METROCAFE

by Peter Parkin

  "No kidding. I'll be back in a couple of days. But right now, I need that name."

  Mike waited while Jim clicked away on his keyboard at the other end of the line. Jim was right. He needed to get back to work—anything to take his mind off the horror. But he didn't want to leave Cindy alone until he knew she could handle it. And if he weren't here with her, she'd have to take care of the girls by herself as well. Might be too much for her right now. Maybe he'd hire a nurse.

  Jim came back on the line. "Okay, his original name was 'Dawud Zamir.'" "Shit..."

  "More broken glass?"

  "No...worse. I'll tell you and Troy about it when I'm back in the office." Mike hung up the phone and slouched down on the couch. He pulled some tissues from the box on the end table and began dabbing away at his cut knee, now exposed by rolled up jeans. He stretched out and raised his right leg up onto the coffee table to slow down the bleeding. Then he started thinking back, way back...

  Dawud Zamir—a name he'd forgotten completely, in fact a name he probably didn't even know at the time. Mike only made the connection with the eyes in the photo, bang-on the same eyes as David Samson. And a memory from months ago when Jim had told him the man's original name...that memory came back when he looked at the yearbook. He had just been this skinny Arab kid, a weakling, a nerd—different in so many ways from the rest of them. He became a target because of that, and only because of that. Mike couldn't think of any other single reason why he had been picked on. He was just 'the one,' the unlucky one. Every school had at least 'one.'

  Mike remembered seeing the kid for the last time at graduation, when one of Mike's buddies stuck out his foot and tripped the poor guy on his way up to the stage. Mike laughed, as did everyone else in the audience. He hadn't given a single thought as to how humiliating it must have been for him. He was just a toy to be played with. After the graduation party, which Dawud did not attend, Mike did remember wondering if the kid would be okay. Did he know they were just kidding? Would he get over it? Over the decades since, he hadn't thought of him again.

  The kid had been hassled for the full five years of high school, and he had never fought back—not even once. It was commonplace, and routine, to see guys smashing him into lockers, slapping him as he walked by, spitting on him in the halls, laughing at him in classes if he tried to answer a question. Mike hadn't participated in a lot of that stuff, but as one of the leaders in the school he had sanctioned it all by simply not intervening. He encouraged it, and laughed along with everyone else. He and Steve Purcell—two of the most respected guys in school, had organized an elite group of people who reveled in their individual and collective glory, and bullied other kids and particularly that one. No one cared, no one felt sorry for Dawud. He was just an Arab, after all. His feelings weren't considered—it was like, in Mike's mind, the kid didn't even have any feelings. He wasn't real—he was just a caricature.

  Mike liked to fool himself into thinking that he personally hadn't done very much to him, but he knew that was his own way of letting himself off the hook. As the leader, he got it started, and could have easily stopped it. But he didn't because it was fun, and became a tradition, and it made him feel powerful. He remembered that his coup de grace prank was to strip the kid and throw him out into the gym during a basketball game full of spectators. What a hoot---they locked the door to the locker room and the kid was stranded, naked in front of half the school. He could still hear Dawud's voice, pleading for them to let him back in, his fists banging on the door, the kids laughing out there in the gym. Naked...

  Mike snapped out of his trance and shook his head free of the cobwebs.

  Christ, Samson had been sending him one hell of a message when he left him beaten and naked in that alley! And now this latest incident, naked in the gym, degraded in front of all of his old friends, old girlfriends, all the spouses. This was revenge, everything that had happened to him was revenge: the fake kidnapping of his girls, the embezzlement of his company, the incident in the alley. This Samson guy had sought him out and might have been following him for decades!

  It was no coincidence that he had obtained a job with Mike's own company as one of their in-house lawyers. Working directly for Gerry and then being fired by Gerry. But somehow Samson had coerced Gerry, even after being fired, into cooperating with the purchases of the four worthless properties and funneling the money into a numbered bank account in Panama. What was the leverage? How could he possibly have forced Gerry to cooperate?

