Hunting for Caracas

by Anthony Fox

  ‘What the ambassador was doing, with a group of supporters, was persuading countries to work in forming a world leadership – initially not relating to any particular issues, but simply to have it in place so we could tackle world issues in a real way. He was having a lot of success.’

  Clayton realised now that he was focusing too much on Connelly and the attacks in Austria, as his mind made the connection it should have made a few minutes ago.

  ‘You’re talking about Ambassador Marshall. The former actor,’ said Clayton.

  ‘Of course. His obvious problem was that division creates huge business opportunities, so his work painted a target on his back. We put a huge protection team around the ambassador, and Rudy found out too late that they weren’t targeting the UN ambassador; they were targeting his family.’

  ‘Right. Everyone was talking about it. They took out Bryson Marshall’s wife and children. After that he stopped working.’

  Something about carrying out the assassination even after the intention was uncovered troubled Clayton even more.

  He said, ‘It always seemed strange to me that the ambassador would change his mind after they murdered his family. Surely that would only make him more determined than ever?’

  ‘The ambassador has another daughter, Isabella. Apparently it’s no secret she was always his favourite, and she was away at boarding school at the time. She’s still alive.’

  Clayton needed a moment to let that sink in. It was clever. Getting the ambassador to publicly change his mind was a much stronger tool than simply removing him from the equation.

  ‘Did this Rudy eventually catch the assassin?’ Clayton asked.

  ‘Caracas made a mistake in New Zealand. Two people saw him. He killed them, but it meant he left evidence behind. Including a modified rifle. He’d never done that before. Rudy was able to link the rifle to a supplier he knew, which lead him to a corrupt yacht brokers. They traced Caracas’s escape route, and nearly caught him a while later as he was fleeing through China. The story is, one of Rudy’s men fought Caracas but got injured, and Caracas got away. Then Rudy went back after Caracas with his team, and not long after we got the news.’

  ‘Rudy had been killed?’

  ‘And Caracas escaped us again.’

  ‘So what does any of this have to do with Austria?’ Clayton wanted to know.

  ‘When Rudy’s man fought Caracas in China, we got extremely lucky. We had a team close by. Not that we have American forces on the ground in China, of course.’ She gave Clayton a knowing look. ‘They were working on something completely different, but when the news came through we immediately sent them to the location. They arrived after the event, but were able to investigate the area before the Chinese got there.’

  ‘And they collected a blood sample.’

  ‘We hoped it would be from Caracas himself, then we’d finally have some solid evidence about his identity. We ran it through every database we have, in case he was in there somewhere under a different name, or down as a John Doe. Or to see if it belonged to someone else. But we got nothing. No match whatsoever. Shortly after Rudy was killed, so I never got the chance to talk to him about it properly. As far as I know Rudy and all his team were taken out by Caracas, so the sample is just sat there.’

  ‘Until you ran the blood from the barn fire in Austria.’

  ‘It’s a match. It’s from the same person, no question.’

  ‘And you think it was Caracas?’

  ‘Well, if Rudy’s team is all dead, then who else? Rudy said his man that fought Caracas had his throat deeply cut, but he survived. However, now I’m not sure whether Rudy was trying to hide something from me, whether he was just trying to get Caracas for himself.’

  Clayton took a deep breath. ‘So what’s your next move?’

  ‘I’m sending you to Austria.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Clayton couldn’t hide his surprise. Or his indignation.

  ‘As we know, there’s a survivor of the bombing, someone who was there on the same night as whoever left their blood at that barn. Someone who’s linked to all this. It’s not safe for me to travel at the moment, not with Caracas still out there. But I can get you to Austria and I can get our survivor back to America.’

  ‘I can’t just leave. People will notice.’

  ‘So take a vacation. Is that possible?’

  ‘I guess. I’ve never taken one before.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  Clayton smiled. ‘Because I love my job. But why would I help?’

  ‘It’s clear this means something to you. Enough for you to risk the job you love, possibly even jail time. If we work together we can get all the answers we need.’

