Headhunters (38 page)

He hoped so.

AVI BACHMAN hired a car from the Hertz desk and set off for Dubrovnik. He drove carefully, below the speed limit. There was no rush. Milton was waiting for him. And haste would get him killed.

He glanced up in the rear-view mirror. A car was approaching recklessly fast. He tightened his grip on the wheel and watched. He was just outside the town of Slano, halfway between Split and Dubrovnik. It was a three-lane highway here: one lane either way, with a third that alternated between northbound and southbound traffic. This stretch of the road offered southbound traffic only on the single carriageway, with two lanes heading north. There was a reasonable number of cars and trucks proceeding in both directions.

The car was an SUV. It closed up to within twenty feet. Bachman looked in the mirror, frowned, and checked for a second time. His face broke into a grin of surprise as he realised that he knew the driver. The SUV swerved out from behind him and passed, just barely merging into the correct lane again before a big eighteen-wheel rig thundered by, its air horn blaring in annoyance.

Ziggy Penn.

What?

Bachman remembered him from New Orleans. He had kidnapped him during Mardi Gras and used him to lure Milton out to the abandoned amusement park where he had meant to kill him. They had spent long enough together for Bachman to extract the information he needed to understand his role in that unfortunate situation, and, now that he saw him again, he was able to make an educated guess as to what had happened to Victor Blum’s support. Penn was a hacker.

Bachman had been sure that Milton would send him and the girl away.

What was he doing still here?

Penn and the girl were distractions. They could easily become leverage.

Bachman had dropped the white diplomatic sack onto the passenger seat next to him. He reached over, driving with one hand as he used the other to unfasten the padlock and draw open the mouth of the sack. Inside it was a Glock 9mm and a box of ammunition. He put the pistol on the seat and covered it with the bag.

He looked ahead again. Penn was accelerating away from him. The road was open, the traffic a little more sparse, and Bachman slowly increased the pressure on the gas and picked up speed himself. He would stay a quarter of a mile back. He didn’t need to be closer.

He knew where Penn was going.

ZIGGY PULLED over before the bus turned into the station and waited. It was busier than when they had taken it earlier, and he watched a dozen people disembark before he saw Matilda get off. She paused on the pavement, looking left and right, a little perplexed. She was looking for a taxi. He put the car into gear and drove ahead slowly until he was close enough to wind down the window and call out.

She turned. He realised, as soon as he spoke, that a sudden address like that might frighten her, especially given the circumstances, but the alarm on her face evaporated quickly as she recognised him.

“Shit,” she said. “You made me jump.”

“Sorry.”

“I thought you were leaving?”

“Changed my mind,” he said. “You were right. I just missed you at the station, so I drove.”

She came closer to the car. “You don’t have to be here. You didn’t want to.”

“I know I don’t, and I didn’t. And, for the record, I still think it’s crazy. I still think Milton can look after himself.”

“So?”

“So maybe you’re right. I can’t just leave like this.”

She nodded. “You know the stupid thing? I’ve been doubting myself the whole way. I don’t even know where the villa is. I only realised when I was on the bus. I was just going to ask around.”

“Have you called him?”

“I don’t have his address or his number,” she said. “Have you?”

“I thought about it, but I know what he’ll say.”

“That we shouldn’t come.”

Ziggy nodded. “We might as well just go to the villa. We can talk to him there. Get in. I’ll drive you.”

MILTON WAS watching the front of the house when the security lights at the end of the drive flicked on. He saw the car turn off the road, heard the crunch of the gravel as it rolled towards the villa. He took his binoculars and focused on the car.

Two people.

He gritted his teeth in frustration.

Matilda and Ziggy.

He had told them to leave. He had been very clear about it. He didn’t want them here. He didn’t
need
them here. They would make things much more complicated.

He turned back to the room. Shavit was asleep in his chair, the duct tape still secure around his wrists and ankles.

Milton stayed at the window, standing to the side so that he presented the smallest possible target should Bachman be out there with a long gun. He stared out into the darkness beyond the car. There was an outside chance that they were being followed, but the approach was much too dense and gloomy for Milton to be able to see if anyone was sheltering within the margin of the trees. The car stopped next to the Jaguar and Range Rover that had been there before.

