Make it Happen: A Vigilante Series crime thriller Page 7

  “An attack at the Jazz Fest?” said Chris as Jonathan ended the call, “And Zafar is in custody?”

  “Yes, and yes,” Jonathan replied with a smile.

  “How the hell did this come about?” asked Chris.

  “Some band, Critical Fission, was scheduled for two o’clock at the Bell Stage,” Jonathan began.

  “Bomb squad’s arriving,” Chris interrupted as a camera zoomed in on a couple of heavy vehicles turning onto St-Urbain Street from de Maisonneuve Boulevard. “Sorry. Go on.”

  “About forty-five minutes ago, Zafar apparently dumped a box into a trash can right in the middle of the lot,” Jonathan explained. “Some early arriving spectators noticed and asked him what he had tossed in there. He said it was some old books but they didn’t trust him so they detained him and got hold of the cops. The little bastard tried to run but failed so, yes, we’ve got him.”

  “Holy crap,” Chris exclaimed. “This is great.”

  “Indeed,” Jonathan agreed as he reached for the phone again. “Time to share this with Nick. I’m sure he’ll be happy to take Zafar off the locals’ hands.”

  * * * *

  Montreal, Quebec, 1:43 p.m.

  Mohammad watched the live telecast in frustration as the armoured vehicle backed the bomb containment trailer toward the trash bin and came to a stop. The trailer’s hydraulic powered hatch slowly flipped upward as a ramp slid out and lowered to the ground. The waiting bomb disposal robot trundled forward, its mechanical arms already spread and extended. Once in position, it stopped and the arms closed onto the trash bin before raising it a foot or so off the ground.

  With its cargo securely in its grip, the robot turned ninety degrees then moved forward, slowly making its way to the trailer. It climbed the ramp and the trash bin disappeared from view. The robot stopped and its arms lowered, depositing the hazardous load within. The danger almost over, the robot began its descent down the short ramp – and the bombs detonated.

  The trailer rocked in place but remained intact, as it was designed to do. Restricted on all sides except for one, the force of the blast escaped through the opened rear, sending the eight hundred pound robot somersaulting some twenty feet through the air before crashing to the ground. The camera zoomed in on the damaged machine then returned to the trailer, showing the unaffected hatch as it closed.

  Mohammad turned off the television in disgust. He had been unsure of Fawad, bothered by the young man’s overzealous attitude and fearing it might lead to carelessness. However, that very morning, Fawad had assured him there was no reason for concern and had begged to be given this opportunity to prove himself. The plan, after all, was simple and relatively risk-free. Fawad had promised to select a venue and event where few if any witnesses could see him when he planted the explosives.

  Clearly, he had not succeeded. What could have been a spectacular attack with hundreds of victims had ended with a bomb disposal robot as the only casualty. Worse still, Fawad had been captured. Mohammad had seen the live images of the young man, handcuffed as he was marched to police cruiser and carted off to police headquarters, ironically located right next to the selected attack site.

  He was concerned about what the authorities might glean from Fawad but not overly so. None of his recruits had any information about him and their only method of contact, when absolutely required, was via his burner phones. With Fawad now in custody, it would be time to dispose of his current phone, which he had been planning to do anyhow in light of the previous week’s events. In the end, there really was nothing which could lead the authorities to him or even link this failed attempt to the Trenton attack with any certainty. Even the bombs and detonators and been different from anything used at the airbase.

  He paced about as he continued to reassure himself he had nothing to worry about and suddenly froze as a thought came to mind.

  “How could I be so stupid?” he whispered, realizing he had something to worry about indeed and there was nothing he could do about it.

  * * * *

  Montreal, Quebec, 3:37 p.m.

  In dazed awe, Fawad reviewed the emotional rollercoaster he had been riding in recent hours. It had started with sheer excitement and anticipation then moved to surprise, concern, fear, anger and now, a mind-numbing shame and terror. To make matters worse, there had been little activity to distract him since his arrest so he had been left with only his failure and dread of what lay ahead to occupy his thoughts.

