The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Alex Troutt Thrillers Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  “I’ve worked on a few so-called joint task forces. Do you find that your intelligence colleagues in other countries aren’t forthcoming with what they know? Hell, I’ve had that issue with fellow US agencies.”

  “At times, yes. But in this situation, the DGSE isn’t playing political games. They’re out for blood, and they don’t give a damn if it leads to the front door of the Saudi Arabian palace.”

  “I get it. So, how does Shaheen fit in here?”

  “The man and woman were spotted again coming out of a London hotel. We had audio surveillance on them, and the man was heard talking to a person named—”

  “Ahmed Shaheen.”

  “Now you’re following me.”

  I sipped from the mug, then said, “What were they talking about?”

  “That’s where it gets...complicated.”

  A prick at the base of my skull and I inched up in my chair. “How so?”

  Lee released a huff of breath. “The audio cut out for a few seconds. There are differing opinions within our tech team if it was a glitch in the system or someone had jammed the signal.”

  “Damn. So, do you really have anything?”

  “Nothing specific. I don’t have the transcript in front of me, but the dialogue seemed staged, as if a message was being relayed through their conversation.”

  “Does MI6 or DGSE know for what purpose?”

  “No one has been able to decipher the message yet. Which is why we’re tracking their every movement, hoping they’ll show their hand.”

  I replayed the last few seconds of our discussion. “So, Shaheen has been branded as a terrorist based on a single conversation? And with that, now Jerry has been accused of cavorting with a terrorist.”

  “There’s more.”

  Resting an elbow on the table, I rubbed my temple as a seed of discontent sprouted in my gut.

  “What? What do you think you have now?”

  He paused a second, then continued. “Once we started digging into Shaheen’s past, it only added to our suspicions of a pending terrorist attack, whether that be with the man and woman from Belgium or...”

  “You’re thinking Jerry.”

  “Possibly, yes,” he said in a subdued tone.

  “So, now we’re back to Shaheen.” I recalled the pictures Holt had shown me of Jerry standing next to the smaller Shaheen near one of the enormous support beams of the Eiffel Tower. “He’s certainly not very physically intimidating.”

  “Far from it. He’s very intelligent. Went to university here in London, and he’s quite cultured. Has traveled a great deal, including one trip across the pond to the States about three years ago.”

  “Where did he go here in the States?”

  “Flew into LaGuardia, out of Boston. Other than that, he kept a low profile while there.”

  I could feel tension returning to my neck area, and I wrapped my arm over my shoulder and tried to rub out the growing knot. It wasn’t working very well.

  “So you, Holt, everyone, is assuming Shaheen has known Jerry since at least his trip to the States three years ago.”

  “I can’t say what the FBI assistant director is thinking. We’re not Snapchat pals, or whatever you call it.”

  My fingers finally found the center of the knot, and I kneaded like a crazy woman. It just wasn’t the same as having someone else do it.

  “Anything else on Shaheen?”

  “Mainly it’s his itinerary that gets our attention. Recently, maybe the last eight to ten months, he’s been traveling, even more than usual.”

  “Do share.” My eyes scanned the kitchen, looking for something to write on. Spotting a folder on the bar, I lifted from my seat and saw that it was full of pamphlets Ezzy had brought home from her doctor’s visit, including one that highlighted the lead surgeon at the heart facility she visited. Had a full bio on him and a picture of the well-coiffed, silver-haired man leaning against a red foreign sports car. I walked over to the sink and glanced into the backyard. The trees bristled in the wind, as a few escaping rays of sun created a dancing shadow routine on the mostly dormant grass.

  The facts I’d just gathered from Lee pinged every corner of my overactive brain. I realized I didn’t need a notepad. My mind wouldn’t forget—couldn’t forget—a single word of this conversation or any other detail of this investigation. It was too important to me, and to my friend’s life.

  “You still there?” I asked.

  “Sorry, I had to break down and feed Prancer. He was about to ingest a piece of thread lying on the carpet. Little shit.”

