Discreet Activities (Barry/McCall Series)

by Claude Bouchard

  Several minutes into their walk, they came upon some rocky outcrops which reduced the beach to practically nothing though they could see that the expanse of sand extended for quite some distance beyond the natural barrier. As they got closer, they noted that the rocks could be circumvented with relative ease if they wished to pursue further.

  “Do you want to go a little ways yet or head back?” asked Leslie as they reached the first rock formations.

  “We haven’t been walking that long,” Cat replied. “We can go on for a bit.”

  They moved forward, walking in the shallow water around one particularly large mass of stone. As they came around its edge and back onto the sand they found themselves face to face with two local men. Both of average build and height, dark-skinned and in their early twenties, they left the impression they had been waiting for the women to appear.

  “Hello, pretty ladies,” one said with a flash of white teeth as both men stepped forward. “It is a lovely evening for a walk, yes?”

  “Yes, it is,” Cat replied, she and Leslie standing their ground and watching for signs of possible aggression, “And that’s exactly what we’re going to keep on doing.”

  Sensing movement behind them, Leslie turned to find a third man, of the same age bracket as the two others but stockier in build, standing there and smiling at her.

  “Aw, come on,” the first man continued. “Why don’t you sit with us, have a drink, talk and have some fun.”

  “We’re having fun as it is,” Cat coolly replied, “So just get out of our way and everything will be fine.”

  “But you will have more fun if you party with us,” the man said, his smile less friendly.

  “Actually, if you insist on partying with us,” Cat warned, “I can guarantee that we’ll have more fun but you certainly won’t. This is your last chance to get the hell away from us.”

  “Do you think you can speak to me that way and get away with it?” the man snarled in sudden anger as he raised his hands towards Cat.

  At the same moment, the heavier man grabbed hold of Leslie from behind which, of course, was not a wise move. Her port glass, now empty, was a stemmed flute which she smashed against the rock at her side. The flute now gone, what remained in her hand was the stem and base. Wrapping her fingers around the base with the underside flat in her palm, she swung her arm down and back, ramming the full length of the three inch jagged stem into her aggressor’s thigh.

  Howling in pain, he released her, another mistake on his part. Spinning to face him, Leslie grabbed the back of the man’s neck with both hands and head-butted him, not once or twice, but three times in the face, crushing his nose and knocking him unconscious.

  In the meantime, Cat had slapped her attacker’s arms open as he reached for her and followed up with a solid knee to the groin. Upon impact, the man had doubled over, only to meet Cat’s knee as it rose again, sending him tumbling backwards. As his accomplice lunged at her, Cat swung a hand at him, the hand which still firmly gripped her port glass by the stem, and caught him just below his right eye by his nose. The glass exploded on impact as the man shrieked and slapped his hands to his bloody face. This was just before Leslie leaped into the air, kicking his hand covered face and knocking him against the rock wall behind him where he slid to the ground in a whimpering daze.

  “Well, that was fun,” said Leslie as they looked down at the three moaning, disabled men. “You’re okay?”

  “Not really,” Cat grinned as she displayed a small scratch on her hand. “I cut myself. How about you?”

  “The big ape got blood on my top, ughh,” Leslie grimaced. “What do we do with these idiots?”

  “They got here by themselves,” Cat scoffed. “I’m sure they can find their way back without our help.”

  “That’s not what I meant, silly,” Leslie laughed. “I meant, do we teach them a lesson and kill them?”

  “Hmmm…” Cat pondered. “Nah. Let’s go back to the hotel and have another port instead.”

  Chapter 9 – Thursday, January 13, 2011

  JayQ turned right on Haig Avenue from de Maisonneuve Boulevard in Montreal’s east end and pulled the Sentra into the narrow driveway of one of the tiny houses. He’d always found amusing that twenty-nine year old Omar Kalpar lived in this home which they used as the cell’s headquarters right down the street from CFB Montreal, commonly known as the Longue-Pointe military base. In fact, the house as well as many others along the avenue had once served as residences for soldiers and their families.

  He got out of the car and as he climbed the couple of steps to the small porch, the front door opened and Omar stood there to greet him, his skinny frame silhouetted in the light coming from inside.

  “Assalamu alaikum,” said Omar then added with a grin, “Nice wheels.”

  “It belongs to the girlfriend of one of the help,” JayQ smiled as he entered the house and removed his coat. “He uses it regularly and leaves the keys in his coat pocket in the staff lounge which makes it easy to borrow it without his knowledge while he’s working.”

  “It is better to be careful and avoid using your car, of course,” Kalpar agreed. “Come, Mohsin is in the kitchen.”

  They walked the few steps required to reach the little kitchen at the back where the short, chubby Mohsin Rahija sat at the table, fiddling with a miniature soldering iron as he worked on a series of tiny circuit boards. As usual, the twenty-seven year old electronics expert wore a scowl and greeted JayQ with a grunt and a barely perceptible nod before returning his attention to the task at hand.

  “It is good to see you in a good mood, Mohsin,” JayQ taunted as he took a seat. “The smile suits you.”

  Rahija replied with another grunt without bothering to raise his eyes.

