by A P Bateman
“Needs must,” Johnson said. “Time to let you know who’s boss.”
King nodded. “It was a good exercise, though.” King watched the doctor perform the first suture. The aesthetic hadn’t yet kicked in. The tip of the needle did not look sharp enough and it pushed the skin upwards before puncturing and being accepted by the pincers, the thread trailing behind, tugging its way through. The doctor tied it off and started the next stitch. King looked at the man’s watch. A nice Omega on a leather strap. It was a date model with a few scratches on the crown. The sort of piece that was given as a twenty-first present and treasured ahead of fashion or whim. He noted the time and the date. It helped to take his mind off the pain.
“Really?”
“Yes,” said King. “Because I got to see into your character.”
“How so? Just because I got a couple of fags to soften you up? You think I give a shit about what happens to you?”
“No.” King shook his head. “But it shows you don’t have the balls or the strength to hurt me yourself. Sure, your stooges could beat me up…” He looked over to the three men. “But only if someone holds a gun on me, because believe me, they’d be dead before they finished flexing their steroid-induced muscles.” He blew a kiss at the middle guard, then stopped the doctor short of the next stitch. “That’ll do,” he said and stood up, eye to eye with Johnson. “I’ll do a deal with you. I have information regarding three separate terrorist attacks that will take place on US soil over the next month. I’ll tell you about them, let you know everything I gleaned from my sources. But I’ll tell you nothing if you try any deranged shit like that again. And I’ll tell you in my own time. If you think torture will get you anywhere…” He pointed to the myriad of scars on his chest and torso. “Then you’ll get to know just how far down in the amateur leagues you really are.”
Johnson looked at the scars, then back at King’s face. His expression told Johnson he was not to be doubted. “In return for what?” he asked.
“My freedom.”
“Forget it.”
“Three attacks.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“And you’re a sack of it.”
“You’d better watch your mouth.”
“Or you’ll get someone to carry out your dirty work? Fuck it, maybe a gun on me won’t help this time. Your pussies will just be in the line of fire.”
Johnson shook his head and backed out the door. The guards followed, but they weren’t happy about leaving with their hands clean. The doctor suddenly realised he should be leaving and was standing too close to the most dangerous man the prison had seen.
“Three attacks, Johnson! The third will be the worst!” King shouted. “Chicago is first! Got that? Chicago!” The cell door slammed closed, but King smiled knowing full well that Johnson had heard.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“We stick to the plan. It’s crucial.”
“But we don’t even know if he’s still alive!” Ramsay retorted.
“And we never would,” Rashid paused. “That was always the part of the plan that I thought was complete and utter bullshit!”
“And I am still here, Neil!” Caroline snapped from the backseat. She caught his eye in the rear-view mirror and he looked away uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry, Caroline. But I’m just stating facts, regardless of your relationship with Alex. And there’s no going back, you know that?” Ramsay negotiated yet another junction and red light that turned instantly to green.
“And as I’ve said, that was always the plan,” Rashid shook his head. “Bravo Team have done their work, we have to see it through.”
“We’re well out of diplomatic relations now. This is merely the next step to a plan that was good enough to start rolling out when we were back in London. Now King is wrapped up in it, we’re not going to get cold feet!” Caroline snapped.
Ramsay sighed. “Alright,” he said. “I suppose I never thought it would get this far. But this next stage is huge.”
Caroline was pressed between the front seats, trying to look Ramsay in the eye, but she couldn’t quite manage it. Ramsay glanced in the vanity mirror and flinched slightly when he saw how close she was to him. “So, Alex was what? Part of an ill-conceived plan with no legs? He would do his part, then we would fail at this stage?”
“No!” Ramsay snapped and twisted round in his seat to face her. “Look, it’s just a big step, that’s all. It’s a prominent target with a lot of history.”
