Ultimate Power (6 page)

No, Barba's daughter was much better off now that Pete
 
was gone. Barba would secure her inheritance, forcing her to take small lumps sums at a time, ensuring she or her husband-to-be didn't piss it all away before she died.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out and checked the number. He took a deep breath. "Hello, honey."

"Daddy?" he heard his daughter's panic-stricken voice.

"Yes, my baby, what's wrong?"

"Daddy, there's been an explosion. The news says someone bombed that big Paris Tower."

"Yes, it's called the Eiffel Tower, my dear."

"Daddy, I think Pete was up there."

He kept quiet for a while. "Now don't jump to hasty conclusions."

"But what if he was?" she cried.

"Look, baby, why don't you take Eurostar back to daddy tonight?"

"I think I'll do that."

"This is probably for the best, baby. The kid irritated you."

"He did, didn't he? I guess you're right."

"See you later. Daddy will take you to a nice restaurant."

"Okay, daddy. See you soon."

He disconnected the call, slapped his belly. Life was good.

Moktar sat on a cushion in the room next to the cell, smoking his pipe. The wind was blowing outside, another dust storm ravaging the landscape. It hadn't rained in a year, and their nomadic lifestyle meant that the people had to journey further away for less grazing than before.

The desert was encroaching on their way of life. A life which Moktar despised. Some said that God was punishing them for their sins. He snorted. What sins could be committed in a place like this? No, he simply thought the people were stupid for continuing to live this nomadic lifestyle. It had one benefit though; they were far from civilization. The dust tracks of approaching vehicles could be seen from miles away, and they were out in the open, which meant attackers had nowhere to hide.

Alan Turner had told them that this man, Laiveaux, held the key to all the secrets that Interpol knew. But what did you do if the man was unwilling to divulge those secrets? He spat on the ground. They needed some leverage against him, something that would make him talk.

He scratched his beard, blowing the smoke through his nose. Come to think of it, Alan Turner was also outliving his usefulness. He was becoming another mouth to feed. With Turner's help, they had managed to smuggle weapons into Air France flight 459. Moktar
 
savored the vision of the Airbus striking the Eiffel Tower. They had all gathered around a television set outside, men, women, children. And Alan Turner. He had cheered louder than all of them. It had been a magnificent victory for Al Qaeda.

Turner also helped them with the access codes to the Interpol HQ. He would sell them soon to the highest bidder; they would be worth a year's pay check on the black market. He chuckled. Most importantly, Turner gave him the contact number of Allan Sonti, the guy who Turner worked for.

Moktar didn't understand Allan Sonti's motives, but he had the financial clout to bankroll these operations. Sonti had said that he could call him anytime to run ideas by him. If it fitted in with his itinerary, he would help finance it. Good to know.

But what was he going to do with Turner? The idiot probably thought that he would be set free. No, if he didn't glean any useful information from Laiveaux soon, both would be eliminated.

He looked up as the door to the cell opened and Rehan entered the room. A young girl wearing the traditional garb followed him. "Anything?" he asked hopefully.

The man shook his head.

"How's your hand?"

Rehan showed him. It was swollen and was colored in different hues of green and blue. "Throbbing like hell."

"You should have Doctor Omar take a look at it."

"The Vet?"

Moktar shrugged.

Rehan shook his head. "No, I'll go to the US military hospital in Kabul. They have some good doctors up there, they've seen it all."

Moktar chuckled. "Just don't tell them that you’re a member of Al Qaeda."

The man managed a faint smile. "That guy is one tough bastard. He's not going to break as easily as Turner did."

Moktar relit his pipe, sucking his teeth. "We need some leverage on him. Tell Ishaq to find out everything he can regarding the old man. Family, kids, everything."

The man grimaced. "Can I go to the hospital first?"

Moktar waved him away. "Go. And shut the damn door."
 

Rehan scurried out of the room, slamming the door too late to prevent a warm blast of air from invading the place.

Moktar looked up as he heard a voice from the cell door.

“You won't find anything on me, you know.”

"What did you say?"

"You'll find nothing on me. I don't have a wife or kids. Never had."

"Everyone has something."

"There may be one thing," the General said.

"What?"

"I would do anything for a cognac right now."

"Come on, General. You know we're not allowed to drink alcohol."

The man chuckled. "Thought I'd give it a try, one God-fearing man to another."

Moktar sighed. "All right, I'll see what I can do."

They were met at the entrance to the Presidential Palace by a man Alexa introduced as Henrie Duma and were escorted to what looked like a large dining room. Tables had been arranged in a large square, and a white projector screen was placed in the front of the room. There were twenty men seated, all wearing smart business suits or military uniforms.
 

Bruce felt out of place. He hadn't had time to pack, he left the Mossad HQ with the clothes he had on and whatever he managed to chuck into his duffle bag.

President Rue was there. She marched towards Bruce with an outstretched hand. She was tall, five nine, and lean, holding a phone to her ear. She walked with an energetic bounce in her step. She lowered the phone and greeted Bruce with a firm handshake. He walked to the front of the room and started fiddling with the projector. He glanced up at Alexa and she came to help. A minute later the tablet was connected to the projector. "Thanks baby." She squeezed his hand and took a seat.

He stood in front of the crowd and cleared his throat. "Okay, here is what I have. Feel free to ask me questions at any time."

The crowd murmured in agreement.

"At six last night General Alain Laiveaux was kidnapped at gunpoint. No one has accepted any responsibility for the kidnapping, but we know it's Al Qaeda."

