Hunter (21 page)

"OK, give your aunty a hug then,' she said. They both stood and embraced as warmly as they had in greeting. "Good luck," she said finally, turned and, in seconds, disappeared into the mob.

For the next couple of hours, Morgan played tourist, acquainting himself with the local area and stopping for coffee at a little cafe off the square. Eventually, as time ticked by toward H-hour, he received the call from Amir, spotted the target and the handover from the surveillance crew was complete.

As he kept his eyes locked upon Lorenc Gjoka, scuttling across Skanderbeg Square toward his dilapidated old Mercedes and off to his weekend squeeze, Alex Morgan was seized by the reality that he was in fact, once again, on his own. And while normally that wouldn't be a problem, since he'd been taking on the Serbian mafia he'd learnt to expect the unexpected.

Never underestimate your enemy,
he reminded himself;
even a little rodent like Gjoka.
He had a feeling he'd be reminding himself again before the night was out.

No backup. No lifeline.

No second chances.

MAHDIA, TUNISIA

"Am I able to see him now, doctor?" asked the police district director, impatiently. "It's been two hours already. I must speak with him."

"Very well,' replied the doctor, older than the policeman, but only just. He was not in the least bit rattled by this blustering, oafish, self-important man. "You may see him for ten minutes, that's all. Then my staff will ensure he gets more rest and you will be out."

With that the doctor turned smartly on his heel, the edge of his long white coat flaring out wide like a cape and, clipboard in hand, he disappeared down the corridor.

"Asshole!" exclaimed the exasperated policeman to no-one in particular. He removed his cap and marched briskly into the room where they were treating the foreigner.

Youssef, who had been diligently keeping watch over his charge while the medics fussed about, leapt to his feet as his district director appeared. Youssef had recognized him from the photograph in the station office.

"Who are you?" demanded the director.

"Police Officer Youssef Ali Hassan, sir,' he answered with parade ground snap. "From the Secur
ite Publique division in El Djem. I was instructed to bring the gentleman here and remain with him until you—

"Very well,' the senior man said abruptly. "You have your notepad?"

"Yes, sir,' Youssef answered, and produced it from his tunic pocket.

"Excellent," the director replied. "Be seated. You will transcribe my interview with this man. I will let you know when to begin."

Youssef Ali Hassan saluted and sat down.

A nurse finished taking the patient's blood pressure and left without a word.

"I am Colonel Habib Ali Bach Hamba of the Sfirete Nationale," he announced haughtily, his monstrously festooned uniform similarly trumpeting his position and status. "I am the district director for this area, and I am responsible for your safety and wellbeing while you are under the protection of the Tunisian Republic."

"Thank you, colonel," Demaci responded from the bed. "I'm honored to have such an important host, but it is not necessary. I don't intend to be here long. I really must be getting home. There are people waiting for me; wondering what has become of me ..."

"That is all in hand, I assure you. I have advised Interpol," the colonel lied, "that we have you under our protection and they will dispatch a representative from their office in Tunis first thing in the morning to begin the arrangements for your repatriation. In the meantime, there are some details I am obliged to discuss with you. I'm sure you understand."

"Very well, colonel," Demaci said.

TIRANA, ALBANIA

Sitting behind the wheel of a late-model VW Passat hired at the airport, Morgan kept his eyes glued to the pigeon-toed figure of Lorenc Gjoka, scurrying nervously across Skanderbeg Square toward his Mercedes. It was almost dusk. Soon he'd lose all the natural light.

Never in a million years would anyone walking past suspect this ordinary-looking, harried little man of being at the center of an attempt to subvert the course of international justice. Exactly the extent of his involvement and just where he sat in the criminal hierarchy was yet to be determined, but from what Morgan and the Key had pieced together from Simovic—the big Serb, and informant-turned-double agent—and Petrovic, this guy Gjoka was up to his neck in it.

They knew that in his guise as Interpol case officer, it was Gjoka who had manipulated acceptance of Pet-rovic as a reliable informant, including passing him off under the assumed name Lazarevic; and that he had orchestrated the subterfuge to bring down the fugitive war criminal and leader of the Serbian mafia in the Mediterranean, Serifovic, who Morgan subsequently arrested in Corfu. Straightforward enough, but the big question was: Why? Some internal Serbian
blood-letting? Retribution for some past wrong? Or a management reshuffle Balkans style?

Intrepid was leaning toward the latter.

