Headhunters (2 page)

AVI BACHMAN hurried through the alleyway. He was hidden from the wind and its howling, allowing him to hear the sirens. There was more garbage than he had anticipated, and there were moments, as the passageway twisted around the back of the warehouses, where he had to plough through piles of plastic sacks that had been torn open, the fetid waste within them exposed for rats to gorge upon. His legs were quickly coated in foul-smelling slime.

He was committed now. There was no turning back. He had to trust that Uri Naim’s view had been obscured by Meir Shavit’s truck and the storm, and that he would be unable to confirm what had happened. What would he be able to say for sure? That the mine had exploded prematurely.

Bachman had no intention of being found. He had planned the operation for months, waiting for the perfect opportunity. This had been it. There would be no way for the Mossad to investigate the blast. How could they send their investigators here? They would not be able to confirm what had happened to him. He hoped that they would draw the obvious, easy conclusion: he was dead, killed in a freak accident.

The alleyway finally ended. It opened onto another street very similar to the one that he had fled: derelict buildings on either side, a truck with a fifteen-foot-high load of bagged trash lashed to its flatbed, religious decorations strung between the buildings high overhead, a celebration of Ramadan. The wind seized him again as he emerged from the lee of the buildings, and he rearranged the scarf over his mouth so that he could breathe more easily.

He reached his right hand under his left armpit and felt the bulk of the Glock that he carried in a concealed holster. He didn’t think he would need it, but it was reassuring to know that it was there.

He set off, heading south. There was a car waiting for him in Nasr City. He would drive west to El Salloum, cross the border into Libya, and then continue through Tunisia and Algeria until he reached Morocco.

The thought of his destination filled him with anticipation. Lila was waiting for him there. Their relationship was the reason for all of this. She was a Palestinian, and he knew, with complete certainty, that their being together was dangerous. If the director of the agency, Victor Blum, discovered their secret, he would have them both killed.

It left them with two choices: agree never to see each other again or flee.

The first option was impossible. Bachman would not consider it.

They would run.

He had developed the plan. They would stay in Tangier for a week and then, after Shavit had reported the situation to him, they would take the ferry to Algeciras. They would pick up a car and drive north, through Spain and France, until they reached Paris. New identities were waiting for them there, together with an appointment with a plastic surgeon who would alter Bachman’s appearance. Once the work had been done, both the plastic surgeon and the forger who would supply them with their new papers would be shot. There would be nothing to tie Bachman and Lila back to the people they had been before.

As far as the Mossad were concerned, Avi Bachman was dead.

He had died in a botched assassination in the Cairo slums.

Claude Boon would be born in his stead.

THE LAWYER left his office in Baton Rouge at eight in the morning. It was fifty-six miles to the Louisiana State Penitentiary. It would take just over an hour if the interstate was clear, but, since this was rush hour, he allowed himself two. The man he was visiting wasn’t going anywhere, but he didn’t want to be late. His client was frightening enough as it was, and he didn’t want to antagonise him with tardiness.

The lawyer’s name was Reed Scott and he was a partner in Renwick Chase Scott. Scott had been in the United States for thirty years since he had emigrated from Israel with his parents. He had an American wife and two small children. He took his son to see the Saints. He was active in his local community organisation, and thoroughly respected within the Louisiana legal system. Scott’s caseload did not typically include criminal matters, so it had come as something of a surprise to his peers when he had accepted instructions from the suspected multiple murderer currently awaiting trial in the pen.

The roads out of Baton Rouge were quieter than those headed into the city and he made good time. He followed the Martin Luther King Highway to Highway 61 North and took the exit for Natchez. It was another twenty-one miles to St. Francisville. He turned left after passing the West Feliciana High School onto Highway 66. The twenty-mile-long highway ended at the front gate of the Louisiana State Penitentiary, otherwise known as Angola.

