The Specter (7 page)

“Wow, that’s late,” Aaron said. He was out of questions. There wasn’t much else to ask. Maybe she left the message on his machine from her apartment. She sounded afraid. She could still be in trouble. Or she could be in Britain for all he knew, about to call him any day to say that she’s traveling Europe for a while.

Dewanda frowned and fidgeted with her fingers.

“What is it?” Aaron asked. “Something bothering you?”

Dewanda nodded.

“Tell me.”

She stared at him. In her eyes, he saw that she struggled with a decision.

“I’m not supposed to show you.”

“Show me what?”

“Come with me.”

Dewanda got up and left the room, Aaron on her heels. Down the hall at the end, a door marked
Maintenance Room
opened to the right. Dewanda entered it and then opened another door immediately to her left. The second door had no sign.

A man in a security uniform leaned back in a leather office chair. He nodded at Aaron. Aaron nodded back. He counted ten television screens in a row, all showing different parts of the building’s grounds, inside and out.

“Wow, this is something.”

“We keep it pretty private. We have security guards walking the premises night and day, but we always have someone down here monitoring the grounds.” She motioned for the man to type something. “Bring up camera six from three nights ago.”

The man in uniform typed on the keyboard. Camera six was clearly marked below its screen. Aaron’s stomach turned at the thought of what he was about to see.

The camera blanked out for a moment and then back on, showing an image of the main lobby and the intercom system he had just used to call Dewanda.

“At 2:13 a.m., you will see your sister with two men. Watch closely.”

Aaron leaned in. The camera counted down the five seconds to 2:13 a.m. Then Joanne entered the screen. On either side stood two men wearing expensive suits. She didn’t look happy, her face a scowl, her hair unkempt.

The security man hit a button on the screen, pausing the image.

Everything to his core felt sick. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Have you called the police?”

“No. Why would I? This only shows Joanne leaving with two men. There was a noise complaint from her apartment, but we don’t report things like that. It could’ve been an argument with her boyfriend and then they left with her still upset.”

“Have any police officers been by to talk to you or enter her apartment?”

They both shook their heads.

“I reported Joanne missing two days ago. She left a message on my cell phone. She sounded scared. She asked for my help but the signal was weak. I couldn’t make out much.” He threw his hands up in exasperation. “As far as I can tell, so far the police have done nothing.”

He headed for the door. He needed to tell Folley what was going on. Something had to be done. He also needed to meet Daniel and the boys back at the strip club later because he had to talk with the dancer who helped him out earlier. She said Joanne left with the British guy and yet his sister is on camera leaving her apartment building after two in the morning.

“Aaron, wait,” Dewanda said. “Do you think those men are bad men?”

Aaron paused at the door, another thought hitting him. “Please, can I ask you to make me a copy of that bit? I need to take it to the police.”

Dewanda nodded to the security guard.

“It’ll only take a minute,” the guard said.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Aaron replied as he studied the two men on the screen.

It was the same two men who grabbed Gary Weeks that morning at the Toronto Island airport.

Chapter 7

Clive Baron tapped the end of his cigar lightly in the marble ashtray to save it for later. He still had over three hours before he landed in Moscow on his private 747. He listened to the engines as they thrust the craft through the night sky at 837 kilometers per hour, according to the TV screen that folded down from the ceiling in his private conference room.

Born in London, Clive had made his money in alcohol in his early twenties. His motto had been,
work hard to make your money, then get your money to work hard for you
. And work it did. In the eighties, he had invested in various dot com companies that shot up like a penny stock that struck gold. Later he invested in various golds and metals, while still building his alcohol retail and distribution business, giving it a more international presence.

The first time he killed a man was in the mid 1980s. He didn’t have to kill the man. The guy had just pissed Clive off. And Clive had loved it. The power behind the ability to silence someone … forever. It held a certain lust that he hadn’t been able to shake since.

Alfred Johnson, an American, had come to London to discuss import and export options. His ideas were too simple for Clive, almost elementary-school simple. He told Alfred that he had wasted his time. The next day, Alfred came back with allegations of tax fraud against Clive. He claimed to have discovered that Clive was importing vodka illegally into Russia. Whether that was true or not, Clive couldn’t have people running around sullying his reputation.

So he invited Alfred to a meeting that evening to go over the idea of re-opening their talks, which he thought was Alfred’s play from the beginning. Alfred accepted. An hour before their meeting, Clive coolly walked in the back door of the hotel, climbed the stairs to Alfred’s room on the eleventh floor and picked the lock. He entered the room without being seen or making a noise.

Alfred was in the shower. Clive waited out of respect. He wore gloves and a hood to do his best to contain hair and other items that made a forensics team salivate. He reasoned that evidence of his presence would amount to nothing as he had joined Alfred in this very room two days previous to collect his jacket before they took a stroll along the walking streets of London.

Clive quietly opened the balcony door in preparation.

When Alfred stepped from the shower, Clive still waited. He needed Alfred dry for what he was about to do. Wet would only make him more slippery when he tried to manhandle him.

Alfred exited the bathroom, a towel wrapped about his waist, and shouted in surprise at the sight of someone in his room.

