Missing

By S.L. Williams

Missing, is about the disappearance of the wife and teenage daughter of an African American army general, from their home in Frankfurt Germany.

Frustrated by the lack of progress being made by military and German investigators, the general requests the aid of a crack NYPD detective and close friend, CD Smith, to help find his family.

Upon his arrival in Germany, detective Smith is confronted with a myriad of problems foreign culture, different police procedure, language barrier and what initially was a missing persons case soon evolves into international intrigue; confrontation with Neo-Nazi elements, international trafficking of humans in Egypt, the civil war and slavery in Sudan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 24, 2003
• ISBN: 9781462835485

S.L. Williams

Samuel L. Williams worked for the Department of Defense in Germany from 1986-1995, during the volatile years of repeated terrorist attacks against Americans, and military targets. He lived in Germany for 18 years and traveled extensively throughout Europe. This is his third novel that completes a trilogy about the tribulation of Americans living and working in Europe in support if the United States military commitment. He has a Masters Degree from University of Maryland, and has taught with American colleges in Europe. Mr. Williams is now retired and lives in New Jersey, where he devotes his full time to writing.

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Copyright © 2003 by S.L. Williams.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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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

Dedicated to my family, and friends around the world.

CHAPTER 1

Wednesdays, in most parts of the United States, are special days for doctors, lawyers, and other private professionals who share a tremendous amount of reverence for chasing a little white ball over well-manicured grounds with the ultimate goal of coercing it into a small round hole. Yes, Wednesdays are golf days, and even though I am a New York City police officer—a public servant—I, too, embrace this day with humility and a firm determination to relieve those private professionals of some of their diligently acquired wealth.

Normally, on Wednesday mornings as I head out from my Harlem apartment to the golf course on Staten Island, which is like traversing two different cultures, my mind is keyed on the strategy I plan to use—my game plan to win money. However, on this bright and balmy spring morning my eyes were fixed on the traffic creeping along the west side highway, while my mind analyzed the cell phone call I had received as I walked out of my apartment.

Hello! I was irritated because I thought it was the precinct calling to inform me that another homicide had occurred in my district and I was urgently needed.

Hi, CD. This is Wes.

Wes? How the hell are you, man?

Okay. Look, pal, I’m in some deep shit. I need your help.

What happened?

Eva and Camille are missing. I was in the Balkan on assignment, and after calling home for three straight days without an answer, I flew back to Frankfurt and our house was empty—my family gone.

Any clues?

We think it might be one of those budding terrorists groups opposed to NATO, trying to make a name for themselves. So far, no claim of responsibility or demand has been issued. Nevertheless, we want to keep it away from the news media.

Oh, hell. What can I do to help?

I want you to come and take over the case. The German police and military investigators are a bunch of dummies. I’ve already made a request through the highest echelon for your temporary release from the New York City Police Department and placed on special assignment to NATO. We don’t want the CIA or other federal agencies involved.

But . . . Wes—

Look, CD. I will feel much better if you are working this case. It’s been a month and these bastards don’t have a clue as to why my wife and daughter disappeared. I really need you, guy.

Okay. Where is the request now?

Don’t worry. It’ll be approved. It’s going from NATO Headquarters in Brussels, to the Pentagon, and the governor of New York. Call me when NYPD receives it and I’ll give you more details. Can’t wait to see you, guy. It’ll be just like old times.

As I threw my golf bag and shoes into the rear of my car, my mind was still swirling from the impact of that call from Wes. Just hearing the gravelly sound of his voice again was a welcome reminder of the good times.

But the message conveyed by that voice was chilling, and chased away my thoughts of a wonderful day of golf, and perhaps winning enough money to reimburse me for my round trip to Staten Island.

Wes is like a brother. We plodded through Vietnam together killing and destroying others, and came back without a scratch. Then, on a peacekeeping mission to Somalia, he saved my life. His wife, Eva, is like a sister, and their beautiful young daughter, Camille, is my Godchild. Who would want to harm them? My thoughts coiled, and anger filled me. I felt my fingers clamping around the throats of those responsible and squeezing until their bodies fell limp. Ranger training in the army had taught me many unique ways of killing a person, and I was ready to employ all my skills to help my friend.

It is most gratifying to know that people, especially your friends, have faith and trust in your abilities. Wes chose me because he believed in me. Our time spent in combat zones and highly secret missions had bonded us.

