Hunting for Caracas

by Anthony Fox

  Clayton looked across the dinner table at his wife. She looked a little tired, he thought. When they’d first met Alice had been cute and smart, and even a little bit wild in an unassuming sort of way. She was still all those things, he supposed, but she seemed to have completely settled into the role of mother. She still smiled, but hardly laughed unless talking to her children, and she never talked about anything other than her children. Clayton wondered whether it was a phase she’d get past as their children grew up.

  He also conceded to himself that he should make more of an effort to be around.

  After dinner they sat with cheese and biscuits, and the conversation continued. Jake grew restless, so Alice gathered the children and left early. At one point Clayton excused himself to go and use the bathroom and he bumped into Crystal, his cousin’s new girlfriend, at the top of the stairs. Rather than pass by she engaged Clayton in conversation, and they chatted for a moment.

  ‘I’ve wanted to ask, who’s the other man in the photographs?’ Crystal enquired. ‘There’s one on the stairs with you, and one here with your mom. I hope you don’t mind me asking.’

  Clayton looked down at the set of photographs on the small side table in the corner of the room where they stood. His parents’ house was littered with framed photographs of all the family members at various stages of their lives, including many embarrassing ones of Clayton when he was younger. The man Crystal was referring to appeared in just a few of them: a couple with his mother, one on his own, and one side by side with Clayton, taken the day his family celebrated Clayton becoming an army officer. That picture now hung on the wall halfway up the stairs.

  Crystal must have noticed something change in Clayton’s face. ‘I’m sorry—’ she began.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he told her. ‘It’s just a tough time for my mom. That’s why she’s being off at the moment. Why she’s sad, as much as she tries to hide it. The guy in the photographs was my step-brother. He died recently. We hadn’t been in touch with him for a long time, but my mom had him when she was a teenager with her first husband who was in the military police. He died of cancer when they were both still young, then Mom met my dad and had me and my sister.’

  ‘How terrible. What was his name?’ Crystal asked.

  Clayton looked down at a photograph on the table beside them. The man stood perfectly straight next to his mother in his army dress uniform ‘His name was Phil Connelly. He was fourteen years older than me. We were close-ish for a while. In fact, he was the reason I joined the army, straight out of college.’ Clayton smiled at the thought. ‘I’d actually forgotten that. I guess when I was a kid I used to look up to him a little bit.’

  ‘Tom never said you used to be in the army,’ said Crystal.

  ‘I was an interrogation officer. Turned out I didn’t have the stomach for combat, but I was good at what I did. Excellent, in fact. Then I became a bridge between information gathered during interrogation and central military intelligence. Luckily it was perfect training for my current job.’ He saw Crystal’s face. ‘It sounds a lot heavier than the reality. I just passed on information. You know in companies when people complain that the right hand of the business doesn’t seem to know what the left hand is doing? Well, we work to fix that. Keep all the sections connected. But Phil was in the special forces – a hero.’

  ‘Wow.’

  Crystal smiled, but Clayton didn’t.

  ‘At least, he was for a while. Then he got into trouble, and was an instructor for a short time before he got kicked out.’

  ‘Really? Why?’

  ‘Initially it was thought he’d survived a mission by being brave and uncovering some vitally important information. Later, a secret enquiry disclosed he’d taken a bribe and returned with false information to mislead his superiors.’

  ‘Oh, my.’ Crystal was clearly uncomfortable with the topic. ‘If I may, how did he die?’.

  They were looking down at Phil Connelly’s picture now as he stood next to his mother in the frame, and she looked so proud of her firstborn son.

  ‘He was mugged whilst on holiday in Austria,’ Clayton told her. ‘Look, I shouldn’t have said anything. Dad’s OK with it, but Mom doesn’t know the whole… so could you be a star and not mention any of this to anyone, even Tom?’ Then, without waiting, he moved past Crystal and went to use the bathroom, leaving her alone on the landing.

  Clayton had barely seen anything of his half-brother after his first year of enlistment. Until a few years ago Phil Connelly hadn’t spoken to anyone in the family, even their mother, for a long time. Yet Connelly was their mother’s first child, and his death still left a deep scar in her.

  After years away Connelly somehow found Clayton following his trouble in the army, and asked to be hooked up with some freelance work. So Clayton set Connelly up with the White Wolf, and now he had to lie to his mother about how her son had died.

  When he’d finished in the bathroom Clayton went downstairs, grabbed his coat and said his goodbyes. His parents tried to persuade him to stay a little longer, but he told them he desperately wanted to get home to Alice whilst it was still early, as he hadn’t seen her recently and he missed her. Even to his parents, the lies came so easily these days.

  63

  Verona, Italy.

  Matthews decided it was best that Grandad not link back up with them immediately. Besides, the boy had work to do. But Matthews didn’t want to spend the next few days worrying about trivial things like being able to wash their clothes, having the necessary toiletries, towels, etc., and where their next meal might come from, so with this in mind he reluctantly booked rooms in the Palazzo Hotel in Verona.