Nothing happened. The two of them stayed in the car. It was below Milton now, and the angle made it impossible for him to see in through the windshield, but there was no movement.

And then the doors opened.

Ziggy came out of the driver’s door first. Milton was looking down on him and he couldn’t see his face. He could see, though, that something was amiss. Ziggy stayed close to the car, looking back inside. His body language was wrong, too. Defensive. Unsettled.

The passenger’s door opened and, at the same time, the door behind it.

Milton felt sick.

Matilda got out.

Avi Bachman stepped out behind her.

He had a pistol in his right hand. It was pointed at Matilda and, as she hesitated, he came close to her and pressed it into the small of her back.

Bachman put a hand on Matilda’s shoulder and drew her back so that he could look up at the house.

“Milton!” he called.

Milton gritted his teeth in frustration.

“Milton! I know you’re in there.”

Bachman moved Ziggy around the car so that the three of them were closer together. He stood behind them both, using them as a shield.

He clenched his fist and drummed it against his thigh.

“You have a problem?” Shavit said. Milton had removed the tape and now he wished he hadn’t. There was a mocking tone to the old man’s voice.

“Be quiet.”

Milton hurried over and collected the shotgun from where he had propped it against his chair.

“Avi is too good for you. I told you.”

“And I told you to be quiet. Don’t make me tell you again.”

“Or what? You’ll shoot me? I don’t think so, Mr. Milton. You need me.”

He went back to the window, flicked the latch and pushed it open.

“I’m here, Bachman,” he called down.

“My friend?”

“He’s fine.”

Milton looked down. The security floodlights lit up the area with the parked cars. Matilda and Ziggy were both looking up at him, their faces pale with fright.

“Let me talk to him.”

Milton stepped back and looked at Shavit.

“Kill them and go, Avi!” the old man shouted, his voice an angry rasp. “Don’t worry about me.”

Milton went over to Shavit, reversed the shotgun and drilled the butt into his unprotected gut. Shavit gasped and wheezed as the air was punched out of his lungs.

AVI BACHMAN led them around the side of the house. His left hand grasped the girl around the shoulder to keep her close. The pistol in his right hand was pressed tight against her spine.

He had watched as Ziggy Penn had collected Matilda Douglas at the bus station. He had followed them as they drove out of town and forced them off the road when the moment presented itself.

He had them both now.

Penn would have been a good enough prize, but the girl was a bonus. He thought about her. Milton and Matilda had been travelling together when the Rabins had picked him up. What was she? Was she significant to him? Milton denied it, but Bachman didn’t believe him. There was something between them. A vulnerability that he would be able to exploit.

“Keep walking,” he said in a calm, quiet voice. “Around the back.”

Penn was frightened. Bachman could see it in the way that his hands were trembling. It wasn’t an unreasonable reaction. Penn knew what Bachman was capable of doing. The girl had more about her. She had held his eye with a steady glare when he had stepped out of his car with the pistol raised, but she was scared, too.

They were right to be scared. He would kill them both before the night was out.

They skirted the edge of the house and reached the grounds at the rear. They were now on the second terrace. There was one above that and one below. He could hear the waves crashing against the rock face and he could taste the salt on his tongue. He removed his hand from the girl’s shoulder and angled her to her right, pointing her toward the stone stairs that led to the terrace above them, and, eventually, to the balcony and the French doors that would open into the kitchen.

Bachman told Penn to go first while he and the girl trailed behind, his gun held in a relaxed and comfortable grip.

MILTON HAD OPENED the door so that Bachman, Ziggy and Matilda could come inside. Ziggy entered first, a look of bloodless terror on his face. Matilda followed, her own face written over with anger and a warning in her eyes. Bachman came through the door last of all.

