The Ghost of Flight 666

by Christopher Anderson

  Freddy’s laptop chimed. He had a message. Before he could reach the screen, while both of them were looking at it, it brightened. The image on the screen was a simple one: a dagger plunged through the Greek letter Delta. It turned slowly round and round on Freddy’s computer.

  “Holy shit Freddy, you’re going to have the whole Delta Force gunning for you!”

  Freddy went to the computer and tried to turn the screen off. Nothing worked. The Delta Force icon turned slowly on the screen, ever watchful, ever mindful.

  “Freddy, they’re never going to let you go—ever! You are fucking screwed man!”

  #

  Slade checked his files after sweeping the room. The Company was flying him out of Paris tomorrow. He was heading out to the Enterprise. There he would link up with Killer’s Specter Team again and investigate the Galaxus at port in Bandar Abbas.

  “A night dive; I hate night dives! That’s when sharks feed!” Slade complained, reading the tasking. He was serious. Slade had a phobia about sharks, especially big ones. Night dives didn’t help. They were creepy, kind of like being buried alive.

  To get his mind off being eaten alive in the pitch dark, Slade ordered a pizza and hopped in the shower.

  He had one white shirt, the one he was wearing. Now after two days it was getting ripe. Slade washed it in the sink.

  Fifteen minutes later, dressed in his robe and roper boots, Slade hated the idea of going barefoot on the hotel carpet, Slade was back reading the file at his desk, waiting for the iron to heat up so he could iron his shirt. Room service interrupted him. Leaving the laptop half situated, he went to the door and got his pizza. Slade started his ironing and munched on the pepperoni, pineapple pie, wishing he’d ordered extra cheese. A frosted glass of Guinness perched precariously on the ironing board.

  Turning on the TV, Jeremiah caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He made quite a sight: wearing a hotel robe, chewing on pizza, ironing his uniform, horn-rimmed glasses perched on his oft broken nose.

  “The glamorous life of a spy! James Bond eat your heart out!”

  Slade was almost done ironing his shirt when the alarm on his computer went off. He swore, and looked over his shoulder but the computer was on the desk behind him and facing away. He swore again; he hated when he was sloppy.

  A pass key buzzed the lock. No matter who had it wouldn’t work. Slade always changed the lock code for his room with another Company toy.

  “You’ve got the wrong room!” he said irritably.

  Boom! The door burst open right in front of Slade, stopping abruptly on the chain. The second hit ripped the chain out of the wall. Three bearded figures rushed in. He could do only one thing: leaping back he flung the hot iron at the first of the attackers—clang! The impact of the hot iron on his attacker’s face included a momentary sizzle followed by a scream. The foremost two attackers fell headlong over the ironing board.

  The burned attacker fell with his chest on the ironing board but his right leg got caught in the folding metal legs. He fell awkwardly. The result was a resounding snap! Another scream followed and he curled up on the floor clutching his compound fracture with one hand and his burned face with another.

  An attacker leapt over the impediment but tripped, falling face first in front of Slade. With a predatory leap Slade was on him, shoving him down to the carpet with his knee and punching the attacker hard in the back of the head. The blow was hurried and at an awkward angle, but it was enough for the attacker to drop his knife and go into seizures.

  Slade looked up at the third attacker, a burly, bearded man holding a large knife. He worked his way around the ironing board, yelling in Arabic, “I will gut you American! I will gut you!”

  Grabbing the power cord for the iron, Slade yanked it back and began whirling it in a tight circle. As the man lunged he let it fly. Slade didn’t try anything fancy; he hurled the hard, heavy, hot object right at the assassin’s chest. It struck with a clang and a sizzle; then he yanked it back and started twirling it again. The attacker feinted, hoping to get Slade to commit, risking getting burned again to be able to slip in for a killing blow. Slade whirled his weapon as he would an ancient flail, waiting until the attacker pulled back from his fake, off balance and stationary.

  This time he let fly at the attacker’s head. The man shrieked as the iron knocked into his head, burning his chin before bouncing off. In desperation he threw his knife at Slade. It was a hurried throw, easily batted aside. The attacker dug in his vest for a gun. Slade charged.

