Fatal (19 page)

Neil fired the dart gun from beneath the table. Metcalfe sat down, hard. His eyes widened in shock, and he slipped to the floor. He convulsed, kicking and frothing at the mouth.

Neil kneeled next to him and pulled the dart from his thigh. He scanned the room. “I think we need a doctor,” he called urgently.
 

A man came rushing to his side. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s having a fit or something. Could he be epileptic?” someone asked.

The doctor shook his head. “Never saw a seizure like this before. Dial 911.”

Neil punched the numbers into his phone and described the situation. Five minutes later two paramedics arrived on the scene. They loaded Metcalfe onto a gurney and wheeled him to the ambulance waiting outside. They activated the siren and strobe light and sped away.

The ambulance briefly stopped at an intersection a block from the restaurant. Alexa shifted up and Neil climbed inside.

“Good job,” Bruce said and pulled away.

Howard Johnson, Midtown Manhattan

Bruce joined Neil and Alexa at the restaurant table. He ordered some coffee.

“Have you guys seen the newspaper today?” he asked, tossing it onto the table.

Alexa shook her head, propping the remainder of a bagel into her mouth. She pulled the paper towards her and Bruce pointed to the article at the bottom of page three.

She swallowed and read aloud.

Malaria Strikes at Mozambican Border.

The deaths of three border officials have caused panic in the local community. Sergeant Pieter Malan, 41, was found dead at home. His wife, Annatjie, said that he was incapacitated for more than a week before he died. The district surgeon later established that he died due to a vicious strain of malaria. Lieutenant Mika ‘Sharkie’ Imenez, 51, was struck down by the same strain and died two days later. The latest casualty is Mr. Ebbe Lobera, 46, an administrative assistant at the Komatipoort Border control post. Mr. Eric Ferreira, spokesperson for the Komatipoort Police Forum, said visitors from the northern parts of Mozambique have been known to bring this specific strain of malaria into the country. The three men had regular contact with these travelers. The clinics in the surrounding areas have been placed on high alert. Residents are urged to visit the clinic immediately if they suspect they may have been bitten by mosquitoes or exhibit the indicative symptoms.
 

“The rest of the article describes the various strains of malaria and symptoms you should look out for,” Alexa said. She folded the paper and drained her coffee.
 

Bruce trailed his finger around the edge of his cup. “Laiveaux is a shrewd old fox.”
 

“You think Laiveaux was involved?” Neil asked with a frown.

Bruce looked at Neil in total disbelief. “Have you not learned anything, my young apprentice?”

Neil shrugged and forked more scrambled eggs into his mouth. “It could be a coincidence, that’s all.”

Bruce laughed and looked at Alexa. She winked at him, smiling.

“Zachary managed to trace most of the victims’ next of kin. I went through the records he SMSd to Alexa. He was thorough,” Bruce said.

Alexa looked up. “How did he manage to do that?” she asked.

“Missing children’s databases. Unsolved police case files. Digital facial recognition. He scoured the videos on the PC, used digital facial recognition to match them to the parents.”

“How many?” Neil asked.

“Close to two hundred kids have been identified so far,” Bruce answered. “The UN is coordinating the process of notifying the parents.”

“Good,” Neil said. “We need as many witnesses as possible to nail this bastard.”

“I don’t think it should go down that way,” Bruce said softly, scratching his chin.

“What do you mean?” Alexa asked.

“He’ll go to prison. But he’ll still run his snuff film business, coordinating his operation from there. No, he has to be taken out, permanently.”
 

“I agree,” Alexa said. She glanced at Neil. He nodded.

Bruce turned to Neil. “I need you to take Metcalfe to the Philippines. Meet with some of the parents. Find out what they want to do.”

“Back to the source, so to speak?” Neil asked.

“Yep,” Bruce said, nodding thoughtfully.

Someone pulled the cotton bag from Metcalfe’s head.
 

He squinted and tried to focus in the brightly-lit room. “What? Where am I?” he asked, glancing around the room.

“You’re in the morgue of the Barlig General Hospital, Manila,” Allen said.

Metcalfe nervously scanned the room. It was chilly and smelled of antiseptic. He could see half a dozen metal doors on the wall. Allen stood beside a metal table with scalpels, knives, and a variety of surgical equipment. Drips, bandages, and syringes were stacked neatly on another rack.
 

“This is kidnaping. You cannot keep me here,” he shouted, spraying spittle.

Allen stood in front of Metcalfe and leaned towards him. “Let’s just say we have the Philippine president’s blessing. He doesn’t know why we’re here, but he isn’t going to stop what is going to happen to you either.”
 

Metcalfe convulsed in the chair, trying to break the shackles that tied him to the metal chair. “Goddamn you, Allen. I’ll get you all,” he shouted, blood heating his face.

Allen stood straight and extended a hand to the doorway. “Let me introduce you to our guests.”

Three women entered the room.
 

“Good day, ladies. Do you mind introducing yourselves to our distinguished guest?”

A short, plump woman approached with a stern face. “My name is Imee Hidalgo. I am the president of the Sociedad Para Niñas Desaparecidas, or the Society for Missing Girls, in Manila. Two of my girls were abducted a month ago. Lucia, aged twelve, and Alexandra, seventeen. They were positively identified by me from the video footage on your computer.” She held up a video camera.

Metcalfe smirked at the woman, his nostrils flaring. “Ah, the delicious irony of it all. The president of the Missing Children’s Society’s own children go missing.” He smirked. “I ordered that deft little touch, you know?”

Imee slapped Metcalfe across the face.
 

He sniggered at her. “This is going to be fun, isn’t it?”
 

