Discreet Activities (Barry/McCall Series) Page 8

  He had returned home from the early dinner already rather inebriated and feeling sorry for himself and had shared his evening with a forty ounce bottle of Grand Marnier. Even the viewing of some of the DVDs from his special collection had done little to raise his spirits. He vaguely remembered waking in the living room at some point during the night and stumbling off to bed.

  A sharp rapping at the door startled him and he wondered if it was not a previous such knocking which had awakened him in the first place. His mind was too muddled and groggy to even question who it might be so he crawled out of bed and made his way unsteadily down from the loft to the entrance foyer as he pulled on a bathrobe.

  Reaching the door, he peered at the screen on the security console and saw two men in suits, late forties to early fifties, official looking, maybe Mormons or cops.

  “Yes, who’s there?” he asked through the intercom.

  “Mr. George Ponce?” was the staticky response.

  “Yes, yes, I’m George Ponce,” he replied, a trifle impatient. “Who are you?”

  “Inspectors Taylor and Mulligan, Toronto police, sir,” replied their spokesman, the darker-haired one.

  “Can I see some identification, please?” Ponce requested.

  Both men pulled out small leather cases and flipped them open to display the ID cards and shields within.

  “What is this about?” Ponce enquired.

  “This relates to the trial, sir,” said the lighter-haired man, Mulligan. “We would like to speak to you.”

  “The trial is over, gentlemen,” George responded in annoyance. “The verdict was announced yesterday. You could have checked the facts before waking me up on a Saturday morning after the ordeal I’ve been through.”

  “We’re aware of that, Mr. Ponce,” Taylor sighed. “The problem relates to the verdict which was rendered. Both the court and the police have received a number of anonymous threats directed at you. Do you wish to discuss this over the intercom and have your neighbours follow our conversation or would you prefer letting us in so that we can speak about this in private?”

  “Oh, Jesus, alright,” muttered Ponce before clicking off the intercom then unlocking and opening the door. “Come in and excuse my attire. As I mentioned, I was sleeping.”

  “We apologize for waking you, sir,” said Taylor, a.k.a. Jonathan Addley as Mulligan, a.k.a. Chris closed and locked door behind them. “We just felt it was important to deal with the aftermath of yesterday’s verdict as soon as possible as you could very likely be in danger.”

  “Damn it, I thought this nightmare would go away now that the trial’s over,” Ponce sighed as he gestured towards the living room. “I guess I should thank you for your vigilance. Please, have a seat.”

  They moved into the vast, open space where Jonathan settled onto the leather couch across from Ponce who perched on the edge of a recliner, Chris remained standing, strolling slowly as he took in the lavish accommodations.

  “So, what is this about, exactly?” questioned Ponce. “You say there were threats made against me?”

  “Many people are outraged following yesterday’s ‘not guilty’ verdict, Mr. Ponce,” Jonathan replied. “You probably haven’t seen the papers this morning but you are front page news.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Ponce cursed as he slowly shook his head. “I was proven innocent in court. Why is this happening?”

  “You’re big time on television as well,” Chris commented as he approached the centre table, pausing to glance at a few scattered DVD jewel cases before picking one up. “Really, George, Boy Toys? This doesn’t do much to support your stated innocence, and by the way, a jury found you not guilty. You were not proven innocent.”

  “Okay, what exactly is going on here?” demanded Ponce as he started to rise from his seat.

  “Sit down, George,” Chris ordered, putting down the DVD case then picking up the remote and turning on the flat-screen hanging on the wall.

  Ponce eased back down onto the edge of the recliner, his discomfort evident as the screen turned blue then started displaying the child porn DVD he had been watching the night before when he had passed out.

  Chris stopped the film and powered down the television then turned to Ponce. “Guilty, George. You are a guilty, pedophilic pervert.”

  “The justice system has its flaws, George,” added Jonathan, “And this time, the court failed. You are a child molester and because of your actions, nine year old Tommy Bailis is dead. You were the guilty one but he took the blame for it and killed himself. How does that make you feel, George?”

  “Who are you guys?” asked Ponce, his voice now trembling. “You’re not police. I don’t believe that. What do you want from me?”

  “Who we are doesn’t really matter,” Chris replied. “What does matter is that justice must be served.”

  “What are you going to do to me?” whimpered Ponce as he nervously wiped his face on his bathrobe sleeve.

  “First things first,” said Jon as he stood. “Where’s your computer?”

  With mounting fear, George asked, “What do you want my comput-”

  “Will you stop it with the damned questions?” Jonathan interrupted. “Where’s your damned computer?”

  “Down the hallway in my study,” Ponce replied with a weary gesture of his hand. “My laptop bag is on the desk.”

  “You’re set up wireless?” asked Chris as Addley went off.

  Ponce nodded as he stared at the floor.

  “Good,” Chris approved. “You must do some banking over the internet?”

  “Yeah,” said Ponce, looking up at Chris. “So that’s it. You guys want money. You’re extorting me.”

  “Not quite,” Chris shook his head as Jonathan returned with the laptop. “Let’s get set up and you’ll see in a minute.”

