Headhunters (22 page)

The flame had started to blacken the skin of the man’s scalp when he gasped out in pain and said, between ragged pants, “Stop! Stop!”

“Want to talk now?”

He gasped, and Milton let him gather his breath.

“Ready?”

“Ask your questions.”

Milton pulled the blowtorch away and extinguished the flame.

“I don’t have many,” he said. “Why is the Mossad doing this?”

Hughes paused for a moment, his eyes watering from the pain Milton had inflicted. “It’s Bachman. I don’t know what you did to him, but he wants you dead. They could’ve put a bullet in the back of your head in the outback except for the fact that, whatever you did to him, he wants to do it himself.”

“How did he get out of prison?”

“They broke him out.”

“What?”

“You don’t pay attention to the news?”

“I’ve been trying to avoid it.”

“They took out the convoy that was transporting him from Angola to Baton Rouge. Killed the guards, got him out. It’s a big story. The FBI and the CIA know it was us, but no one is going to admit it. The truth doesn’t suit anyone.”

Milton felt the anxiety in his gut. It was getting worse. The Mossad had staged an attack on American soil just to free Bachman?

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Milton gripped the man’s chin and turned his face so that he could look directly into his eyes. “Why is he getting help?”

He shook his head, and Milton let go. “You tell me, Milton. I haven’t got the first idea.”

“Don’t waste my time. You were talking. I heard you. You said he’s using something against them.”

“It’s a rumour. But they’re not going to confirm anything to us. That’s not how this works.”

“What rumour?”

“They said, when he got out, he took a copy of the Black Book with him.”

“What’s that?”

“The active operational database. Details on agents in the field. Aliases, photographs, their assignments.”

“But he’s been out for years.”

“Don’t be naive, Milton. Even if it was ten years old, or twenty, it’s still dynamite. Some of those agents will still be in the field. They were junior then. Think what they could be now. He could tear down years of work if he ever put that out here. The agency is not doing this willingly, I know that much. Whatever Bachman has, it’s important enough for them to take massive risks to keep him happy.”

“How far up does this go?”

“All the way.”

“
All
the way? To the director?”

Hughes nodded. “All the way.”

“Have you reported to them? That you found Matilda?”

“I called it in when we were driving here.”

“What’s the procedure now?”

“They come to pick her up.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Will it be Bachman?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t speak to him.”

Milton ran the thought through his head and started to assess the angles. Where would Bachman be? Would he have followed them to Broken Hill? Where would he have gone next?

“Logistics,” Milton said. “How many people are in Australia? How many
katsas
?”

“Four agents.”

“Malakhi and Keren?”

“I don’t know their names, so don’t ask.”

“What about
sayanim
?”

“Everywhere. Dozens. The Mossad knows you’re dangerous, Milton. Everyone is looking for you.”

“And what about the girl? What do you know about her?”

“We had her picture. They said that you might be travelling together. They think you’re a couple.”

Milton grimaced. That was bad news. If they thought that, they would go after Matilda as a lever to use against him. She couldn’t be left alone now. If she was still minded to run, he would have to persuade her otherwise. That might not be easy.

“Okay. We’re getting to the end now, Mr. Hughes. Can you get in touch with Bachman?”

He looked down. “Yes.”

“How?”

Hughes sighed. He had already given up plenty of information. His cover was gone; he was finished as a
sayan
. His partner was dead. And, as far as he was concerned, he was clinging onto his own life and to the lives of his children. Milton knew, now, that the man was broken. He would give him everything that he asked.

“I can call the agent who’s with him.”

“Do it.”

“My phone,” Hughes said. “It’s in my jacket pocket.”

MILTON LET Hughes find the number, the phone laid out flat in his hand so that he could see exactly what he was doing. The number was stored in a blank contact form, with no indication that it was anything of any import.

He put the phone on the counter and went back to Hughes. He took the syringe, popped the cap from the end of the needle, and slid the point of the needle through the pliant plastic sheath. He drew 5ml of midazolam into the barrel and then depressed the plunger a little to expel the first few droplets.

