Obscure Intentions

by Anthony J Harrison

  As one of Malik’s men closed to within twenty meters of Lavigne, a volley of gunfire rained down from above, catching the gunmen by surprise. As Malik and the other gunman looked skyward, they encountered more police officers lining the parapet firing down upon them. In an act of self-preservation, the gunman standing next to Malik tossed his machine gun aside and threw his hands above his head.

  “You coward,” Malik spat, pulling the trigger on his own machine gun. Bullets ripped open the man’s chest, spewing flesh and blood across the gravel. A cruel smile crossed Malik’s face as the SWAT sniper for Captain Picard placed a well-aimed round through Malik’s forehead, killing him in an instant.

  The scene taking place before him was not what Nazim expected. Bodies of Omar Khalid’s men lay crumpled on the ground, as did the lifeless form of his consort Ketifa, lie upon the deck of the boat. As the gunfight between the police and Khalid’s henchmen began subsiding each passing second, Nazim made his way to the bow to finish slicing the mooring line. “Get us out of here,” he shouted up to the helmsman as he trotted towards the boats stern.

  Noticing the sudden movement from her prey, Geneviève jumped up and ran towards the boat, leveling her pistol at Hakim as she kept screaming above the engines roar. Pausing, she dropped to one knee and took aim at the Algerian prisoner as he turned, a wicked smile of satisfaction edged across his face.

  Feeling her face grow flush with anger, Geneviève was pulling the trigger as swiftly as she could until the slide locked open, signaling her magazine had emptied. Through her rage, she remained focused, seeing twelve of her fifteen bullets impacting their target. With grim satisfaction, she watched three of the first four bullets strike the Algerian, dropping him to the deck.

  Benoit's joy was short lived as the launch surged away from the jetty, heading out to sea, to be lost among freighters and pleasure craft sailing the open waters.

  The helmsman gunned the engine as he heard the bullets impact the boat. Peering back, he looked at the prone figure of Nazim tugging on the pants of his cousin as several rounds hit Hakim across his torso.

  Howling in pain, Hakim fell to the deck, his shirt a growing mass of crimson where the bullets had torn through his fragile body. He looked over to Nazim who was trying to say something, but couldn’t be heard over the roaring engines, as the helmsman pushed the throttles against the stops. As the distance between the island citadel and the pleasure craft grew, the danger decreased, allowing Hakim to prop himself against the rail.

  “Hold this here,” Nazim shouted over the wind, stuffing a wad of cloth against one of the entry points on his cousin’s stomach. Grabbing the cloth, Hakim tried to pressed it hard against the hole, but the blood continued to ooze out, its color growing darker.

  Standing next to the helmsman, the Algerian peered out to sea. “Where are we going?”

  “We are to meet a freighter according to his excellency, Khalid,” the man said, shifting his eyes between the compass and the horizon. “We should make contact in an hour.”

  Nazim stepped back to the stern, only to look at the ashen face of his cousin staring back at him. Kneeling next to Hakim, he pulled the cloth from the most serious wound, watching the slow ooze of blood, its color now a deepening mix of burgundy and black. From previous altercations, Nazim knew this was a clear sign of a mortal wound to Hakim’s liver, and he was gradually dying before his eyes.

  Death’s shroud was beginning to envelope the wounded Algerian. “Cousin, how much further to the freighter?” Hakim asked in a voice that was but a raspy whisper.

  “It won’t be long,” Nazim replied as he pulled a large beach towel around Hakim, cradling him close to his body.

  ***

  On the opposite side of the archipelago, Geneviève’s partner was busy assisting in subduing gunmen who’d taken the ferry crew hostage. On the radio, reports could be heard as the SWAT team was completing their action.

  Soon, the two SWAT teams began making their coordinate sweep of the fortress, rounding up the few remaining members of Malik’s gang of criminals dispatched by Omar Khalid. In the distance, two more police boats were escorting a commandeered car ferry, which was loaded with emergency vehicles, making their way to the embattled fortress.

