Dangerous Alliance, page 28
Pun teased the edge of a flap up at the first tent.
Empty.
He tried the second one with the same result.
Pun gave a short whistle. Moments later, Alf scooted beside him, weapon at the ready.
In a slight crouch, they separated, Pun going to the left and Alf to the right. They converged on the kitchen.
“Iieeeee!”
A woman spotted Alf and dropped a basket. Several eggs fell out and cracked. She dropped to her knees and grabbed a few unbroken eggs.
Pun rushed forward, putting a hand over the woman’s mouth to silence her, as she appeared to gather strength for another outburst.
A shot rang out—a man hobbled forward, his arms shaking as he leveled his antiquated bolt-action rifle at Alf.
***
Gerhard and Jamiila heard a woman’s scream and rushed to the narrow gate. A well-placed kick from Gerhard’s size twelve combat boot sprung the door’s latch, and they hurried inside, entering not far from Pun and Alf.
“Istaajin! (Stop!)”
Jamiila ran toward the gray-haired man, repeating her plea for him to stop. The man lowered his weapon, keeping his eyes on Alf, the closest of the compound’s invaders.
The other woman edged her way closer. They conversed with Jamiila in Somali, before the man lowered his weapon.
Jamiila turned to Gerhard and the others. “This is Fartaag and his wife, Zaynab. They are the camp’s caretakers. Their eldest daughter, Gargaaro, is hiding in one of the smaller tents.”
“Ag. Where are the guards?” Gerhard scanned the nearby grounds while Pun and Alf held their weapons ready should any threat materialize.
Jamiila translated. “Fartaag says all of the men went with Tahliil, the local al-Shabaab leader.”
Gerhard turned to Pun and Alf. “Search the remainder of the tents. Find their daughter and bring her here.”
Both men nodded and scurried away.
Gerhard faced the couple and Jamiila. “Ask him where they went. Did they have any foreigners with them?”
A lengthy discourse ensued, hands waving in the air, appearing to emphasize Fartaag’s words.
“He says Tahliil took his men north, to a family compound hidden in a banana plantation outside the village of Afgo—”
Fartaag jabbered and pointed north.
Jamiila smiled and nodded at him. “He says he will guide you to the camp if you do not rape and murder his wife and daughter.”
“Tell him no harm will come to them. What about foreign prisoners?”
The old man appeared to relax after Jamiila spoke with him. He turned to his wife and issued what appeared to be several commands.
Jamiila laughed. “He says since he is in charge here and because you will care for his family, he told Zaynab to prepare breakfast for all of us.”
“Nothing wrong with a bit of breakfast.” Gerhard rubbed his stomach. “Cooked food is much better than our rations.”
“He also mentioned one of Tahliil’s men, named Asad, was responsible for taking two foreigners with them.” Is this my Asad? Perhaps.
“One was a tall man, with red hair and a bad sunburn. The other was a woman with dark hair and a bronze-colored complexion, perhaps from too much sun. Both appeared well cared for.”
Before Gerhard asked another question, Pun and Alf appeared, dragging a struggling woman between them.
“We found her hiding in the back of a tent.” He held up his arm, blood trickling down. “Pun approached first and called her by name. She threw rocks at him. I grabbed her and she bit me.”
Fartaag spoke again, gesturing at the middle-aged woman. She bowed her head and followed Zaynab.
“Ag, man! Hope your tetanus injection is current. Pun, clean and bandage his wound.”
Pun nodded and led Alf away.
“Please tell Fartaag we would be honored for him to lead us north. Breakfast first. How long will the trip take?”
Jamiila and Fartaag conversed again. “He says if walking, about a week.” She smiled. “But if you have a motorized machine, less than two days.”
“Tell him we’ll use the Land Cruiser. Be a cozy fit for the five of us, but we’ll make do. Did he say anything else?”
“Yes, he wanted to know where we came from. I mentioned the al-Shabaab camp outside Kidi Faani. He asked if Maryan and Khalli were still alive.”
