Roadworks

by Gerard Readett

  "US dollars?"

  "Absolutely. Can you help me, or is this too big for you?"

  Wellens appraised Akila Kama. His first impression of the man had obviously been a little deceptive. This was a deadly serious terrorist.

  "Before you answer, Mr. Wellens, I feel I should add that I may be obliged to destroy several buildings before my threats are taken seriously."

  "Mr. Kama, this is a highly dangerous proposition you are making me, but then fifty million dollars is a lot of money. However, I still don't see how I can help you. My company can offer you many services, but only legal ones."

  "Fine, have it your way. I will contact you again by next Friday." Akila Kama headed for the elevator. He opened it and turned round. "One last thing, Mr. Wellens. When I said I checked up on you, I meant it. I have documents detailing your activities over the last twenty years. If you should feel the need to call the police about my plans for this city, keep in mind that I will hand over all I know about you and your illegal ventures. Good bye." Kama spun around, and returned to the lift.

  The minute the lift doors closed, Wellens got into his car, where Sam joined him. They left the car park behind them, and were on the city ring road before either of them spoke.

  "Now then, as to Mr. Akila Kama. How did he fare?" asked Wellens.

  Sam leant back. "I get the impression that he's more intelligent than he lets on. He likes to play on the prejudice we whites have towards blacks, especially Africans. No nervousness, absolute truthfulness and no sweating whatsoever.

  "That's not much use is it? How are we going to decide whether it's safe for us to take him up on his offer?"

  "There's the small matter of his gesture of good faith."

  "Yes, that intrigued me. What did he convince you with?"

  "Peter Vandenborre worked for us for a year and a half. His medical file indicates he had a large snake tattooed across his throat. Kama's token of good faith was the whole snake. That, in itself, shows that he is ruthless, and he doesn't strike me as the type of man to threaten loosely. Whether we help him or not, we'll have to watch our step around him. If he says he can blow us out of the water, I believe he can."

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  * * *

  Chapter Two

  6.05 a.m. EIGHT MONTHS LATER (D-DAY)

  Brussels, Belgium

  Early on the morning of that fateful day, one of the few cars on the road slowed down as it approached the gate. It silently rolled past a sign stuck on the fence, which read:

  Smet & Sons Road Haulage

  Specialists in transport of dangerous cargoes

  DANGER: Corrosive and flammable chemicals

  In use.

  The car turned and stopped at the barrier. One of the two guards stepped out and bent down to the car window, while his colleague moved to the door, one hand by his holster. After spending eight hours sitting in their guardhouse with nothing more exciting than the coffee machine running out of cups, their reactions were sluggish.

  The passenger door flew open, and a dark shape jumped out. The guard registered the flash seconds before the taser knocked him to the floor. His limp body collapsed, falling across the threshold of the guardhouse. The second guard, numbed by the speed of his colleague's demise, slowly looked up, straight into the muzzle of another weapon, wielded by the driver of the car. Before the second guards' body hit the ground, the darkly clothed passenger had pulled out a vial of chloroform and quickly administered a dose to each. Then he started to drag their bodies away.

  Having parked behind the guardhouse, the driver came back, on foot, to the entrance. He found his passenger in the toilets, in the finishing stages of dressing in a guard's uniform. It looked like a perfect fit, which was not surprising since they had been specifically chosen to replace these two guards. He knew his uniform would fit him just as well. Moving to the cubicle, he glanced quickly at the two naked bodies slumped over the toilet seat, nodded, and returned to his colleague, who silently pointed at the second guard uniform next to the sink

  The two fake guards hurried to take their places while trying to look realistic. A few minutes later, another car approached the gate. This time the driver's face was visible from the guardhouse. It was, as planned, that of the manager for this job. They quickly spared a glance inside the car, just enough to impress the manager that they were taking their job seriously. The rear seats were occupied by three black-clad men.

  The passenger beside the manager was a grim-faced man who wore a silver stripe on the left shoulder of his black sweatshirt. Both fake guards knew that this meant that he was the team leader. The only person who commanded more authority than him was the manager. Unless something went seriously wrong, they, along with everyone else, would be taking their orders from the team leader.

  The company they worked for, Wellens' company, was organised much the same as a legitimate company, with departments, executives, managers, social security and monthly pay slips. Most of the time, the company ran an honest business, with employees doing honest daily jobs. The difference occurred during so-called overtime, when they could be called in to participate in an illegal venture, currently referred to in the company, simply as a 'job'. Nearly each job done by the company consisted of at least one person from each department. For example, when a plan had been fully worked out, and it was time to be equipped, there was always an accountant present with the technical expert making the purchases. Meanwhile, the manager looked on from a safe distance, ready to call for backup in case of need. Every employee was aware that he or she could be asked to join in a job; some even relished the idea. Few did it for the thrill of danger. The pay, on a lucrative job, could be as high as six month's salary.

  One of the fake guards punched the barrier control, and stepped back, but the manager, before moving off, spoke clearly into the intercom:

  "Tie."

  The driver-cum-guard frowned as he looked at his colleague questioningly.

