Hunter (18 page)

LOCATION: UNDISCLOSED

"So, where does this leave me now? Am I to throw myself at the mercy of the Interpol dogs or those fucks in The Hague? A noose is around my neck and the harder I try to tear it off, the tighter it gets!"

Dragoslav Obrenovic's hands were clawing at his own neck, dramatizing the words to their full effect. His eyes were alive with paranoia and betrayal, heightened somewhat by the daily intake of vodka. Cigar smoke sat like a heavy fog above the simmering stench of violence, alcohol and sex that saturated the room.

The Wolf hated coming here.

The man was in obvious decline. Drago's mood was blacker than the eyes in his own portrait. He'd had too much booze and the girls had stayed too long. But they were necessary distractions. Without them the Wolf knew that there would be pointless killing. In his current state of mind, Drago didn't know any other way. One of the girls was already in a bad way from the beating he'd given her. Five more minutes and he probably would have killed her.

"It won't come to that,
sefa,"
replied the Wolf in his deep rumble. He'd already decided his next course of action. He got out of Albania just in time; any longer and he would have been caught up in 
the Interpol raid too. He could almost smell the surveillance that he knew must have been on them while they'd prepared to receive the hostage. A quick alteration to his clothes and a well-timed exit from the apartment building - alongside an unsuspecting woman who had no idea who he was meant that to all intents and purposes he was just an innocent resident leaving the building with his wife. He'd walked out as bold as brass. But, now he had to get back into the game if there was to be any chance of sorting out the mess. "I'll make sure of it."

"Like you made sure of that American slut?" The unexpected accusation was like a gunshot in a confined space. The echo was deafening. "And now they even have her fucking daughter back!"

Despite the vehemence in Drago's voice, to the Wolf, the dank, dark room had lost the trademark menace conjured by the total lack of natural light and the imposing ferocity of the portrait behind the desk, behind the man. Reality was very different to the legend. In many ways, the room had become a manifestation of the man himself. For years Drago reigned on the strength of his reputation, built upon his physical stature and unsurpassed record of brutality. Stories of the great general who had commanded an army, presided over massacres and tortured hundreds of Serbia's enemies breathed life into the myth like a spreading fire. He had become a beacon for the next generation of maladjusted young men looking to vent their rage against a society uninterested in the lack of opportunities it had provided them. Drago gave them their rage, 
nurtured their violence, made them kings, and all he expected in return was uncompromising, unquestioning devotion.

To his army of
Zmajevi,
Drago was general, legend, chief:
sefa.

But over the past year, Drago had seen his closest associates - Mladic and Serifovic - all betrayed, arrested and now rotting in cells in The Hague. Behind it all: the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia and, at its helm, the tribunal's president and presiding judge, Madeline Clancy.

Since Clancy had been elected president of the ICTY by the permanent judges during an extraordinary plenary session in 2010, the pressure had not stopped and Drago's allies had fallen like dominoes. In the eyes of the Wolf, they were all nothing but tired old men, out of touch and too blind to see that the winds of change were now blowing a gale through their dwindling ranks. It was only a matter of time before those winds would be tearing away the past to make way for the future.

While Madeline Clancy had come to epitomize that which Drago feared most, she was the least of Drago's problems. When the old fool finally realized, it would be too late.

The Wolf
was
the future.

"Everything was going to plan with the American when I was on the ground running it. It was only when I handed over to your cousin, Simovic," the Wolf said calmly, referring to the big Serb, "that it all turned to shit. You feel you have to supervise me now with your fucking uncle's son? This is the result."

"You watch your fucking mouth," yelled Drago, 
gesticulating wildly across the desk. "Don't forget who the fuck you are talking to!"

Drago stormed around from his seat toward the Wolf. His eyes blazed with anger and recrimination. Drago Obrenovic was all that remained of the old guard and despite being forced to accept the unwelcome inevitability that the ICTY was closer than ever before to tapping him on the shoulder, he had an obligation to maintain the old ways and control dissidents in the ranks. The Wolf was getting far too big for his boots and the power play had gone on long enough. As far as Drago was concerned, the Wolf was still, and always would be, a subordinate.

"Let me remind you that this was your plan, Wolf. You assured me that the way to keep the ICTY at bay was to attack them. Scare them into submission, you said. Show them real fear. All you have done is stirred the fucking hornet's nest. This is your mess," he said. "And you will clean it up. Where is he now?"

"Simovic?"

Drago nodded.

"I believe he is in custody, probably Belgrade." "What about the other one? That fucking brother of yours," asked Drago with overt contempt.

"The same, I suppose."

