No Remorse Part 4

After he'd finished eating, Bernase rose from the table and appeared on the patio, speaking into a phone, occasionally nodding his head as he spoke. Mac wondered if Bernase could be The Frenchman. Certainly, the evidence was pointing that way, but it didn't seem right that the pilot would also be the organiser of the trafficking ring. Still, if he had slaves himself...

The Dobermans sniffed the air, and growled. The wind direction was quite variable and they may have sensed something unfamiliar, perhaps for a moment. Bernase looked at the dogs for a moment, but didn't seem concerned. As he was speaking, Bernase unzipped and p.i.s.sed into the rain. After he'd finished he yelled out a name.

One of the girls hurried out while the other two sat down to eat. The girl slipped off the spaghetti straps and her dress fell to the patio. She wore nothing under. She knelt in front of Bernase and played with him for a while, then when he was hard she took him in her mouth. Incredibly, the pilot continued to speak on the phone. After it was over, the girl gathered up her dress and returned inside and sat down to eat her meal.

Mac shook his head at what he'd just witnessed. In Afghanistan, he'd had to stand by and observe in silence at some appalling treatment of women by their menfolk, but he'd never witnessed anyone behave quite so offhandedly as the way this guy had just done. If these girls were slaves, he knew exactly what he would do to Bernase.

Bernase lit a cigar and one of the other girls brought him a steaming drink. Soon after, he went inside and reappeared with a suitcase. He spoke to the three girls, then stepped through a door out of sight. He was leaving!

Mac had to move fast. He hadn't expected Bernase to depart the house so soon. Slinging on his pack, he sprinted down to the gravel track, rain streaming down his face. Weighed up his limited options. The rental was almost a mile away, too far to reach before Bernase caught up and drove past. The track from the house offered no cover. He had no pistol; his heaviest weapon was the bolt-cutter he'd brought to get through the fence. That is, before he had discovered it was electrified. He yanked off his backpack, removed the bolt cutter, and continued to run as he slipped an arm back through one of the straps.

The headlight beams struck out through the sheeting rain like blurry lasers, angling back and forth as the vehicle negotiated the winding track. Mac stood between the wheel ruts of the track. The bolt-cutter was hidden behind his left leg.

He figured the pilot had three options: drive around him, hit him, or stop. He calculated that Bernase wouldn't just drive off and leave him there, but then he wouldn't want to run him down and risk damaging the car either. That meant he'd probably stop. And if he stopped, Bernase could either speak to him or shoot him (a.s.suming he had a weapon). Either way, Mac was banking on Bernase stopping, maybe back a little to avoid an ambush. He would try to talk his way close enough to swing the bolt-cutter.

The headlights of the Peugeot 308 zapped him straight on, and he smiled, holding his thumb out. He was hiking the island and had gotten lost at night in the rain. Grateful to see a stranger with a warm, dry car. Maybe he would have gotten away with it, too, except that Bob had already been nosing around. Bernase obviously decided he wasn't taking any chances. Mac heard the engine gunning and saw the car slip out of the ruts, gravel spraying as the rear wheels fishtailed. The front wheels reversed and the car revved in a controlled slide that had it heading side-on, straight at him.

The driver's window was facing him. Bernase brought up a gun and fired, trying to steer with his free hand as the rain blasted in, blinding him. Mac swung the bolt-cutter and released the missile with as much strength as he could muster. The cutting blades headed straight for Bernase's startled face. Mac jumped clear and landed in the mud, air bursting from his lungs. The vehicle rolled to a stop and he rushed over to it before Bernase could recover.

There was no movement, just the sound of the engine idling quietly and the rain. As he got close, he could see Bernase's head tilted back against the headrest, the bolt-cutter sticking out the window. The cutting blades had slammed into his mouth and continued on, opening at the back of his throat. Blood was spurting everywhere.

d.a.m.n! That wasn't the outcome he'd wanted. Although Bernase's actions made him feel partly vindicated. He left the .22 pistol on Bernase's lap and reached into the pa.s.senger side for the cell phone, wiping it clean of sticky blood on some wet gra.s.s. Hopefully, in the address book of the phone would be contact details that might help them track down Sophia and Danni. Next to a small container for coins, he spotted a remote.

