Headhunter Read online

  ‘Until one hits you.’

  They were sitting on a bench on the harbour front in Sliema looking across to Grand Harbour in Valetta. Directly in front of them, two boats taking tourists on trips around the magnificent harbour were filling up nicely and Flynn thought that might be quite a nice job. He had been to Malta on a couple of occasions as a lad, brought on holiday by his grandfather, who had passed through the island on his way to serve in Egypt during the Second World War. The old man had got a bit of a bug for the place on his brief wartime visit and had returned many times since. He had infected Flynn with his love of the island’s history and its role in many conflicts over the centuries, not least the siege of 1565 when the Turks were repelled and 1942 when the Germans were unsuccessful in taking the spunky little island.

  Flynn didn’t bother boring Molly with the details, although he could probably have answered questions on Mastermind about them.

  ‘What do you think about all this?’ she asked him.

  ‘Not much, to be honest. There’s something I can’t quite get a grip of. Now I’m beginning to wish I’d taken all this on alone and cut out Donaldson, because there’s something not quite right that he isn’t telling us about. I get the FBI want to take Viktor out – sometimes it’s the only way – but I know I’m losing my chance of wringing the old bastard’s neck.’ Flynn couldn’t weigh it up. He’d come to Malta thinking he would be let loose but that clearly wasn’t going to happen. ‘I mean, a black ops team, for God’s sake.’

  Molly chuckled but said seriously, ‘At least there’s less chance of you dying.’

  ‘Maybe so.’

  ‘That’s a good thing.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes … I don’t want to see you die, Steve.’

  ‘I’ll try not to. Whatever happens now, I think it’s out of our hands, and if I do get a look in it’ll be from the back of an assault team. They won’t want me anywhere near the front. They’ll be well drilled and I’ll just be a hindrance, which I understand and I suppose you do, too. Could you imagine someone on your firearms team who didn’t know the drill?’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right.’

  ‘Donaldson still does worry me slightly, though.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Flynn tapped his nose. ‘This need to know stuff … I don’t know. Anyway,’ he checked his watch. ‘Fifteen hundred hours. By my reckoning, the good ship Halcyon should be in port by now.’

  They jumped on a very crowded bus on the harbour side which chugged them around the waterfront and deposited them on the 720-berth Msida Creek marina situated in Grand Harbour, one of the world’s deepest and largest natural harbours.

  ‘Is this a good idea?’ Molly asked uncertainly.

  ‘Probably not, but the marina is a tourist attraction. People like seeing boats of all types and sizes, so it’s not as though we’ll stand out from a crowd, especially if we link arms like a real couple. Then we can saunter past and have a nosy at the boat and, if the opportunity presents itself, I’ll slip on board and kill Viktor … Just kidding,’ he added quickly on seeing Molly’s shocked face. Although he did mean it. ‘We’ll mingle, see if we can spot any celebrities, and I’ll pull my hat down over my eyes because I’m a master of disguise.’

  They walked along the quayside and made their way to the magnificent anchorage. The larger, more expensive boats were moored separately to smaller vessels and they were able to meander along with other holidaymakers rubbernecking the expensive craft. There were a lot of beautiful boats, many valued in the tens of millions, but the standout was Halcyon docked at the far end of one of the jetties. The entrance gate was locked, preventing them from walking up the jetty to the boat itself.

  Even from a distance, she looked magnificent.

  ‘Nice boat,’ Molly said grudgingly.

  ‘Paid for on the back of other people’s suffering. Drugs, prostitution, you name it … probably shoplifting, too. Not an honest day’s work in it,’ Flynn said, a dirty sneer on his face.

  ‘Horrible.’ Molly shuddered – and Flynn felt that shudder through his arm and liked it, just as he liked having Molly’s arm linked through his.

