No Remorse (6 page)

The rain eased. Through his binoculars he could see Bernase sitting at the table while the three girls served dinner. They stood while he ate. Their slight bodies suggested the girls were closer to fourteen than twenty-four, and Bernase’s groping suggested they probably weren’t his daughters. There was no sign of any older woman who might be their mother. The two dogs loped around the room as if they were on guard duty.

These girls could easily be captives, confined by the electrified fence, guarded by dogs, and controlled by threats to them or their families. He’d witnessed subjugated and abused women in Afghanistan, and he reminded himself that he mustn’t assume that these girls would help him, even if they were slaves. Girls the Taliban had kidnapped to rape for entertainment sometimes suffered from Stockholm syndrome and fought their rescuers.

After he’d finished eating, Bernase rose from the table and appeared on the patio, speaking into a phone, occasionally nodding his head as he spoke. Mac wondered if Bernase could be The Frenchman. Certainly, the evidence was pointing that way, but it didn’t seem right that the pilot would also be the organizer of the trafficking ring. Still, if he had slaves himself…

The Dobermans sniffed the air, and growled. The wind direction was quite variable and they may have sensed something unfamiliar, perhaps for a moment. Bernase looked at the dogs for a moment, but didn’t seem concerned. As he was speaking, Bernase unzipped and pissed into the rain. After he’d finished he yelled out a name.

One of the girls hurried out while the other two sat down to eat. The girl slipped off the spaghetti straps and her dress fell to the patio. She wore nothing under. She knelt in front of Bernase and played with him for a while, then when he was hard she took him in her mouth. Incredibly, the pilot continued to speak on the phone. After it was over, the girl gathered up her dress and returned inside and sat down to eat her meal.

Mac shook his head at what he’d just witnessed. In Afghanistan, he’d had to stand by and observe in silence at some appalling treatment of women by their menfolk, but he’d never witnessed anyone behave quite so offhandedly as the way this guy had just done. If these girls were slaves, he knew exactly what he would do to Bernase.

Bernase lit a cigar and one of the other girls brought him a steaming drink. Soon after, he went inside and reappeared with a suitcase. He spoke to the three girls, then stepped through a door out of sight. He was leaving!

Mac had to move fast. He hadn’t expected Bernase to depart the house so soon. Slinging on his pack, he sprinted down to the gravel track, rain streaming down his face. Weighed up his limited options. The rental was almost a mile away, too far to reach before Bernase caught up and drove past. The track from the house offered no cover. He had no pistol; his heaviest weapon was the bolt-cutter he’d brought to get through the fence. That is, before he had discovered it was electrified. He yanked off his backpack, removed the bolt cutter, and continued to run as he slipped an arm back through one of the straps.

The headlight beams struck out through the sheeting rain like blurry lasers, angling back and forth as the vehicle negotiated the winding track. Mac stood between the wheel ruts of the track. The bolt-cutter was hidden behind his left leg.

He figured the pilot had three options: drive around him, hit him, or stop. He calculated that Bernase wouldn’t just drive off and leave him there, but then he wouldn’t want to run him down and risk damaging the car either. That meant he'd probably stop. And if he stopped, Bernase could either speak to him or shoot him (assuming he had a weapon). Either way, Mac was banking on Bernase stopping, maybe back a little to avoid an ambush. He would try to talk his way close enough to swing the bolt-cutter.

The headlights of the Peugeot 308 zapped him straight on, and he smiled, holding his thumb out. He was hiking the island and had gotten lost at night in the rain. Grateful to see a stranger with a warm, dry car. Maybe he would have gotten away with it, too, except that Bob had already been nosing around. Bernase obviously decided he wasn’t taking any chances. Mac heard the engine gunning and saw the car slip out of the ruts, gravel spraying as the rear wheels fishtailed. The front wheels reversed and the car revved in a controlled slide that had it heading side-on, straight at him.

The driver’s window was facing him. Bernase brought up a gun and fired, trying to steer with his free hand as the rain blasted in, blinding him. Mac swung the bolt-cutter and released the missile with as much strength as he could muster. The cutting blades headed straight for Bernase’s startled face. Mac jumped clear and landed in the mud, air bursting from his lungs. The vehicle rolled to a stop and he rushed over to it before Bernase could recover.

There was no movement, just the sound of the engine idling quietly and the rain. As he got close, he could see Bernase’s head tilted back against the headrest, the bolt-cutter sticking out the window. The cutting blades had slammed into his mouth and continued on, opening at the back of his throat. Blood was spurting everywhere.