He took off at a jog down the road toward his rental, then drove to Bernase's gate and pressed the remote. The gate opened. As he drove in, the dogs bounded off the front porch, jumping at his car, snarling and barking in a frenzy. He tooted the horn several times. After a few minutes, a curtain was pulled back and a face appeared. Then a light came on.

Finally, the front door opened a crack. It took him almost an hour to rea.s.sure them enough to lock up the dogs and allow him inside.

With Bob translating over the phone, he pieced together their story. The three girls, who were eighteen, fifteen and thirteen years old, were from different towns in Mexico. They'd been told their parents had sold them, although none believed it. The oldest one had been with Bernase almost a year. The other two had arrived three months ago on a private plane flown by Bernase. They knew nothing about other kidnapped girls. They just wanted to go home.

Mac sat on Bob's hospital bed as Bob went through Bernase's phone address book.

"Hey, what's the prefix for phone numbers in France, again?" Bob asked.

"Thirty-three."

Bob swivelled his wheelchair. "Here's one. It's a Paris number. Only a first name-Emil. Think I should call it?"

"No. Let me give it to my guy in Paris, Jogesh Khoury. He'll trace the name and address through his Paris contacts."

"Okay. Oh, El ran into your mother a few weeks back in the supermarket. Just before we went to Mexico for spring break. She said Susan was about to have her fourth. That you still hadn't been to see any of your brother's kids."

Mac stiffened and turned away. This was not the time or place.

"Come on Mac, we discussed this a long time ago. Let it go. Nick's the only sibling you've got."

Mac stood up and looked squarely at Bob. He didn't want to get angry with him, but it wasn't fair for Bob to put this back on him. "I'm over it, Bob. It's good they're still together. But I can't pretend."

"You know, you don't really appreciate how precious family really is until something happens..."

"Sorry. I know what you're saying. But they knew exactly what they were doing when they decided to f.u.c.k four weeks out from my wedding to Susan. Pretty deep betrayal, Bob."

Bob heaved a sigh and pinched his eyelid, as though it had a lash underneath.

Elena walked into the room. She'd clearly been crying. "Uh, the Mexican Consul's taken care of it. The younger one didn't..." A tear trickled down her cheek and she coughed slightly to compose herself. "...She didn't want to let go of me. And I didn't want to let go of her. They, uh, they said to thank you again. The Consul suggested we'd best leave, so I've booked us on a flight tomorrow."

"Fine by me," Bob said.

Elena slumped in a chair. "Tell me, do you think we will find our Sophia, Mac?"

"Let's stay positive," Mac said. What else could he say? His cell phone vibrated and he excused himself, walking out to the corridor. Caller ID said it was Derek Wisebaum, and he tried to head him off. "Don't worry, Derek, I'm booked on a flight to Montreal tomorrow. You said I could have a few days-"

"Change of plans, Mac. One of my team's come down with the f.u.c.king flu. You're flying to Nice to subst.i.tute. I'll brief you there."

"Nice?"

"Nice. Cote d'Azur. South of France."

"I know. But I'm in-"

"Martinique. Fort-de-France hospital. We know where you are, Mac."

"Sure you do." They were tracking the GPS on his phone. "And are you monitoring when I take a c.r.a.p too?"

Wisebaum didn't laugh. "You're booked on the 8:45 a.m. flight to Miami and Lufthansa, departing 2:05 p.m. to Nice. Don't be late."

12.

Khalid watched the helicopter swoop over the headland, squeezing under the cloud, caressing the palms that clung to the ridge a thousand metres above the Yubani Health Resort, then hovering briefly before landing gently on the resort's helipad. Water from yesterday's rain cascaded down the worn channels of black basalt that were tinted with slimy green algae. Khalid's final guest, Sheik Mahdi al-Mansur Abidi, stepped from the helicopter holding onto his robes, which bl.u.s.tered from the downdraft.

"Salaam alayk.u.m, Khalid. Your pilot a.s.sad is a crazy man." Abidi wiped the sweat from his forehead then grasped Khalid's arms and kissed his cheeks, briefly touching noses three times in the traditional ritual.

"Wa alayk.u.m as salaam. Marhaba, brother," shouted Khalid above the helicopter's racket. "I'm honoured to host such an esteemed guest."