  While SWAT officers conducted interrogations of staff and civilians left on the island, Captain Georges radioed for Captain Lemieux to meet him in the courtyard for a debriefing of the squad.

  As he lumbered up the stone steps, the heat of the summer sun forced Claude to shed his jacket before he cleared the last step. Walking towards the group, his arms itched as sweat formed on his skin, the slight breeze failing to offer relief. Nearing the officers, one tossed him a bottle of water, sensing the captain’s need for a drink.

  “Merci,” Claude said, gulping the liquid down. “Well Captain, what’s your assessment?” he asked, as he looked at the SWAT commander.

  “We were fortunate today,” Pierre said, his face bathed in perspiration. “None of the officers were hurt, and no civilians were harmed in the melee either.”

  “And the assailants?”

  “Four dead, three wounded, seven apprehended,” Captain Georges said, reading off his notes. “But it still leaves six unaccounted. We are assuming they made their way out to sea on the launch.”

  Captain Lemieux noticed his partner walking up to the group from the opposite direction, her image displaying no emotions. As she grew closer, Claude noticed the telltale sign on her helmet of a missed shot getting dangerously close to ending her life.

  Standing at the edge of the assembled officers, Geneviève exhibited the signs of an officer who encounters a hostile foe. After the echoes of bullets flying and screams of the wounded and dying subsided, the officer’s own adrenaline began to ease up, returning her to the present. Even now, she was processing her actions and of those around her, trying to best learn what she could have done to improve the outcome.

  “Detective Benoit, would you care to add anything?” Captain Georges asked, looking at her sweaty and dirty face.

  “I’m sorry, Captain. What were you saying?”

  “I asked if you had anything to add for the debrief,” the SWAT commander replied.

  “Yes, I do,” Geneviève said, looking over to Officers Cormier and Lavigne. “I want to apologize to Cormier and Lavigne for placing them at risk for my own gain,” she muttered, nodding towards the officers. “I needlessly discounted their safety in my attempt to subdue the suspects.”

  “And as for those unaccounted for, Captain,” Cormier said, giving Geneviève a chance to gather her composure, “we’ve pulled one from the water, but he didn’t make it.”

  “I’m reasonably sure of two... if not three, missing assailants are dead or severely wounded,” Geneviève added, recalling the deckhand falling overboard and Cormier’s gunfire killing Ketifa. “And I’m positive at least two of my shots hit the prisoner Talib,” she stated with renewed confidence.

  “Unfortunately, the helicopter couldn’t be dispatched in time to shadow the boat carrying your suspects,” Captain Georges said. “According to reports from the harbormaster, there was too much clutter with vessel traffic for them to make out their destination.”

  “With that said, we’ve lost our chance at catching Khalid,” Captain Lemieux muttered to himself as he scanned the horizon. Turning back to the SWAT commander, Claude broached the problem of an informant. “Captain Georges, where are the seven you detained being held?”

  “We left them where they were: in the catacombs,” Georges replied. “I couldn’t think of a better place to begin our questioning, wouldn’t you agree?” A wry smile crossed his tired and beleaguered face.

  “My feelings precisely,” Claude replied, heading towards the entrance to the interrogation facility.

  “Captain Lemieux, what are you going to do?”

  It was the tired voice of his partner asking the question. Turning to her, he looked at the strain of the day etched across her face: the shoulders s
lumped, hair a tousled mess from her helmet.

  “I want answers to several questions. It’s better I ask them now while I have the means,” Claude replied, walking through the solitary door below the towers buttress. Leaving the heat, he could sense the coolness of the air-conditioned space chilling his skin. With each of his strides crossing the stone steps, they were leading the officer deeper into the fortress.

  Opening the control room, Captain Lemieux found the senior medical technician and pulled him aside. “Can you introduce the serum without having the suspects eating or drinking?” he asked, citing what he and Geneviève observed weeks earlier.

  “Yes, but why?”

  “I have a few questions I want to ask and I need answers right away,” Claude said. Pointing to one of the security officers, he gave his order. “Come with me,” he said, exiting the control room and heading down the brightly lit corridor.

