by Arno Joubert
"But I can’t—“
"Bah, your humility is wasted on me. You will receive your medal at an official ceremony at the Presidential Palace in two weeks' time."
She cast Neil a wide-eyed stare.
Neil chuckled, stood up and saluted. "Congratulations, honored Madam Captain."
Laiveaux gestured to Neil to sit down, then pushed the second sheet of paper towards him. "This is yours."
Neil picked it up and read, grinned. "Seriously?"
"My dear man, when have I ever not been serious, as you so eloquently put it?"
"Senior Superintendent?"
Laiveaux sat down and leaned back in his chair. "Seriously." He removed a bottle and three tumblers from his drawer and splashed three good measures of the liquid into the glasses. "Congratulations," he said, placing their glasses in front of them. "Drink up."
They sipped their drinks, casting each other furtive, grinning glances.
He quaffed his drink and retrieved a manila folder from his desk. "The man who kidnapped me is known as Moktar al-Sharif, a notorious snake that coordinates operations for the dark underbelly of organized terrorism in the Middle East."
Alexa picked up the folder and scanned the contents. "He's our target?"
"Yes."
She sipped her drink, flipping through the pages and handed the folder to Neil. "Al Qaeda?"
Laiveaux shook his head. "No." He tapped a Gauloises from a pack and offered it to them.
They politely refused.
"Al Qaeda is much more than a motley crew running around handing out Burkas and blowing themselves up." He lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply then crushed it in the ashtray. His throat burnt and it tasted like the hair of a wet dog after it had rolled in a dead hedgehog. Ah, well. "I'd rather refer to them as an ideology than an organization."
Alexa cast Laiveaux a questioning glance.
"They would love nothing more than to enforce Shari'ah law on a worldwide scale, but unfortunately they do not possess the organizational or intellectual capacity to do so."
Neil quaffed his drink, placed the glass on the table. "They've been doing a damn fine job up to now, if you ask me."
Laiveaux refilled Neil's tumbler. "Ah, that is the perception, Senior Superintendent."
Neil frowned.
"No, they have had outside help. And Moktar is our link."
"Link to what?" Alexa asked.
"Not to what, my dear, to whom."
Alexa studied Laiveaux, rolling the amber liquid around in her glass. "Why did he kidnap you?"
Laiveaux slapped the table. "Now that is the question, isn't it?" He stood up and marched to the window. He inched open a blind and peered outside. His agents sat in an open plan office. It was a hive of activity, agents typing away furiously on computers, bustling to and fro with classified documents containing classified information on top secret people in more secretive locations. They were getting nowhere. He turned to face Alexa and Neil. "You two are the only people I can trust."
Alexa shuffled uncomfortably in her chair. "Why?"
The dear child, she was naive. An optimistic, ignorant bliss. He hoped she was ready. "I set up my own kidnapping. Moktar had kidnapped our agent in Kabul, a man called Alan Turner."
"Why risk your life to save one agent?" Alexa asked.
Laiveaux chuckled. "Not to save, Captain. To interrogate."
Alexa smiled, enamored, like Laiveaux was telling her a bedtime story.
"He was a double agent. I went in to get the name of the person whom Moktar was working for."
"Did you?" Neil asked.
Laiveaux pursed his lips. "Alas, I did not. But I did manage to kill the double crossing son-of-a-bitch. "He pulled a black envelope from his jacket pocket and tossed it on the table. "I received this a couple of months ago."
Alexa picked it up and read the inscription in front. To General Alain Laiveaux. At the back was written From GREEFF. She pulled out the letter inside and started reading.
Dear General Laiveaux,
I have followed your career with equal measures of abhorrence and interest.
Personally, I consider the revolting methods that you employ to capture or eliminate the so-called terrorists of the world to be anathema.
The clichéd saying that one man's freedom fighter is another's terrorist is particularly applicable to yourself.
Your cronies look up to you, worship the hallowed ground that you walk upon. They are the core of the cancer that you are spreading across the world.
I give you this final warning. Back down, or I will eliminate Captain Alexa Guerra, your gorgeous little brainless minion.
