The Belgian Bagman (Justin Hall #11)

by Ethan Jones

  Justin glanced at the driver frantically trying to reload his weapon and maintain control of the truck at the same time. It’s now or never, Justin thought.

  He dove inside the cabin.

  The driver welcomed him with a hard elbow to Justin’s face. Justin fell against the dashboard, but returned a swift blow to the driver’s head. The pistol fell out of his hands. Justin hit the driver again, this time with a quick hook, then jumped on top of him, and grabbed the driver by the throat.

  The driver let go of the steering wheel and tried to pry Justin’s hands away from squeezing the life out of him. The truck veered into the opposite lane. It struck a Smart car, tossing it away as if it were a toy.

  The impact and the driver’s fighting loosened Justin’s chokehold. He reached for the steering wheel and straightened it, while the driver tried to catch his breath. Justin threw his elbow against the driver’s face. A crunching sound and the driver’s loud scream told Justin that he had broken the driver’s nose. While blood covered the driver’s face, Justin pushed open the door, then shoved the driver out of the truck.

  The truck veered again into oncoming traffic, heading toward a small sedan.

  Justin dropped hard onto the driver’s seat and grabbed the steering wheel. But he was a second too late. The truck hit the sedan, and the front wheel climbed over the sedan’s hood. The truck began to tilt to the left.

  Justin had been in this situation before, and he knew what to do. He had no time to regain control of the tipping truck. So he buckled himself in and braced for the sideways crash.

  The truck flipped and landed hard on the asphalt. What was left of the windshield burst into a million pieces. Justin’s fingers were wrapped tight around the handle near the cabin’s roof. He remained dangling in his seat, strapped by the seatbelt, while everything else was tossed around.

  With his world literally turned upside down, he drew a breath of relief. But it was short-lived. The truck slid forward and into the opposite lane, where a tram was charging ahead at full speed.

  Justin unhooked his seatbelt and rolled out of the front window of the still-skidding truck. He bolted to the right as fast as he could, ignoring a sharp pain cutting through his left leg. He reached the sidewalk and jumped inside one of the stores as the tram rammed into the front of the truck.

  The brute impact separated the crumpled cabin from the rest of the truck. The crash sent metal and plastic debris through the area. The hopper erupted, filling the street with ripped garbage bags. The powerful tram pushed the truck’s wreckage for another thirty yards until it finally stopped.

  Justin climbed to his feet, then looked around the store, which was a bakery. He met the terrified eyes of a handful of people cowering at a corner behind the counter. “It’s okay, it’s over now. You can come out.” He gestured at them.

  They stood up slowly, still shaken by the experience, horror clear in their widened eyes.

  Justin stepped outside the store and limped toward the wreckage. Where are Carrie and Dolina? How’s . . . how’s Karolin doing? He had lost his throat mike and earpiece during the chase, so he reached inside his pockets for his phone. It too was gone. And I don’t have the Sig either. He went to check on the tram conductor, who was standing in the middle of the street, shaking his head at the incredible mayhem. “How . . . how are you?” Justin asked.

  “Uh . . . I’m okay. He . . . the truck came out of nowhere. I tried to stop.”

  Justin nodded. “This isn’t your fault. And you didn’t kill anyone. The . . . there was no one in the truck.”

  The tram conductor’s pale eyes gave Justin a curious glance. “But who drove the truck?”

  Justin shrugged. “At the time of the crash, there was no one in the cabin.”

  “How . . . how do you know?”

  “I saw it. The driver left before the crash.”

  The tram conductor shook his blond head. “No, this is . . . this isn’t good.” He buried his face in his hands.

  Ear-piercing sirens came from behind Justin. He turned around to see a couple of police cars and an ambulance weave through the stalled traffic and make their way to the wreckage. They parked a few feet away and two police officers stepped out, their guns drawn. One of them called out to Justin and the tram conductor, “Hands up, hands up! Both of you.”

