Hunting for Caracas

by Anthony Fox

  49

  Girona, Spain.

  Luque thought back to the recording. The image was grainy and enlarged many times to the point where it was difficult to make out the faces of the men involved.

  Everything was on there.

  He’d seen Russo, Connelly and himself talking.

  He’d seen the small man from the barn attack and eventually shoot Connelly.

  The small man used a phone before finally leaving the screen.

  He uses a phone.

  Right before he goes off-camera.

  He uses a phone!

  ‘Increible. Is it possible he could be foolish enough to still have the phone with him?’ Luque asked from across the stone table. His head was slightly lowered. His eyes drowsy.

  He’d driven immediately back to Feldkirch, collected the hidden camera, and then turned straight back around. Over twenty hours of driving, with three one-hour breaks in between. Luque felt like his whole body was vibrating. But the mission was so sensitive Caracas didn’t want anyone else involved in the planning. Plus, the recording had shown Luque at a murder scene arguing with the victim moments before. No chance he trusted a hired goon to deliver it.

  ‘Si, anything is possible.’ The voice was low, clear and cutting. The same red fedora covered Caracas’s face. He was still as a stone. The elderly men and women continued with their games around them, enjoying their ignorance of the nefarious activities at the table.

  Luque knew if someone hacked into the server and cross-referenced all the phone frequencies, even pre-paid phones, with the location and time of the recording, the information they needed would pop up. What’s more, he would place a sizable bet that at that time of night in an abandoned, deserted industrial estate, the mysterious man’s phone would be the only one in use.

  ‘If he does still have it, it’s the only chance we need. I want someone in place, ready. If he’s still alive then I want him and anyone else involved finished for good.’

  ‘Don’t you wish to go yourself?’ Luque knew how much his primo de la muerte longed to be the one to take out the last of the group.

  His companion at the stone table slowly shook his head. ‘It’s not confirmed this is the right man, that he’s alive, or that he’ll still have the phone. I’m too busy for such things. And so are you. We must commence with the final stages of the mission.’

  ‘Then who? After all, we may be right. It may still be him. Even a dying man can be dangerous.’

  ‘Especially a dying man. Often they think they have nothing to lose.’ The cold voice paused. ‘Our client has a man we can use in the area. His name is Mr Proud. He can be prepared quickly.’

  At the mention of Mr Proud, Luque’s hard face creased into a sneer.

  ‘I know the name. Not to question you, Primo, but perhaps someone with a little more finesse is better suited. Mr Proud is…’

  ‘Is what?’ The voice had an edge now, an edge as sharp as the cold steel of a knife. He did not like having to explain his decisions.

  Mr Proud is... what? Unhinged. Crazy. Out of control. A butcher. ‘I hear he’s a madman.’

  ‘Then he can take his team and go mad. I want anyone who is aware of our existence finished.’

  This time Luque knew better than to argue.

  ‘I’ll visit Mr Proud directly. We should be able to get a lock on the phone within twenty-four hours, then I can go and get Jenkins’ replacement prepared for the final act.’

  50

  Somewhere near Feldkirch, Austria.

  As he’d worked as a part of Operation Matterhorn, Grandad had been continually close by but well out of sight of the others. When they flew to Austria, Matthews directed the boy to do the same and to arrange three safe places to be used if need be.

  The first was simply an apartment Matthews could escape to if he needed to openly end his participation in the operation with Connelly, Paxman, Nina and Kemi, but wished to remain in Austria and continue working in a solo capacity. That place had been code-named Box One, and Matthews was close to putting this first plan into action after they’d located Luque. He was just waiting for Jenkins to land in the city and get comfortable.

  The second place, Box Two, was a temporary place near the airport that Matthews could use at any moment to quickly absolve himself of anything and everything to do with the operation, perhaps pick up new identity cards along with clean clothes, money and anything else he might need, and then he and Grandad could get out of Austria and go wherever they wanted without delay. If Matthews had got everything he needed from Luque’s barn and escaped unharmed, Box Two was where he planned to go.

  The third place, Box Three, was the apartment Matthews, Grandad and Assia now found themselves in. Box Three was a forgotten safe house. Box Three was off the grid. It was concealed in plain sight as part of an old block of apartments. It offered certain advantages, like a service elevator that would transport a bloody Matthews here without being seen, or an ability to have a doctor visit the building regularly without his presence being questioned or even noticed. Box Three was only set up in case of absolute emergency, and was only prepared because Matthews was as diligent and paranoid as a person could be.

  Truth be told, he never thought he’d need to use it.

  ‘You’re sure you’re feeling OK?’ Grandad asked once he’d finished, fussing around his patient’s bed like a midwife over a newborn baby.

  Matthews swatted him away and shook his head. ‘I feel frustrated,’ he said. Although that didn’t nearly being to cover his current feelings.

  Matthews gave Grandad a stare which left no doubt that he wanted to be left unfussed. However, he needed to speak to Assia. Grandad obliged and left the room.

  51

  The room was empty the second time the patient woke. Or at least it was the second time she remembered waking. She stayed conscious a little longer this time. Glancing around to get her bearings, she then lay back and for a long time pieced the events together in her head, reconfirming everything she knew.

