Winner Kills All Page 2

  Gangsters. Drug lords. Traffickers. Scum.

  Or was that another cliché and these people actually owned a Starbucks franchise in Tirana?

  Maybe. But there were bad men hereabouts.

  He wasn’t that far from the Yellow House, where terrible atrocities had been perpetrated during the Kosovan war. Allegedly, he reminded himself. But trafficking human organs was not his story, and the Yellow House was old news.

  He turned the radio on and promptly turned it off again. He wasn’t in the mood for Albanian hip-hop. In fact, he’d never be.

  For several miles, the road hugged the shore of a lake created by a monstrous concrete dam visible in the far distance, the artificial waters black and uninviting. Shortly after passing the dam itself, the air around it humming with power, a sign indicated he should turn left and begin his ascent. The road up to the rendezvous point was steep and sharply curved, but its surface was mercifully free of potholes. It was etched into the side of a mountain with a sheer drop on one side and laughably flimsy crash barriers in place only at selected corners.

  As he continued to climb, the trees thinned before disappearing completely as the bends tightened. He tried not to look down over the cliff edge to his right.

  Adam felt content. So far the research for the novel was progressing nicely. As it was largely fictional, he didn’t have to worry too much about nailing down the exact topographical – or geographical – details. Quayle had spent most of his time in the south, living in sea caves, but Adam’s novel was to be more impressionistic than historically accurate. He had managed to get a stack of self-published wartime diaries by men nearly all long dead, who had come to this cold, inhospitable country to help the partisans. He was planning on weaving their stories into Quayle’s. Inspired by actual events. Isn’t that the phrase to use when you’ve made a lot of stuff up?

  Tirana had gone well. In a dilapidated, fusty bar to the north of King Zog’s brutalist Royal Palace, Adam had met with two old men who had known Enver Hoxha, the future ruler of Albania, back when he was leading the partisans against the Nazis. Neither of them remembered Quayle, although one of them had met his predecessor. The other bloke had been born near Golan, one of the villages Adam was heading to. He had provided deep background about its rivalry with neighbouring town Cerci, which dated back hundreds of years. He had given the pair a card with his email address, asking them to contact him if they remembered anything else. But at their age, they probably forgot a little more about the war with each passing day.

  Through Viora, the paper’s attractive but sullen Tirana fixer, he had also met a ‘retired’ people-smuggler who’d sworn it was a humanitarian calling. No sex involved. Just desperate, frightened human beings. Willing, no doubt, to pay a fortune to cross from Libya to Greece. He had made Adam’s flesh crawl as he’d plied him with bottle after bottle of Birra Tirana. But, of course, he knew about Cerci and Golan. Who didn’t? the man had said with a wink.

  Adam couldn’t bring himself to give the man a card. He never wanted to hear from that creep again. But the information he had obtained was copper-bottomed and flexing his journalistic muscles had put a spring in Adam’s step. He felt a long way from Pets’ Corner.

  A battered piece of wood nailed to a tree, full of what looked like buckshot scars, displayed partially erased symbols for food, drinks and washing facilities two kilometres ahead. He slowed a little. Behind him a Fiat he hadn’t noticed honked and pulled around, scattering stones and dust over Adam’s bonnet.

  The inn was a surprisingly grand structure: two wooden storeys, a slate roof and a terrace out front, with metal tables and chairs spread across it. Next to the main building, a new wing was being constructed out of breeze-block. The severe, square, flat-roofed box showed no heed to the style of the original architecture. It would look like a brutalist parasite latched onto the side of the traditional inn.

  Wait outside, had been his instruction. We’ll find you.

  Adam parked up, collected his map, notebook and the two-day-old Times from the passenger seat and got out. Despite the sun, the chill of the air at that altitude bit at him so he fetched his jacket from the rear. There were two other sets of customers outside: a group of three men, each dark and moustachioed, and two women, thirties maybe – one fair, the other dark – who had their own map spread out on the table and appeared to be arguing.

