Ops Files II--Terror Alert (11 page)

Maya sensed rather than saw the shooter approach her, and emptied the SIG Sauer from the folds of her robe into the area of the muzzle flashes. Her chest felt like someone had slammed her breastbone with a hammer, but the Kevlar vest had spared her anything worse than a bad bruise. Not so her spine and legs, which were aching from the tumble down the stairs even as the slide on the SIG Sauer locked open after the last round, the pistol empty.

She reached for the full magazine in her pocket as she ejected the spent one, rolling as she did, and heard a burbling from nearby. Shocked by the fall, she nevertheless forced herself to one knee, the pistol in her right hand as she reached for the flashlight. When her fingers found it, she slowly scanned the room with the beam, stopping when it settled on the form of a young man bleeding from three bullet wounds. She rose shakily, ignoring the pain flaring through her body, and squinted at the dying man. He looked…familiar.

“You,” she whispered.

It was the motorcycle courier. He’d somehow made it back to Dhaka – they’d underestimated his powers of persuasion or his determination, obviously. She shone the light on him and saw another bullet wound, this one on his upper arm, the blood dried. At least she’d been right about hitting him.

He coughed twice, and then his eyes went wide and stayed open even as his final breath rasped from his chest. She stared at him for several beats, and then spun when a scrape from the far end of the room startled her.

Maya’s flashlight beam stopped at the huddled shape of Gil suspended by a chain that bound his wrists, hanging from an iron hook mounted to the wall. His shirt was torn, his skin blistered and lacerated, his face brutalized to the point she barely recognized him. A pool of blood collected around his feet, which were tied with rope. Nearby a blowtorch lay on the floor, hastily abandoned, as well as a truncheon and pair of gore-crusted pruning shears.

“Oh, God. Gil,” she whispered.

He didn’t register her other than to moan, a sound so hopeless and agonized it made her skin crawl. She moved to him and wrapped her arms around his torso, freeing his wrists of the weight of his body, and slipped the chain free of the hook before dragging him to the middle of the room and laying him down.

Maya did a quick examination of his wounds and understood that he was bad – they’d cut his fingers off and his toes – the blood loss alone would have been enough to kill him had they not then seared the wounds closed with the torch. She frowned as she inspected his ruined appendages, hyperaware of time passing, each second increasing the odds of either the police, or the imam’s men, arriving.

Gil’s remaining eye cracked open and he gave her an unfocused stare.

“Gil, it’s me. Maya. You’re going to make it,” she whispered.

He tried to shake his head, but the effort caused him to writhe in pain. He gasped and shut his eye, and then croaked a few words so softly she could barely hear him.

“Disk…corner…the computer…”

She understood immediately. The courier had made it back with the disk, and she’d interrupted the torture…and something else. Copying it? Decoding it? Sending it to someone after downloading it?

Maya flashed the light at first one corner, then another, and her gaze settled on a small laptop computer sitting on a card table, its hard disk light glowing faintly. She held the beam on it as she got to her feet and walked over to it.

There was no CD case, only the computer.

She eyed it and tapped the touch pad.

The screen blinked to life and demanded a password.

Hoping against hope, she felt along the base of the laptop until she found the CD compartment button and depressed it.

The hatch opened with a soft whir, and she held the flashlight on it.

Empty.

Gil groaned and she looked over at him. He’d said something about the disk. She moved back to where he was struggling for breath and crouched by his head.

“Did they do something with the disk? Download it to the computer?” she asked softly.

He wheezed and she looked away. She knew that sound. The sound of life departing, leaving behind an empty shell.

Gil lay still, and she turned to face him. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and closed his one eye, the other… Maya tried to imagine what Gil had endured, and bile rose in her throat. She choked it back, but it was no good, and she leaned over and gagged, heaving until there was nothing left.

When the wave of nausea had passed, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stood. The clock was still ticking, and time wasn’t her friend.

She closed the computer, tucked it under her arm, and moved to the stairs. After a final look around, she climbed up without looking back, listening with ringing ears for any sound of new arrivals.

