“Farooq is dead,” Chandhri blurted.
“Dead?” Mohammad exclaimed, drawing a glance from Al-Tashid. “How? An accident?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Chandrhi replied. “I think someone killed him.”
“How?” asked Mohammad. “Calm down and tell me what is going on.”
“We worked this morning,” said Chandhri. “When we finished the job at noon, the boss said he was giving us the afternoon off so we could have a longer weekend. Tomorrow is a holiday and—”
“I know tomorrow is a holiday,” Mohammad interrupted. “Tell me what happened.”
“We had used my car today,” Chandhri continued, “So I drove Farooq home and then went home myself. Shortly after I got there, Farooq sent me a text saying he was in trouble and asking I come help him.”
“What kind of trouble?” asked Mohammad.
“I don’t know,” Chandhri replied. “I texted back asking that very question but he did not answer. I then called him but it went to his voicemail so I drove here. I have a key but the door was unlocked so I entered and found him dead on the floor, naked with only a towel.”
“Was he bleeding?” Mohammad questioned. “Has he been stabbed or shot?”
“No, no blood,” said Chandhri, “But his face is deformed as if he was hit very hard. His nose is pushed in.”
“Where are you now?” asked Mohammad.
“I am still in Farooq’s apartment,” Chandhri replied. “What should I do?”
“Call the police,” Mohammad advised.
“Do you think that is a good idea?” asked Chandhri, clearly uneasy. “They were questioning us both the other day. This may make them more suspicious.”
“Their questioning was a formality. They will be even more suspicious if they find out you were there and did not call them,” said Mohammad. “What is the condition of the apartment?”
“It is messy,” Chandhri replied. “Not at all how Farooq keeps it. Drawers and cupboards are open in the kitchen and clothes are scattered around in the bedroom.”
“Can you tell if anything is missing?” asked Mohammad.
“His laptop and tablet are gone,” said Chandhri. “They are always in the living room. I cannot see his phone either. Should I look for them?”
“No, leave everything as it is,” Mohammad ordered. “It seems like a robbery that went wrong. Call the police, cooperate with them fully and we will talk later this evening or tomorrow.”
He ended the call and turned to Al-Tashid as they continued their stroll. “I’m sorry for the interruption.”
“You are taking risks using common cell phones for obviously sensitive communications,” said Al-Tashid, ignoring the apology. “Have I not made a secure network available for your group’s use?”
“Uh, yes you have,” Mohammad replied, thinking quickly. “A few, including this particular caller, do not have access yet so we are still using disposable phones for now.”
He had no intention of admitting that the secure communication app had only been installed on the now deceased Farooq’s tablet to date.
“Who is dead?” asked Al-Tashid, moving on.
Mohammad sighed and replied, “One of my more promising recruits.”
“Who might have killed him?”
“As you likely heard me say, it was no doubt a robbery that went wrong,” said Mohammad.
Al-Tashid stopped and gazed at Mohammad. “Your quickness to jump to such a conclusion disappoints me. It can be very dangerous to blindly base oneself on casual assumptions and consider them as fact.”
“I have considered nothing as fact,” Mohammad retorted, “And, yes, I recognize this death could be related to something other than a robbery. I was simply advising Tariq, another worthy recruit who found the body, how best to handle the situation based on the information he supplied to me.”
“Very well,” said Al-Tashid as they resumed their walk. “What other possibilities can you think of which might have resulted in this killing?”
“Nothing comes to mind,” Mohammad replied. “Neither Farooq nor Tariq have been involved in any activity which could attract any trouble or put them in danger.”
“And yet, this Farooq is dead,” Al-Tashid mused. “Tell me, why were they questioned by the police?”
Mohammad paused in surprise before saying. “You certainly pick up much information from one side of a conversation.”
“It pays to be perceptive,” Al-Tashid replied then added, “And you certainly weren’t speaking in code. What were they questioned about?”
