Kharon

by Wayne Marinovich

  Warren nodded, looking into the steaming cup of coffee in his hands.

  'We can leave the farm to the others today and take the second van to look for them. Try and remember that they all have done this a hundred times before, and all have good heads on their shoulders. Kat is streetwise, and they will have found a place to hunker down until the tide had turned.'

  'What if they get back here while we are in London?'

  'Well then, that is great news and someone here can call us back.'

  Gibbs could see the relief running through the young man. At least someone was convinced.

  'Okay then. Make us some breakfast and pack us something for lunch and dinner. I will get two Glocks for us and bring the van around. There is enough charge in the batteries and water in the tanks. Oh and bring the tide table with you, let's make sure we have enough of a low-tide window to search properly.'

  • • •

  The fusion van was silent but for the occasional noise from a worn rear disc brake. Loud scraping of metal on metal every time Gibbs pressed the brake pedal echoed through the metal side panels of the van and into the cab. The journey into the Floodzone took three hours because of the four roadblocks they had to pass through. Tom Scott had imposed a ring of roadblocks around central London to slow inbound traffic in an attempt to control gangs.

  The van slid around the corner as they finally turned onto Balham Hill Road, and Gibbs drove up onto the pavement to keep the muddy access road clear. On their left were water-damaged houses of families long disappeared. The daily tidal mark was midway up the brick buildings, leaving the upper floors free to be scavenged and plundered. Sheets of fabric and towelling hung from one of them, and a grey-haired old lady stared down at them through a glassless window. Across to their right were the remnants of Clapham Common with Clapham Bandstand Market off into the hazy distance. Beyond that lay the tall blue shapes of the Canary Wharf skyline.

  'Are you okay to do this?' Gibbs asked as he looked across to a silent Warren Smith.

  Warren looked out of the van window towards the area. He reached down and picked up the Glock that was on the seat next to him. 'I am a little better prepared this time, so I'll be fine.'

  'Are the memories of losing your father in this market quite vivid?' Gibbs said.

  'It is quite weird. I feel guilty for not feeling the heartache anymore. Maybe it's because my life is so different with Kat and you folks in it. I know that I should still feel pain and hatred towards those murdering thugs, but I don't.'

  'Maybe the grieving is over for you then. The pain disappears, but you retain the good memories.'

  Warren nodded and got out of the van.

  Gibbs sat behind the wheel and picked up his Glock. The rubber grip felt so natural again. Since the age of sixteen, the force of the recoil, the smell of gunpowder and the fall of his enemy had been such a major part of his life. It seemed a lifetime ago. Getting out of the van, he took his place alongside Warren at the side sliding door, and they loaded two small black canvas daypacks onto their backs.

  ‘Get the immobiliser unit from the engine,’ Gibbs said. ‘I don’t want anyone taking an interest in stealing the van.’

  ‘The gangs could steal the tyres like they did last month.’

  ‘There are car guards over by that tree. They’ll watch it like the rest of the vehicles along the road,’ Gibbs said, pointing to two men in green uniforms carrying shotguns. A slight nod and a point to the van got a thumbs up from the sullen men.

  ‘They are expensive.’

  ‘Yes, but good at their job,’ Gibbs said. ‘Cheaper than the Wimbledon lot.’

  'I genuinely thought the girls would be at the Wimbledon Market, you know. We always get better sales prices there,' Warren said.

  'Me too, but we had a good look around, and none of the regulars traders had seen them there all day, so they must be here,' Gibbs said. 'Come on, we've wasted enough time, so let's move before the tide turns.'

  Dressed in green dungaree waders, the two of them walked across the old road and onto the muddy common. A stiff breezed blew the smell of salty brine and green algae straight into their faces, and the squelching mud under their feet slowed their progress. For five minutes, they sloshed between the skeletal forms of the dead oak trees and rusting park benches. The smell on the air slowly changed from rotting marshland to one of fried food and grilled bacon. Before them lay the sprawling shanty-like tent market with its mishmash of grey tarpaulin roofs and brown and red sheeting, stretched around white metal frames, all placed in concentric circles of well-trodden mud. Faded wooden panels of green and brown were propped upright to shield market traders from the cold wind. This was the place to source goods that were scavenged from vacant properties within the Floodzone from a time of plenty.

