Nobeca

by Lloyd Nesling

  Baranski stood up and followed an elderly couple with two large suitcases. The Red Cap loaded their cases onto a buggy while the couple eased themselves onto the back seat of the cart. The Red Cap motioned to Baranski.

  “Jump on, it’s a long walk to the platform,” he said.

  Reluctantly, Baranski hopped on the buggy and smiled at the elderly couple. He didn’t want to attract any undue attention When they reached the platform he passed a five-dollar note to the Red Cap and boarded the train. He climbed the spiral stairs to the top deck and edged his way along the corridor to his first-class compartment. After stowing his case, he drew the curtains across to avoid prying eyes from the corridor. Outside, the platform was a hive of activity with last-minute passengers rushing to board. He breathed a sigh of relief as the porter closed the platform gates.

  Swaying from side to side the Amtrak groaned away from the platform. Baranski felt as though he was on a roller coaster. Once the train had left the station and gathered speed the sideways rolling stopped and it settled into a straight line.

  They passed the same depressing scenery found in all major cities. Rows of warehouses, tenement blocks, breakers’ yards. Gradually, concrete buildings petered out into countryside. They lurched over points on poorly maintained tracks, so violently he thought his head would hit the ceiling. Nineteen hours of this hell until he reached Chicago.

  The train bounced on the rails, lurching from side to side, up and down, as though driven by a drunken driver. If only he could have flown to Chicago, but it was not an option. Security was very tight since 9/11. They would be scouring the airports first. After Chicago he had to get to Los Angeles. Three nights on the train trundling across the country was tedious, but the safest option. Now he could sleep for a few hours.

  The sound of the door sliding back brought Baranski to full wakefulness. A steward poked his head inside.

  “Dinner will be served in the dining car between six and eight. Will you be eating sir?”

  Baranski nodded perfunctorily. He would prefer to stay in his compartment, but it would draw attention to him. Besides, he was very hungry.

  “Yes, thank you,” he replied. “I’ll eat at seven forty-five.”

  “It’s communal seating sir; four to a table.”

  Baranski groaned inwardly. The thought of sharing a table, coupled with inane conversation with strangers, was almost more than he could bear. Gritting his teeth, he smiled at the steward.

  “Would you like your bed made up while you eat?”

  “Yes, I’d like an early night.”

  At nine o’clock, Baranski gratefully escaped from the elderly couple travelling to Montana for their niece’s wedding. They asked far too many questions.

  “See ya at breakfast,” they said, as he rose to leave.

  Not if I can help it, he thought.

  Back in his compartment, he drew the curtains across the door and windows and tumbled into bed. The mattress was rather thin, but it was surprisingly comfortable. He lay with his hands behind his head thinking about the days ahead. Soon he would be a very rich man. The steady motion of the train lulled him into an uneasy sleep, broken by the blare of the train’s horn every time it trundled through towns on its way to the windy city.

  *

  Baranski shot upright, temporarily disoriented by his strange surroundings. Doors along the corridor slid open then slammed shut again.

  “Breakfast is now being served in the dining car,” the steward called down the corridor.

  Seven-thirty – passengers were already dragging down the corridors queuing for the toilets. He relieved himself in the toilet cum shower then made his way to the dining car. He breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted Chuck and Dora sitting with another couple. His relief was short-lived. He had no sooner sat down than a young Japanese girl and her mother sat down opposite him. Thankfully, they were too tired to engage in conversation for very long.

  He looked around the carriage at the other diners. There were a few businessmen, one or two families, a couple of lone travellers, but mostly American tourists. What a strange country. Filled with people who never ventured outside the United States and had never held a passport. Some had probably never travelled outside their home state before. He settled back to enjoy his eggs, over easy, as the Americans called it. Another three hours and they would be arriving in Union Station, Chicago.