  Desperate to get out of Austria, they drove through the Italian border, a route Matthews knew would involve no identification checks, and although he hoped they’d make it all the way to Milan, fatigue demanded they stop ninety minutes short. It was a gruelling two- and-a-half-hour drive, considering Matthews’ condition.

  Verona in northern Italy, made famous by Shakespeare’s doomed lovers, is still considered one of the most romantic destinations. The idyllic Adige river slices through the city, which holds a world-renowned opera house and Roman architecture dating back to the first century.

  Arriving late at the high-end Palazzo Hotel, they went straight up to their rooms.

  They’d stopped off on the way so Matthews could use a public toilet to do a basic clean-up of the blood from his ear, nose, and the rest of his face in an attempt to make himself look remotely presentable. He checked his stomach, which felt bad but looked fine. Perhaps there was internal bleeding, only time would tell. Matthews didn’t think so, though.

  At the Palazzo Hotel he and his ‘daughter’ were given adjacent single rooms.

  Assia stopped at the door to her room. ‘Look, I need to say—’ The words caught in her throat. ‘Back there, when you came back, I...’

  ‘I saw you pick up the gun.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Before he grabbed you, in the underground car park, I saw you pick up the gun.’

  ‘So, what did you expect?’

  ‘You hesitated,’ said Matthews.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘You know those guys might not’ve been looking to kill us.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Initially, at least. There’s a fifty-fifty chance they’d capture us. Ask us questions. Least, till we’d told them everything they wanted to know. Then... but the only shot we had was to assume the worst and act first. You know how I’ve managed to survive so long, watching those around me fall, one after the other?’

  ‘Because you always assume the worst and act first?’ Assia guessed.

  It was clear she hated being talked down to like this.

  ‘Because I don’t hesitate. Act first, act fast, and put them down for good. This isn’t a game, Assia.’

  That was enough to end the conversation. Assia slammed the door in his face.

  Matthews entered hi
s own room and did a sweep of the interior, noticing that the person who booked the hotel had ordered the room’s phone to be removed, which was likely the case in Assia’s room as well.

  Once satisfied, he headed for the bathroom. He showered, tossing his clothes in the corner of the bathroom. The water soon ran black with the dirt from his arms and neck. When he was finished, he sat on the edge of the bath, physically and mentally exhausted.

  He thought back over all that had just happened. Back to the gunfight in the underground car park, after which he’d grabbed a gun from one of the dead men and removed his own bag from the back of the van.

  After digging out the remote GPS tracker he’d gone up to the street and stolen an old Volvo. Then he’d followed the signal from the tracking device Grandad had placed in one of Assia’s shoes.

  He’d easily evaded the two men guarding the front of the garage. Crawling through a drainage hole along the side of the building, he moved under the floor panels and rescued Assia, the two of them scrambling back to the stolen car and driving to safety.

  Once well clear of the wild man and his men, they’d abandoned the Volvo, cleaned up, and taken another vehicle across the border.

  When it was certain they’d make it only as far as Verona, Matthews reluctantly made a quick phone call.

  Despite the extremes of the last few hours, it was the thought of this brief phone call that Matthews couldn’t shake. It was stupid, as Assia might say.

  ‘Yes,’ the voice had said, sharp as always. The man behind it sounded annoyed and impatient, and on the edge of anger, as always.

  ‘It’s me. This isn’t a secure line.’

  Matthews dialled the number from memory using a burner phone.

  ‘So, you’re alive,’ Alan T. Pincer said after a pause.

  There was no joy or relief in Pincer’s voice, but not too much negativity either. It was said as a simple statement, nothing more.

  ‘It seems the loyal son has more lives than a pack of cats,’ Pincer added.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

  There was another pause on the line. Matthews could tell Pincer wanted to ask questions, to find out what had happened since the explosion in Feldkirch, because it was in his nature to know, but Alan T. Pincer would sooner swim out to sea and drown himself before he’d ask anything of Matthews.

  Unfortunately, Matthews couldn’t afford the same luxury. He had money, and his bag contained false passports and identification, but not for Assia, and Matthews had no knowledge which hotels in Verona were Interpol and Italian Internal Security Agency (the Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Interna, or AISI) hotspots, and which would conceal them. ‘I need a place to lie low. A hotel.’

  There was a thoughtful pause before the answer came. ‘I agreed to set up the operation so you could hunt your target, for his sake.’

  By ‘his’ Matthews knew Pincer meant Rudy.

  ‘I don’t see why I should owe you because things didn’t work out. Don’t come crying to me just because it all fell apart.’

  Matthews ground his teeth. ‘Did you know about Connelly? Did you know he’d betray us?’

  ‘I thought you said this wasn’t a secure line?’

  Matthews didn’t respond.

  ‘Are you asking me if I knew whether someone was going to do something before they’d done it? It’s flattering you should think so highly of me, but I’m afraid looking into the future is beyond even my reach.’

  Matthews could sense the old wolf smiling on the other end of the phone. He clenched his jaw. Pincer could always get under his skin. ‘But you knew of his reputation, of the claims against him.’

