Hunter (14 page)

One round from the Makarov punched into the seat by the door, inches from Morgan's head, and another into the wall behind him. The third shot was much lower than the others and Morgan felt the unmistakable tug of its flight path through the fine fabric of his suit coat, skimming across his back, missing his flesh by a fraction of an inch. At that moment the pilot made his move, the left side of the plane dropped and Morgan's arms slipped down Muscles' legs to his feet. Feeling the change in Morgan's grip, Muscles reacted instantly. Pulling a leg free, he kicked down hard upon Morgan's left shoulder.

Morgan plummeted from the aircraft, an indelible image of Charly's terrified face haunting him all the way down.

TIRANA, ALBANIA

"We've got increased activity here." It was Call-sign Two, reporting in from the second location. "Our man, Lazarevic, has been back and forth between his own apartment and this one all day. He's just returned from the grocery store with more supplies."

"Any sign of his mysterious friend?" Braunschweiger asked. He'd just returned from a meeting with the head of Interpol's National Central Bureau in Albania and the general director of Albania's national police force. The Head of Interpol in Tirana had paved the way for emergency backup from Albanian State Police special operations officers, if needed. The support of the ASP was critical if Intrepid needed to fire up any short-notice distress flares as a result of their surveillance operation. Braunschweiger had a feeling that time was upon them.

"No sign of the friend," came the reply from Call-sign Two. "Not for about an hour."

"OK, what's your take on our man's activity?" Braunschweiger was operating from his hotel room. It was two star and barely habitable but it was central to both apartments they were watching and, most importantly, it wasn't the van.

"Honestly, I think they're expecting company; most likely today. He's stocking up on food, milk, cigarettes, magazines."

"Well, this could be what we've been waiting for,' the Key answered. "Well done on confirming the apartment by the way. Good job. When you hand over to Five, come back here and fill me in on the apartment details. We're going to need them."

"Thanks, will do. Bit strange that the friend hasn't emerged for a while, though."

"I agree," replied Braunschweiger. "Stay on it. Maybe he'll surface through another entrance. I'll recheck the CCTV coverage to see if there's anything we may have missed. The main priority is to keep eyes on the apartment block, all entrances."

"Copy that."

"Three, are you online?"

"Copy, this is Three," came the reply. "I'm on approach from the southern end of the building."

"Roger, Three. I want you to prioritize eyes on the rear entrances, vehicle and pedestrian. Find a good spot and get comfortable. Unless you're compromised, I expect you'll be there for some time."

"Understood."

Braunschweiger dropped the radio mike back onto the vinyl-topped card table that served as the room's dining area and sat on the end of the bed.

The latest was that the second apartment had now become the priority target for the surveillance teams. It had become obvious that the Interpol informant, Lazarevic, was prepared for - or, at least, surrendered to - the chance that he was under observation. That made sense, given Davenport's most recent update that Lazarevic was in fact a former Serbian Army soldier named Petrovic and, if Davenport's theory was correct, was also suspected of being an enforcer dur
ing the Bosnian War, known only as the Wolf. Skilled at reducing the efficacy of surveillance coverage, he made no calls from his flat, sent no emails and had no visitors. Most importantly, any meetings with the friend, while initially appearing random, were clearly the result of a schedule that had been mapped out well in advance. They'd had no luck in identifying the friend, but that would come. Dave Sutherland was working that angle.

Meanwhile, his gut told him things were ramping up. He was sure there would be action at the second apartment within the next twenty-four hours. He wasn't sure what exactly. He needed to know what Morgan had managed to find out in Malta. Maybe then they could finally connect the dots.

With that, Braunschweiger reached across to the table and grabbed his sat phone. He speed-dialed Mor-gan's number again, having tried a number of times during the day with no success.

Once again, Morgan didn't respond.

He looked at his watch.

Time to check in with Intrepid HQ.

GOZO, MALTA

The blast of whirring rotor blades and wailing sirens was deafening.