  Two old women with long-sleeved shirts tucked into their rubber waders squelched up to them. 'Hello, darlings. How about some tasty bacon sandwiches? We are just around the corner and will trade for a good price.'

  Gibbs smiled at them and took the photo of Christina and Stuart out of his top jacket pocket. 'Sure thing love, tell me something first. Have you seen this woman trading here today?'

  'Who wants to know?' the blonde lady said.

  'I am not going to hurt her,' Gibbs replied.

  'I can see you know something, lady, so just bloody tell us,' Warren snapped.

  The blonde woman scowled at him and then turned away. 'Come and have a bacon roll later,' she said as they both waddled off.

  'Hey…?' Warren shouted.

  'Leave them be, Warren,' Gibbs said, grabbing Warren's shoulder. 'Look, mate, you have to treat these folks with kid gloves. You cannot shout at them like that. They jump at their shadows and will clam up even quicker.'

  'Sorry, Gibbs.'

  'Just remember what I said. Keep a calm head under pressure. That is how we'll find them. Let's split up. You have Kat's photo and a satphone. Call me the minute you find anything.'

  'Okay, I’ll take the stalls around the outside perimeter of the market, someone may have seen them loading all the goods and bringing them in on wheelbarrows.'

  'Good. I'll start in the middle and work my way outwards in a clockwise circle,' Gibbs said. 'And Warren, treat them with respect, okay?'

  Warren nodded. Turning around, Gibbs saw a man approaching dressed in a large brown tweed jacket and dirty jeans tucked into long Wellington boots. He tipped his felt hat in a greeting.

  'Good day. Can I help you, young man?'

  Gibbs held out the photo. 'Are they trading here today? I am looking for them.'

  'Are you with Warlord Scott?'

  'I am a friend of his, yes. The name's Gibbs. Have you seen them?'

  The man took a long look at Gibbs, his dark brown eyes staring into Gibbs's own eyes before he looked at the photo.

  'What country does she hail from originally?'

  Gibbs frowned. 'America, why do you ask?'

  'Just making sure that you know her,' he said and looked at a list he had on a piece of cardboard. 'She is trading at stall one hundred and sixteen. It's in the middle section, near old man Hobbs's stall. Ask anyone for old Mike Hobbs, and they will direct you to him,' the man said.

  Gibbs dialled Warren on the satphone.

  • • •

  The middle of the market was busy with men and women bustling about shouting prices and trades for all their wares. Anything could be traded here, from feather dusters, old coffee makers, garage door motors, wooden ladders, to carcases of fox and badgers. A drunken man stumbled out from between two canvas-sided stalls and grabbed Gibbs's arm.

  'Homemade hooch and weed,' he slurred. 'Looking to trade for any metal you have.'

  'No thanks, mate,' Gibbs said and shook his arm loose. He walked as fast as the crowd would permit him, shouldering in between the droves of traders that would harass anyone who looked like they had something to trade.

  Grabbing a dirty teenager's arm, he pulled the boy closer. The kid reeked of sweat a
nd urine and had a dirty black overcoat and black pants. 'Where is old man Hobbs’s place?'

  'Give me that watch of yours and I will tell you,' the smelly urchin said, smiling a toothy grin.

  'Tell me where he is or I will knock those last few teeth out of your mouth,' Gibbs said and opened his jacket to reveal the handle of the Glock tucked into the left side of his belt.

  'Guns don’t scare me, mister. Everyone and his bloody dog carry one.'

  Gibbs shoved the teen out of the way and continued walking, pushing his way between three old women, then he overheard a conversation in front of him. '…and I am just going over to old man Hobbs. He'll know where to get them.'

  Gibbs slowed up a little to let the twenty-something man walk ahead of him. He also had waders on with a bright orange safety jacket with an old railway company logo on the back. Two minutes later he saw the hunched over old man talking to a teenager, his dirty brown overcoat hanging in the mud as his fingerless gloved hands pointed down the path. The teenager left, and old Mike turned to another younger man who was standing at the back of the stall. They both started to pack up their metal cutlery and kitchen utensils into boxes.

