Blind Impact (The Gabriel Wolfe Thrillers Book 2)

by Andy Maslen

  This mission was altogether more exciting, but the downside was also weightier. The world could probably stand to lose one merchant banker, but two kidnapped English women guilty of nothing more than taking a city break together to strengthen the bonds between them were a different story. Gabriel’s mind was still alert and spinning after his shift, so he poured himself a stiff drink – he’d bought a bottle of Scotch from the club at staff rates – and took a hefty swallow, wincing as the fiery spirit hit the back of his throat.

  The following day, after waking, groggy, at noon, Gabriel went shopping. He’d scoped out the perfect street on his walk home from the bar. It was a wide, tree-lined avenue, cars parked haphazardly along both sides and down a central strip painted with white zigzags. Most of the retailers plying their trade there were selling goods aimed at the everyday residents of Tallinn: clothes, household goods, books and electrical appliances. However, as he walked eastwards, the style and character of the shops changed. It was a subtle transformation, the kind that could creep up on perfectly happy tourists and have them clutching their purses and wallets tight inside their jackets, or moving their bags round so they could clamp them against their waists. The shops at this end of the street were functional rather than aspirational. There were cheap grocery stores, their frontages cluttered with random assortments of knobbly fruit and vegetables, stacks of plastic storage crates and displays of household cleaning materials, their windows obscured by brightly coloured posters for cheap overseas calling cards. Squeezed into spaces barely wide enough for their own front doors and maybe one small side window were cheque-cashing joints and Western Union outlets.

  Down an alley opening out between a gaudily lit sex shop and a takeaway, its window filled with a slowly revolving column of obscenely glistening, greyish-brown meat, was a pawnbrokers-cum-junkshop. Gabriel stopped outside and reviewed the goods on show in the big plate-glass window. To the left and right were shelves of glittering, over-decorated watches and scuffed smartphones. Between them sat a pair of crossed Samurai swords, their handles wrapped in black and gold tape. The katanas formed an arch beneath which the shopkeeper had arranged a tableau of martial arts gear on a ruffled pool of emerald-green silk. The weapons were all familiar to Gabriel from his time in Hong Kong where, as an initially unruly teenager, he had been educated by Zhao Xi, a close friend of his parents. Displayed like a cluster of exotic metal starfish were four- and five-pointed throwing stars, known popularly as shuriken, though Master Zhao would have pursed his lips and corrected anyone who called them that. “Shuriken is any small-bladed, handheld weapon. If they are designed to be thrown you should properly call them shaken”. Propped up behind the flat steel stars were a pair of pale, inch-thick wooden staves joined by a short chromed chain – nunchucks. Completing the display was an ornate dagger, its blade chased with a design of dragons, its hilt protected by a curling brass cross-guard.

  Gabriel turned to his left and pushed the door. It opened with a grudging shudder before the top edge flipped a bell attached to a curved strip of sprung steel. The interior was lit by a harsh fluorescent strip light that flickered from time to time, and buzzed when it wasn’t flickering. Gabriel swung his head left and right but saw nobody. Knock-off musical instruments, including a cherry-red “Finder” electric guitar, jostled for space with games consoles and exercise bikes. A whole shelving unit was devoted to digital cameras, DVD players and camcorders, their technological charms obviously having worn off on, or worn out, their former owners. More, and gaudier, watches and gold chains winked in the light from the intermittently firing neon tube overhead.

  Ahead of Gabriel was a doorway screened by a curtain of red, white, yellow and blue plastic strips. A crude hand-lettered sign was taped above the lintel:

  ADULT ONLY - XXX VIDEO, POPPERS

  He pushed through the plastic ribbons, and was confronted by a rack of garish DVDs and magazines, the covers of which featured drugged-looking women in the throes of simulated sexual passion. Behind a small counter of thickly varnished plywood stood a short, balding, scrawny man wearing a stained, white vest. He was scratching his left armpit and regarding Gabriel with interest through gold wire-framed glasses.

  “All here, man, whatever you want,” he said in a parodic American accent, his watery blue eyes blinking. “Oral, anal, group, teens, bondage. Take a look around. Other stuff for special customers.” He leered. “Just ask, man. You want it, I got it.”

