“Sensitive,” he said firmly.
“I have to catalogue it, especially these days, and especially from Iran,” she said with equal resolve. “You understand that these days there is a great deal of scrutiny on shipments. We have the safety of the ship and the crew to worry about.”
“The Iranians will crew the ship and the Atlas will be escorted by the United States Navy. There will be United Nations inspectors supervising the shipment from loading to debarkation. You cannot ask for a more secure situation.”
“I still need to know the cargo. Do you think the Dutch will lease out their vessel to the Iranians in ignorance?”
Slade sighed, but smiled, “The Dutch are well known for their nuclear disarmament policies. This should make them happy. The cargo is three tons of enriched Uranium which the Iranians are moving from Bandar Abbas to a United Nations storage facility in Abu Dhabi.”
Eva whistled. “That’s certainly a high profile cargo. However, this is a difficult climate to be working with the Iranians.”
“This will help defuse some of the current tension.”
“When do the Iranians want it?”
“Then we have a deal?”
“We do; we only have to draw up the contract with all the particulars.”
Slade held up his phone. “They’re all right here.”
Eva bumped her own against his. “I have your information and you have my price. There you have everything you need to know Mr. Slade. Shall we consider our business finished?”
“Certainly.”
To his surprise, Eva smiled and stood up. Politely, he stood as well. She patted his cheek, and said, “Good night Jeremiah. It really was pleasant doing business with you. Say hello to Waters for me, but do not wish him well.”
She turned and left the restaurant, heading out to the deck.
Since they were in the middle of the Seine, Slade was curious as to where she was going. He followed her out onto the deck. The cool river breeze felt good. Eva, however, wasn’t out for a breath of air. She went straight to the rail. There was a yacht keeping perfect pace with the river boat. A gangway was lowered at the rail and Eva stepped off of the river boat and onto the yacht. The gangway rose after Eva stepped on board the yacht’s deck. She turned to see him standing at the rail and waved.
“I look forward to hearing the rest of your story one of these days Mr. Slade.”
“You make a splash wherever you go—don’t you Eva?”
As the yacht sped forward Eva called out.
“Always! Good night Jeremiah, pleasant dreams!”
CHAPTER 18: Leads and Leagues
Jean Brueget and his wife Margareta joined Slade on the rail after Eva disappeared. Margareta was a tall willowy brunette from the south of France. She came from money and had perfectly graceful manners. She contrasted with Jean, who in a well-tailored but slightly disheveled light grey suit, a ginger mustache and unruly hair, looked like an overworked cop—which he was.
Jean shook his head, lighting up a cigarette. “Eva is eccentric and over her head. Yet with a father like she has no one is likely to cause her harm, unless it is the jihadists.”
“Who is her father,” Slade asked?
“Soekarno,” Jean told him. “She is one of the hordes of illegitimate Soekarno children, but he doesn’t forget them. They become loyal parts of his global organization.”
“Jean, you sound worried about her,” Margareta observed.
He shrugged, and told his wife, “Perhaps I am. She is, as I said, in over her head. That cannot end well. It’s a pity. He will never release her.” Jean flicked his cigarette into the Seine. “Come, let us go back in and have some coffee.”
After the cruise, instead of taking Slade back to his hotel Brueget brought him to their apartment. His office had a secure computer setup that allowed Slade to download the contents of Eva’s phone. Unbeknownst to her as soon as she passed Slade the conditions for the deal Slade’s CIA programmed phone secreted a worm in her device. That worm gave Slade access to everything on Eva’s phone and everything connected to it, including her laptop.
The computer screen lit up and Slade went straight to his company icon. “Half a moment,” he said patiently. The file that Eva sent him was there and intact. When the anti-virus software finished running its check a question bar popped up. It was a simple request consisting of one word: “Trace?”
Jeremiah stabbed it. At once the software went looking for the sender of the message. Once it had that it pried open a link to the device and every computer it had connections with.
“We’re in,” Jeremiah said.