Upstairs, she retrieved her bag and donned the soaking wet burka with numb fingers, putting the laptop in its place in the duffel, which she then zipped closed. The rain was hammering on the windows, the last of the storm pummeling the house, and she could only hope that it would slow any patrol sent to investigate the shooting – assuming anyone had reported it. Her weapon was suppressed, but the imam’s men’s weapons hadn’t been.

Then again, in the depths of a dangerous slum, it was possible that the denizens didn’t welcome the police for any reason, not wishing to visit grief upon themselves.

She’d know soon enough.

Maya pulled the front door open and stepped into the downpour. Muddy water stood in the yard at least two inches deep, and the wet ground squished as she walked quickly to the front gate. She unbolted it and eased out into the street, which was now a river of mud and effluence that carried trash and filth down the slight grade to the gutters many blocks away.

The only figure on the street was a three-legged dog, scrawny, its ribs jutting through its patchy fur, standing like a sentinel at the corner. Her eyes met the soaked animal’s and she picked up her pace, leaving the misery and ugliness of the imam’s torture chamber behind her, even though she knew the sight of Gil’s violated form would visit her nightmares forever.

Manchester, England

Cliques of drunken fans yelled and cursed one another as they left the stadium after the match was over, Manchester having won by one point. Abreeq looked up from the sink where he was scrubbing pots and watched as the ill-behaved fools trudged to their cars, or to parties, or the local pubs, which would be packed with the louts until closing time.

The supervisor, Cliff, a particularly loathsome example of central English inbreeding, appeared by Abreeq’s side and snarled at him, as he’d been doing most of the night.

“An’ what do you think yer looking at, Omar?” he asked, his breath sour with halitosis. Cliff had been calling Abreeq ‘Omar’ all night, a not particularly clever slight he’d taken great pains to explain to Abreeq. “I don’t think any of those blokes would want one of your tents! Right, lads? Omar the tentmaker here best do his bloody job and stop poncing about, shirking, or he’s going to find himself out in the cold, isn’t he?”

Abreeq couldn’t afford even the faintest hint of rebellion or insult, so instead of ripping the buffoon’s throat out and beating him over the head with it as he died, he lowered his eyes and returned to his task. “Sorry, boss,” he mumbled softly.

“Well, don’t let it happen again, or I’ll dock you half the night’s pay, you laggard. I don’t want to be here till tomorrow. Hurry up and stop stalling.”

Abreeq renewed his attack on the pots, biting back the oath that sprang to his lips. Cliff was a bully, and like all bullies, reveled in being able to pick on those he supervised. In a position of power, a man like Cliff made up for every shortcoming he had by doling out misery.

Abreeq had known many bullies in his time, and he recognized the breed. There were hundreds in prison, and there they preyed on the young and defenseless.

Just like Cliff.

The man knew how hard it was to get steady work, and he knew that short of beating the members of his staff, they’d suck it up and take it, and not say a word to anyone. Nobody working to scrub slag from plates or mop up spillings or peel vegetables in the back of the house would dare complain. The outcome of protest was as preordained as their lowly stations in life: they’d be let go on a pretense, and Cliff would continue his reign of petty terror, as he’d been doing for years.

Abreeq didn’t dare sneak another look at his cheap waterproof watch for fear of drawing Cliff’s ire again. When he’d had the temerity to ask for one of the breaks he was allowed, Cliff had taken great pains to make it clear that if he did so, he wouldn’t have a job the following day.

The others went about their work in silence, a collection of immigrants too down on their luck to defend themselves. Unlike most restaurants Abreeq had worked in over the years, there was none of the jocularity, the joking and lightheartedness that made the work bearable. The assembly had the feel of a prison, and as the night had progressed Abreeq had found himself fighting an urge to throttle the bully, and damn the consequences.

Only by reminding himself of the importance of his work was Abreeq able to maintain the flat expression he’d perfected in prison – a look that gave nothing away. It was a survival skill he’d learned early, when circumstances had become so damaging he was dancing on the edges of madness. Instead of plunging into the void when they came for him at night, he retreated inward where nothing could reach or hurt him.

