As Henry Christie had always suspected, it was very unlikely that the wheels of justice would spin quickly in the case of Paulo Scartarelli. Not because it was Cypriot justice. It would not have mattered where in the world Scartarelli had been detained, there was no way he would be extradited from anywhere, no matter how willing the authorities, within the promised two days. It just didn’t happen – such was life – but he was surprised that it took only four weeks, in itself a miracle. The problem, as ever, was defence lawyers and Scartarelli wasn’t going to be taken to the UK without a legal battle of some sort.
And just to draw out the process, he hired and fired a series of quite capable lawyers until a high court judge said enough was enough. Twenty-eight days after his arrest, Scartarelli was ready to be handed over to the British authorities – Henry Christie, in other words.
Since the arrest in the Akamas, Henry had been involved in shuttling back and forth to Cyprus because there was no way he would have been allowed to remain on the island for that length of time, despite pleas that fell on deaf ears. By the time Scartarelli was ready for collection, Henry was heartily peed off with travelling backwards and forwards on cramped planes. He was glad, in some ways, that the episode was drawing to a close.
And as his final journey to Cyprus ended and he and Bill Robbins clambered down the steps of the easyJet Boeing 737, hopping on to the bendy bus to take them to the terminal building at Pafos, Henry did have one big regret that this was all soon going to be over.
It was like being sardined into a packed Tube train, swaying and bumping into other people as the bus lurched across the tarmac on its short run.
‘You must be well used to this,’ Bill Robbins said.
‘Yeah – and pissed off with it all.’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Bill sarcastically. He had not been back to Cyprus since the first visit. ‘I really hate coming to nice, hot countries,’ he mocked.
‘Just eff off, Bill,’ Henry said quietly. It had been another tiring journey, beset by unexplained delays, crap food, shrieking kids and simmering air rage inside him.
Bill pulled his face and shut up. ‘Whatever,’ he did manage to say.
For once, Henry’s bag was one of the first to come along the conveyor belt and he left Bill fuming because his was nowhere to be seen.
‘See you out front,’ Henry said.
He passed through customs and into the arrivals hall and the reason why Henry was filled with such mixed emotions was standing there waiting for him.
DS Georgia Papakostas.
Henry literally felt himself go weak at the knees and they approached each other and kissed formally on the cheek.
‘Where’s Bill?’
Henry jerked his head backwards. ‘Still waiting.’ He looked at her, mesmerized, unbelievably ecstatic to see her again even though it had been only a week since he last visited the island. She smiled widely, her eyes playing over his face; she, too, was overjoyed to see him.
‘Where’s Tekke?’
‘At the police station in Pafos. We’ll meet him there.’
Bill appeared through the door of the baggage hall, lugging his suitcase behind him, a big smile on his face at seeing Georgia. After an effusive greeting they were taken out to the Terrano and Georgia drove them from the airport.
‘What’s the plan this time?’ Henry said, rubbing his hands together.
‘I’ve booked you into a hotel in Pafos – separate rooms.’ She eyed Henry. ‘Tonight we’ll chill. Tomorrow is paperwork day, then the day after he’s all yours to take back – and that’s the last we’ll see of you,’ she concluded wistfully. ‘But,’ she went on brightly, ‘I do have some news of my own, kind of mixed.’
Henry waited.
‘Promotion – detective inspector.’
‘Oh, well done,’ he said genuinely.
‘Yeah, brill,’ Bill perked from the rear.
‘What’s the mixed bit?’
‘Tekke is being moved and I’m taking his place. He’s being posted to Protaris on the other side of the island.’ She gave Henry a short smile that said an awful lot.
Henry and Bill didn’t see Georgia or Tekke that evening. They went out for a meal in Kato Pafos, down at the harbour. Henry was eager to see the spot where Haram had been murdered and the Pelican, though they didn’t dine there. However, they ate and drank too much as usual, then hit the sack. Both were exhausted from the long flight and the delay.
As soon as Henry’s head hit the pillow, it was lights out.
The morning after, a uniformed cop picked them up after breakfast and took them to the main police station in Pafos where they met a strained-looking Georgia and an extremely grumpy Tekke who spent the time communicating with them in monosyllables. They were clearly not a happy couple, but Henry tried to ignore it as much as possible and get on with what they were there to do – complete the file-checking with the Cypriot lawyer who was representing the police.