“They knew both men involved in Saturday’s attack,” Mohammad explained with reluctance. “Their numbers were found on Bhatti’s phone so the RCMP paid them a visit. It was strictly a formality, part of the investigation and a waste of time since Farooq and Tariq were not involved.”
Al-Tashid nodded then said, “Strictly a formality? You might consider that Farooq perhaps died during a second round of questioning.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mohammad scoffed. “We are talking about the police in Canada, not in South Africa or Brazil.”
“Your naivety surprises me,” said Al-Tashid. “Do you really believe the Canadian authorities would not be willing to use violence in order to get answers about last Saturday?”
“You should not confuse logic with naivety,” Mohammad retorted. “Of course, the RCMP, or CSIS, could likely resort to torture to extract desired information. I simply credit them with having more intelligence than to perform such interrogations in a multi-unit residential building.”
“You may have a point,” Al-Tashid conceded after a moment. “But I have never been fond of coincidence. I urge you and your recruits, especially this Tariq, to exercise caution in the coming weeks.”
“There is little to worry about with Tariq,” said Mohammad, “As he was not involved in or aware of the airbase attack, nor were any details shared with him subsequently. The same is true for Farooq.”
“However, both were aware of you,” Al-Tashid countered. “Information obtained from either could lead the authorities to your doorstep.”
Mohammad smiled as he shook his head. “All of my recruits are aware only of Mohammad Azim Syed who, as you know, does not really exist.”
“Nevertheless, until we are certain this Farooq’s death was not related to the airbase investigation, it is best to remain dormant,” said Al-Tashid. “You mentioned other targets you had in mind. Do not plan any attacks until we are certain they can be successfully accomplished.”
“But the targets I have in mind relate to specific scheduled events,” Mohammad argued. “Summer is festival season. We will miss tremendous opportunities by delaying any plans.”
“You still have much to learn about this new world you have entered,” said Al-Tashid, his tone that of a wise man addressing a guileless child. “It is better to lose an opportunity than to fail at one’s quest. Be patient for there will be countless other occasions.”
“But the time is now,” Mohammed insisted in angry frustration. “I wish to hit them again while they are still reeling from last Saturday’s attack.”
Al-Tashid shook his head. “You will wait and postpone any planned activities until I say otherwise.”
* * * *
Montreal, Quebec, 2:56 p.m.
“Hey, Jon,” said Nick Sharp as he connected to the video call. “Any good news for me?”
“Not quite,” Jonathan replied, shaking his head. “I screwed up.”
“Rare words coming from the great Addley,” said Sharp with a smile. “What did you do?”
“I killed Farooq Qureshi.”
“You what?” Sharp exclaimed. “What happened?”
“Leslie and I paid him a visit,” Jonathan explained. “The little prick spit in my face and I punched him, too hard.”
“Crap,” Sharp muttered. “How are you dealing with this?”
“We texted Chandhri on Qureshi’s phone and made it look like a B & E,” Jonathan repli
ed. “He came over, found the body, called someone then called the police who are there now. We have cameras and mikes installed so Les and Dave are keeping an eye on what’s going on.”
“Do you know who Chandhri called before the cops?” asked Sharp.
“Not yet,” said Jonathan. “Chris is working on it.”
“Did you get anything useful from Qureshi?”
“His phone, a tablet and a laptop,” said Jonathan. “I’m hoping we find something worthwhile on them.”
“Let me know,” said Sharp. “Are you okay with this?”
“I’m kind of annoyed with myself,” Jonathan admitted, “But, yeah, I’m okay with it. Sorry.”
Sharp shrugged. “It’s done. Do you need me to do anything from my end?”
“We’ve got it covered for now,” said Jonathan. “We didn’t see anyone around so I’m hoping nobody saw us either.”
A knock on the door followed by Chris entering interrupted their conversation.
“Chris is joining us,” Jonathan informed Sharp.
