Overhead, the Eurocopter banked to face him, its giant searchlight fixing along the rooftop. It was now or never. He swallowed hard, parted the fly screen and stepped inside.
The building shook for a few seconds under the downdraft of the Eurocopter’s powerful rotor blades, before the helicopter disappeared into the distance, and he was left standing in the dark room in silence.
If someone was home they were awake now, their every sense alert and listening for the unusual sound over the otherwise silent coastal village. At worst, they would turn on the lights any moment, and find him there.
He stood still, preparing for the worst.
Where would he move to? Where could he hide? If he was spotted, would he attack them or would he run? He felt worried that he might act on impulse and kill the innocent occupant. He knew very little about himself, but one thing had been abundantly clear — if he was cornered, he would fight ruthlessly to survive.
He couldn’t leave, but if he stayed, something very bad was going to happen.
Instead, he flicked on the light and tentatively said, “Hello. I’m sorry to disturb you.”
He wanted to give his name, but had none to provide.
His eyes narrowed and his jaw hardened as he swept the medieval apartment. There was a small kitchenette and living room overlooking the dark sea to the south. An open door led to a bathroom. Next to it was a doorway, presumably to the outside, and a small hallway to the bedrooms.
He switched on the light in the hallway. He spoke in a gentle, soothing tone. “It’s okay, I’m not here to hurt you. I just need some help.”
There was no response.
He opened the first bedroom door.
It had a double bed with its sheets neatly made up, a closet with a few dresses and other summer outfits — not enough to warrant someone who permanently lived there, but more likely a vacation house — and a couple photos on a bedside table. He picked up one, and glanced at it. The photo showed a beautiful woman in Johns Hopkins University graduation robes. She had blonde hair, brown eyes, and a firm smile that appeared restrained, as though she was burdened by her newfound wealth of knowledge. She was carrying a certificate, but the name and details were blurred.
He put the photo frame back down and stepped out of the room, suddenly feeling like an intruder. He turned off the light and headed toward the second bedroom door. There was more confidence in his movement this time. He was almost certain no one was home.
Stepping into the second room, he switched on the light. “Hello. Is anyone here?”
He took in the room at a glance. As he expected, the room was empty. It was a relatively tidy study, with a cedar desk, open laptop, and assortment of various technical books. Judging by the dense technical books, he guessed she was an academic of some sort.
Other than that, he gathered very little about her or why he should so vividly recall the house she lived in.
He made his way back to the bathroom.
He ran the faucet with warm water and washed his face. He examined himself in the mirror. It seemed strange to stare at a foreign face and know that it was your own. He had thick brown hair, a dark beard, and piercing blue eyes like the ocean, which stared back at him.
The man exhaled slowly, his eyes narrow and searching. He no longer saw a man. Instead, he saw something entirely different. Like a ghost, his previous life had been erased. A dangerous man with no memory of his past.
He shook his head. “Who the hell are you?”
Chapter Six
Andre Dufort stared at the dark ocean down below.
A crispy string of white wash slithered slowly toward the jagged rocks, like a sinister creature of the sea, before it dispersed and the swell flattened to nothing.
He shook his head and frowned.
There was no way anyone could hold their breath that long. The man had either drowned, or attempted to swim farther out to sea to find another place to return to the shore. If that was the case, the police helicopters — which were already in the air — would find him. If not, the man was dead.
Andre’s success was marred by a strange sense of disappointment. If his target was indeed dead, then he’d completed his job, and could walk away now without ever being implicated in the man’s death. It was an easy solution. Yet, somehow it felt wrong. From what he’d read about the target, he had expected something more.
The man was meant to be extraordinary. A real challenge. He’d felt elated and thrilled by the hunt, the same way a hunter might, on the chase of an African beast in the Sahara in days long since gone by. And now he was experiencing the disappointment of the aftereffect.
He went through the process of disassembling the sniper rifle, his hands mechanically stripping the weapon that had become an extension of his body, and packing it away in its case. He returned his case to the room that he’d hired the day before. He stripped himself and had a warm shower, removing any obvious sign of gunpowder residue that might incriminate him. He took his time. There was no rush. After all, in the end, he hadn’t even been responsible for his target’s death. Now, all he had to do was go and confirm that the sanction had been successful.
He turned the shower off, dried himself, and got dressed in a pair of dark denim jeans, shoes, and a polo shirt. He considered a collared shirt and tie, but dismissed the idea as soon as he received it. He glanced at himself in the mirror and smiled — he looked like a professional currently on vacation, but unable to shake the persona.
He nodded to himself, happy with the effect, and stepped outside.
Andre took the meandering masonry stairwell in his stride, heading down casually to the main beach at the southern end of the Vernazza harbor.
The polizia were already setting up a cordon line.
A senior officer, with a surly face turned to greet him. “You look pretty interested in my crime scene, sir.”
Andre suppressed a smile. “I’m afraid I’m more interested in finding out whether or not you’ve found the man’s body yet?”
The officer hesitated. His eyes narrowed. “What man?”
“The man who presumably killed that young lady. The same one who jumped into the ocean and never came back up again.”
“So you saw that too, did you?”
Andre nodded.
The officer said, “What else did you see?”
“Not much. I saw the man get off the rowboat on the beach there at 3:21. Someone challenged him… a priest, I think from Santa Margherita d'Antiochia — I’m afraid I couldn’t see his face. I saw the murdered woman, too. Then, someone fired a shot, and the man made a run for it.”
“You saw a lot,” the police officer said without hiding the suspicion from his voice.
“I’m staying at an apartment, right there,” Andre said, pointing up at his apartment, which had a clear view of the beach. “I could see everything from the balcony.”
“What were you doing watching from your balcony at three in the morning?”
Andre held his breath for a moment. It would be interesting to see how the police officer took the next part of his story. “I was waiting for a Russian fugitive to step off a boat.”
Chapter Seven
Andre watched the police officer’s lips twist into a wry smile, riddled with incredulity.
Contrary to frequent portrayals in popular culture, Interpol is not a supranational law enforcement agency and has no agents who are allowed to make arrests. Instead, it is an international organization that functions as a network of criminal law enforcement agencies from different countries. Interpol's collaborative form of cooperation is useful when fighting international crime because language, and cultural and bureaucratic differences can make it difficult for police officials from different nations to work together.