Blond Cargo (22 page)

Angelica Cardona appeared to be staring straight into Kayla’s eyes, and her intensity caused Kayla to blink and look away.

She glanced out the window and startled as she saw her daughter running from the nanny across the lawn and around the pool toward the office.

Kayla hit the button again and the television snapped off and disappeared behind the mahogany panel. She jumped to her feet, checked to make sure nothing was out of place, and stepped out into the bright sunlight and locked the door just as Saarah leapt into the safety of her mother’s arms.

“Owwhh, Mommy, you’re squeezing too tight.”

Kayla marched past the pool, sliding her daughter onto one hip. She glared at the Guatemalan nanny and disappeared inside the house, slamming the French doors behind her.

Kayla stood at the kitchen window, her gaze drifting to Malic’s office and her troubling find. She had read in
Cosmopolitan
magazine about female college students who augmented their tuition by setting up cameras in their dorm rooms and charging men a fee to watch them in their daily routines. It was voyeuristic only. Maybe that is all this was, she thought hopefully. That, she could live with.

But the naked woman Kayla had seen did not look happy. In fact she looked troubled, frightened even. Who would pay to watch such a woman? And why Dr. Khalil’s blood test? She could call him and ask, but then Malic would know she was spying on him and she refused to deal with his anger. Kayla decided to say nothing. Not yet. Maybe never.

33

Kenny Ortega was overworked as usual but carved out a fifteen-minute block for his old friend and comrade. His face lit up the Skype screen. His tie was at half-mast, but that was the only thing loose about his countenance.

The front of Jack’s loft had been turned into command central. A large corkboard had been set up on an easel near the dining room table, where Mateo was spread out, and Cruz had his laptop, iPhone, and iPad on the kitchen island. Crime-scene photographs of the first two victims had been pinned to the top of the board next to a recent eight-by-ten headshot of Angelica Cardona. A reminder of why they were assembled and what their mission was.

Also mounted were photos Jack had taken doing surveillance outside the Iraqi club, and an arrogant Malic stood front and center. To his right was a picture of a pissed-off Raul Vargas exiting the same club. Hassan’s photo was pinned under his boss’s along with an array of cars and license plates that had populated the club’s parking lot. A time line ran down the left side of the board, indicating the dates the women were found, Raul’s release from prison, and when Malic entered the country and started working for the Vargas Development Group. The board would get more complicated as the days went on.

Jack was seated at his office desk finishing off a Jersey Mike’s Italian sub. His stomach had finally settled down from the reconnaissance flight, and Kenny Ortega always put Jack at ease.

“I see you’re still into that health food kick,” Kenny said through a smile.

“Old habits,” Jack said.

“So, the pug’s name is Sheik Ibrahim. He’s a Sunni tribal leader, and he stonewalled Bogdanovich. Refused to let him talk to his son, the eight-year-old boy who posted the video. Said he didn’t recognize Angelica and wouldn’t travel back to Anbar Province to be interviewed in person. He threatened to file charges with the U.S. consulate in Baghdad if Bogdanovich continued to harass his family. It seems the man’s well connected.”

“Since when is asking a few questions that might save a life harassment?” Jack posited.

“When the aforementioned harassed has something to hide. Not a steadfast rule but enough to keep me in the game.”

“Is the sheik well-heeled?” Jack asked.

“He’s part of the oil ministry and has done extensive work with Halliburton,” Ortega said, as if the name
Halliburton
left a bad taste in his mouth. “Bogdanovich got him on the phone in Dubai, where one of his three-year-old thoroughbreds took the World Cup. It had a purse of eight million.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” Jack deadpanned. “I wonder if he’s a ladies’ man?”

“One wife of record. And probably not willing to sacrifice his life to enjoy seventy-two virgins.”

“Not when you can buy them with Halliburton Monopoly money,” Mateo added from across the room.

Ortega laughed and then said, “Sad but true, my friend. Now, Jahmir is the sheik’s kid and the one who posted Angelica’s video under the moniker Jahmir 8. The YouTube account was set up by the tutor.”

“Was the tutor willing to talk?”

“He was in the wind, but Bogdanovich grabbed him as he was boarding a United Emirates flight to Paris. Tutor was a font of information. He’d been teaching the kid, Jahmir, for a couple of years, and get this: the sheik has two homes. Not unusual for a rich prick. But he lives in one with his wife and keeps his women—that’s
women
in the plural—at the second abode.”