  He sat just out of earshot of the others and ordered a coffee from the waiter. As an afterthought, he added a slice of ravani. With luck it would be syrupy sweet and sickly to counteract the bitterness of the coffee. He began to work through the newspaper’s crossword.

  Four down. Dog – a stray – circling English person who enunciates badly? Eight letters.

  He put his elbows on the marble table top and it tipped. The heavy disc was merely resting on the metal base. He took his weight off the top and it banged back down into place.

  The noise made the women look over and he smiled; a quick tight grin that was simply an acknowledgement of his clumsiness. However, one of them – the blonde – took this as permission to come over.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, in English. ‘Can we borrow your map? Our satnav is playing up. I just want to compare yours to ours.’

  ‘Sure. Where are you going?’

  ‘Golan.’

  It was one of his stops, but he didn’t say anything. He had no intention of getting embroiled. But why would two Englishwomen want Golan? Unless, he thought queasily, they were reporters, also on the story. He looked the woman up and down. There was a flintiness about her that suggested she might be in the game.

  He handed over the folded map. ‘How did you know I was English?’

  ‘It must have been the Union Jack on your back,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘That obvious?’

  ‘The clothes. The shoes. The Times crossword. Yes, pretty obvious. I’ll bring it straight back.’

  Observant, anyway. Maybe she was a copper.

  The coffee and cake arrived and he lost himself in the puzzle for a while. A tap on the shoulder startled him. ‘Thank you,’ said the woman, returning the map. ‘All sorted.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  She hesitated, but he let the silence hang.

  ‘What brings you here?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘I’m researching something on Anthony Quayle. The actor. He was here during the war.’

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘The Guns of Navarone. Ice Cold in Alex. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh. Well, my husband used to love those films. Good luck.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Hiking.’

  He glanced at her feet and she caught his disbelieving look as he clocked her battered trainers.

  ‘The boots are in the car,’ she laughed, pointing at a Dacia FWD. ‘Right, thanks for the map.’

  Adam watched her return to her table. He wasn’t quite sure what had occurred, but he was certain both parties hadn’t been entirely truthful. He definitely hadn’t been. The two women sniggered about something. He hoped it wasn’t him.

  Mutterer – Four down, eight letters.

  ‘Mr Bryant?’ the waiter asked in a thick accent.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Phone call for you. Inside.’

  He stood and looked at his phone. It had signal. But then plenty of people didn’t trust mobiles. He went to gather up his map and notebook but instead gestured to the women, asking them to keep an eye on his stuff. They nodded. He took the phone with him, though.

  Inside was dark and warm, the air slightly gritty from an open fire, and he wished he could meet his fixer in there. The barman pointed to the rear of a long, wood-panelled corridor where, next to the foulsmelling toilets, a receiver dangled by its cord. He walked down the passage and picked it up.

  ‘Hello?’

  There was a click and the line went dead.

  ‘Hello? Hello?’

  After a few seconds of interrogating dead wires, Adam r
eplaced the receiver and walked out. He found the waiter serving the women a second cup of coffee and vegetable pie.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said in his halting Albanian. ‘Nobody there. Did they give a name?’

  ‘No, they didn’t say,’ the waiter replied in English.

  ‘Man or a woman?’

  ‘Woman, I think.’

  Adam walked slowly back towards his table, checking his phone again. It wasn’t until it was almost upon him that he noticed the mosquito-buzz of a high-revving motorbike and looked up to see the rider and his pillion passenger, their faces obscured by heavily tinted visors. The passenger was trying to extract something from his unzipped leather jacket. Suddenly, an automatic pistol was in his hand.

  It was then that Adam knew he was about to die.

  THREE

  It was only much later that Adam was able to piece together what had happened, replaying the few sound and visual clues that were stored in his subconscious. Just as he realised exactly what the rider and his passenger were about, he was hit from the right by what felt like a steam train whose brakes had failed. As he went down, an apparent flying saucer appeared, spinning through the air before him. He heard three or more cracks, which – thanks to his time in Helmand – he recognised as gunfire.

