Deadline

by Anderson, James

  “What happened? Why am I chained to this bed?”

  “They say you are a terrorist. Your two friends were not quite so lucky – they were both killed.”

  “They were no friends of mine. There’s been a mistake here. I’m no terrorist. I was kidnapped by those two men in Kandahar and brought here to Pakistan.”

  “There’s no use telling me all this. I’m just a nurse. But these two gentlemen want to talk you.” She turned away from him and spoke to the back of the room. “He’s all yours now.”

  The nurse moved out of the room and two uniformed men moved closer to the bed.

  “Mr. Trevanian. I believe that is your name from the identification we found on you. I am Major Patel from the ISI, the Pakistani Intelligence Service, and this is agent Amman. You are most fortunate to have survived your crash given the shootout at the checkpoint. Why are you in Pakistan?”

  “Like I said, I am here not of my own accord. I’m not a terrorist. I’m a Canadian journalist. I was kidnapped at gunpoint in Kandahar by those two in the car and driven here to Pakistan.”

  “Why would they do that? Why wouldn’t they just kill you in Afghanistan or hold you for hostage if that was their motive?”

  Patel moved his face in closer to Trevanian. He had thick bushy black eyebrows and a dark handlebar moustache. He was so close that Trevanian could smell stale tobacco on his breath. He was a heavy smoker by the look of the yellowish stains on his teeth.

  Trevanian thought before answering. He didn’t feel it would be wise to mention Osama bin Laden at this juncture of their conversation.

  “That was my first fear. But they brought me here to interview one of their top al-Qaida leaders.”

  Patel smiled. “A nice story, but not the truth I think. We need to get the real story from you about your mission here. I would suggest you talk freely; we have ways of extracting information from you that you will not like. We can do this painlessly or with excruciating pain. It is your choice, my friend. You will eventually talk, I promise you.”

  “Check my identification. I assure you that I am a journalist and I was brought here against my will. I don’t know why they felt the need to kidnap me. I would have come voluntarily for the interview. All part of their security I suppose.”

  Amman, the other Pakistani intelligence agent, suddenly piped up. “There is no evidence of your being a journalist.”

  “I have press credentials in my wallet. If you checked my identification you should know that.”

  “Never mind,” said Patel. “We have recovered your laptop computer and digital recorder. It appears you interviewed someone, but it is not clear who or why. If you are a journalist as you say, your activities could be a cover for your work with al-Qaida. Many of you journalists show sympathy and bias toward al-Qaida in your reporting. Rest now and think on what I have said. We will return shortly and we expect some answers.”

  Patel and Amman started to leave the room.

  “At least let me call the Canadian consulate,” Trevanian said.

  The two Pakistani intelligence agents ignored his plea.

  How was he going to convince them he was no terrorist? If only he could make a phone call. Then Trevanian had an idea.

  Could it be possible?

  His left arm was chained to the bed, but his right was free. He manoeuvred his right hand to check his pocket.

  There it was. His cell phone was still there. Hopefully it was still intact and he could get a signal inside this hospital.

  He eased the phone out of his trouser pocket and flipped it open. Good. It indicated there was a signal.

  With considerable difficulty he started punching numbers with his right hand while holding the phone.

  He wasn’t calling the consulate. There wasn’t time for that. He needed faster action so he could file his story.

  There was only one place to go.

  Chapter 44

  Off Toronto Island 4:35 PM

  BRIAN HARRISON felt the exhilaration of the wind in his face as he steered the Delta Dawn several hundred yards off shore from Toronto Island.

  The hot rays of the late afternoon August sun beat down relentlessly on his deeply tanned bare back as he moved the foresail of his 30-foot monohull Catalina sloop. He wanted to catch the wind and steer the yacht from getting too close to shore.

  Off to his right he spotted a young woman walking into the water in her clothes. It seemed strange.