Gerhard scratched his shaved head. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
Jamiila frowned. “Fartaag mentioned rumors about foreigners hunting women for sport. They rape them before cutting off their heads.”
“What? I don’t believe it. Please reassure him they were healthy when we left.” He gazed at Fartaag. “We protect our women, not use them as prey to be abused and killed for fun.”
“I did. He was concerned because they are his sisters. Asad, in charge of the foreigners, is his nephew.”
Gerhard shook his head. “Is everyone here related?”
“Most are, either by marriage or tribal affiliation.”
Zaynab reappeared and beckoned for them to follow.
Jamiila translated. “Breakfast is ready. Fruit, eggs, bread, and milk. She says this is humble fare to serve their visitors, but it’s all they have.”
Gerhard’s stomach rumbled at the mention of food. “I’m sure it will be sufficient. Lead on.”
Under the tattered tarp near one of the command tents, several benches were arranged in two rows. Platters of various fruits, a basket of eggs, another with chapatis, awaited them, along with a perspiring pitcher of goat’s milk.
The men and Jamiila sat, with Zaynab and Gargaaro serving everyone before helping themselves.
After they finished, Gerhard walked away from the others. He pulled out his iPad, connected it to his satellite phone, and composed a message.
To: Topaz, Black
From: Green
Terrorists moved to camp outside Afgooye. Foreign captives transferred with them. According to caretakers, the group isn’t expected to return in the near future. The new location is less than a two-day drive. An old man will serve as our guide. Please advise.
Gerhard rejoined the others to discuss their next steps. “We must go after the foreigners. From the description Fartaag provided, it might be Prince George and Silvia.”
“What about the old couple and their daughter? They might warn this Tahliil about us.” Alf’s demeanor seemed to improve at the mention of the prince.
“He’s going to guide us to the compound. Jamiila, stress to the women not to contact anyone about us being here or where we’re going. If they do, Fartaag will be punished.”
Jamiila spoke with them. “They won’t do anything to jeopardize his or Asad’s safety.”
Gerhard nodded. “Good enough for me. Let’s prepare to head out. I’ll report in and check for any updated orders.
To: Black, Green
From: Topaz
Two four-man commando teams dispatched to Mombasa. ETA twelve hours. Upon arrival commandos will proceed north, using Kenyan-flagged fishing trawler, Masai Mara.
White and Rebel will procure vehicles from the American Embassy in Nairobi and travel ASAP to rendezvous point at Shark’s Bay, four miles south of Gezira Beach.
Black and Blue, continue current mission. Join others when prudent to do so.
Green, join the others and converge on Shark’s Bay.
Gerhard acknowledged his orders and disconnected his equipment. Who’s Rebel? Are the Yanks invading?
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The City Streets
Victoria, Seychelles
Dacar roamed the streets of Victoria, his thoughts focused on revenge. If the money isn’t released, I’ll send Smith’s body parts to the Napoli’s owners, one piece at a time. He kicked a nearby trash receptacle, spreading the contents along the street.
His fists clenched, his jaw locked in a grimace, people stepped aside as he marched through the crowded market area. Distracted, he bumped into a solid mass.
“Excuse me, sir. May I help you?” A tall and thick-set police officer smiled at Dacar, his hand on the head of a baton dangling from his belt.
“Uh—no. I was deep in thought and didn’t notice you.”
The officer’s eyebrows raised about half an inch, but he remained silent.
“Sorry, officer. I’ll be more alert.” At least enough to spot the police.
Dacar gave a polite nod and continued on his way. At a nearby kiosk, he purchased a newspaper and a soft drink. He sat on a bench, drank his Coke, and read the paper.
His face paled as he read about the failed al-Shabaab attacks in Kismaayo, Mogadishu, and Boosaaso. What’s happening? Someone must be tipping off the government.
He stood, tossed the paper and empty can in the trash receptacle, and entered the botanical gardens. Dacar weaved through the tourist attraction and strolled toward his apartment building.
