The jihadist trembled, staring at the glazed eyes of his High School friend, part of his mosque gang. A week ago they were making out with girls at the senior party — now?
The director’s voice was a low menacing growl. “I’m about to let my boys here have you.” He waited, but there was nothing except the young man’s teeth chattering. All right Andy, show Abdul we mean business. Cut off his balls.”
The big man took out a wicked looking trench knife. There was nothing the driver could do. His ankles were taped to the legs chairs. The big man took the knife and slit open his trousers at the crotch. He felt the edge slice his skin.
He howled, “No, no please you can’t do this! Don’t do this!”
MacCloud held up his hand and the big man stopped, holding the knife up so that the blood running down the blade was inches from his face.
MacCloud’s tone became gentler, more like an understanding mentor. “That’s what it’s going to be, or you can tell us what we want to know. You’re not giving anything away; we’ll find it all out eventually. When we’re done here, I’ll have you transferred to Guantanamo Bay. You’ve seen the news reports. They’re well treated. You can sit there until the war is over and work on your tan. After the war is over and done, well, you didn’t kill anyone so who knows what will happen. You could be out raising a family in a few years and this will be nothing but an unhappy memory.”
“Or,” and the directors voice sank to a menacing growl again. “Or you can say nothing and die like your friend here, without striking a single blow for your jihad. That means Hell buddy. You didn’t die with the blood of an infidel on your hands. You check out with nothing!”
That was enough. He couldn’t talk fast enough.
After the prisoner’s statement, MacCloud came out of the interrogation room. He had already been on a quick conference call with Gann and Mertzl. He called them again.
“It’s confirmed,” he told them. “They got the information from an e-mail forwarded to their mosque. We’re raiding the place as we speak. If this checks out with Corporal Garret’s attack then the common thread is the hotel in Ankara.”
“We followed up on that,” said Gann. “The hotel is an ISIS staging depot. It will take some digging to find out how they got the information.”
“Ankara — Turkey?” the gruff voice of Mertzl asked.
“Yes, that’s where the trace led us.”
“Our pal Freddy Waters is in Ankara,” Mertzl informed them. “One of the Mobility Commands VIP jets is at his disposal. He landed in Ankara yesterday. He’s leaving for Paris today — if this is on him, I’ll have his ass. Corporal Garret is in critical condition. They raped and beheaded his wife. She was six months pregnant,” the general paused before finishing. “They cut out the baby and beheaded her as well.”
There was a long pause while the three men digested the situation. MacCloud broke the uncomfortable silence. “I think we all know Waters is behind the leak.”
“That ties it to the president.”
“This is SEAL Team Six all over again,” Mertzl growled.
“Gentlemen we have to tread very, very carefully with this president.”
“This is treason!” Mertzl exploded, putting it right out there in the open.
“It is,” Gann agreed. “However, we’ve all been in this game long enough to know how pawns are used. That’s what the president is doing.”
“Waters is on the board now; he’s fair game,” MacCloud said. “Just as young Ataturk found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, Waters might not realize what a dangerous world this is. My men saved Slade’s family Gann, maybe your man should know that.”
“He can make the same mistake he made with the young Turk,” Mertzl chuckled mirthlessly.
“Slade is on his way to Paris. That’s where Freddy is. I’ll see to it that they run into each other.”
CHAPTER 15: Paris
Slade landed in Paris tired and in a foul mood. He’d read up on Freddy Waters. The information didn’t improve his demeanor. If ever a man deserved the business end of his Special Forces killing knife twisted in his kidneys it was Waters.
“If he leaked the information about our unit to ISIS I promise you, Mr. Waters, you will take days to die!” he muttered to himself.
He gathered his bags and picked up a taxi at the curb. Getting into the Mercedes he settled back into the comfortable leather seat and told the driver his destination
The Hilton was where Freddy Waters was staying.
On the way he got a text. “J. Bravo should pull through. Six holes in him. Good hunting — Killer.”
“Thank God for small favors. I hope they keep him out for a while. He’s not going to like waking up; I don’t know how he’ll handle the news. I don’t know how anyone could.”
He dialed Helen’s cell number. She picked up.
“Hey, how are you doing?”
“How am I doing?” she asked with a sigh. “Our boys in black get us up in the middle of the night and stick us in a hotel under guard. How do you think I’m doing?”
“I’m sorry Helen,” he started to apologize, but she interrupted him.
“I’m doing great Jeremiah! Don’t worry about me and the kids. The next morning they put us on a flight and here we are in Atlantis — Atlantis! The kids are having a blast. I’m drinking a Pina Colada and getting a tan. You should get yourself into trouble more often.”
Slade didn’t have the heart to tell her about Johnny’s wife and child — Helen was green to that side of the game — he let her be. “Have a good time. I’ll check back in when I can.”
“Jeremiah be safe please. I love you. The kids love you. You know that don’t you? We can’t afford to lose you.”
“Give the kids hugs for me; give yourself one for me too.”
It occurred to Slade that he’d never told Helen he loved her. She told him often, always making sure he knew that she hadn’t forgotten. He thought that’s all it was. Now he wasn’t so sure.
They pulled up at the Hilton Concorde Opera, a huge traditional building on a large roundabout. Slade tipped the driver and checked in.
“Monsieur Slade, your company left a valise for you,” the concierge told him. He motioned for a valet. The boy returned with a large black suitcase from the back room. “Can I get anything else for you, monsieur?”
“Do you have a schedule for the opera or any concerts?”
“Certainement!” he said, producing a printed flyer. “Monsieur will notice we have Turandot at the Opera House next week, however, if monsieur is available there is a very special event tomorrow night. The organist Monsieur Olivier Latry will be playing Bach after mass at Notre Dame! If you enjoy baroque that is.”
“It will be played the Great Organ and not the Choir Organ, I assume?”
The concierge smiled at Slade’s knowledge of Paris’ great cathedral, announcing proudly, “Absolutely! I will be in attendance myself.”
“Please put my tickets and your own on my bill,” he instructed.
“Two monsieur?”
“Why not,” Slade nodded. He had a mind to invite Jean Brueget, the INTERPOL contact. It would be the perfect place for an unobtrusive meeting. “Oh, one more thing.” He handed a photo of Waters and two one thousand Euro notes to the concierge. His text number was on the bottom of the picture.
“Oui monsieur, it will be done. Monsieur Waters is out at the moment, but I will inform you the instant he walks through the door,” the concierge said, absurdly pleased that Slade was a patron who knew how things worked without having to be prodded.