Home Before Nightfall

Frank leaned back into his chair. ‘The Home Secretary, eh? And we got him!’ 

Right then and there, a video call arrived. It was Agent Hughes. ‘Phenomenal work, DCI Diggory. Your encryption key unlocked the Tondo laptops, and from them we broke into cloud accounts, and from there we broke the entire gang. We’ve got evidence that Fitzwilliam was blocking prosecutions for Osman’s men while using him to smuggle British weapons to insurgents and embargoed entities. He’s done for. In time, you’ll be pardoned again and get your life back. You’ll be Goin’ Home, wherever home is.’ 

Frank breathed a deep sigh of relief. ‘Thank you. That’s do good to know. It was great to watch The Proud One fall. Now I can go back to The Girl I Love.’ 

Agent Hughes shook her head. ‘Not quite. Osman went to ground as soon as we got Fitzwilliam. I’m Still Gonna Need You to get him and finish what you started. Our intelligence says he's heading for a meeting to sell some stock.’ 

‘Okay. Where?’ 

‘Sinaia.’ 

‘Sinai? Who does he think he is: Moses?’ 

‘No, Frank. Sinaia, Romania. And Frank, there’s a Red Notice out on you that we haven’t quite recalled yet. So for this operation, you’ll use your new identity. And I've upgraded you. You are officially Officer Adam Virgule-Deux of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.’ 

Frank looked her in utter disbelief. ‘You’ve made a Mountie out of me? I’m Scottish. How am I supposed to pull this off?’ 

Agent Hughes shrugged her shoulders. ‘Get creative. Canadians are North Americans with better healthcare who eat chips with cheese and gravy. Sound like you’re uncertain of everything and end every sentence with “eh?”.’ 

Frank shook his head. ‘I won’t sound Canadian; I’ll sound like I’m from Edinburgh.’ 

Agent Hughes had the answer. ‘Well, just tell them you’re from Nova Scotia.’ 

After a gruelling Panama City to Miami to London to Dortmund to Brașov sequence of flights that led Frank Diggory/Adam Virgule-Deux to wonder which way was up, Romanian police met him at the airport in Ghimbav and drove him at speed in an unmarked car to the Aro Palace Hotel, where he dropped his bag into a room they had booked for him and took him straight to a meeting room. 

He was briefed by an uptight Roman police officer, Alina Nemțescu, who was small, slender, brunette, stiff and very commanding – as if she was a muscle in the right fist of the law. She had in front of her a full team of unformed and plain clothed police officers, but she seemed intent on only keeping one of them in line. 

‘Monsieur Virgule-Deux, you will meet Osman in the La Tunuri hotel restaurant. Your job is to gather evidence, find out where the girls are and keep him talking while DIICOT officers free the girls and arrest his accomplices. He will fall for it. Most perverts are British, German, Australian, American or Canadian. He is desperate. He is losing his cover. He needs to do business while he still can. You will be completely plausible. Is that clear?’ Alina snapped. 

Frank yawned. Loudly. 

‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Virgule-Deux. Am I boring you?’ Alina snapped. 

‘No. No. I got everything. Just a little tired, that’s all.’ Frank assured her, his eyes half closed. 

‘We can all sleep easier when Osman is behind bars.’ Alina drilled. 

‘We can but hope.’ Frank replied. 

‘So, do you have any information that could help us with this operation, Monsieur Virgule-Deux?’ Alina asked. 

Frank stood up and wandered to the front. ‘I’m so glad you asked, Officer Nem... Nemty... Nem....’ he struggled with her surname. 

‘Is he trying to speak Hungarian?’ one of the Romanian officers whispered to another. 

Frank gave up. ‘Officer Alina. I’m sorry, my language skills are a little off. I am, after all, British. Sorry! I am, after all, Canadian... eh? Osman... what do we know about Osman? Well, I could say that I’m Leaving It All Up To You, but I’m very glad you Let Me In, because In My Little Corner Of The World, Orhan Osman is regarded as one of those Crazy Horses who must be broken. This man is dangerous. Very dangerous. And he is desperate. He will likely also have plenty of back up, and a lot of people will be keen that he remains free. But his criminal empire is in The Last Days. I really hope you’re with me in this because I Can’t Get There Without You. Thank you.’ 

