disturbed but he knew Morgan had been there. Why? Was he curious or was there something else? The skin of his gut became taut and he felt an old, remembered sensation of uneasiness from the days when he'd smuggled just about everything in and out of southern Europe coming over him. He turned and headed amidships.
Flat on the deck, Morgan knew there was something staring at him but a blaze of sunlight res ulted in a blinding glare off the yacht's pristine white salon. Then he spotted it. The most minute flicker of gold wedged within the fissure where the highly polished decking met the bodywork. Morgan reached out and grabbed it.
"Mr Hamilton! Mr Hamilton!" the captain called.
Instantly Morgan was up and on his knees. The object he'd collected was in his trouser pocket and his tortoiseshell Ray-Ban Wayfarers were in his hand.
"Dropped my sunglasses:' he said casually. "Thought they were about to go over the side."
"Oh, I see," said the captain, but he wasn't convinced. His dark, scheming eyes shot from Morgan to the decks, trying to see whatever it was that had so captured Morgan's attention. "Well, if you're satisfied, perhaps we could wrap things up. I really do have a lot to be getting on with."
Ten minutes later Morgan walked casually along the road beside the southern shoreline of Manoel Island and reached The Strand. There, he took up a position in the Cafe Jubilee from where he could observe the vehicle and pedestrian traffic coming and going from the marina. While he waited for coffee, he reached into his pocket and discreetly removed the object he had taken from the Florence. The slender brass lines and expanded crimped end of a fired 5.56mm blank cartridge in his fingers taunted him. Work it out. Work it out. Morgan's mind raced through the reports he had read on the flight to Malta and again in his hotel room, recalling every detail he could that would place him back at the port side amidships during the pirate attack. Who the hell was firing blanks from that boat.
On an instinct he looked up and across the intersection of The Strand and the Manoel Island access road. He saw the captain emerge, walking briskly up from the marina, looking agitated. The captain's head swung from side to side, suspicious of being followed. Morgan returned the expended blank cartridge to his pocket and made a play of reviewing something on his sat phone; when deployed on ops, all agents carried them. Having selected a table toward the rear of the cafe, he was confident that, unless the captain came in, he would not be seen. Looking past the other patrons, Morgan realized that the captain was waiting for someone. It took only a few more moments for Morgan to see who he'd been waiting for.
A Fiat Sedici 4x4 pulled up sharply and a man wearing the uniform of the Malta Police Force Maritime Patrol leant out of the driver's window and called impatiently to the captain.
The captain got in and they sped off.
Chapter 20
UN DETENTION UNIT, SCHEVENINGEN, THE HAGUE
Detainee 69-54-55, Milivoj Serifovic, was escorted to the interview room by an officer of the UN Detention Unit. Serifovic had been expecting a visit from his defense counsel, in fact he'd requested it, but there'd been some problem and his appointed counsel couldn't attend personally. An alternate had been arranged.
Serifovic sat waiting in the interview room with the detention unit guard standing behind him. When the alternate counsel eventually arrived, he could not help but feel physically uneasy: the man moved through the doorway with the set and purpose of an invading tank regiment. Despite the bespoke tailoring, he looked like he was built from scaffolding, with huge slabs of muscle riveted to his superstructure. At the end of girder-sized arms, his hands swung like heavy luggage. His legs gave the impression of pile-driving pistons deep within the engine room of a mammoth battleship. His hair was thick and jet black, cut short. His brow was grave and his dark eyes
Flat on the deck, Morgan knew there was something staring at him but a blaze of sunlight res ulted in a blinding glare off the yacht's pristine white salon. Then he spotted it. The most minute flicker of gold wedged within the fissure where the highly polished decking met the bodywork. Morgan reached out and grabbed it.
"Mr Hamilton! Mr Hamilton!" the captain called.
Instantly Morgan was up and on his knees. The object he'd collected was in his trouser pocket and his tortoiseshell Ray-Ban Wayfarers were in his hand.
"Dropped my sunglasses:' he said casually. "Thought they were about to go over the side."
"Oh, I see," said the captain, but he wasn't convinced. His dark, scheming eyes shot from Morgan to the decks, trying to see whatever it was that had so captured Morgan's attention. "Well, if you're satisfied, perhaps we could wrap things up. I really do have a lot to be getting on with."
Ten minutes later Morgan walked casually along the road beside the southern shoreline of Manoel Island and reached The Strand. There, he took up a position in the Cafe Jubilee from where he could observe the vehicle and pedestrian traffic coming and going from the marina. While he waited for coffee, he reached into his pocket and discreetly removed the object he had taken from the Florence. The slender brass lines and expanded crimped end of a fired 5.56mm blank cartridge in his fingers taunted him. Work it out. Work it out. Morgan's mind raced through the reports he had read on the flight to Malta and again in his hotel room, recalling every detail he could that would place him back at the port side amidships during the pirate attack. Who the hell was firing blanks from that boat.
On an instinct he looked up and across the intersection of The Strand and the Manoel Island access road. He saw the captain emerge, walking briskly up from the marina, looking agitated. The captain's head swung from side to side, suspicious of being followed. Morgan returned the expended blank cartridge to his pocket and made a play of reviewing something on his sat phone; when deployed on ops, all agents carried them. Having selected a table toward the rear of the cafe, he was confident that, unless the captain came in, he would not be seen. Looking past the other patrons, Morgan realized that the captain was waiting for someone. It took only a few more moments for Morgan to see who he'd been waiting for.
A Fiat Sedici 4x4 pulled up sharply and a man wearing the uniform of the Malta Police Force Maritime Patrol leant out of the driver's window and called impatiently to the captain.
The captain got in and they sped off.
Chapter 20
UN DETENTION UNIT, SCHEVENINGEN, THE HAGUE
Detainee 69-54-55, Milivoj Serifovic, was escorted to the interview room by an officer of the UN Detention Unit. Serifovic had been expecting a visit from his defense counsel, in fact he'd requested it, but there'd been some problem and his appointed counsel couldn't attend personally. An alternate had been arranged.
Serifovic sat waiting in the interview room with the detention unit guard standing behind him. When the alternate counsel eventually arrived, he could not help but feel physically uneasy: the man moved through the doorway with the set and purpose of an invading tank regiment. Despite the bespoke tailoring, he looked like he was built from scaffolding, with huge slabs of muscle riveted to his superstructure. At the end of girder-sized arms, his hands swung like heavy luggage. His legs gave the impression of pile-driving pistons deep within the engine room of a mammoth battleship. His hair was thick and jet black, cut short. His brow was grave and his dark eyes
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