Never Go Back: (Novel excerpt)

This novel examines the phenomenon of people who disappear, some who want to and most who don’t. Enclosed are the prologue and the first two chapters:

Prologue:

It is extremely difficult to hide; short term is possible of course, but permanently is almost impossible, particularly if you belong to the class where someone with resources wants to find you. Nat Cleary was firmly in this category. He had killed a senior Ndrangheta mafia boss on contract, but not before he had extracted from the man the details of his secret Swiss bank accounts. The considerable wealth contained in them had allowed him to disappear and live in extreme comfort. The downside was that he had stolen so much that the Ndrangheta had to find him; not necessarily for the money; it was a question of face.

The place he had chosen to hide in or retire to was in a remote part of Montenegro. It had many advantages, not the least of which was its location on the Adriatic coast directly across the sea from Italy and therefore, one of the last places he felt the Italians would look. Secondly, it was about as remote as you could get; there was only one road in or out and unless someone was brave enough to cross a considerable distance on foot, anyone approaching could be sighted from a long way off. There was a possible approach by sea but landing a boat was impossible given the sharp rocks and swimming ashore was fraught with danger from the constantly changing currents in that area. So he was confident no one would ever approach his little lair from seaward.

Land was a different story and as he could not remain alert or on watch 24/7 nor indeed did he want to, he had a number of fail-safe measures. He ‘employed’ several people in the area to watch out for strangers or anyone out of the ordinary or anyone enquiring about the presence of a foreigner. These people were strategically placed throughout the peninsula. Of course they could sell him out if the offer was good enough but he felt the offer he had made of a continuous monthly payment for as long as he stayed there would be sufficient to deter temptation. The bonanza he had accessed through the Swiss accounts allowed him to make these payments more than generous. There was also of course the possibility of one of them doing an ‘Angel Eyes;’ the character played by Lee van Cleef in the old movie, ‘The Good, The Bad and The Ugly,’ where Angel Eyes takes money from two different men to kill each other and ends up killing them both. But that would rather be killing the goose that was laying the golden eggs so he was confident that the people he was paying were intelligent enough to see sense and to keep him informed. He had even worked out a code word system with his informants, in case phones had been bugged. One word indicated all was clear. Another told him there was a stranger in the area. A third told him the stranger was likely to be looking for him. The system worked fine and had only been tested twice.

The first time it worked like a dream. One of the informants had taken a bribe from a hit man and had then told his wife he needed to show the stranger directions. This was a pre-arranged code so as soon as the man left, his wife immediately phoned Cleary and told him someone was coming and even gave him the approximate time. The hit man got to the house and entered quietly through a side entrance but Cleary had been waiting and had easily overcome and disarmed the intruder. Of course he needed to know if anyone else would follow so he needed to ask the hit man if he had told anyone else that he had found him. The man assured him that he hadn’t but it still took Cleary about two days to be convinced. By that time, the hit man was pleading to be put out of his misery. Cleary duly obliged and the hit man, or what remained of him, was now weighted beneath rocks in the middle of Uvala bay.

The second incident occurred some two years later and was more complicated. For a start, none of Cleary’s lookouts or informants detected the second man. Nor did Cleary himself. The hit man had made discreet enquiries about foreigners in the area, luckily for him, from people who had no allegiance to or no contact with any of Cleary’s associates. He located the house and staked it out over several days. It was clearly occupied at the time only by Cleary himself and was completely unguarded and open. In the end, he just strolled in on his fourth evening, gun in hand, as Cleary was enjoying a glass of local wine and enjoying the brilliant sunset over the Adriatic. Nat was placid, resigned and offered no resistance. He had weighed up the options and found them hopeless. The hit man was ten feet away with a Glock 19, safety off, pointed straight at his chest. If he tried to move, he’d be dead before he had covered two feet. His only hope was to engage his nemesis in conversation. ‘Well done, how did you find me?’ he said. “A hunch, a lot of hard work and a large slice of luck,’ his assailant replied. This was interesting, if entirely philosophical at this stage, as Cleary would soon be dead. He assumed his executioner was a hard man and would brook no pleas or deals but he had to try. What could he lose? And anyway, the man had already been here five minutes and hadn’t killed him yet. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a deal?’ Nat asked. ‘Try me,’ said the man. ‘Whatever you’ve been paid to kill me, I’ll double it. I can do it right now directly into your account and you can verify it right here.’ ‘I’m getting a million bucks,’ said the man. ‘You’ve upset some really serious and wealthy people. Treble it and we’ve got a deal.’ ‘Done,’ Cleary said, ‘you can put down the gun. I won’t attack you. I’m a man of my word.’ ‘I’m sure you are,’ said the hit man, ‘but just in case, I’ll keep the gun on you, until you transfer the money. I’m also a man of my word and I will keep it.’ Cleary said, ‘OK, but I also want you to tell your paymasters that you killed me so presumably they’ll need evidence.’ The deal was very quickly concluded; Cleary transferred the money to the man’s numbered account. It was a large amount but he could afford it. Several photos were subsequently taken of Cleary in a white shirt to which ketchup had been liberally applied. The two men then had a brief drink, clinked glasses and the man departed. Honour among thieves? Perhaps, but Cleary had never had any further trouble.

