SUNSET HILL, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, USA
It was almost lunchtime when Charlotte-Rose Fleming sat down to the piano. But today the music eluded her. Her fingers lay dormant upon the keys, unwilling to cooperate.
Charly felt utterly conflicted over her feelings about Raoul Demaci and her escalating interest in the elusive man from Interpol, Alex Morgan.
She'd never known such confusion. Truth be told - and despite the views of the tabloids - she was not the type to gavotte from man to man; quite the opposite. More than anything, her interest in Raoul was a curiosity born more from end-of-tour fatigue and a desperate need for escape; that, and the fact that the relentlessness of his platinum-laced pursuit basically wore her down. At a time when she normally would have shunned such an overbearing approach, she found her misgivings about him vastly outweighed by the prospect of a couple of weeks of seclusion, floating around on a luxury yacht in the Mediterranean.
She hadn't actually taken the time to consider how she felt about Raoul Demaci and now it was too late. If anything had happened to him, she'd never be able to forget it. His death would always be inexplicably linked to the first and last time she would ever throw
caution to the wind and allow a foolish, selfish whim to take control of her. And then along came Alex Morgan.
She smiled and a warm feeling enveloped over her.
Charly gave up on the piano and went back to the sofa she'd shared with Morgan that night. She took up the small Union Jack cushion he'd commented on - a souvenir from a visit to Windsor Castle years ago and nestled into the corner where he'd been sitting. Holding the cushion affectionately against her chest, Charly allowed her memory of him to consume her thoughts.
"My God," she whispered, "what the hell are you doing to me, Alex Morgan?"
PETRELE, ALBANIA
Alex Morgan found a gap in the trees off to his left and drove the car down an overgrown track, masking it from sight. He pulled on a black sweater, lowered the window and eased himself out into the darkness. The moment his feet touched the ground, Morgan knew he was on enemy turf. There'd be no turning back.
With the SIG Sauer P226 in his right hand, Morgan moved cautiously along the edge of the gravel road, stopping every few feet to listen. He could just make out the mumbling of men's voices close by. No more screaming. He thought he heard a sob, so he stopped to listen some more. Still incoherent mumbling, but the tone spoke volumes. This was a one-way conversation, a monologue with no emotion or room for negotiation. He pressed on slowly, silently, until he found a small track to get him off the roadside and up to a vantage point closer to the house.
Morgan crept through the low-lying shrubs, careful not to disturb any of the branches, leaves or twigs littering the track. As he approached the crest of a small mound he could see the dim glow of an overworked light globe from the house. He was less than 20 feet away and the voices became clearer, with one in control and the other pleading for clemency. Morgan had
never heard Gjoka's voice, but surmised that it was him doing the pleading.
Morgan realized they were speaking English. Second language, he thought. So, the unexpected visitors were not Albanian. Otherwise, they'd be dealing with Gjoka in his native tongue. That told Morgan two things: they were not local police and Gjoka was in serious trouble.
Morgan flattened himself to the ground and slithered upward inch by inch. When he got there he positioned himself with only the top of his head close to the base of a shrub so he wouldn't be seen. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light.
The house was a converted two-story farmhouse, a hundred years old by the look of it, built from locally mined stone with old wooden window frames that were faded and worn. The driveway and the small area by the side-door entrance to the house was dry gravel, much like the road. But Morgan's review of the house ended there.
A single low-wattage globe barely lit the area but he could see the Mercedes and right behind it the black van he'd spotted doing laps in the village. Not good. It was only a short, very narrow driveway up from the road and once that van had come in, Gjoka and his mistress were blocked in with no way out.
Morgan could see four men, big guys with too much time for the gym. They were dressed in standard-issue black everything, heads shaved to the scalp.
Don't fuck with the baldies,
he thought gloomily. Then he realized that they all had identical goatees; thick and well maintained, like some kind of membership badge. One of them had Gjoka by the collar, p
ushing him inside the house. Gjoka was trying desperately hard not to go. He must have known he wouldn't be coming out alive. When Morgan eased forward to get a clearer view of the house, he could see why.
