Tidal Rage

by David Evans

  “And I have heard about you, Mr Cutler, and would be honoured to work for you and your organization.”

  “You may not be aware of it, Lachiman, but the guy who attacked Stahmer killed my sister and Shultz’s wife.”

  “I wasn’t conscious of that. You both have my sympathy,” Lachiman said in a quiet voice.

  “Between the fall and your knife, we thank you for helping kill that bastard.”

  “He’s not dead, Mr Cutler, I’m sorry to say.”

  “What do you mean he didn't die? You got him with the knife. He fell God knows how far into the sea, and they found no one when they launched the search from the ship,” interjected Shultz.

  “And you haven’t left this hospital since that day, so how do you know he’s not dead?” Cutler said.

  “When I woke this morning, this was placed underneath my pillow,” Lachiman replied, as he retrieved the khukuri carved out from buffalo horn. “There is a fresh carving on it. It is a ship. Last time I saw this it was in McKenzie’s back.”

  In unison, Cutler and Shultz said, “Motherfucker!”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Mount Etna, or Mongibello—‘the beautiful mountain’—as the locals call it, was once again rising from a short sleep. And before the gas slugs and lava flow ceased, she would add another soul to the many she had taken dating back to 1500 BC.

  There was an ever-present, pungent smell of sulphur; the aroma was overwhelming. Sitting on an active fault line, the heavier African plate was breaking up the much lighter Ionian microplate. This phenomenon created a vacuum, sucking magma from the Earth’s mantle, forcing lava through the crust of Mount Etna.

  The eruption happened at a fissure on the flank of the mountain, near to Crateri Silvestri, six thousand feet or two thousand metres above sea level. This was a popular area for tourists to witness recent eruptions and see the local shop buried within an older lava flow.

  Mount Etna is reached by driving up the Etna Sud Road, with continuously changing and contrasting landscapes. Vineyards morph into the blackened landscape of previous lava flows. A few yards further on and you can witness the locals picking the green olives from groves which are edged by endemic flora and fauna.

  Sebastian had fled to the town of Catania, Sicily. Here he hoped to be reborn with a new identity, one that would allow him free access in and out of mainland Europe. He knew without a doubt there would have been a European arrest warrant issued for him. Indeed, it would not take long for this to circulate to all European ports, airports and what borders remained in a united Europe.

  He was aware that pharmacists or doctors would be a port of call for any competent police investigator looking for him. He had to make do with what he had stolen from the hospital when he delivered the khukuri and message back to two investigators from MIDAS.

  In hindsight, he realized this was vain and a little stupid, he would have been presumed dead, and people do not look for the dead. Sebastian’s psyche was far from normal. No one had beaten him at anything. He had roamed the world killing, unhindered and unknown until the past few days. He would not allow the investigators to believe they had bettered him.

  Not killing the Gurkha security guard in his hospital bed was not an act of mercy, it was because he was incapable of killing him with the injury he had sustained.

  Once he had delivered the khukuri, Sebastian had rummaged through several unmanned clinical areas. He managed to get more bandages to pack the wound, as the strips of linen he had packed into the wound had started to seep crimson fluid. Sebastian found a storage cupboard with lighting.

  With the needle and suture he had discovered, he stitched the damaged ends of the wound together. He applied the little iodine he had taken, and finally after bandaging he found a jacket in one of the side rooms, no doubt left there by a patient or doctor.

  Events took a turn for the better as he departed the hospital. In the parking lot, Sebastian noticed a 1975 battered Fiat van idling, the driver standing some way off having a cigarette in a designated smoking area. Either believing no one would steal such a heap of trash or not caring he had left the engine on. Sebastian relieved the negligent driver of the Fiat and headed south. Sebastian stopped at the nearest cashpoint and took the maximum amount of cash the ATM would allow: five hundred Euros.

  Sebastian had guessed rightly that too little time had elapsed for the Italian Police to notify Interpol, which would ensure all his known accounts were monitored and funds frozen.