The other police officers looked at Frank, utterly bewildered. 

‘Sorry, my language skills are a little off.’ Frank told them, as he sat down. 

Within an hour, Frank was seated at the traditional, and very attractive, La Tunuri restaurant, high up on a Sinaia hill, the fairy-tale splendour of Peleș Castle, and its smaller cousin, Pelişor, just a short walk through the trees. 

From under his umbrella covered wood and flower guarded table, Frank ordered an Espresso coffee, which he still did not expect to be quite as strong as it was, and some grilled chicken breasts with mashed potatoes. Eating European cuisine felt good again, but somehow he knew that Filipino barbecued chicken and rice would taste better. 

His food arrived while he was waiting. Frank was hungry – hungry for food that didn’t taste like it had been microwaved at thirty thousand feet. 

Fifteen minutes later, fashionably late as befitted a man of his stature, Orhan Osman – a tall, swarthy man, dark haired, with clear Mediterranean features and no sign of a paunch, despite his middle age – arrived with his entourage. They all wore black leather jackets and dark striped shirts. Frank wondered if it was some kind of uniform, or whether they had coordinated when they’d got up in the morning. 

Orhan shook his hand and introduced himself, as did Frank – as Adam Virgule-Deux.  

‘Will you be ordering anything?’ Frank asked him. 

‘No. Nothing in this restaurant is halal.’ Orhan told him. 

‘I thought you were into things that are, shall we say, less halal, eh?’ Frank responded. 

‘That is true. But a man like me has to watch what I eat.’ Orhan told him in slow, deliberate, accented English. 

‘Well, a man like me is, well, just plain hungry.’ Frank told him, as he shovelled a fork full of grilled chicken and mashed potatoes into his mouth. Once he had chewed it properly, which took a good few seconds, he said to Orhan, ‘I hear you are the man to speak about when it comes to satisfying a different kind of hunger. And I hear you have some stock you wish to move.’ 

Orhan nodded discretely. ‘But, might I ask, how can you possibly move my stock so far away?’ 

‘I have my means.’ Frank told him, as he got wired into his meal. ‘Wow! This is good. You should try some.’ 

‘My faith will not allow it.’ Orhan told him. 

Shame it won’t allow a few more things, Frank thought to himself, before asking, ‘How many heads are we talking here?’ 

‘I have twenty-five ready to go in a safe house in Schei.’ Orhan told him. ‘They can be here in thirty minutes.’ 

Alina had a listening device planted in nearby flowerpot and a camera trained on their table from a nearby car. ‘Sunt la Schei! Go! Go! Go!’ she barked into a radio, causing an unmarked van to suddenly change direction and speed wildly down the left side of Council Square towards Schei neighbourhood. 

‘How much per head?’ Frank asked. 

‘We usually accept valuation only on inspection of goods. However, if you are willing to buy unseen, I could give you a discount.’ Orhan told him. 

‘How much are we talking?’ 

‘Maybe five, maybe ten percent. How about nine thousand per head?’ Orhan proposed. ‘Remember: my quality control is very good. I only stock the best. The others I leave for local providers.’ 

‘What are we talking: Lei? Yen? Lire?’ Frank asked. 

Orhan chuckled. ‘I didn’t know Canadians had a sense of humour. Euros, of course. Euros or US. Not Canadian. Or British. Real money.’ 

Frank whistled. ‘Okay, so if my brain calculates this correctly, you want me to buy twenty-five heads for two hundred and twenty-five thousand.’ 

Orhan nodded. ‘It sounds like a lot, but the quality is good. I have sampled it myself. All are well broken in.’ 

Frank’s stomach was seriously churning with anger at how Orhan could treat these women with so little respect. Inside, he was sick. Completely and utterly sick. 

But he had to maintain the act. 

‘I will pay cash. You will provide express delivery to wherever I choose. Let’s say we call it quits at two-twenty, eh? Frank counter-proposed. 

Right then, one of Orhan’s black-clad hoodlums tapped him on the shoulder and whispered into his ear. Osman’s face began to darken. Quickly. 

‘Hey, I’m willing to do two twenty-five if you accept Visa... or Amazon vouchers...’ Frank blurted.  

But it was too late. The game was up. 

Orhan glared at him. Hard. And then ran. 

