Names of the Dead Page 2

  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’s playing 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 b
ack.

  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. Be good 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.”