Names of the Dead E-Book

Mark Leggatt

• Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 472

Beschreibung

Connor Montrose is running for his life. All that he held dear has been ripped away. Every Western intelligence agency and all the police forces of Europe are looking for him, with orders to shoot on sight. The only man who can prove his innocence, is the man that most wants him dead. Only one woman, a Mossad sleeper in Paris, will stand by his side.With her help, he must now turn and fight. His journey of evasion and revenge take him from hidden Holocaust bank vaults in Zurich, to the stinking sewers of Paris and dust-choked souks of Morocco. Finally, in the back streets of Tehran, under the gaze of the Ayatollahs, he has the chance to end it, as it began. In blood. This gripping high concept thriller will delight fans of Lee Child and James Patterson.

Leseprobe

Names of the Dead

Mark Leggatt

Pour Caroline

CHAPTER 1

This is it. Right here.

Beyond the lights, the traffic on the Via Crescenzio streamed past. The evening rush hour in Rome was easing. Montrose edged the hood of the car closer to the rear of the Mercedes, and watched the exhaust smoke curl up over the lip, then lifted his head and stared through the windshield.

The men in the front of the Mercedes sat motionless, facing the line of cars, waiting for the lights.

He shifted in the seat where the Glock was wedged under his groin. The stench of the exhaust from the Mercedes drifted into the Fiat. To his left he saw a side street before the junction. The line of traffic shuffled towards the lights. The Mercedes crawled forward.

He slid the Fiat close behind until he was level with the side street then wound the steering around until the wheels pointed left. Badly parked cars lined the street.

The lights changed to red. The Mercedes rolled a few yards, closing up to the line in front.

They could be through the lights on the next sequence. And then they’re gone. He rubbed his eyes. The red traffic light seemed to burn into his retina. He wiped his palms on his jeans until the skin began to burn, then pulled the Glock from between his legs and hauled back the slide to chamber a round.

The Mercedes drew to a car length from the Fiat.

Where are they going? He stuck his head out of the window and saw a drop in the curb, just before a hotel on the corner. The foyer came into view, with several limos parked outside. That’s it. That’s where it’s going down.

The Mercedes pulled in and stopped behind a limo, the rear of the car jutting out onto the road.

The skinny tires squealed as he spun the Fiat right and pulled past, running the lights. As soon as the foyer was out of view he swerved onto a crosswalk and brought the Fiat to a halt then hit the hazard lights. Tucking the Glock deeper into his sweatshirt pocket, he jumped out and headed for the hotel. Slow down. This isn’t a bust.

At the entrance of the hotel the Mercedes edged forward as the limo pulled away. The two men got out and the doorman stepped towards them. The driver tried to hand him the key, but the doorman nodded to a bellboy.

The driver stood for a moment as the doorman tried to explain. Montrose headed for the doorway. Sweatshirt and jeans in a fancy hotel. Yeah, looking good. Wear the face. Sticking his chin out, he nodded to the concierge as he entered, “Good evening.” He didn’t wait for a reply and headed over to a large board showing the dinner menu.

With his back to the foyer, he pulled out his iPhone then reversed the camera. The recording icon flashed red. He twisted it in his hand until the screen showed the front door and he watched the two men stride through the lobby. They’re not going to the desk. This ain’t no vacation. They have a meeting. This is where it happens. And I’m right here.

The two men ignored the main elevators and walked straight to a single elevator at the side of the foyer. One man took out a piece of paper, and slowly typed into a keypad at the side of the door.

Top right, top left and two at the bottom. Got it.

The two men stepped into the elevator.

Do the right thing. He held the phone in his hand. Call it in. As he turned, the elevator door was closing. Jeez, it could be all over by the time the cavalry get here. Langley must have a team in Rome. Or Interpol can call in the Italian cops. And do what?

Weaving past a businessman and a wheeled suitcase, he stepped over to the elevator. Cops need a search warrant. And if the main man is up there, he’s probably bought them off. Yeah, this is Rome. But I could check it out. Get a face. The one that’s buying all the shit.

Lifting a finger to the keypad of the elevator, he traced the number in the air then turned away. No, that’s a crap idea.

He stood in the middle of the foyer. You don’t know what’s up there. He twisted his shoulders and stared at the elevator door. And all you’ve got is a bad attitude and a 9mm.

CHAPTER 2

Particles of dust danced in the air as they crossed a pencil-thin shaft of light, streaming through a gap in the shutters holding back the morning sun that had baked Rome for weeks. The hum of the traffic around the Coliseum drifted into the room.

Control your breathing. Montrose caught the scent of old wood and paper in the dry air. Relax. Give nothing away. You did the right thing. The forensics in the hotel will back you up. For a moment he remembered standing in front of the school principal. For smoking? Some crap like that. Though this time it’s gonna be more than detention.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Montrose tried to read the old guy’s expression, but the face was tighter than a Puritan’s collar. Sure, you party with a 9 mm Glock and you win a free trip to the shrink every time. “Yeah, I know.”

The old guy slid a pair of half-moon spectacles onto his nose then opened a buff folder on his desk. “My name is Doctor Richmond. Following the events of last night, I have been assigned by the CIA in Rome to assess the results of your psychological examination. Standard procedure.”

To his right a desk fan slowly rotated, gently stirring the warm air. Montrose resisted the urge to loosen his tie. Just play the game. His mouth began to dry, and he imagined an ice-cold Pepsi from the gelato vendor he had passed on the way in. Tell them what they need to know. That’s all.

Richmond pulled the papers from the folder and spread them across the desk. “CIA Technology Support in Langley. Then an incident where you exceeded your system security level. After which, you were downgraded and seconded to Interpol for six months.” He pursed his lips. “And now this. Very interesting. Professionally speaking, of course.”

Montrose scratched his ear. Yeah, and you’re a real pain in the ass, professionally speaking.

“So, why Interpol?”

“I majored in Languages and Technology. Interpol were looking for a Technical Liaison officer. I assist on cases and report back to Langley.”

