Dead or Alive: A heart-pounding assassination thriller with a shocking twist (Eliot Locke Thrillers Book 1)

by Dean Carson

  I let that one go.

  La Donna left around ten o’clock, and this time I didn’t have to waste my time on silly handcuffs and restraints. All I had to do was pull back the covers and step out of the bed. Which I did. It had been pleasant to sit there watching her dress. A gentleman would have turned away, but a gentleman would have missed a great show because she had taken her time, lingering over each item.

  I needed a quick, cold, shower. Then I got dressed.

  It took me nearly an hour to reach the café where I had met Jelly the previous day. Not surprisingly, she wasn’t there. We had made no arrangements, and when we had parted the previous afternoon I had known it was forever. But I felt strangely disappointed. Still, I had a day to kill and one café was as good as another. I went in and ordered a cappuccino and a croissant and picked a table near the rear where I could see the entire street and every table in the café. No one was going to sneak up on me today.

  The coffee arrived and I sipped. Perfect. I got out my phone and tried Bill. He answered at the first ring.

  “Hello, you are through to the lingerie department. How can I help you today?”

  “I had a bra I could have donated to your department last night, but I don’t have it anymore. Long story,” I said.

  “I have all day,” he replied. “Nothing but blue skies and blue sea for miles and miles and miles around me. What the fuck do people see in sailing? It’s the most boring way to spend a vacation.”

  “You arrived safely?”

  “Yes and no,” he said. “We got here all right, and the army provided a helicopter for the flight down south to get the boat. Everything went smoothly. And my son is a natural at this. Without him I’d be drifting towards Libya right now. But I couldn’t get a gun.”

  I knew the feeling. Without a gun, Bill would feel naked.

  “You have contacts.”

  “Sure. But I’m on vacation. If I ask for a gun, my people will ask why. Then my leave will be cancelled and you’ll be screwed. Talking of being screwed, how’s La Donna?”

  “She seems to be on side but taking her own sweet time about it. The word is out that no one is to help me and they are actively hunting me. A sniper nearly got me yesterday afternoon.”

  “Shit.”

  “But I think I can get papers tonight off an old Stasi guy. Ever hear of Milosz Vogt?”

  “Yeah,” said Bill. “The bastard’s dead.”

  That shook me. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure? What’s sure in this business? He tried to leave East Germany a long time ago and was never heard of since. Why do you ask?”

  “La Donna says he’s here, still churning out the best passports in Europe. She said he was a double for the Stasi and never left them.”

  There was a silence on the phone, then Bill said: “Makes sense. If you can get a Vogt passport, you can go anywhere in the world. And if you can confirm he is still alive, I will have some interesting intel to deliver back to Langley after this vacation. In fact, I’ll be able to chalk it down to work and get those vacation days back. Win win. Do you think you can make it out?”

  “I should be able to. But don’t cancel plan B. When will you arrive in Dubrovnik?”

  “Mid-afternoon tomorrow,” he said.

  I ordered a second coffee and a second croissant, after lingering as long as possible on the first. I killed another hour. The place was beginning to fill up with lunchtime customers. I was a dead table. I knew that soon enough a waiter would come over and politely suggest I finish up and move on. So I stood, leaving a few notes on the table to cover the bill. Maybe I could spend a few hours snoozing in the confessional of the church I had hidden in last night.

  I turned towards the door. And saw her.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  She had walked in unnoticed while I was looking for change for my coffees and was in the centre of the room, looking around slowly, a slightly wistful look on her face. Then she saw me, and the wistful look changed into a bright smile.

  Jelly was wearing tight jeans that showed off her shapely legs to perfection and a short-sleeved white blouse. A white baseball cap hid most of her dark hair and she looked gorgeous.

  “You look good enough to eat,” I said.

  “Then I hope you are hungry,” she smiled as she sat.

  “I was just leaving,” I said.

  “Don’t you have a few minutes to buy a girl some lunch?”

