The Tahitian Pearl: A John Otter Novel (John Otter Novels Book 2)

by Sean Blaise

  “You’re saying the pirate attack wasn’t…”

  Mr. Clark shook his head, “I’m not saying anything about the pirate attack. Could be that it was just one of the 300 or so that affect this part of the world each year. You could have been at the wrong place at the wrong time. But there’s been chatter; and Alexi’s name was flagged. All off the grid stuff. We think something’s going on and you should too.”

  Mr. Clark fished in his jacket and approached the bed stand by John’s cot. He placed a plain white business card on the bed.

  “I’m not going to spy on the man that saved my life,” John said.

  “Nobody is asking you to, John. Just be careful and keep your eyes open. If any more unusual things happen, give me a call. I’m on your side here, John. Keep that in mind.”

  Mr. Clark turned and left the room.

  Chapter 67

  Pierre noticed his e-mail icon blinking on his laptop indicating a new message. He clicked the icon and opened the e-mail from the Chateau De Fleur, the hotel the late Mr. Dubois had been staying at before he died. It was the guest list of the hotel, as he had requested. The local police had promised to have the security videos sent to him by courier, but the mail took forever.

  He scanned the list quickly and he noticed a spattering of European names, but nothing that ignited much curiosity. It was a large and very well-known hotel. Pierre didn’t know what he expected to find. He was grasping at straws, and he knew it. He turned and waved at the office intern, a nice German kid.

  “Run these names. Background checks on my desk, in an hour,” Pierre said. “I also want the flight information for the Ville Franche airport for three days before the murder, and three after. Especially look at private planes.”

  The kid took off with the list of names. Pierre doubted anything would come from the names; but one never wanted to spit in the eye of lady luck by not looking.

  He opened a search engine and began to search for recent throat slashing or beheading victims. The list was shockingly large. People were losing their heads at an alarming rate. He placed a quotation marks after his beheading search and typed “smashed fingers” to try and narrow the search.

  He was surprised when, immediately, porn sites began flashing on the screen. Evidently, finger and head in a single search term had been flagged as smut. One of the sites looked mildly appealing to Pierre, and he involuntarily glanced over at Belinda behind her desk, still fuming about him ignoring her the other day. Maybe I have time to repair the damage, he thought. She always was so hot when upset; it usually took more than the usual number of spanks to discipline her. Pierre could feel his body responding to the thought of Belinda bent over his lap, her skirt up, and her butt cheeks getting a blush as he spanked her. Pierre picked up his cell and texted Belinda. She barely picked up her phone, her face still stoic. "The usual place?" His text asked. She looked up at him and gave him a slight nod.

  Now that Pierre had taken care of his lunch break, he scrolled down through the search results. Some man had been found in Saudi Arabia, throat slashed and beheaded by some religious nuts. Pierre looked further into the case, and they said no leads had been found. But the victim had attended some terrorist training camps in Pakistan. No doubt an internal squabble of some sort between lunatics.

  Pierre went to close the page when he decided against it. He copied the victim’s name from the Saudi Gazette article he'd been reading and pasted it back into the search engine. The same article was the first result. Pierre clicked on images to see if he could get a look at the man’s injuries. He almost threw up his morning Danish when he was greeted by the image of a man's head sitting between his own shoulder blades.

  The beheaded kid was reportedly part of a terrorist group, based in Saudi Arabia. He was believed to have been murdered by a rival group of extremists as a message. It was insane that terrorist groups had egos, and all wanted to be ranked the worst group. The article said there was some suspicion that a Sheikh Bin Souleman was behind the murder. A reclusive billionaire, he was well known to finance terrorist groups, but was never quite tied directly enough to shut him down. He had ties to the Saudi Royal family as well as deep connections in the United Arab Emirates where he resided in Dubai. Pierre kept reading articles on the Sheikh for no real reason, but he had a feeling it mattered.