Heed this warning or feel my wrath.
It was signed: Cruel One, I. Taste my wrath in All the Nations.
"What the hell is this?" Alexa asked.
Laiveaux drummed the table with his fingers and then started pacing the room. "GREEFF, also known as the Green Freedom Fighters." Laiveaux explained what he knew of GREEFF, and the leader, a man called Carl Richter.
Laiveaux turned to face them. "Look, we have a mole in our organization. I've known it for some time, now. That's why I needed to eliminate Agent Turner." He picked up his packet of cigarettes, sighed and reluctantly tossed them back on the table. "Unfortunately, our agents are still being targeted in the field, acts of terrorism are rife, and I think we are heading for a major catastrophe if we allow this GREEFF to continue unhindered."
Alexa removed a sheet of paper from the brown manila folder. "You think GREEFF was responsible for 911?" She pulled another sheet from the envelope. "The financial crisis in 2008? Madoff's Ponzi scheme?"
He nodded. "All related."
"General, excuse me for saying so, but that is ridiculous."
The General chuckled. "If you think that is ridiculous, what if I were to tell you that they were responsible for JFK's assassination?"
She slowly shook her head. "GREEFF killed JFK?"
Laiveaux flopped into his chair. “Indirectly.”
“How?”
“By manipulating the mass media.”
Alexa frowned, a stunned expression on her face.
Laiveaux placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward. "Alexa, look. If you are able to control public opinion, you are able to convince people there is an enemy that doesn't exist."
"Yes, but how?" Neil asked.
Laiveaux removed a black-and-white photograph of a handsome guy with dark hair. "Lance Grenard, Hollywood Producer and all-around likable guy. He works for GREEFF."
"Hollywood?" Neil said.
Laiveaux nodded. "GREEFF's own publicity machine. At the moment the bad guys are the North Koreans, tomorrow it'll be the Iranians. Popular vote is where the money goes. Hollywood drives trillions of dollars to specific industries. Mr. Grenard is the dealmaker, he sets up public sentiment."
"But why?" Alexa asked.
Laiveaux sighed. This was difficult to explain. "To persuade the economic masses to withdraw money from the country's stock exchanges. The Arabs are the enemy? Make a movie which results in an uprising in Egypt or Syria. The president is ousted by his own people, sent to trial, condemned to be hung or live out the rest of his existence under house arrest."
Alexa tapped her lip. "So their stock exchange crashes and this, GREEFF, swoop in and buy up all the shares at rock-bottom prices?"
Laiveaux smiled. "Exactly, dear girl. Or the oil price increases by double digit percentage points, allowing them to sell their billion dollars worth of stock in the oil companies at a handsome profit."
Alexa nodded. "Okay, makes sense. But why do this under the auspices of a green organization?"
"Sheep in wolf's clothing, I guess," Neil said.
"So who is behind all of this?" Alexa asked.
Laiveaux crossed his arms. "We don't know, child."
Alexa cast Neil an exasperated glance. "What do you want us to do? We're not into this undercover, cloak and dagger shit."
"That's the point, dear girl
. Our undercover cloak and dagger shit hasn't helped one little bit." He steepled his fingers. "We need to work our way up the chain of command. I'm certain Moktar was paid by this man. If we capture him, we'll make him talk."
"How?" Neil asked.
Laiveaux raised his eyebrows. "As you most certainly know, Superintendent, all men have their weaknesses."
Neil turned to Alexa and smiled. "What's his?"
Laiveaux folded his hands behind his head. "Well, I have it on good authority that he is addicted to the furtive attentions of, let's call them, ladies of the night."
"Hookers?" Neil asked.
"That sounds crass, but yes. He loves hookers."
Marina Hotel, Kabul
A pretty Chinese girl looked up as Neil strode to the reception desk. The place was nice. Almond colored marble floors covered the expansive foyer, and creamy leather couches dotted the area, creating an airy ambiance. Turbaned patrons wearing white robes spoke quietly, smoking and sipping cups of strong coffee.
"Hi, I'm William Topham. I have an appointment to see Mr. Henry Dwyer."
