No Remorse (15 page)

“Oh, how lovely, sweetheart! Well, you’ll have to send it to our new address. I’m moving in six weeks.”

“
Our
new address?”

A slight chuckle. “You’re quick at picking up things like that, aren’t you, dear? I was calling you to tell you…” She paused a beat to take a breath. “I got married two weeks ago.”

What the fuck? She never said anything about any male friend.
He thought of his father. The marriage had disintegrated bit by bit after Cynthia was taken. Mac knew that sort of thing happened. But then his mother had taken him and Nick back to her hometown of Boston, leaving his father in Seattle with nothing but painful memories. Two years later, his father had killed himself. Mac’s relationship with his mother had been fragile ever since.

“Are you there, Lee? I know it might come as a bit of a surprise.”

“Wow! I’m very happy for you Mom. Uh, who’s—”

“You remember Alfred Rossberger from along the street? Freddy?”

Oh yes, he remembered all right. Mr. Rossberger was a grumpy old widower who hated kids, especially when they walked on the neat lawn in front of his house. Like Mr. Wilson from Dennis the Menace, only grouchier. He’d more than once cut the flowers off Mr. Rossberger’s roses in retaliation.

“I remember him, Mom. He grew roses.”

“Still does.” She chuckled. “You used to cut the flowers off.”

How had she known? Had Rossberger complained? Or had Nick snitched? Mac spoke with a forced enthusiasm. “That’s great, Mom. I wish you both the best. Tell him I’m sorry about the roses.”

“I should have told you before. I know that, dear. But then, you’re a hard man to catch, and I didn’t want to leave a message. And it was only a simple ceremony. Nick and Susan and a few of our old friends and neighbors. That sort of thing. But I’d love you to come visit sometime, see the new house.”

“I know. I’m sorry it’s been hard to get hold of me. Things might improve now I’ve got this new job.” He didn’t believe that for one moment, but it helped alleviate some of the guilt he was feeling.

“Elena told me how you’re helping with the search for Sophia. I’ve been going over there to help a little too. Wade’s taking it particularly hard. Every time I see him I think about you. You were the same age, you know, when Cynthia was taken...”

“Mom, don’t...”

“I still pray for her, Lee. Pray she didn’t suffer.”

Mac closed his eyes, wanted to escape the memories that came flooding back whenever his mother mentioned Cyn. His mother had suffered too, and his father. But he had always refused to allow anyone to express pity towards him. It was not right to compare his own inner wounds with whatever his nine-year-old sister had to endure.

He tried to speak but his throat was a desert.

“If only we could get her back. Bury her...” She was referring to Cynthia, of course.

Mac coughed to clear his throat. “Sophia and Danni may well be still alive, Mom. There’s still hope, if we keep following the trail.”

“Yes, of course. I didn’t mean... Bob’s terribly brave, isn’t he? Getting shot by that horrible man in Martinique. You’ll be careful, dear, won’t you. I do worry about you, you know.”

He took a deep breath. “Thanks, Mom. It’s… we’re doing our best. Anyway, congratulations. I hope you and Mr. Rossberger’ll both be very happy.”

“We’re off to Florida for two weeks tomorrow. A sort of honeymoon, I guess. And Freddy wants to visit Harry Potter World.”

Harry Potter World? Come to think of it, the man did look vaguely like Sirius Snape, if he remembered correctly. “Sounds great. I—”

“Did Nicky tell you that Susan’s just had their fourth?”

“Gotta get on a plane, Mom.”

“All right, dear. Call me again in three or four weeks. Love you…”

“You too, Mom.”

After the long, tiring flight to Dubai, Mac arrived at the room at the Arabian Castles Hotel just after seven a.m. and found the door bolted. He’d called ahead from the airport so Tally knew he was on the way. What was she playing at? Maybe she’d taken his comments about security seriously after all, he thought, as he called her again. He apologized for waking her, but when she opened up she looked surprisingly fresh and was dressed for business in a below-the-knee skirt and a white shirt with long sleeves—appropriate for Dubai, a court appearance or a church service, he decided.

“Hi, honey,” he said with a wide grin, leaning towards her with his cheek.

She gave him a withering look, then turned back and sat down at a computer and began typing, as though she was resuming something he’d interrupted. It was difficult to read her mood from the body language, but she somehow managed to look sexy when she was angry.

