Hunter

by Chris Allen

  "Right, that's done," said Davenport, stepping from behind his desk, contemplatively gazing about the oak-paneled, volume-lined walls of his "war room". Framed parchments, awards, presentations and mementos adorned the room from which Davenport would launch his agents across the world. It was a room within which Morgan felt at ease. "I'm still interested in this informant, Lazarevic," Davenport said. "There's something not quite right there. Something I can't put my finger on."

  "Anything I can help with?"

  "No, you've got enough on your plate for now. And your appraisal of him, along with the video interview Mr Tappin conducted, has been most helpful. No, I'll get to the bottom of it. In fact, I have our new man, Hauptmann Braunschweiger, working on it for me. I want to give him a chance to fly his kite."

  Mrs Jolley returned with a tray containing cups and a pot of strong coffee.

  "Thank you, my dear. Very kind," said Davenport, somewhat absently. "Oh, would you ask Ms Haddad to hunt down my old case files from Bosnia? Archived among my personal files somewhere. I'd like to see her once she has them."

  "Of course." She gave them both a warm smile and left without another word, closing the door quietly behind her.

  "More developments, sir?" Morgan asked, pouring coffee for them both. Following the assassination of Judge de Villepin, he and Davenport had taken the first flight out of New York and spent the entire flight back to London working through the dozens of theories and various scenarios that could be ahead of them. By the time they'd landed, Interpol had already confirmed via the joint Ryerson/Tappin interrogation of Lazarevic that Drago was behind the de Villepin murder and that there would almost certainly be more to come. Exactly what would happen next was unknown. One thing was certain though: the hunt for Drago was on. Morgan was already packed and ready to head to France - his bags were in his office. But somehow, by the look on Davenport's face, he guessed the situation had changed.

  "Yes, but not what you're thinking, I'm afraid." Morgan watched as his chief, hands in pockets, strolled to the far corner of the office and removed a framed photograph from a shelf. In a private moment of reflection, Davenport looked at the photo for some time before joining Morgan at the circular table. He handed the frame to Morgan and picked up a coffee. "See any familiar faces?"

  "Well, the tall one there on the left is you, sir," Morgan said, appreciating the camaraderie evident in the picture. It was in black and white and showed two men, a younger, clean-shaven Davenport and a comrade, not quite as tall as Davenport but more solidly built, smiling at the camera with shoulder slung Heckler & Koch MP5s, clad in the iconic black garb of the SAS counter-terrorist squadron circa the early 1980s. It was a rare photo, a candid moment, intended only for private display. "Where and when?"

  "We'd not long been done at Princes Gate," Davenport began quietly, reflectively. Morgan knew the general was referring to the Iranian Embassy siege in London in May 1980. The regiment's action to retrieve hostages taken at the embassy was televised live around the world. It was the first time anybody outside of select circles had ever heard of the SAS. "We were at Regents Park Barracks for the post-op debrief and beer. Maggie Thatcher was even there to thank us. That chap with me, Peter Fleming, was one of my closest friends. We were the only two officers involved in the assault. Sadly, he was killed not so long ago, during a task in Central America. Two thousand and six, from memory."

  "I'm sorry to hear that, sir," Morgan said.

  "Anyway," Davenport replied gruffly, shrugging off the reverie and retrieving the frame from Morgan. "The reason I raise all this with you is that Peter was married to Madeline Clancy."

  "I see."

  "Peter was a good man," Davenport said, looking again at the photograph. "He could have commanded the Special Air Service Regiment. In fact, many thought it inevitable that he would. But an opportunity too good to refuse was offered to Madeline back in the United States. So, Peter left the British Army to enable Madeline to focus on her judicial career. They left England and moved back to America. Madeline became a judge and Peter a much in demand, very highly paid security consultant. Of course, he was still able to be useful from time to time when the British Government needed an experienced pair of hands in the Americas."

  "Was the Central America business one of those tasks, sir?"

  Davenport nodded.

