The Mark of Halam

by Thomas Ryan

  Then he saw them: Mary, Kimie, Drita and Marko on their knees and huddled together in the centre of the terrorists. Again clever, Jeff thought. Any mistakes and a burst of gunfire would kill the four of them in a fraction of a second. Zahar stood at the front. The man next to him was waving the chopper to the ground.

  Thirty metres. Jeff held the Glock at arms’ length. He aimed at the man behind the hostages and fired off two shots. He didn’t need to look if they had struck home, he was a crack shot and at this distance, even in the dark, he never missed. The Glock barrel swung to the man on the left of Zahar. Two more shots. Then the man to the right of Zahar fell before Jeff took aim. Flashes caught his eye. Shots fired from the Iroquois. Cunningham. He switched focus back to Zahar but the terrorist leader had vanished from sight.

  “Get down,” Jeff yelled as he rushed past the group. “Which way?” he yelled to Mary. She pointed toward the first fairway. Jeff dropped to his knee and swung his weapon along the tree line, firing until his magazine had emptied. He turned as Cunningham and Caldwell ran to him.

  “I’m going after him. Look after Mary and Kimie. Get them and the kids on the chopper and get them the hell out of here.”

  Jeff didn’t wait for an answer.

  At least now it didn’t matter what happened between him and Zahar, Zahar wasn’t going anywhere. He stopped and waited for the Iroquois to leave. “Come on, you guys, get out of here,” he yelled in its direction. After a few more seconds he heard the sound of the rotors increasing in speed, and then the noise was lost in the distance.

  Jeff stayed still, silent, listening. A twig broke to his right. And another. It had to be Zahar. He moved slowly towards the sound. It crossed his mind it could be a trap and Zahar was deliberately making noises to lure him like a trout fisherman with a fly. He didn’t care. Zahar was probably used to night fighting, but so was he, but the dark protected them both and as long as Zahar stayed hidden he would never find him. He needed to draw Zahar into the light.

  But how?

  Zahar must hate his guts, Jeff reasoned. Isn’t that why he tried to kill Mary? Zahar must want to kill him as much as he wanted to kill Zahar. He held up the Glock and then realised he only had an empty gun. “Damn you, Jeff. You dumb asshole,” he whispered, cursing himself. “What are you going to do now? If Cunningham was here he would bawl me out for incompetence, and rightly so.”

  Jeff pulled a marker stake used for under-sized trees from the ground. It was solid wood, three to four feet long with a pointed end. It would kill Zahar if he hit him on the head with it. That would do. As he followed the noises and closed on the tree line, a plan formed in his mind.

  Zahar watched, disbelieving, as Jeff Bradley approached. The breaking of the twigs had worked. Foolish amateur. The New Zealander carried a piece of wood as a weapon. What foolishness. He would shoot Bradley in the legs and when he was lying on the ground screaming in pain he would beat him with his piece of wood before he strangled him. He wanted that pleasure. It was his right. Then he would leave New Zealand forever and go to his new life in Iran.

  Bradley had closed to within thirty metres. Zahar raised his Kalashnikov and aimed at his legs. His finger pulled on the trigger, but then Bradley did the unexpected and dived to the right, rolling and then zig-zagging into the tree line. Zahar flicked the catch onto automatic and sprayed the bullets in the New Zealander’s direction. He moved forward. Bradley must be dead. But he could not be certain. When firing a Kalashnikov on automatic the barrel lifted high and pulled to the right. One metre into the trees Bradley leapt to his feet and ran past him. Zahar brought up his weapon and squeezed. Nothing happened. Empty. He flung it aside and gave chase. The coward was afraid of him.

  Bradley ran across the first tee and onto the practice putting green just below the clubhouse windows. The lights from the club house lit up the area. Bradley stood hands on hips panting. He was now on a spot lit up like day. This was good Zahar reasoned. He would be able to enjoy the look of terror in Bradley’s face and the fear in his eyes when he cut his throat. Slowly, Bradley turned to face the advancing Zahar. He did not look afraid. Zahar slowed. Uncertain. They were now only ten metres apart.

