by A P Bateman
“The FBI and the Secret Service are working hard to find the gunman. Three victims so far. They are seizing CCTV footage at gun ranges and the NRA are filing for civil liberty violations. The CCTV is there for the operator’s safety, not to keep tabs on gun owners. It’s all in the second-amendment.”
“They had CCTV when the founding fathers wrote the constitution?” Ramsay smiled.
“Neil…”
“Sorry. Well, the yanks are a bit touchy on that subject.”
Simon Mereweather picked up the sheaf of papers and handed them across the desk. “We suspect we know the identity of this vigilante. A team working on links to Islamic terrorism on US soil…”
“What?” Ramsay interrupted.
Mereweather held up a hand. “Please permit me to finish, Neil,” he paused. “I know we shouldn’t be there but matters escalated. And dealing with the Americans has become tiresome lately. They are fast becoming a shuttered nation…”
“But are our friends and allies, nonetheless…”
“There are no friends or allies in intelligence, Neil. Merely countries or organisations with common interests. And at present, some of our views are not shared by the Americans. They have distanced themselves under this current administration. Presidents come and go; we’ll all be on each other’s Christmas lists again soon.”
“So, we’re operating out there without sanction?”
“Yes.”
“And how has this link with the gunman been established?”
“The Islamic terrorists have been subtly recruiting a sniper.”
“They can’t train their own?”
“Not to the extent they wanted,” he paused. “They wanted to score a moral victory as well. They wanted to recruit a disaffected US serviceman. Better PR, so to speak. It was an odd approach but makes perfect sense when one thinks about it.”
“And the target?”
“The US President, amongst others. Start low, build momentum and publicity, then take out POTUS.”
Ramsay shrugged. “So, we could just sit back and watch the show then.”
“Neil…”
“Sorry.” He glanced at the top copy of paper, more out of discomfort. He had surprised himself. He wasn’t normally obtuse. Not up the ladder, at least.
“A domestic investigation led a team to the states. Islamic terrorists were trying for a three-pronged attack using British, American and French ex-soldiers to assassinate key politicians who supported the war on terrorism in the Middle-East. A crowning victory for their PR machine. Soldiers so disaffected that they pick up arms against the very people who sent them off to war,” he paused. “We thought our sniper was heading out there to get some range practise and procure a weapon and ammunition. It’s quite possible for someone to buy what they need, and all you’d have to do is find a way to get it back into the country. Anything bought on the black market here is either old Soviet stock or stolen and well-used rubbish. The ammunition in most cases is home-loaded. In the US, match-grade equipment can be easily obtained and with some ingenuity, smuggled back here. We had identified our sniper and it was merely a case of poor operational security that led us to the American sniper. The terrorists did not operate a tight enough cell system.”
“What happened to the British sniper?”
“We kept him in play,” Mereweather paused. “He’s back here and he’s under constant surveillance.”
“And his weapon?”
“We let it through.”
“So, he’s active?” Ramsay asked incredulously.
“Until we choose otherwise,” Mereweather said. “SCO19 are on standby; four teams of watchers are in place and Special Branch are onside. We have the SAS on speed-dial, so to speak. The guy won’t get close enough to his target.”
“And the French?”
“We’ve handed them what data and intelligence we’ve found,” Mereweather sighed. “They’d lost him, the last I heard. They think he has used the open border policy of the Schengen Agreement to slip into Belgium and hide among the huge Islamic community there.”
“And the yanks?”
“Haven’t told them, old boy.”
“But…”
“But, that is where you come in. You and your team. Our first team of watchers have him under surveillance and he doesn’t look in a rush to do anything just yet.”
“But four congressmen have been killed!”
“That predates our involvement.”
“But they will want to know what we know, arrest him, charge him and throw away the key…”
Simon Mereweather steepled his fingers, his elbows firmly on the desk. He smiled and said, “Precisely. And that’s what we’re counting on.”
Chapter Eight
He had been moved three times. Each time, he got the impression that it would be temporary. He had gotten over the fear of being executed. He couldn’t change that, and the longer he remained in captivity and the longer he divulged his cover story – one layer at a time – the more chance he had of remaining a viable commodity.
He had been hooded for much of the time and whenever it had been removed, he had been kept in the light and left alone with white noise. He had been subjected to all three but couldn’t pick his favourite. Hooded would be close, but that usually accompanied interrogation and beatings. It was more difficult to take a beating when you never knew what was coming and could not brace yourself for the blow. The first strike always landed with enough shock to threaten his heart with stopping. If only they knew. Because the second and third strikes always seemed to revive him. The white noise stopped him from sleeping, and that was the worst torture of all. True sleep deprivation drove loving parents to do unspeakable things in the heat of the moment, so as a form of coercion, it ranked right up there with ripping out fingernails.
It was the waterboarding that drove him to talk, though. The feeling of water seeping into his airway, the sensation of drowning was enough to get anybody spilling the information they held. Or at least, that is what his interrogators thought. King had received training, had the method shown to him, performed on him. He had even used it once on a Russian terrorist. He knew how to resist, how to act and when to divulge. His cover story was multi-layered. And he knew when to bring it in, how much to peel away and when to beg for his life. All the while, remaining calm and fighting the illusion of drowning with what he knew it to be. The sensation built upon fear of the unknown and one’s own fragile expectation of mortality.
