Discoveries (Mercenaries Book 5) Page 5

  Over the next fifteen minutes, Bakir expounded on the business of transporting natural gas from the producers in Qatar to users in Syria, and the connection Al-Shazar had helped him make between the group protecting his section of pipeline, and the group now poised to interfere with Boufel’s interests in Baluchistan.

  Finally, Boufel waved the waiter over to clear the table. When the bus boy departed, tray full, Boufel intertwined his fingers across his belly. “What is all this to you, Sheikh? It sounds as if you have a working relationship with this group⁠—doing your bidding⁠—in Syria, and I see no advantage to either of us for you being involved in Baluchistan.”

  Bakir nodded and made a gesture of coming together as he leaned forward. “I have no interest in your doings in Baluchistan. None whatever. Which means I will not be tempted to share whatever details I may happen upon with others. However, I have been poorly served by the woman who leads those mercenaries. Al-Shazar will have his deal with the Baluch rebels by… Bastille Day, he said. Before that… Well, the woman Jamse, I wish to gain control over her. In Syria, I was thwarted. In Baluchistan, you can… arrange access for me, I think. That may benefit you as well.”

  “Why? What use have you for this… infidel woman?”

  “That is none of your concern! What should be your concern is the payment I will arrange when she is transferred, essentially undamaged, into my control.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew an old boarding pass folder. He wrote a figure on the border and held it where Boufel could read it.

  Praise Allah! This will almost cover our misstep with Al-Shazar and relieve our cash problems. “What other constraints apply to this… effort?”

  “Almost none. She must be delivered before Al-Shazar is successful in Baluchistan. She must be uninjured⁠—”

  “‘Uninjured’? If we must restrain her⁠—”

  “Pfaugh! Bruises, small cuts, those are of no concern. Broken limbs… It would depend on the limb. No rape. Simple things. Fatal injuries, and… Pfft!” He gestured to reinforce the offer’s ephemeral nature.

  They spoke for a few more minutes, Achmed taking copious notes, but the end was the same. Boufel could earn an obscene number of euros for delivering the woman Jamse, bound and gagged, to Bakir anywhere they could arrange.

  Boufel couldn’t believe the pleasure on Bakir’s face as he stood and made his goodbyes, then left to meet his taxi back to the airport. He shook his head in disgust as he and Achmed exchanged glances.

  On the way back to his office in Monaco, he gave Maryam sufficient details that she understood the new mission. “Does he have the ability to pay?” was her only question.

  “Achmed will check his references as soon as we return. If we believe what he told us, he has oil money behind him.” He sighed. “Much oil money.”

  When they reached Monaco, Boufel bade Maryam park, and the three strode along rue des Roses. Before reaching their rooms, Achmed stopped short. “Jamse, Bakir said. The woman,” when both Boufel and Maryam stared at him. “He said the woman is named Jamse. But… the infidels…” He spat, barely hitting the gutter. “The infidels we brought here… One is called the same!”

  “Yes, I know. It provides us more leverage with the woman, and improves the possibility of earning the sheikh’s money.”

  “We should have killed them already,” Achmed muttered.

  Boufel spun and grabbed Achmed by his shirt, yanking his face to his own. “It is your responsibility to ensure no damage… no uncalled for damage comes to those two.”

  “But they haven’t been any help, Soufiane. Are you sure we can’t achieve the result without them?”

  “I am not sure. But Bakir offers far more money than any woman can be worth; and I am overseeing a business. It is a windfall we cannot pass up.” He released Achmed, then fixed them both with a piercing glare. “We will not pass it up! The two men are to be held safe, as is the woman when we… entertain her.” He turned to head to the back room, but stopped to look back. “Of course, the treatments prescribed will continue. I will have a word with the doctors to make sure they aren’t too aggressive. We have little time. Achmed, begin the research on Bakir. Maryam, you seek information about the woman Jamse and the mercenaries deployed in Pakistan. Both of you, call on others as needed.”

  The following Sunday, the last in March, Maryam tugged her white cotton gloves up snug and rapped on the door to Boufel’s office. She handed the plastic tray to Boufel; he gaped at the white envelope and gloves.

