Hunter (26 page)

"Well, XO, I never would have thought to approach

it that way, but it definitely warrants every effort," he said. Davenport would never discourage any avenue of investigation that was based on a reasonable and structured argument. "Let me know when you're leaving, I'll wander around with you and catch up with Commissioner Hutton. It'll do my leg some good to get moving."

Mila Haddad could not have been more pleased with the general's reaction to her theory. She knew that, at his core, he was a man of action who looked for tangible results from his people in all their endeavors. But importantly, she also knew he wasn't closed to any idea that had merit. In fact, she knew that he encouraged everybody in the organisation to think outside the box.

Pleased to be, in a small way, the catalyst of the reinvigorated search for the Wolf, Mila was determined to ensure they left no stone unturned in tracking him down. And, as far as her responsibilities were concerned, she was sure she'd find something that would bring them closer to him. Even if the general did initially think the name angle was a stretch.

As he always said: Sometimes the simplest things were the key to opening the most complex issues.

OFFICE OF THE DISTRICT DIRECTOR
HEADQUARTERS SECURITE PUBLIQUE, MAHDIA, TUNISIA

"Do you realize what you've done?" Hamba barked across the room.

"I thought I was following your orders, sir," answered Youssef honestly. He was shaking with fear.

"My orders, Officer Ali Hassan, were for you to ensure that the transcript of my interview with the foreigner Raoul Demaci was on my desk first thing this morning. Nothing more."

"But it was, sir,' he replied meekly. "I brought it personally at 8am. You weren't here. I sat outside all this time to ensure you received it the moment you returned."

"Don't you dare take that impertinent tone with me, boy!" Hamba bellowed. "I was investigating the brutal murder of one of my officers; killed last night in the hospital room of the man who is the subject of this very transcript."

Hamba had Youssef's transcript in his hand and threw it down upon his desk in exasperation. His shoulders slumped. Turning his back to Youssef, he looked out of the window, lighting a cigarette.

"Now, it appears that Mr Demaci has fled the country." Hamba spoke to the window. "With an accomplice."

Youssef remained absolutely silent.

"Who or what on earth coerced you into dispatching a copy of this report direct to headquarters in Tunis?" Hamba asked tiredly, still facing away from Youssef. "Answer me that, Officer Ali Hassan."

When Hamba turned around, Youssef's face was perplexed. His eyes, mouth, nose and cheeks twitched and squirmed as he tried to comprehend the extent of the grave error of judgment he was being accused of.

"But, I ... I..." he stammered, "I was following protocol."

"What?" demanded Hamba. "What protocol?"

"In accordance with station operating procedures and Securite Publique standing orders, any report submitted directly to a district director must be copied to the chief of staff, care of Headquarters Securite Publique in Tunis, sir,' Youssef answered, searching for reassurance that he had actually done the right thing. "I thought this is what you would have expected."

Protocol.

Hamba took a long draw on the cigarette that was already nearing the end of its short, contemptible life and blew the smoke across the desk at the young, inexperienced officer. He thought about the night he'd been having with the busty divorcee before the peal of his cell phone tore him from her clutches and saw him standing over the bloodied corpse of a dead cop in the room he'd been in just hours before.

He should have immediately looked into this apparent kidnapping of the pianist Fleming. Obviously,

now he knew all about it, knew who she was and that her kidnapping had occurred but, on the orders of Interpol, it had been kept a closely guarded secret. Had Hamba taken the time to actually read the daily operational updates that were disseminated to district directors by headquarters in Tunis, he would have known. But now his desire to avoid ridicule and get to the bottom of the foreigner's story in his own time had cost him dearly. The humiliation was unbearable. His lack of judgment no doubt career ending. He had been summoned to Tunis to explain his actions while this snotty-nosed kid was supposed to be commended for his initiative.

Meanwhile, the lines of communication between his office in Mandia, the Securite Publique headquarters in Tunis, and Interpol headquarters in Lyon were running hot.

For Hamba, hindsight was a cruel mistress.

SUNSET HILL, SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, USA

"So, how long do you think you'll be gone?" asked Charly.

"Only one or two nights, honey. Three, tops," Madeline answered.

"Couldn't I come along?" She really wasn't comfortable about her mother's impending absence, but Charly knew she had to go: Great Aunt Dominique had taken a bad tumble. Now in her late eighties, she was very particular about whom she wanted around her at a time like this. So, childless - she'd never married after the love her of life was killed in action at Normandy - Dominique had called for her favorite niece, Madeline Clancy.

"I don't think that's a good idea, darling," replied Madeline, handing Charly a cup of tea from a freshly brewed pot. "You enjoy some peace and quiet. Besides, you've got your very own US marshals protection detail out there, watching over you 24/7. And you can keep up your sessions," she said. "I'm sure you'll be fine."

