No Remorse (3 page)

After a long flight, the aircraft landed in the dark, on a brightly lit runway, and armed men hustled them onto another plane, this time a smaller, fat-bodied one with propellers. The noise was deafening, and nobody spoke for the three hours or so it took to reach the next stop. Here, they were pushed into a truck and driven through a dirty, half-destroyed city that looked like it had been through a war. Sophia thought she could hear distant gunshots as they drove. Danni agreed that they must be somewhere in Africa. The air was steamy and clouds of mosquitoes inside the truck feasted on the captives in the dawn humidity. Finally, they arrived at a port, where they were joined by another group of thirteen captive teenagers from European countries. Armed soldiers supervised their transfer to a motorboat that took them out on a slow rolling ocean and tied up alongside an enormous vessel that looked like a cruise ship. A gold plate halfway up the side displayed the name PRINCESS ALIYA. Way above them, Sophia could see several men with skin the color of burnt caramel, dressed in flowing white robes. The knot in her stomach tightened. Maybe they had been sold to an Arab sheik’s harem?

Crewmen from the vessel herded the captives below decks and into cells that held four people on bunk beds, with a shared toilet and washbasin. Sophia and Danni were put in a cell with Erika and a tiny eight-year-old named Carmel, who'd been separated from her brother Gregory and sobbed quietly in Sophia's arms. Soon after the ship got underway, crewmen brought them food and drinks, and watched while they ate.

"Where are they taking us now, I wonder?" Danni said.

Sophia tried to get Carmel to eat. "Come on, you have to eat, baby, so your mom and dad will see how strong you've become."

"Some men shot my mommy and daddy," Carmel replied, shaking her head. "Now they’ve taken Greg away, too."

A short time after she had finished eating, Sophia had drifted off. She had slept soundly until she had found herself on the examination table, with Dr. Gammal bending over her.

Now, as Sophia lay on the examining table trying to block the horrible scenarios swirling through her mind, she heard the doctor mention her name several times as he completed his report to the shark-eyed man. He grinned and left, apparently satisfied, although Sophia couldn’t understand what they had been discussing.

After the man had left, she breathed a little easier. Dr. Gammal seemed excited as he told her they would soon be arriving at a beautiful island. He studied her for a few moments and smiled, as if to reassure her that everything would be all right. Then he said, as he fiddled with his clothing, “Now, my girl, you will open your pretty mouth.”

After stubbing out his cigarette on the solid gold ashtray, Ziad took off his shoes and entered the expansive suite on the upper deck of the Princess Aliya, continuing through to the covered deck outside where Sheik Khalid Yubani lay prone on a massage table. He looked fit and muscle-toned, having lost a good twenty pounds since the Egyptian girl, Sheriti, had started as his personal trainer. Khalid's sister, Rubi, sat beside the massage table, wet hair wrapped in a towel, jotting notes as he dictated instructions.

Sheriti, wearing a lycra micro bikini that revealed tan lines across her buttocks and around her breasts, knelt astride Khalid’s back and dug her thumbs into the muscles on either side of his spine. Her skin glistened and, as Ziad watched, a bead of sweat drizzled off her collarbone onto the swell of a breast. Holding his cell phone unobtrusively against his chest, he pressed the video button. He would enjoy watching her again later, back in his cabin. He adjusted his crotch to hide the discomfort and waited until Khalid had finished his instructions to Rubi.

“Good morning, Highness,” he said eventually, “I have a few matters to report.”

Khalid grunted.

Ziad switched from Arabic to French. Sheriti didn’t speak French. “We’ve completed unloading the weapons for Al Shabaab and we’ve taken on board the orphans. We’ll be leaving Mogadishu within the hour. Rubi, could you please generate an invoice for Sheik Taldari, for the Al Shabaab consignment? One point two million euros. We also need to invoice Al Qaeda for the explosives we unloaded off Yemen yesterday. Two million US dollars.”

“Make it four million,” Khalid said. “Sheik Abidi is paying on behalf of Al Qaeda, through the Hunnafite Orphan Foundation.” He chuckled.

“Yes, brother.” Rubi jotted down the details.

“On second thoughts, make it six.”

“Abidi would not accept six,” Rubi said. “He may accept five.”

“Ah! It is like a mosquito bite to him.”

“You know he doesn’t like to be overcharged, brother.”

