Obscure Intentions Read online

  Obscure Intentions

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  About the Author

  Obscure Intentions

  Published by Anthony J. Harrison

  Copyright© 2018 Anthony J. Harrison

  ISBN: XX-XXX-XXXX-X-X-XX (eBook version)

  ISBN: 978-1-7324081-3-5 (printed version)

  License Note

  Thank you for downloading this e-book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

  If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized dealer. Thank you for your support.

  This is a work of FICTION. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher and distributer does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Cover design by

  Damonza

  http://www.damonza.com

  Editing Services provided by

  Cecily Tartaglione at Red Pen Edits

  http://redpeneditor.weebly.com

  This book is dedicated to:

  All the women in the world who are brave enough to overcome their fears and past traumas, becoming stronger and more self-aware of their strengths. They are the ones who will shape the future for others to follow, breaking down the barriers of injustice through-out the world.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  A prickly burlap blanket slid off the shoulders of the solitary figure lying on the cell floor. Hakim Talib opened his eyes to see a pitch-black void. Propping himself up against the wall, he shook the cobwebs of sleep from his thoughts. What day is it? How long have I been down here? He reached his arms out in front of his body, but he couldn’t see his stiff and bloody scab-covered fingertips that were courtesy of the sandstone chiseled hewn walls and floor. The former dungeon he was occupying was obscure as the desert on a moonless night.

  Outside, waves of radiant heat rippled off the stone walls of the fifteenth-century prison as the late summer sun beat down upon it. Hakim didn’t feel the heat, insulated from the elements by massive stones used to build the once mighty citadel; instead he was surrounded by the cold dampness that hung in the air of his windowless room.

  Hakim’s captors knew how many days had passed since his return to Marseille by the Algerian State Police. After being checked by a police department physician, Hakim was sedated and moved from the Police Municipale jail to one with the specific purpose of disorienting and isolating suspects.

  As he entered his third week of isolation in the basement of Chateau Il d’If, the Algerian was being kept away from prying eyes roaming the streets of Marseille. At the same time, members of the DJSE continued their preparations to raid the drug processing facility he spoke of during chemically enhanced interrogations. Utilizing the former citadel, the French had established a means to conduct questioning of prisoners with anonymity.

  Hakim heard heavy boots crunching along the gravel, echoing off the walls and interrupting his thoughts, the only discernible sound he heard twice a day. The scraping of the key sliding into the lock told him it was once again feeding time.

  The glow from a single lightbulb hanging in the corridor lit up the room as the door swung open. Hakim shielded his eyes from the sudden light surrounding the silhouetted figure. “Tell me where I’m being kept.” It was the same demand he’d been asking of his faceless captors for days as he stood away from the door.

  Holding the tray out, as if calling a bowl of tepid fish-head soup and crusty bread a proper meal, the officer, clad in black, said nothing. Each day the scene was played on video screens in a control room located a hundred meters above the basement. Activity was observed by a senior police psychologist, and today by Detective Geneviève Benoit and Detective (Captain) Claude Lemieux.

  As he studied the silhouette holding out his ration of food, Hakim sought to gauge the size of his captor as he took the tray. Unlike members of the military who might have been exposed to some level of survival training, he had nothing to call upon except his own wits.

  The 3-meter square room he was kept in, with a thread-barren blanket and small bucket to relieve himself in, did little to keep his physical and mental acuity. A soldier would try to maintain their physical prowess by exercising and mentally focus on trying to formulate an escape plan.

  Watching the display provided by the low-light and infrared cameras positioned throughout the room, Benoit and Lemieux could see both the guard and Hakim moving without the aid of lights. With this setup, the doctor and his staff could closely monitor the patients’ activities, like consuming food that had been laced with a potent derivative of sodium pentothal. This had likewise led to a continuing discussion by the female staff commenting on the drug’s side effect: causing Hakim to fondle himself while sleeping.

  “We’ve been able to record pretty much everything he’s said based on the questions you wanted us to ask,” the physician said to the two police officers. “And he doesn’t even recall he’s done it.”

  “All the information you’ve gathered was done while he was sleeping?” Detective Geneviève Benoit asked.

  “Yes. With the right combination of drugs and the subliminal messaging we�
�ve played, he ‘sang like a canary,’ as the actor James Cagney would say.”