Drago was close now, sitting on the front edge of the Alexander Roux desk, intending to intimidate with his size set against the backdrop of the portrait. It wasn't working. The waft of alcohol and body odor was nauseating. The Wolf had known him too long and was immune to the playground theatrics. It seemed that Drago had forgotten who the fuck he was talking to. All the Wolf could see was a sad, fat, 
scared old man who drank too much. His days were numbered. The Wolf would make sure of it.

But he had to do it properly.

To remove Drago right here, right now, would start a war among the factions that would take years to resolve. No, the construct of Drago's downfall had to be smart, surgical and, above all, impossible to trace back to him.

"You must fix this," Drago ordered, poking the Wolf's chest. "You must fix it all, Wolf. That is what I pay you to do. And you have more at stake than just money on this one, I think." Wolf remained silent, ignoring the cheap taunt and the fat, hairy finger waved inches from his face. "I want you to go to America and find this bitch, Clancy, and kill her; kill both of them, the daughter, too. That's the only way to get these fucks off my back."

"Yes,
sefa,"
the Wolf answered.

"You will do this thing for me." Drago did not respond to the acknowledgment. "Because, if you don't, I will kill you."

"Yes,
sefa,"
said the Wolf and he stood, came face to face with Drago, and set his deathly cold gray eyes squarely upon his former mentor. Then he turned and walked out.

Wolf knew what had to be done. If he was to remedy any of this he needed to reinsert himself back into the play. That meant recovering some lost ground and that was going to be tricky. He had survived a long time by layering his plans with as much depth as possible to remain involved but always one step removed from the center of the action. Obviously that was no longer possible.

The Wolf would fix everything, once and for all, 
and he would kill Clancy and the daughter.

But he wouldn't be doing it for Drago.

UN DETENTION UNIT, SCHEVENINGEN, THE HAGUE

Having finished his first meal at Scheveningen, Ivan Simovic, or Detainee 93-96-69 as he was now known, was returning to his room under escort. He intended to watch television for the first time in weeks. The last fortnight had taken their toll. His age was catching up and he was less fit than the old days. It had been a while since he'd been allowed to sleep properly and he was exhausted. They had told him to expect a visit from his appointed defense counsel later that afternoon, and he knew he would need his energy; he had a lot to say.

As the big Serb approached the door to his cell, the detention unit guard dropped back, saying, "Go on by yourself," before walking back to the mess hall. Simovic watched the guard's back as he disappeared along the corridor the way they'd just come. Strange. But he was too weary to question it and lazily headed to his cell.

When he walked in through the open door, he froze.

"How was lunch?" asked a young, fit and familiar-looking man in an expensive suit. He sat on the cell's only chair, legs outstretched across the tiny space, feet resting comfortably on Simovies bed. "Don't be shy, come in."

"What the fuck is this?" said Simovic. "You're that fucking cop. Why aren't you dead?"

"Cop is not entirely accurate, but it'll do for now. As for being dead, well, clearly I'm not."

Alex Morgan removed his legs from the bed and gestured to the big Serb, Simovic, to sit down. The look on Morgan's face made it clear it wasn't a request. Simovic took the remaining few steps necessary to reach the end of the bed and sat down, feet on the floor, hands on his knees, jaw clenched.

"Excellent," said Morgan. "Now, I don't think you've been properly introduced to my colleague."

The presence of the person occupying the doorway was felt before they were seen. Simovic's eyes turned sharply from Morgan and landed upon another man, similarly dressed to the cocky bastard on the chair but this guy filled the doorway.

Hermann Braunschweiger leant against the frame, arms folded and legs crossed at the ankles like he'd been kept waiting for ages. Simovic had no idea where he'd come from. There'd been no-one in the corridor when he'd walked in seconds ago.

"Guten tag,"
offered Braunschweiger.

At the sight of Braunschweiger, the penny dropped. Simovic recalled the feeling of being thrown twelve stories to his death, or so he thought at the time, by a guy the size of a bull elephant. When he'd slammed into the back of the Albanian police van instead, he'd already soiled his pants. His embarrassment in front of the cops had been hard to swallow. "This is harassment!" Simovic hissed. "You're the ones who snatched us from Tirana. You're supposed to turn us in.

"We have turned you in," replied Morgan. "Isn't your accommodation satisfactory?"

"No you didn't, you fucks! You kept me in solitary lockdown, I don't know where, but then I just turn up here this morning and everything's rosy? You're not getting away with it!"

"We have no idea what you're talking about," said Braunschweiger. "My colleague and I arrested you last night in Tirana. Then we brought you straight here and handed you over to the tribunal."

