Target for Terror

by Carl Hubrick

  A moment later, he was fast asleep.

  *

  ‘Thomas Wilson!’ Mrs Sykes was calling him. ‘Thomas Wilson, is this your homework book? Thomas Wilson.’

  Tom came instantly awake in the darkness.

  ‘Thomas Wilson!’ Mrs Sykes’s voice had changed. He smelt the hay. ‘Thomas Wilson! Come down here!’

  Tom scrambled to the edge of the hay bales and looked down. Below him, three men in full combat gear stood in the light of a vehicle’s headlights. Machine pistols dangled from slings at their chests. The men were smiling. One of them had a strange pair of goggles hooked over his head. Tom remembered an action movie he had seen once where they used special glasses to see at night. It was then he realised that they had never really escaped from the terrorists at all.

  * * * * *

  There was a knock at the door. Sofia had been lying down on her hotel bed, her briefcase open beside her. Now she sat up and closed the case, slipping it out of sight under the bed.

  ‘Enter!’

  The door opened and two grey suits came in, their black brief cases close by their sides. They shut the door behind them.

  Sofia gave a brief nod of welcome. Her visitors nodded back and looked around.

  ‘You have a nice room,’ one of the men commented. ‘Better than ours.’

  It was a spacious room, in pastel blue and grey, containing a double bed, two large armchairs, a dressing table, writing desk and the purr of air-conditioning. It was a quality room, befitting a luxury hotel.

  The woman motioned her visitors to the chairs.

  ‘What have you found out?’ she asked.

  One of the men answered. ‘It will be too easy,’ he said. ‘One shot with the silenced pistol.’ He pointed his finger as a gun. ‘And pow – it is all over.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘It will be like – how do they say it? Taking the candies from the babies.’

  The other man nodded. ‘It is true. We have checked. The senator’s room is on the floor above this. There is only one plain clothed and one uniformed officer in the hallway, and two uniforms in the lobby. They are as nothing. We can take them easily. They do not suspect a thing. Without his own people he is ripe like a fruit for the taking.’

  The woman pulled the briefcase from under the bed and took out a big black pistol, the tube of its barrel made longer by the silencer attached to it muzzle.

  ‘But we will wait,’ she said. ‘Twenty-two hundred hours. That is the plan. All seems well, but we must be sure.’ She checked the weapon’s load. ‘Sometimes the biggest danger we have to face is our own pride. The police here are not fools.’

  One of the men shrugged. ‘Ten o’clock? Okay, we wait.’ He laughed. ‘Our beauty sleep is no loss. One hour is not long to wait for the glory of our cause.’

  * * * * *

  Wellington, the capital city of New Zealand was busy. It was night and the cool sou’west change forecast for earlier in the day had at last arrived. The temperature had dropped rapidly and blustery showers blurred the tall metropolis. The office workers had long since departed and the late night shoppers and shopkeepers had gone home. Now the theatregoers and night-time revellers owned the city. The shiny wet streets were alive with the hiss of traffic, the vehicles’ headlights making silver pathways in the rain. Nightclubs and restaurants, strip joints and bars, that had stood silent and invisible during the day, were now glowing with lights in the full spectrum of colours.

  At the Beehive, the prime minister’s office too was bright with light. The prime minister was still at work. He was listening to the man in charge of his Security Intelligence Service.

  ‘So-o-o!’ The prime minister sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers above his dark blue tie. ‘Am I to understand then, the... ah...matter we spoke of earlier in the day has become more serious?’

  ‘It seems that way, Prime Minister,’ the SIS chief replied.

  The head of government nodded. ‘You’ve received word from your agent then.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘No!’

  ‘No? Then how do you know it’s become more serious?’

  ‘We’ve received a possible lead from another source.’

  ‘To do with your agent?’ It was another statement.

  The SIS chief shook his head. ‘No, not directly - possibly not at all.’

  The prime minster sat forward, drumming his fingers on the deck.