  When first apprehended by the police, he had been taken to their headquarters, relieved of his belongings and left alone in a concrete-walled holding cell to await his booking. The wait had been much longer than he had expected, possibly as long as two hours, during which time the only attention paid to him had been the occasional gaze through the steel door’s small window.

  The door had finally opened and several men had entered, including two officers from the RCMP. One of the men had introduced himself as Police Director, Alexandre Toupin, and informed Fawad the federal authorities were taking him into custody. When Fawad had asked for a lawyer, he had been told to take it up with the RCMP when they booked him. He had been placed in full restraints then led to the garage where a windowless van waited, its rear doors open, revealing the unlit boxlike interior with a steel bench running along either side. After he had been secured to one of the benches with a built-in waist restraint, the doors had been closed and the van had driven off a moment later.

  After some ten minutes of riding in discomfort and total darkness, Fawad had been relieved when the vehicle had stopped and the engine had ceased running. However, a minute or two later, he had heard the doors of the front cabin slamming shut followed by the engine firing up and they had been on the move again.

  Another twenty minutes or so had gone by when the vehicle stopped anew and the engine was cut. The front doors once again slammed shut and a moment later, the rear doors opened, admitting harsh white light which blinded Fawad, forcing him to turn away as he tightly closed his eyes.

  “How are you doing, buddy?” asked a man’s voice. “Are the lights too bright for you?”

  “Yes,” Fawad replied, wincing.

  “That’s too bad,” said the man, climbing in and unlocking Fawad’s waist restraint. “Come on. You’re getting out.”

  “I can’t see anything,” Fawad complained.

  “Oh, stop whining,” the man snapped before yanking Fawad from the bench and out of the van.

  Fawad stumbled onto the concrete floor, almost falling but remaining on his feet, mainly because of his captor’s firm grip.

  “Have a seat,” said the man, shoving him backward.

  Fawad fell onto a sturdy steel chair and felt a heavy belt tighten around his chest and arms, pinning him in place. He heard the rattle of a chain and a click at his feet and his ankles were pulled roughly back under the chair. Another click sounded behind him and he could no longer move his legs.

  Squinting against the bright light, he looked about, noting they were in a small warehouse-like space, empty save for the van to his left and the heavy chair to which he was secured. Standing before him was the man, and a very attractive woman, both clad in black coveralls.

  “We need to talk,” said the man.

  “Who are you?” Fawad demanded, his attempt at bravado tainted with fear.

  “We’re your friends,” Chris replied, “Or, we can be. That’s entirely up to you.”

  “Where are the officers who took me from the police station?” asked Fawad.

  Chris shrugged. “I don’t know. They didn’t tell me where they were going after they delivered you.”

  “Delivered me where? They were supposed to take me to the RCMP headquarters,” said Fawad. “Who are you?”

  “You already asked that and I told you,” Chris replied. “We’re your friends and we want to help you.”

  “How do you want to help me?” Fawad scoffed.

  “We want to give you a chance to make things easier for yourself,” Chris
explained. “We want to chat and ask you questions about what you did today.”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” said Fawad. “I will not answer your questions without a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer?” Chris repeated, turning to Leslie. “Is this guy for real?”

  “Let me explain it to him,” Leslie offered then gazed at Fawad. “I’ll make this simple. Look around you. You’re not in a police station. We’re not cops. There are no lawyers here but you will answer our questions. Do you understand?”

  “This, this is wrong,” Fawad protested. “I was told I would be booked at RCMP headquarters. Take me there immediately.”

  Leslie stepped forward and leaned close. “Planting explosives to kill and injure hundreds of innocent people is wrong. That’s why you’re here. You will answer our questions.”

  “What will you do if I don’t?” Fawad demanded. “Torture me? I have not even been formally accused of anything yet. I have not been informed of my rights. I will sue you and your government if you harm me. The public will know.”

