Tracks (36 page)

“The snotty
bitch was from the city of Angels.  She comes with them every night. 
It’s why I used the alcohol and drugs, so I can sleep.”

"Why
her?"

"I
was a nurse at the hospital where the kid was born but they told me to wait for
him a year."

Jack was thunderstruck, his
mind in turmoil.  He and Sam had sacrificed everything in the last ten
years because of this helpless dying creature, laying not ten feet away from
his bed.

The scheme was incredible and
pure evil.  Kidnap babies from America, train them and send them back to
do damage. 

The ramifications were
mind-boggling and Jack wondered how many of them were loose in America having
infiltrated sensitive organizations.

They could already be exerting
influence and it would almost be impossible to find them, he thought.

“I won’t survive the night, my
friend,” he heard Rooney pleading.  “Absolve me; I need to clear my
conscience before I go.”

Jack found it hard to
concentrate.  His mind in disarray he suddenly had an inspiration.

“I’ll absolve you if you tell
me the name of the organization and where the kids are taken,” he said, his
voice quivering with rage.

Rooney coughed blood. 
Then spoke his voice hoarser, almost inaudible.

“They’re called the Sons of
Jihad,” he snarled.  “Best kept secret in the Arab world.  Few people
know its exact location.  Ramone and me, we were taken in blindfolded with
the kid.  But it’s in Beirut, somewhere in the center.”

Jack toyed with the idea of
taking vengeance back on Rooney for all the misery he caused, but thought the
better of it.  The man had little time and was duly suffering.  On
the outside chance that Rooney would survive his ailment, Jack did not want to
disclose his true identity and his involvement in the affair.

By pure coincidence, or fate,
a door had been opened and he would not gamble with a chance of finding Little
Sammy.  Not for pride; not for self-satisfaction; not even for
revenge.  For Sammy’s sake, his ego would remain in check, though God knew
he could strangle the man in a flash.

Rooney was making gargling
noises, his speech in comprehensible now.

“You are absolved my friend,”
Jack whispered in the dark making a cross sign.  “May you rot in
hell!
”

In the morning they wheeled
Rooney’s body out in a black plastic bag.  

Jack needed to figure a way to
get his colleagues the information.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE

Terminal four at Heathrow
Airport was, as always, lively with travelers.   Coffee shops,
restaurants, duty-free shops, book shops, airplane lounges were all humming
with activity.  People were roaming the colorful, brightly lit halls for a
last minute perfume, a bottle or two of wine, or a book to read on a long haul
flight.

The security lines were jammed
almost to the gate control entrance.  Mai-Li and Ali, equipped with media
credentials and business class tickets to Bangkok, stood at the Fast Lane, not
moving much faster than all other lanes.

Across the glass partition,
they could see Devlin and Jimmy who held tourist class tickets to Hong
Kong.  In front of them were Rolston and Lizzy who were flying to Bombay.

Harley and Robbie Frampton had
left with Lufthansa via Frankfurt a day earlier, and so did the rest of the
team, traveling alone or in pairs to various locations before arriving to New
Delhi.  Only Copeland and Long-John flew British Airways direct to Delhi
from Heathrow to meet up with the Indian Special Forces and allow time to
organize the needed equipment.

They reached the security
checkpoint, took off their jackets, fished for loose coins in their pockets,
hoisted their trays onto the conveyor for x-rays and passed under the metal
detector without a hitch.

Squinting over at Devlin, Ali
could see he had no such luck and was being thoroughly searched by the security
guard.  She and Mai-Li headed for the British Airways Business Lounge
across from Gate Ten where they relaxed with wine and
aperitifs
until their flight was
called.   

They had spent the four-day
leave together with Ali’s parents, recuperating from their intense fortnight of
preparation.  Harley had remained a gentleman and for the time being did
not further pursue his advances at Mai-Li.

Ali’s parents, Beth and
Martin, pampered them with Scottish meals, drinks and succulent desserts. 
Beth’s specialties were mousses, meringues and fruit salads.  Martin acted
as their tour guide, driving them around the rolling lush landscape abundant
with lakes, or lochs in Scottish, in his amphibious Land Rover Jeep, able to
pass through just about any terrain including the numerous shallow creeks they
needed to cross.  He had a story to tell of just about any point of
interest on the way, many with his daughter as the star.

“...and this is where Ali
nearly drowned after she decided to test the ice with new ice-skates I had just
bought her...” he reminisced, as they stopped atop a hill overlooking a
sparkling lake bordering the farm.  

They lived on the outskirts of
a small town famous for its whisky distillery but most inhabitants, like Beth
and Martin, were farmers.  Martin knew the area like the back of his
hand.  Among his many attributes and responsibilities to his farm, he was
the elected inspector for the local wildlife nature reserve, whose job it was
to dispose of waste and fire hazards left by sightseers, lure away hunters
looking for game, and prevent any law breaking.

Mai-Li could see where Ali got
her athleticism and energy from, as well as her good looks.  In his late
fifties, her dad was agile and vigorous with a youthful curiosity.

He talked of his territory
with a passion.  They roamed the vast reserve expanse three out of the
four days paying attention to detail from the smallest of animals to the
tallest of plants.

Mike Devlin came by after
breakfast on the fourth day and the three of them drove to the famous Loch Ness
area.  They had tea with scones at the visitor center overlooking the
loch.  Mai-Li was fascinated by the various illustrations of sightings of
the famous monster occupying its depths.

They discussed the impending
operation trying to anticipate its outcome.  Mai-Li and Devlin compared
notes on their visits to the area.  Ali had never been to
Kashmir.    

