No Remorse

by Ian Walkley

  “Police! Arretez!“ he yelled, firing the shotgun into the ground in front of them. The two men stopped dead and thrust their hands into the air, still holding their pistols.

  “This is a mistake,” said one of the men, his eyes darting around. The Frenchman!

  “Drop your weapons, Emil,” he said. “You and I are going to have a little chat about some kidnapped girls.”

  The man with Emil placed his weapon on the ground, but Emil fired twice and took off along the canal. Without a second thought, Mac blasted the other man in the chest and sprinted after Emil.

  The bank of the canal was thick with long reedy grass and slippery with stinking slime, and Emil had a head start. Mac needed one hand free in case he slipped. He took out his pistol and threw the shotgun in the water, not wanting to risk it being found later. Emil was visible ahead through the reeds, and Mac steadied himself. Fired. Not to kill. He needed Emil alive. Emil kept running.

  Two shots thudded into the ground, missing him by millimetres. He reacted instantly, rolling down the muddy bank. Coming back up onto his knees, he let off three low shots towards the source of the firing. There came a grant from up ahead. Mac crept forward through the thick reeds a few metres from the mucky water. Suddenly, just a few metres ahead, Emil jumped up and ran towards the road. Turning back he fired at Mac but tripped and went down. Mac raced forward and pounced, shoving the barrel of the Glock against Emil’s shoulder joint as they wrestled. Fired point-blank.

  He dragged Emil bleeding and groaning back to the building where he used plastic ties to cuff him to one of the steel ovens. Schmidt and Jog guarded him and two other of his men while Mac ran back upstairs to help free the girls. He wanted to be on hand if Sophia and Danni were among them.

  As Scotty opened a door, the stench rocked him. Six sweaty bodies lay on two double mattresses, crammed into a tiny space with a hand basin and filthy toilet. Used needles littered one comer. Two of the girls were unconscious and the other two were barely able to communicate. He spotted a waiflike figure shivering under a pile of clothes, whether from the cold or from heroin withdrawal, he couldn’t tell. He got out of her in broken French that her name was Stela, and the girls sharing the room were friends from Bucharest. They’d been promised work as housemaids or nannies, and that they could enrol as students. But once they arrived, she said, they had been injected with heroin and forced to work in Emil’s bar to pay for their habit.

  In all, they rescued twenty-eight young women and girls, but Sophia and Danni were not among them. They helped the girls onto the bus and Jog drove them to his farm a couple of hours east of Paris. Jog and Claudette would see that they were fed, rested and cleaned up before being sent home. The other men on the team packed up the van and the bulldozer and were soon gone.

  It was nearly dawn. They needed to move fast, before the area started waking for the working day. In the kitchen, Mac made a big deal of sharpening a knife. Emil was bound naked on a gas cooktop, watched by four of his men who were plastic-cuffed to an overhead utensil rail. Emil knew what a blade could do, but he might have learned something new that night. Mac didn’t take long to get the answers he was looking for.

  Afterwards, they left Emil and his men tied up in the kitchen.

  “This is almost too good for those bastards,” Scotty said, as he unrolled the detonator wires across the street, where they crouched behind a wall well out of harm’s way.

  It was Scotty’s operation, so Mac let him do the honours. Scotty lifted the safety cover of the switch and depressed the lever. A series of muffled explosions came from inside the building. Then it collapsed, clouds of dust and smoke billowing out.

  “Perhaps a little too much plastic.” Scotty winked at him.

  Mac could hear sirens wailing in the distance. “Time to leave, I think.”

  They drove away, leaving behind a smouldering pile of rubble in the twilight of dawn.

  Emil had given them just one name. Adnan Ziad.

  ~ * ~

  27

  “Where the fuck have you been?” Wisebaum yelled, tearing the glasses off his face. His managerial technique contrasted with the rural surroundings and the heritage building they were standing in. It was located in the outer suburbs of Montreal, among neatly mown lawns and pine trees that finished at a pebble beach beside a tranquil lake. Not the grim, grey office tower Mac had imagined head office would be.

  “I thought you knew?” Mac said, dropping his sports bag on the floor. “Aren’t you tracking my phone?”

  “Don’t be a wise guy, Mac. You missed the fucking debrief. Why weren’t you at the airport with the rest of the team?”

  Mac picked a wad of fluff off his trouser leg. “I’m a contractor, right? I don’t do the time-sheet thing. The debrief was to be at nine this morning. It’s only just after nine.”

  “Where were you last night? And don’t think I can’t check.”

  “Joa.”

  “What?”

  “The casino at Antibes. Joa.”

  “You chose to gamble while the rest of us were working? Christ, I feel like cutting you out of the team bonus.”

  “Actually, I was watching, mostly. There was a poker tournament on.” He’d seen the tournament results in the newspaper at the airport while he was waiting for his flight to be called.

  “Oh? And who won?”

  “I didn’t stay to the finish. I had a bit of a wager before I left. Jean-Claude something or other, I think his name was.”

  “Van Damme, perhaps?” Wisebaum didn’t bother writing down the name. “So, why was your phone switched off?”