“That’s good, Kenny. Anything new on Malic?” Jack asked.

“Not a well-liked man. Left the country under a cloud of suspicion. One step ahead of the rabble. State Department paved the way for his exit.”

“Why the animus?”

“A lot of looting went on while Baghdad was being shelled to hell and back. And then again when Saddam was on the lam. The Iraqi people took umbrage that the National Museum was picked clean of priceless antiquities. Malic is rumored to have enriched himself at the country’s expense. He left a long line of angry academics, curators, and legitimate politicians in his wake.”

“As if,” Cruz tossed out with the emphasis on
if
.

All three men looked at Cruz waiting for an explanation.

“Legitimate politicians?” he said quickly.

“Oh, good one,” Mateo gave him.

“What was in it for the State Department?”

Jack stayed the course, knowing Ortega’s time was too valuable to waste.

“Malic was a fixer. A procurer. The U.S. needed an in, and Malic provided our government access to the right people. People who could say yes. Halliburton was awarded the no-bid contracts to rebuild the Iraqi infrastructure and oil refineries the U.S. had destroyed during the war. Malic wasn’t a Halliburton alum of record but greased the wheels, fed the contract to his buddy the sheik, and got very rich in the process. As for the State Department’s involvement, it was a favor owed. Although they’ll never admit to it.”

“He stepped off the plane with enough cash to drop eighteen million on his compound in Orange County,” Jack said.

“Zillow says the property’s only worth twelve now,” Mateo threw out.

“That’s a major hit,” Ortega said.

“Maybe enough of a hit to go back into procurement,” Jack added.

“Gotta run.” Ortega pushed back from his desk, hand-ironed the wrinkles out of his pin-striped shirt, and cinched his tie. “I asked Bogdanovich to stay on it, exert some pressure. He’s friends with another tribal sheik over there and will try to do an end run and get some face time with Ibrahim when he’s visiting his girls.”

“Not too much pressure, Kenny. If a deal’s been struck, then it means Angelica is still alive. If we hold the sheik’s feet to the fire and he gets scared off, he could pull out and Angelica becomes a liability to Malic.”

“Good thought. We’ll play it as it lays, and I’ll ring you back if anything comes of it.”

“Thanks, Kenny,” Jack said.

“
Hasta la
bye-bye,
mis amigos
.”

Kenny clicked off. The computer screen snapped back to the screen saver.

Cruz glanced up from his laptop.

“I just pulled Sheik Ibrahim’s profile on LinkedIn. Says he graduated from the University of Oxford with a law degree. I went to the school’s site and got a full list of the sheik’s graduating class. Malic’s name was prominent. An MBA. Graduated with honors.”

“So we have a link. And if Malic is feeling pinched,” Jack said, referring to Mateo’s Zillow quote, “then he has six million reasons to come up with a big-ticket item to sell to his old school chum who likes to collect girls.”

“Especially if his function at the Vargas Development Group is to guarantee the cash flow,” Mateo chimed in.

Jack walked over to the corkboard, thinking out loud, eyes narrowed as they settled on the photos of the three women.

“Our first vic died of an overdose. If she was being readied for a flight to Iraq and the sheik’s harem, and spoiled Malic’s plans by dying, then I like Mateo’s train of thought. Angelica might have been picked up as the fallback girl. Another woman, same age, same type to fill the order.

“We have the video of Raul taking Angelica’s picture in the club the night she was abducted. Remember, he sent it to someone, and that might have been to get the approval for the matchup. If Malic and his State Department connections were used to provide Raul a get-out-of-jail-free card, then maybe this was payback. The fixer was in trouble, and Raul found a way to help.”

“Sounds like a win-win for Raul,” Mateo said. “If the Vargas Development Group goes bust, he’s out on the streets. His only real skill set is dealing drugs. Not an impressive résumé. If Malic can keep the business solvent, then Raul stays in the chips.”

“What about the second woman?” Cruz asked.

“She didn’t have much time left on this mortal coil. If Malic discovered she was terminal, stage-four breast cancer, she wasn’t much good as a commodity, but she could have been used to send a message. I don’t think it was an accident that she turned up on Raul’s doorstep.”