Scartarelli’s fate had been sealed at a hearing two days earlier and this was the final run-through of the extradition papers. It was certain his lawyer would be engaged in the same activity and if anything was found out of place, it had to be spotted and dealt with.
Eight hours after starting, the task was complete.
Henry, Bill, Georgia and Tekke sat back and watched the lawyer leave. Then there was a collective sigh of relief.
All that needed to be done now was to arrange an escort for Scartarelli from the prison in Larnaca in which he was lodged and for that to tie in with the scheduled flight back to Manchester the next day. Henry also needed to be met at Manchester with a further escort to take the prisoner to the cells in Lancashire.
The four looked at each other.
‘Mine’s a pint,’ Bill ventured.
‘Mine’s a red wine,’ Georgia continued the theme.
‘I’ll have whatever’s going,’ Henry said manfully.
Tekke grimaced, stood up and left the room, saying nothing.
The three of them, showered and changed after a clammy day inside, walked on to the harbour at Kato Pafos and ate a meal at one of the waterfront restaurants. As the sun dropped, the heat fell a little, but it remained warm and pleasant. Bill decided on a lone stroll after the meal, leaving Henry and Georgia sitting across the table from each other, slowly and thoughtfully spinning their wineglasses by the stems, inspecting the ruby liquid as it rolled around.
‘How’s the guy you shot?’ Henry asked to break the ice.
‘Well enough to face trial.’
‘And what’s eating Tekke?’ Henry asked eventually.
‘Mm … he asked me to marry him last night. I said no.’
‘Bit of a bummer for him,’ Henry said, realizing this must have been the reason for their no-show the previous evening.
‘Add to that his unexpected departure from Pafos.’
‘That, too.’
‘And the fact I’m taking over his job.’
‘And that.’
‘And he simply doesn’t want me being a cop – especially after our little shoot-out in the Akamas. Not a woman’s job. He thought it would have dawned on me after that, the drive-by shooting, and the chase after Scartarelli, and Haram’s murder – still undetected, incidentally. A woman’s place, at least in the eyes of the men in our society, is still in the home, cooking, giving birth, screwing her husband. He’s a through-and-through sexist and I think our relationship has come to a grinding halt.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Deep down I’m sure he’s a good man.’
Her face tightened. ‘And there’s the age difference.’
‘That’s not his fault,’ Henry said reasonably.
‘I mean – he’s as old as you, Henry,’ she laughed.
Henry sat back and surveyed her, a smile twitching on his lips. He had very much come to be obsessed with her and he knew she felt the same way about him. At least neither of them had done anything about it, other than flirt and enjoy each other’s company. No harm done so far.
‘You need to do what’s right for you,’ Henry said in a very clichéd way. ‘Sometimes you fall into things, relationships, that seem right but they turn very wrong and it’s hard to pull yourself out of them, but it can be done.’
‘There speaks the voice of experience.’ She sighed deeply. ‘But there is a part of me that thinks I should settle down and have kids, grow fat, feed an even fatter man. That is a big pull, believe it or not. But I know Tekke isn’t the man for that side of me. Oh shit, Henry, what should I do?’
They made their way up from the harbour, spending a little time in a couple of bars before finding their way to the hotel where Bill and Henry were staying. They sat and chatted for a while in the bar, then Georgia excused herself reluctantly and left. Bill and Henry had a couple of nightcaps, ouzo and lemonade.
‘You OK about tomorrow?’ Henry asked.
‘I’d be better with an MP5 slung across me and a Glock in my holster – but yeah.’
‘Just make sure you’re happy with everything, OK? Not that I’m expecting anything to go amiss, but you never know …’
Once again, Henry Christie’s male ego and self-destruct button were working in parallel with each other – but only in his mind, fortunately.
His hotel room was pretty standard fare, two double beds side by side and air-conditioning blasting away, but even this comfort did not help him sleep that night. He tossed and turned on the wide bed, unable to drift away, until midnight passed. As the time approached 1 a.m. he rolled off the bed, had a much-needed pee, then did something he rarely did – raided the mini-bar. He took two mini-bottles of Bell’s whiskey and a couple of chunks of ice from the freezer unit and went out on to the balcony overlooking the pool.
The whiskey hit his throat harshly, but felt great going down into his chest.
He was annoyed with himself.
He couldn’t get Georgia out of his mind and he was annoyed with her too. Why hadn’t she come knocking? Why weren’t they making hot, passionate love?
But most of all – why was he bothered?
Why in the name of hell and his new marriage was he even thinking like this?
