by Rob Sinclair
Johnny took out his phone to call Reggie. He wasn’t looking forward to what he knew would be a heated conversation. He’d worked for Reggie on and off for over a year. The jobs he did paid by the day, which was good, and it was easy work, but it required Johnny to work for a man who was, quite frankly, uncontrollable. Their relationship constantly teetered on the brink of outright confrontation. And with the presence of Selim added to the mix, Johnny was beginning to seriously doubt his career choice. If he’d had another option for work, he would surely have taken it. But he didn’t.
Reggie picked up the call on the second ring.
‘What is it?’ Reggie said in his booming voice.
‘I’m still outside the hotel,’ Johnny said. ‘I haven’t seen the mark for over two hours now. What do you want me to do?’
‘Surely you know the answer to that? I want you to find out who he is. That’s your job, isn’t it?’
‘Er, yeah, but I thought you just wanted me to follow him?’
‘No, I want you to find out who he is. Didn’t I just say that?!’
‘And how am I supposed to do that?’
‘For fuck’s sake, how should I know? That’s what I’m paying you for.’
‘Okay, but how long do you want me to keep this up for? Is there someone else who can take over here for the night?’
‘Johnny, is there something the matter with you? Are you trying to wind me up? We need to know if this guy is a threat. If he is then we need a plan to get rid of him. No loose ends, remember? But to know if he’s a threat, I need to know who he is. And I need to know what he’s doing here.’
‘Okay,’ Johnny cut in, hoping Reggie would stop. He didn’t.
‘Now I pay you to find out those things for me. So why are you asking me all these questions? Just do your fucking job and call me when you have something interesting to tell me. Got it?’
‘Yeah. I got it.’
The line went dead. Johnny stuffed the phone back in his pocket. What was Reggie’s problem anyway? It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to do this job. But that didn’t mean he wanted to be stuck outside this hotel all night without any food or sleep.
He crossed the street towards the hotel entrance. Once inside, he headed towards the reception desk where a young lady was on duty.
‘Bonsoir,’ Johnny said as he approached the lady.
‘Bonsoir, monsieur,’ the receptionist said.
‘I’m hoping you can help me,’ Johnny said, still in French. He spoke the language fluently, and having lived in France for many years now, he’d pretty much lost his English twang. ‘I’m looking for a man who checked in here about two hours ago. He’s tall, over six feet, wearing jeans and a black jumper. Can you tell me if he’s staying here?’
The lady scowled at him. ‘I’m sorry, sir. That’s not really something we would be able to tell you. We can’t give away information like that about our guests.’
‘Madame, this is very important. I’m really hoping you can help me,’ Johnny said, pulling out his Interpol ID. His fake Interpol ID. He waved it in front of her face. ‘My name is Detective Platt.’
Lord, thank you for Interpol, Johnny thought. How many people in this world would know what an Interpol ID looked like? Did Interpol detectives even carry IDs? Did Interpol have detectives? Johnny didn’t have a clue, but he knew that his fake ID worked every time. Most people were gullible beyond comprehension.
‘Detective, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise. What exactly is the matter?’
‘Nothing’s the matter. I’m just trying to find this man as he’s someone we need to speak to urgently. We believe he’s staying here and that he checked in about two hours ago. Like I said, he’s tall, about my height. Wearing jeans and a black jumper. He’s got short brown hair and is in his mid-thirties. His face is pretty beaten up; I’m sure he’d stand out to whoever checked him in.’
‘I wasn’t on duty two hours ago. I can go and check with my colleague,’ she said before scurrying off into the office behind the reception desk.
She came out two minutes later with a male colleague in tow who was looking worried.
‘Detective, is there something wrong?’ he said. ‘Is this man dangerous?’
‘No, no,’ Johnny said, holding his hands up. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. I just need to talk to him. It’s a very important matter, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more than that. Can you please tell me if he’s staying here?’
‘Well, a man fitting that description checked in earlier tonight. An Englishman.’ The man tapped away at a computer behind the desk. ‘Mr Burrows. Mr John Burrows. Room four-one-two.’
‘John Burrows? Do you have any details for him?’
‘Er, yes, we always take a copy of the passports of our foreign guests. Do you need a copy?’
‘Yes. That would be very helpful.’
The man hurried off and returned less than a minute later with a photocopy of John Burrows’ passport. Johnny took it from him and quickly scanned the image before folding it and placing in the inside pocket of his jacket. It was definitely the right guy.
‘Do you want us to contact him for you?’ the male receptionist asked.
‘No. That won’t be necessary for now. Thank you for your help.’
Johnny turned and walked back towards the hotel entrance, away from the confused-looking receptionists. They were probably wondering why the Interpol detective was now leaving the hotel when he’d gone in there wanting to urgently speak to this John Burrows. But Johnny couldn’t care less about that.
Once he was back in the street, he took his phone out of his pocket again and dialled his boss.
‘Johnny, what is it now?’ Reggie shouted.
‘He’s English,’ Johnny said. ‘He’s called John Burrows. I’ve got a copy of his passport.’
There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. Johnny took that as a small victory. It was about as close to vindication as he was likely to get from Reggie.