  He hit the hard, unyielding terrace with a bonejarring – and it later transpired, rib-cracking – force that propelled all the breath from him. There was a flash of light and then the world turned to smoke. He must have passed out for a moment because he awoke on his back, a woman’s face inches from his own. At first he thought she was going to kiss him, but then he felt the jittery little slaps she was delivering to his cheek.

  ‘You OK?’ she asked. It was the dark–haired hiker.

  ‘Yes,’ he croaked. ‘You can stop hitting me now.’

  ‘OK, but don’t move. I heard something pop as you went down.’

  ‘I think that was my pride.’

  Adam twisted his head slightly. One of the circular café table tops – the flying saucer – was lying in the road. The blonde was talking to the three other customers, who were standing next to it. One of them held a big automatic pistol in his hand. Adam could smell the fumes from discharged weapons swirling in the air.

  His stomach cramped and he thought he might be sick.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked the woman. Then, as she touched his torso: ‘Ow, FUCK!’

  ‘Ribs bruised or cracked,’ she announced.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Call me Freddie.’

  ‘Are you a doctor, Freddie?’

  She shook her head. ‘Are you a gangster of some kind?’

  ‘What?’ he replied. Why would she think that? ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Well, who have you been rubbing up the wrong way?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  Now the blonde was standing over him. He had to squint as he looked up at her, the sun flaring behind her head. ‘Really?’ Blondie said. ‘Because someone just called in a hit on you.’

  FOUR

  They moved to the inside of the inn and switched on the lights, revealing necklaces of cobwebs hanging from cornices and picture frames that the dimness had helped mask. The three armed Albanians were left outside, to keep watch. In case the bikers returned, Adam supposed.

  As Freddie bandaged him up using the first-aid bag from their car, the other one – Sam – told Adam what had happened.

  The mystery phone call had tipped them off. Apparently, it was an old way to finger the right person. The ‘mark’ would be the one who took the call. As the motorbike approached, the pair had snapped into action before the passenger had even fully drawn his weapon. Freddie – the steam train – had launched herself at Adam while Sam had frisbee’d the unfixed table top through the air, pulling a muscle as she did so.

  There were two bullet holes in the table, both meant for Adam.

  One thing was for sure: whoever or whatever these women were, they weren’t on a hiking holiday.

  The three Albanians were locals and, affronted by the attempted assassination, one of them had loosed off a couple of shots of his own at the bikers. Sensing they were outgunned, the pair on the bike had taken off.

  ‘What now?’ Adam asked as he gingerly slipped his T-shirt and sweater back on.

  ‘Rakia!’ said the barman, putting a tray of glasses on the bar. They were half full of a golden, syrupy-looking liquid.

  Sam and Freddie both smiled at the barman and knocked their drinks back. Adam did the same, keeping his grin fixed as the fruit brandy scorched its way down his throat.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked.

  The two woman exchanged glances. ‘Hikers.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ The journalist in him had finally kicked in. Hikers who knew the choreography of a drive-by shooting? Unlikely, it seemed to him. There was a story here.

  ‘Ex-army hikers,’ said Freddie.

  ‘Right.’ At least one part of that rang true. ‘What now? Is this Assault on Precinct 13?’

  Blank looks.

  ‘Are we trapped here?’

  Sam shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. My guess is those were a couple of kids. Cheap. Disposable. The men who sent them will be thinking carefully about their next move now they know they have opposition.’

  ‘Those guys?’ Adam pointed to the three men now drinking free brandy on the terrace. ‘I’m guessing them being here and armed was just blind luck. As was you two being here.’

  ‘Maybe, but they don’t know that. The kids won’t go back and say they were scared off by a woman with a loaded café table,’ said Freddie. ‘It’ll be an army they faced down by the time they get back to their bosses.’

