Love, Lies, and British Spies Read online

  These thoughts circled repeatedly through her head until she noticed a light ahead on the right. As they got closer, Charles steered the canoe towards the light, and soon they docked at a walkway with the river on one side and a rock wall at the other. Two men stood against the wall holding very big, very scary-looking guns. She didn’t know a damn thing about munitions, but her guess was those guns were semi-automatic something or other.

  “Here’s where you get out,” Charles growled at her. He lifted her up by her arms until she was standing, and then one of the men on the walkway reached over and helped her out of the boat. Charles looked at her and then said to the men, “The boss will want her right away. Don’t take any side trips.”

  The man who hadn’t helped her out of the boat chuckled and muttered something about blondes and how much fun they really were, while the first man nodded at Charles and pulled her forward.

  “And it’s nice to meet you too.” Eva said to her two keepers. They ignored her. “Oh, yes, I am having an interesting trip, thank you for asking. And I’m sure my husband will be thrilled to know that we ran into each other. Have you seen his latest concert? He’s really quite spectacular.”

  She still got no response from the two men, so she continued. “I got to see him perform tonight you know. That is before your friends Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum, and Tweedle Soaking Wet grabbed me and brought me here.”

  At this point she could have sworn she saw the hint of a smile nudge up one corner of the second man’s lips.

  They reached a large medieval-looking wooden door and the lead man took out an iron key and unlocked it.

  “Sharif, let me … ” the second man began.

  “Shut up Tariq, I can open the fucking door,” Sharif snarled back.

  However, as he began to push the massive structure open there was a deep rumbling noise from the ceiling and a strong wind came out of nowhere and slammed it shut.

  As the sound faded away Tariq sighed deeply and glanced at Eva who stood looking up at him. “Metro train,” he said brusquely. “Look, Sharif, we don’t have all night. Just let me open the damn door.”

  Sharif ignored Tariq, turned back towards the door and paused, cocking his head towards the ceiling. When he didn’t hear anything he pressed against the door once again. It gave a few inches then the roar from above began and the same wind blew through the passage. As hard as Sharif struggled he couldn’t hold out, and the door slammed shut once again. He swore in Arabic.

  Eva giggled nervously, but quickly covered her mouth. Tariq grabbed Sharif’s arm and yanked him out of the way, as he muttered something about pushing rocks up hills and never learning.

  Tariq stood quietly until the roar came again; when it faded he counted to five then opened the door easily.

  A chagrined Sharif led Eva through the doorway and down a hall constructed of the same stone and bricks she’d seen earlier. Up close as she was now, Eva noticed that some of the items embedded in the mortar were bones. Human bones.

  The entire underground compound was mortared with the remains of human beings, perhaps tens of thousands of them. She recognized femurs and fingers, and yes, there were skulls too. Images from her Paris guidebook came to her consciousness again reminding her that the Paris catacombs were an ancient graveyard with nearly six million people buried there. “Yuck” didn’t begin to describe it.

  They finally reached the end of the corridor and came to a second door. Behind it was an enormous room with ceilings that soared fifteen feet high. It was lit by both electric lanterns and hundreds of candles. At the room’s far end stood a big slab table similar to those found in corporate boardrooms with the exception that platters of food covered this table. Seated around it were half a dozen men, their shirt collars loosened.

  To one side of the group stood an enormous throne-like armchair in which was seated a tall, broad-chested man with a mane of dark hair that reached his shoulders. He wore designer jeans and a silk t-shirt that clung to his chest, highlighting the fact that he must spend vast quantities of time and money at a gym. His face was more severe than attractive, and he held himself in such a manner that even from across the room Eva knew he was the head of this particular domain. While he frightened her, she finally had some hope that she’d learn why she’d been taken.

  The “King” — she couldn’t think of any more fitting title for him — looked up from his discussion with the small man at his left side and bellowed, “Tariq! Sharif! You’ve brought me what I asked for! Look, gentlemen, our newest guest has arrived.”

