“An interpreter, sir?”
“Yes, the odds are it’s one of the Afghan officers. Call the Coldstream Guards and find out where they all are, particularly Popal Faran, Dehqan Kahn and Behnam Freed. Come on, Billy.” Crane ran for the door, where he stopped and called back to Kim. “Don’t forget the boards, make a new one for this incident and if you get time update the others.”
“Sir,” Kim said in a steady voice, her earlier fear seemingly soothed by the orders she had just been given.
Crane and Billy raced across the car park. At his car, Crane threw Billy the keys, so he could have a cigarette on the short journey to the sports centre. He always seemed to think better with a cigarette on the go. Barriers were already up when they arrived and they had to show their identification to gain access. As they parked, Crane climbed out of the car and threw away his cigarette butt.
Crane and Billy approached the front of the sports centre. Stopping at the bottom of the steps, they gazed through the large glass doors. Standing alone in the reception area was one of the Afghan officers. Crane thought it was Behnam Freed, but wasn’t sure as the group of four officers they had been monitoring all looked the same to him, each having swept back black hair and a moustache. An abandoned coat, a plastic carrier bag, a couple of clip boards and some loose papers surrounded the man on the floor. His arms were held wide with damp stains spreading from his armpits, turning his light brown shirt a muddy colour. What at first appeared to be a bullet proof vest covered his chest. But on closer inspection, Crane could see it had been modified with pockets all around it. Each pocket held a small tube with wires coming from the top of each cylinder, which were interlinked. In Freed’s left hand was a small rectangular box, the top of which was covered with his thumb and from the bottom ran a wire that disappeared around his back. There didn’t appear to be any sports centre staff in there with him, unless they were hiding behind the reception desk itself. The only item on the counter was an abandoned telephone.
Crane turned his attention back to the car park, walking away from the front of the building. Members of the sports centre staff were huddled in one corner of the car park. In another, disabled athletes were being helped into wheelchairs and those who could walk unaided were being unceremoniously loaded into mini-vans.
As Staff Sergeant Jones ran up to them, breathing deeply, Crane ignored him, turning to Billy first. “Go and interview the staff, find out what happened and get the number for that telephone on the reception desk. Also check that all members of staff currently working here are accounted for. They had emergency evacuation procedures, so the marshals should have a list of staff with them.”
As Billy rushed away, Crane said to Jones, “Go and speak to the disabled athletes, make sure your lads get their names and then release them back to St Omer Barracks. But I want them to stay there until you can interview them. All of them. Also find out if any of them are still in the sports centre. By the way, has the garrison been locked down?”
“Yes, sir, as soon as I got the call from Kim I contacted each entrance. No one can come in, or for that matter get out, at the moment.”
“Good, now where is Dudley-Jones?” Jones shrugged his shoulders and moved off. Crane was pulling out his mobile, when he saw the young Lance Corporal jogging up the road towards the sports centre. By the time Dudley-Jones reached Crane, Billy had returned from speaking to the staff.
“Right, boss, here’s the telephone number for the phone in reception.” Billy handed Crane a piece of paper. “They think there are three members of staff missing. But they’re not sure if they are still in the building, or had snuck outside for a quick break. All three of them were either between classes, or waiting for an activity to finish so they could set up another one. It seems the incident occurred at a quiet time this morning with not many athletes and staff on site.”
“Good, go back and see if anyone has mobile phone numbers for the three unaccounted for. If so, ring their phones and find out where they are.”
“Yes, boss,” Billy acknowledged his orders and moved off again.
“Ah, Dudley-Jones,” Crane turned to the Intelligence Operative. “Glad you could join us.”
“Yes, sir, sorry, sir, got here as quickly as I could.” Dudley-Jones panted out his reply.
“Right, well, I’ve got the telephone number for reception. So you and I are going to walk slowly and carefully back to the glass doors. I think it’s Freed in there with a suicide vest on. We’re going to call the number of the phone on reception and hope he answers it. If he won’t speak English, I’m going to need you to talk to him.”
