Discreet Activities (Barry/McCall Series) Page 2

  All four operatives as well as Josée, Jonathan’s wife, had been invited to spend the New Year’s weekend with Chris and his spouse, Sandy, at their large, comfortable home in Knowlton, a little over one hundred kilometres east of Montreal. Also joining them was Captain Dave McCall, head of Montreal’s Special Homicide Task Force and his wife, Cathy, close friends of the Barrys and Addleys for almost fifteen years.

  Because of the sudden possibility of activity involving the AFI, Jonathan had requested that Cat and Jeff fly rather than drive to Knowlton, in case a rapid means of air transportation became necessary. Doing so posed no problem because, as they all knew from previous visits, there was more than enough landing room at the Barrys’ lakeside residence. For the occasion, the pilots had selected a Bell 206B Jetranger III which would be roomy enough to accommodate the five consultants if all needed to get somewhere in a hurry.

  The Jetranger in question was the chopper which Jon and Chris had used for their joyride and, although they had not flown low enough to ‘buzz’ the others, they had easily spotted Jeff and Cat as the couple left the chairs atop the hill, thanks to the flamboyant competition-style suits both wore - Jeff in lime green and Cat in canary yellow - as both were expert enough on the slopes to wear such attention-drawing gear. The two skiers had obviously noticed the chopper as well, as displayed by the shaking of their fists in mock rage.

  Following a fly-over of the cottage rented by Mahmood Buzdar, which yet remained unoccupied, they had proceeded south then west, skirting the Canada/U.S. border up to Lake Champlain, simply taking in the scenery below. From there, they had headed north-northwest, flying above the Richelieu River for a while as they made their way to the St-Hubert airport to refuel. Once done, they had bee-lined back to Sutton, where they’d still noted no sign of life at the cottage, before returning to the Barry residence to chat while they waited for the others.

  “I’m convinced more than ever this rental has nothing to do with a New York City attack,” Chris insisted once again. “We’re less than thirteen hours from January 1st. Like I mentioned before, consider the driving time from here to there and factor in the masses of people heading to a logical target like Times Square and it all becomes highly unlikely.”

  “Unless, as we said, it’s their crash pad after the fact,” Jonathan replied.

  “Well, we’ll be keeping an eye on it,” Chris shrugged.

  “And we’ll be watching the ball drop tonight,” Jon added. “Hopefully, it doesn’t land with a big bang.”

  “NYPD must kind of tense right now,” Chris suggested.

  “Them and Homeland Security,” Jonathan agreed. “They always are but with information pointing to a planned attempt tonight, I’m happy to be sitting right here, my friend.”

  “Who are you trying to kid, Addley,” Chris laughed. “You’re disappointed that nobody’s shown up at the cottage yet. In fact, you wish you were in New York City right now, trying to pin down these bastards instead of sitting here, keeping an eye on an empty house.”

  “This is true,” Jonathan grinned, “But, please don’t tell Josée I said so cuz she can be meaner than a bunch of terrorists anytime.”

  * * * *

  The skiers returned, followed shortly by the arrival of Dave and Cathy McCall and the Barrys’ New Year’s Eve party was soon underway. The sun continued to shine brightly and by half past noon, the temperature had already surpassed the forecast high of eight degrees Celsius, making burgers on the grill a no-brainer as the lunch menu. The patio doors leading from the kitchen to the covered terrace remained open as people milled in and out.

  Inside, Sandy and Cathy were chopping potatoes for home-made fries while Josée sliced tomatoes, onions and pickles for the burgers. Jeff was busy shaping beef patties under the watchful eye of Cat while Leslie made the rounds to ensure everyone had something to drink. Outside, Chris had fired up the grill and he and Jonathan were chatting with Dave as they informally brought him up to speed with their current project.

  “So, right now, we’re simply in a sit and wait position,” Jonathan explained. “Surveillance is on and we’ll be keeping Homeland Security and the NYPD apprised of any developments. Past that, all we can do is celebrate the New Year, watch the ball drop at midnight and hope we don’t see any nasty live coverage.”

