They were in a small French village just outside Marseille. A tip from an informer had led them here. The informer sold passports and stolen credit cards. He then sold information about his buyers, for the right price, if the buyers were of value.
Adlan and Zara’s faces were not only in circulation among the Russian Security Forces and Interpol; they were circulating in the underworld of criminals who wanted to make money off them. Money, big money was being offered for their whereabouts.
Bronislav met the informant, an Algerian with eyes that darted about constantly when he talked. Bronislav reasoned the eye movements were because the Algerian was playing so many sides; he could never be sure who would be coming after him.
With the exchange of ten thousand Euros, they had received the new Canadian passport names of Adlan and Zara. Elena ran a flight check for Marseille, the closest airport, by tapping into the Interpol database and found the destination of the “Canadian” travelers.
Viktor was giving the information to his direct boss in Moscow, with the Russian Security Force. From what Branislav could make of the phone call, the information was not being received well by Moscow.
Viktor got out of the SUV and slammed the door. His scowl was still in place. Branislav handed him a cigarette. Viktor shoved the cigarette in his mouth, lit it and inhaled deeply.
“What’s up?” Branislav asked
Viktor looked at Branislav and exhaled a stream of tobacco smoke above his head. The cloud floated into the morning air, thick and blue. “Our bosses in Moscow are pissed.” He shoved one hand in his pocket, and took another deep drag of his cigarette. The tip of the cigarette burned an angry red. “They found out from recent texts sent from the terrorist that attacked the pipeline and the oil tanker that it was Adlan they were communicating with.”
“It’s just as you thought, Viktor. You said that Adlan was behind the pipeline attacks.”
Viktor shook his head and expelled another stream of blue smoke into the air. “Yes, but being right doesn’t matter to Moscow. They want results. They wanted the capture of Adlan, and his little tart Zara. We’ve failed to capture him in Barcelona, now they want us to follow him.”
“They want us to chase him to Mexico?” Branislav looked at his watch. “They are about to land there.”
“Yes, that’s exactly it. Do we have any agents in Cancun?”
Branislav chuckled. “Hell no, we probably have a bunch of drunk Russians there on holiday. There might be a vacationing agent amongst them—you want I should check?”
Viktor put up his hand. “No, no, we just need a tail put on them until we get there. We need a fixer.”
Ramón Martin was a Russian fixer, a former lawyer who was now a go between for the Russian Embassy in Mexico City and anything that needed doing in Cancun—for Russians.
Cancun was a new destination point for Russians. Hot weather, great beaches, good food, and booze—lots of booze put Cancun on the map for Russian tourists. Ramón could not get over how Russians got into trouble when they drank. The Mexicans drank, they partied, they felt sleepy, and they went home to bed.
Not the Russians. There seemed to be centuries of pent-up angst left over from their journey from the Tsar to Communism, and their present strange blend of Capitalism with Mafia connections that even they didn’t understand. When they drank, a gene they called, “Mother Russia,” seemed to come out. The Russians drank, then sang, and then drank some more. There never seemed to be an end point—until they passed out. And unfortunately, that could take a long time for a Russian. Their ability to consume alcohol was legendary on the beaches of Cancun.
Ramón had a steady run from one hotel to another on the hotel strip, and then to the drunk tanks on both the beach and in the city. He made payoffs; he handed out cell phones, and consoled morose, hung-over Russians. It was his job to “fix things.”
When he got the call from a Russian Security Agent from France telling him to put a tail on two Chechens, he realized he was out of his league. He’d never followed anyone. Not even his cheating wife. A divorce was too costly, and her lover gave her great presents. And she left him alone.
So, Ramón was in a quandary. He had no experience with following people and being discreet, and the few people he could think of to help him in such a matter were out of town.
He decided on a GPS tracking device. His friend, Cesar, owned an electronics shop. Cesar had tried to sell Ramón such a device, “just so he could see where his cheating wife was going.” And of course, Ramón did not want to know. But such a device would work well for his mission with the Russians.