“And your role on this particular mission was to provide technical support. What is that?”

“Face recognition software, tracking, bugging, and accessing computer systems.”

Richmond glanced at the screen for a moment. “Why were you issued a weapon?”

“I’m weapons trained. If I think I need one, I draw a weapon.”

“Did Interpol issue you one, or did you request it?”

What the hell does it matter? “I requested it.”

“And is there any operation you have been on where you have not requested a weapon?”

“I’ve got no idea. Maybe.” Stupid question.

Richmond nodded slowly then began tapping on his keyboard.

What are you writing? “Look, this wasn’t a stakeout, sitting in a van with fat guys wearing headphones and eating pizza. We were in Indian country.” You were justified. 100%. Don’t make it sound like an excuse.

“Naples?”

“Yeah. Where Mr. Cosa Nostra lives, you know? The nice old Italian guy that sells drugs to half the kids in Europe.”

“I am aware of the Cosa Nostra’s activities, Mr. Montrose. I have lived in Italy for over twenty years.”

“Well, you haven’t lost your accent.” You’re still an Ivy League asshole.

“Let’s talk about the incident in Langley. You were disciplined for accessing a restricted database.”

It wasn’t restricted. The firewall was wide open.

“A database containing a record of private jet flight records. Is that correct?”

Montrose licked his dry lips and wiped the sweat from his cheeks. “If you know that, why are you asking me? What are you driving at?”

“We’re here to examine your intentions, Mr. Montrose, not mine. I want to hear it from you.”

“Hey, if you know that then it’s no secret. Yeah, I was looking at flight records. And I came across something I shouldn’t have seen.”

“Assuming this was highly confidential information, and considering the reason we are here today, was there anything in the nature of the flights you discovered that I should perhaps know about?”

Oh yeah, you should know about it. But you won’t hear it from me. “Nah. Routine stuff. They just didn’t like me sticking my nose into their database.” You’re getting clumsy, my friend. You just want to know if I’m gonna tell anybody. That ain’t gonna happen.

“These private jets you were looking for . . .”

He folded his arms.

“ . . . they were centered on flights to one particular country, am I correct?”

Montrose shrugged. “What can I say? It’s confidential.”

Richmond squinted down at a printout. The spectacles slipped down his nose as he looked up. “You didn’t blink.”

“I fired my weapon in self-defense. It’s what I’m trained to do.”

“Self-defense, yes. We’ll come to that later. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

He watched Richmond draw his finger over a row of figures.

“In one of the psychometric tests this morning, we showed you photos of atrocities. Women and children butchered. Unbelievable carnage from every corner of the globe.”

The way of the world. The way it’s always been. “How could I forget?”

“According to these figures, you showed a slight increase in heart rate and blood pressure. All normal reactions.”

Five shots of espresso always do the trick.

“But you didn’t blink.”

Montrose shifted in his seat.

“Everybody blinks faster.” Richmond ran his finger down a column on the report. “It’s a normal reaction. The higher the stress, the higher the blink rate. But not you.” He looked up. “Why?”

“Maybe I’m professionally detached. Might be Post Traumatic Stress.”

“Might be. But this concerns last night. It’s a bit soon for PTS. Do you feel traumatized?”

I couldn’t give a damn. “I’m not sure how I feel.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here to find out.”

Yeah, find out if I’m nuttier than squirrel shit.

Richmond rolled a pen between his thumb and forefinger. “Tell me, why were you in the hotel?”

Montrose cleared his throat. “That’s where the suspects led me. I was right behind them.”

“All the way from Naples?” Richmond glanced up at a yellowing map of Italy framed on the wall. “That’s about a hundred and fifty miles. All the way to the hotel?”

“All roads lead to Rome.” Two hours in a one-liter Fiat, trying to tail a Mercedes. I can still hear the engine screaming in my ear.

“You could have handed this to the Italian police at any time. What made these two suspects so special?”

“You want to know?” Montrose pushed himself up in the chair. “For the past four months the deaths of heroin addicts in Italy have skyrocketed. All from accidental overdoses. Someone is bringing in a ton of very high-grade heroin into Italy and dumping it on the market. Interpol suspected Naples. They were right on the money.”

“Pure heroin?”

“Pretty much. The Mafia cut it down, but not enough. It’s a damn sight purer than the shit they usually deal with. It has to be someone new to the market. And it has to be through Naples.”

“Naples is not the only port in the Mediterranean, Mr. Montrose. The heroin could be coming from anywhere.”

“Have you ever been to Naples?”

“Of course, but . . .”

“Naples docks are over two hundred acres, spread along the coast. At the last official count seventy per cent of cargo that goes through the port is unchecked. One hundred and fifty thousand containers pass through the docks every year. It takes about thirty minutes from a ship docking to a rig and container hitting the interstate. And they’re gone. All over Europe.” Montrose sat back in his chair. “And tracking the containers? We haven’t got a chance. The Mafia have got the place running like clockwork. The guys we found were Pakistani organized crime. Very organized.”

Richmond held out his hands. “This is all fascinating, Mr. Montrose, but it is difficult to say that it is anything other than complete conjecture.”

Montrose tapped his forehead. “Think like a cop. The only place that kinda heroin could come from is the Golden Crescent, and that’s Pakistan or Afghanistan. These guys were watching a container ship. Intelligence confirmed a ship was due to dock. The last port of call was Port Bin Qasim. In Pakistan.”

“A container full of heroin? That seems a major risk, Mr. Montrose. All your eggs in one basket. Would they risk losing it all?”

Montrose looked down and shook his head. “Not in Naples. Besides, they’re experts in risk management. And logistics. Pakistani heroin normally follows the ancient Silk Road, through Russia then into Turkey. But it’s thousands of miles over rough terrain. It gets cut down along the way to make a few bucks more. It never arrives pure. Even if it comes through Iran, and they’re closing down the routes. The smugglers the Iranians catch are dangling from a crane by the end of the day. The Ayatollahs are doing something right. But by container ship, it can be right in the heart of Europe in a week. So we waited, and watched.”