“Me?” Dudley-Jones’ eyes widened in fright. “A, ah, are you s, s, sure, sir?”
“Positive. Come on, lad,” and Crane walked away, leaving Dudley-Jones to scamper in his wake. Once they were in position, Crane and Dudley-Jones both lifted their arms to show Freed they were unarmed. Crane then held aloft his mobile phone and pointed to the telephone resting on top of the reception desk. Freed nodded in response and moved towards it, with his arms still wide, as though afraid to drop them and dislodge any of the wires or explosives around his chest. Crane dropped his eyes for a moment to his mobile as he dialled the number. As the phone inside began to ring, Crane lifted his eyes and he and Freed stared at each other through the glass.
Night 34
Crane was wired on caffeine, adrenaline and nicotine. He wanted nothing more than to go home, have a shower and change his clothes, before relaxing and pouring himself a very large drink. But he couldn’t as he had to go to the hospital to see Tina. And he couldn’t do that either, as Freed was still standing in the reception of the sports centre, with his bloody suicide bomb vest wrapped around him.
It turned out there were some Paralympians stuck in the sports centre after all, along with the three missing staff members. It had taken hours of careful negotiation between Crane and Freed, using Captain Popal as an Interpreter/go-between, for them to be released. A few at a time. Still not fully trusting either Afghan, Crane kept Dudley-Jones close by to whisper in Crane’s ear if he felt there was a discrepancy in the translations. The young man had stopped being a cube of jelly and found some backbone. Crane thought the trouble with the Lance Corporal was lack of field experience. He’d been sitting in an office pouring over his intelligence reports for far too long.
Billy was at the rear of the sports centre, where specialist soldiers were gathered, ready to storm the building if necessary. Bomb Disposal were waiting in the car park and Captain Edwards was still in attendance, constantly on his mobile phone, updating the upper echelons of command on their progress, or rather lack of it as he kept reminding Crane. Kim, in her role as office manager, was holding everything together back at barracks. Feeding him any information he wanted and acting as liaison between the local police and the press office. She had also rung the hospital and left a message for Tina to say that Crane was unavoidably delayed, but in no danger. A little white lie about the danger bit perhaps, but necessary, under the circumstances.
Derek Anderson had stationed local police at the barriers into the garrison, to help explain to local residents that due to an unspecified incident, they would not be allowed access for the foreseeable future. Locals trapped inside had been allowed out, but not until they and their cars had been thoroughly searched and notes taken on each of them. In quieter moments, Crane shuddered at the thought of the lurid headlines to come from the dripping pen of Diane Chambers. A couple of ambulances and a clutch of medics remained, stationed at a safe distance. Most had gone, taking the disabled athletes to hospital, as they were released in dribs and drabs.
As it was now late in the evening, floodlights lit up the car park and illuminated the front of the building. Freed was starkly lit by every light possible in reception and adjacent areas. Crane could see the new lines etched on Freed’s face, exhaustion making his eyelids droop. His once slicked black hair was now falling forwards over his forehead and his chin kept dropping to his chest.
Dark smudges covered his face, where stubble was breaking through the surface of his skin. Freed had not eaten for hours now, but Crane had smiled when earlier the man had pulled several bottles of water out of the plastic carrier bag near his feet, obviously prepared for the long haul.
Crane felt they were close to the end now. But what the end would be was still anyone’s guess.
“There’s something a bit off here, sir,” Dudley-Jones murmured, not wanting to be overheard by Captain Popal.
Crane sauntered away from the Afghan officer, using lighting a cigarette as an excuse. “What do you mean?” Crane kept his voice low.
“Well, I know I’ve no experience of hostage situations, but the Afghan doesn’t seem to want anything.”
“He wants glory for Allah or some such doesn’t he?”
“Oh yes, he’s spouting loads of rhetoric, but no specific demands. No safe passage out of here, money, food…”
“I don’t think suicide bombers do that, do they?”