Lorenc Gjoka now knew that his so-called reliable informant, Petrovic, had been outed as a double. He would have found out through official Interpol channels long before his criminal network reported the arrests of Petrovic and the crew in Albania. He also knew that the microscope had now swung toward him. In fact, with a less-than-gentle nudge from General Davenport, pressure to explain his association with Petrovic had already been brought to bear upon Gjoka by his Interpol superiors in Tirana. As expected, he hadn't reacted well and so he'd been put on notice that an internal investigations team was being sent in from Interpol headquarters in Lyon. He was forced to surrender his passport. The strategy worked. Gjoka panicked and Therese St Marie's surveillance team confirmed that he was preparing to skip the country.

Now it was Morgan's job to bring him in.

*

Alex Morgan never ceased to be amazed at how inaccurate first impressions could be.

His own initial take on Gjoka was that of an anxious schoolboy type who struggled every day with being ill-treated and undervalued because of his diminutive size, driven by the need to prove that he could outdo the big boys.

The official intelligence on Gjoka read of an ambitious, dedicated man who, after completing his 
twenty-seven months of compulsory military service, joined the Directorate of State Security in 1978, aged twenty-one. Surviving the fall of the Iron Curtain, his career continued unabated with the establishment of the Albanian State Police. The scant information available suggested a career-obsessed individual who stopped at nothing to further his purely self-serving interests. Personal friendships and loyalties were of little importance to him.

Clearly, in Morgan's view, it was the attraction of promotion and power associated with entrée into the elite Interpol club that would have given Gjoka his sense of ultimate recognition and acceptance. But simply making it all the way to the hallowed halls of the Interpol headquarters in Tirana would not have been enough. Backstabbing colleagues and stepping on subordinates without compunction was like rolling over in bed for him. Morgan had come across his type before. They were treacherous because they were so petty, always looking for the next opportunity to feather their own nests. Morgan's skin crawled at some recollection and he mentally shook the memory away.

Watching Gjoka now in his car and turning over the ignition, Morgan wasn't surprised to see him suddenly pull into the busy traffic, causing those behind to stand on their brakes, honking horns and cursing from their windows. There was no reaction from the Mercedes. To Gjoka, these people didn't exist.

Well, Morgan thought, still with the mental picture of a nerdy little kid dressed up in loose-fitting grown up clothes, the time had come to give Mr Gjoka some long overdue payback.

MAHDIA, TUNISIA

Colonel Habib Ali Bach Hamba had no intention of reporting to Interpol the sudden appearance of this foreigner who claimed to be the victim of a kidnapping along with some famous American woman. Besides, Hamba had never even heard of this Fleming woman - how famous could she be? The whole thing sounded too far-fetched, even a little suspicious. No, Hamba would not risk the embarrassment of bothering his superiors until he was absolutely sure of the facts. Then, if the man's claims did stand up, Hamba would be praised for his meticulous handling of the situation. He would make the report once he was satisfied with the man's story.

And so he began, gesturing for Youssef to commence the transcription.

"Perhaps we could begin by confirming your name,' said the colonel. "For the record, you understand."

"Of course. My name is Raoul Demaci and I am a proud citizen of the Republic of Montenegro. Unfortunately, my passport was taken from me, I presume by the kidnappers, so I have no way of formally identifying myself."

"Don't concern yourself, Mr Demaci. We've made arrangements with your embassy and they have confirmed your citizenship details." Another lie. "A new passport is being prepared for you as we speak. In the meantime, I must talk to you about the abduction. Do you feel prepared to discuss this now?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Please ask whatever it is you need to know."

"I must say, Mr Demaci, you seem very well adjusted for a man who has spent almost a month as a hostage." It was more a question than an observation. There was not much that got past Colonel Hamba.

"Well, it may seem that way, colonel: Demaci replied uncomfortably. "To a large extent, I am in reasonably good shape. But I feel as though I came to terms with my captivity when I realized that my kidnappers were more interested in my lady friend than me."

"How do you mean?" Hamba asked.

"It became apparent early on that my friend, Ms Fleming, was the target of their terror. I initially thought they had targeted me, given my financial situation, and that they would be seeking some kind of ransom in exchange for my safe return. I was wrong."

"How did you know?" asked the colonel. "Did somebody give you this information?"

"Not at all," Demaci answered. He was wary of the line of questioning and the intense gaze of the policeman. It seemed a detailed physical appraisal was being conducted as he spoke. "For some reason, I don't know why, they presumed from the beginning that I was French. Obviously, you and I know that I'm not. However, I do speak French, along with a dozen other languages. It's important in my line of work to accommodate a variety of languages and cultures."