  “Zahar Akbar,” Jeff said. “We finally meet.”

  Zahar watched Jeff. He smiled.

  “Do you really believe you can do this? Defeat me? You are a very foolish man.”

  They began to circle each other, oblivious to the gathering gallery of onlookers at the windows above.

  Jeff now had the light he sought. He flexed his fingers. It worried him that the clubhouse was full of people. The club often hired out its restaurant for wedding receptions. Now Zahar had any number of potential hostages if he wasn’t stopped. The terrorist was smiling. Confident. Well, let him smile. It would be wiped off him soon enough.

  A figure cast a shadow across the edge of the green. Jeff risked a quick look. It was Dennis, the club secretary.

  “Jeff. What are you doing on the putting green? It’s out of bounds to members at night. You must know that.”

  “Dennis. Go back inside and don’t let anyone come out. Lock the door.”

  “You’re damaging the green. I can’t allow that.”

  “Get out of here, Dennis. Now. Go back inside and lock the door. Do it.”

  Something in Jeff’s manner made Dennis take a backward step.

  “Whatever is going on here, Jeff, it will be on the agenda at the next committee meeting. Can’t have members on the putting green at night.”

  Ignored, Dennis turned and went back inside as Jeff had told him to do.

  Jeff was physically bigger than Zahar but he knew that meant nothing. Zahar was stocky, strong and had learnt the skills of unarmed combat in the Hezbollah camps. He would have killed men with his bare hands. Jeff had not. Jeff had his SAS training but nothing beat the real thing. Zahar had probably crushed windpipes; all he had ever crushed were grapes.

  Jeff rushed at Zahar.

  Zahar reacted instinctively and with a deft movement Jeff was sent sailing through the air, but instead of crashing onto his back he rolled onto one knee in a smooth movement that would make any martial arts master proud. Jeff could see in Zahar’s face that he was quickly reassessing his opponent. That brought an inner smile. He now understood. Zahar had no idea of his military background. A bad miscalculation when confronting an enemy.

  Zahar charged the still rising Jeff, but instead of rising to meet him Jeff dived forward and tackled Zahar around the ankles. Zahar crashed to the ground with Jeff clinging to his legs. Zahar writhed about, attempting to kick himself free. Jeff manoeuvred his body and brought his knee crashing hard into the side of Zahar’s head. Zahar yelped. Disorientated, he still managed to strike his fist into Jeff’s groin. Jeff grunted and relaxed his hold. Zahar kicked free.

  Both men rolled away and scrambled to their feet. Zahar, still dazed, shook his head. Jeff rubbed his groin. Their eyes locked. Circling. Two wild animals in a fight to the death. Naked hatred driving both men.

  “Why do you waste your time fighting, Bradley? The end of your life is written. I know what you must think of me. A man without a heart. Maybe this is true, but today I will make a special offer. Your end is inevitable. If you stop now I promise I will end it quickly. You will not suffer as you should.”

  Jeff swung, burying his fist into Zahar’s chest.

  The force of it caught the Palestinian by surprise. He backed away.

  “What’s the problem, Zahar? As always with lowlifes like yourself you’re all talk.”

  The haziness caused by Bradley’s knee connecting with his head had started to clear. Hatred turned to rage. Strength returned. He stood taller. Eyeing the man in front of him, Zahar reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. He opened the blade and held it up. Now he would avenge his brother. Cut the throat of his brother’s murderer. It was his duty.

  He u
nleashed a guttural scream and charged.

  Jeff recognised the routine. All soldiers were trained to scream when attacking. It unnerved the enemy. Instead of backing away as Zahar would expect, Jeff stood firm. He raised his elbow, knocking away the blade thrust at him, then gripped Zahar’s wrist with both hands and spun, Zahar’s arm now straightened across his shoulder he dropped to one knee, pulling down on Zahar’s arm as he did so. Zahar flew through the air. Jeff moved quickly and as Zahar hit the ground he smashed his fist into the terrorist’s throat. Gasping for air, Zahar managed to roll away and onto his hands and knees. He still held the knife, holding it out in front of him as he rose to his feet.

