The Blasphemer

by John Ling

  You are not going to make things easy for us, are you?

  Impatience curdled up within him, and he tasted sourness on his tongue.

  Magellan lowered his gaze, scanning the hotel’s entrance. Police officers and security guards were shepherding knots of reporters and onlookers, but so far as he could tell, their presence was minimal and thinly spread. Easy enough to exploit through speed, surprise and violence of action.

  But appearances were deceptive, of course. Auckland Police HQ was only a couple of blocks away. Once the alarm was tripped, he had no doubt that they would respond in force within five minutes.

  Five minutes.

  Tight.

  Too tight.

  A more immediate problem, though, was the protectors guarding Abraham on the inside. How proficient were they? Had they established a hardened position? What were their incursion protocols like? There was so much Magellan couldn’t see, couldn’t know, and the lack of intel frustrated him. No, getting to Abraham wouldn’t be clean. It wouldn’t be clean at all.

  Just then, a squealing child interrupted Magellan’s thoughts. Turning, he saw the boy stomping on a section of the floor made out of glass. Through it, you could see all the way down to ground level, a hundred metres below. It was several inches thick and shatterproof. Even so, he found himself wishing it would crack and break just so he’d be rid of this insolent nuisance.

  Magellan stared at the boy, offering him a glimpse of the darkness within, and the reaction was instant—the boy flinched and tottered back, his lips shivering. Magellan eyeballed the boy for a beat longer, then coolly returned to his binoculars.

  He continued studying the Pacifica.

  He didn’t like the fact that he was playing catch-up. Ideally, Abraham Khan would still be going on tour in a week’s time and doing it with minimal security. But last night’s snafu had derailed all that. And now… well, now Magellan would have to settle for inconveniences. The schedule would have to be ramped up; the assaulters prepped immediately; and a direct attack retooled into something more asymmetric.

  Magellan exhaled.

  One thing, at least, was on track—the hit team was prepared to improvise and had assured him that they would execute their op tonight. Risky, yes, but the groundwork was already done. It was now or never.

  CHAPTER 18

  Adam Larsen doubled back to his apartment on Auckland’s east side to pick up his tools and get his car before hitting the road. He had several stops to make. A few contacts to touch base with.

  As he drove, he considered what Deirdre had told him. The subject who had attacked Abraham Khan last night was a lone wolf. A regular guy who had acted on his impulses with no help and no encouragement. Yes, digital forensics revealed that he had visited several jihadi websites. But beyond that? No chat messages. No forum posts. No emails. No nothing.

  Apparently, the subject was more into reading than participating. Which was probably just as well. Because if he had actually taken the time to talk to someone who knew about guns, he would have reflected on the stupidity of buying a black-market Norinco.

  Then last night would have turned differently.

  The principal had gotten lucky. Real lucky. But Adam saw no reason to celebrate. From here on out, anyone wanting to take a crack at Khan would be more prepared. More determined. Better equipped. The persistent news coverage would make damn sure of that.

  Adam flexed his fingers around his steering wheel. So where do I go from here?

  The American FBI used something called linkage analysis, which they applied to violent crimes. Essentially, if you worked backwards, you could profile every unsub—unknown subject—based on the way a rape or a murder had been carried out and the heinous fantasies that fuelled it.

  First, you looked at the unsub’s modus operandi. His method of operation. What kind of weapon did he use? What kind of tools? What kind of transport? How did he select his victims? When did he strike? Where did he strike?

  Second, you studied the ritual of the crime. The behavioural patterns that the unsub repeated over and over again. Did he enjoy dominating his victims? What about torture? Mutilation? Did he pose them after he killed them? How did he dispose of the bodies? Where?

  Third, you combined modus operandi and ritual in order to get the unsub’s signature. The unique blueprint that allowed you to pinpoint a criminal as surely as you would pinpoint anyone leaving DNA behind at the scene of a crime.