  Reaching the first holding cell, Claude glanced in one of the miniscule chambers to find Malik’s followers huddled with three other men in the corner. “You, step to the center of the room!” he ordered, pointing at the Algerian. “The rest of you take a seat on the floor,” he told the four remaining occupants. “Open the cell,” he said, directing the officer who’d accompanied him.

  With the cell opened, Captain Lemieux stepped in and grabbed the Algerian’s robe and dragged him into the corridor, allowing the officer to secure the door. “You appear to be the type who likes to talk. We’ll discover how much you have to say in a few moments,” he warned, pushing the criminal towards the interrogation room.

  Finding him outside the room was Geneviève. Relieved of her SWAT gear, she stood by the doorway with only her pistol in its holster. “What are you going to do, Claude?” she asked her partner as he pushed the member of Malik’s group past her.

  “We’ve a rat in the cupboard, and I want to know how it got there,” he said, his face flush with anger. “I’m in no mood to wait six weeks for some half-ass report on how information is leaked.” He pushed the criminal toward the empty gurney in the room.

  “You can’t do this to me,” the suspect stammered. Seeing the medical technician preparing the syringe, he realized they would use drugs in an attempt to have him talk. “This is inhumane treatment,” he continued to say, his voice growing louder. “I’ve rights. Even under your Vichy government.” The man struggled as two guards placed him onto the stretcher.

  “Claude, this method isn’t right. It isn’t who we are,” Geneviève pleaded. “You’re better than this and you know it. We already know its Khalid behind all this; we don’t need to hear it from one of his henchmen.”

  All eyes were on Claude as he turned from his partner to the technician holding the syringe. Taking a deep breath, he fought the urge to grab the narcotic and plunge it into the criminal. “Take him back to the cell,” he directed the officers. “How do we learn who’s leaking the information now, huh?” he asked, turning away from Geneviève and heading to the courtyard.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  As the pleasure craft came alongside the freighter, several crew members threw a rope ladder over the rail, hitting the water between the two vessels. Grabbing one of mooring lines, Nazim tied off the boat to the ladder rungs while the helmsman killed the engines.

  Looking over the side, the freighter’s captain, Adem Coetzee, could detect the obvious forms of two bodies laid side-by-side on the stern, a blood-stained tarp covering them. The pleasure craft looked like someone had used it for target practice as most of the visible surfaces bore signs of damage from gunfire. He noticed one man pull open the engine space covers and place a small package against the hull. “Make sure you set the timer for at least five minutes,” he shouted to the two men.

  Nazim looked skyward, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. “It’s set for ten minutes; that’s enough isn’t it?” he asked, the silhouetted figure hanging over the rail.

  The captain of the Southern Warrior nodded before answering. “That’s plenty. Do you need any help?” he asked, pointing to the bodies. He’d previously dealt with having corpses onboard his ship, but this was different. He was being paid a handsome fee to transport three Algerians to Tunis, but he wasn’t aware two of those were the bodies being lifted onboard.

  “Be respectful, please,” Nazim mentioned to the two merchantmen who’d made their way to the deck of the pleasure craft.

  Each man nodded in silence as they removed the tarp, exposing the body of a man and woman to those looking on from the freighter. Lifting the woman onto the pallet, they draped her lifeless form with an Algerian flag Captain Coetzee had provided. Next, they lifted the body of Hakim and placed him along the side of Ketifa before signaling the crane operator to lift them off the boat.

  “Are we sure the charges are set?” Nazim asked the lone survivor of the morning’s gunfight with the police and their narrow escape from Il d’If.

  “It is ready, Nazim,” he replied, reaching down to begin the sequence to scuttle the craft.

  As he watched the man reach down to the explosives, Captain Coetzee ordered the freighter to get underway, relaying his commands to the engine room via radio. In moments, the ship shuddered, the senior engineer bringing the dual diesel engines up to speed, causing the sizeable bronze propellers to churn the water behind the ship.