Simovic's eyes blazed as he looked back and forth between the agents for some glimmer of acknowledgment or hint of a ruse. He got nothing.

"That's certainly the way I remember it," said Morgan, then he leant forward and added menacingly, "but, if you'd prefer to be returned to our friends who specialize in looking after people like you for us - you know, spend some more time in a dark room with a bag over your head and white noise pounding in your ears night and day - I'd be happy to arrange it."

"You pieces of shit!" Simovic coughed up phlegm and spat heavily upon the floor at Morgan's feet.

Morgan didn't hesitate. He stepped from the chair, grabbed Simovic by the collar and forced him face down on the floor. Simovic's chest fell upon the thick mess of mucus he'd spat out and Morgan took great delight in pressing the man into it until it was gone. He had Simovic back on the bed in an instant, his tunic smeared with his own spit.

"You're fucked! You're totally fucked!" the big Serb yelled. "You can't do that in here. I've got you now."

"It's funny about that, Mr Simovic," began Morgan, "because people who normally come here are yet to be 
tried by the tribunal and so they're protected by the presumption of innocence. Which makes this place a detention center rather than a prison."

Simovic suddenly lost his confidence. He had no idea what was going on. He looked up at Braunsch-weiger.

"No CCTV cameras," said the Key. "No record of anything that happens in here." With that, Braunsch-weiger eased into the cell and slowly closed the door behind him. He moved toward the big Serb in a manner that told him to shove along. Obediently, Simovic shuffled to his left and the Key sat down next to him.

"Take your shirt off," Morgan ordered.

"What?"

"Perhaps you'd like me to assist you?" Braunsch-weiger offered helpfully.

The big Serb recoiled. He didn't need any more encouragement. Slowly he sat forward, pulled his tunic over his head and tossed it on the bed beside him.

"Just as I thought," Morgan said, extracting a folded piece of A4 paper from the inside pocket of his coat. "Exactly the same as this one." He tossed the paper across to the big Serb.

"It would appear you belong to a very select fraternity, Herr Simovic," said the Key, observing the big Serb's tattoo.

The big Serb bluffed clumsily, trying to regain some ground. "You're wrong. It's just a tattoo I liked when I was young."

"Spare me, Simovic, we're not here for a statement or a confession. We've got everything we need from you already. This visit was to show my friend here your ink. And now we've done that, we'll be leaving"

"What is this?" asked Simovic. "It's some kind of a setup. You guys didn't just come in here to see a fucking tattoo. You're after something and I'm not telling you any fucking thing."

"That tattoo tells us all we need to know," said the Key, pointing at it. "You're a
Zmajeba—a
Dragon. You work for General Dragoslav Obrenovic, an indicted war criminal and fugitive of justice. We also know that you are related to Drago. That makes you even closer. We know that blood ties count for a great deal among your kind. So, the decision has been made. The ICTY has decreed that you are going to be indicted as an accessory to Drago's war crimes. War crimes, Herr Simovic. Do you understand? You will rot in a cell like this for the rest of your days with only your little tattoo there for company. Our job is done."

The big Serb's face dropped. The color ran from his face.

"I'm no war criminal!" he said. "I was just a soldier during the war."

"Just following orders, right?" said Morgan. "That one's been tried before."

"I didn't even know Drago during the war. I got pulled into the business afterward. We're cousins. I needed a job."

"Your family must be very proud of your chosen profession!" Braunschweiger said, then he looked at Morgan. "What do you think?"

"I think he's full of shit. If he tries to con his way out of the war crimes charges to avoid the tribunal then he's likely to only face stock-standard criminal charges for organized crime back in Belgrade. He'd get only five, maybe ten years on criminal charges. That's

getting off too lightly in my book. No, we need to keep him here and make sure he's charged with war crimes alongside his old friend Drago. The ICTY will throw the book at him and, like you said, he'll spend the rest of his miserable days in a cell."

"Yes, of course. You're right,' answered the Key. "Well, that's too bad for you, Herr Simovic. Thank you for showing us your tattoo, anyway. You've helped us in settling our bet. You see, I didn't believe my colleague when he told me that he'd seen the mark of the
Zmajeba."

By now the big Serb could see the rest of his life being flushed down the toilet. He had everything to lose and nothing to gain by sticking his neck out for Drago. He wasn't the one sitting in a cell facing a life behind bars. Who knew, right now Drago was probably covered in whores with his face buried in huge tits. No, Simovic was not taking the fall for anyone.

Especially not Drago Obrenovic.

"What can I do to convince you pieces of shit I'm telling the truth?"