  Gabriel turned away from the display of glossy, pneumatic flesh and walked over to the man.

  “I need some stuff. Not that,” he said, waving his arm at the racks of porn. “Training supplies. Martial arts. Like in the window.”

  “OK, man, fine, whatever. You need katana, nunchucks, what?”

  “I need a knife. A good one, none of that ninja shit you got. Hunting, military, special forces, yeah?”

  The man stood for a moment. Gabriel had squared his shoulders before speaking and leant over the counter fractionally, invading the other’s domain. Now he planted his hands flat on the shiny wood. “I ain’t got all day. You going to help me out or not?”

  The man appeared to be calculating. His eyes flicked upwards and he scratched the ginger stubble on his chin. Then his eyes found Gabriel’s again.

  “Yes, I got knife you might like. What else?”

  “OK, that’s more like it. I need a knuckleduster.”

  The man looked at him. No comprehension visible on his face.

  “Brass knuckles, yeah?”

  Nothing.

  “Fine. Speak Russian, do you? Russkiy?”

  “Yes, of course, Russian.”

  “Kastet. Get me now?”

  The man looked at Gabriel with a more searching expression this time. He, Gabriel, knew what was running through his mind. You might actually need a hunting knife for hunting. Or for displaying. But kastet? That was strictly for fighting. For head-breaking. And none of your Marquis of Queensbury shit, either, as Terry Fox would say. We’re talking gashed cheeks, broken teeth, cracked skulls. Heavy, heavy stuff.

  “Kastet. Sure. Not cheap.”

  “Never mind about the money. Why don’t you go and get your stuff, and we can take a look. If it’s good, I’ll pay.”

  The man left through a white-painted door behind the counter. While the man was gone, Gabriel felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He checked it: a text from Don.

  Man in reception. Tall. Suit. Carrier bag.

  Good, he thought. That’s the firepower to go with the brawling kit. He sent a one-word text back.

  Thx

  The shop owner reappeared in front of him. He carried a cardboard box, the top flaps interleaved, the sides sagging outwards. It clinked as he lifted it onto the counter.

  Without talking, he undid the top and began displaying the contents across the counter. The knives came out first: an oversized hunting knife with a polished rosewood and brass handle; a battered tactical knife, double-edged with a spear-point; a couple of switchblades with horn and silver handles; and then the prize, a US Marine Corps KA-BAR. According to legend, it was modelled on a knife found on the frozen body of a Canadian trapper. He’d scratched “Killed A Bear” on the hilt, and some of the letters had worn away.

  The KA-BAR’s brown leather grip had been dyed almost black with sweat and grime from its previous owners’ hands. Gabriel tested the seven-inch carbon steel blade against the ball of his thumb. Still sharp, through some whetting on an oilstone would bring the razor-edge back. He put it to one side.

  “I’ll have that,” he said. Then he picked up one of the switchblades, thumbed the silver button and smiled as the five-inch stiletto blade snapped out of the handle and locked with a soft snick. “This one, too.”

  The man smiled back at him, perhaps sensing that here was his best deal of the day, or possibly the week.

  “Kastet now,” the man said, reaching into the carton and pulling out a handful of different knuckledusters, arraying them in a row behind the knives
like a jeweller offering engagement rings to a groom-to-be.

  Two of the fearsome hand-to-hand combat weapons were made from brass, one from cast iron, and one from blued steel. They all shared the same basic design: four linked rings for the fingers, and a palm piece to absorb and spread the counter-impact force. Gabriel tried all four for size and fit before selecting the steel model. The striking surfaces were milled to a precise edge and would cause more damage than the rounded angles of the brass and iron versions.

  “Right then,” Gabriel said, pushing his three purchases together into a tight group on the counter. “How about a nice all-inclusive price for cash?”

  “Always is cash here, buddy,” the man said, grinning to reveal a mouthful of twisted and chipped teeth. “Cash is king.” He laughed and a gust of foul breath flew across the two feet of air between them. Gabriel reeled back from the stink as the man finished his speech. “You give me five hundred euros.”