  I sat again. “Not only do I have a few minutes, today I even have a wallet and a respectable set of clothes.”

  She cast an appraising eye over me and said: “Not bad. Did you steal the clothes of a more trendy man this morning?”

  “No. My clothes were returned last night.”

  As soon as I said it, I knew it was a mistake. I didn’t want to tell her too much. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust her, but at the moment I was toxic. Any involvement with me could be dangerous, and I didn’t want to put her in that danger. A quick lunch and I would disappear.

  “It’s a long story,” I ended lamely.

  “Fine. Don’t tell me. Let’s get a table outside, in the sun.”

  “I have a headache. I need the shade.”

  We ordered our food. She went for a salad, I got a plate of calamari. We ordered two glasses of white wine. But something was missing. The easiness of the previous day was gone. I am not a man with a great deal of emotional intelligence, but even I could tell there was a problem. Finally she tackled it head on.

  “You know I worked in the military police for years? I’ve investigated all sorts of things, from pilfered supplies to guys selling secrets wholesale to the enemy. In all the investigations there has been one common thread. Guys lying to me. It gets so that you have a sort of sixth sense about it, a built-in bullshit detector. And mine is pinging right now.”

  She looked at me. I said nothing. So she went on: “You said your clothes has been stolen, yet here you are in your own clothes. Items don’t get returned like that, not wallets anyway. You might find some of your clothes scattered by the thieves, but not your wallet. And who steals clothes anyway? Ping, ping. The bullshit detector is going off. As I see it, you have two options; you can level with me or I can finish my salad and walk away and never see your lying face again.”

  “That’s a bit severe,” I protested.

  “That’s life as a woman, Eliot. Men lie to us all the time. You think you find a good one, one who is a bit different from the others. Turns out he is just a different kind of liar.”

  I leaned back and scanned the room. I looked into her face, seeing some hurt but more steely determination. And I made up my mind.

  “Okay, I may have lied a little to you. But my only reason is that I didn’t want to involve you in my problems. I had no other motive.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  I sipped my wine thoughtfully. Where to start and how much to tell?

  “Did you ever serve in Northern Ireland?”

  She shook her head.

  “You knew people who did, at any rate. It was one of the toughest postings, but the worst of it was before our time. I’ve spoken to vets about it and I am sure you have too. The regular soldiers were targets and spent most of their time in barracks or on patrol. No mixing with the community. But there were other soldiers, the shadow men. They didn’t go out in big patrols. They stayed on their own. And they didn’t wear uniforms on a lot of their missions. The hard men, the undercover guys.”

  She nodded: “The Special Reconnaissance Unit and their successors. Some would say that’s not proper soldiering.”

  “And some would say that you fight fire with fire.”

  “That’s stupid. You fight fire with water.”

  My attempt at an explanation was not going as well as I had hoped.

  “You weren’t old enough to serve in the Special Reconnaissance Unit anyway,” she said, as if that put an end to the matter.

  “I was never in the army,” I snapped. “I came to this w
ork through other avenues.”

  “What work?” she asked, not an unreasonable question.

  “I am not a spy,” I replied. “But sometimes my legitimate work brings me to interesting places. And I have been known to dig out information or pass on messages for our government and other friendly interests. Small jobs they couldn’t do themselves without a diplomatic incident. That’s why I was in Mostar. Tying up loose ends from the trouble in the nineties. Only someone double-crossed me and of course the government need deniability, so I am on my own.”

  I was glad to see her military training kicking in. She didn’t ask for details. Instead, she stretched across the table and held my hand.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I’m afraid not. A colleague of mine is helping me get false papers to get me home. She’s the one who stole my clothes, because she felt I would be safer remaining holed up rather than walking the streets here.”

  “That’s a bit paranoid.”

  “My thoughts exactly. So I went out yesterday. And not long after I left you, a sniper took a shot at me. He came very close to killing me.”

  Her face went pale. “But you should be hiding.”

