Loss of Faith (A Gabriel De Sade Thriller)

By Eric Meyer

New York homicide detective Gabriel de Sade juggles his days between the hunt for maniac killers and the continuing fight against the heavy hand of city bureaucracy. A bureaucracy that is uneasy at his heavy–handed way of dealing with suspects. But at least he has the support of his Chief, until they trade his detective’s skills with the CIA. In return for help to plug a leak in the 9th Precinct, de Sade is to travel to Italy to recover a lost package.

When he refuses to be used as a pawn in their political games, the Director of the CIA drops the bombshell. Faith Ward, de Sade’s former lover, travelled to Rome to retrieve the package and disappeared. The mission has become more than the recovery of a simple package. He is to locate her before she is killed. He has no choice but to accept. Yet the mission is far more than he could possibly have imagined. His former Special Forces partner, Jonas Savage, teams up to help. As well as a mysterious and lethal Russian girl, Galina Polotsova. Formerly a Spetsnaz operative, she now works as a mysterious trouble shooter for the Eastern Orthodox Church.

They travel to Rome and on to Southern Italy, to Calabria, to confront the 'Ndrangheta, the vicious local mafia. Yet the mission swerves in an unexpected direction, to Jerusalem. And a threat to the stability of the civilized world. A unique thriller that grabs the reader’s interest from page one and never lets up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Dec 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781906512958

Eric Meyer

An internationally recognized expert on the subjects of HTML, CSS, and Web standards, Eric has been working on the web since late 1993. He is the founder of Complex Spiral Consulting, a co-founder of the microformats movement, and co-founder (with Jeffrey Zeldman) of An Event Apart, the design conference series for people who make web sites. Beginning in early 1994, Eric was the campus Web coordinator for Case Western Reserve University, where he authored a widely acclaimed series of three HTML tutorials and was project lead for the online version of the Encyclopedia of Cleveland History combined with the Dictionary of Cleveland Biography, the first example of an encyclopedia of urban history being fully and freely published on the Web.

Book preview

LOSS OF FAITH

By Eric Meyer

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright © 2011 by Eric Meyer

Published by Swordworks Books

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

Chapter One

We cannot resist the fascination of sacrifice, since a passion for sacrifices is part of a chess player's nature - Rudolf Spielman

He wanted to scream, but some last vestige of pride prevented him from crying out. He knew they’d brought him to this dank basement to die. Yet he thought that he could hold out for a little longer, and then they may just believe him. Might let him live. Maybe! The face loomed over him once more.

Ufa, tell us about the priest. What is his name? The handsome face, olive-skinned, clean-shaven and well groomed, gave the man the appearance of a Middle Eastern playboy. His hair, as ever, was slicked down with hair oil. And his suit was immaculate, expensive, beautifully cut, and worn over a fresh, clean white silk shirt. It seemed incongruous in this claustrophobic hell. Today, Osman’s face appeared even more menacing than before even though the voice was still gentle. His face was death.

Ufa turned his head away. Then he squirmed, trying to shift his position to ease the pain of his burned feet. When he looked up again, he could see the cracked and roughly plastered ceiling, a single lamp burned, hanging from semi-bare cables. He tried to speak, his voice hoarse. It came out as an agonized whisper.

I told you. He never told me his name. He was just a doctor in the mission hospital where I worked. When Tamin was wounded in the crossfire from the ambush, he went to the priest for treatment. He knew he was dying, and I overheard him say he’d lost faith in the movement because they hadn’t kept their promises to look after his wife and sons. Then the priest went away. He was going home.

But that’s not all, is it? One of the patients said he saw Tamin give the priest a package, an important package. Tell us about it, Ufa.

Yes, yes, he gave him a package. That is all I know nothing more, I, aaggghhhh!!!

