Andrew Gross - Reckless

Hauck slowed as they approached. “What’s that?”

“Probably some drunk driver,” Naomi said. “You saw firsthand, these people here hit it pretty hard.”

“Yeah, they do.”

He tried to make out what was going on. A car had spun into a ditch. Half the police cars of Novi Pazar seemed to have been called in. A gray-clad uniformed policeman was on the road, waving traffic through. Hauck wished he could just lower the window and flash his credentials, like back home, ask what was going on.

Naomi said, “Looks bad.”

As they inched closer, Hauck caught a glimpse of the color of the disabled car, which was pitched forward. Black. Then he saw the make.

Audi.

He turned to meet Naomi’s frozen gaze.

It was Thibault’s car.

He slowed to a virtual stop. Hauck made out the figure of a man slumped over the wheel.

The thick head of black hair. The black leather jacket.

It was Thibault. No doubt.

Naomi uttered, “Oh, my God…”

There seemed to be no visible damage to the car, but a blotch of blood oozed from the side of the lifeless Serb’s head.

This didn’t have the feel of any automobile accident.

As they passed, Hauck saw that two words had been scrawled on the Audi’s rear windshield. In large, bold letters that looked like smeared blood. Thibault’s blood, Hauck realized. Normally he wouldn’t have been able to make out anything written in Serbian, but these two words needed no translation.

DONJE VELKE, the letters read.

The Bosnian town where the massacre Thibault had been accused of overseeing had taken place.

They drove on past Thibault’s car in silence. Naomi was ashen faced, numb. Even Hauck felt a hole in the pit of his stomach.

Thibault had been executed for what he had done.

Who was responsible? Who had pegged Thibault for Kostavic? What flashed through Hauck’s mind was the scene back at the river, the two drunks who had seemingly wandered up at the right time. They had spoken to him in English. As if they knew.

Donje Velke.

“Who the hell were those people?”

Hauck pulled the car over to the side of the road. He racked his mind to recall exactly how everything had taken place.

“Retribution? The BIA?” Naomi thought out loud. The Serbian secret police.

“I don’t know. They seemed to be drunk. But one of them spoke to me in English. Like he had an idea who I was. But why would Serbs have done this? What happened in Donje Velke took place in Bosnia. To ethnic Albanians. And Kostavic has been “dead” around here for fifteen years. How the hell would anyone have figured out who he was? We only stumbled on it by accident. Thibault kept pushing me: ‘Who sent you?’ He was definitely scared of someone…”

“Hassani?” Naomi said.

“Maybe.” Hauck nodded. “Covering his tracks.”

“If it was Hassani, we’d better get the hell out of here. Now.”

“No.” Hauck shook his head. “I don’t think we’re in any danger. If that was so, they definitely had the chance to eliminate us both. They didn’t seem to have much of a problem sending me on my way.”

“I’m not talking about us, Ty,” Naomi said. “If Hassani was behind these hits-Glassman and Donovan, now this-Thibault’s gone. But there’s someone else who was involved. Someone who’s now become our only link. Who put this whole thing in motion.”

“That guy in London.” Hauck looked at her. “‘The planes are in the air.’”

Naomi nodded. “Marty al-Bashir. If Hassani knows we’re onto him, no way he’s going to let him live.”

Hauck nodded. Without this al-Bashir, who was at the heart of all that had happened, there was nothing they could prove. The conspiracy ended here. With Thibault.

“I need to make some calls,” Naomi said. “I have to set a few things up.”

“You want to go to London?”

“Someone’s trying to wreak havoc on the U.S. economy. Al-Bashir is the only link we have now.”

The flicker of flashing green and red police lights lit up the rearview mirror. Hauck put the car back in gear.

“You’re lucky,” he said, pulling back onto the road. “I just happen to be free.”

Naomi looked out the window with a worried smile. “Whew.”

The young girl trembled a bit, clearly scared.

Hassan ibn Hassani looked her over. She was only fourteen. Often they lied. But this one was truly a goddess. Her breasts were fully formed and he saw them quiver expectantly under her robe. Her hair was thick and soft as sable. Her eyes were dark, perfectly almond. Her lips were small yet full. There was a deepness to her that delighted him. Afraid, and yet intrigued by his attention.

And she had never been touched before.

“Exquisite.” Hassani smiled, signaling to the woman who had brought her that he was truly satisfied. There were twenty thousand euros for her in an envelope on the way out. Twenty thousand euros. For a fraction of that, he could fuck the most beautiful women in the world. Models, beauty pageant contestants, aspiring Bollywood starlets. But this one was a jewel. Unspoiled. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“What’s your name?”

“Sera,” the girl replied tremulously.

Sera. She had come from one of his villages back in the kingdom. A village that his family, sheiks for over two hundred years, still controlled. Her father had gotten into some trouble, built up a world of debts. A trifle to Hassani, who was willing to wipe the slate clean in an instant.

For such a price.

“Are you afraid?” he asked. He sat back in the gilded antique chair at his desk, a Louis XVI. He reached out and touched her hand. Electricity surged through him.

She flinched.

“Don’t be,” he said, letting his fingers fall from her hand and brush against her thigh. He imagined the heave of her delicious breasts underneath, the tautness of her nipples. “You are doing your father a great service. There, you would have nothing. And he would have been ruined. Here, you will have everything you need.”

Here, Hassani thought with pride, was his home on one of the many private islands that had been reclaimed from the sand in Dubai. More of a palace than a home. Modeled after a Venetian palazzo on the Grand Canal. Like a Canaletto painting, of which he possessed two.

Desire and anticipation surged through him. Yes, he lived a complicated life. He had contacts all over the world. He had sold arms. Secrets. He had enabled those who had caused many deaths. In the prophet’s name.

And yet he had also been a great friend to those in need-in the West. He had arranged financing for their most troubled banks. He was a conduit to the greatest wealth in the world, which these companies now needed. He was welcome in boardrooms across the globe. In government houses.

It was necessary to tread in both worlds in these times. To serve several masters. To keep a sense of balance.

And one of his many masters was the desire that rose up in his loins as he imagined the soft purr she would emit as he entered her before any others.

The way Hassani looked at it, he had sent many men on the path to countless virgins in paradise.

He was simply hedging his bet, as always.

He would take his here.

As he admired her, Hassani’s cell phone rang. His attention was so complete, he barely heard it. He looked at the display, disappointed that it was a call he had to take. “I’m sorry.” He sighed sadly. “I’ll need you to wait outside.”

He took the call, imagining the thought of running his hands underneath her robe. Hearing her cry out for the first time. Having her many times, until he dumped her back in her remote village, where she would be looked at as a whore.