Damn!
That wasn’t the outcome he’d wanted. Although Bernase’s actions made him feel partly vindicated. He left the .22 pistol on Bernase’s lap and reached into the passenger side for the cell phone, wiping it clean of sticky blood on some wet grass. Hopefully, in the address book of the phone would be contact details that might help them track down Sophia and Danni. Next to a small container for coins, he spotted a remote.

He took off at a jog down the road toward his rental, then drove to Bernase’s gate and pressed the remote. The gate opened. As he drove in, the dogs bounded off the front porch, jumping at his car, snarling and barking in a frenzy. He tooted the horn several times. After a few minutes, a curtain was pulled back and a face appeared. Then a light came on.

Finally, the front door opened a crack. It took him almost an hour to reassure them enough to lock up the dogs and allow him inside.

With Bob translating over the phone, he pieced together their story. The three girls, who were eighteen, fifteen and thirteen years old, were from different towns in Mexico. They’d been told their parents had sold them, although none believed it. The oldest one had been with Bernase almost a year. The other two had arrived three months ago on a private plane flown by Bernase. They knew nothing about other kidnapped girls. They just wanted to go home.

Mac sat on Bob’s hospital bed as Bob went through Bernase’s phone address book.

“Hey, what’s the prefix for phone numbers in France, again?” Bob asked.

“Thirty-three.”

Bob swiveled his wheelchair. “Here’s one. It’s a Paris number. Only a first name—Emil. Think I should call it?”

“No. Let me give it to my guy in Paris, Jogesh Khoury. He’ll trace the name and address through his Paris contacts.”

“Okay. Oh, El ran into your mother a few weeks back in the supermarket. Just before we went to Mexico for spring break. She said Susan was about to have her fourth. That you still hadn’t been to see any of your brother’s kids.”

Mac stiffened and turned away. This was not the time or place.

“Come on Mac, we discussed this a long time ago. Let it go. Nick’s the only sibling you’ve got.”

Mac stood up and looked squarely at Bob. He didn’t want to get angry with him, but it wasn’t fair for Bob to put this back on him. “I’m over it, Bob. It’s good they’re still together. But I can’t pretend.”

“You know, you don’t really appreciate how precious family really is until something happens...”

“Sorry. I know what you’re saying. But they knew exactly what they were doing when they decided to fuck four weeks out from my wedding to Susan. Pretty deep betrayal, Bob.”

Bob heaved a sigh and pinched his eyelid, as though it had a lash underneath.

Elena walked into the room. She’d clearly been crying. “Uh, the Mexican Consul’s taken care of it. The younger one didn’t…” A tear trickled down her cheek and she coughed slightly to compose herself. “…She didn’t want to let go of me. And I didn’t want to let go of her. They, uh, they said to thank you again. The Consul suggested we’d best leave, so I’ve booked us on a flight tomorrow.”

“Fine by me,” Bob said.

Elena slumped in a chair. “Tell me, do you think we will find our Sophia, Mac?”

“Let’s stay positive,” Mac said. What else could he say? His cell phone vibrated and he excused himself, walking out to the corridor. Caller ID said it was Derek Wisebaum, and he tried to head him off. “Don’t worry, Derek, I’m booked on a flight to Montreal tomorrow. You said I could have a few days—”

“Change of plans, Mac. One of my team’s come down with the fucking flu. You’re flying to Nice to substitute. I’ll brief you there.”

“Nice?”

“Nice. Côte d’Azur. South of France.”

“I know. But I’m in—”

“Martinique. Fort-de-France hospital. We know where you are, Mac.”

“Sure you do.” They were tracking the GPS on his phone. “And are you monitoring when I take a crap too?”

Wisebaum didn’t laugh. “You’re booked on the 8:45 a.m. flight to Miami and Lufthansa, departing 2:05 p.m. to Nice. Don’t be late.”

Khalid watched the helicopter swoop over the headland, squeezing under the cloud, caressing the palms that clung to the ridge a thousand feet above the Yubani Health Resort, then hovering briefly before landing gently on the resort’s helipad. Water from yesterday’s rain cascaded down the worn channels of black basalt that were tinted with slimy green algae. Khalid’s final guest, Sheik Mahdi al-Mansur Abidi, stepped from the helicopter holding onto his robes, which blustered from the downdraft.

