Hunter

by Chris Allen

  The room was plain and not particularly noteworthy. It contained some chairs and a table with a telephone. It was just like any other corporate interview room in any other first-world high-rise building. Although this one had spectacular views across the East River.

  Ryerson brought the man to the table and sat him down with sufficient courtesy to warrant a thank you, which he received. Across the table sat Brett Tappin. On the far side of the room, leaning against the wall to Tappin's left, stood Alex Morgan.

  "Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Durad Lazarevic," Ryerson announced before joining Tappin at the table.

  "Good afternoon," said Lazarevic stiffly.

  "Good afternoon, Mr Lazarevic," Tappin replied. "I'm Assistant Director Brett Tappin of the United States marshals Service." Lazarevic nodded in response and then looked to his right toward Morgan, awaiting an introduction. "You don't have to know who he is, Mr Lazarevic," said Tappin.

  The tone was set. Lazarevic had sat through many similar interviews before. He was prepared. Being an Interpol informant, and the man responsible for leading investigators to S erifovic and the others, he was routinely lifted and brought in for questioning. The Hague, Lyon, New York; he was used to it. It was expected. The way he figured it, there were a lot worse things than flying around the world under a new identity, protected by Interpol. It was also the best and possibly only chance he had of survival. Because he knew that if he ever put a foot wrong or if his past caught up with him, his death would be an extremely slow and painful one. Besides, his cut of the reward made it all worthwhile.

  "Now, you gotta forgive me, Mr Lazarevic," Tappin began. "I'm kinda the new boy here, you know? I've come into the game a little late in the play?'

  "I understand," Lazarevic replied. "How can I help?"

  "Well, to start with, I'm very interested in how you came to be this special informant for Interpol. I hear you've helped our friends a whole bunch; I mean, a couple of your big kahunas from the old country are now cooling their heels in Scheveningen, thanks to you.

  Lazarevic looked quizzically from Tappin to Ryerson, even across to Morgan. He said, "I'm not sure what you mean, Mr Tappin. What are you asking of me?"

  "What I'm asking, Durad, is what brought you in from the cold all of a sudden? The war's been over for almost twenty years; not quite, but close enough. You've had plenty of opportunity to come forward with information before. Why now?"

  "Five million euros is a great incentive in anyone's language," Lazarevic began. He was suddenly uncomfortable. "Where I come from, where I live now in Albania, we do not enjoy the freedom of choice that you all take for granted. These men are butchers, Mr Tappin. I've lived under their shadow before, during and since the war. I always wanted to speak up but I knew if I did, I would be cut down; if not immediately, then someday. I would be looking over my shoulder forever, knowing that any day, any moment could be my last. Even when the reward is made available to me, I will be a marked man for the rest of my days."

  "Yes, that's right. I heard that the money hasn't been given to you yet," Tappin stated with a deliberately skeptical tone designed to unsettle Lazarevic. "Interesting."

  "I am told it will be soon, now that Serifovic is in custody." Lazarevic looked up at Morgan, who he assumed was in charge, for reassurance. He didn't get it. "Is there now some problem?"

  "Mr Lazarevic, we believe you can continue to be of assistance to us," said Ryerson. An old pro, his manner was deadpan, giving nothing away. "We have a number of scared judges, one of whom has been personally targeted. To protect them, we need to understand the mentality of the people we're up against and you're our best shot. I mean, who better than the guy who led us to the worst of them, right?"

  Lazarevic was sweating. He shifted nervously in his chair, brown eyes bouncing from side to side in their dark craters. This interview was nothing like the others. He'd been treated like royalty when he first came forward with information back in Tirana. They'd lapped it up. But now he didn't know if he was a guest at the banquet or the fatted calf. He ran cigarette-stained fingers through his greasy hair.

  "I've been nothing but cooperative. You ask the Interpol man in Tirana, Lorenc Gjoka. He's my case officer; he'll vouch for me."

