The Specter

by Saul, Jonas

  Clive charged him. He did his best to minimize any bruising as he shoved and maneuvered Alfred up and over the balcony railing. Once Alfred was in free fall, screaming his way to the cement one hundred feet below, Clive simply exited the hotel room, used the stairs to get to the main floor and walked the three blocks to his car, drove to their prearranged meeting spot and waited for Alfred to show. His security men met him there and waited with him for over an hour. He called Alfred’s cell phone numerous times, leaving long messages about how unprofessional he had been by standing him up and then Clive drove home.

  During the investigation, he was questioned briefly, but his story checked out and Alfred Johnson’s death was labeled an accident.

  Clive never forgot how good it felt to not only kill a man, but to get away with it. Times had changed since the eighties. Investigations have reached a new level. It’s much harder to kill someone without leaving a trace. That’s why mercenaries like Jackson and Hugh worked for him now. They’re professionals unlike any others, ex-Mossad, responsible for infiltrations on Iranian soil.

  “Come,” Clive said at the knock on the door.

  Jessica Nockler entered, her hand staying on the door knob. She nodded with her darkened eyes and pouting mouth. To look at her, you wouldn’t know what she had been through, but Clive knew. He also knew how valuable she was.

  “He’s ready,” she said. “The drug has taken the desired effect. He will be groggy for at least two or three hours. After that, he’ll pass out.”

  “Carry on,” he said and waved. He expected the phone on the conference room table to ring. Without Jackson or Hugh calling in a status report, he couldn’t go in and begin to entertain Joey, his unwilling partner during the flight to Moscow.

  He knew they would call. They always did. Only when something had gone wrong or they had to deviate from the plan would they call in late. Which meant he couldn’t miss the call.

  Jackson and Hugh were the kind of men who didn’t care for the Mossad’s current motto, Where there is no guidance, a nation falls, but in an abundance of counselors there is safety. They stood by the original motto: For by wise guidance you can wage your war. That’s what they joined the Mossad for—to wage war.

  Rogue countries like Iran needed to be brought in line. Jackson and Hugh were involved in the bombing of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard’s Imam Ali Military Base in October 2010. They lost a few good men in the ensuing explosion. The base was said to house long-range missiles, one of Iran’s most secure facilities. It was the Mossad who discovered Iran’s nuclear program before it officially became known.

  The president of Iran, Ahmadinejad, was quoted as saying that Israel should “vanish from the pages of time,” which translates to “wiped off the map.” Jackson felt more should be done to deal with this clear and present danger, but there was too much red tape and not enough action.

  He gave up on the heart of Israel over a year ago and decided not to continue in service to his country. Hugh followed him and both joined forces as mercenaries for Clive, making four times the money they used to make and enjoying their jobs even more.

  Recently, the Mossad director had gone to the US national security officials to hear them out on what the American reaction would be if Israel attacked Iran amidst American objections.

  Just last month Jackson had said to Clive, “Too little too late.”

  Clive agreed, but he also kept his true opinions to himself. He was happy Israel was slow to the trigger. If they hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have Jackson and Hugh.

  The phone rang, slapping him out of his reverie.

  He hit the speaker.

  “This is an encrypted line. Speak freely.”

  “We have a new problem,” Jackson said.

  “Explain.”

  “We have encountered other people who are aggressively asking questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  Jackson cleared his throat. “A brother of one of the strippers has been asking questions. Aaron Stevens.”

  “That’s impossible,” Clive said, trying to control his anger. They had been swift in their cleanup to control information. He had been there himself. How could anyone be missed? “What could he know? It happened too quick. I’m not sure I understand the situation correctly.”

  “We don’t know everything yet. He approached Hugh and me when we took Gary this morning. He touched Hugh and within a second, had him on the grass, choking. I had to draw my weapon on him.”

  Clive stood from his chair. “What the fuck are you talking about? He dropped Hugh? In public? Nobody drops Hugh. I’ve seen the kinds of things he can do. Explain to me what happened.”

  The door to the conference room opened.

  “Everything okay?” Jessica asked.

  He waved her away. The door eased shut.

  “The brother has figured something out,” Jackson said. “He was at the Island Airport this morning and tried to stop us from taking Gary. Then he showed up at the strip club and harassed a waitress and the bouncers.”

  “What do you mean, harassed the bouncers?” Clive paced back and forth behind the conference table.

  “One of the bouncers approached him and asked him to leave. He flipped the 250-pound man onto his back. When he was leaving, he brought the same man to his knees in front of two other bouncers.”

  “And no one did anything?” Clive asked, his voice rising higher than he wanted. “Were the cops called?”

  “No police.”

