Deadline (4 page)

Trevanian was back in his room at the
Hotel Maywand. Located in the secure Green Zone, the hotel was
frequented by many journalists and military personnel. While not
deluxe by Western standards, the hotel was reasonably clean and
free of bugs and rats.

His phone rang.

He was tempted to let it keep ringing
rather than interrupt his work, but Trevanian picked up the
receiver and answered. Over a crackling line, he instantly
recognized the voice of Hamid Khan, a key source within the
Taliban.

“
Mr. Trevor,” the voice
said urgently. “I must see you immediately. I have information of
great importance for you.”

“
Hamid, I’m right in the
middle of filing a story. What is this matter of such great
urgency?”

“
I cannot say over the
phone, Mr. Trevor. But it is a huge story you will want to pursue.
Meet me at the Café Zuraiya at noon.” A dial tone suddenly replaced
the voice.

Khan was a source Trevanian had
cultivated over many months. With cash incentives, he had provided
the journalist with many valuable insights into the workings of the
Taliban and the even more secretive al-Qaida.

It was information that brought
numerous scoops to Trevanian who had built an international
reputation as an outstanding expert on the war in
Afghanistan.

His nose for news told him this was
something he couldn’t afford to pass up.

The Café Zuraiya was a common meeting
place for Trevanian and his source. The café was located in a small
alley outside the protected Green Zone. It had its risks, but
Trevanian was used to taking risks.

He left the hotel and hailed a waiting
taxi outside.

The Café Zuraiya was a far cry from
Tim Hortons. It was a dark, dingy room with several tiny wooden
tables and small benches. It took a few seconds for Trevanian’s
eyes to adjust to the dim lighting from the bright sunshine
outside.

He saw several people sitting at
tables inside. Some of them briefly glanced at him, but then
returned to whatever business they were conducting.

There was no sign of Hamid
Khan.

Was it a wild goose chase? But why
would he call and not show up?

Or had Khan’s Taliban buddies finally
caught on to his association with the journalist?

Trevanian had only been there a couple
of minutes. He was about to order a coffee and sit down to wait for
Khan when two men at a nearby table walked over to him.

“
Trevor Trevanian?”
inquired a lanky man with breath that smelled like a camel. He also
appeared to be in need of a good bath, given the strong body odour
emanating from him.

He had a pockmarked face and looked
the type of man you wouldn’t want to tangle with in a dark
alley.

His buddy was heavier set with jowls
that telegraphed his fondness for food.

The pair reminded Trevanian of
old-time comedians Abbott and Costello. But there was nothing funny
about their attitude.

“
Who wants to know?” asked
Trevanian.

“
You must be Trevanian.
You look just like your photo in the press,” said Abbott, the thin
one with the pockmarked face.

“
It doesn’t do me justice.
I’m much better looking in person, don’t you think?” quipped
Trevanian.

But Abbott didn’t smile. He continued
his humorless stare at Trevanian.

“
You must come with us
now,” demanded the thin man in a stern voice.

“
Whoa, there buddy! I am
not going anywhere until you tell me who you two are and where you
want me to go.”

“
There is no time to
argue. You must come with us now if you know what is good for
you.”

Suddenly Trevanian was staring at 9 mm
Walther pistols in the hands of the two Afghans. They appeared to
mean business.

Trevanian vainly looked around the
room as if expecting someone to help, but the people in the café
went about their business, ignoring what was going on around
them.

Abbott waved the pistol toward the
door. “Outside now, please!”

Trevanian didn’t think he had any
other choice. Trying to overpower the two would be too big a risk
and he did not know what this situation was.

He went outside followed by the two
gunmen. A rusted out Lada was waiting at the curb driven by a
heavily bearded, leathery skinned man. The kidnappers pushed him in
the back seat and sat each side of him. Then the vehicle sped
off.

Trevanian noticed it was heading out
of town and south along a dusty highway.

Costello, the fat one, pulled a black
cloth hood out of his pocket and pulled it over Trevanian’s head.
It felt scratchy and smelled of oil.

Suddenly Trevanian’s world went black.
He had no sense of the direction they were heading.

His first fear was that this was
another kidnapping of a journalist. He tried to push the thoughts
of Daniel Pearl, the American journalist beheaded by al-Qaida, out
of his mind.

Was he going to be the subject of a
ransom or a useless demand for release of prisoners?

There were many questions going
through Trevanian’s mind, but no immediate answers.

The two kidnappers remained silent as
the car sped on the highway to whatever fate awaited Trevor
Trevanian.

Chapter 11

Katie Cannon’s Apartment
5:30 AM

THE PHONE’S incessant ring brought
Katie Cannon out of a deep, blissful sleep.

She instinctively fumbled for the
black, cordless phone on the small wooden table stand next to her
bed.

“
Hello, Katie Cannon
here,” she breathed huskily, trying to shake off the drowsiness and
rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “This better be damn good at
this time of the morning.”

“
Katie, David Hagen night
city editor at the Daily Express. Sorry to disturb you at this
hour, but I thought you’d want to know about this new development.
The police are busy responding to a call in High Park. The body of
a female was found in the bushes. The Wolfman may have struck
again!”

Cannon instantly became alert. “Right,
David. Thanks. I’ll get over there right away.”

As Cannon replaced the phone, Chase
stirred in the bed.

“
What’s up, honey?
Something important happening?” Andrew sat up in the bed, rubbing
his eyes.