  ‘Look! It’s too late in the day to be talking in riddles.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Prime Minister, but that’s often how these things work.’

  The head of government gave a patient sigh. ‘Yes, yes, I suppose it is. Carry on.’ He sat back again to listen.

  ‘Well, Prime Minister, we had this call from the army...’

  ‘The army?’

  ‘Yes. It seems one of their ex Special Force members phoned in. Reliable chap. Didn’t know who else to call. Came across some terrorist types chasing children. Said they were real professionals. They chased him too. He got away because he knew the area, but only by the skin of his teeth...’

  ‘Terrorists chasing children?’ The prime minister shook his head. ‘Terrorists! Whatever next?’

  ‘Nothing much, Prime Minister. That’s all we know – except...’ The SIS chief paused.

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘Well, it’s just an idea. But apparently the army’s fellow...’

  ‘The ex SAS one?’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister, that’s the chap. Well, apparently he seemed to have this idea that the terrorists were after the visiting American senator.’

  The head of government paled visibly. ‘Senator Honeywell?’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister, that’s the one.’

  ‘So the terrorists told him this?’

  ‘No-o-o...’

  ‘The children told him then?’

  ‘Well no, Prime Minister – not exactly. His wife guessed!’

  ‘His wife guessed?’

  The prime minister picked up his reading glasses from the desk and examined them. After a moment, he began to polish them carefully.

  His voice was quiet when at last he spoke, but there was no mistaking the firmness of his intent. Thus are great decisions made.

  ‘Guess or no guess, there is no room to debate the possibilities. Put every available agent you have onto it. Use the police special units, the SAS – whoever and whatever you need to guarantee the senator’s safety. Call out the army if you have to. Never leave his side. Check everyone. We cannot afford to offend the Americans.’

  ‘And the children?’

  ‘Well yes, of course, they must be looked after too. Get back to that Special Forces fellow. Tell him to co-ordinate things. He knows the district. Give him whatever he thinks he needs.

  And that agent of yours – he’s obviously barking up the wrong tree somewhere. Get him on the job too. The children of the nation are the nation’s future.’ The prime minister gave a crooked grin. ‘And tomorrow’s voters, eh?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tom was scared – like - really scared. Terrified! They all were. The worst had happened. They were prisoners - bundled into the back of the terrorists’ Land Cruiser. Hands tied behind their backs. The panic rose in Tom’s stomach so much he began to belch. And he was shaking too - shaking like it was freezing cold.

  But it was strange. Everything that was happening seemed so surreal. It was as if they were living in the middle of a nightmare they would eventually awake from - all of it just a bad dream. And yet, deep down, Tom knew that it was not.

  Then, after a while, when he realised his worst fears had already happened and he was still alive, he began to see things a little differently. It was a bit like going to the dentist. Once you were there, it was bad – but not half as bad as you had imagined it might be. So now, he began to try to rein in his panic and start to think about what was going on. Wasn’t that what they said to do in any disaster? Stop and think? Well, this was as much of a disaster as an
y they had ever studied in Mrs Sykes’s class.

  *

  The terrorist four-wheel-drive bucked and jolted. They had left the main road some time ago and appeared to have taken to the rugged hills themselves. Most of the time the vehicle was grinding its way up steep trails, rattling away stones in its wake, but every now and then, it would tilt nose-first down a bank and bounce its way through some rocky-river bed or gully. But it was difficult to really know what was happening, sitting on the floor of the vehicle, with your hands trussed up tight behind you.

  Jason had tried on one occasion to stand and look out through the Land Cruiser’s windows, but had been quickly and roughly shoved back down, with a cuff round his ears for his trouble. And though it was a scary thing to do, Tom had thought it a point of honour that he should try it too, and had received the same harsh treatment. The two girls had had more sense and stayed where they were. It was dark outside anyway. There was nothing to see.

