A few minutes later he located the apartment building he hoped never again to enter. This was a location Shatterhand would not likely be watching, for this was not a ‘safe’ place for Simon to return to, but he remained cautious anyway in case he was wrong. Besides, there were other dangers here. The sweat on his hands and the hairs prickling on his neck reminded him what he was about to do. Before he changed his mind, he buzzed the intercom for the penthouse on the top floors. He was sure CCTV cameras were already watching, not that he could identify any from where he was standing. He hoped only human eyes, not computers, were monitoring the feed.
No less than two minutes passed before the door flung open. Two thick-necked, muscular men in tight-fitting short sleeve shirts and slacks grabbed him, then wrenched him inside. Simon could have fought back, but to do so would antagonize a situation he needed to keep as calm as possible. He tensed, ready for the punches — one, two — that hit him hard in the gut. The pain was sharp and agonizing, so he imagined how it would have hurt had he not tightened his stomach muscles against the impact.
The henchmen dragged him to the elevator and Simon let them, feigning he was in more pain than he was. They hit a code on the keypad which Simon memorized, and the elevator raced to the top floor. Soon the pain in his gut subsided into a dull, uncomfortable ache.
The penthouse they dragged him into was spacious with an earthy color scheme. Floor to ceiling windows commanded a superb view of Mumbai’s vibrant night lights. A split-level interior, with minimalist inspired spiral staircases and lounge chairs, reminiscent of a 1960s version of what the future might have resembled. Persian horse statues stood in corners for maximum aesthetic appeal. Their sheer numbers made them look fake. Knowing the owner, they would be the real thing, liberated from Iran by antiquity thieves exchanged for small arms.
The men dropped Simon into a leather lounge. One henchman kept his trunk-like arm pressed hard on Simon’s shoulder so he wouldn’t get up again. Simon wasn’t planning to. Not yet.
Low lights left everything dim. Young Indian women in tight cocktail dresses showing plenty of leg and cleavage danced to the soft Bollywood music or talked and laughed with a group of Chinese men in suits and ties congregating together and drinking cocktails. In their midst was the local businessman whom Simon was here to bargain with…
The businessman caused Simon’s hands to sweat and the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
Soon enough the businessman registered who Simon was. His joviality on whatever subject he was discussing with the Chinese vanished, and he excused himself.
He strode toward Simon.
“Hello Matondkar,” Simon laughed. “It’s me, Joseph Cooper, back from the dead.” He resurrected the cover identity he had maintained during their past relationships from many years ago.
Matondkar was tall and slim, with a handsome face and long wavy hair cut close to the base of his neck. His beard was thick but trimmed short. His silk shirt and pleated pants looked expensive, and his shiny black shoes appeared like they had never been worn. He was a guy most women would think was handsome, but most women didn’t know Dakshesh Matondkar the way Simon did. If they did, they would have run from him, as fast as they could.
“I should kill you now.”
Simon tensed even as he smiled, forcing a facade of confidence, despite knowing there was every chance he might not leave this building alive. “Ever wonder why the IB never came after you, Matondkar?” he asked in a raised voice, referring to India’s Intelligence Bureau. “It’s because I never told them about you, or your involvement with the 2008 Mumbai attacks.”
Matondkar paused as he considered Simon’s words.
Simon remembered how the two men had crossed paths. Matondkar was an illegal arms trader with strong links to the organized crime dons of Mumbai. He specialized in supplying the Middle Eastern and Central Asian insurgent and terrorist markets, and the Indian government who, in exchange, offered him protection from the laws he broke on a daily basis. Matondkar was no doubt collecting sizable commissions from the various insurgent and terrorist groups that were battling it out against each other in Syria and Iraq, providing them with Russian and Chinese manufactured weapons, built in Mumbai factories, and other productive cities across India.
