Ghost Ship

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.

“Andre Dufort. I’m a senior investigator with Interpol.”

“Gabriele Valentino.” The officer’s eyes widened with understanding. “Chief of the Polizia for La Spezia.”

Andre handed him his Interpol ID. “Pleased to meet you.”

Valentino ran his eyes across the ID. His face hardened. “Do you mind telling me what Interpol knows about my crime scene, and why we weren’t informed earlier… when we might have had a chance to do something about it?”

“I’m sure they would have if they knew anything in advance.”

The police officer frowned. “They knew enough to send you here!”

“No. I was already here on vacation. When a tip came in that this man was going to defect, I was immediately contacted.”

“Why?” The police officer asked. “It’s not like you could have apprehended the man.”

“No. I was purely there for reconnaissance. I got the call about five minutes too late. My superiors were hoping that he would swim ashore and that I could follow him to wherever he was going to stay for the night.”

The police officer frowned. “Only he never reached his destination.”

“No. Someone took a shot at him.”

The police officer shook his head. “Not just someone. Two people.”

“Really?” Andre arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Someone fired a high-powered sniper rifle, perched, presumably, on top of the remains of Castle Doria.”

“And the other person?”