by Greg Barron
‘No. Gunfire and missiles are out.’
‘What can we do?’
‘I don’t know yet. Find him and we’ll work it out from there.’
‘How the hell are we going to do that?’
‘When we’re in the air try to get him on the radio. The signals guys can triangulate his position. Try, anyway. But I suspect I know where he’s going.’
‘Where?’
‘Sydney. Right over the CBD.’ Marika thumps her hand on the back of the seat. ‘We’re wasting time. Let’s get up there and chase this fucker down.’
TWELVE
LONDON
LOCAL TIME: 2210
The Arvor, after waiting off the lightly populated Isle of Grain for full darkness, steams far up the Thames, her diesel ticking over smoothly, passing by the suburbs of Gravesend and Dartford. The vessel is not luxurious, but there is coffee from a gas burner, and cold meats and cheeses in the refrigerator.
For much of the journey the vessel is restricted by regulations to just five knots and there is so much river traffic that the helmsman is absorbed in the task of deciphering port and starboard markers and direction of travel. The journey seems to have lasted an eternity when she finally points her bow into a private marina berth at Gallions Point, the man on shore handling the lines expertly. Badi leaves the craft only when the others have checked the jetty for danger.
Two black Mercedes M Class SUVs wait on the access road. Heavily laden with equipment, they walk to the cars, Badi to the one in the rear. The driver opens a door and he slips into the back seat, sinking into the soft leather.
Badi looks at the driver. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Haksi Akim, sayyid.’
‘I know your family, yes. Your father was a patriot. Drive well for me and you will find yourself in line for advancement. Do not take me anywhere there are CCTV cameras. I do not wish to be photographed, do you understand?’
‘I have received that instruction, sayyid. Several cameras at key locations have been disabled, the rest of the time I assure you that nothing will penetrate the window tinting.’
Badi claps him on the back. ‘Excellent. Then let’s move. We have lots to do.’
The bodyguards fill the other seats, and the engine starts. The driver pulls away down Connaught Road. Badi consults his watch. Ten o’clock at night. They are well on schedule, and have allowed plenty of time for traffic problems.
Badi feels a thrill to be on British soil once more as they head north on Royal Docks Road, past the gasworks. It is, he decides, a great feeling to have entered the home of his enemy in possession of the instrument of their demise.
Less than three miles to the north, head chef Eddie Wilder delicately places the tangerine vacherin in the middle of the white porcelain dessert plate, heaps poached orange beside it, checks the balance between blank space and food, then turns to the staring apprentice.
‘There,’ he says, ‘that’s how you do it, OK?’
Eddie is a formidable presence; medium height, thickset, almost chubby, with close-shaved hair and pink kitchen-pimples growing through the stubble on his face. His word here is law.
‘Yes, chef.’
‘Presentation, flavour and service create a memory, and that’s what keeps them coming back to our restaurant. Now get it out there.’
Before going back to the benches Eddie takes a peek through the glass windows at the top of the doors leading into the dining area. Now, at ten pm, the night is all but over. Two or three straggler groups linger over desserts or sip excellent port from tiny glasses. After ten years as head chef here, Eddie can accurately gauge how soon they will call for their bills and be on their way.
He claps his hands. ‘Right, let’s get this place shipshape.’ Cleaning up, like everything under Eddie’s control, follows a strict and efficient protocol. Every surface, from stainless steel bench tops to tile grout, is soon gleaming, the dishes and pots stacked, nothing left soaking or put aside for the next day. Waiters unfold fresh tablecloths and set the tables for the following night, while Eddie prowls, looking for a stained knife or improperly folded napkin.
By eleven they are done. Alex, the head waiter, walks into the kitchen, rips off his bow tie and crumples it into his pocket.
‘Anyone fancy a pint?’
Eddie looks up, smiles. ‘Sure thing. I just have to finish next week’s roster. Five minutes. Oh, and can you send the new waiter in for a minute — Trevor, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, chef.’
Trevor is a skinny seventeen year old, his cummerbund surrounds a waist so slim that Eddie could encircle it with his two hands. Trevor’s curly hair is not thick enough to hide his generous ears. He waits while Eddie writes the last of the names on the roster sheet.
