by Chris Allen
Morgan was running out of options. Only twenty seconds away from the end of the pier, his foot was flat to the floor. He knew the seaplane was about to fly, but he was gaining ground. The yards and seconds ticked by. Faster and faster he pushed the car, eating up the concrete that flashed beneath. He was close enough to see Muscles fumbling about on the float closest to the pier, trying to climb back into the aircraft. Morgan pushed the car harder. The needle of the speedometer leapt from 35 to 40 mph, but it felt like 60 mph. Water on either side raced past in a blur. His only tactical advantage was that the pilot had been forced to stay parallel to the pier to avoid a number of old fishing boats that sat anchored on his far side.
Morgan saw what he had to do. The most minute flash of red was all he needed to formulate a plan.
There was no time for second-guessing and no margin for error. Alex Morgan changed down and rammed his foot to the floor. The Peugeot howled in protest but the needle flashed to 45 mph. He'd closed the gap so quickly that the nose of the car was now level with the tail of the seaplane.
Muscles, clinging to the float, looked back. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. The Peugeot was bearing down hard and the end of the pier was just feet away when he saw the driver's door fly open.
Morgan hurled himself out into thin air as the car cleared the end of the pier, crashing into the bay.
Chapter 36
Alex Morgan surrendered to the dive, allowing the Peugeot's momentum to propel him straight at the retreating seaplane. He'd no other choice. If he failed, he was back to square one and Charly would be left to the mercy of the Serbs.
Soaring through the air, Morgan sucked in a huge lungful of oxygen and prepared for impact with the churning water. He hit it in a flat dive, scything through the aircraft's wake. Miraculously, but as planned, he caught the long red tail of mooring rope snaking behind the seaplane. Gripping on tight as the plane picked up the slack, Morgan was pulled behind, a huge bow wave forming in front of him as he ploughed through the water. He gasped for breath. Another suit ruined, he thought humorlessly.
"What the fuck just happened?" the pilot shouted. "Something rocked the shit out of us."
"Keep going," the big Serb ordered, stunned. He'd seen the car hit the water. He knew exactly what had rocked them. "Get us out of here."
Shocked by the spectacle of the car launching into the bay, the big Serb shook his head before realizing Muscles wasn't inside. He pushed roughly past Charly to reach the door. She was starting to regain consciousness. When he looked outside, he saw his compadre shouting, desperately trying to get back in.
"Give me your hand!" cried the big Serb, leaning out to him. The plane was picking up speed. The engine noise and howling wind was deafening. He could see Muscles was yelling but couldn't make out a word he was saying. "Just give me your fucking hand!" he bellowed.
Strung out behind the seaplane, Morgan buffeted across the wave tops. He was struggling. With his boots on and the fact that he hadn't waterskied in years, the odds of getting into an optimum position weighed heavily against him. The DeHavilland was rapidly reaching takeoff speed and Morgan guessed that they were close to 70 knots already; the equivalent of 80 mph.
Hand over hand, against the pounding impact of the bow wave, he began the excruciating task of clawing his way along the few feet of mooring rope left between him and the floats. Morgan was unfaltering in his resolve. Every second brought him closer to the seaplane, as he methodically moved forward in a series of reach-twist-and-breathe movements. The speed picked up on the plane. The pilot was taking off.
Morgan was almost there.
The engine roared. The aircraft bounced. The pilot brought the nose up into a steep climb. As the floats lifted from the surface, Morgan was dragged from the water into the slipstream, clinging to the bight of the rope.
With 80 mph winds hammering him, Morgan twisted and turned on the rope like a ribbon on a car's radio antenna. His hands were bleeding and he felt that he'd drop at any moment. He couldn't see or hear anything but the azure haze of the sea below and the screaming howl of wind and engine noise.
The Intrepid agent locked his legs to what he could of the flailing rope and determinedly clung on with every muscle in his body. Inch by inch he pulled his way to the port-side float.
The big Serb had Muscles by the arms and was trying to pull him inside, but he was still yelling.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" the big Serb yelled. "Get in—"
Exasperated, Muscles shouted back and the big Serb finally heard him. "The fucking cop," he said, "is on the fucking plane!"