“Buggered if I know, sir,” Dudley-Jones admitted. “But then, if he really was a suicide bomber, wouldn’t he have just blown himself away and everyone else with him to start with?”
Crane played with his scar, scratching at his beard as though it itched, which it didn’t.
“You know, that’s a good point, lad, remind me of it later at the de-briefing, in case I forget.”
“If we’re alive to have a de-briefing,” Dudley-Jones thrust his hands in the pocket of an oversized coat that someone had lent him.
“For God’s sake, Lance Corporal, you can’t ever think like that, do you hear me?” Crane reached out and pulled up Dudley-Jones’ head by the chin. Staring into his eyes he hissed, “Stay positive, it’s the only way. We will make it, and we will get out of this. Understand?” Crane was breathing hard and glaring at the young Lance Corporal.
When Crane let go of him, Dudley-Jones kept his chin high, “Understood, sir,” a small smile starting to thaw the icy fear still present in his eyes.
“Right.” Crane threw away his cigarette. “Let’s finish this.”
Captain Popal had also been taking a break. His hands were now wrapped around a mug of hot something or other. Mint tea maybe Crane thought. He didn’t think Afghanis drank coffee, or alcohol, but then again he couldn’t remember. He seemed to be blundering around in a fog of tiredness and stress, clear thinking becoming more and more difficult to sustain.
“Shall we continue, Captain?”
Crane, Dudley-Jones and Popal walked back to their negotiating position at the bottom of the steps. Crane noticed the Captain had kept his mug. The call made, all three men listened via radio microphones and earpieces, installed when Captain Popal arrived to help.
The Captain began by reminding Freed that it was now dark. He pointed out that Freed must be tired and cold and wondered if he wanted a drink of the hot mint tea he was holding. By way of response, Freed slowly sat down and crossed his legs, but kept his arms wide and his thumb on the trigger of the mechanism. He slowly nodded his head. Faran began to move up the steps towards the door.
“Captain, what the hell are you doing?” Crane hissed, falling in step behind him. But Faran didn’t reply, merely continued speaking to the bomber in a soft sing song voice.
“What the hell is he saying?” Crane demanded of Dudley-Jones.
“Um, something about remembering the scriptures, the words written in the Qur’an.”
“Keep translating,” Crane hissed as Popal continued to mount the steps.
“Keep your eye on the bigger picture. Remember the higher goals. Allah is great. Allah is good. Allah will look after all those who are true believers and keep a place for them.” Dudley-Jones followed the stream of words as best he could.
“Crane?” the horror in Captain Edwards’ voice cracked in his other ear like lightening. “What the hell’s going on?” Crane imagined he could hear the lock and load of the snipers’ rifles in the background.
“Give us a moment, Captain. I think Popal is going to do it. Looks like Freed is giving up. Hold back for now.”
“You better be right about this, Sergeant Major!”
Crane tuned out Edwards’ voice as best he could. Dudley-Jones was still translating and Popal still speaking in his hypnotic voice. Cold sweat trickled down Crane’s back. Even though he was stood behind Captain Popal, he knew that if the suicide vest was detonated now, all four of them stood little chance of surviving either the blast or the shards of glass that would rain down on them. Pushing the thought away and trying to detach his mind, Crane put one foot in front of the other, following Captain Popal up the steps, moving slightly sideways so he could see what was happening, even though he was even more exposed to any blast.
“Hold steady, sir,” Crane whispered in his mike to Captain Edwards.
As he looked through the glass doors he saw Freed slowly lower his hand containing the detonator. Crane held his breath. Equally slowly Freed’s arm returned to its outstretched position. His hand was empty.
“Hold fire, he’s giving up. Hold fire,” Crane repeated, hoping his throat microphone picked up his low voice, afraid that any shouting would disturb the delicate situation playing out in front of him. In the background Dudley-Jones continued translating and Captain Popal continued talking in Pashtu.
“He’s asking Freed to put his hands on his head, sir,” Dudley-Jones said. As Freed complied, Crane started breathing again.