‘Now, do you prefer Trevor, or Trev?’
‘Just Trevor, thanks, Chef.’
‘OK then, Trevor. This was your first night in my kitchen. You did pretty well, but I do want you to remember a few things. I know you got a certificate in food service from some fucking technical college or whatever, but what you learned won’t cut it in my kitchen, OK? I saw you dump plates down in front of people like it was just any old crap, right? That’s not how we do things here. They get away with that at filthy Asian noodle bars, but not here. From the moment someone sits down at one of our tables we are developing a relationship with them. Everything counts, body language, the way you smile. We want them to feel like they’re part of a family.’
‘Yes, chef.’
‘Now, I’ve rostered you on for tomorrow night. I want you here an hour early and you and I are going to spend some time honing your skills. If you can’t learn, you won’t last, understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, good lad. Go get some sleep and we’ll see you tomorrow evening. Oh, and learn to iron a fucking shirt properly.’
Eddie moves back into the kitchen, to the middle shelf in the larder where he keeps his things. He slips a black leather jacket on over his white shirt, and walks out through the swinging doors, into the restaurant towards the bar. ‘Hey, Alex,’ he calls, ‘you ready for that pint?’
They cross the road in the rain. The Irish pub has quietened down, being a weeknight, and they sit at the bar, glasses at their elbows.
Alex is tall and lightly built, with fair skin and red cheeks. He is five years younger than Eddie’s thirty-six years. They talk of football and the latest movies, slagging off the actors and the themes without either of them having seen the films.
They’re on their third round when the landlord, bald and impatient, fronts the bar. ‘Last orders, people.’
‘You want to come back to my place for a couple?’ Alex asks. ‘I’m just getting warmed up.’
Eddie feels his breath quicken. He can’t meet Alex’s eyes. ‘Not tonight, mate. There’re some things I have to do.’
‘Yeah really, at this time of night?’ Alex’s eyes drop. ‘Oh, OK, for the Crusader thing.’
‘Yeah.’
Alex shakes his head. ‘I just don’t get this right-wing stuff. I wouldn’t have picked you for a hate-filled type.’
‘I’m not hate-filled, I’m just tired of this country going to the dogs because of fucking immigrants.’
‘Let the rest of them worry about it. Come around … I’ve got a bottle of Domaine Saissac …’
Eddie’s lips press together. ‘I can’t, right?’
Alex stands. ‘See you at work.’
‘Yeah, see you.’ Eddie watches him all the way to the door, hating himself for doing so.
Eddie drives his nine-year-old Vauxhall Insignia sedan across the city to a warehouse in Ealing. He stops at the roller door, beeps his horn and drives in as it rattles up. The door closes behind him. He pops the boot and gets out of the car.
A couple of lads emerge from the back of the warehouse, carrying an obviously heavy, long cricket-gear-sized bag, and place it gently into the boot.
Another bloke comes out of an office, cigarette
hanging from his lips. He’s short in stature, wearing a West Ham jersey. He has a swastika tattooed on the side of his neck.
‘Hey, if it’s not the bleedin’ chef.’
‘You got what I wanted?’
The man leans down and unzips the bag. Unwraps the top shroud of cloth and lifts out a shotgun, pump action.
‘Remington, shortened barrel with choke. You know how that works?’
Eddie shakes his head. ‘Not exactly …’
‘You twist this ’ere on the end of the barrel — it’s like one of them fuckin’ hose attachments, the tighter you screw it up the tighter packed the pellets will come out — either like a tight ball, or spreading all over the place. Depends if you want to shoot a man up close or spread shot through a group.’
‘OK, what else is in there?’
‘Another shotgun — double barrel old-fashioned thing. Three CZ .22s like you wanted.’ He lifts one out, and Eddie, though no gun-nut, can appreciate the quality of the weapon, precision-machined steel parts, blued and oiled. The scope is a Bushnell 4 x 40, perfect for general work within the capacities of the .22 rim-fire cartridge.
