Headhunters

by Mark Dawson

  And Bachman knew that he was right.

  Shavit had helped him to formulate the plan.

  He had helped obscure the truth when he had triggered the bomb in Cairo. Bachman knew that the agency would question his death, but he only needed to create enough doubt that a full investigation would be rendered unnecessary. Bachman had given Lila instructions to leave her apartment, providing her with false papers and enough money to buy a flight and get clear. He had intended to tell Shavit where they were going, but the old man had insisted that he must not know. The Mossad knew that the two men were close. If Shavit really did not know where Bachman was headed, there was no way he could betray him under questioning.

  After they had collected their new identities in Paris, they had gone to the United States. When Shavit asked him how they had supported themselves, he had answered with frank honesty. The admission that he had worked as a hit man did not faze him in the slightest. He nodded sagely and suggested that it made sense. Bachman had a very particular, and very lucrative, set of talents. What else was he going to do?

  Bachman told him about New Orleans. He paused for a moment, taking a sip of the whiskey in the hope that it might disguise the thickening in his voice.

  “There is a man,” he said. “His name is Milton. I was asked to take him out. I didn’t know it was Milton, not until I got to New Orleans. If I had known, maybe I wouldn’t have taken the job. Maybe…” He swallowed another mouthful of whiskey and looked away for a moment, settling himself.

  “Do I know him?”

  “No. He used to work for the British government. He was a cleaner. Like me. He was good, too. You remember the hit on the Iranians? The reactor? He was on that team. It was us, the CIA, and him. He impressed me then. Very cold. Very clinical.” He paused again. “It turns out that he was out of the game, just like I was. I don’t know what happened to him, some kind of breakdown, but he was out. Just wandering. He ended up in New Orleans helping a woman who was interfering with my client’s plans. They paid me to kill him. It didn’t go down so well, though. Milton saw me coming. So I took this woman’s brother, took him out into the bayou so the woman would back off, pull Milton back, but he found me. Took me by surprise. He attacked us. He killed Lila.”

  The old man’s mouth fell open. “I’m sorry, Avi.”

  Bachman did not feel sorrow. He had never felt sorrow. That would come, in time, but there had been no space for any other emotion than the burning rage that had consumed him since that day.

  Shavit reached across and laid his withered hand over Bachman’s.

  Bachman grimaced, angry with himself for showing weakness, and pulled his hand away. “I swore that I would kill him. We fought, I had him beat, but the woman he was working for distracted me and he hit me in the head with a crank. Put me down. When I woke up, Milton had handed me over to the police. They were preparing for a trial. They wanted to kill me. But that’s not going to happen, Meir. Not while Milton is still out there, still breathing. It’s not going to happen. He has to pay.”

  Chapter Nine

  BACHMAN SLEPT well that night. The windows were open, letting in the cool zephyr that rose up from the sea and the sound of the waves as they broke against the rocks below. It was the most comfortable bed he had lain on for months, since he and Lila had left their New York apartment for the trip south to Louisiana. He thought of their apartment as he lay with his fingers laced beneath his head and his eyes closed, and the memories of his dead wife flowed back again. He indulged himself for a moment, remembering her face, concerned, as he always was, that he would eventually forget what she looked like and be unable to recall her beauty. He felt his mood start to darken and he caught himself. He didn’t need to feel his anger to be energised.

  Shavit was waiting for him in the kitchen.

  “It is a pleasant morning. Shall we have breakfast on the terrace?”

  Shavit opened a set of French doors to the balcony and led the way outside. To the rear of the house was the series of tiers that led down to the water. They followed steps from the balcony down to the first terrace, and then another set that had been cut into the rock, descending all the way to the foot of the cliff, where they passed a collection of jasmine and lemon trees from which emanated the cheerful chirruping of cicadas. There was an extensive covered terrace that, combined with an adjoining decked area, provided al fresco dining and relaxation space. The tide was tamed by a rocky outcrop that effectively provided a natural lagoon. The water within its ambit was still and, although it was a crystal blue, it was deep, too. There was a jetty at the end of the deck that reached out ten metres into the water. A rowing boat was moored to a post at the end of it, its fibreglass hull rattling against the pilings as it was gently buffeted by the current. There was a table and two chairs on the deck.

  They sat down and, as if she had been watching, a middle-aged woman came down the steps with a tray of food and a jug of orange juice. Shavit introduced her as Mrs. Grgec, his housekeeper. The woman brushed a covering of fallen blossoms from the table so that she could set down plates of scrambled egg and toast. She poured them two glasses of orange juice, noting that it was freshly squeezed, before she set off back up to the house again.

  “The food here is exceptional,” he said. “The fish is superb. Shrimp, octopus, oysters. Wonderful wines.” The old man started to wax lyrical, explaining how Italian cooking influenced the local cuisine, how risotto became rizot and prosciutto became prsut. Bachman remembered that his old mentor had always been motivated by his stomach, and that some things never changed. He let him talk, though, drinking his juice and enjoying the cooling breeze that hushed in off the sea.