Reed Scott’s usual clients were the men and women who worked in downtown Baton Rouge. He specialised in corporate law: mergers and acquisitions, reorganisations, employment matters. He was used to skyscrapers and gleaming offices, expensive marble lobbies and sleek conference rooms that offered wide panoramas over the city from a hundred feet up.

Angola? That was something else.

He doubted whether there was a worse place on Earth.

They called it The Farm. It had been a slave plantation a hundred years earlier, and the penitentiary was nestled at the heart of a tract of 18,000 acres that was larger than the island of Manhattan. It was penned in on three sides by the Mississippi and on the fourth by twenty miles of scrubby, uninhabited woods. It was said to be virtually escape-proof and Scott thought that that was probably true. More than 5,400 men were imprisoned within its razor wire. Most would die there.

There was a small yellow gatehouse and a homely red brick sign at the entrance that could have marked the gates of a national park. Scott drove through, noting the museum and gift shop where he could, should he have so chosen, buy a pair of miniature handcuffs, jars of inmate-made jelly, and mugs that read “Angola: A Gated Community.”

Funny, right? He remembered it and allowed himself a small chuckle. It distracted him from the nerves that had settled, like a cold fist, in his gut. He always felt that way before interviews with this particular client. The man had something about him.

He drove on until he reached the main prison building. It was surrounded by several tall fences, the razor wire gleaming in the sunshine. He parked his car in the lot and made his way to the gatehouse.

There was a small queue of people waiting to get into the prison. He stood in line for the scanner, passing his briefcase to the guard so that it could be put through the X-ray machine.

“Come,” said the guard on the other side of the security arch, beckoning him on.

Scott stepped through the arch. It remained silent. He smiled at the guard. The man looked at him, blank and bored and slightly unfriendly. Scott took his case and joined the queue for the kiosk.

He stepped up to the window.

“Name, sir?”

“Reed Scott.”

“What’s your business?”

“I’m here to see an inmate.”

“Prisoner’s name?”

“Claude Boon.”

The woman tapped the name into her computer and scratched her head as she waited for the information to be retrieved.

“Relationship to Mr. Boon?”

“Attorney.”

“ID, please.”

Scott took his driver’s licence and passed it through the slot beneath the window.

The woman looked at the licence and then up at her screen. She nodded her satisfaction. “That’s it, I got you. Ten o’clock, right?”

“That’s right.”

“You know the drill?”

“Yes, ma’am. I do.”

She reached down to press a button and, with the buzz of an electric motor, the door to the right of the kiosk opened. Reed swallowed, nodded his thanks, and went into the prison.

HE SAT DOWN, rested his briefcase on the table, took out his papers and arranged them before him. It was five to ten. He knew that his client was going to be on time. Claude Boon was professional and motivated. And where else was he going to go?

Scott looked up at the CCTV camera in the corner of the room. He had the sensation of being watched and appraised and, as usual, he felt vulnerable. He knew that his disguise was excellent. Indeed, it was
more
than a disguise. After all, he
was
a lawyer, and he had been for all of his adult life.

But there was more to him than that.

Scott worked for the Israeli national intelligence agency. The Mossad. He was a
sayanim
. The agency had
sayanim
across the world, local assets that remained in deep cover until there was a need for them and they were activated. Mossad field agents, or
katsas
, needed support as they prepared for operations in foreign countries. The
sayanim
provided it. Regardless of their allegiance to their country, each
sayan
recognised a more fundamental loyalty to Israel, and would do anything to protect it from its enemies.

Sayanim
fulfilled many roles. A car
sayan
, running a rental agency, could provide a
katsa
with transportation. A
sayan
with an interest in property could provide accommodation on short notice and at no cost. A
sayan
inside a police department might provide useful information on investigations, and a
sayan
physician could treat injuries while keeping the identity of his or her patient secret.
Sayanim
received only expenses for their work, but they carried out their tasks because they loved their spiritual home, not because they wanted remuneration. In their turn,
katsas
could not operate without them. The agency itself depended upon them.

