Capture (Butch Karp Thrillers) (25 page)

Gregor was enjoying his work. There were many beautiful women who worked in the theater, but none of them would have anything to do with him.
They’re all bitches, including this one,
he thought as the girl tried to stomp on his feet and scratched at his gloved hands. As he’d worked out how he would arrange this “suicide,” he’d considered raping her as well. But first he had to render her unconscious, then arrange to make it look like she’d overdosed on heroin.

Not the first whore in Spanish Harlem to mix up her dose,
he thought.

The girl fought like a wildcat, and it was all he could do to keep the bag over her face, and her hands from ripping it away. But expending that energy also had the effect of her running out of air that much faster, and soon she sagged to the floor.

Gregor dragged the girl into her bedroom and placed her on the bed. He then took the rubber tube out of his pocket and fastened it around her arm. Working quickly, he brought out a small plastic bag filled with white powder, which he poured onto a spoon and melted with his lighter.
Enough to kill a horse,
he thought as he sucked the
liquid into a hypodermic,
but not so fast I can’t have a little fun before the body goes cold
.

Carmina moaned and started to stir as he tapped on the vein in her arm that was enlarged due to the tube. “Sweet dreams,” he said as he leaned over to insert the needle.

There was a crash of a door giving way to force. Snarling, Gregor threw down the hypodermic and started to rush out of the room with his gun drawn. But he ran straight into a short, muscular young man coming the other way.

Gregor recognized Carmina’s boyfriend even as Garcia’s charge knocked him off his feet, the gun clattering away. The young man landed on top of him and rained down several blows. But Gregor had been trained by the best in the Soviet KGB special forces unit. He threw a devastating elbow to the young man’s head that knocked him off, and, quick for a three-hundred-pound man, he jumped to his feet and landed a heavy kick to Garcia’s midsection.

As Garcia went down in a heap, Gregor leaned over and picked up his gun. He sighted along the barrel at the young man’s head and started to pull the trigger. But the gunshot that followed was not from his weapon. He felt a powerful blow in his ribs despite the armored vest he always wore.

With a primordial scream, he turned and saw a petite woman aiming a small handgun at him. She pulled the trigger again but nothing happened. Gregor smiled. “Is jammed, no?” he said.

Marlene worked the slide back on her semiautomatic as Gregor leveled his gun. For a second time, however, he was unable to pull the trigger. This time it wasn’t a powerful blow that stopped him, but the tiny prick of a needle piercing his massive right leg. He looked back to see the young man squeeze the hypodermic plunger and snarled. But before he could do or say anything else, the nearly pure heroin that had been injected into his saphenous vein arrived at his heart like a runaway freight train, and for all intents and purposes, he was dead before he hit the floor.

A loud moan escaped Carmina, and Alejandro rushed to her side. He tore the tube off her arm and smiled as her eyes fluttered open. “Alejandro?” she said weakly.

“
Querida,
I’m here,” Alejandro replied as tears rushed into his eyes.

She smiled and brushed at one of the tears on his cheek. “Late as usual,” she said, and pulled his head toward her, kissing him tenderly. There was a sound in the doorway, and they both turned to see Marlene.

“Your husband still need a witness?” Carmina asked.

“I’m sure he’d appreciate it,” Marlene replied. “He’s the one who got us over here in time.”

Marlene looked over at the hulking body of Gregor lying on the floor. “I guess he won’t being watching the Rockettes at Radio City anymore.”

A
T A NOD FROM HIS SECURITY MAN OUTSIDE,
O
MAR
A
BDULLAH
emerged from the office of Trinidad & Tobago Dairy Products, Inc., and looked quickly around. The sun was setting, painting the tropical night orange and red, and the lights were just coming on in the plaza and surrounding businesses.

When he’d arrived that evening, hoping to hear good news, he’d immediately taken a mental picture of the people in the plaza outside the office, looking for anyone who seemed
too
interested. He couldn’t be too careful. The national security antiterrorism personnel for Trinidad were well trained, and he was a wanted man.

