by Arno Joubert
"I bet you my last dollar that it's already down," Barry said.
"So what do we do?" Vladimir asked.
"We need to set up a joint summit with the UN."
"Do we include Iraq and Palestine?" Nicole asked hesitantly.
"You bet we damn well do. They started this shit," Barry bellowed. "Nicole, any news from the British?"
She chuckled. "You know they always phone your first, Barry."
"Speak of the devil," Barry said. "Okay, I'll be in touch, see you folks soon."
The call disconnected and Nicole slapped her palm with the back of the phone. She made up her mind and hurried back into the temporary ops room.
The POTROF briefed her inland security forces and military personnel on the conversation she had with the other presidents. She switched on an LCD TV on the wall and lowered the volume. “Okay, let’s get our house in order here.” She turned to Bruce. “Colonel, what do you need?”
He tapped the back of his pen against the table. “A small logistics team consisting of Captain Guerra, Sergeant Allen and Lieutenant Latorre. Could you find us an interpreter?”
She nodded.
Bruce punched a number into his old Nokia. “I’ll organize the flights. Get ready to leave within half an hour.”
Alexa stood up. “Let’s go get him.”
CHAPTER TWO
Harry Eccles opened the letter with shaky hands. This is the damn end. He read:
Pursuant to the provisions of RSA 540:2, you are hereby given an eviction notice and notice to vacate blah-blah…
He scanned the page for a date.
You are hereby notified of your right to avoid this eviction by payment of one hundred and seventy two thousand dollars ($172,000.00), prior to the expiration of this notice of all the arrearages plus one thousand five hundred dollars ($1500.00) as liquidated damages blah blah…
He scrolled down further to find a damn date.
…by no later than Wednesday, 14 February.
Shit, that was tomorrow. He sobbed and dropped his head in his arms. They had to be out of the house his family had lived for the past ten years. By tomorrow.
He had received the foreclosure notice four months ago. He had tried to fight it, but the simple fact was that he didn’t have a single cent to his name. He slammed the table with his fist. Damn you Pete Ricco, I hope you rot in hell. He wiped a tear from his eye. He couldn’t go on.
He stood up and picked up the share certificate. A red stripe had been drawn through it with the word Discontinued inside the lines. Discontinued shares to the value of $380,000. He had been a rich man up to a year ago. It had been his life savings, money he had inherited from his folks. Pete had convinced him that this Lambarti Holdings was a sure thing, thirty to forty percent growth predicted per annum.
He had been retrenched from work. So what? He would be able to live on the returns. Damn, he would double his money in two years and become even richer. He had set up Google Notify to let him know whenever the words Lambarti Holdings were mentioned anywhere on the internet.
He received the email on a Sunday morning before church. Chuck Lambarti, CEO of Lambarti Holdings LLC had committed suicide.
He jumped onto the phone. Ricco had said his investment was safe, the owner was suicidal, so what? Then the share price crashed from four dollars a share, to three dollars fifty and then it slid to rock bottom. Apparently the IRS had ordered an audit on the company. Within a week, the share was worth forty cents. He ordered Ricco to sell the shares, at least he could still salvage $38,000.
But no-one wanted the shares. That’s something Ricco never told him. He thought it worked like a bank, someone was obliged to buy the shares, even if it was losing money. It turned out no-one was. The company went bankrupt and he lost everything.
He couldn't believe it. How could he be so stupid? He had worked his entire life, bargaining his inheritance and now it was all gone?
Damn you, Ricco.
He heard footsteps, and Trish came charging down the stairs pulling a suitcase behind her, carrying James on her hip.
“Trish, where you going?”
“Away.”
“But why?”
“I can’t go on like this, Harry. We haven’t had a decent meal in months. The kid is hungry, Harry, we’re both hungry,” she said softly, her eyes wild.
“You cannot leave me now, Trish.”
