Carrying out the initial tests in Africa, made sense to Wong. Africa, after all, had the fastest growing population problem in the world, and the country was quickly becoming a basket case as a result. The ensuing poverty that was the inevitable result of too many people, crowded into too small a space, with too few resources, manifested everywhere throughout the country. Over-farming depleted the soil, and any drop in rainfall quickly turned it into dust. With too many people came unemployment, poor education for children, shortages of food and other basic necessities of life, the breakdown of social cohesion, and the breakout of criminal gangs.
The number of unemployed, young men and women devoid of hope for a better life, and angry, was swelling throughout the continent. Gangs of rampaging youths roamed in many towns, young people with no respect for life, or other people’s property, uncontrolled, and largely uncontrollable, and they were spreading throughout the continent. Despair by the population with their governments was rife, leading to opportunistic, would-be leaders, promising to do better, but unable to fulfill.
Some of these, such as Boko Haram, proclaimed religion as their justification, but that was a cloak. Maintaining they killed for Allah was a lie. What it really was about, was justification for their own criminal behaviour. They were mainly despairing, unemployed young men, who turned to crime, and became vicious killers, thugs, looking for an excuse to justify their abominable behaviour.
Wong had resolved his ethical issues with developing the PBV virus. At first sceptical, and indeed, horrified at the concept, he was now a convert. It was tough medicine for the world to swallow, but he accepted, it was essential, if there was to be a world in the future.
He walked back to his office to telephone his sponsor. Mr. Sorensen would be delighted. Wong knew some preliminary work had already been carried out to prepare the village for the test, but had not bothered with the details of this. Mr. Sorensen knew what was needed, he would arrange everything.
One thing Wong had learned about Mr. Frederik Sorensen since his association with him had begun, was, that he was one of the most capable men Wong had ever encountered. Wong did not need to be concerned with the details of the test, other than to oversee that it was carried out properly. Mr. Sorensen knew what was required, and he would attend to it.
Frederik had indeed been attending to preparations for the test. Several truck loads of supplies had already arrived at the village, and two flat-pack classrooms had been assembled. The villagers, at first bemused, were now ecstatic that teachers would soon be arriving, and their children would receive an education, something that had never happened before. When they learned there would also be a doctor coming to cure their ailments, they were overjoyed.
The accommodation cabins, to house the teachers and nurse, as well as a spare one for the visiting doctor, were also assembled. Sorensen had utilised the resources of the United Nations to find suitable teachers and a qualified nurse, and these would be arriving within a week. One of the qualifications for the nurse, was that she had no intention of having more children.
It was all happening, in Uganda. Soon the testing could commence.
39
Brent Peters finished reading the computer print out, and placed the small pile of papers on his desk. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, as he considered what he had just read.
So far, since the recovery of the Sorensen lads, the Mafia had been dormant. Whatever they were up to, they had been successful in keeping it under wraps. He did not doubt for a moment, Bramboni and his henchmen were brewing something. It went against everything he knew of the Sicilian organisation, that they would not plan a retaliation for what he had done to them. Not only had they lost one hundred million dollars in their kidnap ransom scheme, four of their number were dead, one a family head. The Mafia would never allow that to go unanswered.
Peters tried to put himself in Bramboni’s head. If he were in Bramboni’s shoes, what would he do? The Mafia godfather must be under considerable pressure, from both within his own members, to show leadership in planning a retribution, as well as from his own instinct for revenge, and Peters had no doubt the Sorensen family, and himself, figured right at the top of the hit list. What would Bramboni do?
One thing was certain. Whatever it was, it would be well planned. Locating the two boys on that island had been clever. It had taken careful planning, firstly to grab them, then to get them out of Sweden undetected and onto the island, where they could be kept safe, and where they could be eventually returned, without anyone in the Mafia organisation being put at risk. Once the ransom had been paid, the coordinates of the island would have been given, and the boys rescued, with no risk to people involved in a hand over. Very clever planning, indeed.
It had been sheer luck they had found that island. Well, not quite luck, a lot of research and thinking had gone into locating them, but luck had certainly played a part. That was weeks ago. Since then, nothing. Peters had put out the word to more than twenty of his contacts in several countries, as well as in the C.I.A., to keep eyes and ears open for anything that might give a clue as to what Bramboni was planning. If he were Bramboni, he thought, there were two courses of action to be considered. He would either attack the Sorensen home, or the island laboratory, or both.
Yes, he thought, probably both. Again, if he were Bramboni, in view of the initial failure to stop the scientific research in the laboratory, the only recourse left was to destroy the whole establishment. He would want to blow it up, obliterate it, and make sure none of the scientists working there, continued with that work elsewhere. That probably meant, they would be killed, all of them.
Yes, if he were Bramboni, that is what he would be planning to do. Blow up the laboratory, and kill the scientists. That would entail an assault on the island.
