Roadworks

by Gerard Readett

  "No, I suppose not. Maybe what I learnt from him led me to choose this job."

  "What did you do before?"

  "Nothing. I was at University."

  "Studying what?"

  "Geography and Geology."

  A puzzled look crossed her face. "That's not really a degree relevant to what you're doing, is it?"

  "No, but degrees aren't needed here. We need flexible people who can adapt their thinking to different situations. Like the one we have today. There is no way to prepare, or train anyone to handle what we're experiencing." If this continued, I was going to get carried away. I decided to change the direction of the conversation. "But enough about me. What brought you to this? I mean, what made you join the police?"

  "Well, my father was a successful surgeon. He worked long hours, and when he did finally get home, he was always tired. He liked his job, but always wished he had been able to spend more time with his children; my two brothers and myself. When the time came for my oldest brother to choose a profession, my father did not want another doctor in the family. With that avenue closed to him, my brother amazed us all by joining the police-training program. Now, he's an inspector.

  "My other brother loves driving. He even won a few junior championships. One day, two recruiters visited the track where he was test-driving a new car. They were so impressed with his skills that they hired him immediately as driving instructor for the police. He does refresher courses and advanced driving courses for the vice squad, the homicide squad and the anti-terrorist squad.

  "Medicine was off-limits so I tried another path. At Durham, I studied Information Technology and Law, a joint degree. At the end of each term, I came back to my parents' house. Each time I went to visit my brothers, they had several bachelor colleagues around. The inevitable happened, and I hit it off with one of them. We got engaged in my final year. When I graduated, my brothers helped him get me a place as assistant investigator in the fraud squad. My university degree became particularly relevant, and I found the work interesting. That's it, really."

  Before I could stop myself, I asked the question that last bit provoked. "So what happened to your fianc�?"

  She squinted at me again, and for a moment, I thought I had pried too far. It might not be a pleasant memory. Feeling a little shamed, I attempted to find the correct way to apologise without making things worse. She beat me to it.

  "He got married to a head nurse at Edith Cavell Hospital."

  Ouch! Touched a raw nerve there, I think. Better to change subjects, and quickly. I opted for the first thing that came to mind. "I've been thinking about the way the city's been brought to a stop. I coul--we couldn't have done it better had we tried. The order in which things broke down ensured the maximum disruption. The trucks at the crossroads are preventing anybody leaving, while, at the same time, blocking all the major arteries inside the city. Travel today is going to be on foot, only. For some obscure reason, the OPA want things that way."

  "We'll soon find out why, don't worry." Maria said.

  "That's not what's worrying me. It's the quality of their information. They froze the city in the most effective way possible, and their timing was perfect. That kind of knowledge is not freely available on the TMC Website."

  "Hmm. I see what you mean. You think they've got someone from the TMC on their payroll?"

  "I wouldn't quite go that far. But there must be a leak or something. It's nearly as bad. It would indicate a loophole in our security."

  ***

  Frederic walked briskly round the corner, leaving behind him the Koekelberg Basilica and the mayhem left by a leaking tanker. He had taken the bus along with Erica, the pregnant woman he had been helping. At the crossroads, next to the Basilica, a roadblock installed by the fire brigade had stopped them. They had been informed that it would be several hours before traffic could resume, not only through this crossroads, but through fourteen others, as well. The city authorities were suggesting that anybody not yet inside the city should return home.

  The majority of passengers, including Erica, had taken the advice and had stayed on the bus when their driver decided to take them back to the P&R terminal. Frederic and two others had left the bus there, and headed into town on foot.

  It had taken him twenty minutes to get here. He now understood why the city authorities didn't want any more vehicles in the city. Every road he had walked along was a line of immobile cars. Obviously, there was some kind of major traffic foul-up if the city was so grid locked.

  In front of the Central Library, an angry motorist shouted something at him. He ignored the remark, and entered the building next door, where he worked.

  He pushed the traffic jam out of his mind before entering his office. Naturally, the reception hall was empty; no one else seemed to have made it in yet. Two phones, in offices near his, were ringing, but he ignored them momentarily as he searched his desk.

  It took him only a minute to find what he was looking for. A list of all the numbers of his colleagues' GSMs. He laid it in front of him, then went around all the desks adjacent to his, and redirected the phones to his own.

  Frederic's company was a retailer of integrated computer systems, ranging from corporate mainframe installations to home personal computer set-ups. He and his colleagues, when they were able to get to work, manned the systems helpline. Each one of them specialised in a different kind of system, and their clients knew who could help them with their computer-related problems.

  Although it was unlikely that any of their clients in the city would be in, the fact that several phones were ringing did not surprise Frederic much. They had many clients around the country, and the ones outside of this city would be wondering why they didn't receive any answer on the usual numbers.

  The phone rang, and he picked it up immediately. "Good morning, Outpost helpline." he answered.

  "Who's this?"

  "It's Frederic."

  "Ah, Frederic. It's Smets, here." As he had suspected, this was one of their out of town clients. "What's going on there? How come no one's picked up until now? I've been trying Vincent for the last twenty-five minutes."

