Tidal Rage

by David Evans

  “No, there are enough hotels and bed and breakfasts on the island, and your company is more than capable of funding that. But till I get the DNA tests back, he is not going anywhere, and certainly not out of Stanley. I want him tagged as well, as a condition of his release.”

  “It’s an outrage!” the sweating attorney said.

  Police Inspector Green said he especially liked that comment, as he sat down in the Globe Pub with the attorney and the island’s only two magistrates later that night to enjoy a very special Johnnie Walker whisky the management had flown in. The bill was on James White, as the retainer the agent had put him on would pay off very handsomely if this case lasted a few months.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Cutler, Hoagie, and the German accountant Richter took the train across from Glasgow’s Central Station. Two and a half hours later, the trio emerged from Newcastle’s Central Station into the cold breezy northern air.

  Richter bemoaned the walk down from the station towards the quayside and across the Millennium Bridge towards Gateshead.

  “The bridge looks like a giant bear trap without the teeth,” Richter spluttered out, with puffs of vapour.

  “Shut up and concentrate on walking, Richter. The last thing we need is for you to collide with one of these cyclists and cause an incident,” Hoagie said.

  Cutler walked behind the pair, scanning the area, making sure they were not being followed. Newcastle, although a busy city, consists of a small and compact town centre. They would need a couple of days here for the passports, and Cutler didn’t want to be so centrally based. Better to keep a low profile and stay off the radar.

  Appearing in such a public place was an open invitation for Werner’s henchmen. Cutler was under no illusion that Werner would have put the word on the street, a description of Richter, and a hefty bonus to anyone who gave him up. Werner’s contract on Richter would have circulated in the underworld from Scotland down to Lands’ End and across the Irish Sea.

  Obscurity was the number one priority. Cutler had decided to walk the short distance to the Millennium Bridge from Newcastle to the Quays at Gateshead. The distance from the station at Newcastle to the Quays took less than fifteen minutes to walk.

  Gateshead Quays were in a transitional stage; old warehouse buildings, once housing the fruits of the empire brought from the entire world to the Tyne, now museums and art centres. The trio passed the 1930s’ Baltic flour mill, now converted and called the Baltic Centre for Contemporary Arts.

  Richter struggled up the south bank steps and complained under the strain of the gradient. Several minutes later they walked past a deserted warehouse opposite the Gateshead College. They entered the Ramda hotel, Richter bent down, trying to draw in a breath.

  Cutler had pre-booked two twin rooms using an alias. He had booked two twin rooms so Hoagie or himself could always keep an eye on Richter. The girls in Newcastle are known for their beauty; Cutler did not want Richter going off on a frolic with one of them.

  Hoagie and Richter stayed in the shadows while Cutler registered at reception. Cutler got the room keys; he took the first room. Hoagie had the double bed, Richter the single, in the shared accommodation. Cutler went to the computer area of the hotel located on the ground floor, the only place he could get a Wi-Fi connection for his laptop.

  Ghislaine’s face filled the screen as Cutler connected with her via Skype. He had small headphones on so the other two Wi-Fi users in the area could not overhear them.

  After several minutes of video conferencing with Ghislaine, Cutler knew they were being tracked within the UK. Ghislaine had reported several of Werner’s operatives had entered the country; the last report was that two of them had flown to Glasgow. Cutler knew it was a matter of time before they tracked them to Newcastle, but he was in a catch-22 position; Richter’s passport would not be ready for several more hours.

  Finally, as night drew in, Cutler left the hotel and walked down to the Quays. He crossed the Gateshead Millennium Bridge, across the River Tyne. He walked southwards down the quay on the Newcastle side and under the Tyne Bridge. It swallowed up three-storey buildings under its main brick supports on the quayside. Walking up a steep cobbled street called The Side, he went towards the historic Castle Keep Black Gate and Moot Hall, which was undergoing restorative works. The area was dimly lit and isolated.

