Strike Matrix

by Aiden L Bailey

  “Everything seems sinister. Everything is deceitful.”

  “It is. If I am to win I have to be. I need to leave a trail of clues for you to uncover, hidden amongst thousands of false trails I don’t want you to find, but laid out to confuse my opponent. If Shatterhand knew my real plan, it would impersonate me, try to convince you not to do what is right. It will try to convince you to work with it to achieve its end game.”

  “The end of the world?”

  “For humanity at least, yes.”

  “What you are saying is, I have to take this all on trust?”

  “Humans, on the most part, underestimate their instincts. You’ve evolved enhanced survival instincts in your genes. All animals do, honed by over half a billion years of evolution from single-celled organisms. Don’t ask me, ask yourself what you need to achieve.”

  Simon shook his head in confusion. “This is fucking unbelievable.”

  “Trust your instincts Simon. I’m sure you’ve already discussed with her what you need to do next? Do that.”

  He nodded, not sure if GhostKnife knew that he was already doing what it suggested. Perhaps it had planned it that way.

  “Do me one favor?”

  “What is that?”

  “The motorcycle I stole. It likely belongs to someone who can’t afford to replace it. Can you?”

  “That is already being arranged.”

  Simon heard a weird interference noise on the line. The lights in the bar dimmed. Everyone who had been talking on their cell phones were instantaneously disconnected.

  Everyone except him.

  “Okay, now I am certain Shatterhand is listening in. Don’t speak. It’s time for me to go. It’s time for you to disappear too. If it finds you, it will try to kill you again, by sending its agents. Don’t hang around.”

  The line went dead.

  Shaking his head, Simon scoffed down the rest of his food and drained his beer. It felt wrong to be leaving this region, particularly if Casey was somewhere nearby, injured or searching for him. But how could he find her? He couldn’t search the Internet for news on her because none of it might be true, plus Shatterhand might use his searches to track him. He only hoped that she was alive and unharmed, and resourceful enough to get herself to Mumbai.

  He offered money to the young man behind the bar, who informed Simon someone had already paid for the meal.

  Simon nodded, smiled his thanks. That was probably the last charity he would receive for some time.

  With a brisk pace, he marched outside to his stolen motorcycle, started it up and drove north, into the hot shimmering skies, through the vast farmlands that were western India.

  Mumbai was four hundred kilometers north of his current position. In India the journey would take most of the day because of the crowded towns he would have to pass through, the congested roads and many delays he couldn’t plan for. He would not arrive at the world’s most populated megacity until late into the night.

  He hoped Casey Irvine could get herself there too.

  While he drove, he imagined who the man from the Middle East might be, and how he could help him.

  CHAPTER 6

  Abu Dhabi International Airport, United Arab Emirates

  The customs officer avoided eye contact as he took his time examining Conner Rafferty’s passport. There were many visas from Conner’s extensive travels to scrutinize. It might have taken a few minutes to go through them all, but not twenty. The bearded man wouldn’t find an Israel stamp, if that was his hope, or dodgy stitching, or derogatory observations hand-scrawled on Conner’s behaviors or demeanor. The man’s pointy fingers were slow as he keyed instructions into his computer. He snorted before commenting that Conner had transited through Abu Dhabi and Dubai a dozen times and had visited the United Arab Emirates twice in the last eight years.

  “Is there a problem?” Conner asked, hoping that the official would smile and wave him on.

  “One moment, Sir.” The customs officer returned to his computer and two-finger typed again, staring down before each keystroke as if he had forgotten which key was which. “Excuse me a moment.” He refused to look at Conner as he placed his desk phone to his ear and waited for a connection. When answered, the conversation was in halted Arabic and hushed tones. The call ended in less than two minutes. He looked up at Conner and said, “There are some irregularities, Sir. Another officer will be with you shortly.”

