Blood Money (chapters twenty one and twenty two.) (standard:Suspense, 3440 words) [11/18] show all parts
Author: Hulsey	Added: Sep 26 2011	Views/Reads: 2110/1546	Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Continued.

21 

De Vries stepped aside, allowed the drinks trolley to pass and ignored
the come on smile from the pretty, redheaded stewardess. The Dutchman 
was married to his job and pleasure had no place in life while he was 
working. He grimaced; his aching legs suffering from the confined 
restrictions of his economy class seat. 

He resented the fact that his employers refused to allocate him the
comfort of business class on his arduous flight to the States. He had 
received confirmation only this morning that a youth had been 
apprehended in Florida, attempting a spending spree on a stolen credit 
card. The card belonged to Dean Schofield. 

De Vries was a creature of habit ,and denied the assistance of a
colleague, even though his Superintendent had demanded so. De Vries 
always worked alone. 

Schofield had disappointed the Dutchman. To clumsily lose his credit
card had diminished what respect De Vries had for the Englishman. Even 
though Schofield no doubt would not have exposed himself by using the 
credit card, De Vries now categorised him as an unworthy adversary. 

Although Khalid had divulged to him that Mukhtar had betrayed the SSP,
De Vries could not take the chance that the money could find its way 
into the coffers of the terrorist organisation; a hefty sum for 
procuring arms. 

De Vries once more settled into his seat and for the umpteenth time, he
browsed through the in-flight magazine. In just over one hour's time, 
he would touch down in Miami and be met by colleagues from Interpol. 
His stay, he expected would be a short one. 

ISLAMABAD 

The sombre-looking woman responded to the knock at her door and faced a
tall, bearded stranger, who wore a white kameez. Her body involuntarily 
shuddered at the sight of the man; his presence oozing vibes of evil. 
He mustered a smile, his crooked teeth and onion breath enhancing his 
portrayal of wickedness. 

Fatma did not return the smile. Dressed in a pale green sari, she
concealed the lower portion of her face. She was still trapped in the 
primitive time warp of Islam and refused to adapt to western culture, 
like so many of her friends had. 

“Can I help you?” 

The narrow, dark eyes were unblinking and the voice deep. “Are you
Fatma, the mother of Rasheed Ali?” 

Fatma resented the man who questioned her. She acknowledged that he no
doubt was responsible for her son's wayward development into the ranks 
of the SSP. The discovery of Rasheed's secret had presented itself by 
accident. Fatma had inadvertently overheard her son speaking to his 
so-called friends. Afterwards, her pleas to abandon the sectarian 
outfit were ignored and a heated argument followed. 

“Who are you?” she asked. 

Fazal Malik brushed the woman aside and stepped inside her humble home.
“I am a friend of Rasheed's and am worried about him.” 

Fatma gently closed the door. “I haven't seen my son for weeks.” 

Malik rudely slumped onto the floral couch and proceeded to peel an
onion. “Do you know where he is?” 

The expression on the woman's face changed. “Why don't you leave him
alone? He's merely a boy and you've recruited him into your evil 
ranks.” 

Malik bit into the raw onion. “Woman, you misunderstand me. Recruited
him? I am but his friend and am seeking him because I owe him some 
money.” 


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