  But the terrorists could not stop Tom thinking and his brain did not remain idle for long. His best guess was that their destination was somewhere close to where he and the others had first come across John X, in the foothills of the Lewis Pass. The distance felt about right, and their heading had been uphill for some time. And why else, he reasoned to himself, would John X have been in trouble to begin with, if he had not stumbled upon, or followed the terrorists to their hideout? Perhaps he had been their prisoner and got away, but whatever, the hideout had to be somewhere in the area.

  If he was right, his mother and father were not far away either – down in the valley below them – safe at home with the log fire burning – safe and warm.

  His parents would be worried. Tom knew that. He could almost see the look of anguish on their faces. But no rescue would be mounted until daylight, and by then it might well be too late.

  And Rhodo? Somewhere in that same valley, his dog lay dead in a ditch, covered in blood and dirt – food for flies.

  Tom knew the flies would be quiet now, their numberless squadrons clustered in black rows along fence wires and tall grass stems, waiting to return to their feeding frenzy with the early morning sun. Tom had discovered a lot about flies in one of his science studies with Mrs Sykes. He had never thought he would one day come to hate the truth about them.

  *

  ‘Out! Out! Get Out!’ The commands were in heavily accented English and might have been easily misunderstood had it not been for the accompanying motions of gun barrels, which was a language far more clearly understood.

  The big four-wheel-drive had come to a halt at last under a canopy of trees. The three terrorists stood in a row, in full combat gear, long knives hanging from their belts, machine pistols at the ready. A scene lit only by the vehicle’s headlights. One of the men had a raw mince nose and a swollen lip. It would have been a good thing to laugh at, had the situation been a little different.

  The headlights continued to light the scene for but a moment, and then switched off, taking the children’s world back to a gloom lit only by the stars.

  The gun barrels herded the four captives into line.

  ‘Look like Uzis or something,’ Tom muttered under his breath to Jason and then wished he hadn’t as a black gun muzzle swung his way.

  ‘Yeah, they do too,’ Jason said out loud, challenging the gun barrel to point at him instead – which it did. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know Rambo - no talking. Just like Mrs Sykes.’ The barrel came all the way and jabbed Jason in the ribs. ‘Okay, okay, no need for you to get excited.’

  Jason sure was a cool one, Tom thought. Just like some hero in the movies.

  The terrorists roped the children together in a line. Then the gun barrels signalled the little column on its way. Victoria marched at its head, then Corina, followed by Tom, with Jason bringing up the rear. Jason’s bravado had made him the target for the gun barrels to poke and prod. The three men grinned, obviously enjoying the boy’s discomfort.

  ‘Ow! Okay! Ow! I get the message,’ Tom heard Jason say. ‘Easy to push people round when they’ve got their hands tied. But you wanna be careful. Someone might start throwing stones and give out some more bloody noses.’

  Tom hoped his friend didn’t bite off more than he could chew.

  *

  The march over the rough ground was difficult. Their captors allowed no lights. Tom took a cautious look round hoping for some landmark or other indication of their exact whereabouts, but the darkness revealed nothing.

  After a time the going got worse. There was now no path of any kind to follow. The climb was rough and uneven, and it was easy to stumble. When one child fell, the others would fall also, so closely were they tied. The terrorists showed no sympathy for their plight, but hauled them roughly to their feet with curses in some foreign tongue and set them to walk again.

  They came to a stream. There were no stepping-stones to use, or if there were, they could not see them. The near freezing cold of the water numbed their feet, and when Tom slipped, dragging them all down with him, their clothes became soaked.

  ‘Bastards!’ Tom heard Jason mutter under his breath when the terrorists hooted with laughter at the sopping state of their charges. But to Tom’s relief the men appeared not to hear.

  Mountain air is cold at night, even in the height of summer. The sodden clothes soon set their teeth to chattering, and they could not stop the shivers that ran through their bodies like swarms of mini electric currents.

  Down in the valley, his mother and father would be worried - down in the house with the log fire burning - safe and warm.

  Tom felt the prickle of tears at his eyes and the sobs rise uncontrollably in his throat.

  ‘Don’t worry mate,’ he heard Jason whisper behind him. ‘They haven’t beaten us yet.’

