Interdiction (A James Winchester Thriller Book 3) (James Winchester Series), James Samuel [book recommendations TXT] 📗

you wanted reports of James’ activities to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. The whole time you were trying to find a way to get to him.”

“Wood, what is the matter with you? Those are serious accusations. May I remind you that I am your employer?”

“No,” Sinclair shouted. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Nazifa called me. Asking for help. She’s in Croatia, how do you think she got there? We agreed to get rid of her, not to use her as bait for James.”

“And that is exactly what was done. Maugham has done a remarkable job in getting her there. You were the one who gave the order. I gave you the option, if you recall.”

Sinclair stopped and began to pace back and forth down the main corridor of their hotel suite. What Gallagher said was true. He was culpable in this.

“Nazifa Aleksi is no longer a problem, thanks to you,” Gallagher continued. “Maugham is with her now.”

“I know she didn’t escape,” he said through gritted teeth. “It was obvious she was lying. You think I couldn’t smell it from a mile away?”

“Winchester will respond to her call for help, and then he will be liquidated.”

Sinclair stopped. He couldn’t believe it. Gallagher had followed through on his threat at last.

“No... please. After all these years...”

“I concede Winchester is one of our most talented operatives, but he has proven himself to be a liability. He has gone too far this time.”

“And what makes you think I won’t just tell him everything?”

Gallagher released a little chuckle. “It’s all quite simple. If you were to reveal the trap, it would implicate yourself in the matter. Your role in the plot would be apparent. Not only would he likely shoot you, but James would also see the girl as the victim in all this and respond anyway. No matter what you told him, who would believe a traitor? Winchester would not be able to decipher truth from lies. Say nothing. He dies. Lie. He dies. Tell the truth. You both die.”

Sinclair lowered the phone from his ear. He put out a forearm to steady himself against the varnished doorframe. For once, he saw no way forward. His betrayal couldn’t be hidden away without sacrificing himself. Maugham was too deadly an enemy for James.

Touching his head against the doorframe, he closed his eyes. His phone hung limp by his side.

After a few seconds, he raised the phone to his ear. “How long will it be until you liquidate me as well?”

“Why on earth would I liquidate a man who has been so immensely helpful over these last weeks?”

“I know too much.”

“You have nothing to fear from me. The offer still stands. After Winchester departs for Croatia, return to London and we will begin preparing your new role within the organisation.”

Sinclair shook his head in disbelief. After ending the call with Gallagher, he collapsed onto the sofa. The strength drained out of him, rendering him speechless. Maugham was Gallagher’s favourite assassin. An expert in murder. A master of his craft.

If he told James, he would go to die. If he didn’t tell James, he would also go to die. Perhaps if he kept his mouth shut, James could go to the grave believing he still had one true friend in the world.

Chapter Sixty-Four

James’ thighs burned with every step up the steep hill towards the White Fortress, which protected the walled city of Vratnik in the hills of Sarajevo. He passed the Yellow Bastion overlooking the old town. Just mere minutes from the great limestone fortress, and Plemenac. A black car edged past him. The sort of car a man like Plemenac might drive. He watched it tackle the hill with a violent lurch of its engine as it shifted through the gears.

Soon he would leave Bosnia behind. His experiences here left him wondering who the good guys were and who were the bad. The moral juncture had grown more and more insistent for days.

The T-junction at the top of the road came into view. The car he’d seen made a turning through the old Višegrad gatehouse into the neighbourhood. He stopped and watched it squeeze through. He didn’t trust Plemenac. He expected an ambush. Sinclair would have advised him against any meeting with Plemenac. Then again, Plemenac could have made a move at any time. He could shoot him, but he could never shoot back.

The houses along the road towards the White Fortress grew more ramshackle until they disappeared completely. The undulations of the dusty road took him out into the open. The cliffs fell on each side down into the valley below, through which the Miljacka River wound.

At this hour, a near total darkness bathed the area. A rare clear winter’s day inched towards its conclusion as a charcoal smear enveloped the last of the sun.

Ahead of him he saw not one but two figures. He squinted into the dusk but couldn’t make them out. James never broke step, but his muscles tensed. Plemenac had brought an executioner with him.

“Mr. Winchester,” said Plemenac as he came into view. He took a long, hissing drag of his cigarette. “Our final meeting.”

James looked not to Plemenac but to the man standing beside him. “Mr. Heranda?”

Miran leaned against his cane. “We meet again. Ambassador Plemenac tells me you were preparing to leave Bosnia?”

“Yes,” he replied with less surety than he would have liked.

“You are surprised, no?” said Plemenac.

James said nothing.

“Mr. Heranda and I have worked together for many years. Surely you must have made the connection. How could I have known where you were staying if it were not for Mr. Heranda?”

James flushed with anger. “But he’s not a Serb. Why would you be on the same side?”

Miran smiled. “I am Croatian by