Gathering Storm. Don Pendleton

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      There had been a great deal of coming and going from the villa over the past few days. Keen had been curious as to why. Now he understood. The group had been preparing for Razan Khariza’s appearance. Now he was here, in the flesh, and Abe Keen knew something was being organized.

      He used up the rest of his roll taking as many shots as he could, then put his camera away. He slung his bag over his shoulder and backed away from his vantage point. He moved carefully, staying in cover until he was well clear, then gained his feet and negotiated the slope that would take him back to where he had parked his rental on the road that wound up into the hills from the main highway. It provided access to the villas scattered around the hills and cars were always driving back and forth through the area.

      He unlocked the Peugeot’s door and slipped in behind the wheel. He started the car and turned it around, driving back to the main road and heading for San Remo. His mind was full of questions he didn’t have answers to. Keen was trying to work out what Khariza was up to. He hadn’t shown himself simply to have a get-together party with his old friends from the regime. The five men seated at that table were hard-line loyalists of the former regime. Keen had no illusions. The five were planning something.

      He just wished he knew what.

      KEEN’S CAR HAD GONE, leaving only a faint mist of dust in the warm air. A man eased out of the undergrowth, pausing to brush a hand over his clothing. He carried an expensive digital camera in his free hand. He made sure it was secure before he slipped it into a pocket inside his suede jacket. The action pushed aside the jacket to briefly expose the Glock autopistol carried in a shoulder holster.

      He made his way down the side road, having to step to the side as cars appeared and drove by. He returned to where his partner was waiting in a car some distance along the road that wound its way in the direction of the villa. He took out a transceiver. He activated it and raised it to his lips, speaking to the person who responded to his call.

      “Yes. There was someone watching. We think he was taking photographs of the villa. It was too risky to do anything here. Too many cars up and down the road. But I know what car he is driving. We can trace him through that. And I took photographs of him. We can run it through our database. Once we identify him, something can be done. Don’t concern yourself over that. It will be taken care of.”

      KEEN DROVE DIRECTLY to his hotel, parked the car and went to his room. The first thing he did was to rewind the film in his camera and remove it. He took out a new roll of film and put it in his camera, pressing the release button to expose about half the film. He placed the camera in its case, then he sat on the edge of the bed, studying the roll of film in his hand, debating his next move.

      Ten minutes later Keen left the hotel and drove across town to a photo store. He knew the man who ran it. After a few moments discussing the price, Keen was installed in the darkroom at the rear of the store. An hour later he was done. He had processed and printed the images captured on the film. With the results in a manila envelope, he returned to where he had parked his car and drove back to the hotel.

      He spread the photos out across the bed and studied them. He had printed off two sets. He slipped the negatives and one set of prints into a padded envelope and wrote his own London address on the front. Calling the desk, he asked for a seat to be booked on the next available flight to London. The desk returned his call ten minutes later and confirmed they had him booked on a flight that left at eight-thirty that evening.

      Keen took a laptop from its case, placed it on the writing desk and connected it to one of the room’s power points. From his equipment case he took a slim scanner and plugged it into the laptop. He disconnected the room phone from the socket and plugged in a modem cable from the laptop. He spent the next ten minutes scanning a number of the photographs, assigning them to document files before accessing his e-mail address book. He scanned the list of names until he found the one he wanted and opened a new e-mail. He typed in a brief message, attached the document files and sent the message. The files took time being transmitted, but Keen was eventually rewarded with the acknowledgment that his e-mail and attachments had been successfully delivered.

      Working steadily, he disconnected his equipment and stored it all away in the carry bag, including the set of prints he had scanned. He reconnected the room phone, then glanced at his watch. Still plenty of time before his flight. Keen checked the room, making sure he had packed everything. Then he called the desk again and asked for his room bill. He picked up his luggage and left the room, making his way down to the lobby. At the desk he settled his bill, paying for his flight at the same time. His ticket would be waiting for him at the check-in at the airport.

      His luggage was placed in the trunk of the Peugeot. Keen climbed in and drove away. He had things to do before he headed for the airport.

      His first stop was at the main post office where he had the padded envelope weighed and stamped. He paid for airmail delivery, then returned to the parked Peugeot and picked up the route that would take him to the airport.

      He had been driving for no more than five minutes when he spotted the tail car.

      Abe Keen had been tailed before. The nature of his profession meant he often intruded on delicate situations and elicited a variety of responses. Investigative journalism of the kind Keen was involved in was far removed from celebrity probing. Keen’s subjects had a more direct line of response than threatening an invasion-of-privacy suit. Over the years he had been physically assaulted, once run down by a car and had been shot at three times. On the second shooting he had taken a bullet through his left arm, but had kept his finger on the camera release button, actually capturing on film the moment he had been fired upon.

      The sight of the black Mercedes some forty feet behind him made Keen aware of his vulnerability. He didn’t carry any kind of weapon himself. He used a camera, not a gun, realizing and accepting the danger he placed himself in. He glanced at his watch. Still time before his flight. And it would take him another ten minutes before he reached the airport. He took another look in the rearview mirror. The tail car had dropped back behind a silver Toyota. Keen knew that if he could see the Mercedes, they could see him.

      He stepped on the gas pedal, moving away from the Toyota. The car had closed in on his rear. As soon as Keen accelerated, so did the Toyota.

      Keen realized he had a pair of cars following him. For what ever reason, the Toyota was upping the pace. Keen had the feeling the Toyota was ready to tailgate him if the opportunity arose, deliberately hit his back end and force him off the road. Anyone driving by would see it as a road accident, with one impatient driver clashing with another. No one would want to get involved. They would drive on by and allow the two parties to sort out the mess themselves.

      The light was starting to fade now. If the tail car was going to do something, this would be the time, as the day gave way to dusk. Drivers would be even less ready to stop to see what had happened now. They would prefer to stay inside their own vehicles. Safe from what was going on outside.

      Keen rammed his foot down hard, feeling the powerful car surge forward. The hell with them, he decided. If they wanted him they were going to have to work at it. He forgot about speed restrictions as the Peugeot hurtled along the road, speeding by the other traffic. He could see the Toyota falling behind a little. If they were going to make their play, it would have to be soon. Once it got full dark it would be easier for him to lose his pursuers. His other ace was the possible presence of the local cops. If he passed any patrol car at the speed he was going, he would attract their attention. It would be worth being pulled over just to make the tail cars back off.

      As it was, there were no patrol cars in sight. No flashing lights or wailing sirens. Keen’s high-speed drive brought him to the airport at Genoa far faster than he СКАЧАТЬ