Lying on the ground in front of the Mercedes was the mistress. Her throat had been cut and blood was gathering in dark pools in the wheel ruts of the driveway.
Morgan stayed where he was until he was confident nobody had been left outside on sentry duty. He pulled away from his position, crawling backward until he reached the base of the mound and then, moving furtively through the shrubs, he made his way toward the mistress. He froze. As he reached the driveway, Morgan heard movement within the black van. A shuffling sound. Fuck! Then the handle of the van's sliding back door clicked. Morgan leapt back on his toes and vanished into the darkness nearer to the main road. His hand tightened reassuringly around the grip of the SIG.
The door eased back and a man emerged. He stepped out onto the gravel and idly lit a cigarette. He was so close that the smell reached Morgan in a second. Taking a long draw to fill his lungs with the muck, he turned and walked toward the house. Morgan watched him step around the body of the mistress. The only interest he displayed was to avoid stepping in her blood. As he reached the light by the front door, Morgan saw him properly, but only for a few seconds. Average height, he looked solidly built; big, but not as big as the others. Unlike the baldies he had hair, thick and jet black, slick with oil; like
the baldies, he also had a goatee. Although somehow, Morgan felt that the others wore theirs because of him, not the other way around.
As the man disappeared inside, Morgan waited a few seconds, gave the spare magazine pouches on his belt a reassuring tug and then crept into the house behind him.
PETRELS, ALBANIA
"Do you know who I am, Gjoka?" asked the man who had entered last.
"No,' Gjoka replied, shaking. "I'm sorry. Should I? Have we met?"
Morgan managed to infiltrate as far as the base of the stairwell. He could see up through the stairs to a mezzanine level where the conversation was taking place. Gjoka was sitting in an armchair, the slick-haired man asking questions in front of him and two of the goons in partial view. Morgan couldn't see the others.
Deciding it would be prudent to listen in, Morgan remained hidden. He could be up the stairs in three bounds if need be.
"No," the man scoffed, "we've never met. I only meet people like you once."
"People like me? What do you mean?"
"People who cause problems. People who become greedy. People who should know better." The accusations rolled off the man's tongue as he stalked menacingly around the insipid creature in the chair. "People like that."
Gjoka remained silent, looking from side to side, not knowing where this was going or what he was being accused of.
"My name is Obrenovic," the man said calmly. "I am the son of Dragoslav Obrenovic. My father asked me to pay you a visit."
Gjoka's blood turned to ice. Downstairs, Morgan's did, too. His radar went into overdrive.
"You've been a bad little man, Gjoka," Obrenovic began. "You have shown that your loyalty is for sale. My father is very unhappy about this."
"But what on earth have I done to Drago?"
"You have forgotten already, Gjoka. You have forgotten who made all this—" he waved his hand around, "—possible. This chateau, your bitch downstairs, your position in Interpol; you owe my father your life."
"I don't understand. I have done what I was asked—"
Obrenovic exploded. "Following the orders of that fuck the Wolf, over my father's? Selling out S erifovic, one of my father's oldest friends?"
The young Obrenovic stepped forward, stood over Gjoka and punched him hard. Gjoka's nose erupted blood and he bounced in the chair, screaming in agony. His hands flew up to fend off a second blow. But it came in from the opposite side, and Gjoka didn't have a chance of blocking it. Obrenovic struck the already broken nose again. Tears of pain streamed down Gjoka's bloodied, smashed face.
"I thought this was what Drago wanted," Gjoka sobbed. "Wolf told me this was Drago's wish. That it was time for S erifovic to go. I did as I was told."
"I don't believe you, little Gjoka. Those bags over there tell me I'm right." He flicked his head at the his-and-hers luggage in the corner, ready to be loaded into
the car. "You were about to run. Fortunately, I arrived just in time. I would hate to have missed you."
