by Steve Richer
It was rather unusual for them to hold a meeting on a Saturday, especially in August when the government was generally at a halt for the summer. The big guns over at the Finance Ministry had been called in at the request of Secretary Bisson. The mining matter had to be dealt with swiftly.
“Messieurs,” Bisson began. “I must bring your attention to a matter of the utmost importance.”
“What is it that can’t wait until Monday?” the Finance Minister asked.
“Gentlemen, we all have busy schedules and this might have been postponed to September had we not met today.”
“Can we just get on with it?” the Minister barked. He was due at his daughter’s home this afternoon.
“I have been contacted, as Secretary of State for International Trade, by an American corporation, McDonald Mining Consolidated. They are interested in investing in the Nice region.”
“To what extent?” It was the Secretary of State for Commerce who spoke this time. Her eyebrows were arched and she looked worried.
“Platinum deposits were found north of the city. They would like to excavate the area.”
“That would absolutely destroy the local landscape,” the woman continued. “It’s that very landscape that gives Nice its charm.”
“People need jobs more than they need charm, madame.” Ledoux needed to get his point across, to support his colleague. The boss would follow the number of supporters, not the loudest protesters. “According to my Councilor for Mines, the monetary fallout would be in the billions of euros. Can we afford to let this slip by?”
“Is this true?” the boss asked, suddenly more interested.
Yannick Fouasse cleared his throat when he noticed he was spoken to. “Absolutely.” He stood and around the room passed documents, in which numbers had been mostly pulled out of hats. This situation had to be as attractive as possible. “You’ll find in my report the estimated financial breakdown. We’re talking thousands of jobs. And this isn’t coal, it’s platinum. A lot cleaner than what mines usually mean.”
“And think of the revenues it would generate in income taxes alone.”
The Secretary of State for the Budget smiled and Ledoux knew the man was hooked.
The meeting lasted another hour in which figures were mentioned and political implications discussed. By the end of the afternoon, the Secretary of State for Commerce still opposed the project, but everyone else approved of it. The Finance Minister agreed to submit the project to the Prime Minister.
Ledoux was anxious for everyone to leave. He wanted to corner Bisson and ask him questions. He wanted to know above everything else when McDonald Mining Consolidated would be paying them for their services. Ledoux had paid all the expenses of the operation from his own pocket and he couldn’t wait to fill the gap.
He took comfort, however, that soon there would be no more gaps. Ever.
Chapter 10
That kind of security system was so easy to circumvent that Harker almost considered it an insult. He judged that 3am was the best time to break into a house; insomniacs would be finally asleep and the earliest of risers wouldn’t wake up for a few more hours. Harker was tired but determined.
Two bullets and the money was his.
He had left his rental in San Ysidro and had crossed the border on foot. He had bought himself a weapon in Tijuana, which he suspected to be a police issue; it was easier to buy weapons in Tijuana than it was to buy clean water.
He hadn’t bothered using the Mexican Tourist Card since he had told officials he was to stay in the border region. With the same fake identification papers he had used to rent the Honda in LA, he’d hired another car in Tijuana. He’d driven all the way to San Felipe on the east coast of Baja.
He had never been there before and was quite charmed when he spotted the house just north of the city. It was a lot more upscale than the average local residence. Built on the beach, it was made of concrete, steel and glass, giving it a very distinct look.
It was clean and proper, which struck Harker. It wasn’t in the same league as similar homes on Cape Cod, but it achieved the same effect in regards to its surroundings. Dudley and Helen Hill had made good use of their money.
Harker smiled at how mercenaries lived. They were soldiers without causes who lived in countries that weren’t theirs. Braun had been a German living in California, he was a British expatriate in LA, and the Hills were American immigrants to Mexico.
Loyalty took a whole different meaning when money was the sole master. Borders faded and the world became their playground. Was it worthwhile, Harker had asked himself countless times? The answer was always yes.
Money made everything worthwhile.
The simplicity of the security system still baffled Harker. He understood that the town might not have a security service monitoring alarms, but why didn’t they have better locks?
He cut a wire that would trigger a siren and within two minutes he was inside. He spotted a dog basket. Could this be the security system? Could the Hills have trained a beast to assassinate intruders? The box was quite large, it could be a beast indeed.
The hitman noticed the wide stairway to his right. Having determined there weren’t any motion sensors, he cautiously made his way up the steps. There were three closed doors waiting for him to choose.
He began to think it was odd that they would be closed on such a hot night, but then realized the house had air conditioning. The cool air had no effect on his sweaty palms though.
He approached the first door and tried the knob. The door opened easily. Harker aimed his weapon forward at the bed in front of him. Empty.
The room had balloons painted on the walls and stuffed animals lying about. A child’s room. Harker realized the kid would be between the ages of three and eight. No child above eight would tolerate balloons on the walls.
As he was about to leave, he saw a form on the bed that caught his attention. He squinted and made out the dog, a puppy Golden Retriever. That dog couldn’t hurt a chew toy if it tried.