  67

  Verona, Italy.

  Immediately after she’d finished her story, Assia insisted she needed to call her brother, Brendan. Surprisingly, Matthews agreed to this. As there was no hotel phone he let her use one of his own. The call was brief, it was in Matthews’ presence, and Assia was as vague as possible with information. When her brother pushed for details of Charlie’s death, Assia cut him off, saying she had to go, but reassuring him that she was OK now and would be home soon. It seemed no one had contacted her brother about Assia being missing from the scene of an explosion, which meant the police hadn’t identified her yet.

  Talking to her brother somehow made Assia feel both warm and sombre. After it was over she stood up from her corner chair and crossed the room to the minibar, finding a cold beer inside. She was tired now. Tired of all of it.

  ‘I just keep picturing being curled up on the floor of the van. The noise of all the bullets hitting. I’ve never heard anything like that. My ears were ringing the whole way to the garage. Then that Mr Proud…’

  She shook herself, as if she could shake the memory right out of her. Assia asked Matthews if he wanted something to drink. Why she asked, she didn’t know. Why should she care if he wanted a drink or not?

  Misery loves company, I guess.

  She had learned after being released from prison that staying angry all the time was too exhausting. Inside prison she learned the same thing about fear. It drained you, eventually rendering you useless.

  ‘Whisky, if they have it.’

  He seemed tired as well now. Not necessarily in a physical way, but from something deep inside. Like he was walking down a long, straight road that never ended.

  Assia nodded. ‘Whisky,’ she said. She stuck her head in the minibar and found a miniature. She turned and threw it in Matthews’ lap. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Fine.’ He picked up the bottle but didn’t open it, just held it, as if he hoped doing so would soothe him somehow.

  They sat quietly for a long time. Neither looked at the other. They didn’t fidget or cough or sneeze, and neither felt the urge to close their eyes. Somehow, just sitting there was more relaxing than any amount of sleep could have been. They shared a far too rare and brief time completely free of fear.

  ‘You know,’ said Matthews suddenly, nudging Assia’s mind from its daydream, ‘there was another man who used to move with us, who only drank whisky. Only ever one glass, and only after he ended someone’s life.’

  Assia soaked that in for a minute. She took another swig of beer. Burped, unabashed. ‘You see, that’s not even close to a normal story a person would tell somebody. A guy who drinks whisky after he kills people. Who are you?’ Assia asked, not expecting an answer.

  ‘For years we were a small private protection team. Rudy’s team. Somewhere along the way we started hunting targets rather than protecting them.’

  ‘Rudy? Who’s that?’

  A look washed over Matthews, as if he was surprised that she didn’t know this.

  ‘My old boss. It was his voice you heard on the recording.’

  Matthews unscrewed the lid from the whisky bottle and sank it in one awkward gulp. A little dribbled down his chin.

  Finding her own bottle empty Assia went back to the minibar, this time just taking anoth
er beer and leaving the whisky. ‘So this Rudy, your old boss, the voice on the iPod, he’s not around any more?’

  Matthews just nodded. Something clouded over his face that Assia didn’t like the look of. The mood in the room darkened. She suddenly wanted to change the subject. ‘Did Rudy teach you to fight like that?’ Assia asked, unable to keep the interest from her voice.

  Matthews sighed. ‘He taught me himself initially, when I was very young. But Rudy was never much of a fighter. At least not with his hands and feet. His character and strength of will could crush anyone.’

  Assia didn’t care about those things. Strength of character wasn’t cool. ‘How long does it take to fight like that, with your hands and feet, I mean? And with a gun. How long would it take to learn to shoot like that?’

  ‘A lifetime. And no less.’

  Assia frowned. It wasn’t the answer she wanted. ‘I bet I could learn quicker.’

  Now Matthews frowned. ‘Why would you want to?’