  He was only a few meters from the attacker and easily got to him before he drew the gun. Hitting him in the jaw with a palm heel strike stunned the assailant. Another strike to the throat stopped his breath. Slade yanked on the man’s shoulder and got behind him, wrapping his arms around the attacker’s head. With one swift jerk he broke the man’s neck. The attacker dropped like a stone.

  With two out of the three out and the remaining attacker writhing in pain from a broken leg and a burned face, Slade took stock of the situation. Looking down the hall revealed no more threats. He quickly closed the door.

  Slade rearmed and retrieved a roll of duct tape from his bag, taping the attacker’s hands and feet together, ignoring his screams of pain. Hauling the attacker up on the bed, Slade pulled him around by the hair until he faced the chair. He looked down at the attacker; he knew who he was, or at least he guessed. He wasn’t Arab, and he wasn’t an Algerian; no, the young man was Indonesian or Malaysian.

  Slade sat down, thinking, “Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone. He’s going to see a jihadist lawyer if they don’t outright let him go. I should give him something—Freddy!”

  Slade smiled mirthlessly, “You people should be careful who you trust. Freddy Waters told me all about you—everything! I’m just a bit hazy on the details, so we’ll go over them now!”

  “Die Crusader dog! I will never talk to you!” the prisoner protested, and he spat at Slade.

  Slade erupted in anger, grabbing the attacker by the collar and ripping his shirt down to his waist, exposing a lean dark back. “So, you’re trying to be funny are you? Okay, two can play at that game! He went to his bag and dug out a bottle. The attacker looked at it in fear.

  “What is that, acid? Hah, you can never make a soldier of Allah talk!”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard it all before. The Islamist warrior is very brave, very brave indeed when he is throwing acid in the face of a woman or a girl—I’ve seen your handiwork Abdul! Very brave indeed!” Slade laughed. He grabbed the young jihadist’s head in his hands and tilted it up into an unnatural, painful angle, putting his furious features inches from the now frightened jihadist. “You terrorists hide behind women and children in mosques, slink into hotel rooms and behead people with their hands tied behind their backs—yes, you’re brave, so brave!”

  He showed the terrorist the bottle. “We’re going to see how manly you are! This isn’t acid. These are bacon bits; that’s right Abdul—pork!”

  He sprinkled the bacon bits all over the attacker’s back. The man began to shout and curse. Those curses turned to screams when Slade applied the still hot iron to his naked flesh, searing the bacon bits into his back.

  “There you go, how brave are you now?” he demanded. “What’s your name? Who sent you? Answer my questions and you get to go to paradise as a whole man. Make it tough on me and you’ll go there as a eunuch. I’ll boil your balls off with this iron. You won’t even be able to bugger the little boys!”

  The sound of flesh burning mixed with the smell of human and bacon roasting was enough to sicken even Slade, but he persevered. At length, he removed the iron and repeated his questions.

  “I am Abdulla Hussein! Khallida, Khallida!” the man yelped. “It was Khallida’s tasking!”

  “How did he find me?” Slade demanded.

  “No, no I cannot, no, I don’t know—Aiee!”

  The iron hissed.

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, no, no
! They don’t tell us!” the attacker pleaded. “We hear rumors, rumors of someone in the president’s administration. He is Muslim Brotherhood!”

  Slade hesitated, knowing this was probably the truth. After a moment of thought, he asked, “Where is your Paris cell located? Who is your boss?”

  The door burst open and a chorus of voices shouted, “Freeze!”

  It was half a dozen gendarmes. Slade froze.

  “Drop the iron!”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Drop it I say!”

  Slade shrugged, dropping the iron flat on the terrorist’s back.

  “Aiee!” the resulting scream was very convincing.

  CHAPTER 20: Detective Work

  Slade sat cuffed to the metal table wearing his white robe and his black boots, that’s all they allowed him. Across from him sat two detectives. They stared at him. He stared back, and sighed, “Gentlemen, let’s not waste our time. Let me make one phone call and this will all be cleared up.”