  “Yeah, the waiting and not being able to do anything is the frustrating part,” Dave agreed. “You’d want to just go pick up the guy, take him somewhere quiet and have a chat with him.”

  “Wouldn’t that be unethical, Captain?” Chris teased the cop. “These people do have rights, you know.”

  “In the real world, yes they do,” McCall grinned, “But there’s nothing wrong with dreaming. Don’t you agree, gentlemen?”

  “We’ll convert the boy yet,” Jon said as he winked at Chris.

  “I must say that there are days when I’m sorely tempted,” Dave admitted, “But, in the end, it’s just not in me.”

  “Of course, he says that,” Chris replied, looking at Jonathan, “And then calls us in to do his dirty work.”

  “I’ve only called on you guys, uh,” Dave laughed, “A few times.”

  Their bantering was interrupted by the chirping of Jon’s cell phone. “Addley… When? - Excellent. Keep me posted. I’ll try to patch in when I can.”

  He cut the connection and looked at the other two. “Mahmood Buzdar just arrived at the cottage with three other, as of yet, unidentified men.”

  “Do they look as if they’ll be staying for a while?” asked Chris.

  “They’ve got bags and coolers and ski equipment,” Jonathan replied. “That’s all I know for now. I fear we’re going to have a tough time staying away from your study this afternoon.”

  “Not a problem. We can hook up to the big screen in the den,” Chris suggested with a smile, “And tell the girls we’re watching reality TV.”

  * * * *

  “This place is beautiful,” exclaimed twenty year old Fahad Jamali as he gazed around the open-air interior of the cottage from the living room. “How can you afford such a place, Mahmood?”

  “It has been rented by some friends of mine,” Buzdar replied, not specifying to his naïve classmate that the rent had been paid by the AFI. “They had to change their plans at the last moment so they offered its use to me since it was paid for.”

  “That was very generous of your friends,” said Fahad. “I must never tell my father I have stayed in such a luxurious place. He would be angry that I had taken pleasure in such comfort without having worked to earn it when I am always criticizing the lazy infidels.”

  “You need not tell your father, Fahad,” called out twenty-two year old Nasir Darzada as he descended the stairs from the bedrooms above, “But there is no need to feel guilty about living in such a place. We must avoid giving the impression that we are anything but university students enjoying our lives before joining the ridiculous rat race the west lives for.”

  “But, that is hypocritical,” Fahad argued as he watched Nasir open a cooler and pull out a beer, “Just like you drinking that beer is. Either you are a Muslim and proud to be one or you are not.”

  “Who are you to insult me?” Nasir snapped as he slammed the now open bottle hard onto the countertop, causing it to foam over. “Do not question my belief in Islam, ever. I am a soldier for Islam, do you understand? The role I play is one which allows me to blend in and not be noticed. I sacrifice myself for Islam, as does Mahmood.”

  “What is all the yelling about?” questioned twenty year old Saad Telpur as he entered from the mud room. “Nasir, you should not be drinking.”

  “As I was just explaining to Fahad,” Nasir replied with obvious annoyance, “If we wish to remain invisible, we must do as the masses do when living in the west. Do you think that you are not noticed when you attend demonstrations? Do you believe that nobody pays you any mind when you chant and shout at the radical pro-Islamic rallies you both love to participate in? Do you not realize that your photos ar
e taken by journalists and, most likely, by others who wish war against us?”

  “We are simply showing our true faith in the Muslim cause,” Saad shot back. “In the meantime, you live like the capitalist pigs do, drinking alcohol, sleeping with whores and living in insolent luxury such as this house.”

  Mahmood rose from the leather couch in the adjoining living room and walked over to the counter, beckoning Nasir for a beer. He opened the bottle and took a long, satisfying sip before turning to Fahad and Saad.