  "Hey, now, take it easy there, sport," Tappin said with a broad smile. "We know you've been hiding out in Albania since the Balkans War - can't say I blame you for that; and, we also know that you voluntarily met with the Interpol guys there. So, yeah, we'll check in with your case officer, this Mr Gjoka. Nobody's suggesting anything untoward. In fact, it's the exact opposite. Isn't that right, Pat?"

  "Sure. We'd just like to impose on you one last time, so we can really make sure we're looking after these judges. That sound OK?" asked Ryerson. Ryerson had met Lorenc Gjoka once in Lyon, long before Lazarevic had come forward as an informant. He didn't like him.

  "Yes. Yes, of course," Lazarevic replied cautiously. "Anything. Just ask me."

  "Well, let's start with something easy." Tappin gave the impression they were just a bunch of guys sitting around talking about baseball or football with his easy manner. He was just warming up. "We'd like to start with anything you know about any folks here in the US who may be sympathetic to—"

  There was a loud knock on the door, it opened and a young woman, one of the Interpol staff, appeared. She excused herself and gestured for Ryerson to join her. Pat Ryerson was immediately on his feet and disappeared into the corridor, closing the door behind him. There was silence for a few moments before he returned. The door remained open.

  "Mr Lazarevic," Ryerson said, "my colleague here is going to escort you to another room. I'd appreciate it if you'd wait there until I collect you. This will only take a moment."

  The young woman was at the door again and ushered Lazarevic outside in silence. Ryerson closed the door and came back. He sat heavily upon the edge of the table. His face was grave.

  "What the fuck's going on, Pat?" asked Tappin. "There's been a hit on one of the other judges," Ryerson said. "This one was successful."

  "Who was it?" Morgan said.

  "Judge Guillaume Rene de Villepin. Happened at his home in Bordeaux last night. Wasn't discovered until this morning. Building superintendent called it in." "Jesus!" exclaimed Tappin. "How?"

  "Bullet straight through the heart as he answered his front door," Ryerson replied. Then he turned to Morgan. "Alex, I don't rally know what it is you guys do, but your boss wants you, son. Pronto. He's in Vallincourt's office. You're to go straight in."

  PART TWO

  DEAD OR ALIVE

  Chapter 13

  ABOARD THE YACHT FLORENCE, THE MEDITERRANEAN

  The yacht swam upon the crystalline waters of the Mediterranean, rolling gently on the waves as sea breezes kissed her decks with secret whispers of ancient history. She sat five nautical miles off the east coast of Malta, due south of Sicily, along the maritime route between Valletta and Catania, her last port of call.

  The significance of the island's strategic position in the center of the Mediterranean had seen Malta be a much sought-after prize throughout all the great empires, from the Phoenicians to the British, for literally thousands of years. While that was still true to some extent, its significance today as a staging point into southern Europe was equally as important to those who exploited its location for other reasons, human trafficking being the most prevalent.

  Of course, those sorts of considerations were not an issue for the guests aboard the Florence.

  "I can't believe I ever let you talk me into this, you know," Charly said in her soft, playful, educated American accent. "I mean, seriously, we're still just getting to know each other and I'm not someone given to flights of fancy. You're very persuasive." She leant her body back provocatively from the upper-deck dining table, reclining so that her magnificent curves gave their best effect upon the broad gold and white stripes of the bench seat.

  "I am ... enchanted by you:' Raoul replied, openly admiring her. "How could I not wi
sh to lavish you with luxury?"

  "Well, it certainly is beautiful here. Still, why I allowed you to whisk me away from New York like that; flying me off to Rome, then Catalina, then this ..." She smiled at him, casting her eyes out across the deep blue waters twinkling under a perfect sun. "It's been an amazing week already, Raoul. I just want to thank you for taking things slowly."

  "We have as much or as little time as you like, my dear:' he said. "Who knows, you may even grow to like me along the way." Again, the dazzling smile. "It is my pleasure to share time with you, Charly, away from all the madness that follows, it seems, wherever you go."

  "Chaos, more like." She took another sip of the exquisite champagne, chilled to perfection, while the remnants of their lunch were being cleared away by a member of the kitchen crew.