Alex Morgan came back to consciousness amid a crescendo of intense noise. It was dark, night had fallen, and he was lying on a gurney. But he was alive and, somehow, on dry land. A paramedic leant over him wearing a head-torch and taking his vitals. Morgan was aware of lots of people running about, lots of shouting and vehicles coming and going. The familiar Velcro-tear of a blood pressure monitor being removed from his arm jolted him back to his senses.

"Ah, you're awake," said the paramedic in Maltese-accented English, flipping the head-torch up and away from Morgan's face. "Welcome back. We were starting to get worried."

That isn't encouraging,
thought Morgan. "Where am I?" he asked.

"Dwejra Bay. There are important people waiting for you to resurface." Morgan noticed him wave somebody over. "You're very lucky, my friend."

"Lucky? Lucky how?" asked Morgan. He wasn't feeling it.

"That old man." The paramedic gestured with his head. Morgan didn't look. "He's a local fisherman. Lived here his whole life. He was coming back in with
his boat, back from fishing, and heard a gunshot coming from this old pier." The paramedic was unstrapping Morgan from the gurney as he spoke. Morgan stayed on his back but tossed the blanket aside. His mouth was dry. He felt like he'd been hit by a bus. Or a boat.

"You got any water?" Morgan asked blearily. "What am I wearing?"

"The cops gave us a set of overalls for you," the medic replied, retrieving a water bottle from his gear and handing it to Morgan. "Your clothes were dripping wet. We couldn't leave you like that."

Morgan vaguely remembered. He gulped down the water.

"The old guy saw everything. Saw you water skiing behind a plane. The plane taking off. Saw you flying behind the plane. And then he saw you fall from the sky. So, he fished you out of the water." Clearly, the medic didn't believe everything the old man had been saying. "Quite a day you've had."

It was obvious to Morgan that the local emergency services people thought the old guy was out of his tree. Better it stayed that way.

"When can I get out of here?" Morgan asked, his head still spinning. "I need my phone. Have you ..."

"I have all your equipment, Mr Hamilton."

It was a new voice, a woman's voice; direct and authoritative. The medic disappeared from view. Slowly, Morgan managed to get himself onto one elbow. With some effort, he progressed to sitting upright on the gurney, steadying himself with both arms.

The woman stood directly in front of him. Early to mid-forties, medium height, slender. Short, dark
hair in a masculine cut. She looked fit, no-nonsense, and wore the uniform of a Malta Police Force superintendent. She was accompanied by a junior officer, who placed a plastic MPF evidence bag and a large white garbage bag down on the gurney beside Morgan and then, like the medic, disappeared without a word. The evidence bag contained Morgan's sat phone, gun, spare magazines and holster. The garbage bag contained his clothes. That'd be right.

"Mikela Pizzuto." They shook hands. She waited until they were alone. "Major Morgan, we've been contacted by your people in London. I'm the Malta Police Force Interpol liaison officer. I've spoken with Ms Haddad. We will extend you every courtesy."

"Alex Morgan," he replied, impressed by her professionalism. "I'm very grateful."

Morgan tore open the plastic bag, relieved to be reunited, for the second time that day, with his tools of trade. Everything looked OK, even the sat phone. These particular phones were designed to withstand a lot more than a swim.

"Before all this happened,' he said, "I briefed my office, Ms Haddad—"

"Yes, the house in Lija. We know about that already," Pizzuto replied. "Our officers took control of the house earlier this evening. They found two men fitting the descriptions you provided; the captain of the yacht and, I believe, a police officer."

"Great, when can we question them?"

"Both were deceased when our officers arrived at the scene. They'd been shot. Formal identification will follow. We'll provide that information back to your people as soon as we have it finalized."

Morgan nodded. "What about out here? There was a guy—

"A young man was arrested a short time ago," she began. Her expression indicated bad news. "He was pulled over by police in a stolen car, not far from here. Unfortunately, he was shot and killed in an exchange with our officers."

Jesus! The young Serb was their only lead. He'd hoped to question him, and the other two. But that option was now closed. Then he asked: "Any of your guys hurt?"