However, he’d also been gone from the island for many years; he’d aged and a hard life had changed the young man he’d been when he left. Plus, there were plenty of true believers willing to help him, many of them having infiltrated the government and its agencies. The people of his village weren’t all supportive of the idea of an Islamic revolution, but they were intimidated by those who were and just in case, he’d moved almost every night to avoid being pinpointed for a raid.

Now the hiding and running was over.
Allah be praised
, he’d finally received the news that his good friend and leader, Amir al-Sistani, had been rescued and the “spectacular” event was going
to proceed.
Allahu akbar! God is great! His will be done!
The day of his martyrdom was drawing close.

Tired of constantly being hunted by the Americans and their allies, as well as living in training camps and the ghettos of the Middle East and Africa, he’d decided that it was time to join the Prophet in the presence of Allah. He looked forward to the pleasures promised to those who died in the cause of Islam, and he was pleased that the beginning of the end of his life should start where he had been born, in Trinidad, the son of a simple Muslim farmer and his equally simple wife.

His parents were moderately religious—his father prayed five times a day, observed the holy days, and his mother knew her place as his chattel. They were too simple to understand the politics of Islamic fundamentalism, or appreciate that the battle between Islam and the West was at hand; but they’d listened to the village imam and sent their young son to religious school, where the radical teachers taught him to hate.

He’d been a young man in the ranks of Jamaat al Muslimeen since the great coup that had almost succeeded in creating an Islamic state in Trinidad. Then he fled to Afghanistan to avoid arrest and join the jihad against the godless Soviets. After the victory, he’d remained at the invitation of the Taliban, helping train the growing ranks of al-Qaeda until the U.S. invasion forced him into the Pakistan tribal areas.

Now he was back in Trinidad and ready to begin his final journey, having said his good-byes to his ancient parents, friends, and the young jihadis who worshiped his name and wanted to be like him. The only cause for alarm had been the day when Ariadne Stupenagel arrived in the village where he was hiding. He was certain that he’d been found out and his former lover was there to expose him.

Abdullah was prepared to abduct and kill her. He felt no pity for the woman he’d once professed his love to, only disgust for the man he had been in those days when he’d allowed himself to be seduced by an infidel whore. But his spies told him that while she asked questions about the resurgent Islamic fundamentalist movement in Trinidad, she didn’t ask about him. He decided that her appearance
was probably a coincidence, and that it was even somehow fitting that his last lover had, in American lingo, “come to see him off.”

Still, just in case Ariadne was working for the U.S. government and not a newspaper as she claimed, he’d kept men following her every move. But so far she’d done nothing to cause further suspicion. Yes, she’d been asking questions about “radical” Islam and the religious schools, but sympathizers in the prime minister’s office said her questions, while probing, had not indicated she had any specific knowledge about Abdullah or his plans.

It was no surprise that a journalist was asking these questions. The West’s concerns about the spread of Islamic fundamentalism in the Caribbean and the transport of liquid natural gas was no secret in the world of terrorism and counterterrorism. In fact, the surprising thing was that it had been all but ignored by the Western media. The press and the U.S. government still spent more time worrying about those old washed-up communist revolutionaries in Cuba than the real threat looming below the soft underbelly of the United States.

So the fact that Ariadne, who he grudgingly acknowledged had been a tough, fearless journalist when he knew her, was on the story came as no surprise.
But her warning will come too late,
he thought with satisfaction.

Then she’d surprised him several nights before when he’d first checked in at the dairy products office. The man he had watching her called to say that the whore was apparently trying to pick up two men she met at a bar across the main plaza from the office.
“The joke is on her. I think they’re homosexuals, may Allah burn their souls in hell.”

“Did she follow me here?”
he’d asked.

