Blood Money (chapters nineteen and twenty.) (standard:Suspense, 4451 words) [10/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 24 2011	Views/Reads: 2114/1608	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

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“Not English, but Irish Ayub,” corrected the older man. “Weren't you
listening to the gentleman?” 

Ayub searched the Irishman for his passport, but was unsuccessful. He
removed the wallet from the back pocket of Keenan's denims and passed 
it to his obvious superior. 

The gunman invited Keenan to sit on the threadbare couch before
rummaging through the wallet. He came across two credit cards and a 
driving license. “Terence Keenan...Now why would an IRA gunman be 
interested in Mukhtar Ahmed?” 

Keenan displayed no fear and scowled at his interrogator. “That's
between Mukhtar and me... Now if you value your pathetic life, you'll 
cooperate with me, unless of course you're in this with Mukhtar.” 

The gunman looked genuinely bemused. “Excuse my manners, Mr Keenan. Let
me introduce myself. My name is Khalid, and in case it's escaped your 
attention, I'm the one holding the gun... Again, I'll ask you why are 
you looking for Mukhtar?” 

Keenan pointed his finger menacingly at Khalid. “You'd better use that
gun because I'm going...” 

“Silence!” ordered Khalid. “Do not threaten me, Irish. You're in
Islamabad, not fucking Belfast.” He nodded once more to Ayub and the 
younger man left the room. 

Khalid continued. “Let me put you in the picture, Mr Keenan. There are
worldwide, more powerful groups than the IRA, who incidentally have 
given up their arms have they not? I'm an educated man and to give up 
your arms can be categorised as surrender if I'm not mistaken... I 
belong to such a group, who unlike the IRA, would fight to the death 
rather than to submit to the government.” 

Ayub returned and proceeded to tie Keenan‘s hands behind his back. “I
was educated in England, Mr Keenan and so I know a little about the IRA 
and their methods. Kneecapping, now there's a punishment that's never 
really appealed to me. Being primitive as you infidels deem us, we have 
more barbaric methods of deterrence.” 

Again, Khalid nodded towards Ayub, who proceeded to unscrew the top from
a petrol can. Keenan looked away, as the scar-faced Asian dowsed him 
liberally with petrol. 

Khalid lit up a cigarette and smiled at the Irishman. “I'll let you into
a secret should I, Mr Keenan? We too seek Mukhtar and two of his 
friends. His absence is a great concern to us; as it appears that he 
has foolishly betrayed us... What we do know is that he travelled to 
London to collect the one million pounds on offer from Morris O'Hara, 
who I take it you work for... Yes, Keenan, I've been teasing you. I 
assume that Mukhtar is suspected of robbing Mr O'Hara and you're here 
to retrieve the money.” 

Keenan smiled at his two oppressors. “Shit, you two really are a couple
of ugly twats.” 

Khalid clapped his hands together slowly, his cigarette clamped between
his yellowing teeth. “The last heroic words of a dying man... I respect 
your loyalty to your master, but why? You do realise that I have no 
choice but to kill you don't you? Mukhtar surprised us all. We never 
ever thought he had the guts to pull this robbery off... Of course, 
once we suspected him of robbing O'Hara, we expected to hear from 
him... He would have been held in high esteem by the SSP if only he had 
donated the money to us, but alas. It appears that Mukthar and his 
friends were corrupted by so much money and decided to keep it for 
themselves.” 

Keenan's eyes examined the shabby room, hopelessly searching for the
remotest possibility of escape. Ayub, teasingly clicked his lighter 
inches from the body of the Irishman. 

Khalid went on. “We would be humiliated if we let a bunch of ex Irish
terrorists come into our country and take away the money now wouldn't 
we? I anticipate that after you, there will be others, but they will 
die, just as you will... Ayub, escort our friend to the car. It would 
be a great shame to burn down the home of Mukhtar, after all, he may 
return here some day.” 

Ayub pointed his pistol at the head of Keenan and ushered him outside,
oblivious of the bystanders who were witnessing the incident. The 
people of Islamabad had learnt to turn a blind eye to such occurrences. 


The sudden sensation of the hot sun was in contrast to the cool interior
of the apartment. Keenan was bundled into the back of a white Toyota 
and Ayub sat beside him, his weapon directed at his captive. 