“Bollocks to its history!” Rashid interjected. “Its history is commercialism and greed. Capitalism at its height. That’s why it serves as a tourist attraction these days. No single business would have such a large headquarters nowadays.”
“There are dozens of businesses based there now, Rashid. Restaurants, bars, offices…” Ramsay protested somewhat pedantically, given his audience.
“So, it’s a good target. And that’s what we need,” said Caroline.
“Look, we’re almost there now,” Rashid said. “Let’s move on and get this done.”
“Christ Almighty,” Ramsay said quietly looking up at the skyline and the buildings of varying height. They’re huge…”
“And so is what is at stake,” Caroline said quietly, although she knew what Ramsay meant. But Director Amherst had told them they needed a statement, and that was exactly what they were going to make.
They had driven into Chicago while Powell, Big Dave and Tattooed Mick had taken the train in from Roselle. Marnie and Adams had driven in on a different route from Bloomingdale, where they were staying at a large hotel in Indian Lakes. The three men would simply pose as tourists heading for Navy Pier where a rock concert was playing throughout the afternoon, along with an international beer festival. The train was full of teens and middle-aged hipsters who had started drinking early. By contrast, Adams and Marnie were driving to the south of the city where they would park and head downtown using a combination of taxis and Uber. They had downloaded the Uber app using a credit card issued through MI5’s special operations wing that would terminate after settlement of the bill at the end of the month. Adams and Marnie would pose as a couple, and much to Rashid’s consternation, Adams was insisting they were one of those couples who always put on a show of affection. ‘Loved up’ was what Caroline called it, encouraging the idea. Rashid thought they should be a couple who had recently argued and should both play it subdued. Adams liked the idea and floated the chances of make-up sex after they warmed to each other as the day wore on. Rashid had continued the briefing through gritted teeth but knew that to retaliate was to stand before the hounds in this group, where further banter and bad taste would be relentless. Marnie enjoyed Rashid’s consternation. They hadn’t been together long, playing the on/off game since they had first gotten together in South Africa on an assignment.
Tactically, they had covered the bases. Public transport, personal transport and a series of commercial vehicle drop-offs and pick-ups where Adams and Marnie would put at least a block between vehicles and zig-zag their way near the target and would walk the last two blocks. All three groups would enter the target building at staggered times and would not interact once inside. Each person had a specific task and a timeframe in which to perform it. Subsequent investigations would be hampered by the crowds of party-goers on their way through the city to Navy Pier and the beer festival and rock concert, and the routes in and out of Chicago were numerous, so numerous in fact that eight people entering by three different means would appear invisible. By the time any link could be made, they would be long gone.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
King stripped off and checked his arm. The sutures had held well, and the swelling was going down. He supposed if an infection was going to take hold then it would have happened by now. He bent down for the boxer shorts, still damp but he didn’t have any drying options. He carefully unravelled them, used his back as best he could to block the overhead camera. He had snatched them from the loose hook, ripping
the hook from the wall. He had ditched the hook beside the gorilla’s unconscious body but had managed to keep two of the screws. He didn’t have the luxury of pockets - the jumpsuit had been made without them. Guantanamo Bay surplus. King wondered what the clothing company’s brochure said about the garment’s uses and applications and whether they had depots in the Middle-East for ISIS to benefit from their marketing and commercialism. A dedicated beheading video issue range. The company selling to both sides of the conflicts. King put the suit back on and as he pulled on his plimsoles, he tucked a screw under each insole before pulling them on. He could feel them, but for the moment they did not protrude through the sole.