  Sebastian had no clothes, little money, and access to his funds would be stopped within days. What the security services would not know was the Swiss account he had set up with the proceeds from the sale of his dead mother’s house. The only thing he needed to access the funds was a pin code he had memorized, and he could have money transferred to the nearest bank, no identification required.

  Sebastian needed to put some distance between himself and the investigators, so the transfer of cash would have to wait. To the north was mainland Europe, with thousands of eyes across several countries looking for him. To the south lay fewer prying eyes, as he would only have Italian officers on the lookout. Sicily was the obvious place he could rest up and heal while planning for his future.

  Sebastian drove east at first, only turning south after accessing cashpoints for several days, to disguise his direction of travel and ultimate destination. On the third day, the ATM retained his card, and Sebastian knew the wheels of justice had begun to turn.

  Sebastian purchased a black beret, and clothes more fitting for southern Italy, at the port, where he boarded the ferry for the short trip to Sicily, unhindered or challenged.

  Isolated beneath the tallest volcano in Europe, Sebastian leased a converted farmhouse, so he could recover from his wounds and plan for the future. He used the last of his ATM money to pay the deposit. He now had no choice but to set up a transfer from his Swiss account.

  ***

  For several years, Fabienne had been subcontracted out to Government Communicating Headquarters; usually referred to as GCHQ. The covert department owned and run by the British was the epicenter for data and intelligence gathering. Not just throughout Europe, but for the rest of the world.

  Within this role, Fabienne had created software for facial mapping used by both American and British intelligence agencies to identify individuals who posed a threat to these nations. This was not a new weapon in their fight against Global Terrorism; it was enhanced technology to positively identify targets. She knew the software would be used to identify targets, locations and would end up with a drone dropping its deadly cargo on top of the individual.

  Fabienne had been working for the German Federal Intelligence Service for over twenty years when she was contracted out to GCHQ. She was reared in an orphanage in Geneva, her birth mother giving her up immediately after her introduction to the world.

  Once Cutler had begun investigating the German counterfeit gang while working for the American Secret Service, it became apparent to the Germans that there was someone within the German government who was involved.

  The German hierarchy became worried a scandal of this nature would knock back the progress Germany had strived to achieve in the post-war years. They also fretted about what information the person involved had access to. Number one priority was to identify the person and quietly eliminate the problem, or better still have Cutler do it for them.

  Once Cutler had left the Secret Service and set up MIDAS, Fabienne discovered that Cutler was continuing the investigation into the counterfeit gang. Fabienne maintained high level contacts in the German government, and they fed her some of the information that led to Cutler tracking Werner to Turkey.

  Cutler thought they had killed the delegate in the explosion, but she survived, albeit with severe burns. It was Fabienne who had identified Luther Gottschalk as the main sniper for the gang. Gottschalk also did some work for German Intelligence.

  Gottschalk was dispatched to Turkey. He was five hundred yards away f
rom the villa when Cutler attacked it. He was perched on the rocks, completely concealed. He had Cutler in his sights and felt the irony when he had been told to protect Cutler’s back, rather than cut short his life. German Intelligence paid more than Werner, and he could see Werner’s days were over. Fabienne was kept in the loop. The German Intelligence agency had no idea that Gottschalk had killed Hoagie. But Fabienne was not going to let this go.

  Delegate Frau Uebering had staggered out of the safe room, smouldering. Gottschalk put a bullet between her eyes, and made his way back to the airport, having ditched his weapon.

  Although Fabienne had met Hoagie only a few times, she liked the man. He was part of the MIDAS team, and everyone was upset at his death. The main reason Hoagie died was that Gottschalk shot and killed Richter on the steps of the plane in Liverpool airport, causing a stampede which led to his death. She had monitored Gottschalk’s movements, hitching a lift on the satellite feeds from several countries.

  With her expertise, she took over a NATO drone that had been returning from the Syrian border. The drone was on surveillance and had the latest camera technology on board. The loss of the NATO drone caused consternation and bemusement back in the control centre. They believed it had either crashed or been brought down. As the drone hovered a thousand feet in the sky above the villas, Fabienne switched the camera on when Gottschalk shot the delegate, and got high-resolution pictures of him as he made his escape.