  And Mike might never have discovered the deception, or at least not for a very long time, if Gerry had not been killed by the lightning strike. That's what caused Mike to get involved in investigating the properties in Brazil and Mexico.

  Suddenly it hit him—like a ton of bricks! Mike grabbed the directory and looked up Amanda Upton's phone number. Apprehensively, he dialed her number.

  "Hello?"

  "Hi Amanda, it's Mike here."

  "Oh, Mike. How is Cindy doing?"

  "She's home now, and she thanks you for the flowers by the way. She'll probably call you later in the week."

  "Will she be up for a visit? I popped in once at the hospital, but she wasn't in her right mind. I'd like to see her again now that she's home."

  "I think she'd like that, Amanda. Wait until she calls you and you can set it up."

  "I'll do that. And how are you doing? I'm just sick about what you guys went through, and what's happened to our city. It's very scary."

  "It is, and I'm doing okay. Worrying about Cindy has probably taken my mind off the horror of it all. I'm sure it will all start sinking in soon. But... anyway, the reason I'm calling you—I need your help with some information. This might sound like a weird and insensitive request, but I'm hoping you'll help. It's really important."

  "Just name it, Mike."

  "Okay, brace yourself. Can you look up the dates of the deaths of your parents, your brother, and Gerry's two brothers?"

  Silence.

  "Amanda?"

  "I heard you. I'm just...surprised, I guess. But, hold on. I'll get those dates for you."

  In a couple of minutes Amanda returned and gave Mike the three dates. "Mike, whatever you're going to do with this information, I hope you'll respect the fact that I don't want to relive those times. Gerry's death is still so recent and I'm not over that yet. I sure don't want to add to it."

  "Don't worry, Amanda. This is just for my own information—related to something I'm trying to figure out. Okay?"

  "Okay, I'll take your word for it. Good luck. Give Cindy my best, and tell her I'll be calling her."

  "I will. And Amanda, thanks so much for this."

  Mike hung up the phone and went straight to his study. He opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out his duplicate file on the foreign land purchases. He sat down and began to examine the dates of the original offers on the land deals, and compared those with the dates of the deaths of Gerry's relatives. The first thing he noticed was that the shooting deaths of Amanda's parents happened one month after Samson was fired. He remembered that the police file had been closed, no one arrested, described as a botched robbery.

  He looked at the next incident—Amanda's younger brother killed by a hit and run driver while crossing the street. No one had been arrested in that incident either. The paper in Mike's hand started to shake as he noticed that this death had occurred two months before the offer of purchase on the two Mexican properties.

  Okay, on to the last two deaths—Gerry's two young brothers who were shot while on vacation in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. They had been sitting at an outdoor patio on the main drag sipping their beers when a car came roaring past with a machine gun blazing. Four people were killed at the bar including Gerry's brothers. The other two victims were known drug dealers, so the file had been closed by the Mexican police as being just another drug shooting with two innocent bystanders taken down by accident. Mike's eyes started to well up as he noticed that these deaths were one month before the offer of purc
hase on the two Brazil properties.

  He put down the files and leaned back in his leather chair. Rubbing his eyes, he let out a big sigh. The pieces were falling into place. This could have all been just an elaborate plan of revenge, using his company and his friend against him. If true, because of him the Uptons had lost several beloved relatives. Did Samson steal tens of millions of dollars and five lives—all because of a deep-seated hatred against him? In his gut, Mike knew that this was highly unlikely. Too elaborate, too slick. He was just a slice of the bigger pie.

  Poor Gerry. He had no idea what this was all about. Samson's first act against him must have been killing Amanda's parents as punishment to Gerry for firing him. He needed to get Gerry's attention and that brutal act might have been the initiation. Then, once Gerry was sufficiently horrified at the implication, Samson would have then asked him to cooperate with overpaying for garbage properties and kicking the money back. Gerry most likely put up some resistance, and each time he did, more relatives were killed. So, under duress he went along with the scheme and kept quiet, knowing that his wife and kids could be next if he didn't. That was probably why he installed the elaborate security system and hired the armed security patrol. And Amanda never knew. Gerry kept it all bottled up inside.