  Chapter 68

  The Ivana continued on its way to Mumbai, India, for repairs. The weather continued to be calm, and Alexi had made preparations for repairing the vessel at the Indian port. Alexi was on the back deck, trying to get some sun on his pale skin when Dmitry walked out of the main salon with the satellite phone cradled in his hand. Alexi looked up, through his blue Revo sunglasses, as Dmitry held out the phone.

  "The Greek."

  Alexi grabbed the phone and spoke quickly. "I trust you have spoken to Dmitry and understand my request."

  "Alexi," came the burly voice emanating from the 350-pile of lard that was "the Greek". He was sitting at his desk, in Johannesburg, South Africa, a place he had called home for over 15 years. He was called the Greek as simple homage to his heritage. He was born in Mykonos, the infamous Greek party town, to a fisherman. His love of lamb, yogurt, and a swift coating of heavy-black body hair reaffirmed his nickname.

  "Dmitry has told me your situation, and I am truly sorry. It is a most dangerous world we live in," he said, wiping some yogurt from his jet-black beard as he pushed the empty tray away.

  "I don't want your condolences, I want answers. And you know I will get what I want."

  "My friend, Alexi, we have been together for a very long time. I know you and I have a healthy respect for you."

  "We hired this man, Abdul, before. You were the person who recommended him to us. Now he attacks us?" Alexi said ignoring the Greek. "Was he still on your contact list? Have you hired him out again? Name your price and give me what I want."

  "My friend, I cannot. Confidentiality is my only commodity. If I gave you the information you seek, you would then have to ask yourself, who else would I give information to for a price? And at what cost to you? You would have to ask yourself, what do I know about you and your various forays into what the law would see as very grey areas. You have used my services many times, Alexi. You sleep well at night because you know I am a sealed vault. No one will ever know the things you have done, or anyone else who has asked for my services. I'm sorry, but you must understand my policy."

  There was a dead tone on the other end of the phone as the Greek hung up. Alexi screamed in fury and flung the phone across the deck. Dmitry turned after the phone, as Alexi walked back and forth in front of the deck.

  "Apparently it wasn’t a random attack against me. How dare he not give me the information I want."

  Dmitry stooped and picked up the phone. "Alexi, you don't know that."

  Alexi stopped and looked at Dmitry. His eyes were red hot again, and Dmitry took a nervous gulp. It was twice in as many days that he had seen his old friend's rage again. They had been through many trials before, but lately Alexi was looking more and more like the anger fueled fighter he once was.

  Alexi tried to calm himself and sat down on the wicker chair. He picked up his Mojito and took a sip. Dmitry turned to head back inside.

  "Wait," Alexi said. Dmitry turned around and saw Alexi with a rare smile on his face. His mood swings were getting worrisome.

  "We may not be able to get the Greek to give up the information about Abdul, but we know someone else who can get it."

  Dmitry looked confused.

  "Call back this Inspector Pierre at Interpol and tell him we have a picture of our attacker. Let us see what he can drum up on Mr. Abdul for us," Alexi said.

  Chapter 69

  The Sheikh received the call he had been waiting for. He couldn't believe his luck. The ship Tsung Tao was headed directly into his own backyard in Dubai. If, as he suspected, Abdul was still alive, he had to be on that ship since no others had passed near where Abdul was supposed to be picked up b
y Angel during the time frame in question. Probably some merchant seamen picked up Abdul thinking he was a poor fisherman. Either way, he had made arrangements for a team in Dubai to be ready to board the vessel once it got in. He still needed answers. His friend in the Dubai police had arranged for the necessary uniforms and paid off guards so that his team would have no issues entering the port and boarding the vessel.

  The phone rang and, since it hadn't been patched in by his secretary, the Sheikh knew it was a very select group of people who could call him direct.

  "We might have a bit of a problem," the Greek said.

  "What is that?" the Sheikh asked.

  "You didn't tell me you were going after Alexi Popovich."

  "It is none of your business what I do with my men. I asked you for an operator and you gave me one."

  "You didn't tell me you were going after another client of mine. And because I didn't know that, I gave you Abdul. The problem is, Abdul has a history with Alexi. He hired him for a job 5 years ago."