“Indeed. Were watching them is what I was told. Past tense. The surveillance operation was cancelled.”

“Yeah.” At the last minute.

“I understand that your superiors in Interpol were unimpressed with your lack of results.”

Superiors? More like weasels in suits. “That’s what I heard.”

“My notes tell me that the order to cancel the surveillance operation caused a serious disagreement with your boss, Jack Morgan.”

Who’s been telling tales? “Sure. We spent eight weeks in a two room apartment, breathing in our own stink, and then they pull the op when we’re close to a result.”

“He sees it somewhat differently. You refused to cancel the operation.”

“I was making my thoughts known. And yeah, in no uncertain terms.”

“The conversation is described as ‘intense’.”

“Just blowing off steam. Morgan knows that.”

“And did you at any point intimate that you were ‘going to sort it out yourself’?”

Has he got this verbatim?“I wasn’t being serious. Things said in the heat of the moment, you know. I was pretty pissed off. So were the team. What can you do?”

“But the team went home, Mr. Montrose. That is the difference.”

“Hey, I’m CIA, not some flatfoot from Interpol. What I do makes a difference. There are people on the streets, or kids in school, who won’t be able to get their hands on the shit those guys are selling. That’s the difference.” He realized he was jabbing his finger at Richmond. Ah, what the hell. I’ve had enough of this crap. Get the message. “Sometimes people die. And you know what? The world is a better place.”

“And you have no regrets?”

Montrose turned away for a moment and blinked as his eye caught a sliver of sunshine from the window shutters. It’s a beautiful day. He rubbed his forehead, exhaling through his nose. “First phrase I ever learned in French. Je ne regrette rien.”

“Indeed.”

“Shit happens. Game over.”

Richmond folded his hands together as if in prayer, then rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. His cell phone buzzed on his desk and a text message flashed on the screen. He scanned it for a moment then picked up his pen. “You’ll excuse me for a moment while I make some notes?” Richmond began to write in a slow, fluent manner at the bottom of a page. He looked up. “Mr. Montrose, I want you to think very carefully about what happened in the hotel. This game is far from over.”

A surge of adrenalin made his neck stiffen and before he could stop himself, he brought up a hand to rub the back of his head. He could still smell the acrid tang of cordite on his hands. No. It ended in the hotel. A dead end. But not for me.

The elevator doors had closed by the time he turned around. A faint whine came from above when the motors engaged, but the movement was barely perceptible. In front was a black panel where the buttons should have been.

Montrose pushed his hands through his hair and looked up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his own breathing. The muscles were tight in his chest and he threw his shoulders back then rummaged in his pocket for the Interpol ID. A camera blinked above the door. That ain’t good.

The Glock hung heavy in his pocket as he shoved his hand into the sweatshirt and wrapped it around the pistol grip. I come in peace. He thumbed off the safety. Mostly.

A loud ping rang in his ears and his hand trembled on the Glock. The elevator bumped to a halt and the doors slid open.

Facing him was a full length mirror, built into the corridor wall. He stood, gazing at his reflection. Boots, jeans, a grubby sweatshirt. I look like a hood. Or a cop. The doors began to close and he stuck his boot into the gap. The doors clattered into his boot then slammed back. He stepped forward. Oh yeah, fucking good entrance.

He began to pull the ID free from his pocket. A movement to the left caught his eye.

A man came around a corner and stopped dead. His mouth dropped open.

Who the fu . . .?

The man’s face twitched and he looked past Montrose, down the corridor.

Montrose turned and saw one of the Pakistanis, eyes wide open, staring at the shape of the Glock through his sweatshirt pocket. Shit.

The elevator door closed.

The Pakistani’s hand dived into his jacket and brought up the butt of a machine pistol. The cocking handle caught against his shirt and he tried to wrestle it free.

Shit shit shit! Montrose tried to take out his ID, but it flew from his hand and bounced across the corridor.

The Pakistani tugged his pistol free and racked back the cocking handle.

Montrose dived to the floor, pulled out the Glock and snatched at the trigger. The butt of the gun bounced on the carpet and the first round flew wild, splintering the Pakistani’s shin.

The machine pistol waved wildly in the Pakistani’s hands as he roared and stumbled against the wall then leveled the stubby barrel towards the floor.

Montrose pushed his arms forward and pulled the trigger twice.

The rounds burst into the Pakistani’s chest. He flew backwards, his hand tight on the trigger as he emptied the magazine into the roof.

The second Pakistani lifted his hands.

Montrose jerked the sights of the Glock to the right and fired. The round left a neat hole in the Pakistani’s face as a gout of blood blasted out behind him and shards of bone punctured the wall.

The other guy. A shrill whine pierced his ears as he tried to roll over, but his arms were locked, stretched out in front of him. Curling into a ball, he tumbled to the side and twisted his shoulders.

There was no one there.

He spun back and watched a cloud of plaster drift down, settling into a pink scum on the pool of blood. The voice of a man screamed in his head. He realized it was his own.

CHAPTER 3

“Take me back to Naples, Mr. Montrose. You continued the surveillance alone. Why?”

Man, change the record. “Why not? It was Friday night. The Interpol guys went home to Lyon. We had the apartment for another month. I had nothing else to do that weekend.”

“I take it your superiors in both the CIA and Interpol were unaware of this?”

“What do you mean?” Montrose let his hands consciously droop over the edge of the armrests.

“Interpol in Lyon tell me you’re supposed to be on vacation. In fact, they strongly recommended you take some time off.”

“I cancelled.”

“Not according to them.”

“I didn’t get around to telling them. Anyway, it was on my own time. Going the extra mile, you know?” Don’t fold your arms.

“Let’s be very clear, they ordered you to end the surveillance and take a vacation.”

“Well, I just decided to hang on a bit.”