Ramón picked up the mini GPS tracker, paid the exorbitant fee charged by his friend Cesar, because according to Cesar, “it was the last one in town.” After paying the five hundred US dollars, he also paid an extra one hundred to active the device and another hundred for one month of usage and monitoring, which was the minimum.
Ramón hoped he could recoup all of his cost from the Russians when he met them at the airport. As he rushed out the door he only faintly heard the last instructions from his friend Cesar, “Ramón, remember its battery life is 10 days, and it uplinks one hour per day.”
He made it to the Cancun airport just in time to meet the flight the suspects were on. He stood in the waiting area, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, but having never acted like that before, he had no idea what inconspicuous should look like. So he stood behind a pillar with the picture of Zara and Adlan. A small Mexican boy eyed him suspiciously over his taco.
Ramón finally saw Adlan and Zara come through Customs, and walk towards the rental car outlets. They carried one small bag between them. Zara looked beautiful, dark hair, dark eyes, and perfect skin. Adlan looked the perfect picture of a Mafia hit man. Ramón disliked him the moment he saw him. Adlan had sullen eyes, hunched shoulders, with a walk that seemed to exude menace. Something about him sent a chill into Ramón. He had second thoughts about getting close to these two.
They rented a car from Hertz and walked toward the exit. The usual hucksters selling trinkets, and discounts vouchers shied away from Adlan. His scowl warned them off.
Walking into the warm Cancun night, Ramón saw a problem. He needed to attach his small magnetic device to the rear of their car. Ramón was not a big man, but he was not small either, and he was far from agile. He couldn’t imagine himself getting close enough and not being seen.
A young boy was hanging around. One of the many that scrounged for tips by carrying luggage for tourists and getting food orders for cab drivers. Ramón called him over, and gave him the device. “Look, see those two getting into that car? I’ll give you one hundred pesos if you attach this small device to the undercarriage of their car without being seen.”
The boy looked up at Ramón. “You are serious, Señor? How badly do you need this thing put under the car?”
Ramón got the message, “One hundred and fifty pesos.”
“Three hundred pesos and it is done.” The boy looked away in feigned disinterest.
Ramón knew the boy had outwitted him. “Very well. Do it for three hundred pesos. Vamoose!”
The boy grabbed the device, which Ramón had already switched on, and bolted in the direction of the car. He ran crouched low behind the row of rental cars, and was behind the car of Zara and Adlan just as they put the car into reverse.
Ramón held his breath. He was afraid the boy would get run over. The boy attached the device and rolled under another car to hide from view as they drove away.
After the car drove away, the boy came back to Ramón, smiling and brushing himself off. Ramón took out his wallet, and counted out 300 pesos. The boy put up his hand, “No Señor there is another two hundred pesos required.”
“And why is that?” Ramón asked, upset by such an outrageous request.
“The extra two hundred pesos means I am quiet, and do not tell the rental company what I have just done.”
Ramón shook his head. He pulled out the other tw
o hundred pesos, and handed them to the boy. He was impressed by his negotiating skills. The kid might make a good lawyer one day.
Viktor needed to get his team to Cancun, Mexico fast. A commercial flight wouldn’t do it. A flight from Marseille to Cancun was 17 hours minimum, and it didn’t leave until the next day. They also needed to arrive armed for their search for Adlan and Zara, which they could never put in their luggage, and took take time to procure in Mexico.
Viktor made some calls back to his boss in Moscow. Strings were pulled, and within one hour they pulled up to a private hanger beside the busy Marseille commercial airport. A gleaming white Gulfstream 450 stood ready to take them on board.
Viktor got out of the SUV with Branislav, Elana, and Lev. Viktor did not want Lev, as he was an alcoholic. Not a recovering alcoholic, but a going down the road to destruction type, who was more drunk than sober.
