Headhunters (36 page)

Milton waited until he was beyond the fifteenth-century fortifications of the Old Town and the Porporela lighthouse and then opened the throttle all the way. The engine growled and then roared, and the Maestral picked up speed, bouncing across the gentle waves. He passed Lokrum, an island that could be reached with a vigorous swim from the city, and headed to the south. He ran dark, with no lights, and maintained a course that kept him around two hundred yards from the shoreline.

In twenty minutes, he was adjacent to the landmarks he remembered from his reconnaissance. The cliffs reached up sharply like crenulated battlements, the villa nestling within their embrace. Milton cut the engine and let the boat drift, bobbing up and down on the swell. The only sounds were the lapping of the water against the hull and, somewhere above, the crying of a gull. He collected the claw anchor from the bow of the boat and tossed it over the edge. The rope unspooled for ten seconds before it went taut.

Milton opened his waterproof rucksack and took out the equipment that he had purchased earlier. He found his binoculars and scanned the coastline. He followed the glow of a car’s headlights as it traced the headland before disappearing into a copse of trees. He scanned along the cliffs, across inlets and outcrops of rock, and saw no one. Finally, he examined the villa. There were lights in the windows on all three levels. Milton studied them for five minutes until he was rewarded with a dark shadow that moved across a window on the top level. He was too distant to identify Meir Shavit, but he was prepared to assume that his target was home. Ziggy’s investigation suggested that he lived alone. The two pieces of information were all that Milton needed to decide to put his plan into operation.

Milton undressed, folded his clothes and placed them in the bag, then pulled on the wetsuit and zipped it up. He took out one of his two scuba knives and fastened the scabbard around his right ankle. He put his boots in the sack and fastened it all the way around until it was watertight and then he slung it across his back. He put on his flippers, fitted the goggles over his eyes and put the attached snorkel into his mouth. He fastened a weight belt around his waist so that the natural buoyancy of the wetsuit might be neutralised, sat on the edge of the boat and rolled backwards into the water.

IT TOOK MILTON ten minutes to swim the two hundred feet to shore. The tide was treacherous, with an undertow that seemed determined to sweep him back to the boat and then out to sea. He stayed just below the surface, relying on the snorkel to breathe, and kicked hard until his thighs and buttocks burned.

He finally reached the shore, negotiating the cleft in the rocks so that he could swim past the natural breakwater and into the calmer water beyond. The stone had been fashioned into a smooth slab and the metal ladder that he had seen Shavit use before was fitted into it, descending down into the water. Milton reached up for it and anchored himself, then reached down and removed his flippers. He slid his left arm through the fin straps and the mask, leaving his right hand free to use the scuba knife should he need it, and then slowly pulled himself out of the water. He ascended another two rungs so that he could look over the lip and reconnoitre properly.

He saw two sun loungers, a folded parasol, and the stairs that led up to the first of the three terraces.

He climbed to the top of the ladder and hurried across the space until he was able to press up against the cliff face next to the stairs. He removed the goggles and snorkel, and put them and the fins into his rucksack.

He dug a prepaid cell phone and a balaclava out of the kit bag and left them on the stone. He took a length of paracord, knotted one end through the straps of the waterproof bag and the other around the end of the ladder. He took off the weight belt, put it into the bag with his flippers, fins and mask, and tossed it down into the water. The bag hit the water with a splash and, weighed down by the weight belt, it sank out of sight.

He activated the cell phone, navigated to email and found the draft that Ziggy had prepared earlier. There was no message, just a packet of code that he said would do what Milton had asked him to do.

He sent the email and put the phone back into his pack. He was shrugging it across his shoulders once again when all of the house’s interior and exterior lights went out. One moment they were lit, and the next moment they were not. Milton had seen the motion detectors that were connected to big security lights, the CCTV cameras that studded the walls of the house, and knew that there would be a sophisticated alarm system that would summon the local police if it was activated. But the email had wakened a custom exploit that Ziggy had inserted into the programmable logic controllers of the local power company, creating a limited and very targeted blackout. Milton glanced over the water to the clutch of other villas that were perhaps half a mile away around the curve of the bay. They, too, had gone dark. No power meant no lights.