“For two days. And what did you see, Mr. Montrose, that led us here today?”

A couple of crims waiting for their boat to come in. “Two guys in fancy suits. Pakistani or Pashtun. You can’t walk about the docks without knowing someone. They were allowed in. Then they met a guy walking from the truck park.”

“Did you report this?”

“No, I was off the case.”

“You didn’t follow them?”

“On foot against three guys, in two different directions? I’m not Jack Bauer.” That was a joke, tightass.

“Then who did you follow?”

“The suits. There were maybe two hundred rigs parked up. Coming and going all the time. So I tagged the suits.”

“Did you then inform your superiors?”

Where’s he going with this? “No, like I say, I was on my own time. Just to satisfy my curiosity, you know?”

“Or perhaps you realized you would have been disciplined for disobeying orders?”

Montrose tried to shrug, but it came across as if he’d been poked in the eye. “Maybe. But Interpol don’t pay my wages.” Jeez, stay still.

Richmond seemed to consider this for a moment, nodding almost imperceptibly. “So you followed them to the hotel.”

“They went straight there.”

“Even at this point, you didn’t think to inform Interpol? Or the CIA?”

“All I had was two suspects.”

“Yes, the suspects. One man with two rounds to the chest.” Richmond checked his cell phone. “The other with a round to the head. One of whom is now dead.”

Yeah, dead. Unless he’s a freakin’ vampire. “He was the last time I saw him.” He looked down at Richmond’s cell phone and felt the skin tighten across his scalp. “What do you mean one dead?”

Richmond nodded slowly. “It seems one of the men is still with us, though the prognosis is poor.”

“Who?”

“The man you shot in the face.”

Montrose felt his mouth drop open. “No, he couldn’t survive that . . . head wound.” I saw parts of his skull spray across the corridor.

“It seems the bullet entered the cheekbone and passed under the cerebellum, then blew out a large hole behind his ear.”

“Cerebellum? Are you saying I missed his fucking brain?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but that certainly seems to be the case.”

Holy shit. “Can he talk?”

Richmond tapped the pen against his lips.

I am so gonna shove that pen right up your . . .

“Would that be a good thing, Mr. Montrose? If he could talk?”

You piece of . . . “Yeah. That would be a good thing. Especially before a judge.”

“It’s not for me to deal with the legal fallout, so we’ll skip that particular problem.”

That interview was next. Some internal affairs lawyer looking to tear my balls off. It would make an interview with a psychiatrist look like a clumsy speed date.

“Three weeks in an apartment overlooking the docks,” said Richmond. “That’s a pretty boring job, no?”

Montrose blinked. He’splaying the game. Stay with him. The guy with the hole in his head can wait. “Well, not recently.” Wise-ass.

Richmond’s face betrayed no emotion. “You’re an IT specialist, basic training as an agent, and yet they keep you busy on stakeouts. Why is that?”

Wasn’t much goddam’ choice. “Maybe my boss doesn’t like me.”

“Perhaps.” Richmond flicked through some papers then pushed on his spectacles. “Or is it because they thought you may be emotionally unstable after your recent bereavement?”

Montrose heard the blood pumping in his ears. He knows what he’s doing. He wiped his damp hands on his suit. The heavy wool was fine for Lyon, but it was damn hot for Rome. Relax. Don’t let him get to you. Everything I do, everything I say, this guy can read like a book. “I’m a professional. I was given the job, just like any other.”

“Really?” Richmond leaned forward on the desk. The spectacles slipped down his nose. “You’re sure you had no say in the matter?”

What the hell does he mean by that? Montrose tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. “Maybe. I don’t recall.” He had an urge to rip the spectacles from Richmond’s face and smash them into pieces. Be cool. Go along with the ride. He’ll get tired before you do.

Richmond filed the sheet of paper back into the folder. “You followed the two suspects into a palazzo. The Hotel Versailles. Is that standard operating procedure?” He tapped the folder with the leg of the spectacles.

Montrose shrugged. “Sure. I wanted to know what they were up to.” Could I kill a man with his own spectacles? Got to be a first.

Richmond flicked through the papers until he found the one he wanted. “Then you took the elevator.”

“Yeah.”

“When you stopped at the Executive Suite did you have your weapon ready?”

You mean was I going to kill them? “No. I did not.”

“At exactly what point did you draw your weapon?”

“When one of the goons drew out a machine pistol. The elevator door closed behind me. I had no choice.”

“Did these men identify you as a CIA agent?”

“I was wearing a hood. It was raining.” Was it raining?

“They may have taken you for a terrorist.”

“Maybe. Or a cop.”

Richmond pushed his hands through his graying hair. He took off the spectacles, carefully folded the legs and then placed them in his breast pocket.

About time. Montrose felt the tension slacken in his chest. Any more crap and this guy might find out his own reaction when a gun is pointed at him. He pushed his arms out to lever himself up. If the Italian cops give me it back.

Richmond leaned back in the chair. “Tell me about your sister.”

Montrose felt his hands ball into a fist. None of your fucking business. “You know about my sister. It’s in my file.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“It’s not relevant.”

“With respect, Mr. Montrose, I’ll decide that.”

Go to hell. “I just did. Move on.”

Richmond spread his fingers over the buff folder. “One man dead. The other perhaps fatally injured.”

Helluva good shooting. Still, got to give some credit to Mr. Machine-Pistol. He really got the party started.

“Tell me again why you started shooting?”

“Because the guy pulled a gun on me.”

“You could have surrendered.”

“It wasn’t the OK Corral. These guys don’t take prisoners.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Would you have preferred if I’d taken the chance? Is a dead agent less hassle for you?”

Richmond held out his hands. “Mr. Montrose, such flippancy . . .”

“It’s my job to know if the guy was going to shoot me. And he was.”

“Did you identify yourself prior to opening fire?”

My ass I did. “Yeah. I have Interpol ID. Works better than my CIA badge.”

“What did you say?”