  I’d used that phrase quite a few times to describe Pumpkin, but it sounded less ominous through Lee’s British brogue.

  “Shaheen’s travels,” I reminded him.

  “It’s almost like he’s been on a professional football team, he’s traveled so consistently. I’m referring to our football, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  He cleared his throat. “Kuwait to Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, India, then back to Kuwait. Then, he traveled again to Saudi Arabia and Iraq, back to Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, and then Kuwait. The third trip: Kuwait to Saudi Arabia, then Iraq, then Syria, back to Iraq, and then Kuwait. He stayed at each location no more than two, three days at the most.”

  “What the hell was he doing?”

  “Officially, he claimed to be working on his import/export business, dealing with Middle East antiquities. But we think he was either training people, delivering some type of messages, or possibly involved in high-level recruitment.”

  “For what group?”

  “It’s not clear. We think it might be ISIS, based on his conversation with the man from Belgium, but we’re not certain. Still lots of work left on Shaheen and everyone he’s spoken with. I almost forgot to give you his European tour information.”

  “I know about Paris and his meeting Jerry at the base of the Eiffel Tower.”

  “On that particular trip, he went through Belgium into France. He also traveled to London and Northern Ireland.”

  I turned away from the window and leaned against the counter, trying to make sense of all the data Lee had shared. “Northern Ireland. I doubt that’s a hotbed for Muslim extremists.”

  “On that trip he claimed he was a simple tourist, visiting the sights, taking in the beautiful landscape.”

  “So this was right around the time Jerry was in Paris, obviously.” I tried to think through the timeline.

  “Right. We know about their meeting in Paris. What we don’t know for certain is if they met while they were in Northern Ireland.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “Crap. I guess I left that part out.”

  “Uh, yeah. You and Holt.” I tried not to bite his head off, but there wasn’t much that drew my ire more than not being informed of every last detail of an investigation. I had a tirade all queued up, but I kept my lips sealed.

  “I assumed you knew about Jerry going to Ireland and then over to Northern Ireland.”

  Lee seemed like a nice guy, so I counted to three.

  “Alex?”

  “Yes, Lee. I’m here. I did not know about Jerry going anywhere other than Paris.” I took two deep breaths. “Then again, I’m not his mother. He doesn’t have to tell me where he is.”

  “I would have thought Holt would have informed you.”

  I could feel the muscles around my jaw clench. “Me too. So, was Jerry in the UK at the same time as Shaheen?”

  “The timetable is like this: they met in Paris on a Wednesday morning, then Shaheen left that afternoon for London. The next time he came up on our radar, we found him in Northern Ireland, four days later.”

  “And Jerry?”

  “Well, he was traveling with his wife. They flew into Dublin on Thursday, then crossed into Northern Ireland on Sunday.”

  “So they were there at the same time?”

  “They were, although I have no audio or visual evidence to show they spoke or met. The only photos I have are of Jerry at some s
ervice commemorating a terrorist attack in Derry, Northern Ireland.”

  The taste of blood entered my mouth, and I realized I’d been chewing the side of my cheek.

  “Lee, I need to see any photos of Jerry you have.”

  “Well, I’m not sure—”

  “I don’t give a damn. And I mean that in the nicest way possible.”

  He laughed, which almost reduced the rigidity I felt up and down my spine.

  “Listen. I don’t want to create an incident between our governments, or our intelligence agencies, but Holt knows I need to see everything on Shaheen and Jerry, or I’m out.”

  “An ultimatum, huh?”

  “I can’t work blindfolded. I’m not sure what I’d do...maybe take some time off.”

  “You’d probably go rogue, work the investigation on your own, maybe even try to work me on the side.”

  The way he said that sounded a little inappropriate, but I guess I’d already conjured up an image of Lee Dawson, and the notion of his slip of the tongue didn’t sound preposterous, not from one area of my mind. But he’d never know what I was thinking. And he was probably a doughy little sap anyway.

  “You got me all wrong, Lee. I’m the ultimate company woman. Rah-rah.”