Frank stood up sharply, sending his seat flying backwards. 

‘What’s up, Osman? Got a little problem with stock control?’ he called after Orhan mockingly. 

But Orhan didn’t hear him. 

‘GO!’ Alina bellowed into her microphone.  Her and the six other officers in an unmarked white Dacia van poured onto the pavement and dashed towards the restaurant. As did the occupants of several other unmarked vans. 

The gangsters scattered, but to no avail. There were simply too many police. They were jumped on, wrestled, punched, beaten, threatened with Tasers or guns. 

All were captured. 

All except one. 

Orhan Osman. 

Frank saw him. He saw where he was headed. The forest around them was now swarming with police, many of them armed. More and more vans were arriving by the second. 

He knew Orhan would not try to run. 

No point. He would get caught. 

No, he would try to hide. 

And where better to hide than a tourist attraction full of people? 

He saw Orhan quickly blend into a tour group. A German language tour group. And where were they headed? Where else: 

Peleș Castle. 

‘Well, Mister Osman, you should know that I Just Can’t Stop following you.’ Frank said to himself as he ran towards the castle. 

‘Hey, Canuk!’  

Frank turned around.  

Alina was just a few paces behind him. 

‘That means “Canadian”, eh?’ Frank asked. 

‘Yes. In English.’ Alina pointed out. She tossed him a small handgun. ‘You know how to use it, right?’ 

‘I’m Canadian, not American.’ Frank shouted back to her, above the melee. 

‘Then shoot him first and apologise to him later. Go!’ Alina commanded him. 

The tour group reached the entry kiosk, where the guide left the group to collect their tickets. 

But Orhan wasn’t waiting. He shoved his way passed the lines of tourists waiting to get their tickets and bolted towards the Castle. 

Frank was hot on his heels. He flashed his Canadian warrant card at the ticket seller. ‘Bill it to the Mounties, eh?’ he shouted back at her. 

The castle was packed. Really packed.  

And that was a huge problem.  

The presence of so many armed police was causing panic. People were leaving the castle in droves. Frank had to push past wave after wave of people heading in the opposite direction just to get through the huge wooden doors. 

Once he got in, he found himself in a dizzyingly opulent red-carpeted entry hall that dazzled him. ‘Woah! It’s like Donald Trump designed this place... and discovered taste!’ he muttered to himself. 

There was a plastic shelf containing maps and guides on a table near the door. He grabbed one. Even if it wasn’t free. ‘Police business.’ he snapped a the thoroughly disgruntled museum worker behind the table. ‘Canadian police business. We can afford it.’ 

He read the guide and whistled. This place was huge: a veritable rabbit warren of riches: drawing rooms, rooms for entertaining, bedrooms, boudoir, a ballroom... 

No wonder Osman had come here to hide! He could conceal himself here for months and never be found. 

He stood staring at the map, considering his next move with great care. ‘Now, if I were a career criminal and I wanted to escape the law, where would I go?’ he mused out loud. 

‘Parliament!’ a cheeky wag, passing him by on their way out, shouted their answer. 

It was then he heard the engine. Getting louder. The high-speed rhythmic thump and whine. And it was edging closer and closer. 

A helicopter. 

He turned to the museum worker, a silver-haired woman with half-moon glasses on a metal chain above which she plainly adored to gaze disapprovingly. ‘Excuse me. Sprechen ze English, eh?’ Frank asked her. 

She nodded, and with a Transilvanian accent so thick that Frank thought she was pretending – or the offspring of Count Dracula – said, ‘Yes, do you?’ 

‘Where would I go around here to get high?’ Frank asked him. 

‘Well, I know this guy in Cartierul Nouă...’ 

‘I mean, “high” as in height, eh?’ Frank clarified. 

‘Clock Tower.’ she told him. ‘Give me.’ She motioned to the paper guide in his hands. He gave it to her. She used a blue biro to draw him a pathway through the castle’s four floors and innumerable rooms to the clock tower. At the end of her map, she began to twirl the pen in what seemed to be an ever-increasing spiral. 

‘What is that?’ Frank asked her. 

‘Stairs. Go right to the top.’ The woman told him.  

‘Thank you, kindly.’ Frank responded. 

