Read The Perfect Human: An Abelard Chronicles Book Page 66
“Mr. Bush, the killing machine, is back on our screens, and I’m losing count how many times that makes,” Sanschagrin muttered, his eyes searching each face in the room for inspiration. This time, though, he had decided to take matters firmly in hand more effectively than the previous time he had decided the same thing. The last episode convinced him that things could no longer be left to chance. He was now quite sure that Abelard posed a danger to society. Exactly what that danger was he could not yet say. Many thoughts occurred to him; international terror, drugs, arms, illegal warfare, all of the above. From the pattern of his transgressions nothing could be inferred. They were all unrelated, at least from the evidence he had to date. The brutal beating, he had so callously administered to the mugger; he was present at Mr. Hecht’s sudden timely death; he had killed three still unidentified men, in apparent self-defense; he had killed a worker at a VBI plant in the USA, ostensibly to rescue a hostage; he had deliberately fomented a riot; and now, the report from the Florence police that he had been at the hotel where well known industrialist, Gianni Donatello, with whom he had also been in contact, was shot. Enough! Hector Sanschagrin would put a stop to his criminal enterprise, whatever it was. He would marshal all the resources at his disposal, including the international police. That is why he had invited to this gathering Georges Outremer, the headquarters liaison with outside police forces. Apart from his predestined name, Outremer, in Sanschagrin’s opinion, was one more useless burden on the taxpayer. Procedure, alas, most unfortunately dictated that all dealings with foreign police departments pass through him. The feelings, Sanschagrin knew, were perfectly mutual; Outremer was openly contemptuous of Sanschagrin and considered him a bungler and a fool.
“Two nights ago Mr. Bush left, in a hurry it seems, for Florence. He purchased the ticket on his own credit card, which suggests that he is not traveling on company business,” Sanschagrin began.
“There you go again,” Outremer jumped in with a derisive sneer, “making a mystery out of a common event. These guys who run the big companies often travel suddenly and unexpectedly and pay out of pocket only to be reimbursed later. Have you bothered checking with VBI? If not, then I suggest you are wasting our time. I’m out of here.” And he got up and promptly left.
Sanschagrin, a little upset by the sudden departure and very upset at his own massive stupidity for not checking with VBI called for a short break while he took care of the obvious.
“Mr. Bush, please,” he asked as calmly as his brooding anger would permit.
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Bush is in an all day meeting and is not taking any calls,” the secretarial voice chimed through the network; it was as music to Sanschagrin’s ears. As he moved back to the front of the room after the break he made no attempt to control the bounce of triumphalism, which had visibly lightened his step.
“If you can keep your ass in one place for just a bit a longer we can all finish here and get back to work,” Sanschagrin said with gleeful contempt to Outremer, who he insisted rejoin the meeting.
“The Florentine police are presently trying to locate Mr. Bush and, when they do, will put him under 24 hour surveillance. The French police, since we know he has been operating in that country as well, will take over if he does cross the border. Monpetit and Blackburn, you two will make sure he is watched if and when he comes back to Montreal.”
Abelard had expected that the police would eventually become more serious players in his life, he just didn’t know when and certainly wouldn’t be expecting them to so quickly join the hunt or to be as well organized.