  Yes, linkage analysis was a great tool. It provided insight into how, why and when an unsub might strike and allowed you to track their patterns. Used right, it could almost be clairvoyant.

  But it had a weakness—it only worked on serial offenders. So taking last night’s attack and using it to construct a profile would be useless. The subject—Samir Ziad Jarrah—was a one-off offender. His explosive rage had been an anomaly. There were no breadcrumbs to follow. Nothing to analyse.

  In any case, linkage analysis was retrospective, not progressive. It focused on looking backward, not forward. You couldn’t use it to chase down future crimes that were being planned by other subjects, but had yet to be executed. It just didn’t work that way.

  Adam exhaled, his breath whistling. A part of him was frustrated. But another part of him was keyed up. He lived for moments like this. Knowing there were unsubs out there. Knowing he needed to zero in on them before they zeroed in on the principal.

  CHAPTER 19

  When Devlin stepped out into the airport’s arrival hall, he wasn’t feeling all that great. His head was heavy as hell, and his body was stiff all over. Pulling his wheeled suitcase behind him, he stretched and yawned. The joints in his neck popped. Pins and needles crawled across his skin.

  The perils of flying economy.

  Sure, he could have saved himself the discomfort by travelling business class. He would have enjoyed nicer meals. More legroom. Better sleep. And, truth be told, he had almost been tempted to go down that route. Almost. But not quite. Because, when he took emotion out of the equation, he concluded that it would have been more trouble than it was worth. Airlines tended to pay extra attention to business travellers—attention that he could most certainly do without.

  He needed to blend in. To be faceless. To be just another nobody. If that meant spending twelve hours squeezed between a kid who couldn’t stop bouncing in his seat and a woman who couldn’t stop snoring, well, so be it. Discipline. What it really came down to was discipline. Ironclad and uncompromising.

  Sure, the forged passport and the assumed identity helped. But they were merely tools of the trade. Means to an end. Which was why Devlin had rehearsed things over and over in his head. Imaginary conversations with imaginary people. Different angles. Different situations. He had done it enough times now that he knew his alter-ego almost as well as he knew himself.

  If anyone approached him—if anyone asked—he already had a cover story all primed and ready to go. He would say that he was from Eastern Europe, from Moldova, a country obscure enough that few could find it on the world map.

  He would tell them that he was a small-time trader who had just struck out on his own. His specialty was farming aids. Which was why he had come to New Zealand. To visit the Fieldays being held down in the Waikato—the largest agricultural expo in Australasia.

  If probed further, he would say that he was particularly interested in the latest generation of electric fencing. Yes, he had done the requisite reading, and he had all the facts and figures to buttress his story.

  ‘Why New Zealand?’ someone might ask. ‘Why come all this way?’

  ‘Because your fine country invented the electric fence,’ he would reply. ‘No one does it as well as you do.’

  To add force to the illusion, he even had a business card ready to be given out. The phone number on it was real, but anyone bothering to call would get an answering machine. Simple yet effective.

  Likewise, the website address on the card was real. Mostly a cut-and-paste job, yes, but done with enough
flair to be convincing. An auto-responder would deal with any email queries, bouncing them back to their senders with an error message that said Inbox Full.

  Were his precautions excessive? Neurotic? Possibly. But in his line of work, having a good legend—a good cover—often meant the slim difference between being safe and being dead. He never ever allowed himself to forget that.

  As Devlin sliced through the crowd in the concourse, he observed plainclothes cops patrolling the terminal. He knew exactly who they were even if they didn’t advertise the fact. They had a very particular way of carrying themselves —broad, solid steps, shoulders held square, eyes forever scanning, hands always kept free, ready to react at a moment’s notice.

  Devlin smirked and entered a café. Stepping up to the counter, he ordered a sandwich and a coffee. When the meal was served, he took his tray over to a table in a corner. He sat down with his back pressed against the wall. It maximised his tactical awareness. Minimised his blind spots.