But Lev was close by, he could drive, operate a radio and a gun—when sober. As for Elena, Viktor didn’t want her along either. He didn’t know if she was someone’s niece of some high-ranking officer in Moscow, or someone had made a payoff for her appointment. It didn’t matter. He would do what he was told, and he was told to take her along.
Branislav carried a duffle bag of weapons. Three Heckler and Koch MP7A1 submachine guns with additional rounds and several stun grenades. He didn’t pack one for Elena, as he didn’t like the way she handled even a handgun. Her awkwardness and clumsiness with firearms was apparent. He didn’t like the idea of being shot in the back by accident. He told her she would get a stun gun and a collapsible baton. She’d scowled at him when told the news, but he didn’t care.
Within minutes of boarding the plane they were rolling on the runway. The pilots were paid well for this flight. No cabin stewards were required. Viktor would have them do a weapons check, and get some much-needed sleep. Their flight would be just under 10 hours.
The large plush chairs and couches of the plane were inviting. They took their places on the plane and relaxed into the comfort of the chairs on takeoff. Lev and Elena were asleep in minutes, with Branislav soon after.
Viktor sat in his chair by the window, watching the Mediterranean Sea below. An armada of cruise ships, freighters, fishing vessels and naval war ships from every country were steaming toward the Strait of Gibraltar and toward what they hoped was the safety of the Atlantic Ocean.
Whatever Adlan had unleashed in the Russian supertanker had most of the world running scared. Viktor wished he had more men for this mission, at least not a green graduate and a drunk. He wished he had more firepower. Timing was crucial. He did not have the luxury to put together a crack team. He was slightly annoyed by his predicament.
He sighed and closed the window blind and settled down to sleep. The last thing he viewed before he drifted off to sleep was a text from a Russian colonel; he was supposed to get the formula for the Bio Bugs, as well as capture Adlan. The Russian Military wanted to see if it might be a new weapon. As sleep overtook his tired body, Viktor thought, “Just what Russia needs—another new weapon.”
27
Bernadette hit the accelerator on her Jeep and only eased off when the speedometer read 140km. She had 126 km to the International Airport outside of Edmonton. It was just past four am as she left the Red Deer city limits. She put on the red flashing light but not her siren. She couldn’t take the noise this early in the morning.
The full moon made the double lane highway shine with an ethereal glow. This ribbon of black asphalt leading her to the airport, while her tires hummed and the wind raced by, and her mind tried to make sense of what she’d just done, and what she’d just left behind.
She tried not to make sense of it, of what her heart was trying to manifest. She had to think of the case now. There was nothing else to do. Lack of sleep, and way too much sexual stimulation put her brain on a thin edge where reason could no longer tread.
A bad patch of highway with construction slowed her down to a crawl. Her heart raced as she watched the clock on the dash advance while the distance moved at a snail’s pace.
She pulled into the airport at 6:15. She was cutting it way to close to get through US customs clearance. She dropped her car at the valet parking on the departure level, threw them the keys, and pulled her bag out of the Jeep.
She made it through the US Customs pre-clearance by flashing her RCMP detective’s badge and a smile along with her passport to get past the minimum required time for customs and security clearance. They were calling her name when she got into the departure area.
Anton stood there, with a large coffee and a look of disbelief, “I thought you were going to bail on me. Do I want to know what happened?”
Bernadette took the coffee out of Anton’s hands, “No some things are better left without the story. You can bring me up to speed with what’s going on with our world’s terrorist and the Bio Bugs on the plane.”
After takeoff Anton handed Bernadette his computer and she reviewed the latest developments that were just beginning in the Mediterranean Sea, “Is it as bad as the news reports, I mean do I take 30 to 40 percent off for reporter embellishments? Bernadette asked after looking at the reports.
Anton took the computer and put it away, “No, I think the reporters are being optimistic. They think this tragedy is in one region of the world. Our intelligence believes this is repeatable in every body of water in the world.”
“Which means we best find McAllen and hope he has an antidote or a really good way to make the Bio Bugs want to eat something else besides all the worlds metal, and some human bystanders.” Bernadette said.