"I understand that," said the colonel, unimpressed by the man's arrogance. "But how did you know they only wanted Ms Fleming?"

"It didn't take long to work out that my kidnappers were a mix of Serbs, Maltese and Tunisians. I thought it would be wise to disguise the fact that I could understand them, so I allowed them to keep thinking I was French. As a result, all of their communication with me was in French, a very basic form, I must say. Meanwhile, they conversed among themselves in their native languages and, depending on who was talking, I could understand almost everything that was being said around me without their knowledge."

"Remarkable, Mr Demaci," replied the colonel, unmoved. "You are a very resourceful man."

"That's kind of you."

"Now, if we could discuss—"

The door flew open and the doctor came bustling back in.

"Colonel, I was quite clear when I said 10 minutes,' said the doctor. "And you have already been much longer than that. I must insist."

The doctor gestured to the door he was holding open, but Colonel Hamba had no intention of leaving. He'd been made to wait for 2 hours and the interview was yet to bear fruit, other than confirming Hamba's suspicion of Demaci. He was not about to be put out into the street by this doctor. Hamba had the vital ground and he was not about to give it up. He turned to the patient.

"Mr Demaci, if you feel you are unable to continue ..." The policeman's expression was all empathy and encouragement. "However, we are 
progressing quite well. It would be a pity if I was required to come back and forth over the next few days."

"Colonel, for the last time," ordered the doctor. From the bed, Demaci raised both hands to appease the men.

"Gentlemen," he began. "Doctor, I'm appreciative of your concern for my welfare. However, it is doing me good to finally convey the details of my abduction and captivity to the authorities. I am happy to continue with the colonel and promise that I will rest this evening. It is my hope that I will be released tomorrow, so that I may return home as soon as possible."

After a few moments of consideration the doctor eventually acquiesced with a "humph", and disappeared out into the hall, his white jacket flapping angrily behind him.

"Thank you, Mr Demaci," said Colonel Hamba. "Now, if we could return to the beginning. Please take me through what happened from the time you first became aware of the kidnappers until your presentation at the police station in El Djem earlier today."

Raoul Demaci took a moment to gather his thoughts. He poured water into a glass from a jug beside the bed, drank the glass empty and refilled it. Then he began.

Sitting invisibly in the corner, with painstaking thoroughness, Youssef transcribed every detail.

For the next 2 hours, Demaci led the colonel through the kidnapping step by step, followed by the period of his captivity.

According to his best recollection, he said, when security onboard the
Florence
announced that they 
were about to be boarded by pirates, they began herding the crew and guests below decks for their protection. Of course, Demaci said, there were only two guests on board: himself and Charlotte-Rose Fleming, and in the noise and chaos they were separated. Soon after, the pirates had begun firing upon the yacht and the security men were returning fire. During this time, the security man closest to Demaci was wounded. So he picked up the man's gun and began to shoot back at the pirates. Sadly, he said, by this time they were almost aboard, and the second security man was killed and Demaci was taken hostage.

This aspect intrigued the colonel.

"How did you know what to do, Mr Demaci?" asked Colonel Hamba, interrupting the flow of the account. "I don't imagine there is much call for a successful businessman to be adept in the use of machine guns."

"That's right, colonel," the man replied, his jaw tightening. "However, I undertook a short period of military service during my younger days - an obligation in my country at the time. Like riding a bicycle, I suppose."

"I see," said Hamba. "The body of the security man who, according to your statement to my officers earlier, was at the front of the vessel and was retrieved by the Maltese authorities. It was, you said, riddled with bullet holes and floating face down in the water. Unfortunately, it is hard to verify exactly what became of the other security man, the one nearest to you, as his body has yet to be found."

Demaci appeared to be giving this issue some consideration.

"I expect they probably threw his body over the side, too, colonel," he said.

"Yes." Hamba's response was non-committal. "Carry on."

"You understand, colonel, it was all happening very quickly. I can only remember the main things from my perspective."

"You are doing extraordinarily well, Mr Demaci," replied the colonel.

As Youssef continued to scribble furiously, Demaci went on to describe his horror at realizing they were being kidnapped. He had no way of getting to Ms Fleming, he said, because he was bound by the wrists, a rag pushed into his mouth and a sack pulled over his head. After being transferred from the yacht to the pirates' inflatable boat, they were taken ashore. He was aware that Ms Fleming was still close by on the boat: he could hear her whimpering, but was unable to console or reassure her because he himself was gagged. Once they reached the shore - he had no idea where that was - he was put into a vehicle. From then on, he did not
see
or hear Ms Fleming again.