  Morgan now understood the familiarity and loyalty he'd sensed between Davenport and the judge. The two had almost managed to suppress their personal connection among the others present at the meeting in New York, but not well enough for Morgan to miss it.

  Davenport reached for his well-worn brown leather satchel and rummaged through it, extracting a CD cover. He handed it to Morgan. "Recognize her?"

  "Who wouldn't? Charlotte-Rose," Morgan answered, a little perplexed. "I have a couple of her CDs, including this one. She's incredible - and stunning, which makes listening to some of her heavier pieces less taxing."

  "I'm sure," replied Davenport. "The Grace Kelly of our time, that girl."

  "Well, you're showing your vintage, now, sir. But yeah, I guess she is."

  Morgan's gaze remained fixed on the crystal blue eyes staring straight back at him from the photo on the CD cover. Her fine features exuded elegance, yet were underwritten by a natural beauty that most men, including Morgan, found hard to resist. Her trademark red hair was pulled back in an elegant yet tousled style.

  "She strikes me as a cross between Scarlett Johansson and ..." Morgan was thinking aloud, "Christina Hendricks. Don't you think?"

  "How the bloody hell should I know?"

  "She's certainly a spectacular creature," Morgan said, almost to himself.

  "You're right there," Davenport agreed. "Very beautiful girl."

  "So, what's she got to do with us?" Morgan asked, placing the CD onto the table. "Celebrities aren't really our thing."

  "This one is very much our thing, I'm afraid. Apart from being an internationally renowned pianist, she is also Peter and Madeline's only child and, as it happens, my goddaughter," the general said gravely, "and she disappeared earlier today, off the coast of Malta."

  "Jesus!" Of course, Charlotte-Rose Fleming, Morgan realized. He sat up in his chair and leant forward. "I recall you and the judge mentioning a daughter at our meeting in New York. I heard Judge Clancy say that she was a musician but she referred to her only as Charly and, I guess, the judge uses her own maiden name. I didn't make the connection. Weren't the FBI supposed to be checking up on Charly's security arrangements?"

  "They didn't have time. She'd already headed off on holiday with a gentleman friend, Raoul Demaci, who I understand is also missing. I've asked for details on him. So far, all we know is that he's a wealthy European businessman. They were aboard a luxury yacht a few miles off the Maltese coast. Malta Police Force detectives claim it's the work of pirates?'

  Morgan gathered his thoughts, considering the impact of Charly's disappearance upon their hunt for Drago and, importantly, upon his chief and mentor, Davenport. "Well, kidnapping is standard practice for pirates these days. And hitting luxury yachts or cruise ships in search of cash and jewelry or ransoms is their bread and butter. But that mostly occurs off the east coast of Africa, usually by Somalis on the payroll of the warlords. It's rare for the Mediterranean."

  "Rare, but not implausible:' remarked Davenport. "Thoughts?"

  "In the Mediterranean, I'd have to say Algerians, most likely, or Libyans - even a combination. There are some well-organized criminal cartels operating out of North Africa. They have established pipelines in and out of southern Europe and traditionally traffic weapons, drugs, gold or people. Maybe somebody recognized her before they set off, or the paparazzi tracked her down and word filtered through to one of these local outfits. They'd be falling all over themselves to get hold of her. A ransom would be astronomical. Do we know where she set off from?"

  "Catania, Sicily. They flew in from New York, via Rome and were picked up by the yacht, Florence, at a private marina."r />
  Morgan read his chief's expression. "But you don't think she's been taken by opportunists."

  "No, I do not. We can let the locals think that, if they like, but as you say, if she'd been sailing in East African waters then it may be a consideration. Lazarevic confirmed that Drago was behind the assassination of Judge de Villepin and warned that we should expect more action against the ICTY. So, for now, we'll approach this on the basis that Charlotte is the daughter of the ICTY's Presiding Judge."

  "So, locals were engaged to conduct the kidnapping, and now she'll be passed along the pipeline to whoever paid for the abduction."