"But I thought they'd be going with you?" Sitting at the kitchen table, looking across Puget Sound, Charly suddenly thought of Alex Morgan. She found herself wishing he was around.

"Some will go with me and some will stay here. Don't worry, it's all arranged." Madeline caressed her 
daughter's face the way she had throughout Charly's life whenever her girl needed comforting. Charly tilted her head against her mother's warm hand. "I'm only going to Ellensburg. Two hours' drive, literally down the road. So, not far at all. I'll go down, check on Aunt Dominique and, if need be, I'll get her back into the hospital for proper care. Then I'll be straight back here."

"So, what will I do around here for the weekend?" Charly asked, feigning adolescent obstinacy.

"Play the piano, read a book, get some rest," Madeline replied. "I'm sure you'll think of something. But absolutely no boys!"

They laughed.

There was a knock on the back door. A US marshal was standing there looking in apologetically. Madeline opened it.

"Good morning, Stacey," Madeline said.

"Good morning, Judge," replied the marshal. "Sorry to interrupt. We're all set out here, ma'am. So, whenever you're ready to roll ..."

"Thank you so much," Madeline replied. "I'll be out in a few minutes."

The door closed again, and mother and daughter hugged and said their goodbyes.

As Charly watched her mother disappear to collect her final bits and pieces and heard the front door click shut behind her, she couldn't help but feel anxious at the prospect of being left alone in the house, despite the protection detail.

The big house felt very empty.

OFFICE OF THE COMMISSIONER OF THE METROPOLITAN POLICE
NEW SCOTLAND YARD, BROADWAY, LONDON

"It's good of you to see me, Sinclair;' said Davenport as he entered the office of his old friend. "Thought I'd drop in while my people are downstairs ransacking your database; I realize it's short notice."

"Not at all, Nobby. Glad we could be of assistance," replied Sinclair Hutton, commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. The two men had known each other for many years. They trusted each other implicitly. "I understand they're doing some profiling and looking for particular name references?"

Hutton headed straight for the emergency scotch, as he called it, which he kept discreetly tucked away. It usually came out when Davenport visited. It was well past 7pm anyway.

"Yes, that's right," said Davenport. "Ms Haddad, my executive officer, has a theory. Initially I thought it was a bit thin, but, in light of latest developments and her developing a profile of our principal person of interest, I want her to see it through. It's a strong line of inquiry and working with your people will not only shave hours off the process of trawling the databases,
it will contribute significantly to the profiling work she's commenced."

"I take it this is about Tunisia?"

"You've seen the Interpol Blue Notice, then,' Davenport replied.

"I have."

He handed Davenport a glass and the two of them slumped into lounge chairs away from Hutton's desk. Outside, the early evening had settled in across Westminster and the lights of the city were taking their place in the nightscape. The relative austerity of Hutton's office compared to the warmth of Davenport's was no reflection of the man. It was firstly an inheritance, but also a consequence, of the building's post-war, utilitarian design, which began in the late 1950s and continued into the Sixties, when the old-world traditional architecture of surrounding Westminster was surpassed by the urgent need for functional office space. The straight lines, stainless steel and one-way reflective glass made the New Scotland Yard complex a standout in the area. More obviously, however, it was the simple revolving sign out on Broadway bearing the location's name that had become the real landmark; a beacon of British law enforcement.

"So, how badly is this affecting your operation?" asked Hutton.

"Well, it's not insignificant," the general offered with his trademark understatement.

"And when did it all happen?" While Hutton was aware that Interpol had issued a Blue Notice, he wasn't yet across the details. It simply wasn't a matter for the Metropolitan Police. "All I know, so far, is 
that a Blue Notice has been issued in relation to a Raoul Demaci who, as I recall, was the man kidnapped alongside your goddaughter, Charly. Now I know from our last chat that your men recovered her from Albania, thank God, but this Demaci chap was supposedly still missing. So, if he's been a victim in all this, then why now is there suddenly a Blue Notice out for him?"

Interpol notices were standard fare for Davenport and Hutton. Urgent alerts dispatched to law enforcement agencies around the world, they covered an extensive range of issues and were color coded to instantly alert international authorities to the significance of the subject matter - red, black, blue, yellow, green, orange and purple. The Blue Notice just issued regarding Raoul Demaci meant he was a person of interest urgently wanted in relation to a criminal investigation.

"It all happened yesterday in Tunisia," Davenport began. "From what I can gather, Demaci - who's been missing for weeks now, ever since Charly's kidnapping - appeared out of nowhere at a police station in a small town called El Djem. He told local police his name, that he was a kidnap victim and that he'd been released by his kidnappers just outside the town. He was taken straight to a hospital in Mandia, the closest city, for treatment and observation, where he was eventually interviewed by police."