  *

  Chicago, Illinois

  Baranski lifted his small suitcase off the overhead rack and made his way along the corridor to the head of the stairs leading to the lower deck. He waited for a clutch of passengers to leave the train and tagged on behind. His train to the west coast wasn’t leaving until eight that evening; plenty of time to do what he had to do. Leaving through the main entrance he crossed the road onto the old Route 66, surrounded now by stores and offices. Only a plaque attached to a post indicated that this was the famous road to Los Angeles.

  After a leisurely coffee in a side street diner, he caught a water taxi to Navy Pier. He made his way to where small boats and pleasure cruisers were moored. Most were now laid up for the winter.

  He walked briskly, examining the boats, hardly feeling the cold and the lashing wind whipping across the lake. There it was, the ‘Moonfleet’, a large motor launch. His gaze swept the pier, noting a few tourists braving the cold and wind. He stepped onto the boat, felt for the keys concealed under the portside window rim and ducked into the cabin. It was almost as cold inside as outside, but that didn’t matter. He chuckled: it would soon hot up.

  Lifting up one of the seats, he searched underneath. Yes, there it was. He pulled out a waterproof package and opened it. Inside was a quantity of plastic explosives and charges. Carefully, he taped some Semtex onto the wooden side of the lower bunk, set the timer and locked up the boat.

  A sudden lashing rain added more misery for the few people braving the elements. They ran for shelter in the terminal building. The pier was deserted now. The only signs of life were a lone sailor, swathed in oilskins, and a bus taking passengers back to the city centre.

  Head bent against the wind, he walked along the row of bobbing boats until he came to a pleasure cruiser shut up for the winter. Deftly, he jumped aboard and disappeared round the stern. After setting the explosives, he moved on to two smaller boats at the far end of the pier. All four were detonated to go off at five-minute intervals. More distraction tactics to keep the Americans busy while the Generalissimo went after the real prize. Satisfied with his work, he caught the next water taxi back to Union Station.

  In a restaurant opposite the station, he bit into a huge beef burger with a slight feeling of disgust. He hated fast food, but he didn’t want to waste time sitting around waiting for a meal. By the time the explosions went off, he would be well on his way on the cross-country trek to Los Angeles.

  *

  Amtrak – Southwest Chief – Chicago to Los Angeles

  Baranski smiled at the gangly man sitting opposite him across the table in the dining car.

  “We’re from Kansas,” he drawled. “First time for me and Betsy to travel across state on a train, ain’t that right Betsy?”

  “Sure is, Carl, sure is,” Betsy replied, chewing noisily. “We’re going all the way to Albuquerque.”

  “Where you headed?” Carl interjected.

  “Los Angeles… to visit relatives,” Baranski added hastily.

  His heart raced. He looked at his wristwatch – eight forty-five. The explosives should definitely have gone off by now unless something had gone wrong. Just as he was about to leave the table, a man sitting behind him stood up.

  “Hey! There’s been a big explosion on Navy Pier back in Chicago. Half the pier has been blown up.”

  “Where did ya hear that?” a woman opposite asked sceptically.

  “I just opened a text message from my brother. It’s on all the radio and TV channels. A pile of boats has gone up in smoke. The whole place is ablaze!”

  Baranski sat back
in his seat, a warm glow of satisfaction suffusing his body.

  “Do they know what caused it?” he asked casually.

  “Lost the signal!” He jabbed numbers into his cell phone, pressed the phone to his ear and listened intently for a few seconds. “Got something! Hey Marco, you got any more info on the explosions? You don’t say! Thanks bro. Nobody knows what happened,” he said, turning to the enquiring faces. “A guy working on his boat was blown right up in the air. He was dead on arrival at hospital.”

  There was no reason for anyone to suspect that the shooter at the United Nations had planted the explosives in Chicago. Still, it was only a matter of time before the FBI and CIA discovered the connection. Baranski went back to his compartment confident he would sleep like a baby.