  It only took a minute to route the footage to the Turkish intelligence agency; with notification that a German delegate had been shot. She made it appear the information had come from a NATO source. She then put the drone back under NATO Control.

  The Turks do not take kindly to foreign dignitaries being murdered on their home soil, especially by international hitmen. Gottschalk was easily identified, as not many albino men pass through the airport each day. The Turkish police swarmed him as he exited the taxi in front of the Departure lounge at Bodrum airport. No need for a costly trial; the lead officer shot him twice in the chest, claiming that he thought he saw a gun. The taxi driver was in shock as he scraped Gottschalk’s innards off his clothes.

  Once she knew that Sebastian had survived the injury and the fall from the cruise ship, Fabienne began to track Sebastian. It had taken her two days of hacking for her face recognition software to identify Sebastian at the port, entering Sicily.

  With Gottschalk dead, and blamed for the deaths and carnage in the Akbuk villas, she turned her attention to tracking Sebastian down.

  Fabienne saw no valid reason to keep Cutler up to date with what she was undertaking. The trail had gone cold for over a fortnight, and Cutler would have been on her back hourly for updates. Fabienne had confirmed two facial images of Sebastian at petrol stations. By backtracking the CCTV she hacked, she discovered the car and number plate Sebastian had driven down the spine of Italy. She had traced it as far as Sicily, but then the trail went cold.

  A month later, Speedy software identified a woman going into a bank to withdraw a cash sum. Except it was not a woman; the software gave an indicator reading matching several of Sebastian’s features, but not a positive reading of Sebastian. She crunched the numbers; it was only a forty-five percent positive match.

  Fabienne hacked into the bank in Catania, and traced the deposit back to an account in Geneva. The account had no name, but was accessed with a passcode. If it was Sebastian, and it was a big ‘if’, he must be out of money. “Do I tell Cutler or not?” she pondered aloud.

  If it is him, he probably thinks he’s safe. He would have no idea that we might have the capability to track him through satellites and close circuit cameras throughout Sicily, she thought.

  Fabienne waited another week. She wrote a programme to access the motorway and street cameras in Sicily. Once she gained access, it took Speedy less than an hour to locate the 1975 battered Fiat van. Now it was time to tell Cutler. She had a rough location of his sister’s killer; he could do the rest.

  Cutler was euphoric at the revelation. He had not felt this good since before he had the tragic news of his sister’s disappearance. He shared the data with the other members of MIDAS.

  Robert Stahmer was recovering from the loss of his eye, and now wore a patch over the missing organ. He had insisted on accompanying Cutler to Sicily. Tuck said he would resign if he were not involved. Ghislaine also insisted they would need an interpreter. Cheryl booked the flights and all four arrived in Sicily two days later.

  A further two days of inquiries, and the crossing of many a palm by the four MIDAS operatives, proved fruitful. They identified three new leases for properties in the area, but only one new face.

  It was 3 pm on a Friday afternoon as they approached the farmhouse. The sky was blue, only scarred by the small, billowing plume of ash and gas rising from the volcano. Even from that distance, Cutler, Stahmer and Tuck could see the lava flow was a trickle compared to some previous eruptions; the blackened landscape on the mountain bearing witness to past eruptions. The tinge of sulphur in the air caught the back of their throats.

  They parked the hire car out of sight, and approached the isolated farm from the south. The land was arable and fertile; vegetation had overtaken the land where crops had grown previously. Cutler guessed that the farm had not been a working farm for several years.

  Stahmer broke away and veered right, heading some fifty yards away before turning back towards the farm. As he progressed, he used the vegetation to mask his advance. Stahmer was to be the rear-guard at the back of the property, just in case Sebastian decided that flight was better than fight.

  Stealthily Tuck and Cutler edged forward. They could see the battered Fiat that Sebastian had fled in, parked at the side of the property on the stony and unkempt lane.