  She was fully clothed in a red blouse and blue jeans. Yet she was waist high in the water and continuing to walk out from shore. Too far for just paddling, Harrison thought.

  He continued top focus on the woman when she suddenly stepped off the coastal lake shelf. She was in deep water and flailed. Her arms thrashed wildly as she tried to tread water. But Harrison clearly could see the woman was in deep trouble. She was drowning.

  He turned the yacht towards her and tried to close the gap of about five hundred yards. Harrison saw the woman go under once. She surfaced a few seconds later. She still splashed wildly. She sank under the surface again and this time didn’t emerge.

  Harrison, clad only in a brown swimsuit, immediately reached for his anchor and dropped it over the side. The sloop slowly started to slow down.

  He then dived over the side, swimming furiously to the spot where the woman disappeared. He took in a deep gulp of air and swam under the water seeking the young woman.

  He saw nothing but murky water that caused a stinging sensation in his eyes. After a couple of minutes he had to surface for air. He took in another deep breath and dove back under the water.

  He went deeper this time. After about a minute, he thought he could see a body floating ahead of him. He reached out and took hold. Then he headed back up to the surface, his lungs bursting for air.

  He broke the surface, pulling the young woman after him and trying to keep her head above water. Harrison swam towards the yacht that was bobbing nearby.

  He climbed up into the boat and managed to drag the woman in after him. She wasn’t breathing. Her face had a bluish tinge.

  He checked for pulse and found a weak one. He started mouth to mouth, trying to squeeze air into her lungs. He turned her slightly to the side trying to clear her mouth of water.

  Things don’t look good. I need help, he thought.

  Harrison left her momentarily to go over to his knapsack on the floor of the sailboat. He retrieved his cell phone and called 911. He quickly related his circumstances to the female dispatcher who said she would immediately contact Lake Rescue.

  The 911 dispatcher instructed Harrison to continue resuscitation efforts until the rescue team could reach him. It could take 10-15 minutes, she said.

  “Well, tell them to hurry. I think she’s in bad shape,” he said.

  Harrison, a banker on vacation, thought that his office CPR training was coming in to good use right now. But he wasn’t sure it was going to be enough to save this young woman.

  He returned to his resuscitation efforts, praying that the rescue team would get there soon.

  He wasn’t sure they would be in time to save her.

  Chapter 45

  The Wolfman’s Lair Thursday 4:45 PM

  KATIE CANNON shivered. She was alone and afraid.

  The Wolfman had driven to a house in the Mississauga suburbs. Cannon had waited patiently for an opportunity to escape, but none came.

  He drove straight through without stopping.

  When they arrived at the house, McDonald took her out of the Explorer with a knife jammed against her ribs. He threatened to cut her throat if she attempted anything. They entered the house – what he referred to as his lair.

  She moved down to the basement and was astonished by what she saw. It was a wide area with a long workbench and pine cupboards. There were three purplish-colored fluorescent lights on the ceiling, which gave the room a strange hue. At the far end of the room was what appeared to be a small jail cell.

  Iron bars formed a small room wit
hin the room. Inside were a cot, a small wooden chair and a bucket in one corner.

  McDonald ushered her into the room. He closed and locked the cell door.

  “Make yourself at home, Katie. And don’t bother trying to scream for help. The place is soundproofed. It’s just you and I and I don’t know about you, but I am certainly going to enjoy this experience.”

  Cannon desperately needed to pee. “Look, Ian I need a washroom right away, please.”

  McDonald smiled and pointed to the bucket.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said.

  “No. Do what you need to do and I’ll dump it regularly.”

  He continued to just stand there and smile with that silly leer.

  “Well, how about some privacy then.”

  McDonald just stood there and the grin widened. Katie felt as if her bladder was going to burst. It didn’t appear this sicko was going to move.

  She just shrugged, dropped her pants and squatted over the bucket. As she tinkled, he continued to watch and smile.

  “I hope you’re getting your jollies, you sick pervert.”

