Hunter (4 page)

"You are wearing a Freedivers Recovery Vest," Morgan snapped coldly. "Designed to inflate once you are in the water. Yours is already set."

"Set? Water? What the hell do you mean? Are you crazy?" The whites of Serifovic's eyes showed clearly all the way around his irises. His breath was shallow and strained. Panic had consumed him, but he knew 
 

that there was no way out. Not with this man. "What am I to do? What if something goes wrong? Tell me! Tell me something! You can't just—"

"OK, I'll tell you something." Morgan's hands suddenly locked on his prisoner: one onto the collar at the back of his neck and one onto the waistband of his trousers. "Mind the step."

Alex Morgan hurled the man from the cliff and off into the darkness.

LOCATION: UNDISCLOSED

"Who the fuck decided to send those useless fucking assholes to do this?" The virulent, heavily accented Slavic voice crashed through the room. The three other men remained rigidly silent. "Who was it? I want a fucking answer!" A huge fist pounded emphatically upon the desk.

"One of our American chapters,
sefa,"
was the only reply - self-assured, cocky but respectful.

"You did this?" The man's eyes blazed with betrayal. "No, tell me it was not you, my own son."

"No,
sefa.
It was not me," the young man answered. The older man's attention turned to the other two, his dark brow heavy with anger.

"I made inquiries,
sefa,"
said one of the others nervously. "I was assured they could do it."

"You made inquiries!" the voice boomed incredulously. "You did this and did not think to ask me! All you have done is scare that American bitch and the rest of those fucks into hiding."

The man, the one they called
sefa,
or chief, was pacing the room. It was a big room, masculine, with no windows, luridly furnished with rich decor and dark, heavy furniture. There would normally be row upon row of ceiling-high books in this kind of room, but no such irrelevances existed here. Instead, a series of 
large television screens, half-a-dozen or more, were affixed to three walls at head height. Most of them were set to international news broadcasts. Where there were no screens there were oil paintings on large canvasses depicting female nudes in various displays of eroticism. Among them hung faultless reproductions of the
Three Lovers
by Theodore Géricault and Goya's famous
La maja desnuda,
alongside numerous darker, more explicit scenes.

The chief paced back and forth behind a huge Alexander Roux desk, patinated by age and lavishly ornamented in ormolu. It was grand and completely over the top. Set high upon the wall behind the desk, glowering down upon the three obedient servants, was an enormous portrait of the chief as he once was, wearing the uniform of a brigadier general of the Army of Republika Srpska, more widely known as the Bosnian Serb Army. The portrait was an indulgence in the extreme. Commissioned by its subject, it was designed to awe and spoke volumes of the chief's conceit and sense of personal historical significance. The painting depicted the man in his mid-forties, powerfully built, square-jawed with prominent cheekbones, a long slender nose and cold eyes looking into the future with absolutely no humanity to be read in them. Thick graying hair showed around the temples beneath a cap that sat like a crown upon his large head. Golden badges and buttons and the vibrant colors of a general's embellishments and medal ribbons had all been presented against the olive drab dress uniform for prime intimidatory effect. This was a man of power, a decorated man of uncompromising motivation. A man apart from other men. One to be feared.

Now, a decade and a half later, pacing beneath his portrait, General Dragoslav Obrenovic was an affectation of his former self. The cruel realities of decline and excess had begun to take their toll. The square jaw was now a jowl disguised by a dense steel-wool beard that jutted from his face like the prow of a Viking longship. The nose was fleshy and red and the hair, white and long, was gathered in a band behind his neck. Of course, the uniform was gone. No more gold braid or ribbon bars to draw attention away from the heavy weight at the waist, although he did have his clothes tailored to hide it as much as possible. But despite all the changes that so encumbered the man's journey into his later years, the cold, lifeless eyes remained. They were blocks of glacial ice, buried deep within the dark fissures of his face. They had seen too much to be even remotely altered or softened by age. The eyes told the story of the man's terrifying reputation. It was not one built on folklore: he'd earned it. And he was as brutal today as he had been twenty years ago. If that was possible.