  “The public doesn’t even know your name, asshole,” said Chris. “It hasn’t been shared with the media and, as you just pointed out, nothing formal about your stupid attempt is on record. The police can simply tell anyone who asks that the suspect they had detained was released for lack of evidence. They won’t give your name out either, to protect your identity.”

  “Y-you are bluffing,” Fawad argued. “I will not answer your questions without a lawyer.”

  “I hope you’re not a betting man,” said Leslie, kicking the wheel-locks of his chair free.

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Fawad. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to show you something,” Leslie replied as she wheeled the chair backward to the opposite side of the open space.

  “Show me what?” Fawad insisted with alarm.

  “This,” said Leslie, spinning the chair one hundred eighty degrees.

  Though Fawad hadn’t known what to expect, what he saw initially surprised and confused him. Before him was a workbench on which a variety of manual and cordless power tools were neatly organized, some lying on its surface and others hanging on its pegboard backing.

  “So, what do you think?” asked Leslie.

  “I-I don’t understand what you mean,” Fawad stammered.

  “You really aren’t the sharpest tool in the shed, no pun intended,” said Chris before glancing at Leslie. “Explain something to him before I get angry.”

  “We’ll start simple,” said Leslie, selecting a tool. “What’s this and what is it used for?”

  “It’s a screwdriver,” Fawad replied. “It is used to turn screws.”

  “Very good,” Leslie commended, setting down the screwdriver and picking something else. “How about this?”

  “Pliers,” said Fawad with a slight eye roll. “They are used to grip things or bend wire or metal.”

  “Right again, but did you know these can have other uses?” said Leslie, moving closer and gripping his earlobe with the pliers.

  “What are you doing?” Fawad shrieked, starting to jerk his head away but quickly changing his mind.

  “Wise move,” said Leslie, slightly increasing the pressure on the pliers. “If I wanted to, I could crush your ear or rip it right off.”

  She stepped back and turned to the workbench as she continued. “I could poke your eyes out with that screwdriver, snip off your fingers with this bolt cutter and smash your kneecaps with this hammer.” She turned to face him with a jigsaw in hand and added, “Imagine what I could do with this baby.”

  “I do not believe you,” said Fawad, his cracking voice and greying pallor belying his words. “You will not do such horrible things.”

  “You obviously don’t know her very well,” said Chris, moving to the workbench and picking up a hammer drill, pulling the trigger a couple of times before turning to face Fawad. “And you don’t know me either but I’ll tell you something important. If you answer our questions without any, uh, coaxing, we’ll return you to the police unharmed once we’re done. However, if we have to inflict any injury to convince you to answer, you’ll be damaged goods and no longer returnable. Understand what I’m saying? Either way, you will tell us whatever we want to know.”

  * * * *

  Montreal, Quebec, 4:55 p.m.

  “Well, look who’s back in town,” said Chris as he entered Jonathan’s office.

  “I needed a break from Ottawa,” replied Nick Sharp as he stood to shake Chris’ hand, “And I’m realizing things are moving a hell of a lot more here with you folks than there with the task force.”

  “To be fair,” said Chris, “We’re playing under a different set of rules.”

  “That you are,” Sharp agreed. “So, I understand your meeting with Zafar went well?”

  “It did,” Chris confirmed. “He’s on his way to your headquarters, safe and sound. He was reluctant to chat at first but, after minimal urging, he became quite cooperative. Though I could be wrong, I’m betting he’ll waive counsel, plead guilty and supply you with a written confession.”

  “Good going, though I’m not sure how we’re going to deal with him yet,” said Sharp. “I told my guys to lock him up until I get there, which will be soon, but I wanted to hear what you got out of him first.”

  “Not a ton of stuff,” Chris admitted, “But it’s more than we had and I’m pretty sure Zafar didn’t hold out on us. First, we have a name though it’s likely fake. MAS is Mohammad Azim Syed. Zafar hooked up with him online about a year ago when looking to make some radical Islam friends in the area. According to Zafar, Syed appears to be a member of a number of discussion groups on social media though not active in said discussions. He likely monitors these groups and selects potential recruits to contact in private. That’s what happened with Zafar.”