Theoretically, it was possible the laboratory could be bombed from the air, but he doubted if Bramboni had access to that sort of hardware. Also, aerial bombing would not guarantee the deaths of all the scientists. There was only one way to do that, and that was to capture the laboratory, round up the scientists, kill them, then destroy the premises. That, is what he believed Bramboni would be planning, and he was correct.
40
Matteo was busy, drawing up his plans for precisely that operation. From his contact at the helicopter base ferrying passengers out to the island, he had a fairly accurate estimate of how many people were working there. It was not a huge number. They were scientists, intellectuals, not trained soldiers, or fighters. Capturing them would be simple, killing them even simpler. But there would be some trained soldiers present to protect them, Peters men, Bramboni had no doubt about that.
That mongrel dog, Peters, would ensure there were bodyguards on the island, and from what he knew of Peters, these would be capable men. He guessed there would be at least half a dozen, perhaps a few more. His own fighters would have to overwhelm them quickly, with superior numbers and firepower. He would have to mount a blitzkrieg, storm the place, and kill the guards before they knew what had hit them.
That might not be easy. He must think his plan of attack through very carefully, overlook nothing. When he did strike, it must be clever, and it must be definitive. He would select his men for the attack carefully, perhaps even have them undergo some training to be ready. Street fighters were not what was wanted here, he needed proper trained soldiers. Well, there were plenty of good men he could choose from, men who had been blooded, and knew how to kill. He just had to get them licked into shape for the type of operation that was called for.
Bramboni outlined his plan to his brothers, and instructed them to start recruiting the men for the attack.
“Now, we have to keep this quiet. No word of our plans must leak out. Do not speak to anyone with a loose tongue, a big mouth. You know what I mean. Some of our fighters like to brag, talk about what they do. We don’t want such men anywhere near this. So be careful.
“Ther
e is no need to explain what the job is, that can come later. Just tell them it is a big job that requires special preparation, and they will have to be trained for it. Of course, we pay them while they train, and there will be a big bonus at the finish. There will be shooting. Tell them, if they get hurt, we will take care of them, and their families. But they must keep their traps shut. If I hear of anyone who talks loosely about what we are about to do, I will have his tongue cut out, before I kill him. I mean it. You can tell them that, also.”
Over the next few weeks, Bramboni, Niccolo Abello and Domenico Balboni canvassed for men they thought suitable for the operation. Bramboni’s admonition, that they keep details of the assignment a secret, had a downside. It aroused curiosity, and curious men tend to ask questions.
Between the three leaders, thirty men had been selected, and most of these men knew each other. Within a few days of being approached, many of the men selected were aware of who had been chosen for the assault team, and they were itching for information about what was on foot. Rumours were rife, but they were wildly wrong.
Matteo thought thirty men should be a sufficient number for the job, so long as they had the element of surprise on their side. That should provide him with an overwhelming strike force. He charged Nicollo Abello with their training. Nicollo had once been in the army. He had been drafted, and had had a brief stint in the Italian army, before he had been ignominiously discharged for insubordination, deemed unsuitable for military service. Nicollo had not taken kindly to being given orders, and those charged with giving them, when they found out who he was, were reluctant to see their orders were carried out. They were relieved to see the end of him.
“Nicollo, you get these men out in the fields, and teach them how to be proper soldiers. We will give them the new AK47’s, and you must make sure they know how to use them. Also, how to do what they are told. Train them like an army. Get them ready.”
Abello’s stay in the army had been brief, and efforts to train him had not been very successful, but he felt he knew enough to do this job. Apart from his sojourn in the army, he had watched enough war movies to know what warfare was about, and he knew how to kill. He would make sure the men knew how to use the AK47’s. As for them obeying orders, that was the easy part. He would tell them he would kill them if they didn’t, and they would know that he meant it.
When the suggestion of how Peters might be taken out came up, Bramboni put planning of the laboratory attack to one side, temporarily. With Peters eliminated, the job would be much simpler. Peters was the big problem, the reason he had to be so careful with his preparations. Peters was clever, and resourceful. It would be well worth one hundred thousand dollars to have him dead. Peters was at the very top of his to-kill list.
If all went well in Stockholm, Peters would be dead, very soon. Domenico had reported he had successfully recruited the shooter, and that all was now ready. He should hear, soon, and in the meantime, Nicollo would start training his recruits, getting them prepared for the attack.
Mateo began to relax a little. Things were starting to move in the direction he wanted, and Giovanni’s death would soon be avenged, those responsible would soon pay, in blood. His prestige with the others would be restored, and he could again sleep properly at night.
41
Peters stood up, stretched, and looked at his watch. Five minutes past two. It was time to look around the grounds of the Sorensen compound, checking that everything was in place. He had made it a habit to do this every day, as a precautionary measure. It was easy to become complacent, to let down your guard, for his men to get slack, and he was fairly certain that, despite his own surveillance, the Mafia would have the Sorensen house staked out, looking for any sign of weakness.
The guards posted outside, also those strolling around the streets looking for suspicious behaviour, had not turned up anyone, but that did not mean they were not there. He did not underestimate the Mafia. They would, somehow, manage to keep the house under observation.
