Resurgence. Don Pendleton

Federal agents and police were picking up the pieces, questioning whatever stragglers they could find. A second large, expensive property had been destroyed by unknown enemies who came and went as if they were invisible.

      “What of the clients?” Berisha asked, all business to the bitter end.

      “Missing,” Dushku replied. “Most likely dead. The house burned down. They may have been inside it.”

      “And the merchandise?”

      “Recovered by police.”

      Of course. Perfect.

      “I’m sorry,” Dushku blurted out. “Arben insisted I remain in Newark. If I’d been there, sir—”

      “Then you would be a corpse,” Berisha interrupted him. “I would be learning of your death from someone else.”

      Dushku fell silent then, waiting.

      “Avoid contact with the police if possible,” Berisha ordered. “If they find you, tell them nothing. Since you weren’t with Kurti, you can’t tell them what became of him. As for the customers and merchandise, you know nothing.”

      “Nothing. Yes, sir.”

      “Give me your cell-phone number.”

      Dushku did as he was told. Berisha memorized the number, as he had so many others. An eidetic memory was priceless in the world of crime, where written records were a threat to liberty or life itself. Albania had ratified Protocol Number 13 of the European Convention on Human Rights in 2007, forbidding capital punishment under any circumstances, but life in prison was no life at all.

      Control of evidence and witnesses was critical.