The smell of burning flesh filled the room with its obscene fragrance. Osman knew that some found the smell abhorrent. That was strange. To him it was merely a tool, and like a pump that sucked water from a well. Yes, that was a suitable analogy. The pump sucked water, and burning flesh sucked out information. What was so different? He looked down at the man strapped to the oak table. He had to get him to talk. It was vital they located the priest. The traitor Tamin had been working on an update for their computer records. He knew that the man carried the data on his person because it was too valuable to leave in his home. It was unfortunate that his group was hit by a rival warband who envied their better-financed operation and coveted their shiny new weapons and equipment. So Tamin’s faith collapsed, perhaps due to the shock of his wounds. He made accusations against the group, and that the leadership had failed his family. It was all nonsense, of course. They just didn’t have the resources they needed to keep every promise, not yet. But handing over the group’s records to an Infidel priest, a doctor, was unforgiveable. It was a blasphemy against God, for were they not his chosen warriors? He was overcome with a feeling of irritation. It was hot and humid in this room, and he wanted to get out to enjoy a cool drink in the sunshine.

He nodded at the man holding the heated poker. The red hot metal met already-scorched flesh.

Aaggghhhh! Please, no, no more!

Osman inspected the blistered, broken soles. The feet were the perfect point at which to apply pain. They were so sensitive, and a prisoner whose feet were tortured with the hot iron was not likely to escape unless the man crawled away. He smiled and leaned down close to the man’s sweating, pain-wracked face.

Ufa, spare yourself more pain. Tell me about this priest, this doctor. What did you call him?

Doctor, he whispered through his agony.

Yes, of course. Doctor what?

Ufa was quiet as he struggled to remember. Osman could see his face was screwed up in tight concentration.

Tell me, you pathetic little traitor! Tell me his name! Or I’ll start on your balls next.

It was Doctor Declan. Yes, I think that was it, he blurted out quickly. But I never knew his other name. Hanif, please, you won’t kill me, will you? I am telling you everything I know.

Of course you are, my friend. What did this Doctor Declan look like?

He was white, a European.

Hanif pushed back his irritation. Was he short, tall, fat, or thin? What did he look like?

He waited while the prisoner gathered his thoughts again. Then his face cleared. He looked like you, Hanif. Average height, dark hair and eyes, and he looked fit. He was not fat, but not thin. Yes, just like you.

Good, Ufa. Well done, he said soothingly. Now, tell me, when he left, where did he go?

Another wait. Osman had to listen carefully to catch the single word. Rome.

Why had the fool not told him in the first place and saved himself all of this pain? He’d sent a message through an intermediary that he had information he wished to sell. But Osman didn’t buy information, not like that. The man should have known. Believers should give freely, to support the movement that shed blood for their freedom. Now he had lost everything. He held out his hand to the jailer for the red-hot poker. Ufa looked up and saw it poised over his belly. He screamed as it descended, and then the room went quiet. Osman had pumped this particular well dry. As was evidenced by the smell, which was stronger than ever.

He left the dingy basement and walked quickly up stone steps to the first floor. His second in command, Dawid Hamidi, waited impassively in the narrow hallway. You have what you want?

Yes. The priest went to Rome, the Vatican, I imagine, and his name is Declan. We need to send someone to Rome to locate him.

He looked at Hamidi and smiled. Hamidi was the son of an Egyptian father and a French mother. His skin was pale, and he looked like a dark haired, dark-eyed North European. He was able to blend in with many situations, especially in Europe and the US where a dark skin would be viewed with suspicion. Even more, he had the quality Special Forces soldiers the world over possessed. He was Mr. Average, of medium height, and with a medium build disguising the wiry strength that lay beneath the ragged dish-dash he now wore.

Dawid understood at once. He always did. You want me to go to Rome?

It is essential that you locate this Father Declan. After that, you know what to do. We have to have that package.

It’s not much to go on, Hamidi pondered, and his face screwed up with thought. There must be thousands of priests in the Vatican.

That is true. But you are looking for a specific order of priests that supplies doctors to Yemen. One of them will be Doctor Declan.

