Make it Happen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller

by Claude Bouchard

  Qalat’s expression went to one of shock. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The bombs were retrieved from a storage unit rented in your consulate’s name,” Sharp repeated. “Do you rent space from Store-4-Less on Notre-Dame?”

  “In fact, we do and have for years,” Qalat confirmed, almost in a daze. “I have been there myself. Are you sure your information is correct?”

  Sharp pulled a slip of paper from his jacket and slid it across the desk. “Name, address, unit number and access codes which Zafar provided us with last evening.”

  Qalat stared at the paper for a moment then raised his eyes to Sharp. “From memory, that information is correct. I simply don’t understand.”

  “Who has access to the storage locker?” asked Sharp.

  Qalat allowed a sheepish smile as he shook his head. “Most anyone who works or has worked for the consulate, including volunteers as well as couriers and shipping company drivers who have moved things from our offices to storage for us. Nothing of great value is kept there, nor are any official or confidential records. A need for high level security has never been warranted.”

  “Would you have a list of those people?” asked Sharp. “Or could such a list be compiled?”

  “I’m certain we don’t have an official list,” Qalat replied. “One could be compiled but I assure you it would be far from complete. Though our staff is small, turnover is fairly high since many jobs are temporary or performed by volunteers. The couriers and drivers which I mentioned would be very difficult and time consuming to track down. We must also consider that this spans over a number of years.”

  Sharp frowned. “How regularly are the access codes changed?”

  “They are not,” said Qalat. “I’m sorry, Nick. I will do what I can to collect as much information as possible. I trust you understand my displeasure with this unexpected turn of events and I assure you I will do whatever I can to help.”

  “I appreciate any assistance you can offer,” said Sharp. “As you might expect, access to the storage unit is prohibited pending a search warrant requested early this morning and I have men stationed at the warehouse.”

  “A search warrant will not be required,” said Qalat as he rose to his feet. “I will give you written authorization to search the locker and its contents. Tell me what time is convenient for you and I will meet you there.”

  Sharp stood and said, “One o’clock.”

  * * * *

  Aboard the Junior III near George Town, Cayman Islands, 10:30 a.m.

  “Sorry to bother you on a Saturday,” said Ben, sprawled in the shade on a lounge chair on the upper deck terrace. “I know you government types are used to Monday to Friday, nine to four, but if I have to work weekends for you, I don’t see why you should get away with just sitting on your butt.”

  Chris grinned at the monitor on his treadmill desk as he ran. “You call that working? And, at your age, you might want to put a shirt on before making video calls.”

  “Your jealousy doesn’t impress me,” Ben replied before turning to business. “Listen, I put together a programme with the prints you sent me to try to get into that Solitaire app. Problem is, with the first print I tried, I got a big red X on the identification icon and realized there may very well be a ‘three strikes, you’re out’ safety feature built in. It’s certainly something I would include in any secure programme. The other thing I’d do is have a danger flag go up to alert me of a possible break-in attempt.”

  “What do you propose we do?” asked Chris.

  “I’d hate to end up locked out,” Ben admitted. “Our safest bet would be for me to keep on trying to break the identification programme unless you have any other ideas.”

  “I do have one,” said Chris with a smile.

  “The suspense is killing me,” said Ben.

  “Unless Qureshi had wiped down the screen,” Chris explained, “I should be able to get the print right off the actual iPad. It would be lined up over the identification icon.”

  “You, sir, are a brilliant man,” said Ben.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” said Chris. “The iPad’s at the office. I’ll call you in a couple of hours.”

  * * * *

  Montreal, Quebec, 11:25 a.m.

  “Still nothing,” Mohammad muttered, turning off the television following yet another useless circuit of the news channels for any further information relating to Zafar’s failed attempt and subsequent arrest. Similar verifications on the internet had yielded nothing as well, including specific searches for Jazz Festival bombing and Fawad Zafar. No official statement seemed to have been issued by the police and nothing suggested the media was demanding one.

  A distinctive ringtone from his tablet interrupted his thoughts and did nothing to improve his dour mood. He considered not responding as he had no desire to speak with the caller but quickly realized the man would simply call again and again until they connected. With a sigh, he picked up the tablet and activated the communications app.

  “Mohammad, my friend,” said Al-Tashid. “How are you this morning?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Mohammad replied, forcing a smile. “How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you,” said Al-Tashid. “I tried to contact you earlier but there was no response.”

  “I was out for my morning walk,” Mohammad explained, “So I did not have my tablet with me.”

  “Have you not installed the app on your phone yet?” Al-Tashid scolded. “We may need to urgently contact each other at some time.”

  “You are right, of course. I will do so today,” said Mohammad before changing the subject. “Are you still in New York?”

  “Yes, and I am enjoying my stay,” Al-Tashid replied. “I am looking forward to the Independence Day festivities on Monday. Did you enjoy your Canada Day yesterday?”

  “I must admit I did not participate in any celebrations,” said Mohammad. “It was simply a quiet day in my case.”

