Red Wolves

by Adam Hamdy

  Leila kept half an ear on the babble as she went to the tiny kitchenette behind the elevators to grab a yoghurt from the fridge and pour herself a cup of stale filter coffee. As she wandered back to her desk, sipping the tepid tar-water, she heard the urgent tones of a newsreader.

  ‘Seattle Police Department repeated its call for any member of the public who sees the pair to contact the number below.’

  Leila hurried to her desk.

  ‘Officers Jared Lowe and Dean Ollander are long-serving officers with distinguished records.’

  Leila looked at the screen in horror. The faces of the men she’d killed stared back at her, both in full Seattle Police Department dress uniforms, their chests covered in service medals. Her heart started thumping and her palms suddenly became wet with perspiration.

  ‘A police spokesperson refused to comment on whether the officers were engaged in an ongoing investigation but did confirm the department is sufficiently concerned for their welfare to make their details public.’

  Leila bent over and grabbed the bin under her desk. She retched a couple of times, but her heaves brought nothing up.

  Had they been surveilling the house as part of an operation?

  She’d killed two serving police officers.

  Why hadn’t they identified themselves?

  She knew the heat that would bring and wondered how she was going to tell Pearce.

  Chapter 53

  Leila had seemed preoccupied when Pearce returned from his meeting with Clifton. She’d packed up their supplies and, as they’d shifted everything they needed into the boot of a Chevy Traverse, rented with her fake ID, she’d briefed Pearce on the Salamov family and the wider network of people associated with them. Knowing Brigitte had probably been compromised, they couldn’t risk staying in Huxley Blaine Carter’s property and had moved to the New La Hacienda Motel on Lucille Street. The accommodation was basic, but it offered easy access to the port and industrial district, and the manager accepted cash and didn’t ask any questions.

  They’d taken two rooms and had spent a couple of hours getting the gear set up in Leila’s. As they worked, she continued briefing him on the Salamovs. She told him about Rasul Salamov’s trucking company, Ziad’s job at the port and Deni’s various business interests, which all pointed to a smuggling operation. Later that evening, Pearce felt much more confident about the dynamics of the situation he was walking into when he parked his bike near the community centre on 140th Street. The last light of the sun was fast disappearing, and the Al Jamaea coffee shop was lit up like a beacon, packed with men who hailed from a variety of Middle Eastern, Asian and African countries.

  ‘You getting this?’ Pearce asked, adjusting his surveillance glasses.

  ‘Crystal clear,’ Leila replied through a concealed earpiece.

  Even at a distance, Pearce could sense something was wrong. Her voice lacked its normal confidence. She might have been struggling to process the deaths of the two men she’d killed the previous day, or it might have been the situation with her sister. Whatever the cause of her distress, she didn’t want to talk about it, and when Pearce had tried to probe, she’d shut him down and pointedly steered the conversation back to the Salamovs.

  The smell of rich coffee and fruit-flavoured tobacco reminded Pearce of Cairo. Dozens of men sat at tables outside the coffee shop, talking animatedly, smoking cigarettes and shisha with an enthusiasm that would have given big tobacco hope for the future. Many of the men sipped potent jolts of the thickest, blackest coffee from tiny cups. They looked at ease, chatting, laughing, and Pearce envied them their camaraderie, that sense of belonging. He missed the feeling of mattering to someone. He’d known it in the army, but had experienced nothing like it since. He searched for Ziad but didn’t see him, and headed inside.

  ‘Ahlan,’ a waiter with a craggy, friendly face said enthusiastically. He tested Pearce for coronavirus and once it had registered a negative result, the welcome in Arabic was followed by, ‘Fee tarabaiza fi’ warra.’ There’s a table at the back.

  Pearce nodded and scanned faces as he headed towards the rear of the large cafe. There were no women, just men. Many of them watched him as he made his way through the room. This was clearly a place for locals and he was unfamiliar, worthy of note.

  ‘Ah, a room full of men sorting out the world’s problems,’ Leila said sarcastically. ‘We need more of this sort of thing.’