Khalid grunted as Sheriti dug her elbow into his back. “Five it shall be, then.”

Ziad moved closer to take in Sheriti’s scent—a heady fragrance of floral and sweet citrus, with a hint of musk. He licked his lips, his eyes addicted to the hypnotic movement of her slim, toned body. As if to further provoke him, she glanced back and smiled, her full, dark lips revealing a mouth of perfect, white teeth.

She had joined them eight months earlier after Khalid had met her working at the Grand Hyatt in Cairo. Ziad’s contacts in Egyptian Security reported her clean: she was an only child, her parents had been killed by Israeli bombs in Beirut, and her only close relative was an old aunt in Cairo.

Enjoy it while it lasts, pretty Sheriti.
Ziad knew Khalid would eventually tire of her, as he had with his last two personal trainers, and when he did, Sheriti would be his… until he too grew bored with her. When eventually they dumped her overboard, she wouldn’t be missed.

“I have good news, Highness,” he said excitedly. “We may have located a suitable donor for your father. She has the same rare blood type, AB negative. We have a few more tests to undertake, but Dr. Gammal is hopeful she will be a serotype suitable for your father. She could be the one in a million. An American girl, from the shipment supplied by the Frenchman. We have her aboard now.”

Khalid raised his head for a moment. “Wonderful news. It is Allah’s will. We must take good care of her, Ziad.”

“Yes, Highness. Do you wish to see her?”

“Why would I? She is a pair of lungs. I will see them when they are harvested and put into my father’s chest.”

“She is very pretty, Highness. I thought you might—”

“Then you will be responsible for ensuring that she doesn’t come to any harm from the crew. Is the construction on Andaran ready for handover?”

“The resort and the fortress will be ready for your final inspection after the banquet. Although we may have one remaining problem. Bill Fanning.” Ziad moved slightly further behind Sheriti, who had raised her buttocks provocatively as she rubbed Khalid’s back with her forearms. Ziad wanted to ensure he captured everything on his phone videocam. “Sergei has been monitoring Fanning's emails. He has sent copies of the plans to his office in Dubai, in defiance of the secrecy requirements.”

Khalid made a clicking sound with his tongue. “We
must
have the ability to maintain the facilities without him. We have discussed what must be done.”

“But Highness, we cannot dispose of him yet. Not until—”

“Do I have to spell it out? Find the wife! Once we have her, we will get everything he stole and be able to rid ourselves of all the loose ends. Now, you may both leave us.”

Ziad followed Rubi out and closed the glass sliding door. They both turned and watched as Sheriti slipped off her bikini and lay on Khalid’s back, sliding against him in a slow, circular motion. Ziad felt his arousal intensify. He could sense the lightheadedness that told him he would need release soon.

Rubi had a superior smirk as she put her face close to his. “You think Sheriti will be yours, Ziad, like the last two? I think perhaps this time it will not happen. I believe that my brother is intending to marry Sheriti.”

He stepped back and frowned. “Surely this can’t be true. She’s not of his clan.”

“No, she’s not.” Rubi nodded at his cell phone. “And make me a copy of the video.”

The Suburban had been following Mac for two blocks now. As he continued through the pain of his first morning run after almost two weeks of confinement at the prison at Fort Bragg, he was more curious than afraid. Who were these guys? And why were they following him?

Two weeks ago, shortly after returning to Fort Bragg, he and his team had been arrested and placed on suspension pending formal charges. Scotty had been packed off back to Hereford in the United Kingdom to face a disciplinary hearing in front of his SAS Commanding Officer. Termite and Freckle were still waiting on charges to be laid.

Mac had had the book thrown at him. Rumor had it his case had become embroiled in some sort of power play between two Generals at the Pentagon, one of whom was trying to curb the influence and budget allocation of the Special Operations Command. Mac had been charged with two counts of negligent homicide relating to the deaths of the two girls killed by the kidnappers, and one count of aggravated assault on the youth Mamexi, who apparently had lost a leg. Mac’s attorney had advised him that it was certain he would face a full court-martial, which would mean another year or more on suspension from Delta, then a trial. He was prepared to accept that he had fucked up, allowing the two young Mexican girls to be killed. It would stay on his conscience for the rest of his life. But negligent homicide? That was crazy.