She smiled as she tapped a number on the phone with her long manicured nails. She nodded and looked up at Neil. "Mr. Dwyer will see you in a moment. Please have a seat."
Neil nodded, strolled to a couch, pulling his collar from his neck. It felt like he was being strangled by a midget; he couldn't wait to get out of the suit.
He didn't need to wait long. A short, squirrelly man bustled towards him. "Mr. Topham?"
Neil nodded and shook the man's outstretched hand. It was soft and clammy.
The man wrung his hands and smiled. "The Board was pleasantly surprised when they found out that a distinguished organization such as yours would have any interest in our small establishment."
Neil smiled, slapping the man on the back, hard. "Mr. Dwyer, the Hilton Hotels Corporation are always on the lookout for potential acquisitions to add to our expanding portfolio."
The man grimaced, trying to force a smile. "Please call me Henry."
"All right then, Henry. Besides, Kabul is the perfect location. A newly established NATO Command Center, and Kabul is a stepping stone to the East."
The man smiled nervously, wringing his hands. "Oh, I wouldn't call it a stepping stone, but it has its charms, I guess." He walked behind the reception desk. "Please, follow me to my office," he said over his shoulder.
They walked down a short passageway and stopped in front of a door that said General Manager, Private. Two bored looking men with bulging muscles and tight suits stood to either side of the door. Henry Dwyer nodded their way, but they didn't bat an eyelid. "Security," he smiled apologetically.
Neil followed Dwyer inside the office, an exact antithesis of the foyer. It was small, dark and stank of stale cigarette smoke. "Please, sit," Henry said, gesturing to a dilapidated chair with the sponge sticking out from the side.
Neil sat down. "One question before we continue with our negotiations, Mr. Dwyer."
"Yes?" Henry said, settling in his chair.
"Do we assume ownership of the whorehouse as part of the takeover?"
The man's eyes flicked from side to side in his sockets, and he licked his upper lip. "I don't know about--"
"Come, now, Mr. Dwyer. Do you think we would leave the most profitable part of the business on the table?"
The man smiled weakly. "How did you know?"
Neil slapped his thigh as he chuckled. "We do our research, Mr. Dwyer."
The man nodded, a nervous twitch making his eyebrow jump. "Okay, we could talk about that."
Neil stood up, slipping the Glock from his shoulder holster. He pointed it at the bridge of the little man's nose. "I need the master keys to the place."
The man stared at the barrel of the gun with squinted eyes. "What?"
"I need the master keys, now, or I blow your head off."
The man looked at Neil with unbelieving eyes, nodded like a bobble head. "Okay, they're in here," he said, pulling open a drawer.
"Slowly."
The man handed him a bunch of keys.
"Get a pen and paper and write down all the access keys to the gates."
The man nodded again, tongue flicking over his dry lips and started scribbling furiously on a piece of paper.
"And I need the secret code to the armed reaction unit," Neil said, undoing the button to his collar.
"It's marina one."
"Write it down," Neil said, loosening his tie.
Dwyer did as Neil said.
Neil strode over to the man and pulled a roll of duct tape from his pocket. "Place your hands in front of you."
Neil wrapped the tape around the man's wrists half-a-dozen times, tore it off with his teeth. "Okay, call those two oafs inside."
The man nodded, clearing his throat. "Uhm, Cheech, Chong, do you mind joining us inside?"
Neil frowned. "Cheech and Chong?"
Dwyer shrugged. "Nicknames. They don't understand the irony, I guess."
The men entered, oiled hair gleaming and muscles bulging, their hands going to their belts when they saw Neil pointing the gun at them. "Don't do anything stupid," Neil said, waving his Glock. "Down, on your knees, hands behind your backs."
They raised their hands, kneeled down uncomfortably, suits stretched to breaking point.
Neil wrapped duct tape around the first man's wrists, but he tried to slam the back of his head into Neil's face. Neil countered, pistol whipping him against the head. He turned to the other man, but Chong shrugged.
Neil finished binding them, making sure that their legs were strapped tight and bound them to each other. He turned to Henry. "I'll be borrowing your fine establishment for the evening, then I'll free you. If you stay nice and quiet, it'll all be over in a couple of hours."