  Chapter Eight

  Paris — 23:12 8 September

  After Owen left Derrick and Alicia at the theater, he headed straight for Le Marais in the fourth arrondissement of Paris. As his booted feet closed in on the well-trod sidewalks of the Rue de Rivoli, he took note of the variety of people who strolled the streets in droves despite the hour. Individuals of every race, description, and walk of life paraded the street, from short to tall, thin to fat, dark, light, male, female, and a few Owen absentmindedly thought couldn’t really be classified — at least not as to gender.

  The temperature was cool and crisp, and the late night businesses were open, lights glowing in the humid air. Cafes that offered tourists lunch in the daytime had now switched over to serving wine and expensive mixed concoctions. The street crawled with young men and women appraising each other as though they were merchandise up for sale. Indeed, Owen suspected that some of them might be, although this wasn’t technically the city’s red light district.

  About twenty minutes of rapid walking brought Owen to a storefront that was well lit by pendant lights dangling from the high overhang that extended beyond the front wall. Dark-tinted windows made it difficult to see beyond the pale yellow stucco facade. A line of stylish young people waited to pass between the site’s large gilded double doors. The sign above the doors was written in Arabic, but the bass line thrumming through the walls let everyone know the place was a dance club, no translation needed.

  Owen bypassed the line of patrons and walked directly to the big slab of flesh who was manning the door.

  “You’ll ’ave to wait in line like everybody else,” the man grunted at him before Owen could even open up his mouth.

  Owen ignored the brush-off and leaned in close to the man’s ear, “I’m carrying, mate, and I’m a personal friend of Aman’s. I want to see the Zar, and I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  The bouncer eyed him for a moment then tapped the Bluetooth earpiece he wore. After speaking in Arabic, he tapped it again and looked at Owen. “Your name?”

  “Tell the Zar it’s Owen Martin.”

  The bouncer tapped his earpiece again and relayed the information. Then he nodded to Owen and said, “Take the stairs inside up to the VIP lounge … are you really carrying?”

  “If I was, would I tip you off like that?” Owen retorted, stopping just shy of rolling his eyes.

  The bouncer glared at him and then patted him down anyway. As usually happened, he missed the small pistol tucked in the collar of Owen’s leather jacket. No one ever patted down the collar, he’d noticed.

  Owen proceeded through the club’s dark entryway and went directly up a set of stairs to his right. When he reached the top he found another six-foot-plus bouncer/bodyguard complete with shaved head, a wide-collared satin shirt, and a large Sig Sauer semi-automatic pistol tucked not so discreetly into a holster under his left arm. The man looked at him with disdain, then swiveled on his heel and led Owen through a doorway covered by strands of beads into a separate room. Inside there were two rows of banquettes, one row of which overlooked the dance floor below. At the end of that row sat the Zar, the master for Middle Eastern militants in Paris.

  Owen followed the bouncer to the booth. The bouncer announced him and then took several steps backwards to give them privacy, all the while maintaining his well-studied menacing countenance. The Zar nodded at the guard, then turned his gaze to Owen.

  Owen stood
casually, hands at his sides where they were visible and greeted the Zar in Arabic. “Peace be upon you, and blessings to you and your family. Thank you for receiving me, Zar.”

  “And upon you, peace, Mr. Martin. I must admit that I was surprised to hear you wanted to see me. However, my son Aman, has mentioned you with great respect in the past, so I feel that I should treat you with respect as well.”

  The old man was probably seventy-five, but his grey beard was still streaked with black, and his dark skin was only lightly lined. He wore a ghutrah, the traditional headgear of Middle Eastern men, and a robe made out of deep blue silk over expensive black wool trousers. Even seated he exuded an authority that made most men want to bend a knee to him.

