by Arno Joubert
She took a bite of the cake but was unable to swallow the sweet, spongy substance that stuck to the roof of her mouth.
Today was her birthday. She was thirty years old.
She swallowed and gagged, struggling to get the cake down, her mouth dry, trying to wash the rest of it away with a beer.
Was this how I had envisioned my life? Were my dreams fulfilled, or merely attempts at living the life I had always thought I wanted?
She sighed, thumbing through the wad of letters, starting to read one and then folding it back into the envelope. She had Yumi, and Neil, and the love of a father and good friends in Laiveaux, Voelkner and Latorre. But it all felt fleeting. Fleeting and surreal.
She had become a murderer. It was strange, she thought, in her mind she did not see herself as a killer, she had never taken anyone’s life out of hatred or revenge. She swallowed when she had to stop her train of thought because that was a lie. Why else would she have shot her own father? Even if he hadn’t been technically alive, hooked up to machines the way he was.
Or Owen Callahan? Wasn’t that a planned act performed in cold blood? Had she become a reptile, killing because she could? Like a serial killer, who had overstepped the boundary, becoming more bold with every murder she committed?
She tossed the cherrywood box on the sofa. No, she killed because she had to. Because she was forced to, to save her own life or the lives of the ones she loved. Because she was ordered to.
She felt the bile rise in her throat and sobbed. And again she knew that was a lie. Because she wasn’t forced to kill Anderson Fitch, the man who beat her to within an inch of her life. She needed to kill him, she needed to restore the balance in her life. The people she had murdered were the yin and the ones saved the yang. She was the yin, the female representing darkness and cold, the antithesis of pure and sunny males, the yang, the creators of the universe.
Then why were all the wars started by men? Why were they so brutal, so hateful?
She closed her eyes and thought of Bruce, the most gentle person she had ever met. He had never lifted a hand against her, had never uttered a word in anger or spite.
Neil, her protector and her love, the man whom she would surely die for, whom she would step in front of a speeding bus for without thinking twice. Funny Neil, sexy Neil, emotional Neil.
No, not all men were hateful.
She was confused.
She took another slug of beer and dumped the cup cake in the trash can as well.
Life sucked.
She stood up and strode over to the night stand as her cell phone vibrated on the table. “Hello?”
“Bonsoir, Capitaine,” a husky female voiced answered.
“Bonsoir.”
“C’est le Président de la République Française, Nicole Rue.”
“Qui?” Alexa asked hesitantly. The President of France?
“We don’t have time, Captain,” the woman answered in French. “In four minutes, there will be a knock on your door. Two of my men will transport you to the Élysée Palace, my residence. My military attaché will brief you on the way here.”
“Excuse me madam, could you please confirm my badge number.”
The woman sighed. “Alpha, X-ray, Golf, One, Niner, One, Fiver, Niner. Get dressed, Captain,” she said with a gravelly tone. The phone clicked and went dead.
Alexa dialed Laiveaux but his phone went straight to voicemail.
Alexa dressed and tossed her toiletries into her Rimova trolley suitcase. She slipped on her shoulder holster and shoved the Glock inside. She shrugged into her black leather jacket, placed the suitcase beside the door and sat on the bed, waiting. Two minutes later, there was a knock on the door.
She peered through the peephole. Two men wearing dark suits and Ray Bans stood in front of the door. One of the men flashed a badge. They were from the DRM, the Directorate of Military Intelligence. They wore their suits like a uniform. She grabbed her suitcase, opened the door and followed the men downstairs. She knew it would be futile to ask any questions; they were the delivery men and she was the package.
They strode through the foyer and the men exchanged glances with another suit at the entrance. All business. One of the men opened the boot of a black Mercedes S-class as he spoke into his wrist. Alexa tossed her luggage inside and the guy opened her door.
Alexa slid inside. Two men were seated in the back. They sat staring straight ahead, not saying a word.
“Do you mind telling me what this is about?” she asked.