Just as the revelation hit home, the big Serb grimaced as a bloodied hand grabbed Muscles' face. He watched, transfixed, as an entire arm locked around the man's neck, pulling him from the door.
A bizarre tug-of-war death struggle exploded between Morgan on the outside and the big Serb inside, each pulling with all their might to overcome the other, Muscles stuck in the middle.
The de Havilland was gaining height but the pilot struggled to control the ascent. Distracted by the ruckus, he'd lost his concentration at a crucial moment in the climb. The aircraft gave a splutter and began to sway.
The fight threatened to bring them all down.
Alex Morgan was at a serious disadvantage. He'd been hanging on to the aircraft with one hand while trying to dislodge Muscles with the other. Meanwhile, both the Serbs were working hammer-and-tongs to dislodge him. Faced with impossible odds, they soon got the jump on Morgan and he slipped as the big Serb hoisted Muscles inside. But Morgan never gave up easily. As the big Serb dragged his man in, Morgan came in too, firmly attached to the lower half of Muscles' tree-trunk legs.
It was then that he saw Charly, her mane of flaming red hair instantly recognizable.
Blue tear-filled eyes locked onto his.
"Oh my God!" she cried. "Who ...?"
The big Serb silenced her with a slap across the face as he fumbled for a gun sitting within a holster on the back of his seat.
Muscles, trying to kick free of Morgan's grip, had spun around, bashing down hard upon Morgan's back, his clenched fists clasped together as one.
"Hang on, Charly!" Morgan managed to call out, catching a flash of acknowledgment from her eyes.
Charly could scarcely believe what she was seeing. Her would-be rescuer, a sodden, bedraggled wreck, was hanging half in, half out of a rapidly ascending aircraft, with one man beating him senseless and another about to shoot him. Charly couldn't miss the gun brandished right beside her. The big Serb had torn an old Makarov from the holster and fired recklessly at Morgan.
"No! No!" Charly screamed, thrashing against the ropes tying her to her seat.
The seaplane lurched to the left and began to drop from the sky. In a desperate attempt to recover the takeoff, the pilot was forced into a drastic new maneuver. As the Makarov erupted in the back of the fuselage, the pilot pulled the seaplane through a slow arc to port, dropped the nose and headed down toward the sea. The descent enabled him to build up speed and stop the engine from stalling, which it had been dangerously close to doing. His move had extreme consequences.
One round from the Makarov punched into the seat by the door, inches from Morgan's head, and another into the wall behind him. The third shot was much lower than the others and Morgan felt the unmistakable tug of its flight path through the fine fabric of his suit coat, skimming across his back, missing his flesh by a fraction of an inch. At that moment the pilot made his move, the left side of the plane dropped and Morgan's arms slipped down Muscles' legs to his feet. Feeling the change in Morgan's grip, Muscles reacted instantly. Pulling a leg free, he kicked down hard upon Morgan's left shoulder.
Morgan plummeted from the aircraft, an indelible image of Charly's terrified face haunting him all the way down.
Chapter 37
TIRANA, ALBANIA
"We've got increased activity here." It was Call-sign Two, reporting in from the second location. "Our man, Lazarevic, has been
back and forth between his own apartment and this one all day. He's just returned from the grocery store with more supplies."
"Any sign of his mysterious friend?" Braunschweiger asked. He'd just returned from a meeting with the head of Interpol's National Central Bureau in Albania and the general director of Albania's national police force. The Head of Interpol in Tirana had paved the way for emergency backup from Albanian State Police special operations officers, if needed. The support of the ASP was critical if Intrepid needed to fire up any short-notice distress flares as a result of their surveillance operation. Braunschweiger had a feeling that time was upon them.
"No sign of the friend," came the reply from Call-sign Two. "Not for about an hour."
"OK, what's your take on our man's activity?" Braunschweiger was operating from his hotel room. It was two star and barely habitable but it was central to both apartments they were watching and, most importantly, it wasn't the van.