  “I see,” said Al-Tashid, nodding as he gazed directly at the camera lens. “Did your failed attack not discourage you?”

  Stunned, Mohammad hesitated for a moment then replied, “I don’t understand your question. What are you referring to?”

  Al-Tashid’s expression turned hard. “I saw the news reports, I saw the young man the police apprehended and I saw the explosion. Do you expect me to believe you were not behind this? It is exactly what you were insisting on doing when we met. I do not believe in coincidence so do not insult me. Doing so, as well as defying my orders, is a very dangerous game to play. I will give you no further warning so do not let this happen again.”

  Conflicting thoughts and emotions clashed in Mohammad's mind as he considered what to respond to one of the deadliest and most wanted men on the planet. Rage urged him to lash back at this obnoxious, narcissistic, self-proclaimed leader but reason, fueled by fear, prevailed.

  “I had not realized you were so strongly opposed to my acting on my own volition,” said Mohammad. “It is unfortunate that my man did not succeed but I’m certain you would have reacted differently if he had.”

  “Do not test my patience,” Al-Tashid hissed. “You have no idea what the authorities have discovered in their investigation to date. They could be watching your every move. That is why I told you to remain dormant. Instead, you went ahead with a poorly planned attack which failed and now, they have one of your men in their custody which brings them that much closer to you.”

  “He knows nothing about me,” Mohammad argued. “We have never met and he has never seen me. The phone I used cannot be traced to me and I obviously have gotten rid of it. There is nothing to be concerned about.”

  Al-Tashid glared at him in silence for a moment before speaking. “I certainly hope you are correct in your assumptions because you are now connected to me. I will be following this very closely and should your foolishness come to haunt me, you will more than regret it.”

  “I will be following this closely as well,” said Mo
hammad, now intent on appeasing the powerful terrorist, “And I will immediately inform you of the slightest possible danger although I am certain you have nothing to be concerned with. Even if the authorities somehow caught up with me, there is nothing to suggest our connection. I am sorry for having acted against your wishes and it will not happen again. I came to you requesting assistance which you provided without hesitation and for this, I am thankful. I will heed your advice going forward.”

  His words had the desired effect on Al-Tashid whose expression softened as he spoke. “I understand your enthusiasm and motivation, my friend, but vigilance and proper planning must always be part of the equation if we are to succeed and survive in the war with our enemies. As I have said, you have already proved yourself of being capable of doing great things for our cause and I promise you will have other opportunities with both targets of your choosing as well as others I will assign to you. I simply request your patience and cooperation to ensure our ongoing mutual success.”

  “I understand,” said Mohammad, nodding. “I will keep you informed of any developments and will not undertake any further projects without your approval and support.”

  “Very well,” Al-Tashid approved. “Let us see what is happening in the coming days and perhaps we can meet again to discuss future plans while I am here.”

  * * * *

  Aboard the Junior III near George Town, Cayman Islands, 12:32 p.m.

  “Well, aren’t you punctual?” said Ben as he answered the video call.

  “I did say a couple of hours,” Chris replied.

  “So, did you find anything?” asked Ben.

  “Right thumb as far as I can determine,” said Chris. “I just sent you the print we got off the iPad.”

  Back in ‘Control Central’, Ben swivelled to another monitor and opened Chris’ email. He tapped a few keys then clicked and dragged the image of the print to a third monitor on which Farooq Qureshi’s complete fingerprints were already displayed.

  “You said right thumb?” he asked.

  “I think so,” Chris replied. “I only did a quick check.”

  Ben slid the newly received print over the right thumb image on the screen and clicked the mouse. Almost immediately, a chime sounded as a green check mark appeared over the superimposed prints.

  “Right thumb it is,” Ben confirmed. “Shall we give it a go?”

  “That was the whole purpose,” said Chris.

  “Are you near the iPad?” asked Ben.

  “It’s right here,” Chris replied, holding up the tablet to which Ben was remotely linked.

  “Excellent,” said Ben. “You can watch along with me. I’m realizing we could have skipped the little matching test I did and simply used the print you just sent me.”

  “True,” Chris admitted, “Although the print from the full set is probably better quality. I’d use that one.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Ben agreed. “Here we go.”

  He clicked the mouse and a transmission of the iPad screen appeared on the second monitor, displaying the print identification icon to access the Solitaire app. Dragging Qureshi’s right thumb print from the other monitor, he positioned it and clicked again. The screen went black for a moment then lightened to grey as icons appeared – a pad and pen, a phone, a camera and a column of boxes, only one of which was populated – with the name Mohammad.

  “Damn, it’s not Solitaire,” said Ben.

  “More like Secret Skype,” said Chris.

  “Yep,” Ben agreed. “Do you know Mohammad?”

  “I know of him,” Chris replied. “We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting him yet but we’re working on it.”

  “You could call him right now and set up a meeting,” Ben suggested with a grin.

  Chris shook his head. “That would spoil the surprise.”

  “You’re no fun,” said Ben. “I want to see what he looks like.”

