Abuse of Power

by Michael Savage

  After a hot shower, he put on the new clothes then retrieved his father’s watch from his old pants pocket and strapped it to his wrist.

  He found Sara in the gym, watching a couple of over-the-hill boxers jab at each other in the ring. She had also showered and changed, now wearing dark jeans, a tight gray T-shirt, and a black leather jacket, her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail—every bit the modern woman.

  The gym was crowded and several of the men were staring at her. As Jack approached her, he didn’t need them to remind him how stunning she was, and it was difficult for him to look at her without wanting her. Especially now that he knew she was on the right side of this fight. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, or it was just wishful thinking, but she seemed to appreciate what she saw in front of her as well.

  She continued to be all business, however. After they left the gym, she called Brendan Lapworth to let him know she was still alive.

  “Who?” Jack asked as they took a cab to the terminal.

  She quietly explained that the man Jack had seen Sara talking to at the rave—Curly—was a hardened former Central Scotland Police constable named Brendan Lapworth who had been working antiterror for at least a dozen years. He was Sara’s task force leader, and had been on the other end of the line when she made her call outside of al-Fida’s flat.

  “There’s a problem. We need to talk.”

  “When I realized I was being followed,” she told Jack, “I knew I had to warn him off. Too many of us have been getting ourselves killed. We were supposed to rendezvous again after I either lost you or took care of the situation. But that obviously didn’t happen.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “Took care of the situation? You mean shoot me?”

  “If it came to that, yes.”

  His brain didn’t know if that should excite him or be a deal-breaker. Fortunately, his body didn’t give a damn.

  “When you said you were in Abdal’s flat I thought you might be working for Zuabi,” she told him. “A homegrown terrorist. Of course, I didn’t know who you were, then.”

  “Believe me, I didn’t know what to make of you, either. That little crying act was quite a show. You were very convincing.”

  “I’ve had a lot of practice,” she said softly.

  Without having said a word, Sara and Jack adopted the roles of lovers on holiday. They boarded the Eurostar to Paris and spent the nearly three-hour ride trying to get as much sleep as possible. They both still felt the lingering effects of the ape’s magic wand, and Jack only wished he’d been a little more thorough with the guy and put him out for good.

  Maybe that’s the difference between us and them, he thought. People like us were raised to be empathetic and understanding, to use violence as a last option, always looking for reasons not to kill. But mercenaries like Swain and his men, or extremists like Zuabi, looked at people as nothing more than a way to earn a buck, gain power, make a political point, or achieve some false religious nirvana that really had nothing to do with God at all. They used greed and faith as weapons, their concern for humanity never stretching beyond the limits of their own selfish interests.

  Jack remembered what the Reb had said about al-Fida at Cousin Ohad’s dining table.

  “He’d just as soon see people like you and me buried under a pile of rubble.”

  Thugs like Swain and Zuabi and al-Fida and Haddad had no qualms about killing. Why, Jack thought, should he?

  Because that’s one of the only things that separates human beings from animals, he reminded himself. And if that didn’t matter, then the bad guys had already won.

  As it said in Jeremiah, “In truth, in justice, and in righteousness; then shall the nations bless themselves by him.…”

  Paris, France

  “Good to see your bonnie face again,” Lapworth said to Sara, with only a hint of the rolled rs that signaled a Scottish burr. “We were afraid we lost you.”

  “You nearly did,” she told him. “If it weren’t for Jack, I’d be rotting in a chair right now.”

  Brendan Lapworth had picked them up at the Paris train station, the Gare du Nord, in a battered Citroën Berlingo panel van. Up close, Jack noted that the curly hair was flecked with gray, and there were lines in Lapworth’s ruddy face—the roadmap of a hard life. But his eyes were clear and blue and unflinching.