Scott heard the clank of the shackles from the corridor and unconsciously stiffened in his chair. His client was the sort of man who could make you nervous just at the thought of him. He had been indicted for seven murders and, in the three months that he had been in Angola, he had managed to kill one inmate and seriously injure another two. He was being held in solitary confinement. The measure had not been taken because he was being punished or even for his own protection.

Claude Boon had been put in the hole for the protection of the other inmates.

The door opened. The man who stepped inside the room was not imposing. He was forty-five and obviously in excellent shape. He had been fit before, but, now that he had little else to do save working out, he had added muscle to his frame. He had salt-and-pepper hair and was conventionally handsome. He was dressed in the standard-issue Louisiana Department of Corrections orange jumpsuit. His real name was Avi Bachman, but, for the purposes of the American judicial system, his name was Boon.

The door closed, and Scott was left alone with him.

“Claude,” the lawyer said.

“Don’t give me ‘Claude’ like we’re best friends. What’s happening? What the
fuck
is happening?”

“I know, I’m—”

“It’s been two weeks since I last saw you.”

“I know. And I’m sorry about that, but what you’ve asked is not a simple thing. You do know that?”

“I’m not interested in excuses. I’ve been in here for three months. I told you what would happen if you didn’t get me out. Do they think I’m bluffing?”

He raised his hands in supplication. “No, Claude, they don’t. They believe you.”

Boon slammed his palms against the table. “So why am I
still
in here?”

Reed instinctively turned to the door, but there was no sign that Boon’s raised voice had been overheard. “Calm down, please.”

He leaned over the table, the chains rattling. “Don’t tell me to calm down.”

“Let me remind you of a couple of things. You’re in a maximum-security facility. Not even including the inmate you killed, you’re going to be put on trial for multiple homicides. The D.A. is up for re-election. He’s on the record that convicting you is his number one priority. I mean, he’s got a real hard-on for you. He wants the death penalty in the
worst
way. They know how dangerous you are, Claude. All those things taken into account, maybe you can see that this isn’t a walk in the park, not even for us.”

“Who’s
us
? I asked and you never said. Who’s on this?”

“The director.”

“Blum?”

“He’s supervising this personally. Believe me, he wants you out of here as much as you do.”

He laughed bitterly. “I doubt that.”

“It’s true, Claude. I’m reporting directly to him.”

“Stop calling me Claude,” he said irritably. “We’re not friends.”

“I’m sorry… Mr. Boon.”

Reed Scott leaned back again. He made the mistake of looking into Boon’s eyes and wished that he hadn’t. They were the eyes of a killer. There was no empathy there, nothing that suggested that he felt anything. They were a blank mirror. They sent a shiver of discomfort up and down his spine. They made him wonder how many men and women had looked into his eyes, appealing for clemency, right before he dispatched them.

Angola maintained a punishment unit known as Camp J. Scott knew a little about it. The block combined extreme isolation and deprivation. Normal visits were forbidden; prisoners were not allowed any personal items and their meals consisted of a lump of ground-up scraps known as “the loaf.” The unit was plagued by suicide attempts. That was where they had put Boon.

“How are they treating you?”

“Tolerably. This is nothing to what I’ve been used to before. I’ve been in the Bangkok Hilton.” He gestured around the room. “All this? Five-star luxury compared to that.”

“Of course.” He shuffled his papers and then looked around with an exaggerated, knowing motion. The confidentiality between prisoner and attorney was sacrosanct, but he was not naïve enough to think that there was no chance that they were being eavesdropped on.

“Mr. Boon, listen carefully. You have an important hearing tomorrow.”

Boon raised an eyebrow. “What hearing?”

“It’s a preliminary thing. We’re presenting evidence to the judge.”

“When?”

“In the morning.” He steeled himself to look straight into Boon’s eyes, making sure that he understood what he was being told. “You’ll be taken to Baton Rouge by the deputy sheriffs. They’ll move you at eight or nine.” He stared at him and gave a nod. “I’ll see you at the courthouse.”