***
Dacar never spotted the two men following him. Trevor rubbed the scar near his temple and trained his binoculars on the rear exit of the botanical gardens, while removing his outer clothing. “The target’s come back into sight and is heading across the street to his building.”
“Told you he hadn’t a clue anyone was tailing him.”
Trevor noted lights illuminating the apartment, before Dacar pulled heavy curtains across the windows. He replaced his binoculars in his backpack. “Aren’t you finished yet?”
“Who planned for me to be dressed like an overstuffed police officer? This padding weighs a ton.” Nate removed the last piece of clothing before pulling off the curly, black wig.
“I told you I’d help drag the stuff back to the hotel in case we need it again.” Trevor chuckled and ducked as Nate threw the wig at him.
“If someone needs to dress up again, it’ll be you.”
“Hah! Says you. I enjoyed the experience, you standing in Dacar’s way and letting him almost plod into you.”
“Perhaps so, but we’ve confirmed where he’s living.”
Both men burst into laughter as they gathered up the costume and headed back into the park.
***
The following morning, they dressed in lightweight suits for their respective meetings. The manager of the HBL Pakistan bank agreed to meet with Trevor, while Nate arranged to view several properties available for rent.
A few minutes before his ten a.m. appointment, Trevor entered the bank and spoke to a teller who directed him to the manager’s office. He knocked on the door and stepped inside when a voice beckoned him.
A slim man with wavy brown hair stood, walked from behind his desk, and offered a hand to Trevor. “I must say, this is a first for me to meet someone from Interpol. I’m Jean-Marc Belmont, the bank manager.”
They shook hands. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to meet with me. I’m Trevor Martin, Interpol investigator.” He pulled out his credentials and held them for Jean-Marc to view.
After a glance, Jean-Marc nodded.
“We’re following up on your response to our fraud alert concerning a Maltese bank account.” Trevor replaced his wallet.
“Yes. Not every day someone can assist in stopping international corruption. May I offer you something to drink? Tea perhaps?”
“Thank you, but no. You mentioned in your note you have reservations about a person named Dacar Khadaafi. Does he bank with you or another branch of the bank?”
“Yes, with us. He opened an account here about three years ago.” Jean-Marc slid a piece of paper toward Trevor. “This is a copy of his account activity. His most recent visit to the bank was a few days ago. He wanted to transfer one hundred thousand dollars from the Freedom Bank in Malta.”
“May I keep this for our records?”
“Yes, of course. I made a copy for you. I tried to transfer the funds and was unable to do so. He made his displeasure known and said some kind of mistake had been made and he would investigate the reason for the failure. Dacar withdrew ten thousand dollars from his account with us.”
“Is this his current contact information at the top of the page?” Trevor rubbed his chin as he reviewed the account details.
“Yes. The same telephone number and address he provided when he opened the account.”
“Excellent. The funds in this account might originate from nefarious sources.” Trevor reached into a pocket and withdrew an Interpol business card. “Would you notify me if he makes another transaction?”
“At once. Should I freeze the account?”
“Hmm. Perhaps leave the account open but monitor the activity. We don’t want to scare him away. Once we make an arrest, I’ll ensure you receive proper credit. There might be a reward, too.”
***
Nate met a woman from the rental agency at her office near Victoria market. She came recommended by the hotel clerk and might be her twin—blonde hair, blue eyes, almost as tall as him. Her laugh reached to her eyes.
“Welcome, Mr. Nate.” She offered a hand, giving his a firm shake. “I’m Gabby.”
“Hello, Gabby. Thank you for helping me find a suitable rental.”
“Oh, no problem at all. I’ll find you the perfect home for your time on the island.” She appraised him from head to toe. “Trust me.”
Nate laughed. “Remember, the property must be located in a quiet area, at least two bedrooms, and a basement for storage.”
“I can think of a few possibilities, but a basement might be difficult with the houses available. However, one or two come with small cellars. Would one of these work for you?”
“Yes, perfect.”