  The roar of engines made Flynn look back over his shoulder down the quayside. Three Range Rovers with greyed-out windows were hurtling along the road in a convoy. They had a look, a presence that made Flynn draw Molly to one side across the road to an open air café, where they sat down and watched as the Range Rovers stopped at the head of the jetty. The drivers, all wearing dark glasses, stayed put behind the wheels, but the front-seat passenger of all three dropped on to the roadside with the awareness of leopards. There were two men and one woman but Flynn recognized them all to be of the same ilk – professional, ex-military individuals trained to live their lives by a code of violence. None openly displayed firearms but Flynn could see the bulges under the T-shirts at the waistbands at the small of their backs – pistols, Flynn guessed – and they were all connected by some kind of fairly sophisticated radio system; he could just about make out earpieces and flesh-coloured microphones running from their ears to their mouths.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Flynn. A waiter appeared at the table but Flynn waved him away saying, ‘Two minutes, please.’

  ‘They’re here, Grandad,’ Niko said, opening Viktor’s cabin door and poking his head through.

  The old man stood up from the dressing table. To Niko, he looked even older today.

  ‘Have you heard anything from them yet?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Grandad, not yet.’

  ‘So what does that mean? It’s been almost a week.’

  ‘It may simply mean they haven’t completed their task yet for some reason,’ Niko said. ‘They will be in contact, I assure you.’

  ‘Or has this Flynn killed them?’

  ‘I very much doubt it,’ Niko said. He winced, clutched his stomach and gasped, then belched and farted at the same time.

  ‘You still ill?’

  ‘I have the shits like I’ve never had them in my life,’ Niko said. ‘Bad seafood, Grandad.’

  ‘So you are not coming?’

  ‘Not unless there’s a shitter in the Range Rover. Mikel and Andrei will be with you.’

  ‘OK.’

  Viktor walked ahead to the stern of the boat. Just before crossing the gangplank on to the quayside, Viktor stopped and said to Niko, ‘You know, I will not rest until this Flynn man’s head is in my lap.’

  ‘I know, Grandad. I’ll see if I can contact them for you, find out where they are up to,’ Niko promised.

  Viktor nodded and crossed over to the land where Mikel and Andrei were waiting for him.

  Niko watched them walk along the jetty towards the three Range Rovers who were waiting to pick them up. He put his phone to his ear.

  ‘Borrow your phone, please?’ Flynn held out his hand to Molly. ‘Left mine in my room, just in case someone wanted to track me.’

  ‘Paranoid,’ Molly said. ‘Who’d do a thing like that?’ She handed him her mobile.

  Flynn sank low in the chair, pulling the peak of his baseball cap over his eyes as he watched the three men walk down the jetty towards them and the Range Rovers, the central figure being Viktor, who he had never seen in the flesh before but recognized instantly. The old man in total control, the one who gave the kill orders, the one Steve Flynn needed to kill. Viktor was dressed casually in an open-neck shirt, chinos and sandals. His infamous gold necklace hung around his scrawny neck.

  Flynn’s teeth ground as his breath shortened.

  Molly placed a hand on his forearm, sensing the change coming over him.

  ‘We need to be following them,’ Flynn said.

  They reached the gate. One of the men accompanying Viktor swiped a plastic card and the gate swung open.

  The three who had been passengers in the Range Rovers were suddenly, visibly more tense and alert, and the right hand of each one sought out the handles of the pistols in their waistbands under their shirts. T
hey were on the balls of their feet, ready to act.

  Viktor Bashkim, it seemed, warranted an armed guard when he stepped away from the security of his boat.

  Viktor passed through the security gate.

  In his hand, Molly’s phone rang before Flynn could dial out: Donaldson.

  ‘Where the hell have you got to, Molly?’ the American demanded.

  ‘It’s me, Flynn – and we’re watching Viktor Bashkim about to step into a Range Rover and get whisked away somewhere like a fucking A-list celebrity.’

  ‘You’re fucking where?’

  ‘Like I said …’

  ‘I know what you said,’ Donaldson interrupted. ‘What the hell? Suppose he sees you?’

  ‘Why is that a problem? He doesn’t know me, does he?’

  ‘Yes he fucking does, he’s seen your picture all over fucking social media,’ Donaldson blurted.

  ‘And how would you know that?’