During Simon’s time in Mumbai with ASIS, they had assigned him to the Australian Consulate under an official cover as a trade economist. His real mission had been counter-terrorism and protecting Australia’s business interests inside the country. Sometimes that involved buying weapons to arm various local mercenary groups, and in Simon’s time Matondkar was the source of those weapons.
Then, after years of a profitable business relationship, Simon had received information that Matondkar was supplying weapons to the Lashkar-e-Taiba, an Islamic militant organization based in Pakistan that had orchestrated the Mumbai terror attacks. Before Lashkar-e-Taiba could have unleashed more attacks, Simon provided the Intelligence Bureau with the locations of Matondkar’s various munition warehouses. Within the hour the Indian counter-terrorism forces raided those facilities, shut them down, and confiscated the weapon stocks. One hundred and sixty-four people had died during the Mumbai attacks and twice that number wounded. Simon knew the massacre would have been far worse if Matondkar’s weapon stockpiles had armed more of the Lashkar-e-Taiba terrorists.
Matondkar didn’t see it that way. He saw only that Simon had betrayed him and cost him a lot of money. He was soon out for revenge and had placed a sizable bounty on Simon’s head. Simon’s position in Mumbai had become untenable. ASIS transferred him to their Jakarta operations and he hadn’t set foot in India again until a week ago.
“You lie, Cooper.”
“You knew the IB and the IPS would come for you, but they never did.” Simon referred to the Indian Police Service, who regularly worked closely with the Intelligence Bureau. “Ever wondered why not? You can thank me for that.”
Matondkar again took a moment to consider Simon’s words, then turned to his henchmen and asked several questions in Hindi. Simon sensed the henchmen were careful how they answered.
When Matondkar had his information, he sat next to Simon and crossed his arms. “Okay, Cooper. Let’s say for the time being, I believe you. But you still cost me a lot of money.”
“I understand that—”
He raised a finger on his right hand, like a grouchy school teacher not used to being interrupted. “There are consequences, Cooper. For you. For me. I’ve already received my punishment.” He now held up his left hand and spread his fingers, all three. Uneven red lumpy stubs conspicuously replaced the absent little and ring finger with blotchy skin. “As you can see, the Lashkar-e-Taiba are not forgiving people.”
Simon shuddered. His thin veneer of confidence crumbled around him.
“Yes,” Matondkar mused, enjoying unnerving Simon. “I’d felt the same. Scared out of my mind and ready to shit my pants. But it was far worse than you can imagine… Than even I imaged. You know why?”
Shaking his head, Simon said, “I’m sorry mate. I had to do what I did. If I let you sell those weapons, the Intelligence Bureau would have hunted you down and executed you. The Lashkar-e-Taiba were planning another attack, and if they had, no one in the IB would be in a forgiving mood, no matter how many weapons you have already sold to the Indian government.”
The arms dealer was colder than ice when he said, “You don’t listen, do you Cooper? I’m pouring my heart out here, and you’re changing the subject.”
Simon shrugged. “Okay, tell me then.”
“They didn’t cut off my fingers.”
“Then who did?”
“You can’t guess?”
“Mate, I don’t want to.”
Matondkar’s eyes boiled from ice to inferno. “Me! They made me do it.”
Again, Simon shuddered, struck with an understanding where this conversation might head.
“I didn’t think I could do it, but I surprised myself. I removed the second even
after I’d experienced the unbearable pain of losing the first finger, shitting my pants and sweating like a first-time virgin whore. I did it because I knew if I didn’t have the courage, if I couldn’t stomach the pain, they would amputate a hand, or my manhood. Have you ever had to fight to override your own body’s protective instincts?”
Shuddering, Simon didn’t know what to say.
“We all have to pay, Cooper. Now it is your turn.”
Sensing the rising tension, Simon tried to leap from the lounge.
The henchmen were already upon him, pressing him down with their weight and strength. They knew what was coming. One locked Simon’s arm and neck into an immobile embrace, the other twisted Simon’s left arm outwards, and splayed his fingers.