  “I’ll get a pic for you when we hook up with him,” Chris offered. “Think you can find out more about this app?”

  “Definitely, now that I know what I’m working with,” Ben assured. “The first thing I’ll do is set it up so you can access it without the print. Then I’ll go digging to figure out the programme and the security parameters. I won’t promise for now but I can probably clone the app so we can install it on other devices, and who knows what else I might find. I’ll keep you posted.”

  * * * *

  Montreal, Quebec, 3:17 p.m.

  RCMP Commander, Nick Sharp and Consul General, Jabbar Qalat sat in silence in the corridor on chairs acquired from the consulate’s storage unit, much as they had been doing for over two hours. A member of Sharp’s search team stepped out of the unit and approached the two men, shaking his head as they gazed at him expectantly.

  “We’ve found nothing,” he announced.

  “I’m not certain Nick shares my opinion,” said Qalat, “But that certainly is good news to me.”

  “I am relieved for you, Jabbar,” said Sharp, “Though I must admit I’m disappointed our efforts didn’t uncover the slightest lead.” Looking up at his man, he asked, “Is there anything you think could be uncovered with any tests?”

  The officer shrugged. “The preliminary tests we did for explosives residue in the box Zafar specified had contained the bombs yielded nothing, nor did several random tests done on other boxes or items in there. I’d be surprised if we found anything worthwhile, even with extensive testing.”

  “Very well,” said Sharp as he and Qalat rose from their seats. “Let’s wrap this up.”

  “We’re done in there,” the officer replied. “Everything has been placed back as it was when we arrived. Just need to return these two chairs and we can lock up.”

  Sharp nodded and turned to Qalat. “Once again, I thank you for your prompt cooperation. Unfortunately, we’re no further ahead but I appreciate your help in letting us learn this sooner rather than later.”

  “Of course,” said Qalat. “It is not because these people are natives of my country that I condone their despicable acts. I will provide whatever assistance I can to find them and bring them to justice. I do intend to provide you with as complete a list as possible of those who have access to this place. Did your suspect, this Zafar, tell you who directed him here to find the explosives?”

  “Yes, he did,” Sharp replied. “Mohammad Azim Syed but, for now, it’s just a name and probably an alias. Zafar never met him and has no idea where he is or what he looks like. They met and communicated mainly via social media platforms. We’re searching immigration and other databases but it’s a long shot.”

  “I will have our records searched as well,” Qalat offered. “We must find this man and put an end to these atrocities.”

  “I’ll take whatever you can give me,” said Sharp.

  “And if I can help you with your suspect, Zafar,” Qalat continued, “Do not hesitate to contact me.”

  “What kind of help can you offer?” asked Sharp.

  “He remains a Pakistani citizen,” Qalat explained. “He may very well request my government’s involvement, perhaps request deportation.”

  Sharp gave a tight smile. “He intended to kill or harm hundreds of people and was caught red-handed. Since, he’s waived legal counsel and voluntarily gave a video and written confession. He’s not going anywhere.”

  * * * *

  Manhattan, New York, 3:31 p.m.

  Al-Tashid strolled along Fulton Street in the centre of historic South Street Seaport amidst the countless tourists and locals taking advantage of the glorious weather nature had provided for the holiday weekend. As he gazed at the throngs ambling by or seated at terraces, his thoughts turned to Mohammad and he understood the man’s impatient desire to strike at such formidable, unsuspecting targets.

  His travels to Europe and America to date, particularly his time in New York City, had made him realize how distanced he had become from the very attacks he planned and ordered. Even with real-time broadcasting, t
hanks to the internet, seeing the results of his efforts on a computer screen from thousands of miles away did not give the sense of accomplishment he now knew he would feel if onsite, or close to it – the same elation he remembered from when he himself had carried out attacks a few years earlier.

  He reached South Street and crossed, passing under the elevated FDR Drive as he headed toward the piers beyond. The area, he understood, would be packed in two days as hundreds of thousands would gather for the Macy’s 4th of July fireworks show. What a splendid possibility for death and destruction this place would be. Surely, there would be security but could it be sufficiently adequate to thwart an attack? He had noted teams of workers erecting temporary barricades upon his arrival so access to the area would obviously be controlled. People would surely be searched and, in all likelihood, explosive detection methods would be employed.

  With a sigh, he accepted there was not enough time to properly plan anything for the American Independence Day. Nonetheless, he could not shake the desire to be in close proximity of some future attack, preferably sooner than later. He could think of no better way to highlight his visit to the United States than to witness the reaction of the population, to sense their terror during and after the fact. A city this size would no doubt offer numerous target possibilities without having to wait for a holiday.

  Of course, he had no intention of attempting to perform such a deed himself and he had no resources to rely on at short notice. However, Mohammad could assist him with such a project, the leader of the revived AFI having mentioned finding recruits in the area. His decision made, he pulled out his phone and activated the secure communication app. He would invite Mohammad to come spend the rest of the holiday weekend in New York City and together, they would begin to plan a memorable event.