"Honestly, I think they're expecting company; most likely today. He's stocking up on food, milk, cigarettes, magazines."
"Well, this could be what we've been waiting for,' the Key answered. "Well done on confirming the apartment by the way. Good job. When you hand over to Five, come back here and fill me in on the apartment details. We're going to need them."
"Thanks, will do. Bit strange that the friend hasn't emerged for a while, though."
"I agree," replied Braunschweiger. "Stay on it. Maybe he'll surface through another entrance. I'll recheck the CCTV coverage to see if there's anything we may have missed. The main priority is to keep eyes on the apartment block, all entrances."
"Copy that."
"Three, are you online?"
"Copy, this is Three," came the reply. "I'm on approach from the southern end of the building."
"Roger, Three. I want you to prioritize eyes on the rear entrances, vehicle and pedestrian. Find a good spot and get comfortable. Unless you're compromised, I expect you'll be there for some time."
"Understood."
Braunschweiger dropped the radio mike back onto the vinyl-topped card table that served as the room's dining area and sat on the end of the bed.
The latest was that the second apartment had now become the priority target for the surveillance teams. It had become obvious that the Interpol informant, Lazarevic, was prepared for - or, at least, surrendered to - the chance that he was under observation. That made sense, given Davenport's most recent update that Lazarevic was in fact a former Serbian Army soldier named Petrovic and, if Davenport's theory was correct, was also suspected of being an enforcer during the Bosnian War, known only as the Wolf. Skilled at reducing the efficacy of surveillance coverage, he made no calls from his flat, sent no emails and had no visitors. Most importantly, any meetings with the friend, while initially appearing random, were clearly the result of a schedule that had been mapped out well in advance. They'd had no luck in identifying the friend, but that would come. Dave Sutherland was working that angle.
Meanwhile, his gut told him things were ramping up. He was sure there would be action at the second apartment within the next twenty-four hours. He wasn't sure what exactly. He needed to know what Morgan had managed to find out in Malta. Maybe then they could finally connect the dots.
With that, Braunschweiger reached across to the table and grabbed his sat phone. He speed-dialed Mor-gan's number again, having tried a number of times during the day with no success.
Once again, Morgan didn't respond.
He looked at his watch.
Time to check in with Intrepid HQ.
Chapter 38
GOZO, MALTA
The blast of whirring rotor blades and wailing sirens was deafening.
Alex Morgan came back to consciousness amid a crescendo of intense noise. It was dark, night had fallen, and he was lying on a gurney. But he was alive and, somehow, on dry land. A paramedic leant over him wearing a head-torch and taking his vitals. Morgan was aware of lots of people running about, lots of shouting and vehicles coming and going. The familiar Velcro-tear of a blood pressure monitor being removed from his arm jolted him back to his senses.
"Ah, you're awake," said the paramedic in Maltese-accented English, flipping the head-torch up and away from Morgan's face. "Welcome back. We were starting to get worried."
That isn't encouraging, thought Morgan. "Where am I?" he asked.
"Dwejra Bay. There are important people waiting for you to resurface." Morgan noticed him wave somebody over. "You're very lucky, my friend."
"Lucky? Lucky how?" asked Morgan. He wasn't feeling it.
"That old man." The paramedic gestured with his head. Morgan didn't look. "He's a local fisherman. Lived here his whole life. He was coming back in with his boat, back from fishing, and heard a gunshot coming from this old pier." The paramedic was unstrapping Morgan from the gurney as he spoke. Morgan stayed on his back but tossed the blanket aside. His mouth was dry. He felt like he'd been hit by a bus. Or a boat.
"You got any water?" Morgan asked blearily. "What am I wearing?"
"The cops gave us a set of overalls for you," the medic replied, retrieving a water bottle from his gear and handing it to Morgan. "Your clothes were dripping wet. We couldn't leave you like that."
Morgan vaguely remembered. He gulped down the water.
"The old guy saw everything. Saw you water skiing behind a plane. The plane taking off. Saw you flying behind the plane. And then he saw you fall from the sky. So, he fished you out of the water." Clearly, the medic didn't believe everything the old man had been saying. "Quite a day you've had."