  “The gloves will prevent either fingerprints or DNA from being extracted,” Maryam said.

  “Mine are not in any database.”

  She sneered, and, he admitted, it was a creditable sneer. “We shall keep them out.”

  He did his best to conceal his ill-humor. It’s not her fault things move slowly. “I suppose. What do you have?” He donned the gloves; they barely covered the heel of his hands.

  “Only the fingertips matter, for this. This is the message that the Syrian requested be sent to Rebecca Jamse.” Boufel nodded in recollection. “We plan to dispatch this tomorrow morning. It should arrive on Friday, but everything is arranged if it is early.”

  He nodded as he slipped the heavy bifold card from the envelope. “What is this message? And what is this writing on the envelope?”

  “The message is as Al-Shazar required. While doing the… calligraphy, one of the imams offered to… Between us, can I say bastardize?” she asked with a hint of a grin. He returned it as he nodded. “He offered to bastardize a verse in the Qur’an that he said in ancient days dealt with returning wives, he thought following a raid, to obtain forgiveness from both Allah and the aggrieved man.” She shrugged. “He said it might confuse them. Whether it does or not might be useful information.”

  Boufel snorted his disbelief, and Maryam shrugged again. “As for the other, it directs them to the video we made the other day.”

  “May I see?”

  “A moment.” She left the office, returning with an open laptop computer. “Use this one, with the secure browser. Our expert en informatique is unsure if someone can determine who has visited the site, though he thinks it’s safe. He’s sure he’s hidden the registration so they will have a difficult time to trace where we are.”

  “Why not just use a standard provider?”

  “We’re worried that they might be able to obtain the billing details. Bribery, theft,” she explained. “For example.”

  “Ah.” He smiled as he understood. “You anticipate they are our equal, then?”

  She nodded. “While they have done us no good, we targeted them because they are the best at what they do. This would be what they do. It seems foolish to take even that small chance.”

  He gestured his agreement and finished typing. Together, they watched the small image for its minute and a half duration.

  “The following page has the text we agreed. The imam translated it to Arabic.”

  “Why?” He noticed her tension, maybe fear, and continued, “I’ve no problem with it; I’m only curious.”

  Her face smoothed. “Al-Shazar hoped it might misdirect them slightly. I asked the imam to slant it as if a Pakistani had written it, and he said he did.” His confusion must have remained; she continued her explanation. “Since we want her to direct her team to leave the archeologists, I thought to have everything appear to originate there.”

  “Ah. I see. Very good.” He closed the laptop and replaced the card in its envelope. “Continue, please. Advise me of developments.”

  “M. Boufel. Soufiane.” His head came up at her use of his given name. “What is the purpose of this video? I know…” She held up a hand as if to prevent him speaking; he settled back in his chair. “… we hoped to gain insight to the environmental crusaders we took money from, but why keep them? And this?” She tapped the corner of the envelope with a gloved fingertip. “Les hommes nous ont donné aucune aide; mais nous les supplions presque … pour nous aider.”

 
Boufel leaned away, contemplating the various meanings and synonyms for the verb supplier. The connotations, to beg or entreat, didn’t sit well with him. But we are asking their help. Or at the minimum, their team’s help. That of Ian Jamse, LLC. I should not bring her in, but… she has an important role, and may fill it better with the knowledge.

  “That is true, although I would prefer demandons to supplions.”

  She shrugged. “Either, I suppose. Though the tone leads one to think of the convicted kneeling before the guillotine.”

  “Hmm. Nevertheless. Madame Jamse has a quickly earned reputation. Since the odds of receiving our money from Daesh or Al-Shazar seem to diminish by the day, I would have her opinion on the idiot Americans’ tasks.”

  “And if her view matches the others’?”

  “Then we shall prevail on Al-Shazar to receive payment.” Maryam’s raised eyebrows and sharp intake of breath motivated him to continue, “As we shall, in any event.

  “Don’t forget that their views on the implausibility of the tasks, especially in concert with the others we have consulted, has saved us considerable energy and effort.”