  Jeff stepped back. He caught his foot in one of the practice putting holes and lost his balance. Zahar saw him falling and reacted quickly. He stepped forward and swung his knife. The blade buried into Jeff’s chest.

  Jeff dropped to his knees. He looked down. Blood seeped across the front of his T-shirt. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Zahar swing the knife again. He flung himself back. The blade cut through his jeans and sliced into his thigh. Jeff fastened his grip onto Zahar’s wrist and held fast. As the terrorist tried to back away he reluctantly pulled Jeff to his feet. Jeff kicked out with his boots, catching Zahar’s kneecap. Zahar staggered but could not free himself from Jeff’s grip. Jeff grabbed a handful of Zahar’s shirt front. Then his legs wobbled and a drum beat inside his head. He recognised the symptom. His blood pressure was dropping. The beat of his heart was becoming irregular. His grip was weakening and he could no longer hold on. Zahar pulled free.

  Zahar smiled when he saw the blood. Jeff’s eyes flickered. Zahar charged again. The final assault. This time there was no scream. Jeff could see the supreme confidence in the terrorist’s eyes, glazed over white with madness as he threw caution aside. Jeff fended off the assault but Zahar stabbed the knife into Jeff’s left arm. With his right arm Jeff swung an uppercut with all the force he could muster and all the accuracy of months of training in the boxing gym. He caught Zahar under the chin. The terrorist crumpled to the ground like a sack of wet rags. Jeff pulled the knife from his arm and sat astride the moaning Zahar. Jeff was losing consciousness. One last effort. He raised the knife and plunged it into the killer’s chest. The terrorist leader screamed and then went still.

  Jeff felt a hand on his shoulder. Fingers unbound his grip on the knife.

  “It’s over, Jeff,” Caldwell said. “Come on, let me help you. Brian, call an ambulance.”

  Barely conscious, Jeff reached out and ripped away the chain hanging round Zahar’s neck. Then he allowed Caldwell to pull him away. On his back he saw the putting green was now surrounded by golf club patrons. Horrified faces looked down through the clubhouse windows.

  Jeff rolled his head and looked across at Zahar. “Give my regards to your brother,” he whispered.

  Nine terrorists had been arrested, including Sami Hadani. Two had been killed by Lee Caldwell. The first he had shot through the head inside the Kebab restaurant and the second as he tried to run through the door. The envelopes in the suitcase had confirmed that twenty-eight men had arrived in New Zealand. The ones who had escaped capture and had not died on the boat would now be hunted. Airports would be alerted but Caldwell had a feeling they would go to ground and wait. New passports would be sent. He doubted they would get them all.

  Moana had been sent to hospital as a precaution. Jeff Bradley would remain in hospital a number of days.

  Cunningham had collected his car from the air base and driven himself and Caldwell back to the station. Caldwell passed the Glock over and Cunningham locked it in the trunk.

  “What now for you, Lee?”

  “Back to the hotel and a good night’s sleep.”

  “You’ll be leaving New Zealand immediately?”

  “Yes. There is nothing more for me here and unfortunately there are more Zahars out there.”

  Cunningham saw the look of resignation on Lee Caldwell’s face. There was no regret, no sadness, just an acceptance of who he was and what he had to do.

  “Can I drive you?”

  “No, I think I’ll walk. Clear the head. That sort of thing.”

  Cunningham held out his hand.

  “Good to meet you, Lee. New Zealand is as indebted to you as I am.”

  “Likewise,” Caldwell said, shaking the offered hand before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

  Tomorrow, Aucklanders would wake up to the stories of the men who tried to sink the submarine, the killing of the terrorist leader and the shootout on Ponsonby Road. The inside story would be Barbara Heywood’s, as had been promised. The chief of police had arrived and had taken control of the media and the clean-up process. His team could take a well-deserved three days leave. Another team of detectives would take over hunting down the remaining terrorists and writing the reports.

  His mobile rang.

  “Percy Croydon, Inspector. I understand there have been developments in the city tonight.”

  “Yes, there have, Mr Croydon.”

  “Can we expect more?”

  “The attack on the submarine was averted and most of the terrorists are either dead or in custody. The threat is over.”