  ‘They will beat the truth out of them,’ said the barman. He had laid a shotgun across the bar. He nodded at it. ‘If you need.’

  Adam thought the mottled barrel and chipped hammers meant it looked old and neglected enough to blow up in your face, but Sam said, ‘Thank you. We’ll see how it goes. You know the men who did this?’

  ‘From Golan, I would guess,’ growled the barman. Adam half-expected him to hawk and spit from the way he said it. ‘Only the people there still doing this shit. Them and Cerci.’

  Those were the two villages fighting for control of the trafficking business across Europe.

  ‘What are you really doing here?’ asked Sam. ‘And don’t give me that guff about Anthony Hopkins.’

  ‘Quayle,’ he corrected. ‘And it’s true. He was here in the war.’

  ‘But there’s more,’ Sam said flatly, ‘more you aren’t telling us.’

  Adam lowered his voice. ‘I’m a journalist. I was sent to do a story on . . . on those two villages he just mentioned.’

  Freddie took the shotgun off the bar, broke it, peered down the barrels and sniffed it. The barman put a handful of shells on the bar and she nodded her thanks before pocketing them. ‘They fuckin’ hate journalists round here.’

  ‘But I haven’t started,’ Adam protested. ‘Asking questions, I mean. Apart from in Tirana.’

  Sam’s brow furrowed and Adam could almost hear the cogs meshing as she processed what little information she had. ‘Which means somebody tipped them off.’

  FIVE

  ‘Why would anyone tip off the locals?’ asked Adam.

  Sam shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You upset anyone in Tirana?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Who were you waiting for at the café?’

  ‘The local stringer-cum-fixer, arranged through the paper. A decent guy by all accounts. I doubt he would bite the hand that feeds him.’

  Freddie inserted two shells into the black holes of the gun barrels. ‘The Sayonara Syndrome.’

  ‘The what?’ Adam asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Sam, throwing a steely look in her friend’s direction. ‘And right now, it doesn’t matter. We have to get down that hill.’

  ‘But I have to go to Golan to do the story. I’m on assignment.’


  ‘Both cars?’ asked Freddie. It wasn’t addressed to Adam. In fact, it was as if he hadn’t spoken.

  Sam shook her head. The next sentence was for his benefit. ‘No, we take the four-wheel drive. Adam can tell the hire company to come and get his. I’m sure Saban here will look after the keys.’

  The barman nodded.

  ‘What about Leka?’ Freddie asked.

  Adam looked at each woman in turn. ‘Who’s Leka?’

  ‘Leka is a man from Golan we have some interest in,’ Sam said.

  ‘I thought you were going there?’

  ‘We were.’

  ‘So we could all go. I have to get the story. My editor will kill me if I don’t.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ said Sam. ‘Not now you’ve been fingered. We’d better stash you somewhere.’

  ‘How am I going to write a story if I’m stashed somewhere?’

  ‘You don’t think this is a story?’ asked Freddie. ‘Fuck me, you’ve got high standards, mate. You’ve almost been executed in a drive-by and now we have to get you down that mountain in one piece. Besides, I’ll bet you can get chapter and verse about the feuding villages from Saban. It’s Albania, not the moon. Barmen are still the source of all knowledge.’ Freddie held up ten fingers to emphasise her next point. ‘You’ve got ten minutes.’

  But Saban was looking at Freddie. ‘Leka who?’

  ‘Leka Zogolli,’ said Sam.

  Saban made a low snorting sound, like a bull gearing up for a charge. ‘How do you say in English? Cunt?’

  ‘Yup, that’s close enough,’ said Freddie.

  ‘Why are you interested in Leka Zogolli?’ Saban asked.

  ‘We . . . he . . . he’s causing us some trouble,’ said Sam. By trying to kill my boyfriend, she didn’t add. If ‘boyfriend’ was the correct term for Tom. She never could settle on a suitable description of their relationship. Whatever it was, Sam would rather he wasn’t murdered by Albanians.