Day 35
Crane was sitting through the interminable de-briefing meeting, trying hard to keep himself from looking at his watch. Everyone had commented on the support services, the role of the Royal Military Police, the assistance of the Aldershot Police, the tricky business of evacuating disabled athletes from the sports centre, communications between all parties and back up from Bomb Disposal and Special Services. Captain Edwards complimented the team on their successful operation, particularly Crane and Dudley-Jones for their roles in the negotiations. After acknowledging the praise, Crane turned to the subject of the suicide bomber himself.
“Do we know what explosive were in his vest?” he asked Kim.
After shuffling paper, she replied, “No report from Bomb Disposal as yet, sir.”
“Very well, chase them up.”
“Sir.” Kim nodded and made a note on her pad.
“Where is he now?” Crane asked Staff Sergeant Jones, meaning Captain Freed.
“Under arrest in the guard room. We haven’t interviewed him yet, we’re waiting for your decision on how to proceed.”
“Good. Billy, Dudley-Jones and I will come over and interrogate him after this meeting.” Crane looked at Captain Edwards, “Oh, if that’s alright with you, sir?” he asked as an afterthought.
“Very well, Crane, but I think it should be an interview, not an interrogation.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I merely meant that you should remember he is an officer and a member of the Afghan Army.”
“That tried to blow up a lot of people.” Crane threw his pen on the conference table.
“But he didn’t did he, Crane?” Edwards was talking down his nose as usual.
“Um, excuse me, sir?” Dudley-Jones interrupted looking from Captain Edwards to Crane, clearly not sure whom to address.
“Yes?” Edwards and Crane said in unison.
“Um, it’s just that Sergeant Major Crane asked me to remind him of something at the de-briefing today.”
“And that was?” Edwards sounded irritated.
“Um, sir, my question last night. Why didn’t Freed blow himself up to start with?”
“What?” Edwards looked at Dudley-Jones and then Crane. “Do you know what he’s talking about, Sergeant Major?”
Crane smiled, “Yes, sir. Dudley-Jones made a good point last night, that suicide bombers usually just go ahead and press the button. They don’t negotiate or hold hostages.”
“Indeed, sir,” Dudley-Jones addressed Edwards. “The whole idea of a suici
de bomber is firstly surprise and secondly to kill as many people as possible. Saving himself is just not normally on the agenda. So how come Freed didn’t do that?”
“Well, I guess that’s something you’ll have to ask him.” Edwards collected his papers. “If that’s all, then I’ll be off. Dismissed.” Everyone stood as Edwards left the office and then looked at Crane to see if they were actually dismissed.
Shaking his head he said “Just a minute, people.”
Once the team were settled again Crane continued, “Kim, did you manage to keep the boards up to date last night?” Crane referred to his white boards displayed along the back of the open plan space.
“Yes sir, I’ve just got the Freed board to finish. I want to make sure I’ve got all the information gathered from last night.”
“Good, make sure you put the latest queries on and the info from Bomb Disposal when it comes in. Oh, and I want the tapes from the negotiations last night. Can you separate out the part from when Captain Popal approached Freed with a hot drink? That’s the only bit I want.”
“Certainly, sir.”
After Kim acknowledged the order Crane turned to Staff Sergeant Jones. “Has Freed said anything?”
“Not a bloody thing. At least not in English anyway. He just sits in his cell, rocking backwards and forwards and mumbling in Pashtu.”
“Has he had any contact with the other Afghan officers?”
“No. Requests were made, but we’ve deliberately ignored them for now.”
“Good, let’s keep it that way. I want him to feel isolated. That may help us to get him to talk.”
“Very well, sir.”
“Sir?” Billy joined the conversation.
“Yes, Billy?”
“Should I ask Captain Popal to attend the interview… sorry interrogation?”
“No. We’ll rely on Dudley-Jones if Freed refuses to speak English. Remember we know he can, it’s whether he will or not that’s the problem. Is that alright with you, Lance Corporal?”
Deadly Duty Box Set 1 (Sgt Major Crane Crime Thrillers Box Set) Page 39