The prostitutes stopped dancing. The Chinese businessmen stopped talking. All eyes turned to Simon and Matondkar, and the commotion they were causing.
“Everyone pays, eventually…”
CHAPTER 9
Simon struggled against the combined vice-like embraces of the two henchmen, but they had him immobilized. “Wait!” he cried. “Matondkar!”
The henchmen handed the arms dealer a pair of garden shears.
The city lights of Mumbai reflected off the crude steel blades as Matondkar took them into his grip. “Cooper, I don’t think you are man enough to do this to yourself, so I will do it for you.” He took hold of Simon’s left clenched fist. With an effort, Matondkar uncurled the little finger and slid it between the blades.
Simon’s sweat poured off him like a torrent. “You think I walked in here with nothing to offer?”
Matondkar froze. His expression became contemplative. Then he shrugged. “It matters little. We can still make a deal even if you lose two fingers.”
Simon felt the pressure of the blades bite into his skin…
“Matondkar, hear me out?” Simon blurted. “If you don’t like what I have to say, then I’ll cut off two fingers myself!”
It was a bluff. Simon didn’t believe he had the willpower to mutilate himself like that, but at that moment, he would have said anything.
Again, Matondkar paused. His mind had likely calculated the various scenarios that would eventuate from this meeting, and whether it was worth the effort of Simon speaking further before the mutilation continued.
“Matondkar, I might have told the Intelligence Bureau and ASIS the locations of your warehouses where the terrorists were to collect their weapons, but I never told them who you were. I kept your identity secret. That’s why they never came after you.”
Amused, Matondkar raised an eyebrow.
“If I don’t walk out of here alive and unharmed, I have arranged for the release of the surveillance tapes I have of you making your deals with the Pakistani terrorists to all the major Mumbai media outlets. You’ll become the most hated man in this city and lose far more than a couple of fingers.”
The blade drew blood as the sharp edges cut at his skin.
“Matondkar, you want to make a deal or what?”
Calm, he released the blades. He nodded to the henchmen to release Simon. They did so disappointed that there would be no violence tonight.
Simon slumped onto the lounge, exhausted from fear. He sucked in a deep lungful of hot air as he pulled his hand close to his chest. The whole experience had been suffocating.
Everyone in the room had watched, saying nothing, but now that the drama was over the Chinese businessmen returned to their conversations. Lingering prostitutes danced again for the men’s pleasure.
Matondkar patted Simon on the shoulder, old friends again. He pointed to the Chinese group now in hushed conversation. “See those men, Cooper?”
Simon nodded. How could he not?
“They are powerful businessmen with the Chinese oil companies operating in the South Sudan. You know, that new country the Arabs of Khartoum have exploited for centuries, even when it was part of Sudan.”
“I’ve been there mate. I know.”
“Of course you have. So, as you know, the Janjaweed insurgents brutalize the Dinka people of the South. Have done so for decades. The Janjaweed funding comes from those same Arabs. Being the efficient, well-traveled intelligence officer you are, Cooper, you will also know the Chinese fund those Arab-Janjaweed alliances, to protect their oil processing plants and drilling wells.”
“You’re selling the Chinese weapons?”
Matondkar laughed. “Not yet. But I’m considering it. Hence this little get together. The Chinese, they love to party with sexy young women native to the lands they exploit. I have assault rifles, small arms, rocket launchers, explosives — lots of explosives.”
“Why don’t you sell?” Simon shrugged as he forced a smile. “They look keen?”
“They do, don’t they? But just the other day, I had an offer from the Dinka rebels themselves. The opposition, so to speak.”
“You’re playing both sides? Looking for the best offer? Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Matondkar turned to Simon and smiled. “You would think it was that simple, but it’s not.”
“Selling to both sides is out of the question?”
“No.”
Matondkar’s stare seemed to insist that Simon should ask a question, so Simon obliged. “Something has changed?”
“Yes, a real — what is the word — conundrum?”
