Court climbed into his Peugeot and headed off after them, intent on tailing his objectives to their destination.
He followed the two vehicles easily to the neighborhood of Barcola, also on the Adriatic and just north of the port, where they drove straight up the driveway of a large, walled villa at the end of a cul-de-sac. Court continued on, finally turning onto a road that wound its way inland farther up a hill.
Shortly after nightfall Court knelt in dense trees on the hillside overlooking the property, again holding his binoculars to his eyes. It was dark now; the drizzle had stopped but there were no stars or moon visible under the thick canopy of clouds above, and Court was invisible to all but thermal equipment in the darkness due to his black jeans, black turtleneck, and black ski cap.
Below him in the large, walled villa, Court eyed the Serbian security men guarding the property. He counted eight men in total strolling around the large main building, either on a second-floor walkway or down at ground level, and two more at the front gatehouse, all carrying stubby submachine guns. It didn’t take him much time at all to determine these weren’t the most skilled or vigilant guards money could buy. Through a set of French doors to the back garden Court could see into the large living room of the main building, situated towards the center of the structure. A television was showing a soccer match on the large TV, and some of the men designated to guard the perimeters of this villa actually lagged for long periods at the French doors and back windows that gave them a view of the action on the screen.
Inside the villa Court saw several of the al Qaeda men sitting with more Serbians, all in front of the television. They spoke animatedly, clearly focused on the game, and Court doubted anyone was getting much work done on anything having to do with illegal weapons trafficking.
This looked like some kind of fucking party.
Court focused on the match for a moment. He could not make out the names of the teams in the upper right corner of the screen, but from the uniforms and the players’ actions on the field, he realized Red Star Belgrade had just kicked off against Partizan Belgrade. This was the biggest soccer rivalry in Serbia, and though Court didn’t know which team these gangsters supported, he did know their focus would be on the match for the next two hours.
This would be the best window to make entry into this property without much chance of compromise.
But he wasn’t going anywhere till he made positive ID of his target. PID was vital before he began his ingress, because he needed to know where the hell he was going.
Court decided to change positions to see if he could get more intel about the layout of the villa and the disposition of those inside. He moved twenty yards to the south on the tree-covered hill and found another suitable hide. He pulled out his optics again and, almost immediately, he found what he was looking for. A man sat in an upstairs bedroom, wearing a button-down shirt and tan slacks. He sat on the bed with a pen in his mouth as he read through some paperwork in his hands, and occasionally made notes on the pages. Two prayer rugs were rolled up on the floor by the wall.
Through the nine-power magnification of his optics Court recognized the face of the Israeli agent almost instantly. The man wore a full beard now, as opposed to his trim beard in the Tower of David photograph, but Court was certain he had the right man.
Now that he knew his destination, he looked back across the property and did some mental accounting. Including the men patrolling the grounds, he had the location determined of a dozen bad Serbs, five bad AQ, and one good Israeli. He was missing one more Arab.
Court immediately wished the entire Goon Squad were here. If that were the case Hightower would just put Redus and Phelps up here to snipe while he, Gentry, Lynch, and Morgan hit the building, liquidating everyone except their precious cargo.
Whatever, he said to himself. For some reason the Mossad couldn’t know a thing about the help they were getting from the Americans tonight. Court stopped thinking about the what-ifs of the scenario before him, then he scanned the hillside with his night vision, looking for any sign of Israeli support operatives in the area.
Nope.
As Court did another head count, he couldn’t help but wonder where the last AQ operator was. He wasn’t downstairs watching the match, and up in the room with the two prayer rugs, Court had seen only one man.
Court did one more scan of the property with his night vision monocle, checking the outdoor walkway that circled the second floor of the villa, and he saw a pair of Serb guards standing close together, right above their comrades enjoying the match on the ground floor. These two men seemed to be more disciplined than their mates, because they were eyeing the side yard intently, their guns off their shoulders and in their hands.
To Court it looked like they might have heard or seen something that brought them up to the landing.
And then Court saw something that surprised him. On the terra-cotta tile roof of the villa, right above the two Serbs, his eyes picked up some movement in the dark.
Court lowered his binoculars quickly and then brought up his night vision monocle. Yes. Lying flat on the roof above the two Serbs, facedown and feet up towards the peak of the building, was a lone figure dressed in black.
Court squinted, trying to get better clarity. It seemed likely this might be the missing AQ operator, but it was difficult to tell. What was certain was the man on the roof just above the walkway was absolutely fixated on the two security men directly below him.
Court saw the glint of metal in the man’s left hand.
And then it hit him. Court hadn’t been the only one who realized the soccer match would be distracting the guards. An assassin wouldn’t wait for the middle of the night to act, not when nearly the entire security detail was focused on the television in the living room.
The hit man was here, now, and he was on his way to take down the Israeli agent.
A loud cheer erupted downstairs at the television, a dozen men celebrating some play made by one of the teams, and, while this was going on, Court watched as two flashes of light on the roof signaled the firing of two rounds from a suppressed pistol.
Court did not hear a sound from the gunfire, but he saw the two Serbs crumple to the walkway.
Quickly the man on the roof slid around, dropped down next to the two bodies, and started dragging one of them to a nearby open door. Court recognized that the man planned on hiding them from anyone below who stepped away from the French doors and looked up to the second floor.
He realized it would take him a minute or two to hide the bodies, but after that he’d have a straight shot along the empty walkway towards the Israeli asset sitting alone in the bedroom at the back of the villa.
And Court knew it was his job to protect the asset.
He threw his binos into his pack along with his night vision monocle, and then he stood and pushed through the trees, closing on the villa below him with reckless speed.
48
Court scaled a back wall quickly and quietly, dropped down into a garden, then looked ahead. Directly in front of him was an open-sided shelter that covered a pair of speedboats on trailers, and to the right of the boats was a large garden with a fountain. Beyond both the garden and the garage was the main house of the villa, two stories high. The Israeli agent’s room was on the second floor, right beyond the boat shelter. Court looked up and realized the window to the Israeli asset’s room was open, although he could not make out the man inside from ground level.