  The short, heavyset detective with wispy blonde hair grimaced, telling Slade in heavily tainted English, “Monsieur, you are not going to clear up two murders and torture with a phone call.”

  “Only one of the jihadists died, the paramedics said the other one was still alive,” Slade corrected. This was always the frustrating part of things. He wasn’t at liberty to blow his cover; that is, he couldn’t admit he was CIA.

  As far as the detectives were concerned he was an American found in a hotel room with a dead guy, a vegetable and a maimed Muslim with bacon bits seared into his flesh. Worse, he had his CIA case with all the goodies inside. Whatever Slade was, he didn’t look all that innocent.

  That meant he had to get word to Brueget or the office; they would then go through government channels to get Slade out without blowing his cover.

  The detectives, however, appeared stuck on the condition of the terrorists. “I suppose clinically the second man is alive, but he a vegetable,” said the other detective; a tall, beanpole of a man with a thin mustache and goatee.

  “Monsieur, they invaded my room wanted my head; they’re jihadists, you’ve seen them, they have all of Paris up in arms. Didn’t you see the weapons they brought? I don’t think they broke into my room to talk about soccer!”

  “You make a very good point monsieur,” the shorter cop nodded. “They do indeed have Paris up in arms. So much so, in fact that the mayor has become involved.”

  The taller man continued, “The mayor fears that when your assassination of these young men becomes known—sorry, his words not mine—the entire Arab community will erupt in violence. That would be very bad.”

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t ask them to break into my room and attack me. Can’t I defend myself in France?”

  The heavy man shrugged, and said, “Two years ago a man in England shot an intruder. Now it was perfectly clear that the intruder attacked him—perfectly clear—but the court and the jury ruled that he had no right to kill the man. He’s in prison now.”

  “Your point?”

  “Our point is that self-defense doesn’t work the same in Europe as it does in America,” the taller detective told him. “We do not have a cowboy mentality.”

  “Put yourself in my place. Have you watched YouTube lately? Do you mean to tell me that you’d let those jihadists hack off your head rather than defending yourself?”

  The detectives looked at each other and then at Slade. The tall man replied, “You have a right to defend yourself but you do not have the right to take another life.”

  “Monsieur, even if we convince the mayor that we cannot make you a scapegoat for these hooligans, you say jihadists, and maybe your right, but even so there is the torture and the illegal weapons. That’s ten to twenty right there.”

  “I can explain that,” Slade began, but then he gave up. “All right, that’s why I’d like my phone call. You can make it for me, I don’t mind. Call Inspector Jean Brueget at INTERPOL.”

  “INTERPOL?”

  “INTERPOL,” Slade insisted.

  “I do not think that INTERPOL will help you with the mayor.”

  “I’m not worried about the mayor; I’m trying to help you gentlemen out. I don’t want you to take the fall for this.”

  ‘We are flattered for your concern!”

  The tall man got on the intercom. “Philippe, will you call INTERPOL and tell agent Jean Brueget that we have his friend Jeremiah Slade in here for murder?”

  “Oui monsieur!”

  The heavy man scratched his head. “Getting back to your story. The fight I understand. They break in, you defend yourself, with an iron instead of the many illegal firearms in your possession, am I right?”

  “They caught me ironing.”

  “How did you come into possession of the firearms?”

  “I carry them for self-defense.”

  “Not in France you do not—you know that monsieur—certainly not firearms with the serial numbers filed off,” the detective got up with some effort and retrieved a cup of espresso. He raised his brow to Slade. “I assume you like coffee?”

  “Thank you.”

  The detective got him a cup of coffee, really espresso with hot water, and set it down on the table. He sat back down, saying, “Help me to understand Monsieur Slade. This is not New York or Chicago where you spend your time shooting hooligans and dueling with pistols—this is Paris—Paris is civilized.”

  The tall detective added, “We see that you have been here before. You must like Paris then, oui? Well Monsieur Slade we love Paris; we love our civilized Paris.”

  “Do you love France?” Slade asked, sipping his coffee.

  “Of course we love France!” they said.

  “Well then you better start acting French!”

