Hunter (6 page)

SAINT SEURIN-FONDAUDEGE, BORDEAUX

Guy de Villepin's home away from home, un
second chez-soi,
was a luxurious, very private apartment housed within what had once been a magnificent eighteenth-century mansion. He had owned the apartment for many years and when he'd finally grown tired of its aging decor, he'd decided to have it completely renovated. Gone were the dreary wallpapers and brocade curtains that had hung too many years beyond their useful life. The dark, dank carpets were also gone along with most of the old furniture. He had kept a few favorite pieces for nostalgia's sake. For the rest, there were just far too many memories, too much sentimental clutter to constantly remind him of the highs and lows, the joy and the pain of his solitary journey through these many years. Now, as he pottered about preparing an early meal for one lamenting the failure of the building superintendent to respond to his calls to attend to a broken electrical socket in the kitchen - he delighted in the quiet simplicity of the contemporary, minimalist design he had selected and the sense of calm and contentment he felt when he returned to it.

De Villepin strode purposefully into his living room then - drawn by some recollection - went instead to his bedroom, rummaged through his travel 
bags and returned to the living room with a compact disc. It was a gift from a colleague:
So proud of my little girl. Enjoy during our enforced sabbatical! Madeline x,
an attached note read. He smiled and took a moment to examine the small square cover and the face of a beautiful young woman sitting at a grand piano. Her hair, the most vibrant copper-red, was tied back from her face in a very regal way, yet had been allowed to cascade in a firestorm of wild curls and waves, just visible behind the exquisite line of her bare shoulders. Her skin was almost pure white, her eyes - deep and soulful - sky blue above pouting lips, full and wide and even redder than her hair. The style was old Hollywood and she captured it perfectly.
Pommettes charmantes,
he thought.

He placed the CD into the player and to the enchantment of the opening bars of Debussy's "Clair de lune", he wandered back to the kitchen to continue his meal preparation.

*

At the rear of de Villepin's apartment building, four stories down, was a small private courtyard. It was for the exclusive use of apartment owners. Of course, while the ornate, refurbished, eighteenth-century surrounding wall, guarded by clusters of maple and chestnut trees, would serve to deter the mostly well-to-do, law-abiding folk of the immediate environs, it presented anything but an obstacle to a man known in certain circles only as the Wolf.

Enhancing his deception by using a dark corner, the shadowy figure had scaled the wall and, extracting 
a paperback from his coat pocket, immediately affected a casual reading pose upon a mold-stained stone bench that had sat beneath a Persian walnut tree for over a hundred years. He waited there a few moments until he heard a middle-aged couple, a man and woman, returning from their evening ritual - walking their pet Shih Tzu. He'd been watching the building for over a week and had noted the strict routine of this pair and their pampered pooch. He had timed his incursion precisely to coincide with their return. As he listened carefully to the keys rattling in the lock of the external gate that accessed the courtyard from the street behind the building, he made a small pantomime of finishing his reading and blowing his nose loudly into a handkerchief; to all intents and purposes, readying himself to return inside. Seconds later the couple and their dog were scurrying past, oblivious to his presence. The keys rattled again, this time in the doorway that led into the apartment building, and with a general flurry of polite monosyllables, charm and smiles, he bundled in behind them as if he too belonged, and made for the stairs while they chose the elevator. They of course thought nothing of it. After all, only those who lived in the building were allowed within the courtyard.

Upstairs, blissfully unaware that an intruder had gained access to the building, Guy de Villepin was finally laying the table, preparing to serve his meal for one. From the CD, "Clair de lune" had concluded and Liebestraum No. 3 by Franz Liszt gently eased into the quiet, unassuming space of the apartment. He fussed over the setting of his table as was his custom, and selected a moderately aged red wine. Satisfied that 
everything was just as it should be, Guy returned to the kitchen to retrieve his meal.

There came three harsh raps on the entrance door of the apartment.

C'est curieux,
he thought, momentarily startled. Normally, it would be a buzz from downstairs at the building's entrance foyer rather than a knock directly upon his door. Who on earth could it be? Then, with relief, he realized:
Ah, le surintendant!