“Hi, Nick,” said Chris as he pulled up a chair next to Jonathan. “It’s not much for now but I have some information about the call Chandhri made. The number is one of the unidentified ones on Bhatti’s phone and I found it on Qureshi’s phone too with the name or initials MAS. It’s a burner phone from MicroFone and the call this afternoon went to New York City. What’s interesting is other calls made to the number since it was activated two weeks ago were received here in Montreal as well as Toronto, Ottawa and, just a couple days before the airbase attack, Kingston.”
“I won’t ask how you got that information so quickly,” Sharp commented.
“We just peeked at some call records and stuff,” Chris replied with a wink. “I’m digging for more and we’ll know where future calls are landing. I just hope whoever this is hangs on to the phone for a while.”
“Anything on the tablet or laptop?” asked Jonathan.
“I’ll be attacking those next,” Chris replied as he rose to his feet, “Right after I give Ben a call.”
“Before you go, Chris,” said Sharp, “Any progress on the emails sent by the AFI?”
“That’s what my call is about,” Chris explained. “Ben’s a consultant who’s been working on it.”
“Well, hell,” Sharp exclaimed. “Stop with the chit-chat and go make that call.”
“Just don’t be getting your hopes up too much,” Chris warned as he left the room.
* * * *
Aboard the Junior III near Playa de Carmen, Mexico, 3:02 p.m.
A boating aficionado since his teens, Ben Fredricks had acquired his first craft, a fifteen year old Cheetah 16, at the age of twenty. A couple of other motor boats had followed before he and his wife, Cora, had moved into the yachting world and bought Junior I, a thirty-six foot Monterey cruiser. A few years later, Ben had seen a fifty-one foot Marquis 500 moored at a marina they were visiting and soon after, Junior II was born.
Following his difficult but successful battle with cancer and subsequent decision to get the most out of life, he and Cora had set out to find Junior III. They had settled on a Fairline Squadron 78, an eighty foot custom yacht, as their new home. Since Ben intended to take on the occasional job, the front stateroom had been transformed into a cutting edge computer and communications lab which he affectionately called ‘Control Central’. From this cabin, he could not only tackle whatever complex mandates which were thrown at him, he could also pilot his ship via a computer programme he had developed. Strategically placed cameras on-deck and panoramic windows set in the hull on either side right to the bow provided all the visibility required.
With the yacht anchored a mile or so offshore, Ben gazed through the expanse of glass, smiling as Cora zoomed by on the Jet Ski, waving as she went. One of his computer’s pinged and he headed to it, dropping into his swivel chair before tapping on screen to take the video call.
“You’re two minutes late,” he snarled in way of greeting.
“And you’re going to bill me for it, you cheap bastard,” Chris snapped back with a grin, “So, bite me.”
Ben laughed and said, “I hate the arrogance of you government types.”
“But you love those huge tax-free payments we give you,” Chris countered.
“You’ve got me there,” Ben admitted. “How’s it going, buddy?”
“All good on the personal side,” Chris replied, “But a bunch of us are annoyed with this airbase attack. Do you have a name and address for me?”
“Best I can do is confirm what you already know,” said Ben. “Those emails bounced all over the planet before getting where they were going. Unfortunately, I haven’t managed to find where they were sent from but I’m still at it. On a positive note, if I can call it that, I recognized fingerprints in the network architecture I’ve seen with other mandates recently assigned to me. The State of Islam claimed responsibility on those so I’d put money down that your AFI is associated to them.”
Chris sighed and said, “Good to know we’re not dealing with amateurs.”
“They aren’t dealing with amateurs either,” Ben replied. “Is there anything else I can work on while my machines keep digging? I’m staying out of the sun and looking for something to do.”
“In fact, there is,” said Chris. “We came across a laptop and an iPad today which I was about to get to but you can mess with them if you want.”
Ben gave a thumbs up and said “Awesome. Plug those babies in for me and I’ll tear them apart.”
* * * *
Nuns’ Island, Montreal, Quebec, 10:27 p.m.