But the fact that I had solved a few high profile kidnapping cases for NYPD, and the news media elevated me to a celebrity status, I was sure had weighed in on his decision. But those were cases of greed, revenge, and family quarrels.

I was dealing with petty criminals and local mobsters. Wes’s case sounded more complex. The wife and daughter of a high-ranking NATO military officer disappear without a trace. It had the stench of a terrorist plot. I had worked a short while on the New York Trade Center bombing—before the FBI swooped in—and I have to admit that these terrorists are bold and dangerous; fanatics who are willing to destroy the world to support a warped ideology.

But I knew I couldn’t back out. As a police officer, I was committed to helping the innocent and punishing the guilty. As a friend, I was locked into a commitment to help the man who once saved my life. My ten years as an Army Intelligence Officer had taught me how the military worked when it needed the cooperation of a civilian component. The words, In the interest of national security were always inserted in a request to gain prompt approval. The wheels were already in motion, and like it or not, I was in for the ride. I was beginning to accept the fact that once again I would be going to a foreign country on a mission. However, this time I didn’t have the powerful force of the United States Army behind me. I would be on my own.

Several cars honked as they whizzed past to remind me that I was on a highway, and if my 1965 Mustang couldn’t go any faster, I should junk it and buy a bicycle. I ignored them as my thoughts transgressed from the terrorist plot to the highway ahead. I speeded up.

I always feel a profound sense of freedom, compassion, and commitment whenever I drive from Harlem to downtown Manhattan, especially when I use the Westside highway.

New York City is probably the greatest city in the world, and I have the audacious job of helping to keep it safe and free from criminal elements. I enjoy doing my job. I have compassion for the millions of New Yorkers, and I am committed to kicking ass to get the job done. Seeing Manhattan from an elevated position is a thrilling experience. It’s like viewing the earth from a spaceship, enjoying the seeming beauty and tranquility, but ignoring the misery lurking beneath the surface. I enjoy most the majestic beauty of the twin towers of the World Trade Center, The Statue of Liberty, and the scenic view of the dark expanse of the Hudson River rolling alongside the elevated highway. The choppy waves are sometimes threatening; other times calm and smooth like soft, drifting clouds. Then when you’re just about to fall in love with the view, it disappears as you enter the tunnel taking you around the south end of Manhattan. But your last view is that of Lady Liberty, standing majestically amongst those choppy waves with outstretched arms welcoming all who pass beneath her to the great shores of the free world.

As I drive through the dimly lit tunnel, my mind always flashes to images of the thousands of refugees who have passed Lady Liberty and who wept openly upon their entry into the free world.

These were people fleeing from poverty, injustice, political persecution, and a myriad of other things. They came motivated to build a better life, and the majority of them did. Then I thought about the thousands of black people who were not classified as refugees and did not pass Lady Liberty, or if they did, were shackled so deep in the hold of a ship, that even a partial glimpse was impossible. Would they have felt the same motivation had it not been for the humiliating existence of slavery? Would we have more racial tolerance if the mere presence of slavery had not diluted all motivations for black people?

We do not know for certain what kind of life black slaves left in Africa. The slave trade divested the human spirit, and created a chain reaction that spanned generations and today, we are still feeling the residual effects. My thoughts must be legitimate, because each Wednesday as I drive from Harlem to Staten Island for my golf date, the same ideas put in an appearance.

My friends always inquire as to why I drive so far to play golf when there are so many public golf courses around New York City. My answer is simple.

Sometimes it’s not safe to play in one’s own back yard, especially when you are a policeman. New York City is my back yard. Staten Island is like going to another country.

When I pulled into the parking lot at the golf course, I spied my prey unloading their golf equipment. I knew I would miss winning their money when I left on my new assignment.

CHAPTER 2

I waited anxiously for two days. No phone call. No word about my proposed new venture. Nothing changed in my daily routine of investigating the pit of inner city crime, but perhaps my attitude. I was finally getting out of the jungle, if only for a while. The next jungle could be more precarious than the one I had inhabited for the past ten years, but I was willing to take my chances. The waiting was unbearable. I knew about the cumbersome military bureaucracy, but the bureaucracy at NYPD was a total disaster. Whatever was inserted into the system from the top traveled with the sluggish speed of a turtle as it moved down the pipeline toward its final destination.

