Again, the whole episode had taken less than a couple of seconds of real time. In my mind, I’d had all the time in the world. Or at least all the time I had needed. Now the count was bad guys zero, good guys two. And all of this before lunch.
It was completely unpleasant, and it had been very automatic. The kind of training that the ‘Special Ops’ section of the SAS puts you through is supposed to be so good that it produces the most elite kill-teams in the world. I knew for a fact that the Israelis and the Palestinians both produced teams that could hold their heads up just as high, and there were more nations than those into this sort of thing these days.
What it was in reality, was all the bloody countless number of times that they sent you out to practice that training in the real world. If you kept coming back alive, you became very good indeed. These are the ones you don’t normally hear of. The ghosts. Hence the nickname, ‘Spooks’. After the end of the cold war, there were a lot of very well trained killers in the unemployment line. That meant that some of them would naturally gravitate towards free-lance contracting of their skills.
‘Slow Time’ was dropping off me now that the immediate threat was gone. I stood in the street where I was and did a quick three-sixty, scanning shop fronts, second floor windows, parked cars, the usual. We were clear. I holstered the H&K, and pulled out my second cellular phone, the one that had no digital communication connector, hence reducing the need for a ten-ounce battery. It was the small unit I used for regular quick calls, and I punched in the number Godsen had given me.
A nondescript male voice answered, and I gave the code word and the location, as well as the body count, then immediately cut the connection and punched in a random number of nine’s and zero’s. That last number redial function had its uses, but I didn’t need them today. Then I turned it off and slipped it into my right inside jacket pocket.
I just had time enough to pull my police badge out and slip it into my handkerchief pocket with the silver of the badge showing. Then ‘Real Time’ came back and hit me, hard, along with the enormity of what I’d just done. My knees started to buckle, and I almost collapsed. I was shaking inside, and some of it made it all the way to the outside of my body. I tried hard to control the quiver in my hands, and it was becoming more and more of an effort to stand up straight.
It had been a long time now since I’d shot someone. It had always felt dirty then, and it still felt dirty. The sirens were on top of us now. I gave up on the calm, cool and collected act, and put both of my hands on the roof of the Audi and spread my legs, killing two birds with one stone. Firstly, it stabilized my stance, and secondly, it showed the local constabulary that I was no trouble, no, none at all. In fact, I’m on your side, yes-sir-ee.
I might have been born into this world in a state of naiveté, but I had lost all traces of it somewhere along the trail. In Swiss territory this sort of altercation does not bring a uniformed police officer or two, I knew that for a fact because I’d seen them in action before. There would be a SWAT team with full body armour and the very latest fashions in automatic weaponry. The Swiss don’t tolerate this sort of thing well. To be accurate about it, they didn’t tolerate it at all.
As I stood there I looked down at Therese. She didn’t seem to have been as badly affected by all of this as I would have anticipated, but there you go. You never know until it’s over how a rookie will handle it, and she’d done alright. The look on her face would have given her mother a heart attack, but she wasn’t screaming uncontrollably. I hated that. Only a few seconds left for instructions. I spoke into the pin microphone.
“Everyone listen up. Therese will say nothing at all. I repeat, nothing at all.” I was looking down into her eyes as she looked back up at me. There was still a spark there, she’d be Okay. “Ronnie, you take it from here, I called the support team, so they know what’s gone down. I’m your Police Bodyguard, period, and I was called on to fulfill my duties. Keep it simple, and make sure they know we’re police. They still won’t like it, but they won’t shoot us. The worst that can happen is that they’ll try to bore us to death all day with questions and paperwork. Do not respond verbally. Over”
By this time the street was packed with police cars and vans. The vans carried the Swiss equivalent of SWAT teams. I was being yelled at in Swiss German now, being told not to move. Since I was already in compliance, I kept doing what I was doing, which was nothing.