Cleary had not possessed one word of the local language. He had just visited Montenegro years earlier and had fallen in love with the area and marked it as a potential retirement spot. He had slowly learned the language and was now fluent. But he would always be the foreigner and would always need to be alert. He was lucky that the local people were very friendly and accepted him immediately. The fact that he frequented all local businesses and used local labour for his house and any other needs helped; but these people were naturally friendly anyway. Although he could never be really sure or fully trusting, he had made many firm friends in the area including a local girl, who had become his live-in lover and partner. He loved Claudia and she assured him that she loved him in return, although she knew nothing of his background. He had of course given her a carefully constructed back story, including a failed childless marriage, deceased parents and siblings with whom he rarely communicated.

The back story was actually partially true, in particular the part about the siblings. Cleary had a brother and a sister back in the UK, and he had visited them both, albeit infrequently, over the years. On each occasion, he had gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure that neither he or his siblings were being followed, mounting his own discreet surveillance for two weeks before he even made an approach. He had then stayed for relatively short periods, departing without a forwarding address, promising he would be in touch and muttering some vague story about being in restricted work for the Government.

Despite what is often written, it is extraordinarily rare for a person to have no family connections; no next of kin; no dependents; no friends. In other words, no person is an island and when people do wish to disappear, it is invariably their desire to contact family or friends that ultimately exposes them. This has happened numerous times in witness protection programs, where years of carefully constructed new identities can be blown in an instant by a person’s desire to see a loved one.

Of course, some people want to disappear; to live alone; to sever all connections with relatives and friends; to seek a new path in their lives. If they make this clear and just leave, it can be heart breaking for relatives, but at least they know that the person is still out there somewhere. Sadly, many people choose to disappear without telling anyone; they just up and leave and this can cause infinite heartbreak to their loved ones. Every year, thousands of people are declared ‘missing.’ Most are eventually assumed dead through some mishap but people never know for sure. Some may be kidnapped and trafficked and while this can lead to a life of misery, they are probably the lucky ones; police departments the world over will tell you that in excess of 90% of people who disappear are dead.

Chapter 1

Somewhere in Central Europe — 2023

The man knew he hadn’t much time left. He was weak and spent his time drifting in and out of consciousness. The beatings and the torture methods had been crude and unsophisticated but they had left their mark nonetheless. They had started by just beating him senseless. When that had not worked, they had gone to work on his finger nails. Then they moved south to his toes but he still did not relent. They smoked cigarettes and extinguished them on his chest and on his face and even his privates. He had never known such physical pain but neither had he known that he could withstand it. He had said nothing. His tormentors had then upped the ante. The cigarettes were abandoned and blow torches were applied to his under arms and his private parts. The feeling was excruciating beyond belief but he held out. Then they applied electrodes to his nipples, threw water over him and plugged him into the electrical supply. The jolts were so severe that several times he was sure his heart had stopped. He would almost have been glad of the relief. Yet he did not speak. It wasn’t that he remained silent; oh no, he had screamed the bloody house down countless times but he had not told them what they wanted. In fact, he had not spoken a word to them.

While his torturers were crude, he was fairly certain that their bosses were not. Because of this, he felt sure they would not kill him, at least not until he talked. That had been his ace in the hole, his only hope. But as he lay, semi-conscious, on the filthy floor of the cell, something told him he may have miscalculated. He had information that they needed and that they had no other way of obtaining. He knew that. They knew that. He knew that they knew that he knew that. But how long could he hold out? He wasn’t sure. The torture was becoming more severe and more frequent. He hadn’t slept in nearly a week now apart from in snatches or when they had beaten him unconscious. His eyes were almost closed; he was sure they had damaged one of his kidneys as he was pissing blood and urine. He had been kicked in the stomach so often that he was certain something was amiss in there, perhaps his spleen was ruptured. His collar bone was broken as were several ribs. His right arm was fractured and his kneecap was smashed. His head throbbed. He had lost a lot of blood and the pathetic crap they gave him to eat wasn’t enough to allow his body to replace it. His skin was burned black in places and was red raw elsewhere. There was not a part of him that didn’t ache. They could inadvertently kill him without even realizing it. The one thing he was certain of though was that if he told them what they wanted to know, they would first verify it and then kill him instantly.

