Deathlist (31 page)

‘More than likely,’ Ophelia responded. ‘I’d say it’s almost certain.’

Evelyn said, ‘Ninkovic is sort of like the manager of a football club. And Brozovic is the rich chairman. He gives the orders, but Ninkovic is the guy who has to go out there and get the right men for the job.’

‘All well and good,’ Devereaux chipped in. ‘But that still leaves us the problem of how we’re gonna get to the bastard.’

‘Mick’s right,’ said Coles. He was leaning against the wall and chewing on a wedge of tobacco. ‘This prick isn’t like the other guys we took care of. He’s gonna be tricky to get to. Especially with those bodyguards around him twenty-four-seven. He doesn’t even take a piss without those heavies by his side.’

‘We could try and do him when he leaves the lodge?’ Bald suggested. ‘Ambush the cunt on the trail, like?’

Coles sucked his teeth. ‘I don’t like the sound of that, chief. He’s not got a set routine, for a start. We could be sitting up on that hillside for fucking ages waiting for him to show his mug. And those bodyguards have got to be packing heat.’ He glanced over at Devereaux. ‘We’re being paid to grab the names on the list. Not get ourselves killed.’

Bald glared at Coles. ‘You’re saying you give more of a shit about getting paid than nailing these fuckers?’

Devereaux stepped in, raising his palms in mock surrender. ‘No one’s saying anything, fella. These Serbs are animals, all right. We’re bloody with you on that score. All we’re saying is, they didn’t kill our lot. We’ll do the job, and we’ll do it right. Course we will. But I’m with Davey on this one. We’re not going on a fucking suicide mission.’

‘Fine,’ said Bald. ‘We’ll do a direct attack, then. Go noisy, like.’

Now Porter shook his head. ‘Won’t work, mucker. There’s only one way in and out of the cabin. And we might be dealing with more than the two bodyguards. If Ninkovic has got the local cops in his pocket they’ll have the drop on us before we can bug out of there.’

‘Then how do we get to him, mate?’ Devereaux asked, narrowing his eyes.

Porter considered for a beat. His eyes wandered back to one of the colour photographs of Ninkovic. In the snap the Serbian 2i/c was sitting on the wooden jetty overlooking Lake Ribnica, forty metres down from the cabin. Gripping a fishing rod. The bodyguards were nowhere to be seen.

Then he looked at his muckers and said, ‘I’ve got a plan.’

THIRTY-THREE

Two days later.

0512 hours.

Dusan Ninkovic was pissed-off and anxious.

Pissed-off, because he hated being troubled first thing in the morning. The hours immediately before and after dawn and dusk were the best time for reeling in trout, as every good fisherman knew. Something to do with behavioural drift. More insects were in the air at that time of day, so there was more food for the fish. More food meant more fish. And more fish meant a better chance of snaring a catch. Which is why Ninkovic liked to get out on the jetty early and cast his fishing line just as the sun was beginning to rise. Fly-fishing was the one time during the day when he had some peace. The one chance to get away from his bodyguards and gather his thoughts. And now this damn phone call was threatening to make him late.

He was anxious, because the call was bad news. The people beneath him knew better than to disturb Ninkovic at this hour. He had half a dozen lieutenants who were entrusted with his mobile number. Only those six men had the authority to contact him directly, and all of them knew he disliked being called at dawn or dusk. The lieutenant on the other end of the line knew this better than most. Ivanovic was his longest-serving lieutenant. The guy was loyal and efficient. And he was smart. He wouldn’t have reached out to Ninkovic right now unless it was urgent. And shit, this was most definitely urgent.

‘What do you mean, they’re missing?’ he snapped irritably. The line was secure. Ninkovic changed his number once a month, he never used the same SIM card for more than one call and his security detail conducted regular sweeps of his cabin for bugs.

There was a long pause down the other end of the line. Presumably while Ivanovic tried to think of some less damaging way of presenting the news. He obviously couldn’t think of one because he said, ‘They’re not in the penthouse, boss. It’s just like I said. Our guy went to make his regular delivery, and nobody was home.’