"Un moment!"
he cried as he bustled toward the door, drying his hands on a kitchen towel.

When he opened the door de Villepin was in mid-sentence, somewhere between commending and condemning the building superintendent for finally giving his attention to the faulty electrical switch.

But it was not the superintendent and it took de Villepin only a second to realize his mistake. "No!" he exclaimed.

The silenced automatic fired once and a single round penetrated de Villepin's chest directly through the heart, killing him instantly. The moment the dead man began to fall, the Wolf stepped across the threshold of the apartment and caught him easily behind the back of the neck, controlling the fall of the body and easing it to the floor without a sound. Without fuss, he quickly dragged the body clear of the entrance and closed the door. Leaving the body as it lay, he strolled unhurriedly into the kitchen, found the meal de Villepin had prepared and took it to the table.

CARNEGIE HALL, NEW YORK

The applause of the crowd erupted as Charlotte-Rose returned to the stage. Intermission was over, the second half was due to commence and the crowd of almost 3000 that filled Carnegie Hall's Isaac Stern Auditorium were in the palm of her hand. Across each of the five levels of the main hall, people were on their feet, clapping, stamping, whistling, crying out for more, hoping, praying that she might look their way. To leave with just a smile from her would mean everything and there wasn't a person in the hall who didn't feel the same way.

To her legions of fans, the woman on stage was a goddess. Curvaceous and fair-skinned with a mane of fiery red curls that fell to her waist, she was every bit the superstar, renowned for an ethereal quality beyond the reach of mere mortals. Women's magazines the world over adored her and she enjoyed a level of celebrity normally reserved for the Hollywood - or reality television - elite. But she was neither of those things.

Charlotte-Rose Fleming was one of the finest classical pianists of her time. Performing under the name Charlotte-Rose, she emerged as an overnight sensation - despite seven years on the international classical music circuit and three platinum-selling albums 
- when her guest appearance at the BBC Proms, including performances of Chopin's Ballade No. 1 in G minor and Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 3, catapulted her into the mainstream media. International stardom inevitably followed.

Standing regally beside her piano upon the Ronald 0. Perelman Stage, with a smile that reached the back rows of the fifth-level balcony, Charlotte-Rose turned from her adoring fans and sat down to face the keyboard. Obediently the crowd fell silent and the lights of the main hall into total darkness. Everything remained so for almost thirty seconds and then, as an eerie expectancy embraced the room, a golden shimmer appeared to emanate from the stage like those very first tentative rays of the dawn. The soft lighting captured the spellbound audience and, as the gentle hue gathered and withdrew across the stage, only a single beam of light remained, focusing their attention perfectly upon their princess. With hands outstretched to either end of the keyboard, she began with one solid strike at the notes, launching straight into one of her personal favorites and a popular hit with the crowd, the Toccata in E flat minor by Armenian composer Aram Khachaturian.

Her mastery of the instrument was indisputable, showcased via a repertoire only the finest players at the absolute pinnacle of their careers could ever attempt. But it was the showmanship, a combination of unbridled energy, passion, humor and seduction, that beguiled her audiences. The atmosphere and physicality of her performances were more akin to a rock concert than a classical music recital. During some of her most demanding pieces when her technical prowess 
was in full flight, she could captivate an already mesmerized crowd with a private smile or wickedly seductive laugh, just as she could bring them to their feet with her head thrown back, red hair whipping about her face and eyes to the ceiling in raptures of unadulterated classical ecstasy. Despite the fact that, to date, her repertoire had contained nothing but strictly classical pieces, her popularity with non-classical audiences had critics claiming her to be the most influential crossover artist ever.

Leaving Khachaturian and giving her audience no chance to recover their composure, Charlotte-Rose moved effortlessly into
Un Sospiro
by Liszt. Meanwhile, behind her in the wings, her devoted assistant, Daniel, was being beckoned into the shadows by a tall, handsome, elegantly dressed man of about forty, holding an enormous bouquet of red roses. Dutifully, Daniel responded.