  Cutler approached the archways of a railway embankment. He passed a Chinese restaurant; the aroma of duck and ginger tingled his senses. Cutler glanced into the restaurant and observed the staff setting up the tables for the evening; they were the first people he had seen since entering the cobbled street.

  Two archways down, he entered through the door of a small outlet, which stated office supplies. Cutler spoke to a young man called Imran; he was of Indian extraction. Cutler requested to see Bruno, the shop owner. The young man eyed him suspiciously, and Cutler instantly thought he did not trust him.

  Imran did not speak a word to Cutler but ushered him through to the back office to where Bruno, a thin, small man who looked ashen, sat. Imran retreated out of the door.

  “Who’s the young man, Bruno? Haven’t seen him before,” Cutler inquired.

  “Not one for small talk, as usual, I see. Imran’s an apprentice recommended by some friend from Goa. He did good work there, forging UK passports for illegal immigrants, good enough to get past border force. If he can forge UK passports, he can forge anything,” he replied in a raspy voice.

  “You should give up the cigarettes, Bruno; you don’t sound too good,” Cutler remarked honestly.

  “That’s why I need an apprentice, had half my lung removed earlier this year,” Bruno wheezed.

  “Do you trust him?” Cutler inquired.

  “In this game, you don’t trust anyone.”

  “Did he know I was coming?” Cutler continued.

  “Yes, he did the work on the passport for your friend,” Bruno replied.

  “Does he know who I am?” Cutler pressed.

  “He doesn’t know your name or what you do, just that you need a passport. As I said: I trust no one,” Bruno retorted.

  “Is the passport ready?” Cutler replied, as his level of alarm increased.

  “The picture you sent digitally was of good enough quality for me to download and put into the correct format. Imran has done a perfect job. We used the name of a Polish immigrant who has a green card for the USA. Unfortunately, the Pole died in a car crash on the first day he revisited his home in Warsaw via New York,” Bruno said without emotion.

  “What about his fingerprints? They would have taken them at JFK,” Cutler said.

  “We have a copy on file. The Agent we use knew his identity is worth more if we have his prints, very efficient in that part of the world. For an extra two thousand dollars, you can have the latex overlays, which are undetectable when applied to the fingers correctly. But you know that already, Cutler, as this is not the first time we have done business. But it has been a while,” Bruno responded.

  Cutler did not like doing business with the likes of Bruno, but he was a CIA and Secret Service asset that they had worked with in the past, and would no doubt use again in the future. Cutler understood that to catch major counterfeiters; you had to work with the likes of Bruno.

  Cutler handed over the $10,000 in total for the passport and the latex fingerprints, after carefully checking the authenticity of the document. He had to agree; Imran had done a first-class job. Even Cutler would struggle, and would need high-tech equipment, to confirm it was counterfeit.

  Cutler decided to take a circuitous route back to the hotel instead of retracing his steps. He exited onto a minor road at the top of The Side and passed the ancient black gates of the Castle Keep. There was temporary construction fencing surrounding the entrance to the gate, and Cutler noticed somebody had breached one of the fence panels. Had Cutler needed to spy on someone in the area, he would have placed one of his men up high within the construction site, but he would not have left the pan
el ajar.

  The site elevated towers would have been a perfect location on high to watch the entrance into the archways.

  Cutler could not take a chance he was being observed. Nowadays, with mobile phones, his picture could already be with Werner, if someone were indeed watching him. He cursed himself; he should have sent Hoagie, who would be unknown to Werner. Cutler’s hackles were up; he could not tell why, and it was always hard to explain these often correct but tenuous feelings of danger, but he knew he had to check it out.

  He side-stepped between the construction barriers and veered to the left into the darkness of what once was the moat. He knelt there for several seconds and listened intently. The sound of footsteps crossing the small drawbridge confirmed his fears; he had been observed. The stalker had seen him exit the archway and was now making his way onto the street to follow him.