Khalid noticed a big man with a shaved head step from the helicopter after Sheik Abidi. He rushed over and greeted his father's chief bodyguard. "Ibrahim! What are you doing here? Is my father with you?"

"No, Highness. I come alone. Your father sent me to you."

"But why, my old friend? Why would my father send you here, now?"

Ibrahim seemed reluctant to speak further. "It is a private matter, Highness. It will wait until the festivities are over." The giant bodyguard bowed slightly and walked off towards the group of other bodyguards.

Khalid and Abidi continued along the beach to where five goat-hair tents were flying the Yubani crest-a five-pointed star with a crescent moon like a saucer underneath. They entered the majlis, where rugs with embroidered silk ta.s.sels covered the walls, and ruby and gold striped parachutes billowed from the ceiling. The twelve guests who had flown in from around the world reclined against earthy-coloured cushions on silk rugs covering the sand, as the sixteen models from the photo shoot wearing white bikinis served trays of food, poured wine, and brought Shisha pipes of apple-flavoured tobacco.

Khalid stood at his place at a long, low table and spread his palms wide to address his guests. "Brothers, now that we are all here, I am honoured to bid you welcome. Today's meeting of the Brotherhood coincides with the opening of my Yubani Health Resort, the most exclusive hospital in the world. The resort will offer the world's first on-demand transplant service, using an expert team led by Dr. Yong Xi."

Dr. Xi rose in his place and received a warm round of applause.

"I realised a few years ago when I saw my father's condition that there are many older people wanting the lifeline that a new organ can provide. The resort is unique in guaranteeing organ availability from donors who are young, fit, and healthy, rather than from those having suffered traumatic death. With the ever-increasing population of millionaires over the age of sixty, demand is likely to outstrip supply for decades. They have the money to pay, and many don't care where the lifeline comes from. After all, what's a few less teenagers in the world?"

Laughter from the guests.

"Now, please welcome our respected brother, Sheik Abidi, Chairman of the Hunnafite Brotherhood."

The billionaire property developer from the Emirates rose to his feet and regarded the other guests with an imperious air.

"Put me on your waiting list, please, Khalid. I would say in about twenty years!" Abidi waited for the laughter to die down. "First, I would express our grat.i.tude to our entrepreneurial brother Khalid and his father, Prince Abu-Bakr, for making the Princess Aliya available to deliver the cargoes that help to make us rich. The Hunnafite Brotherhood now has sixty members from around the world, each with a.s.sets over five hundred million dollars. By working together, since last year we have increased the value of our financial a.s.sets by thirty-five percent, mostly by buying devalued US a.s.sets at bargain prices. We have lifted our profits from drug distribution by fifteen percent. Our global slave trade has grown a ma.s.sive thirty percent just in the last year. The Westerners remain blind fools as we continue to take over their wealth. Brothers, the last laugh will be ours!"

The other guests applauded warmly. Abidi continued at length about the Hunnafite strategies that would see their members own one tenth of the world's a.s.sets within twenty-five years.

"In conclusion, we will continue to finance groups like Al Qaeda and Al Shabaab, which will force the West to pour money into their militaries so we can sell weapons to their enemies. In the next twelve months, we will manipulate the oil price and create another collapse in stock prices so that we can buy up more. We will advise you when to sell, before the crash. Now, it is time to enjoy ourselves." He sat back down, amid strong applause.

Khalid cried out: "And now, the magnificent Sheriti!"

From behind the curtain came the slow, haunting melody of a mizmar, the Egyptian oboe, crying a traditional ballad. Sheriti appeared from the opposite side of the tent. Her bedleh comprised only two garments-a bejewelled bra and diaphanous harem pants-allowing the guests a full appraisal of her physique. Khalid felt a twinge of jealousy as she moved among them, her jade green eyes seducing each one, but he felt an even stronger sense of power. Sheriti was spectacular. And his alone. Yet Sheriti's ma.s.sage sessions were not enough to quench his thirst for her, and although she had made it clear in accepting the job as his personal trainer that it would not involve s.e.x, Khalid had other intentions in mind.