“
I have to go out, Andrew.
It appears the Wolfman has another victim. You go back to sleep,
I’ll see you later. Lock up when you leave. Love you, sweetie.” She
kissed him lightly on the cheek as she arose from the
bed.

“
Be careful out there,
darling. I worry about you with that crazy pervert running
loose.”

Cannon hurriedly threw on a black
pantsuit, grabbed her portable digital voice recorder and her car
keys.

She was wide-awake now and on the
story.

* * *

As Katie pulled into High Park, she
saw three parked police cruisers with their lights flashing, an
ambulance and the forensics van nearby.

She displayed her press pass to the
police officer standing in front of the yellow crime scene tape. He
waved her through.

Cannon spied a trio of detectives
huddled together in discussion. She headed toward the group,
particularly a young homicide detective named Peter
Moon.

Moon was tall, with straw-like hair.
He had a nice taught, muscular frame that Cannon found attractive.
Moon was also sweet on her and had asked her out a couple of
times.

Cannon, however, was in a committed
relationship, but could not let anyone know. She parlayed his
interest in her, however, and flirted to gain information the
police would not normally give reporters.

“
Peter, what’s the scoop
here. Is it the Wolfman again?”

“
Looks like it. It has all
the trappings of his handiwork, including the missing tongue and
his trademark signature.”

“
You mean the bite marks
on both her breasts?”

“
You got it Katie, but I
don’t want to see that in your story. I gave you that info before
in confidence and strictly off the record. It could cost me my job
if anyone knew I gave you that information.”

Police routinely withhold some crime
details from the public to help identify the real culprit. It helps
them rule out false confessions by those seeking to claim credit
for crimes and the public notoriety that goes along with
it.

“
Peter, my sources are
sacrosanct you know that,” said Cannon. “Don’t worry; I’ll keep
that strictly off the record until you guys capture this psycho
creep. Can I view the victim?”

“
Sorry, Katie but you
really don’t want to do that,” said Moon. “She’s not a pretty sight
and there are some severe mutilations. Anyway, the forensic people
are busy gathering any DNA evidence on the site before we ship her
off to the morgue.”

“
Any ID on the
victim?”

“
She’s a lawyer by the
name of Antoinette Bower. The victim’s another young professional
woman. This creep really seems to be targeting young female
professionals. He obviously holds some kind of sick grudge or is
envious of their success. He’s probably a loner and loser who can
only get it up by overpowering and dominating successful
women.”

“
Aren’t you concerned that
he seems to be escalating these murders? They used to be a week or
two apart and now we have two in one week.”

“
Yes, I am afraid his
compulsion is getting worse. Our profile on this guy describes him
as likely a white, male in his 30s, a loner or social misfit
working in some menial job. There may be some form of child abuse
underlying this or mother issues. Obviously he has it in for
successful women. Better watch out, Katie. I don’t like the fact
that he has been e-mailing you lately after his latest victims. You
might end up on his hit list if you’re not careful.”

“
I’m quite capable of
taking care of myself,” said Katie.

“
I’m sure you can. But it
wouldn’t hurt to have some personal bodyguard protection from a
police officer. When are we going out for that dinner date? I’d be
most happy to become your personal bodyguard.” Moon gave Katie a
mischievous grin.

“
Not now, Peter. I told
you I’m involved with someone. I like you but I’m a one-man kind of
girl and I want to see where this relationship is
going.”

“
Well, whoever he is, he’s
one lucky guy. I hope he treats you right. You know I’m attracted
to you Katie and you can’t blame a guy for trying. If things don’t
work out you know where you can come for a shoulder to cry
on.”

“
I’ll keep that in mind.
You’re a nice guy Peter, but I don’t think a cop and a reporter
would make a good mix – we both keep brutal hours. We’d rarely see
each other.”

“
Ah, but when we did the
sparks would fly,” said Moon with a twinkle in his eye.

“
Who found the
body?”

“
That guy over there. He
was out walking his dog in the park and came across her in the
bush.

Peter pointed to a middle-aged man in
T-shirt and running pants talking to another police officer writing
on a notepad. The man held a leash attached to a black and white
Springer Spaniel sniffing around the ground.

“
Well, I better go
interview him before the TV news trucks get here. I’m surprised
they are not here yet. They must still be having their morning
coffee and donuts. See ya later, alligator!”

Cannon headed toward the morning dog
walker, digital mini-recorder in hand. She mentally prepped the
questions she was going to put to him.

Chapter 12

Southern Afghanistan 4: 15
PM

THE RUSTY Lada rumbled along the dusty
Afghan roads. They had traveled for hours in silence.

Trevanian had a sense they were headed
south, but knew little else. Several times he tried to converse
with his captors. He asked where they were going, why they had
taken him, what they expected to achieve by this action.

All his questions were greeted with
silence.

After a couple of hours, he complained
about the hood. It was hot, scratchy and difficult to breathe. He
also desperately needed to urinate.

“
You need to stop soon
unless you want me to piss my pants, guys,” said
Trevanian.

The car pulled over to the side of the
road. The two Afghans in the backseat pushed him out of the car.
They removed the hood and gestured to a nearby ditch.

Trevanian paused and took in a deep
breath of the warm, dry air. It felt glorious after the confinement
of the hood. His eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight and he
surveyed the rough terrain around him.

It was a barren wasteland of dust,
rock and mountainous terrain. He had no idea where they were – in
the middle of nowhere. But the road ahead was snaking up into the
nearby mountains.