Surely they knew by now that he wasn’t going to break and that he was useless to them in this state? If they did, they would try either of two things. Try to nurse him back to health to allow them to try more sophisticated extraction methods or, more likely, they would give up on him and put a bullet in the back of his head. But he had to persist; he had to hold out, because if he gave them what they were looking for, he knew he wouldn’t live for a minute longer and he would also endanger the lives of many more. He once again heard the creak of the ironclad cell door being opened and the sharp click of his current tormentor’s boots. Through a red haze of blood and pain and shadow, he saw the man reach down and drag him roughly into position for one more session. He cried out then, a long low, almost animal like shriek as every muscle and fibre and sinew in his body screamed at him. For the first time in many years, he began to pray. But he did not pray for deliverance; he prayed that he would gather the strength from somewhere to continue to refuse to speak.

His arms were pulled behind him and handcuffs applied. His legs were manacled to the legs of the chair and the chains were pulled tightly. He watched all of this with disinterest, through eyes that were by now mere slits that could barely focus anyway. He thought he detected a smirk on the face of his captor as the last bind was locked in place.

“Let’s see you hold out today you sad bastard,” said the man. “Karl here thinks you’ll break in ten minutes but I figure maybe a little longer and I have good money riding on it so don’t let me down, eh?”

As usual, the man said nothing and made no eye contact.

“Of course,” the captor laughed heartily, “I figure I’ll win the bet as I control the situation. I’m the one operating the drill.”

With this, he lifted a large industrial level hammer-action electric drill and plugged it into the power socket. The drill whined smoothly as he powered it up. The man in the chair tried to distance himself mentally but knew it was impossible even as he steeled himself for the terror that was about to be visited on him.

“Now, where should we start? The shattered knee or the other one, or perhaps the elbows. Wouldn’t want to hit any soft tissue, would we? It might kill you and then we’d all be fucked,” the man said as he laughed manically.

“But I could do you a very interesting nose job or maybe give you some dental treatment, eh? Ah but you probably wouldn’t co-operate so we’d better start with something firmer. Actually, maybe the ankle joint? But don’t worry, if you don’t tell us what we want, we’ll eventually do the lot.”

The drill was turned up to full power and the drill bit applied to his left ankle. A profusion of skin and blood and bone matter sprayed out drenching the wall and soaking the torturer’s trousers. Mercifully, within ten seconds, the man fainted from the pain and lay comatose. The torturer threw down the drill in disgust and glanced towards the large reflective panel in the wall. He shrugged his shoulders and held his hands out in a helpless gesture.

Chapter 2

Seventeen years earlier — Dublin — July 2006:

Jamie Quinn stood on the balcony of his new penthouse apartment and surveyed the skyline. Cranes; as far as the eye could see. Construction was everywhere. Great swathes of the old city had been bulldozed and pushed aside to make way for the seemingly insatiable desire for more and more apartment blocks. They were being purchased by all and sundry. You were no one these days unless you could boast about your latest acquisition. Everyone wanted to get in on the action. Prices had reached astronomical levels. And Jamie was in the right place to cash in. His Dad had owned a small building firm which Jamie had turned into a massive developmental behemoth. He had actually lost count of the number of blocks his firm was building. The one he was in was located in Dublin’s prestige suburb, Foxrock, and Jamie had reserved the penthouse for himself. He had grown so rich from the boom that he didn’t know how much money he had.

He knew of course that the entire thing was false and built on cheap foreign money. But what did he care? The punters wanted more and more developments and that’s what Jamie gave them. He took a sip from the glass of Chablis Grand Cru and watched the sun set far to the west. A gorgeous curvy blonde appeared at his side. Kasha — Polish, one of the almost four hundred thousand from her country who had availed of the freedom of movement allowed by their access to the EU to come to Ireland for work. Most of them did just that and in fact most of Jamie’s construction crews these days were Polish or from other eastern European lands. But Kasha had special gifts and made her living in other ways. She refilled his glass and reached up to kiss him softly on the lips. The kiss lingered and quickly became passionate. It was warm on the balcony and he was clad in only a tee shirt and shorts. Kasha was dressed in something short and flimsy. With her right hand around his neck, she gently moved her left below his waist and touched him intimately. He instantly became aroused and glanced over his shoulder but none of the other revelers in the apartment were taking a blind bit of notice. They all seemed to be high on alcohol or something stronger. Music pounded from the state-of-the-art music system he had had installed throughout the penthouse. It was to avoid the loud noise that he had come out here in the first place. He lay back against the glass partition as Kasha gently eased down the zipper of his shorts and went to work. He sighed deeply as he felt her lips close around him. He closed his eyes and thought, “God, I love this town.”