When the call finally came, I was out on an investigation and found a message on my desk when I returned to report to my boss at 0900 the next morning.

My boss, Captain Murphy, is a relic from the days when NYPD was ninety percent Irish.

His outspoken philosophy about race relations and diversity had resulted in several reductions in rank, and numerous departmental investigations. Yet, he is still on the force, and a political heavyweight in New York City. His remarks to a news reporter who called him a racist, were:

I’m not a racist. I’m a realist. This city can spend millions of dollars and precious time trying to promote racial harmony under the umbrella of diversification. It’s all a terrible waste. We need to put Black cops on the streets in predominately black areas, Hispanic cops in predominately Hispanic areas, and white cops in other areas. This will not only reduce the mounting cases of racism being leveled against the department, it will restore pride in minorities as they run their own neighborhoods. When a Black or Hispanic cop uses alleged undue force on a Black or Hispanic suspect, there will be fewer charges of police brutality because they understand each other. I want to give the neighborhoods back to the people.

This is his philosophy. As chief of detectives he makes assignments based upon this belief. Since Harlem and the Bronx overlap with Blacks and Hispanics, I am assigned, along with Detective Rodriguez, to those areas.

I am the first to admit that his philosophy has merit. In my area all offenders and potential offenders know and understand what the initials, CD, mean. They know I will kick ass, but I’m fair in my ass kicking. The mayor has taken all the credit for the reduction of crime in New York, City. But the credit really goes to those hard stomping detectives, and street crime units who are doing their job. Once a detective is assigned to a case, his job is to focus more on solving the case than trying to intimidate the public. If my memory serves me correctly, the chief’s policy was used in many cities, especially in the segregated south, before the civil rights crusade.

What have you done? The chief greeted me as I stood before his desk at precisely 0900. His voice sounded like a platoon of soldiers marching through a gravel pit.

What do you mean, chief?

Come on, don’t try to shit me, Detective Smith. I get this call from the commissioner telling me to have you report to the mayor’s office tomorrow at 1000. He swerved his black, leather chair away from me. I could see only the top of his bald head. "You must have gotten your ass in trouble, or someone is trying to go around my back.

"I’m Chief of Detectives, and nobody, I mean nobody . . . not even the commissioner, or the Mayor gets involved with my people without telling me what’s going on." He was echoing his long running battle with city hall.

Did you ask the commissioner what it was about?

He looked up at me for the first time since I had entered his office. Hurt and a sense of betrayal were visible in his eyes.

Yeah, he said it was top secret and he would explain later.

"Then it must be real important."

Yeah, I guess it is. CD, You are one of the best detectives in the department. Someday you’ll be sitting where I am, and that’s when you can appreciate what this job is all about. Go on now. Keep me posted, you heah!

Okay, Chief.

The mayor’s office was familiar territory to me. I had beamed proudly before the news media several times as the mayor pinned medals on my chest for doing my job a little better than the rest of my fellow officers.

The mayor and police commissioner were sitting at the mayor’s huge panoramic desk as I walked into his office precisely at 10.00 a.m. The only missing part of the picture was the conspicuous absence of the news media.

Good morning, Detective Smith.

Good morning, Mr. Mayor. Morning commissioner. I was standing at attention—like the days when I was a company commander and was out in front of my soldiers as the generals passed in review.

Relax, detective. The mayor rose from behind his desk. The commissioner stood and followed close behind him as he approached me.

You know, each time I review your record, and this is what, the third time? I’m filled with immense pride and gratitude for the caliber of police officers like you that are assigned under my watch. When I received the message from the governor that had been forwarded by the Pentagon, I realized that people around the world are aware of the integrity and quality of officers at NYPD. I am not privy to why NATO requested you, nor do I know what you will be doing. I imagine it must have something to do with your outstanding military service. Whatever the reasons, I’m proud of you and I know you will not let NYPD down. You will depart immediately. The commissioner will expedite your out-processing. Good luck, Detective. Remember, you are one of us, and if you need any backup, just holler.

The mayor had the same clammy handshake, like someone who has just come out of a toilet and half dried his hands. Captain Murphy wasn’t happy.

What am I supposed to do? he yelled. NATO has all the resources in the world. Why pick on me? I don’t have anyone to replace you.

"Don’t worry, Chief. Rodriguez can handle my duties. Just give him a good