  "Well, Mr. Smets, we have a big traffic jam in the city. So far, I'm the only one in the office, but if you bear with me, I'll put you through to Vincent's GSM."

  "That would be great, Frederic. It's rather urgent."

  Frederic dialled his colleague's number. It rang eight times before it was answered.

  "Hello?"

  "Vincent, it's Frederic."

  "Hi, Fred. I'm stuck in a traffic jam."

  "Yes, I know. So is everyone else. Look, I'm the only one in, so I'll transfer any calls for you, to your GSM. Is that okay?"

  "I suppose so."

  "Good. I've got Smets on the line for you."

  "Okay, Frederic, put him on."

  Frederic punched the transfer button, and his phone was free again, but it rang almost immediately. He stared at it glumly. Any client trying to get in touch with one of his colleagues would get him instead, and the only thing he could do was to continue to transfer them like he had done for Vincent. It was going to be a long day.

  Return to Contents

  * * *

  Chapter Nine

  9.24 a.m.

  When we returned to the TMC, Pierre and Martin were talking earnestly near the phones. Patrick seemed to have regained a bit of colour, and was on the phone. He pointed a pen at one of the displays, and frowned. A puzzled look crossed his face, then he brightened as he found what he was looking for - City Hall.

  Nys started to set up a portable television set with a built-in laser disk player. It was ironic that he should be the one doing it. Our requests for a TV set, to be used during night shifts, had been flatly refused and strictly endorsed by Nys. Exceptional circumstances lead to exceptional situations.

  As if the TMC was not crowded enough, David Lyens, the department head, thought it was about time for him to make an appearance. He had had enough of updates on the
situation over the phone, especially because it was Nys keeping him abreast of things. Since the TMC was where things were happening, he obviously wanted to be close to the action, to make sure matters were handled in a calm and sensible manner.

  Lyens' height and heavy bone structure tended to camouflage his manager's belly. Despite this, he had a very erect bearing that never degenerated into the kind of stiffness found in the military. Below a slightly receding hairline and bushy eyebrows, his eyes shone with the unmistakable glow of intelligence. Not the kind of intelligence associated with cunning and deviousness, however, but the kind politicians try hard to fake, and the reason so few managers are good managers.

  The sagacity and sharpness of mind needed to run a company or large department while still commanding respect and obedience has to be laced with caring and understanding. It was a well-known fact that using the stick as an incentive, as most managers do, a department can be reasonably well run. On the other hand, a manager who had the respect and admiration of his employees will get just that little bit more out of them; the little bit that sometimes made the difference in a crisis.

  Sitting naturally on top of his nose, as if he had been born with them, were his reading glasses; bi-focals, the ones that you can use to read if you look down, but do not block the eyesight when looking straight ahead.

  Below his nose and complementing his eyebrows was the largest and bushiest moustache I have ever seen. Funnily enough, this together with his dignified demeanour gave the impression of a kindly patriarch, albeit one without the full grey beard usually attributed to biblical prophets and the like. Naturally, people like Nys, who were under-qualified for their responsibilities, not only had a very healthy respect for our department head, they also had a great fear of him.

  To Nys's great relief, Lyens had instantly taken over, removing his suit jacket and placing it on a chair. He shuffled papers around until he located a writing pad.

  He nodded approvingly when he noticed the TV set. "Jacques? Can you set up a--- No! Make that two videophones on this desk?"

  Nys rushed to do his master's bidding. While he did that, Lyens came round to greet us all and thank us for the good work we had already done. That was what I liked about him; he respected the work we did, and he did not shy away from making us know it; not like most managers, who try to find scapegoats in case of trouble.

  Mind you, it was not all from the kindness of his heart. Lyens was, no doubt, able to make sense of Nys's confused explanations, and by now, knew the full extent of the predicament we were in. Rather, the predicament the city was in.

  This building was probably the safest in Brussels, apart from City Hall. Since the terrorists included us in their message to the Bourgmestre, if they ever wanted their demands to be met, they would hardly be likely to destroy the TMC.

  Aware that he was going to need much more from us in the hours to come, Lyens was trying to show that, whatever else happened, our past and future efforts would be noted and remembered.

  The TV set was turned away from us. He noticed this, and swivelled it so everyone in the TMC could watch. He checked the time surreptitiously, then looked up at Maria.

  "Sergeant, we have fifteen minutes before the TNT parcel service is due to arrive. Is that enough to give us a brief description of the OPA?"

  She stood and bobbed her head at Lyens. "More than enough, Sir." >From the pocket of her jacket she extracted a personal organiser, a slim tablet with a touch screen. "One of my colleagues sent me all the information we have. Which isn't much, I'm afraid. In a sense, the OPA is more worrying than most terrorist groups we know about. The less we know about them, the more likely they are to be security conscious. In most cases, this means that they have among them highly trained individuals, possibly of military calibre.