  So Mike wasn't imagining things when he had sensed a change in Gerry over the last few years. His friend had been feeling guilty and scared, with no one he could dare talk to. And no wonder he had resisted the company going public on the TSX—he had been afraid of more extensive audits possibly uncovering the embezzlement.

  Mike's mind wandered back to the terrorists in the gym at the high school reunion. Making him and his fellow ex-football heroes strip naked—the very same gym where he had forced Samson/Zamir to do the same thing when he was a skinny teen. The reality was setting in on Mike's brain now. It was hard to believe that horrible incident at the reunion was just a coincidence, or just a diversion for the main attack. He knew Samson had a team. The two fake policemen who stood guard for Samson in the alley when Mike had been beaten were his men. Those same men had rendered Troy and Jim unconscious in Jim's car that day as well. Samson probably had a lot more men at his disposal; of course, four fewer today after the subway attack.

  Was it possible that Samson was actually some kind of international terrorist? Had Mike and his football buddies unwittingly created a future monster back in high school? Could mere bullying have had that kind of extreme effect on a person? If so, what in God's name had they unleashed onto the world?

  Mike remembered that the hacking of Jim's computer had been traced back to Libya. And the news reports said the chief mechanic who had planted the bombs under the subway trains had fled to Libya the night of the attack. Samson was Arab and the terrorists were Arab. It was all starting to fit in a bizarre sort of way. The money that was embezzled from Baxter Development Corporation may have been used as seed money to finance plots such as what Toronto had just suffered. Was Samson a terrorist who just happened to be using his occupation to also take out revenge against the people he blamed for his high school life? Or just coincidence? Mike closed his eyes. He had a headache that was getting worse by the minute. As he nodded off he saw the frantic face of a naked, dark-skinned boy banging on a door, begging to be let through back to safety and dignity...

  Chapter 37

  "So what are you saying, Mr. Baxter? That this man Samson is the master terrorist we're looking for?"

  "Well...I think it's worth looking into. It's worrying me...a lot."

  They were sitting in Mike's office—the two RCMP inspectors had been kind enough to agree to come to his office for the interview. They were both dressed in black suits with boring ties and shiny black shoes, topped off with bloodshot eyes that spoke volumes about what they had been through in the last few weeks. They seemed friendly enough, but didn't waste time on small talk. They probably still had a couple of hundred interviews to endure before they slept.

  "So, we're to believe that the high school gym attack killed two birds with one stone? He got his revenge against you, but also used the occasion as a diversion from the main subway attack?" The one named Inspector Wilkinson seemed to be the leader, as he asked most of the questions.

  "Sounds crazy, and I know I'm not that important in the grand scheme of things, but I think in his mind I was important, and he wanted to take his shot." Mike walked over to his credenza, retrieved the coffee pot and re-filled their three cups. The two agents naturally had theirs black—Mike added two sugars to his.

  Inspector Jallen jumped in. "If you're so afraid of this guy, why did you meet with him several weeks ago at the...what's it called... MetroCafe for lunch? You said you phoned him, and he suggested that spot?"

  "I wanted to confront him about the kidnapping of my daughters, and let him know face to face that I was aware that the writing on the condolence card and the birthday card matched. I wanted to basically put him on notice, and hopefully then he would leave us alone." Mike lied. He didn't want to tell them the real reason he had met Samson at that café, and sure wasn't going to disclose anything about the embezzlement, Samson's relationship with Gerry, or the murders in Gerry's family. He didn't want to open up a can of worms about the foreign properties and his own activity in covering that up. He wanted to disclose just enough to set them on Samson's trail without incriminating himself.