One of the men turned to her and smiled. He had a long, thin nose, thin wisps of hair combed haphazardly across his scalp. His silken tie sat skew, he hadn’t had much time to prepare for the meeting. “Captain Guerra,” he said and stuck out a neatly manicured hand. “My name is Henrie Dumas, Military Attaché in the office of the President.“
She nodded.
“This is Major Jacques Baptiste from the Intelligence Services,” he said, nodding towards the large man to his side. The man stuck out a hand. She shook it, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.
“We have received news that General Alain Laiveaux has been kidnapped,” Baptiste said.
The news hit her like a punch to the stomach.” Kidnapped? When?” Her hand flew to her heart. “Where is my daughter?”
The man forced a nervous smile. “She is safe. She’s with Lieutenant Latorre at the Presidential Palace.”
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure, we will find out once we arrive at the Palace. All that I know is that Latorre phoned the DRM and they in turn notified the President.”
Her hand tightened around her safety belt. “Voelkner and Latorre better have a good excuse for losing the General. They were assigned to protect him.”
She chewed her lip. This was bound to happen. She had told Laiveaux that he needed to be careful, but he would shrug it off like he was untouchable. He had information that many underground organizations would kill for. He had many enemies. Shit.
Dumas clutched his safety belt as the vehicle skidded around a corner. Once the car straightened out, he shifted in his seat and straightened his tie. “Your colleague, Sergeant Allen is in custody in South Africa.”
“What?”
“They’re keeping him for questioning. Apparently, he was involved in a hostage drama on a plane. Details are sketchy.”
“Hostage drama?” Alexa asked incredulously.
The man lifted his shoulders.
She closed her eyes and dropped her chin on her chest, massaging her temples. She could feel the onset of a migraine, a condition she had never suffered from before. “What have they gotten themselves into this time?” she asked to no-one in particular.
The man chuckled nervously. He cleared his throat and looked straight ahead when Alexa glared at him.
Bloody men.
They sped through an arched metal gateway that was probably made during the previous century, then drove into a massive graveled square. A vast three-story palace had been built around the square, the building had once been the abode of Kings and Queens, but it was currently occupied by the President of France. Alexa felt dwarfed by the magnificent structure, wondering if the President had the entire building all to herself.
An old man with a smartly dressed suit met them at the door. Bowing, he said, “Please follow me.” He led them through an opulent passageway with dark red carpets and walls decorated with golden moldings and cornices. Portraits of famous statesmen hung in ornate frames on the walls, Maurice Rouvier, Napoleon Bonaparte, Charles de Gaulle and many more she didn't recognize.
The old man scurried along the passageway at a brisk pace. He walked slouched forward, his arms pedaling at his sides, reminding Alexa of the hunchback of Notre Dame. He stopped next to a doorway and pulled it open, ushering them inside.
The room looked like a large office with a spacious lounge to one side. Portraits of French battles decorated the wall. Alexa recognized the Battle of Camarón. The history of the battle h
ad been engraved into every Legionnaire's subconscious, being considered one of the most important battles in Legionnaire history.
On 30 April 1863, sixty-five French Legionnaires battled a three thousand strong Mexican army for the entire day. When the survivors were finally captured, the Mexican commander, Colonel Milán, was in such awe of the soldiers that he allowed them safe passage home with the words, “What can I refuse to such men? No, these are not men, they are devils.” The Legion had celebrated that date every year since.
Alexa gazed at the plush furnishing and unfettered show of opulence. All the gold inlays and tassels and thick velvet curtains were over the top. The room was filled with large shelves with books that looked like they had never been opened. In the corner of the room stood an easel with a yet to be finished portrait of Nicole Rue, the President of France.
A scrabble board lay on the coffee table. Several words were spelled out, it looked as if the game had been abandoned halfway through. A pair of thick framed reading glasses lay on top of the board.