"I take it these aren't for me," noted Daniel, coyly engaging the stranger.

"I'm afraid not," the man said with a smile, his voice deep and smooth. "But I would be very grateful if you would ensure that she gets these the moment she leaves the stage at the end of her performance. She'll be expecting ... well, she is expecting something, from me."

"So, you're the mystery man Charly's been keeping under wraps," said Daniel. "I can see why. Don't worry, Romeo, I'll see that she gets them."

"The moment she leaves the stage," the man said firmly, although the charm made the order feel more like a request. "Especially the note. It's really very important."

"Honey, I'll give them to her personally. And, who shall I say they're from?"

"She'll know," he replied and vanished.

A hopeless snoop, but justifying it as a result of being utterly protective of his girl, Daniel couldn't resist the temptation. There was something about this latest suitor that just didn't add up. For somebody chasing an international superstar he was far too circumspect. Laying the bouquet down on a packing crate, Daniel gently removed the card from the envelope pinned to the clear plastic wrapping. With a little guilt he looked back out to the stage and watched Charlotte-Rose for a while, then turned his attention to its message. In a somewhat messy hand, it read:
Meet you at the helipad at midnight. Don't be late. Paradise awaits! Raoul x

OFFICE OF THE SPECIAL REPRESENTATIVE OF INTERPOL TO THE UNITED NATIONS
MANHATTAN, NEW YORK, USA

Pat Ryerson, deputy director of Interpol Washington, led a slightly built, emaciated, nervous-looking man into a private room at the very back of the suite that comprised the Office of the Special Representative.

The man was in his mid-forties. He had greasy, shoulder-length dark hair parted on the left and combed over lazily so that it sat in bedraggled curtains on either side of a narrow, rat-like face. The brown eyes were shifty, constantly moving and floating in deep gray craters upon a marginally less gray landscape. His patchy red and brown beard was really no more than a collection of haphazard tufts resulting from a weekly, sometimes only a fortnightly, shave. His teeth were yellowed and his breath sour from far too many cigarettes. His clothes - leather jacket, shirt, jeans and boots were black and grungy.

The room was plain and not particularly noteworthy. It contained some chairs and a table with a telephone. It was just like any other corporate interview room in any other first-world high-rise 
building. Although this one had spectacular views across the East River.

Ryerson brought the man to the table and sat him down with sufficient courtesy to warrant a thank you, which he received. Across the table sat Brett Tappin. On the far side of the room, leaning against the wall to Tappin's left, stood Alex Morgan.

"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Durad Lazarevic," Ryerson announced before joining Tappin at the table.

"Good afternoon," said Lazarevic stiffly.

"Good afternoon, Mr Lazarevic," Tappin replied. "I'm Assistant Director Brett Tappin of the United States marshals Service." Lazarevic nodded in response and then looked to his right toward Morgan, awaiting an introduction. "You don't have to know who he is, Mr Lazarevic," said Tappin.

The tone was set. Lazarevic had sat through many similar interviews before. He was prepared. Being an Interpol informant, and the man responsible for leading investigators to S erifovic and the others, he was routinely lifted and brought in for questioning. The Hague, Lyon, New York; he was used to it. It was expected. The way he figured it, there were a lot worse things than flying around the world under a new identity, protected by Interpol. It was also the best and possibly only chance he had of survival. Because he knew that if he ever put a foot wrong or if his past caught up with him, his death would be an extremely slow and painful one. Besides, his cut of the reward made it all worthwhile.

"Now, you gotta forgive me, Mr Lazarevic," Tappin began. "I'm kinda the new boy here, you know? I've come into the game a little late in the play?'

"I understand," Lazarevic replied. "How can I help?"

"Well, to start with, I'm very interested in how you came to be this special informant for Interpol. I hear you've helped our friends a whole bunch; I mean, a couple of your big kahunas from the old country are now cooling their heels in Scheveningen, thanks to you.

Lazarevic looked quizzically from Tappin to Ryerson, even across to Morgan. He said, "I'm not sure what you mean, Mr Tappin. What are you asking of me?"