  “Amazing,” Detective Lemieux replied, shaking his head. “And Nadine used to say all I needed was a bottle of good Bordeaux,” alluding to his deceased wife.

  Glancing at the clock, Geneviève saw their scheduled departure time was fast approaching for the ferry returning to the city. “Claude, we need to make our way to the dock if we’re going to join the raiding party,” she reminded.

  “Going so soon?” the physician asked.

  “Yes, we need to see if the information you recorded has proven fruitful,” Claude said, placing his aviator sunglasses over his eyes. “We can’t do our police work here watching someone stumbling in the dark.”

  After a circuitous walk through the hidden passageways of the fortress, the two detectives soon headed towards the single dock and the vessel returning to the city. As both officers stood along the rail of the ferry, the cool breeze refreshing their senses, they watched the city of Marseille grow closer. Tourists bustled about the deck in vain attempts to capture views of the city on their cell phones as the vessel approached the docks.

  “After three weeks of ‘immersion interrogation,' we’ve learned that drugs the British are focused on are arriving here from somewhere in North Africa, and then being shipped elsewhere,” Claude said. “But no names other than what we previously had.”

  “But since our suspect has given us this information, we can now direct our attention to Algiers and Omar Khalid as one of the potential sources, right?” Geneviève asked, her untethered hair swirling in the breeze.

  Tilting his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, Claude said, “Your days of traveling are over; especially to Algeria.”

  As she turned to look at her partner, Geneviève knew from his gaze he was making his statement based on a genuine concern for her well-being. Even though her last trip to Algiers resulted in the capture of Hakim Talib, it likewise resulted in a failed attack on her by Khalid’s men. If not for her training, the outcome might have been different.

  “The nice thing about going back to Algiers would be in knowing I wouldn’t be alone; you’d be there too.” Her innocent smile beamed back at him. “Not to mention having the services of Inspector Haddad and his police force.”

  “Geneviève, stop giving me those looks. I’m too old,” Claude said, fighting back the grin he wanted to display at her comment.

  “Please stand back from the exits until the gangway has been secured. Thank you,” came the announcement from the ferry operator’s first officer, noting their proximity to the docks.

  Starting his way down the stairs to the main deck, Claude said, “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

  ***

  Across the Mediterranean Sea, 1,400 kilometers from the dungeon holding Hakim, his cousin was in the middle of his own brand of torture. In the sweltering heat inside a warehouse, two men worked to complete their task. Large beads of sweat formed on their brows and rolled down the faces behind the protective masks, stinging the eyes trying to blink through the discomfort. The once light blue fabric of the hazardous material suit Nazim Aziz and his helper, Malik, were wearing now showed darkened patches of sweat soaking through the material.

  “This is the last one,” Malik said from behind his mask, pouring the warm liquid from the cooking pot into the glass bottles on the table.

  “Make sure all the pots are thoroughly cleaned after the bottles are sealed,” Nazim instructed the young Algerian. “Let no one disrobe until done, you understand?”

  “Of course, I understand completely.”

  Nazim didn't consider the environment the men would work in after moving the drug processing work from Marseille to the abandoned warehouse outside the capital city of Algeria. His estranged partner, Gregory Arsenault, had chosen the warehouse in Marseille, which included air-conditioning. This was something he’d taken for granted, but he now understood the importance of having the luxury of the cooler air.

  Walking outside the packaging section, Nazim pulled the mask from his face and wiped his sweat with a clean towel. Tearing off the damp, clinging suit, he rolled it up before placing it in a bin with others, which would be taken to a local incinerator and burned.

  Nazim produced a liter of water to the drug dealer while Omar Khalid asked, “Is it always necessary to wear the mask and suit?”

  “Yes,” Nazim answered, taking a drink from the bottle. “Your chemist warned Gregory and me about the residual effects of the drug and said our best protection should not differ from what he and his staff wear.”

  Omar Khalid had never seen this part of the preparation to move the illicit drugs from North Africa. His exposure to drug trafficking, even early in his criminal past, amounted to handling bundles of marijuana strapped to camels making their way across the desert from Morocco. He was beginning to understand his apprentices’ earlier reluctance to include his men working with Gregory in Marseille, knowing exposure to the drug could lead to lethal consequences.