She poked a finger in his face. “You caused this to happen to us, Harry. You have no-one to blame but yourself.”
“But you introduced me to the guy. Your sister said—”
“My sister said he was a scamster and sold all the crap he had sold her. Why didn’t you?”
“Because he said—”
“Get out of my way, Harry. Don’t try and stop me or I’ll call the cops.”
She punched three numbers into her phone and held it in front of her like a loaded gun.
“Trish, you can’t—”
“Get out of my way,” she said and barged past him. James was crying, holding his arms out to Harry.
He dropped his arms to his sides, numb with fear and disappointment and regret. He couldn’t allow this. “Trish, wait! I’ll phone my brother,” he said, chasing after her.
His phone beeped as he ran. He pulled it from his pocket and read the message. Then stopped dead in his tracks. They wanted to come fetch the car.
He walked to the study and unlocked his safe, took out the gun and lifted it to his head, looked up at the ceiling of the house that would no longer be his.
Lord have mercy.
He pulled the trigger.
Moktar al-Sharif pulled a kofta from the stick with his teeth and chewed noisily. He held the printout of Mr. Sonti’s email in the other hand and was scanning the contents. Mostly good news.
All funding was in place for the final phase of the jihad, all Moktar had to do was pick up the money, in cash, at the drop-off point. There were GPS coordinates, the drop-off would happen at fifteen hundred that afternoon. He nodded, satisfied. It would be in time for a night out in Kabul with some pretty ladies, a bath and a clean bed.
He wiped his oily hand on his knee, scribbling an answer to Sonti’s question on the back of the piece of paper.
Dear Mr. Sonti,
Thank you for the money. My pilots and volunteers are on standby. They are motivated and in good health, thank you.
He chuckled and scribbled another sentence.
It has been a pleasure doing business with you.
He signed his name with a flourish.
He popped another kofta in his mouth and slugged it down with cold tea.
He pushed the meal aside and burped. He had enjoyed the additional responsibilities since the American infidels had killed Bin Laden; a blessing in disguise, he thought.
Secretly, he had despised Osama, the rich man sitting in his glass castle with his harem, dishing out orders like he was a king or something. No, he Moktar al-Sharif was different, he understood what the people wanted. Sharia law, worldwide. Bringing the stinking white alcoholics to their knees, executing them all. They had brought God’s wrath to earth, and they needed to pay for their sins.
He chuckled. The masses were gullible, they were merely a means to an end.
What he wanted? That was an entirely different matter. He wanted to stop hiding, uprooting himself and traveling the widths and breadths of this shitty dust hole at a moments notice. And he wanted a car, a German one with air conditioning and leather seats and a chauffeur who opened the door for him.
And then the small personal matter of avenging his family who had died when an Apache had bombed their family home. He had hidden in the basement and was lucky to have survived the attack. It was cold blooded murder by the infidels from the West.
Rehan swung open the door and handed him a cell phone. “For you.”
He put it to his ear. “Yes?”
“How are you, Moktar?” It was Sonti.
“I’m fine.”
“Anything yet?”
Moktar sighed and lay back on the cushions, rubbing his stomach. “Nothing. He’s a tough bastard.”
“What now?”
“I’m going to use Pentothal.”
Sonti chuckled. “Truth serum? Is that stuff still available?”
The man’s tone irritated Moktar. “What would you suggest, Mr. Sonti?”
Sonti sighed but said nothing.
Moktar dug a piece of meat from his teeth. “He is worth more to us alive than dead.”
“Not if he’s not talking, idiot.”
“Will that be all, Mr. Sonti?”
“No, the reason for my call was to inform you that they’ve found your location.”
Moktar sat up straight. “What? Shit, this is impossible, I personally removed his chip.”
“He has another implant.”
“Can’t I remove it?”
“It’s in his leg. But don’t bother.” The man sounded bored.
“How long?”
“Twenty-four-hours.”