  "Correct. It's sure to bring further pressure to bear upon the tribunal. There is a real danger that using such a personal leverage upon a judge could corrupt and undermine the work of the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia at what can only be described as a critical juncture. All of Interpol's outstanding Red Notice fugitives have been captured and are on trial or awaiting trial in The Hague. All bar one: Drago Obrenovic. If he can orchestrate the kidnapping of Charlotte-Rose and then threaten her safety and wellbeing, there's no doubt it will weigh heavily upon Madeline and her colleagues on the tribunal and impact directly upon their objectivity. The whole thing could be disastrous."

  "So, my objective is to get Charlotte-Rose back before she disappears into the pipeline completely."

  General Davenport looked across at his agent. He knew that of all of them, Morgan was the one who would act ruthlessly and relentlessly to achieve any mission objectives Davenport set for him, no matter what the personal cost.

  "Alex, you know I have spent all of my adult life defending the lives of others and upholding the rule of international law. But, for the first time in all those years, the very fabric of international justice is hanging in the balance with, of all people, an appalling creature like Dragoslav Obrenovic picking away at its already fraying edges. I can't allow that to go any further. If they manage to get Charlotte-Rose into Serbia, she'll be lost for good. I owe it to her father to ensure that doesn't happen."

  Alex Morgan remained silent, primed and ready as his chief issued his final orders.

  "The safety catch is off. Return that girl to her family and drag those bastards back to justice. Dead or alive, it makes no difference to me."

  Chapter 16

  Charly curled back into the warm embrace and safety of the limousine, luxuriating in its splendid comfort, relieved to have successfully run the gauntlet and escaped the paparazzi again. With a confidence that comes from feeling absolutely safe, her smile beamed from the back of the car, reaching out to the faithful sea of strangers still crushed behind the security barriers, all straining to catch a final glimpse.

  As usual, cameras flashed and digital images captured it all, every second, every gesture and movement. Thousands of shots taken throughout the brief appearance would already be charging across the internet to newsrooms around the planet. As the big car slowly took its place in the midtown Manhattan traffic amid the galaxy of lights along Seventh Avenue, a black curtain of security men fell upon the scene, bringing the event to a close. For the crowd, she was gone, but there was nowhere on earth Charlotte-Rose could not be found.

  "Would you like any music back there, Miss Fleming? I've got your iPod up here ready to go!"

  "No thanks, John. It's been a long day. I'd like to enjoy some quiet. Take me straight home, please. And could you call ahead and ask Maria to prepare a bath for me?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Charly gave him a warm smile of thanks and closed her eyes as the communicating panel between the front and rear compartments of the car hissed slowly back into place. She rested her elbow against the door and allowed her head to fall comfortably into her open hand, sliding her fingers through her thick red hair. God, she could not wait to get home and get out of everything. She would go straight to her room, drop her gown to the floor, peel herself from her lingerie and lower her tired, naked body straight into the bath. She could already feel the water pulling her down, the bubbles gently caressing her skin as she slowly allowed herself to submerge.

  Blissfully away from prying lenses and eyes, and secure in the hands of her trusted and loyal driver, Charly curled a finger through the ankle strap to unbuckle her stilettos.

  But the strap wasn't budging. She tried again, and still the strap didn't move. In fact, it seemed much thicker than she'd remembered. What shoes was she wearing? She tried harder but the strap was more like a fat snake coiled tightly around both ankles.

  Reality returned like a bolt of lightning and Charly came spiraling back from semiconsciousness to find herself in the middle of her worst nightmare. She was lying on her side on the floor of what felt like an old four-wheel drive, trussed up like a pig, ankles and wrists locked together with heavy-duty tape, wearing nothing but her bikini and sandals. A flimsy bag was pulled over her head, but she could just see through it. With every pothole along the track, Charly was bounced painfully against the rusted metal surface of the rear compartment. Petrol fumes filled the air. A pothole caused the vehicle to leave the road and then crash back onto the uneven surface with a thump. Charly was bashed down hard against the floor and let out a gasp.

