?”
“I can’t . . .”
“You don’t have to tell me, I can guess.” Kessler had done a great job.
“Tell me where you are and we’ll come and pick
you up.”
“Yeah, about that . . .” They’ll be all over me like a rash. “Don’t worry, I’ll come straight back to the office. See ya.”
The only place I’ll be headed is straight to a CIA cell. And the only way I’ll be coming out is folded up in a packing crate with my name on it.
The taxi pulled into the curb. He stepped out and leaned into the window. “Wait here.” There’s only two chances of them giving me that video. None, and fuck all.
CHAPTER 10
Montrose walked through the ornate brass and glass entrance.
An assistant appeared at his side. “Welcome to Brookes Brothers, sir. How can I help you?”
“I’m in a big hurry. I have to get to a meeting and I need something better than this.” He glanced down at the suit and swept back the jacket to hide the blood stain. “Eating spaghetti. It should come with a bib. I’ll need a complete outfit. Suit and shirts. Plus a bag to carry it all. Tell me, do you sell Crombie coats?”
“Of course, sir, was there a particular style you wanted to try?”
“Uh, just the classic type. You’re the only dealer for these coats in Rome, no?”
“Indeed, sir, one of the very few outlets in the whole of Italy.”