  “I’ll get some people working on that,” said Sharp. “Did he supply you with any group names?”

  “A bunch of them are bookmarked on his laptop,” Chris replied, “Which I assume you’ll get a hold of. Next, Zafar never met Syed in person. All communication was via messages, texting or, rarely phone. Syed’s number has changed several times since their first contact. Zafar told us he has a list of past numbers on his computer as well. Maybe they’ll be useful to us, maybe not.”

  “Did he share anything specific about what happened today?” asked Jonathan, somewhat impatiently.

  “Chill, dude,” Chris replied with a wink. “That’s the best part. Yes, Syed called him this morning to give him an assignment, namely to go collect two pipe bombs, arm them and go leave them some place where they would cause a lot of casualties. He left the selection of a target spot and time up to Zafar but suggested the Jazz Fest or one of many Canada Day events taking place today.

  “Zafar went to get the bombs at Store-4-Less, a mini-warehouse on Notre-Dame Street. We have the address, unit number and access code. Leslie is looking into it as we speak to find out who’s renting the locker in question.”

  Sharp frowned. “We’ll need a warrant to get that information.”

  “Well, yeah,” Chris agreed, “But in the meantime, Les is practicing her hacking abilities and it seems Store-4-Less isn’t too concerned with cyber-security so we might get our answer sooner, unofficially, of course.”

  “Of course,” Sharp repeated with the hint of a smile. “I’ll get going with a warrant as soon as Zafar gives me the full confession you promised.”

  A knock on the door was followed by Leslie’s entrance.

  “Hi, Nick,” she said before pumping her fist in the air and adding, “Bingo.”

  “You found the renter?” asked Jonathan.

  “I certainly did,” Leslie confirmed, “And you guys are going to freak when I tell you who it is.”

  Chapter 7 – Saturday, July 2, 2016

  Westmount, Quebec, 10:17 a.m.

  “Commander, please come with me.”

  Nick Sharp stood and followed the manservant, va
guely familiar with the vast home as a result of an equally serious visit over five years earlier. He was led to the same opulent den where Jabbar Qalat, Consul General of the Consulate of Pakistan, sat behind his ornate desk. Qalat waited until the servant had left and closed the door then, remaining seated, looked up at Sharp.

  “It has been a long time, Nick,” he said, his tone cool.

  “It has,” Sharp agreed. “Thank you for accepting to see me on such short notice.”

  “You said it was important,” Qalat curtly replied. “Now you are here. What do you want?”

  “Mind if I have a seat?” asked Sharp.

  “If I remember correctly, you are a man who does whatever he wants,” Qalat scoffed.

  Sharp offered a faint smile and remained standing. “Very well. Are you aware of the attempted bomb attack at the Jazz Festival yesterday afternoon?”

  “Only of the scant details reported by the press,” Qalat replied. “I understand no one was injured and a suspect was taken into custody. What does this have to do with me?”

  “Allow me to explain,” said Sharp. “The suspect is twenty year old Fawad Zafar, here on a student visa from your country, studying engineering at Concordia University.”

  “I’m sorry to learn this,” said Qalat, “But Pakistan cannot be held responsible for the actions of one of its citizens –”

  “Let me continue,” Sharp interrupted. “Zafar offered a full confession and related information in exchange for leniency. He told us he was acting on orders from the Army for Islam –”

  “I have already discussed the AFI at length with your Prime Minister,” Qalat cut in. “Whoever is involved with this group, they have nothing to do with my son who, as I’m certain you know, Commander, is dead.”

  “Jabbar, please,” Sharp barked. “There’s more.”

  Qalat glared at the commander for a moment then sighed as resignation replaced his anger. “Go ahead, and sit down.”

  Sharp settled into a visitor’s chair and continued. “Zafar’s confession included where he got the explosives. He was directed to a mini-warehouse downtown and given the access code to get into the building and storage unit where he retrieved two pipe bombs and the required detonators. That storage unit is rented by your consulate, Jabbar.”