  "What! How?"

  "Abdul is my best Middle East man, so I give him only to top clients. Now he has been sent after a former employer. And Alexi has identified him."

  "You fool. How could you have made such a mistake?"

  The Greek began breaking out in a sweat. "First of all, had I known you were going after Alexi Popovich I would never have worked with you. He is a very dangerous man."

  "I'm not afraid of the infidel. Wait a moment, how did he identify him?" The Sheikh suddenly realized that Alexi must have seen Abdul. There was a real possibility Abdul was telling the truth after all.

  "I refused to give them any information, confidentiality and all," the Greek said.

  The Sheikh said nothing in response.

  "I promise no more mistakes." the Greek stammered.

  The phone line went dead. The Greek laid the phone back in its cradle and wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaky hand. That was more than enough stress for the day. He packed his briefcase and headed for the door. The Greek drove five miles up the road and stopped at his favorite diner. The sun settled slowly over the ocean, and he had three plates of Greek food. The stuffed grape leaves were divine and although he ate them every day, his love for food was deep. He washed down the food with two large glasses of beer and stared at the ocean.

  He also knew Alexi, and he knew that if he ever found out that the Greek had crossed him, the Greek would only see Dmitry's shadow as he pulled the trigger. He sighed and enjoyed the simple pleasure he had in the moment. He knew it would come to this. He would get through it though, he thought, as he took the last swig of his beer. He always did.

  Two hours later he placed the tip on the table and made his way to his car parked on the restaurant’s side road. He saw a wiry black man walk towards him and it gave him no cause for concern. It was, after all, South Africa, but he was in a good neighborhood. He struggled with keys in the semi-darkness when he noticed the man had stopped. He looked up just in time to see the machete coming down hard on his face.

  South African police found the Greek two hours later when the diner owner took out the trash. The Greek had been robbed and murdered with a machete. His body lay opened by the machete blade like a cow at a slaughterhouse.

  Back in Dubai, the Sheikh relaxed as he pulled a date out of the gold tray on his desk and popped it into his mouth. It was amazing what 500 dollars would buy you in Africa, he thought. One infidel down, 5 billion to go.

  Chapter 70

  John's flight landed in Berlin early the following day. He was exhausted. A brand-new looking ambulance had pulled up directly to the plane with a full medical team, a doctor included. John waved thanks to the medical team that had accompanied him from the navy ship and was wheeled into the ambulance.

  The hospital in Berlin was starkly different from his quarters on board the aircraft carrier Enterprise. Gone was the simple navy efficiency. It was replaced by a plush hospital suite, better than most of the hotels he had ever stayed in. Alexi was pulling out all the stops. He felt a little guilty, knowing that it was probably costing Alexi an arm and a leg. But John reasoned that he had saved Alexi's life and the least he could do was let the two masseuses work out the kinks in his legs.

  John had apparently dozed off when he was awoken by a woman's voice. "Mr. Otter. Mr. Otter." He woke up to see a middle-aged woman with wire rimmed glasses and a note pad. Reporter.

  "Yes?" He said sitting up. His feet felt wonderfully cool, and the room smelled like cucumber. The girls rubbing his legs and feet had probably left him alone once he had started to snore.

  "Sandra O’Connor, New York Times."

  "How did you get in my room?" John said.

  “It was open, did you not…” Sandra began.

  “No thank you. No comment,” John said interrupting her.

  The phone in his room rang suddenly, and John waved Sandra out. But she didn't budge. It was almost as if she had been waiting for him to refuse.

  "Hello?" John asked into the receiver.

  "John, how are you feeling?" Alexi asked.

  John felt nervous for some reason. The man he had considered a friend, and a mentor, a father figure just days ago, now was an enigma to him. He didn't know how to act.

  "I'm fine, really. This hospital, it's too much."

  "My friend, it is just the beginning. I will not forget what you did for me, and everyone on board. The hospital is nothing, all covered by your insurance. Please enjoy, and rest. I need you back soon."