  “I keep getting these telemarketing calls from India…”

  “Smartass. I needed to reach you to tell you of our revised plans. We had the debrief at the Negresco. Tally flew to Dubai direct from Nice.”

  “Shit.”

  “Right on the nose, bud. Get straight back to the airport. When you get there, Tally’ll brief you on our new target. A billionaire Saudi by the name of Prince Abu-Bakr Yubani. He’s currently in hospital there, recovering from pneumonia.”

  “Okay. Do I get to meet the Director while I’m here?”

  “Not here, Mac. He’s one of the CIA’s Deputy Directors. Works mostly from Virginia. You could go five years without meeting the guy.”

  “I knew this was a CIA front.”

  “Now, don’t go AWOL on me again, Mac. Your role is to provide security for your team members, as well as train them in field operations. Tally’s computer will have some extremely sensitive and expensive software installed. I want you around to protect it, and so you’ll be sharing a room. But don’t worry, it’s a two-bedroom suite.”

  Mac shrugged. “Fine. Won’t be a problem.”

  “Uh, it’s not quite as simple as that in the Middle East, as you’re probably aware. Tally knows the deal, so I don’t think you’ll have any problems. But be a little sensitive, okay, if that’s possible with you?”

  “Huh?”

  “Dubai’s reasonably tolerant. But there’s been some negative publicity in the Emirates lately about unmarried couples staying in the same hotel room. The authorities have had a clampdown on “public decency.” Bottom line is, you and Tally are to make like you’re married.”

  ~ * ~

  28

  Mac leaned against a column near Gate 58 of Montreal Trudeau Airport as the long-range Air Canada 777 loaded up the food trolleys and luggage for his flight to Dubai. He was updating Bob on the name they’d uncovered in Paris—Ziad. He knew Bob would pass on the name to the FBI, and he stressed the importance of not revealing how he’d come across the name. He didn’t need to explain why—Bob understood. The Feebs would have no hesitation in offering Jog, Scotty and him up to the French Police for the killings at Emil’s Saint Denis compound if it helped the Bureau’s position in France. And he got Bob to promise not to go off on any unilateral missions chasing someone called Adnan Ziad.

  “Speaking of promises, have you called your mum yet?” B
ob said, as they were finishing up.

  “All right, all right, I will, Bob. I promise.”

  “Right now. Okay?”

  Mac released an audible sigh. “Okay, I will. Right now.”

  He rang off and speed-dialled his mother’s home number. She must have been one of the three people left in the world who refused to own a cell phone.

  His brother answered. It was the first time they’d spoken in ten years.

  “Whoa! Great of you to call, bro. You’re a little late, though. Mum’s birthday was last week.”

  Shit! He’d been too wrapped up to remember. “Just put her on, will you?” He was tempted to hang up in disgust, and with some embarrassment, but he wouldn’t give Nick the satisfaction. Not that he hated his brother. The bitterness of Nick marrying Mac’s fiancée Susan had faded over time, but it had left him with a legacy of finding it difficult to trust people.

  Remarkably, he had found this to be an advantage in his Delta activities, particularly when dealing with the shifting loyalties prevalent in Afghan culture.

  “Mum, it’s the Terminator!” Nick called out, probably intending him to hear, then came back on the phone. “So bro, the Army gave you the boot, I hear.”

  Mac kept his voice steady. “What are you talking about?”

  “Elena told Mum about Sophia. A goddamn nightmare. Those poor Mexican girls. I know you guys are supposed to be well-trained, but Jesus.... You must feel sick about it.”

  Mac could have crushed the cell phone in his hand. It was fortunate Nick wasn’t standing right in front of him.

  “Nicky, enough. Your brother’s done service for his country.” His mother took control of the phone. “Lee?”

  “Hi, Mum. Happy birthday for last week. I got your message. Sorry, I’ve been busy... I bought you a present in Paris. A watch. Just haven’t got around to mailing it.” If he hurried, he might have time to get one duty-free at the Airport. He started walking towards the stores.

  “Oh, how lovely, sweetheart! Well, you’ll have to send it to our new address. I’m moving in six weeks.”

  “Our new address?”

  A slight chuckle. “You’re quick at picking up things like that, aren’t you, dear? I was calling you to tell you...” She paused a beat to take a breath. “I got married two weeks ago.”

  What the fuck? She never said anything about any male friend. He thought of his father. The marriage had disintegrated bit by bit after Cynthia was taken. Mac knew that sort of thing happened. But then his mother had taken him and Nick back to her hometown of Boston, leaving his father in Seattle with nothing but painful memories. Two years later, his father had killed himself. Mac’s relationship with his mother had been fragile ever since.

  “Are you there, Lee? I know it might come as a bit of a surprise.”

  “Wow! I’m very happy for you Mum. Uh, who’s—”

  “You remember Alfred Rossberger from along the street? Freddy?”