  Then trying to sort through the things she didn’t.

  She could hear the sounds of general movement outside her room, but nobody came to check on her and nobody disturbed her. She felt lonely and afraid.

  She rolled over, wanting to feel the comfort of a thick, warm blanket. However, as she moved she found with disappointment there was only the thin, clingy bed sheet, as comforting and reassuring as cheap plastic. Her head still swam through a fog, probably as much from the sleep and the drugs they were giving her as from the pain of her injuries. Every movement felt clumsy.

  A nurse entered. He checked Rose’s chart, hanging from the end of the bed. Ticked something with his pen. Put the pen in his top pocket. The nurse came around and grabbed at her wrist, two fingers checking the pulse, then checking the IV bag hanging at the bedside.

  ‘Can you help me move up the bed?’ she said, in English, but she also held her arms out so the nurse would understand.

  As the nurse bent forward to hug Rose and shuffle her up, she took the pen from his pocket and let it slide down the sleeve of her gown.

  When he’d finished, the nurse closed the door and she was left alone again.

  The third time of waking, it felt as if she had to use all the muscles in her face to drag her eyelids open, like her lashes were made of lead.

  It was this day that the police came.

  Both officers were white males, clean-shaven, with short, neat hair and looked to be perhaps in their mid-forties.

  Only one of the officers spoke, and he spoke English.

  ‘You were involved in a terrorist attack,’ he told her.

  ‘We’re sorry for doing this now, but people are dead. We need to find whoever is responsible.’

  After the opening dialogue they started on her personal information.

  Her name was Rose McCarthy, born in Ireland before moving with her parents to live in London, England, at the age of seven. She later studied economics at LSE, and now worked
at a large bank in Canary Wharf.

  After this they quickly moved on to her recollection of the night of the incident.

  Soon after, she complained about the growing ache in her head. The police officers smiled without sympathy and turned to each other, agreeing they had plenty to go on for the time being.

  It was true that her head, amongst her other injuries, hurt, but soon it wouldn’t matter. She reached under her body and removed the pen she’d stolen from the nurse. Her finger brushed the sharp end. She wondered when she would get a chance to use it. The second she felt capable, she had to get out of here.

  52

  Somewhere near Feldkirch, Austria.

  Surprisingly he didn’t look that bad. Not as weak as Assia might have thought, although the skin on his face and around his neck looked like that of a man who’d been through a tough ordeal still not fully behind him. After entering and pausing to look at Matthews, Assia hobbled over to the empty chair. Even though she was putting a little weight on her knee now, she was using a single wooden crutch that Grandad had given her. As Assia took her seat in the bedroom, she set it down flat on the floor next to her chair.

  Matthews lay straight, but with his head propped up on two pillows. There was a long silence. Assia wanted to be anywhere else in the world.

  ‘Did you lose all your things in the apartment?’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t have much to begin with,’ Assia responded, thinking how strange an opening question it was.

  An awkward silence ensued.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Granda... the other one. He got some things for me when we first arrived here.’ Assia paused. ‘Is there not something else I can call him other than Grandad?’

  ‘No. Grandad will have to do.’

  Assia’s forehead creased in annoyance. ‘You can’t tell me where I am or how long I’ll be here. Why can’t you just tell me his name?’

  Matthews’ eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Because hiding his identity protects him,’ he said warily. He sounded tired. Drained.

  ‘From who?’

  Matthews didn’t answer. Then she realised:

  From me, obviously. They’re scared of me because they don’t know me.

  ‘I need to know what happened in the apartment. After the blast. How you got out.’

  ‘Well, tough,’ Assia snapped back, not caring how childish she sounded.

  Matthews seemed barely to have the energy to care. Yet something pushed him on. Perhaps it was the loss of his friends in the apartment.

  ‘Listen, Assia, I–’

  ‘How can you all kill each other so easily?’ Assia asked suddenly.

  She’d held it all in since the night in Feldkirch. Grandad hadn’t been there, and hadn’t known what happened. Until now Matthews remained unconscious. Finally he was awake, and it seemed bottling up her emotions wasn’t an option any longer.

  Matthews’ face darkened at her question. ‘Think whatever of me, Assia, but I was always taught that killing a person is never a simple matter.’

  ‘But you stabbed the man on the train.’

  ‘He attacked me.’

  ‘And then the man you shot in the apartment after I’d jumped?’

  ‘He was going to shoot you. That was to protect you.’

  ‘But you took us back to that apartment. Then you just left us. We heard the gun from inside the bedroom, and I told Charlie to hide under the bed. I said he’d be safe as long as he kept quiet. I saw the man come in. I watched him walk over to the bed, watched him look under it, and I didn’t do anything. What could I do?’

  ‘Assia, I–’

  ‘Where were you?’ she shot back. ‘Charlie was the one who needed you to protect him. Not me. Charlie!’

  Matthews didn’t say anything.

  Assia felt her eyes burn with a thousand different emotions, but she didn’t cry. ‘Why are you keeping me here?’ she asked finally.

  ‘It’s not safe anywhere else.’