  Omar smiled as he served JayQ a cup of tea then sat down as well to get down to business. “How is the plan shaping up?”

  “Very well so far,” replied JayQ with a smile. “The house has been bugged as we hoped and expected and Buzdar has happily accepted to do whatever I ask of them.”

  “They are idiots,” Rahija muttered as he squinted through the magnifying lens affixed over one eye. “Juvenile, idealistic idiots who will most likely blurt out anything they can at the first sign of danger as they wet their pants.”

  “I do not believe so,” JayQ disagreed. “I have known Mahmood and Nasir since they were small boys back in Pakistan. They each lost a brother in the Gora Prai air strike by the United States in 2008 which has only served to feed their hatred of the west. On this basis, I believe them to be loyal and trustworthy. Anyhow, they know who I am and that in itself is enough to put fear in them for the safety of their loved ones back home.”

  “You are a wise leader, oh Great Qalat,” Rahija taunted. “What about the two monkeys they have brought with them? Are they loyal and trustworthy?”

  “That is Mister Qalat to you, Mohsin,” JayQ parried back. “They too lost relatives in the air strike, one a brother, the other a close cousin. It is these losses, in fact, which led them to become acquainted with Buzdar and Darzada. Regardless, they are puppets who do not know us and they will know nothing of the plan so it does not matter. In the end, as far as the plan goes, Mahmood and Nasir will be in the dark as well so you may cease worrying.”

  “I am not worried,” Rahija snorted with confidence, “For regardless what happens, I will never get caught.”

  “Nor will I,” Qalat smiled.

  “You wouldn’t be worried if you did,” Rahija retorted. “Omar and I, on the other hand, must rely on our wits.”

  “Enough of this,” Qalat abruptly replied, ending the discussion. “Now, on with the plan. I will start feeding information to Mahmood that our target is to be an event in Vermont in February. The border to Vermont is perhaps fifteen minutes from Sutton so it should seem like a realistic target to those who are listening in. I will instruct Mahmood to start planning with his friends as if it was the true target.”

  Rahija said nothing but Oma
r nodded thoughtfully. “And while they are being watched, we plan for another target which will be unexpected.”

  “That is correct,” replied Qatar. “Quite unexpected indeed since the authorities here with be coordinating with their counterparts in the United States and not minding what is taking place in their own back yard.”

  “You have decided on a target in Canada?” Omar questioned in surprise and even Rahija glanced up for a second.

  “It makes our job much easier and will catch our enemies off guard,” Qalat explained, “In fact, I am strongly considering something right here in Montreal. We would be hitting earlier than the proposed fake target so the authorities would be taken by surprise and what I’m thinking of here has the potential for thousands of teenage and young adult casualties which will demonstrate our own capability of harming the innocent as the Americans so boldly do.”

  “Are you certain you wish to attack Canada by killing a bunch of teenagers?” asked Omar. “They have always been a pacifist country. Should we not concentrate our energy on the all-powerful, obnoxious Americans?”

  “We have established cells in this country for a reason, Omar,” Qalat quietly said. “It is time Canada starts to learn that there is a price to pay for constantly supporting its big brother, Uncle Sam, and who better to pay the price than the next generation.”

  Chapter 10 – Friday, January 14, 2011

  “Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a verdict?” asked the Honourable Justice Eric Samson.

  The foreman took a deep breath before replying. “We have, your Honour.”

  “The defendant will rise,” ordered Samson as he peered over his half-glasses at George Ponce and his lawyer.

  Both men stood as the judge turned to the court clerk and nodded. The clerk stepped over to the jury box and was handed the ruling which he in turned passed onto the judge.

  Samson unfolded the document and studied its contents for a moment before turning back towards the jury. “Was this verdict unanimous, Mr. Foreman?”

  “It was, your Honour,” the foreman replied.

  Samson brought his eyes back to the document for a few seconds then looked up at those seated in the jury box. “Thank you, Mr. Foreman. You may have a seat. I will ask each of the remaining members of the jury to answer the question individually.” His gaze settled on the woman seated next to the foreman in the front row. “Was this verdict unanimous?”

  The woman stood and nervously replied, “Yes, your Honour.”

  One by one, each of the remaining jurors rose and repeated the same answer.

  “Very well,” said Samson in a rather dry tone as he refolded the document. “I would ask the Clerk of the Court to please read the jury’s decision.”

  The court clerk reclaimed the folded page and opened it, taking a few seconds to read it to himself before clearing his throat. “In the matter of the Crown versus Ponce, the jury finds the defendant, George Ponce, not guilty.”

  Pandemonium erupted in the courtroom.

  Amid shouts, mutterings and other displays of shock and disbelief, Samson glared at Ponce and stated, “You’re a free man, Mr. Ponce. Get out of my sight.” Turning to the jury, he added, “It seems your work is done. You may all leave as well.”

  He then slammed his gavel once, stood and stormed out of the courtroom and off to his chambers without another word.

  * * * *

  Toronto-based George Ponce, a chubby, medium height man of fifty-four had made his money, and lots of it, in real estate. Though his first holdings were smaller rental properties; duplexes, triplexes and small apartment blocks, he eventually became involved in buildings of the high-rise variety. Some of these were developed for sale as condominium units which generated increasing cash flow for further projects while others remained in Ponce’s possession, the units being rented out to tenants.