  “Now, since we’re essentially ready to ship, have you heard from your acquaintance in Tangiers?” Nazim asked, wiping himself down with a damp towel.

  Glancing back at Nazim, Omar contemplated telling him the truth. Youssef wants too much in return for helping ship the drugs, he remembered, recounting the discussion he had with the Moroccan gang leader about finding a freighter to move the drugs to Marseille.

  “He, um, shall we say, still wants to negotiate,” Omar said.

  “There’s nothing to negotiate.” Nazim pulled on a pair of clean trousers. “All we’re asking him to do is find a ship captain willing to look the other way who sails between here and Marseille.”

  “You see it in simple terms, my young friend, he sees it as his reputation being at stake,” the older Algerian explained, sipping his Perrier. “Anyhow, aren’t you likewise waiting to find out from your former partner about moving the drugs beyond France?”

  Buttoning his shirt, Nazim looked at his mentor. How do I tell him Gregory’s shipping partners want double the fee to move the drugs? He too recalled earlier discussions centering on their drug trafficking.

  “The shipper, Papillion Transport has requested twice the fee,” Nazim said, conceding to tell Omar about the rising cost. “It suggests, after Gregory and I parted company, the shipping firm was advised that they’re being compelled to gouge me for more money.”

  “This Papillion Transport does business across the Mediterranean, does it not?” Omar asked.

  “Yes. I recall Gregory mentioning on several occasions about the vessel movements: making stops in Athens, Naples, Barcelona, Istanbul, Tangiers, and including here,” Nazim said, lacing up his boots. “I never paid close attention at the time, which in hindsight is my fault.”

  “When in business, it’s not always possible for the leader to be all knowledgeable,” Omar replied as he dropped the empty Perrier bottle in the trash. “But, if what you say is true, then I might be able to call upon another associate to help,” he said, alluding to his connections with a Mafioso don in Naples.

  “Is this the same one who is helping apprehend the policewoman?” Nazim asked before drinking down the liter of water. Three weeks, three long weeks, and still no mention of Hakim or plan to steal away the policewoman. He conceded he relied on Gregory for information of police activities.

  “I will not dictate to Alberto on how to formulate his plans, nor will I give him an unrealistic ‘deadline’ for delivering the woman,” Omar said. “I trust he’ll carry out the task in due time.”

  “And what of your plans to locate Hakim?” Nazim asked, alluding to his cousin, spirited away from Algiers and yet to be seen in Marseille. “For the number of dinars spent ‘greasing’ the palms of the police commissioners, you’ve no information beyond he was placed on an airplane.”

  “Not once have I forgotten about your cousin,” Omar assured Nazim, turning to face him. “And I’ve been working closely with the police commissioner loyal to
me to discern where he’s being held.” He voiced his concern with a touch of anger, feeling the loss of his nephew.

  “My apologies Omar; I’m just concerned for his well-being.”

  “I understand your frustration, but together we’ll find him and bring him back,” the older Algerian said. “We still have favorable connections with several Maghrebi groups in Marseille and Nice we can call for help.”

  Chapter Two

  “Two minutes to action.” The SWAT team commander’s announcement crackled through the earpieces worn by his teams. Two white panel vans maneuvered through traffic as they approached the gate outside an abandoned appliance warehouse, followed closely by two unmarked cars.

  Glancing at the other seven officers in the van, Geneviève felt out of place as the only woman taking part in the raid. Beneath a black Nomex jumpsuit and a black balaclava covering her face, the only clue to her gender was her auburn ponytail hanging out from below the riot helmet. With her pistol secured to her hip, her nervousness caused Geneviève to grip and re-grip the MP5 submachine gun strapped to her chest.

  “Stand by to exit,” Captain Georges, the overall team leader, directed as the vans came to a halt outside the warehouse. Being the first in the van as part of Team Two, Geneviève would be the last one out, responsible for getting into position before hearing the next command.

  Detective (Captain) Lemieux looked on through the binoculars hanging from his chest as he waited in one of the unmarked cars outside the gate. Moments after stopping outside the building, the van doors swung open, discharging the assault teams, each moving in a deliberate pattern practiced over the days leading up to this evening's raid.