‘Looks good. Ammunition?’
The lads bring up two hefty cardboard cartons. ‘Two hundred number four shotgun shells and five thousand subsonic hollow points for the rifles. That’s a lot of dead gooks.’
Eddie reaches for the wad of notes in his pocket. ‘Four thousand one hundred quid like we agreed?’
‘Yeah.’
Eddie counts fifty pound notes into the other man’s hand. ‘There’ll be another order soon, when we’ve had a few more meetings and raised the money. I’ll let you know in the usual way.’
He closes the boot and slips into the driver’s seat. He has been stashing the guns at the restaurant, inside a hollow counter. Everyone has gone home, and he can park in the high-walled rear yard while he does the unloading.
Eddie is proud to be part of this new wave. Across Europe people are lining up to join not just the Crusaders, but the Silent Brotherhood, Posse Comitatus, the Brown Army Faction, Greece’s Golden Dawn, Hungary’s Jobbik and Germany’s NSDAP. They will join, they will fight, because to fight may well be the only way to survive.
The day of action is coming. Then it will be time to drive the coloured scum from England forever.
THIRTEEN
SYDNEY
LOCAL TIME: 0820
Djamil looks down at the Sydney landscape as the tiny aircraft drones along at one thousand feet, low enough to avoid showing up on most radar screens. Too small to bother with, a mere mosquito under the flight paths of giant Boeing and Airbus jets.
From this height, Sydney is a place of dark green bush, park lawns, terracotta roofs, and swimming pools. Coves and inlets and bays peel like flower petals from the main arms of the upper Hawkesbury. Moored boats speckle the waterways in their thousands. Patches of bushland are crisscrossed by deep blue roads.
Djamil glances down at the iPad mounted on the aircraft dash, running OzRunways GPS and mapping software, plotting his course down towards the CBD, where the south easterly wind will broadcast his cargo across the greater part of the city. Few will escape this deadly plague, the delivery mechanism designed many years ago in Russia’s Biopreparat engineering workshops, and further modified by Iraq’s most devious scientists.
Djamil knows the development history. The part played by the Japanese, the English, the Americans, the Russians and finally the Iraqis. He has faith in the equipment. Yet his hand is sweating on the control stick, and he whispers a prayer to steady his nerves. A shiver of delight runs through his body, so strong that his buttocks clench on the seat.
This is the moment at which he dedicates his life to vengeance.
FOURTEEN
LONDON
LOCAL TIME: 2230
Watching from the Isra’s wheelhouse deck, Captain Walid feels a cold knot of apprehension as a blue-grey vessel approaches from the northern shore. When she nears and turns to come alongside, his fears are realised. The words ‘UK BORDER AGENCY’ are painted in bold black print on her sides.
The VHF radio crackles: ‘Isra, this is His Majesty’s Customs Cutter Valiant, call sign mike-bravo-lima-lima-eight, we are coming alongside and intend to board, please acknowledge.’
‘Valiant, this is Isra, what is the problem?’ Valiant is about a quarter length shorter than the Isra, but sits lower in the water.
‘I repeat, we are coming alongside and intend to board. Please have crew on hand to assist.’
Reluctantly, Walid walks down the exterior steps from the wheelhouse and onto the main deck, shouting orders at men with boathooks and fenders. He wishes that Badi was here to deal with this. He would know what to do.
Up until now it has been all too easy. Already he is counting the riches that will soon be in his possession. This, he has decided, might well be the most lucrative single voyage any ship’s captain has made since the days of the spice trade. Quite apart from his family connection to Hosni Mubarak, former President of Egypt, that money will ensure that he remains loyal to the death.
The man who climbs onto Isra’s deck is a ramrod straight six foot, with close-cropped blond hair under his peaked cap. His uniform is perfectly ironed, his black shoes polished. His blue eyes are unamused, and his expression prim.
Captain Walid has a heavy face, and he is prone to sweating under his jowls when nervous. He takes out his handkerchief and dabs at his neck. He has never been fond of authority, and this man is authority personified — in his bearing, his officious little eyes, and the pursed, disapproving lips.