  He chuckled again, and it sounded homey. “American sarcasm. You might have me beat on that one.”

  “I should stop before I really let loose.”

  “Alex, the more I think about it, there’s no way MI6 will allow me to share these photos without a lot of red tape and signatures. That will take time, if it happens at all.”

  “Uggh!”

  “Are you growling at me?”

  “Just the world. No offense.”

  “Good. I was about to say ‘but’...”

  I hesitated, waiting for the next word. “But what?”

  “I have a few sources in various countries across Europe. There are times when we need to share information virtually, and I wasn’t about to wait on official approvals and shit like that. So, I have my own secure server. I’m the only one who knows the passwords. I change the IP and update the security routinely.”

  A smile came to my face. “You’ll put your photos on the server and let me take a look-see?”

  “That would put my arse on the line.”

  A few seconds or so clicked by, but I didn’t utter a response.

  And then Lee finally spoke up. “I know how important this is to you. The password will be Pumpkin spelled backward. I’ll have them up in about thirty minutes. I’ll give you an hour to review them, then I’ll take them down.”

  “Thank you, Lee. I owe you.”

  “I’ll think about how to ask for payback at another time.”

  ***

  “And fuck the horse you rode in on!”

  The scream blared in my ear, and I jerked to attention, my wide eyes back on the front door to Finnegan’s Tavern. A man with a ripped shirt leaned down to pick up his cap, then turned and jabbed a finger toward a man whose muscles were so large he couldn’t lower his arms to his side. A redheaded woman was at the bruiser’s side. Her pasty skin almost made her glow in the dark. She wore an apron so I assumed she was a waitress or bartender.

  The man continued to yell. “I didn’t start the fight, dammit. It was that little wench who couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Then her boyfriend decided to get involved.”

  “You pinched her ass, Russ. And now you’re blaming everyone else.”

  “It’s a lie, I tell ya.” He pulled up his torn sleeve as if it had Velcro and he could magically reattach it. “But I guess I’ll be the bigger man and let bygones be bygones.”

  He took three steps to go back inside the tavern and ran straight into a battering ram that happened to double as muscle man’s right arm. Russ bounced back like he was a cue ball in bumper pool, nearly stumbling to the ground. I guessed that was at least partially due to his drunken state.

  “Just get on home, Russ, and sleep it off. By the way, this is your fourth incident in the last six weeks. You’re banned from this tavern for a month.”

  Russ stuck out his neck like a giraffe. “What?”

  “You heard me. Go home and find another hobby. Once you grow up and can handle yourself in public, you can come back. No less than a month.”

  “Why am I being punished when they get to stay?” His voice had suddenly turned apologetic and a full octave higher.

  “Quit your whining, will ya? Holy shit, guy.” Muscle man wiped a hand across his face.

  Russ shuffled his shoes off the sidewalk, glancing around. Then, like a track star, he bolted for the side of the door where the redhead stood with her arms folded. Muscle man took one step toward him and flexed his pecs while snarling like a dog. Russ crumbled to the ground in fear.

  “Screw you two and screw Finnegan’s Tavern. I got better things to do with my time.”

  Russ got to his feet, brushed himself off, pulled up his torn sleeve, and trundled away.

  “Sure you do, Russ. Sure you do,” Redhead said, swatting a hand at him.

  The tavern employees went back inside. I took in a breath and held the phone closer to my ear, almost certain I’d heard Jerry’s baritone, rhythmic chortle over the listening device.

  “Speak to me, Jerry,” I said as a puff of fog ascended toward the roof of the car.

  A flurry of knocks on my window, and I literally went airborne. Flipping my head around, I saw two wide-eyed smiles. I punched the window down.

  “Gretchen, Brad?”

  “Hey, girl,” Gretchen said, her volume at about a ten. “What are you doing hovering over your phone in your car? Hey, this isn’t even your car.” She took a step back and gave the Focus the onceover, yelling out, “Woo-hoo!”