  He began eating. Slowly. Deliberately. As he did, he checked his surroundings, surveying the people around him. A man reading a newspaper. A mother admonishing her toddler. A group of teenage girls giggling. Devlin saw nothing that registered as an immediate hazard.

  Of course, he had to factor in the CCTV cameras that were present all over the terminal. More than one was probably aimed at this very café. But he didn’t bother searching for them. After all, he was just another weary traveller. He didn’t have to act the part. He felt it.

  Finishing up his meal, he was tempted to wipe down his plate and his cup with a handkerchief. Force of habit from the old days. But he reminded himself that he didn’t need to. He had recently seared his fingertips with acid. An awful process, yeah, but he no longer had to worry about leaving behind prints. Ever.

  Devlin stood up, returned his tray and exited the café.

  Wandering back into the concourse area, he took a long, circular walk around the terminal. He avoided the undercover cops, trekked up an escalator, then entered a bookstore, where he browsed, checking his peripheral vision the entire time. That’s when a woman sauntered down the aisle, coming towards him.

  Emmerich.

  He kept his eyes fixed on the shelves as she brushed past. Their hands touched, and it felt like electricity. But he kept his face impassive, bored. He soon found something he liked, and he picked it up. Yes, the latest Deborah Shlian thriller. He flicked through, aware that Emmerich was already slipping out of the store, already melting into the crowd.

  Smooth.

  Very smooth.

  Devlin gave himself a few more minutes, then paid for the book, left the store and made for the terminal’s exit. The automatic doors swooshed open, and a cool breeze tickled his face. Sucking in the crisp air, he stood for a moment, allowing it to fill his lungs. It felt good. His head grew lighter, clearer. He stretched and gazed at the sky. So blue. So pristine. It was just as he had heard—the place was unspoiled, unpolluted. A virgin land.

  Devlin slipped his hands into his jacket’s pocket. Fingered the two items Emmerich had dropped in—a note and a prepaid cellphone. No, he wouldn’t be using the cell. Not yet. But he pulled out the note and read it. A poem about love and loss and dancing in the summer rain. Cute.

  Good to know you still have a sense of humour.

  Skimming through, he picked out the final letter out of every word and strung them together in his mind to form an address. An address on the city’s NorthShore. Crushing the note, he stretched again and approached the line of waiting taxis. He had a feeling he would enjoy operating in this country.

  CHAPTER 20

  Deirdre Raines had a few nicknames around Section One.

  Dragon Lady.

  Ice Queen.

  Mrs Panther.

  She liked the last one best. Liked what it implied. As she stood at her office window, her hands clasped behind her back, she watched the analysts labouring on their workstations outside.

  Ever so often, one of them would look her way. It wouldn’t be very obvious. A timid peek here. A nervous glance there. Yes, they had every reason to be jittery. She was hovering over them. Surveying their every move. Dissecting their every decision. Pressuring them for better results.

  No wonder they had taken to calling her names. Never to her face, of course. But she knew. She knew because she had bugged several of the chairs in the cafeteria.

  It had been easy enough to pull off. During a lull in operations, Deirdre had slipped into the cafeteria after-hours. She had disassembled the chairs’ backrests. Planted listening devices in the hollows within. Then restored everything to their original state.

  To avoid detection, she kept the devices powered off when security performed their bug-sweep in the mornings and in the evenings. But outside of those times, she was in the clear, and whenever the mood hit, she would power on the devices and tune into the gossip.

  Deirdre considered it the ideal way to get her finger on the pulse of Section One. To follow its undercurrents. And she had adjusted her management strategy accordingly. It felt a lot like practising the martial art of tai chi—knowing when to push and knowing when to pull.

  Right now, Deirdre was pushing. And so far, the mood among her analysts seemed to be: Dragon Lady is a bitch. Damn it, we’ll show her. We’ll show her by delivering results. Then she’ll shut up and learn to respect us more.