Khalid spoke outside on his cell phone before clambering in to the
driver's seat. He slipped a CD into the player and loud Asian music 
accompanied them on their short drive to the suburbs of the capital. 

Twenty minutes later and they arrived at their destination. Dozens of
mud huts populated the dusty shantytown, and the obviously deprived 
inhabitants ignored the vehicle as it came to a halt. 

Keenan was ushered from the car and led towards an unimpressive hut. He
looked towards an old man, who was watching the proceedings. “Call the 
police!” yelled the Irishman. “I've been abducted and am here against 
my will.” 

Khalid conversed with the old man, who laughed, displaying a set of
rotten teeth. Ayub pushed Keenan into the hut and even the odour of 
petrol could not disguise the stale stench. Multitudes of flies 
occupied the small room and two wooden chairs and a table were the only 
evident furnishings. 

Khalid joined them and watched as Keenan was ordered to sit on one of
the chairs. “Not exactly the Ritz I know, but it's as good a place as 
any to die I suppose... Incidentally, Mr Keenan, what do you know of 
Lance Peebles?” 

Keenan spit in the face of his interrogator. 

Khalid wiped away the spittle and lit up another foul-smelling
cigarette. “I suppose you know as much as us... Foolish though to think 
that Mukhtar would return here, but you Irish do have a reputation of 
being not very clever do you not?” 

Khalid checked his wristwatch. “Your time has come I'm afraid, Mr
Keenan... Burning is such a painful death, or so I've been told, and I 
really am not a barbarian, but with the discovery of your body and your 
documents intact, I'm sure your countrymen will think twice before 
travelling to Pakistan.” 

Keenan spit out a fly, scowled and looked past Khalid, who was igniting
his lighter. He did not recognise the blonde man who brandished the 
pistol. The Irishman laughed loudly, hearing the loud gunshots that 
riddled the bodies of his abductors. Khalid and Ayub fell to the filthy 
ground, the former still clutching his lighter. 

The handsome stranger proceeded to untie Keenan. 

“Who are you?” 

No answer was forthcoming. Keenan massaged his sore wris ts before
kicking the corpse of Ayub. “Did O'Hara send you?” 

“Come, we must go quickly. I have a car outside.” 

Keenan followed the mystery man towards his car, curious to whom the
foreign sounding man was. A crowd was now gathering, and the driver 
manoeuvred through them until he was clear, before accelerating. 

“I owe you, stranger... Who are you?” 

Inspector De Vries checked his mirror and steered his vehicle onto a
narrow, dusty road riddled with potholes. He opened up his glove 
compartment and handed over a bottle of water to his curious passenger. 


Keenan gratefully accepted the water and drunk greedily, pouring some of
the cool liquid over his head. He removed his shirt and tossed it 
through the open window. “Sorry about the stink of petrol, but those 
two back there were planning a barbecue and I was the main course... So 
are you going to tell me who you are?” 

“That is not important... All I can tell you is that it is in my best
interest that the SSP do not get hold of O'Hara's money.” 

“You know who I am?” 

De Vries looked across at the Irishman. “Of course... I followed you
from the airport.” 

“You're a pig?” 

The Inspector grinned. “Listen, Keenan, who I work for is unimportant.
Personally, I wouldn't have given a shit if they toasted you back 
there, but I'm following orders, just as you are... You sure are a dumb 
arse, confronting a member of the SSP and asking questions.” 

“I knew nothing of the SSP... Of course, I've heard of them, but I was
unaware they were involved with Mukhtar.” 

De Vries slowed down. “I gather Mukhtar has passed on the money to
them?” 

Keenan swallowed another mouthful of water. “Shit, no. They're looking
for Mukhtar and his fucking cronies. It seems he's done the dirty on 
them.” 

De Vries looked elated, his perfect white teeth visible when he smiled.
“Are you sure? Are you saying that Mukhtar has done a runner?” 

Keenan ignored the question. “So why exactly did you save my butt back
there?” 

“Let's just say that it's in our best interests also that O'Hara gets
his money back... If the money falls into the hands of the SSP it will 
no doubt be used for funding arms... Listen carefully. I'm going to 
drive you to the airport. It would be foolish to return to your hotel.” 


“But my passport?” 

“I'll have someone fetch it to you, along with some clothes... Leave
Pakistan immediately. Mukhtar is not here or I would know about it.” 

