by Arno Joubert
The President's eyes widened. “All kinds of shit?”
“All kinds.”
President Nicole Rue turned to the other two men in the room. “What do you think?”
They shrugged. “Let's do what she said,” Baptiste said. He excused himself as his phone rang. He listened, nodding, saying yes in rapid succession. His body stiffened. He cupped the receiver and turned to the President. “Madame President, something dreadful has happened.”
“What?”
“Someone has just blown up the Eiffel Tower.”
Cape Town International Airport
South Africa
Neil greeted Inspector Len Fourie and swung his backpack over his shoulder. He checked his watch. The debriefing had been intense, he had to recollect every minute detail as it could be used as evidence later on.
He had managed to send Alexa a quick message a couple of hours ago, but he had to switch off his phone to give all of his attention to the questions.
He switched on his phone again and received a dozen messages, most from Alexa and a couple from Bruce. He headed towards the booking counter to see if he could get another flight to Paris when his phone rang. “Hi, Alexa.”
“Neil, you okay? You were involved in a plane hijacking?” She sounded strange, erratic.
Neil dropped his backpack and handed the ground attendant his passport. “I need a flight to Paris, tonight if possible,” he said to the hostess, pinning the phone to his shoulder. The woman smiled, her eyes lingering a second longer than was appropriate, fluttered her eyelids and started tapping on her keyboard.
“I wasn't involved, Alexa. I stopped it. Five terrorists, I'll tell you about it later. How is Yumi?”
“She's fine. Look Neil, Laiveaux has been kidnapped.”
“What?”
“I’ve let Bruce know, he's on his way.”
“Shit. Okay.” He glanced up at the hostess and cupped his hand over the cell's microphone. “Anything?”
“You're in luck, Mr. Allen. There's a flight departing in three hours,” the hostess said.
“I’ll take it.” He handed over his credit card, speaking into the phone. “I’ll see you in fifteen hours, Alexa. I'll SMS you my flight details.”
“Okay, please don't get involved in any white knight shit, Neil,” Alexa said.
Neil chuckled. “I won’t.”
“I mean it, Neil. I need you here.” Alexa hesitated. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He disconnected the call. The pretty girl handed him his ticket with a disappointed look on her face.
He grabbed his backpack and hurried to the gate. He needed to get to a hotspot. Laiveaux kidnapped, the Eiffel Tower bombed. These events had to be related.
Brad White checked his rearview mirror as he backed up the fourteen wheeler into the bunker. Large, concrete silos the size of train trucks had been stacked neatly, side-by-side inside the area. It took forty minutes and a hell of a lot of maneuvering because the bunker was full. In another three months the cooling down period would be completed and Brad would then transport the concrete silos to a train station which would take them on to their permanent storage facility.
He wiped his brow. This part of his job always made him nervous. The Boss said that these thing were virtually indestructible, but Brad wasn’t sure. He didn’t trust people, the so-called specialists. Everyone was human, everyone made mistakes. He was a living testament to that fact.
He switched off the ignition, hauled himself off his seat and walked to the side of the trailer, loosening the ratchet straps that covered the cargo. He worked his way around the trailer methodically, no need to rush these things, he had plenty of time. He felt a bit jittery. He looked at his hands; they were shaking. Calm down, man, relax. He stood up straight and took a deep breath, trying to shake the tension away.
A helper would have been nice, but he knew he was breaking the law. Besides, he didn’t want to split the cash, he needed it, God knows, chemotherapy didn’t come cheap. He walked to the back of the trailer and started pulling the tarpaulin off of the two large cylindrical concrete silo’s containing the spent ceramic pellets.
He used a forklift to move the concrete cones onto the ground and stacked them neatly into their allocated storage bays. He lowered the ramps at the back of the trailer and walked to the top. He examined the G6 Howitzer; last time he saw one of these babies was back in his army days. He swung into the drivers seat, cranked the ignition a couple of times. It started at the third try, barfing a plume of black smoke from its exhaust. He slowly backed the thing up, checking his mirrors.