They had what they wanted, but they would be back. And now, as he ate a burger and fries from the tray and sipped on a paper cup of cola, he had been rewarded with some carrot. Having only eaten microwave sachets of rice or day-old bread rolls for an insurmountable period of time - that he guessed at with the amount of rudimentary meals he had received - as ten days, the burger and fries was going down extremely well.
Now no longer shackled or hooded, he was incarcerated in a cell no larger than eight by eight with a mattress on the floor and a bucket to defecate in, but it provided him with an element of freedom, nonetheless. He had managed to keep check on time, as one of his interrogators and one of the guards had left their watches on. Both were set on the same time, and he had worked out from the pattern of the meals, that it would now be the afternoon. He was aware that he had probably lost track of entire days, but as he sat on his bare mattress and ate the meal, aching and tired, left near exhausted after the last bout of waterboarding, he knew it was approaching evening and he had a good chance of maintaining his equilibrium a little more now that he could distinguish between night and day, and build back in the rest he needed.
He had lost weight, but he had been carrying a little more than normal. Normally somewhere between thirteen and fourteen stone, depending on exercise regime or the mission, he had purposely topped half a stone over, now suspecting he was somewhere between his middle weight. It had been enough to give him the energy he needed, the resolve to get through what was hopefully behind him for a
while. He could lose another stone without losing muscle tone, and he would now start tensing his muscles in a pattern to retain strength. A workout without equipment, but he was aware he would be under surveillance and he would refrain from squats, sit-ups and press-ups. It would work in his favour to appear broken and beaten.
Chapter Nine
Boston
It was a black bag operation. Just like he’d seen in the movies and on his favourite TV shows, but this was real and there was a very real chance he could be caught or killed. He never really thought such things existed. Not in today’s age. But the world was a complex place, and his position in it was towards the bottom of the pile.
He had served in the marines and the Navy SEALS and had taken a well-paid post at Paradigm - a highly secretive civilian security contracting firm - after his third tour in Afghanistan. He had no idea what the name stood for in terms of its being, and nor did his colleagues, but the pay was good, the leave was regular, and the equipment and resources had been second to none. In fact, it seemed better organised and funded than his SEAL team. Not altogether surprising, given its benefactor, but the CIA had virtually unlimited funds available to pump into outlets such as this. The new way to fight terrorism was through subcontracting deniability and mortgaging morality.
He had killed countless times. But that had been for God, corps and country. Now that it was for money, it didn’t feel so good. A numbness to the senses, a detachment that he hadn’t felt in the heat of battle, or in the adrenalin build and release of special operations. Tainted. But he would get over it. The fifty-thousand bonus wired to his off-shore account would help with that.
The woman lay on the floor where she had fell and hugged her dying husband. She had screamed at him, and as he shot her, he had known they were neither words of forgiveness or begs for mercy. Her eyes had said it all. As he walked near to inspect the other body in the kitchen of the open-planned apartment, her left leg shot out. Nerves possibly, but he made sure by planting another .22 bullet in her skull. He wouldn’t have normally chosen such a small pistol, but it hadn’t been his choice and it worked well with the suppressor – almost silent. The other man – the third in the terrorist cell – had fallen over the sink. Cole couldn’t see the man’s hands, so he put a bullet into his back, left of the spine and just below the shoulder blade. The body didn’t move. He reached out with a gloved hand, pulled the cadaver away from the sink and allowed it to fall heavily to the floor. Satisfied that they were all dead, he slipped the pistol under his jacket and into the shoulder holster, before taking out his phone and taking a picture of each of the corpses. He focused on their faces and then moved the bodies so that he could photograph the wounds. Next, he took out a small set of garden shears, or secateurs and three clear plastic evidence bags. He removed the right index finger of all three corpses and labelled each bag with the code name he had been given for all three targets. He placed the bloodied secateurs and the empty bullet cases in a fourth bag and checked the apartment over for any traces he may have left. As he did so, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. To his surprise, he seemed different somehow. Not so much aged, as weary. He was short and stocky, around five-seven and twelve stone, but well-muscled. His black skin was as dark as imaginable, which emphasised the whites of his eyes, and his large, straight teeth. His close-cropped hair showed no grey, so why did he feel the reflection looked different? It couldn’t have merely been the act of what he’d just done, could it? It hadn’t so much been murder, as an execution. Maybe that was the difference. He couldn’t be sure, but as he tucked the grisly contents inside the bags into his jacket pocket, and picked up his phone, the final glance at the bodies filled him with no further emotion. They had been terrorists. Plain and simple. He did not know of their crimes, couldn’t care any less. They had been in the chain, and now they were not.
Cole opened the door and closed it carefully behind him. There was no movement in the corridor, nothing to indicate his actions had disturbed the other residents. He would remove his gloves once he was back on the street. His visit had taken just eleven minutes and America was now a safer place because of it.