  Just before the observer exited through the gap in the panels onto the street, Cutler pounced out of the darkness of the moat. He hit the man immediately with a rabbit punch to his jaw, dragging the big muscle-bound man down into the grassy moat. A street fighter rather than a professional, Cutler thought. Cutler assumed he was local hired help rather than one of Werner’s assassins due the ease with which Cutler had been able to sucker punch him.

  The bloodied man tried to headbutt Cutler with the back of his head, but Cutler dropped his head down so the bottom of the observer’s cranium encountered the top of Cutler’s forehead. While the blow made Cutler stumble, it laid the man out flat. He would not gain consciousness for several more hours.

  Cutler went through the unconscious man’s pockets where he discovered binoculars, a mobile phone, and a flick knife with a seven-inch blade. He found the man’s wallet, which contained his driving license and security pass with the man’s photograph on it and the words ‘Door Security’, which confirmed to Cutler the man was locally hired.

  Cutler read through the latest phone messages. It was clear that he had been followed, as the observer had relayed a message to a second assailant. The message said, ‘Go to high ground on the Gateshead side of the bridge to track him on the way back.’ There was a picture of Cutler on the smartphone, but it was too dark and pixelated to make out his face.

  Cutler took out his phone and texted a message to Hoagie to bring him up to speed.

  Hoagie, on receiving the text, immediately went to a local map of the area he had retrieved earlier from reception. He scanned the map and highlighted two areas on the map which he would choose if he had been on a reconnoitring mission. The first had been on top of the Baltic Mill overlooking the bridge and the other, the Sage. This modernistic building is a large, cultural centre holding concerts, displays, and galleries. The building has three pyramids in clear glass which are cocooned atop by reflective rounded panels. From a distance, they looked like clouds. The Sage sits atop a small plateau some 150 yards away from the Baltic centre and Tyne, and with a good view down to both the Millennium and Tyne bridges.

  Hoagie ignored the constant requests from Richter for information about what was happening while Hoagie changed into a black tracksuit and handmade, black, lightweight army boots.

  Richter began to complain again to Hoagie, who in the meantime retrieved two plastic restraints from his rucksack. Richter looked confused as Hoagie neared him.

  “Yes, you deserve to know, but I need to whisper it to you, Richter. You know the saying, loose lips sink ships,” Hoagie said quietly.

  He put his lips to Richter’s ear and in a swift movement had pressed his finger into a pressure point on the side of Richter’s temple. Richter collapsed unconscious onto the bed. Hoagie secured his wrists and ankles with the plastic strips and placed a gag around his mouth.

  Hoagie left the hotel and walked through the darkness of the parking lot. There was a small wall he hurdled, which took him down Mills Road. He hugged the wall on the far side in darkness until he crossed the road to the Baltic building. He circumnavigated the building, and it became apparent that this building was closed for business that evening. Hoagie noticed the whole building perimeter was covered with closed-circuit television cameras and excluded this observation post as too dangerous for any type of operation.

  He retraced his steps towards the hotel until he entered the parking lot to the Sage. To anyone watching he was just one of the many people either entering or exiting the parking lot, and Hoagie was pretty sure the other observer would be watching the bridge for Cutler’s return, and not the parking lot.

  Cutler retraced his steps and re-entered the forger’s premises under the archway. The look of shock on Imran’s face told him everything he needed to know. Cutler swept the side of his right hand into Imran’s throat and as he gasped for breath, Cutler pushed him through into Bruno’s office, where he collapsed.

  “We’ve been doing business a long time, Bruno. You know who I work for and know not to cross them, so I gather it’s this little shit who gave me up,” Cutler said, maintaining the pretense he still worked for the United States government.

  Bruno stood up with the aid of a walking stick and looked at the forlorn figure on the floor. “You would guess right. I do over half my business with your government, and you don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” Bruno replied honestly.

  “So that leaves you,” he said to Imran, pushing him with the toe of his shoe.

  “What pictures do you have of me, and have you sent them to anyone?” Cutler growled.

  “I do not know what you’re talking about, mister. Please do not hurt me!” a very scared Imran replied.