Dragoslav Obrenovic, or Drago as he was more commonly known, was a cold-blooded butcher; a murderer of such magnitude that the common laws of man could barely accommodate his depravity. In 1994, Radovan Karadzic personally promoted Drago to the rank of brigadier general. Fiercely loyal and answerable only to Karadzic, his
s
e
fa
and mentor, Drago immediately assumed command of the largest body of ground troops committed to perpetrating the Siege of Sarajevo, a responsibility he retained until the very end of the Bosnian War. He willingly took responsibility for the Srebrenica massacre in July 1995, a geno
cide on a scale not seen since the Second World War; more than 8000 Bosniak men and boys were mercilessly exterminated and over 30 000 Bosniak women, children, elderly and infirm forcibly deported.

With the arrest of Karadzic in 2008, Mladic and Hadzic in 2011 and their subsequent detention by the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia in The Hague, Drago then assumed absolute control of the forces remaining loyal to the old Serbian leadership. Now Drago was chief of the darkest arm of the Serbian mafia known only as
Zmajevi,
the Dragons; a name adopted in deference to the paramilitary force who, under Drago's personal direction, carried out some of the most heinous crimes of the war. As their commanding general, Drago was held in such high regard by the
Zmajevi
that he accepted the rare honor they bestowed upon him: to be tattooed with their unit crest, a blood-red dragon, on his left breast - above the heart. Now worn by all members of Drago's immediate circle, the mark of the
Zmajevi
was becoming a much-feared symbol within the European underworld.

Drago's office, the heart of the Dragon empire, was located in the very center of his fortress-villa. It was his bunker, his war room. It was the platform from which he'd wielded his menace under the very noses of the international community and it was absolutely impenetrable. But somehow, in the bosom of all this protection, he felt exposed. Interpol had raised the reward for information leading to his arrest, while Karadzic, Hadzic, Mladic and his old comrade Serifovic were already rotting in the UN detention center in Scheveningen. Now his plan to devastate the ICTY 
was in jeopardy with this failed attempt against its presiding judge, the American bitch Madeline Clancy. Drago could feel the long arm of the law reaching for his collar. With the reward for his head now sitting at ten million euros, who could he trust?

His piercing gaze turned upon the three men standing in front of him. His loyal and trusted lieutenants. One was his son. No, he had nothing to gain and everything to lose by selling out his father. Drago looked at the other two as a hungry lion looks at a herd of unsuspecting wildebeest. One, no doubt with the support of the other, had showed his true ambition by instigating the attempt on the American woman without approval. The ten million euros Interpol had put on Drago's head was a lot of money. How long would it take before one or both sold him out again? How long before Interpol finally caught up with him because of their direct or indirect actions? Paranoia coursed through his body like molten lava. Coldly, mechanically, he reached to the waistband of his trousers, withdrew an automatic and shot the two men dead.

He dropped the gun on the desk and walked around to his son. His open right hand came up and struck his son across the face with a slap that would have knocked anybody else to the ground. Then, he grabbed his son's face with both hands and held his head steady so that the two of them were just inches apart, each staring intently into the other's eyes.

"My boy," Drago began, "if you want to inherit this from me then you must show me you can keep these fucks under control. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," the son answered, nodding despite his father's vice-like grip.

"Yes, what?" Drago growled.

"Yes,
sefa,"
he answered.

"That's better;' he said, releasing his son's face. He walked back around his desk and sat down. "We have to deal with this quickly before I have half of Interpol crawling up my fucking ass. I want those fucks in The Hague to shit their pants if they dare even mention my name!" Drago spat the words across the room, thumping the desk to underscore his fury. "Where is the Wolf?"

"I don't know,
sefa,"
replied the son honestly. "He is impossible to keep track of lately."

"Well, fuck him. You find him. I want him here; he works for me. Remind him of that if you have to:' "Yes,
sefa."