Milton quickly placed everything, fixing the five of them according to their positions in the room. He was at the rear, his back to the front of the house, facing them and the balcony and then the sea beyond. Five feet away from him and to his left, sitting in the armchair with his back to the wall, was Shavit. Milton held the old man’s shotgun in a loose, comfortable grip, aiming it squarely at the old man. Milton was so close that he couldn’t possibly miss. Between Shavit and the opposite side of the room was Ziggy, and just behind him was Matilda. Bachman was behind them, covering them both with his pistol.

“Hello, John,” Bachman said.

“Avi.”

Milton smiled. “On your own?”

“What do you mean?”

“No Mossad backup tonight?”

Bachman chuckled. “Ah, yes. That’s right. That was a clever trick. Did you see Victor Blum?”

“I did.”

“How did you do it?”

“You have information he thinks could be damaging to the agency. I do, too. And mine is more damaging than yours.”

Bachman nodded at Ziggy. “Your friend here is very clever.”

“He is, but none of that really matters, does it? I thought it would be better just the two of us.”

“But it’s not just us, is it? You have my friend, I have yours.”

“I’ll trade him for them.”

“Shoot him, Avi,” the old man said.

“Be quiet.” Milton kept the shotgun levelled, but he didn’t take his eyes from Bachman.

“Looks like we have a stand-off, John.”

“Maybe.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“I know there’s no point in talking to you.”

Bachman shook his head. “I think we’re past talking, John.”

“So do I.”

Bachman took a step forward so that he was closer to Ziggy. He shoved him in the back and Ziggy stumbled ahead, limping on his bad leg.

Bachman pointed the gun away from Matilda and aimed it at Ziggy.

“There are too many of us here. I’ve got her,” he said, nodding at Matilda, “and she means more to you. I don’t need both of them. Easier if there’s just the four of us.”

“Avi—”

Milton saw his arm stiffen as he prepared to fire.

MATILDA FELT the absence of the pressure that had been between her shoulder blades. She could still feel the malign presence of Avi Bachman behind her, but the gun was gone. She watched Milton’s face.

She turned her head. Ziggy stumbled ahead of her. Bachman had pushed him. She caught the flash of movement in the corner of her eye.

“Easier if there’s just the four of us.”

Milton’s face changed. Impassiveness to fear.

Bachman stepped up. She could see his arm. She could see the pistol. It was aimed at Ziggy.

Milton took a step ahead. “Avi—”

Matilda launched herself to the side, clattering into Bachman. She caught his wrist with her right hand and tried to force it out of the way.

The gun fired.

THE PISTOL was suppressed, but the pop of the gun was still horribly loud. Matilda had ruined Bachman’s aim and, instead of the head shot he had planned, the bullet went low and caught Ziggy in the back of the knee. It was his bad leg, the left. He yelped in sudden pain as the leg collapsed and he toppled to the floor.

Matilda had her right hand around Bachman’s wrist and she reached around with her left to claw for his face. Her nails found the fleshy part of his cheek and gouged down, three red stripes that immediately welled with blood. The blast of pain loosened his grip on the pistol and, as he reflexively reached up to protect his face, he dropped it. Matilda grabbed onto him, reaching for his eyes this time. Bachman had been unseated by the surprise of it the first time, but now he was ready. She had no chance. He instinctively planted his foot to correct his balance, ducked his shoulder into her body, and shrugged her away.

Milton didn’t have a clean shot. The shotgun spread would hit Ziggy and Matilda. He would kill them both.

Bachman pushed Matilda away and, taking advantage of the gap that had opened up between them, he lashed out, striking her in the side of the head. She staggered into the kitchen counter, shattering a small glass bowl as she fell to the floor, unconscious.

Still in the line of fire.

Milton couldn’t shoot.

The effort of striking her had temporarily unbalanced Bachman.

Milton took advantage.

He charged.

ZIGGY PENN heard someone screaming, terribly loud, and wondered who it was—until he realised that it was him. It felt as if someone had slid a red-hot poker into his knee, the burning point probing and prodding into the ligaments, scorching soft flesh, rubbing up against bone. He blinked furiously, trying to clear the curtain of white from his vision, and, when he was able to see again, he saw Matilda on the floor. She was lying on her side, close enough for him to reach out and touch, her eyes closed and a vivid purple welt discolouring her temple.