“Shall we be on our way? Perhaps we might stop for a lemonade or something else before we finish.”
***
Nate returned to the hotel three hours later. Trevor sat at a table in the lounge area reading a local newspaper, a cold beer in front of him.
“Well, well. Thought we lost you.” Trevor used a foot to push out a chair.
“You won’t believe this! The woman at the rental office is the older sister of the desk clerk.”
“So, what kept you?” Trevor gazed at Nate, a hint of a smile on his face.
“It took time because she showed me everything.”
Trevor’s eyebrows shifted upward. “Uh-huh. Everything?”
Nate began to nod. “Well, not everything, but close. She helped me find the perfect spot.”
Trevor burst into laughter. “I bet.”
“You’re jealous because you spent your time with some dude in a bank. Anyway, I rented a house for two months, beginning today.” Nate jangled keys in his pocket. “The property’s in a quiet neighborhood, furnished, with three bedrooms, and is surrounded by a high hedge. No basement, but a cellar, which will meet our needs.”
Trevor drained his beer and stood. “Shall we locate our target? Assuming he follows his normal routine, he should be returning home in about an hour.”
They left the hotel and hopped in the rental car arranged by Trevor. They parked across the street and about half a block away. The four-door white sedan blended in well with the other vehicles.
Trevor and Nate claimed a nearby bench. Before long, their quarry sauntered along the street, passing them in the dimming daylight. He had pushed his key into the lock at the entrance to his building and turned the knob when they rushed him, shoving him inside.
“What is this? Who are you?” Dacar reached for the knife in his pocket, but Trevor grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back and forced him to drop the weapon.
Nate secured Dacar’s arms with plastic ties while Trevor shoved a piece of duct tape across his mouth.
Nate ran to the car while Trevor held their captive. After Nate parked in front of the building, he scanned for activity.
Still quiet, he signaled, and Trevor forced the struggling Dacar into a duck-walk. Once he was shoved in the back of the car, Trevor sat next to him. Nate shifted the gears and drove away.
***
The area in darkness, Dacar struggled against his bindings, his head aching. He tried to scratch his face where the duct tape had irritated the skin when it was removed. His hands wouldn’t move nor could he stand.
“Someone drugged me.” Dacar wet his lips, attempting to remove the taste of wallpaper from his mouth. He struggled but couldn’t free himself.
A light snapped on. He blinked and turned away from the light. Eyes adjusting, he glanced at his surroundings—no windows, brick and mortar walls, and a chair holding him in place. Rats scurried past, attempting to escape the bright light.
“Ah. Our guest is awake.” A man wearing black clothes and a gray balaclava stepped in front of him. He held a bottle of water.
“Thirsty?”
Dacar nodded, licking his lips.
The man uncapped the bottle, took a long swig and held the bottle forward.
Dacar tried to catch the dribbling water as the man allowed the remaining contents to fall to the floor.
“Perhaps later, if you answer my questions.”
“Why … why should I? You’re holding me against my will.”
Trevor slapped him across the face. “You’re familiar with holding people against their will, aren’t you?” He pulled a black case from a pocket and extracted a syringe.
“No time for games. You will tell me what I want to know.” Trevor pushed the plunger, clearing the air from the syringe. He stepped forward. “Everything.”
Dacar struggled against his bindings. “No! No!”
An unseen force grabbed his arm, holding it still. The syringe came closer, the needle pricking Dacar’s skin.
“Aaaahh!”
***
When Dacar came to, his clothes were drenched in perspiration, his right arm unbound. A folding table, not visible before, stood next to his chair and to the right. A cup of steaming liquid sat in the middle of the table, a water bottle nearby.
“Go ahead.” The balaclava-clad man came into view. “The drug we used, still experimental and not available to most people, worked well. No apparent physical harm—just a pinprick. Of course, we don’t know if there will be any lasting effects.”
Trevor laughed. “As I mentioned, it’s experimental, so you’ll be able to help with the study. In the meantime, you answered every question I asked. Your answers didn’t vary no matter how I mixed up the questions.”