“Armed Police. Drop your weapon.”

“And did he?”

“He might still be alive if he did.”

“Did you repeat the warning?”

“I didn’t get the opportunity. I was face down on the carpet.”

“But you’re not police.”

Montrose threw a hand into the air. “Hey, you’re way ahead of me. Next time I’ll say ‘Hi! I’m an armed agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, seconded to Interpol in Lyon, France, so please don’t point a gun at me’, by which time he’ll have blown my freakin’ head off.”

Richmond turned to the desk fan. “Are you warm, Mr. Montrose? Shall I turn up the fan?”

How about I shove your shiny face in it? “Whatever.”

Richmond leaned over and hit a switch. The noise of the fan increased with no discernible effect. He looked up at the ceiling. “Why would the first man pull a gun on you?”

Montrose scoffed. “What do you think? Something to do with drugs?”

“Not all Pakistani visitors to Rome or Naples docks are drug runners.”

“Maybe, but they’re not immune to terrorists. They’ve got plenty enemies. The Taliban for one.”

“That’s reasonable. They may say they were defending themselves. Of course, that’s unlikely to be confirmed, given the survivor’s precarious state of health.’

The blood rushed to his head, and Montrose resisted the urge to pull at his shirt collar.

“I’m on your side, Mr. Montrose.”

Like hell you are.

“I need to be sure that your reaction was a reasonable one. That you have good reason to do what you did. You have to help me on that.”

You’re fishing, but I ain’t biting. “It went down just like I said.”

“Did you suspect you were walking into a drug deal?”

What do you think, Einstein? “You’re not listening. I track them on suspicion and I convict them on evidence. There was none. All I had was a stack of dead junkies, a container ship from Pakistan, and two guys from the Golden Crescent in an expensive hire car to Rome. If I get something concrete, then I phone it in. Like you say, standard procedure.”

“Phone it in, yes. But you could have done that before. You know how this could look?”

It looked like a butcher shop by the time the shooting had stopped.“It looks like a drug dealer is dead and the other ain’t far behind him. That’s what it looks like.”

Richmond shook his head. “It’s really not as simple as that, so we’re gonna start getting real.”

Montrose forced himself to breathe slowly. Chill. This guy could be a big problem.

“Let me play devil’s advocate.” Richmond closed the folder. “You followed two suspects and suddenly there’s one in the morgue and the other on life support. Why?”

“Not everyone. One suspect got away.” Shit happens.

Richmond stopped and opened the folder while fumbling for his spectacles.

You ain’t looking so clever now, Professor.

Richmond looked quickly across the papers. “Two men confirmed shot. You’re saying a man escaped?”

Try to keep up. “He came around the corner when the shooting started.”

“Just another hotel guest?”

“Wrong place, wrong time? I don’t think so.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“No. About six feet, blond hair, dark suit.”

“Is that all?”

“It was only a glance. When the party started he turned and ran.”

“You didn’t try to pursue him?”

I was face down on the floor breathing in carpet cleaner and cordite. “Once I made sure that the two men were no longer a threat, he was gone.”

“And there’s no trace of this man?”

“Not yet.”

“I have a note here saying that the hotel staff confirmed the arrival of yourself and the two men. No mention of anyone else.”

“Drug dealers.”

Richmond looked up. “Excuse me?”

“They’re not just two men. They’re drug dealers.”

“Let’s focus on this third man. From what I can see, the only person who says he exists is you. There is no trace of him. No other witnesses.”

“He took the fire exit. I followed the stairs down to the alley at the rear of the hotel, but he was gone.”

Richmond drummed his fingers on the desk. “Is it not convenient that your witness cannot be traced?”

Montrose shot forward in the chair. “You think it’s convenient? I will find him!”

“May I remind you, Mr. Montrose, you are here on a professional basis. This man may be the only person who can back up your story.”

“It’s not a goddam’ story! I nearly got my ass shot off!”

Richmond returned to the folder. “Two men shot. One dead. One clinging to life. And of course, the mystery man.” He closed the file and looked up. “We should consider the worst case scenario.”

Montrose leaned back. Here we go. I’ve just plugged two guys in a Rome hotel and CIA Internal Affairs are going nuts. I’ll spend the rest of my career in Antarctica, up to my ass in penguins. What could be worse?

Richmond cleared his throat and closed his eyes for a moment. “Let me tell you how it could have been.”

Montrose held out his hands. “Why don’t we just talk about how it was?”

“Bear with me on this. You followed your targets and when the opportunity arose, you assassinated them. And then you say that there is a mystery man who can prove you didn’t.”

He felt the beads of sweat pooling in the small of his back. “You’re freakin’ crazy.”

Richmond pointed to the wall. “I’ve got a lot of fancy paper up there says I’m not. What I have in front of me is a story that has no corroboration, no drugs, no cash, a witness that doesn’t exist, and a psychologically damaged agent who uses his vacation to kill two men.”

Montrose slammed his hand on the desk. “It didn’t happen like that and you damn well know it! Why would I do that?”

Richmond didn’t look at him. He slipped a photograph from the folder. “I think you know why.”

CHAPTER 4

The button popped as Montrose tugged at his collar. He dropped onto the park bench and drank greedily from the bottle of Pepsi. A girl approached in high heels, tight shorts and a green t-shirt emblazoned with the name of an oil company. Wearing a fixed smile, she thrust forward a leaflet and a small stuffed polar bear in her outstretched hand, then pulled it back sharply when she saw Montrose’s face.

I must look like shit.

He pulled out his iPhone and thumbed the power button. He caught his reflection in the screen. What if the old guy was right? Maybe I’m a psycho. Lifting his head, he watched two pretty girls sitting on a bench opposite, their knees touching when they leaned towards each other in giggling conversation. They’re safer for what happened. Not much, maybe, but . . . I guess that doesn’t count anymore.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold lighter, stained and scored with age. He could barely make out the word ‘Cartier’ where the metal had worn away. His grandfather’s lighter that he brought from Berlin. She didn’t sell it. The coroner had found it sewn into the pocket of her jeans. He closed his eyes and slowly rubbed his thumb back and forth across the metal. Everything she went through and she didn’t sell it.