  “What do you mean?” they asked together, dumbfounded.

  “I love France gentlemen, I really do,” he told them firmly. “I love Charles Martel, Joan of Arc, Napoleon and Charles de Gaulle. What do you think they would have done with the rabble in your streets, the jihadists taking over your cities, refusing to become French but demanding that you, their hosts, appease them?”

  The detectives sighed, admitting, “Mais oui, the Emperor is rolling in his grave at Les Invalides!”

  “But Monsieur Slade that does not explain your weapons or your torturing the young man,” the heavy detective told him. “Who are you monsieur? Why would Hussein and his partners want to kill you?”

  Slade said truthfully. “I’ve got a Fatwa on my head.” Embellishing a bit, he added, “I write books—novels—they’re not flattering toward the Islamists or their prophet.”

  “So that is why you had the weapons?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you torture young Hussein?”

  “To find out who ordered the hit on me.”

  “And did you find out?”

  “A jihadist named Gamel Khallida who is in league with an American named Freddy Waters,” he added, just to muddy Freddy’s name.

  “And where are these assassins from?”

  Slade sipped his coffee and chuckled, “If your boys had waited another few minutes I could have told you where the Paris cell was and who was running it!”

  The door burst open. Outside in the squad room there were shouts. “Jihad, jihad, jihad!”

  The detective sighed, “Your wild west lynch mob is here!”

  CHAPTER 21: Politics, Politics, Politics

  The diminutive Mayor of Paris stormed in with the chief of police and Jean Brueget in tow. Brueget closed the door quickly, but Slade could see and hear the hubbub in the squad room behind.

  “Ali Habib and his rabble,” Brueget sneered, glaring at the mayor. “Do you have any idea how much trouble this can cause, rousing them like this?”

  The mayor turned red, letting them know his displeasure in no uncertain terms. “Ali Habib happens to be the leader of the largest Muslim neighborhood in the city,” the mayor reminded them. “It is his job, and mine, to ensure
that our citizens are safe from vigilantes like this American cowboy!”

  “Habib is the front for the Muslim Brotherhood—a terrorist organization—he personally murdered hundreds of women and children in Afghanistan,” Brueget informed him.

  “Who are you to slander the leader of the Muslim community in Paris?” the mayor demanded.

  “I am INTERPOL,” Brueget told him flatly. “So if you want to support a community of immigrants who refuses to adopt the French way of life and favor them over the people of France you will have INTERPOL to deal with, Monsieur Mayor.”

  The mayor seemed genuinely stung by the remark. He lowered his voice. “Agent Brueget, you must understand the situation. I can anger Parisians and they will do nothing. However, if I anger the Arabs they take to the streets! Mon Dieu, they are already burning cars, marching through the streets shouting for jihad and waving Palestinian flags. They are laying siege to synagogues, disrupting the lives of Parisians, they are affecting our tourism!”

  Brueget snapped back, “That is why we have gendarmes and a military; we have a right to defend what is ours, what is France! Just like Monsieur Slade had a right to defend himself from these animals!”

  The mayor looked frazzled. “If I do not placate them they will all but burn the city. Monsieur, I have no choice.”

  The Chief of Police told him firmly, “The Muslims broke into this man’s room. He has a right to defend himself. I am not about to throw a man in prison to placate that rabble out there! We have the law to guide us Monsieur Mayor, not politics.”

  “What is the law but politics!” the mayor scoffed, wedging himself between the detectives, looking at a bored Slade. “Why he doesn’t look so dangerous! He’s just a middle-aged man. This is our vigilante? Are you sure?”

  “You display your ignorance blatantly,” Brueget told him with disdain. “Monsieur Slade is a hero of France!” He laughed at the mayor’s look of consternation.

  “Surely you are joking! He has admitted he killed one man, made a vegetable out of another and was torturing a third with an iron when you caught him,” the mayor said. Sighing as if he truly regretted the overwhelming evidence. The mayor added, “Monsieur Slade, it looks very bad, very bad indeed. You’re going to have your work cut out for you; that is, unless you want to make a deal that would help me calm the Muslim community here.”