  ‘I know. Just trust me, I know.’

  ‘OK. Look, I’m going to follow him, see what he’s up to. I’ll keep my head down.’

  ‘No, you stay where you are, Flynn. I’ll send one of the guys to pick you up.’

  ‘But this looks interesting. Could be a meet of some description.’

  ‘Interesting or not, you do nothing – understand?’

  Flynn ended the call there and then and looked at Molly, who had earwigged the conversation. ‘Like I said, that guy knows more than he’s letting on.’

  ‘Y’think?’

  ‘I know.’

  Viktor was directed into the middle Range Rover. The small retinue from the boat split and jumped into the front and rear cars and the bodyguards got back into the passenger seats they had just vacated. The line of vehicles then set off in the direction of Sliema.

  Flynn shot to his feet as a young man on a rickety moped swerved into a narrow parking space in front of the café and eased the bike on to its stand. He removed his helmet and shook out his long, golden hair. Flynn saw a second helmet resting on the pillion seat, its straps threaded through the framework of the bike. The young guy was wearing a black T-shirt bearing the logo of the café that Flynn and Molly had taken refuge in.

  ‘Our transport has arrived,’ Flynn blurted, pushing the mobile phone into his pocket. It had started to ring again. ‘Come on, Molly.’

  He vaulted the low wall and stopped the young guy in his tracks in a non-threatening way, he hoped. He was also trying to keep an eye on the progress of the Range Rovers.

  ‘You speak English?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘Yeah, ’course.’ He sounded almost offended.

  ‘Rent your bike, please.’ His hand went to his back pocket and extracted a thick wad of euros, maybe a thousand of them. He didn’t care. He held them up to the lad’s face. ‘What time do you finish work?’

  ‘Midnight.’ His eyes were transfixed by the money, like a cobra on the flute.

  ‘One thousand euros and I’ll have it back by then.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes. Decision time.’

  ‘It’s not insured.’

  ‘Nor am I. One grand in euros. Now. In your hand. The bike’s only worth seventy.’

  It was too good an offer to refuse, even if he never saw the bike again. ‘Midnight,’ the lad said and snatched the cash from Flynn’s fingers. Flynn grabbed his helmet plus the ignition key.

  Seconds later with Molly on the pillion, her arms wrapped tightly around Flynn’s middle, the moped was accelerating along the waterfront, hopefully catching up with Viktor Bashkim. Glancing in one of the cracked mirrors, Flynn saw the young lad waving madly at him but there was no time to turn around.

  In his pocket, Molly’s phone continued to vibrate.

  Flynn spotted the rear Range Rover a long way in front, turning left. He twisted the throttle and the small, very underpowered moped screamed and unleashed just a little more muscle.

  Molly clung on, trying to keep track of the journey. Flynn kept the convoy in sight as it threaded and bullied its way through the streets of San Giljan just behind Sliema, through to the northern coast of Malta and then picking up the coast road itself, leaving the urban areas behind for a few miles before turning back inland at the small bay opposite the resort of Buggiba, passing some big salt pans on the way.

  Flynn was beginning to panic a little about the amount of fuel in the moped. The needle on the gauge hovered precariously close to red and empty. Maybe that’s what the owner was trying to signal to him – no fucking fuel!

  ‘Where do you think they’re going?’ Molly shouted through the barriers that were hers and Flynn’s full-face motorcycle helmets.

  ‘Not a clue … we’re heading to the top of the island this way,’ he shouted back. She didn’t hear a word.

  Molly’s phone continued to vibrate in his pocket.

  That meant something. Flynn was certain. Donaldson did not like what he was doing, which in Flynn’s perverse mind meant that he was doing the right thing.

  Ahead, now having reached the open road, the Range Rovers had increased their speed. They were going fast, putting up a cloud of sand and grit from the road surface. Flynn would have liked to say he was hanging back but in reality he was being left behind on the moped, the distance steadily increasing between them.

  Which was just as well, because that extra distance probably saved his and Molly’s life, plus the fact that – frustratingly for Flynn – the moped actually did run out of fuel.