  Excellent. Exactly what Deirdre needed. By being angry at her, her analysts had consolidated themselves into a pack. Closing ranks. Ironing out their differences. Working fluidly together.

  In corporate-speak, they had achieved what was known as synergy. And they had done so without even being conscious of the fact.

  Were her methods manipulative? Yes, she had to admit they were. But then again, she didn’t have the luxury of choice.

  Section One was the government’s ugly stepchild—underfunded, undervalued and stuck in the basement of an abandoned factory, where the air was too stale, the lights too dim, the walls too grey and the ceiling too low.

  Appalling.

  Absolutely appalling.

  So Deirdre was doing what she had to do—spoon-feeding her people with an overdose of fury and competitiveness. If only to keep them from lapsing into loathing and despair.

  Deirdre wondered if there was room for improvement. Perhaps by bugging their workstations? Yes, she already understood their dynamics while they were on their meal breaks. But how exactly did they interact while they were working? It would be interesting to find out.

  A quote from TS Eliot came to mind, ‘Do I dare disturb the universe?’

  Maybe.

  Maybe not.

  That’s when the phone on her desk rang. She turned away from the window, already knowing it was Maya even before she checked the caller ID. She took the call by touching the button on the Bluetooth earpiece she wore. This time, she allowed a bit of warmth to coat her voice. Just a bit.

  ‘Hello, Maya. What do you have for me?’

  On the other end of the line, Deirdre could hear Maya exhaling. Was her daughter surprised by her tone? Or irritated? The tension was there. Simmering. Bubbling. Deirdre wondered if Maya was on the verge of lashing out, perhaps as payback for all the spite that had blackened their relationship up till now.

  But Maya did no such thing. When she spoke, she was all business. Cool and even. ‘Gabrielle Tomasi—why is she the liaison?’

  Deirdre inhaled. On to business, then. ‘I brought it up with the prime minister. Made it abundantly clear that we were no longer comfortable working with Gabrielle.’

  ‘And..?’

  ‘And she overruled me.’

  ‘You should have pushed the matter.’

  ‘I pushed as hard as I could. But when you’re dealing with a politician—’

  ‘Mama, you’re starting to sound like one yourself.’

  Deirdre crinkled her lips. That stung. That really stung. So much so that she couldn’t think of an immediate comeback. She hesitated, then chose he
r words carefully. ‘I regret that you feel that way, Maya.’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘I’m not as pro-establishment as you might think. This time, I’m stepping on the outside and bringing in Adam Larsen.’

  ‘Adam?’ Maya sounded surprised.

  ‘To be clear, this is not a melting of the ice. I still don’t like his methods, and I don’t believe I ever will. But no one works the streets as well as Adam. I’m trusting him to leave no stone unturned.’

  ‘This is quite a... departure for you.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  This time, it was Maya’s turn to fall silent. Eventually, she sighed. ‘Thank you for bringing in Adam. I appreciate it. Can we move on?’

  Deirdre nodded, feeling the tension ebb. ‘Please.’

  ‘Okay. I’ve just concluded the interview with Abraham Khan.’

  ‘What’s your assessment?’

  ‘Well, he’s more... complex than our dossier would suggest.’

  Deirdre moved around her desk and eased into her chair. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He’s opened up about his birthplace, his childhood, his upbringing, pivotal events that we weren’t aware of before. I’ve emailed you my notes to bring you up to speed.’

  ‘Sure. Give me a moment.’

  Deirdre slipped on her reading glasses and leaned over her tablet computer. She ran her hand across the touch screen. Opened Maya’s email and skimmed through, picking up the key points. The Hindu-Kush village. The mullah father. The British couple. The confrontation. The stand-off. The resolution.

  Impressive.

  Deirdre couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pride. Maya was just like Nathan in his prime. Empathetic. Perceptive. Able to connect with any principal. Able to draw out the most intimate of information. That reassured Deirdre. Soothed her doubts. Perhaps bringing Maya back into the fold wasn’t such a bad idea after all.