The two went their separate ways at the airport. No handshake was
exchanged and none expected by De Vries, who accepted that the ex IRA 
gunman was proud and ungrateful, even though he had saved his life. 

De Vries turned his mind to more immediate matters; locating Dean
Schofield. The private detective, he now acknowledged may have a 
contributing influence on what happens to O'Hara's money. Again, the 
man from Interpol would act out the role of nursemaid, ensuring the 
money did not reach SSP. 

He watched the aeroplane take off from the viewing gallery, and
unconsciously mouthed the words, “where are you Schofield; where are 
you?” 

20 

FLORIDA Schofield felt so conspicuous as he lingered on the dock,
awaiting his arranged rendezvous with Peebles. Although the relief 
worker could have had him killed, it made no sense, with him believing 
that O'Hara knew his whereabouts. 

It was just after seven in the morning and the orange sky reflected off
the still, perfect, blue water. Schofield removed his sunglasses, heard 
the low drone of a motor and watched the approach of a thirty-foot 
boat. 

Nearing the dock the motor fell silent. Peebles, who was looking
elegant, donning a captain's naval cap and wearing a white shirt and 
shorts was standing proudly on the deck. He looked around before 
producing a pistol. 

“Mr Bell, would you please remove your tee shirt slowly?” 

Schofield obeyed. 

“Now drop your shorts.” 

The Londoner hesitated. 

“I have to be sure you‘re not armed,” insisted Peebles. 

Schofield again did as he was asked. 

“Thank you...Welcome aboard, Mr Bell,” beamed Peebles. 

Schofield put on his tee shirt and boarded the impressive vessel. In his
finest Irish accent, he asked, “this is yours?” 

“Heavens, no. I rented , Mr Bell... I presume you won't protest if I
left this dock? You never can be too careful can you?” said Peebles 
nervously, stepping behind the wheelhouse to conceal himself from the 
possible sights of a high-powered rifle. 

Schofield, after searching the cabin was satisfied that they were alone,
and gave his consent for Peebles to sail. The luxury craft scythed 
through the crystal clear water, until they were about three hundred 
metres from the shore. Peebles, content that they had not been followed 
switched off the engine. 

The two men relaxed in a couple of canvas chairs and Peebles opened up.
“I have consented with my colleagues and we have agreed to your 
demands... Once you have the money, then you report to O'Hara that you 
have failed to locate us, right?” 

“Of course... You'll never hear from me again.” 

Peebles ambled towards the cabin and returned with a tray, laden with a
bottle of rum and two glasses. He proceeded to pour out two measures. 
“I know it's a little early, but I need a drink and I'm sure you do 
too.” 

Schofield nodded his approval. 

Peebles raised his cap. “Mr Bell, I'm curious... How will you deceive
O'Hara? I mean, what are your immediate plans? You see, it entered my 
mind that after you receive the money, what's to stop you from just 
disappearing? If that was the case, then O'Hara would, I'm certain send 
more men to Florida.” 

Schofield savoured the rum and shook his head. “I'll keep my word. I'll
continue to work for O'Hara until I feel the time is right for me to 
leave.” 

Peebles displayed a cheesy grin. “That I'm afraid is not good enough...
True, I have no intention of remaining in Florida, but I need something 
more... I mean, you found me easily enough and I assume O‘Hara could do 
so again?” 

“You've lost me, Peebles. What exactly are you getting at?” “I need some
sort of guarantee that you'll report to O'Hara.” The sound of the radio 
transmission coming from the wheelhouse interrupted their conversation. 


“Excuse me will you, Mr Bell?” 

Peebles paced towards the wheelhouse. He checked to make sure that his
guest was still seated before speaking into the receiver. “Can you 
please repeat the last message, over?” 

“The man onboard is Schofield. I repeat, the man onboard is Schofield.” 

Peebles gripped his pistol tightly. “How? I mean, are you sure?” Peebles
looked towards the coast where Mukhtar and Rasheed had been concealed, 
equipped with binoculars. 

Rasheed spoke. “The man you are with is the man we saw speaking to
Chaplin in Trafalgar Square. There is no mistake.” 

Schofield watched Peebles and sensed all was not well. He now felt
vulnerable. 

Peebles stepped out from the wheelhouse and walked steadily towards the
private investigator. His unstable smile disguised his discomfort. 

“Is anything wrong?” asked Schofield. 