Sheriti began to glide on her bare feet and sway her hips back and forth like a belly dancer, slowly and sensually at first, as her curvaceous bosom jiggled in time with the music. Her amber skin sparkled from the light reflected off the mica particles sprayed over her body, and her shaved mound was visible through the transparent material below the five-carat ruby in her navel. The harem pants rode so low on her waist they seemed to defy gravity as her hips gyrated to the erotic melody of the mizmar. Khalid's eyes were locked on her belly and he was fully aroused, bewitched by Sheriti's seductive moves. The tempo quickened and Sheriti stepped up to match its pace. Her belly undulated in waves, faster, faster, until at the beat's peak, it quivered like a vibrating loudspeaker, her hips thrusting back and forth simulating the s.e.x act. She cried out, and the drummer commenced a long roll. Sheriti did two fast turns and, on the clash of the cymbal, dropped to one knee, head bowed low.

There were shouts from the guests. Cheering. A standing ovation. Sheriti raised an arm in salute, exchanged a glancing smile with Khalid, then rose to her feet and clapped her hands. The sixteen models from Eastern Europe appeared in their bedleh and started their version of Sheriti's belly dance. The models had been paid well for their photographic sessions and for their partic.i.p.ation at the banquet, and they each knew their duties included entertaining one of Khalid's guests for their evening's pleasure.

"Where did you find Sheriti?" an exuberant Sheik Fakhouri asked Khalid. "She is magnificent! She looks Egyptian. Is she a slave?"

He knew where this conversation was headed and capped it quickly. "She is from your country, yes. She can turn any man's dagger into a mighty sword, neh? But she is not mine to offer. She's in my employ as long as she is respected by my men and guests. I'm sure one of the models dancing now will be a sufficiently pleasurable target for your spear. Or if none of the models appeals, you may wish to simply purchase one of the slaves we are about to auction? "

"Of course, brother." Fakhouri nodded his head with a sideways tilt, indicating his understanding, and turned to consider which of the models he might select.

After the models had completed their dance, they lined up and the guests each made their selection in order of seniority, Sheik Abidi selecting first. Once the selections had been made, the models exited the tent, giggling among themselves. They would be returned to the Princess Aliya to prepare.

Khalid stood and clapped his hands with a flourish. "And now, what some of you have come all this way for, brothers, the auction of our latest shipment of twenty-four beautiful young slaves from around the world!"

A flap wall of the majlis was opened up to reveal a stage on which two men waited, holding long bamboo canes in case any of the slaves was uncooperative.

Ziad was standing beside the stage to introduce the auction. "Brothers, you have a detailed profile of each slave in the folder beside you, so I'll begin. Remember, all profits from the auction will go to supporting our Taliban brothers as they work hard to extend the Afghan conflict with the Americans and NATO. Our first offering is pretty Erika, from Sweden."

A hand pulled open a curtain at the side and a girl with blonde braids and a round, frightened face was shoved forward onto the stage. The simple robe showed the girl's well-developed b.r.e.a.s.t.s but otherwise veiled her shape. Her downcast eyes were highlighted with eyeliner that gave her eyes a Cleopatra slant. She adopted the pose she had been ordered, offering a nervous smile, although she was clearly trembling.

"Erika is sixteen, and was taken in Mexico City where she was an exchange student. Dr. Gammal has confirmed that she is a virgin, as indeed all of the girls on offer are. Erika would make an excellent concubine or household slave."

The men behind Erika on the stage each grabbed one side of her robe and dragged it up over her head, leaving her naked. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she opened her lips to show her teeth, then slowly did a full turn and shuffled back and forth across the stage.

"Now, brothers, what am I bid for pretty Erika?" Ziad called out, above the guest's chatter.

Sindoro Tekawati, a short, silver-haired manufacturer from Indonesia, strode over to the stage and squeezed the girl's b.r.e.a.s.t.s and tweaked her nipples, then smacked her bottom, much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the other guests. Erika flinched, but didn't move, as all of the slaves had been instructed, under threat of the rod.

Ziad smiled at his own astuteness. Erika was the most compliant of the older slaves, which is why he had put her first.

"Bigger b.r.e.a.s.t.s than any of my wives," Tekawati said, to hoots and catcalls. "One fifty."

"She's older than the girl my father recently married, but she'd be good around the house. And for my son," said Bashir Alsadh, a wealthy industrialist from Bangladesh. "Two hundred thousand."