Godsen had finally realized that the action had been played out, and now she had to do her part. Westwood stood back and let her compose herself. The girls had been sharp enough to get their badges out as well, and Godsen was instructing Westwood as to what to say, which I hope was as little as possible. The police were yelling at them too but not as nastily as they were at me. Eventually, the boss cop got around to me. Fortunately, he spoke very good English.
“So. You are Canadian, yes?”
“Yes.”
“You are also a policeman, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Who was the one who killed these two men?”
His gaze never wavered from my eyes. I guess he figured the girls weren’t the killer type, so I was his most likely candidate.
“That would be me.”
“And your reason for this madness?”
“Protection of my superior, Colonel Godsen, and of course, self-defense.”
He spoke to the cop who’d been covering me with an ugly looking little automatic weapon, directing him to frisk me. This turned up a fair bit of hardware, including my two .45’s, enough ammo to hold back a small riot, and a very nice six-inch throwing knife, in the traditional back-of-the-neck sheath. Oh, and my Interpol Badge and I.D., which seemed to upset him more than the guns.
By this time, I had been turned around, and I was talking face to face with my inquisitor, a lieutenant by the name of Karl Haschey. I looked up at the sky and saw the cloud cover rolling in from the east. I had a feeling it was going to be a boring day today.
~
Chapter Fifteen
T
he response team arrived at about the same time the good lieutenant was about to blow his top. He wanted answers, and we had none for him. In this instance, it was mostly true. He had just ordered all of us to be bundled into the handy paddy wagon parked across the street when a Cadillac STS pulled up to a stop just short of the police tape line, and a very officious looking gentleman stepped out of the passenger seat. He was instantly approached by the officer standing duty on that side, but it didn’t even slow him down. He flashed a badge that obviously carried some real weight, and kept walking. The officer he’d flashed his badge at even held the tape down for him so he wouldn’t have to make the effort for himself. Everything came to a halt at that stage. Things were looking up. Maybe we wouldn’t have to spend the day at the station after all.
He went first to the Mercedes, and spent maybe ten or fifteen seconds looking over the scene there, then he went straight to the body on our side of the street. I got the impression that he was pacing it off as he walked. When he got to the second man, he only gave him a cursory glance, first at the killing shot, then at the knee shot.
After that he walked up to Lieutenant Haschey, pulling him aside for a tête-à-tête, which lasted maybe forty-five seconds, tops. Then he zeroed in on Godsen, who was more or less composed by this time.
It had been all of fifteen minutes, maybe, since the last shot echoed off down Lindenstrasse. Not bad, but not the best I’d seen. Godsen and the ‘heavy’ that I was hoping was to be our rescuer spoke for about five minutes. My transmitter/receiver wasn’t picked up on the frisk, and it was still working fine. They hadn’t thought to look for and confiscate earpieces and pinhead mics that didn’t even show. The conversation was very low-key, well, whispered actually, so I didn’t get any of the heavy’s side, but I caught Godsen’s side. She did well. Basically she said nothing that couldn’t be deduced from the scene itself in about five minutes or less of observation. Karl was called in at t
he tail end of the talk, and when they were done, we were free to go. All of our gear was returned to us, and the emergency crews started cleaning up. Carting away the bodies, sweeping up the glass, and so on.
Godsen, Westwood, and our anonymous benefactor came over to collect Therese and I. Godsen kept it short and sweet.
“Upstairs, my suite, let’s go.”
We all trooped into the hotel, through the empty lobby and around the corner to the elevator. Not a word was spoken by anyone on the way up.
As we were getting out of the elevator, I noticed that Therese had been holding on to the back of my jacket all the way up. We were off last, and I took her by the hand as we walked down the hall to Godsen’s suite. Once we had all gotten settled in the sitting room area, Westwood called down for a bottle of scotch, some glasses, and a bucket of ice. I remember thinking to myself that we’d just had breakfast, and a glass of scotch just wasn’t on. Not for me, and certainly not for Therese. I asked her to add a small jug of fresh-squeezed orange juice to the order, and she obliged.