  Owen hadn’t met him before, but had studied numerous video recordings of him and recognized his gravelly voice immediately. He had been dealing with international criminals for far too long to feel fear when he looked at the Zar, but he knew enough about the man to feel a certain respect for him. The Zar was the real thing, and Owen was at real risk addressing him this way.

  “I’ve come to you with a matter of greatest urgency, Zar.”

  “I should hope so, Mr. Martin. I generally do not receive visitors.”

  Owen watched the older man carefully before continuing. “Hassam Khalil.”

  “I know him of course. But what could a musician … ” the Zar stressed the word ever so slightly, “such as yourself need with a businessman like Hassam?”

  The Zar glanced down at the dance floor quickly and signaled to someone, then brought his impenetrable gaze back to Owen.

  “As a musician, I meet and perform for all sorts of people. I believe Mr. Khalil has followed my career somewhat over the years,” Owen paused to let this sink in for the Zar. “However,” he continued, “this evening some of his associates attended my performance uninvited. I would not have minded, but afterwards they took something very precious to me. Something that is completely unrelated to my profession.” Owen paused now and bowed his head looking at the floor in order to gather his thoughts and control his emotions. He wanted the Zar’s goodwill, not his disdain or anger.

  “It was unacceptable, Zar, a violation of the rules by which we all operate, and if I cannot get this precious item back, undamaged, I am afraid I will not be able to control what happens next.”

  “I see,” the Zar said slowly. “This item, exactly how precious is it to you?”

  “It is the most precious thing in the world to me. As important to me as Aman is to you.”

  “You presume to understand what my youngest son means to me? Do you have children? No? Then I do not think you can truly comprehend the part my sons play in my life.” The Zar leveled a cold stare on Owen and paused. “However, I will concede that this item you have lost is important to you, and I ask what, exactly, would you have me do about this?”

  “I want one of your men to take me to Hassam.”

  The Zar glanced back down to the dance floor, and once again signaled one of his staff members mysteriously. Normally, Owen would have been paying much closer attention to these signals and the timing of them, but he was too far gone with fear for Eva to be bothered. Whatever international, criminal intrigue the Zar was up to, Owen didn’t care.

  Finally, the Zar looked back towards Owen. “I understand your anger at this violation of your most prized possession, Mr. Martin. There are some things that should be sacred no matter what profession you enter. I too believe Hassam has gone too far, but you must realize that he is like family to me. How can I give up the location of his business and still call him my brother?”

  Owen felt the panic welling up inside of him as he sensed that he was losing ground. He took a deep breath trying to comb his memory for anything that might give him some leverage with the Zar.

  Finally, realizing that he was going to have to chance offering it all, he said softly, “Zar, I stand before you as a man who will not survive this offense if I cannot get my possession back. But, I will make sure to take Hassam and as many of his men as possible with me when I leave this earth. I do not want to lose your respect with threats, I just know what will become of me if this does not go well.”

  He took a deep breath then looked hard into the older man’s eyes, “However, I prefer to live, and I want to leave Hassam alive as well. I believe I have things that you might value? I would be willing to make a trade for your assistance.”

  Owen was playing a very deep game now. If the Zar asked for certain information that Owen had access to he could be put in the position of choosing between committing treason or losing Eva forever. He held his breath, frozen in a small moment in time, waiting for the Zar’s response.

  “Well, Mr. Martin, I am a business man, and in my country bartering is a very acceptable form of conducting commerce. However, you are a musician, yes?” The man gave Owen a look that suggested he would pretend to accept the MI6 agent’s singer/songwriter charade.

  Unwilling to be the one to speak the truth, Owen went along with the Zar’s euphemism. “As a musician, Zar, the only thing I have to offer is my song,” he responded, not sure where the Zar was heading with this, but realizing from his years on the job that the best offense was to act like you knew what the hell was going on.

  “Exactly as I would have supposed, Mr. Martin, and I accept your offer of trade: a song for a guide to Hassam’s offices. I think a song about people meeting in Paris tonight would do nicely, yes?”