It was getting cool outside, and he pulled on the thick, knitted woollen cap he liked to wear. Starting at the rear of the house, Peters studied each of the cameras installed at key points, covering the entire property, ensuring the little red dot light on each one was flickering rhythmically. He nodded, as he passed one of the guards. It was tedious work, guard duty, boring and unrewarding, but it was essential.
Peters rotated the guards every two days, to ensure they didn’t lose concentration. He gave them a little pep talk from time to time for the same reason, reminding them they were there for a good reason. Eventually, he reached the front of the property. As he walked across the entranceway, he glanced up the hill. A sudden icy chill raced through his body, and his training cut in.
Peters had been shot at several times, and he had seen that little tell-tale give away sign before, a tiny puff of smoke. Seeing it, had saved his life before. This one came from the window of a distant house up the hill, and it was barely noticeable.
Instinctively, he dropped to the ground, but not quite quickly enough. The bullet plowed through his cap, creasing the top of his skull, sending the cap flying off his head. The sound of the shot followed.
Peters did not move. He crouched on the ground, and gingerly felt his head. His fingers came away bloodied, but he knew he was not badly injured. It had been close, far too close, and it was his own stupid fault. Firstly, it had not occurred to him the mafia would try a long range sniper shot, because there was nothing for them to shoot at, except he had given them a target, himself.
He was a victim of his own carelessness, setting a pattern with his behaviour, walking past the only part of the Sorensen property where he was visible from outside, namely the front gateway. Peters realised at once his mistake. He had set the pattern, and it had been observed. The first rule, when you may be under observation; never set a pattern. Vary your behaviour, be unpredictable, and he had not done this, and had nearly paid for it with his life. Spotting that little puff of smoke, had saved him. It had been pure luck he had been looking up the hill.
He still crouched down, below the top of the gate, invisible from the outside. His mind was racing. What had the sniper seen? Surely he would have seen the cap flying in the air, and known he had hit Peters head. Probably, the man thought he had been killed. Perhaps that was a good thing.
Peters had no doubt the Mafia had identified him by now, and hence the attempt to kill him. They would know he was behind the killing of their own members. They would have done their homework, found out some background on him, and realised his reputation. It would do no harm for them to think they had killed him. He stayed on the ground.
The guard he had recently nodded to heard the shot, and came running around the corner of the house, to saw him crouched on the ground, blood oozing down his face.
“Brent, are you okay? I heard a shot. You’re hit?”
Peters held up his thumb to signal he was okay. As the man approached, Peters spoke.
“I’m supposed to be dead, so come and get me, and I’ll act dead. Take me to the house, and call the cops. No, do that first, the cops, tell them to come here, and also to check out that house a few hundred yards up the hill, that’s where the shot came from, then come and get me.”
Hurriedly, the man began dialling on his mobile, spoke quickly, then ran to Peters, still crouching on the ground, under cover of the gate. Peters slipped his arm over the man’s shoulders, and was heaved upright, his body sagging against the guard, who took his weight, then dragged him quickly away from the gate, and towards the house. Peters remained inert until he was pulled inside, and the door closed behind him, then he stood upright.
“Thanks for that. I was stupid, I set myself up to be shot at, though I didn’t really think they would try it. That bullet went pretty bloody close. It was pure luck I spotted the barrel smoke, or it would have gone through my skull.”
He moved into the
bathroom, to examine his scalp in the mirror. The bullet had just broken the skin, but he was otherwise intact. He mopped up the small amount of blood with a tissue.
“I’ll live, more by good luck than good management.”
Frederik Sorensen had heard the voices, and came into the bathroom behind him.
“What happened? You’ve got some blood on your shirt. Are you alright?”
Peters explained what had happened.
“Good God, I thought we were safe in the house.”
“We should have been. That shot at me was from a long way away, more than three hundred yards, I would say. Whoever pulled that trigger was good, he almost took me out. I was walking past the gate, it’s the only place they can see into the property, but by a sheer stroke of luck I spotted the gun smoke. We must get that gate raised, to block the view.”
“I’ll see to it straight away. You’re sure you are okay”
Sorensen peered at the top of Peters’ head.
“It looks like just a scratch, broke the skin, but nothing too serious. It might need a stitch or two. That was really close, too close.”
“You can say that again. Well, there may be an upside to this. The bullet knocked off my cap as I fell, and my guess is, they know I am hit, think I am probably dead, so let them keep thinking that. Frederik, call an ambulance, and have them take me to the city morgue. The police will be here any moment, so I am going to act dead, let them think I am dead. I want you to talk to Sven Hendricksen, and explain what is happening, but tell him to keep it to himself, that I am not dead. The Mafia could have a plant in the police.
“You follow the ambulance to the morgue, then bring me back here. You will have to fix it with the morgue staff, they’ll soon twig I am not a stiff. Tell them to keep their traps shut, that it’s a life and death security issue, after the boys kidnapping, that I am supposed to be killed, and we don’t want the would be assassins to know otherwise.”
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