  When they finally reached Albuquerque he had enough time to hop off the train. Dodging the Navajo Indians selling their wares on the platform, he walked to a nearby news stand. He inserted a coin and pulled out an early edition newspaper. Just as he thought, the explosions were all over the front page. Photographs showed wreckage plastered all over the pier and paramedics carrying a stretcher containing the body of the dead sailor. He felt no remorse, just a feeling of intense pleasure. All over the United States seemingly random explosions were taking place. Black Militia field agents were hard at work in Washington, New Orleans, and Dallas; too far apart for them to be connected to him. Whistling to himself, he walked jauntily down the corridor to his compartment.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Shropshire, England

  The incident room resembled the aftermath of an all-night party. A detective lay slumped in his chair, mouth wide open, head hanging on his chest. Another sprawled, feet on desk, a sheaf of papers strewn where they had fallen. A woman detective, dark shadows under her eyes, yawned loudly. She delved into her handbag, retrieved a small compact and briefly examined her face. She wasn’t giving any of her male colleagues the opportunity to make sly jibes about her appearance.

  Polystyrene cups and half-eaten sandwiches littered the desktops. Power cords snaked across the floor. Computer screens glowed in the early morning gloom. The stale smell of body odour clung in the air. They had been working flat out for almost forty-eight hours.

  Butler sat waiting for Wallace to speak. His boss looked haggard. Deep lines furrowed his forehead. They had barely left the incident room in almost two days. He knew something big was up, even before Wallace had left him in charge, but he was shocked to the core to learn that he had been in Switzerland.

  “My God, sir, are you sure? Perhaps it’s some kind of scam circulated on the Internet.”

  “It’s no scam, Butler. I went up into the Alps and saw the facility for myself. Damn near had my head blown off by snipers. This doesn’t just concern the United Kingdom; it’s global. I’ve been working with Interpol and British Army Intelligence. I used to be in military intelligence myself before I joined the police.”

  He didn’t mention the highly covert IMIC. “The whole facility has been dismantled. We think it may have been re-situated somewhere in Shropshire, probably in a remote area in the countryside. On the other hand there are a lot of old mine workings, derelict stations and shunting sheds where they could set up. We have to stop them before they put their plans into action. I can’t tell you any more than that at the moment. There will be big trouble if this leaks to the public and people start panicking. This must be kept strictly between us. Is that absolutely clear?”

  He had already briefed the team. As far as they were concerned they were searching for a dangerous armed gang who had robbed a bank in Birmingham. The fake robbery had been set up that morning. It had already been leaked to the press. Television stations would run the story on the lunchtime and evening news. He had arranged a press interview warning the public not to approach anyone they suspected might be connected to the robbery. The Armed Response Team was on standby. That should be enough to keep them happy for now. He picked up the telephone on the second ring.

  It was Superintendent Charles Payne, furious that he had been left out of the loop. In icy tones he informed Wallace that the Chief Constable had ordered him to make every available resource at their disposal.

  “Orders directly from me,” Wallace said, replacing the receiver, “with no intervention from higher up unless requested.”

  Butler suppressed a grin. He pictured Crew Cut Charlie when the Chief Constable summoned him to his office. With a smirk on his face, he went into the incident room. The team struggled to look wide awake and interested.

  “Shape up! Get some breakfast inside you,” he barked. I want you back here in thirty minutes. No stragglers.”

  The team looked shattered, but they would do the job. The men would ask questions – rightly so. It wouldn’t be easy to comply with Wallace’s instructions without them getting suspicious. Half an hour later, the team drifted back into the incident room carrying cups of steaming tea and coffee.

  DC Williams raked his hands through his luxurious mop of dark hair and patted it into place. They looked a bit more alert now. Still, they were all tired from working through the night.

  “Okay, let’s start with you,” Wallace said.

  “We’ve researched all the old mines,” DC Williams said. “There are some derelict coal and copper mines and some lime quarries where they could hide out. The copper mine near Clive is well known so I wouldn’t put money on that one. There may be some dilapidated buildings on the surface, but the mines would have been sealed off years ago. There’s no way they could get inside.”