Brueget’s computer sorted Eva’s files according to their interests. Something popped up immediately, causing Slade to comment, “Why are the Iranians dealing with Eva through Freddy when they’re already dealing with her in the open. There’s Nikahd dealing with her on another account.”
“Maybe that account will tell us,” Jean said, opening the file labelled Felis Margarita and reading the summary. “C'est incroyable! This is interesting. Soekarno is setting up a zoo in the poor section of Jakarta. One of the exhibits is Felis Margarita. It is native to Iran and Soekarno wanted Iranian material for the exhibit. Therefore, Eva contracted the Iranians and Nikahd for—listen to this—sand.”
“Sand, you’re kidding.”
“She arranged the procurement of three hundred-fifty thousand pounds of sand from Iran for the exhibit. It is apparently so important to Soekarno that he is using the freighter Galaxus. The captain of the ship is a man named Christian Fletcher.”
“What’s special about him, besides the Mutiny on the Bounty jokes?”
“Christian Fletcher is married to our very own Eva Accompando. He’s Soekarno’s son-in-law.”
“Something’s not right,” Slade growled. “This can’t be what it seems—it’s too crazy—for Nikahd to be involved there has to be something else going on. What if Soekarno wants something else from Iran and the sand is just a cover?”
“It would seem to me that’s just too much of a coincidence. Look at the dates: the Iranians want to ship the nuclear material from Bandar Abbas on August 28, the same day they arranged for Eva’s ship the Galaxus to leave port with the sand.”
“It can’t be a coincidence. The Iranians are up to something; it has to be the Uranium.”
“If they ship out on the same day then the whole world will be watching the Iranian’s nuclear material transit the Straits of Hormuz.”
“Meanwhile Soekarno’s sand heads off to Jakarta with no one watching.”
“You could hide a lot of things in that much sand,” Jeremiah mused. “You could have the Uranium inspected by the UN and then simply swap containers.”
“While the world watches the Atlas go to Abu Dhabi three tons of Uranium are on their way to Jakarta.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Slade sighed.
“Can it be anything else,” asked Jean. “The Iranians are using the sand as a feint!”
“What’s Soekarno get out of it? Unless he’s the broker for selling it to terrorist organizations.”
“There’s money in that, and with the sanctions the Iranians are starved for cash. Perhaps the Iranians are simply selling what they can sell through Soekarno, he gets his cut and everyone is happy.”
“And three tons of enriched Uranium is suddenly on the world market for use in hundreds of “dirty bombs.” Not a very pleasant scenario.”
“The answer is in the cargo hold of the Galaxus!”
#
Outside the Brueget residence a black Mercedes watched the lights in Jean’s windows. Four men inside were speaking amongst themselves. One of the men in back rolled down his window to have a better look at the Empire styled apartment building. He was horribly burned. Holding up a claw-like hand he waited until the man next to him put a lit cigarette in it.
“Just like the last time we met in Paris, INTERPOL is on our tail! He is too close to this business!”
�
��INTERPOL!” the other men exclaimed.
“Yes INTERPOL,” Khallida said softly. “Brueget has been a thorn in my side since the “Wave of Allah” operation—making a mockery of our efforts—it was worse than failure!”
Khallida shuddered visibly, champing down hard on the cigarette and taking an interminably long drag. The red coals sneaked down the white lining toward his trembling claw.
“Hamdi died and it left me,” he paused, dragging at the cigarette again. When he finished it was in a whisper. “It left me like this.”
“The operation is compromised,” said the driver harshly. “Eva has betrayed us!”
“How can she betray what she does not know?” Khallida replied calmly, regaining his composure. “No, as far as she knows this is a noble undertaking for the United Nations. She doesn’t know anything but what we want her to know; and as a woman she’s simply not capable of discovering anything on her own. The Prophet himself said more than once that women lack all common sense—don’t worry!”
“What about Brueget and the American?” the driver said, gripping the steering wheel anxiously. “We should kill him and the INTERPOL agent—now—and his family too! We should send a message!”