  Jack sat in the backseat, watching the sun drop below the horizon as he absently wound his watch. Ironically, his last visit to Paris had been for a story, when the city was plagued by Muslim riots. It occurred to him that, except for the trip to London with Rachel, most of his world travel had been accompanied by war or political upheaval.

  At some point in his life he’d have to take a real vacation, assuming the world would still be around when he was ready for one. Considering what was going on these days, the machinations of Islamic extremists, the anger back home, the turmoil in the Middle East, it sometimes seemed to Jack as if we were already in World War III and losing.

  These thoughts aside, Jack had always loved Paris. From the iron-lattice splendor of the Eiffel Tower to the street side cafés and the Gothic majesty of Notre Dame Cathedral, the city hummed a romantic, old-world European tune, while managing to feel modern and vibrant and alive. As they drove through the traffic-clogged streets, he allowed himself to fantasize about an alternate life. A life in which he took a small apartment and spent his evenings at the Café de Flore, drinking real Chablis as he watched the carefree young French women stroll by.

  As Lapworth drove, he said, “Good to meet you, Hatfield. You did real good by Sara. Bob Copeland told me you’re one of the good guys.”

  “So was Bob,” Jack said, shaking off his reverie. “How did you meet him?”

  “He was a consultant on a cybersecurity case I handled when I was still a constable,” Lapworth replied. “We found we had mutual interests and stayed in touch. You can’t know how much his death angers me.”

  “I think I can imagine.”

  Lapworth nodded. “’Tis good to have you with us. What we lack in number, we make up for with passion.”

  An odd statement, considering the size and scope of Interpol.

  “And hopefully we’ll take down a few terrorists in the process,” Jack said.

  “More than a few. I look forward to the day when every one of these bastards is either dead or wasting away in prison.”

  “That’s a pretty tall order.”

  Lapworth shrugged. “I’ve always dreamed large.”

  It suddenly struck Jack that, like Sara, Lapworth seemed to have reasons for his work that went deeper than a sense of duty. There was a forcefulness to his words that spoke of an underlying rage, anger that had probably been cultivated by some tragedy in his past. Jack understood the sentiment, but he sometimes wondered if such feelings clouded one’s judgment.

  “Where are we headed?” Jack asked.

  “To our command station,” Sara said. “We’re in an apartment complex that was scheduled to be gutted and renovated until the investors backed out. Now it’s just sitting there. We had to tap a neighboring building for power, but it works well for us.”

  That also struck Jack as a little strange. Why would an organization with a fifty-million-dollar annual budget put its agents up in a building scheduled for demolition, especially with their main headquarters not that far away? Then again, from what he’d heard so far, this task force sounded like a ragtag operation trying to remain as invisible as possible. Maybe the fewer ties they had to the mother ship, the better.

  Interpol wasn’t a policing body. It was primarily a communications liaison between law enforcement agencies around the world, but Jack was well aware that some of the “advisors” they contracted did a lot more than give advice.

  Lapworth made a turn down a desolate cobblestone street and pulled to the side of the road in front of a five-story limestone building that was fronted by a high chain-link fence. Sara popped open her door and got out, gesturing for Jack to follow. When Jack c
losed his door, Lapworth hit the gas and headed down the street.

  “Where’s he going?” Jack said.

  “To a garage down the block. He’ll be along in a minute.”

  She gestured for him to follow again and they moved to a gate secured by a chain and padlock. She punched in the combination then unhooked the lock and swung the gate open, ushering him inside.

  The sun was all but down now, and with little light to guide them they walked along a short stone path toward the building entrance. When they got close to the lobby doors, a hard, sinewy man emerged, an HK IAR slung over his shoulder.

  “It’s all right, Ethan, it’s me,” Sara said.

  The man named Ethan relaxed, nodded. “Good to see you back. We thought you were dead.” He shifted a hard gaze in Jack’s direction. “Who’s this?”

  “The reason I’m not,” she told him.

  Ethan quickly patted Jack down, then pulled a radio from his belt and spoke into it, saying, “Two coming up.”