“Unfortunately that’s about the size of it.”
They both ate some bad airline food, a breakfast sandwich made sometime in the past 72 hours and reheated to a tepid temperature that just melted the cheese, and then they slept. Bernadette’s mind bounced over dreams of Chris and McAllen, and at some point both of them assumed the visage of villains and then lovers. She woke in a sweat before landing in Houston.
In the one-hour change of planes she looked at a text from Chris. He wondered why she hadn’t woken him before leaving. She wondered that herself.
She boarded the plane to Merida Mexico without answering Chris, she’d tell him later, much later, when she figured out the answer.
Two FBI Agents who were assigned as their liaisons in the hunt for Professor McAllen met them at the airport. They introduced themselves as Special Agent Carla Winston and Agent Luis Valdes.
Valdes looked wary, almost suspicious of Bernadette and Anton. From the moment they were introduced, he was stiff and aloof. They followed them to a rental car, stowed their suitcases in the trunk and got into the back seat. The late night heat cloaked Bernadette’s skin like a wet glove and made her realize how tired and in need of a shower she was. She probably looked liked she felt, which could not be good. Anton looked like he’d stepped out of a GQ magazine, and she quietly despised him for it.
Valdes got in the driver’s seat and adjusted his rearview mirror, his eyes meeting Bernadette’s in the mirror. “So, here we have the pride of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Detective squad. Why didn’t you bring your Husky dogs—are they still back in their igloo?”
Bernadette smiled back at him, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “No, we only bring out the dogs for the really important stuff, like when we need to sniff out extra special dumbasses. You know . . . now that I’m here . . . I should have brought them.”
Winston whipped her head to look at Valdes “That’s enough of your Mexican machismo crap Valdes; these people are here on special assignment. This detective is the reason we have a break in our case and any idea about where this Professor is, and any chance of eliminating this Bio Bug threat.”
Winston turned in her seat to face Bernadette “You’ll have to excuse my agent; sometimes his balls are much bigger than his brains, and unfortunately he thinks with the former.”
Valdes averted his eyes back to the busy Merida City Street, his
shoulders a little more rounded as he made himself a bit smaller.
Bernadette laughed. “Agent Winslow, we’ve both been in the force in our countries for a while, so I totally understand. Now that we’ve been introduced, how are things going on the case?”
“Not too well,” Winston said. “The address you got for us in Merida led to a local lady who we think is this McAllen’s housekeeper, but we’re not totally sure of that as she’s gone to see a sick cousin in Cancun, and her neighbors don’t know the address of the cousin or . . .”
“Or aren’t about to tell a bunch of FBI suits and Mexican federal’s what they know,” Bernadette cut in.
“My, my . . . they said at the department you were a quick study . . . yeah, I think you got it. A bunch of agents and some Mexican Federal Police are sitting on the place, and waiting for her to return.”
“I hope this housekeeper doesn’t have a phone were she is in Cancun, or our suspect could be going even deeper in his hidey hole.” Anton said.
Winston sighed. “I hate to admit it, but with over 100 FBI Agents in this town at present, roaring around town with over 200 Mexican Federals’, I doubt our calling card has gone unnoticed.”
“Wow,” Bernadette said, “that’s a whole lot of manpower to throw at this. And you’re right. If our suspect is barely awake, I’m sure he’ll figure out there’s some major firepower in town looking for him.”
“Oh yeah, and the Mexicans like to roam around in those open-air trucks with their M16s showing. Yep, a real circus, if you ask me.” Winston said.
“Why so much overkill?”
Winston sighed, “Part of it is our own screw up. My unit was the one involved in the false diversion of the Bio Bugs from Canada to Montana. I can’t tell you how well that played all the way up to the State Department. My Chief got his ass chewed about two sizes wider, so now, we’re here in force with strict instructions.”
Pipeline Killers: Bernadette Callahan. A female detective mystery with international suspense. (Book 2) Page 19