  Pearce understood her ire. She was one of the most capable people he’d ever worked with, but many of the men in this place would likely have regarded her opinions and abilities as second-rate. He struggled to comprehend cultures that thought it acceptable to deprive women of the rights and freedoms accorded to men. It was oppression masked by sophistry and supposed good intentions. The lack of women in this place would be dressed up as a protection of their modesty, but he wondered what was so immodest about the men’s behaviour that their wives, mothers and sisters needed to be shielded from it.

  He pulled up a lightweight wooden chair with a bamboo seat and sat at the only vacant table in the place. Nearby conversation became noticeably muted, and he kept catching glances from around the room. Not quite hostile, but not far off. He was accustomed to being the outsider and didn’t react to the unwelcome interest.

  The waiter ignored him, pointedly avoiding his table as he weaved his way around the room. Ziad appeared a few minutes later and glad-handed a few men who expressed their joy to see him. It was clear from the glances they made in Pearce’s direction and Ziad’s whispered replies to their questions that the escaped prisoner was vouching for Pearce in some way. Pearce felt the mood lighten when Ziad finally took a seat at the table.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, man,’ Ziad said in a perfect American accent.

  Like Pearce, he was the child of immigrants, and had been raised and schooled in the West. Pearce wondered if Ziad considered himself American, or whether, like him, he felt he didn’t really fit anywhere.

  ‘No problem. I just got here,’ Pearce said.

  The waiter approached and took their drinks orders. Ziad opted for a fresh mint tea, and Pearce joined him.

  ‘So you need a job?’ Ziad asked. He picked a sugar cube from a bowl and fiddled with its wrapper.

  ‘I came here three months ago and my money’s almost gone,’ Pearce replied. ‘I was on an ESTA, but that capped out at ninety days, so . . .’

  ‘So you’re an illegal,’ Ziad remarked. ‘What kind of experience have you got?’

  ‘I was in the army for seven years,’ Pearce said. He’d always found an element of truth helped make for a more convincing cover, and army experience should be of interest to Ziad and the people he worked for.

  ‘British Army?’ Ziad asked.

  Pearce nodded. ‘It was good money and there weren’t many other choices for someone like me.’

  ‘Like you?’

  ‘Stupid. Rebellious. I left school with nothing,’ Pearce replied. It wasn’t true, but if it hadn’t been for the intervention of his headteacher, Malcolm Jones, it could easily have been.

  ‘You ever do time?’ Ziad asked.

  Pearce hesitated. ‘What kind of job are we talking about?’

  Ziad shrugged.

  ‘No, I never did time,’ Pearce said. ‘But I came close.’

  ‘So maybe you’re not all that stupid,’ Ziad observed. ‘Either way, it sounds like you’re prepared to get your hands dirty.’

  ‘Trouble at twelve o’clock,’ Leila said into Pearce’s ear, and he looked up to see Rasul Salamov barging through the room.

  Everyone in the place fell silent as Rasul bore down on their table like a storm. Ziad sensed he’d lost Pearce’s attention and glanced over as the furious man closed on him.

  ‘Rasul—’ he began.

  ‘You think you can hit my sister?’ Rasul said, grabbing Ziad and hauling him out of his chair. He threw him to the ground, and Ziad collided with the neighbouring table, sending it flying. Crockery scattered and smashed on
the tile floor. ‘You fucking pig!’

  Rasul kicked Ziad, who groaned and tried to fend off the follow-ups. If someone didn’t intervene quickly, the man would die.

  Chapter 54

  Pearce got to his feet and put himself between the two men. He pushed Rasul back.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Rasul asked. ‘And what makes you think you can fucking touch me?’

  He swung at Pearce, who dodged the blow and grabbed the man’s left hand. He twisted Rasul’s fingers into a pressure hold and Rasul yelped and held his other hand up in submission.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ Pearce said. ‘I saw the whole thing. He was defending himself.’

  Rasul’s anger dissipated and Pearce released him.

  ‘You listen to a stranger,’ Ziad remarked, getting to his feet. ‘But you won’t even hear me out. After all we’ve been through, you go straight to your fists.’

  Rasul looked around sheepishly. ‘Enjoying the show?’ he asked, and the coffee shop patrons all looked away immediately.

