“I don’t know,” I say, eyeing his men, especially Artan. “Perhaps your men are intelligent enough to not want to lose their lives here, but they know that if one of them pulls the trigger, word will get back to Albania. But if the son of Carlo De Maggio kills you? What are they supposed to do? It’s not their fault, is it? All they can do is explain how I got away and await further orders.”
His men react favorably. Artan is nodding and the others are exchanging slow glances, because, even if these are tough, bloody-minded men, nobody wants to die when it comes right down to it. One of the men is even whispering to another in Albanian, presumably translating if the way the listener is nodding is any indication.
“Or you can agree to give me the code,” I say. “Your choice, Dujar.”
My back i