Sonti was a clever guy; Brad couldn’t have thought of a better hiding place for the weapon, no-one would enter the facility for at least the next three months. He parked the armored cannon at the side of the bunker, looked at his work and nodded slowly, satisfied.
He pulled himself back into the truck’s seat and drove out of the bunker, then stopped to secure the large iron doors behind him. He dug out a cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number he was given. It was answered after the first ring.
“Hello, Mr. Sonti?”
“Good day, Mr. White.”
“The package has been delivered as you requested.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. White.” He heard Mr. Sonti typing, probably on a PC. “The money is being wired to you as we speak.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sonti.”
“You used the lock that I gave you?”
“Yes, Mr. Sonti.”
“Excellent.”
Brad White climbed back into the driver’s seat and shifted the truck into gear. “Thank you for providing me the opportunity to help your organization, Mr. Sonti.”
“It has only been a pleasure, Mr. White. GREEFF would like to thank you for your contribution to our cause.”
White disconnected the call, rubbed his chin as he turned to face the power station that had caused his cancer. Oh, the doctors thought differently, but he knew the truth.
Bastards. He hoped they all burnt in hell.
Lance Grenard smiled wearily as the stunning blond made her way through the boisterous crowd and sauntered up to him, all swinging hips and bouncing tits. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek, pushing her bosom into his chest. “Lance, good to see you,” she breathed huskily into his ear.
He stepped back. “Good to see you as well, Kathleen, although I can't say that it's been all that long of a time.”
She brushed her hand down his arm, then wrapped her fingers in his. “How is the newest block buster coming along?”
He glanced over her shoulder. “It's coming along just fine, Kathleen.” He looked down at her and forced a smile. He wanted to rub her face in it. “We've finished negotiations, four major studios are bankrolling the project. We'll start shooting in Vietnam in a couple of months, I guess.”
She swayed like a stripper and pushed his hand into her crotch. “Any teeny-weeny part for a struggling little actress like me?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.”
She looked up expectantly. “Honestly, there is?”
“I need a gopher.”
She pouted like a stupid tart, her hand on her hip. “A gopher?”
He scanned the room. “Funny, this place is crawling with celebrities and you're the only person no-one has heard of.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Screw you Grenard,” she said, poking a manicured finger in his face, then turned on her heel.
He admired her generous tush as she marched away. “You already have, Kathleen, remember?”
She glared over her shoulder and showed him the finger.
Bitch. He had had her career lined up for her, but she had decided to do a high budget movie for a competing studio. They had promised her fame, they had promised her a share of the box office takings, the usual shit. She had conveyed the news with fluttering eyelids, like an excited teenager receiving her first pair of designer jeans. She had been, oh so proud of being recognize
d by the moviemaking fraternity.
The movie had bombed, and she had ended up owing the studio money. Served her right for dumping her manager.
If you wanted loyalty get a dog. A male, not a bitch. He snorted. Besides, she was a shit actress.
He scanned the room again, nodding with a keen sense of appreciation. He had definitely made the right choice. He bought the penthouse from a soap star, and she hadn't held back on the decorating budget. Plush carpets and marble floors and sparkling crystal chandeliers.
He liked the place. You had to be where the action was, man. Sure, it came with a hefty price tag, but boy, was it worth it. He sauntered over to the balcony. The wraparound glass doors were open and a gentle summer breeze wafted into the apartment, giving it a cool and airy feeling, like you were suspended in space above the city. He admired the vista. He had a two-hundred-and-seventy degree view of the sprawling soapbox town below him, it was dusk, and cars were busily criss-crossing their way around town. People on their way to dinner or lovers or auditions, or whatever else the masses in Hollywood did on Fridays to keep themselves amused.