  As it squawked in response, Sara pushed the lobby doors open and Jack moved with her.

  “An Infantry Automatic Rifle,” Jack observed.

  “Sorry?”

  “That’s what your friend Ethan was carrying,” Jack said. “I don’t believe that’s standard Interpol issue.”

  “As I’ve said, this is not a standard Interpol operation.”

  They continued down a dingy hallway to a set of wooden steps, Jack once again wondering why the unit was housed here. Nothing about this struck him as part of a sanctioned operation, Interpol or otherwise, and he was beginning to wonder if he’d been too quick to trust these people.

  They started up the stairs, but as they reached the third-floor landing, Jack abruptly stopped.

  “We’re on the fifth,” Sara said, gesturing him upward.

  “I think I’ve gone far enough.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Jack stared at her. “You’ve been lying to me, haven’t you? You people don’t have a thing to do with Interpol.”

  She didn’t have to respond. Her face said everything.

  Jack turned, looking down the stairwell toward the first floor, where Ethan now stood, staring up at him suspiciously, his hands on the weapon.

  Sara touched Jack’s arm, squeezing it. “It’s all right, Jack. You’re safe here.”

  “Then why did you lie to me?”

  “Because I wanted you to trust me. Take me seriously. I was with Interpol, but I left the agency some time ago.”

  “Then who the hell are you people?”

  “Survivors,” she said.

  “Of what?”

  “Each one of us has a different story. Brendan lost his wife in the London subway bombing and Ethan lost both his children to a suicide strike in Israel.”

  “And you?”

  Her eyes clouded. “Not now,” she said.

  Jack decided not to push. He saw real pain in those eyes and backed off. “So you’re vigilantes.”

  “In a sense. But I wouldn’t put it like that. We’re all former law enforcement, counterterrorism specialists. We became unhappy with the red tape and the shifting politics and the inability of our governments to handle this crisis. These fanatics need to be stopped, so we’re doing what we can on our own.”

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Two years ago there were over twenty of us. Now there are twelve. Life expectancy isn’t one of our strong suits, as you well know.”

  “So how the hell do you expect to accomplish anything?”

  “We have hundreds of contacts all over the world. People in law enforcement who are sympathetic to our cause. People like Bob Copeland who are willing to help.” She squeezed his arm again. “People like you.”

  “People who hate terrorists, sociopaths, and flat-out liars, you mean?”

  She was silent.

  He looked down at her hand. Soft. Delicate. A hand that should be painting a picture, or playing the piano. But her grip was firm, and he knew from experience she was capable of striking a solid blow.

  He looked into her eyes again. “You should have told me all this from the start.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  She was a very good actress, he knew that from experience, too. But there was a sincerity in her expression that was tough to fake.

  “The fifth floor, you said?”

  She nodded. Without saying another word, they continued up the steps.

  As they reached their destination, Jack heard voices and saw another man standing guard in the hall, his cold eyes assessing them as they emerged from the stairwell.

  He nodded to Sara. “Welcome home.”

  Sara smiled at him and patted his shoulder as she passed, then took hold of Jack’s arm again and pulled him toward a lighted doorway.

  They stepped into what had once been a decent-sized Parisian apartment, but was now a fully functioning antiterrorist command center. There was a large white board to Jack’s right, with the words HAND OF ALLAH written across it in red marker.

  Several photographs were taped below this. Surveillance shots of Adam Swain, Abdal al-Fida, an older Middle Eastern man standing outside a mosque—Faakhir Zuabi, no doubt—and assorted other Arab faces, including one Jack recognized: the man with the wispy goatee he’d nearly bumped into outside the pub.

  Hassan Haddad.

  He was angry that he hadn’t known who Haddad was at the time. If he had, there might be one less terrorist in the world.