  The helmsman watched the freighter creeping ahead and jumped from the deck, grabbing ahold of the rope ladder. Glancing back, he looked at Nazim stealing a glance around the luxury boat before leaping across the water and on to the ladder. Taking out a knife from his waist, he reached down and severed the line keeping the two vessels together.

  In less than a minute, the boats already drifted apart, a hundred meters at first, then the distance growing with each passing moment. Swinging his leg over the rail, Nazim stood wearily before the South African merchantmen. “I wish to thank you, Captain,” he said, extending his hand.

  Accepting the show of gratitude, Adem Coetzee shook the young man’s hand. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said softly, acknowledging the death of Hakim and Ketifa. “We’ll be in Tunis by tomorrow afternoon. Until then, I’ll see you and your associate are made comfortable.”

  “And what will become of my companions?” Nazim asked, noting the absence of his cousin and Omar’s consort from the empty pallet on the deck.

  “They’ve been moved to our refrigerated section,” the captain said solemnly. “They need to be kept cold until we can arrange for their transfer off the ship,” he explained, stepping out of the sunlight and into the cooler confines of the ship.

  “And how will that be done?”

  “I’d rather not explain those details to you. Rest assured, it will be done with dignity so we can return them to Monsieur Khalid,” the captain said, opening the door to one of several spare cabins onboard the freighter. “You’ll find toiletries and towels in the bathroom. I suggest you clean up; then, we’ll look at to getting you fed,” he added. “Mister Walls, my first officer, will return to escort you to the galley in an hour.”

  “I’m uncomfortable, Nazim. What are we to do if they don’t allow us off the ship?” the helmsman said.

  “Let’s accept their generosity for the moment and refresh ourselves,” Nazim replied. “Then we’ll worry about what comes next.” He pointed to the cabin next to the one he would use. Going in, he found the spartan-surroundings of the cabin clean and well kept. Closing the door behind him, he found fresh clothing in the dresser drawers. Hanging in the small closet were several clean overalls and a pair of deck shoes.

  Removing his sweat-drenched and bloody clothing, Nazim walked into the small bathroom and noticed the fatigue etched on his face. I should have taken my time and planned properly, he told himself. Omar had provided eight of his most trusted members from Algiers to help him and now they were either dead like his cousin or apprehended. Things were going well until the police woman interfered again. Getting into the shower, he spun the handle, letting the water run
until the room was filled with steam.

  Standing under the stream of hot water, Nazim felt the tension subside, but not the anger. Reflecting on the loss, his thoughts turned to Omar, and his need to explain the failure of his attempt to him. Not only did he risk his people, but Omar also had to accept an alliance with the Maghrebi gang leader, Amed Gilles. Nazim knew that appeasing him for the loss of his people may take a greater effort.

  As his mind cleared, seemingly with the passage of water over his body, loud knocking from the cabin door interrupted Nazim’s thoughts. Turning the spigot closed, he grabbed a towel and stepped to the door. “Yes, who is it?”

  “Mister Walls, sir,” the first officer replied. “The evening meal will be ready shortly. I’ll be standing by at the end of the passage to your left when you are ready,” he said before stepping away from the cabin door.

  ***

  Detective Benoit sat silent in the patrol car. The lights of the city flickered as the daylight surrendered to the night and its citizens gathered to socialize amongst the tourists, like bees to a flower.

  Geneviève saw none of it. Her thoughts were still on the island, replaying her actions during the infiltration to free Hakim Talib. How could I act so foolishly, she thought? Cormier and Lavigne knew exactly how to manage the plight we were in, yet I didn't let them do their job because of my own desires for justice.

  While the patrol car was stopping for some pedestrians, Geneviève looked out the window, staring at the faces walking past the car. In the men, she noticed her suspects, Hakim Talib and the drug smuggler Louis Remesy, who was actually Nazim Aziz. The reflection of the men smiling back was a sign mocking her ineptitude and failure as an officer.

  “Officer Benoit, we’re here,” the driver said, nudging her shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, officer. Thank you for the ride,” Geneviève replied, grabbing her gear before getting out and heading towards the armory. Slowly trudging towards the police facility, it was clear by her stature and gait what the day had taken from her physically.