“Stay calm!” ordered Khallida. “Don’t you think the pro-Palestinian rioters have sent a message already; and don’t you think the French have responded? Hundreds of our fighters are in jail now, crippling our operations here—just like you were young Hussein—fools! We are fortunate that the French released those who did not assault the French police.”
“I was fighting the jihad!” Hussein complained.
“You are fighting the jihad out of weakness not cunning!” Khallida said amidst swirling cigarette smoke. “We are not yet strong enough to take on the police let alone the military. No—INTERPOL is off limits, but the American, he is different.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“What did the Prophet ask when the despicable Jew Abu Afak insulted him, eh?”
Abdulla answered eagerly, “The Prophet asked, “Who will deal with this rascal for me?” And they slew the dog!”
“Exactly,” Khallida smiled, letting loose a long stream of smoke.
“I will do it!” cried Hussein. “I will deal with this American; this Abu Afak! Let me regain your confidence.”
“Let us be part of the deed as well,” the other two pleaded.
Khallida let them wait, looking out the window. Finally, he said, “It is well. You three will end the American’s life.”
“Allahu Akbar!”
#
Slade spent the morning with Brueget. They worked out of the INTERPOL offices. He then spent several hours at the Airbus Industries headquarters before taking a cab to the rectory of Notre Dame for dinner with Brueget and Cardinal Martel.
“The Holy Father has made it plain that something needs to be done to stop Islamic terrorism,” Cardinal Martel told them over a simple meal of pork, spinach and potatoes. “He has agreed that we are in a Just War. The brutality of ISIS and Al Qaeda cannot neither be overlooked nor stopped with dialogue. To do nothing is to be guilty of the gravest sin of omission imaginable!”
The cardinal poured wine for both of them, frowning with a degree of severity that struck them both. “We face a crisis from Islamists not seen since the Muslim invasions after the death of Muhammad and the fall of Constantinople. If you remember, the Caliphs after Muhammad spread Islam East and West. Christianity which had been dominant in North Africa for almost five hundred years nearly became extinct. Millions died in the rampage from the Arabian Peninsula through North Africa up the Iberian Peninsula and even into France itself.
“To the east the Muslim Caliphate scourged India for over three hundred years resulting in over one hundred million Indians being slaughtered. My friends, if Al Qaeda and ISIS are to be taken as the example of modern Islamist dogma then we must assume that they have not tempered their ways. Indeed, it would be irresponsible of us to assume anything else. We cannot live in a fantasy world where the Islamic states will be able to control their more radical brethren.
“Millions, hundreds of millions of lives hang upon our actions. We no longer have the luxury of passivity. We must take aggressive action lest millions of lives are lost. If we do nothing, if we trust to dialogue alone the lives of all those millions will rest on the brows of those of us who had the power to prevent this but did nothing to stop it.”
“I’m interested Father in what the Vatican suggests we do,” Slade asked carefully.
“The Holy Father will continue to pursue a course of understanding; however, he is about to issue a statement that will condone military action, not total war, but action nonetheless,” the cardinal answered. “I spoke to the Holy Father last night. He was deeply troubled by what happened here and sees that it is connected to what is going on in the Middle East. We can expect no leadership from the President of the United States unfortunately. Therefore, he has given me his blessing to pursue other options.”
Brueget said flatly, “That says a great deal coming from the Holy Father. I’m heartily ashamed that our government is also a problem. I especially am handcuffed by the new administration which not only wishes that it does not have to deal with this problem but fears stirring the substantial Muslim population into open revolt.”
“Certainly not all of the Muslims wish this jihadist attitude on their people,” the cardinal sighed. “Yet without a West that is willing to protect them from their fellow Muslims they cannot speak out. Oh what I would give for even a single Imam who would speak out against these Islamists!”