Tekawati came right back at him. "Two twenty."

"Two fifty," bid Mazen Bardai, taking a suck of his apple-flavoured tobacco. "I've never had a concubine from Sweden."

There was a pause. Tekawati shrugged. There were plenty more slaves to be had.

"Sold!" said Ziad. He wasted no time stringing out the bidding. Any slaves not sold would be used for transplants or as practice subjects for Dr. Xi and his team.

A second girl was escorted in. She had a proud expression and walked holding her head high, despite her wide eyes betraying her fear. She struggled as the men attempted to remove her gown. One of the guards swished the bamboo across her b.u.t.tocks twice. She gasped, but retained her feet and attempted to cover herself as the men dragged the gown over her head, earning her two more whips of the cane across the backs of her legs.

"Why are you people doing this?" she yelled. "What sort of animals are you?"

Ziad shouted at one of the guards "Gag her. Make sure she stays still."

Khalid smiled. This one was pretty, and would fetch a good price. His guests were enjoying the girl's feisty struggle, clapping and cheering as the guards struggled to shove a gag in her mouth and restrain her arms behind her back. This would only add to her worth. The girl stubbornly glared above the guests at the wall of the majlis. Not as beautiful as Sheriti, perhaps, but the face was nicely-rounded, with sensuous eyes and full lips, a small, straight nose. Her forehead rose gracefully straight up to the hairline where her unrestrained hazel hair flowed over delicate sculptured shoulders. Her long legs, well-proportioned body and perfectly round b.r.e.a.s.t.s with tiny pink nipples would also add to her value. Which one was she, he wondered?

"Brothers, our second item is presented for your enjoyment only," Ziad called out in his auctioneer tone, wiping the spittle from his mouth. "Sophia is sixteen and, like Erika, was sourced in Mexico, where she was taken while on vacation. Sophia has been presold, so she will not be opened for bidding."

Khalid frowned. Sophia was reserved for his father's lung transplant, and should not have been put on display. He was about to order Ziad to remove her when beside him, Bogdan Brazhlov, one of the new strongmen of the Russian Mafia, elbowed him and called out to the gathering.

"What a waste!" Brazhlov, a hairy bull of a man, turned to Khalid. "But this one is too pretty to be presold, Khalid. It is not right! You must allow us to bid for her."

Khalid smiled but said nothing. He tried to signal Ziad, but his security chief was staring at the naked girl.

Shinji Azakawa sat up on his cushions and said: "I agree. The girl is quite lovely. I offer one million dollars for her right now."

"What?" Brazhlov stood up. "One point two," he countered.

Other guests murmured their support for the girl to be auctioned. Khalid began to feel uneasy. Despite her beauty, the girl was nothing but two lungs waiting to be removed for his father. What was Ziad thinking displaying her like this?

"Take her back to the compound," Khalid ordered, signalling to Ziad to keep the auction moving. "Brothers, I apologise for our brother Ziad, who has unwittingly teased us. This girl is to be used in a week or two for my father's lung transplant. We have been seeking a suitable donor for almost three years. I regret she is not available for sale. Next!"

A teenage boy in chains was dragged into the tent and thrown to the ground. There were murmurs of disappointment as Sophia was taken from the tent, but the rebellion subsided, to Khalid's relief.

"Next we have Gregory, from Florida, aged thirteen, and Gregory's sister, Carmel, aged eight," said Ziad, as Rubi led a tearful little blonde, blue-eyed girl into the tent. Gregory was sold to the Russian and Carmel was sold to the Indonesian, Tekawati, for a little over one million dollars.

The auction took little over an hour. The highest price paid was $1.5 million for Cindy, a thirteen-year-old from London with alabaster skin and Baltic blue eyes, whom Sheik Abidi purchased as a coming-of-manhood gift for his fifteen-year-old son.

They took a fifteen-minute break while the slave purchases were finalised. Nine of the slaves would remain on Andaran pending forthcoming transplant operations. Every guest had his own aircraft parked waiting at Andaran Airport, and would fly out tomorrow with their slaves, and possibly in some cases, their selected model. After previous banquets, some of his guests had persuaded their model to accompany them and, in most cases, those girls were never heard from again.