  Jonathan pulled out the computer, powered it up and laid it on the table in front of Ponce. “Go to your banking site.”

  Ponce glared at both men for a moment then sighed and manoeuvred the cordless mouse, clicking an icon to open the log-on page of the Imperial National Bank website.

  He entered his user name and password then muttered, “Now what do you want me to do?”

  Chris crouched next to the man and gazed at the screen, noting a current balance of just over eighty thousand in an operations account and close to four hundred fifty thousand in the savings account. Other longer term investment and retirement accounts with rather impressive balances also appeared but internet transactions would not be permitted on those.

  “Wow, you shouldn’t keep so much liquidity in accessible accounts, George,” Chris commented. “Someone could rip you off.”

  “Can we get on with this?” Ponce snapped.

  “Okay, here’s what we want to do,” Chris directed. “Transfer four hundred and twenty thousand from your savings to your operations account.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Ponce mumbled but proceeded with the transaction and was done in under a minute. “Okay, where am I sending this off to?”

  Chris pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it before laying it next to the laptop. “Two hundred fifty thousand goes to the first account, Pamela Bailis. She is, or was, Tommy’s mother. She deserves something for her pain and suffering and, though a quarter million is far from enough, it will have to do.”

  “This is wrong,” Ponce argued but continued on the keyboard until the transfer was complete.

  “Good boy, Georgie,” said Chris. “Now, another two hundred fifty thousand goes to the second account. It’s a well respected charity which helps abused children, particularly those who have been victims of pedophilia.”

  Ponce began clicking and working the keyboard, making no comment this time.

  “Transferred and confirmed,” he sighed once the transaction was completed. “Are we done now?”

  “Nearly but not quite,” Jonathan replied as Chris walked over to the patio door leading to the terrace and slid it open.

 
“Great view from out there,” said Chris as he returned. “Nice, big private terrace and it covered too so it keeps the snow off. It must be great for barbecuing in the winter.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Ponce replied with uncertainty, “Or when it rains. What’s going on here?”

  “We’re just talking about that wonderful terrace out there,” said Jonathan as he stepped closer to Ponce, “The one with a great view from the twenty-fourth floor.”

  “Hmm… Twenty-fourth floor,” Chris mused. “Do you realize that’s twice the height from which little Tommy Bailis jumped when he killed himself?”

  “Now, wait a minute here,” Ponce exclaimed as he jumped to his feet. “I did what you wanted with the money but don’t you even think I’m going to jump from the terrace because I’m not.”

  Jonathan’s fist suddenly lashed out, hitting Ponce just below the centre of the ribcage and knocking the wind out of him. As he doubled over, Chris and Jonathan grasped him by the arms and dragged him out onto the terrace and to the railing.

  “I just hope you’re still conscious when you hit the ground,” Jonathan growled at the gasping, struggling man before he and Chris hoisted him over the railing and dropped him to his death below.

  Chapter 12 – Sunday, January 16, 2011

  Mahmood had been quiet and pensive since his return to dinner on Friday. Although the others had questioned and badgered him, he had refused to speak of anything, simply telling them that he had work to do and would let them know in due time. He had spent most of the Saturday locked in his bedroom, thinking and planning, coming out only for meals and to use the bathroom.

  Fahad and Saad had been particularly annoyed by his attitude at the onset but Nasir had calmed them down, explaining once again that Mahmood was surely simply following orders given to him. They themselves, he told them, had to start learning to accept this principle if they wished to be considered true soldiers. Though frustrated that Mahmood was keeping him out of the loop as well, Nasir did his best to also apply his preaching to himself.

  Mahmood came out of his bedroom, carrying his laptop and some documents and came down to find the other three seated in the dining room enjoying their breakfast.

  “Good morning, my friends,” he said as he joined them. “I am happy you are here as it is now time that I share with you. I apologize for my secrecy but I was asked to formulate the basis of a plan before I spoke to you.”

  “As I told them several times,” Nasir replied, intent on maintaining a superior rank over the others.

  “Thank you, Nasir and thank you all for your patience and understanding,” Mahmood nodded formally, enjoying his role as leader. “Now, let us begin. I have been informed of our target and it is to be the Winter Festival in Burlington, Vermont, on February 5th. This event attracts over four thousand people and Burlington is about ninety minutes from here so we now understand why this location was chosen.”

  He opened his laptop and soon had a map up to show them where Burlington was and which route they could take to get there and back. He then zoomed in to Burlington itself, pointing out where various crowd-gathering activities would be taking place, including the highly popular Penguin Plunge on the waterfront.

  “I have been informed that relatively small but powerful explosive devices will be made available to us,” Mahmood explained. “These, we will place at strategic points where many people are gathered to create the most impact when they are detonated.”

  “Are you not concerned that these explosives can be found when we cross the border?” asked Fahad. “It will not serve any purpose if we are arrested at the border and cannot carry out the attack.”

  “You still have much to learn, my friend,” Mahmood laughed. “We will be told of a location in the United States where we will pick up the explosive devices along the way. We would not take the chance to cross the border with them.”