  “I don’t understand, sir. Why would an armed gang hide out in an old mine?” Blakeman queried.

  Ignoring the DC, Wallace turned to a tall brunette perched on the edge of her desk. DS Hembrow picked up a computer printout from the desk.

  “There are a number of abandoned stations. Some still have a bit of rusty track running to them, but they’re mostly overgrown after years of neglect. One or two show rundown buildings where they could hide.” Butler looked at her enquiringly. “Google Earth – I could actually see the old rails.”

  Nobody else had come up with anything concrete. No sightings, no strange activity, nothing! They had checked with their counterparts over the border. North Wales Police had drawn a complete blank.

  “Okay, I want you out scouring the area. DS Risdale and Blakeman, investigate the old mine workings. Hembrow and Williams, check out those old stations. If any of you spot anything suspicious call for backup immediately. Surveillance only – is that clear to everyone? Baker, I want you to stick with DI Butler.”

  Wallace had recommended that Baker be moved out of CID. He had excellent investigative skills; skills that could prove useful, but he lacked tact and discretion. This was his last chance to redeem himself. In the meantime, one cack-handed mistake and he was out for good. He was young and full of himself. Butler had given him a good talking-to; warned him he was definitely back into uniform if he didn’t change his behaviour. He would have his guts for garters if he messed up again.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Shropshire Countryside

  The huge, articulated lorry slewed its way along the narrow country road, its sides brushing the hedgerows. Early snowfalls had made the going treacherous. It was bad enough on the main highway, but driving on unsalted, icy side roads was lunacy. All the weather reports had warned drivers not to venture out unless it was absolutely necessary. Bill Fuller was carrying equipment for a dairy farm deep in rural Shropshire. It was all packed into enormous crates. They would need a forklift truck to get it out.

  He owned a small fleet of six articulated trucks, a couple of smaller lorries and a dozen self-drive delivery vans. Fuller and Sons had been started by his father back in the 1960s. Now, the old man managed the office while Bill, his two sons and his brother, Derek, did most of the driving. This job couldn’t have come at a better time. The business had been struggling during the past two years. It would help keep the books in the black for quite some time.


  When he had seen the severe weather forecast he tried to postpone the delivery, but the man at the other end of the telephone was adamant.

  “The equipment is needed immediately. That’s why we’re paying you top rate for delivery – on time!” he emphasised.

  “But… ”

  “No buts!” the voice replied.

  Bill glanced up at his mirror. Derek’s articulated truck was right behind him, but the van was out of sight round the bend in the narrow road. They had been on the road since the early hours of the morning driving at crawl-speed. Twice they had been pulled aside by the police and advised to park up until conditions improved. Bill cursed the idiot! If it wasn’t for the generous payment, he would have turned around and gone back to the depot. The disembodied voice of the satnav interrupted his thoughts.

  “Exit ahead – after four hundred yards, turn left.”

  Bill flicked his left-hand indicator and touched the brake to take the turn. The wheels skidded on the glassy surface, threatening to send the vehicle over the crossroads. He turned into the skid and felt the truck right itself. Blowing out his cheeks in a huge breath of relief he swung the vehicle left.

  “After five hundred yards, turn left.” This road was even narrower, little more than a wide lane. “After three hundred yards you have reached your destination.”

  “Thank God for that!” Bill muttered aloud.

  The final part of the journey was extremely hazardous. The road was full of potholes, covered with ice and snow, threatening to bring the vehicle to a halt at any moment.

  “You have reached your destination.”

  Cautiously, Bill swung up the slight incline towards iron gates set in a high stone wall. The truck laboured up the slope, its wheels spinning on ice. At last it found purchase and edged forward. Bill had been instructed to stay in his vehicle and wait. Picking up his radio he spoke briefly to the other drivers.

  “We have to stay put until someone comes to open the gates.”