  “When the time comes for battle,” he said quietly, “Nasir and I will be free to walk right up to the unsuspecting enemy. The two of you, on the other hand, will be seen coming from miles and miles. You both have much to learn before you will ever be considered true warriors who are willing to do anything for the cause.”

  * * * *

  Head of the NYPD Counter-Terrorism Bureau, Bradley Sheeney, jostled his way along 7th Avenue, oblivious of the unseasonable warmth, cloudless, cerulean sky and brilliant sunshine. His mind was completely fixed on the masses of people already crowding Times Square, his shrewd eye constantly scanning the area for the smallest sign of something out of the ordinary, the slightest signal of any danger.

  ‘Why wait for the New Year’s Eve celebrations?’ he asked himself, shaking his head. ‘The bastards could kill thousands right now and still fuck up tonight’s party.’

  His thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of his Blackberry which he answered with a frown after glancing at the screen.

  “Give me some good news,” he growled as he ducked into the doorway of the Palace Theatre in a feeble attempt to escape Manhattan’s cacophony.

  “The weather is wonderful here,” Jonathan replied with a chuckle. “How’s yours?”

  “It’s so fucking beautiful that half the population of the five boroughs is already standing around me in the middle of Times Square,” Sheeney barked, “And it’s only two o’clock.”

  “It’s always nice to have a good turnout for a party,” said Jonathan. “We have some tenants who’ve moved in on this end. Buzdar showed up around lunchtime with three friends. One is Nasir Darzada whose communications we’ve also been monitoring. The other two are Fahad Jamali and Saad Talpur, both becoming known for their vocal pro-ranting about anything Islam, the more radical, the better. All four are students at Carleton.”

  “You’ve gotta love these bastards,” Sheeney replied. “They come over here to study in our schools to get superior education to what aim? To find more efficient ways of trying to kill us, that’s what. Any idea of their plans?”

  “We’ve got the place completely set up for video and audio. So far, they’re not assembling any bombs or missiles, Brad. They came in with luggage, coolers, boxes of food and skis. They spent a bit of time arguing about how a true Muslim should act and now they’ve gone off for a stroll in the snow. At the time we’re at now, I seriously doubt that anything from here is heading your way for tonight.”

  “So it might be a safe-house for someone who’s already here,” Sheeney grunted, “A place to hide out when they leave.”

  “It’s possible,” Jonathan admitted, “But, based on some of their earlier conversation, Mahmood and Nasir have greater aspirations in the radical movement. Their whole speech to the other two was about blending in, staying invisible to make things easier when the time comes. I think they might be recruiting and giving basic training for the AFI.”

  “Well, thanks for the info, Jon,” said Sheeney. “Keep me posted of any developments and don’t get too drunk tonight, just in case we need you guys.”

  * * * *

  With the Surveillance Centre keeping an eye on the Sutton cottage, Jonathan et al had convinced themselves there was no need to spend such a beautiful afternoon cooped up inside watching the young Pakistani students, especially since the four students had gone out themselves. Instead, they piled onto two snow-mobiles and three four-wheelers, Chris liked his toys, and went for a leisurely cruise in the surrounding Knowlton wilderness followed by an impromptu snowball fight upon their return.

  Dinner had been a simple yet sumptuous affair, the grill coming handy again for the filet mignons and lobsters. Following dessert, a white chocolate cheesecake with a strawberry glaze, they all moved into the den for coffee and after-dinner drinks. The evening had passed quickly as conversation flowed, anecdotes were recounted and jokes abounded.

  Now, as midnight approached, the sixty inch, wall-mounted flat-screen was on, tuned in to the New Year’s Eve festivities in Manhattan’s Times Square.

  “So far, so good,” Chris commented as they watched the masses of people gathered in the Big Apple. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  “Well, if our boys here in Sutton are involved,” said Jonathan as he glanced at the laptop on the coffee table at his side, “I’ll be damned if I know where they fit in.”

  Though the sound was muted, the laptop currently displayed the surveillance feed of the cottage’s living room where the four young men lounged comfortably as they too watched the celebrations in NYC.

