First Thrill

by Steve Richer

Jeff didn’t need him to acknowledge. Iddon would be able to disarm the device with this new information, he was sure of it.

  They drove to the hotel where they had stashed the president’s son. Everything had gone according to plan, even if they had made up the plan as they went along. A man had been shot, but even accounting for the wounded the mission was a success.

  The location of Curaçao had been strategic for all parties involved. It had been a chance for the terrorists to claim an international incident which would lend credibility to their cause.

  By intervening here, the JTF2 unit could argue that they trusted the able Venezuelan forces to handle the matter, but since it had happened abroad and that they had been involved in the situation since the beginning, it was easier for them to act alone.

  Everyone would know it was bullshit, but diplomacy would call for them to ignore the truth. It was like those punk kids with squeegees who cleaned windshields on street corners. They cleaned it without being asked to and expected to be paid for it. And people paid.

  They reached Hotel Kura Hulanda and joined the others in a suite. The Venezuelan leader’s son had been explained the situation and he was surprisingly composed. His bodyguard had asked more questions, but he had also cooperated. Iddon had briefed Jeff on what to say to him.

  “We apologize for this intervention, but the Canadian government thought it was its duty to help the interest of such an important commercial partner.”

  The kid was twenty and he would surely pick up what Jeff was laying down. He wondered why they had bothered to sneak in incognito if they were to announce their presence to the world, though. Politics, Jeff reminded himself.

  “I thank you on behalf of my father, my country, and myself. You will be rewarded with the greatest honors, all of you.”

  “There’s no need for that, just remember who did it.” Iddon’s words again. Jeff would have taken the medals had it been his call. “The man behind it all is with one of my men outside. We believe he is a member of the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia of which I’m sure you’re well acquainted.”

  “Yes, quite.”

  “I’m sure your guys will want to seriously interrogate him. We have people in Ottawa who will talk to the Dutch about extraditing Morales to Venezuela, even if your country isn’t signatory of the treaty. We’ll tell them the Curaçao cops can take credit for what happened tonight.”

  Captain Iddon called minutes later to inform his troops that the bombs had been deactivated. The lieutenant and his colleague had surveyed the hull of the ship and had discovered other devices astern. Now everything was under control. They gathered the explosives and convened they would blow them up once they reached international waters.

  Jeff could barely believe it. It was really over and he couldn’t wait to be with Chasey again.

  AUGUST 16

  FRIDAY

  Chapter 65

  Colonel Jacquier had everything in place and was ready to strike.

  Ledoux had tickets for the Bahamas and the plane left in less than an hour. In a matter of minutes, the case would be closed, at least on his part. It would now be a judicial issue which meant men even more dangerous and ruthless than he was would finish off Ledoux. He laughed at that.

  To think that the ball had been set in motion by a piece of information a foreign country had provided for them. Could he still get credit? No, even if he had had his people film Ledoux, he wouldn’t have been able to claim the kill. Everything had been shuffled over to the police and they were the ones who were going to get the medals.

  It was in moments like these that he hated having a desk job. There was nothing worse than waiting in an office. At least during a stakeout, there was the possibility of something happening. But not now.

  His job consisted of reading reports from his officers and writing reports for his superiors. He dialed an overseas number. It took two minutes for Bellamy to get on the line.

  “Colonel Jacquier of the DGSE, how do you do?”

  Bellamy recognized the voice of the man who had asked him to spy on the minister a few weeks ago. His accent betrayed the fact he had learned the language in Great Britain.

  “Not bad,” he lied. His case wasn’t yet closed, there were still loose ends, and that made it a big problem. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just want to thank you for the fine work your people did. We were able to build an interesting file on Ledoux. The barristers tell me the trial will be like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  “When are you planning to make the arrest?” There was anxiety in Bellamy’s voice.

  “In a matter of minutes. I have men at the airport as we speak, they are assisting the police.”

  Bellamy’s heart raced. He couldn’t let that happen. “No, you can’t arrest him today. You cannot!”

  “I beg your pardon? What are you talking about?”

  “As luck would have it, we discovered Ledoux was mixed in a bigger deal than simple bribery. Don’t apprehend him now. It could endanger our case if you did.”

  “Sir, Ledoux is a criminal and he must be arrested.”

  “Look, Ledoux is mixed up with terrorists, okay? Did you even ask yourself why he would need that bribe money for anyway? He was funding this operation of which I’m not at liberty to discuss. The leader has evaded us and we believe that by taking Ledoux, you may be taking away the only chance we have of tracking him down.”

  “D’accord, I understand. I’ll do my best to try to reach my men in time.”

  He hung up. It wasn’t his problem. If that so-called leader had evaded them, it was because they hadn’t been prepared adequately. He couldn’t jeopardize his case for someone else’s incompetence.

  He could have hit the third speed dial in which he had programmed his agents’ number to tell them to back off. Instead, he stood up and walked down to the cafeteria to get a cup of tea, another thing the Brits had taught him.

  Paddy Wilson had the weekend off. Being part of the SAS was very rewarding, but no soldier in the elite force ever turned down a vacation.