The alarm sounded, and the cell door opened. King waited at the threshold for the second alarm, then joined the line. One metre behind and one metre in front. They walked in unison through the cavern where only the day before three men who were too injured to stand upon command had been shot dead. Apart from bleach staining which had cleaned the grime off the rough concrete floor to a greater degree than normal, there was nothing to signify what had happened, and King knew that nobody in the outside world would ever know. The fate of every man here, himself included, relied upon support in dark political corners and shadowy intelligence agencies. When the prison became too hot politically, or the undercurrent changed, then he could only imagine the fate of the prisoners. As a man who had fought the worst of society, he wasn’t sympathetic to the inmates, just incredulous to the prospect of the institution serving a significant purpose. Vladimir Zukovsky had been held here in secret. The Americans had wanted a high-value intelligence asset and after insisting they question the Russian terrorist, had simply denied his existence. The British government and MI5 had been left with a dilemma – to go through the proper diplomatic and judiciary channels and to publicly fight the Americans would shed light on how close the United Kingdom had been to a nuclear weapon detonating in the heart of the country. The questions would be insurmountable, and Britain’s security failings would be highlighted to other terrorist groups. Britain could let Zukovsky go, but considering the intelligence gleaned from an operation that MI5 were tasked with in the Arctic Circle earlier this year, and the threats of the Russian sponsored development of a global infecting virus for use as a first-strike weapon, MI5 needed information from Zukovsky. In short, the Americans had cornered themselves and cooperation would be zero.
The mess hall was an unpainted room, the walls and floors finished in rough concrete or exposed drilled rock. King stood in line. He could see the white supremacists watching him. The gorilla had both eyes bandaged and was being guided along by his own kind. He guessed the dynamic within that group would change soon. The wounded, older lion with younger, fitter lions ready to take his place. King kept his distance and took his tray over to an uncrowded bench, where he sat down and started to eat. He didn’t care that it looked like vomit. He knew enough about calories and the importance of eating whatever he could, whenever he could. He did not subscribe to that at home, but when he was operating in the field he ate and slept as much as he could. The tray was piled high with the hardest scrambled egg he’d ever eaten and with each mouthful it threatened to break the plastic spoon. He figured it had once been powdered egg but was at a loss what the lumpy white sauce on top was, and nor why it came with a scone. It was only as he listened to the chatter around him that he realised it was biscuits and gravy. He decided it was singularly the worst meal he’d ever eaten, and he’d once been forced to make a cup of tea with his own piss before, so it was saying something.
He saw Zukovsky eating at a table on the other side of the hall. The man was with a group of tattooed, wiry men with Slavic features. King recognised the tattoos as Russian military and prison artwork. He knew that many tattoos had specific meanings, such as what crime they had committed to be incarcerated, how many men they had killed or what their gang ranking was. They looked to be tough men, and he knew that they would be aware that Zukovsky had previous history and bad feeling with the prison’s latest arrival. Perhaps they would act as his bodyguards. He spooned down the eggs and wallpaper paste and finished the biscuit. He washed it down with water and was sure he could keep the meal down if he tried not to think about it too much. He could kill for a cup of tea and looking around the room he was sure many of the men here had killed for far less. He kept checking behind him and using his peripheral vision to keep himself situationally aware. He busked his tray as everyone else did and he walked casually past Zukovsky, glancing at him and the men around him. Better to test the water now than be caught by a surprise attack later. The men watched him, but nothing was said. Zukovsky looked up, but quickly returned to his eggs and gravy. One of the men helped himself to Zukovsky’s biscuit and King saw right there and then that the man had lost any dominance he may have had. These younger Russians were not subservient to him and as hard as it was to believe that a former KGB General with a lifetime’s service had fallen so low, it gave King an insight to the man and his life inside this place. If a man like Zukovsky carried no clout, then this place could break anybody.
“You have beef with our friend?” one of the men asked as King passed by, forcing him to turn around.
“No.”
“That’s not what I hear.”
“And I give a shit, because?”
The man stood up, still chewing on the biscuit. He took another bite as one would an apple and spoke through a cascade of crumbs. “You real tough guy, eh?” he asked in broken English with a heavy guttural accent. “If you want to survive in here, you need learn respect…”
“Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind,” King said. “When I eventually meet someone who deserves some respect, that is.”