  "Your tie, it's not straight, you fool," muttered his colleague. He waited until the car headed off towards the truck garage, further into the compound, then added, "You're lucky we got him for this job, we could have got any other manager, and none of them are as easygoing, and Wellens, the CEO, is ruthless. There's one guy at the office who came in with a rip in his trousers. He was sent home immediately, and docked two days pay. So---"

  "Oh, shut up."

  "It doesn't matter, anyway. It's the last job we'll be doing for Wellens."

  "What? Where'd you hear that?"

  "I overheard two managers chatting. This job is too media sensitive for him to continue. He's retiring."

  "What's he going to do now?"

  "I don't know. Maybe he'll go into politics, run for Bourgmestre or something?"

  They both laughed at the prospect of the CEO of their company entering that high office. Over the last few years, many who worked for Wellens were glad of the opportunities he offered them to earn tax-free bonuses by participating in the kind of jaunt they were on now.

  "What about us, then? What's going to happen to the company?"

  "Nothing much. He's already designated his successor. The only difference will be that we won't be earning any bonuses, anymore. It's back to normal, routine nine-to-five work."

  "Damn. I don't know how I'll manage without the extras."

  "You'll find a way. It's always better than trying to spend your money in jail."

  Just outside the garage where the tankers took on their loads, the manager stopped the car, and signalled the team leader beside him. The three men behind exited the car, and followed him inside. The manager waited until they had crossed the threshold before slowly driving back to the entrance gate. He would wait out the whole operation from a safe distance, fifty meters down the road.

  Back in the garage, the team leader surveyed the scene. Off to the right, sixteen tanker trailers waited for trucks to haul them off to their destinations. Harsh neon lights illuminated a workbench, strewn with oil-
covered tools. A young mechanic, sitting astride it, entertained two others with his amorous exploits of several nights ago.

  At a signal from the team leader, his men casually strolled up to the mechanics, too engrossed to take any notice. The mechanics never heard the end of the story; the storyteller just keeled over until his head crashed into the hard surface of the workbench. The other two mechanics slumped to the ground seconds later.

  "Hey, what do you think---"

  The team leader turned towards the voice. Two men were poring over some papers scattered across a battered metal desk that had seen better days. Both men stared wide-eyed at him. The team leader surmised that the fat man was the foreman; and the other was the inspector from the Ministry of Transport. In depots working with dangerous materials, an expert from the ministry of transport always had to be present. His job was to check the handling of the chemicals, the integrity of the tankers, and advise on which routes could be used by the trucks, and which were off limits.

  The foreman looked from the bodies of his mechanics to the team leader. "Who are you?" he asked nervously. Without a word, the team leader shot both of them. The foreman slumped back into his chair, while the man from the ministry fell across the desk with a surprised expression etched onto his face.

  The team leader moved around the desk, lifted the foreman out of his chair, and took his seat. He then rearranged the papers in front of him, rapidly locating sixteen sets of travel documents for the tankers. He had barely finished when the manager casually walked up to the desk, looked around the garage, carefully appraised the men dragging the bodies away, and finally let his gaze settle on the team leader.

  The seconds ticked by in total silence. Despite the smooth flow of the operation, the team leader could not help feeling disconcerted. Checking through customs is nerve-wracking for the uninitiated, creating a sense of guilt with no basis in reality. Under his boss's bloodless stare, he experienced much the same feeling, and involuntarily squirmed in his chair. Nevertheless, he got the feeling that the manager approved.

  They both flinched as a loud roar, like that of a wounded bear, erupted from the direction of the toilets. A blurry shape hurtled through the door, and struck one of the team leader's black clad men, knocking him to the floor. The uneven lighting in the garage had momentarily confused them, adding to the element of surprise, but they were finally able to make out the nature of the disturbance. The shape coalesced into a short stocky man, wearing a T-shirt declaring that truckers do it on the road. In his right hand, he held a plastic toilet seat with which he prepared to strike again. The other two team members never gave him the chance to finish the movement. They shot him at close range.

  The team leader tried hard not to betray his flash of anger. He walked over to the team member who had checked out the toilets, and, risking a glance at the manager, whispered harshly "What the hell happened?"

  The man answered sheepishly "I don't know; there was no one, I swear."

  "How do you explain him, then?"

  "I don't---"

  The team leader frowned as he thought furiously "Did you check out both? Ladies, too?"

  "No." The man dropped his gaze under the glare of his superior, and muttered, "Must have been in there. But why did he use the ladies?" He rubbed his nose nervously, then understanding came to him in a flash, "I've got it. There wasn't any paper left in the men's."

  The team leader exhaled loudly. "OK. I'll try to sort things out. You, help the others, get that body away from the desk, and hurry it up, we've lost precious time."

  The manager, nodding solemnly at his subordinate's nervous explanation, pulled out a GSM. Once connected, he only muttered three words before hanging up. "Doctor, replacement, Ministry. Cleaners."