He last saw her when her emaciated china-white body lay on a slab. Somewhere, deep in the sunken eyes and tightly drawn skin around her cheeks, was the smiling face of their childhood.

He remembered she didn’t look peaceful. She looked dead.

He tipped his head back and drained the bottle, ignoring the insistent beep from the iPhone. The Pakistanis had it coming. The look in the guy’s eyes when I squeezed the trigger. Was he trying to surrender? Like that was gonna work.

The iPhone rang in his hand. Morgan. Begood to me, you Washington ass-licker. Tell me what I want to hear. He jammed it to his ear. “Have you found him?”

“Who?” said Morgan.

“Who do you think? The bastard that got away!” Montrose jumped to his feet, kicking the Pepsi bottle across the sidewalk. The two girls on the bench grabbed their bags and scurried away. “Who’s looking for him? We need a CIA team, not some coffee-shop cops from Interpol.”

“Listen, Montrose, you just step back. Right now I’ve got something bigger to worry about. Rome is full of European Trade Ministers and there are some very important people on the way from Washington. Langley are going crazy. The Italian police can take care of your mystery man.”

“They couldn’t find their own ass with a map and a mirror. This is our case. It’s got nothing to do with the Italian cops. We have to find this guy!”

“I’m looking at the bigger picture. This guy’s a sideshow. If he exists.”

“If he exists? Are you calling me . . ?” He squeezed the phone in his hand. “Okay . . . Has the hotel been dabbed for prints?”

“Montrose, you’ve got other things to think about. The first one is the shrink. What did he say?”

Play the game. Give him the right answers. “He wants to see me again. Run further tests before he makes his recommendation.”

“Maybe that’s for the best.”

“Whadaya mean for the best? Sounded like he was trying to prove I’m a nutjob. Are you saying the same? I’ve turned into some kinda vigilante, all ‘cos of Sandie? My sister has got nothing to do with this. I thought you knew me better, Boss. Maybe not, eh?”

“Wind your neck in. You just shot two guys, you got no drugs, no witnesses, and I’m trying to keep Internal Affairs from sticking your ass in an Italian jail!”

Montrose heard the venom in his voice. There’s no way I’m going to find this guy unless Morgan is on my side. “Boss, I think we are close to finding a fuck-ton of heroin. These guys were using a container ship.”

“Listen to me, you’ve got nothing on these guys. Nothing.”

“The dealers I dropped weren’t some hillbilly rag-heads. They were clean-shaven, shiny shoes and styled hair. They wore Armani and IWC watches.”

“Yeah, and your only lead is some guy in a nice suit. In Rome. That doesn’t really narrow it down. This guy could be just a businessman, or a tourist. You got nothing on him. You don’t even have a description.”

“He came around the corner of the hotel corridor just before the shooting started. Six foot, maybe, blond hair. But they recognized him, Boss. The two guys I dropped. I’m sure of it. One look, but I know. He was no stranger. We’ve got to find him.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll think about it. Look, you’re a tech specialist, leave this to the cops at Interpol. Just get yourself back over to the office. The CIA European Director is in town. He wants to make sure you’re onside.”

Wrong answer. He felt the iPhone slip against the sweat on his face and relaxed his grip before it shot out of his hand like a bar of soap. “Yeah. I’m on my way.”

He cut the call and turned east, lifting his hand to shade his eyes against the morning sun. In front of the Coliseum a row of green flags from an oil company hung lazily in the warm air as students handed out stuffed toys to the tourists. From the Via Labincana, two motorcycle cops swung to a halt in front of the junction of Via Celio Libenna, holding up the traffic as a line of blacked-out SUVs swept towards the centre of Rome. Montrose wiped the iPhone on his jacket and watched the motorcade. Cadillac Escalades for the US, with the Stars and Stripes, and Range Rovers for the Brits, the Union Jack fluttering in the slipstream. They disappeared towards the Via Dei Fori Imperiali and the Italian motorcycle cops looked back nervously, as though waiting for stragglers.

Just then a white Maserati sedan appeared, curving smoothly around the Coliseum. A small Norwegian flag was fixed to the windshield with scotch tape. The windows were open and the occupants sat in shirtsleeves, eating ice cream cones as they pointed towards the Coliseum. An Italian Army jeep was right behind it, the driver hunched over the dashboard, one hand gripping the wheel and the other waving wildly. The traffic cops motioned to the Maserati, to hurry them up, but the Norwegian driver ignored them, resting his elbow on the door and adjusting his shades as he headed towards the centre of Rome.

Nothing to do with me. But the big bad CIA boss wants me in front of his desk. Ain’t no such thing as coincidence. They’re all NATO countries. Maybe the spooks in Langley want to make sure that they ain’t got a crazy running around. They want to know if I’m a good little doggy. And if they think I’ve gone fruit loops, they’ll stick me in a kennel.

He picked up the empty Pepsi bottle. There were four nine-millimeter rounds waiting to be picked out of the plaster on a hotel wall. The fire pattern would back me up. The CSU team can track all the shots and they’ll see it happened just like I said.

He slipped off his jacket. The third guy. Someone must have seen him. A deal was going down. Ain’t no doubt. And I will find him. He turned and looked east towards the CIA office. Maybe ten blocks away. Fuck ‘em, they can wait.

Tucking his chin to his chest, he spun around and headed west.

Agent Ferguson stood before the desk, watching a bright carmine flush spreading across the Director’s face as he listened to the call. He watched the Director’s eye squeeze tight shut, the voluminous crow’s feet around his eyes turning from red to white, and the folds of fat enveloping his chin as he buried his head on his chest.