He went to the second door and warily opened it. An office. Harker looked around for a bit before retreating. That left one option. He hoped to God the kid wasn’t in bed with his parents. He had never killed a child before and wasn’t anxious to start.
He wiped the sweat off his palms on his pants before going any further. The gun was loaded and the safety was off. He had no silencer but wasn’t worried; the house was too far from the nearest neighbor for anyone to hear the shots.
He put his hand on the doorknob and twisted. Would the bed be in front of him or to the side? It was the only thing bothering him as he pushed the door in.
A siren!
The piercing shriek was so loud Harker panicked for a full second. Hadn’t he cut the siren wire? That had been their security system. Should he retreat? No, he had a job to do.
Traitors to kill.
He aimed in front of him where the bed was and fired two rounds in the chest of Dudley Hill as he sat up. At that precise moment, his younger and more agile wife rolled off the bed, grabbing something Harker couldn’t make out.
“What the…”
She fired a burst of bullets from her Uzi and the hitman was forced to dive for cover on the other side of the bed. He fired two more rounds under the bed hoping to wound her, but she was already gone. She ran from her cover shooting toward Harker to ease her escape.
One down, one to go, pondered Harker, glad he hadn’t encountered any children.
The siren was still buzzing above his head and he could barely hear himself think, much less hear his mark’s movement. He stood up and peeked in the hallway; she wasn’t there.
The doors to the other rooms were still open and he feared she might want to ambush him. She was naked so he figured she wouldn’t leave the house.
“The office,” he whispered.
The Hills were mercenaries, which meant the office probably hosted a cache of weapons. He rushed to the office, pointed his gun inside and found the r
oom as he had left it. He noticed the closet was padlocked; she wouldn’t have had time.
He moved to the stairs and as he was halfway down Helen appeared, rounding a corner. She began shooting and Harker was blocked. He dove forward and returned fire. She took cover behind the dividing wall and he hid on the other side.
He grabbed a vase that had survived the squall of bullets and threw it as hard as he could against a wall where she would see it. The siren drowned most of the breaking noise, but the visual diversion was enough.
Crouching, Harker leapt around the wall and fired. The hallway was empty. He scampered to the opening ahead. The kitchen was empty.
Where had she gone? There was only one possibility: she must have gone through the dining room on the other side. That meant…
Trap!
The hitman spun around just in time to see her turn to engage the hallway once again. He fired and hit her in the wrist which made her drop the weapon.
“Ah!” she cried.
From the shock, she threw her body back, fell on the tiled floor. She knew that reaching for the Uzi with her other hand would take too long and her former partner in crime would have all the time in the world to shoot her. She lay still.
He approached, the gun trained on her. He felt bad thinking how nice her breasts were. He was a man before he was a killer, he reasoned.
“Aren’t you gonna ask what I’m doing here?”
“I don’t have to.”
She was grateful her son was at the summer camp and wouldn’t see his mother die.
She feared that moving to press on her wound would get her shot. But then she realized how foolish a thought it was. She had always believed in the fact that one’s own life was reviewed in the last instant before death.
But the last thing she thought before getting shot in the head was how she should have argued more with Dudley about not selling out their partners.
Chapter 11
He had first considered the day a waste of time. It was a first for him. Jeff had always loved lounging in the sun, doing nothing that could be misconstrued as work.
But ever since he had been given this mission he felt that whenever he wasn’t working he was wasting taxpayers’ money. Bellamy had said the day before that he would let him know of his new instructions today, but that had been twenty-four hours ago.
Relax, he kept telling himself. If they were in a hurry your ass would be in an office somewhere. So he had used his free time to visit the French capital.
He had climbed the Eiffel Tower, passed through the Arc de Triomphe, and walked on the Champs Elysées, calling the hotel every half hour to see if he had any messages. He had dropped by the Louvre museum and been repulsed by the ugliest building he had ever laid eyes on: the Centre Georges Pompidou. The modern art inside hadn’t really interested him, but he had appreciated the view of Paris from the roof of the museum.
Jeff ate again in his room, ordering the most expensive items on the menu. He finally got to try caviar and the taste pleased him. It was salty and melted in his mouth. It was another habit he would never be able to sustain.
He wasn’t sure whether he loved his job or hated it. It was just past 7pm when the phone rang. Jeff turned the TV off and answered.
“Hello,” he said, remembering to never answer with his own name when traveling abroad.
“Hi Jeff.” It was Terry Raper’s voice. “Did you have a good supper?”
“Not bad. You’re working late.”
“Above and beyond the call of duty. I hear they give promotions for that.”
“Sweet. I’d better make a note of that.”
He heard her chuckle at the other end of the line.
“Your boss wants to speak with you at nine tonight.”
“Give me a real big Roger on this one, I’ll be right there.”
“All right, I’ll be waiting.”
Jeff hung up before he heard the line click. Within five seconds he was out the door and on his way down. He locked his laptop case with all his sensitive documents in one of the hotel safety deposit boxes and a minute later he was in taxi.
“Where to, monsieur?” the cabbie asked.