Dawid still looked uncertain. Osman had every confidence in Hamidi. But he may be out of his depth in Italy. There was too much at stake, and if the priest refused to hand over the package, it may be necessary to kidnap him so that he could be questioned like they’d questioned Ufa. It was too much to expect one man to cope with that, especially in a foreign country.

Dawid, it may be best to engage the services of our Calabrian friends. Just in case you need any help. The priest may not be as accommodating to our demands as we would hope.

Hamidi’s face clouded. The Calabrians could be more than we can handle, Hanif. I recall once before when they kidnapped a hostage for us, the son of an Iranian diplomat. Then they sold him to the highest bidder.

Then we must make sure we are the highest bidder. If we pay them enough, they will do as we wish. I will ask them to make contact with you in Rome. It is essential that our operations are not compromised, especially the one in Israel. Perhaps it would be best if you continued on to Jerusalem once you have dealt with the priest. It is vital that no one uncovers our plan there. The Infidels will know soon enough what we are capable of.

Very well, I will fly to Israel as soon as the Rome business is concluded. He spat out the word ‘Israel’ as if it was something filthy and contemptuous. Do you want me to contact the water company man?

Osman thought for a few moments before he replied. Yes. As soon as he's planted the device, it may be best if he disappeared.

Permanently?

Just hold him, in case we need him. Afterwards, it may be as well for him to disappear. We’ll have no further use for him, and it’ll tie up a loose end.

Very well, it shall be as you wish.

Go with God, Dawid.

Our path is righteous, his henchman repeated automatically.

***

You make that move and you’re dead!

He looked across at Samuel’s face. Was the man serious, or was it yet another bluff? He decided it had to be a bluff. He moved his hand across the board and moved his queen. His opponent replied like lighting, and a knight moved to a new square. Check. And that’s checkmate in two moves, Gabriel. I did warn you.

Samuel Aaronssen smiled. He was a lean, elderly gray-haired Jew. With a face that was complimented by a long gray beard, he had the appearance of an Old Testament prophet. A retired mathematician, he kept his brain alert by playing chess every day in Washington Square Park, in the shadow of the famous arch. Gabriel grinned back at him.

You’re too good for me, Samuel. Maybe I should retire early and join you here and play every day. I can’t think of any other way to improve my game. Maybe I could be another Bobby Fischer.

Samuel grimaced. Yes, he was a good chess player, but not a good man. He hated Jews, you know.

Really? I wasn’t aware he even had an opinion on Jews.

Oy Vey! You know what he said?

Samuel looked pained as he quoted bobby Fischer’s words. ‘They're lying bastards. Jews were always lying bastards throughout their history. They're a filthy, dirty, disgusting, vile, criminal people.’

Then he smiled. Now what kind of a schmuck says something that, eh? I tell you, that man was not happy. He should have flipped burgers, for then he’d have had a better life. Stupid man, he died of a urinary tract blockage. He refused surgery or medication, so just lay down and died. A schmuck!

I doubt he’d have enjoyed flipping burgers instead of playing chess, Samuel, de Sade replied. He checked his watch to see if he’d have time for another game, but he was already running late. He had to return to the precinct, the 9th Precinct, where he spent the better part of his working life. Situated on 321 E. 5th Street, the 9th Precinct covered the area from East Houston Street to East 14 Street from Broadway to the East River in Manhattan. It included some of the better areas of Manhattan, like Broadway, and some of the worst as well. It kept him busy enough. He heard Samuel speaking to him.

How is that pretty girlfriend of yours, Faith Ward?

I’ve no idea, Samuel. I don’t see her these days.

That’s a shame. You two seemed very suited to each other.

Yeah, he’d thought the same until she dumped him.

Well, it didn’t work out. That’s the way it goes.

No chance of patching it up?

He’d spent many a sleepless night, wondering exactly the same thing. But she’d been adamant. He recalled the look on her face, just before she walked out of his life for good. He remembered her words too, firm and final.

I can’t do this anymore, Gabriel. I’m leaving.

For good?

She’d appeared to hesitate. Then she gave him a firm nod. Yes.