He sneered at himself, feeling his face darken with anger.
Would he never change?
Would he always be destined to feel the need to seek new sexual adventures for as long as he could manage it? Encounters which clearly had no rhyme or reason?
He felt pathetic and inept, both as a man and husband.
There was no doubt that he and Kate really had something going now, better and deeper than it had ever been, and here he was, two thousand miles from home, wishing a sexy, vulnerable woman would come knocking on his hotel-room door and fuck him.
‘You pathetic shit,’ he said aloud.
‘I’m not sure that’s the way you should be talking about your travelling companion,’ a voice called back from the next balcony along. Bill Robbins’ head bobbed up over the dividing screen and held up his glass of double whiskey and clinky ice and said, ‘Cheers. I hope these are on the firm.’
The knock came at 2.16 a.m., about three-quarters of an hour after Henry had finally managed to get to bed, having clambered across on to Bill’s balcony and raided his fridge for another couple of miniatures each before calling it a night.
Henry was asleep, but the persistent light tapping eventually worked its way into his brain and switched him on.
He jerked awake, swallowing something hard, trying to recall a strange dream about being naked in a shopping trolley in Debenhams. What the fuck did that mean? He flipped off the single sheet and, pulling up his baggy sleeping shorts, padded to the door and peered through the spyhole.
His heart fell and soared at the same time.
He took a moment to compose himself, detached the security chain and opened the door to see a very distraught Georgia out in the corridor. She immediately stepped into the room and threw her arms around his neck, burying her face between his developing man-boobs, sobbing.
‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he said gently, easing her away from him. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I told him,’ she gagged, ‘I told him it was over.’
‘Ah. How did he take it?’ Henry held back from saying, ‘How did he Tekke it?’ in a Lancashire accent.
‘Badly.’
Henry stepped into the corridor and checked it both ways before closing the door and shuffling Georgia ahead of him into the bedroom. He sat her down on the edge of a bed. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’
He raided the minibar again, finding an ouzo for her and another whiskey for him. He poured both neat, handing her the ouzo.
Rubbing his eyes, he sat next to her.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, I’m so sorry.’
‘Not a problem.’
‘It’s just – my family are in Nicosia. I’ve no one else to go to. Just you, Henry Christie.’
‘That’s OK,’ he said with a shrug of acceptance and a smidgen of dread now. ‘Come on, take a deep breath, tell me everything.’
There were moments, Henry knew, when he could easily have taken advantage of the situation. He could have put his arms around her, held her tight, turned her face up to his and kissed her, but something inside held him back. Not long ago he would have done, but Kate and the girls were now his first loyalty and infidelity was no longer on the to-do list. It would have to remain within the confines of his cranium for the rest of his days.
Georgia told him how she had informed Tekke their relationship was over. He had exploded. She had never seen him so angry and dark. At one point she thought he was going to attack her, but he held back – fist in the air – and at the last moment stormed out of their flat. He hadn’t been seen since.
‘He mentioned your name,’ she said. ‘He accused me of having an affair with you.’
A chill of fear swept through Henry’s veins. ‘I hope you put him right on that?’
‘Yes, yes, of course, but I don’t think he believed me.’
Henry exhaled long and hard, wondering how he’d got himself into the middle of this mess.
Eventually she calmed down and said it would be best for her to return home. Henry didn’t try to prevent her from leaving and with a heavy heart he steered her to the door after pulling on a pair of jeans and a shirt. He accompanied her to the hotel foyer and on the steps outside she turned to him and kissed him.
‘Thank you,’ she said simply, and walked away. Henry watched her get into the Terrano and drive off. He turned glumly back to the hotel, knowing he would be unlikely to get any sleep now.
He failed to see the dark shadow, which then moved, revealing the brooding figure of Tekke.
Next morning, two bleary-eyed men and one delicately balanced woman met in the hotel foyer and had a breakfast together. They discussed the fine-tuning of the plans for the day, the main problem being timing. They had to ensure that the prisoner was picked up at the prison by an armed and properly briefed escort at the correct time; was taken to the airport to meet the plane due to fly him back to Blighty; was handed over to the British authorities on the tarmac (i.e. to Henry Christie and Bill Robbins, ambassadors extraordinaire of the British justice system); and was flown out of the country – and then the Cypriots could wash their hands of the bastard. Lots of bits of things depended on other bits being right and if the plane was delayed, the whole process would be thrown out of kilter.
