by Arno Joubert
The girls eyebrows lifted. "Honestly?" she said, eagerly. Poor child.
He nodded as he pulled the strap off her shoulder. "Yes." There was a knock on the door, and Moktar groaned. "Tell him to go away."
She smiled seductively and pulled the straps back onto her shoulders. "I want some champagne," she said and lifted her skirt, revealing a red G-string. She pulled it back down as she sauntered to the door and opened it.
He swallowed, trying to get his breath under control.
A man came in wearing a white suit and carrying a silver tray with two cloches. He walked like a woman and had an earring in his ear. "Sir, madam," he greeted. He placed the items down on a dining room table and opened the cloches. "Wild Iranian Caviar and Langoustines all the way from the cold waters of Novia Scotia." He turned to the girl. "Should I open the champagne?"
He spoke with an American accent and was obviously a faggot, moving his hands like a woman's when he spoke.
"You a faggot?" Moktar asked the man.
The guy smiled uncertainly. "I prefer to be called gay, sir."
"You know what we do with faggots?"
The man swallowed nervously, shook his head.
Moktar turned to the hooker and winked. "We rip their balls off and eat them for dinner."
The girl threw her head back and laughed, she was enjoying this.
The man cocked his head, like he was having difficulty understanding. This was fun. "Did you touch my food, faggot?"
He shook his head. "No sir, the chef did." The faggot was trying to open the bottle of champagne, but his hands were shaking.
"Is he a faggot as well?"
"No, sir."
"That's good, bugger off before I rip your balls off."
The woman put her hand to her mouth, laughing.
The man bowed. "Yes sir, sorry sir," he said. He uncorked the champagne and strolled over to Moktar, pouring some champagne into a glass.
"I don't drink."
The waiter smiled. "I know." Moktar didn't have time to blink before the bottle slammed into his teeth. He doubled over, crouching on all fours, blood pouring from his gums and mouth. He spat out a tooth. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The waiter shrugged, then kicked him in his ribs. "My brother is gay."
"You're going to pay for this," Moktar said, stumbling, trying to stand up.
The man swung the bottle again and it pounded against Moktar's temple. Moktar dropped to his knees, trying to shield his face as the faggot's fist thumped into his cheek and the world went dark.
Alexa ratcheted the chain hoist until Moktar's toes barely touched the ground. She pulled a metal drum closer, sat on top. "Who's bankrolling your operation?"
Moktar shook his head. "Where...where are we?"
Alexa stood up and circled the man. "The plane hijackings, the Eiffel Tower massacre, who is paying for all of this?"
He straightened his shoulders. "Who are you?"
"Interpol," Alexa said.
Moktar's eyes narrowed. "Laiveaux sent you?" He had developed a lisp since losing his front teeth. He turned his face. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Moktar's eyes widened and he whimpered as Neil entered the warehouse, pulling open the metal door and slamming it behind him.
Neil lifted a hand and waved hello.
Moktar balled his hands, clutching them open and closed.
Neil walked up to Moktar and ripped his robes from his body.
"Did you find one?" Alexa asked.
He nodded. "I had to go back to the damn hotel." He rolled the robe into a ball and tossed it into a corner.
Alexa chuckled.
Neil nodded his chin in Moktar's direction. "He saying anything?"
"Nope."
"What do you want?" Moktar asked, dangling naked.
Alexa stood in front of him, her hand on her hip. "I already asked you. We want to know who's bankrolling all these operations."
"Go back to your whorehouse and die, bitch!" he shouted, lashing out at Alexa with his legs. "Daughter of Satan, snake seed bitch."
Neil tsk-tsked as he removed an enormous dildo from a brown paper bag. He slapped the man on the chest with the rigid rubber phallus. "You know what I'm going to do with this if you don't start speaking soon?"
The man shook his head nervously.
Neil thrust the dildo in an upward direction. "I'm going to ram it so high up your ass, you're going to feel it tickle your tonsils."
"You're going to rape me?"
Neil frowned, cast a glance at Alexa.