He brought his thoughts back to the present as he stood up to leave. I have to go to work, my friend. Crime waits for no man. Maybe another game tomorrow?

I’ll be here. Look around you, where else would a person be on a day like this one?

He had a point. The sun shone, the sky was blue and the park was quiet and peaceful. A few joggers and walkers, and the distant hum of Manhattan traffic outside. Inside this park, there were few places in the city better than this one to enjoy a quiet couple of hours playing chess. Except on this day.

He was walking away when a voice stopped him. Gimme yer money, don’t fuck with me, I’ll kill you!

He turned around slowly. A young man had walked up to the chessboard. He was whippet-thin and dressed like a street bum. Gabriel’s cop brain clicked into action as he went through the likely possibilities. The guy was maybe nineteen or twenty, face grimy and covered in sores, so probably a drug addict. Yes, definitely a skel. The unfocussed, crazed eyes, and ingrained filth. Crystal meth or crack, probably. Not normally something he couldn’t handle, but this crackhead held a gun, a ‘Saturday night special’. He looked at it warily, identifying it as a Raven Arms MP-25. It was a common pistol on the streets, cheap to buy and no great loss if you had to toss it into the Hudson after a shooting. He could see the addict’s hand was shaking. It made the weapon a threat and not only to him, but to Samuel and the other chess players in the vicinity, if he pulled the trigger. A young woman was walking her baby in a pram only fifty yards away. A lucky shot could snuff her life out just as easily as one of the nearer targets.

It’s ok, man. You can have what you want. No sweat.

He kept his voice modulated and soothing as he removed his wallet. He handed it over to the perp.

Just take it easy, feller. Take the money, it’s all yours.

The guy flipped the wallet open, keeping his eyes on de Sade. He spotted the shield instantly.

You’re a fucking cop!

Gabriel sighed. That’s right. Look, it makes no difference. You’ve got the money, so take it and go.

The guy didn’t go. He looked at Gabriel with red-rimmed eyes. You think I’m fucking stupid? You’ve seen my face, so you could pick me out of a line up. It makes all the difference.

De Sade was already working out the angles. He’d have to take the guy down. That much was clear to him. He hated making a move in a busy park with civilians everywhere, including the woman and the baby. But the perp was building up his rage, summoning the will to pop him. He knew he’d have to move soon, and move fast. And pray to Christ that no one got hurt if the guy let loose a few slugs. He tensed, preparing to make his play. The perp was muttering threats and curses as he built up his aggressive rage, building and building, until the emotion flowed over and became too much. And he began to pull the trigger.

Motherfuckin’ cops, they never gave me a break. Give ‘em half a chance and they’ll lock me up in Rikers. I tell you, I ain’t goin’ back in there, no way! Yeah, you’re gonna get it, cop.

The perp pointed his pistol. The barrel shook, but it was close enough that a shot couldn’t fail to hit him. De Sade tensed his muscles ready to jump at the man. His arms were already mentally rehearsing the reach for the gun, snatching it out of his hand and putting the cuffs on. Then a shot rang out, and the skel spun around like a drunken ballet dancer. De Sade took stock of his body, but he hadn’t been hit. There was a crash as the perp’s body dropped to the ground a few feet from him, and he ran over to him. The gun was only three inches from the guy’s hand where he’d dropped it. He kicked it away and bent to check out the body, but there was nothing to be done. The bullet had hit him in the face, close to his right eye. Who the hell had shot him? He stood up, drew his piece and looked around, but there was no sign of another shooter. A sniper? Why would a sniper intervene? But there was nowhere near enough to hide a sniper. Besides, his experience told him it was a pistol shot. Including the young woman with the child, there were maybe a dozen people within a fifty-yard radius. But even if one of them was the shooter, fifty yards with a handgun? It would take a championship marksman to pull off that shot with a pistol at that range. He took out his cell and called it in.

Do you need a paramedic, Detective?

No. It’s just the body. This is one for the M.E.

Understood.

