No Remorse Part 10

Mac wasn't sure how much time had pa.s.sed. Seconds, maybe, or a couple of minutes. Where was he? What was that shooting? He became aware of someone kneeling beside him, calling from a distance.

"Mac? Mac? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he heard himself reply from what seemed like kilometres away. His head hurt like crazy, and his back. He sat up. "Where are they?"

"Both dead, mon ami," Gaston said, leaning over him. "The body armour stopped their rounds or you would be also. Are you able to continue?"

He took several tentative breaths and stood up, ignoring the painful bruising in his back. "Let's go."

A burst of automatic fire came from somewhere else in the building, followed by a series of single shots and shotgun blasts. A brief silence. Then more shooting.

"Let's take it slow." He pressed the transmit b.u.t.ton on the handheld. "Two reds down here. You guys okay?"

"Four reds down," Scotty replied. "No sign of Emil. Going up to level one. You guys take two."

They crept up the stairs to level two. It had a long corridor with doors off both sides, like a hotel. The doors were bolted on the outside and they ignored the panicky female voices behind them. Mac sprinted along the corridor, checking each door while the other two covered him. All were locked, making it unlikely there was anyone waiting inside to ambush them.

At the end of the corridor was a locked door under the stairs. Mac spotted wear on the carpet that showed a lot of foot traffic. While Gaston and Yanis kept guard, he fired the Benelli and the lock shattered. He pushed open the door. Inside was a s.p.a.cious office with a solid, carved oak desk covered in papers and a notebook computer. A sizeable safe was built into the wall and there were two filing cabinets and an extensive bar.

"We've found The Frenchman's office, Scotty," he said on the radio.

"Copy that."

He began to search the room when Yanis hissed like an irate football fan. He jabbed his finger towards the rear of the office, where a section of wall had begun to open. A small hatchway, about half the size of a normal door. It would have been almost impossible to detect if someone hadn't been opening it.

Mac crouched behind a filing cabinet as the others took cover behind the desk. After a moment, the snub-nosed barrel of a submachine gun appeared, followed by the head and shoulders of a man. Not Emil.

"Just get the computer, leave everything else," came a voice from behind the man.

Mac fired the Benelli. The top of the man's head splattered the far wall and the body dropped, preventing the hatchway from being closed. There was return fire, then the body was dragged back inside and the hatch pulled shut. He fired again at the hatch but the pellets had no effect.

"d.a.m.n it!" He turned to the other men. "Who's got the Semtex?"

"In the equipment van," yelled Yanis.

"Yanis, keep an eye on the hatch. Don't let them get that computer. Gaston, guard the door. Wait here until the others arrive before you release any of the girls. I'll try and stop them leaving."

As he leapt down the stairs, he radioed Scotty to tell him what he was doing. He raced out the smashed rear gate and glanced around. If there was a tunnel it would most likely exit onto the banks of the ca.n.a.l. There seemed to be three possible places where an exit door could be disguised: a pile of rusting oil drums, a derelict graffiti-sprayed hut, and a pile of old car bodies. He darted behind the drams. After a few minutes, two men with pistols emerged from among the car bodies, checking the surroundings before scurrying along the bank towards him.

"Police! Arretez!" he yelled, firing the shotgun into the ground in front of them. The two men stopped dead and thrust their hands into the air, still holding their pistols.

"This is a mistake," said one of the men, his eyes darting around. The Frenchman!

"Drop your weapons, Emil," he said. "You and I are going to have a little chat about some kidnapped girls."

The man with Emil placed his weapon on the ground, but Emil fired twice and took off along the ca.n.a.l. Without a second thought, Mac blasted the other man in the chest and sprinted after Emil.

The bank of the ca.n.a.l was thick with long reedy gra.s.s and slippery with stinking slime, and Emil had a head start. Mac needed one hand free in case he slipped. He took out his pistol and threw the shotgun in the water, not wanting to risk it being found later. Emil was visible ahead through the reeds, and Mac steadied himself. Fired. Not to kill. He needed Emil alive. Emil kept running.

Two shots thudded into the ground, missing him by millimetres. He reacted instantly, rolling down the muddy bank. Coming back up onto his knees, he let off three low shots towards the source of the firing. There came a grant from up ahead. Mac crept forward through the thick reeds a few metres from the mucky water. Suddenly, just a few metres ahead, Emil jumped up and ran towards the road. Turning back he fired at Mac but tripped and went down. Mac raced forward and pounced, shoving the barrel of the Glock against Emil's shoulder joint as they wrestled. Fired point-blank.