"He told me he was working on a backup plan to get at the American. I want to know what it is. I want some action from the Wolf. No more fucking talk. Get him now and get those two pieces of shit out of here!"

THE RED LION, WHITEHALL, LONDON

"We always seem to find our way back here," remarked General Davenport. "Why do you think that is?"

"It's pretty simple, sir," replied Morgan good-humoredly. "We're not office types. Occasionally we need to escape. And the promise of good single malt scotch like this is its own reward."

"Well, there is that, of course: Davenport conceded with a smile. He took another drink, savoring the bite of the liquid as it warmed his chest, casting an appraising eye over his agent. "I must say, my boy, I'm pleased you've finally acquainted yourself with my tailor. You are looking decidedly less scruffy these days."

"Well, I hope you don't expect a thank you for that backhanded compliment," Morgan said with mock indignation and a broad grin. He straightened within his expertly tailored worsted suit of blended gray, complemented by a pristine white shirt, a black tie and a white pocket square folded precisely to provide the merest strip of white across the top of the pocket. All thanks to the impeccable workmanship of Davenport's personal tailor, Somerville & Son, who had rooms just off Savile Row on Conduit Street. "Anyway, it was time for an upgrade."

"Mr Somerville has done an outstanding job. It's important to look the part as much as be the part in this game, Alex. Where I'm likely sending you in coming weeks, I can't have you turning up looking like a bloody drifter"

They laughed. Morgan was happy to acknowledge his previous "comfortable" standard of dress, as the general once referred to it, and while he still preferred jeans and sports coats when off the clock, he had begun to enjoy his new bespoke wardrobe.

"What do you have in mind for me next, then, sir?" Morgan asked, reaching for his scotch. He had only recently returned from delivering Serifovic into the custody of the ICTY. But Morgan already knew that the attempted assassination in Seattle overnight of an ICTY judge would have a direct implication on his next assignment.

"I want you to stay with the Serbs. I'm scheduled to attend a meeting in New York tomorrow with Interpol, and I'd like you to join me," Davenport replied dryly.

"Of course," Morgan replied. "Anything specific?"

"This attempt on Judge Clancy, the presiding judge of the ICTY, was obviously a move to derail the tribunal and Interpol's investigations into the last remaining fugitives of the Balkans War Crimes indictments. I've arranged for her to join us in New York. I'd like to get as much detail as possible on exactly why these ICTY judges have been sent into hiding."

"I heard all the judges had been sent off on indefinite leave; something to do with threats the tribunal had received, targeting them specifically. Is that right?" Morgan asked.

"Yes," replied Davenport gravely. "The threats implied an attack upon the judges while in session at the tribunal in The Hague. The decision was made to close the court under the pretense of technical difficulties with equipment, and the judges were all given an indefinite leave of absence. They opted to return discreetly to their private residences until the all-clear was given. Madam Clancy returned home to Seattle."

"So, what have they done with the others now? Have they all been recalled to The Hague?"

"Not yet." Davenport looked genuinely concerned. "I imagine the tribunal's chief of security will be attempting to make contact with them all and Interpol will be making arrangements with police in the various countries to provide additional protection while they are at their homes. But short of just locking them all away, the best solution has yet to present itself."

"Which way do you think they'll go?" Morgan asked.

"I think they'll upgrade security arrangements at court and at the judges' residences back in The Hague. Meanwhile, they have little alternative but to allow them all to remain at home - under strict security, of course - until arrangements in The Hague have been finalized."

"Makes sense," Morgan said. "I guess that means we need to leave it in the hands of tribunal security and Interpol for now. In the meantime, where do you want me?" He took a drink.

"Making a hit on an ICTY judge near her private residence sends a message. It says: We can get you, wherever you are. It scares the hell out of witnesses preparing to give evidence before the tribunal and it 
strikes the fear of God into the remaining judges. But you don't arrange a hit like that without a reason."

"Drago getting nervous?" Morgan suggested.