A second woman stepped closer and Imee handed her the camera. She had shoulder-length blonde hair. She was tall and walked resolutely with her shoulders held back, looking like she was steeling herself mentally.

“My name is Dr. Suzette Ehlers from South Africa. You kidnapped my daughter, Elsa. I positively identified her from video footage on your computer.” She blinked and wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m here to resuscitate you when you pass out and stop you from bleeding to death.”
 

She turned around and walked back to the waiting women. Imee held out her arms and embraced the taller woman, soothing her, whispering encouraging words.

Metcalfe looked up at Neil, his eyes shifting wildly between him and the women. “Why are they here? What do they want from me?"

“They're volunteers. Specialists in their fields. We had to narrow the search down to six ladies; there were hundreds of parents that wanted the job. You will meet the other three in about four hours' time. They will be working in shifts,” Neil said.

Metcalfe swallowed hard and looked up as the third women approached. She was tall, six two, and she looked strong. She wore a spaghetti-strap shirt and running shorts with sneakers.

“My name is Pepe Fabrega. I am from Mozambique, Olympic gold medalist in boxing, heavyweight division. You killed my eldest sister, Estanza, in 2005. I identified her from footage on your computer.” She swung and hit Metcalfe with a crunching blow to his jaw.
 

She shook her hand and looked over her shoulder at Neil. “I’ll need some protection for my hands, but not gloves. You know the type they use in tae kwon do? I still want him to feel the pain, but I do not want to bust up my hands before I'm done with him.”

Neil nodded his head and punched a number into his cellphone. He explained to Voelkner what he needed and ordered two pairs.

Metcalfe's eyes widened with shock. “You cannot do this, it isn’t fair.”
 

Pepe drilled a shot into Metcalfe's nose, breaking it. She hit him once more, opening a cut below his eye.

Suzette Ehlers walked up, examining his eye. “That's going to need stitches,” she said and strode towards the metal table, looking for a needle.

Neil nodded and sauntered towards the door. “Ladies, you have four hours before the next shift starts. Good day.”

Neil walked out of the room as Metcalfe screamed.

Neil Allen and Imee Hidalgo walked leisurely, pausing briefly as a great white glided by over their heads. Neil marveled at the massive shark. Imee shivered, rubbing her arms.

The Manila Ocean Park was empty, except for a cleaner who was buffing the floor with a colossal burnisher, moving the machine from side to side.
 

They continued walking. “So, what happened?” Neil asked, glancing at Imee to his side.

She hugged her arms. “Let’s just say I didn’t let him go.”

Neil looked at her. “You killed him?”
 

Imee shivered and rubbed her arms again. “Elsa shot him. In the head. After I hacked off both his hands,” she said. “We were at him for three days. He begged us to kill him.”

Neil touched her elbow. “How do you feel?”

“Better. It won’t bring the girls back. But I feel good. I removed a menace from society. Some parents suggested we send him to trial. Let him rot in jail.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t allow that to happen.”
 

Neil stopped and examined her face. “You did the right thing. If he was still alive after you ladies were done with him, I would have killed him myself.”

Imee smiled and squeezed his arm. “Thank you, Neil. For everything. You gave me closure. Gave us all closure. I hated not knowing what had happened to my babies.”

Neil fumbled in his jacket pocket. “I have something else for you.”
 

He removed an envelope and handed it to Imee. “This is for the Society for Missing Girls. Courtesy of the Dalerian Institute.”

Imee accepted the envelope and tore it open. Her jaw dropped. “Fifty million dollars? What will we do with all of this?” she asked, blinking.

“If anyone knows how to use it for a good cause, it’s you,” Neil said. “Good luck. Keep in touch.”

Imee embraced Neil again. “Thank you so much.”

Neil smiled and strode away, his hands in his pockets. He glanced over his shoulder. Imee was holding the check in her hands, still staring at it in disbelief.

Perreira slid into his booth at the back of the Mardi Gras Cafe. The right hand one, as he always did. The waitress dragged two poles with a chain and a sign that read “PRIVATE” in front of the booths. She fetched Perreira his carafe of coffee, an Ethiopian blend, his favorite, and placed it on the table together with a white mug. She didn't bring any milk or sugar.

On the dusky street outside, cars honked and rickety taxis made their way along Luanda Boulevard, their lights casting ghostly shadows against the dimly-lit walls of the restaurant.

Perreira opened the newspaper. He held it at arms’ length and squinted. He glanced around the room and slipped on his reading glasses. He read the article, following each word with his finger, scrolling to the side and then back down. He nodded his head with a grunt and folded the paper, quickly removed the glasses, and put them away.

The waitress unslung the chain from the poles and brought him his dinner. A tall, sinewy man with salt-and-pepper hair followed behind her and slid in to the seat in front of Perreira.

Perreira looked up, stuck out his hand, and smiled at Laiveaux.
 

“Do you have the money?” Laiveaux asked in Spanish, shaking his hand.

Perreira slid a bulging brown envelope across the table. Laiveaux opened it and looked inside. Nodded. “This should cover the remainder of the year. I need my next payment upfront.”

Perreira shrugged. “Establish me another shipment line. I am grateful that you took care of Lobera, the greedy
bastardo
. But now I need another way to get my goods across the border.”

Laiveaux leaned back in the booth and lit a cigarette, squinting his eyes against the smoke. “It has been done. Beitbridge, Zimbabwe. Your contact name is Mphele. He wants five percent.”

Perreira nodded appreciatively. “Good. Very good. You have never let me down.”

“I will need the rest of the money before the end of the week,” Laiveaux said.

“You will get it. Where is the new shipment?” Perreira asked and pushed an ashtray towards Laiveaux.

“We're keeping them at the embassy. I'll have them delivered to the warehouse by this afternoon.”