Hybrid - Forced Vengeance

by Ballan, Greg

Erik studied the layout of the club as he cautiously walked further inside. He received several looks of recognition from patrons, and he recognized several known al-Qaeda operatives. He headed over to the bar and sat at the nearest stool. The bartender came over asking if he wanted a drink.

  “What I want is information,” Erik countered. “Some terrorist group put a contract out on Monique LaSalle, the French president’s daughter, and I want to know who did it.”

  The bartender flinched then looked around. He gestured to a man sitting in the far corner. The man waved his arm and nodded.

  “My employer will speak with you, Mr. Knight.”

  Erik raised an eyebrow; it appeared word of his earlier escapade had already spread. The detective nodded and slipped a ten-dollar bill on the counter.

  Erik left his stool and walked toward the corner booth.

  “Mr. Knight,” the heavyset man began in a joyful tone. “This is indeed a special occasion, a CIA cleaner socializing with the very people he’s supposed to be putting behind bars – or into the dirt.” The obese man laughed.

  Erik nodded as he cautiously sat in the seat opposite his host. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Errol Martin, or as I am more commonly known Bilal-Abdul-Raheem-Falahawi. Just call me Errol; it’s much easier on the tongue.” The fat man laughed then drank from a large beer mug.

  Once he swallowed he asked Erik, “May I offer you a non alcoholic beverage, since I know you don’t drink?”

  “Club soda with a lime twist,” Erik answered.

  “So, Mr. Knight, have you come to trash my humble establishment?” Errol asked, gesturing for a waitress. He then related the drink request.

  Erik leaned across the table. “Will that be necessary for me to get the answers I’m looking for?”

  The fat man also leaned forward and whispered, “I have no love for you, American. You’ve crippled our business; have caused the death of several good men, and the imprisonment of several freedom fighters. If it had been up to me, I would have had you shot the moment you walked in here.” The man leaned back and said, “But that was not my choice to make.”

  “I’m hurt.” Erik whispered back, actually managing to sound injured. “But those whom you call freedom fighters, the rest of the world call terrorists. Your freedom fighters have a knack for killing innocent people in the pursuit of their cause.”

  The chubby Arab’s face was a cacophony of different expressions. He burst out laughing, reaching over to slap Erik on the shoulder. “You are very droll, Mr. Knight, however, let us not debate issues which we will never agree on. As you Americans are fond of saying, we see the world through different lenses.” He raised his hands in a gesture of placation. “I suggest we simply leave it at that and get to the matter at hand.”

  With a nod, Erik agreed then looked around briefly, studying several of the men and women he knew were probable terrorists or – at the very least – had connections to them. He sighed and looked back at his host.

  “You already know why I’m here.” Erik smiled.

  A waitress interrupted their dialogue by placing a coaster on the table. She offered the detective an ample view of her cleavage as she set down the drink and some napkins.

  Errol grunted, then said, “Enough, Miranda. Mr. Knight is in mourning; save it for the regulars.”

  The waitress nodded and walked away, clearly disappointed. “I apologize. Miranda has many mouths to feed at home.”

  Erik took a few quick seconds to appraise his host. Errol knew a great deal about him. It appeared that the terrorist network was far more sophisticated than anybody in the CIA or OSA believed.

  “To lost spouses,” Errol raised his beer mug.

  He felt the pain of Shanda’s passing course through his body once more. But there was something else he felt – an alarming feeling of distress that he simply couldn’t place. He knew he wasn’t in danger personally, but something wasn’t right. He forced the dark thoughts to recede and refocused on his current situation.

  “To lost spouses,” Erik repeated as he clinked his glass against the mug.

  Both men drank and then sat quietly reflecting on their private losses.

  Errol finally broke their silence. “Mr. Knight, if I were to tell you that no one in any organization that I know of has instigated a contract against young Miss LaSalle what would your reply be?”

