Fatal (4 page)

Perreira had loved his father. They played soccer in the evenings, went fishing over weekends, went for morning jogs at the break of dawn. He had been a brilliant boxer, a title contender; he won thirty of his professional bouts.
 

And the man had never lifted his hand against his wife.
 

One morning while preparing their breakfast, his father had told him his mom was having an affair. She was still in the bedroom, sleeping off her previous night’s hangover. His father had come home early from work, caught her red-handed. Perreira hadn’t known what to say while his father wept like a child.
 

She had never respected him, talking to him as if he were a piece of scum, always ridiculing him in front of friends. And the man had accepted her taunts with a smile, like she was joking.

And it had killed him. His father worshipped his mom, looked after her, spoiled her. But then, one morning, his life had changed forever.

He remembered walking back home from school. A crowd had gathered outside their home and people were staring into the windows of their home, jostling for position. An ambulance had pulled into their driveway, a police car with flashing blue lights parked behind it.

Perreira had been met by a police officer at the gate. His mom was sitting at the breakfast table, eyeliner smudged and messy, resting her head on her hand. She didn’t look up when he entered the room.
 

He was taken to a female social worker and she led him outside. His dad had committed suicide, shot himself in the head. She didn’t want to leave him with his mom, who was incapable of looking after him. And his mother didn’t want him anyway.

Miguel Perreira, at the age of sixteen, was taken into foster care. The foster parents in Mozambique didn’t do it for the love of children. They did it for the government grants. They received nine hundred meticais for every kid they took in. Perreira shared a room with seven other kids. Food was scarce. Foster parents spent the money on themselves; none of what they received trickled down to the children.

He had hated his life. His so-called parents. He ran away, joined a gang, then learned to fend for himself. He had never seen his mom again. He despised all women.
 

He sobbed and made the sign of the cross. Why, he didn’t know, probably out of habit. He pushed himself up, then spat on the tombstone.
Bitch
.

He trudged away. He would never be as weak as his father had been.

Neil and Alexa strolled on the beach towards the hotel’s beach bar. They sat with their feet in the sand on low reed chairs. Alexa ordered drinks and brought them to the table. Neil thanked her and took a sip of beer, observing the people glancing their way as they trundled past their table, probably trying to figure out who the movie star was sitting opposite him.

He shifted his gaze to Alexa. “So what is this all about, then?”
 

She traced the rim of her glass with her finger. “My entire life I've needed to live undercover.” She shrugged and looked up. “Seventeen years ago, my dad and Bruce broke up a smuggling ring. They were sick bastards. They’ve been hunting us ever since.”

Neil frowned, scratching his chin. “Hold on a sec, I thought Bruce was your dad.”

Alexa nodded. “He is. He adopted me when I was seven.” She took a sip of her cocktail. “A man named Miguel Perreira killed my dad,” she said, studying his face.
 

Neil nodded slowly. “I knew Perreira.” The pieces clicked into place. “Captain Zachary Cohen was your dad?”

Alexa sat back and gazed out over the ocean, a faraway look in her eyes. “Perreira shot him in cold blood. Bruce has been looking after me ever since.”
 

Neil patted her arm. “I’m sorry, Alexa.”

Alexa breathed deeply and squeezed his hand. “That’s why we need your help.”

“Why me?”

“You know what they did.” Alexa held his hand in a white-knuckled grip. “You
worked
for them.”

Neil studied her face for a while. “OK, Bruce wants them taken care of and then you guys get your life back? Is that the gist of it?”

Alexa removed a manila folder from her shoulder bag. “Read this,” she said and pushed it towards Neil. “General Laiveaux has someone on the inside. They’re involved in arms deals, money laundering, you name it.”

Neil pulled out a bulky wad of papers filled with neatly-typed text. The report was titled “The Dalerians” and marked as top secret. He scanned through the contents. It contained detailed observations on the group’s underground activities, names of those involved, safe house locations, and their daily movements. He put the report back; he would read it later. He looked up. “Why doesn’t he take care of this himself?”

Alexa sipped her drink then licked her bottom lip. It was one of the sexiest things Neil had ever witnessed. “They’ve gotten involved in something which Bruce hates: they're slaughtering rhinos and poaching game. They’re doing it on purpose, trying to get him out in the open.” She shrugged. “He’s outnumbered.”

“Who else is involved?”

“We don’t know. That’s what we’re supposed to find out.”

Neil swigged his beer. “And I guess Bryden thinks I could help—a hired hand?"
 

“Bruce has been following your career. He knows you're on the straight and narrow, and he knows why you were dishonorably discharged.” Alexa looked at him imploringly. “I think he hopes you would agree what Perreira and Callahan are doing isn't right.”

“It isn’t,” Neil said. “I think he’s more than capable of taking them out on his own.”

“It’s not that simple, Neil. He doesn't want to get just Perreira and Callahan; he wants the entire organization wiped out. He doesn't want a trace of them left.” She took his hand. “Please, we need your help.”
 

Her hand felt cool, but not soft and plump like any woman’s he had ever touched. Her grip was firm. “How many targets?” he asked, trying to ignore her mesmerizing eyes. He was going to help them. She didn’t leave him with much of a choice.

“Six. Excluding the henchmen.” He flinched as Alexa leaned back in her chair, letting go of his hand. It felt like an electric current ran between them, like one of those contraptions Tesla had made. “Bruce will go after Perreira, he wants us to take care of Callahan. They have a couple of captains and lieutenants doing their dirty work. He wants them taken out as well.”

Neil whistled. “That’s a small army. Whom do they represent?”

She shrugged. “We don’t know. Shipments are coming in through the Mozambican border, then through South Africa and on to the United States.” She put her hand on the envelope. “Everything we know is in here.”