  Tom nodded, but the tears still came.

  *

  The terrorists’ hideout, when at last they came upon it, appeared to be some disused trampers’ shelter or perhaps a hermit’s hut. There was no door as such, but a piece of canvas had been tacked up over the gap to act as one.

  The terrorists shunted the children inside at gunpoint. The interior was about the size of a single garage, and dimly lit by gas lamps that hissed like snakes. The rotting grey timbers of the walls and floor showed the hut’s age. It had probably been abandoned some time ago, Tom thought. The terrorists had restored it to a very basic level.

  There was one main room and a doorway to another. On a wooden table at the front of the room was a television set, a radio transmitter and some other electronic equipment, the purpose of which Tom could only guess at. Four chairs were tucked away under the table. Against the far wall were cans of food and water, and enough boxes of ammunition to start World War 3. Four rifles with telescopic sights, and what Tom took to be a rocket launcher, were stacked beside them.

  The four captives were made to kneel. They knelt in a line – Victoria and Corina, Tom and Jason. Their captors stood over them, the black eyes of their gun muzzles forever watchful. The children stared silently at the blank television screen in front of them. The three terrorists said nothing. It was obvious they were all waiting for someone – the someone who would decide the children’s fate – the terrorist leader.

  It was warmer inside the hut, but the four young people barely noticed. The cold and the damp from their clothes had long since seeped into their bones, making their bodies ache and their noses run. Their hands were numb from the tight ropes binding their wrists.

  Maybe ten, maybe fifteen minutes passed before a faint footfall sounded outside. A second later, the canvas cover lifted and a man appeared in the doorway.

  *

  The terrorist leader was clad in full combat gear like his men. His blond hair was close-cropped and spiky. His face well tanned. A knife hung from his belt on one hip, a holstered pistol on the other. But what struck Victoria most was the ice-cold blue of his eyes – ice-cold and cruel.

  The terrorist chief pulled a chair out from the table and swung it round to face the
children. He sat down and studied each of them in turn. Tom felt the icy-blue eyes bore into his and wished he could look away, but in the end, he managed to withstand their scrutiny. A faint smile appeared on the man’s face, the sly smile of a cat stalking a canary.

  At last, the terrorist chief gave a nod. ‘Good!’ he said quietly. ‘The loose ends are tied.’

  His English was perfect, but foreign somehow. The smile widened to show white teeth and he gave a soft laugh.

  The other terrorists laughed too, echoing their leader’s humour.

  ‘Oh yeah, bloody funny!’ Jason muttered under his breath.

  For another moment or two, though to Tom it seemed more like hours, the leader sat observing them, saying nothing, his piercing gaze probing each of them in turn. He took out a cigarette and lit it slowly, taking, it seemed, an extraordinary delight in making this small task last as long as possible. Tom knew the man was deliberately building up the fear in them. And it was working. Tom’s chattering teeth and shivers were not from his wet clothes alone.

  At last the man spoke. ‘So-o-o! We have caught our four little spies.’ He blew a smoke ring out of the light into the black haze of the ceiling. ‘You led us quite a – how do you say it – dance?’ He gave a pitiless grin. ‘But your little dance is over, huh?’

  He leaned forward, and pointed the burning cigarette at Corina. ‘And now it is time to pay for the tickets.’ The man laughed at his own joke and his men laughed with him. ‘Now you will tell us what we need to know!’

  The cigarette came to within a few centimetres of Corina’s face. The girl felt its heat. Tom kneeling next to her felt her body tremble. But she said nothing. Tom wondered if Corina even knew what the terrorist wanted her to say.

  The cigarette now moved slowly across towards Victoria. Tom held his breath. The cigarette stopped no more than hand’s span from his cousin’s face. Victoria did not move, mesmerised, it seemed, by the red-hot glow. Tom remembered a useless piece of information he had discovered while doing a research topic for Mrs Sykes, about a cigarette tip burning at 500 degrees Celsius.