  Erik had already read his host and several people in the room. They all knew why he was here, but he couldn’t fathom anything else that would be of use to him. Heavy hitters were here. Ahmad Soleil sat in one corner fingering a jeweled throwing dagger; and scant feet away, Abdul Aziz – commonly known as the Sand Adder – was studying him from his own private booth. Abdul turned his attention away only when the women with him diverted him to more pleasurable affairs. Both men wanted a shot at him, but he could also sense their apprehension. Something or someone was keeping them at bay.

  Erik looked directly into Errol’s eyes. “Mr. Bilal-Abdul-Raheem-Falahawi, I would believe you. You’re not behind this at all, but someone or some group has done one hell of a job setting it up to appear that you are.”

  Falahawi sighed. “Then I can relay to our other establishments that you’ll not be paying us any more social calls?”

  Erik nodded. “No more social calls … on this particular matter,” he amended. “I know there’s still a standing contract out on my life, but that’s an issue for another time. Isn’t it?”

  Errol looked uncomfortable and quickly nodded. “Another time, Agent Knight.”

  The detective took a last sip of his drink and stood up. “Good evening.”

  “Erik ...” Errol began in a voice laden with sympathy, “though we are on opposite sides of this war, please believe my sincerity. I am truly sorry for the loss of your wife. My Miranda was killed two months ago in a raid, not far from here. We have that grief in common, if nothing else.”

  Erik read the man’s sincerity. He was taken aback to find civility and sincerity in what was supposed to be enemy territory. “Errol, you have my sympathies as well. May our wives find peace in the better place.” Erik turned and quietly walked out the door as dozens of eyes followed his exit.

  He was stumped.

  He didn’t expect to end the evening with a quiet walk back to the presidential compound – empty handed. He had difficulty trying to equate Falahawi’s seemingly humane nature with his bloody line of work. He had learned one thing from this evening though: The fringe fanatics and contract assassins who seemed to be behind these attacks … were not. They all had been set up. The CIA, the OSA and the French government had all been played.

  Played masterfully.

  The detective was now eager to question the sources that determined Muslim fanatics were behind the threat. He wanted to know how they arrived at that erroneous conclusion.

  * * * *

  When Erik arrived at the presidential compound, he was not looking forward to relaying the events of the last four hours to President LaSalle. As soon as he entered the spacious front foyer an excited Jean-Paul met him.

  “Mr. Knight, thank God you’re here. We’ve been worried about you since we got word of the havoc unleashed at the Oasis Club.”

  Erik raised an eyebrow. “Word travels fast in Paris.” Jean-Paul apprised him of the new development.

  “For the past two hours we’ve been entertaining a certain eyewitness to the events while awaiting your return.”

  “Really? He stopped mid stride and turned toward the aide. “Who?”

  “Miss Sarina Fahaad,” Jean-Paul provided excitedly.

  “Fahaad? Sarina Fahaad is the daughter of Rashim Fahaad, the number three man on the CIA’s most wanted list!”

  Jean-Paul gave a look of surprise then continued, “He is also high on the French terrorist list as well.” Both men continued their brisk walk to the main meeting area, anxious to see the woman.

  * * * *

  Erik entered the room and was stu
nned to see Monique LaSalle, under the supervision of her father, entertaining a stunningly beautiful Arabic female. Erik recognized her immediately as the belly dancer from the Oasis Club. She’d disappeared as soon as he’d entered the main club, avoiding his mental scan. Erik quickly reassessed the beautiful woman. She was far more than just a seductive body; he was the daughter of a very influential and powerful man within the Arab and Muslim communities. It was somehow ironic to see the daughters of two political powerhouses within France talking and laughing like they were best friends.

  President LaSalle smiled at Erik and rose when the two men entered the room.

  “Erik Knight, may I present Miss Sarina Fahaad.”

  The Arabic woman rose and extended her hand in the traditional French custom. Erik took her hand and kissed it gently. “We’ve already met, Mr. President.” Erik released her hand then studied her eyes intently.