Empty.
He tried the second one with the same result.
Pun gave a short whistle. Moments later, Alf scooted beside him, weapon at the ready.
In a slight crouch, they separated, Pun going to the left and Alf to the right. They converged on the kitchen.
“Iieeeee!”
A woman spotted Alf and dropped a basket. Several eggs fell out and cracked. She dropped to her knees and grabbed a few unbroken eggs.
Pun rushed forward, putting a hand over the woman’s mouth to silence her, as she appeared to gather strength for another outburst.
A shot rang out—a man hobbled forward, his arms shaking as he leveled his antiquated bolt-action rifle at Alf.
***
Gerhard and Jamiila heard a woman’s scream and rushed to the narrow gate. A well-placed kick from Gerhard’s size twelve combat boot sprung the door’s latch, and they hurried inside, entering not far from Pun and Alf.
“Istaajin! (Stop!)”
Jamiila ran toward the gray-haired man, repeating her plea for him to stop. The man lowered his weapon, keeping his eyes on Alf, the closest of the compound’s invaders.
The other woman edged her way closer. They conversed with Jamiila in Somali, before the man lowered his weapon.
Jamiila turned to Gerhard and the others. “This is Fartaag and his wife, Zaynab. They are the camp’s caretakers. Their eldest daughter, Gargaaro, is hiding in one of the smaller tents.”
“Ag. Where are the guards?” Gerhard scanned the nearby grounds while Pun and Alf held their weapons ready should any threat materialize.
Jamiila translated. “Fartaag says all of the men went with Tahliil, the local al-Shabaab leader.”
Gerhard turned to Pun and Alf. “Search the remainder of the tents. Find their daughter and bring her here.”
Both men nodded and scurried away.
Gerhard faced the couple and Jamiila. “Ask him where they went. Did they have any foreigners with them?”
A lengthy discourse ensued, hands waving in the air, appearing to emphasize Fartaag’s words.
“He says Tahliil took his men north, to a family compound hidden in a banana plantation outside the village of Afgo—”
Fartaag jabbered and pointed north.
Jamiila smiled and nodded at him. “He says he will guide you to the camp if you do not rape and murder his wife and daughter.”
“Tell him no harm will come to them. What about foreign prisoners?”
The old man appeared to relax after Jamiila spoke with him. He turned to his wife and issued what appeared to be several commands.
Jamiila laughed. “He says since he is in charge here and because you will care for his family, he told Zaynab to prepare breakfast for all of us.”
“Nothing wrong with a bit of breakfast.” Gerhard rubbed his stomach. “Cooked food is much better than our rations.”
“He also mentioned one of Tahliil’s men, named Asad, was responsible for taking two foreigners with them.” Is this my Asad? Perhaps.
“One was a tall man, with red hair and a bad sunburn. The other was a woman with dark hair and a bronze-colored complexion, perhaps from too much sun. Both appeared well cared for.”
Before Gerhard asked another question, Pun and Alf appeared, dragging a struggling woman between them.
“We found her hiding in the back of a tent.” He held up his arm, blood trickling down. “Pun approached first and called her by name. She threw rocks at him. I grabbed her and she bit me.”
Fartaag spoke again, gesturing at the middle-aged woman. She bowed her head and followed Zaynab.
“Ag, man! Hope your tetanus injection is current. Pun, clean and bandage his wound.”
Pun nodded and led Alf away.
“Please tell Fartaag we would be honored for him to lead us north. Breakfast first. How long will the trip take?”
Jamiila and Fartaag conversed again. “He says if walking, about a week.” She smiled. “But if you have a motorized machine, less than two days.”
“Tell him we’ll use the Land Cruiser. Be a cozy fit for the five of us, but we’ll make do. Did he say anything else?”
“Yes, he wanted to know where we came from. I mentioned the al-Shabaab camp outside Kidi Faani. He asked if Maryan and Khalli were still alive.”
Gerhard scratched his shaved head. “Why wouldn’t they be?”