She shrugged. "Technically, I guess."
Neil removed a tube of lubricant and pushed out a dollop onto his hand. "I'll make it a bit easier on you," he said, rubbing the lotion over the sex toy.
Moktar watched wide-eyed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed.
"You got a name for me?" Neil asked, running the dildo down the man's back and over his bottom.
Moktar shook his head nervously, trying to look over his shoulder at what Neil was doing.
"Okay then, you ready?" Neil asked.
The man squeezed his eyes closed and started to pray.
Neil pushed the dildo between the folds of Moktar's bottom and the man started to scream in a high pitched contralto, his ass clenching, trying to roll himself up into a ball.
Neil walked around the man, stood in front of him, holding the dildo. The man didn't stop screaming, his voice was going hoarse, the high pitched scream becoming a feint, rough, raspy noise.
Neil slapped him through the face with the dildo. "Stop it."
Moktar shook his head, his eyes still closed. "Please, please, anything you ask, I'll do anything."
"Who is bankrolling this operation?" Alexa asked again.
"Sonti. Allan Sonti," he shouted.
Neil and Alexa cast each other a knowing glance.
"What's his connection to GREEFF?"
"Nothing, it's all a cover up." He opened his eyes. Neil was slapping the dildo on the palm of his hand. "Please, please take that thing away from me."
"Promise you'll tell us everything?"
Moktar closed his eyes, nodded.
Neil tossed the dildo over his shoulder. "Okay, talk."
Alexa sighed. "Who's Allan Sonti?"
The man shivered. "He works for the IMF."
"The IMF?"
The man blinked and sucked in a deep lung-full of air. "That's all I can tell you or else I'm a dead man."
Neil turned around to retrieve the dildo.
"Wait," Moktar shouted. "Okay, listen. World economies are not built on currencies. Dollars, Euros, Pounds, they're all concepts. Physically, that money doesn't exist."
Alexa nodded. "Banks only own five percent of the money that they lend out, yes."
Moktar nodded. "So if the IMF lends a couple of billion to Poland, it's an electronic transaction that takes place somewhere on a computer. There's no physical money that swops hands."
"So what?"
"So, sometimes countries default on these loans. They never had any inclination to pay the loan. Dictators take the money and run."
"What happens then?"
"The country needs to be taught a lesson. The IMF calls in Sonti. They call him the scale, because he keeps the balance."
"What balance?" Neil asked.
"Economic balance. He creates problems and solutions."
"I don't understand," Alexa said.
"If a country or an individual owes the IMF money, Sonti creates a problem for them. He buys out all their bonds, flooding the market and devaluing their currency. The country prints more money, super inflation ensues, and the country borrows more money, using minerals or natural assets to back the loans. The IMF end up owning important mineral wealth. Or he organizes an uprising and then sells weapons to the government forces and he makes his money that way."
"How long has the IMF been doing this?" Alexa asked.
"Well, probably since we first started u
sing money to pay for goods and services."
Neil slapped his thigh. "This is bullshit." He turned to Alexa. "This guy's insinuating a global racketeering scheme is being run by the one of the most trusted organizations in the world. He could just as well have accused Interpol of being in someone's pocket."
Moktar chuckled. "Oh, but they are."
They both turned to face him. "What?"
"Your organization is a sieve, you have so many holes you won't be able to plug them for decades."
Alexa pursed her lips, grabbing the man's shoulder. "How do we get hold of this Mr. Sonti?"
He grinned a toothless smile. "You can't."
CHAPTER FOUR
Alexa leaned back in her chair as the President of France stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray. She had wanted Alexa to brief her personally on what had happened with Sam East. "So we have Sonti's cell phone number, but we still don't know his whereabouts?"
Alexa nodded. "I'm afraid so."
"Can't we trace the number?"
Alexa nodded slowly. "We could try, but we'll need him on the line for several minutes to complete the trace." She drummed the table. "We need someone he knows to phone him."
President Rue stood up, checking her watch.