The butler offered them drinks from a fancy cabinet. Alexa asked for a glass of cognac; she needed to calm her nerves. The other men ordered still water.
A tall, slender woman bounced into the room. Nicole Rue. Alexa had seen her on television, but never in real life. She had only been elected three months ago.
The news that France would have a female President came as a surprise to Alexa. French politics was a world dominated by chauvinism. But if what she had read in the papers were true, this woman was tough as nails, a real battle axe.
She had reddish brown shoulder-length hair and her make-up was immaculate. She was dressed in a practical pair of grey slacks and a loose-fitting white blouse.
“Lady, gentlemen,” she said with a slight nod of her head. She waved to the couches. “Please, take a seat.” They sat down and made themselves comfortable.
The President remained standing. She put her hands together. “Thank you for coming at such short notice. Here is what we know.” She held her hands together, moving them up and down as she spoke energetically. “At 18:02 this evening, the Director of Interpol's SIU, General Alain Laiveaux was kidnapped. One of the men assigned to guard him was killed.”
Alexa placed a hand over her heart. “Who?”
President Rue turned to her and pursed her lips. “Captain, if you allow me a chance to speak—“
Alexa stood up. “General Laiveaux is the godfather to my daughter. Latorre and Voelkner are close colleagues. Which one was it?”
The President of France frowned. “Reg Voelkner.”
Alexa sat back down, almost falling into the seat. She sat there, staring blankly ahead. She felt numb and drained, like an invisible hand was pushing down on her, trying to force her deeper into the couch.
President Nicole Rue kept quiet for a moment, studying Alexa, seemingly uncertain on how to continue. “I’m sorry, Captain. I didn't know you were close to these men.”
Alexa looked up. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably so she clutched them into her armpits. “I’m sorry.” She swallowed. “Please continue.”
The President of France pursed her lips. “Lieutenant Latorre gave us a description of the men. He was certain that they were from somewhere in the Middle East. They spoke Arabic. But the rest is sketchy.”
“Is my daughter here?” Alexa asked.
“Yes, she is,” the President said and glanced at the butler.
The man gave a curt nod and returned a moment later with Latorre. He held Yumi in his arms and put her down on the ground. Alexa pushed herself wearily off the chair as Yumi bounded to her and leapt into her arms. “Grandpa is gone,” she whispered, pushing a teary cheek into Alexa's neck.
Latorre walked closer and hugged them both. Alexa felt his body jerk spasmodically as he cried. “I’m so sorry Captain, there was nothing I could do. The general ordered me to keep Yumi safe,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Alexa hugged him. “I know, Lieutenant. I'm sorry.”
President Rue stood with her hands clasped together, lips pursed. She cleared her throat. “Sorry, but I'm new to this.” She turned to Dumas and Baptiste who were watching the drama impassively. “What do we do now, gentlemen?”
Henrie Dumas stood up. “Well, I think we better send a memo to all the security—“
Alexa pushed Latorre away and marched over to Nicole Rue, Yumi on her hip. “We need to get Colonel Bruce Bryden and Sergeant Allen up here, right away.” She turned to Dumas. “Now that Laiveaux is gone, who's taking over his duties?”
The man frowned. “I guess I am.”
Alexa shook her head. “No. You're an admin guy. The Director of Interpol's SIU has a more hands-on approach.” She smiled apologetically. “With all due respect, Mr. Dumas, you wouldn't last a day.”
The man shrugged.
Alexa turned back to President Rue. “I suggest we assign Colonel Bryden as the temporary head of the SIU until General Laiveaux returns. Bruce has the right contacts to get the job done, and him and Laiveaux have worked together on most of the cases that Interpol had handled in the past.”
“Bryden?” President Rue asked, turning to the two men with a frown.
“Colonel Bruce Bryden, Mossad,” Dumas answered. “Laiveaux is grooming him to take over his position.”
Alexa nodded, tapping her lip with a forefinger. “He's probably not as charming as the General, but he's the best qualified for the job.”