  For the last two weeks he had returned to his daily training and he wasn’t quite sure if he still wished to be sent on a mission. Being in a combat situation was hell on the nerves and no amount of ale had hindered it. At least the next time he would know what to expect. He hoped.

  He was spending the weekend in London and he couldn’t wait for his girlfriend to appear. She was a high-power executive in a financial house and she had refused to move to Credenhill. They talked every night and saw each other every chance they got, but Paddy wondered if it was enough.

  They were still young and he looked forward to starting a family someday, to get married. It couldn’t be done over the telephone, could it? He knew for it to work he would have to quit the SAS sooner or later, and he was prepared to do it, only not just now. They were both consumed by their work and as long as it remained that way there would be no arguments.

  Once known as the Devil’s Tavern, where smugglers and scoundrels met, Prospect of Whitby was one of London’s most famous pubs. It had kept its 17th century figure with the flagstone floor, timber beams, and barrels.

  Paddy was on the elevated terrace, sitting on the iron garden chair. He was looking down at the Thames and at the hangman’s noose that stood as a reminder of the days of Hanging Judge Jeffreys. The place was filling up nicely and Paddy congratulated himself for ordering two pints. The waiters would be swamped and swift service would be hard to come by. He began drinking the second one.

  Then he saw it.

  A man whose features he couldn’t identify dropped a satchel a hundred yards to his right, on the pier where the noose stood.

  At first he dismissed it as a tourist being forgetful. But then he noticed how fast the man was walking away. There had been so many attacks by the IRA, so many bombs that had exploded in and around London, that he couldn’t brush it aside. The IRA may have declared peace, but it still had members who had scores to settle.
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  And then a more somber thought crossed his mind. MI5 had briefed them that the Front Environnemental Européen had threatened NATO countries that it would retaliate for the loss of their comrades.

  Wasn’t today the last day of their ultimatum? Wasn’t it the UK who was responsible for defusing the situation on the cargo vessel?

  But why would a bomb be set off here? What was the significance? It was a quiet part of the city. Paddy looked around and understood.

  Old warehouses had been converted into upscale apartments. What could be more symbolic than destroying a London landmark and some of its wealthiest citizens?

  Paddy went back inside and ran to the publican. “Call the bobbies and then tell people there’s fire or something.”

  “Are you bloody mad?”

  “There’s a bomb not a hundred yards away. We can leave it as it is and see this pub go out with a bang, or you can do what I fucking tell you.”

  He knew he should have orchestrated the evacuation himself, but he also knew the bomb had to be dealt with quickly. Waiting for bomb technicians could mean the destruction of his favorite bar.

  He left the Prospect of Whitby and headed west on Wapping Wall. He ran toward the pier and saw the satchel was still there. It was bigger than he had initially thought. It reminded him of his army duffel bag when he went out on maneuvers.

  He climbed to the wooden pier and took hold of the bag. He considered he could be making a mistake, but the worst-case scenario would have him obliterating a tourist’s traveling gear. He could live with that.

  He grabbed the heavy satchel and with all his might he hurled it into the Thames. The gesture required him to rotate his body like a decathlete during the discus throw.

  Paddy lost his footing!

  He didn’t see the bag fall into the water. He was falling forward into the river. Instinctively, he reached for the rope. His hands painfully slid down until he was able to hold on to the noose. His feet were in the water and he began pulling himself up. He wondered how much time he had.

  If he had concentrated on evacuating the buildings, he at least would have been able to run. He was high enough now to put his foot in the loop which accelerated his climb. He leaned forward and was able to put his upper body onto the pier.

  The noose was hanging quite far from the pier and it was a strenuous effort. He wished he hadn’t had so much beer. He was dragging himself up with his hands now, being oblivious to splinters.

  He hadn’t seen that the bag hadn’t completely sunk. It was still bobbing on the surface when it exploded.

  Paddy had just enough time to pull his legs up. But the firewall raced toward him. The blast ripped the pier apart and lifted a slab of wood in the air with the young SAS soldier on top of it.

  It crash-landed against the wall of a nearby building, crushing Paddy in the middle. The pain was excruciating and he felt something crack in his back.

  He lost consciousness when his body fell back into the water. When he woke up several hours later, he would wish he were dead, that he had been killed by his own foolish act, not caring about how many lives he had saved.

  He would scream at the doctors when they would tell him he was paralyzed and it would take him some time to realize that these few seconds would cement his destiny. He would dedicate his life to bringing these Front Environnemental Européen terrorists to justice any way he could.

  He had succeeded once, on the ship, and by God he would do it again.

  Chapter 66

  Jeff was positively drained, physically and emotionally.

  He had been on the move for the last twenty hours. HMCS Windsor had sailed to St. George’s, Grenada where the JTF2 unit had disembarked, along with Jeff. A British West Indian Airlines plane had taken them to Miami. Air Canada brought them back to Ottawa. He couldn’t wait to crash on his bed for a deep, long sleep.

