Headhunters

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Milton let Hughes find the number, the phone laid out flat in his hand so that he could see exactly what he was doing. The number was stored in a blank contact form, with no indication that it was anything of any import.

He put the phone on the counter and went back to Hughes. He took the syringe, popped the cap from the end of the needle, and slid the point of the needle through the pliant plastic sheath. He drew 5ml of midazolam into the barrel and then depressed the plunger a little to expel the first few droplets.

“I’m going to put you under. By the time you wake up, we’ll be gone.”

“My husband? I don’t want my kids to find him.”

Milton looked over at the still body on the floor. “Do you have a room you can lock?”

“The garage,” he said. “The key’s on my key ring.”

“I’ll put him in there and lock the door.”

“What about all this?” He nodded down at the washing line that secured him to the chair.

“I’ll cut you free and leave you in bed. They’ll think you’re asleep.”

Hughes didn’t thank Milton — he had no gratitude for him, under the circumstances — but he gave a nod, a little acknowledgement that he had been kinder than he might have expected.

Milton took the syringe and slid the point into the vein on the back of Hughes’ hand. He pushed the plunger all the way down, watching as the fluid disappeared, and waited the ten seconds it took for the man’s head to loll woozily, for his eyes to shut, and for the muscles in his neck to relax so that his chin was pressed up against his chest.

He moved quickly. He had no wish to be there when the children returned from school.

He moved the body of the dead man into the garage. There was enough space inside for a car, the rest taken up by unopened storage crates and the detritus of daily life. There were two children’s bicycles; Milton tried not to think too hard about what they represented as he laid David’s body on the concrete floor and covered it with a span of tarpaulin. He made sure that the roller door was locked, then went back into the house and locked that door, too. He found a mop and bucket, filled it with soapy water, and washed the bloodstains from the kitchen floor. There was a lot of it, and it smeared and streaked, and the job took him longer than he would have liked. He checked that Paul Hughes was unconscious — he was — and untied him. He hoisted him over his shoulder and carried him upstairs to the bedroom, laying him out on the bed.

He went downstairs again. Matilda was still asleep. He left the house through the side door, ran back to the car he had stolen and drove back with it, reversing into the drive so that it was adjacent to the door. He went inside, scooped Matilda into his arms, and carried her to the car. He laid her across the back seat, looking down at her face for a moment. She gave out a peaceful exhalation, but didn’t move. Milton clipped the seat belt to anchor her to the seat, shut the door and went back into the house.

He collected the Tec-9, two of the Glocks and filled a plastic carrier bag with boxes of ammunition for both.

Outside, he locked the side door, got into the driver’s seat, put the car into drive, negotiated the downward slope of the driveway and set off.

Milton stopped the car at a lay-by when he was beyond the Mount Osmond city limits. He stepped outside into the burning heat and took Hughes’ mobile phone from his pocket. He quickly scrolled through the messages for anything that might have been useful, but there was nothing of note. Hughes had been too careful to leave anything in the memory that might be incriminating.

He navigated to the contacts and found the blank page with the single number that Hughes had identified.

He pressed CALL.

“Hello?”

A terse, tight voice. Milton thought he recognised it. Malakhi.

“I want to speak to Avi Bachman.”

A pause. “Who is this?”

“John Milton. Put him on now.”

Another pause. Milton could hear the sound of muffled conversation, none of the words distinguishable.

The line cleared and the sound on the other end became a little more distinct. A hand removed from the microphone, perhaps.

“Milton.”

“Avi,” Milton said.

There was a pause, just the crackle of static on the line.

Milton waited.

“Where are you?” Bachman said. “Adelaide?”

“I was. But not any more.”

“The girl?”

“Don’t worry about her.”

“She’s your girlfriend?”

“No,” he said. “I know you think I’m saying that because I want you to leave her out of this, but it’s the truth. But I’ll be honest: she is important to me. I won’t let you hurt her.”

“I’m sorry, John, you should have thought about that before you shot my wife.”

Milton sighed, his grip tightening on the phone. “I’m going to say this one more time. I didn’t shoot her. You did. You pumped fifty bullets into that container. One of them ricocheted.”

Bachman shouted down the line at him: “You’re fucking lying!”

Milton paused. “I know that’s hard for you to hear, but it’s the truth. And I know there’s no point in us talking about it any more. You’re not listening to me, so I’m not going to waste my breath. You can think whatever you like.”

“Why don’t you tell me where you are? We can meet and talk about it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“So why are you calling me?”

“I’m giving you a warning. One of the sayanim who found the girl is dead, and the other one is only alive because I decided to spare him. I’m giving you notice, Avi. I know you’re not listening to me. I know you need someone to blame for what happened to your wife and that you blame me. And that’s fine. I know you’re not going to stop coming for me, but this isn’t going to be one way any more. I’m coming for you, Avi, and anyone else working with you. You’re all fair game. I just wanted you to know that.”

He expected Bachman to explode with rage, but, instead, he heard a bitter chuckle. “Nice try, Milton. But it’s not just us. Me and you. It’s the Mossad. All of the Mossad. How long do you think you can run from that?”

“I don’t have to run,” he said. “I just have to take you out. I know about the Black Book. If you’re not a threat to them any more, why would they risk coming after me?”

“Not as simple as that.”

“But that’s why I’m calling. I’m giving you notice. I’ll see you again, but it’ll be on my terms.”

“Didn’t go very well for you the last two times we met.”

“We’re not going to fight. You know what I can do. I could end this from five hundred yards away.”

He ended the call.

He didn’t know whether Bachman would buy it. Probably not. He just wanted to give him something to think about. Something that might, maybe, slow him down.

It was a diversion. Milton had a plan. Something that Bachman wouldn’t expect. He just needed the opportunity to put it into action.