  “No,” he replied. “That will come later when we party. Now rest up, Katie. I’ll bring you some food later.” He turned and left the room.

  Even though it was summer, Katie felt it cool in the basement lair.

  She shivered and felt helpless.

  Here she was alone in the Wolfman’s lair. No one had any idea he had her or where she was located.

  It was obviously going to be up to her to get herself out of this situation. But how?

  Chapter 46

  Daily Express Newsroom 5:00 PM

  BRADEN YOUNG and Andrew Chase looked shocked at the news from Donna-Marie Pierce.

  They relayed the information about Katie’s car to Detective Peter Moon who was on his way to the newspaper.

  “My God, Braden, don’t tell me that animal has Katie,” said Chase.

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet,” replied Young. “Perhaps she found her car disabled and caught a cab.”

  “But she would have been at the police station by now,” said Chase. “And two flat tires. That seems incredible. It must have been sabotage. The police seem to think that killer is one of our employees. I fear he has been in waiting for Katie.”

  Young had never seen Andrew Chase look so distraught.

  He could understand his concern for Katie Cannon’s welfare. Young also was concerned. But Chase’s response seemed to indicate a more personal interest.

  Was there more to this than meets the eye? How well does he know Katie?

  He was about to respond when his intercom buzzed.

  “Mr. Young, an urgent overseas call for you on line 1 from that correspondent Trevor Trevanian,” said Denise Taylor, his administrative assistant. “He’s in Pakistan and in serious trouble.”

  “Right, Mrs. Taylor, I’ll take it right away.” He moved over to the phone. “Please inform my editors that we’re postponing the line-up meeting for an hour or so. Have them stand by.”

  “Yes, sir.” Taylor promptly left the office and went into the newsroom.

  “Trevor my man, what’s up?” inquired Young. “And what the hell are you doing in Pakistan?”

  “Listen, Braden. I’m in serious trouble. I need help and I need it right away. I have the interview of the century for you. But I need you to spring me loose.”

  Trevanian relayed the details of his situation. He explained about his kidnapping and the subject of his unexpected interview. When he mentioned the name of Osama bin Laden, he could hear the audible gasp from his editor. That was followed by a prolonged silence.

  “That’s incredible, Trevor. You have the scoop of a lifetime there. We need that story as soon as possible. I’d like to get it tonight for tomorrow’s edition. You’ll be top line page one.”

  “Well, first I need to get out of this hospital and the clutches of Pakistani Intelligence. They think I’m a terrorist and have threatened torture to get me to talk.”

  “Don’t worry, Trevor, hang tough. I’ll get the wheels rolling right away.”

  Young ended the call. He told Chase the news. “That son of a bitch has the interview of the century with Osama bin Laden, but we’ve got to get him sprung loose from the clutches of Pakistani Intelligence.”

  “I have some contacts high up in Foreign Affairs and the Prime Minister’s office,” said Chase. “I could make some calls.”

  “No, we haven’t got time to go through those diplomatic assholes in Foreign Affairs. The Prime Minister doesn’t have enough clout to get fast enough action. It could take weeks to get him released. I need Trevanian free tonight to file that story. I know exactly who to call on his private line. He knows the Pakistani President personally and he owes me a big favor.” Young started punching numbers.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “The White House. I’m going right to the top. To the big man himself. POTUS -- The President of the United States.”

  Chapter 47

  The Wolfman’s Lair 5: 15 PM

  KATIE CANNON immediately thought of the lyrics from Helen Reddy’s song, I am Woman.

  Cannon felt that if she had to, she could do anything. She needed to find a way out of this fix.

  She was a resourceful reporter. She needed to think. She was entirely alone. No one at the paper knew she had been abducted, let alone who had taken her and where. Prospects of the cavalry coming to her rescue were non-existent.

  Ian McDonald -- the Wolfman -- was obviously mad as a hatter. He possessed a deep hatred for women, especially successful professional women. Katie had no intention of meekly becoming his latest victim.