Behind them the office door was open and CIA operatives barked orders down the phone as they monitored the motorcade heading towards the airport. Ferguson glanced back and a few faces looked his way. They’d warned him about European Director Spinks, or ‘Cartman’ as he was known, but not to his face. Ferguson checked a thin piece of paper in his hand for the third time. The Secretary of State was arriving from Washington in the next thirty minutes and had asked for an immediate report on the shootings. The US Ambassador to Italy was waiting on line two. The shitstorm had started.

Spinks slammed down the phone and shot to his feet, his gut brushing the coffee cup on the desk, spilling some of its contents. He pointed a chubby finger at Ferguson. “Who the fuck is Montrose?”

The phone rang and Spinks grabbed the receiver. “Yeah? Hi, Mr. Ambassador. Did you phone me up to tell me something I already know? Damage limitation? What do you think I’m doing? Do you think the CIA employ me to add some glamour to the team? No. So why don’t you get off the goddam’ phone and let me do my job!” Spinks dropped the phone and shuffled from behind his desk, advancing towards Ferguson. He grabbed the piece of paper and held it up to the light. “Who is this prick?”

“Connor Montrose, sir. He’s a Langley IT support technician attached to Interpol. I asked for the complete file but it’s classified.”

“Of course it is, or dicks like you would see it. Send a request with my clearance. What else?”

“All we know is that he was disciplined for accessing a secure database, then seconded to Interpol.”

“So what? Where is he?”

“He’s been sent for psychological analysis. Standard procedure. He’s been told to report here immediately afterwards. Interpol said he’s supposed to be on vacation, but . . .”

Spinks grabbed his jacket from the chair. “When Montrose walks in the door, get security to chain him to a goddam’ radiator until we get back, so I can kick his ass down the corridor.” Spinks struggled into his suit jacket. “No, just send him to the farthest CIA station and take his passport. We can deal with him later. Then get me a car. You’re coming too.”

Ferguson turned towards the door. “Where are we going?”

“The hotel. I want to see where Mr. IT Geek shot those ragheads.”

“The specialist teams are already there, sir. I’m waiting for a message to say they have completed their . . .”

“Shut up. My ass is on the line for this and if we don’t sort this out right now, they’ll be looking for someone to hang out to dry.” He screwed up the paper and threw it at Ferguson. “And that’s you.”

CHAPTER 5

The blaring of horns as he rounded the corner told him he had arrived. TV news vans, adorned with satellite dishes, lined the street on both sides, squeezing the traffic to a standstill. Italian cops seemed to be walking about, waving their hands in every direction, shouting at reporters and then at each other. Helluva big show for two drug dealers. Whatever, it’s the perfect distraction. But too many cameras.

Montrose brought up the Google Maps satellite picture on his iPhone. There was a concreted area behind the hotel. Service entrance. He ducked down a side street then turned into an alley at the rear of the hotel.

A cop stepped out in front of him, resplendent in mirrored sunglasses, designer stubble and shiny leather jacket, waving his hand dismissively back down the alley.

Montrose stuffed his CIA ID deep into his pocket and flipped out a badge.

The cop squinted at the photo. “Interpol?”

“Yeah. Call it in if you’ve got a problem.”

The cop stuck out his chin.

“You’ve seen an Interpol badge before, right?”

“Si,” shrugged the cop. “We have to be careful. The press, they get everywhere.”

“They sure do. Is this the only other entrance?”

“That’s all. One front, one back, and a fire escape.”

“Thanks. You’ve saved me some time.” Montrose walked down a line of expensive German automobiles and low-slung Maseratis with blacked-out windows. The dumpsters were hidden behind a wooden fence and the concrete area was free from litter.It’s cleaner than most European streets. He could see why the Pakistanis had chosen this place.Rear entrance and exit for those who don’t want to be seen. Maybe it was a specialty of the hotel. It would explain the lack of CCTV. He looked up at the door and saw a security camera blinking.Maybe not.To the right were the steel doors of the fire exit. He checked the concrete step and spotted a faint score where the steel door had scraped the surface. There was no powdered stone beside the scratch.If the door had been opened recently it would have left a trail. Only one other way out.

The thick wooden door to the hotel was adorned with gleaming brasswork. A small square framed window sat to the side. Montrose peeked in, but saw only his reflection.Mirrored glass. Very discreet. He hammered on the door and held up his pass to the window.

The door opened with a click. Montrose stepped inside to a small corridor, lined with polished wood panels. Not your average service entrance. To his right he saw the fire exit. It was chained shut. Securityover safety. Way to go.

To his left there was an office door with a frosted glass partition. Through the glass he could see the outline of a figure. He had just brought up his hand to knock when he heard a voice at the end of the corridor.

“Nobody gets in! I want this place locked down!”

Montrose spun around. The Langley circus was in town. Shit, it’s the last thing I need. He saw elevator doors halfway down the corridor. Service elevator. He ran forward and jabbed the button. The doors opened to reveal a clutter of buckets and tools. He kicked them aside and pushed the button for the Executive floor. The doors clanked shut behind him and the elevator lurched upwards.

I’m about to step into a crime scene. The place will be crawling with specialists. He flipped his badge open. Might buy me a few minutes. The elevator shuddered to a halt and the doors opened.

A cleaning maid holding a bucket and mop stood facing him.

He checked the floor indicator. Executive Floor. He looked over the head of the bemused maid. No crime scene tape?

“Scusi.” He held up his badge and squeezed past, but the maid ignored it and stepped into the elevator. He looked down the corridor. To his right was the fire exit and steps down to the rear entrance. That’s the way he came.

The corridor carpet felt wet and stank of chemicals. He turned at the end and stared blankly. What the fuck?

The place was spotless.

He ran his fingers across the wallpaper. It was damp to the touch. He could smell the paste.

“Get the hell out of here!”

Montrose turned. Harry Ferguson. CIA Europe’s number one asshole. “Well, Mr. Ferguson. Langley’s favorite janitor. You must have licked this place clean. What the hell is going on?”

“This is our party now, Montrose. You know the rules.”