  There were multiple computer stations scattered about the room with men and women manning them. One screen showed night-vision security video of the front, back, and sides of the building, while another was open to a screen that Jack remembered from his own explorations—the British embassy personnel files.

  Another screen was open to what looked like an Arabic-language chat group, and the guy sitting in front of it—a squat, swarthy man with biceps the size of grapefruits—was typing away furiously.

  The other people in the room were an eclectic mix of ethnicities and nationalities, all deeply focused on their tasks. A woman with short-cropped red hair, a spray of freckles, and startling blue eyes glanced up, offering Sara a relieved smile as she got out of her chair and pulled her into a hug.

  “Thank the Lord,” she said in a heavy Irish accent. “Brendan told us you called and I’ve been praying ever since.”

  Now others turned, greeting Sara with a smile or a quick hello before giving Jack a slow, suspicious stare. Sara introduced him to the group, rattling off names to fit the faces, but all he got from them were a few grudging nods. He felt like the new kid at school that everyone was curious about but no one wanted to commit to.

  A man with a graying beard and horn-rimmed glasses—Alain, if Jack remembered correctly—looked up from his station and called across the room.

  “Sara, your intel on Abdal was excellent. I was able to get into the home secretary’s internal network and I think I may have found something of value.”

  “What?” she asked.

  He tossed a small object to her and she looked down at it in her palm—a USB data key. “Encrypted e-mails from one of Zuabi’s moles, sent over the last week.”

  “Encrypted? That’s unusual.”

  “Oui,” Alain said. “This is why they caught my attention. And even more unusual is that the e-mails were sent to an employee of an American firm called Allied Harbor Associates.”

  “Which is?”

  “They handle port operations in our country,” Jack told her. “They took over the contract after the Dubai controversy a few years ago.”

  The redhead frowned. “Dubai controversy?”

  “Yeah. I blew the lid on it when I had my TV show back in the States.” He saw the blank stares. “That’s what I used to do—hosted a talk show that held the powers that be accountable.

  “The contract was originally handled by a British firm called P & O, but when they sold all their assets to Dubai Ports World, con
cern about port security in our country became a political football. Most people thought handing control to a UAE-based company was extremely risky, if not outright idiotic. Including me.”

  Sara nodded. “So Allied took over.”

  “Right,” Jack said. The others were listening as well. This seemed to be earning him points. “The political pressure forced DP to sell all their U.S. assets to a company called American International. They, in turn, quietly sold it to Allied.”

  Anyone who was paying attention knew that port security in the U.S. was a joke, even after the SAFE Port Act was passed by Congress. There were far too many shipping containers moving in and out of the country, and no workable method of keeping track of them all.

  “And who owns Allied?” Sara asked.

  “That’s where it gets interesting,” Jack said. “The majority stockholder is an old friend of mine. A naturalized citizen named Lawrence Soren. Originally from Austria. The guy’s a billionaire and a propagandist extraordinaire, and has definite Marxist leanings.”

  “And he’s a friend of yours?”

  “I was being facetious. The guy destroyed my career.” He gestured to the USB key. “I’ll be curious to see what’s in those e-mails. They could be confirmation that Zuabi’s moles aren’t limited to the British government. Soren may have a traitor in his midst, which wouldn’t surprise me. His extremism has made him enemies.”

  “It will take some time to find out what is in them,” Alain told him. “As I said, they are encrypted, and it may be hours before I break the—”

  A harsh voice cut him off. “What’s going on here? Who is this man?”

  They turned to find a brutish-looking German with a crew cut standing in the doorway, frowning at Jack.

  Jack held out a hand, about to introduce himself, but the guy ignored him. “Did anyone sweep them?”

  “Relax, Reinhardt,” Alain said.

  “Relax? That’s how errors are made.” The man came into the room now, looking like an angry bulldog. “How many times do I have to tell you, we sweep everyone. No exceptions.” He scooped a security wand from a nearby table then gestured to Jack and Sara. “Against the wall.”