  "Oh really? Is everything alright, sir?"

  "Yes, John, but the crew needs you." There was a pause. "I need you onboard, John. We will not be in Mumbai for 3 days. Rest until then."

  "Mumbai?" John asked looking over at the reporter lady who still had not moved. He gave her a cold look, but she only smiled sweetly. Waiting.

  "For repairs. The Jet drive controls need to be replaced. Plus, I have the other helicopter on its way to meet us. We must have it before the search begins."

  John thought about it. He wanted to ask for time off, but he had already spent a year of his life preparing to look for the Pearl. It was his dream. He loved his job. It was just a pirate attack, he told himself. But no matter what, he did he couldn't get Mr. Clark's words out of his mind. He had been infected with the seed of doubt about Alexi, and it was eating him up inside. He had to find the truth. He wanted to believe in Alexi. He knew that for some reason he needed to believe in him.

  "Very well, sir. I will meet you in Mumbai then?"

  "Yes, John, I have arranged everything. Ingrid will call you with the travel plans."

  Dmitry, the gun on board. So many questions John wanted answers too. "Sir…." John began.

  "John, not on the phone. In Mumbai, we can talk."

  "Ok, sir. See you in Mumbai."

  "Good, John, rest well. The doctors say you will make a full recovery."

  "Thank you, sir."

  “And, John, there will be a reporter coming to speak with you. She will take down your story and publish it. There has been some coverage of the attack. She will make sure the story is told correctly. You are a hero; you deserve the praise. Tell her everything, and only her. The sooner we get you in and out of the spotlight the better.”

  “Her name isn’t Sandra, is it?” John asked looking over at the reporter lady who had taken out a recorder and pulled up a seat with a smile.

  “That’s her. Speak to you soon.” And the phone clicked off. John hung it up and turned toward the reporter. She pulled out her pad and pulled her chair in close.

  “Where were we, John?” she said with a smile that said I told you so.

  Chapter 71

  Pierre was shocked when he was called by Dmitry. The photograph of the man called Abdul had arrived by email a few minutes before the call ended. Dmitry had claimed that the yacht’s security cameras had captured the photograph of the man. Pierre found the story highly implausible, but it didn’t matter. It was a lead, and he desperately nee
ded one. Alexi was cooperating, but Dmitry had made it clear that any information Pierre discovered on Abdul would be expected to be passed on to Dmitry immediately. Pierre had a hunch Mr. Dubois death and the pirate attack were related. Clearly, Alexi thought that too.

  Pierre ran a facial recognition search of Abdul through the Interpol database and discovered a military file from the Egyptian Army. He placed calls to the local authorities in Egypt asking for information on the man in the photos and was sent over a pretty marginal dossier on the man known as Abdul. One thing was apparent immediately to Pierre, the pirate attack was a sham.

  The man, whose full name was Abdullah Nasser, but who sometimes went by Walid, was a hired gun. Former Egyptian special forces, he was Nigerian born but immigrated to Egypt. His military records were sealed and were irrelevant. The fact that they were sealed said enough about his skill set. Mr. Abdul had an extensive history of mercenary jobs but was never convicted. He was believed to be a gun for hire, with suspected ties to a well-known Black-ops facilitator in South Africa. A man called the Greek.

  Abdul’s travel records showed him traveling various times throughout the Middle East and Europe, and there were various cases of murder for hire that occurred in those areas at nearly identical times. Again, nothing was ever proven. Pierre didn’t know if it was the ineptitude of the Egyptian police that a man like Abdul was never caught, or a result of well-placed bribes to the local police. He assumed it was a combination of both.

  Abdul owned a shop in Egypt. Electronics, seemed to be legit, but was probably a front. He also had houses in London and France. He clearly was spending his ill-gotten gains. He loved women, booze, and was a terrible Muslim according to the man in the Egyptian police who spoke to Pierre. The police captain seemed more offended by Abdul’s lack of religious observance than the fact that the man was clearly killing people for money. Priorities, Pierre thought.