Martyr's Inferno

by Scott Gamboe

  A light step brought him about sharply to face the muzzle of an assault rifle. A bearded police officer stood at the other end of the weapon.

  "Do not move, Señor," he announced in flawless English.

  Jim stood immobile. He gauged the distance between them to decide if he could close the gap before the officer could fire. His own safety aside, he feared for Krista's life. The officer edged one hand down to the radio at his hip. He pulled it free and raised it to his mouth.

  With a surprised grunt, the officer pitched forward. His radio and weapon tumbled away from his nerveless fingers. Behind him stood a tall, clean-shaven man with a large nose, his face shaded by a wide-brimmed hat. His floral print shirt hung low, covering part of his swimming trunks. He slammed the fallen radio to the ground, and pieces of it scattered across the alley. He tossed the rifle onto a nearby roof before extending a hand in greeting.

  "Krista Marcel? Jim Hunter?" He spoke with a heavy accent. Jim could not place it, but he thought it sounded Eastern European. "My name is Amit Cahen. I’m an agent with the Israeli Mossad. I can explain later, but we have to get out of here. Now."

  Jim nodded. "Where?"

  "I have a car waiting in the street. Toss your bags in the back seat."

  For a moment, neither of them moved. Who was this man? Could they trust him? Jim realized they had no choice. The stranger had saved them from the police, and Nick had mentioned that the Mossad was involved. Jim decided to place their faith in him. Minutes later, the three raced north through the heavy Mexican traffic, at breakneck speeds, toward Cancun. While Jim found their speed excessive and worried it might draw attention, their rescuer seemed unconcerned. There were enough other cars on the road driving recklessly, Jim decided, that maybe they would not stand out in the crowd.

  "So who are you? Why did you help us?"

  "As I told you, my name is Amit Cahen. I'm with the Mossad . . . Israeli Intelligence. We need to get you out of the country as quickly as possible."

  Jim watched a police car heading southbound in the opposing lanes of traffic, oblivious to the fugitives heading north to Cancun. The Mossad . . . just as Nick said. What have we gotten ourselves into? "You won't get any argument from us."

  #

  Jim stared past Krista and out the window of the airplane, where boats drifted lazily across the blue waters of the Caribbean. He fidgeted with his iPod, anxious for the announcement that the use of such devices was allowed. Krista was asleep, head against the interior wall of the plane, a peaceful expression on her face. Jim wrenched his thoughts away from his partner.

  They had changed to another of their identities, a necessity since the Mexican police were looking for them under their former assumed names. Jim ran his fingers over his newly shaved scalp, still not able to adjust to the feeling of having no hair on his head. Oversized glasses completed his disguise. The thick lenses caused disorientation when he walked, but distorted his face enough to get him passed the authorities. For her part, Krista had dyed her hair blond. The baggy clothes she wore gave her a bulkier appearance.

  He had much to consider. Amit Cahen had saved them from arrest, or worse, at the hands of a Mexican police officer. From a hidden compartment within his car, he had produced documents that proved his claim of being a member of Israeli Intelligence. He had traveled across North America, Asia, and Europe, tracking the movements of various members of a radical Islamic terrorist group called Mukkadas Atesh, or Holy Fire.

  Jim leaned closer to Amit. "Tell me about Mukkadas Atesh."

  Amit pursed his lips for a few moments. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "While all the Middle Eastern terrorist organizations have as their aim the destruction of Israel, this particular organization is beyond fanatical about it. They focus all their resources on the acquisition of weapons to be used in their war against us. In the course of their activities, they supply many of the weapons used by Hamas.

  "They are a splinter organization. They broke away from a Sunni Muslim faction, which they felt was not violent enough. Although they only formed the group a decade ago, they have already been responsible for hundreds of deaths.

  "In the past few months, for some reason, Mukkadas Atesh has evolved. They have decided to help another group in their efforts to strike targets on American soil. The Mossad is now working directly with the FBI, the NSA, and the CIA in an effort to track the group's actions across the globe.

  "It was this mission that brought me to Mexico. I heard that Tony Marcel was trying to broker a deal with an agent of Mukkadas Atesh, involving the purchase of weapons. We don't know for certain what Tony intends to do with the weapons, or indeed, what type of weapons are involved. I did hear about others in the Marcel family who are working against Tony. When I saw you two enter the office of Cardinal Investments, I recognized Krista right away. I checked my notes and decided the man with her had to be you. I followed when you left the building. You know the rest."

  Jim hated the fact that someone else knew what they were about. They had been betrayed before. The fewer people who knew who he was, the better. Could he trust Amit? Yes, the Mossad agent had saved them from the police. But did he have an ulterior motive? Would he betray them at a later date? There would be no way to know unless it happened.

  "I'm a bit concerned about the translation for the name of the terrorist group. 'Holy Fire,' you said. 'Martyr's Inferno' was the name I heard used with Tony's major shipment. The two names almost have to be related."

  "True. But was Tony's shipment given the title because of the group it is intended for, or because of the product itself? And what is the product?"