Jamiila frowned. “Fartaag mentioned rumors about foreigners hunting women for sport. They rape them before cutting off their heads.”
“What? I don’t believe it. Please reassure him they were healthy when we left.” He gazed at Fartaag. “We protect our women, not use them as prey to be abused and killed for fun.”
“I did. He was concerned because they are his sisters. Asad, in charge of the foreigners, is his nephew.”
Gerhard shook his head. “Is everyone here related?”
“Most are, either by marriage or tribal affiliation.”
Zaynab reappeared and beckoned for them to follow.
Jamiila translated. “Breakfast is ready. Fruit, eggs, bread, and milk. She says this is humble fare to serve their visitors, but it’s all they have.”
Gerhard’s stomach rumbled at the mention of food. “I’m sure it will be sufficient. Lead on.”
Under the tattered tarp near one of the command tents, several benches were arranged in two rows. Platters of various fruits, a basket of eggs, another with chapatis, awaited them, along with a perspiring pitcher of goat’s milk.
The men and Jamiila sat, with Zaynab and Gargaaro serving everyone before helping themselves.
After they finished, Gerhard walked away from the others. He pulled out his iPad, connected it to his satellite phone, and composed a message.
To: Topaz, Black
From: Green
Terrorists moved to camp outside Afgooye. Foreign captives transferred with them. According to caretakers, the group isn’t expected to return in the near future. The new location is less than a two-day drive. An old man will serve as our guide. Please advise.
Gerhard rejoined the others to discuss their next steps. “We must go after the foreigners. From the description Fartaag provided, it might be Prince George and Silvia.”
“What about the old couple and their daughter? They might warn this Tahliil about us.” Alf’s demeanor seemed to improve at the mention of the prince.
“He’s going to guide us to the compound. Jamiila, stress to the women not to contact anyone about us being here or where we’re going. If they do, Fartaag will be punished.”
Jamiila spoke with them. “They won’t do anything to jeopardize his or Asad’s safety.”
Gerhard nodded. “Good enough for me. Let’s prepare to head out. I’ll report in and check for any updated orders.
To: Black, Green
From: Topaz
Two four-man commando teams dispatched to Mombasa. ETA twelve hours. Upon arrival commandos will proceed north, using Kenyan-flagged fishing trawler, Masai Mara.
White and Rebel will procure vehicles from the American Embassy in Nairobi and travel ASAP to rendezvous point at Shark’s Bay, four miles south of Gezira Beach.
Black and Blue, continue current mission. Join others when prudent to do so.
Green, join the others and converge on Shark’s Bay.
Gerhard acknowledged his orders and disconnected his equipment. Who’s Rebel? Are the Yanks invading?
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The City Streets
Victoria, Seychelles
Dacar roamed the streets of Victoria, his thoughts focused on revenge. If the money isn’t released, I’ll send Smith’s body parts to the Napoli’s owners, one piece at a time. He kicked a nearby trash receptacle, spreading the contents along the street.
His fists clenched, his jaw locked in a grimace, people stepped aside as he marched through the crowded market area. Distracted, he bumped into a solid mass.
“Excuse me, sir. May I help you?” A tall and thick-set police officer smiled at Dacar, his hand on the head of a baton dangling from his belt.
“Uh—no. I was deep in thought and didn’t notice you.”
The officer’s eyebrows raised about half an inch, but he remained silent.
“Sorry, officer. I’ll be more alert.” At least enough to spot the police.
Dacar gave a polite nod and continued on his way. At a nearby kiosk, he purchased a newspaper and a soft drink. He sat on a bench, drank his Coke, and read the paper.
His face paled as he read about the failed al-Shabaab attacks in Kismaayo, Mogadishu, and Boosaaso. What’s happening? Someone must be tipping off the government.
He stood, tossed the paper and empty can in the trash receptacle, and entered the botanical gardens. Dacar weaved through the tourist attraction and strolled toward his apartment building.
