by Chris Allen
"How did you know?" asked the colonel. "Did somebody give you this information?"
"Not at all," Demaci answered. He was wary of the line of questioning and the intense gaze of the policeman. It seemed a detailed physical appraisal was being conducted as he spoke. "For some reason, I don't know why, they presumed from the beginning that I was French. Obviously, you and I know that I'm not. However, I do speak French, along with a dozen other languages. It's important in my line of work to accommodate a variety of languages and cultures."
"I understand that," said the colonel, unimpressed by the man's arrogance. "But how did you know they only wanted Ms Fleming?"
"It didn't take long to work out that my kidnappers were a mix of Serbs, Maltese and Tunisians. I thought it would be wise to disguise the fact that I could understand them, so I allowed them to keep thinking I was French. As a result, all of their communication with me was in French, a very basic form, I must say. Meanwhile, they conversed among themselves in their native languages and, depending on who was talking, I could understand almost everything that was being said around me without their knowledge."
"Remarkable, Mr Demaci," replied the colonel, unmoved. "You are a very resourceful man."
"That's kind of you."
"Now, if we could discuss—"
The door flew open and the doctor came bustling back in.
"Colonel, I was quite clear when I said 10 minutes,' said the doctor. "And you have already been much longer than that. I must insist."
The doctor gestured to the door he was holding open, but Colonel Hamba had no intention of leaving. He'd been made to wait for 2 hours and the interview was yet to bear fruit, other than confirming Hamba's suspicion of Demaci. He was not about to be put out into the street by this doctor. Hamba had the vital ground and he was not about to give it up. He turned to the patient.
"Mr Demaci, if you feel you are unable to continue ..." The policeman's expression was all empathy and encouragement. "However, we are progressing quite well. It would be a pity if I was required to come back and forth over the next few days."
"Colonel, for the last time," ordered the doctor. From the bed, Demaci raised both hands to appease the men.
"Gentlemen," he began. "Doctor, I'm appreciative of your concern for my welfare. However, it is doing me good to finally convey the details of my abduction and captivity to the authorities. I am happy to continue with the colonel and promise that I will rest this evening. It is my hope that I will be released tomorrow, so that I may return home as soon as possible."
After a few moments of consideration the doctor eventually acquiesced with a "humph", and disappeared out into the hall, his white jacket flapping angrily behind him.
"Thank you, Mr Demaci," said Colonel Hamba. "Now, if we could return to the beginning. Please take me through what happened from the time you first became aware of the kidnappers until your presentation at the police station in El Djem earlier today."
Raoul Demaci took a moment to gather his thoughts. He poured water into a glass from a jug beside the bed, drank the glass empty and refilled it. Then he began.
Sitting invisibly in the corner, with painstaking thoroughness, Youssef transcribed every detail.
For the next 2 hours, Demaci led the colonel through the kidnapping step by step, followed by the period of his captivity.
According to his best recollection, he said, when security onboard the Florence announced that they were about to be boarded by pirates, they began herding the crew and guests below decks for their protection. Of course, Demaci said, there were only two guests on board: himself and Charlotte-Rose Fleming, and in the noise and chaos they were separated. Soon after, the pirates had begun firing upon the yacht and the security men were returning fire. During this time, the security man closest to Demaci was wounded. So he picked up the man's gun and began to shoot back at the pirates. Sadly, he said, by this time they were almost aboard, and the second security man was killed and Demaci was taken hostage.
This aspect intrigued the colonel.
"How did you know what to do, Mr Demaci?" asked Colonel Hamba, interrupting the flow of the account. "I don't imagine there is much call for a successful businessman to be adept in the use of machine guns."
"That's right, colonel," the man replied, his jaw tightening. "However, I undertook a short period of military service during my younger days - an obligation in my country at the time. Like riding a bicycle, I suppose."