"You expecting someone, Madam President?" Alexa asked.
"Sorry if I seem rude." She straightened her dress. "Yes, a film crew is shooting a documentary on the first female President of France." She lifted her hands in the air, palms up. "Moi."
There was a rap at the door and it opened. Zoé Reinard, Nicole's PA, popped her head inside. "Excuse me Madam, Mr. Grenard is here to see you."
Alexa stood up. "I will keep you updated, Madam President," Alexa said.
"Oh, please wait, dear. I would like to introduce you to the dashing Mr. Grenard." She winked. "You'll like him."
Alexa smiled. "Why not?"
The President of France trotted to the door and pulled it open. "Lance, nice to see you again," she said, embracing a man in his mid-thirties. She showed him inside the room, and he smiled at Alexa, dimples in his cheeks. He had a strong chin and his hair had started greying at the temples, prematurely it seemed, the man's face was smooth, not a wrinkle in sight.
"Mr. Grenard, Captain Alexa Guerra, one of my top Interpol agents," President Rue said.
He strode towards her with a dashing smile, arms outstretched, his dark fringe bouncing as he marched energetically towards her. He took her outstretched hand in both his. "Captain Guerra. Madam President has told me a lot about you," he said with a thick American accent.
Alexa cocked an eyebrow. "Sure, but I bet she can't prove anything."
He smiled, waving a hand. "Oh, no. Nothing like that." He glanced over his shoulder, but President Rue stood there, smiling.
"What I meant to say was, the President thinks highly of you," he said with a bow, brushing his lips over her hand.
Alexa laughed. "Well, that is good to know. It cannot hurt my promotional opportunities if the President of France, thinks highly of me."
Lance nodded, his eyes riveted to Alexa's face. "I guess in the movie business, people would refer to you as a true Amazonian beauty, Captain."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Indeed, it is. Have you ever considered a career in the movies, Captain?"
She laughed, pulling her hand away. "Not once."
"Would you? I could make it happen for you."
"Nope," she said, folding her arms.
Grenard nodded slowly, assessing her, Alexa guessed. "Such a pity," he said softly, then waved his arm flamboyantly. "Today we have witnessed a great loss to humanity," he said, glancing over his shoulder at President Rue. "A tragedy of epic proportions."
The President chuckled. "Now, now, calm down, Mr. Grenard. I'm sure humanity will get over it."
He turned to President Rue. "Mind if I bring my crew inside?"
"Excuse me," Alexa said. "I better get--"
"Please, Captain, linger a while, I'm sure you will make my cameraman's day if he could stare upon a face with such beauty such as yours," Grenard said with a bow. He turned to the President. "Would that be all right with you, Madam President?"
"Of course," she said and winked at Alexa.
Alexa was getting a bit irritated with the lyrical madman. She checked her watch. "I honestly have a lot of paperwork I need to complete."
President Rue waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, nonsense, Captain. Stay a while. Kick off your shoes, relax."
Grenard nodded furiously, holding his hands to his chest.
"Five minutes, that's it."
"Excellent," Grenard said and strode to the door. "Come in, come in, minions. Witness the face of beauty and be soothed by the presence of grace."
A big guy with a camera on his shoulder sauntered in. His stomach bulged out beneath an Iron Maiden T-shirt that was much too short. Behind him followed a pimply-faced kid holding a stick with what looked like a furry rabbit connected to the end of it.
"Can I start rolling?" the big guy said.
Grenard looked at the President.
"Go ahead," she said.
"So what's first thing on the agenda?" Grenard asked.
She shrugged. "Nothing too glamorous. I need to go over the shopping list for a banquet we're having this Friday. May I let my caterer in?"
Grenard clapped his hands excitedly. "But off course."
The caterer came in and he and President Rue discussed a shopping list as if it was the most important item ever. Alexa plopped onto the couch, she could feel her eyes glaze over. Finally the man left and Gerard looked up. "What's next?"
"The President and I need to discuss some top secret mission; we're planning on invading Britain," Alexa said, standing up. She had had enough of this BS.