  Sarina returned the look without wavering. “Earlier this evening, Mr. Knight paid my father’s club a social call from which we will be cleaning up and rebuilding for weeks.” She turned to the president and added, “He is a most impressive man, is he not, Mr. President? He sent six of my best warriors to the hospital and a seventh to meet Allah this night.”

  Erik shrugged. “Your men were given fair warning.” He raised a brow. “They intervened at their own peril.”

  Sarina walked behind Monique’s chair and placed both hands on her shoulder. “This child is the reason you’ve come here. You believe that we wish to harm her.”

  “Correction,” Erik paused. “Believed, past tense.” He removed his jacket, revealing his array of personal weapons.

  “Excuse me?” both the president and Sarina said simultaneously.

  Erik sat in the nearest chair and reported. “Mr. President, you’ve been duped. We’ve all been duped.” He raised a weary face. “Those I saw tonight vehemently deny any involvement in the two attempts on Monique’s life. I read the entire room in both locations.” He glanced at Sarina. I just read Miss Fahaad a minute ago, and her establishment has no involvement in this and no knowledge of who does.”

  “What do you mean by ‘read’?” Sarina asked.

  “Impressions, emotions,” Erik replied, openly staring at the voluptuous woman. “I can sense changes in emotion and thought patterns. It’s a useful method for detecting whether someone is, shall we say, being less than truthful or hiding certain facts.”

  Erik would not to let them know the full extent of his capabilities. The less they knew about his Esper abilities the better it would be in the long run. “Your associate, Errol Martin, was most persuasive. I assume you called ahead and warned several places that I was coming.”

  “I did,” she answered as she sought her seat.

  “Erik?” the president asked, “can you read all of our thoughts?” The president was clearly alarmed at the implications of being so close to a telepath.

  “No Mr. President. I’m not a mind reader. I can sense impressions and thought patterns, not individual thoughts.” Erik didn’t want anyone wondering if he could sift through their innermost, private thoughts, though in Esper mode he could read minds. He needed these people to trust him, not to be uncomfortable or even reluctant to be around him.

  He walked over to Sarina and extended his hand. “I’ll forgive the last two attempts on my life in Saudi Arabia if you’ll let this evening pass.”

  She blushed. “You know about that too?”

  “Yeah.” Erik averted his gaze.

  Sarina accepted his proposal. “You are a most remarkable man, Agent Knight. You have my respect.”

  “And you, mine, Miss Fahaad.” He gave her a smile.

  “Now that we are all warm and cozy,” Sarina began, “how can we root out the real cause of this mess?”

  “I would strongly suggest that we each contact our respective agencies and review our facts and intelligence. Between our three groups we should be able to ferret out the real source of the threat.” President LaSalle suggested, still studying Erik.

  “What about Miss LaSalle’s party, the one coming up in a few days?” Jean-Paul asked.

  At the alarmed look on his daughter’s face, the president replied, “We continue planning as before. The threat is still there even though we don’t know the source. We need to be even sharper now.” He glanced back at Erik. “Our enemy has been laughing, watching us go at each other. I would greatly appreciate turning the tide.”

  “I can offer several good men as sentries, if you would have them,” Sarina said, “as a gesture of good will.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Erik replied.

  “I insist,” Sarina countered. “Whatever’s going on has direct repercussions on our organization. We were all set up for a fall and I demand …” she paused as if to find the right words, then continued, “formally request that we take part in uncovering this plot.”

  The president sent her an appreciative glance. “We will gladly accept your help. Let us part ways for tonight then; we all have contacts to reach.” LaSalle rose and headed toward the hallway to retire then he suddenly turned around. “Mr. Knight, would you please be so kind as to escort the mademoiselle back to her nightclub?”

  “As you wish, Mr. President.” Erik had risen at the departure of the president then canted his head at Sarina and asked, “Shall we go?”