  Jim shrugged as he slipped his iPod into his pocket. He had recovered a lot of information in Tony's office, but they had not had a chance to review it. Krista would attempt to use Tony's bank records to track the money back to the source. But until they arrived in Saint Martin, she could do nothing. Maybe between her computer skills and Amit's contacts, they could learn something to help break the case wide open.

  Jim dozed off until the plane landed in Saint Martin. In less than an hour they were in the back seat of a taxi, on the way to their hotel. To preserve their disguise, Jim and Krista stayed in a separate room from Amit. Fortunately, the hotel was situated on Simpson Beach, close to the airport. They checked into their rooms and changed clothes.

  Krista pulled the phone book from the drawer and found the address for Twin Cities Trust. It was located in Phillipsburg, probably ten minutes away by taxi. While they awaited the arrival of Amit, Krista turned on her laptop and connected to the hotel's wireless internet connection. She downloaded Jim's pictures from his camera card. For the next several minutes, she perused the information in the photographs. She paused occasionally to write down information about the companies that made large deposits into the bank accounts of Cardinal Investments. Some were habitual customers who made deposits on a regular basis, while others were one-time deals. As Jim suspected, the deposits in the Caribbean company's bank account were larger than those in the United States.

  Jim leaned closer to the picture on her laptop's screen, one hand on Krista's shoulder while the fingers of the other hand traced the financial records line-by-line. He knelt by her side. Their arms brushed as he reached to the screen once more.

  "Look here, Krista. Several deposits were made in the last week before Perkins was killed. That's over half a million dollars!"

  "Nothing was deposited immediately after his murder, though," she pointed out. "Maybe we'll find more when we check the records for Twin Cities Trust's investments. If there are a series of deposits right after Tony killed him, then we've definitely got more than a coincidence."

  "Are you sure you were never a cop? You've got a natural knack for this."

  "I've had a good teacher."

  Their eyes locked. Jim felt his heart thumping in his chest. They leaned closer . . .

  A knock at the door spoiled the moment. Krista's eyes snapped back to her computer. Jim
gave her shoulder a squeeze. He crossed the room to the door.

  "Who is it?"

  "Amit."

  Jim unlatched the door and let him in. The operative for the Mossad was carrying two pizzas in one hand. A plastic bag full of sodas dangled from the other. Jim helped him set everything on the table. They ate lunch while Jim recapped what they had learned.

  "Will you be able to trace where the money came from?" Amit asked.

  "That depends on Krista's skill and luck with a keyboard."

  "It'll take time." She grabbed a slice of pizza. "I'll get it, but I can't promise you how quickly."

  "Well, let's find the information from Twin Cities Trust and get you two back to the States. You're wanted there, but it's a lot easier to hide. Besides, the police officers there are not so easily corrupted."

  "Certain people's roommates excepted, of course," Krista said.

  Dressed once more in the bathing suits of tourists, the trio made their way along Simpson Bay's white sand beaches. Though by no means deserted, there certainly was not as large of a crowd as Jim had expected. Most of the people sunning themselves on the beach appeared to be European, although there were likely a few Americans scattered among them. About a half-mile from their hotel, they passed between two buildings and flagged a taxi.

  The ride to Phillipsburg took longer than expected, with traffic backed up due to an accident, but they still made good time. Following the directions Krista had written down, they located the office they were looking for. It sat on the second floor of a building overlooking Front Street, one of Phillipsburg's two main roads. A series of alleys ran crosswise through the town, connecting Front Street with the appropriately named Back Street. Both thoroughfares were filled with small shops selling everything from books to clothing to jewelry. The structures were all painted a wide assortment of pastel colors. Some were so brightly hued that Jim wondered if they might glow in the dark.

  Jim took a deep breath of the Caribbean air. Something about the tropics must agree with him. He had not experienced his chronic headache since they left the United States.

  He glanced up at the shiny white walls of the courthouse to check the time on the clock mounted on a small tower at the building's apex. They should still have an hour before the businesses closed. While Phillipsburg was quite a busy place during the day, at night it became a virtual ghost town. Many of the tourists came from cruise ships. They would head back out to their ships with the setting of the sun. What Jim and his friends intended to do would take, at most, fifteen minutes. With the streets still crowded, if they were chased, their getaway would be facilitated by hiding among the large numbers of people.

  Amit reached the door first and held it open for the others. The receptionist's station was empty, so they gathered around the desk to wait. Jim stepped behind the desk. He slid the chair aside and squatted down. A router was situated on the top shelf, to one side of the main drawer. As Krista had predicted, it was not a wireless router, instead requiring a network cable to get online. His hand dipped into his pocket and came out with the special network adapter she had provided him. Once connected to the router, it would provide Krista with a wireless signal. He slid it into an open port. He rose to his feet just as the receptionist returned.

  "Excuse me. What are you doing?"

  She was a short, heavyset woman, with hair cut jaggedly at shoulder level. A perpetual frown decorated her face. Jim knew niceties would be wasted upon her. He decided on a different course of action.

  "I'm sorry. I'm looking to set up a wireless network at my house. I just wanted to check your configuration."

  She folded her arms. The sneer on her lips grew somehow deeper. "This network isn't wireless. There's too much sensitive information on our server. It isn't even connected to the internet. We hook up to the wireless network downstairs for that. What do you want?"