  “Fuck off! A monkey for that lot? Tell you what, sunshine, I’ve got a hundred and fifty dollars here. I’ll give you that for the merchandise and another fifty for an answer to a question.”

  The man shook his head. “Not enough, man. Four hundred euros.”

  “Let’s see, I could pay you four hundred. Or I could just call the cops and let them know what kind of merchandise you’re knocking out back here. I’m sure they’d be interested. Now. Two hundred dollars, like I said. OK?”

  He pulled the roll of green banknotes from his hip pocket, snapped off the rubber band, and let them spring apart into an untidy scatter in a clear space among the assorted head-breakers, skin-unzippers and gut-puncturers. Sighing, the man went to pick up the notes but Gabriel’s own hand darted out and seized his wrist, holding it down and pulling the man towards him.

  “OK, OK,” the man said. “Two hundred dollars and I answer question.”

  “Nice one,” he said, releasing the wrist, which its owner rubbed as if he’d been unlocked from handcuffs. “Here we go then, and listen carefully. I’m going to make this nice and simple for you.” The man frowned with theatrical concentration, cupping his chin in one hand. “I want to know if you’ve sold gear like this to any Chechens in the last month. Or if you have any mates in the trade who might have done.”

  The man’s eyes closed tight as Gabriel uttered the word “Chechen”, then reopened slowly as if he were worried the people so designated might appear in his shop, summoned by their name.

  “No Chechens. Not here, man. Russians, yes. Estonians, yes. No Chechens.”

  Gabriel suddenly pointed to a point high above the man’s eyeline. “What’s that up there?” he asked.

  The man obliged by looking upwards. If he heard the click of the switchblade he gave no indication. When he looked back it was at its point. He went cross-eyed as he tried to focus on it.

  “Shall we try that one again?” Gabriel said with a smile, then tapped the blade on the guy’s nose. “Have you sold . . .”

  Tap

  “. . . any gear like this . . .”

  Tap

  “. . . to Chechens recently?”

  Tap

  Once again the man’s eyes closed on “Chechens”. Gabriel had his answer.

  “How many?”

  The eyes shifted left and right. Then down at his hands. He placed four outstretched fingers on the counter.

  “OK, one more question, then you get your money and I’m out of your life for ever. Ready?”

  The man nodded several times in quick succession. “Ready.”

  “Where are they living?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Gabriel moved the tip of the switchblade a centimetre inside the man’s left nostril.

  “I said, where are they living?”

  “Seriously, man. I don’t know. I’d tell you. I promise. Please don’t cut me.”

  Gabriel believed him. “You know what? I just thought of another question. These Chechens. Was one of them called Kasym?”

  The man swallowed. Waited for a heartbeat. Then he nodded.

  “Thanks, buddy,” Gabriel said. He withdrew the knife, closed it, then gathered up his purchases, stuffed them into the pockets of his windcheater and left through the ratty plastic curtain.

  Chapter 31

  Hands shoved deep into his pockets to stop his newly acquired arsenal from clanking too loudly, Gabriel made his way back to his hotel. The streets were full of shoppers, women walking with children dressed in school uniforms – home-time he supposed – and the random assortment of tourists, strollers and office workers you’d find in any European capital city. As he walked, he kept to the outside of the pavement, just inside the kerb. It was an old habit, staying away from buildings, and alleys in particular, that assailants could use for cover.

  His eyes were never still, checking each and every oncoming pedestrian from six or seven feet out, assessing them as a potential threat. The only thing he saw, and it was a phenomenon that always amazed him, was the apparent oblivion in which many people seemed to exist. Thousand-pound digital SLR cameras slung from one shoulder; soft, brightly coloured leather handbags hanging open from a hand; fat wallets stuffed carelessly into a back pocket. They might as well walk around wearing a sign declaring, “I am rich and stupid, please rob me”. He was also, vainly, he knew, hoping he might see someone who would trigger his internal early-warning system.

  He reached his hotel having seen nobody who looked like a mugger or a Chechen kidnapper, though he did find an old-fashioned ironmonger who sold him a whetstone. Pushing through the revolving door, he headed for the reception desk.