A big guy with a chest full of medals stuck up a paw. "Colonel, Major Jacques Baptiste, Intelligence Services. Do you mind elaborating on your statement? How do you know it's Al Qaeda?"

Bruce stood up straight. "Well, because he's at an Al Qaeda stronghold in the Rigestan desert near Kabul."

The man punched his paw into the air again. "And how would you know that?"

"Because we picked up his GLD signal." Bruce opened the map on the screen and showed them the flashing red blip. A murmur swept through the crowd. "Exactly where we thought he would be."

"But how is that possible?" a scrawny guy at the back of the room asked. He held up a plastic bag containing a small metallic object no larger than a pill capsule. "We found his GLD chip in the back of the panel van that had hijacked Laiveaux. We confirmed the DNA, it was his."
 

"The General was injured in the Gulf war during Dessert Storm. He broke his tibia, and he had to have metal screws inserted to join the fracture." Bruce surveyed the room, his hands behind his back. "We made use of the opportunity to have his Geolocation device implanted into his bone. It's a part of him now, they would have to amputate his leg to remove it."

"So why didn't we know about it?" Alexa asked.

"Classified information," Bruce said and winked at her.

"Then we need to get going," Alexa said, standing up. "They could kill him if we don't act now."

Bruce held up a hand. "No."
 

"What?"

He checked his watch. "We extract him at fifteen hundred hours."

"Why?” Neil asked, confused.

"Because that's when he asked me to."

The crowd murmured, a confused buzz sweeping the room.

Alexa stood up, her hands on her hips. "You got Voelkner killed so that Laiveaux could get himself kidnapped?"

Bruce shook his head. "Voelkner's not dead."

Alexa wanted to ask another question, but Henrie Dumas marched to the front of the room and handed a cell phone to President Rue. "Madam President, here is a call that you must take."

"Who is it?"

"The President of the United states."

The President of the Republic of France marched out of the room and closed the door behind her. "Barry? What is it?"

"Nicole, I heard they got the tower."

"
Oui
, everything okay over there?"

The man sounded out of breath. "We got an anonymous message a couple of minutes ago. Apparently the Palestinian Liberation Organization planted a bomb in the Statue of Liberty."

"Did you find it?"

"Yes, switch on the television."

She marched to her office, swiped up the remote on her table and pressed a button. She flipped through a couple of channels and found what she was looking for. She saw aerial footage of the Statue of Liberty, other news choppers were circling the magnificent statue at a safe distance as well.

The President of France flinched as a fire ball erupted inside the robed lady's head. It burned for a second or two and was followed by a massive explosion, blowing the head clean off the statue. Next an explosion amputated the arm holding the torch. For a couple of seconds nothing happened, and then the robed lady's chest exploded and she started toppling over as large chunks of concrete splashed into the water.

President Barry Ross was silent as the camera zoomed in to what remained of the statue. What remained of the Statue of Liberty toppled over and crashed into the water.

"Fuck," the President said. "This is an all-out coordinated terrorist attack. Vladimir is on the other line, hold on."

"Nicole, Barry," she heard the Russian President's familiar voice. "The Kremlin has been destroyed by multiple bombs. We suspect the FSB is behind it."

"Al Qaeda here," Nicole said.

"The PLO bombed the statue," Barry confirmed.

"But why all at the same time, is it a coincidence?" Nicole asked.

"No, I talked to Sung-Ho, he said they received a threat from North Korea that the Seoul Tower was going to be destroyed as well."

"I bet you my last dollar that it's already down," Barry said.

"So what do we do?" Vladimir asked.

"We need to set up a joint summit with the UN."

"Do we include Iraq and Palestine?" Nicole asked hesitantly.

"You bet we damn well do. They started this shit," Barry bellowed. "Nicole, any news from the British?"
 

She chuckled. "You know they always phone your first, Barry."

"Speak of the devil," Barry said. "Okay, I'll be in touch, see you folks soon."

The call disconnected and Nicole slapped her palm with the back of the phone. She made up her mind and hurried back into the temporary ops room.

The POTROF briefed her inland security forces and military personnel on the conversation she had with the other presidents. She switched on an LCD TV on the wall and lowered the volume. “Okay, let’s get our house in order here.” She turned to Bruce. “Colonel, what do you need?”

He tapped the back of his pen against the table. “A small logistics team consisting of Captain Guerra, Sergeant Allen and Lieutenant Latorre. Could you find us an interpreter?”

She nodded.
 

Bruce punched a number into his old Nokia. “I’ll organize the flights. Get ready to leave within half an hour.”

Alexa stood up. “Let’s go get him.”

CHAPTER TWO

Harry Eccles opened the letter with shaky hands. This is the damn end. He read:

Pursuant to the provisions of RSA 540:2, you are hereby given an eviction notice and notice to vacate blah-blah…

He scanned the page for a date.
 

You are hereby notified of your right to avoid this eviction by payment of one hundred and seventy two thousand dollars ($172,000.00), prior to the expiration of this notice of all the arrearages plus one thousand five hundred dollars ($1500.00) as liquidated damages blah blah…

He scrolled down further to find a damn date.

…by no later than Wednesday, 14 February.

Shit, that was tomorrow. He sobbed and dropped his head in his arms. They had to be out of the house his family had lived for the past ten years.
By tomorrow.

He had received the foreclosure notice four months ago. He had tried to fight it, but the simple fact was that he didn’t have a single cent to his name. He slammed the table with his fist. Damn you Pete Ricco, I hope you rot in hell. He wiped a tear from his eye. He couldn’t go on.