It was obvious to Morgan that the local emergency services people thought the old guy was out of his tree. Better it stayed that way.
"When can I get out of here?" Morgan asked, his head still spinning. "I need my phone. Have you ..."
"I have all your equipment, Mr Hamilton."
It was a new voice, a woman's voice; direct and authoritative. The medic disappeared from view. Slowly, Morgan managed to get himself onto one elbow. With some effort, he progressed to sitting upright on the gurney, steadying himself with both arms.
The woman stood directly in front of him. Early to mid-forties, medium height, slender. Short, dark hair in a masculine cut. She looked fit, no-nonsense, and wore the uniform of a Malta Police Force superintendent. She was accompanied by a junior officer, who placed a plastic MPF evidence bag and a large white garbage bag down on the gurney beside Morgan and then, like the medic, disappeared without a word. The evidence bag contained Morgan's sat phone, gun, spare magazines and holster. The garbage bag contained his clothes. That'd be right.
"Mikela Pizzuto." They shook hands. She waited until they were alone. "Major Morgan, we've been contacted by your people in London. I'm the Malta Police Force Interpol liaison officer. I've spoken with Ms Haddad. We will extend you every courtesy."
"Alex Morgan," he replied, impressed by her professionalism. "I'm very grateful."
Morgan tore open the plastic bag, relieved to be reunited, for the second time that day, with his tools of trade. Everything looked OK, even the sat phone. These particular phones were designed to withstand a lot more than a swim.
"Before all this happened,' he said, "I briefed my office, Ms Haddad—"
"Yes, the house in Lija. We know about that already," Pizzuto replied. "Our officers took control of the house earlier this evening. They found two men fitting the descriptions you provided; the captain of the yacht and, I believe, a police officer."
"Great, when can we question them?"
"Both were deceased when our officers arrived at the scene. They'd been shot. Formal identification will follow. We'll provide that information back to your people as soon as we have it finalized."
Morgan nodded. "What about out here? There was a guy—
"A young man was arrested a short time ago," she began. Her expression indicated bad news. "He was pulled over by police in a stolen car, not far from here. Unfortunately, he was shot and killed in an exchan
ge with our officers."
Jesus! The young Serb was their only lead. He'd hoped to question him, and the other two. But that option was now closed. Then he asked: "Any of your guys hurt?"
"No, thank you for asking," she replied. "We have also found a cave that appears to have been used as a refuge of some sort and another body, a man, at the base of the rocks about 200 yards from here. He looks local. He fell or was thrown from the cave. I've arranged for our forensic people to come and take charge of that area."
"So, where to from here?" he asked.
"I'm to escort you back to your hotel in Valletta immediately, where you are to gather your belongings and prepare to travel."
"Travel? Travel where?"
"I'm not able to answer that," she answered. "But I believe your office will make contact with you at your hotel!
"Very well," Morgan replied. "And how are we getting back to Valletta?"
"That helicopter is for you."
Chapter 39
VALLETTA, MALTA
Back in his room at the Grand Hotel Excelsior, Alex Morgan stood under a steaming hot shower, washing away the frustration and, ultimately, failure of the day. He'd been within reach. He could have almost touched her, they were so close. And now she was theirs, trapped in an underworld network she had no hope of escaping on her own. And he, the man sent to recover her, had allowed it to happen, had let her slip through his shredded fingers. At least, that's the way it felt.
After ten minutes of brooding, soaking under the therapeutic pounding of the water, he shut off the taps and stepped out into a steam-filled bathroom. Opening the door so the steam could clear, Morgan grabbed a towel and started to dry himself.
His mind returned over and over again to the image of Charly's face, lost and desperate, imploring him to rescue her. He replayed every second from when he was inside that plane. Was there anything else he could have done? Tormented by utter defeat, Morgan hurled the towel across the bathroom and leant against the marble basin. He caught the reflection of his naked black and blue body in the mirror. Christ, what a great state to be in. He was a mess of cuts, bruises and assorted other wounds and welts.