Moktar disconnected the call, removed the battery and took the SIM card out. He marched to the cell door and slammed it with the palm of his hand. “Open the door.”
Rehan unlocked the door and Moktar pushed it aside, shoving Rehan out of the way. He strode to Laiveaux who was bound to a chair in the corner of the room. His head was slumped to the side. He was probably passed out. He grabbed Laiveaux's hair and pulled his head upright. "You better start singing, old man," Moktar hissed.
Laiveaux opened his eyes. "Okay, I'm ready to talk.”
Gerard watched as the girl twisted and twirled in front of the bright lights. She swung her hair over her shoulder, pulled it into a ponytail and held it on her head with one hand, the other hand on her hip. She was a stunner. Young, uninhibited.
He needed a naked body in the morgue for the upcoming slasher film. She would be perfect, nice big jugs. The cameras were clicking and the photographer kept encouraging her with "Hold that pose," and, "look sexy, pout those lips."
Gerard's phone rang, it was from an unknown number but Gerard guessed who it would be. He stood up and held his hand in the air. "Okay, that's a rap. Cindy, come see me in five minutes, I want to finalize the paperwork."
She squealed, a fluttering hand on her chest. "Honestly?"
Gerard smiled at her. "I've seen enough." He turned around and answered. "Hello?"
"How is the shoot going?" Sonti asked.
"Oh, everything's running smoothly. The lead, Bill Paulson is acting like a spoiled prick, as always, but what else could we expect?"
"That's good. We going to make money on this one, Grenard?"
"We sure are, Alan."
"Okay, I have another client that I want you to work into the script."
"Who is he?"
"Nguyen Han."
"Never heard of him. How much is he willing to invest?"
"Forty million."
Grenard whistled. "That'll buy him a chunk of airtime, maybe some dialogue as well."
"He's a multi-billionaire. Textiles, crude oil, jewelry, that kind of thing."
"What did he do?"
Sonti laughed. "He was caught smuggling rhino horn in Kenya."
"Dumb asshole."
"Okay,I want the man to be lily-white once you're done. Vietnam is a third world country, his parent were killed in the war, he was brought up in poverty and he knew no other way, you know, that kind of bullshit. You do it best."
"The guilt and shame treatment?"
Sonti chuckled. "Exactly."
"I'll make him look like driven snow. Should I bring the rhino horn angle into the movie as well?"
"I don't see how you can. It's a sensitive subject at the moment."
"Oh, you haven't met my script writers. They can make deforestation look like the right thing to do."
"Okay, do it then. But run the final product by me first, I want to make sure we don't step on the wrong toes."
"No problem." He disconnected the call then punched a number into his phone. It rang half-a-dozen times.
"Lance, you know what time it is?" a tired sounding voice answered.
"Wes, there's been a slight change of plans."
Silence permeated the temporary Operation Centre in the Presidential Palace. People watched the drama unfold on the television screen. A frowning news reporter stood in front of the camera, chaos in the background as mop up crews tried to extract the living or dead from the rubble of the Eiffel Tower.
The picture switched to an anchor at a news desk, the screen then divided into four. The top left contained an image of the wreckage of the Eiffel Tower, top right was the crumbled remains of the Statue of Liberty in New York harbor. Bottom left the Kremlin was smoking and to the right of it was a crumbling tower in Seoul, thick clouds of smoke billowing from inside.
Bruce paced around the room, a phone cradled in his shoulder. He watched his tablet as the plane carrying Alexa, Neil and Latorre closed in on the red blip.
Bruce disconnected the call and faced the room. "Okay people, I've received news that a third plane has been hijacked in Luanda, Angola."
"Shit, I need a drink," the President of France said. "Follow me, Bruce."
"But I—“
"Follow me," she ordered and strode out of the room.
President Rue removed two tumblers from the drinks cabinet and poured them each a stiff drink. She walked to Bruce and handed him one. He smiled a silent thanks and flopped down into the sofa.