After that, Godsen made the introductions.
“Well, everyone, this is Mr. Smith, and we have him to thank for smoothing the way for us this morning.” There was a rapid round of quiet, and apparently, no-one had anything to add. Or, more accurately no-one wanted to add anything. Well, a party’s nothing without the chatter, so I took up the banner for our side.
“Yes, well done Mr. Smith, on behalf of our little crew, I thank you. Now, as for your position in this affair, meaning are you the number one man or do you have a boss here in Zurich, etcetera, would I speak to you about that, or would I sort that out with the Colonel?” The look I got was priceless. Apparently, this guy was pissed off at something, or someone. Just then there was a knock on the door. Westwood jumped up to get it, as if someone else was in a rush to beat her to it.
Mr. Smith looked right at me and said “Don’t move.”, like we were in the movies or something. He was standing at the head of the seat grouping, dominating the room, about twelve or fifteen feet from where I sat, on the sofa, next to Therese.
I was still pumped with adrenaline from the shootings, and I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t need ‘Slow Time’ to handle Mr. Smith. I had a job to do, and that was to make sure that everyone came back from this one alive. Westwood had accepted a room service cart with the drinks and ice, and was in the process of closing the door. I was at the door before it closed, and I flung it wide open again.
“The cart goes back in the hall Evie, then get back inside and close the door.”
There was no questioning of my odd orders, she just did it. I heard some raised voices from inside the suite, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I could guess, though.
Then I was alone in the hall with the cart and the man who had delivered it. The member of the kitchen staff that had brought the cart turned back to me as the door opened. I remembered him from my previous stays at the hotel. I racked my brain for a second, then I had it. Romero. He was Italian and a very nice young man. About thirty now, I would guess. Not much smarter than a quick twelve-year-old, and that was permanent, although he had quite a knack for languages, speaking at least five that I knew of. He’d been adopted here along with the job, which was whatever was asked of him. He did his best all the time, and for that he was treated like family. His loyalty was to the hotel, and by extension, the hotel guests. I could see a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but he couldn’t quite put it together.
“Romero, it’s me, Mr. Claxton. You remember me, don’t you?”
“Ah, yes, sir! Mr. Claxton, sir. It is very good to see you once more, sir.”
He was nodding his head now, and smiling. He’d made the connection. Good. I waved him over to me, reaching into my pocket for some francs. I found some, and gave him a twenty. He was as happy as kid who’d just met Santa Claus.
“Romero, did you bring this cart straight from the kitchen, with no stops on the way, and nobody touched it but you?” He thought about that for a moment and then nodded his head again.
“Yes, sir. Just like always I do.” Just the answer I was looking for. I patted him on the shoulder and sent him on his way. Then I checked the cart. Under the linen, in the hotbox, the whole deal. The seal wasn’t cracked on the scotch, and the O.J. looked like it should. The bucket of ice held only ice. Satisfied, I rapped twice on the door. Mr. Smith himself opened it, then had to make way because I was pushing the cart ahead of me. As I passed him I quietly said, “That’s one.”
He didn’t want to let it go. Maybe it was me he was pissed at. After closing the door, he asked in a voice that all could hear, “And just what is it that happens when I get to three?”
It was an American Midwest accent, the kind you’re born with, and never shake off completely. I smiled to myself. That was all the final information I required. What it meant was that he was the local ‘Man from Uncle Sam’, and being Canadian, if I happened to wound his pride a little, or even a lot, there would be no ‘International Incident’, and he was trying to push my buttons, which I wasn’t in the mood for. He probably thought I should have talked the bad guys into surrendering their weapons to me, as opposed to killing them both. Maybe I hadn’t had to kill them both. But I had been convinced that they were on the side of the black hats, and these guys were playing for keeps. The old ways kick in, and that’s the way it goes down.