***
Dacar never spotted the two men following him. Trevor rubbed the scar near his temple and trained his binoculars on the rear exit of the botanical gardens, while removing his outer clothing. “The target’s come back into sight and is heading across the street to his building.”
“Told you he hadn’t a clue anyone was tailing him.”
Trevor noted lights illuminating the apartment, before Dacar pulled heavy curtains across the windows. He replaced his binoculars in his backpack. “Aren’t you finished yet?”
“Who planned for me to be dressed like an overstuffed police officer? This padding weighs a ton.” Nate removed the last piece of clothing before pulling off the curly, black wig.
“I told you I’d help drag the stuff back to the hotel in case we need it again.” Trevor chuckled and ducked as Nate threw the wig at him.
“If someone needs to dress up again, it’ll be you.”
“Hah! Says you. I enjoyed the experience, you standing in Dacar’s way and letting him almost plod into you.”
“Perhaps so, but we’ve confirmed where he’s living.”
Both men burst into laughter as they gathered up the costume and headed back into the park.
***
The following morning, they dressed in lightweight suits for their respective meetings. The manager of the HBL Pakistan bank agreed to meet with Trevor, while Nate arranged to view several properties available for rent.
A few minutes before his ten a.m. appointment, Trevor entered the bank and spoke to a teller who directed him to the manager’s office. He knocked on the door and stepped inside when a voice beckoned him.
A slim man with wavy brown hair stood, walked from behind his desk, and offered a hand to Trevor. “I must say, this is a first for me to meet someone from Interpol. I’m Jean-Marc Belmont, the bank manager.”
They shook hands. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to meet with me. I’m Trevor Martin, Interpol investigator.” He pulled out his credentials and held them for Jean-Marc to view.
After a glance, Jean-Marc nodded.
“We’re following up on your response to our fraud alert concerning a Maltese bank account.” Trevor replaced his wallet.
“Yes. Not every day someone can assist in stopping international corruption. May I offer you something to drink? Tea perhaps?”
“Thank you, but no. You mentioned in your note you have reservations about a person named Dacar Khadaafi. Does he bank with you or another branch of the bank?”
“Yes, with us. He opened an account here about three years ago.” Jean-Marc slid a piece of paper toward Trevor. “This is a copy of his account activity. His most recent visit to the bank was a few days ago. He wanted to transfer one hundred thousand dollars from the Freedom Bank in Malta.”
“May I keep this for our records?”
“Yes, of course. I made a copy for you. I tried to transfer the funds and was unable to do so. He made his displeasure known and said some kind of mistake had been made and he would investigate the reason for the failure. Dacar withdrew ten thousand dollars from his account with us.”
“Is this his current contact information at the top of the page?” Trevor rubbed his chin as he reviewed the account details.
“Yes. The same telephone number and address he provided when he opened the account.”
“Excellent. The funds in this account might originate from nefarious sources.” Trevor reached into a pocket and withdrew an Interpol business card. “Would you notify me if he makes another transaction?”
“At once. Should I freeze the account?”
“Hmm. Perhaps leave the account open but monitor the activity. We don’t want to scare him away. Once we make an arrest, I’ll ensure you receive proper credit. There might be a reward, too.”
***
Nate met a woman from the rental agency at her office near Victoria market. She came recommended by the hotel clerk and might be her twin—blonde hair, blue eyes, almost as tall as him. Her laugh reached to her eyes.
“Welcome, Mr. Nate.” She offered a hand, giving his a firm shake. “I’m Gabby.”
“Hello, Gabby. Thank you for helping me find a suitable rental.”
“Oh, no problem at all. I’ll find you the perfect home for your time on the island.” She appraised him from head to toe. “Trust me.”
Nate laughed. “Remember, the property must be located in a quiet area, at least two bedrooms, and a basement for storage.”
“I can think of a few possibilities, but a basement might be difficult with the houses available. However, one or two come with small cellars. Would one of these work for you?”
“Yes, perfect.”
“Shall we be on our way? Perhaps we might stop for a lemonade or something else before we finish.”