“I’m going to put you under. By the time you wake up, we’ll be gone.”

“My husband? I don’t want my kids to find him.”

Milton looked over at the still body on the floor. “Do you have a room you can lock?”

“The garage,” he said. “The key’s on my key ring.”

“I’ll put him in there and lock the door.”

“What about all this?” He nodded down at the washing line that secured him to the chair.

“I’ll cut you free and leave you in bed. They’ll think you’re asleep.”

Hughes didn’t thank Milton—he had no gratitude for him, under the circumstances—but he gave a nod, a little acknowledgement that he had been kinder than he might have expected.

Milton took the syringe and slid the point into the vein on the back of Hughes’ hand. He pushed the plunger all the way down, watching as the fluid disappeared, and waited the ten seconds it took for the man’s head to loll woozily, for his eyes to shut, and for the muscles in his neck to relax so that his chin was pressed up against his chest.

He moved quickly. He had no wish to be there when the children returned from school.

He moved the body of the dead man into the garage. There was enough space inside for a car, the rest taken up by unopened storage crates and the detritus of daily life. There were two children’s bicycles; Milton tried not to think too hard about what they represented as he laid David’s body on the concrete floor and covered it with a span of tarpaulin. He made sure that the roller door was locked, then went back into the house and locked that door, too. He found a mop and bucket, filled it with soapy water, and washed the bloodstains from the kitchen floor. There was a lot of it, and it smeared and streaked, and the job took him longer than he would have liked. He checked that Paul Hughes was unconscious—he was—and untied him. He hoisted him over his shoulder and carried him upstairs to the bedroom, laying him out on the bed.

He went downstairs again. Matilda was still asleep. He left the house through the side door, ran back to the car he had stolen and drove back with it, reversing into the drive so that it was adjacent to the door. He went inside, scooped Matilda into his arms, and carried her to the car. He laid her across the back seat, looking down at her face for a moment. She gave out a peaceful exhalation, but didn’t move. Milton clipped the seat belt to anchor her to the seat, shut the door and went back into the house.

He collected the Tec-9, two of the Glocks and filled a plastic carrier bag with boxes of ammunition for both.

Outside, he locked the side door, got into the driver’s seat, put the car into drive, negotiated the downward slope of the driveway and set off.

MILTON STOPPED the car at a lay-by when he was beyond the Mount Osmond city limits. He stepped outside into the burning heat and took Hughes’ mobile phone from his pocket. He quickly scrolled through the messages for anything that might have been useful, but there was nothing of note. Hughes had been too careful to leave anything in the memory that might be incriminating.

He navigated to the contacts and found the blank page with the single number that Hughes had identified.

He pressed CALL.

“Hello?”

A terse, tight voice. Milton thought he recognised it. Malakhi.

“I want to speak to Avi Bachman.”

A pause. “Who is this?”

“John Milton. Put him on now.”

Another pause. Milton could hear the sound of muffled conversation, none of the words distinguishable.

The line cleared and the sound on the other end became a little more distinct. A hand removed from the microphone, perhaps.

“Milton.”

“Avi,” Milton said.

There was a pause, just the crackle of static on the line.

Milton waited.

“Where are you?” Bachman said. “Adelaide?”

“I was. But not any more.”

“The girl?”

“Don’t worry about her.”

“She’s your girlfriend?”

“No,” he said. “I know you think I’m saying that because I want you to leave her out of this, but it’s the truth. But I’ll be honest: she is important to me. I won’t let you hurt her.”

“I’m sorry, John, you should have thought about that before you shot my wife.”

Milton sighed, his grip tightening on the phone. “I’m going to say this one more time. I didn’t shoot her. You did. You pumped fifty bullets into that container. One of them ricocheted.”

Bachman shouted down the line at him: “You’re fucking lying!”