  She looked around her new surroundings, hoping to see if anything could be useful. There was nothing in her cell that could be used. Surely there must be something on that workbench or in those cupboards if she could get access to them.

  Katie realized that continuing to confront McDonald and to insult him was not getting her anywhere. It only enraged him further.

  She needed to play to his fantasies. She must acquiesce and perhaps gain his confidence until she could get the upper hand. It was worth a try.

  The door to the room opened. McDonald entered carrying a tray of food.

  “I imagine you must be getting hungry. You need to keep up your strength, Katie. I have an interesting evening planned for us.”

  McDonald walked over to the bars of the cell. There was about a one-foot space below the bars and he slipped the tray underneath. It contained a ham sandwich, a glass of milk and an apple.

  “Well, at least I’m eating healthy,” quipped Katie. “Thank you, Ian. That is most considerate of you. You know you’re not a bad looking guy. You shouldn’t need to go out kidnapping women. You could have just asked me for a date.”

  McDonald seemed taken aback by Katie’s friendly attitude. He was wary.

  “Girls like you don’t go out with blue collar guys like me. Why are you suddenly being so nice? Do I look like I just fell off a turnip truck?”

  “I’ve always been nice to you at the paper,” said Katie. “It’s such a shock to find out you’re the Wolfman. I don’t understand it, Ian. You must realize you are seriously mentally ill and need help. I can get you that help, Ian, if you’ll only let me go.”

  “When pigs fly,” he replied, an icy, steely look in his eyes. “All those bitches deserved what they got and you’re going to join my little collection after I’ve finished with you.”

  “What collection?”

  Ian turned and walked over to the cupboards over top of the workbench. He opened one of the doors and took down what appeared to be a large wooden box, about the size of a photo album.

  He brought it over to the cell. He smiled eerily and opened the lid for Katie to see inside. “These are a few souvenirs of my conquests.”

  Inside the box, neatly laid out in a single line, each with its own nametag, were eight severed tongues.

  Chapter 48
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  The Daily Express Newsroom 5:25 PM

  BRADEN YOUNG got the ball rolling.

  His conversation with the President went well. He called in some favors the President owed when Young worked in the States. He got the President’s promise that pressure would be applied to the Pakistani government to have this Canadian journalist released immediately. The President would personally take care of it.

  Now he was ready to turn his attention back to the welfare of another of his reporters – Katie Cannon. Detective Sergeant Peter Moon had arrived and joined him and Andrew Chase in Young’s office.

  “There’s still no word from Katie,” said Moon. “I think we have to assume she has been abducted by the Wolfman. Don’t you have security cameras in your parking garage? The tape might show us who abducted her.”

  Braden looked at Andrew who cast his eyes down almost sheepishly at his feet. “I’m afraid not, Sergeant. They were requested quite a while ago. But I’m afraid the cost has been an issue for the newspaper. The installation has been delayed.”

  “That’s too bad,” replied Moon. “It might have made identification of our Wolfman a lot simpler. The price for better security may be steep, but I think it is essential for the welfare and overall safety of all your employees.”

  “I’m afraid I must accept responsibility for that, Sergeant Moon.” Andrew looked Moon straight in the eyes. “Money has been tight lately and we haven’t had any problems in the garage until now. But I’ll have security cameras installed as soon as possible. Unfortunately that’s not going to help Katie right now. What else can we do to help?

  “Well, we need to try to narrow down who among your many employees could be the Wolfman. Is there any way of getting a list of those employees who finished about the time Katie left to come to the police station?”

  “That could be difficult,” said Braden. “Our reporters come and go at all hours depending upon what stories they’re working on and covering various events. Our office and administrative staff have more regular hours – 9 to 5, but I believe Katie left about 3 p.m. I believe some of our day security and cleaning staff get off around then. I’ll call Human Resources to get a list, shouldn’t take long.”