He leaned back on the handrail. The party was not yet in full swing, the DJ was playing Michael Bublè, waiting for the people to get stoned and make their way up to the roof. A waiter marched up to him and bowed his head. “Champagne, Mr. Grenard?”
Grenard took a glass. “Cheers.”
A gay-looking guy walked past and winked at him. “Hi, Mr. Grenard.”
Lance Grenard nodded a greeting and smiled. It was hard to keep up with all the new faces.
He climbed the stairs up to the roof where the action was. Large speakers thumped the latest dance track hits, and a DJ on a stage bobbed his head rhythmically to the beats.
He high-fived an attractive brunette in a two-piece and pointed a finger at the other girls gyrating in the pool. “You better not splash.”
“We won't Mr. Gerard,” they said, giggling.
“Only if you promise to join us later,” a girl no older than eighteen shouted, white powder still sticking to her nostrils.
He crouched, resting his arm on a knee. “C’mon girls, you're wasting cocaine in the pool, that stuff isn't free you know.”
“We're sorry, Mr. Grenard,” they shouted in unison.
He stood up and shook his head. Kids. In Hollywood they lived and died by their own set of stupid rules. One snort, one blow.
Now where the hell was his man? He had seen him come in. He looked around. Aha. Wes Coleman was seated alone at a secluded table at the furthest end of the roof, probably trying to get as far away as possible from the booming bass.
Grenard grabbed a chair and walked over to the man. He was sipping his usual, Bourbon on the rocks. An unscrewed bottle stood next to an overflowing ashtray. Grenard could tell he was in a foul mood.
He took a deep breath, then put the chair down next to Wes. “Mind if I sit?”
The man gave a noncommittal wave, the ash from his cigarette falling onto the table.
Grenard plonked himself down next to the man. “You ready to start shooting?”
The man snorted, gazing out over the green suburban sprawl.
Gerard waited for him to make the next move. He was a temperamental bastard, but he was the best in Hollywood. Almost a minute of uncomfortable silence ensued, Wes Coleman puffing on his cigarette.
He downed his drink and turned to Gerard. “This is bullshit.”
“The movie?”
“It was going to be a political epic, shot on location in Vietnam to show the other side of the story.”
“Okay?”
Wes pulled a crumpled wad of paper from his jacket and tossed it on the table. “The script.”
“I’ve read the script.”
“The original fucken script, Lance,” he said, slamming the table with his hand. His pink face was turning red.
“Calm down, Wes.”
He tapped the script with his finger. “Explain to me, Lance, how it became a shoot-em-up, kill Charlie and burn the jungle down fuckfest?”
Lance leaned back in his chair and folded a leg over his knee. “Look, Wes. The viewing public don't want a soppy long-winded historical documentary explaining why the war was wrong. Those type of movies don't sell.”
Wes Coleman leaned forward. “Dammit, Lance. That was the brief I gave you when I sent you the script.”
“So we changed it to make it work.”
Wes snorted, lit another cigarette and peered over the landscape again. Like a naughty child, Lance thought. Okay, it was time to take his toys away.
Lance leaned forward. “Look, Wes, you're one of the best directors in Hollywood.”
“The best.”
“I need you on this project.”
Coleman pursed his lips.
“But there are many other guys that will take the job in the blink of an eye.”
The man's head jerked around. “It was my script, Lance.”
Gerard chuckled. “And now it's mine. I bought it, remember?”
The chair scraped back as Wes stood up. “You know what, you guys are a bunch of arrogant pricks. I worked my ass off on the script. Decades of research.” He pummeled the wad of paper with a forefinger. “This is going to be an epic, Lance, think Titanic, think Schindler's list.”
Lance shook his head. “It isn't, Wes. I sell movies. It is more like The English Patient, da Vinci code.”
“I happened to love both those movies.”
“But the public didn't. They tanked at the box office.”
The man's shoulders slumped.
“It's not the flavor of the month, anymore, Wes. People want zombies or post apocalyptic thrillers, end of the world kind of stuff.”