“
Salaam alaykum,
Khalid
.
Your pilot Assad is a crazy man.” Abidi wiped the sweat from his forehead then grasped Khalid’s arms and kissed his cheeks, briefly touching noses three times in the traditional ritual.

“
Wa alaykum as salaam. Marhaba
, brother,” shouted Khalid above the helicopter’s racket. “I’m honored to host such an esteemed guest.”

Khalid noticed a big man with a shaved head step from the helicopter after Sheik Abidi. He rushed over and greeted his father’s chief bodyguard. “Ibrahim! What are you doing here? Is my father with you?”

“No, Highness. I come alone. Your father sent me to you.”

“But why, my old friend? Why would my father send you here, now?”

Ibrahim seemed reluctant to speak further. “It is a private matter, Highness. It will wait until the festivities are over.” The giant bodyguard bowed slightly and walked off towards the group of other bodyguards.

Khalid and Abidi continued along the beach to where five goat-hair tents were flying the Yubani crest—a five-pointed star with a crescent moon like a saucer underneath. They entered the
majlis
, where rugs with embroidered silk tassels covered the walls, and ruby and gold striped parachutes billowed from the ceiling. The twelve guests who had flown in from around the world reclined against earthy-colored cushions on silk rugs covering the sand, as the sixteen models from the photo shoot wearing white bikinis served trays of food, poured wine, and brought Shisha pipes of apple-flavored tobacco.

Khalid stood at his place at a long, low table and spread his palms wide to address his guests. “Brothers, now that we are all here, I am honored to bid you welcome. Today’s meeting of the Brotherhood coincides with the opening of my Yubani Health Resort, the most exclusive hospital in the world. The resort will offer the world’s first on-demand transplant service, using an expert team led by Dr. Yong Xi.”

Dr. Xi rose in his place and received a warm round of applause.

“I realized a few years ago when I saw my father’s condition that there are many older people wanting the lifeline that a new organ can provide. The resort is unique in
guaranteeing
organ availability from donors who are young, fit, and healthy, rather than from those having suffered traumatic death. With the ever-increasing population of millionaires over the age of sixty, demand is likely to outstrip supply for decades. They have the money to pay, and many don’t care where the lifeline comes from. After all, what’s a few less teenagers in the world?”

Laughter from the guests.

“Now, please welcome our respected brother, Sheik Abidi, Chairman of the Hunnafite Brotherhood.”

The billionaire property developer from the Emirates rose to his feet and regarded the other guests with an imperious air.

“Put me on your waiting list, please, Khalid. I would say in about twenty years!” Abidi waited for the laughter to die down. “First, I would express our gratitude to our entrepreneurial brother Khalid and his father, Prince Abu-Bakr, for making the
Princess Aliya
available to deliver the cargoes that help to make us rich. The Hunnafite Brotherhood now has sixty members from around the world, each with assets over five hundred million dollars. By working together, since last year we have increased the value of our financial assets by thirty-five percent, mostly by buying devalued US assets at bargain prices. We have lifted our profits from drug distribution by fifteen percent. Our global slave trade has grown a massive thirty percent just in the last year. The Westerners remain blind fools as we continue to take over their wealth. Brothers, the last laugh will be ours!”

The other guests applauded warmly. Abidi continued at length about the Hunnafite strategies that would see their members own one tenth of the world’s assets within twenty-five years.

“In conclusion, we will continue to finance groups like Al Qaeda and Al Shabaab, which will force the West to pour money into their militaries so we can sell weapons to their enemies. In the next twelve months, we will manipulate the oil price and create another collapse in stock prices so that we can buy up more. We will advise you when to sell, before the crash. Now, it is time to enjoy ourselves.” He sat back down, amid strong applause.

Khalid cried out: “And now, the magnificent Sheriti!”

From behind the curtain came the slow, haunting melody of a
mizmar
, the Egyptian oboe, crying a traditional ballad. Sheriti appeared from the opposite side of the tent. Her
bedleh
comprised only two garments—a bejeweled bra and diaphanous harem pants—allowing the guests a full appraisal of her physique. Khalid felt a twinge of jealousy as she moved among them, her jade green eyes seducing each one, but he felt an even stronger sense of power. Sheriti was spectacular. And his alone. Yet Sheriti’s massage sessions were not enough to quench his thirst for her, and although she had made it clear in accepting the job as his personal trainer that it would not involve sex, Khalid had other intentions in mind.