Frank headed frantically down the endless ornately beautiful corridors. He yanked his phone from his pocket and dialled Alina. ‘Get everyone out of here. Clear the clock tower. He’s headed there.’ he staccatoed.  

‘Roger.’ Alina asked. 

Orhan had the same issue: crowds pushing against him, rushing to get the door. His progress slowed. He checked the map he'd hurriedly snatched from the information desk. Where was he? Where was the entrance to the clock tower? 

The helicopter loomed closer and closer.  

Frank reached the last door to the clock tower. The evacuation had worked. There was no-one there. 

Except for one man, a flight of stairs above him. 

‘Osman!’ Frank yelled angrily to his quarry, as he mounted the wooden stairs as quickly as he could. ‘Because of you, I spent a month on a stunningly beautiful tropical island, not sure who I was. Because of you, I discovered an amazing country with delicious food and wonderful people. Because of you, I met The Girl I Love, whom I miss with every fibre of my being. Because of you, I’ve had to come to this country that I did not ever imagine could be so pretty. You have improved my life in so many ways. And I'm so very grateful.’ 

‘Then you should let me go, because, let’s face it, you are really bad at this.’ Orhan yelled after him, above the din of the helicopter now hovering over the tower. 

‘No way, Osman! Because you are One Bad Apple, and it was never your intention to do me good.’ Frank replied, as he reached the wooden bell platform. ‘And you ruined the lives of so many people, just because You Lost That Lovin’ Feeling.’ Frank pulled out his handgun, and with two hands extended it towards Orhan. ‘So give up. Now. Stop running. Or you’ll be Goin’ Home... to hell.’ 

Orhan raised his hands. ‘You’re funny. So very funny. But I know you will never shoot me.’ he sneered, with his back to Frank, facing the beautiful view of the green grounds beneath him. 

‘Why?’ Frank asked him. 

‘Because you're Canadian. Not American. You’re just too nice.’ Orhan replied. 

‘Oh, you don’t know who I am at all.’ Frank beamed. ‘I’m from Scotland. I’m absolutely not.’ 

Frank charged towards him. Shooting. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times. Bullet casings clattered to the wooden floor. 

Orhan fell from the balustrade of the clock tower. 

‘Alina! I think I have him!’ Frank called into his phone. 

‘Almost, Canuk.’ Alina told him. ‘Looks like Osman has risen from the dead.’ she told him sarcastically. 

Frank hung over the balustrade. Orhan was clinging, one-handedly, to a ladder hanging from the helicopter. 

‘Goodbye, cop! I hope to keep improving your life in the future!’ Orhan called after him, as the helicopter veered away, and he clambered into the cabin. 

Frank turned away in sheer frustration.  ‘Should have been Canadian!’ he spat. ‘I wouldn’t have missed.’ 

Orhan clambered into the cabin of the helicopter, aided by the hands of a smartly-dressed woman. He took his seat and belted himself in, before sliding the door closed. ‘Thank you, whoever you are.’ he hollered over the deafening din of the rotor and engines. ‘I owe you my life.’ 

‘Save your thanks, Osman.’ A male Jewish-New Yorker voice stated as he turned around to face Orhan, a loaded handgun in his hand. ‘Agent Kaplan, CIA. This is Agent Hughes, MI6. She’s Welsh. Likes to sing. I’m from New York. I don’t know what nice is. You're under arrest. Or dead. You choose.’ He turned to the pilot. ‘Rahova Prison, por favor.’ 

‘How many times? I’m Romanian, not Spanish!’ the pilot snapped at him. 

‘Sorry, compadre. I only comprende American.’ Kaplan replied. 

‘ Îmi pare rău, colegul meu e cam prostuț la cap. Ce să fac? E american!’ Agent Hughes told the pilot. In perfectly accented Romanian. 

Which made the pilot chuckle. 

Agent Kaplan understood none of it, but blustered, ‘And don’t you forget it!’. Just to cover himself. 

Agent Hughes broke the news to Frank. Who leapt for joy in the gravel car park at Peleș. ‘I can go home! At last! I can go home!’ 

‘Not yet, “Virgule-Deux”, not yet. Not while there’s a Red Notice out for you and Fitzwilliam’s and Osman’s trials haven’t even started.’ Agent Hughes told him. ‘Best to go to your hiding place. For now.’