  “I’m in the shade here, out of sight of the street.”

  She hit me on the arm, hard. “That’s not what I meant. We need to get you somewhere safe.”

  “There is no ‘we’. I need to stay safe for another few hours, until I have my papers. You need to keep away from me so that you don’t get caught in the crossfire.”

  “I can help.”

  “You were military police, not special forces. And now you’re a teacher. I have a range of skills that will probably keep me alive until I get out of here. And this restaurant is clean. I have been here all morning. So relax, enjoy your salad and leave the worrying to people above your pay grade and mine.”

  She didn’t seem convinced, but deep down she must have known there was little she could do to help me and that her presence could complicate things. So, after a brief internal struggle, her face returned to the wide smile I was beginning to like a lot and she began to talk about her plans for when her brother would finally make Europe. And to further the distraction, I told her about my sister, the porn star.

  We had a very pleasant lunch, at the end of which she slipped me the address of her hotel and made me promise I would contact her in the morning if there was any difficulty with my new papers. I made the promise and stood to let her leave. She looked into my eyes uncertainly then took the plunge, reaching forward and holding my face in her hands. We kissed. It began tentatively, but soon there was nothing tentative about it. My tongue got a better workout than if I had tried to learn Finnish, and the softness of her body against mine filled me with yearning. There was so much promise in that kiss. But in the end, I had to let her go.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  La Donna made me wait.

  I was back in the hotel room a full two hours, stretched out on the bed staring at the ceiling, before she arrived. What I wouldn’t do for a good book. Mindfulness is fine, but it doesn’t kill two hours.

  She flounced into the room and sat on the bed, locking her lips on mine in a passionate kiss. We were colleagues, but there was nothing collegial in her lips or in her hands as they roved up and down my body. I just thought of Jelly and played along. Luckily, La Donna had nothing serious on her mind. She was simply being a tease because that was her default mode when dealing with men. Soon she released me and I sat up.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Let’s go over the geography one more time.”

  She sighed. “Okay, he lives in the rear of his print works. The print works is located in an industrial estate in the new harbour, about an hour from here on foot. There are three premises on the block, his being the middle one. The other two will be closed at night. You get in, overcome his two guards, and secure him. Then you text me and I text you the photo of his granddaughter. Once he sees her, he will do what you want. It takes four hours for him to do a passport, and you need to be away by six tomorrow morning. So that is your window. Do everything right, you have a passport, you get on a plane, you fly home. Get it wrong and you are on your own.”

  “I need a gun.”

  “I cannot give you a gun.”

  “There are two guards and he might be armed himself. What am I meant to do, punch them out?”

  “Improvise. Find something you can use as a weapon.”

  “And where would you suggest I look for something like that?”

  “I don’t know — you could start with the drawers in this room.”

  There was something in the way she said it. So I looked. I opened the bedside locker and saw nothing. So I went to the chest of drawers and opened one of the two top drawers. Her underwear. She laughed. I opened the second drawer. Nestling there on a folded pair of jeans was a small pistol. I picked it up. It was tiny, what used to be called a lady’s gun. It would fit comfortably in a handbag or purse without weighing it down or leaving a bulge. It would fit in a suit pocket the same way.

  I held it and despite its tiny size it felt snug in my hands, like it belonged to me. I raised my hand and sighted down the barrel. It would do.

  “I thought you couldn’t…”

  “I can’t give you a gun. That was made clear to me. But if you find a gun someone carelessly abandoned, I don’t have to take it from you. Congratulations. You have found a gun someone carelessly abandoned.”

  The gun was a Baby Browning. Designed between the wars, it held just six rounds and weighed ten ounces fully loaded. The rounds were low velocity and didn’t carry much punch, but put one in a guy’s leg and he wasn’t going to chase you. Put it between his eyes and he would never chase anyone again. I wasn’t a sniper. Any shooting I would do this night would be up close and personal. This gun would do as well as another. I slipped out the magazine and checked. It was fully loaded.