  Justin followed the order, but the tram conductor was still in shock. He gave the police officers a confused look. Justin said, “Do as they say. It will be okay.”

  “Hands up, up!” The other police officer shouted.

  The tram conductor obliged this time.

  Justin gave the police officers a look of confidence. Even if he was arrested, usually things were cleared up with a few phone calls, in a matter of hours, if not minutes. So he dropped to his knees and put his hands behind his neck.

  The first officer kept his pistol trained at Justin’s head. The second officer ran behind Justin, then shoved him hard to the ground. Justin shouted, “Hey, hey, is this necess—”

  “Shut up, don’t talk!” The first officer shouted. “And stay down!”

  The second officer thrust his knee into Justin’s back, then began to twist his arms, so he could handcuff him.

  Justin said, “I was surrendering. I’m not the enemy. Check and—”

  The first officer’s face twisted into an evil grin. “No need to. We know who you are, Justin Hall. And we’ve been looking for you.”

  Chapter Two

  January 9

  Antwerp, State Security Service local office

  Belgium

  “I already gave you the answer.” Justin shook his head, trying to keep a calm voice. “It’s not going to change simply because you’re rewording your question.”

  Maxime Lambert pursed his thick lips and rubbed his temples where his hair had turned ashen. He gave a disappointed look at Justin sitting across the large black table. “I thought . . . I thought we were making some progress when you—”

  Justin cut him off. “We’ll make progress when my boss walks through that door, and we start looking for those who sent the terrorists in the truck.” He looked around the small interrogation room. “We’re just wasting time.”

  Lambert shook his large head. “No, we’re trying to figure out your connection with this cell.” His voice grew louder as he hissed the words in his thick French accent.

  Justin sighed and leaned forward. “I’m connected to these men like a sheepdog to wolves. I want to stop them from hurting the sheep.”

  Lambert gave Justin a sideways glance. “How did you know they were going to carry out a terrorist attack?”

  “I didn’t. My team followed the two suspects, as we had done before, based on information provided by the VSSE, your state security agency. We thought this was a recon op, but it turned out to be the attack.”

  “And you just happened to be there at the right time?”

  Justin shrugged. “I guess it was so. Once in a while, coincidences happen.”

  Lambert cast a measuring-up glance at Justin. “I thought you didn’t believe in such things.”

  “What I believe doesn’t change the fact that this was a coincidence. Look, neither I nor my team had any prior intel of the upcoming attack. Otherwise, we would have shared that with you, and found a different, better way to stop the terrorists.”

  Lambert’s unconvinced look remained on his deep-creased face. “So we can attribute all this to a lucky twist of fate and your excellent intuition?”

  Justin held Lambert’s fiery gaze but did not reply.

  Lambert continued, “If one looks at your file, one can conclude you’re a very lucky fellow. The most recent case: the Russian UN ambassador. You swooped in and saved the day.” He tapped the black inch-thick folder in front of him.

  “That’s an inaccurate description. You’re being fed false intel.”

  “Am I?” Lambert cocked his head. “Really?” He opened the folder and skimmed through the pages. “You tell me if this is c
orrect: When a terrorist by the name of Omar al-Nueimi and a well-armed team of other terrorists attacked the Russian’s residence, Justin Hall and Carrie O’Connor thwarted the assault and saved the ambassador’s wife and daughter—against all odds, if I may add. How does that sound?”

  “Where did you get that intel?”

  Lambert shrugged. “That’s irrelevant to this conversation. But it’s dead accurate, isn’t it?”

  Justin said nothing.

  “I understand if you’d rather remain silent. But that does not help your case.” Lambert riffled through the folder. “I have a list of calls made to your phone last night and earlier this morning.”

  “You’re tapping my phones now?”

  “No, and watch your tone, Hall. We don’t spy on our allies, even when we have doubts about their allegiances.”

  “So how did you get those numbers?”