"I see," said Hamba. "The body of the security man who, according to your statement to my officers earlier, was at the front of the vessel and was retrieved by the Maltese authorities. It was, you said, riddled with bullet holes and floating face down in the water. Unfortunately, it is hard to verify exactly what became of the other security man, the one nearest to you, as his body has yet to be found."
Demaci appeared to be giving this issue some consideration.
"I expect they probably threw his body over the side, too, colonel," he said.
"Yes." Hamba's response was non-committal. "Carry on."
"You understand, colonel, it was all happening very quickly. I can only remember the main things from my perspective."
"You are doing extraordinarily well, Mr Demaci," replied the colonel.
As Youssef continued to scribble furiously, Demaci went on to describe his horror at realizing they were being kidnapped. He had no way of getting to Ms Fleming, he said, because he was bound by the wrists, a rag pushed into his mouth and a sack pulled over his head. After being transferred from the yacht to the pirates' inflatable boat, they were taken ashore. He was aware that Ms Fleming was still close by on the boat: he could hear her whimpering, but was unable to console or reassure her because he himself was gagged. Once they reached the shore - he had no idea where that was - he was put into a vehicle. From then on, he did not see or hear Ms Fleming again.
How convenient, thought Hamba.
Demaci took another drink of water and stared at the wall. The two policemen remained silent.
"I'm sorry," Demaci said after a few long moments in reflection.
"Not at all," said the colonel calmly. "Continue when you're ready."
By this time, Youssef had been forced to resort to his second pen.
Demaci described the trip in detail. Once transferred, he was held down on the floor of what seemed to be an old truck. Then he found himself back on another boat, still bound and gagged, for what seemed like a very long time, days even. He couldn't recall exactly how long.
"You say you were transferred to another boat. How do you know it wasn't the same boat?"
"Well, it felt bigger than the inflatable one," Demaci answered, somewhat riled, then added, "and it smelled of fish."
Eventually ashore, he was moved into a building of some sort. Rural, he gathered, due to the sounds of the animals nearby. And that, he said, is where he remained, until being released this morning.
"Nothing of your period in captivity?" asked Hamba. "I realize it must be ..." he searched for the word, "trying for you to revisit the experience."
"As I told your men earlier, colonel, it was unremarkable. I was kept in a small dark room of an old ... farmhouse, I suppose you'd call it. I slept on the ground. I was fed occasionally and otherwise left alone."
"And what of your treatment? Were you beaten? What about things like the ablution arrangements?"
"No, I was not beaten, although I was roughly handled. As for toilet arrangements, when I needed to go I was escorted with a bag over my head."
"And then, for no apparent reason, this morning you were once again bound and gagged with a sack over your head." The Colonel raised his eyebrows. He received a nod. "And you were driven for some considerable time, taken out of the vehicle and then the bindings on your wrists were cut and you were left by the side of the road." Another nod. "You relieved your-
self of the sack and gag, realized you were free and made your way to the nearest police station. Would you say that is an accurate su
mmary?"
"That's it, colonel,' Demaci answered cautiously. Colonel Hamba could not take his eyes from the man.
He had no reason not to believe the account Demaci had just presented. The Mediterranean provided unlimited opportunities for criminals and organized groups operating across continents, and the kidnapping for ransom of wealthy foreigners was not uncommon in North Africa. Human trafficking was also prevalent. If the object of the kidnapping was the young lady rather than Demaci, then it made sense that the two of them would have been separated early on. And it was very possible that the underlings holding him panicked, probably due to lack of communication from their masters, and let him go. Better that than be shot.
But something was not quite adding up.
Hamba had spent his entire adult life in law enforcement and thought he'd seen it all. But, for the first time in a long time, he found himself genuinely astonished at the extent of this man's composure. Yes, he thought, this Raoul Demaci is a very cool customer indeed.
"Well, I'll leave you to get some rest, Mr Demaci," he said with finality. "Your embassy should have someone along in the morning with your new passport." Well, they would when Hamba decided to contact them.