  "What we do know is that the Oppressed People's army started its activities about seven years ago in Angola. After the successful military coup by General Zabutu, troops loyal to President Amalongo were rounded up and shot. A few platoons got away from the pogroms, and rallied together to become the only resistance group in the country.

  "Angola had enjoyed a few years of peace since 1992 and the creation of a multi-party democracy based on a strong presidency. The people deplored the return to civil unrest and the enforcement of military power. Where they could, they helped the resistance, hiding them and providing food and clothes. For three long years, the resistance played cat and mouse with the military forces of General Zabutu. They destroyed several arms factories, stormed a few military bases, and destroyed some airfields, but never managed to be anything more than a thorn in the side of the new army."

  "Is there a point to this expose?" Nys asked.

  Lyens angrily waved a hand at him, then motioned Maria to continue.

  "A rumour began that the Angolan resistance had strengthened under the command of a new leader. A charismatic soldier, a Rwandan by some accounts, shaped the resistance into a disciplined fighting unit.

  "Seven years ago, the resistance stormed the presidential palace, shot three ministers, and took General Zabutu hostage. They broadcast pictures of the defeated General to an expectant population. Since more than half the population are still too poor to own a TV set, the broadcast was mainly to impress the international community. They called themselves the Oppressed People's Army.

  "A regiment of the army, aided by advisors from a foreign power, retook the palace to rescue the General. We can assume the foreign power was the United States."

  "Why can we assume that?' Lyens interjected.

  "Two days after the coup, a contract, giving exclusive extraction rights for petroleum and diamonds to an American conglomerate, was signed. It is still thought that the Americans funded the original coup, which brought Zabutu to power. The General was killed in the attack, as were the whole contingent of the OPA who took the palace in the first place.

  "Zabutu's second-in-command took power and proceeded to ruthlessly hunt down the rest of the resistance. What was left of the OPA was forced to flee into the Congo, where they disappeared for three years.

  "Later, it was revealed that the leader, the Rwandan, had not participated in the attack. No one knows who this man is, or what he looks like. The three things we know about him are that he is very intelligent, ruthless and that his organisation is full of fanatics willing to die for him."

  "You're talking about a soldier, not a terrorist," remarked Nys.

  Maria gritted her teeth, but continued, "Four years ago, the OPA began a campaign against American installations in central Africa. They attacked factories, power plants and basically any American interest in Africa. To show their resolve and to penalise those companies refusing to accede to their demands, they destroyed two oil wells and one chemical factory. After that, all private installations gave in to their demands, unwittingly financing a growing terrorist force.

  "A year ago, the OPA extended their attacks to European interests in Africa. From the accounts we have, it is no longer just a small insignificant rebel group. We're not sure of their numbers, but we think they are at least four thousand strong, maybe as much as five. Today they have reached into the heart of Europe. Do not take them lightly. There is something in this city they want, or something the city can obtain for them. If they don't get it, they will wreak their revenge."

  Maria powered off her organiser glumly. "That's all we know."

  The TNT parcel arrived precisely on time. I went to reception to pick it up. When I got back to the TMC, Lyens motioned for me to play the disk.

  The screen came alive, and the disk started spinning. The face of a middle-aged African filled most of the screen; a serious man looking straight at the camera with a particularly intense gaze. Scar tissue ran down from the right eyebrow, barely missing the eye, across the right cheek, to end part of the way into the right nostril.

  "Good morning. My name is Akila Kama, and this is a communiqu� from the Oppressed People's Army. As you all have realised by now, we control
the city. Mrs. Bourgmestre, I regret to inform you that we have chosen your city for our strike against the hypocrisy of your western so-called democracies.

  "We are fortunate to have with us the President of the United States, the Prime ministers of Great Britain, Ireland, The Netherlands, Greece, Italy and the Chancellor of Germany, all present in this city to participate in NATO talks. The President of France has also been kind enough to accept the invitation of the Belgian Prime Minister to discuss France rejoining NATO.

  "We have placed a bomb in each hotel where a head of state is staying, as well as in buildings nearby. Any nation refusing to comply with our demands will lose a head of state; simple as that. No one will leave any of the hotels, or we will destroy it. Be warned, we are watching every exit of each hotel."

  A slight pause ensued as the African placed the page he was holding to one side, and picked up another.

  "For too long, the western world has evaded the responsibilities it has towards the rest of the world. Purely economic reasons have dictated foreign policy for the last six centuries. The New World was invaded in the search for gold; Southern Africa and neighbouring countries were colonised by Europeans who mined anything they found: gold, silver, diamonds, bauxite. The Gulf War was to defend a major producer of petroleum, but Iraq's weapons came from Western factories.

  "Your western economies can sell armaments to our puppet governments in Africa. If you dislike a particular dictator, you finance a military coup, obtaining mineral rights from the replacement dictator.

  "What about the common people? The people who die no matter which despot is in power. Africa is littered with so-called humanitarian camps where civilians cower from the bloodthirsty might of powerful men you aid and abet.

  "In these camps, but also in many other areas, diseases that have long been eradicated in your countries, continue to decimate the population. More than half of all Africans do not have access to a clean water supply.