  Ziad picked up the fallen table and the two men sitting at it pulled it close. ‘Let me buy you a drink,’ he said.

  ‘Balash, habibi,’ one of them said. Don’t trouble yourself, friend.

  Ziad turned to face Rasul, whose face burned with angry humiliation.

  ‘So, what happened?’

  ‘That’s how you should have started,’ Ziad said.

  ‘Don’t push your luck, Ziad,’ Rasul cautioned.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m a little shaken after being kicked half to death. Let’s have a drink and I’ll tell you what happened. My new friend can back me up.’ Ziad indicated Pearce. ‘He was there and saw the whole thing.’

  Rasul glared at Pearce.

  ‘He’s a quick man, and good with his hands,’ Ziad said.

  ‘Sorry about . . .’ Pearce looked pointedly at Rasul’s left hand, which was cradled in his right.

  ‘He’s ready to step in,’ Ziad continued, ‘and he’s brave and smart. Come on. Let’s sit and I’ll tell you everything.’

  Like a tamed beast, Rasul allowed himself to be steered towards their table, and took the seat opposite Pearce.

  ‘Where the hell is the waiter?’ he asked fiercely, before Ziad started to recount the day’s events.

  Two hours later, Rasul was back-slapping Pearce like an old friend. He’d been impressed by Pearce’s tales of military service and offered his respect when Pearce told him the reason he’d quit the army: too much time spent in the Middle East fighting his Muslim brothers. It wasn’t true, but as he’d suspected, the lie bought him currency with Rasul and the handful of men nearby who were going to great lengths to pretend they weren’t eavesdropping.

  They were all friends now. Rasul had forgiven Ziad and cursed the ancestors of his sister’s aggressive boyfriend. Ziad said he’d only gone to Essi’s office to talk to her and had been the victim of an unprovoked attack. That much was true, but Pearce doubted the man had only been there to talk to his ex-girlfriend.

  ‘Amr, my friend,’ Rasul said, ‘what kind of work would you be prepared to do?’

  Pearce shrugged. ‘I need money.’

  ‘There are some people in Delridge who’ve put the word out they’ve come into some product. Product we believe may have been stolen from us.’

  Ziad looked surprised by the revelation.

  ‘Some of our friends are going to talk to these people and see if we can get our product back,’ Rasul said.

  ‘What product?’ Pearce asked.

  ‘Do you really want to know?’ Rasul responded. ‘A courier gets paid to collect packages, not find out what’s inside them.’

  ‘And if they won’t give the product back?’

  ‘What does anyone do when they catch a thief?’

  Pearce nodded slowly. ‘Guns?’

  ‘Of course. That a problem?’

  ‘No,’ Pearce assured Rasul. He knew from years of undercover work that criminals and terrorists were some of the most trusting people in the world. Their confidence stemmed from the belief no one would be stupid enough to risk the retribution that would follow betrayal. Infiltrating the periphery of clandestine organizations was often surprisingly simple. Getting beyond the status of cannon fodder or foot soldier was another matter. But despite his experience, Pearce was surprised at the speed with which Rasul had accepted him and drawn him into a criminal enterprise. He suspected it was because Rasul was expecting a high body count. As an untested newcomer, Pearce had no doubt he’d be on the front line of whatever they had planned.

  ‘No problem at all,’ Pearce said.

  He was on the inside.

  He just had to stay alive long enough to make the most of it.

  Chapter 55

  The place stank of misery. It was an acrid stench, a blend of bleach, sweat and urine, and it assailed Brigitte the moment she woke. Her head throbbed and her surroundings spun violently. She was disoriented and apart from the pungent aroma, had no other purchase on reality. Her body was numb and distant and she was only dimly aware of the sweat that oozed from every pore. She tried to move and was immediately sick. An indistinct shape held something in front of her, and Brigitte heard watery vomit splatter against a hard surface.

  ‘I’m sorry, Chloe,’ the shape said. It took Brigitte a moment to recognize Echo Wu’s voice. ‘Try to breathe. It gets better.’