  ‘That’s what Grandad keeps saying, but he won’t tell me why.’

  Matthews thought before replying.

  ‘By now people’ll know you’re involved in this. Whether you did anything or not. We’ve been caught on camera leaving the scene.’

  ‘But the police will see I had nothing to do with anything.’ Even as she said this her voice wavered as memories came flooding back to her.

  ‘You saw the man in the apartment, who made you jump from the building. You saw what he did. I believe you’re smart enough to know what you’ve seen shows there’s other people to worry about as well as the police. Far more dangerous people.’

  ‘Can I at least call my brother, or Charlie’s mum?’

  ‘Not yet. The same reason. You could endanger anyone you call.’

  Assia stood up too quickly and felt a sharp pain fire through her injured knee, but she’d be damned if she was going to cry out in front of this man now. She grabbed her crutch.

  ‘Where’re you going?’ Matthews asked.

  ‘As far away from you as I can, and right now if that happens to be my bedroom at the other end of the corridor, then so be it.’ Assia turned and stepped away from the bed.

  It took a few attempts from Matthews to finally change her mind and get her to sit back down in the chair. He asked her to take a minute to calm down, and she dropped her crutch back on the floor as Matthews shuffled in his bed. The tap from the bathroom sink was drip, dripping. Until now she hadn’t noticed it. The air in the room suddenly felt stale and old and Assia longed for a window to open and the feel of fresh air rushing in.

  ‘Sorry you lost your things,’ offered Matthews after a long moment. He turned his head away and faced the ceiling.

  ‘What do you care?’ Assia responded. She should have just left the room, she knew, but it was too late now and she was barely able to keep her seat, with all the anger that Matthews provoked in her.

  ‘I lost something in the apartment too,’ he told the ceiling. ‘Something important to me. The only thing I have left.’

  ‘Oh, how terrible for you.’ Assia had now lost all sense of caution. ‘What did you lose, all your clothes and possessions? Was it your money, passport, bank cards and all other forms of identification? Did you lose your best and only friend?’ Assia’s voice snapped like a whip. ‘No? Or was it just your crappy little music player?’ Assia again heard the unmistakable petulance in her own voice.

  She said the words with her eyes narrowed in an angry challenge and her jaw clenched, and she spoke the last part before realising what she was doing. Something inside her just made the words come out. Assia hoped they would hurt Matthews in some small way. A tiny piece of revenge for the way he’d hurt her. Immediately she knew it was the wrong thing to say. Even without looking she sensed Matthews stiffen instinctively.

  A dark tension engulfed the room. The lack of sound constricting.

  ‘You have the music player?’ Matthews’ voice was low, and carried real warning.

  Assia didn’t reply to the question. All of a sudden she was too afraid to speak.

  ‘Go and get it.’ His voice was cold.

  Assia remained in her seat, her eyes down, for just a moment. But she certainly didn’t need any reminder of how dangerous these people were. So finally she gave a huff and grabbed her crutch, walking to the end of the bed. Assia had been confident that Grandad wouldn’t bother to search her again, so she’d been keeping the device in her pocket.

  She threw the iPod onto the white duvet.

  ‘There’s your crappy music player,’ she spat.

  ‘You listen to it?’ Matthews’ seized the music player like an entitled child might snatch the last cookie, and he clasped it. Assia wasn’t sure if perhaps she sensed a hint of fear in Matthews’ question.

  She turned on the spot and made for the doorway.

  ‘STOP!’

  She didn’t know why she responded to the command. She’d always defied authority, ever since her first day at school. And Matthews
was bed-ridden. If she marched right out of the room then this man would be helpless to prevent her, but she stopped. Perhaps it was the sheer volume of the commanding voice. Then Assia heard a noise as Grandad’s bedroom door opened and he appeared in the corridor, obviously alerted by the argument. He paused and looked across at Assia. She felt moisture welling up in her eyes.

  Turning away from the young man, Assia faced Matthews, but didn’t move to approach him. She didn’t want to be any nearer to him than she had to be. Assia tried to stand tall and strong, which is not easy on one crutch when you barely reach five feet and weigh no more than a tractor tyre.

  ‘What else do you have?’ Matthews’ voice wasn’t imposing now. It scratched and cracked. He looked weak again.

  Assia took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The image of Charlie’s phone appeared in her mind, the battery dead, so for all its intended purposes it was unless. But it had been Charlie’s.

  And because of this man, Charlie was dead.

  She tried to steady herself. She could feel her emotions rising up again. There was a long silence before Assia finally spoke. ‘Nothing.’ She was, at least, pleased the response came out strong and clear.

  Matthews looked unsure. ‘Nothing else?’

  Assia opened her eyes and knew without looking in a mirror that they were blazing like a roaring fire. The hot anger in her head was almost too intense to bear.

  ‘I. Said. Nothing.’

  Then, fearing what she might do next, Assia turned and quickly marched out of the room supported by her crutch, shoving past Grandad in the corridor as she went.

  53

  Berwang, Austria.

  His view from the rooftop was a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panorama of luscious green mountains, vast green forests and small clusters of houses with wooden roofs. Over the mountains was a clear blue sky, and the sun was out.