Ninkovic paused and rubbed his temples. This was bad news. Worse than bad. This was fucking catastrophic. The Tiger would be furious when he found out. Ninkovic was already dreading making that call.

‘And there was no sign of a break-in? No disturbance, nothing unusual?’

‘Nothing, boss. Our guy reckons the place was exactly the same as it was the last time he dropped by.’ Ivanovic hesitated. ‘Maybe they just got bored and checked out without telling anyone?’

‘Impossible.’

It was a natural assumption but in this case utterly wrong. The nephew, Petrovich, he was perhaps a liability. If the kid was alone, he might have lost his nerve and gone into hiding. But not Kavlak. That guy was a true professional. A ten-year veteran of the Red Eagles and before that a shit-hot sniper in the Yugoslav Army. Ninkovic had known the guy since forever. Kavlak was as tough as they come. And loyal. He wouldn’t have dared to set foot outside the penthouse. Not without Brozovic’s say-so.

‘You’re sure they didn’t leave a message? Anything at all?’ he asked.

‘Nothing, boss,’ Ivanovic responded after a pause. ‘Our guys in Valletta searched the place thoroughly. Every nook and cranny. No message. It’s like they just vanished.’

But that wasn’t any kind of answer, Ninkovic knew. People didn’t just disappear. They were either kidnapped or murdered and dumped in rivers or mass graves. He knew, because he’d disposed of more than his fair share of dead bodies over the years. He’d wiped out entire villages.

No, he decided. Kavlak and Petrovich hadn’t simply walked out.

Which could only mean one of two things.

Either they’d been taken. Or they’d been killed.

Ivanovic filled the uncomfortable silence. ‘What do you want us to do, boss? I could have some of our guys put the word out. Knock on a few doors.’

Ninkovic thought for a moment. ‘No. That’s not a good idea. We need to keep our enquiries discreet. The less people know we’re looking for them the better. Do we have any cops on the payroll down there?’

‘One, boss. A sergeant. Brincat.’

‘Good,’ said Ninkovic. ‘That’s good. Reach out to him. Tell him to keep his ear close to the ground and see if he’s heard anything. Maybe those idiots got drunk in a bar and tried it on with some Russian gangster’s wife. Unlikely, but we shouldn’t discount anything at this point.’

‘Okay, boss.’

‘Meanwhile I’ll call the Tiger. Let him know the score. If I have anything more for you, I’ll let you know.’

He killed the call. Plucked the SIM card out of the back of the Nokia and stamped it under his boot, cursing under his breath. This whole mess could have been avoided if only the Tiger had followed his advice. Right from the outset, Ninkovic had argued that the men selected to carry out the attack on the SAS should be disposed of once they’d completed their assignment. It was only logical. That would have eliminated any possibility of the attack coming back to haunt them. But Brozovic had shot that idea down. He’d insisted that he would not order the killings of his own men. And now two of the gunmen were missing.

Maybe they were dead, Ninkovic thought to himself. Or worse, they’d been arrested and were spilling their guts to some cop right at this very moment. Brozovic would be furious when he found out. He would blame Ninkovic for the fuck-up, of course. That was inevitable. The price he had to pay for being the number-two guy in the organisation. He got all the shit that came up from the rank-and-file, and he took all the shit that came down from the top. And there was no point in trying to tell the Tiger that he’d been wrong. That would only make things worse.

He checked the clock in the cabin hallway: 0516 hours. He paced down the hallway and turned into the kitchen. One of his bodyguards was sitting at an oak table next to the window, flicking through the pages of a dirty magazine. Kezman. The bodyguard looked up.

‘Where’s the other one?’ Ninkovic said, momentarily forgetting the guy’s name. Vukic. That was it. The bodyguards rotated so frequently these days, it was hard to keep track.

‘Outside, boss,’ Kezman said. ‘Ground patrol.’

Ninkovic nodded. ‘I’m going fishing at half-past. I’m not to be disturbed. Make sure he knows.’

‘Yes, boss.’

Then Ninkovic turned and headed upstairs. He felt better already. A shave, a pot of coffee and then he’d head down to the jetty. Just him and his rod and the fish. A few precious hours to forget about Petrovich and Kavlak and all the rest of it.