"No, no, I'm running from Interpol," he said, blubbering, pleading his case with every word. He looked in disbelief at his hands, covered in his blood. "They already have the Wolf's brother, Dobrashin, and Ivan Simovic, too."
"And they have one of my men!" Obrenovic snarled. Morgan surmised that he was referring to Muscles, who'd been shipped back to Belgrade to face organized crime charges. "He was there to make sure the Wolf's operation went ahead as agreed. Now he will rot in Pozarevac!"
"An investigation has been launched against me. A team is being sent from Lyon to investigate me. It was only a matter of time before they had me, too. What else was I supposed to do?"
"You ask Drago for help,' was the reply. "But you didn't. You didn't tell anybody what you were doing. Instead, you made arrangements to escape Albania. Let me see, what was it? By boat from Durres to Bari in Italy, and then from Italy you were booked on the high-speed train to France; correct?"
The look on Gjoka's face confirmed the allegation.
"Would you like me to talk about these too?" Morgan saw two passports thrown into Gjoka's lap. "Not the actions of a loyal man."
Gjoka looked down at the passports.
"Your bitch told us everything, little Gjoka," Obren-ovic said. "We visited her before you'd even left your office. She told us everything, even handed over your fake passports to save her own miserable skin. What? Didn't she warn you over your sweet little dinner in
the village? Of course she didn't, you stupid fuck. Do you know why?"
Gjoka shook his head, numbed by the revelation.
"Because, I offered her a deal: her life for yours. I told her if she breathed a word to you, I'd kill you both. But if she got you back here nice and quietly, I would only take you. The stupid bitch believed me."
Gjoka's face was in his hands now. His head shook in disbelief; blood streamed down his wrists into his shirt sleeves.
"I tell you - I tell you it was the Wolf and his brother. They convinced me that it's what Drago wanted. I was only doing what I thought was part of a plan. I thought Serifovic must have done something to piss Drago off."
"That's not the way my father sees it, Gjoka," Obrenovic said. "For some time, Drago has suspected the Wolf of having designs upon his position as
sefa
of the
Zmajevi.
His betrayal of Serifovic, which you made happen, was the final straw. And, despite numerous chances to prove his loyalty to Drago, the Wolf has done little to remove the threat of these fucking judges from The Hague."
"OK. OK," said Gjoka, buying time. "Let me make my case to Drago. I'll come with you, back to Serbia. I'll prove to Drago that I'm not to blame. I'll do whatever he wants me to do."
"Wrong again, little man," Obrenovic replied. "There's nothing you can say that will sway me. My father's orders were clear."
Morgan looked on in silence as the impact of it all seeped into his skin.
General Davenport's instincts all those years ago had been spot on. Nothing much got past the old man.
The Wolf did exist. He was an enforcer for the Serbian leadership, had been since the Balkans War, and his name was Vukasin Petrovic; the brother of the former Interpol informant, Dobrashin Petrovic.
Vukasin, as the Key had said, meant wolf. Not such a coincidence after all.
On top of that, this confirmed there was a management reshuffle underway. The Wolf, a once-trusted apprentice, had grown tired of his position as enforcer. He was older now, ambitious, and being held back by his mentor, Drago, was not what he had in mind for his future. Possibly, his efforts over the years to support the old guard were not being recognized and now, this young Obrenovic was emerging as the one most likely to succeed his father. That would be counter to the Wolf's aspirations. Whatever it was, enough was enough and the Wolf was making his move.
It was a situation as old as time - greed, ambition, the thirst for power - and as far as Gjoka's part was concerned, Morgan felt there was some long overdue karma tied up in it all. That said, Morgan couldn't stand by and watch the young Obrenovic and his crew of muscle-heads kill Gjoka in cold blood. How would he explain that to Davenport?
Morgan decided to move in. He had to do something.
But as he started toward the first step, a pair of hands like clamps gripped his ankles and yanked his legs out from under him.