‘Good evening,’ the official says. ‘My name is Charles Houghton, UK Border Agency. I take it that you are Captain Issac Walid, master of this …’ he runs his eyes down the length of the ship, ‘… vessel?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Are you aware that there are certain requirements for the master of a commercial vessel to observe when arriving in British waters?’
‘Yes.’ Captain Walid crosses his arms and grunts belligerently, ‘I send all papers and forms by fax. All filled in by my own hand.’
‘Indeed, some paperwork has been received. Yet I must point out to you that not only have they been filled out in some kind of illegible scrawl, but that box 13 of the IMO FAL Form 5 (C97) Crew’s List appears to have been improperly completed.’
Walid scratches at a bear-like hairy forearm. ‘You come to my ship at ten o’clock at night to tell me I fill out form wrong?’
‘That’s right.’ The officer takes a clipboard from under his arm. ‘I have a copy here. Fortunately for you, there is a simple way out of this. I must now ask you to muster the crew so that I can check the numbers against the manifest in Form 5.’
Walid scarcely dares breathe. Six of the crew counted in the manifest have gone ashore illegally. ‘That’s not possible, right now.’
Charles Houghton’s eyes widen. ‘And why would that be?’
‘Some of my men are sick … er, contagious. Flu. I have them isolated.’
‘What kind of flu?’
Walid’s grasp of English is not schoolbook perfect. For years, however, he has kept abreast of the news. ‘Swine flu,’ he says.
The officer’s face reddens, veins standing out on his forehead. ‘Then why the deuces, Captain, if that is indeed the case, wouldn’t you have filled out a Ship’s Notifiable Diseases Form 45c?’
‘I’m sorry. I did not know. Please, let me fill out form again. Disease form too. I fill them both out.’
The officer narrows his eyes. ‘Also, in regards to form IMO FAL Form 1 (C94) General Declaration, I do find it more than a little strange that you would travel with an empty manifest all the way from Oman.’
‘We pick up cargo tomorrow …’
‘I understand that, but few masters are inefficient enough to travel such a distance …’ Charles Houghton stops, staring aft to the poop deck.
Walid groans aloud when he sees the redheaded woman — Badi’s
harlot Cassie — appear at the rail outside the owner’s cabin.
The officer’s voice rises another octave. ‘Who is that? I don’t recall seeing a woman on the crew manifest …’
‘She is passenger, sir. Please, I forget her, just let me resubmit the forms. I was tired — in a hurry. No sleep.’
A ringtone sounds from Charles Houghton’s pocket. With an expression of distaste he removes the instrument, checks the number then moves out of earshot. He talks earnestly for a few moments, before returning.
‘Captain Walid — I have another — rather more urgent matter to attend to right now.’ He hands over a card. ‘Very much against my better judgement I’ll give you twelve hours grace to mail or fax the revised forms to me. It must be done by the time I come on duty at 0900 tomorrow morning, and they’d better be correct this time.’
‘Yes, sir, of course, sir. I will make everything perfect. No problem, and thank you, thank you …’
Walid follows the officer and his entourage to the ladder, assuring him over and over again that it will be done right this time.
It is only after Valiant has steamed away, her stern waggling with the chop, that Walid turns to his first mate and says, ‘I want to make way in ten minutes, you understand?’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Where the UK Border Agency will not find us.’ Walid spits over the side. ‘English motherfucker. He can shove his forms in his arse.’
FIFTEEN
SYDNEY
LOCAL TIME: 0830
Marika’s hand closes around the grab handle as the Taipan rockets into the air, levelling out at three thousand feet, quickly reaching top speed, the ground scrolling past — gum trees and the scattered homes of the outer suburbs.
She plugs into the onboard comms, and tries to concentrate on the problem — getting the Evektor’s location. Already the technicians at the ASD will be working on picking up possible signals from the light aircraft. The most obvious would be GPRS data from a cell phone, but if the flyer is a pro he will have removed the battery or left it behind. Even a dash-mount GPS unit will be traceable, but such things take time, particularly over an area as densely populated as Sydney.