  Oh yes, he remembered all right. Mr. Rossberger was a grumpy old widower who hated kids, especially when they walked on the neat lawn in front of his house. Like Mr. Wilson from Dennis the Menace, only grouchier. He’d more than once cut the flowers off Mr. Rossberger’s roses in retaliation.

  “I remember him, Mum. He grew roses.”

  “Still does.” She chuckled. “You used to cut the flowers off.”

  How had she known? Had Rossberger complained? Or had Nick snitched? Mac spoke with a forced enthusiasm. “That’s great, Mum. I wish you both the best. Tell him I’m sorry about the roses.”

  “I should have told you before. I know that, dear. But then, you’re a hard man to catch, and I didn’t want to leave a message. And it was only a simple ceremony. Nick and Susan and a few of our old friends and neighbours. That sort of thing. But I’d love you to come visit sometime, see the new house.”

  “I know. I’m sorry it’s been hard to get hold of me. Things might improve now I’ve got this new job.” He didn’t believe that for one moment, but it helped alleviate some of the guilt he was feeling.

  “Elena told me how you’re helping with the search for Sophia. I’ve been going over there to help a little too. Wade’s taking it particularly hard. Every time I see him I think about you. You were the same age, you know, when Cynthia was taken...”

  “Mum, don’t...”

  “I still pray for her, Lee. Pray she didn’t suffer.”

  Mac closed his eyes, wanted to escape the memories that came flooding back whenever his mother mentioned Cyn. His mother had suffered too, and his father. But he had always refused to allow anyone to express pity towards him. It was not right to compare his own inner wounds with whatever his nine-year-old sister had to endure.

  He tried to speak but his throat was a desert.

  “If only we could get her back. Bury her...” She was referring to Cynthia, of course.

  Mac coughed to clear his throat. “Sophia and Danni may well be still alive, Mum. There’s still hope, if we keep following the trail.”

  “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean... Bob’s terribly brave, isn’t he? Getting shot by that horrible man in Martinique. You’ll be careful, dear, won’t you. I do worry about you, you know.”

  He took a deep breath. “Thanks, Mum. It’s... we’re doing our best. Anyway, congratulations. I hope you and Mr. Rossberger’ll both be very happy.”

  “We’re off to Florida for two weeks tomorrow. A sort of honeymoon, I guess. And Freddy wants to visit Harry Potter World.”

  Harry Potter World? Come to think of it, the man did look vaguely like Sirius Snape, if he remembered correctly. “Sounds great. I—”

  “Did Nicky tell you that Susan’s just had their fourth?”

  “Gotta get on a plane, Mum.”

  “All right, dear. Call me again in three or four weeks. Love you...”

  “You too, Mum.”

  ~ * ~

  29

  After the long, tiring flight to Dubai, Mac arrived at the room at the Arabian Castles Hotel just after seven a.m. and found the door bolted. He’d called ahead from the airport so Tally knew he was on the way. What was she playing at? Maybe she’d taken his comments about security seriously after all, he thought, as he called her again. He apologised for waking her, but when she opened up she looked surprisingly fresh and was dressed for business in a below-the-knee skirt and a white shirt with long sleeves—appropriate for Dubai, a court appearance or a church service, he decided.

  “Hi, honey,” he said with a wide grin, leaning towards her with his cheek.

  She gave him a withering look, then turned back and sat down at a computer and began typing, as though she was resuming something he’d interrupted. It was difficult to read her mood from the body language, but she somehow managed to look sexy when she was angry.

  He looked around. Despite its traditional brass lamps, velvet wallpaper, and faux leopard rug, the suite at the Arabian Castles Hotel looked more like the Starship Enterprise with two widescreen monitors, and various devices that hummed and flashed blue, green or red. The windows to the balcony were open and the curtains were shifting with the gentle morning breeze.

  She gestured with her head to a doorway. “Bedroom’s that way.” Her voice was low-pitched, a monotone. All business.

  “Keen as ever, I see,” he said, with lighthearted ambiguity.

  She handed him an envelope and he got a whiff of the honey-lemon fragrance of her damp hair. He had a fleeting image of her in the shower wiping soapy bubbles off her breasts, but quickly dismissed that thought.

  “That’s your bedroom over there. And don’t get any ideas about sleepwalking, soldier.” She crossed her arms, which accentuated the outline of her breasts beneath the blouse.

  Mac chuckled as he dumped his bag on the floor and wandered over to the computers to see what she was doing.

  “I have to finish this new algorithm and get it running. We can talk later. Coffee’s in the pot if you want it.”

  He tore open the envelope. Insid
e was a gold wedding band. Tally held up her left hand, the wedding finger vertical. He got the symbolism.

  “Thanks. Wouldn’t mind a shower.”

  She was focused on the computer screen and didn’t respond.

  He had a shower and dressed in cargo shorts and a nondescript blue T-shirt. Tourist gear. Back in the living room, Tally pointed to one of the other computers. “Prince Abu-Bakr’s files are open on that computer. Don’t touch the other two, please. Any questions, I’ll try to answer them when you’ve finished.” She rose and went into the bathroom, closing the door after her.

  Mac poured a coffee, sat down at the computer, and began reading.