"I see. Would I be free to go then?" asked Demaci.
"It's best that you remain here in the hospital tonight so that we can get hold of you if we need to, but I don't see any reason why you couldn't leave once we have your citizenship and passport details sorted out."
"Yes, of course," Demaci replied, relieved that the interview was over. "Is something wrong, colonel?" "Wrong? Why do you ask?"
"You seem distracted."
"No, nothing," Hamba lied. "It's been a long day. Anyway, I'm pleased that you're safe once again, Mr Demaci. Good night."
"Good night, colonel."
Colonel Habib Ali Bach Hamba left the room with a heavy frown. Youssef shuffled out obediently in his wake.
As they walked out through the hospital reception in silence, the colonel stopped. Outside the rain was hammering down and the roof of the old hospital rumbled under the deluge.
"Give me your notes," he demanded.
Youssef handed over his notepad. He'd always been praised for his neat writing. Today of all days he felt more lucky than ever that it was so neat. He watched in silence as the colonel scrutinized page after page of his transcript.
"And you took down every detail, as I asked?" said the colonel without looking up.
"Yes, sir. Every detail."
Youssef saw a change in the colonel's face, as if something that had eluded him suddenly appeared.
"Good work, young man," said the colonel. "Get those typed up this evening and have them on my desk by first thing tomorrow morning. We must ensure our report is as accurate and detailed as possible for our superiors in Tunis." He was bluffing. Nothing would go to Tunis until Hamba was ready.
Absently looking up into the appalling weather, Colonel Hamba knew he had stumbled upon the glaring gap in Demaci's account. How, if he was where he said he was during the attack by the pirates, would Demagi know that the body of the security man was retrieved by the Maltese authorities? Or even that the man's body was full of bullet holes, face down in the water? Most importantly, not once throughout the entire deposition did Demagi make any inquiry or display any concern whatsoever as to the whereabouts of this Charlotte-Rose Fleming, who he claimed to be the other victim.
"I've got you," Hamba said to himself. He would return first thing in the morning to continue his interrogation of Demagi and he would get to the bottom of the foreigner's story then. Meanwhile, food and wine was required and there was a particularly attractive, buxom and very lonely divorcee waiting for him at his favorite restaurant in downtown Mandia.
Striding purposefully around the reception desk, Hamba pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed.
"This is Colonel Hamba," he said, awaiting acknowledgment. "Send my car around to the reception area of the hospital and tell the duty officer I want a guard placed outside the foreigner's hospital room immediately. Mr Demaci is not to leave until I return in the morning."
Chapter 57
PETRELS, ALBANIA
As last light fell into step with the thousands of tired workers spilling out onto Tirana's sidewalks and the city's peak hour got into full swing, Alex Morgan followed Lorenc Gjoka's Mercedes at a discreet distance through the rapidly congesting streets. Like any other city in the world, Friday night had arrived in Tirana and anticipation of the weekend ahead had begun. But for Morgan, it was highly unlikely that his Friday night was going to be anything but dangerous. His anticipation was driven more by a desire to make it through alive than just getting through Saturday and Sunday without a hangover.
Morgan was amazed at how recklessly Gjoka drove, stopping and starting unexpectedly, changing lanes at speed, weaving erratically through the busy traffic. Red brake lights blazed like distress flares, drivers executed aerial dog fight maneuvers to get clear of him and horns blasted relentless broadsides in his wake. Jesus! The guy was a moving disaster zone. It was obvious he was using his cell phone while blindly negotiating his way through the melee. Who was he calling that couldn't wait? His mistress? An airline? The railway? Or what if it was backup? Had Morgan been compromised? Instinctively, the Intrepid agent dropped further back into the traffic to reduce his chances of being seen. Regrettably, this also made it harder to keep track of Gjoka in the early evening peak, but Morgan knew where they were headed. He'd pick him up again on the outskirts of town if he had to.