  “How will we know how to handle these devices?” asked Saad, obviously nervous now that an actual attack was being planned. “What if they detonate while still in our possession?”

  “This is a chance that we must take for the cause,” Mahmood stated. “I, for one, am ready to take this chance. However, I have been told that these devices are very safe and should not explode before it is time. Our job will simply be to place them somewhere for maximum effect.”

  “But, with so many people around,” Saad persisted, “We shall certainly be seen when we place them.”

  “You have been watching too many American action films, Saad,” replied Mahmood. “We will not be taping the bombs to lampposts in the middle of a crowd. We will have them in grocery bags which we can simply drop in trash receptacles at the chosen sites. Nothing will seem more innocent to even thousands of witnesses.”

  “What if we are observed as we are fleeing the scene?” Fahad questioned, Saad’s fear having somewhat rubbed off on him.

  “The devices in question will be set with a timer,” Mahmood explained. “We can easily arrive, place the devices, enjoy the festivities for a while before leaving and have the bombs explode two hours following our departure once we have safely returned to this house. I have also been told that, if we wish, we will also be able to detonate the devices by sending a cell phone transmission.”

  “I would much prefer that we be far away when they do explode,” stated Saad.

  “That is what we will plan for,” Mahmood reassured quietly, “But should we be caught with the devices in our possession, it is good to have a method of detonating them instantly, even if this costs us our lives. Did you not say you wished to be a warrior for Islam? I am willing to die, if I must. Are you, Saad?”

  “Yes, yes of course,” Saad replied. “I have just never done such a thing before.”

  “Nor have we, Saad,” said Nasir. “None of us have, but we must be certain that we can count on you. Not one of us can abandon at the last moment. I too, like Mahmood, will give my life if needed. I will not surrender. None of us must surrender.”

  “I will not surrender,” mumbled Saad. “I am frightened but I will do this for Islam.”

  “And you, Fahad?” asked Mahmood. “You have become very quiet. Can we count on you as well?”

  Fahad nodded but remained silent for a moment before speaking. “In the name of Muhammad, I will give my life if it is needed.”

  “Very well,” Mahmood smiled. “I ask you all to please take some time to think about this. I have printed lists of websites where you can see photos of this festival in previous years. This evening and in the coming days, we will discuss this further to make sure that our final plan will not fail. Now, let us get ready to enjoy a wonderful day of skiing.”

  * * * *

  On the flat-screen in his den, Chris was watching the four young men silently leaving the dining room when Sandy came to join him.

  “What’s on TV?” she asked, wrapping her arms around him from behind as she kissed the top of his head.

  “Jonathan called to tell me this was playing,” Chris smiled. “I was listening in on a meeting our little friends were having in Sutton. It seems that orders have come down from above and now these four are planning a bombing attack at the Burlington Winter Festival in two weeks.”

  “You’re not serious?” Sandy exclaimed as she circled the couch to sit beside him. “I was thinking we might go down there.”

  “Well, we can,” Chris grinned, “Because we’re certainly not going to let these kids go through with their plan. The thing is, we’re hoping to get information that leads us to whoever is giving these guys their orders. Now that they’ve actually started talking about something definite, maybe we’ll have more luck.”

  “I certainly hope you do,” replied Sandy, sporting the worried look Chris had seen countless times over the years. “Knowing that actual terrorists are so close by gives me the creeps. Why can’t these people just accept life and enjoy it?”

  “I wish I could tell you,” Chris shrugged then smiled again. “Maybe it’s to give guys like
Jon and I a purpose in life.”

  Sandy shook her head and sighed. “If I didn’t know you so well, I think you’d scare me sometimes, my dear.”

  “Lucky for me you know me so well,” Chris replied, comforting her with a hug. “Let’s change the subject. What are your plans for today?”

  “I’m heading over to the gallery to look after a couple of things for tomorrow’s opening,” Sandy replied, referring to Taylor’s, the gallery she owned and operated in Knowlton. “I’ll be back for lunch. What about you?”

  “I want to have a look at some of the surveillance we’ve captured that I haven’t viewed yet. From what Jon told me, nothing particular has been flagged by the Centre but I like to see things for myself.”

  “Well, you did get this far, safe and sound, by counting on yourself, Mr. Barry,” his wife laughed. “Why change the system if it’s working for you? See you for lunch, love.”

  * * * *

  Chris stopped the recording, skipped back a bit and listened again.

  Nasir: Of course, he trusts us.

  Fahad: Well, then, does Mahmood think the walls have ears?

  Nasir: I, uh, I... I am certain that Mahmood is, uh, simply following the demand that was made of him in the message he has received. Now, cease your talk and eat your wonderful stew before it gets cold.

  Pensive, he picked up the phone and dialled Jonathan. “Hi, Jon… Fine, thanks. I’ve been watching the surveillance recording from Friday evening and, I can’t say for sure but some of them may know they’re bugged… Well, Jamali makes a comment about the walls having ears and Darzada goes white and starts stammering before he manages to get anything coherent out. This all has to do with Buzdar getting a text message and rushing outside, presumably to make a phone call. It would explain why he started acting so weirdly after the visit from the stranger on Monday…