  * * * *

  Nancy Bertoni walked into her office amid buzz and confusion. The news of her boss’s tragic death was everywhere. Try as she might, she couldn’t avoid the endless plethora of gossips that wanted to know what Michael Sparks was working on and if she had any idea who may have done such a thing to the crusty OSA investigator.

  She opened the door to their private suite and rushed in, exhaling a huge sigh of relief once the door was closed. The place was as she’d left it the day before. Nobody seemed to have penetrated their office – yet. She locked the door then went into Michael’s office, heading straight for his safe. After fifteen years of service, Michael trusted her enough to share the combination. Nancy bit her lower lip. She had betrayed that trust and now hoped to make amends by ‘spilling the beans’ with details about what Michael had been working on.

  Nancy was convinced she was next on the government’s list to expire. She required the insurance contained in Michael’s files to stay alive. Her fingers shook as she dialed the combination and her first attempt to open the safe failed. She swore in frustration. On her second attempt the heavy door popped open. She hungrily reached for the stacks of files and placed them on the nearby conference table.

  Where was that particular folder that pertained to Erik Knight and the corporation? Buried within that file she hoped to find an address where the agent could be reached.

  “Bingo!” she whispered as she plucked the folder from the pile. She opened it and located what she required. She took out her cell phone to take several pictures.

  She fought another spasm of guilt. Michael had bought her the phone as a joke, because she had made fun of the ‘techno phone’ he was so fond of using. She never imagined that she would actually be using the camera feature for this type of work, just like a real spy would.

  Nancy leafed through the file and several other files; there was just too much information to photograph all of it. She spotted the papers on Operation Homegrown and took pictures of those pages, then photographed nearly all of the pages of the Pendelcorp contract awards. She had snapped over forty pictures and now the phone displayed a full memory chip.

  But there was still much more information that would be of use to her so she took several of the files, along with Michael’s field notebook and squeezed them into her oversized purse – chosen that morning for that purpose. She carefully placed all the other papers back in the safe and locked it. Her body was beginning to betray her with rapid breaths, clammy hands and regular waves of nausea as she reached her own desk.

  Nancy logged into the database, utilizing Michael’s access codes and copied several
files from the system and from her own computer then compressed the data onto a digital data disc. She slipped the disc in her purse and then reformatted the hard drive, hoping to effectively wipe out all the data stored on the computer. Then she went back into her boss’s office where she removed a magnetic file holder from Sparks’ desk and placed it directly on his desktop system.

  Not privy to the access codes for her boss’s PC, Nancy knew he kept a detailed log of all of his case notes and other information pertaining to his investigations. She straightened and smiled in satisfaction, hoping that the magnet would have enough time to do its job. Whoever would have an interest in those notes would get nothing.

  She walked out of his office and closed the door, remembering the good years she had spent there working for a good man.

  “Good bye, Michael. I am truly sorry.” She departed, closing the door to the suite as she closed the door on that part of her life forever.

  Now she was running a race against time. She had to get to the small suburb town of Hopedale before agents of the United States government got to her. She needed the protection of a CIA/OSA cleaner named Erik Knight and she hoped that he would carry the evidence up the chain of command to ensure that whatever sinister things were happening – in government several layers over her head – would be stopped.

  Nancy reached the bus stop and then boarded the local number seven; from there she would hook up with a Greyhound Bus out of Washington then catch a connection to Boston.

  Her cell phone rang and she nearly jumped out of skin. ‘UNKNOWN CALLER.’

  It was him, Michael’s killer. She shouldn’t answer the phone but couldn’t help herself and opened the lid and spoke into the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  The connection was severed.

  Nancy felt a sharp pain in her stomach and a cold shiver up her back. What if they could trace her whereabouts through the cell phone? Taking no chance, she turned the power off and popped out the microchip that contained the photographs she had taken.

  A man occupying the seat next to her was snoring incessantly. She turned her phone back on, muted the ringer and slipped the cell in his jacket pocket. Let them follow a complete stranger around; she was determined to stay one step ahead of them.