“No, she was already sitting next to the men when you arrived,”
the spy said.
“She didn’t react when you arrived in the plaza. She was too busy showing her large, unclean breasts and uncovered legs to the faggots.”

A little later, the spy had reported that the older of the men left soon after, but his young companion remained with the woman.
“Apparently, the young one has at least some interest in women, though she seems to be the aggressor. The other whores are angry.”

Abdullah shook his head with disgust and tried not to think of the sudden images of Ariadne’s naked body that had flooded into his mind. She’d had a large sexual appetite and thought she could seduce any man…
even a homosexual, if he had even a smidgen of manhood in him
.

Now, as he walked down the sidewalk away from the office, Abdullah glanced across the plaza at the bar. Ariadne was nowhere in sight. His man would remain behind in case she made some sudden move. Soon they would be out of contact, but the young jihadi would know what to do. Port of Spain could be a rough place; Ariadne wouldn’t be the first tourist murdered for her purse by some unknown assailant.

Abdullah dismissed any thought of Ariadne or anyone else stopping him as he marched toward the loading docks. He believed with all his heart that the release of al-Sistani was a sign from Allah that his path was blessed. No Trinidad security force, no American agents or Russian spies—and no filthy female journalist—would keep him from his destiny.

Abdullah was so confident, which rubbed off on his men, who relaxed their vigilance, that he still did not see the three dark shapes who shadowed him.

John Jojola and Tran Vinh Do followed the terrorist with the help of an officer of the Trinidad national security force who was a native of Port of Spain and knew the streets well. Yasin Salim, the officer, was young and dedicated; he, too, was Muslim but angrily denounced the radicals “who give good Muslims a bad name.”

After picking up Abdullah’s trail the night Stupenagel spotted him, they’d been able to watch his movements from afar, constantly switching the surveillance teams, all of which reported to Jaxon. Cell phone chatter among Muslims sympathetic to Jamaat had picked up considerably and Abdullah seemed to be at the center of it. Then they got word that whatever was going on, was happening that night.

Jaxon decided to split up his team. He and Blanchett would watch the oil and natural gas shipping facilities located south of Port
of Spain. It was a large series of facilities, but they knew where to focus. The spies had named a large LNG tanker,
The Nile,
as possibly being involved. In the meantime, Jojola, who still had his T-shirt stand, and Tran would keep an eye on the Trinidad & Tobago Dairy Products office and Abdullah.

Yasin Salim quickly guessed that Abdullah was heading for the Port of Spain loading docks. While the petrochemical and oil and gas shipping facilities were kept far away to prevent a catastrophic accident, most regular shipping was conducted at the main docks in the city.

This made it easier to shadow Abdullah. Instead of just following, the three men were able to split up and take up posts along the way, so that Jojola was actually watching the docks when the target arrived and was joined by his comrades. Security was light and they were soon crouched in the shadow of a small warehouse looking toward the activity on the docks.

Jojola pointed to a small cargo ship that was being prepared to set sail. Several large cargo containers were still being loaded and men were filtering aboard. But otherwise, lines were being cast off and a tugboat waited a few yards out in the dark harbor, its lights trained on its next job.

“He went aboard that ship,” Jojola said. “The…how’s that pronounced? The
I-ben Jew-bare
?”

“A reefer,” Tran whispered.

“A what? Reefer? They’re shipping marijuana?” Jojola asked. His wide bronze face looked puzzled.

Tran rolled his eyes. “You’ve been out in the desert sun too long. Not reefer as in ‘marijuana reefer’…and by the way, kids these days don’t say reefer, its ganja or weed. Man, you’re behind the times…”

“Leave it to a Vietnamese gangster to be intimately familiar with all the latest drug terminology,” Jojola retorted, “but you were saying about a reefer?”

“A reefer—a refrigerated ship—especially fitted for shipping goods that need to be kept cold or frozen,” Tran explained. He pointed at the logo of one of the containers being loaded. “Trinidad & Tobago Dairy Products.”