Clive charged him. He did his best to minimize any bruising as he shoved and maneuvered Alfred up and over the balcony railing. Once Alfred was in free fall, screaming his way to the cement one hundred feet below, Clive simply exited the hotel room, used the stairs to get to the main floor and walked the three blocks to his car, drove to their prearranged meeting spot and waited for Alfred to show. His security men met him there and waited with him for over an hour. He called Alfred’s cell phone numerous times, leaving long messages about how unprofessional he had been by standing him up and then Clive drove home.

During the investigation, he was questioned briefly, but his story checked out and Alfred Johnson’s death was labeled an accident.

Clive never forgot how good it felt to not only kill a man, but to get away with it. Times had changed since the eighties. Investigations have reached a new level. It’s much harder to kill someone without leaving a trace. That’s why mercenaries like Jackson and Hugh worked for him now. They’re professionals unlike any others, ex-Mossad, responsible for infiltrations on Iranian soil.

“Come,” Clive said at the knock on the door.

Jessica Nockler entered, her hand staying on the door knob. She nodded with her darkened eyes and pouting mouth. To look at her, you wouldn’t know what she had been through, but Clive knew. He also knew how valuable she was.

“He’s ready,” she said. “The drug has taken the desired effect. He will be groggy for at least two or three hours. After that, he’ll pass out.”

“Carry on,” he said and waved. He expected the phone on the conference room table to ring. Without Jackson or Hugh calling in a status report, he couldn’t go in and begin to entertain Joey, his unwilling partner during the flight to Moscow.

He knew they would call. They always did. Only when something had gone wrong or they had to deviate from the plan would they call in late. Which meant he couldn’t miss the call.

Jackson and Hugh were the kind of men who didn’t care for the Mossad’s current motto,
Where there is no guidance, a nation falls, but in an abundance of counselors there is safety.
They stood by the original motto:
For by wise guidance you can wage your war.
That’s what they joined the Mossad for—to wage war.

Rogue countries like Iran needed to be brought in line. Jackson and Hugh were involved in the bombing of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard’s Imam Ali Military Base in October 2010. They lost a few good men in the ensuing explosion. The base was said to house long-range missiles, one of Iran’s most secure facilities. It was the Mossad who discovered Iran’s nuclear program before it officially became known.

The president of Iran, Ahmadinejad, was quoted as saying that Israel should “vanish from the pages of time,” which translates to “wiped off the map.” Jackson felt more should be done to deal with this clear and present danger, but there was too much red tape and not enough action.

He gave up on the heart of Israel over a year ago and decided not to continue in service to his country. Hugh followed him and both joined forces as mercenaries for Clive, making four times the money they used to make and enjoying their jobs even more.

Recently, the Mossad director had gone to the US national security officials to hear them out on what the American reaction would be if Israel attacked Iran amidst American objections.

Just last month Jackson had said to Clive, “Too little too late
.”

Clive agreed, but he also kept his true opinions to himself. He was happy Israel was slow to the trigger. If they hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have Jackson and Hugh.

The phone rang, slapping him out of his reverie.

He hit the speaker.

“This is an encrypted line. Speak freely.”

“We have a new problem,” Jackson said.

“Explain.”

“We have encountered other people who are aggressively asking questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

Jackson cleared his throat. “A brother of one of the strippers has been asking questions. Aaron Stevens.”

“That’s impossible,” Clive said, trying to control his anger. They had been swift in their cleanup to control information. He had been there himself. How could anyone be missed? “What could he know? It happened too quick. I’m not sure I understand the situation correctly.”

“We don’t know everything yet. He approached Hugh and me when we took Gary this morning. He touched Hugh and within a second, had him on the grass, choking. I had to draw my weapon on him.”

Clive stood from his chair. “What the
fuck
are you talking about? He dropped Hugh? In public? Nobody drops Hugh. I’ve seen the kinds of things he can do. Explain to me what happened.”

The door to the conference room opened.

“Everything okay?” Jessica asked.

He waved her away. The door eased shut.

“The brother has figured something out,” Jackson said. “He was at the Island Airport this morning and tried to stop us from taking Gary. Then he showed up at the strip club and harassed a waitress and the bouncers.”

“What do you mean, harassed the bouncers?” Clive paced back and forth behind the conference table.

“One of the bouncers approached him and asked him to leave. He flipped the 250-pound man onto his back. When he was leaving, he brought the same man to his knees in front of two other bouncers.”

“And no one did anything?” Clive asked, his voice rising higher than he wanted. “Were the cops called?”

“No police.”

“Good. Can you handle this? What do we know about this Aaron Stevens?”

“We had Nancy go with him. She gave us the plate number of his car.”

“Where’s Nancy now?” Clive asked as he stopped pacing.

“She’s with the others in Casa Loma.”

“Good. You’ve done well. This sounds like it can be contained. Can you get to the brother?”

“Yes … but, Nancy told us something quite disturbing,” Jackson said.

Clive’s hand tightened into a fist beside the ashtray that held his cigar. “What is it?”

“The brother, Aaron, asked about the vodka.”

“What?” Clive couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Impossible. How could it be? “Say that again. Repeat yourself.”

“Aaron Stevens asked about the vodka.”

“How. Could. He. Know?” Clive asked through clenched teeth.

“We have no idea.”

“Then find him. Find out what he knows and how he knows it and report back to me. I land in Moscow,” he looked at the clock on his desk, “in three hours. If you find out before then, call me at this number. Otherwise call my home line.”