How convenient,
thought Hamba.

Demaci took another drink of water and stared at the wall. The two policemen remained silent.

"I'm sorry," Demaci said after a few long moments in reflection.

"Not at all," said the colonel calmly. "Continue when you're ready."

By this time, Youssef had been forced to resort to his second pen.

Demaci described the trip in detail. Once transferred, he was held down on the floor of what seemed 
to be an old truck. Then he found himself back on another boat, still bound and gagged, for what seemed like a very long time, days even. He couldn't recall exactly how long.

"You say you were transferred to another boat. How do you know it wasn't the same boat?"

"Well, it felt bigger than the inflatable one," Demaci answered, somewhat riled, then added, "and it smelled of fish."

Eventually ashore, he was moved into a building of some sort. Rural, he gathered, due to the sounds of the animals nearby. And that, he said, is where he remained, until being released this morning.

"Nothing of your period in captivity?" asked Hamba. "I realize it must be ..." he searched for the word, "trying for you to revisit the experience."

"As I told your men earlier, colonel, it was unremarkable. I was kept in a small dark room of an old ... farmhouse, I suppose you'd call it. I slept on the ground. I was fed occasionally and otherwise left alone."

"And what of your treatment? Were you beaten? What about things like the ablution arrangements?"

"No, I was not beaten, although I was roughly handled. As for toilet arrangements, when I needed to go I was escorted with a bag over my head."

"And then, for no apparent reason, this morning you were once again bound and gagged with a sack over your head." The Colonel raised his eyebrows. He received a nod. "And you were driven for some considerable time, taken out of the vehicle and then the bindings on your wrists were cut and you were left by the side of the road." Another nod. "You relieved your-

self of the sack and gag, realized you were free and made your way to the nearest police station. Would you say that is an accurate summary?"

"That's it, colonel,' Demaci answered cautiously. Colonel Hamba could not take his eyes from the man.

He had no reason not to believe the account Demaci had just presented. The Mediterranean provided unlimited opportunities for criminals and organized groups operating across continents, and the kidnapping for ransom of wealthy foreigners was not uncommon in North Africa. Human trafficking was also prevalent. If the object of the kidnapping was the young lady rather than Demaci, then it made sense that the two of them would have been separated early on. And it was very possible that the underlings holding him panicked, probably due to lack of communication from their masters, and let him go. Better that than be shot.

But something was not quite adding up.

Hamba had spent his entire adult life in law enforcement and thought he'd seen it all. But, for the first time in a long time, he found himself genuinely astonished at the extent of this man's composure.
Yes,
he thought,
this Raoul Demaci is a very cool customer indeed.

"Well, I'll leave you to get some rest, Mr Demaci," he said with finality. "Your embassy should have someone along in the morning with your new passport." Well, they would when Hamba decided to contact them.

"I see. Would I be free to go then?" asked Demaci.

"It's best that you remain here in the hospital tonight so that we can get hold of you if we need to, but I don't see any reason why you couldn't leave once we have your citizenship and passport details sorted out."

"Yes, of course," Demaci replied, relieved that the interview was over. "Is something wrong, colonel?" "Wrong? Why do you ask?"

"You seem distracted."

"No, nothing," Hamba lied. "It's been a long day. Anyway, I'm pleased that you're safe once again, Mr Demaci. Good night."

"Good night, colonel."

Colonel Habib Ali Bach Hamba left the room with a heavy frown. Youssef shuffled out obediently in his wake.

As they walked out through the hospital reception in silence, the colonel stopped. Outside the rain was hammering down and the roof of the old hospital rumbled under the deluge.

"Give me your notes," he demanded.

Youssef handed over his notepad. He'd always been praised for his neat writing. Today of all days he felt more lucky than ever that it was so neat. He watched in silence as the colonel scrutinized page after page of his transcript.

"And you took down every detail, as I asked?" said the colonel without looking up.

"Yes, sir. Every detail."

Youssef saw a change in the colonel's face, as if something that had eluded him suddenly appeared.

"Good work, young man," said the colonel. "Get those typed up this evening and have them on my desk by first thing tomorrow morning. We must ensure our report is as accurate and detailed as possible for our superiors in Tunis." He was bluffing. Nothing would go to Tunis until Hamba was ready.