"No, thank you for asking," she replied. "We have also found a cave that appears to have been used as a refuge of some sort and another body, a man, at the base of the rocks about 200 yards from here. He looks local. He fell or was thrown from the cave. I've arranged for our forensic people to come and take charge of that area."

"So, where to from here?" he asked.

"I'm to escort you back to your hotel in Valletta immediately, where you are to gather your belongings and prepare to travel."

"Travel? Travel where?"

"I'm not able to answer that," she answered. "But I believe your office will make contact with you at your hotel!

"Very well," Morgan replied. "And how are we getting back to Valletta?"

"That helicopter is for you."

Chapter 39

VALLETTA, MALTA

Back in his room at the Grand Hotel Excelsior, Alex Morgan stood under a steaming hot shower, washing away the frustration and, ultimately, failure of the day. He'd been within reach. He could have almost touched her, they were so close. And now she was theirs, trapped in an underworld network she had no hope of escaping on her own. And he, the man sent to recover her, had allowed it to happen, had let her slip through his shredded fingers. At least, that's the way it felt.

After ten minutes of brooding, soaking under the therapeutic pounding of the water, he shut off the taps and stepped out into a steam-filled bathroom. Opening the door so the steam could clear, Morgan grabbed a towel and started to dry himself.

His mind returned over and over again to the image of Charly's face, lost and desperate, imploring him to rescue her. He replayed every second from when he was inside that plane. Was there anything else he could have done? Tormented by utter defeat, Morgan hurled the towel across the bathroom and leant against the marble basin. He caught the reflection of his naked black and blue body in the mirror. Christ, what a great state to be in. He was a mess of cuts, bruises and assorted other wounds and welts.

Everything ached like hell, although the shower had done a heap to ease his general malaise.

Morgan walked back out into the room, found two miniature bottles of Glenfiddich, poured them into a glass, took a not-ungenerous swig and began to dress. He'd been told to await a call from London and, in the meantime, prepare for travel while Intrepid continued to track the seaplane. He'd been told that a Boeing E-3 Sentry from NATO's Airborne Early Warning and Control fleet had been diverted from maneuvers with the Italian Air Force. Intrepid would be waiting for confirmation on a definite direction or, better still, a target location from NATO before sending him to follow it. As he finished pulling on a T-shirt, his sat phone rang. He looked at the Tag. It was 9.30pm. Hell of a day.

"Morgan," he answered.

"Alex, it's Mila," Haddad began. "NATO has been tracking the Harbour Flight DHC-3 for three hours. I'm told it took a while to locate because it was flying so low."

"Where's it headed?" Morgan asked bluntly. He needed to be pointed in the right direction, and fast. "It can't be going too far, the range on those things isn't up to much."

"We've been through all that here," she answered testily. "Fully fueled, it has a range of 1500 kays. That's a considerable area when you plot the circle over a map of southern Europe."

"OK, so where is it now?"

"Albania," Haddad answered. "We've just confirmed that it came down near a place called Himare."

Albania. Why the hell had they taken her to Albania? Hang on. He remembered something the gen
eral mentioned that the others were working on. Coming in from another angle, Davenport had said.

"What about—?" Morgan began, but Mila Haddad was way ahead of him.

"Yes, Mr Braunschweiger is on the ground in Tirana already. Without much to go on, we're banking on them taking her to a city apartment we've had under surveillance for some time. Anyway, he'll meet you at Tirana airport and brief you there."

"Great. When do I leave?"

There was a knock at Morgan's door.

"That will be Superintendent Pizzuto," Mila answered confidently. "She'll take you to Malta International Airport where a private charter is waiting for you. Wheels up at 2200 hours. You better get a wriggle on.

"Roger," he replied. "Wait, one more thing."

"Go ahead."

"The big Serb. The one who has her." Morgan's eyes were closed as he recalled an image. Something he'd seen that day. Something important. "He had a tattoo, I could only make out the tip of a wing and the end of a tail—a dragon, or something like that, high on his chest. Angry looking thing. Left side. Could you look into it?"

"Done," she replied. "Now get moving."