  ‘What? What gets better?’ Brigitte asked when she’d finished being sick. She felt as though she was going through the motions. It was the kind of situation in which a person should be concerned, so she’d expressed it, but she didn’t feel it. She didn’t feel much of anything, and her voice didn’t sound like her. It was thick and throaty.

  ‘The medicine,’ another voice said. It was a man.

  Brigitte looked in his direction and saw a shadow spinning in front of her.

  ‘What medicine?’ she asked. She should be puzzled. That’s how she should behave; ask questions, express interest. Find answers. But she couldn’t care less about answers. She was away in another world.

  ‘Just breathe,’ Echo told her, stroking her hair.

  Echo’s touch was gentle and pleasant, and Brigitte smiled. Or at least that’s what she thought she did. It was so hard to tell. It was as though she was in a nightmare. Maybe she was? Perhaps this was one of those vivid dreams in which she thought she’d woken, but had only stumbled into a dream within a dream. No, it felt too real, and yet somehow unreal. She had no sense of place or time. How had she got here? The meeting room at Qingdao Consumer Products was the last thing she could remember clearly. There were other moments at the edge of her memory, but she didn’t reach for them. They trailed dark, terrible tendrils and she knew if she held them she’d feel only horror.

  ‘Breathe,’ Echo said.

  It seemed like good advice, so Brigitte took a deep breath and held it. Her lungs burned and her mouth was sour with bile and vomit, but she felt better as the world settled and started to come into focus. She breathed out slowly and saw Echo seated next to her on the edge of a filthy, sodden mattress. The man who’d drugged her, the one in the dark blue Zhongshan suit, stood beside a trolley table in the corner of the small room. A large leather briefcase rested on the table. It looked like the kind a doctor might carry. The room itself had no windows and its bare concrete walls were lit by a single exposed bulb.

  ‘What medicine?’ Brigitte asked.

  ‘The medicine keeping you alive,’ the man said, and Brigitte noticed Echo’s face cloud with sadness. He stepped closer. ‘You answered our questions, Ms Duval, and your responses satisfied us you have been telling the truth. You betrayed your colleague and you don’t know who you were working for.’

  Brigitte knew she should be relieved, but she couldn’t muster the emotion. She recalled the preparation she’d done for the interrogation she’d suspected she’d face even if Wollerton hadn’t escaped. She’d used a form of self-hypnosis she’d learned in the DGSE to convince herself of the tru
th of certain lies, such as not knowing Huxley Blaine Carter was her employer. It had seemed so important at the time, but felt irrelevant now.

  ‘So we have satisfied ourselves as to your honesty,’ the man said. ‘But we need a way to guarantee your loyalty.’

  ‘What for?’ Brigitte asked.

  ‘So you can repay the two million dollars you owe us.’

  ‘I don’t owe—’

  ‘You owe us so much more,’ he cut in. ‘You owe us your life. We’re keeping you alive, Ms Duval.’

  Brigitte looked at Echo, who turned away, clearly ashamed. Echo’s expression pierced the numb fog that clouded Brigitte’s mind and fear chilled its way down her spine.

  ‘The symptoms you’re experiencing are a side effect,’ the man said, reaching into the briefcase in front of him.

  ‘Side effect?’ Brigitte asked fearfully. Her lungs were very sore.

  The man produced a medical patch from the case. ‘The body is such a complex organism. It’s comprised of so many intricate little systems. Many of which are essential to life,’ he said as he crossed the room. As he drew closer, Brigitte noticed he was wearing latex gloves. He tore the protective wrapper away from the patch, and Brigitte saw a square about the size of a playing card that looked like a black plaster. ‘These patches are comprised of three ingredients. The first, fentanyl, makes a person extremely high. The second is XTX, a genetically engineered toxin that attacks and destroys your parathyroid glands in moments.’

  Brigitte started trembling. ‘Please. Please don’t,’ she pleaded. She tried to raise her hands, but they didn’t respond.

  ‘A person cannot live without their parathyroid glands,’ the man said. He loomed over her, but all Brigitte could see was the patch. It had become her world.

  Echo would save her, Brigitte told herself. But when she looked at Echo, all she saw was a broken woman with tears in her eyes.