  Conner smiled, but inside he was shaken. There was a saying in journalistic circles; it was better for Afghan warlords to kidnap you for your ransom than it was for a powerful Arab to incarcerate you in a Middle Eastern jail for pissing him off. He didn’t want to discover the truth of that statement. He had no wasta, the local term for ‘influence’ with people inside the Emirates. But it looked like he might need some soon.

  He touched his aching face with his bandaged hand. Bruised and slowly healing lacerations dominated the left side of his cheek and jawbone. Two splinted fingers ached from the dislocation he had suffered a week ago, during an attack by a street gang that had almost killed him. Were his injuries the cause of the delay?

  He sweated, despite the air conditioning. His mind ran wild as he imagined what fabricated ‘irregularities’ they had flagged. No doubt created by America’s National Security Agency, the NSA, whose recent illegal global mass surveillances Conner had been prying into these last couple of weeks. Was this slow customs officer another of the NSA’s subtle but forceful warnings, to scare Conner away?

  “I’m here for a vacation,” Conner explained while his left foot tapped the carpeted floor. “In a few days I’m off to Auckland, to settle there.”

  Or at least that was the cover story he had fabricated, one he hoped the NSA would buy if they insisted on prying into his movements, spending patterns, Internet searches, telephone conversations and anything else that was none of their business.

  “It won’t be a moment, Sir.”

  Before Conner could utter another word, two muscular guards approached with batons and sub-machine guns. “This way Sir,” said the first guard in a manner that suggested nothing he ever said was a request.

  “I assure you nothing is amiss.”

  “We’ll decide that, Sir.”

  A hundred eyes of foreigners and returning Arab citizens all looked at him. Some showed pity, others fear, and some outright disgust. Many would contemplate that Conner Rafferty might not be long for this world. Maybe they were right.

  They took him to an interview room comprised of a desk, plastic chairs and a mirrored wall staged for discrete observation with a bench against it. Prominent on the bench was a meter-long wooden box shaped like a coffin, just large enough to constrain a man inside with no means to move.

  The two guards pushed Conner into the room. They locked the door behind them. Two more guards were already waiting. A grand total of four people ready to interrogate him.

  “Your bag, please,” demanded the first of the two new guards, who were both now on their feet. The man who spoke didn’t carry a submachine gun, instead a semi-automatic pistol in a hip holster was deterrent enough. His head was buzz-cut down to a few millimeters of growth, as was his beard, giving him a grizzled military look. “Sir?”

  Conner handed over his laptop bag.

  They removed the device and powered it up. “Can you please login?”

  “My laptop contains confidential information.”

  “UAE law stipulates that during an interrogation by an Abu Dhabi Customs officer, you must provide access to all your information. Also, I need to see your passport and travel documents.”

  Another officer took the documentation then photographed and catalogued each. In the meantime, another officer pulled apart Conner’s laptop bag.

  “Login name and password, Sir.”

  Not sure he had any rights, and convinced these men could hack his encryption anyway, Conner keyed in the password. The officer then examined Conner’s hard drive and internet caches, one file at a ti
me. Conner had made it a habit to clear his searches every time he logged off, while also deleting his trash files. He hoped it was enough.

  After twenty minutes of searching, the officer then copied the entire contents of Conner’s laptop onto another hard drive.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We are the ones asking questions here.”

  “This is unbelievable!”

  “Sir,” the customs officer growled, “I now need you to remove all your clothing and place it on the bench over there.”

  Conner laughed, shocked by the invasive demands.

  “This is not a joking matter.”

  “What the hell are you looking for?”

  “Sir, remove your clothing and place each piece on the table over there, or one of these men will remove them for you.”

  Conner fumed, convinced more than ever that this was the NSA playing him. Had he been too bold, thinking he could dupe them yet again? They had tried to scare him off numerous times, including with at least one serious attempt on his life. Not willing to endure further threats, Conner had traveled to the United Arab Emirates for a chance to expose the truth. If he ever found his story, he was more determined than ever to go public with his findings, to get the NSA off his case once and for all. Now that future looked uncertain as he considered what the outcome of this interrogation might be. If the NSA were trying to scare him, they were succeeding. If they were planning on locking him away forever, then this locale was the perfect choice, and they had fucked him the moment he had boarded the flight for the Middle East.