The man nodded, licking his upper lip.
Neil tied Dwyer’s legs to his chair, walked out and locked the door behind him. Mission accomplished. He talked into his wrist. "All clear, move in."
Moktar held onto the door handle as the car jostled and bumped its way over the potholed road, heading toward the Marina hotel. He smacked the back of the chauffeur's seat with his palm. "Hey, take it easy, I'd like to get there in one piece."
The man lifted his hand in an apology. "Sorry."
Moktar cursed, glancing sideways at Rehan and Abdulla. They shook their heads, smiling.
He sat back into the seat, then unlocked his cell phone. Moktar opened the image that Dwyer had emailed him. They had a new girl, French, and he was looking forward to meeting her; maybe she could teach him a couple of words, he thought, chuckling.
He always enjoyed the new girls. The Kabul whores got on your nerves quickly, all three of them. They lay there, staring up at the ceiling when they should be enjoying the moment with you.
He sighed. The French girl was beautiful, young, olive skin with black hair cut into a bob and a long fringe. She had green eyes. Her face wasn't perfect, she had a mark beneath her lip, and her nose had a bit of a kink, but the imperfections enhanced her smoldering looks. In the photo, she had a challenging smile as if to say: "come and get me, bad boy." Oh, she needn't worry, he would.
His gaze shifted down to her body. She was wearing a red, two-piece bikini. He gave a wolf whistle. She was lean and tan and toned, a flat tummy and beautiful tits. He was going to have fun with this one.
Dwyer's email said that she would cost double, but he didn't care. He wanted to be the first man in Kabul to take a whiff of the French blossom, savor her forbidden fruits. He laughed out loud, feeling his dick grow hard.
They entered the gates to the complex and slid to a halt in front of the passenger drop-off in front of the hotel. "We're here," his driver called.
"Excellent." He slid out of the car with a spring in his step. "Wait here," he ordered the men in the two limousines behind them. He marched towards the entrance and was met at the door by the woman in the photo. "Where are the others?" he asked suspiciously, glancing around.
"Mr. Dwyer said that they should give us peace and quiet for a couple of hours. Apparently you are a regular patron. He believes in rewarding his VIP customers."
Moktar nodded. "It's about time." He waved his arms in a dramatic gesture. "I'm bankrolling this little operation of his."
The beautiful woman smiled and hooked her arm into his. "I've heard." She looked at him seductively and licked her upper lip. "Fancy something to eat?" she asked, leading him to the honeymoon suite.
"Give me your most expensive dish." Moktar studied her as she walked in front of him, holding his hand. She wore a tight black dress and stilettos, had amazing long legs and strong calves and a fantastic ass. She was taller than him, and walked with a lithe grace, like a cat.
She unlocked the door and ushered him inside, then walked to the phone on the night stand. "Chef, could we have a dozen Nova Scotia Langoustines and some Beluga white caviar. And a bottle of Bollinger Blanc de Noirs Champagne."
"I don't drink."
She fluttered her eyelids. "It's for me," she said and pouted. "It allows me to set aside my inhibitions."
"I've heard that alcohol does that," he said, admiring her tits with their ample cleavage. Shit, he wanted this woman bad.
But he had to wait.
Extend the pleasurable craving for as long as he could. He slapped her bottom. "As long as you brush your teeth before blowing me." She giggled.
He fell onto a couch, massaging his crotch. "How much is Dwyer paying you?"
"I'm not allowed to say, but it will be enough to set me up to follow my dreams."
It was funny to think these girls could imagine having a future anywhere else. "Dreams?"
She smiled, twirling her fringe around her finger. "I want to go to Hollywood someday."
"So, how much?"
She sighed. "Five hundred."
He snorted. "That stingy bastard. I'm paying him Two Thousand."
She sauntered over to him, trailing a finger down his chin. "Is that a problem?"
He popped her finger in his mouth, sucked it like a lollypop, pulled it out. "Not at all." He started slipping her dress' strap from her shoulder. "He's exploiting you girls. You should come visit me. I'll pay you directly. Double."