Headhunters

Chapter Nine

Bachman slept well that night. The windows were open, letting in the cool zephyr that rose up from the sea and the sound of the waves as they broke against the rocks below. It was the most comfortable bed he had lain on for months, since he and Lila had left their New York apartment for the trip south to Louisiana. He thought of their apartment as he lay with his fingers laced beneath his head and his eyes closed, and the memories of his dead wife flowed back again. He indulged himself for a moment, remembering her face, concerned, as he always was, that he would eventually forget what she looked like and be unable to recall her beauty. He felt his mood start to darken and he caught himself. He didn’t need to feel his anger to be energised.

Shavit was waiting for him in the kitchen.

“It is a pleasant morning. Shall we have breakfast on the terrace?”

Shavit opened a set of French doors to the balcony and led the way outside. To the rear of the house was the series of tiers that led down to the water. They followed steps from the balcony down to the first terrace, and then another set that had been cut into the rock, descending all the way to the foot of the cliff, where they passed a collection of jasmine and lemon trees from which emanated the cheerful chirruping of cicadas. There was an extensive covered terrace that, combined with an adjoining decked area, provided al fresco dining and relaxation space. The tide was tamed by a rocky outcrop that effectively provided a natural lagoon. The water within its ambit was still and, although it was a crystal blue, it was deep, too. There was a jetty at the end of the deck that reached out ten metres into the water. A rowing boat was moored to a post at the end of it, its fibreglass hull rattling against the pilings as it was gently buffeted by the current. There was a table and two chairs on the deck.

They sat down and, as if she had been watching, a middle-aged woman came down the steps with a tray of food and a jug of orange juice. Shavit introduced her as Mrs. Grgec, his housekeeper. The woman brushed a covering of fallen blossoms from the table so that she could set down plates of scrambled egg and toast. She poured them two glasses of orange juice, noting that it was freshly squeezed, before she set off back up to the house again.

“The food here is exceptional,” he said. “The fish is superb. Shrimp, octopus, oysters. Wonderful wines.” The old man started to wax lyrical, explaining how Italian cooking influenced the local cuisine, how risotto became rizot and prosciutto became prsut. Bachman remembered that his old mentor had always been motivated by his stomach, and that some things never changed. He let him talk, though, drinking his juice and enjoying the cooling breeze that hushed in off the sea.

“What do you think of it all?” Shavit said, encompassing his estate with a sweep of his arm.

“It’s very impressive,” he replied. “And I never thought I’d see you with a housekeeper.”

“The private security business was lucrative,” Shavit explained.

“Is that what happened after the army?”

“I quit a year after you left. I set up on my own. Western companies pay well to be safe in the Middle East. I hired ex-soldiers, people like you. We could charge a small fortune for personal security services. The company outgrew me in the end. I sold it to Manage Risk. Have you heard of them?”

“Of course,” Bachman said. Manage Risk was an American multinational that was more like a private army than a security company.

“They paid me several million dollars. I’ve been living off that ever since. I have no children. No wife. No dependants. This life suits me very well.”

“Why here?”

“Why not? I visited when I was a boy. I’ve always liked it. I get to swim in the sea every morning; I eat and drink very well. It is peaceful. I am not disturbed.”

There was a pause. Bachman looked out at the water. “The files?” he asked.

“They are safe,” he said. “Away from here.”

“Where?”

“In a safe deposit box. It is safe.”

“Meir,” Bachman said, looking his old friend in the eye, “you can’t go to get it now, not unless we mean to use it. I can’t say for sure that I wasn’t followed here. There will be sayanim. Agents. I was careful, but I’m just one man.”

Shavit shook his head. “You would have been followed. But that’s fine. They will not move against me.”

“They’ll know you’re my fallback, now. That makes you a target.”

“Perhaps. But they’ll know that the consequences of going against you will be the same if they go against me. They don’t know where the files are. For all they know, they could be ready to be sent to a newspaper. And I’m just an old man. What are they really going to do?”

“I just want you to be careful.”

“Always.”

“We will have a procedure,” Bachman said. “I will call you every day between eleven in the morning and one in the afternoon. If I do not call, release half of the files. Save the rest. They will protect you.”

Shavit nodded. He took a sip of orange juice and wiped his thin, bloodless lips with his napkin. “What’s next?”

“Milton is next,” he said.

“Yes. Has anything been done?”

“He’s been found.”

“Where?”

“Australia. He has a friend there. Someone from the military.”

“And the plan? They will eliminate him for you?”

“No, Meir, they will not. They will collect him. But it has to be me. He will die at my hand.”

He stood.

“I’m going to Australia.”

“When?”

“I bought a ticket at the airport yesterday. My flight is at three.”

Shavit nodded. “Then I will drive you.”

They left just after breakfast. Shavit led the way to the Jaguar. He turned the car around and drove up the drive and onto the road beyond. Shavit was quiet for the first twenty minutes. He turned on the radio and they listened together in silence.

They passed the sign for the airport when he finally spoke. “This Milton. How will it be done?”

“Hand to hand. One on one.”

“He is good, though?”

“Better than average. Not as good as me.”

“But you would give him a chance?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Hardly. We’ve fought twice. I beat him twice. He’s lucky he’s still alive.”

“But he is still alive, Avi. Why take the risk? Put him on his knees and put a bullet in his brain.”

Bachman shook his head, and when he spoke, his words were loaded with anger. “I want to humiliate him. I want to beat him to within an inch of his life, put my hands around his throat and then squeeze the breath out of him. I want my face to be the last thing he ever sees.”

Meir nodded. Perhaps he remembered Bachman’s temper and how frightening it could be. His vehemence stilled the conversation and they drove on in silence for another mile.

Bachman exhaled. “I know you mean well. But he’s nothing compared to me. I’ll crush him. I’ll make him sorry he was born.”

The terminal came into view to the right. “I know how good you are,” Meir said, “but be careful. That’s all.”

Shavit pulled up against the curb in the drop-off zone and killed the engine.

“Thank you,” Bachman said. “For everything.”

Shavit waved it off. “Don’t be foolish, habib.”

“Be careful. I mean it. You’re in play now, too.”

“I know.”

“If you don’t hear from me, assume the worst.”

“I know what to do, my boy. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Shavit reached out his hand and the two of them shook.

“Good luck.”

“I won’t need it,” Bachman said, “but thanks.”

“Call me tomorrow.”

“I will. Goodbye, Meir.”

“Goodbye, Avi.”

He got out and watched as his mentor disappeared into the light traffic. He wondered whether he would ever see him again. Probably not. Once Milton was disposed of, he would disappear again. He had money. He didn’t need to work, at least not for economic reasons. He would still take jobs, though, because the urge to kill was something that had become entrenched deep within him, and, if he was going to do it, he might as well be paid for it. But he would do it from the shadows, out of the Mossad’s sight.

He walked into the terminal and checked the departures board. Dubrovnik to Athens to Melbourne. He would be in Australia in twenty-two hours.