  “Mr. Rafferty?”

  Conner stripped down to his boxer shorts, but they insisted he remove them too. For half an hour, they examined his clothes in minute detail while he stood exposed and naked before them. They brought in sniffer dogs to find drugs; the beasts prodding him and his clothes with their wet noses. They cut stitching in his garments and luggage to search for hidden contraband. Every item they tagged and photographed.

  When they were finished, Conner dressed.

  “Sir, no one instructed you to get dressed again.”

  “Then stop me,” Conner growled as he pulled on his pants.

  Once clothed again, he felt he’d regained an element of control in this horrifying situation. It was probably his last opportunity to do so.

  “I will return with these in a moment,” an officer said, waving Conner’s passport and other forms of identification, and with that he left the room. The sound of the door locking was unmistakable. Now only one of the submachine gun-wielding guards waited with Conner, at attention and silent by the only exit.

  Twenty minutes passed, then thirty.

  It seemed to get hotter, and soon Conner was sweating.

  The smells he often associated with the Middle Eastern countries, pungent spices and strong body odor, became more pronounced as the heat exacerbated them.

  An hour passed. The guards swapped.

  Another hour. Another guard. It had to be forty degrees Celsius in here now and he was sweating and dehydrating fast.

  Another deliberate scare tactic?

  Conner remembered how much he hated Middle Eastern totalitarian regimes, which did whatever they liked whenever it suited them at the expense and pain of others, ignoring every basic liberty mandated by global conventions and international laws on human rights. He knew the United Arab Emirates were liberals compared to their neighbors, but they were a long way from achieving the liberties enjoyed by the people of the United Kingdom and Ireland.

  After four hours and four different guards, Conner’s headache was blinding, his throat dry and lips parched.

  “Water!” he demanded. “Get me some fucking water.”

  The guard ignored him.

  Twenty minutes later, another man entered, wearing a Western business suit. His wavy hair was thick, his complexion a light chocolate brown. He sat at a table opposite and indicated that Conner should do the same. When Conner complied, the man offered bottled water, which Conner guzzled in its entirety. It didn’t seem so hot in here now. Perhaps the air-conditioning was back on.

  “I am Hakim Mousa of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and International Cooperation. I’m here to advise you, Mr. Rafferty, that we have approved your entry visa.”

  “Then what am I doing here?”

  “Please, let me finish. You are a person of interest, and not in a good way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “If you fail to leave the country in three days on your scheduled flight, you will be arrested, face a lengthy jail term and then be deported. Therefore, to ensure you comply with these instructions, you will report to my office at ten a.m. every day until you leave. The office location will be provided to you. You are to note any conversation you have with anyone outside of hotel staff, taxi drivers and shop assistants during that time. I want names, addresses, contact details and a summary of your conversations. As you will no doubt expect, you will be under constant observation during that time. That includes monitoring your emails, social media accounts and telephone conversations. Do not change your passwords while you are visiting this country. Do I make myself clear?”

  Conner stared at Mousa with wide, disbelieving eyes. He wanted to tell the man to go fuck himself but thought better of it. They were letting him go, and despite the ridiculous conditions imposed upon him, it was far better than a lengthy tenure in a local prison, or a bullet in the back of the head. “Yes. Very clear.”

  “Good,” he pushed a paper form forward, written in Arabic, so illegible to Conner. Mousa offered him a pen. “Sign here, please?”

  “You don’t have this form in English?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you expect me to sign it?”

  “With this pen, Mr. Rafferty.”

  “You can’t expect me to sign a form I can’t read?”

  “Yes, I do. I will explain it to you.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It is our equivalent of the British Official Secrets Act.”