“You already fight with those fascists,” the man smiled. “But they are soft faggots who eat too much burger and ice-cream in previous life and are only tough in big group…” His face fell, and he glared at King. “Watch your back, new boy.”
King stepped up to him, his eyes colder, harder. They were kind to those he cared for, for others who looked into them, they looked like somewhere between purgatory and hell. The man swallowed, stepped back a pace. “And you watch your front, Ivan. Because I don’t need to sneak up on people. Fuck with me and you’ll eat the rest of your meals through a straw and shit in a bag…” He patted the Russian on his cheek and said, “And I don’t think these hill-billy, trigger-happy guards will put up with your dead weight for long.”
The rest of the men stood up in unison, the bench seats scraping on the ground beneath it. King saw that two guards had taken up position in an open window behind the Russian. Their M4 rifles were aimed. The men had noticed, too. They looked to change their mind and dutifully started to busk their empty trays. The Russian smiled and said, “I will remember this…” He turned and left, leaving his tray for his minions to clear away.
“That was dumb, even for you,” said Zukovsky. He had finished his eggs, but King could see that even as an old hand, he had left the pale white gravy.
King sat down opposite him and said, “So, tell me about a virus that incapacitates people in a way only horror films would have you believe. Tell me about people reduced to a primal instinct that they only feed, like cannibals, and are unaware of anything else. You couldn’t just stick with Anthrax or Novichok, could you?”
Zukovsky smiled. “Never in my lifetime would I have thought they could develop it.”
“Well, they have.”
“Then, we are done here.” He stood up with his tray and looked down at King, a new fire in his eyes that had been lacking before. “And Russia will win.”
“Win what? There’ll be nothing worth having.”
“We will clean up the mess. We will emerge the greatest nation,” he paused, a thin smile on his lips. “As if there were any doubt.”
“A nation of poverty and decadence, and nothing in between. A nation with nothing of value other than oil and gas. Where are your inventions, products or contributions to mankind and
humanity? I’ve been everywhere and it’s still the most miserable bloody nation on earth. And now, you get to spread some evil shit among the West. What for, to compensate for the misery our successes bring you? You feed off them, aspire to them. But where is your ingenuity? You make a bloody rifle and don’t update it for sixty-years!”
“Because it was perfect the first time!”
“Debatable,” King said. “It suited its user. It was simple, like them. It was rugged, like them. And it was repressed from evolving, like them. Nothing your country has ever made, apart from one cheaply constructed rifle, has made it anywhere else. And it’s interesting that your most successful product in history was a weapon. A killing machine. You were second into the nuclear arms race. Second everywhere else, too.”
“First into space.”
“First, then last. Last in every other venture after that. You couldn’t get vegetables to market, let alone men to the moon!”
“You are trying to provoke me?”
“No,” King said. “I’m highlighting that your country has only given misery to the world. Repression of its people, and when communism failed, you repressed with money and wealth. Or a lack of it for all outside the party. You make chemical weapons, conventional weapons, small arms and specialise in obstinance. You already tried to kill millions of British citizens with a nuclear device. Why? Because this apocalyptic weapon wasn’t deployable? You hate the West so much that you had to resort to a backup plan?”
“I despise the West!” he snapped, standing up suddenly.
“Sit down,” King said. “Before I tell someone what you know about this virus project. I imagine they tortured you enough when they thought you had an inside line to nuclear weapons. I can see they did. You’re a broken man,” King paused. “The intensity has gone in your eyes. Sure, you had it a second ago when you thought of the misery your concept could unleash on the West, but it’s gone now. That was as alive as you’ll ever be in here. You look like a dead man walking. I doubt you could take another round of waterboarding and electric shocks. But they wouldn’t care. They’ll just kill you doing it and bury you out on the plains.” King could see he’d touched a nerve. The mention of torture had caused a flicker in the man’s eyes. King had unnerved him. “But I have another way…”