“Paul, blast you! Listen to me! It’s the same man!” Iain Goddard slammed a fist down on Paul Sebastien’s desk. The head of the Interpol Art Crimes division scowled up at the ginger-haired inspector.
“Iain – you actually expect me to believe that a single man is responsible for the forgery and thefts of works of art across seven distinct periods, plus four jewel heists and eight high end confidence games? No one man has that amount of talent and the resources to pull all of those off! He’d need an organization as considerable as Interpol itself.” His French accent and dismissive demeanor only served to anger the Scot further.
He looked at the inspector across from him, vibrating with frustration. Iain Goddard was one of the youngest full inspectors at Interpol and had an uncanny ability to pull together seemingly disparate pieces of information to solve a crime. A small doubt crossed the Parisian’s mind, but he dismissed it – some things were just too outrageous to be true.
“First of all, surveillance video from the museums all seem to have certain failures at specific times. I can’t tell you how long it took me to track down tourists and try to get videos from them to fill in the gaps. The victims of the confidence games all mention the same type of man. They were hard to convince to speak with me. The jewel heists have been even more of an issue with the victims not willing to publicly say anything, but I was able to persuade some of them. All point back to a tall, handsome dark-haired man with blue eyes… HIM!”
He threw down the composite sketch built up from the various victims and one of the photographs from JD.
Sebastien gave him a very Gallic shrug.
“That describes about a quarter of Europe.” He stood up and looked at his watch.
“Drop this, Iain. All the evidence I have is your chasing ghosts and the word of an old woman and her gigolo.” He stood up, dismissing the Goddard.
“I have a meeting to attend. After I get back, the Narcotics Division has a particularly difficult case and I’ve seconded you to them. We’ll discuss that later.”
Cursing, Goddard grabbed paperwork and stalked out of the office.
* * *
The red-haired inspector stormed down the corridor.
“Goddamn fucking metrosexual…” he muttered to himself. Then stopped. The past few weeks had been stressful to say the very least. A tired grin crossed his face as the words of his old granny echoed in his ear:
Hello pot, kettle calling…
He slowed his pace and returned to his office to continue his investigation until the meeting.
You’ll be mine, Alec Reynard, if it’s the last thing I ever do…
* * *
A bucket of water woke him suddenly as he choked and sputtered as the liquid invaded his nose and throat.
“Well, the famous inspector is awake, time for more fun!” The man had thick features and porcine eyes. He spoke English with a thick French accent.
Iain raised his head and looked at the speaker. Then spat into his face. For that, he received a backhanded slap that set him swinging in his chains.
The last thing he remembered was seeing his Interpol partner fall to the ground and a blow to the back of his head that made him see stars and spun him into blackness. He had woken to find himself stripped nearly naked; he was handcuffed with his arms pulled painfully over his head; a chain connected the cuffs and was fastened over some heavy pipes overhead. His legs were spread wide and his ankles were fastened to cuffs connected to eyehooks in the floor.
Goddard took a shuddering breath – his arms were completely numb and at least two ribs were broken. Every breath was an agony. The criminals had been far busier with Egon Schmidt. He was strung up as he was and a series of Arabic words had been carved into the other man’s chest with trails of blood dripping down his torso; his face was a mass of cuts and bruises and he was gasping in pain and terror.
“This one has told us everything he could. Get rid of him.” Another of his captors took a scalpel from a table and gashed the side of Egon’s throat. Iain flinched as the man strangled on his own blood and sagged lifeless in his chains.
“At least you show some spirit, Inspector Red Head...” He pronounced the title like a curse.
“You may have interrupted our pipeline from Damascus, but you haven’t stopped it. Despite the anger of our investors, they have offered us quite a prize for keeping you alive and in relatively good health. Nothing will be more pleasing to see you suffer the tortures of the damned as a slave for some – how do you call it? – ‘Pakky’ drug lord.”
Iain’s heart seized in his chest.
“Fuck you!” he growled.
The French criminal gave a malevolent chuckle.
“I don’t think so, mon ami … but I am sure you will be experiencing that first-hand … and quite often.”
Goddard twisted in his chains, his restraints making a loud rattling in the relative quiet of the warehouse. The noise had masked the approach of two other men and he twitched as a new voice spoke behind him.
“A most delightful specimen. I am pleased, Monsieur Bertrand.” He shivered as a finger trailed down his spine.The voice had the clipped perfection of the most rarified of British society.
The man stepped around him. The arab wore a dark business suit with a
shemagh on his head. He was heroically built though smaller in stature than Goddard and his beard was razor-cut with precision into several geometric shapes on his chiseled face. A hand flashed out to grab Iain by his jaw and a powerful arm twisted the Scot’s head back and forth as he would inspect an animal for purchase.
Or slaughter.
“
Most delightful, indeed…Moustaffa, what say you?”