  Originally, the plan had been to replace all the staff of the garage depot. The team leader was to replace the foreman, two of his men would stand in for the mechanics, and one would become the ministry expert. On a big job like this, all eventualities were planned for. Each team member up to and including the team leader would have a replacement ready in a van down the road, along with a doctor. Injuries were never ruled out, and the replacement for the man set to impersonate the ministry inspector was on his way.

  Managers, inhabitants of the higher reaches of the company, and guardians of sensitive information were considered definitely non-expendable, and, as such, were exposed to the least amount of danger possible. Also being responsible to senior management for the totality of any job, they were the only ones with authority to call in backups and doctors. In case of things going awry, they would be expected to call in lawyers to defend their employees. It was a much-admired policy that no one was ever left to hang in the wind.

  The manager and team leader, both seated at the desk, waited for the doctor and the replacement for their injured team member, who was being attended to by his two colleagues. The team leader got up to check on their ministrations, and nodded approvingly when he saw that they had stopped the bleeding.

  Suddenly, a shot rang out. The team leader saw one of his men fall across the wounded team member, clutching a bloody knee. He spun around and reached for his gun, all in one smooth movement.

  "That's just to show I mean business." Standing in the garage entrance, the gunman aimed his riot gun in the general direction of the desk. "Drop the gun, Clint, or you're next," he said, while pointing his finger at the team leader. "What the hell is going on? I go out five minutes for a smoke while my partner sorts out the red tape, and when I come back, what do I find? Some bloody terrorists have taken over. Guys, it's your lucky day. I've called the cops, and I'm sure they are going to love to show you their hospitality."

  The team leader thought furiously. Things weren't going as well as planned, and if he didn't do something soon, he was going to have to explain his failures to Wellens in person. The man who was in the toilets must have been a truck driver, and this was his co-driver. To the team leader, that seemed like the only possible explanation. Unfortunately, that information didn't do him much good in the present situation; he still couldn't see anything he could do as long as they had that shotgun pointed at them. He glanced nervously at his manager, and was surprised to see the cool way he looked back at him, as if nothing special was happening.

  The gunman tensed when he heard a car drive up outside, and he quietly stepped into the shadows near the wall. A pile of cardboard boxes effectively hid him from the entrance. Two men entered the garage, one of them carrying a compact black bag. He waited until they were almost at the desk before making his presence known.

  "You, put the bag on the desk." The man holding it did as he was ordered and stepped back. "Right. Now who are you two guys?"

  Neither of them seemed put out by the weapon, a weapon capable of cutting a man in half. "I'm a doctor, and this is my assistant. I was told there was someone injured here---"

  The driver checked the doctor's credentials, which were, of course, in perfect order since they were real. They were the doctor the manager had called for and the man to replace the injured mechanic, both employees of Wellens'.

  "OK, I suppose you are a doctor," the gunman said, "but you've now got two patients. Go ahead." He indicated the man with the gunshot wound.

  The doctor bandaged the knee as best he could under the menace of the riot gun. No one else had dared move, although all eyes were riveted on him.

  Two policemen entered, walking softly, guns at the ready.

  "About time, too," the driver muttered, clearly relieved as he lowered his gun. "These bastards have hijacked this garage, but now this doctor arrived. I think he works for them."

  One of the policemen nodded, and said, "Good work, Sir. We'll take it from here." He levelled his gun at the driver, and fired, then walked up to the body and kicked it hard, with a large smile on his face. "I think we work for them, too."

  The manager consulted with the doctor, then used the phone again. This time he was more eloquent. "We'll need an ambulance for two injur
ed, cleaners, replacement for a mechanic, and send in the real mechanic with his gear."

  The ambulance had come and gone with the two injured men and the doctor; the manager was in his car outside the compound once again. The cleaners had just finished wiping up the traces of blood, and had left, followed by the police car.

  The real mechanic, with the help of one of the original team members and the two replacements, had completed rigging up the sixteen trucks they were going to use. They were talking near the workbench, looking every bit like the mechanics they were impersonating. All traces of struggle had been removed; the toilets even had an out of use sign on them, just in case. The team leader and the man impersonating the inspector were both seated at the desk, waiting for their first customer.

  Three and a half minutes later, the first driver arrived in his truck. The team leader talked him through the administrative details, then showed him the tanker assigned to him. A total of sixteen drivers came to pick up their loads, and transport them to their assigned destinations. Once the last driver cleared the gates, the team packed up and left the garage.

  At the same time in a different part of town, another team from the company had completed their job in a military arsenal. And that was just the beginning of the day.

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  * * *

  Chapter Three

  7h10 am

  The machine whirred loudly as it ground the coffee. Although I placed my cup right under the nozzle, some of the dark liquid splashed out and stained the side of the cup. I pulled out a couple of paper napkins from the wall container, and wiped my cup clean.

  Patrick chose coffee, as well, but the machine acted up again. It was very temperamental, and several times a day made a real mess. The nozzle spluttered, spraying drops all over Patrick's mug and onto the floor. He stood back and anxiously leaned over to look inside his mug. There was about a centimetre of coffee in the bottom.

  Deciding to help poor Patrick, I performed the delicate manoeuvre that set the machine right. I thumped it hard with my fist, and pushed the button.