He dragged Emil bleeding and groaning back to the building where he used plastic ties to cuff him to one of the steel ovens. Schmidt and Jog guarded him and two other of his men while Mac ran back upstairs to help free the girls. He wanted to be on hand if Sophia and Danni were among them.

As Scotty opened a door, the stench rocked him. Six sweaty bodies lay on two double mattresses, crammed into a tiny s.p.a.ce with a hand basin and filthy toilet. Used needles littered one comer. Two of the girls were unconscious and the other two were barely able to communicate. He spotted a waiflike figure s.h.i.+vering under a pile of clothes, whether from the cold or from heroin withdrawal, he couldn't tell. He got out of her in broken French that her name was Stela, and the girls sharing the room were friends from Bucharest. They'd been promised work as housemaids or nannies, and that they could enrol as students. But once they arrived, she said, they had been injected with heroin and forced to work in Emil's bar to pay for their habit.

In all, they rescued twenty-eight young women and girls, but Sophia and Danni were not among them. They helped the girls onto the bus and Jog drove them to his farm a couple of hours east of Paris. Jog and Claudette would see that they were fed, rested and cleaned up before being sent home. The other men on the team packed up the van and the bulldozer and were soon gone.

It was nearly dawn. They needed to move fast, before the area started waking for the working day. In the kitchen, Mac made a big deal of sharpening a knife. Emil was bound naked on a gas cooktop, watched by four of his men who were plastic-cuffed to an overhead utensil rail. Emil knew what a blade could do, but he might have learned something new that night. Mac didn't take long to get the answers he was looking for.

Afterwards, they left Emil and his men tied up in the kitchen.

"This is almost too good for those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Scotty said, as he unrolled the detonator wires across the street, where they crouched behind a wall well out of harm's way.

It was Scotty's operation, so Mac let him do the honours. Scotty lifted the safety cover of the switch and depressed the lever. A series of m.u.f.fled explosions came from inside the building. Then it collapsed, clouds of dust and smoke billowing out.

"Perhaps a little too much plastic." Scotty winked at him.

Mac could hear sirens wailing in the distance. "Time to leave, I think."

They drove away, leaving behind a smouldering pile of rubble in the twilight of dawn.

Emil had given them just one name. Adnan Ziad.

27.

"Where the f.u.c.k have you been?" Wisebaum yelled, tearing the gla.s.ses off his face. His managerial technique contrasted with the rural surroundings and the heritage building they were standing in. It was located in the outer suburbs of Montreal, among neatly mown lawns and pine trees that finished at a pebble beach beside a tranquil lake. Not the grim, grey office tower Mac had imagined head office would be.

"I thought you knew?" Mac said, dropping his sports bag on the floor. "Aren't you tracking my phone?"

"Don't be a wise guy, Mac. You missed the f.u.c.king debrief. Why weren't you at the airport with the rest of the team?"

Mac picked a wad of fluff off his trouser leg. "I'm a contractor, right? I don't do the time-sheet thing. The debrief was to be at nine this morning. It's only just after nine."

"Where were you last night? And don't think I can't check."

"Joa."

"What?"

"The casino at Antibes. Joa."

"You chose to gamble while the rest of us were working? Christ, I feel like cutting you out of the team bonus."

"Actually, I was watching, mostly. There was a poker tournament on." He'd seen the tournament results in the newspaper at the airport while he was waiting for his flight to be called.

"Oh? And who won?"

"I didn't stay to the finish. I had a bit of a wager before I left. Jean-Claude something or other, I think his name was."

"Van Damme, perhaps?" Wisebaum didn't bother writing down the name. "So, why was your phone switched off?"

"I keep getting these telemarketing calls from India..."

"Smarta.s.s. I needed to reach you to tell you of our revised plans. We had the debrief at the Negresco. Tally flew to Dubai direct from Nice."

"s.h.i.+t."

"Right on the nose, bud. Get straight back to the airport. When you get there, Tally'll brief you on our new target. A billionaire Saudi by the name of Prince Abu-Bakr Yubani. He's currently in hospital there, recovering from pneumonia."

"Okay. Do I get to meet the Director while I'm here?"

"Not here, Mac. He's one of the CIA's Deputy Directors. Works mostly from Virginia. You could go five years without meeting the guy."

"I knew this was a CIA front."

"Now, don't go AWOL on me again, Mac. Your role is to provide security for your team members, as well as train them in field operations. Tally's computer will have some extremely sensitive and expensive software installed. I want you around to protect it, and so you'll be sharing a room. But don't worry, it's a two-bedroom suite."

Mac shrugged. "Fine. Won't be a problem."