  The heat of the day was at its peak, and both men were sweating in their denims and loose shirts. Cutler carried a haversack on his back. He advanced, looking forward at the farm, while Tuck scanned the ground ahead of them. Suddenly Tuck clamped onto Cutler's shoulder and held him rigidly. He pointed a yard in front of him; Cutler looked down but could not see what Tuck was concerned with.

  Tuck knelt and picked up a small branch that was to his side. He whispered to Cutler “the ground has been disturbed.” Tuck pressed the branch just forward of their position and forced it downwards. The ground gave way and the stones fell several feet into a small pit, big enough to take a man. The trap door was hinged on both sides and gave way in the middle. Cutler could see the welcome surprise at the bottom of the pit would certainly incapacitate a man, if not kill him outright.

  One inch in diameter, sharpened bamboo canes had been cemented into place, pointing upwards awaiting its catch.

  “Old Viet Cong tricks,” Tuck whispered.

  As they circumnavigated the trap, Tuck scanned the area for any other traps that had been constructed. There were two more beneath the downstairs windows looking into the property.

  Cutler and Tuck could hear an old piano being played. It may have been ancient, but Sebastian had tuned it the previous day. Wagner’s Ring Cycle rose to a crescendo, the sound masking their approach, they hoped.

  Tuck kicked the door with force, and it gave way first time. Neither man was armed, as they had not wanted the added risk of trying to buy weapons in the country.

  The bald Sebastian sat at the old piano in the corner of the unkempt and tired room. The windows, bereft of curtains or blinds, kept the sunlight at bay with the amount of grime that had built up over the years.

  The room stank of wood rot, and smoke from a wood stove that was aflame in the kitchen. This was intermingled with the sweet smell of lemongrass and ginger that had been added to the chicken that was boiling on top of the stove.

  Sebastian carried on playing. “Gentlemen, you must be the ones who have been tracking me all these months.”

  Stahmer entered the room from the rear.

  “Ah, I see I was right,” he said as he stopped playing and turned to Stahmer. “How�
�s the eye, or lack of it, should I say?”

  “In much better shape than you will be in the next few hours, I can assure you,” Stahmer replied.

  “So, you are not here to arrest me. Sounds personal, is this all over the loss of your eye?” Sebastian said sarcastically.

  “No, this is you killing my friend’s sister.”

  Sebastian followed Stahmer’s gaze and stared at Cutler.

  “Ah, there have been so many; please give me a little more information so I can tell you how she died,” Sebastian said with a grin.

  “Juneau, Alaska,” Cutler spat out.

  “Yes, I remember. Beautiful girl, marvellous hair, so tasty.”

  Cutler moved towards him and kicked the chair from underneath him. Sebastian did not go sprawling as he had expected but landed on his feet and automatically moved side on to Cutler, in a fighting stance.

  “Out for revenge, what do they say? Dig two graves, or in this case maybe three or four,” Sebastian said calmly.

  “We know your capabilities. Unfortunately, you do not know ours,” Cutler said.

  In the blink of an eye, Sebastian did a roundhouse kick, felling Stahmer in one blow and rendering him unconscious. He turned back to face Cutler.

  “Odds a little more even now, don’t you think?”

  Sebastian leaped up towards Cutler and rose to head height in readiness to launch a flick kick at his temple. The final part of the move did not materialize. Sebastian fell to the floor shuddering.

  “Not out for revenge, out for justice,” Tuck spat out.

  Sebastian was still reverberating to the electric shock that was pulsating through his body from the Taser in Tuck’s hand.

  “I thought I said no weapons?” Cutler asked slowly.

  “This isn’t no weapon; this is a toy,” Tuck replied theatrically.

  Tuck eased off the trigger of the Taser. They wanted him unconscious, not dead. Cutler removed the duct tape he had in the haversack on his back. He started with Sebastian’s legs, wrapping them tightly together, but not enough to stop circulation. He then placed his arms together and repeated the process.