“So what’s Omar doing on a reefer? Going to poison a ship full of milk?” Jojola asked.

“Wouldn’t put it past him, but I don’t know,” Tran replied. “I’m going to call Jaxon and let him know where we are and see what he wants us to do.”

Tran pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number. He watched the cell phone screen for a moment and then cursed. “I can’t get a damn signal,” he swore.

At the same time, a car pulled up to the ship and a blond woman stepped out. She kept her head down and hurried aboard.

“Holy shit!” Jojola exclaimed. “It’s Nadya!”

“You sure?” Tran asked.

“Damn straight,” the Indian replied. “I’ve had a few good looks at her, including in Dagestan. But I knew it was her just the way she moved…like a predator.”

The three men watched the ship for a few more minutes. Only two more containers were left on the dock.

“What do you think they’re up to?” Tran asked.

“I don’t know, but I’m tired of letting this bitch get away,” Jojola replied as he started to rise from his hiding place.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tran hissed.

“I’m going to get on that ship,” his friend replied. “Whatever she and Omar are up to, it can’t be good.”

“You crazy Indian! Let’s call in the Coast Guard,” Tran insisted.

Jojola thought about it. “Go call Jaxon and let him make the decision. Maybe he wants to follow these guys and see where they’re going. I don’t think there’s much danger from this ship. Maybe they’re meeting up with other terrorists and we can nab the whole bunch.”

“I can’t call Jaxon from here,” Tran replied as he got up, too. “I don’t have cell service, and besides, who says I’m going to let you go alone and get all the glory? I’m tired of listening to you about how you kicked our Viet Cong butts all over the Mekong when everybody knows we were the ones who kicked your asses. I’m not about to let you lord this over me.”

Jojola smiled. He and Tran had once been blood enemies, but
now they were more like blood brothers. “Fine, it’s all about you,” he said. “But someone needs to let Jaxon know what we’re up to so that he can send the cavalry.”

Tran turned to Salim, who’d been listening to their debate with his mouth hanging open. Apparently, the Trinidad national security forces didn’t carry on like the two odd Americans. “Do you have a cell phone?” Tran asked him.

Salim shook his head. “They don’t work well and are easy to intercept,” he replied.

“Well, Jaxon’s private number is programmed into my phone,” Tran said as he handed the device to the young man. “When you get a signal—you’ll see little bars up there in the left-hand corner—hit the Send button. Jaxon should answer quickly; tell him we went aboard the
I-ben Jew-bare
and that Nadya Malovo and Omar Abdullah are aboard. We’ll stay out of sight until he makes his move.” Tran looked at Jojola. “Right?”

Jojola smiled. “Whatever you say, Kemosabe. Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Tran replied with a groan. “I’m getting too old for this.” He looked again at Salim. “You got it down?”

The young man nodded. “Nadya Malovo. Omar Abdullah. The
I-ben Jew-bare
.”

Tran gave him a thumbs-up and then followed Jojola as they wove their way from hiding place to hiding place until they reached the spot of the dock that was nearly even with the stern’s covered subdeck and separated from it by only by a few feet. Jojola quickly shimmied across the large hawser and dropped onto the subdeck, where he waited for his companion.

Tran looked with misgiving at the hawser but was preparing to cross when there was a shout from somewhere toward the bow. The Vietnamese gangster turned and saw a man looking at him.

“What are you doing?” the man shouted.

“Getting ready,” Tran shouted back, and pointed at the rope.

“Where are the others? The ship is ready to go!”

Tran shrugged. His best guess was that a dock crew would be appearing soon to cast off the hawser.

As the man continued to walk to Tran, there was another shout
from above. This time it was a woman’s accented voice. “What’s going on? Why the delay?” she yelled down at the man on the dock, who looked up.

“It’s Malovo,” Jojola hissed from the shadows of the subdeck.

“The lazy dock crew only sent one man,” the guard shouted up.