‘John Burrows, hey? You’ve got a camera on your phone, right? Take a picture of the passport and send it over to me. I’ll look into Burrows and find out what I can about him. You stay there until I call back.’
‘Stay here? But, Reggie, I can’t stay here all night …’ Johnny said, though the line was already dead. ‘Bastard!’ Johnny screamed at his phone.
He looked over at the hotel, seething with anger. He’d done exactly what had been asked of him. He’d killed Vincent without once questioning it. He’d spotted this Burrows guy and taken the initiative of following him. He’d been standing here doing nothing for hours. Had found out the mark’s name, his room number. Had got a copy of his passport! And he was still being treated like some dumb skivvy by Reggie.
‘You’d better be careful, John Burrows,’ he said out loud. ‘Or you’re going to end up just like that prick Vincent.’
Chapter 12
7th October
Logan tried his hardest to scream. But there was nothing left in his lungs now. The girl lay butchered in front of him. Lifeless. Her naked body almost completely black from the dried blood.
They grabbed him from behind and flung him to the ground. His face smashed on the hard concrete floor. A deep gash opened above his left eye. Warm, thick liquid gushed out over his face. They had him pinned to the ground: four men, each forcing their weight on one of his limbs, and a fifth man driving a knee into the small of his back.
He tried again to scream. Tried his best to struggle, to break free. But the days of endless torture and beatings had taken their toll. He could manage nothing more than a pathetic squirm as Youssef Selim, sword in hand, came into view, a look of quiet satisfaction on his bearded face. His blood-soaked clothes glowed in the electric light.
‘This is it for you, my friend,’ Selim said to him, in his almost surreally perfect English.
The blade of the sword glistened as he moved it through the air. The men began chanting in a language Logan didn’t recognise
. He tried again to scream. He wasn’t sure whether anything came out. If it did, it wasn’t enough to drown out the noise from the men.
Selim kneeled next to him. He placed the cold steel against Logan’s neck. For a few seconds, the feeling of metal on skin was the only sensation that he was aware of. Gone was the pain. Gone was the chanting. Gone was the smell of blood, sweat and vomit. But it didn’t last long. Seconds later, there was a whole new pain.
The sword began cutting into his neck. Slicing through his flesh. The cold metal moved back and forth, pushing its way deeper and deeper. He tried again to struggle, to shout. But his body lay silent and still as the life was cut from him.
Suddenly the silence was broken by a shriek of pure terror.
Logan opened his eyes and realised the scream was coming from his own lungs.
Selim was gone. And so were his men.
He lay still in his bed while his mind recovered from the nightmare. As always after the dream, his breaths were coming deep and fast and his skin was moist. He was lying on his side in the foetal position, his legs curled up to his chest as though that would protect him from the horrors. Instinctively he raised his left hand to his neck, where the cold steel had been sawing away just a few seconds earlier. His body was trembling and he fought back the urge to cry. It took a few minutes before he started to regain his composure.
The nightmare came every time he slept. But it had become worse recently, twisting reality into a whole new horror. He prayed for just one good night. So far, his prayers had not been answered.
Answered by whom? Logan wasn’t a religious man, never had been. But the things he had seen, had been subjected to, had given even him the need to call upon a higher power to save him. It was nothing short of desperation.
As he regained his senses, Logan’s thoughts went back to last night and the discussion with Mackie.
Youssef Selim.
Selim being in Paris had changed everything. When Mackie had left the hotel room, Logan’s mind had been racing, thinking about was what he was going to do if he came face to face with Selim again. No, not if, but when. A whole host of emotions had swept through him, from joy, at the unexpected prospect of defeating his foe, to pure dread. He’d hardly slept for most of the night, only nodding off in the last hours of darkness.
When Logan had arrived in Paris yesterday, his heart had still been in Vegas. His mind had still been focused on his recovery, on figuring out a way to get his life back together. Today, his heart was in Paris. He had unfinished business. And that business was now right here.
Mackie had been understandably wary about telling Logan about Selim. After all, he knew every last detail of what had happened on Logan’s last mission. It was Mackie who had sent him after Selim in the first place. And it was Mackie who’d had to pick up the pieces afterwards.
‘Why wasn’t I told sooner?’ Logan had said to Mackie, not attempting to hide the obvious anger in his voice.
‘Why? Because we can’t afford for you to lose your focus on this. Frank Modena is the goal here. Not Youssef Selim.’
‘Then why did you tell me at all?’
‘Because I had to have you engaged in this case. You were going to find out sooner or later. It’s better you hear it from me now than from someone else at some point down the line. The police are putting all of their eggs into one basket on this. They’re convinced Selim is involved.’
‘How did he get into France?’ Logan said. ‘He’s one of the most wanted men in the world.’
‘He came in through Algeria. An Algerian passport in the name of Rabah Assad. It’s a fake, obviously. We don’t know how he got to Algeria, but it doesn’t appear to be through any major airports. Our guess is that he was smuggled in. Some of those countries don’t exactly have tip-top border control.’
‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ Logan said, shaking his head. ‘How did they let him through into France? Even on fake documents. It’s Youssef Selim, for God’s sake! He’s one of the biggest arms dealers in the Middle East. He’s linked to who knows how many extreme Islamic organisations. The man doesn’t just recruit, he trains terrorists and insurgents. It’s not like he isn’t on the radar!’
‘I don’t know how they missed it,’ Mackie said, staying calm, in contrast to the obvious emotion that Logan was feeling. ‘There’ll certainly be some heads rolling somewhere because of this, though. Not that that makes the situation any better.’
Mackie’s calmness seemed to do the trick and Logan’s anger, his exasperation, went down a notch.
‘If they didn’t know it was him when he arrived, then how the hell have they figured it out now?’ Logan said.
‘The answer’s pretty simple. When Modena went missing the French police immediately suspected a foreign influence. What with Modena’s speech about Gitmo and everything. Amongst God knows what else, they’ve trawled through the details of every Arab male who’s landed in France in the past month. Eventually they came across Assad. They’re certain it’s Selim.’
‘If Selim’s here, I’ll find him,’ Logan said. The venom in his voice was clear.
‘No,’ Mackie responded, raising his voice. ‘You have to remain focused. You find me Frank Modena. If this thing goes south, it’s bigger than you and me. Just remember that. Remember what we’re dealing with here. The JIA is not about personal vendettas.’
‘You’re right. It’s about doing the right thing. Protecting innocent people from the likes of Selim.’
‘No, Logan. It’s about carrying out orders. And our orders are to find and rescue Frank Modena. If Selim gets in the way of that, then fine. But you are not here on a personal mission. You are not here for anything other than Modena. Have I made myself clear?’
‘Crystal,’ Logan said.
And that had been the end of it.
But that was last night. Today was a new day. And sitting on his bed now, Logan was having a hard time believing the assurances that he’d given to Mackie. This might be about Modena, but Selim being here changed everything for Logan. The memories of what happened on his last mission haunted him every day. And a day didn’t go by without Logan contemplating what he would do when he came face to face with Selim again.
He wanted his revenge. He wanted Selim dead.
Selim was his.
And there was no way he would let that lie.
Chapter 13
Mackie slumped down on the dark-brown leather arm chair in his office. It was now almost ten a.m. He’d taken the train back to London from Paris first thing in the morning and he was tired. He’d barely slept and was still mulling over the conversation he’d had with Logan the night before. When Mackie had first heard about Selim being in France, he’d felt a strange sense of elation. Because he wanted to finally get that man almost as much as Logan did. Mackie had been tracking Selim for over ten years and had lost two good agents in the process. Logan had been closer to anyone else before to finally bringing that monster to justice. But then it had all gone wrong.
And Mackie knew he himself wasn’t blameless for that.
Mackie had nearly sacrificed his agent just to further his own desires. He’d known Logan’s cover had been blown, but he’d left him in there hoping – no, praying – that he could still get the job done.
But Logan’s mission hadn’t worked out like that. And Mackie’s decision to not pull Logan out when he had known Selim was closing in had turned out to be one of the biggest regrets in his life. Because Logan wasn’t just another agent to Mackie. Logan had worked for him for eighteen years. He was like the son he had never had. The son he wished he could have had.
And so it was only right that Mackie had been there to pick up the pieces in the aftermath of Logan’s ill-fated mission. To try to get Logan back on his feet again. And to give him another shot when almost everyone else thought he was a spent force.
But Selim’s involvement in Modena’s kidnapping had been a truly unexpected twist. And Mackie had been dreading telling Logan about
it. He was desperate for Logan to prove himself on this case, and the last thing he wanted was for him to let his mind be further clouded by the need for revenge on Selim that now drove him.
Mackie stood up and walked over to his desk. He picked up the phone and began to dial the number for the conference call that had been arranged by the JIA committee. Lindegaard had requested the meeting, having been dissatisfied with the vague update that Mackie had requested Winter provide the previous night.
Mackie finished dialling and the call connected, but there was no-one else on the line yet. After a couple of minutes Mackie sat down at his desk, phone pressed to his ear, and fired up his desktop. It was unusual for the committee members to be late and he began to wonder whether maybe he’d got the time of the call wrong. It was, after all, another early start for the American duo.
He was just clicking through into his calendar when there was a knock on the door. Mackie opened his mouth to speak but before he could the door swung open and in strode Lindegaard.
‘Good morning, Charles,’ Lindegaard said merrily.
Mackie sat open-mouthed for a few seconds, unsure what to think.
‘Jay, I … er, good morning,’ Mackie said, placing the phone back down.
‘Is something wrong?’ Lindegaard said, sitting himself on a chair in front of Mackie’s desk. He had on a tight-fitting lightgrey suit that clung to his obviously muscular physique and matched almost perfectly his closely cropped grey hair. In his late forties, Lindegaard looked more like a movie star than a CIA agent and his confident swagger told the world that he knew it. His whole appearance was some sort of gimmick to make him seem more important, more special, than he really was. It made Mackie despise the man all the more.
‘No, nothing wrong,’ Mackie said, slowly regaining his composure.