Of course, the other survival skill he’d acquired, that of being as deadly as a cobra, had served him better – one by one, those who had abused him were found stabbed, strangled, and in three cases, tortured before they were killed, their manhood stuffed down their throats.

The appetite for Abreeq had waned quickly once it became obvious he’d grown into a lethal force, but he never lost the ability to go somewhere else in his mind, leaving his body wherever it was, a disembodied thing, a vessel he could abandon for as long as he needed.

A powerfully built older African man from Zaire whom Cliff had nicknamed Mongo approached with another cart laden with filthy dishes. He gave Abreeq a long-suffering sigh and tilted his head at the pile.

“Last batch, boss man.”

“That’s a relief,” Abreeq said, and immediately regretted it. Cliff stalked over to them and glowered, meaty hands on his hips, color darkening his puffy face.

“Didn’t I tell you lot to get to work? Christ Almighty, I turn my back for one minute and it’s a bloody meeting of the United Nations here. How do you people get anything done back in whatever mudholes you crawled out of? No wonder you’re still living in the Middle Ages. Now shut your gobs and scrub, or you’ll be worse for it. I won’t have no loafers on my shift.”

Abreeq gave his companion a sympathetic look – a bad idea. Cliff’s flushed face reddened at least two more shades. “And what the hell was that?”

Abreeq returned to scrubbing, hoping Cliff would lose interest. Mongo shuffled away, head down, anxious to be away from the escalating confrontation. Abreeq remained silent.

Cliff sputtered with rage and then leaned into Abreeq and snarled menacingly. “Think you’re so much better than everyone, don’t you? Well, I have news for you, my fine lad. When the employment office opens tomorrow, you’ll get your marching papers, if I have anything to say about it. I’ll even come in early just to file the report. What do you think of that, yer crown prince of camel shit?”

Abreeq considered possible responses, but merely kept scrubbing. Nothing he said would do anything but pour gasoline on a volatile situation, so he elected to remove himself from the altercation and refuse to participate.

Cliff stalked off, stiff legged, fuming at being ignored. Abreeq allowed himself a small smirk, which he hid by looking away, and swept the pot he was scrubbing with the back of his hand. Clean as a whistle.

When the shift was over, Cliff kept everyone a half hour later than usual as punishment for Abreeq’s insolence, although he didn’t say so. Nobody complained, but the entire crew looked tired after the seven hours of unbroken toil, and the tension was palpable.

When he finally let everyone go with a wave of his hand, Cliff made a point of staring at Abreeq, a cruel smile on his face. Abreeq’s could have been carved from granite, showing nothing.

Three hours later, Cliff was staggering around his small row house in the lower-class neighborhood he called home, a bottle of cheap Scotch in one hand, the TV remote in his other, a rerun of one of his favorite movies on the fifteen-year-old television, when his front window shattered and a flaming bottle broke near his feet.

The last thing Cliff registered before the living room exploded in flames was the overpowering stench of gasoline, and the realization that perhaps he’d misjudged his men’s hatred of him.

It took twenty minutes for the fire department to arrive, and another hour for them to extinguish the blaze.

A week later the fire would be ruled arson by the police, who issued a statement to the effect that the perpetrators of the heinous act would be brought to justice and punished to the fullest extent of the law.

The list of possible suspects ran four pages.

Privately, the police were not optimistic.

Dhaka, Bangladesh

Uri answered his phone on the second ring, his voice tense.

“Yes?”

Maya’s tone was flat, wooden, her wording careful. “Gil was compromised. They tortured him. You have to assume that he told them everything.” Maya paused. “He didn’t make it.”

“Damn.” Uri stopped, thinking, his breathing heavy. “But that explains a lot. My watcher went dark on me an hour ago.”

“Your place isn’t safe.”

“I have backups, of course.”

“Did Gil know about them?”

“Not the one I have in mind.”

“I was able to retrieve the laptop that they used to read the CD the motorcycle messenger picked up at the mosque.” She hesitated. “What did HQ say?”

“Are you on your cell?”