No power also meant no security.

Milton reached down for the scuba knife and released it from its scabbard, holding it in his right hand. He checked again that the way ahead was clear and, satisfied that it was, he turned out of cover and started quickly up the stairs.

MEIR SHAVIT was tidying up the kitchen when the lights went out. Everything died. The dishwasher stopped mid-cycle and the Internet radio, which had been tuned to Galei Zahal, the Israeli army’s own station, went silent. He knew that something was wrong. He put down the cigar that he had been smoking and went to the window. Everything was dark. The lights that illuminated the balcony, the overhead lights above the stairs that led down to the terrace—they were all extinguished. He gazed across the sickle of the bay to the other properties and saw that they were dark, too. A power cut, then. It was odd.

He collected his stick and hobbled across the kitchen to the door to the larder. He opened it. It was a walk-in space fitted with shelves on all sides. Bottles of wine and spirits were racked in the wall facing him. He kept his shotgun here, on the top shelf, and he stretched up and collected it. It was a Beretta 1301 Tactical, gas-operated and compact, perfect for home defence. He checked that a round was chambered and, the gun in his right hand and his stick in his left, he stepped out of the larder.

When he saw the man, it was already too late. He was dressed all in black, with a woollen balaclava on his head that showed his eyes and nothing else. A hand, fast and accurate, stabbed down for the barrel of the shotgun and grasped it, holding it pointed down to the floor. The motion was quick and forceful and, before Shavit could even try to respond to it, he had been struck on the side of the jaw by the man’s opposite elbow. He dropped the gun, which the man deftly collected, and staggered to the side. He turned just as the man drew back his fist. The blow was powerful and accurate, landing flush on his jaw. Shavit dropped, unconscious before he even hit the floor.

MILTON PUT the old man in a comfortable chair and waited until he came around. The kitchen was plush. The wooden floor was polished to a high sheen, and the units were white and impeccably clean. There was a big American-style refrigerator, a large range and pendant lights that were suspended from the ceiling on long cords. Everything was freshly painted and in perfect order.

Ziggy’s hack had expired and now the lights had come back on again. The villas across the bay were alight again, too, the glimmers shining out across the water. Milton had changed out of his wetsuit and into his normal clothes, and then, once he had satisfied himself that the old man was still breathing, he had started to make his preparations. He had made sure that the alarm was functional, and that the motion detectors in the gardens were activated. He made his way around the room, checking the ways in and out. He tested the windows; they were secured with locks. He had entered through the large French doors. There was the door to the larder and a second door at the other end of the room. Milton opened it and glanced inside. It led to a flight of stairs that descended to the floor beneath this one. He would investigate it properly later. For now, he closed the door and, taking a wooden chair, propped the seat back beneath the handle to secure it.

There would be more to do, but that could wait.

The old man had started to stir.

Milton pulled up a second chair and positioned it directly opposite Shavit. He had the old man’s shotgun laid across his lap.

Shavit’s eyes flickered open, closed, and then opened again. He looked around calmly. He had experience; it was written in the lines on his face. Milton doubted that this was the first time he had faced down a man with a gun. If it was, the prospect did not appear to daunt him.

He reached up with his fingers and probed his chin. “Did you have to hit me quite so hard?”

“I’m sorry about that. Do you know who I am?”

“Of course I do, Mr. Milton.”

“And you know I’m serious?”

“I’m too old and jaded to be frightened by threats. I know why you’re here.”

“I’m not threatening you. I just want to be sure that we understand each other. I’d rather not be here, but your friend hasn’t given me an option.”

“You’re going to bring him here?”

“Yes.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You’re not the first person to say that.”