  “The messages we intercepted could have simply been bluffs,” suggested Jeff. “Although it’s been officially identified as a terrorist group, the AFI hasn’t really done anything yet.”

  “With yet being the key word,” Jon replied. “There’s always a first time and they all started somewhere.”

  They continued to watch and chat, midnight came around as the ball dropped in Times Square on the screen and they wished one another a Happy New Year, all in the absence of any disaster. By one o’clock, yawns were becoming the rule rather than the exception so they headed off to their rooms to sleep their first night of the New Year, with the exception of Chris, Jonathan and Jeff who rejoined in the entrance foyer a moment later.

  “This won’t take long,” Chris told Jeff as he and Jon slipped into their coats and boots. “It’s a twenty minute drive at best and we’ll call you when we’re nearly there. Just keep an eye on things to make sure everyone’s where they should be. Once we’re done, you can go to bed. There’s no need to wait up for us.”

  “Piece of cake,” Jeff nodded while Chris donned white coveralls. “You guys be careful.”

  “Name of the game,” Jonathan replied as he and Chris left the house.

  They climbed into Jon’s Acura ZDX and were nearly at their destination barely seventeen minutes later.

  “We’ll be there in less than a minute,” Jon announced when Jeff answered his call.

  “All is quiet, inside and out,” Jeff reported as he scanned the various video feeds displayed on the flat-screen before him. “Our four little terrorists are all dreaming nasty dreams.”

  “I’ll keep you on the line,” said Jonathan. “I’m just about to drop Chris off.”

  He slowed to a stop and Chris, now also wearing a white ski mask, opened the door, climbed out and gently pushed the door shut before crouching down into the snow filled ditch, virtually disappearing from sight as the Acura pulled away. Chris quickly scanned the area and detected no one, no movement nor any sound save for a slight breeze gently whistling through the trees.

  After a moment, he hurried across the road diagonally in a crouched run until he reached the opposite ditch, a half dozen feet from the driveway entrance to Buzdar’s rented cottage.

  “We’re still all good here?” he murmured into his Bluetooth, patched in to the three-way call with Jonathan and Jeff.

  “Nothing’s moving inside or outside the house, buddy,” Jeff replied. “I don’t know where you are but I haven’t even spotted you yet.”

  “Glad to learn I’ve still got it,” Chris chuckled.

  “I’m just around the bend past the house,” announced Jonathan, “And there’s nobody around. Do your thing, Chris.”

  Again at a crouched run, Chris made his way up the driveway to the rented Ford Explorer. Leaning against the rear bumper, now hidden from the house by the SUV itself, he reached under the vehicle as far as he could and felt the
powerful magnet of the GPS transmitter clamp on solidly.

  “We’re done, kids,” he whispered as he scurried back to the road in the direction Jonathan had gone.

  As he rounded the bend, now hidden from the darkened cottage by a grove of pines, the Acura pulled up to him and he quickly climbed in.

  “The deed is done,” he announced as they drove off. “Now we’ll know where these bastards go.”

  Chapter 3 – Thursday, January 6, 2011

  Though the Korean Krew had not existed five years earlier, through the vicious determination of its founder and leader, twenty-seven year old Kyoung-Lang Jae-Hwa, the gang now controlled virtually all of the drug trade, prostitution and protection rackets in Montreal-North and Rivière-des-Prairies as well as in parts of neighbouring Anjou and St-Leonard.

  Jae-Hwa, whose name translated to rich and prosperous, had decided to become just that by using the means he knew best; violence and intimidation. In his mind, violence, and the fear and terror it subsequently instilled, resulted in power and this belief had been demonstrated by him and those under him countless times since the formation of the Krew. Some of the gang had been arrested for crimes but none had ever admitted any ties with or implication of Jae-Hwa, for to do so was synonymous to a horrendous and painful suicide. Though responsible for many violent acts, both directly and indirectly, Jae-Hwa had never been arrested, for he was too clever and cunning to let the law lay its hand on him.