Neil nodded. “How are you getting your intel?”

Alexa smiled, and Neil took a swig from his empty beer bottle, trying to ignore those eyes. “I guess you'll have to ask Bruce about that. You aren't hired yet.”

“Talking about hiring, what does the mission pay?”

“We thought you would do it for free,” Alexa answered with a playful grin.

The electricity between them fizzled out. He understood now. They were planning on using him, like Roebuck, Callahan, and Perreira had used him all those years ago. “For free?" Neil asked, grabbing his car keys from the table and standing up. “I don't think that's going to work for me.” He signaled the barman for the bill. “I didn't receive a retirement package, remember—dishonorable discharge?” He needed to get out of here.

Neil put on his dark glasses and turned to leave. He headed up the beach towards the road. Alexa tossed a couple of dollars on the table, then jogged towards him. He smiled. At least something positive had come from this whole experience: a beautiful woman had never paid his bill and then run to catch up with him before.

As he approached the road, he noticed a tall lanky figure climb out of a Volvo and amble towards them. The man took off his dark glasses and extended a hand.

“Hi, Neil,” Bruce Bryden said, smiling. “Good to see you again. You haven't changed at all.”

Neil looked up at the tall man. He stood with his hands hanging by his side, relaxed. He squinted his eyes in the sun; he wore a day-old grey stubble on his leathery face. His hair was still clipped short, but the black was gone, replaced by salt-and-peppery tones.

“I need to be paid for the job, Bryden. I know what you are planning is the right thing to do, but I have a life as well.” He paused, glancing up at the older man. “I’m not going to be used again.”

Bruce chuckled. “Ah, the payment. A small detail.” He gazed over Neil’s shoulder. “I assume Alexa hasn't briefed you on the bank account?”

Alexa stepped past Neil. “He wouldn't let me finish, Dad,” she said, folding her arms over her chest and looking cross.

“Bank account?” Neil asked.

Bruce nodded. “We have access to the organization’s Mauritian bank account. They call themselves the Dalerian Institute.”
 

“We've transferred some money to our own account, which they didn't notice,” Alexa said.

“How much?” Neil asked.

“Oh, not much, less than two thousand dollars,” Alexa answered, putting on her dark glasses.

Neil put up his hands. “What I mean is, how much is in it?”

“Five hundred and eighty million,” Bruce answered.

“Dollars?” Neil asked surprised.

“Euros,” Bruce said. “And it’s growing as we speak. Compound interest is a bitch.”

Bruce Bryden switched on his laptop and studied the email he had received from General Laiveaux. The attachment contained a scanned copy of an affidavit written by Sergeant Neil Allen. The letter was dated April 13, 1992, and was addressed to Major Daniel Roebuck, Neil’s commander at the marines.
 

Major Roebuck,

I hereby request an investigation be launched due to the suspicious activities of agents Owen Callahan and Miguel Perreira.

Today an Israeli captain, Zachary Cohen, was murdered by these men.

Furthermore, I have gathered evidence that Colonel Weinstein was being blackmailed by these men as well. He committed suicide today.

I would appreciate a meeting with you and a military investigator to discuss the details of the information I have gathered.

The affidavit was signed by Neil Allen, with his military tag number beneath his name. A man of few words, Bruce thought. A red word was stamped on the bottom of the page.
 

Reviewed

Below was another black stamp.

Not Referred

Bruce stood and opened a window, allowing the mild breeze to circulate through the room. He looked down at the terrace. The pool shimmered like a gleaming tanzanite, illuminated from below by an LED light. Jazz music drifted towards his window as cutlery clinked and soft voices murmured in a relaxed conversational tone.

He picked up his phone and punched in a number. “Hi, Dad.” It sounded like Alexa was in a bathtub.

“You hungry?”

Mossad Headquarters

Tel Aviv, Israel

Frydman’s phone rang. He glanced at the number. It was Eric Glist, his software security specialist.

“Good day, Major Frydman. I’ve found something strange, and I thought I should let you know,” Glist said, sounding excited.
 

“Go ahead.”

“Well, I’ve installed an added layer of security on our PC’s. The program is able to detect viruses through advanced heuristic algorithms, state-of-the-art,” Glist said.

Frydman sighed. “Isn’t our current antivirus software good enough? I don’t want more programs slowing our systems.”
 

“Our current antivirus software is fine for known viruses, sir. But it won’t detect anything brand new or undiscovered.”
 

“OK, so what did you find?” Frydman asked.

“A rogue piece of code on all the PCs in my division. It’s called Becky22. It doesn’t seem malicious. Once a user stops working for more than five minutes, the program starts utilizing one hundred percent of the PCs CPU.” He paused for effect. “When the user returns to his workstation, Becky22 goes into the background and uses no resources.”

Frydman opened a window on his PC and scanned the active applications. At the bottom of the list, using no CPU or memory, a program called Becky22 was sitting dormant.

“Yes, I’ve got it too. What does it do?” Frydman asked.

“I have no idea sir. I’ve contacted our antivirus vendor to build us a removal tool. They’ll probably be able to shed some more light on the payload and functioning of the virus.”

“OK, I need the info ASAP,” Frydman said.

“Yes, sir,” Glist answered and hung up.

“Becky22, we meet again,” Frydman whispered.

The following morning Eric Glist knocked on Frydman’s door. He entered, greeted Frydman, and slapped a wad of papers on Frydman’s desk. He was a short, spectacled guy, somewhat overweight. He had grown his beard in a short goatee, the way the hacker types usually did. Frydman was surprised that the man wasn’t sporting a ponytail at the back of his balding head.