The call to Brozovic could wait.

Five hundred metres away, Porter and Bald prepared to dive.

They were on a small fishing boat at the edge of the lake, hidden from view of the jetty by a small island overgrown with bushes and willow trees. The boat was a battered old thing with a trolling motor and a seventeen-gallon tank, rented from the nearby marina using a fake passport and paid for in cash costing 20,000 dinars. Devereaux knew how to pilot a boat from his days in the Aussie SAS. He’d steered it into position behind the island under cover of darkness. In the summers Lake Ribnica was a popular bathing spot but in the winter months the place was deserted, especially at night. No one noticed the fishing boat motoring into position.

Porter and Bald were kitted out with Draeger closed-circuit rebreathers. The gear had been purchased from a specialist diving outlet based in Trieste, Italy. After the team briefing Devereaux and Evelyn had made the fourteen-hour round trip up the coast in one of the rented Skodas, armed with a shopping list Porter had given them. They’d purchased two closed-circuit rebreathing systems costing three grand apiece, along with a pair of dry suits and full-face masks. They also bought a small rebreathing tank the size of a fire extinguisher. The rebreathers were essential to the op. Unlike regular scuba diving tanks, rebreathing systems recirculated exhaled air by cleaning it inside the tanks. Which meant they wouldn’t produce any bubbles that would rise to the surface.

No one would see the two operators approaching the jetty underwater.

Bald and Porter double-checked each other’s kit one last time and turned on the valves on their rebreathers. They were both packing Zastava CZ 99 Scorpion semi-automatic pistols strapped to holsters around their thighs. The Scorpions were Yugoslav army pieces and chambered for the .40 Smith & Wesson rounds, a slightly larger bullet than the standard 9x19mm Parabellum used in most secondary weapons. There were ten rounds to a clip and the Scorpion had an effective range of around fifty metres. The guns wouldn’t be any use underwater, but if they ran into trouble at the jetty then Bald and Porter could at least reach for their pistols, shake them dry and let off a few rounds at the enemy. It would buy them a few precious seconds.

Once Porter and Bald were ready, Devereaux reached for his waterproof Motorola UHF walkie-talkie. He depressed the button, checking in with Coles. At that moment the South African was kneeling beside a clump of rocks along the southern bank of the lake, four hundred metres south of the fishing boat and two hundred metres east of the jetty. Coles was observing the jetty through a pair of Bushnell 8x42mm binoculars, checking for movement in the grounds surrounding the lodge. He would keep eyes on the jetty throughout the op. If Bald and Porter got spotted by one of the bodyguards during the approach, Coles would immediately get on the comms and raise the alarm with Devereaux. Then the Aussie would crank up the fishing boat and speed over to the jetty to recover the divers, putting down rounds on the heavies with the Zastava M70 assault rifle that was lying next to him on the deck.

Devereaux said, ‘All clear, over?’

There was a crackle and pop of static noise and then Coles replied, ‘Roger, chief. Clear. The lads are good to go.’

‘Roger that.’

Devereaux set down the walkie-talkie and gave the thumbs-up to Porter and Bald. Then they slid off the side of the boat and dropped into the water with a dull wet slap. Porter carried the spare air tank, along with the harness and mouthpiece attached to the end. The operators broke beneath the surface and disappeared from view beneath the murky black waters.

Heading for the jetty.

0528 hours.

He wasn’t going to tell the Tiger, Ninkovic decided.

Not yet, anyway. He had thought it through, weighed up the pros and cons and decided that the best course of action would be for him to handle the situation personally. Demonstrate his leadership. Once he’d found Kavlak and Petrovich, or at least knew what had happened to them, then he would call Brozovic and explain. Even if the news was bad, the very fact that he, Ninkovic, had taken charge of the situation would present him in a better light. It might spare him from the Tiger’s rage. And there was no way he was going to suffer because of the actions of two dumb fucks way down the food chain. No way at all. As soon as he was done fishing, he’d get on the blower to Ivanovic. Tell him to get to Valletta and personally find out what the hell had happened. Knock on some doors, pay some bribes, bash a few skulls. Do whatever it takes to find them.