  “What do you think of it all?” Shavit said, encompassing his estate with a sweep of his arm.

  “It’s very impressive,” he replied. “And I never thought I’d see you with a housekeeper.”

  “The private security business was lucrative,” Shavit explained.

  “Is that what happened after the army?”

  “I quit a year after you left. I set up on my own. Western companies pay well to be safe in the Middle East. I hired ex-soldiers, people like you. We could charge a small fortune for personal security services. The company outgrew me in the end. I sold it to Manage Risk. Have you heard of them?”

  “Of course,” Bachman said. Manage Risk was an American multinational that was more like a private army than a security company.

  “They paid me several million dollars. I’ve been living off that ever since. I have no children. No wife. No dependants. This life suits me very well.”

  “Why here?”

  “Why not? I visited when I was a boy. I’ve always liked it. I get to swim in the sea every morning; I eat and drink very well. It is peaceful. I am not disturbed.”

  There was a pause. Bachman looked out at the water. “The files?” he asked.

  “They are safe,” he said. “Away from here.”

  “Where?”

  “In a safe deposit box. It is safe.”

  “Meir,” Bachman said, looking his old friend in the eye, “you can’t go to get it now, not unless we mean to use it. I can’t say for sure that I wasn’t followed here. There will be sayanim. Agents. I was careful, but I’m just one man.”

  Shavit shook his head. “You would have been followed. But that’s fine. They will not move against me.”

  “They’ll know you’re my fallback, now. That makes you a target.”

  “Perhaps. But they’ll know that the consequences of going against you will be the same if they go against me. They don’t know where the files are. For all they know, they could be ready to be sent to a newspaper. And I’m just an old man. What are they really going to do?”

  “I just want you to be careful.”

  “Always.”

  “We will have a procedure,” Bachman said. “I will call you every day between eleven in the morning and one in the afternoon. If I do not call, release half of the files. Save the rest. They will
protect you.”

  Shavit nodded. He took a sip of orange juice and wiped his thin, bloodless lips with his napkin. “What’s next?”

  “Milton is next,” he said.

  “Yes. Has anything been done?”

  “He’s been found.”

  “Where?”

  “Australia. He has a friend there. Someone from the military.”

  “And the plan? They will eliminate him for you?”

  “No, Meir, they will not. They will collect him. But it has to be me. He will die at my hand.”

  He stood.

  “I’m going to Australia.”

  “When?”

  “I bought a ticket at the airport yesterday. My flight is at three.”

  Shavit nodded. “Then I will drive you.”

  *

  THEY LEFT just after breakfast. Shavit led the way to the Jaguar. He turned the car around and drove up the drive and onto the road beyond. Shavit was quiet for the first twenty minutes. He turned on the radio and they listened together in silence.

  They passed the sign for the airport when he finally spoke. “This Milton. How will it be done?”

  “Hand to hand. One on one.”

  “He is good, though?”

  “Better than average. Not as good as me.”

  “But you would give him a chance?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Hardly. We’ve fought twice. I beat him twice. He’s lucky he’s still alive.”

  “But he is still alive, Avi. Why take the risk? Put him on his knees and put a bullet in his brain.”

  Bachman shook his head, and when he spoke, his words were loaded with anger. “I want to humiliate him. I want to beat him to within an inch of his life, put my hands around his throat and then squeeze the breath out of him. I want my face to be the last thing he ever sees.”

  Meir nodded. Perhaps he remembered Bachman’s temper and how frightening it could be. His vehemence stilled the conversation and they drove on in silence for another mile.

  Bachman exhaled. “I know you mean well. But he’s nothing compared to me. I’ll crush him. I’ll make him sorry he was born.”

  The terminal came into view to the right. “I know how good you are,” Meir said, “but be careful. That’s all.”

  Shavit pulled up against the curb in the drop-off zone and killed the engine.

  “Thank you,” Bachman said. “For everything.”

  Shavit waved it off. “Don’t be foolish, habib.”

  “Be careful. I mean it. You’re in play now, too.”

  “I know.”

  “If you don’t hear from me, assume the worst.”

  “I know what to do, my boy. You don’t need to worry about me.”

  Shavit reached out his hand and the two of them shook.

  “Good luck.”

  “I won’t need it,” Bachman said, “but thanks.”

  “Call me tomorrow.”

  “I will. Goodbye, Meir.”

  “Goodbye, Avi.”

  He got out and watched as his mentor disappeared into the light traffic. He wondered whether he would ever see him again. Probably not. Once Milton was disposed of, he would disappear again. He had money. He didn’t need to work, at least not for economic reasons. He would still take jobs, though, because the urge to kill was something that had become entrenched deep within him, and, if he was going to do it, he might as well be paid for it. But he would do it from the shadows, out of the Mossad’s sight.

  He walked into the terminal and checked the departures board. Dubrovnik to Athens to Melbourne. He would be in Australia in twenty-two hours.