Chapter Ten
Cornwall, England
Five weeks earlier
The beach was deserted, and the sea glistened in the rising sun, a rare millpond day on the North coast of the Southwestern-most county.
King enjoyed May, not only his birthday month, but it signalled the start of summer. He had been granted a week’s leave of absence to recover from minor surgery, and he was determined to enjoy it. He had left Caroline sleeping at the rental cottage and taken the opportunity to walk the cliffs in the dawn light and make his way down to the beach. The tide was dropping and only his footprints marked the sand behind him. Ahead of him – a blank sand canvas, cool under his bare feet. He dropped his shoes he’d been carrying and stripped down to his boxer shorts. An impromptu dip beckoned him, and what better way to feel alive than to feel cold water on his skin? He jogged the short distance and did not hesitate as he reached the water, and ran up to his knees, hurdled as best he could as the water deepened and cut his losses with a shallow dive into the crystal-clear water. The sea was freezing, his heart pounding and his breath shortening as he started to crawl out into the depths. After fifty-metres, he took a breath, dived down the eight-feet or so to the sand and flipped onto his back. The water was crystal-clear, the sky blue above. He blew out a bubble ring, watched it rise and grow to the surface where it dispersed in a scattering of tiny bubbles. He had perfected the art, though in much warmer water than this. He pushed off the sand and as he broke the surface, he turned to watch the shore. The cliffs rose dramatically out of the sea on both sides of the tiny bay and the beach gave way to dunes and the small hamlet beyond. King could happily move here. Or at least buy his and Caroline’s ideal holiday home. A crash-pad for R&R between assignments, with a view to take early retirement to in the not too distant future. He smiled to himself, knowing pipe dreams seldom panned out. But he had seen a cottage for sale further up the valley which had looked ideal. He shook the thought from his mind, took a breath and started to crawl down the bay until he’d swam around a quarter of a mile. He looked up at the cliff towering above him, then started for the shore. The sun was edging above the land to the East, and as it broke over the horizon, it flooded the bay with bright yellow light, and he welcomed its warmth as he walked back to his clothes. He ditched the boxers and pulled on his jeans, covering his brief nakedness, then wrung the boxers out and pocketed them before picking up his shoes. He fingered the healing scar on his abdomen, just below his left ribcage. Keyhole surgery, a miracle of modern science. Shrapnel from a wound on his previous assignment had been detected and removed. He looked down at his right side, where the picture told a different story. A bullet had taken part of his rib, caused massive internal bleeding and the surgery needed to remove the shattered bone and damaged bullet had left him looking as if a shark had taken an exploratory bite and discounted him in the same mouthful. Over two-hundred stitches to his back and abdomen. He slipped his shirt over him. He didn’t really mind the scars. They meant he had lived to tell the tale.
He jogged his way up the beach and stopped before the sandy car park. Rashid was perched on the bonnet of his Audi, a coffee in his hand. Another cup sat beside him, along with a paper bag.
“Nice day for a swim,” Rashid paused. “Somewhere in the world, but not here. Must have been bloody freezing.”
“It gets the blood flowing and the heart pumping” King said and picked up the cup. “Tea?”
“White and one.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“Sausage rolls and some croissants.”
“You really are a crap Muslim,” he said and sipped some of the tea through the gap in the lid.
Rashid shrugged and took out a sausage roll. “I got these from a bakery and deli in Padstow,” he said. “Weird place. The harbour’s full of water and the tide is nearly out.”
>
“They have a loch.”
“Oh.” He took a bite of the sausage roll and spoke with his mouthful, “That’s a bugger if you miss the tide,” he said.
“Why are you here?” King rummaged through the bag and retrieved a sausage roll. “Besides breakfast, that is?”
“Director Amherst wants me to assess your shooting.”
“Piss off!”
“I know,” Rashid laughed. “But he’s worried about the shot. He wants three in the bull, no misses or he’s changing his mind about the entire operation.”
“Idiot.”
“I’ve got the rifle in the boot.”
“You’re really going to test me?”
Rashid was grinning. “There’s a military range on Bodmin Moor at Milpool, but it’s only rated to six-hundred metres.”
“Wasted trip, then.”
“There’s another club on Bodmin Moor, but it’s civilian and rated to twelve-hundred metres.”
“Like I said…”
“I’ve set something up,” Rashid interrupted.
“I’m sure.”
“A couple of thousand metres, at least. I used Google Earth and found a disused airfield. It’s at a place called Davidstow. Not all that far from here, near Camelford. It’s all ready, just need to drive around a bit and make sure there’s no random dog walkers, or doggers, or whatever the hell they do down here for kicks.”
“Caroline will be expecting me,” King said tersely.
“Don’t worry, I’ve cleared it with the boss. I got her a cappuccino and a nice sticky Danish with a cherry on top, she’s good to go for a couple of hours,” he smiled. “Besides, we don’t want you in your comfort zone, or anything like that.”
King sipped some more tea and picked up a sausage roll. “Come on, then,” he said. “The sooner we do this, the sooner you can piss-off back up the line and let me get on with my sick leave.”