"Uh, it's not quite as simple as that in the Middle East, as you're probably aware. Tally knows the deal, so I don't think you'll have any problems. But be a little sensitive, okay, if that's possible with you?"

"Huh?"

"Dubai's reasonably tolerant. But there's been some negative publicity in the Emirates lately about unmarried couples staying in the same hotel room. The authorities have had a clampdown on "public decency." Bottom line is, you and Tally are to make like you're married."

28.

Mac leaned against a column near Gate 58 of Montreal Trudeau Airport as the long-range Air Canada 777 loaded up the food trolleys and luggage for his flight to Dubai. He was updating Bob on the name they'd uncovered in Paris-Ziad. He knew Bob would pa.s.s on the name to the FBI, and he stressed the importance of not revealing how he'd come across the name. He didn't need to explain why-Bob understood. The Feebs would have no hesitation in offering Jog, Scotty and him up to the French Police for the killings at Emil's Saint Denis compound if it helped the Bureau's position in France. And he got Bob to promise not to go off on any unilateral missions chasing someone called Adnan Ziad.

"Speaking of promises, have you called your mum yet?" Bob said, as they were finis.h.i.+ng up.

"All right, all right, I will, Bob. I promise."

"Right now. Okay?"

Mac released an audible sigh. "Okay, I will. Right now."

He rang off and speed-dialled his mother's home number. She must have been one of the three people left in the world who refused to own a cell phone.

His brother answered. It was the first time they'd spoken in ten years.

"Whoa! Great of you to call, bro. You're a little late, though. Mum's birthday was last week."

s.h.i.+t! He'd been too wrapped up to remember. "Just put her on, will you?" He was tempted to hang up in disgust, and with some embarra.s.sment, but he wouldn't give Nick the satisfaction. Not that he hated his brother. The bitterness of Nick marrying Mac's fiancee Susan had faded over time, but it had left him with a legacy of finding it difficult to trust people.

Remarkably, he had found this to be an advantage in his Delta activities, particularly when dealing with the s.h.i.+fting loyalties prevalent in Afghan culture.

"Mum, it's the Terminator!" Nick called out, probably intending him to hear, then came back on the phone. "So bro, the Army gave you the boot, I hear."

Mac kept his voice steady. "What are you talking about?"

"Elena told Mum about Sophia. A G.o.dd.a.m.n nightmare. Those poor Mexican girls. I know you guys are supposed to be well-trained, but Jesus.... You must feel sick about it."

Mac could have crushed the cell phone in his hand. It was fortunate Nick wasn't standing right in front of him.

"Nicky, enough. Your brother's done service for his country." His mother took control of the phone. "Lee?"

"Hi, Mum. Happy birthday for last week. I got your message. Sorry, I've been busy... I bought you a present in Paris. A watch. Just haven't got around to mailing it." If he hurried, he might have time to get one duty-free at the Airport. He started walking towards the stores.

"Oh, how lovely, sweetheart! Well, you'll have to send it to our new address. I'm moving in six weeks."

"Our new address?"

A slight chuckle. "You're quick at picking up things like that, aren't you, dear? I was calling you to tell you..." She paused a beat to take a breath. "I got married two weeks ago."

What the f.u.c.k? She never said anything about any male friend. He thought of his father. The marriage had disintegrated bit by bit after Cynthia was taken. Mac knew that sort of thing happened. But then his mother had taken him and Nick back to her hometown of Boston, leaving his father in Seattle with nothing but painful memories. Two years later, his father had killed himself. Mac's relations.h.i.+p with his mother had been fragile ever since.

"Are you there, Lee? I know it might come as a bit of a surprise."

"Wow! I'm very happy for you Mum. Uh, who's-"

"You remember Alfred Rossberger from along the street? Freddy?"

Oh yes, he remembered all right. Mr. Rossberger was a grumpy old widower who hated kids, especially when they walked on the neat lawn in front of his house. Like Mr. Wilson from Dennis the Menace, only grouchier. He'd more than once cut the flowers off Mr. Rossberger's roses in retaliation.

"I remember him, Mum. He grew roses."

"Still does." She chuckled. "You used to cut the flowers off."

How had she known? Had Rossberger complained? Or had Nick snitched? Mac spoke with a forced enthusiasm. "That's great, Mum. I wish you both the best. Tell him I'm sorry about the roses."

"I should have told you before. I know that, dear. But then, you're a hard man to catch, and I didn't want to leave a message. And it was only a simple ceremony. Nick and Susan and a few of our old friends and neighbours. That sort of thing. But I'd love you to come visit sometime, see the new house."