"How extraordinary," said Hutton.

"It gets better. According to the police report that accompanied the Blue Notice, a police officer who'd been guarding Demaci was killed some time around 5pm yesterday, in the very hospital room where 
Demaci was situated; exactly the same time as it is here in London, by the way. So, a little over twenty-four hours ago. Nobody saw anything and the hospital doesn't even have CCTV, so there's nothing we can check there either. The only thing we do know is that the policeman made an entry in his notebook indicating that Demaci had told the officer he was expecting a visitor, named Dmitri who, surprise, surprise, was expected to arrive around 5pm."

"And then this Demaci chap just vanished again? Without a trace?"

"Correct," said Davenport.

"Whatever became of the police report or the statement Demaci made? Wasn't any of that fed to Interpol?"

"No," Davenport replied. "Apparently the senior officer who questioned him at the hospital - a Colonel Hamba - suspected that Demaci's story didn't add up and decided to sit on it overnight with a plan to resume questioning the next morning; which would have been this morning. A simple tactic, I suppose. If he thought the man was a fake, then he'd want to give Demaci the time to stew and think again about what he was saying, before their interview carried on. However, in the interim, the police officer was murdered and Demaci vanished."

"Do you think Demaci's implicated in the officer's death? I have to say, straight off the bat, it sounds like he may be."

"I'm afraid I have to agree with you, Sinclair, but we've had to look at it from both angles. I mean, for all we currently know, he could have been snatched back."

"It may not have been your Demaci, at all. Have you considered that?"

"The thought had crossed my mind."

"And it's taken twenty-four bloody hours for this critical information to reach you," Hutton noted angrily. He had no involvement in Intrepid's current operations, but he knew and shared the frustration of his friend. It was part of the job.

"Astonishing, isn't it," Davenport said, somewhat despairingly. "I've been trying to speak to both Madeline and Charlotte for the best part of an hour but haven't had any success getting through. Although we've already advised the US marshals who are protecting them both around the clock. They'll advise Charlotte of Mr Demaci's reappearance ... and subsequent disappearance."

"You think he might make contact with Charly?"

"It's hard to say. At this stage, as you've already noted, we're not even sure whether or not he was involved in the murder of the policeman, or if he has once again been taken captive"

"How are Madeline and Charly?" Hutton asked. "I haven't seen them in years."

Hutton had met Madeline, her late husband, Peter, and their daughter, Charlotte, via Davenport many years ago, and their three families had often socialized together while the Flemings were based in England. But as the years passed, Peter had been killed, Nobby had divorced, Charly had gone on to become an international star, and the family get-togethers had sadly become few and far between.

"They're much better now," Davenport replied. "But they've been through a great deal in these past weeks."

"I can only imagine." Hutton took another drink; the scotch bit hard at the back of his throat. He changed tack. "Now, tell me about this theory of your XO's that necessitates you and your people storming into the Yard and ransacking my world-renowned database."

"Well, it's quite interesting," Davenport began. "My XO, Ms Haddad, actually began unraveling all of this when she identified - within the pages of my notes from the war, mind you - a Serbian enforcer known only as the Wolf. His name is Vukasin Petrovic and, as the Wolf, he is now one of only two outstanding fugitives of the ICTY remaining in our sights. The other one, of course, being Drago Obrenovic."

"Big fish, indeed," Hutton said.

"For years, dating back to the Balkans War, Petro-vic has been known in the underworld as the Wolf." Davenport finished his drink and shook the empty glass at Hutton who, as any genuine friend would, rectified the crisis immediately. "Now, based on her profiling of Vukasin Petrovic, Ms Haddad's theory is that for a variety of reasons, the man would be inclined to stick with aliases that also mean wolf."

"It's quite a stretch, Nobby," Hutton scoffed.

"Less than an hour ago, I would have been in total agreement with you, Sinclair," Davenport replied. "However, her explanation of it in terms of his criminal psychological profile converted me and that is the element I expect she is discussing with your people right now. But it doesn't end there."

"I'm listening;' said Hutton.

"Just minutes before we left the office to come here, the news of this Raoul Demaci debacle finally reached

us from Tunisia in the form of the Blue Notice. She immediately checked the meaning of the name Raoul; a curiosity, more than anything—"

"Don't tell me," said Hutton.

"Raoul happens to be an old French form of the German
Radulf
meaning wise wolf."

"Bloody hell," he said. "So, what does she hope to achieve by trawling our databases?"

"She's narrowed down our search parameters to focus on airline passenger manifests of flights that left Tunisia over the past twenty-four hours, looking for male passengers with any names that could even remotely be associated in meaning with wolf."

"I can see where she's going but it's still a bloody long shot, Nobby."

"It's all we've got, Sinclair."