“Wrong? Of course not. What could be wrong, Mr Schofield!” The
expression on Peeble's face changed and he nervously pointed his weapon 
at Schofield's midriff. “Do you take me for a fool?” 

Schofield retained his Irish accent. “Just what the fuck's going on,
Peebles?” 

The relief worker pointed towards the coast. “As a precaution, I had you
watched... Now I feel such relief that you are Dean Schofield, and not 
some IRA gunman.” 

“Dean Schofield? He's dead... I shot him myself.” 

“Silence! Enough of your lies. Rasheed saw you speaking to your brother
in law in Trafalgar Square... Now what am I going to do with you?” 

Schofield realised his bartering was futile. His eyes craftily searched
the deck for a means of escape. 

Peebles was now growing confident. “So why are you here?... Mmm, let me
speculate. I know from Rasheed that Chaplin and yourself were trying to 
scam O'Hara, and so I assume that you came here in a vain attempt to 
get your money back.” 

Schofield dropped the Irish accent. “Close, Peebles. You failed to
mention that you are partly responsible for Sam's death.” 

“Bullshit! Sam was my friend.” 

“Your friend? You fed Sam with Mukhtar didn't you? You had this planned
from the beginning... Sam did mention to you about O'Hara's proposal 
didn't he? He swore to me that he didn't. That's how much he regarded 
you Peebles, and you betrayed him.” 

“Betrayed him? I knew nothing of his proposed scam at first. Christ,
this was Sam. Who would have thought? After he told me about O'Hara's 
proposition, I then came up with the idea of robbing the Irishman... 
Yes, I fed him Mukhtar, as you so crudely put it, but even that may 
have been a mistake. You see, Mukhtar and Rasheed possessed such 
outrageous fantasies that they could buy favour with Sipah-e-Sahaba. 
They at first intended to hand them the entire proceeds of the robbery, 
but I persuaded them otherwise.” 

The sound of a speeding motorboat was unmistakable and Schofield
realised that he had to act swiftly. Peebles looked past his captor, 
towards his approaching companions, and the split second distraction 
was all that Schofield needed. He rapidly picked up his rum-filled 
glass and threw the contents into the face of Peebles. Like a hungry 
leopard, Schofield pounced and easily wrestled the weapon from the hand 
of his aggressor. A killer, Peebles was definitely not. 

Schofield held the muzzle against the head of the startled relief worker
and used his body as a shield, facing the speedboat that was now 
coasting slowly towards the boat. He recognised one of the men from 
Trafalgar Square, but his first impression of Mukthar Ahmed was one of 
surprise. The fresh-faced man looked as though he should still be 
sitting behind a school desk. The two Asian men were armed with 
automatic machine guns and Schofield was grateful for his human shield. 


“At last we meet, Mukhtar,” shouted Schofield, his pistol still resting
against the head of Peebles. 

Mukhtar smiled, displaying a radiant set of teeth. “I'm a gracious man,
Mr Schofield and I'm truly sorry for what happened to your brother in 
law, but you must see that his death was nothing to do with us... You 
have come such a long way for nothing... As I've already said, I'm a 
gracious man and have no quarrel with you. Release Peebles, throw your 
weapon into the ocean and we'll escort you to the shore. You have my 
word that you will not be harmed, and you'll be allowed to leave 
without fear.” 

Schofield took a deep breath. “I have a better idea... I'm also a
gracious man, Mukhtar and a honest one... I admit my intention was to 
procure the entire three million from you, but I'm also reasonable, and 
therefore, you and your friend make for the shore and when you return, 
I'll expect to see a suitcase filled with one million pounds, or the 
equivalent in dollars. That will leave you with more than enough to 
live comfortably, and we all live happily ever after.” 

The two Asian men laughed loudly. It was Mukhtar again who spoke. “I'm
so disappointed in you, Schofield. You marred my delusion that you were 
a honourable man who came here not merely to fill his own pockets, but 
to avenge his brother in law's death. And no, you are not a honest man 
as you claimed. Didn't you and Chaplin plot to dupe O'Hara?” 

“My offer still stands, Mukhtar. One million pounds and I'll release
Peebles.” 

Again, Mukhtar and Rasheed laughed. “You pathetic fool,” yelled
Mukhtar... “Peebles means nothing to us. In fact, you'd be doing us a 
favour if you killed him, you see, several influential people are 
hunting us and without Peebles we would be more difficult to trace.” 