Gerard's eye's grew wide.
Alexa marched over and slapped him on the back so hard she could hear him hiccup. "Not really, man. It's a joke."
"Oh," Gerard said looking confused.
Alexa's phone beeped and she glanced at the message. "Gentleman, Madam President, please excuse me." She exited the room without waiting for an answer.
It was a message from Neil. They had to amputate Sam East's legs. Apparently, they had been broken several times. In fact, the doctors didn't know how he had managed to walk. The message ended that she should phone him ASAP.
Poor stalker guy, she thought.
She punched a number into her phone. Neil answered after a couple of rings. "Alexa, guess what? Laiveaux has an idea."
"What?"
"He thinks he has a way of luring Sonti out in the open."
She heard glasses clinking in the background. "How?"
"Let's discuss it later. Guess what?"
Was he slurring? "Tell me."
"Bruce and I had a little man-to-man this morning."
Alexa sucked in a breath. Oh shit. "Did he hurt you?"
"No..., what? I mean we talked things out. Patched everything up, mended our ways."
Rowdy laughter in the background. “How?"
"In the boxing ring at Interpol HQ."
Merde, bloody men, thinking they could solve everything with their fists. "That's good, Neil. You sure you're not hurt?"
"Well, he got in a good one on my chin. But I managed to get in a couple of kidney blows."
"But you two are cool now?"
"Yeah, sure. As a matter of fact we're having a couple of beers at Le Boudoir right now. Care to join us?"
"Hello Alexa," she heard Bruce shout from somewhere in the bar.
She sighed. "All right, but just one."
Neil chuckled. "Excellent. See you tonight."
Lewis Collingwood drew his car to a stop in front of the Crowne Plaza Hotel, fixed his long, braided hair into a ponytail, then tossed his keys to the valet. He entered the building through the rotating doors and strode energetically through the lounge. Henrie Dumas saw him, but didn't make a move. Coward.
"Follow me to the bar," he told Dumas as he strode p
ast him and headed that way.
Collingwood took a seat at a table in the far corner and Dumas slid onto a barstool next to him.
Dumas fidgeted nervously with his cufflink. "You wanted to see me?"
"Tell me more about Captain Guerra. I want to know what we're up against."
"Like what?"
"Let's start with her age, man."
"She's thirty."
"What else, man?"
Dumas scratched the table with his thumbnail. "She's solved many cases, received the highest accolades. She would have been a senior high ranking officer had it not been that Interpol will not promote anyone who is under thirty-five to a higher rank than captain."
Lewis nodded thoughtfully.
Dumas shifted around uncomfortably, loosening his tie. "She's being groomed to take over Laiveaux's job."
Collingwood turned in his seat. "Honestly?"
"She'll take over before she's thirty-five. She comes with one hell of a reputation."
Dumas flicked a braid behind his ear. "But why didn't you tell us about this stuff earlier, man?"
Dumas held an outstretched hand in the air, dropped it. "Look, these people fly under the radar." He hesitated, like he was trying to formulate his words. "There's no big newspaper exposes on them and they never give interviews to the news stations. The only way I could find out what I have was by talking to a couple of drinking buddies."
Lewis chuckled. "Typical, booze talk."
Dumas sighed. "Did you know she holds the record for the deepest free dive of all time?"
Lewis slammed his palm down on the table. "Bullshit."
"It's true. I confirmed it. She set it at Morocco a couple of years ago."
Collingwood smirked. "Who the hell is she: Wonder woman?"
Dumas shrugged. "Many people seem to think so."
Lewis Collingwood nodded, deep in thought.
Dumas shifted in his chair. "Want to know what else?"
"No, what? Humor me with another Wonder Woman tale."
"People seem to like her. They look up to her."
"Aw, please, Dumas."
"It's the truth. I like her."
"Well then we better get rid of this Miss Guerra before she becomes too much of a pain in our asses, I guess."
"I guess," Dumas said, not sounding too sure.