“Joe agreed to take a
miniature camcorder with us so we don’t rely on the Indians for proof,” Devlin
was saying, spreading jam across his scone.

They were huddled in a corner
table by a large glass window overlooking the loch.

“If the operation goes as
planned, we might not have enough light for good video,” Mai-Li commented.

“I doubt we’ll complete it
before day break,” Devlin observed.  “We may even have to stick around
there an extra day before we can return if we want to avoid moving in
daylight.”

It was an unlikely scenario
and Devlin noticed their confusion.

“We’ve established a fallback
point, a retreat we’ll probably go to and wait until dark.  It’s roughly
two clicks south of the camp still in the jungle.”

“How long do you figure you
need to get back?”  Ali asked.

“Should take us most of the
night to get there and back but the children might slow us down if we take them
with us.” 

A heavy-set waitress came to
check up on them and the discussion was interrupted.  Devlin decided he
wanted more solid food and asked for the menu.  He ordered beef with
mashed potatoes and beer.  The women settled for ham and cheese sandwiches
with red wine.

They arrived back at the farm
in the dark having spent the entire day around the famous loch.  Mai-Li
retreated to her room.  Devlin spent the night with Ali.

They left early the next
morning, managing a quick breakfast Beth insisted on preparing. All packed,
they thanked Ali’s parents with hugs all around and heartfelt goodbyes and
drove to the airstrip on their way to London Heathrow.

Reluctant to fold her sky-bed
into a sitting position, Mai-Li watched the airplane hover over the flatlands
of Thailand on final approach to Bangkok.  She could see the long straight
roadways and water channels, the lush vegetation, rows of housing and decorated
temples.  A flight attendant came by to fold her seat to landing position
and remind her to strap on her seatbelt.

She had the window seat facing
the back of the plane while Ali had the aisle, facing front.  They had
enjoyed the hospitality, wine and food served on the twelve hour flight, and
spent most of it sleeping.

Disembarking, the intense
South East Asian heat and humidity reminded them they were not in Scotland
anymore though the air-conditioned terminal was a
relief.     

They walked the length of the
huge terminal among crowds of tourists, back-packers, and business people,
glimpsing some of the sights and smells of Thailand.  Among the usual duty
free shops were foot-massage parlors, packed orchids, and exotic food
stands.  When they had had enough, they settled back at the Thai Air
lounge to wait for their flight to New Delhi.

*****

Jose Louis Ortega’s funeral
took place at Chinchon, his hometown, a picturesque little village with stone
buildings an hour south of Madrid.  Famous for its olive oil, Chinchon
also had a winery coupled with busy meat restaurants frequented by people from
as far as Madrid and Toledo.  The village square was a festive circle with
a town hall, a church and a post office, surrounded by bars and coffee shops.

The procession moved slowly,
making its way from the church along the main street towards the outskirts of
town where the cemetery lay.

It seemed the entire town was
there.

Fernando Ortega, his wife and
two teenage boys were in the front assisting the tearful elderly parents, who
were straggling along behind the black limousine carrying their son’s
coffin.  The boulevard was full with onlookers, solemnly standing on
doorsteps, watching the gloomy parade.  The cemetery was on a hill
overlooking the vast basin, a mix of cultivated squares, golden-brown and green
farm land.

A few olive trees and a wooden
fence marked the perimeter where the gravestones were symmetrically arranged in
rows.  Sam watched the grieving family as the priest and other dignitaries
said final few words before El Chino was lowered to the ground.

There was not much said
between himself and Fernando Ortega on the trip over.  Sam knew that in
Fernando’s eyes he would forever be responsible for his brother’s fate. 
Fernando was courteous enough though and did ask Sam to stop by after the
funeral.

Ortega was the first and only
colleague Sam had ever lost in his quest in support of missing children. 
He realized early on that risks would be involved, even ones that could put
them in danger and they had attempted to prepare as best they could.

His mistake was sending Ortega
on his own into a potentially hostile situation.  The indications were
there yet he chose to ignore them.  He had all sorts of excuses: urgency,
personnel shortage, and lack of resources were the major ones, yet none stuck
as he watched the village mourn over a lost son, the women in tears, the men in
shock.  Later, in the Ortega family home, they tearfully complained to him
that rarely, in Chinchon as in most places in Spain, had parents had to bury
their child.  It was usually the other way around.

As they slowly proceeded back
toward the town, he felt a hand seize his shoulder.  A tall man with a
moustache gently stopped him.  Buttoning his jacket and arranging his tie,
he introduced himself as Jose Rio, who the Center had been involved with trying
to locate his lost boy, Carlos.    

They shook hands and moved
away from the crowd to talk.  Jose Rio inquired and Sam briefly sketched
what had happened to Ortega, leaving out most pertinent details.  He could
not reveal the full story to these people, not with the gag order that had been
established and Jack a prisoner, awaiting trial.

“I have found my boy,” Jose
Rio said with a heavy Spanish accent, unable to hold back a smile despite the
dismal circumstances.  Now it was Sam’s turn to be
surprised.        

“Louisa showed up with him one
day.  He wants to live with me,” Rio said proudly.

“That’s fantastic!”  Sam
whispered, clutching Rio’s hand excitedly.  “When did this happen?”

“I was in Palma when you and…”
Rio stopped and crossed himself before continuing on. “You and Jose Louis, God
bless his soul, lost their tracks in Madrid.”

“Go on,” Sam urged, listening
intently.

“Jose Louis,” Rio crossed
himself again, “called me to let me know.  A day after I came back, Louisa
and Carlos show up at my doorstep!  Louisa admitted she had hidden him but
could not deal with him wanting to see me, so she changed her mind and brought
him over.”