This was not what Schofield wanted to hear. He focused on the automatic
weapons and realised he was the underdog. He watched as the machine 
guns were raised, and fired three shots at his intended assailants. He 
clung onto the dancing body of Peebles, as round after round pounded 
his bloody chest; deadly grunts escaping from his open mouth. 
Thankfully, the rounds did not penetrate through the dead body of 
Peebles. Schofield manhandled the corpse to the wheelhouse. 

The salvo had ceased and the two Asians scrambled up the steps of the
boat. Schofield fired off another four rounds in their direction and 
prayed that his weapon was fully loaded. His body was now saturated in 
perspiration and the blood of Peebles. His alarm was apparent, when he 
failed to locate where Mukhtar and Rasheed had hidden themselves. 

“Schofield,” came the cry from Mukhtar. “This is all so pointless... Our
offer still stands. Throw your weapon overboard and you are free to 
go.” 

“Please, don't insult me, Mukhtar. I would have to be crazy to accept
your offer.” 

“Then prepare to die.” 

Schofield peered around the wheelhouse and heard the pair whispering. He
looked towards the shore and doubted that he could swim so far, 
besides, his fear of sharks disallowed that option. 

“Schofield... Peebles, we know had much money stored in his safe in the
villa. We are prepared to leave and you can help yourself to his 
money... I'm certain the key to the safe will be either on him or 
hidden in the villa... What do you say to that? We'll leave the boat 
and you help yourself to his money, and we never lay eyes on you again. 
Sounds good, eh?” 

Schofield at that moment favoured the offer; after all, he could
continue the hunt for the pair later. ”And what if the key isn't in his 
possession or in the villa?” 

“Giving your skills as a private detective, I'm sure you can find a
means of opening a safe.” 

“Would Peebles be as stupid as to store a large sum of money in the
villa?” asked Schofield, watching the bow of the boat attentively. 

“I assure you, I saw Peebles myself place two hundred thousand dollars
in the safe... The option is yours, Schofield. The odds are against 
you, and this way, you escape with your life and a nice little sum in 
your pocket... We will even disable the alarm to the villa.” 

Schofield pondered. He felt certain that Mukhtar was lying, and assumed
that the pair would set a trap inside the villa. He needed time and 
Mukhtar was offering him a lifeline. “Okay, Mukhtar, leave the boat.” 

“And we never hear from you again?” 

“You have my word... I'm roasting my nuts off here anyway.” 

He watched as the two gunmen rose from behind the nets and walked
backwards. They were as good as their word and clambered down the 
ladder to their speedboat. 

“A honourable man you are not, Schofield. No doubt our paths will cross
again. Enjoy your blood money, English.” 

Schofield watched painfully as Mukhtar lifted up a suitcase and
mockingly pointed at it. The Londoner realised that Peebles would have 
been prepared to release the half a million pounds. 

The speedboat sped off and Schofield acknowledged that he was a very
lucky man indeed. He fathomed that the two Asians could have 
overpowered him, but the risk that one of them could have been killed 
prompted their decision. He removed the magazine from the pistol and 
stared at the empty chamber. The gods certainly had dealt him a full 
house that morning. 

Finding a set of binoculars in the wheelhouse, Schofield jogged towards
the stern of the boat. He focused the binoculars on the two fleeing 
men, who had now reached the dock. He followed their progress, as they 
walked briskly towards a red sports car. Schofield squinted, his eyes 
struggling to read the number plate. The car sped off and he cursed 
loudly. 

Schofield, after working out how to sail the boat, steered it along the
coast before turning towards the shore. Some one hundred metres out, he 
cut the engine and stared at the bloody corpse of Peebles. He searched 
the corpse and it gave up a bunch of keys and a full magazine that he 
inserted into the weapon. He removed his own tee shirt and flung it 
overboard, before tucking the pistol into his waistband. With an old 
rag, he went about the task of erasing any signs of his fingerprints. 

Schofield skirted the ocean for any presence of man-eaters, before
jumping into the cooling, blue water. He swam swiftly towards the 
shore, following the orange shaft of light projected on the ocean from 
the rousing sun. He gratefully reached the beach and looked for any 
witnesses who may be present. Satisfied that his shorts were not 
stained with blood, he jogged along the sand. To prying eyes, he was 
just another fitness fanatic, taking early morning exercise. 


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