  Gibbs walked towards him but then saw the empty stall standing opposite. He stopped as he saw an empty green vegetable crate lying underneath a pile of canvas. One of their crates.

  'Gibbs!'

  He looked up to see Warren approaching.

  Gibbs pointed to the empty stall. 'Check that out, will you?'

  He turned to the old man. 'You old man Hobbs?' Gibbs asked.

  'Aye, son. Mike Hobbs at your service. What do you want to trade?’

  Gibbs held out the photo to him. 'Why haven't they set up here yet? What happened to them?'

  The old man looked at the photo Gibbs was holding, almost reverently, tapping his fingers together, and then shook his head. 'It’s a damn shame, son. The little one was such a good lad.'

  'What happened to them?' Gibbs asked and pulled out a NEG voucher that he put over the photo before placing it in the old man's black glove.

  He looked up at Gibbs and then at Warren, who had joined them. 'It is so sad.'

  Gibbs felt his stomach tighten. A wave of nausea caused the taste of bile to rise into his mouth. 'Talk, old man. They are our family.'

  'Ten men in NEG uniforms arrived in one of those new fandangled, silent trucks. They grabbed them all, even the little one. The ladies put up a good fight, mister. They sure did. A few of the men were bitten, and one got a good kicking in his meat and two veg. Sadly, there were just too many soldiers.'

  Gibbs tried to breathe. Warren broke the silence. 'You sure, old man? Why would they take them? What direction did they go?'

  The old man pointed toward another path. 'Drove the blasted truck straight into the market. The bastards have harassed people before, for bribes and bits of old tat, but they have never taken a whole group of traders. And they wore black masks.'

  'Masks? You sure they were NEG troops?'

  'I am old, not stupid, boy. I know their uniforms. Now leave us be so that we can pack up the stand. Old Lady Thames is turning, and she will flood us soon.'

  Gibbs took a deep breath then looked at Warren, who had gone deathly pale. 'Let's retreat to higher ground and get somewhere away from the tidal surge.'

  Gibbs grabbed Warren by the arm and led him through the muddy canvas alleyways.

  'How can you be so calm at a time like this?' Warren asked.

  'There must be some explanation to all of this. The NEG troops must have done this under orders,' Gibbs said, despite a knot in his stomach. 'I'll make a few calls.’

  • • •

  'Calm down, Gibbs, and please slow down. You keep breaking up,' the voice said on Gibbs's satphone.

  'NEG troops have taken Christina, Kat and some of the other wives from our stall. They have been taken. Did you get that?'

  'Are you sure, Gibbs? There are a few battalions of NEG troops in and around the north of London at the moment, but none are operating in the Clapham area,’ the voice said.

  'Could any of your rebel army units have done this? The attackers wore masks so clearly wanted to hide their faces from any onlookers.'

  'Why would I send my men to take your wife? I know what it’s like to lose people, Gibbs, so I wouldn't inflict that on you. I cannot believe you suspect me of being involved. It’s a bloody insult.'

  'Whoa, Tom, I didn’t say you ordered it. I just want you to ask around, that’s all. No need to get defensive,' Gibbs said, and looked at Warren, who was driving the van out of London. Gibbs tapped his arm and indicated for him to pull off the road.

  ‘I'm not defensive. I just don’t like being accused of kidnapping.’

  ‘Okay, mate. Take a deep breath,’ Gibbs said. ‘What has gotten into you lately? Is anything wrong?’

  ‘I’m fine. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Christina said that you were acting strangely and now you are being bloody snippy.’

  ‘I just have a lot on my plate at the moment. The bloody gangs are making my life hell.’

  'Okay then. Can you spare us a group of your men to help search for them?'

  'I'm afraid my men are all tied up with an urgent NEG problem that I have been tasked to resolve. So I cannot spare any of them. Are you in the city right now?

  'We are just heading out to get clear of the Floodzone.'

  'The best I can do is to send five men to the Bandstand Market after the tide turns. You can meet up and discuss a plan to start looking for Christina.’