  “Excellent work, Inspector. We will talk further.”

  50.

  Jeff sat in his lounge, warmed by the morning sun.

  For the past week, the newspapers and radio and television news programmes had focused their stories on the night of the attack on the Ulysses and the events leading up to it. Unbelieving citizens read and listened with wonder at the intentions of the terrorists and the part played by Jeff Bradley, among others, and the police to stop it. He had taken his phone off the hook. He knew eventually the press would find their way to his door, but for the moment he wanted to be alone. His face hurt and the bruises on top of older bruises and the stab wounds were still tender and painful.

  He found the energy to move and walked to his window and looked out into the street. He waved to the twins playing on their front lawn. They immediately ran to the back of the house. Jeff smiled, thankful that Larry and his family were safe.

  Barbara Heywood and Amy were sitting round the board table with Hank Challis. The meeting had been called to discuss the series that would be the station’s prime time viewing winner for the next few weeks. Hank had already promised extra people for camera work and research. The editing suites would be hers whenever required. Hank, however, needed a better understanding of the story and the shape it would take.

  Barbara related the story from the beginning. Albeit an edited version. She left out much of her involvement and the heroics in Kosovo of Jeff Bradley. She omitted the staged abduction in Wellsford. This would remain confidential. It took more than an hour and both Hank and Amy sat disbelievingly. When she had finished she sat back in her chair.

  “So that’s most of it, Hank. I’ve probably forgotten a few points.”

  “Well, little lady, you have certainly been busy,” Hank started. “International networks will want the story. I spoke to our bosses before this meeting and they agreed that because of my connections with CNN and other US networks, I should oversee final touches and negotiate world rights. We are going to spend a lot of time together, little lady. Prepare for some late nights,” he smiled.

  Barbara couldn’t decide if it was a leer or an ogle, then decided that if Hank was as multi-talented as he declared himself to be he had probably managed to achieve both.

  Hank turned to Amy. “We need to keep as much as we can under wraps, not a word.”

  Amy nodded. “No sir,” she said, then turned to Barbara. The look she gave her boss was unmistakable hero worship. Barbara mused that if she were to stay on at the station Amy would keep her supplied with cakes and coffees whenever she snapped her fingers. But it was over. The thought of working with Hank would be as painful as stabbing herself in the liver
.

  She left the building carrying a carton filled with her personal effects. Cunningham was waiting on the steps. It was an awkward moment for both of them. So much had happened and there was so much to be said but they both knew now was not the time for talking.

  “Just wanted to check up on you. Make sure you’re okay, that sort of thing. I phoned ahead and was told you were on your way down,” he said.

  Did they have a future together? Barbara wasn’t certain Cunningham even still had a job. When it all settled down the enquiries would start. Politics was politics. They had cut many corners throughout the investigation and when the euphoria died the heroics would be forgotten and heads would roll.

  “You’ve been busy, Brian?”

  “Yes I have, but I dare say not as busy as you’re going to be.”

  Barbara smiled. “I’ve resigned from the channel. I’m going to write the book. I have a healthy advance from a publisher. Enough to keep me in wine and pasta for a while.”

  “Good for you,” Cunningham said. “Look, I might be overstepping the mark here, but how would you feel if I phoned you sometime. Took you to dinner?”

  “Like on a date you mean?”

  “I guess that’s what I mean. Yes, a date.”

  Barbara smiled. “Why don’t you phone me sometime and find out.”

  Cunningham nodded and shifted from foot to foot.

  “Great. Good. That’s fine then. Well, okay, I might just do that sometime.”

  In New Zealand’s capital city, Wellington, the expected parliamentary debate had gone on long into the night. The opposition was supporting a private members’ bill to reintroduce the country’s anti-nuclear stance, and members of the government were crossing the floor to support them. After the incident in Auckland public opinion was firmly against any further visits from nuclear-powered vessels. The government was arguing the point but not vigorously. With an election coming up no one was prepared to be seen to be pro-nuclear. By morning it had been agreed and passed. New Zealand had again declared itself nuclear free. No more US ship visits.