His biggest fear was that they would lose the trail, that Sophia and Danni would vanish forever, denied justice. If that happened, it wouldn’t matter what the court-martial found. During Mac's confinement he had kept in touch with Bob, who’d continued to follow up leads with limited assistance from the FBI, which apologized that it was fully occupied stopping terrorists and curbing the Mexican drug cartels. He was only sorry he couldn’t help Bob more actively. Last he’d heard, Bob was following up leads from a list of flights out of Ciudad Juarez, which Marvin had somehow obtained from an FBI source, an investor in one of Marvin’s condos in southern Baja.

Mac jogged across the road to the old Confederate cemetery where he stopped to recover, his face flushed with thumping blood. The freshly mown grass had a minty scent and the early morning dew caused clippings to cling to his sneakers. He found a dry area and started doing sit-ups. The Suburban pulled over and the two men inside sat watching. Maybe they were just there to make sure he didn’t skip town before tomorrow’s Article Thirty-Two hearing.

In darker moments of his confinement over the past two weeks, Mac had reflected on how some guys in a similar situation might eat the barrel of a pistol. But taking the easy way out wasn’t him. In the bathroom mirror one morning, he’d been jolted by the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes and the furry tongue. He was determined to expunge the crap that had been filling his mind and his time in custody. He’d had it with accepting what the politicians at the Pentagon were dishing out. Time to fight. He would tough it out. Whatever he had to do, he was prepared. Any deal, so long as it enabled him to continue the search for Sophia and Danni.

He had made the call to his Commanding Officer, Colonel Matheson.

Back on his feet, he jogged off along the track into a thicket of trees. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the men step out of the vehicle and begin to walk quickly after him. An average-height moon face in uniform, early thirties, and a tall suit, late forties, shiny scalp, John Lennon glasses, trimmed graying goatee. He doubted they were here to kill him. A minute later, after they hurried past where he was hiding, he stepped out onto the track.

“Looking for me?” he said, jogging on the spot.

The two men swung around. The tall one with glasses moved his hand towards his waist, then relaxed. He was carrying. But if someone wanted to eliminate the problem called Lee McCloud, there were plenty of better ways to do it. He sized them up. They both had the physiques of office workers. No contest.

“Sergeant Lee McCloud? I’m Captain Bryce Taylor from JAG. This is Derek Wisebaum.”

“A Confederate cemetery’s a hell of a place to offer a plea bargain.”

Taylor brushed aside a low hanging limb. “As you’re aware, Sergeant, your case has created some difficulties in Washington...”

Mac held up his hand. “Guys, I don’t want to hear this bullshit, all right? My lawyer told me someone wanted my scalp for a career hump. Whatever, I don’t care.”

“You’ll want to listen to our offer,” Wisebaum said coolly, “if you care at all about your buddies.”

“Excuse me?” Mac’s muscles tensed at the implied threat. Wisebaum was a player—it was obvious from his eyes. That ruthless glint. Probably a spook, he decided, or some General’s shit cleaner. Mac made it plain by the set of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes and the hands on his hips that he did not take kindly to threats.

Taylor spread his palms in a peace gesture and shot a disapproving look at Wisebaum. “Perhaps you’d be so good as to give us five minutes to explain, so we can all stop the posturing.”

“You have two,” he said. He took a swig from his water bottle. “And do us all a favor. Tell it like it is.”

Taylor swatted at one of the plentiful early morning mosquitoes. “All right. If tomorrow’s hearing goes as expected, you’ll face a general court-martial in a year’s time, at which you’ll be found guilty of the two charges of negligent homicide relating to the girls. You’ll be sentenced to two to five years’ incarceration, loss of rank and dishonorable discharge.”

“You can’t possibly know that. You’d have to own the jury
and
the judge.”

Wisebaum took off his glasses and shook his head.

“It’s politics, Sergeant.” Taylor continued: “Let’s say I’m wrong and you’re found not guilty. The powers in Washington will bring a murder charge for the four Mexican national police you killed or ordered to be killed.”

“You can’t do that. This isn’t fucking Mexico.”

Wisebaum rolled his eyes. “They can. And they will. Certain people want to make your case last.”

“And certain other people need the case to go away.” Despite the isolation of their surroundings, Taylor had lowered his voice. He smacked another mosquito. “We believe we have a solution. We can abort the court-martial today. You walk, with an unblemished record. And Sergeant Tucker and Sergeant Franks—Termite and Freckle—will also be off the hook.”