Cruz closed his laptop. “What’s our next move?”

“I want you to take a good look at the video we shot today. I keep flashing on the dock. What the hell is it there for? If Malic is dealing in drugs and women, would he risk having them dropped off at his home? With a wife and a kid?”

“The stairs go up to that monster wall. The bridge to nowhere,” Cruz said.

“We need to find a way around the alarm system. See if you can identify where the external motion detectors are located. We need another way onto the property we haven’t discovered yet.” He turned to his two associates, feeling greater certainty as they talked out what they’d found.

“It’s all about Malic. We shadow Malic. We can’t lose sight of Raul, but I want to know what’s inside that club, what his gang’s up to, whether they’re tied to Detroit, and what’s behind those compound walls.” A new idea came to him, and he threw it out. “If the opportunity presents itself, let’s put a kill switch on the Yukon with the Detroit plates. If that’s the car used to transport the drugs, and we time it right, we might be able to cause Malic some serious distress.”

“I can get us inside the club,” Cruz volunteered. “Their alarm system’s a dinosaur. Give me five minutes on the telephone pole closest to the strip mall and thirty seconds on the alleyway door, and we can get in and wire the place for sound. In and out in fifteen minutes.”

“The young man’s impressive,” Mateo said with a knowing grin.

No argument from Jack, who nodded in agreement. “Let’s move. If Malic fielded a call from the sheik, the clock is already ticking.”

34

The hazy moon was crowned with jagged wisps of clouds the color of lead. It barely afforded Cruz enough light to see from his perch atop the telephone pole two doors down from the strip mall that housed the Iraqi social club. He was dressed entirely in black, as were Jack and Mateo. They had big plans for the night and wanted to blend with the shadows.

Jack was standing outside the alleyway door to the club, waiting for Cruz’s signal. Mateo kept watch on the front of the building in case any of Malic’s men decided to return for a nightcap, but at two a.m. it wasn’t likely. They had gone back and forth as to who should break into the club, and Jack made an executive decision. He wasn’t as good as Cruz, but he was good enough. He wasn’t going to put his young charge into extreme jeopardy until Cruz was fully vetted and licensed. Jack wasn’t crazy about breaking the law, but to save a life he would operate in the gray zone between what was needed and what was legal.

All three men were in communication on Bluetooth devices, and true to the young man’s word, five minutes after climbing the pole, Cruz gave Jack the all-clear signal.

The last time Jack had done a break-and-enter, his foot had done the talking, and he’d kicked in the door. This time, with neighbors on the back side of the cinder-block safety wall, the B & E required more finesse. After five minutes of manipulating the lock picks Cruz had provided, working to keep the tensioner tight, Jack heard a familiar click, and he was in.

He pulled out his Glock nine-millimeter and listened to the silence. There was the odd creak and maybe a clock ticking, but no live bodies in this side of the club. Given the lack of windows, Jack chose to use a small Maglite instead of turning on the overheads. He found himself standing in a catchall room filled with store supplies, cardboard boxes, garbage bags, brooms, mops, buckets, and miscellaneous cleaning supplies.

He cautiously opened the door and advanced into the main room. It, too, was empty. He traced the light beam across a fully stocked bar, wooden tables and chairs, a flat-screen television, and a sound system. A large espresso machine perched on one corner of the bar. It reminded Jack of a Mafia social club he had stumbled into when he was a rookie cop doing undercover work in Manhattan.

Jack made short work of secreting a listening device under one of the central tables and then a second one on the underside of the bar’s thick wooden overhang.

“All clear in front,” Mateo reported as planned.

“All clear in back,” Cruz echoed.

“Copy that,” Jack fired back.

He had to keep moving. He walked quickly toward the front of the main room down a narrow hallway lined with three red lacquer doors, one on the left and two on the right. Jack carefully opened the first door on the right, his Glock leading the way into the room. He couldn’t risk that someone might be sleeping off a drunk. The room was thankfully empty. It was clean but not luxurious. It had a bed and a small bathroom with a modern sink, toilet, and shower. Used towels were tossed in a pile just outside the glass shower surround. The smell of sex, perfume, and men’s cologne hung heavily in the air. It was clear the room was used for one purpose only.