  ‘I can’t even confirm I have any idea who or what you’re talking about over the phone,’ Pincer replied softly.

  ‘Fine. I still need a hotel.’

  ‘Then consider this a parting gift from me to you. As long as we’re clear.’

  ‘There’s two of us.’ Matthews had almost forgotten about Assia.

  Silence for a moment. ‘You and your... Grandad?’

  ‘No. The girl.’ He was certain Pincer would have heard about Assia by now.

  ‘You’re keeping her safe?’

  ‘She’s with me temporarily.’

  ‘How much does she know?’ Pincer’s voice was measured in a way that made Matthews uneasy.

  Far too much.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘If she’d been with you since the station then it’s too long. Deal with her.’

  That got Matthews’ blood up. He knew exactly what Pincer meant by ‘dealing with’ her. ‘I don’t work for you.’

  And I’m not about to murder an innocent girl.

  ‘Excuse me. What was that? I do believe you’re calling me and begging for favours. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve done for you already.’

  ‘A few more days and she can walk away.’

  ‘Goddamn it, boy!’ His voice seemed to shake the very phone Matthews was holding. Matthews heard Pincer’s fist slam into his desk. ‘It will take me less than a day to get someone over there. Once upon a time you knew how to take care of your own mess. Either you do it, or if the great loyal son has gone soft then send her out onto the streets and my men will do the rest. But she knows too much.’

  Matthews felt the blood rush to his head. He was aware of the pulse in his thumb that held the phone, and of sweat droplets collecting on the back of his neck.

  ‘Tell me you understand,’ said Pincer.

  ‘I heard you,’ said Matthews.

  ‘What area are you in?’

  Matthews told him in code and Pincer hung up.

  He walked back to where Assia was waiting. The White Wolf didn’t even bother to call him back. A minute later Matthews just received a coded message on his phone with the details, which he memorised before breaking apart and discarding the phone.

  He sat on the edge of the bath tub and continued to think back to the conversation as he looked at his tired reflection in the bathroom mirror. No noise came from the room next door. Matthews assumed Assia was asleep.

  Could Pincer have hired Phil Connelly knowing he was likely to interfere with the objectives of the team in favour of his own personal goals? Matthews could think of no reason for the sabotage other than Pincer’s own personal dislike for Matthews.

  He was still pondering this question with his reflection when he heard another of his phones ring. He padded barefoot across the bathroom floor to where the new phone lay next to the sink.

  It was Grandad calling, as he had expected. Matthews answered. He didn’t speak, just listened, as Grandad told him what he’d found.

  Matthews’ face darkened as Grandad spoke.

  He cut Grandad off and said he would call back for the rest of the information later. Then he went to the duffle bag brought from the Box Three apartment and opened it up. Matthews removed the hunting knife, walked out of the room, still barefoot, the knife in one hand and the phone in the other.

  ***

  Assia woke to banging on her door. Her head felt thick and her body felt so heavy, it was as if someone had buried her up to her neck in sand. The banging ceased, but it took her so long to move that eventually it started again.

  She made her way to the door, for some reason convinced it must be the man from reception who’d given them the keys, maybe calling about a problem with payment or something. Which was the only reason why, when Assia peered through the peephole, she was surprised to see it was just Matthews.

  She removed the bolt, opened the door and said ‘Hey!’ as Matthews barged his way in. Assia had to back up against the wall to get out of his way, then she closed the door and replaced the bolt. ‘What’s with you?’ she asked, turning from the door. Then Assia saw the knife down by Matthews’ hip and her first thought was that it’d been a mistake to bolt the door.

  ‘Sit down, Assia,’ he said, motioning to the chair in the corner of the room.

  ‘OK.’ Assia walked over and sat.

  ‘We ne
ed to have a little chat, you and I.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I just got off the phone with Grandad. We have an old friend at GCHQ with access to low-level government files in the UK. He runs checks for us from time to time, and he ran a check on you.’

  Assia felt her expression change to something close to resignation. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘I thought you’d been handling things well. You’ve been lying to us, Assia Young. You’ve been lying to me.’

  ‘I didn’t lie to anyone.’ After everything else that’d happened, Assia didn’t think she could face this. ‘Why are you holding the knife?’

  ‘Because Grandad told me about your file. And your file says you’re a killer.’

  64

  Maryland, USA.

  Clayton spent as much time as he felt able without arousing suspicion away from work. He’d looked further into Connelly’s murder. It was reported a bag containing a large amount of untraceable bank notes was discovered at the scene.

  Not a very good mugger, then.

  At the bombing reports claimed an older man and a younger woman fled the apartment shortly after the explosion. They were still wanted by the police. Clayton needed to keep digging, but every enquiry ran the risk of his involvement being noticed.

  And so it was that evening as Roger Clayton walked across the secure headquarters parking lot when he noticed a woman standing by his car. She was white, middle-aged, average height, with a stern expression. A small handbag was hooked over her right shoulder.