“What the hell is happening, Colonel?” the President asked, her arms folded, swirling the alcohol in the tumbler.
He closed his eyes and massaged his temple with his thumb and forefinger. “A global attack of massive proportions.”
“Why?”
“I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”
President Rue strode to her desk and opened a drawer. “I think this may have something to do with it. I received it a week ago.” She pulled out a black envelope with golden letters embossed in front, then walked over and handed it to Bruce.
“What is it?”
She shrugged . “At first it I thought it was a joke, since what has happened I’m not sure anymore.”
The words Madam President were written in front. He turned it around. From GREEFF was written at the back. He opened the enveloped and slipped out a single sheet of paper. He unfolded it and read.
Dear Madam President,
For the past century, the so-called first world countries have made it their mission to rape and pillage the earth, extracting whatever riches they could and leaving the destitute to deal with the consequences of the destruction they had caused.
As a concerned citizen of the world, I have decided to put a stop to this, once and for all. Within the next week, you will face the collective wrath of the disenfranchised and downtrodden and you will be forced to take our demands seriously.
You, and only you, are able to stop the devastation that is about to happen. The pain that mankind is about to suffer will be like birth pains, starting small, every contraction leading to ever increasing pain, until finally -BOOM-, the grand finale and the resurrection of a new earth, born from the blood of all the human sacrifices that you are prepared to make.
As I said, only you are able to stop the massacre.
Have a good week, Madam President. It sure as hell is going to be interesting, if nothing else.
It was signed as Cruel One, I. Taste my wrath in All the Nations.
“What the hell is this?” Bruce asked.
President Rue quaffed her drink. “At first I thought it was some sick joke.” She sat down, rubbing her arms. “But I’m not sure, anymore. Any idea who this GREEFF could be?”
Bruce scratched his chin, nodding slowly. “Yes, I’ve dealt with them before.” He gulped down his drink and held up his glass questioningly to the President. She shook her head.
He sauntered to the drinks cabinet and refilled his glass. “The Green Freedom Fighters are
some extremist bunny huggers organization with military ties to the skinheads. They threatened to blow up an oil rig in the South China seas twenty years ago.”
“What happened?”
Bruce took a sip of cognac and frowned. “They operated from Stuttgart, militant and well funded.” He paced the room, scratching his chin. “Their leader was a man called Carl Richter. Staunch military type, his mom was a Duchess, father a Commander in the navy.”
He sat on the edge of the sofa. “He attended Harvard in the sixties and got involved with the Greenpeace student organization, but he felt they weren’t doing enough.”
“So he decided to sink an oil rig?”
“Amongst others. Interpol got involved when they stormed the Bundestag and tried to force them to ban the use of fossil fuels in Germany.”
President Rue nodded. “I remember, didn’t they murder someone as well?”
“Chancellor Erhard Kohler, shot in the back when he tried to escape.”
“What did Interpol do?”
“We infiltrated the building.”
“Casualties?”
“One agent wounded, eighteen GREEFF members killed, twelve wounded.” He stood up and placed the tumbler on the serving tray. “We cleaned up their cell in Stuttgart, many were sentenced to a couple of years in jail, but most of them showed remorse and admitted that they were manipulated against their will to take part in the heist.”
The President sighed, pushing herself up from the couch. She looked tired. “And they’re back.” She glanced at the door as someone rapped it with a knuckle. “Come in.”
A tall, slim man walked in. He wore a three-piece suit, a cigarillo clutched between his teeth. He had round glasses, like John Lennon used to wear. He held out his hands to her. “Darling, you coming to bed soon?”
The President of France smiled, strain coloring her features, and took his hand. “Bruce, this is my husband, James. James, Major Bruce Bryden, Interpol.”
The man smiled and shook Bruce’s hand. “Pleased to meet you.” He turned to the President, expectantly.
“I don’t know if you’ve been watching the television?” she asked her husband.