  “Good. Can you handle this? What do we know about this Aaron Stevens?”

  “We had Nancy go with him. She gave us the plate number of his car.”

  “Where’s Nancy now?” Clive asked as he stopped pacing.

  “She’s with the others in Casa Loma.”

  “Good. You’ve done well. This sounds like it can be contained. Can you get to the brother?”

  “Yes … but, Nancy told us something quite disturbing,” Jackson said.

  Clive’s hand tightened into a fist beside the ashtray that held his cigar. “What is it?”

  “The brother, Aaron, asked about the vodka.”

  “What?” Clive couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Impossible. How could it be? “Say that again. Repeat yourself.”

  “Aaron Stevens asked about the vodka.”

  “How. Could. He. Know?” Clive asked through clenched teeth.

  “We have no idea.”

  “Then find him. Find out what he knows and how he knows it and report back to me. I land in Moscow,” he looked at the clock on his desk, “in three hours. If you find out before then, call me at this number. Otherwise call my home line.”

  “What about the strip club? People are wondering what’s really going on now that Aaron showed up and demanded answers. They’re scared. When Nancy’s death goes live on the news tonight, the people at the club will run scared. They may talk.”

  Clive waited for a heartbeat and pondered his decision. Things were unfolding like a ball of yarn rolling down a hill. He had to contain this mess swiftly and completely.

  “Clean it up. You are my clean-up crew, so clean it up.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “Yes, no survivors. I want absolutely zero trace leading me back to Frank, Gary, and the rest of them. That means the waitress, the bouncers, the dancers, everyone. Take them all out and burn the fucking strip club down. Do it tonight. Leave nothing. We can’t have left a speck of dust behind. With the brother, find out what he knows and make him suffer for causing us further cleanup. Make him truly suffer.”

  “Understood. It’ll happen tonight.”

  “Then get on a plane and meet me back in Moscow.”

  Clive ended the call. Jackson was a competent man, as was Hugh. He had hired Jackson to head his private army and so far he had surpassed all his expectations.

  And no one will ever find out that it was all about vodka, always was and always will be.

  He walk
ed away from the conference table as the 747 flew through mild turbulence. He opened the door to the adjoining bedroom and saw his prize.

  Joey Riley.

  He was lying in the bed on his stomach, ankles tied, legs splayed open.

  “Hello?” Joey asked, his voice laden with the effect of the drugs.

  Clive was instantly hard as he stared at the soft hair just starting to grow on the back of Joey’s young legs and ass.

  “Hello, Joey. How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty good. A little lightheaded. Strange-like …”

  “That’s good, Joey,” Clive said as he removed his shorts.

  A moment later, he climbed in the bed and did things that Joey would never remember because Joey wouldn’t live through the night.

  Chapter 8

  Hugh stared out the windshield as Jackson got off the phone and hopped back in the van. Hugh hadn’t talked much since the airport incident. Jackson was sure it wasn’t because of any damage to his throat. The hit Hugh took damaged his ego, and now that they got the order to not only take Aaron Stevens out, but that they could torture him first, Hugh would be happy.

  Jackson started the van and pulled away.

  “We got the go ahead.”

  Hugh grunted.

  “The club is to be cleaned up … completely. We got the okay to locate the brother, learn what he knows and clean him up, too.”

  “I clean the brother,” Hugh said. “No one else.”

  Jackson entered the QEW en route to the strip club. “Understood. He’s yours. But not before we find out what he knows.”

  Hugh smiled. “That’ll be the fun part.”

  “We’ll go to the club after dinner and clean it up around nine tonight. Then we’ll go to the brother’s home and ask him what we need to know. In the morning, our plane takes us to Moscow. Everything seems to be coming together after all.”

  Hugh didn’t respond. He clenched his hands and stared out the passenger window.

  “Don’t worry. The brother will have his due.”

  “Don’t mother me. I fucked up. It was unexpected. He got the jump. It won’t happen again.”

  Jackson nodded at him.

  “Fair enough. Just don’t lose your cool and kill him too fast. We need to talk to him.”

  Hugh didn’t respond. It was so infuriating to talk to Hugh when he got in one of his moods.

  “You heard me?”

  “Yeah,” Hugh whispered.

  Jackson drove toward the House of Lancaster. He considered how many people he would have to kill that night and then wondered what he would have for dinner first.

  Chapter 9

  Folley turned up the north end of Spadina Road and entered the parking area of Casa Loma where half a dozen police cruisers blocked the entrance of the public. He showed his badge to a uniformed officer and was waved in. He parked his car near the front.