"Precisely, which is exactly why the chief prosecutor of the tribunal and Interpol's secretary general are adamant that the investigations and ongoing hearings must get back on track as soon as possible:' Davenport took a drink. "We have Karadzic, Hadzic, Mladic and now, thanks to you, that other delightful creature, Milivoj Serifovic. We're closer than we've ever been to finding Drago's exact whereabouts. So, I need you to familiarize yourself with him, Alex. You have to get to know everything there is to know about this man. Because, when the time comes, there won't be any margin for error:'

"I'm across his background, sir," Morgan replied. "Drago is the subject of an Interpol Red Notice and he's the last remaining fugitive of the 160 or so indicted by the tribunal since 1993. Interpol suggests he's been able to elude capture for so long by operating under the protection of the Serbian criminal grid and there's strong intelligence indicating that he heads an arm of the Serbian mafia made up exclusively of former members of the security forces who operated under his command during the Balkans War."

Davenport nodded. "The assassination attempt on Madeline Clancy was undoubtedly on Drago's orders. The fact that it occurred at the very time you were arresting Serifovic is of interest, though. The would-be assassins could not have known we were moving on Serifovic."

"Perhaps Drago's intelligence was a bit off," Morgan surmised. Davenport raised his eyebrows. "Well, 
it's possible his network reported that Interpol was closing in," Morgan continued. "Thinking it was him they were closing in on, Drago takes immediate preemptive action against the tribunal; sending in people to kill one of the judges. But in reality it was Serifovic we were arresting, not Drago Obrenovic."

Davenport nodded his agreement and both men fell silent for a moment, drinking and considering the possibilities.

"According to Interpol Belgrade, Drago wouldn't risk exposure under any circumstances, not even for one of his most trusted comrades. Which suggests that he was not actively communicating with Serifovic," said Davenport. "If he had been, he would have warned Serifovic that Interpol was closing in. S Serifovic would have been prepared."

"Serifovic wasn't prepared," said Morgan. "Although that big bastard, Zupan, certainly gave me a run for my money. I could really have used our new guy. What's his name? The German!'

"Braunschweiger. Austrian, actually. Hermann Braunschweiger; built like a tank," Davenport replied. "You know, they had a nickname for him in the GSG 9. They called him
Der Schlüssel."

Morgan's quizzical expression asked the question.

"It means 'the key.' Considering the man's size, it's a rather delicate nickname, don't you think? Some eccentric Germanic humor, no doubt, but according to the head of GSG 9, if they needed to get into anywhere, he could open the door simply by putting his shoulder to it. Hence, the key." They both smiled at the idea. "But, all that aside for now, you can see why I've had to keep our involvement 
strictly out of the mainstream," he said. "I know it limited your backup options, Alex. But the mere suggestion that Drago is able to gather intelligence on the progress of Interpol investigations is enough to warrant my precautions."

"I understand, sir." Morgan trusted the general's judgment completely, despite certain implications in the field. But more than that, he could see that there was something else troubling his chief. He allowed Davenport to gather his thoughts.

"The attempt on the ICTY judge was a warning. That's obvious," Davenport stated. "And we know that the arrest of Serifovic will send Drago into survival overdrive. He'll be looking at any means possible, whatever it takes, to keep himself clear of authorities and prolong his freedom."

"So, you're expecting him to ramp up his counter-offensive?"

"I have no doubt of it," Davenport replied. "But are we thinking about this coldly and objectively, or are we allowing Drago's obvious counteroffensive strategy to limit our consideration?"

"You think we're being played?" Morgan asked.

Davenport took a long pull at his scotch and leant heavily against the wide ledge directly beneath Lord Stanley's portrait. He remained silent for a while, absently stroking his beard, the lines of his face set deep in contemplation. Morgan respected the general's silence and, easing his way through the rest of his own scotch, watched the traffic going past on Whitehall.

"The more I think about these recent successes - Mladic, Hadzic and Serifovic - the more I am drawn 
back to the common denominator in all of them." "The informant?"

"Precisely, my boy," Davenport replied emphatically. "Precisely. The
informant."