“He’ll kill you.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Shavit paused, but, seeing the iron in Milton’s eyes, decided that there was little point in antagonising him.

Milton took out a cell phone and dialled a number.

AVI BACHMAN and the Rabins landed in Melbourne. Keren Rabin had piloted the Cessna from Adelaide and they had made the short hop in two hours. They left the plane and made their way through the small airport building. Keren called a taxi while Bachman paced impatiently.

He had split the team into two units. Two agents had stayed behind at Broken Hill to keep Harry Douglas under surveillance. Malakhi had tried to persuade him that he should stay, too, and await further information on Milton’s whereabouts, but he had dismissed the suggestion out of hand. He needed to be moving. He needed to be doing
something
. He had been furious that the advantage of recapturing Matilda Douglas had been squandered so easily, and he wanted to lead the search himself. Milton would be travelling with the girl. He wouldn’t be able to disappear quite as easily as if he was on his own. He would make a mistake, and Bachman wanted to be there to make the most of it.

So they had followed Milton’s steps. They had travelled to Adelaide first of all, chartering the Cessna and flying from Broken Hill. They had travelled to the house of the
sayan
who had captured Matilda. Hughes was distraught at the death of his partner. Bachman didn’t care about that. He had failed. The thought had crossed his mind that he should just put a bullet into the man’s head and put him out of his misery, but he had decided against it. He needed the agency behind him, if only until Milton was located again. There was no profit in killing the man, although he deserved it. It would just have been pandering to his anger. Better that he maintain his composure. He would be able to gratify his emotions later.

Malakhi had received an emailed report as they were driving away. Milton and the girl had been seen in Melbourne. Several law enforcement files had been intercepted and sent to them. The local police department were looking for a man who looked very much like Milton after a branch of a local bank had been robbed at gunpoint. A large amount of money had been stolen. The police had located the car the robbers had used to make their escape. There were several sets of fingerprints inside, but none of them had been identified. The police were making enquiries, but it was obvious from the reports that they had reached a dead end.

Bachman didn’t need the prints to be matched to know who was responsible. He had scrolled through the information that Rabin had been sent, pausing on a still that had been taken from the bank’s CCTV.

A man facing the counter, a pistol held in his right hand.

It was Milton.

It wasn’t difficult to know why Milton had done what he had done. Standard tactics. He had no money. Neither he nor the girl had cash, credit cards, or means of identification. Milton would not have wanted to stay in Australia, and he would have needed money to leave. This was the easiest way to acquire funds.

The question now was where had he gone? They had
sayanim
stationed at all of the obvious airports that served international destinations. It would not have been possible to leave the country that way without detection, and none of the agents had reported seeing anything. They had agents at the ports, too, and none of them had seen Milton or Matilda, either.

They had just stepped outside to find a car when Malakhi Rabin’s cell phone sounded. He answered and handed the phone across to Bachman.

“It’s him.”

Bachman took the phone. He composed himself, staring out at the wide open green spaces of the airfield, and then put it to his ear.

“Milton,” he said.

“We need to bring this to a close.” His voice sounded distant.

“Then stop running.”

“I have stopped.”

“Where are you? I’ll come right away.”

“Croatia.”

Bachman stopped, his mouth open and a sickening churn in his stomach.

“There’s someone who wants to speak to you.”

Bachman held his breath. There was a pause, with just the noise of static on the line, and then a second voice.

“Avi, I’m sorry.”

“Meir?”

“I’m fine. He just got the jump on me.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. My pride is hurt, that’s all.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Don’t worry about me. Don’t—”

Shavit was cut off mid-sentence. Bachman gritted his teeth as he heard the old man’s muffled protest before Milton spoke again.

“Avi?”

“How did you find him?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No, you’re right. It doesn’t. You’re wasting your time. Do you think I care about him? You know how it is. No attachments. I don’t care. You’re getting sentimental. Do what you want to him—it won’t make any difference.”