He looked around. Despite its traditional brass lamps, velvet wallpaper, and faux leopard rug, the suite at the Arabian Castles Hotel looked more like the Starship Enterprise with two widescreen monitors, and various devices that hummed and flashed blue, green or red. The windows to the balcony were open and the curtains were shifting with the gentle morning breeze.

She gestured with her head to a doorway. “Bedroom’s that way.” Her voice was low-pitched, a monotone. All business.

“Keen as ever, I see,” he said, with lighthearted ambiguity.

She handed him an envelope and he got a whiff of the honey-lemon fragrance of her damp hair. He had a fleeting image of her in the shower wiping soapy bubbles off her breasts, but quickly dismissed that thought.

“That’s your bedroom over there. And don’t get any ideas about sleepwalking, soldier.” She crossed her arms, which accentuated the outline of her breasts beneath the blouse.

Mac chuckled as he dumped his bag on the floor and wandered over to the computers to see what she was doing.

“I have to finish this new algorithm and get it running. We can talk later. Coffee’s in the pot if you want it.”

He tore open the envelope. Inside was a gold wedding band. Tally held up her left hand, the wedding finger vertical. He got the symbolism.

“Thanks. Wouldn’t mind a shower.”

She was focused on the computer screen and didn’t respond.

He had a shower and dressed in cargo shorts and a nondescript blue T-shirt. Tourist gear. Back in the living room, Tally pointed to one of the other computers. “Prince Abu-Bakr’s files are open on that computer. Don’t touch the other two, please. Any questions, I’ll try to answer them when you’ve finished.” She rose and went into the bathroom, closing the door after her.

Mac poured a coffee, sat down at the computer, and began reading.

According to the file, Prince Abu-Bakr was seventy-two years old and some distant relative of the Saudi King. They’d had a falling-out as young men, and the CIA suspected Abu-Bakr was financing insurgents and opposition groups in the Kingdom. He had made a fortune negotiating illegal arms deals for authoritarian regimes going back as far as Idi Amin in Uganda, Ferdinand Marcos in the Philippines, and more recently, Saddam Hussein. He’d been on the CIA’s watchlist for twenty years, but it was only with the capture of the Bin Laden hard drives in Abbottabad that he’d been implicated in financially supporting Al Qaeda. They showed he had contributed more than $140 million to the group, most of it funneled through a charity for orphans called the Hunnafite Brotherhood Foundation. The US Justice Department was investigating, but that could take years, by which time, the old man would probably be dead.

He clicked to the next page. An image appeared on screen showing Abu-Bakr with three younger men. There were three sons and six daughters. Two of the sons, Abdullah and Tariq, were employed in the Saudi regime. The third son, Khalid, had been exiled after he’d killed a young royal. Khalid had married a girl from Saddam’s clan, Salimah, in order to cement Prince Abu-Bakr’s business relationship with Saddam Hussein., which only served to increase suspicion about Abu-Bakr’s terrorist links. Khalid was also suspected of supporting terrorism, using his megayacht
Princess Aliya
to ferry drugs from the Taliban, which were exchanged for weapons. But as yet there was no proof of such activities.

A second photograph showed Prince Abu-Bakr, Khalid and a third man with two attractive Arab women in bikinis on board the
Princess Aliya
. Strange, he thought. These women were not dressed modestly, not
hijab
, and nobody in the photo seemed at all concerned. Very strange. He zoomed in to read the names listed under the photograph. The one on the left was Sheriti, Khalid’s personal trainer, and the one on the right was Rubi, one of Abu-Bakr’s daughters. Remarkable that Abu-Bakr would allow his daughter to wear a bikini, particularly in his presence. Then he saw the other name.

The other man in the photograph was Adnan Ziad.

The man’s badge identified him as Dr. Sebastian Delacroix, Surgical Registrar. Hers said she was Nurse Lilly Martiene. They had waited until the early hours of the morning. From their surveillance, they figured that the target and his wife and bodyguards would be exhausted after the numerous visitors they’d had over the past two days. Even so, they carried noise-suppressed pistols under their blue theater scrubs in the event of any complication.