***
Nate returned to the hotel three hours later. Trevor sat at a table in the lounge area reading a local newspaper, a cold beer in front of him.
“Well, well. Thought we lost you.” Trevor used a foot to push out a chair.
“You won’t believe this! The woman at the rental office is the older sister of the desk clerk.”
“So, what kept you?” Trevor gazed at Nate, a hint of a smile on his face.
“It took time because she showed me everything.”
Trevor’s eyebrows shifted upward. “Uh-huh. Everything?”
Nate began to nod. “Well, not everything, but close. She helped me find the perfect spot.”
Trevor burst into laughter. “I bet.”
“You’re jealous because you spent your time with some dude in a bank. Anyway, I rented a house for two months, beginning today.” Nate jangled keys in his pocket. “The property’s in a quiet neighborhood, furnished, with three bedrooms, and is surrounded by a high hedge. No basement, but a cellar, which will meet our needs.”
Trevor drained his beer and stood. “Shall we locate our target? Assuming he follows his normal routine, he should be returning home in about an hour.”
They left the hotel and hopped in the rental car arranged by Trevor. They parked across the street and about half a block away. The four-door white sedan blended in well with the other vehicles.
Trevor and Nate claimed a nearby bench. Before long, their quarry sauntered along the street, passing them in the dimming daylight. He had pushed his key into the lock at the entrance to his building and turned the knob when they rushed him, shoving him inside.
“What is this? Who are you?” Dacar reached for the knife in his pocket, but Trevor grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back and forced him to drop the weapon.
Nate secured Dacar’s arms with plastic ties while Trevor shoved a piece of duct tape across his mouth.
Nate ran to the car while Trevor held their captive. After Nate parked in front of the building, he scanned for activity.
Still quiet, he signaled, and Trevor forced the struggling Dacar into a duck-walk. Once he was shoved in the back of the car, Trevor sat next to him. Nate shifted the gears and drove away.
***
The area in darkness, Dacar struggled against his bindings, his head aching. He tried to scratch his face where the duct tape had irritated the skin when it was removed. His hands wouldn’t move nor could he stand.
“Someone drugged me.” Dacar wet his lips, attempting to remove the taste of wallpaper from his mouth. He struggled but couldn’t free himself.
A light snapped on. He blinked and turned away from the light. Eyes adjusting, he glanced at his surroundings—no windows, brick and mortar walls, and a chair holding him in place. Rats scurried past, attempting to escape the bright light.
“Ah. Our guest is awake.” A man wearing black clothes and a gray balaclava stepped in front of him. He held a bottle of water.
“Thirsty?”
Dacar nodded, licking his lips.
The man uncapped the bottle, took a long swig and held the bottle forward.
Dacar tried to catch the dribbling water as the man allowed the remaining contents to fall to the floor.
“Perhaps later, if you answer my questions.”
“Why … why should I? You’re holding me against my will.”
Trevor slapped him across the face. “You’re familiar with holding people against their will, aren’t you?” He pulled a black case from a pocket and extracted a syringe.
“No time for games. You will tell me what I want to know.” Trevor pushed the plunger, clearing the air from the syringe. He stepped forward. “Everything.”
Dacar struggled against his bindings. “No! No!”
An unseen force grabbed his arm, holding it still. The syringe came closer, the needle pricking Dacar’s skin.
“Aaaahh!”
***
When Dacar came to, his clothes were drenched in perspiration, his right arm unbound. A folding table, not visible before, stood next to his chair and to the right. A cup of steaming liquid sat in the middle of the table, a water bottle nearby.
“Go ahead.” The balaclava-clad man came into view. “The drug we used, still experimental and not available to most people, worked well. No apparent physical harm—just a pinprick. Of course, we don’t know if there will be any lasting effects.”
Trevor laughed. “As I mentioned, it’s experimental, so you’ll be able to help with the study. In the meantime, you answered every question I asked. Your answers didn’t vary no matter how I mixed up the questions.”