  Monday a week later, Maryam knocked and entered Boufel’s office. She placed a small slim white box on his desk. “All is arranged for this.”

  “This?”

  “You don’t recall the locator we ordered on Al-Shazar’s command?”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied. “I have many things to keep in mind; this minor incidental… slipped my recollection, no more.” He picked up the box and opened it. The cross had no power for him; it would function in Al Shazar’s victim’s environment. He lifted it on his fingertip. “It has been completely tested?”

  “À la perfection.”

  “Bien. And its deployment?”

  “Al-Shazar said he has inveigled a new recruit who’s offered a target who Al-Shazar believes can bring the woman Jamse closer to us. You shouldn’t want any more detail. All will be on Al-Shazar once we arrange delivery in San Diego.”

  He gave a wave of dismissal and returned to his computer.

  Chapter III: Ralf Eoin Jamse

  FOR BECKIE, THE SEVERAL weeks between early February and the end of March passed in a blaze of weight, lack of mobility, loss of comfort, pain and finally, unremitting joy that Ralf Eoin Jamse had presented himself with the usual wailing, and the requisite number of limbs, fingers and toes. Beckie found herself amazed that the first time Ralf was laid in her arms, she counted each of his digits even before allowing him to find her breast. The nurse laughed gently, but still Beckie thought, I am being silly!

  The pleasure she had in him was slightly diminished by the pain and discomfort of the incision Doctor Claire had made in her lower abdomen; Ralf had been hale and healthy, and the doctor and her staff decided that a cesarean delivery would be safer and present less difficulty, overall. While she acknowledged their greater expertise, during the first several days she wondered, present less difficulty for whom?

  The whole of the time before and after his birth, when she was not being distracted by Ralf or one of Millie’s nurses, Beckie lent her full attention to the team’s operation. Since the only things she could do involved grieving Ian or pouting about her condition, or sitting and listening to Willie or another team member on the phone or Skype, she opted for the latter as often as the opportunity arose.

  Chapter IV: A Letter to Beckie

  FRIDAY MORNING, AMY ARDAN knocked on the door of Beckie’s home. Two happy days after Ralf’s birth, there was no reason she shouldn’t get back to school… and Dylan.

  “Miss Amy, good morning. How are you?” Boynton wasn’t as chipper as his words attempted to imply.

  “I’m fine, Maurice. What about you?”

  “Would you like tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee would be great. I’m headed back to school.” She tipped her head and made a questioning grin. “What’s up? You don’t seem as cheerful as the day warrants.”

  “I’ll meet you on the lanai.”

  In two minutes, he came through the slider with a tray, on which the coffee service had been arrayed. Amy didn’t smile at the sight of an envelope tucked under the sugar bowl; while she couldn’t make out any detail, that very fact coupled with Boynton’s malaise gave her no reason for good humor.

  She waited while Boynton poured two cups, then added cream as he took his seat across the glass table from her. After a sip, he said, “Would you like a conundrum before the taxi arrives?”

  “A conundrum? How so?”

  “In the sense of difficult, or a puzzle, rather than a play on words.” He lifted the sugar bowl and pushed the envelope in her direction. “I’ve already asked Willie and Ms Zhang to join us.”

  She gave him a sharp glance. “‘Us’? Already thinking I’d be interested? How well you know me.”

  “Your mentor is the one I know. And her mentor.”

  “Okay. Should we wait for them? And why Xia?”

  He pointed to the envelope. “I believed it prudent.”

  She gave him a stern look before lifting her cup. The wonderful smell greeted her as she raised the cup and she nodded to him. “Thanks.”

  He pointed behind her. “Willie is at the dock now. I believe that Ms Zhang is with him, and Shen as well.”

  Amy tossed her head and brushed her hair behind her ear. With unease that wasn’t at all feigned, she reached for the envelope.

  Her first glance explained Boynton’s invitation to Xia: lovely Arabic calligraphy flowed along the top edge. In a bold hand that she could easily envision as responsible for similar art, Beckie’s name, Rebecca Jamse, had been inked in a copperplate script. Below the name, CEO (Pro tempore), Ian Jamse, LLC.