  ‘You’re small like me, you don’t look like much, but no one can even get near you. To be able to fight like that. To be able to defend yourself from anyone, stop anyone who tried to be horrible to you. Who wouldn’t want to fight like that?’

  ‘It would be difficult for you now. I had my first fight in the streets of Gaza when I was eight years old.’

  That confused her. ‘Gaza? As in Israel? Is that where you were born?’

  ‘No. My father was a journalist. When he was a young man he was sent to Israel for a story and fell in love with the place. After my mother died, we moved there.’

  Matthews shook his head and turned away.

  Then he chuckled.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.

  ‘Just a memory. You’ve made me think of my first fight when I was eight. It’s something I thought I’d forgotten.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Why?’

  Assia just shrugged and took another swig of beer. At first it seemed like he was going to leave it. Perhaps it was the whisky slowing his mind.

  ‘I’d not long been rescued by Rudy, Alan and Andre,’ he started eventually.

  She noted how he used the word rescued and found it strange, but she asked a different question. ‘Alan and Andre? Who’re they?’

  Matthews’ face darkened. ‘They Rudy’s brothers. But they’re dead now,’ he lied, ‘and not important. Forget them.’

  ‘OK,’ said Assia with a shrug. ‘Go on.’

  ‘We were walking down the street through the market, the four of us, me following behind. A young boy stepped out from one of the stalls and walked up to Rudy and the two others. The boy was a little older than me at the time. Taller, a chubby thing, bold as you like. Cocky beyond his years, like a lot of the boys who grow up on the streets are. After talking to him, Rudy tells me he’s bet the boy a week’s wages I can beat the boy in a fight. He says learning to fight is part of becoming a man.

  ‘They walk off to a quiet side street, I’m forced to follow. It’s obvious I’ve no choice, either fight or be beaten up. Part of me thinks maybe I could win and impress Rudy. He’s bet on me and if he’s confident maybe I should be as well. But I can still remember how scared I felt. Anyway,’ said Matthews, throwing a hand in the air to indicate he was babbling, ‘the big kid and me, we circled each other a bit before I get hit so hard I’m off my feet and the world’s turned inside out. I know the kid didn’t hit me, he was a few feet away and still circling. The blow wasn’t hard enough to knock me out, it just hurt like hell and I lost a tooth. Looking back, I think he wanted it that way. Remembering the pain would help me learn the lesson, I guess. So I’m on my back in the sand, I look up and see Rudy staring down at me. Rudy’s rubbing his hand where his knuckles are turning red, and just staring at me.’ Matthews stopped there as if he’d forgotten he was speaking. Assia was surprised to see him smile at the memory. She was shocked by the story.

  ‘He hit you? Rudy? Hit you while you weren’t looking? But you were eight years old.’

  ‘He stood over me and said, “Lesson one: dancing in circles is great for a boxing match, trading blows back and forth looks good in kung fu movies, but in the real world we’ve got things called ‘external influences’, and if you’re ever lucky enough to find yourself one-on-one with a guy – and never be dumb enough to think he’s on his own – then you’ve got about ten seconds to end the fight before the world and its external influences decides it wants a piece of the action.”’

  ‘This Rudy sounds like a real charmer,’ said Assia. She noted with surprise this meant Matthews had known his old boss ever since he was eight years old.

  Matthews chuckled. It was an odd noise. ‘Had to teach me that lesson a few more times before it stuck.’

  ‘Well, no wonder you look up to him so much.’

  Matthews seemed to register the sarcasm. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I loved Rudy like anyone loves a favourite teacher or a mentor. He gave me everything I’ve ever had. There were plenty of children in my situation that never get to see their tenth birthday. But at times I also hated him the way only a son can hate a father.’

  ‘Then why not let it all go? Now he’s gone, why not just walk away?’

  ‘You sound like Grandad,’ said Matthews. ‘But can’t do that. Maybe it’s guilt.’ He chuckled to himself again. ‘A small part of me wouldn’t put it past Rudy to let himself be killed after I refused to help. No doubt he knew how guilty I’d feel. Maybe it’s just another one of his lessons.’ Then he turned his head away.