As they reached the end of their discussion, Henry enquired about Tekke.
Georgia shrugged. She looked completely exhausted. ‘He reported sick, but I haven’t spoken to him. Don’t even know where he is.’
Henry thought about that and felt vaguely uncomfortable. A man on the loose who thought he was having an affair with his girl was not a good thing.
Bill eyed the two of them, not understanding any of the subtext.
Henry looked at Georgia, sensing Bill’s position. ‘I think Bill should know what’s happening.’ She nodded. ‘To cut a long story short,’ Henry continued, ‘Georgia has split up with Tekke. There are several private reasons for this, but the one you might need to know about is that he suspects Georgia and me of having an affair …’
Bill’s eyes flicked from one to the other. Then he guffawed, ‘You and her? An affair?’ and suddenly burst into a huge, sustained fit of belly laughter, interspersed with the occasional word such as, ‘You? … Her? … An affair? … You!’
Henry and Georgia watched the display of mirth stony-faced, Henry because he felt affronted by the realization that Bill seemed to think it preposterous that he could even contemplate sleeping with Georgia and that Georgia would even fancy him at all.
‘It’s not that far-fetched,’ he said.
‘Yes it is.’
Eventually he regained some sort of control over himself, wiping his tear-stained eyes with his knuckles. ‘Look, I’m really sorry you and Tekke broke up … that’s not what I find funny … it’s the thought that …’ He gave a dismissive wave. ‘Sorry, sorry.’
Georgia hung her head. Henry glared at the firearms officer and shook his head in disbelief.
‘Totally inappropriate, Bill,’ he said coldly.
‘I said I’m sorry, and I mean it.’
Georgia checked her watch. ‘Let’s go to the airport, make sure everything’s set there.’
The scheduled BA flight from Manchester touched down bang on time; 12 noon. There was a two-hour turnaround for refuelling and a fresh crew, then the boarding was due to begin at 2 p.m. for a 2.40 take-off. As the plane landed, Georgia was on her mobile instructing the escort to pick up Scartarelli and make their way to the airport.
Hopefully, everything was in place. The customs procedure would be carried out separately for the prisoner and then, before the embarkation of the normal passengers, Scartarelli would be driven out to the plane, still under armed escort. He would be taken to the top of the steps and handed to Henry and Bill. They had arranged seats right at the front, and the plan was to keep him sat between them, cuffed to one or the other, throughout the flight.
By all accounts, a foolproof plan.
Georgia’s phone rang. She listened and said a few words, then hung up. ‘They’re en route.’
‘How long of a journey?’ Bill asked.
‘Forty-five minutes.’
The three officers were in the police room at the airport. It was hot and cramped, the air-conditioning ineffective and overworked. Henry checked his watch and rose from the plastic chair, his back and arse dripping with sweat. ‘I’ll get some fresh air,’ he declared and went through the security door into the departure lounge, where he knew he could find an outdoor seating area overlooking the runway. He meandered through the duty-free shop and the bookshop, bought a coffee and went outside thinking the air would be fresher. However, everybody seemed to be smoking and it was fairly unpleasant in the heat of the day.
Even so, he found a seat and plonked himself down whilst contemplating life and this situation in particular. He ran through the plan in his head, which seemed pretty straightforward. It should be smooth as silk.
He gazed across the runway, the heat haze rising from the concrete. He thought about Scartarelli and how little he actually knew about the man, the criminal. He was the whole point of the visit to Cyprus in the first place yet he seemed to have taken second place to the relationship that had developed between him and Georgia – and Tekke. Henry knew he’d taken his eye off the ball a little where Scartarelli was concerned. He knew he mustn’t forget what a dangerous man he was, well connected and needing to be watched carefully, hence the armed escorts here and back home. He seemed to have the ability to move from country to country and mix in easily with the organized criminal fraternity and as such it had to be assumed that someone might want him released by any means possible. Or even try to kill him.
Better safe than sorry.
He gazed around as Georgia joined him at the table. She too had a coffee.
‘Bill has apologized to me about his outburst.’
‘Good, he needed to.’
‘Is it so outrageous that we could be lovers?’
‘Not at all. The thought is very, very nice. But it’s not going to happen, except in my dreams.’
‘You’re happily married. I understand.’
‘Yes, I am. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize that.’
‘I was hoping you’d make love to me when I came to your room.’
Henry sighed. ‘I almost did.’
‘But you were very gallant.’