“Yeah, the rules that say you can take over a crime scene and clean it like your mother-in-law is about to arrive? Those rules?”

Ferguson strode straight towards him and thrust a finger into Montrose’s chest. “This town is packed with US Government HVPs. You go around wasting people and think we don’t care?”

Montrose brushed Ferguson’s arm aside then stepped forward until their faces were almost touching. “You do that again and I’ll rip your fucking arm off and shove it up your ass.”

“Back off, Montrose. You’re way out of your league. You’re just a neckbeard IT geek. Basic training don’t make you a hotshot hero. And you’ve got a reputation for sticking your nose where it’s not wanted.”

Montrose looked down at the carpet. The blood must have soaked through, but they’d probably taken up the floor. They’d done it before. “Yeah, and you’re a janitor, that’s all. Don’t matter what your badge says, Agent Ferguson. Hey, what’s that on your nose?”

Ferguson began to lift his hand.

“Don’t bother. It’s shit. You must have been talking to your boss.”

Ferguson pushed his jacket aside to reveal a revolver. “You’re coming with me. And don’t think you’ve got any backup. The Italian cops have your gun, and I got the word about you. You’re a crazy. They’ll send you to the nutty farm. You’ll be eating your steak with a fucking spoon.”

A door opened at the end of the corridor and a voice came from the room.

“Ferguson! Get in here!”

Montrose froze. Thewhining Brooklyn accent. Joe Spinks. Head of CIA in Europe.That guy would lock me up without a second thought. “Your boss is looking for you, asshole.”

“I swear you’re going to Langley chained to the floor of a Lear Jet.”

“Yeah, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Strapping down guys, is that your thing?”

“Ferguson!”

Time to go. “Fuck you, and the big fat fucking horse you rode in on.” Montrose headed for the fire exit.IfSpinks hears I’m on the premises, he’s gonna go ballistic.

“Montrose! You stay right there!”

He turned the corner and kicked open the fire exit. Ferguson would be coming back with his friends. He didn’t have the balls to do it on his own. Reckon I’ve got five minutes. He ran down the stairs and into the small corridor. Behind the frosted glass he could make out a face.

The wooden paneling rattled on its dry hinges as Montrose rapped on the door. The glass slid aside and the porter looked up. His face seemed to have been freeze-dried. They dug three thousand year-old bodies out of glaciers that looked healthier. “You speak English?” said Montrose.

The porter thought about it, his pale watery eyes distracted for a second. “No.”

Montrose pulled a fifty euro bill from his wallet. “Or maybe you understand English?”

The rheumy eyes fixed on the money. He shrugged again. The bones under his thin shirt seemed to pierce his skin. “Si.”

“The CCTV from last night. Where is it?”

The old guy nodded toward a flickering black and white screen at the corner of his desk.

“That’s it? How many cameras?”

He thought for a moment then shrugged again, this time pursing his lips.

The effort must be killing him.

“Una.”

Montrose checked the screen. The camera didn’t cover the door. No surprise. Minimum security for maximum discreetness. “Wind it back to eight o’clock last night.”

The porter looked down at the trackball and keyboard as if they’d just landed on his desk out of thin air.

“Look, Pops, there’s a guy coming in the next few minutes who’s going to take that system away. For that, you’ll get nothing. But from me, you’ll get another one of these.” Montrose slid out another fifty.

A quivering hand wavered over the keys before it plunged down and rolled the trackball back.

Montrose watched the clock on the screen wind backwards. “Stop.” The timer read 19:58. “Play.”

The porter jabbed the keyboard with a talon-like finger and the picture jerked into action.

Montrose heard voices behind him. Just then, a long black shape slipped across the screen. A taxi.

“Stop!”

The picture shuddered to a halt. A figure slipped from the rear door of the taxi and headed towards the hotel. Blondie. It had to be him.

“Go forward one minute.”

For a moment the picture sped past in a blur. The taxi was still there. Then a figure darted across the screen and dived into the rear seat of the taxi. The taxi sped off.

Montrose glanced back down the corridor. Ferguson will be on me in seconds.

“Listen, Pops, you see everything that happens here. Who comes and who goes.”

The porter said nothing.

“The taxi had a license plate on the trunk. If someone needs a taxi, you know who to call, yeah?”

The porter expanded his reactions to a wet sniff and a long blink of his rheumy eyes.

“So, I bet you one hundred euros you could phone up the firm, find out the name of that customer and where he was headed. Safe bet, yeah?” Montrose pressed a hundred euro bill against the glass.

The eyes grew sharper.

“This bet won’t last forever. Remember the guys right behind me are gonna want this for free. This way you get to win a bet. It’s down to you.” Montrose dropped the bill on the desk.

Pinning it down with his finger, the old guy pulled it towards him then picked up a phone. A short conversation took place in wheezing, guttural Italian. He scrawled down a few words in thin, spider-like writing, then held it up. “No name.”

Montrose grabbed the paper. “72 Via Nableone.” He heard the voices behind him become louder. “Thanks, Pops.”

The old guy pocketed the money. “For what? This did not happen.” He slid the glass shut.

CHAPTER 6

The gleaming white stone façade stretched down both sides of the avenue. Montrose shaded his eyes against the glare as he approached the polished black door of a town house. There was no name plate. Maybe Blondie likes his privacy. Or he’s left town. That’s what I’d do.

He crossed to the other side of the street, and stood before a shop window. In its reflection he gazed up at the shutters of the house behind him. The Google satellite map showed a steep metal roof. No air con vents. No back alley. One way in, one way out. He heard one of the shutters open and watched as an old woman in a floral apron shook a small carpet out of the window. I’m guessing she’s not the lady of the house, but she’ll do.

He pulled an old Blackberry from his pocket. A hundred bucks for this piece of crap. Ten hours on the pay card. That would be more than enough. He crossed the street, glancing up at the apartment. It don’t matter if I’m seen. They’ll get to know me pretty soon.