  Lambert waved a dismissive hand. “Again, irrelevant. But some of these calls came from suspicious sources tied to the terrorist cell. Care to explain that connection?”

  Justin thought about his answer for a moment. He no longer had the phone, having dropped it during the truck chase. His agency ran a software that automatically wiped clean the phone’s call log every two hours, unless Justin manually overrode that process. The secure phone also came equipped with a symmetric-key triple encryption package, whose algorithms changed constantly to thwart unauthorized access attempts. Whoever found the phone would have an incredibly hard time trying to break into it.

  “Hall, I’m waiting for an answer.”

  “Sure, after you tell me how your minions hacked into my phone and planted false intel.”

  Lambert flinched and seemed taken aback by the accusation. “You’re telling me these never happened?”

  “Yes. Glad you got it, finally.”

  “Save the sarcasm, Hall. So how did these numbers appear on your phone records?”

  “Someone hacked into my phone. I never talked to any terrorists.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Absolutely. Show me the transcript of those calls, if you have them.”

  Lambert hesitated for a moment. “Well . . . that intel is not available at the moment, but—”

  “It’s never going to be available, for I never took those calls.” Justin pushed his seat back, away from the desk. “And I’m tired of sitting here, accused of nonsense . . .” He began to stand up.

  “Sit down; I’m not finished.”

  “You may not be, but I am. Unless you’re arresting me—”

  “Have a look at this bank account, then you can go.” Lambert slid a piece of paper toward Justin, who was already on his feet. “I’d like to know how you got those funds, especially the last two transfers.”

  Justin glanced at the bank statement. It was issued by the First Bank of Erbil, the capital of Kurdistan, the unofficial semi-state struggling to win the independence of its territories in Iraq and Syria. The account belonged to Justin, but it was under a different name. And it was supposed to be so secret that not even Justin’s boss or anyone in his agency knew anything about it. How did this snake get these records? Who is behind this set-up? He kept his poker face on, then said, “I’m afraid I can’t help you.” He pushed the document back to Lambert and remained standing.

  “This is your account?”

  “It’s under a different name, Lambert.”

  “Yes, I can see that, but it’s yours.”

  “You’re making that assertion.”

  “And you’re not denying it.” Lambert grinned.

  Justin leaned over the table and tapped the statement. “This account and these funds are not mine. Are we clear?”

  Lambert nodded. “You’re a great liar, Hall.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “Sure, but I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry. You’re no longer assisting us on this case, and most likely you’ll be thrown out of the country.” Lambert’s voice had turned cold and emotionless.

  “You may be right, but until I get my official orders, I’m not wasting another second.” Justin headed toward the door.

  Out in the hall, he drew in a few deep breaths. One of the VSSE’s agents escorted Justin to the reception area near the entrance. He was free to leave but he decided to wait for his boss, Flavio Moretti, who was supposed to arrive at any minute.

  Justin paced the small area, trying to make sense of the situation. How did the VSSE come to possess that intelligence about him? The phone calls were obviously fake, planted to frame him. But who had done that? Justin doubted it was the VSSE. While the Belgian state service was the second oldest intelligence service in the world—founded in 1830 and preceded only by the Vatican’s—it was also one of the weakest in Europe. A series of miscommunications and incompetence had plagued the VSSE, resulting in botched operations and considerable loss of lives.

  Justin shook his head. This was not the work of the VSSE. Perhaps it was the NSA or the CIA. They had the capacity to hack into his phone. But why would they do so? Justin had stepped on one too many CIA toes, but he thought they had buried the hatchet. He frowned. I’ll have to see if that’s true.

  The intelligence about the Russian UN ambassador could have come from many sources. The Russians could have leaked the information, although they were famous for keeping secrets. The ambassador’s neighbors had seen and heard most of what had happened. Or someone from the Geneva police could have been the source. It doesn’t really matter.