Another useless death, and he glanced down at the corpse. It was yet another casualty in the unending war on drugs that they fought on a daily basis in New York City. The sight of the body reminded him of a similar scene in a country thousands of miles away.

Afghanistan, the very name made some men shiver, Soldiers who’d served their time behind the lines, battling the irregulars who had little time for rules of war, or respect for the uniforms of the soldiers they fought against. Soldiers they fought with, in some cases, for it was not unusual for Afghan National Army recruits to have a change of heart and start shooting their own people. On that occasion, the corpse on the ground was an Afghan captain. The officer had stolen a heavy machine gun and positioned it to cover the road he knew they’d be following that morning. When the roar of automatic fire began, they scattered, leaping off the road and into ditches or finding any other cover that offered some protection against the lethal curtain of fire. De Sade hadn’t hesitated. The gun had to be silenced, or they could all die out on this dusty, Afghan plain. He snatched up a light machinegun and a box of ammunition, and while the captain was trying to murder half the squad who were lying flat in ditch on the other side of the road, he ran across two hundred yards of open ground to get into a firing position. The Afghan soon caught sight of him and redirected his fire, using him as an individual target, but he kept running. He found cover in a fold in the ground and crawled forward until he was in a position where he could bring fire down on the captain. He immediately commenced firing and there began a machine gun duel. He was hit in the arm but ignored it and continued pouring fire down on the enemy position. He was hit again, but this time a bullet went through the top of his leg. As his lifeblood poured out of him, he saw his bullets strike the captain and knock him backwards. It was over. The medic dressed his wounds, and he insisted on checking out the identity of the Afghan officer before he was evacuated by helicopter to Kabul. He knew the man, and had even shared a drink with him in the mess. He was dead, another useless death, begging the question. Why? Why had he turned on his allies, his friends? He afterwards found out that the man was enraged at the American war on the dope trade. His family’s opium poppy fields had been destroyed in a raid, so he’d decided to take revenge for the assault on his family’s income and honor. Another useless death.

He checked with his friend Samuel Aaronssen and the other chess players. They were standing in a huddled group, obviously in shock. You guys ok? Samuel, are you hurt at all?

The older man shook his head. I think our blood pressure may need checking sometime soon. Apart from that, we’re all fine, although most of us are a bit too old for this kind of excitement. Do you know what happened? Who shot him?

No, I don’t know.

He swept the area with his eyes but failed to come up with any solution to the question of the identity of the shooter. Martin Belton, his preppy new partner arrived, elegantly dressed as ever.

Hey, de Sade, are you ok?

He nodded. I’m fine. He explained what had happened. I’d be even better if I knew who the shooter was.

Belton grinned. Maybe you’ve got a guardian angel.

Yeah, and maybe we should start canvassing the park to see if anyone saw what happened.

His partner’s watery eyes peered at him through wire-rimmed glasses. He looked more like a Harvard associate professor than a cop. His clothes were expensive, with the tweedy kind look, elegantly tailored and just sufficiently battered to look as if they were vintage. It was totally contrived, and the product of wealthy parents. For an NYPD detective, the look was not one that would win him any friends, neither inside the precinct or out on the streets. The clothes were a statement, ‘I’m not one of you. I am superior’. Most of the cops in the precinct hated him, and the perps distrusted him more than they usually distrusted a cop, if that was possible. Belton grimaced.

Isn’t it too late for that? They’ll have gone, won’t they?

Just do it, Martin. Make sure you make a note of names and addresses, and give them a card in case they think of something later.

Yeah, ok.

He thought he heard the words, ‘fucking asshole,’ muttered quietly as his rookie partner walked away. That was tough. The job had to be done. His cell rang.

De Sade.

This is Kruger. I want you back here right away.

Captain, I’m in the middle of a homicide in Washington Park.

I know where you are. Is Belton there with you?

He is, yes.

Then leave him to ask the questions, and get your ass back here, pronto.

He said goodbye to Samuel. The old man smiled, but he had to have the last word.

Next time you call in for a game, come on your own. It’s more peaceful.

"Yeah. I’ll be seeing you,