  Charly gazed across into Raoul's ice-gray eyes, contemplating how she'd allowed this stranger to entice her away like this. She had never been so calculatingly seduced, which she put down to him being older than any other man she'd dated. But the invitation had been too good to refuse; the promise of escape was intoxicating and any time away from the media spotlight was good for her. Besides, that last night at Carnegie Hall had been the final night of the tour and she now had two blissful months before she needed to be anywhere. And he was starting to grow on her, just a little.

  "I must go and enjoy this magnificent sunshine before Malta's spring chill finds me again."

  "A splendid idea, Charly," he said, his silky smooth tone looping its way around her willpower.

  "Join me, and you can slip out of that shirt so I can get a proper look at you," said Charly mischievously. "You're so modest."

  "I'll be down soon," he said. "I'll keep an eye on you from here."

  "Have it your way," Charly replied, feigning hurt feelings. "Don't let me get too lonely down there. I may need to ask one of the crew to rub lotion on me."

  Charly slid from the bench and moved over to him. She ran her slender fingers over his shoulders and through his hair as he sat obediently, looking up into her eyes. Slowly, gently, with the promise of more to come, she kissed him on the mouth. He started to respond but then she broke away. Unpretentiously, she dropped her flowing Crystal Jin cover up to the floor beside his chair, then holding his gaze, excused herself and left the upper deck with its spectacular 360-degree views of the Mediterranean.

  She made her way to the forward deck where an area had been prepared especially for her to relax while avoiding the damaging effects of the sun. Deliberately exposing herself to the risk of skin cancer was something Charly was just not prepared to do, but that didn't mean she couldn't still enjoy a little paradise.

  She wore a black Cia Maritima two-piece that complemented her full curves. The pitch of the costume

  sat in stark contrast upon the incredible contours of her fair skin and against the volcanic effect of her lustrous red hair. Charlotte-Rose moved toward the Bedouin-like pavilion arrangement on the foredeck, complete with flanks of billowing lawn and a bed of sumptuous cushions. She conjured 1950s movie star glamor with every step and unaffected gesture.

  Every crew member within view craned to watch.

  Chapter 14

  Two miles south of the Florence, a large Zodiac rigid-hulled inflatable boat, powered by a 165-horsepower MerCruiser engine, was moving in fast from the direction of Marsaskala. At the wheel a man dressed in the navy blue uniform, baseball cap and orange life vest of the Malta Police Force Maritime Patrol was clearly visible. He was armed and focused intently upon the Florence.

  The conditions were perfect. The sea was still, visibility clear and the only merchant shipping in the area was far enough away to be beyond the range of the naked eye.

  *

  Charly lounged on the cushions, a sea breeze running gently across her skin. She looked up at Raoul with a smile as he watched lasciviously from the dining deck. She allowed herself to be immersed in the trinkets of rising celebrity: the luxurious yacht; the hot, breezy Mediterranean; and, of course, the swarthy European millionaire wrapped around her little finger. With a movement that said, "You'll just have to wait until I'm ready," the world-famous classical pianist nestled upon the soft carpet of cushions and allowed the calming roll of the sea to carry her off into a blissful daydream.

  *

  Aboard the Zodiac, a black tarpaulin was thrown back to reveal four heavily armed men crouching low behind the rounded flanks of the vessel. Unlike the policeman at the helm, they were dressed in scruffy, ragtag clothes, with long hair and beards, brandishing an assortment of weapons from Kalashnikov assault rifles to FN Herstal shotguns to Makarov pistols. The Zodiac was now 100 yards from the Florence; close enough for the four hostile silhouettes to be seen from the mega-yacht.

  *

  "Everybody get below decks, right fucking now!"

  The voice, full of tension and insistence, roused Charly like a slap to the face.

  Wrenched from siesta, she awoke to the terrifying sight of a man brandishing a large gun on the decks above her, yelling at those aboard to get below. Charly sat bolt upright, heart racing furiously beneath her breast.

  Get below? Why? What was happening? Who was he?