‘That’s something I haven’t been called before.’
She leaned over and kissed his cheek. ‘Well, you are.’
‘Ta.’
‘And the prisoner will be here in ten minutes … we need to be ready.’
Since his arrest under the body weight of Henry Christie, Paulo Scartarelli had been held in custody in various locations in Cyprus, from the police station in Pafos to the jail in Larnaca. His background had been researched thoroughly and he’d been interviewed extensively but neither approach had really uncovered very much about him. He had some minor convictions in his younger years in Italy, mostly relating to violence and pimping. The last few years had not seen him come to the notice of the police very often. His name had appeared in a few intelligence bulletins across Europe on the periphery of gang-related activities in the field of human trafficking, but not much of great interest and nothing that could be formed into meaningful evidence.
His appearance in Britain had been a surprise and Henry had been doing some background checks. It appeared that Scartarelli could have been involved in prostitution rackets in the north of England, but he couldn’t seem to unearth much more than that. It was always difficult with foreign nationals, even more so now that they could virtually come and go across borders as they pleased, legally or otherwise.
Henry spent some time going through the murder file relating to the girl Scartarelli had killed. She was an Albanian national, sucked into prostitution and ending up abused in England. But again, her background was sparse. Just another statistic, really. The assumption was that Scartarelli had been her pimp and had murdered her for reasons unknown. Henry had hoped to be able to take over and complete the murder investigation but had been told no, in no uncertain terms. His job was simply to bring him back and let others – namely Dave Anger and DCI Carradine – complete the investigation.
It had annoyed him. After all, the case had been virtually closed for almost a year, but he had come to expect the worst from those two. He was no longer an SIO, so he just shrugged it off, accepted his lot and began to speculate if he could get a trip to Australia to bring back the third person on his list. Might as well get all the jollies he could, he reasoned.
Whilst in custody in Cyprus, Scartarelli had been spoken to by Cypriot detectives, including Georgia, but they could get no admissions from him in relation to Haram’s murder. In fact he said almost nothing and despite their best efforts, by the time the extradition proceedings were complete, Scartarelli still remained a bit of an enigma. An international man of mystery, no less.
But he wouldn’t remain one for long, Henry thought while he waited at the top of the steps leading into the aircraft on the runway at Pafos airport. He knew there was good DNA at the scene of the murder in England and once Scartarelli was linked to that, he would, in police terminology, be buggered.
Henry waited patiently, Bill by his side, cabin crew nervously behind with very worried expressions on their faces. He gazed across the apron at the terminal building, checked his watch again.
Scartarelli should have cleared customs by now.
Two vehicles drew away from the departure-lounge gates – a covered Jeep and a Fiat box van, similar to a Ford Transit.
The prisoner and two escorts were in the back of this van.
They accelerated towards the plane and screeched to a halt at the foot of the steps. Georgia jumped out of the lead vehicle, smiled quickly at Henry, then accompanied by two heavily armed cops they ran to the back of the Fiat, shouted a pre-arranged password to the occupants and the double doors opened. Another two uniformed cops sprang out, fanned away from the vehicle and Scartarelli appeared, blinking against the bright sun. His wrists were cuffed in front of him, a pair of rigid handcuffs provided by Henry. He dropped on to the ground and another officer came out behind him.
It was the first time Henry had seen Scartarelli since the arrest. He looked slim, but pale, his eyes more sunken than before. Even so, there was an air of arrogance about him. That would be knocked out of him by a life sentence, Henry hoped. Even if he only served ten years, he’d be knocking mid-forties when he got out and a big chunk of his life would be lost forever.
Henry watched Georgia walk up to him. She said a few words and he looked up the steps to Henry, who gave him a nice warm smile and wave.
Taking him by the arm, Georgia led him up the steps. He offered no resistance. They walked up side by side, an armed officer a couple of steps behind them, until they reached the flat landing at the top of the steps before the plane’s door.
Scartarelli looked blandly at Henry.
Henry kept his smile in place, then looked at Georgia.
‘All yours,’ she said.
‘I’m grateful. The British justice system is looking forward to welcoming Mr Scartarelli with open, then closed, arms.’
‘I’m sure he’ll love returning to the UK.’
Henry stepped sideways so he was edge-on to Scartarelli, giving Bill enough room to move in and place a big hand on the rigid section of the handcuffs between the wrists.
Bill and the villain eyed each other.