  Jim returned to the other side of the desk to stand by Amit. Krista slipped into a plush seat off to one side of the room.

  "Brian," she said, using his new alias, "can you manage without me for a bit? If I can get on that network downstairs, I don't want to miss the chance to check our stocks."

  "Sure, dear." He gave the receptionist a smile, which she ignored. "My name is Brian Henderson, and this is my wife, Lynn. We're from Saint Louis, Missouri."

  "Good for you." She dropped into her chair, which sagged under weight. "I'll say it again. What do you want?"

  "We're doing some estate planning. What we'd like to find is a bank in the Caribbean where we can establish a trust fund to shelter our money from the inheritance tax back home."

  She opened a drawer and withdrew a fingernail file. She focused on her nails. "We're not a bank."

  "Of course not. But your company does handle a lot of investments, if I'm not mistaken."

  She did not even look up. "You are not mistaken."

  "Well, could we talk to your manager? Certainly he would be able to recommend a bank or two here in Phillipsburg. We would be most appreciative. We might even donate a stipend to his fund." She tossed her nail file onto the desk with a sigh. "Just a minute." She rose to her feet and waddled toward the rear door of the office. "Don't touch anything, and stay on your side of my desk."

  Jim looked back at Krista, who sat hunched over her computer, features tightly drawn as she focused her attention on her work. Her fingers tapped across the keyboard. On occasion, a delicate fingertip slid across the touchpad controlling her mouse. The minutes ticked by.

  Krista suddenly let out a sharp breath and nodded. Amit moved closer to the rear door to watch for the receptionist's return. He held a tiny cup beneath the water cooler's dispenser. Jim stooped behind the desk to retrieve the network adapter. He had just returned to his side of the desk when Amit gave a low cough. Moments later, the receptionist returned.

  "Mr. Herrera is in the middle of an important phone call. He said to tell you we do our banking in Curaçao. He also said that if you would care to return tomorrow, he would be glad to discuss these matters with you. Now, if you don't mind, we're closing early today."

  With a rude flip of her hands, she ushered them out of the office. Krista slipped her computer back into her backpack. Jim slung it across one shoulder, and they returned to their hotel. All three of them piled into Jim and Krista's room. She flipped open the cover on her computer to call up the data she had downloaded.

  "The adapter worked wonderfully. Not only did it let me connect to their intranet, but it got me past their firewall. Now, let's see what we found."

  She squinted at the screen. "There's a virtual sea of information here. We've got everything from investments, to banks accounts, to properties owned by the trust. The real estate the company owns is sorted by country. They're heavily invested in Saint Martin," she said, pointing at the screen. "But look at this. There are a number of condominiums in Mexico, as well."

  One property in particular caught Jim's eye. "That son-of-a . . ."

  "What?"

  He pointed to a line in the middle of the screen. "This condo right here is the one Matt and I stayed in down in Playa del Carmen. It's owned by Tony Marcel." He stood upright, clenching and unclenching his fists. "I feel so used."

  Krista's soft laugh filled in the room. "Here we go."

  Jim returned to her side. This time he scooted onto the seat with her. "What do you have?"

  "Check out these deposits. Their bank in Curaçao received five payments totaling three million dollars. The first one was made just hours after Perkins died, and the last only two days later." She copied the names of the depositors onto a growing list. "When we get back home, I'll run these names through my computer."

  Amit raised an eyebrow. "Why can't you use this one?"

  "The computer at my house has better resources. I can get through the security lockouts of the financial institutions."

  "Your FBI friend would probably love to know that."

  "Actually," Jim told him with a smile, "Agent Halliton has turned
a blind eye to her special talents. But you're probably right, though. This might be a bit more than he is willing to tolerate. Let's keep our sources under the table, shall we?"

  CHAPTER 11

  At Lambert Airport in Saint Louis, their passage through Customs went much more smoothly than Jim had anticipated. "Brian and Lynn Henderson" were legitimate American travelers. After filling out the proper paperwork and undergoing a cursory investigation of their belongings, they followed the endless hallways of the airport to reach the baggage claim area. Amit, too, cleared customs without noticeable problems. His Israeli passport was in order. Due to his Mossad credentials even the firearm he had placed in his checked luggage had caused no consternation.

  It was the business about Amit's firearm that helped Jim put a finger on what was bothering him. He had been carrying a gun everywhere he went for so many years, he felt naked without one. For the past few days, he'd had a nagging feeling that he had left something behind. But only an hour later they reached their car. The semiautomatic pistol that had been a gift of Agent Halliton was once more at his side. His relief grew when Krista opened a hidden compartment in the trunk and produced a set of license plates from the state of Washington. The headache that had started on the plane was beginning to fade. He assumed it was an aftereffect of the dream he had in flight - another dream about the incident with the shooter at the office building, so many weeks before.

  The next order of business was to contact the FBI agent. Jim punched the numbers on the speed dial.

  "Halliton."

  "Hey, Nick. It's Hunter. We're back in Saint Louis."

  "What a coincidence. I'm just north of Springfield, heading south on I-55. What did you find out?"