  'Thanks, Tom. I’ll also make a call to Andrei. Christina said that he was in town this week.'

  'Oh, I wouldn’t bother him with any of this. I am sure that we can get to the bottom of it ourselves.'

  'Maybe you are right, Tom. Okay, I won't bother Andrei, just text me when your men head into the Floodzone again,' Gibbs said and hung up and looked at Warren.

  Gibbs started dialling again.

  'Who are you calling? 'Warren asked

  'Andrei.'

  The phone rung four times, and then the thick Russian accent of Minister Andrei Kirilenko greeted him. ‘Hello, Gibbs.’

  ‘Hello, old friend. How are the NEG corridors of power treating you?’

  ‘Boring and uneventful,’ Andrei replied. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Christina, Stuart, and other women from the commune have been taken by NEG troops.’

  ‘What? How can that be? What did they do?’

  Gibbs swallowed and clenched his teeth. He switched the phone to his other hand. ‘They haven’t done a bloody thing. They were grabbed this morning from the Clapham Market by ten of your troops while they were setting up the stall. Witnesses say your men drove a truck in amongst the stalls and targeted them directly. Do you know anything about this?’

  ‘Why would I know anything about this?’

  ‘God alone knows how you politicians operate. All I know is that they have been taken.’

  'The New European Government owes you and Christina an incredible debt, Gibbs. I’ll make a few calls and organise a battalion to start searching the Floodzone.'

  'Thanks, Andrei. We need to find them soon. Please don't let this get bogged down in the political corridors. I have a bad feeling about this.'

  'I grew up with Christina, Gibbs,' Andrei said. 'She is like my little sister. Leave this with me. Have you spoken to Tom yet? He might be able to help.'

  'He says that all his units are working on something for you, and he can only spare a few men. We are meeting them at next low tide.'

  'Tom isn't involved with anything for the NEG at the moment. I am not sure why he would say that,' Andrei said.

  'Really? He did offer to send some of his men to help but seemed very strange on the phone. Very defensive. How is your working relationship with him?'

  'It’s fine,' Andrei said. 'We’ve had no problems with him. I think that you are just stressing about Christina and Stuart. It’s probably all in your head so keeping bus
y will help.'

  Gibbs hung up and looked at Warren.

  'Do you think that Tom is in some way responsible for this?' Warren asked.

  'Not really sure,' Gibbs replied. 'He could simply be doing something else that he doesn’t want Andrei or me to know about, I mean he is an ex-gang member after all. But something is up with him, that is for sure.'

  Chapter 12

  York Rd, Wandsworth, London, England, UK - 2033

  The fox scampered across the muddy road in front of the two figures as they stood on the street corner near rusty disused traffic lights. The mangy animal stopped at an overgrown hedge, looked back at them then slipped through a hole. The sun was still up as it neared seven in the evening, and it covered the building they were looking at with a warm glow. The multi-storey building across the road from them resembled three large children's building bricks stacked upon on another. Its silver metal roof had eight loft windows jutting out of it, each glinting in the light. The first-floor windows were all boarded up with grey metal sheets, and a clear flood tidal mark was visible two metres up the cream coloured brick wall.

  Gibbs and Warren waited, looking intently at the occasional van or NEG truck that passed on the old road.

  'Are you sure that this is the building?' Warren asked.

  Gibbs nodded and looked at the text on the satphone screen. 'Candlemaker's Apartments, corner of York and Plough.'

  'We arrived on time and have been waiting for over ten minutes. Shouldn't we just go in and see? Tom's men are supposed to be waiting inside,' Warren said.

  Gibbs scanned the thirty windows of all four floors for sniper rifles.

  'Come on, Gibbs. Let's get inside. The sooner we do that, the sooner we can get out again and start questioning people,' Warren said.

  'Don't you think it a little weird that Tom suddenly couldn’t be here to meet us in person? He is the man with all the contacts and knows Christina and Kat personally.'

  'I know a few of his contacts are shady characters, but we have to think about all the woman and Stuart. We’ve had no word from them for two days now. We have to do this. Any chance of finding them is slipping away,' Warren said.