  "Hey, bitch," a deeply accented, vaguely familiar male voice said, somewhere close. "It's OK. We're going to take good care of you."

  A rough hand touched her and began caressing slowly, creepily along her thigh and up to the thin line of her bikini.

  Charly screamed.

  Chapter 17

  VALLETTA, MALTA

  Alex Morgan stepped out onto the balcony of his hotel room at the Grand Hotel Excelsior feeling deeply troubled. The urgency of the mission and the revelation that Charlotte-Rose Fleming was Davenport's goddaughter were clawing at him. While the general's orders were clear - "Get her back, fast" - the amount of information available on her abduction was scant, almost non-existent. The scraps that Intrepid's intelligence section had been able to piece together from police reports, crew statements and the media were light on detail, heavy on speculation. And, as far as Morgan was concerned, there were too many elements that didn't add up.

  The Grand Hotel Excelsior sat upon the Great Siege Road of Valletta facing north across the harbor. He preferred to stay in large hotels because they assured him a level of anonymity, a prerequisite of his profession. It was easier to be forgotten among hundreds of guests, rather than being one of just a dozen in some trendy boutique hotel.

  With his first strong black coffee of the day and contemplating the imminent future, Morgan could not help but be mesmerized by the breathtaking views across the ancient Marsamxett Harbour. Biblical domes and spires filled the skyline and massive sand-stone walls sat like cliffs in every direction along the length and breadth of the harborside. Gazing across at Fort Manoel, located strategically on Manoel Island to cover the sea entrance to the city, Morgan felt an eerie affinity with the old Knights of Malta, who built the fort in the eighteenth century. The fort had served its purpose nobly for almost 200 years, right up until the Second World War when it had suffered heavy bombardment. Now, instead of warships, the multi-million dollar playthings of the rich and famous, leisure craft and tourist launches dotted the harbor's shoreline. But Morgan hadn't chosen the room for its luxury appeal. It gave him a perfect panorama of the harbor and, most importantly, a clear line of sight to the exclusive marina on the south-western edge of Manoel Island. The very marina where the Florence was currently berthed.

  The phone on the bedside table rang. "Your harbor taxi is ready, sir."

  "Thank you," Morgan replied.

  Time to get to work.

  *

  "Welcome aboard, Mr Hamilton. We received the email from your secretary. It's so very nice to meet you." The captain of the Florence met Morgan, operating under the pseudonym of Hamilton, with a slimy grin and a wet-fish handshake. "I apologize, as you can see, we're in the middle of some minor refurbishment, but we'll be ready for sea again soon. You were
thinking of something for the end of this month?"

  "That's right," Morgan replied. Dressed in a beige lightweight suit, fitted white shirt and brown suede boots, he was the picture of a successful businessman. "I have a number of associates I need to impress." He gave a thin smile. "Want to show them a good time and give them a reason to get their checkbooks out, you know?"

  The captain returned a conspiratorial look. "We often look after business investors, Mr Hamilton, with our exclusive service."

  Morgan allowed the captain to lead him around the yacht while taking the opportunity to make his own critical observations. He was at times distracted by the sheer opulence of the craft. There was nothing that hadn't been thought of and provided for tenfold in terms of luxury appointments. It was light-years removed from any seafaring vessel he'd ever been on, most of which were navy boats and none of which were built for comfort.

  "So," Morgan began as they headed from the staterooms back up to the main deck, "why the refurbishment? She seems to be quite young and in excellent condition."

  The captain became cautious.

  "Well, Mr Hamilton, unfortunately we had some trouble on board a couple of days ago. You haven't heard?" He shot a skeptical glance straight at Morgan. "It has been reported in the news."

  "I recall seeing something about trouble in these waters, but I didn't know this particular boat was involved. Was it a robbery?"

  "Something like that." He didn't expand. "Nothing to worry about for your trip, I assure you. We have been cooperating with the police, who gave us access back aboard this morning, and I have changed over the crew to give the others some rest. We are also upgrading our security arrangements."