Smith was a big man, about thirty pounds over my weight, without an ounce of fat on him, and arrogant. That came from lack of experience. They probably trained him in the art of “50 ways to kill your opponent without working up a sweat”, but I really don’t think he’d ever had to use any of them. They don’t work that well anyway. I’ve had the course too, and my first time out it almost got me killed trying to use their particular brand of kill training.
To learn to kill effectively, you have to see how it’s done close up, by someone who’s done it a lot. And you better pay attention right from the first moment, or you stand a pretty fair chance of being one more mission statistic. Covert Ops was such fun.
I turned around and stepped right into his face. He had the door behind him and nowhere else to go. He’d have been wiser to give himself a few more yards.
“I don’t give three. You only get one, and that’s gone.” I gave him a chance to back down. I did, honestly. I stood there, six inches from his face, smelling the cherry flavour of his breath mint. Or, considering his job, his cherry-flavoured TUMS.
He may have been one of those indispensable people that you can’t do this work without, and he was obviously intelligent, or he wouldn’t be in charge, or at least wield the weight he did, but he made a bad mistake. He had forced the issue in front of the others, and he didn’t like the way it had turned out, and so he made his mistake.
I could see it coming from a mile away, he telegraphed his entire intention. We were just inches apart, with our hands at our sides, and he tried to grab me, to put me in a submission hold. Maybe to show the girls how tough he was. Maybe to show me.
As he brought his arm up, I barely moved my right hand and clamped down hard on his testicles. At the same time my left knee flashed into his solar plexus, and then my foot was back on the floor. Stability is everything.
I leaned into him with my left side, propping him up. While all of this was going on, my left hand had pulled a short razor sharp four-inch one-piece carbon knife blade from just down the top of my right sleeve, at the shoulder. One of the things the cops had missed when I was frisked. My back was to the room, so everyone’s view was limited. Mr. Smith was in total agony from the pain in his testicles, but he had also been relieved, momentarily, of the ability to breathe. Therefore, no comment, no scream, no nothing. The carbon blade snaked around to the back of his neck, and I just nicked him enough to bleed, not hurt. Then the blade was back in its sheath, and I could almost feel the trickle of blood myself, starting just below his collar, and starting to wet the back of his nice clean white shirt. I let
go and stepped back two quick steps. The whole thing had taken maybe less than four seconds. He slid down the wall, and as his breath came back to him, he started dry-heaving, huddled in the corner of the doorway of the washroom, lying face down. The blood from the nick I’d given him wouldn’t show on the back of his collar unless he kept his head down for a few minutes. I knew he’d recover faster than that, so I made ready to move.
Godsen was ready to go berserk, I could read it in her eyes. Pointing my finger at her with my left hand I kept eye contact and with my right hand I held a finger to my lips, asking for silence. The tantrum she was about to throw turned into a sustained moment of confusion, which gave me the time I needed.
They say the eyes are the window to the soul. That’s true with some, and patently false with others. Sometimes those ‘others’ have control over what they allow you to see, and sometimes those ‘others’ just don’t have a soul. I’ve met a few, and it’s easy to tell the difference.
Walking over to where she had stood up from her chair I leaned close until my lips were just brushing her ear. I put my thumb over the top of the pinhead mic and spoke softly and bluntly, “Shut up, sit down, and do what Evie tells you to. We’re out of here inside of ten minutes.” That seemed to shock her sufficiently that she actually did what she was told. She sat down.
Westwood had been moving along with me, and up fairly close too. I sensed her behind me when I leaned over to speak to Godsen. She was giving me a hard eye, ready for anything, her weight balanced perfectly for a strike, so I dealt with that. I respected the way she’d thrown her body over Godsen’s when the action broke. She needed to know I was still the good guy. Still holding my thumb over the top of the pinhead mic, I addressed her directly in a soft voice.
The Diamond Dust on Dragonfly Wings: A Jeffry Claxton Mystery Novel Page 34