  She tried to call out in distress, but couldn't make a sound. Her eyes darted left and right, searching anxiously through the billowing white curtains for the source of the turmoil. She reached for her cover up but realized she didn't have it. She could only hear the voices of the crew yelling and the unmistakable voice of the man with the gun barking at everybody. Why had nobody come for her? Where was Raoul? Through the noise on board and the frightened volume of her own breathing, Charly heard the sound of an approaching engine. She grabbed a large towel and wrapped it defensively around her vulnerable, near-naked body. She rushed from the marquee, calling for Raoul, calling for somebody, anybody to come for her, to tell her what was happening, to protect her.

  "What's going on?" she yelled. But now there was no one to answer her call; no one at all.

  A long burst of automatic gunfire erupted from the stern. Charly screamed. There was more, this time from the port side. There came another loud burst, and another. Within seconds an exchange was underway between security men onboard the Florence and the ragged figures aboard the rapidly approaching Zodiac.

  Oh my God! Charly fell to the deck in fetal-like self-preservation. Gingerly, she inched to the edge of the deck and peered out. Down the port side toward the stern, the Zodiac was powering across the dead-calm sea toward the Florence. A security man, who Charly now recognized to be the same man with the gun who'd been yelling at everybody to get below, was at the stern of the yacht shooting ferociously at the Zodiac. With every deafening staccato burst, Charly's heart skipped and her knuckles clenched, but she could not avert her eyes from the mayhem. This is not happening, she thought. This is not happening!

  As another hail of bullets exploded close by, she saw him beneath her, on the portside. Raoul had a gun and was shooting at the Zodiac. Overwhelmed, Charly staggered to her knees and then to her feet, on the verge of shocked collapse, grasping for rails, anything, to steady her as she looked frantically for shelter.

  The Zodiac was closing fast and the shooting intensified from both sides. The security man at the back of the Florence was hit by a full burst from an AKM. The 7.62mm ammunition tore through his body and launched him over the side. He fell face down upon the surface of the water, dead.

  Flattening herself against the deck, Charly cowered, not wanting to draw any attention. Terrifyingly, a recent CNN story on piracy flickered strobe-like through her thoughts.

  Soon the firing had all but stopped and she could hear brutal yelling, lots of it, at the back of the boat. It sounded as bad as it could get. Dread filled Charly's heart. Raoul!

  Charly was close to a lifeboat so she crawled under it, squeezing her body into the tiny space beneath the hull. Crying quietly and scared out of her mind, she summoned her survival instincts and laid still. There was a splash, as though som
eone had been thrown overboard, and screams from the crew. Voices drew closer, toward the front of the boat, toward her. No! No! A burst of gunfire was followed by more screaming from the crew. Then she heard footsteps racing heavily on the decks. In a panicked moment, she clamped her eyes shut tight and pulled the towel over her head, just as she had done with the bed covers as a little girl when the thunder and lightning coming across Puget Sound became too much.

  Thinking of her father, Charly prayed through silent tears that the attackers wouldn't find her.

  Chapter 15

  INTREPID HQ, BROADWAY, LONDON

  "Major Morgan is here, sir."

  "Thank you, Mrs Jolley," replied Davenport from his desk. "Send him in. Oh, and rustle up some coffee, please? We're going to need it."

  "On the way," she said.

  Margaret Jolley, the general's devoted personal assistant, withdrew from the doorway connecting her office to the chief's inner sanctum and ushered Morgan across the threshold.

  "Pull up a pew; I won't be a moment," Davenport said to Morgan.

  Morgan moved familiarly over to the old circular mahogany coffee table and, unbuttoning his jacket, dropped into a beautifully aged Chesterfield. Comfortable in the way men find firm, studded leather chairs comfortable, he waited dutifully as General Davenport made a final few taps on his computer keyboard. On the table he noticed a file with the title DEFENDER: 091012/43. "Defender" was the official Interpol designator for all Intrepid operations, and 091012 was the number allocated to the hunt for Drago. The numerals 43, pronounced four-three, were Morgan's official identifier and indicated that he was the agent leading the operation.