  ‘Once again, by anyone’s standards, that’s a really weird story. Not the usual drinking tale.’

  Assia looked over to see Matthews with a far-off look in his eyes.

  ‘Chasing Caracas, fighting him in China. We were supposed to be protecting good people, not hunting and killing. Rudy was never supposed to be like Pincer. That’s why I wouldn’t go back after Caracas. That’s why I left Rudy.’

  Even though some of this information registered with Assia from the recording, it was now all too much for her to take in. Rudy, Alan, Andre, Pincer, Caracas. Names and information seemed to suddenly be pouring out of Matthews like a dam bursting. She watched as he dropped his miniature bottle on the floor.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  Matthews was looking off again.

  ‘I just couldn’t face it any more. The pressure, the constant fear.’

  He wiped his face. Then he rose from the chair. ‘I need to sleep. You do too.’ And he walked out of the room and left Assia alone.

  68

  Vienna, Austria.

  The rain had long since stopped. The glorious sunshine returned. Unfortunately, this time the sun brought the wind along to keep it company, and although the weather had no direct effect on the patient in her hospital bed, the low, hollow sound of the wind was starting to annoy her. It was a while now since anyone had checked on Rose. The police hadn’t returned yet, but she couldn’t wait.

  She lay still, faking sleep, waiting for an opportunity.

  The headaches had changed from an intermittent sharp pain to an endless dull throb. It felt as if there were too much blood moving through her head. Or perhaps the blood there was simply blocked, the pressure squeezing her brain. She scratched at the heavy bandaging around her forehead and scalp. Not for the first time, she wondered vainly if she would ever again possess the looks she had until recently taken for granted her entire life.

  The door opened.

  ‘Thank you, doctor,’ came a smooth male voice from the doorway.

  The voice made her heart skip but she remained still, her eyes closed.

  She heard the door close, then a single set of footsteps as he moved into the room.

  Opening her eyes just a little, she saw a handsome man of a similar age to herself. He was holding a big bunch of helium balloons. His movements were assured and direct as he circled the foot of her bed.

  He walked over to the window and seemed to be wa
tching something below. She studied the man for a moment. He was certainly handsome, young, but giving off a confidence that came from high intelligence and a strong education, and perhaps also from working in a position of power usually reserved for people of greater age and experience. He had short, dark hair and was dressed well if unimaginatively in a black designer suit. She studied his body language and saw it gave no indication whatsoever as to his mood or what he was thinking.

  He turned from the window. She closed her eyes. He took the few steps to her bed. Squatting down beside her, he looked closely at her face.

  Before he had time to react, she had whipped the pen out from under the sheet and pressed hard up against his neck.

  ‘Don’t make a sound,’ she warned him as she climbed out of the bed whilst keeping the pen against his throat. Her head swam. She gripped his shoulder to steady herself. The man let go of the balloons but quickly got his surprise under control. If he was scared, he didn’t show it.

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

  ‘This really isn’t necessary.’

  ‘NAME!’

  ‘My name is Roger Clayton. Are you still calling yourself Rose McCarthy?’

  Two things about that made her stop. The first was that he obviously knew she’d been lying to the doctors and local police. The second:

  ‘You’re American.’

  She felt steadier on her legs now. The hospital room door was still closed.

  ‘Guilty. I was just passing through and wondered if you needed a dressing changed?’

  ‘Very funny. There’s only one reason an American would come to visit me, now move,’ she said, but Roger Clayton stayed where he was.

  ‘Two reasons, actually. Bob Paxman and Phil Connelly.’ He tried to turn his head to look at her but the pen against his neck made the action difficult. A drop of blood trickled out. ‘I know your real name is Nina Arrow. I know about the explosion in Feldkirch. I’m not the only person who can guess that instead of being a victim of the attack, you were actually involved with the deceased. I am, however, the only one who can assume you were working for the White Wolf.’