  “Wow,” she murmured. Her gaze swept the others, just entering. She stopped at Boynton. “CEO Pro tem? What could that mean?”

  No one spoke until Shen peered at the envelope and said, “I’m certain Rou wouldn’t have made a mistake like that, processing Ian’s estate.”

  “Perhaps we should see if the envelope contains any explanation?” Boynton said.

  “Hmm. In a second.” Amy looked around the lanai again. “So, Maurice’s got this envelope…” She waved it over the table. “… and he’s looking for permission, I guess, to open it, since Beckie’s still in the hospital?”

  “Correct,” Boynton said. “In fact, I inquired of her doctors and they prefer we not… disturb her for another day or two at least.”

  “Disturb?”

  Boynton looked at Amy. I’ll bet he talked to Mom. “Doctor Ardan’s exact words were, ‘She has enough to keep track of between the baby and her stitches. Sunday, at the soonest. Unless Bon Secours is sinking!’”

  Amy laughed. “Pretty clear, then.” She looked at the envelope, then handed it to Xia. “While Xia translates, tell us about this.”

  Boynton placed his cup on the table. “I found it when I picked the mail up. The inscription, as well as the calligraphy, led me to invite each of you once I talked to the doctor. To determine our course, as this is not exactly the sort of thing we discussed before the baby.”

  No, it’s not, Amy thought. “To be clear, I’m more a focal point than anyone important, so… What can you tell, Xia?”

  “I’d have to look it up to be sure, but here, across the top, it appears to be a verse from the Qur’an. Return wives to their husband, something like that.” She flipped the paper container over to glance at the blank back side. “That’s exciting,” she said as she flipped it back. “Does that help? And… ‘CEO pro-tempore’?”

  Amy gave her a shrug as she took the envelope back, then said, “Pro tem. Means acting for the real officer, generally. The officer who’s expected to return.” She picked up a knife from the coffee service and slit the top flap, careful not to dislodge anything that might be within.

  No scorpions crawled out, and there seemed to be no suspicious powder. “And,” she said, “it seems more likely that ‘pro tem’ means Beckie’s at risk.”

/>   “Wait, then,” Boynton said. “I’ll have Else check it first.”

  “Nah, I’ve already gotten past where she’d find something. My money’s on an invitation for some fun thing intended to end badly. We can send it back with Shen for any fingerprints.”

  She worked the contents free, revealing a folded card.

  “Xia… we didn’t need to bother her. It’s in English. ‘Mrs. Jamse,’ it begins.” She caught her breath and sagged in her chair. She took another deep breath and wiped her hand on her shorts. ‘We have gained less than Allah promised, but He requires that Ian Jamse be made whole.’ Can you bring a laptop, Maurice? It gives a web site.”

  “What does that even mean?” Willie said.

  “The most reasonable interpretation is that Ian’s alive,” Xia said.

  “But… but…” Amy straightened slightly. “You said ‘most reasonable,’ right? Not necessarily actually reasonable.” Xia nodded. “I saw Ian. His body. What other interpretations are there?”

  For the few moments Boynton was gone, the discussion ranged from outright incomprehensible to well, that’s really far-fetched, but given the alternatives…

  Amy finished her coffee. “What’re the odds this is some sick joke? Better or worse than a way to kill Beckie, too?”

  “Not going to allow the other option, then?” Willie said.

  “What’s that?”

  “That Ian’s alive, somehow?”

  “Well, Willie,” she said, “remember, I stood with Beckie and Mrs. Jamse and Sam in that… mortuary. How can it be? The South African police? All the doctors? They’re in some vast conspiracy? Why? What could possibly be worth it?”

  “I don’t know. But to me it seems no less reasonable than the other options I heard.” He sighed, then rubbed his hand through his hair. “But maybe it’s because I want it to be possible…”

  Amy shot up and hugged him. “I know, Willie. I’d like it to be possible, too. But I don’t know how it can be and it feels like I’d be setting Beckie… and all of us, too, up for an even bigger disappointment. If that’s possible.” When he dipped his head, she returned to her chair.