  "And after that is when he led you out to the alley, made you strip naked, and beat you up?" Jallen wrote notes as Mike was talking.

  "Yes, that's right."

  "Why didn't you report that to the police?"

  Mike hesitated. That was a good question. "Uh, I was hoping that would be the end of it. I didn't want to make matters worse—the guy's clearly dangerous."

  "But at that point, you didn't even know who he really was—as far as you were concerned he was just a former employee, a lawyer who worked for, uh,...Gerry Upton...correct? You didn't make the connection of Samson to Dawud Zamir until after the terrorist attack, until after you looked in the yearbook when you were still mourning the death of your friend, Steve Purcell. Only then did you realize Samson was an old classmate whom you had bullied in school. Do I have that chronology right?"

  Mike squirmed in his seat. "Yes, that's right, but...."

  Jallen cut him off. "So what reason would you have to think he would leave you alone, when you didn't even know why he kidnapped your kids, or beat you up?"

  "Uh, I don't know—I guess I just hoped the incidents were isolated, and once I met with him face to face, he would know that I was onto him and it would just end." Mike knew that answer was feeble. He could feel sweat starting to drip down his back, soaking his shirt.

  Wilkinson took over again. "Tell me if I understand this correctly—you agreed to have lunch with a guy who kidnapped your kids, then he beats you up and makes you strip naked at gunpoint, and you felt there was no need to report any of this?"

  "Yes, that's right. Sounds crazy, but I don't think I was in my right mind when I made that decision. I was still in shock over how easy it was for my girls to be taken from us."

  Wilkinson shook his head in bewilderment. "Do you still have the condolence card and birthday card for us to examine?"

  "No, I threw them out." Mike lied again. This interview wasn't going as well as he thought it would. He was angry with himself—he should have anticipated that the detectives would easily see through the holes in his story. Mike regretted that he had told them anything about this.

  Both inspectors looked at each other, with puzzled looks on their faces.

  Mike noticed Jallen nod, and Wilkinson then opened his briefcase and pulled out two files. He opened the first file, and glared at Mike. "You're the so-called 'Briefcase Braveheart,' I see from this file."

  Mike nodded sheepishly.

  "Why were you on the subway that day? You're a rich man, accustomed to riding in comfort and privacy. Why would you subject yourself to a ride on the subway?"

  "Once in a while I just
don't feel like driving."

  "You were quite the hero on that train. Not criticizing that at all, but I just find it kind of curious that you've been involved now in two very high-profile subway incidents in just a few months' time. Don't you find that curious too?"

  Mike paused, then slowly answered the question. "I agree it looks a little odd...but I guess it's just one of those coincidences." Pretty lame, Mike thought.

  Jallen smiled, and took the other file off Wilkinson's lap. He opened it and took out a photograph. He held it up in front of Mike's face. "Do you recognize this man?"

  Mike squinted at the photo, and nodded...wondering where this was going. "Yes, that's Colin Spence; an executive with Ontario Life. He committed suicide earlier this year."

  "You knew him?"

  "Yes, most top executives in Toronto know each other, even if we're from different industries. He actually handled my company's group life and benefits program for our employees. I didn't know him well, it was just a casual business relationship."

  Jallen leaned forward in his chair. "I can tell you that Mr. Spence did not commit suicide. He was right-handed and the right wrist was the one that was slit. Even people out of their minds will still always use their dominant hand to slit their wrists. In addition, he had a tiny puncture wound on his left wrist—a needle mark. We found a powerful drug in his system that must have sent him into a state of paralysis—then his wrist was slit to make it look like suicide. We think the killers meant to slit the left wrist to destroy any evidence of the needle mark, but they blew it and slit the right wrist instead."

  Mike crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair, and took a deep breath. "I thought it was strange...he didn't seem the type to kill himself. So, that means all that porno material was probably planted in the room and on his computer...to discredit and distract? But why would someone want to kill him? And what does that have to do with what we're talking about?"