The evening ended on a more sedate note as Cardinal Martel joined Slade for the Bach concert. Afterwards, he accepted a ride home in the cardinal’s car. During the ride he noticed two texts: one from the Company and one from his concierge.
“New itinerary. Office in Paris will provide travel to Enterprise. Hook up with DT Specter.”
Slade was going back to the Persian Gulf where he would be working with Killer again and Specter Team. The second text was almost as interesting. It gave Slade an idea.
“W. will be back at 11:00.”
“Excellent,” Slade smiled wickedly. “Now for a bit of fun.”
Slade walked into the hotel lobby at 10:47. He exchanged glances with the concierge and ducked behind a pillar. From there he could see the front door reflected in the mirrored elevator doors.
At 10:58 Freddy and Alfie came into the hotel lobby. They headed straight for the elevators. They were obviously tired, making small talk, which meant they were complaining about everyone else and commented on how stupid other people were compared to them.
A door opened. Freddy and Alfie shuffled in. Slade followed. Freddy didn’t notice him until he looked up from pressing the button. When he saw Slade’s face the unrepentant terrorist turned ghastly white.
CHAPTER 19: Ironing
Slade stood there silently with his dark eyes focused on Freddy. The terrorist shrank back with an audible gasp, but he was frozen. He could neither say nor do anything but tremble.
Alfie didn’t recognize Slade. He looked up at the tall man in the suit, and said, “He buddy, what’s up? You don’t like our cologne?”
The warm, sweet smell of urine filled the elevator car. A dark stain grew on Freddy’s khaki’s. It dripped on his shoe and soiled the elevator carpet.
“Holy shit Freddy; you pissed your pants! Son of a bitch!”
The door opened, but Slade blocked the way. Waters stood there shaking in the back. Alfie couldn’t figure what was happening. He looked at Slade and then at Freddy, pleading, “Listen buddy, I don’t know what your problem is, but my friend is sick. I have to get him to his room.”
“Be careful who you choose as friends,” Slade told him.
“What?”
Slade nodded to Freddy. “You’re friend there has an interest in photographs. It will catch up with him.”
“Photographs?” Alfie started.
The ele
vator door started to close, but Slade stopped it with his arm. He moved aside to allow Alfie to drag Freddy out of the car. They hurried down the hall.
Slade followed in slow menacing steps.
When they got to the door, Freddy fumbled for his key card. He couldn’t dig it out of his pocket with his shaking hands.
Slade reached over.
Both Freddy and Alfie gasped and shrank back.
Slade swiped his skeleton key over the door. The lock clicked open. Freddy and Alfie stared at him in horror; no lock was safe.
Slade pushed the door open.
Freddy finally found his voice. “You, you can’t touch me Slade! I’m the president’s man! Do you get that, goon? I’m the president’s man!”
Slade said simply, “Corporal Garret’s wife and daughter died. They were beheaded—Freddy.”
He went grey, sweating, stammering, “What’s it to me?” He rushed into his room. Alfie followed.
#
When they were safe inside Freddy’s room, Alfie looked through the peephole and watched the tall man leave. “Shit Freddy who was that guy?”
“He’s a spook; an assassin,” Freddy said in a trembling voice, going straight to the john and stripping.
“What does he want with you?”
“I gave him up; him and his Special Forces pals. They butchered Turgut Ataturk, the president’s nephew, in a Cobra strike against ISIS. I gave them to Ataturk to even the score.”
“Shit Freddy, shit! Who was this Garret woman—don’t tell me she was,” Alfie couldn’t finish.
“I think she was one of the Special Forces guy’s wife,” Freddy admitted, turning on the shower.
“His wife and kid!” Alfie gasped.
“Collateral damage!” Freddy shouted from the shower, regaining his courage now that his own filth was washing off his pallid skin.
“Freddy!”
The shower turned off. Freddy emerged a minute later in a robe, drying his mossy hair. He stuck his glasses back on his nose and shrugged, “What about it? They’re pigs. I’ll sick the president on his ass!”
The Ghost of Flight 666 Page 17