‘You behave yourself and we’ll be fine,’ Bill said. ‘Misbehave and I won’t be responsible for my actions …’
At that point Henry had his back to the door hinges, Bill and Scartarelli were facing each other on the threshold, Georgia was standing just one pace to the right of the prisoner’s shoulder and behind her, on the top step, was a single armed cop who had his back to everyone else and was facing outwards. A machine pistol was slung across his chest and behind a pair of cool Ray-Bans he was surveying the terminal building and runway. The other cops from the security escort were milling about and chatting at the bottom of the steps, job done.
The sniper hit the cop on the steps.
The bullet slammed into his temple, the size of a five-pence piece at one side, exiting the size of a side plate the other, toppling him over the railing and sending him plunging to the ground which he hit hard – and dead.
Although Bill’s vision was restricted by Scartarelli, he was the first to react, but not before the second bullet slammed into the bulkhead just inside the plane, somewhere between Henry’s and Scartarelli’s head. Bill’s hand was already on the cuffs, so he gripped tight and hauled Scartarelli violently through the door, wrenched him round into the aisle and threw him to the floor. Then he dived on top of him.
He did this quickly and efficiently and by the time he’d completed the manoeuvre, Henry and Georgia had reacted. Henry backed quickly into the plane, shouting for everyone to hit the floor (actually screaming, ‘Down! Down! Down!’), whilst Georgia pirouetted and dropped into a crouch, drawing her weapon and crisscrossing the terminal with its muzzle. At the same time she yelled instructions to the cops on the runway. They, on seeing their colleague fall, had dived for cover behind their vehicles. They too yelled, shouted and got into a panic.
But it was over. As soon as a sniper has made a shot, the game is up and the job is either done, or it isn’t. It’s actually a luxury to get two shots off but to miss with both was not good. More shots could result in his firing position being revealed and no sniper wants that. They just want to melt away and live to fight another day.
So no more shots were fired.
There was just a dead cop on the tarmac and a bullet hole inside the plane.
And panic at the airport.
Henry and Bill found themselves surrounded by headless chickens, but were powerless to do anything about it because of language. English might well be the official language, but when the shit hits, Greek is the only thing anyone understands.
They had to sit tight, together with their prisoner, and allow it all to happen.
The police went into hyperdrive for about four hours and if it hadn’t been so tragic, it would have been comical.
The airport went into lockdown. Huge numbers of police and military personnel were brought in and an emergency was declared. All flights in and out were cancelled or diverted and no one was allowed to enter or leave the immediate area without express police permission.
In the police room Henry and Bill waited patiently for things to level out and as the day progressed, a kind of order came from the chaos.
Scartarelli sat numbly in a holding cage, still cuffed, saying nothing even when he was carted off for ‘interrogation’.
He came back having made no comment, a sneer of contempt on his face. Henry wanted to smack him.
Henry saw little of Georgia, other than in short bursts of breathless activity. She appeared to have taken some control over most of the response but Henry detected a lot of friction as senior officers and the military appeared on scene.
Five hours later the ring of steel was removed and the airport reopened. A mass of hot and angry tourists surged into the small complex.
A wasted-looking Georgia reappeared then, everything askew. She looked completely drained.
‘Nothing,’ she said despondently. ‘No trace of the sniper. We found his position, but nothing of evidential value. He was out by the seashore, hidden by tall grass. The bullet that hit the plane has been recovered, believed to be a 7.62 from a high-powered rifle. The dead officer hasn’t been medically examined as yet, no autopsy. His family has been informed.’
‘What do you make of it?’ Henry asked.
‘Hypothesis: someone didn’t want Scartarelli to leave the island alive. A hired gun, I’d say. Probably from Turkey. The Turks are cheap and numerous, some are very good and all are willing to do something like this for the money.’ She paused. ‘However, this doesn’t affect the extradition, if that’s what you’re thinking. The sooner that man is off the island the better.’
This time all the legitimate passengers boarded the plane first, leaving three seats at the front for the prisoner and escorts. Everything was accomplished safely in the dark of early evening. Henry didn’t have time to say a proper goodbye and good luck to Georgia. Scartarelli was seated between the two cops, scowling and surly. Henry hoped he would kick off, so he could batter him. Take-off happened without incident and within minutes they were at 35,000 feet.
‘So,’ Henry said, turning to Scartarelli. ‘Who wants you dead?’
The felon twisted his head to give Henry a look up and down. ‘Who’s to say it’s me they wanted dead?’ he responded.