Needing a break after another long, difficult and frustrating day, Chris and Jonathan had headed to the Barrys’ pied-à-terre in Montreal, a penthouse condominium on Nun’s Island, to spend an hour or two with their wives. However, upon their arrival, they had quickly learned that Sandy and Josée had decided their husbands would not be working later that evening. Rather, they would be going out for dinner at a nearby Italian place they enjoyed where Sandy had thoughtfully made reservations for eight o’clock. Being intelligent men, Chris and Jonathan had willingly agreed to their wives’ plans.
“So, you boys didn't seem to regret taking some time out of your busy schedule,” Josée teased as they left the restaurant and sauntered across the vast parking lot, heading to the car.
“They certainly seemed to enjoy the food,” Sandy agreed.
“We enjoyed the company more,” said Jonathan.
“Suck up,” Josée replied, pausing to peck him on the cheek.
“You betcha, baby,” Jonathan confirmed, turning to hug his wife.
“Something's going on,” Chris interrupted, stopping as he took Sandy's arm and pulled her closer.
With Josée still in his arms, Jonathan twirled full circle and murmured, “I think you’re right.”
“What?” Sandy asked softly, well familiar with the 'danger radar' her husband and Jon possessed.
“Four guys spread out ahead, moving in on us,” said Chris.
“Two more coming in from behind to our left,” Jonathan added, him and Josée now facing the Barrys, seeming simply like two couples having a conversation.
“Why do these people do this crap?” muttered Josée, casually eyeing a couple of the slowly approaching young men.
“Because they're morons,” Chris replied. “So, how are we handling this?”
“We wait and see what they want,” said Jonathan. “If we don’t like it, we let them know.”
Chris nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”
Another moment passed and the foursome was loosely surrounded by the half dozen young men, all in their late teens or early twenties.
“Hey, folks,” a tall, lanky one, presumably their leader, called out from some ten feet away.
Chris, who was facing him, asked, “Can we help you?”
“Good chance that you can,” the hood replied, taking a step closer, his colleagues doing likewise.
“I’m not
sure about that,” said Chris. “Why don’t you kids go home?”
Lanky chuckled as he exchanged glances with his sidekicks. “Old dude called us kids. Listen, bud, I know you can help us out and it’ll just take a minute, hear?”
He took another step forward but stopped short when Jonathan barked, “No closer, my friend.”
Lanky’s smile melded into a sneer. “Or what’s gonna happen?”
“Things are going to get ugly real quick,” Jonathan replied, “And people are going to get hurt.”
“You got that right,” Lanky snarled, clicking open a switchblade as he and his cronies moved in on the two couples.
In the seconds which followed, several things happened. The two thugs closest to Sandy stumbled blindly backward, clutching their faces and screaming in pain from the jet of pepper spray she had blasted them with. Two sharp reports sounded and a third man yelped as he tumbled to the pavement, gripping his knee, shattered courtesy of the Ruger SR22 Josée wielded. Lanky lay on his back, dazed and moaning in pain. His knife arm was bent in the wrong direction at the elbow and his switchblade was imbedded in one thigh. A fifth, though unharmed, was motionless on the ground, having initially tripped and fallen backward before crab walking a few feet, impressed by the Glock 30S Chris pointed at his face. The last hood, also unharmed, was on his hands and knees near Lanky, overcome by the events and retching.
“I warned you guys,” said Jonathan gazing about for signs of further trouble.
“The bitch shot me,” Josée’s victim whined. “I’m fucking bleeding, man.”
Jonathan stepped over and cuffed the man on the side of the head. “That’s my wife, asshole. Watch your mouth.”
Chris glanced at Sandy and said, “I’ve got some ties in the car. Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” she replied then gestured toward Lanky. “First aid kit too?”
“Yeah, we should patch up the hole in his leg,” Chris agreed. “We’re certainly not leaving him his blade.”
She was off and back in no time and minutes later, the six would-be muggers were lying in a row on the pavement, ankles and wrists securely bound with zip ties.
Make it Happen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller Page 5