  On the ground floor of the last five high-rise apartment buildings which Ponce had built, he had thoughtfully planned daycare centres, which he also operated, for those tenants who had young children. For those interested in the service, reasonable fees were included in their monthly rent payments and this, coupled with the convenience of the centres’ locations right in the buildings, made for an attractive benefit for young parents. In addition, children up to the age of twelve could go to the centre before going to and upon their return from school. Lastly, the centres remained open until eleven in the evening on Fridays and Saturdays, offering parents an alternative to finding a sitter.

  Ponce, who was single and had no children of his own, was fond of kids and regularly visited the daycares where he often surprised the youngsters with treats and toys. Known as ‘Uncle George’ by all, he would spend time chatting with them, telling them stories or joining them to watch the latest released kids films, which of course, he always supplied.

  All was fine until first one then more complaints arose from parents who had learned from their children that ‘Uncle George’ had touched them inappropriately. A police investigation ensued and all parents dealing with the daycare centres were contacted and their children questioned on the subject. Things went from bad to worse when nine year old Thomas Bailis left a hand written note to ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ saying that he was sorry for getting them in trouble with the police for what he had done with ‘Uncle George’. Thomas then leaped to his death from the twelfth storey balcony of their apartment.

  Ponce was arrested and charged with multiple counts of child molestation and one count of manslaughter for Bailis’ death. He had been released after satisfying bail of one million dollars and ordered by the court to stay clear of the daycare centres pending trial. Several months had gone by before the start of the often emotional hearings and now, it was all over. The jury had found ‘Uncle George’ not guilty.

  * * * *

  From the privacy of his chambers, the Honourable Justice Eric Samson retrieved his cell phone from a desk drawer and made a call.

  “Eric Samson here,” he announced when the call was answered. “No, I’m not well. I’m not well at all. The jury has just freed George Ponce and this is completely unacceptable. I thought you would like to know… Very well. I leave this in your very capable hands and will sleep better tonight, knowing that I have served justice as it should be served.”

  * * * *

  They were eating dinner when Mahmood felt the Blackberry vibrate in the pocket of his jeans. Pulling it out, he noted that it was a text message which he proceeded to read.

  “I must go for a walk,” he announced as he stood and headed to the entrance foyer.

  “Mahmood, we are enjoying our meal,” called Fahad. “What is so important that it cannot wait?”

  “I will return shortly, I am certain,” replied Mahmood as he scrambled into his boots and coat.

  “You food will be cold,” insisted Fahad whose turn it had been to prepare dinner.

  “That is why we have a microwave oven,” snapped Mahmood just before hurriedly slamming the door on his way out.

  “What is the big emergency?” Fahad complained to the other two. “I have worked hard to prepare this feast for you.”

  “You are sounding like an old woman,” Nasir laughed, “And I would not call your stew a feast.”

  “It is better than the frozen pizzas which you nearly burned yesterday,” argued Fahad.

  “No, it isn’t,” Saad grimaced, causing Nasir to laugh again.

  “Anyhow,” said Nasir, “Do not be annoyed by Mahmood’s abrupt departure. He will surely return shortly with great news for us.”

  “Is he going to meet someone?” asked Saad.

  “Perhaps,” Nasir replied, “Although he has probably only gone out to make a phone call.”

  “Why did he not make the phone call from here?” questioned Fahad. “Does he not trust us?”

  “Of course, he trusts us,” reassured Nasir.

  “Well, then, does Mahmood think the walls have ears?” pressed Fahad.

  “I, uh, I,” stammered Nasir, taken o
ff guard by the question. “I am certain that Mahmood is, uh, simply following the demand that was made of him in the message he has received. Now, cease your talk and eat your wonderful stew before it gets cold.”

  * * * *

  “Yes, I understand,” Mahmood said into the phone. “I will tell the others of the location and we shall start to develop our plan but if it is acceptable to you, I wish to take a day or two to think of it on my own… Of course, if I have questions or I am not sure of some details, I will message you but I am confident that we can come up with a believable plan… Yes, and if we can assist you with the real plan, please let me know. As I have said before, we wish to do whatever is required of us in this holy war.”

  Chapter 11 – Saturday, January 15, 2011

  George Ponce awoke in his penthouse condominium unit overlooking Toronto’s harbour front with the dull, throbbing pain and queasiness one associates to a hangover along with a morose mindset to match.

  Following the previous day’s victory in court, he should have been feeling on the top of the world again and had, in fact, felt so for a little while once the jury had delivered its verdict. However, all the joy and elation had not lasted. Although a celebration had been in order, the only person attending the dinner in question had been his attorney and even he had cut the evening short.

  Over the months since the initial accusations and subsequent arrest, George had seen his circle of friends dwindle to nothing. Planned outings were suddenly cancelled, long time pals suddenly were buried in work or personal matters and his name seemed to disappear from party invitation lists. Though most didn’t come out and actually state it, a few had, telling him that they did not wish to associate with a child molester.