  Suddenly, it became clear to Owen. He would sing about the Iranian nuclear plans and jeopardize his MI6 standing and possibly even his freedom, but he would gain an important shot at finding Eva before it was too late. By disclosing the information he had about tonight’s scheduled pick-up from the Iranian rebels, he probably wouldn’t be guilty of treason, but definitely of insubordination, something that could land him in prison.

  Owen had to hand it to the Zar, music was a clever way to get him to give up the information while leaving him free to tell MI6 that all the Zar had asked him to do was sing a song.

  He nodded once at the Zar, who called over one of his lurking security men and instructed him in Arabic to take Owen downstairs and set him up on stage with whatever he needed. Then he looked at Owen once more, “Remember, Mr. Martin, in order to give your audience the best possible performance you must sing loudly, choose your words carefully, and remember that accuracy is every bit as important in music as it is in war.”

  With those parting words, Owen was marched downstairs to sing the most important song of his life.

  Chapter Nine

  Paris — 2:03 9 September

  Tariq and Sharif escorted Eva across the cavernous room until she stood in front of the King. He looked even larger this close up. Large, dark, and quite frightening.

  “Well, well, well,” he began, “Your husband is a man of great taste, Mrs. Martin.”

  Eva looked at him, and considered screaming more just because it would make her feel better.

  “Owen Martin makes beautiful music and takes beautiful women to his bed, yes?” the King continued, appraising Eva bluntly from head to toe. “But, I get ahead of myself. Introductions must be made. I am Hassam Khalil, an international … businessman if you will. Have my employees treated you well?”

  Eva swallowed once. “I suppose so … if you overlook the drugging and kidnapping,” she replied gamely.

  Hassam threw back his giant mane of hair and laughed loudly. “Ah, I think we’ll get along very well, Mrs. Martin. Now, how long do you think it will be before your new husband comes looking for you? One hour? Two? Shall we take some bets amongst my men?”

  Eva squared her shoulders and looked around the room before she turned her glare on Hassam. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out what he wanted with her and Owen, but she definitely knew that whoever had chosen his wall hangings had terrible taste; it made her fingers itch to start tearing the room apart.

  “I’m sure my husband is looking for me right now,” she s
aid defiantly, “but more importantly I’m sure he’s gone to the police and the British and American embassies so that they are looking for me as well.”

  Hassam’s cavalier facade fell away and he cocked his head looking at her intently for a moment. “Mmm, yes, I’m sure,” he said almost to himself. He raised one hand from the enormous arm of his chair and motioned to Tariq. Tariq stepped forward and Hassam leaned down and whispered something to him. Tariq nodded once then stepped back to Eva’s side.

  Hassam turned his gaze back to Eva and for a moment she swore she saw pity in his eyes. Then, the expression was gone and his hard, mocking visage returned.

  “You will go with Tariq now, Mrs. Martin. He has things to show you. Afterwards, I think you and I will have much to discuss.” He turned and began speaking to a man standing nearby. Eva and her handlers were clearly dismissed.

  • • •

  Tariq and Sharif walked on either side of Eva, directing her to a door on the opposite side of the room from where they’d entered. Once again, Tariq was the one to open the door, and he waved her through first. She entered a small screening room, complete with movie theater chairs, and a full bar at one end. It was done up like every American suburbanite’s dream basement, but with the walls of bones and rock it somehow didn’t quite make the grade.

  After Tariq finally removed the handcuffs from Eva’s wrists, Sharif walked over to the bar, poured out a glass of water, and handed it to her.

  “Sit,” Sharif commanded her, pointing to one of the padded chairs. He then sat next to her and looked back at Tariq. “What are we doing now?” he asked.

  Tariq leaned against the bar and folded his arms. “Hassam said to show her some pictures. They’re loading the laptop.” He paused, looked at Sharif briefly then turned to grab a handful of nuts from a bowl on top of the bar.