  Cutler did not need to react, as Bruno crashed the walking stick down onto Imran’s hand, breaking several fingers.

  “This customer represents the American government, my clients, Imran. This is a customer you don’t piss off; it only ends one way. If my friend here says you set him up, then you did. If you want to walk away from this, I will advise you to stop the lies and tell him the truth. If your fingers hurt, wait to feel the pain from your new arsehole when I relocate it,” Bruno wheezed and growled; forcing the walking stick down onto Imran’s broken fingers, as he screamed in agony.

  “The gang that brought me to the UK placed me here with you, Bruno. They give me orders sometimes!” Imran cried out in pain.

  “A picture was circulated yesterday, and I was told to contact them if he turned up. It was the picture this man sent through. I had to tell them, or they would kill me!”

  “Clean your mess up, Bruno. I want any closed-circuit television or still pictures destroyed. If any of them get out, you will be getting a visit from one of the CIA clean-up squads. Do I make myself clear?” Cutler lied.

  “Don’t you worry, sir, no pictures will be getting out. And this mess will be cleared by tonight. I am very sorry; this is the first time I have had a client compromised this way,” Bruno swore.

  ***

  Hoagie had circumnavigated the Sage. It was clear the observer would not be inside, as there was a Schubert rendition underway in the centre and it thronged with business.

  At the far side of the building, there was a grassy knoll that was hidden from view, and it was where Hoagie would have set up an observation post. He crept silently behind the mound, keeping close to the ground. He scanned the area with his infrared binoculars. He picked up a heat signal some fifty yards down and twenty yards to the left. Hoagie studied the area carefully, although he could not see anyone, he could see the end of a rifle and scope jutting out what seemed from the hill itself.

  It was obvious to Hoagie that the object of his attention was much more than an observer; he was an assassin. The sniper had gouged out a hide and was wearing camouflage; it was only the slight heat trace that had given him away.

  Hoagie had only the flick knife as a weapon. Cutler had insisted that they should not have any arms, as it was a mandatory five-year sentence in the UK for carrying weapons without a license. And since Cutler had left the Secret Service, he would have no one to turn to should they be stopped by
the local police.

  The rifle made the sniper’s intention clear. While the picture the first assailant had taken of Cutler did not display his face in sufficient clarity, it did display his approximate height and clothing. It also had their original location as Gateshead. Hoagie was not willing to take a chance that even if Cutler changed his clothes he would not be picked out as he tried to cross either the Millennium or swing bridge by foot.

  Two yards away from the sniper’s hide, Hoagie was startled. This sniper was experienced. He was astute, and he had laid a trap in a hundred-eighty-degree semi-circle around his lair. Falco Jager, aka the Owl, had taken Heineken beer bottles and broken them into small pieces. The green colours of the bottles matched into the surrounding grass and were almost indiscernible in the night. Even Hoagie’s night vision glasses could not pick out the shards. The crunch of the glass under Hoagie’s foot was lost in the sound of the wind that always blew around the Tyne, but loud enough to alert the sniper.

  Hoagie had used this basic type of motion sensor himself, and he scolded himself for not being more cautious. Cutler had mentioned an observer, not a sniper. If he had known what he was dealing with, he would have taken extra precautions.

  The Owl swung around deftly and fired a single shot from the ArmaLite he had bought from one of Werner’s English contacts in London. His beloved Swiss bolt-action SSG 2000 was in his gun safe back in Germany as Werner had ordered. It was much safer to buy weapons in a country than to transport them across the borders of Europe, especially into the UK.

  Hoagie owed his life to his swiftness of feet and to the fact that the Owl had not had the time to find an isolated area where he could have tested and honed the rifle to his requirements.

  Hoagie twisted to his left as the rifle targeted him. The bullet passed the fleshy part of his right forearm, missing the vital brachial artery, but tearing away the flesh in larger amounts from the exit wound. Hoagie landed heavily on the glass-strewn area and was glad the injury was to his right arm, as his left gripped the flick knife he had been holding onto since the observer morphed into a sniper.