"What I'm asking, Durad, is what brought you in from the cold all of a sudden? The war's been over for almost twenty years; not quite, but close enough. You've had plenty of opportunity to come forward with information before. Why now?"

"Five million euros is a great incentive in anyone's language," Lazarevic began. He was suddenly uncomfortable. "Where I come from, where I live now in Albania, we do not enjoy the freedom of choice that you all take for granted. These men are butchers, Mr Tappin. I've lived under their shadow before, during and since the war. I always wanted to speak up but I knew if I did, I would be cut down; if not immediately, then someday. I would be looking over my shoulder forever, knowing that any day, any moment could be my last. Even when the reward is made available to me, I will be a marked man for the rest of my days."

"Yes, that's right. I heard that the money hasn't been given to you yet," Tappin stated with a deliberately skeptical tone designed to unsettle Lazarevic. "Interesting."

"I am told it will be soon, now that Serifovic is in custody." Lazarevic looked up at Morgan, who he assumed was in charge, for reassurance. He didn't get it. "Is there now some problem?"

"Mr Lazarevic, we believe you can continue to be of assistance to us," said Ryerson. An old pro, his manner was deadpan, giving nothing away. "We have a number of scared judges, one of whom has been personally targeted. To protect them, we need to understand the mentality of the people we're up against and you're our best shot. I mean, who better than the guy who led us to the worst of them, right?"

Lazarevic was sweating. He shifted nervously in his chair, brown eyes bouncing from side to side in their dark craters. This interview was nothing like the others. He'd been treated like royalty when he first came forward with information back in Tirana. They'd lapped it up. But now he didn't know if he was a guest at the banquet or the fatted calf. He ran cigarette-stained fingers through his greasy hair.

"I've been nothing but cooperative. You ask the Interpol man in Tirana, Lorenc Gjoka. He's my case officer; he'll vouch for me."

"Hey, now, take it easy there, sport," Tappin said with a broad smile. "We know you've been hiding out in Albania since the Balkans War - can't say I blame you for that; and, we also know that you voluntarily met with the Interpol guys there. So, yeah, we'll check in with your case officer, this Mr Gjoka. Nobody's suggesting anything untoward. In fact, it's the exact opposite. Isn't that right, Pat?"

"Sure. We'd just like to impose on you one last time, so we can really make sure we're looking after 
these judges. That sound OK?" asked Ryerson. Ryerson had met Lorenc Gjoka once in Lyon, long before Lazarevic had come forward as an informant. He didn't like him.

"Yes. Yes, of course," Lazarevic replied cautiously. "Anything. Just ask me."

"Well, let's start with something easy." Tappin gave the impression they were just a bunch of guys sitting around talking about baseball or football with his easy manner. He was just warming up. "We'd like to start with anything you know about any folks here in the US who may be sympathetic to—"

There was a loud knock on the door, it opened and a young woman, one of the Interpol staff, appeared. She excused herself and gestured for Ryerson to join her. Pat Ryerson was immediately on his feet and disappeared into the corridor, closing the door behind him. There was silence for a few moments before he returned. The door remained open.

"Mr Lazarevic," Ryerson said, "my colleague here is going to escort you to another room. I'd appreciate it if you'd wait there until I collect you. This will only take a moment."

The young woman was at the door again and ushered Lazarevic outside in silence. Ryerson closed the door and came back. He sat heavily upon the edge of the table. His face was grave.

"What the fuck's going on, Pat?" asked Tappin. "There's been a hit on one of the other judges," Ryerson said. "This one was successful."

"Who was it?" Morgan said.

"Judge Guillaume Rene de Villepin. Happened at his home in Bordeaux last night. Wasn't discovered until this morning. Building superintendent called it in." "Jesus!" exclaimed Tappin. "How?"

"Bullet straight through the heart as he answered his front door," Ryerson replied. Then he turned to Morgan. "Alex, I don't rally know what it is you guys do, but your boss wants you, son. Pronto. He's in Vallincourt's office. You're to go straight in."