  “I’m expecting a guest. Has anyone called to see me?”

  The redheaded woman on reception nodded with a smile. “Yes, Mr Wolfe. Your brother has come to see you.” She pointed past his right shoulder to a small seating area.

  He turned and walked in the direction she’d indicated. A lean-looking man, six-two or three and wearing a dark grey, two-piece suit, stood up to greet him. He was tanned and had white squint-lines around his eyes – a recent trip to somewhere hot then. Somewhere sandy, maybe. Somewhere Her Majesty might have need of tough-looking men whose muscles weren’t always concealed in discreetly expensive tailoring?

  The man beamed at him, arms wide.

  “Hello Shorty!” he said, enfolding Gabriel in a bear-hug and clapping him on the back.

  “Hello yourself!” Gabriel said returning the stranger’s smile with a wide grin of his own. “How’s Dad?”

  “The Don? He’s just fine. He asked me to bring this for you as you were in the neighbourhood. One of Mum’s cakes.”

  He bent to pick up a supermarket carrier bag that bulged and sagged where the outlines of a square box of some kind distorted the thin plastic. Gabriel took it from him.

  “Thanks. Hope it’s as tasty as the last one.”

  “Tasty? You know Mum. This one packs a real wallop.”

  “You remember I asked you about those lady friends of mine I was looking for?”

  “Chloe and Sarah, you mean? How could I forget?”

  “You wouldn’t know where they’re staying, would you? It would save me a lot of time.”

  “Sorry. Maybe they’re avoiding you. Must have been something you said. Cherchez la femme, mate. Now I’ve got to run. The minister wants me back in the office pronto.”

  They shook hands and then Gabriel’s “brother” left through the revolving door without a backward glance. Gabriel walked back to the desk to collect his key. The receptionist smiled at him again.

  “He is handsome, your brother.”

  “You think? We always used to call him beanpole at school.”

  She handed him his room key, which dangled from a thick brass disc the size of his palm, and wished him a good evening.

  Back in his room, Gabriel put the carrier bag on the desk, the box inside clunking against the wooden surface. Then he emptied his pockets. He lined up the switchblade, KA-BAR, whetstone and knuckleduster to one side, and
turned his attention to Mum’s cake. He lifted the box out of the carrier-bag. It was made of plain, pressed steel and felt reassuringly heavy, seven pounds at least. The lid was hinged and secured with a small snap. He unclipped it and lifted the lid back to reveal the contents. As the Army would have put it,

  Weapon, personal, Wolfe, Gabriel for the use of:-

  Pistol, one, SIG-Sauer P226 semi-automatic, modified barrel with stainless steel thread mount

  Suppressor, one, SWR Trident-9

  Oil, gun, one bottle, 100 ml

  He lifted the pistol out and placed it next to the knuckleduster. Below the box the pistol came in were three square cardboard cartons, about six inches to a side and an inch and a half deep. He slit the adhesive tape on one of the lids and flipped it off to reveal the blunt, copper-jacketed noses of one hundred 9 x 19mm Parabellum rounds. Just like Don to up the ammunition by fifty percent.

  First things first. He stripped and oiled the SIG Sauer, then reassembled it. He pushed fifteen rounds into the magazine, and pushed it home into the butt. He marvelled once more at the fanatical attention to detail that the Swiss manufacturers, or to be more exact, their engineers, paid when producing these weapons. The two screws holding the grips onto the chassis of the butt had their heads perfectly aligned on their vertical axes. Even the SIG Sauer logo on the barrel was engraved in crisply edged type.

  Between his haul from the pawnbroker, the firearm, and his own hands and feet, Gabriel felt he had all the matériel he needed to mount a hostage rescue. What he lacked right now was intelligence. He knew there were four Chechens in town, including the one called Kasym, or four at least, he corrected himself, and he knew they’d be patronising the same high-class quartermaster’s that he had. But he didn’t have names, faces or locations beyond a twelve-and-a-half-square-mile circle centred on St Mary’s Cathedral.