  I glanced up and down the street. “Uh...” I couldn’t tell them what the hell I was doing, but also I couldn’t allow them to derail my night’s mission.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Gretchen said with a snort, then she turned and nearly fell into Brad’s arms.

  He had an awkward smile about him as he tried to keep his colleague upright. She raked her fingers through his hair and stared into his eyes. He actually held the gaze, giving me a moment to notice his disheveled appearance—a half-tucked shirt, one sleeve rolled up, the other unbuttoned and dangling against his wrist. His golden, long hair appeared matted.

  There was no way that the older, less attractive Gretchen had finally bagged the cross between Pitt and Cooper, right?

  She let out another wild hoot and dipped backward into his arm as if they’d just finished dancing.

  “Guys, get in the car,” I said in a loud whisper.

  “It’s more fun out here, Alex. Weeee,” she said, taking his hand and prancing around him.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see more people spilling out of the tavern, and I quickly sank down in my seat, my sights hovering just above the dashboard. Two, three, four people lumbered outside. Appeared to be a couple and two other men, in separate conversations.

  Still no Jerry. I relaxed my torso. Then, I noticed the couple walking down the sidewalk in our direction.

  “Gretchen, Brad!” My loud whisper could have awakened the dead.

  Brad was now tuning me out just as much as Gretchen, laughing at his new bestie as she appeared to be salsa dancing.

  The couple across the street moved closer, locked arm in arm, their heads still turned toward each other.

  Then the guy looked our way.

  “Brad! Gretchen!”

  I brought my window up halfway.

  “Hey, Alex, you want to join us?” Gretchen slurred. “Wooo!”

  She twirled in to Brad, then back out. Given her current inebriation, Gretchen was surprisingly agile.

  I shifted my eyes back to the couple, then over to Finnegan’s front door.

  “Guys, are you listening to me?” My whisper had a harsh tone.

  “Alex, come out and join us. This is a lot of fun.” She suddenly stopped, as her hair flopped into Bra
d’s face, and she pointed at me, carrying an impish smile. “Wait, if you join in, then I guess we’d have to call it a...threesome.” She spit out the last word and threw her hands over her face.

  Oh, how I wished I could just blink my eyes and disappear. Or make them disappear.

  The couple was now equidistant from us on the other side of the street, and both heads were turned in our direction.

  “Hi,” Gretchen said, as both she and Brad waved, then they snickered and fell toward the car.

  “Get in.” I stretched my arm over the seat and unlatched the door.

  They both tumbled into the backseat. Somehow, Brad landed on his back, Gretchen right on top of him. With her arms resting on his chest, and their feet still hanging out of the car, she glanced up at me with wild eyes and a permanent grin.

  I took a quick glance back to the front door of the bar. It opened, but I only saw an arm. The person must have been talking to someone else inside.

  “Gretchen, can you guys get your feet in? Need to shut the door. Quickly.”

  “Oh, sorry. Come on, Brad. I guess we need to listen to the taskmaster.”

  It took another minute, but they finally moved upright and Brad shut the door. I noticed that Gretchen, however, was still attached at his hip. He seemed only slightly annoyed, or was it more embarrassed than anything?

  I turned back to the tavern door. It was still open, but now I saw the man’s side. He seemed smaller than Jerry.

  “What’s going on, Alex?” Brad asked. He seemed to finally notice I was paying more attention to the door of the bar than to him and Gretchen.

  “Nothing.” I didn’t know what else to say and thought for another quick second.

  “Nothing? What are you doing in the heart of Southie?”

  With my eyes still peeled to the tavern, I threw up a quick volley. “Actually, what are the two of you doing in this part of town?”

  “That’s an easy one,” Gretchen said, slurring her words. “We were at a pool hall and Brad here was...Tearing. It. Up.”

  She snickered again.

  “Ohh!” he grunted.

  Looking in my rearview, I could see she’d done a face-plant into Brad’s lap.

  “Did I just rack your balls, Brad?” She released a wet laugh, then pushed herself upright again, her tangled hair stuck in her mouth.