The other arab that had been running hands along Iain's body stopped and stood beside the sheik. He was far more heavily built than his companion. And at least six and a half feet tall. A silky black compression shirt was stretched tightly over a muscular body and tucked into a pair of black cargo pants. Dark eyes – nearly black – were surmounted by expressive brows and a shaved head. The other man continued to examine Goddard’s physique, with strong hands exploring every inch of the inspector’s body.
“He will do, Excellence. Once we remove his tongue and teeth, he will be taught how to pleasure your clientele as befits a slave.” He slid a hand into Goddard's trunks and grasped Iain’s manhood, giving it a firm squeeze.
“Do you wish this one gelded as well? A red-haired breeder would be a rarity, my Lord.”
The sheik gave his underling a hard stare.
“Fool! Gelding is a requirement above all else! My slaves are things, not men!” He turned to the criminal, who had gone slightly green at the exchange.
“Come, Monsieur Bertrand, I wish to know the extent of the damage Interpol has done to our operations.” He strode away and the other man hurried to follow.
Iain glared at Moustaffa, as the sheik’s underling continued to examine him. Despite his huge hands, his touch was extremely gentle. He paused as Iain winced when his fingers passed over the broken ribs. The arab looked into the whiskey-brown eyes and pitched his voice so low only the captive could hear.
“Get ready, sir. Flash-bang in a few.”
* * *
Iain was shocked to hear those words, but screwed his eyes shut. In the span of a few heartbeats, an actinic glare glowed blood-red behind his eyelids and an explosion rocked the warehouse as tinkling shards of glass rained down upon them. Goddard found himself quickly freed from his restraints and slung over Moustaffa’s shoulder in a
fireman’s carry. He was vaguely aware of black-clad men in body armor and assault weapons moving throughout the building and the shrieking pain in his torso as he and his rescuer burst out of the warehouse and into the open air. Once out of the building, the arab switched his position and carried the inspector in his arms as he would a small child. The two headed to a waiting ambulance. Moustaffa moved with a speed and grace as if Iain were weightless.
“No worries, sir. You’re safe now. We’re sorry we didn’t arrive sooner, but it took time to find you. We had to kill a number of people to get the information.... No one of any import, though…” He added offhandedly.
“Who … who are you…?” Iain was disoriented from the torture and the flash-bang assault that freed him. He was having problems catching his breath from the broken ribs and his head was spinning from the pain.
Moustaffa laid him on a gurney and two medics began the process of stabilizing him. He flinched as several needles were inserted into his arms and he watched as the glucose and saline drips began. A cervical brace was fastened around his neck and he sank gratefully into the soft pillow and surface of the gurney’s mattress. He was then lightly strapped in place.
“Friends, sir. That’s all you need to know right now.” He turned to the medics and gave them a nod. Iain felt the pain recede and soon slipped into unconsciousness as the sedatives took hold.
Another man in black armor strode over to the sleeping Goddard. He wore an assault helmet, goggles and balaclava; a gloved hand gently stroked the inspector’s forehead. A walkie-talkie crackled at his waist, the progress of the assault and rescue broadcast by multiple voices. He smelled of cordite and death.
He turned to the medics
“How is he?”
“Nothing life-threatening, Mr. Reynard. Broken ribs, bad bruising, not much else. Maybe a concussion. We’ll drive the stolen ambulance back to the hospital at Rouen and let them take it from there.”
Alec nodded as the two men bustled the inspector into the ambulance and drove off. He pulled off the mask and helmet and turned to Moustaffa. His blue eyes blazed and his face was set in hard lines reminiscent of an avenging angel.
“What about Bertrand?”
“Asim has him under guard. The other ones in the warehouse are all dead. We killed the rest of the gang to get the information about this location. All the drugs have been gathered up, as well as the cash. What do you want to do with him?”
“I rather like your suggestions when you were giving your speech about turning Iain into a slave. Pull out his teeth, rip out his tongue and cut off his cock and balls.”
Reynard stalked away. He stopped and turned around to his lieutenant.
“And then flay every inch of skin off his goddamned body.”
* * *
After yesterday's photo shoot, I had a burst of creative energy to write. So - no time like the present!!!
It appears that Jessie did not quite know the extent Alec Reynard would go to protect the man he loves. Despite being a con man, there is a vast, untapped well of violence that Alec can (and will) dive into. This part of the saga is a bit of an interlude piece to set Iain's path after the theft of the Davinci portfolio. You can see here that his talents are somewhat dismissed by his superiors at Interpol and this rankles his immensely. What I haven't decided yet is whether the narcotics assignment was done on purpose to eliminate him. I don't know if this will introduce too much complexity into the story. But one thing I know for certain - Iain will discover that his superiors did nothing to save him. This also gives the reader a bit of inside knowledge to the extent of Lucio Giambi's reach - I've always said that Giambi's empire spans the world, but his influence in the Middle East was something I've only hinted at previously. (Points to the reader who can point to which particular story!)
Stay tuned for more on Iain and Alec!