Simon’s Adam’s apple ran the length of his throat as he swallowed. “A conundrum, hey?”
“I only have enough arms to sell to one group.”
“Arms supplies are drying up.”
Matondkar didn’t hide his surprise when he said, “How did you know that?”
“Mate, I was in West Africa recently. Same thing was happening there.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I have a new business opportunity now, a very profitable one. Kind of fell from heaven.”
“What’s that?”
“Would you believe medicines and food supplies? The buyers want me to smuggle supplies into countries overrun with refugees. Syria, Iraq, Yemen, you know the kind of places I mean. And these buyers, they pay just as well as insurgents and dictators, if not better.”
Simon couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “Matondkar, you have become a humanitarian.”
“Not by choice. I just follow the money. Medical and food supplies are suddenly cash cows.”
“Let me guess, you think this is your last shipment of easy arms and you don’t know what to do with it?”
“Yes. Very astute of you. Answer me Cooper, what do I do? Sell to the Chinese, who will pay more, or to their foes, the Dinka rebels because they are better at pleading like mangy dogs?”
“They’re your two choices, hey?”
“Which one?”
Simon was serious when he said, “You either do what is right for you, or you do what is right.”
Matondkar fell silent. The man never rushed into a decision. After considering Simon’s meaning he said, “You are an interesting man, Cooper. I’ll think about what to do. In the meantime, I am neglecting my guests, so you need to get to the point. You have a deal for me, to keep your fingers?”
Simon’s nod was curt. “I need to locate two people, hiding out here in Mumbai, and well-hidden at that. I know you have the means and networks to find those who wish to stay out of sight. So, when you find them, I don’t want you to approach them, just to tell me where they are.”
“And in return?”
“I give you the surveillance tapes of you making your deals with the Lashkar-e-Taiba, the originals and all the copies. You can do whatever you like with them. Destroy them most likely. Then you and I are done, forever.”
The arms dealer snorted a laugh. “Who is it you want me to find?”
“Find them discretely. Word of mouth only, okay? The IB and other agencies are looking for any online chatter regarding the locations of these two individuals.”
“Hot properties, Cooper? But it doesn’t sound too taxing for me, not if they are i
n Bombay.” He said using the former British colonial name for Mumbai. “So, tell me, before I make the deal who are these people?”
Simon sensed to his relief an agreement was being reached. That he would get what he needed without the risk of Shatterhand learning what he was up to. Equally important, he would leave this building intact and uninjured. The tension that had been knotting in his gut didn’t seem as bad as it had seconds before. The way out was clear.
“An elderly couple, both Americans, both working for the U.S. Government to construct data centers here in Mumbai.”
“What are their names?”
“Alan and Clementine Irvine. You can find them for me?”
Matondkar stood, straightened out the folds in his expensive shirt. “We’ll see. Come back tomorrow, Cooper, and I’ll tell you what I’ve found.”
“And if you can’t find them?”
The man grinned, showing his yellowing teeth. “Then it’s advisable you think about bringing me those tapes, anyway.”
CHAPTER 10
Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport, Mumbai, Maharashtra, India
As the CIA’s unmarked G650 Gulfstream jet descended through the morning clouds, Peri Keser stared through the tiny cabin window. She was worried, certain she would not cope with the coming hours and days ahead. Trying to ignore the sweat dripping from her skin, the dizzy spells, fevers and persistent exhaustion didn’t work. They were an unwanted and constant reminder that her malaria might flare up again. Major Fitzgerald was right. She was sick. The timing couldn’t have been worse.
There was nothing she could do about her health, so she allowed the scenery to distract her. The orange sun rose over the vast metropolis of Mumbai. Vibrant skyscrapers and shopping centers hid the congested roads and expansive slums behind high fences. Narrow arterials were at a standstill with thousands of colored cars and buses spewing out exhaust fumes, creating a brownish-red haze over the city. These sights should have been both wondrous and confronting, but all she could think of was that the outside world was as hot and congested as she was inside.
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