Like any other hospital, Dubai’s Pierre Morrell Cancer Clinic had routine checks, specialist checks and training checks, even during the night, so there was no reason for their visit to be questioned. The masks shouldn’t be an issue either. All staff wore masks into the old man’s room because of the risk of further infection.

As they passed the nursing station they nodded to the ward clerk, who barely acknowledged them as she raised her voice on the phone in what sounded like an argument.

The bodyguard on duty sat half-asleep in his chair, head lolling on his shoulder. But as they went to open the door, he roused himself and blocked their path, an unyielding expression on his face.

“Dr. Pratelle asked me to check his patient,” Dr. Delacroix said quietly.

“His Highness is asleep.”

“We won’t wake him. Just a routine check. The next day or so is time-critical for his recovery.”

The bodyguard narrowed his eyes and seemed uncertain for a moment, then grunted and ushered them into the room. The lights were dimmed. The woman was asleep under a blanket on a sofa.

Perfect.

The nurse gently held her fingers near Prince Abu-Bakr’s wrist as though checking his pulse, while the doctor made a show of checking the chart. By rights, she should have checked his blood pressure, but that risked waking him.

“Pulse weak but regular,” she whispered, for the benefit of the bodyguard.

“When was the last time he had his blood sugar checked?” the doctor asked.

The bodyguard shot him a strange look. “How should I know?”

“I was speaking to the nurse,” he said, squinting in the dim light as he examined the chart.

“Yesterday, doctor,” she murmured, glancing at the woman.

“Check the IV lines. Increase saline flow by two points,” he ordered.

“Yes, doctor.”

She checked the blood drip and the catheter draining his lung cavity. She checked the flow rate of the saline drip, turning the thumbwheel marginally to increase flow.

“Would you mind?” the doctor asked the guard, holding up the chart and gesturing at the door.

The guard opened the door to let in more light.

“
Shukran.”

It took only three seconds while the bodyguard was distracted for the nurse to stick the needle into the saline bag and inject its contents. The bodyguard probably wouldn’t have noticed even if he’d been looking directly at her. The injection contained a tiny amount of ricin in a saline solution. Anton had obtained the poison from a contact in the Bulgarian Security Service.

Anastia capped the needle, careful to avoid what would have been a fatal stick injury, before replacing it in her pocket. The poison would distribute into Abu-Bakr’s drip, allowing them plenty of time to escape.

A short time after the poison flowed from the drip into Abu-Bakr’s vein, he would die. Perhaps quickly, from a massive allergic reaction, or perhaps slowly, from multiple organ failure. Regardless, he would die within the next twenty-four hours. It helped that he was in such a weak condition. Most likely, medical staff would assume that it was simply his frailty. Chances were slim they would run tests or investigate the visit of the nonexistent Dr. Delacroix and Nurse Martiene.

She nodded, and Anton replaced the clipboard on the end of the bed. They left, nodding again to the ward clerk who ignored them, preoccupied as she was in a furious conversation with her errant husband.

Anastia leaned towards Anton. “Now, about that holiday you promised me in Koh Samui.”

“From all the packets of data collected overnight by a device called a packet sniffer, I’ve isolated the
Princess Aliya
’s wireless network from the others in the locality,” Tally explained, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes, as her fingers moved like a concert pianist across the keyboard. “Now I’m profiling the network so I can determine what security protocols they’re using. Then I’ll figure out how to exploit any vulnerabilities.”

“In other words, you’re trying to hack into their network.” Mac went over to their room’s kitchenette facility and began to brew a pot of coffee.

“Well, yes. But you’re making it sound easier than it is. So far I haven’t found any vulnerability. Abu-Bakr must have a pretty competent computer guy.”

“Coffee?”

“Please. Lots of milk, no sugar.”

Tally seemed to be over the games that she’d played at the restaurant back in Nice, but that didn’t mean he could trust her. She was too close to Wisebaum, and he didn’t know her well enough. He had no intention of telling her about Martinique or Paris, of the significance of the name Ziad, or of his plans to pursue Sophia’s kidnappers. But he needed her skills to find out more about Ziad. Was this the same Ziad that The Frenchman had sold the two girls to?

“I thought I read where Abu-Bakr gave the boat to Khalid some years ago. So why are we hacking here?” He passed Tally a steaming mug of coffee.