Milton paused. “I know that’s hard for you to hear, but it’s the truth. And I know there’s no point in us talking about it any more. You’re not listening to me, so I’m not going to waste my breath. You can think whatever you like.”

“Why don’t you tell me where you are? We can meet and talk about it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“So why are you calling me?”

“I’m giving you a warning. One of the
sayanim
who found the girl is dead, and the other one is only alive because I decided to spare him. I’m giving you notice, Avi. I know you’re not listening to me. I know you need someone to blame for what happened to your wife and that you blame me. And that’s fine. I know you’re not going to stop coming for me, but this isn’t going to be one way any more. I’m coming for you, Avi, and anyone else working with you. You’re all fair game. I just wanted you to know that.”

He expected Bachman to explode with rage, but, instead, he heard a bitter chuckle. “Nice try, Milton. But it’s not just us. Me and you. It’s the Mossad.
All
of the Mossad. How long do you think you can run from that?”

“I don’t have to run,” he said. “I just have to take you out. I know about the Black Book. If you’re not a threat to them any more, why would they risk coming after me?”

“Not as simple as that.”

“But that’s why I’m calling. I’m giving you notice. I’ll see you again, but it’ll be on my terms.”

“Didn’t go very well for you the last two times we met.”

“We’re not going to fight. You know what I can do. I could end this from five hundred yards away.”

He ended the call.

He didn’t know whether Bachman would buy it. Probably not. He just wanted to give him something to think about. Something that might, maybe, slow him down.

It was a diversion. Milton had a plan. Something that Bachman wouldn’t expect. He just needed the opportunity to put it into action.

MILTON PULLED into the lot of the Playford Tavern. He had found it with a quick search on Hughes’ phone and selected it because it was outside the city and a half hour’s drive away from the house. It was a basic motel, with clean and functional rooms. There was a restaurant for guests and, as Milton surveilled his surroundings, he saw a couple emerge from the door to their room, cross the veranda and enter the large room. Matilda was sleeping in the passenger seat, still deep in the grip of the narcotic, but he didn’t want to leave her for long. He walked briskly to the reception, where he booked a room for one night and paid in advance with the cash that he had taken from Hughes. The room was fifty bucks, which left him $250 once the transaction had been completed. That wasn’t going to be anywhere near enough to get out of the country. He would have to think about the best way to find more.

He paused at the exit, checked left and right, and, confident that he was not being observed, he cautiously crossed the lot to the car. He had been allotted a room at the end of a long row, and he parked the car directly outside the door. The room was small and basic, as he had expected, with a double bed, two chairs and a television that sat on a cheap bureau. A door opposite the bed opened into the rudimentary bathroom.

It would serve their purposes.

He returned to the car and, after checking once again that he was unobserved, opened the door and stooped down to Matilda’s recumbent body. He released the safety belt, slid one arm beneath her legs and the other behind her back and lifted her out. Her muscles were relaxed and her head rested against his chest. Milton crossed the veranda, entered the room and closed the door with a backwards push from his foot. He laid Matilda down on the bed, closed the curtains and locked the door, fastening the chain for added security.

He took out the Glock and rested it on the table. Then he took out Hughes’ cell phone and opened a window in the browser.

He had business to attend to.

MILTON’S SLEEP had been fitful. He had been unable to relax, still afraid that they had been followed and that, at any moment, the door would be kicked open and armed
katsas
would appear to take them both. It was an irrational fear, given life by his fatigue and the state of restless torpor that would not quite allow him to slide all the way into sleep. His mind raced with thoughts and images: murderous bloodlust on Avi Bachman’s face, the sight of Matilda lying unconscious in the front room of the house in Adelaide, and, as he was just about to cross the margin into sleep, the memory of what had happened that day in Iraq, a replay of a personal movie that had driven him to the bottle in order to forget.

He awoke with the dawn. He was in the chair, his legs stretched out before him. He didn’t feel particularly refreshed, and, as he came all the way around, he became aware of the throbbing from the injuries that Bachman had inflicted on him and he remembered the full scope of the predicament that he was in.