  “A gag order?”

  “Yes, and much more.”

  “And what if I refuse?”

  Mousa grinned, looking at the long box that would constrain a man inside. “I think we are both men enough of the world to anticipate your fate if you do not cooperate.”

  More veiled threats. Conner took the pen and signed in a scrawl that looked enough like his signature, but different enough so he could deny signing it later.

  Mousa scooped up the pen and paper then stood. He smiled at Conner and handed him a business card with the address he needed to report to, every day. “Thank you, Mr. Rafferty. Enjoy your stay in our beautiful city.”

  An hour later they processed Conner through customs. He collected his luggage and was out in the dry heat again, hailing a taxi in the late Abu Dhabi afternoon.

  “Where to, Sir?” asked the rotund driver who was all smiles and eager to impress new visitors to his country.

  “Hilton International,” Conner growled, “and please hurry.”

  CHAPTER 7

  After checking in, Conner rushed to his hotel room, ordered room service and fell into the shower. Violated and abused, he scrubbed until his skin was raw. The hot water both eased and enhanced the aching wounds across his body. His skin remained a chaotic map of lengthy cuts and purple bruises. After toweling off, he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. His eyes looked small within the dark circles of purple bruising and his cuts were scabs of crusty crimson lines. This investigation had taken too much from him already.

  Dressed in fresh clothes and with his formerly dislocated fingers bandaged again, he accepted a meal of kebabs, rice, a salad and bottled water. He wouldn’t risk an alcoholic drink, like the long cool beer he desired. Alcohol was illegal outside the major hotels. He didn’t put it past Hakim Mousa to use even a minor infringement against him although he knew alcohol was not a minor infringement. Despite the heat he ate on the balcony to experience the mild breeze, calm
ing his mood even though sand covered every surface. Food reinvigorated him and helped restore his mind to a place of normalcy.

  He focused on the setting sun as it dappled the city’s glitzy skyscrapers and artificial islands in fiery colors. Across the horizon, the lights from hundreds of tower cranes and dredges shone upon the Persian Gulf and reflected in the calm waters. The center of Abu Dhabi seemed all glamor and money, with immaculate streets, incredible architecture and green gardens. A metropolis that grew larger and glitzier every day.

  The dominant feature visible from his balcony was the recently completed megalithic skyscraper, the Burj Lanihaya. The building comprising of three steep triangular wedges built of glass and steel, each angled towards the other. At nearly six hundred meters, the three spires met where their apexes converged. Comprising hotels, office buildings and casinos, this was Abu Dhabi’s answer to the Burj Khalifa, the world’s tallest artificial structure in neighboring Dubai.

  Beyond this circle of wealth, the city gave way to traditional Middle Eastern housing, square blocks with pitted walls and all the trappings of poverty, such as beggars, dirty streets, broken pavements and rubbish everywhere. Even further afield were the slums, worker camps for imported Asian laborers and further human misery. Not that Conner could see the squalor from his hotel. The city’s architecture ensured poverty remained out of sight.

  He scanned the latest news on his laptop as he ate. The headlines comprised of more lies perpetrated by the NSA. Several major gun lobby groups in the United States had performed an about-face with their policies after another horrific mass-shooting by an angry, white twenty-something male. They campaigned with both Republican and Democratic senators and congresswomen and men to impose strict gun control laws in all fifty states. Citizens could no longer use firearms for hunting. Private citizens could no longer own pistols and rifles of any kind. Only military and law enforcement personnel could carry guns, held in secure government-controlled inventories while off-duty.

  Conner laughed as he watched the staunch, right-wing politicians quote dazzling statistics to journalists, gushing in their new convictions about how gun ownership has a direct correlation to mass shootings, white privileged male culture and violent crime. There was no argument now, America was adopting the Australian and British model. U.S. citizens had a three-month amnesty to hand in their guns and receive financial compensation. After which, gun ownership would become a Federal crime with stiff penalties.