  But he was also thirsty as he walked into his apartment. The salty peanuts he had eaten on the aircraft were getting to him. His mouth was dry and for the last half hour he had tried squeezing saliva out of his tongue.

  Before even turning on the TV, he went directly to the refrigerator and got some water. He drank straight from the bottle and left the fridge door open to cool his body. Something caught his attention. The light emanating from the appliance outlined a shadow on the kitchen table.

  He set the water down on the counter and closed the refrigerator door. He flipped the light switch and gazed upon what had been left on his table. He was growing nervous from the implication. Somebody had been in his home.

  Why?

  Struggling to control his breathing, he picked up the two Polaroids from the table and it was as if he had been punched in the gut with brass knuckles, by the heavyweight champion of the world.

  He recognized his parents in spite of the duct tape over their mouths. Each had a picture dedicated to them. Their hands were tied behind them and their feet were taped to the legs of their chair. There was a note with a key glued behind.

  Bring the video you made of the prototype and its hiding place to the Canada Post building at 9 Laurier in Hull. Alone. Use the Key.

  Jeff couldn’t believe what he read. Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps he had been so tired that he had fallen asleep and slipped into this freakishly real nightmare. He would soon wake up and find himself back on the plane.

  But no. It was all real. Surreal, but genuine. He was stunned, paralyzed. How could that motherfucker have involved his parents in this? He read the note three more times to make sure he wasn’t imagining things. He wasn’t.

  Paralysis became wrath.

  He had the CD. He had stashed it in his apartment since Hingle could still have people working for him at CSE and they couldn’t risk it falling into the hands of a mole. Looking at his parents being held captive, there was no question that he would do as instructed.

  The current dilemma was whether or not he should call Bellamy. It would be the logical thing to do. The exchange could be done under police protection and perhaps they would be able to locate Hingle and extract his parents.

  But what if Hingle expected that? Wouldn’t he have the expertise to evade the authorities? What would he do to his parents?

  Everything he had learned about Hingle led to one conclusion. He wouldn’t hesitate one second to kill his parents. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

  No, Jeff decided. He couldn’t take the chance. He would do this alone. Once Hingle had the CD, there wouldn’t be any reason for him to be violent. There wouldn’t be any proof of his wrongdoings and he would be able to leave the country. With the prototype.

  But doing it alone was the key.

  He pocketed what had been left for him on the table and went to his CD collection. He pulled out the Best of Motown. The disc had remained in the stereo and what took its place in the case was the CD-R he had burned the video on.

  He then rushed over to his bedroom and got the Glock from his closet, checking that it was fully loaded. He would certainly find a use for it. He was prepared to go to great lengths tonight.

  His Geo Tracker was still in the shop – maybe it was ready, he hadn’t had the time to verify – so he grabbed the keys to Harker’s rental which he still had in his possession.

  He drove off, crossing the bridge into Quebec, and arrived in downtown Hull half an hour later. He walked into the post office. It was deserted save for rows of shiny mailboxes.

  He produced the key and jogged to box 6538, his heart racing. A part of him expected to find a severed ear or something. He wiped the palm of his hands on his pants before reminding himself that there was no time to spare.

  He held his breath as he opened the mailbox. All he found inside was another note with the same handwriting. It directed him to the Queen Elizabeth Hotel in Montreal.

  Jeff didn’t usually drive fast, but tonight was an exception.

  His parents couldn’t wait any longer. How long ago had they been kidnapped? He had been away from home for t
he last sixty hours. He knew what it was like to be held against one’s will. The fear, the hunger, the questions that were never answered.

  His parents certainly didn’t deserve it. He tried to take his mind off the situation by thinking about all the good times he’d had in their company. It was Christmases that he remembered the most.

  They would put the gifts under the tree a week prior to the event, to build his expectations and excitement. He could always look at his presents, but he could never touch them. And on Christmas morning he still couldn’t touch them either.

  Even if they had gone to bed late because of family gatherings, Jeff always rose early. He would wait by the tree until his parents got up. He wanted to see the look on their faces as they opened their own presents.

  When they did show up, usually an hour later, his father would insist on having breakfast first. And it wasn’t just coffee and toast. It was a huge breakfast consisting of eggs, pancakes, sausages, ham, headcheese, and the occasional waffles. In spite of his mother’s disapproving, his father took pleasure in making Jeff languish, in watching him barely nibbling on his cereal.

  He had thousands of good memories of them and didn’t know why this one stuck out particularly. It appeared to him that maybe all he would have left in a few hours would be memories. He wasn’t acting rationally, going after Hingle by himself. There was a chance his parents would be killed.

  There was a chance that he would die too.

  It took him an hour and a half to get to Montreal. He parked on the curb in front of the Queen Elizabeth, just another high-rise among others. It was here that his high school prom had taken place ten years ago, but he didn’t even think about that.

  The lobby was busy and he recognized a couple of professional female tennis players although they were dressed for going out, not to play. He remembered the city was hosting a big tournament this week.

  Only a few days ago, he would have been excited about this. He might even have gone over to ask for their autographs. That seemed like such a long time ago from now. It was so trivial. He jogged to the front desk.