  Casa Loma, in a unique spot, overlooks Toronto off Davenport Hill. It was built in a gothic revival style over a three-year period in the early 1900s for the exorbitant cost, in those days, of more than three million dollars. It came complete with massive stables and a hunting lodge. At the time of its construction, with almost a hundred rooms, it was the largest residence in Canada.

  Folley had toured Casa Loma with three different girlfriends over a five-year period. He’d also investigated two different missing persons cases that involved sightings at the castle.

  In 1933, the City of Toronto seized the rundown, unkempt Casa Loma for non-payment of back taxes. The city then called for its demolition, but that never happened. In 1937, the city leased it to the Kiwanis Club of Toronto, later to become known as the Kiwanis Club of Casa Loma, who opened it to the public as a tourist attraction. It was the first time the general public could walk its halls. Recently, Detective Folley heard the City of Toronto was to take over management from the Kiwanis Club.

  Folley also knew that over the years it had been used as film locations for X-Men, Strange Brew, and Jackie Chan’s The Tuxedo. It remains one of Toronto’s most popular tourist attractions.

  Not after tonight, Folley thought as he got out of his car. He closed the car door and breathed in the evening air, fearing what he would find inside the castle’s walls.

  At the main, door he showed his badge again and walked past the uniform guarding the front entrance. He entered the main foyer and was pointed toward the staircase on his right by another uniformed Toronto police officer.

  “The Scottish Tower, sir,” the uniform said.

  “I’ve been here before, but I don’t know the rooms or the towers by name.”

  “Just follow the trail of uniforms,” the cop said. “They’ll direct you, sir.”

  Folley lifted his index finger in the air. “Got it.” He started up the steps, marveling at their size as he always did. Each time he visited, he was always taken aback at the massive building, originally built to house one family.

  “A different era, a different era,” he mumbled under his breath. To live in something as big as Casa Loma today, would require a huge income just for the taxes.

  He climbed to the second floor and was directed down a hall to another set of stairs on his right. Areas were roped off, uniforms guarding everything so a stray member of the public or an employee wouldn’t enter the crime scene area.

  He had gotten the call as he headed home for dinner. Dead bodies at Casa Loma. Come quick. Possible dead were his case files. As a professional courtesy, Angela Wheeler from homicide had called him. The same Angela that was too independent for a man, too determined to succeed. The same Angela that let men know in no uncertain terms that she was unavailable because work came first. The same Angela that was the hottest homicide detective this side of Nepal.

  No one knew how the dead got up to the third floor when the castle was open to tourists. Folley knew there were secret passages throughout the building with numerous ones leading to and from the master bedroom, so the murderers would have been able to handle the task providing they had the blueprints. However it happened, a massive investigation was about to take place, keeping Casa Loma shut down for a long time.

  He reached the third floor and started around a corner to access the steep metal stairs up to the Scottish Tower. With both hands on the thin metal railing, he negotiated the steps one at a time and lifted his head into the tower. It was filled with men in white coats and at least six other detectives milling around, talking, coffees in their hands.

  For a second, he wondered if they were filming a scene for a reality cop show. Everyone dressed for the part.

  The smell hit him. His stomach dropped. He caught a glimpse of the outside through one of the small windows. The Scottish Tower offered a panoramic view of Toronto. He approached a window for a breath of fresh air and could see the stone lion on the peak of the castle lit up in the floodlights outside. Tiny dots of lights, Toronto at night, spread out toward Lake Ontario like a bed of glistening diamonds on black velvet.

  Inside, the walls were disgusting, covered with graffiti by a youth with no sense of respect.

  Any adult who can deface such a gorgeous building is actually a child.

  Detective Angela Wheeler wore a long overcoat for the evening, her hair done, makeup complete. Folley figured she had planned an evening out when she got the call. Or maybe she dressed up in heels to attend murder scenes. He just couldn’t be sure.

  She held out a small uncapped bottle. “Here, take this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Vick’s Vapor Rub.”

  He jabbed his thumb and forefinger into the container and applied the jelly liberally to the base of his nostrils. Instantly, the intense mint smell replaced the heady, horrible stench of gaseous bodies. The tip of his nose numbed as memories of childhood sicknesses flooded back, his mother applying Vick’s to his chest.

  Angela sealed the jar. “Five bodies in total,” she said, straight to business.

  “Do you have IDs yet?”

 
“Yes …”

  “On all of them? Already?”

  “Yeah. Whoever did this wanted us to ID them right away.”

  “How?”

  Angela gestured to the bodies lying in various spots on the floor, all covered in blankets. “Each victim was killed in a slightly different fashion, except the Weeks brothers. Each vic had their driver’s license stapled to their foreheads.” Angela coughed into her hand and opened a notepad she’d been holding. “Follow me.”