“What's his background?” President Rue asked.
“Counter-terrorism, he's a Shin Bet agent,” Alexa answered.
The President turned to her, folding her arms. “And how do you know all of this?”
“Because he's my dad.”
President Nicole Rue raised her eyebrows.
“We need to get Mossad involved, the sooner the better. We need to contact Major Sal Frydman, head of military intelligence.” She fumbled in her pocket. “I’ll give him a call.” Her head was spinning. “Then we need to mobilize the French Foreign Legion. If they were Arabian, its most likely al-Qaeda or some of their cronies.”
“But shouldn't we contact the ambassadors of the countries and ask them to mobilize their own security forces?” President Rue asked.
Alexa shook her head. “Madam President, do you know what the Director of Interpol's Special Investigation Unit does?”
She bit her lip, cast a questioning look at Dumas. “I guess he liaises with international agencies, coordinates the different task forces.”
Dumas smiled apologetically and shook his head. “I’m afraid Madam President has not been briefed on the SIU yet, her tenure—“
Alexa grabbed the President's arm. “Madam President, almost no-one knows, but I would have expected your military attache to have explained the…,” she hesitated. “Sensitive nature of our role.”
President Rue turned to face Alexa, her arms folded over her chest. “Are you a member of this SIU as well?”
Alexa nodded curtly then continued. “Not many people realize how important Laiveaux is to world safety.” She put Yumi down and glanced at Latorre. He took the girl's hand and led her outside.
“He has single-handedly wiped out drug cartels, child smuggling rings.”
“What is the SIU's brief?” President Rue asked, turning to Dumas.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “They're an undercover organization using resources at the disposal of Interpol to combat subversive, non-military organizations that pose a threat to world peace.”
President Rue ran her hand through her hair. “Which means?”
“They're a death squad which uses what the President of Interpol likes to refer to as D.I.A. to achieve their objectives,” he said, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets.
“D.I.A?” President Rue asked.
“Double India Alpha,” Alexa said. “Infiltrate, Investigate, Annihilate.”
“You're assassins?” President Rue asked, a disgusted look on her face. “What the hell is Interpo
l doing with an undercover agency that goes around killing—“
“Interpol is a toothless dog!” Dumas exclaimed. He pursed his lips and took a deep breath. “Sorry for my outburst, Madam President.”
President Rue's eyes narrowed but she kept quiet.
Duma pursed his lips. “After a while, people in our…, position, we realize that Interpol does not have the necessary powers to combat the scourge of drug dealers, child trafficking rings, weapon smugglers and the indubitable cornucopia of psychopaths running the sickening criminal underbellies of society. People who mean to harm the moral fibers that bind us together in a civilized and moral whole.”
President Rue flopped down on a sofa with a sigh and folded one leg over the other. “Enough with the philosophy lecture, Dumas. I guess I always knew that these…,” she waved an agitated hand, “organizations, existed somewhere. I didn't realize that they were operating right under our noses.”
Dumas sat down beside her. “Madam President, do you think that the governments of the world are willing to wage a war on any man or organization that doesn't promote their own political well-being?”
“If they reaped the benefits—“
“Would you?” Alexa asked. “Or would you rather be content with the knowledge that there is an organization fighting these atrocities while your military and police services deal with the battles that are in the public eye?”
“Battles which could score me political points?” the President asked with a wry smile.
Alexa shrugged. “If I were to be caught or die in the process of performing my duties,” Alexa looked straight at the President, “fulfilling my sworn duty of making this world a safer place for Yumi and your children to grow up in, I can promise you that everyone who had any knowledge of our operation would plead ignorance.”
Rue stood up wearily and sauntered over to the drinks cabinet, poured herself a drink. She stood still, cupping the glass in her hand for a moment, then turned to face the people in the room. “Who else knows about this SIU?”
“Most heads of states, presidents and their two IC's. Some senior military officials,” Dumas said.