“35 Avenue Montaigne, the Canadian embassy. I’m in no real hurry so feel free to take the scenic route.”
Who cares if he charges me an extra few euros? It wasn’t his money anyway.
The ride should have taken six minutes, but since Jeff had given the driver carte blanche, the trip was much longer. They had ridden for almost half an hour, over ten kilometers, when the taxi turned right from Rue des Saussales onto Rue Montalivet.
Jeff was too disoriented to notice he was going the wrong way, but he didn’t care. He enjoyed visiting the narrow streets, those urban canyons Europeans had to live in. He looked out his window at restaurants, shops, and tourists. The taxi then came to a halt.
“What’s happening?”
“There’s a truck blocking the street ahead. It seems en panne.”
The man cursed under his breath, just for show and Jeff knew it. This was a godsend for cabbies running a time meter. Jeff thought about getting out and taking the metro but he still had time. That’s when it happened.
A blast!
A car exploded at the corner of Rue des Saussales and Rue Montalivet, blocking its access. Jeff didn’t know what to do, much less what to think.
Was it an accident or a car bomb? Was it a prelude to a more elaborate attack or was the explosion the result? Jeff decided to remain in the taxi and wait it out.
The stalled truck was a hundred and fifty feet ahead, close enough for Jeff to notice the rear door slide open. He saw movement on the sidewalk. Why weren’t people running? People were ducking. When he saw what the fuss was about it was too late.
Through the side view mirror, Jeff made out the man in a long trench coat hoof to the taxi. A trench coat in August. Before he could say anything, the man pulled an AK-47 from under his coat and pointed it at the driver. He fired a burst of rounds that killed him instantly.
Jeff slid down the backseat, hoping he hadn’t been seen. But he had. The door was yanked open and Jeff was dragged out at gunpoint.
“Allez!” screamed the man who couldn’t have been more than twenty-three. “Go, go, go!”
As much as he wanted to be, Jeff was no James Bond. He had no idea how to disarm the man, nor did he want to. He did what he was told and marched all the way to the ten-wheeler. He saw other young men in long trench coats grabbing people off the street, out of bars, and out of cars. It seemed at random.
But was it?
What if they made it seem to be at random but it was really him they were after? No, it couldn’t be. Jeff wasn’t even supposed to pass though this street. What if the driver had been ordered to bring him through here? He was too scared to think.
The dozen abductees were forced into the truck that was supposed to be stalled and the men with guns followed them in. Each prisoner was summarily frisked for weapons and cellular phones were confiscated and smashed. The truck drove off.
A street further, the paneling on the side of the cargo area was changed using the kind of blinds-like technology they use on billboards. One street later, the license plate was discarded for another that waited underneath.
They may have been young but they weren’t amateurs.
Chapter 12
Fear is a faceless bitch. It is what keeps grown men from swatting spiders or handling snakes. It can paralyze, disable, and even kill average human beings.
Jeff was aware of it but he couldn’t shake it off. His heart was beating twenty-five miles a minute and his entire body was drenched in a freezing sweat. He was calm though. There were no reasons for hysterics.
There were a few sobs in the truck, mostly coming from men. One man turned to one of their captors and screamed in broken French, “What do you want with us?”
Receiving the butt of a Kalashnikov in the face shut him up.
Fear is based on assumptions, on the
fact that actions carried consequences. Jeff rationalized that the very worst that could happen was death. He had come to the conclusion years before that death didn’t scare him. It was merely a split-second instant where air ceased to make the body function and where the soul left one sphere of consciousness for another.
As long as he held on to the belief that he would go to heaven – he had no reason to believe he hadn’t earned it – and that the place was the proverbial paradise with all-you-can-eat midnight buffets and skimpily clad supermodels, he would have nothing to fear.
But death wasn’t the worst thing that could happen.
Torture was. During his training he had read about torture techniques that were so vile it had made his stomach churn. If he was the target of this abduction, then it was information they wanted. And information was obtained through torture, whether physical or psychological.
Jeff wondered what his breaking point would be. His breathing sped up and he felt tears well up.
No, Jeff firmly told himself, that would only happen according to his assumption that he was the target, that the others had only been taken to cover their tracks. The last thing an intelligence officer should ever do is make assumptions. He knew better than that.
He took a deep breath to calm himself down and tried remembering what his manuals had said about kidnappings. His training made him the de facto leader of the group of hostages.
They had kidnapped them for a reason; he had to find out what it was. As long as they served a purpose they would remain alive. The last person who had inquired had been brutalized for his effort.
In due time.
He glanced at his watch and noticed that they had been riding for a half hour. The truck had made frequent stops at first, which suggested a city ride, but now they were speeding. Highway? Country road? They were getting out of Paris.
Jeff counted eleven hostages without including himself; six men and five women. There was a little girl in the group, she couldn’t have been more than twelve. From what he saw, she wasn’t related to anyone in the group. She didn’t even sob. It seemed to please the kidnappers; God knew how badly they would hurt her should one of them decide to hit her like they did the man.