  “Do you have a spare magazine?”

  “No — that’s all you get. And if you use it you will be bringing heat down on me, so I would be very happy if it comes back with all six rounds still there.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I promised. I was no fan of collateral damage anyway.

  The rest of the gear La Donna had assembled for me. There was a flashlight, some basic lock-picking tools, a glass tumbler and a roll of black duct tape. We were good to go but there were a few hours left to kill, so we ordered dinner. I was eating a lot out here; but hopefully the night’s exercise would work it all off.

  At nine I left the hotel by the rear and took about ten minutes to make my first hundred metres, heading in the wrong direction. But when I was sure no one was following me, I doubled back and walked through the darkening streets towards the harbour. Along the way I went through the plan and my preparations. As usual I had forgotten something. I had a gun but I should have stolen a knife from the hotel. Too late now. As I passed a roadside café, I slipped a fork from a table and put it in my pocket. It was the first thing to come to hand. A few minutes later I found a quiet alley and disappeared down it, where I taped the fork to my ankle with the duct tape. Even the pros often overlook the ankle when carrying out a body search.

  I got to the industrial estate at ten minutes before ten, a bit quicker than La Donna had predicted. A busy road forked, one way leading into the harbour and industrial estate, the other heading off along the coast road. Cars and trucks whizzed by and there were plenty of people about. It felt safe. Any serious attempt on my life would wait until I was a bit more isolated. So I relaxed and made good progress. I took the road leading to the harbour and passed the harbour entrance, marked by two large pillars with nothing between them. In my head I had a map. Now was the chance to see how accurate that map had been.

  The industrial estate was separated from the harbour by the road. The estate was made up of several blocks, each containing a number of businesses. At the front were three blocks. According to La Donna, the print works was the mid
dle premises of the third block, furthest away from the harbour entrance. I could see it ahead of me. Behind the row of three blocks were two other rows, meaning nine blocks and perhaps thirty businesses in the estate.

  The harbour road was not busy. It led nowhere so there was no passing traffic, only vehicles that had business going in and out of the area. The absence of passing cars would make my job so much easier. The harbour itself contained a mix of boats, from small commercial fishing vessels, tugs and dredges right up. Some had lights on and showed signs of activity. Others did not.

  The one thing La Donna had not warned me about was what dominated the entire landscape. A cruise ship that must have been two hundred and fifty metres long was pulled right up to the harbour wall. Several storeys of apartments were lit up like Christmas and the passenger decks were thronged. And every person on board would have a clear view of me breaking into the print works.

  TWENTY-SIX

  When faced with adversity, according to my late father, you can curl up and cry or you can try to muddle through. I wanted to curl up and cry, but I didn’t see how that would improve my situation. So I went for the other option. I decided to case the building as if there were no cruise ship. I strolled nonchalantly along the road as if I had no cares in the world. Skulking in the shadows would not work here; that was a sure way of drawing attention to myself.

  I took my time so that I would have plenty of opportunity to scope out the printing works. It was exactly as La Donna had told me. First was a fish processing plant. This operated from six in the morning to eight in the evening and was already closed. Next was the print works itself. It occupied the middle of the block. At the front was a small door into the office area and a big sliding door that could take a van. This was where print jobs were collected. That door would open on to the print room floor. Both were closed. Presumably both were locked.

  The end of the block was occupied by a large furniture retailer. They took a siesta in the afternoon and were open late most evenings, she had said. I could see this was true. The lights were on and there were plenty of customers milling around. I turned the corner and walked around the furniture outlet to the rear of the block. I did a complete loop. The rear of the print factory was a huge door, big enough to take large lorries. This was obviously for paper deliveries. There was no small door. Because I was out of view of the harbour, I was able to take my time and examine the door. It was securely bolted. I could have opened it with the right equipment. But you don’t pick a big lock with small tools. And if I had unlocked it, it would not have slid open quietly. So I could forget about the rear. It was through the front door or nothing.