Wes fell back into his chair. He shook his head slowly. “Why?”
“Because everything is going for a ball of shit, Wes, look around you.”
Wes turned to Lance with a deeply furrowed brow. “I don't know if I can do this, Lance.”
Lance stood up and patted his back. “Off course you can. Twenty-five percent royalties in a billion dollar block buster movie says you can.”
The man rested his bearded chin on his fist. Sighing, he closed his eyes.
Lance Grenard chuckled and slapped his back. “C’mon Wes, let's go get a drink.”
Alexa saw Neil and Bruce and drew up into a parking bay at the International Arrivals section of Charles de Gaulle. They were standing, chatting, backpacks slung over their shoulders. They travelled light. They had arrived at the airport within an hour of each other. Alexa checked her watch. Two thirty in the morning.
Alexa honked and waved them over. They strode towards the car, and Neil climbed into the back seat. Bruce pulled the passenger door open and slid into the seat, adjusting it all the way back. “Any news?”
Alexa shook her head. “No sign of his Geolocation Device, they must have removed it.” She pushed the stick shift into reverse and pulled out of the parking. She maneuvered through the traffic and within minutes they were on the A106 heading towards Paris.
“Where we going?” Bruce asked.
“The Presidential Palace, we’ve got a temporary office set up there. We’re liaising with Lyon via conference calls.”
The road was congested, and Alexa slapped a magnetized yellow emergency light on the roof. The twenty-three kilometer trip could take up to forty minutes, hopefully this would halve the time.
Bruce showed his tablet PC to Alexa. It had a map with a small, red blip that flickered on and off. “I know where he is.”
Her heartbeat started racing. “How the hell did you manage to track him?”
“I’ll explain when we get to the palace. Let’s brief everyone at the same time.”
“You sure it’s him?” Neil asked.
“Positive.”
“Where is he?”
Bruce dragged his fingers across the screen. “Somewhere close to Kabul.”
Alexa hesitated. “Dad, I suggested that they make you acting
commander until Laiveaux returns.”
He slowly tilted his head from side to side, weighing his choices. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for the job.”
“There’s no-one else.”
Bruce frowned. “I guess you’re right.”
Alexa smiled. “I know I am.”
The man hit Laiveaux in the face again, rocking him back with the blow. “Where?” the man shouted, sweat dripping from his chin. He shook his hand painfully.
The mustached man that had identified himself as al-Sharif held his hands in the air, playing the good cop role. "Come now, General. This needn't go on. All we want is the location of the safe house where you're keeping Ahmad Ahmani in Paris."
Laiveaux licked his bruised lip. They were going about this the wrong way. They could beat him all day. Interrogations were about breaking the mind as well, not just the body.
The adrenaline that was pumping through his system acted as a natural painkiller, they could hack off a bloody limb, he doubted if he would have felt it. Plus, he was bound loosely, he could roll with every blow, minimizing the damage. The man was hurting himself more than he was hurting Laiveaux. He dropped his head on his chest and sighed.
These guys were damn amateurs.
He pushed the pain into the compartment in his mind that he had segmented for that exact purpose. Once he was safe again and had debriefed himself, he would toss that compartment away and never come back to it again. It would be like it had never happened.
He listed the mistakes they were making as a way to bide his time. Take for example the way he was bound. His arms were tied to the armrest of a sturdy chair, and his feet tied to the legs of the chair. Nice and comfy. When he opened and closed his fingers, the blood circulated perfectly.
No, he would have taken an entirely different approach. First of all, you needed to get the prisoner as uncomfortable as possible. Adrenaline eventually seeps away, but the extended periods of severe discomfort would be worse than any blows received.
What he would have done was to tie his arms over the back of the chair and fastened his upper legs to the seat, pulling his feet up and tying them to his arms, as tight as possible. You needed to stretch those suckers, no way the circulation was going to get going then.