  Chapter Ten

  ZIGGY PENN looked through the windshield at the slow-moving traffic and the pedestrians that thronged the sidewalks. It was a stifling night, and Tokyo was busy. The heat was uncomfortable and the air-conditioning unit in his car was sporadic at best. His sweat had soaked through the fabric of his shirt and now it was stuck to his back. Ziggy was nervous. He had allowed himself plenty of time for the journey across the city, so punctuality was not the cause of his concern. It was what he was planning to do once he got where he was going.

  A distant light turned green, the queue was released, and Ziggy got moving again. He took a quieter road through Minato until he reached Azabu, Tokyo’s most upscale residential district. It was home to embassies and high-end businesses, and counted plenty of notable residents within its population. There were well-heeled ex-pats, diplomats and business people, the whole district awash with their money.

  Ziggy found the address he wanted and turned off the road. He was at the top of a ramp facing the entrance to an underground garage. He took out his wallet and removed his faked credentials. The gate to the garage was operated by way of a security card. Ziggy had hacked the system, obtained the code and pasted it onto a magstripe that he had pasted onto a blank card. He lowered his window, reached out and slid the card through the machine. It worked, as he had known it would. The door retracted and Ziggy drove into the garage.

  He drove slowly into the dimly lit space, found an empty bay and reversed his car into it. The garage was full of expensive cars: in the row opposite him he saw a Lexus, a Bentley and a Jaguar, each ensconced within a generously proportioned bay. He waited a moment, satisfying himself that the garage was empty. He was three cars along from the Ferrari. He had been given its registration and told where it would be parked. It sat there, in the corner of the garage, its red bodywork gleaming like a jewel in the dim light cast by a sconced light above it. It was a 458 GTB. Ziggy didn’t care much for cars, but he knew that this one was expensive. There would have been very little change from $250,000.

  He checked left and right again and, satisfied, reached across to the passenger seat and collected his MacBook. He opened it, waking the computer, and activated his homebrew software application. Ziggy was wearing forensic gloves, but the latex was thin and it didn’t impede his fingers as they danced across the keyboard. It was custom software created for this specific purpose, and although he was confident in his coding chops, he was still a little anxious to put it to the test. He reached into the bag on the seat and took out the software-defined radio that he had built from off-the-shelf components for less than a hundred thousand yen. It was, effectively, a radio that could digitally emit or pick up a wide band of frequencies, including FM, Bluetooth and Wi-Fi.

  He typed commands into the laptop, firing up the software. With the transmitter attached to the MacBook, along with an antenna and amplifier he had picked up in RadioShack, he was able to transmit on the same frequency as the key fob that the owner of the Ferrari used to unlock the doors and start the engine. He used that frequency to perform a brute-force attack. The software cycled through thousands of code variations at a rate of ten every second.

  Five minutes.

  Ten minutes.

  The car’s lights flashed and he heard the bleep that signified the doors unlocking.

  He paused again and checked that the garage was still empty. He put the laptop and radio gear into his bag, opened the door and stepped outside. He would leave the Nissan here. He had stolen it earlier that evening from a lot in Roppongi. It would be discovered, eventually, but it would be too late by then. He would be long gone.

  He reached the Ferrari, opened the door and slid inside. He took a moment to familiarise himself with the layout of the instruments and controls and, satisfied, he took out his laptop and activated the software again. The keyless ignition activated and the engine turned over. Ziggy put the car into reverse and pushed down on the gas. He lurched backward, almost rear-ending the car in the bay behind him. He stamped on the brakes and then, applying pressure more carefully, pulled away. He negotiated the garage, ascended the ramp and pulled up at the gate. He pressed his fake credentials against the reader, waited for the barrier to be raised, and then pulled away. He turned onto the road that ran alongside the apartment block and pressed down on the gas a little more firmly. The car, agile as a cat and powered by a m
onstrously large engine, leapt forward.

  Ziggy allowed himself a smile. He was not prone to doubting his abilities, but he wouldn’t deny the quick flash of relief that he had successfully made away with his target.

  Now to deliver it.

  The identity of the recipient was more thrilling to him than the heist itself.

  *

  HE HEADED to another underground garage, this one beneath an apartment block in Ojima. He backed it into the space that had been specified, collected his things and stepped outside. That was that. The job was done. He walked back up the ramp, limping a little from the old injury to his leg, and exited onto street level. There was a taxi idling at a rank two hundred metres away from him and he put his fingers to his lips and whistled, loud and shrill. The driver flashed his lights to signal that he had seen him and started forward.

  “Where to?” the man said in broken English. He had clocked Ziggy’s ethnicity and assumed that he couldn’t speak Japanese.

  That annoyed him.

  “The Park Hyatt,” he said, reeling off the address in adequate Japanese.

  “Very good,” the man said, sticking to English, not even trying to hide the sarcastic little upturn at the side of his mouth.

  Whatever. Life was too short to worry about the opinion of a patronising taxi driver, and Ziggy didn’t push it. In any event, he was buoyed by the sense of anticipation that he felt. He rested his bag on the seat next to him and thought about the situation that he had found himself in. The arrangement was far from satisfactory, but it still gave him shivers of excitement whenever he thought about it.