Despite the aggravating demeanor of this annoying little rat, Morgan kept reminding himself not to underestimate the man. Morgan had no idea what to expect at the chateau. What if the whole mistress thing was just a ruse? A guy with Gjoka's experience would have to have an extraction plan. He'd be a fool not to. No, whatever else he may be, one thing he definitely was not was a fool. Gjoka was a survivor.
Morgan shifted his mental image of Gjoka from annoying little rat to irritating cockroach.
Up ahead the erratic attack against other drivers continued. If his driving alone was anything to go by, Gjoka was rattled. Nobody would drive this badly normally, especially not a cop. The man was feeling the pinch. The surveillance team were right to call forward the arrest. Morgan had the distinct impression that this was a man in a desperate hurry, and not just to get laid by his mistress in the mountains.
Before long they had crossed the aqueduct that fish hooked around the bottom of the city, and were heading south along the E852 route. The traffic crush eased and the narrow road became a meandering snake through the hills, not much more than an old horse track that had at some point been widened and sealed. In no time it became dark and Morgan strained to keep the old Mercedes' red tail lights in view, as houses and shopfronts close by the road's edge shot past in a blur. He raced through one settlement after another, while in the distance the lights from lonely villages up on the hillsides sailed slowly across the blackened landscape like the lights of distant ships at sea.
Approaching the village of Lunder, Morgan saw a Euro Drin services center and felt hungry. Food would have to wait, he realized disconsolately. It'd be close to midnight, he reckoned, before he'd even get a chance to eat. More importantly, he'd scoped Lun-der on the GPS and had stored it as a mental trigger to remind him that the road would soon do a long sweep around to the south-west before a natural left turn near Stermas would bring him back to a heading due south.
The road toward and beyond Stermas ran around a long finger of land that ran back up into the mountains, its tip pointing ominously in the direction Morgan was heading. He had to contend with the frustration of regularly losing sight of the old Mercedes through all the twists and turns that led into Petrele. Where there were straight stretches he'd chance a bit of extra speed to keep up. It helped, marginally, but soon he was across the Mulleti Bridge, and the road closed in and trees with white-painted trunks and low stone walls appeared on either side. He took the right-han
d fork toward Petrele and as the car climbed the hill into the village, Morgan could see from the lights in the distance just how high and remote he was up here: Tirana was now a flat cluster of sparkling gold. The road continued in a series of tight hairpin turns up to the center of the village and as he finally reached the top he saw the silhouette of the castle tower Therese St Marie had told him to look out for.
"It was built in the fifth century, you know. In fact the whole place is pretty much all that's left of an ancient castle,' she'd said when she called to check that he'd received the images she'd sent through.
Made sense to build a fortress up here, he thought with a soldier's instinct for defenses; dominate the high ground. In daylight you'd be able to see for miles in every direction. How appropriate for Gjoka to establish his little hideaway up here, albeit one with a distraction.
Driving carefully through the streets of the centuries-old village, Morgan saw the tail lights of the Mercedes extinguish up ahead. He pulled into a parking bay for sightseers. There were a few people about, so his presence wasn't unusual. Through his wing mirrors, he watched Gjoka lock his car and stride into a small local restaurant. Turning in his seat to get a clearer view, he saw the man approach a thirty-something woman at a table by the window. As she stood to kiss him, Morgan noticed that she was quite a bit taller than Gjoka.
The two of them sat down at the window table, chatting. She traced bright pink fingernails seductively along his forearms, he squirmed excitedly in his seat and then they started to peruse the chef's specials. Morgan wondered if Gjoka would order from the kids' menu.
Perhaps he was going to ditch the wife, and the mistress was going to flee the country with him instead. This guy just got lower and lower on Morgan's snake scale.
Chapter 58
MAHDIA, TUNISIA
Raoul Demaci was sitting up in the hospital bed, agitated and impatient. Where was he? It was taking too long. The trip back to Tunis International Airport would take them two hours. There wasn't time for delays.