  The bombs had been attached to the underside of all three Range Rovers by the man who was tasked with checking and declaring the vehicles safe. In fact, every inch of the vehicles was safe – except for the four square inches of the bombs fitted underneath the rear seats of all the cars.

  That same man was sitting hidden behind a cluster of rocks overlooking the coast road, giving him a good view of the approach of the convoy from the south.

  It was usually a pretty quiet road, as were most roads on the island outside the towns, and that day was no different. The man was glad about that because he never liked having the blood of innocent people on his hands, although it had happened. Many times. There was a couple on a moped well behind the Range Rovers, but he thought they should be safe enough.

  The trio was moving very quickly and the man knew he had to get it right.

  He had a mobile phone in his hand and a number already on the screen ready to dial and send to the three cloned SIM cards in the cheap mobile phones set in blocks of Semtex fixed under the seats which would act as part of the detonator set-up. One number, one press of the thumb, three car bombs.

  Sweet.

  There was a good, strong signal, five bars, on the phone in his hand.

  The detonator phones were charged up and there was no reason why they would not receive the message and pass the little pulse of electricity to the actual detonators.

  The Range Rovers were now almost level with his position. Glancing back, he saw that the following moped had stopped and the rider had put down a foot. Good. They were safe. Soon they would know just how lucky they were.

  When the first car drew level, the man pressed send.

  Then there was always that fucking delay. Maybe a second, maybe two, when all the doubts kicked in, when it felt long enough to go out, hang out the washing and come back in, the man always thought.

  That horrible delay.

  The middle car blew first. Then the lead, then the rear.

  Perfectly judged bombs which blew upwards and outwards and threw each car up into the air as if it was being catapulted.

  And killed all the occupants.

  Flynn was swearing at the exact moment the middle Range Rover, the one carrying Viktor Bashkim, exploded. The sudden lack of fuel meant his little jaunt had come to an end and he was furious, swore colourfully and looked wistfully at the Range Rovers disappearing into the distance.

  Until the one carrying Viktor blew up with a huge, whumping sound, quickly followed by the other two in quick suc
cession, flames of red, orange and blue shooting out, the cars thrown in perfect arcs as their innards and occupants were ripped to shreds by the high explosive.

  The heat of the three blasts rolled out in a shockwave over Flynn and Molly, taking their breath away and then showering them with harsh particles of sand and grit, the sound buffeting their ears. They cowered away instinctively, covering their faces with their arms and hands, even though both wore helmets, and then it was over and the twisted carcases of the three cars, moments ago clean and shiny, crashed back to earth and lay there, smoke billowing out of them, fires cracking.

  Flynn scrubbed the grit out of his eyes.

  Molly stared open-mouthed at the scene of destruction.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said finally.

  Flynn said, ‘Ever felt just a bit like a mushroom, Molly?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Kept in the dark, fed on shit?’

  She screwed her face up at him.

  Flynn took Molly’s phone out of his pocket. It was still vibrating, Karl Donaldson still trying desperately to contact him.

  Flynn removed his helmet and answered it. ‘I think you’ve something to tell me, Karl.’

  Flynn sat on his haunches by the roadside, Molly half-perched on the moped. Two hundred metres north, the emergency services had arrived and were now, more or less, in control of the scene of devastation. The road was closed and cordoned off and screens were being erected but there was nothing to see. Flynn knew. He had been to look.

  He could tell there were no survivors, and when he found the remnants of the middle Range Rover he saw there was hardly anything left of the occupants – certainly nothing to identify them visually. The bomb had been highly effective and each person had essentially been vaporized.

  And he was sure that Viktor Bashkim had been in that car. At least, he thought he was sure.

  Flynn was speaking to Donaldson again.

  ‘So Niko was your source?’ he said. ‘Just run that by me again.’

  ‘It was a bit like a program running in the background,’ Donaldson said. ‘But I wasn’t sure how it would turn out. I had a plan with various options. First was just to let you loose on the old man, but I was pretty uncomfortable with that if you want me to be honest.’