  The bank statement was the most serious of all charges against Justin. It was true that it was his bank account, albeit under a fictitious name. But Justin had an ID card issued to that name by the Kurdistan provisional government. He would have no legitimate way of explaining the origin of the half a million dollars stashed in the account. Who ratted me out?

  Only a handful of people knew about the account. None of them were inside his agency. Justin’s mind ran through the names, trying to identify the most likely suspect. No, it could not have been Wissam. They had fought together, and Justin had saved Wissam’s life. Wissam would not sell him out. What about Azade? Justin smiled when he thought about her. Azade and Justin had almost had a relationship, but the Kurdish war and Justin’s circumstances had quenched whatever love flame was being kindled. Justin shook his head. Azade loved me. She would never betray me.

  He sighed and continued to pace the hall. What if Wissam or Azade had been captured and tortured, forced to give up their secrets about Justin? He frowned. At the very least, he needed to check with them. He made a mental note to that effect.

  Justin had almost reached the door when Flavio burst through it. He glanced toward the officers behind the reception desk, then his eyes fell on Justin. “Oh, so they let you go?” He removed his flat tweed cap and brushed back his hair.

  “They did.”

  “Strange. Lambert made it sound like he would have your head.”

  “Well, I’m glad he didn’t.”

  Flavio nodded. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Justin followed him outside. The weather had turned chilly, so he lifted the collar of his blazer, but did not pull his woolen cap out of his pocket. The sharp wind played with his wavy, raven hair, which had grown to shoulder length. He had a Mediterranean complexion—dark olive skin, big black eyes, and an aquiline nose, inherited from his Italian mother—and a fiery temperament thanks to his Scottish father.

  Flavio had parked his Alfa Romeo Stelvio SUV illegally right in front of the VSSE station’s entrance, inches away from the DO NOT PARK sign. Justin grinned and slid in the front passenger seat, after Flavio sat behind the wheel. He drove in silence for a couple of blocks. Then, when they had gotten onto Lange Gasthuisstraat, he glanced at Justin and said, “How much of what Lambert told me is true?”

  “The ambassador’s story as you—”

  “I’m not talking about that, and I realize the cellphone records are bogus. But how did those numbers get in there?”

 
“Someone hacked into my phone account and planted them. Not sure how they did it or who it was. But we’ll find out.”

  Flavio nodded. “Yes, it’s a problem, but we can handle that. It’s someone with both access to the terrorist phone numbers and the means of carrying out such a sophisticated hacking. It’s not the Belgians.”

  “Yes, I don’t think so either.” Justin held Flavio’s gaze for a moment and nodded. “But you want to know about the bank account?”

  “Yes. First Bank of Erbil. What’s going on?”

  Justin shrugged. “Survival, sir.”

  “Half a million? Steep cost of survival.”

  “Kurdistan is a rough land. War. Enemies. Betrayal. The need to purchase loyalty and secure passage, buy documents, secure favors.”

  Flavio nodded. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “I wasn’t.” Justin shrugged again. “I’m not going to lie to you. I don’t count that money as mine. It’s there if we ever need it.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, the agency. If we need to buy intel, weapons, pay ransom. Whatever our finance people don’t authorize.”

  “And of course, the money is there if you ever need it to disappear again.”

  Justin frowned. “Or if my agency abandons me or stabs me in the back, as it has happened in the past. But I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  Flavio snorted. “Yeah, me neither. So you’re telling me that the account is under the name of Robin Hood?”

  “No, I didn’t steal from the rich to give to the poor. But I haven’t used a dime since I opened the account. As I said, it’s not for me, and I don’t mind using it for the good of the agency.”

  “How did you get your hands on that money?”

  Justin drew in a deep breath. “It’s a long story.”

  “We have time for the brief version.”

  Justin sighed. “All right. When I was in northern Iraq, fighting with the Kurdish Peshmergas, we came upon an ISIS convoy. They had made out with ten million dollars, payment from selling Syrian oil to Turkey. After destroying the enemy, the Peshmergas split the money among the fighters.”