by Gabriel Kron
He translated and just as he finished I punched his friend square on his slightly elevated chin. It was more of a jab than a full blooded punch. Aimed at the tip of the chin in line with the nape of the neck, the jaw was thrust backwards, cutting off the blood supply momentarily to the brain and therefore effecting an instant knock out.
As the German fell to the ground, I immediately aimed the gun at each of the other three, all of whom actually put their hands up and backed away. Finally, the right response.
I backed up towards our car, and quickly checked the damage. The light cluster was smashed along with a little damage to the wheel arch. Their car was in a worse condition, the front wing having slammed into our bumper and crumpled, and with two punctures they weren’t going anywhere even if they found their keys.
As we drove off, I could see the three left standing rally around to help their friend.
I was breathing hard, not through exertion but with emotion.
“Arrrrgghhhh!” I shouted and thumped the centre of the steering hard. I hit it twice more, grunting with each hammer fist. “Bastards!”
Clive sat there and stared at me, shock etched on his expression. We had both experienced extreme violence since being in Germany. I then realised how Clive was looking at me, focusing on the gun I still held tightly in one hand. The look was concern, worry, and fear, but of me. Why?
The answer was self-evident as I pulled the car over and stared at the gun. Who was I now? I had killed today, broke a man’s neck and had just come close to shooting another.
Putting the gun under the seat I looked at Clive
“Are you okay?” I asked Clive.
“Where’d you get a gun?”
“Karin gave it to me this morning. She thought I might need it.”
“Jesus. It shit the life out of me,” Clive said and looked a little relieved now I had put the gun down. He was going to have a heck of a bruise where he’d been hit, but at least nothing was broken.
“Sorry about that. Wasn’t sure I should bring it, but I’m not sure about anything at the moment. I just hope we’ve crossed the borders by the time they report it, I’m pretty sure one of them recognised me.”
“You better ditch it, in case we do get stopped and it’s found.”
“Not yet. Not until we’re out of Germany.” I said and pulled back out onto the A44.
I checked the built in sat-nav. We were only forty miles from the Belgian border, which in this weather was about an hour away. We were taking a risk driving at night with a broken tail light but at these late hours there shouldn’t be many patrols out. Although crossing the border might prove difficult as there were always border police from both sides on duty and a broken tail light would surely beckon a pull.
A few miles before the border, we pulled into a service station. Clive bought a couple of universal light bulb packs and managed to get the girl serving to find some clear sticky tape. All we had to do was get the lights working long enough to cross the border into Belgium and hopefully on into France as well.
Düren Police Station. 6:05am Day 33.
Sebastian Wolf arrived at the police station a little past 6:00 am. As instructed, he had been called as soon as there were any leads, but he hadn’t expected this.
In the interview room was a young man, early twenties, cropped hair. He had been with his friends going to a nightclub when they were involved in an accident. They had said that two Englishman had attacked them after the accident and had threatened them with a gun which was used to shoot out two of the car’s tyres.
The young man said that he had recognised the one with the gun as the Englishman on the run from the police, the one who had been on the news for the murders in Stuttgart.
Wolf scanned over his statement quickly before letting himself into the interview room and introduced himself.
“Good morning. I hope you have been looked after?” Wolf asked the young man, who looked tired and irritated.
“Can I go yet? It’s been a long night,” he said rubbing his chin.
“Yes, very soon. Just one thing please. Where were you going to?” Wolf said as he turned over the statement.
“To a club. The Fuse. Why?”
“The Fuse, where?” Wolf asked. He had never heard of it.
“Liège Belgium, it’s just over an hour away. Can I go now?” the young man asked again.
That’s what Wolf had figured — Bateman was on the A44 for a reason. He was fleeing, trying to get back to the UK.
Wolf left the interview room and immediately called the Command and Control centre. He wanted fresh Red Notices sent to all border points, and patrols.
Calais, France. 7:10am Day 33.
It was already light by the time we approached the Eurotunnel in Calais. So far we had avoided any contact with the Police and other authorities and other than the major scare near the Belgian border, the journey had been otherwise uneventful. Boring was good, but now contact was unavoidable, even with pre-booked tickets.
“You should probably put your glasses on,” Clive said as he started to get the tickets and passports ready.
I put the reading glasses on and sat up tall in the seat. I felt nervous as we queued for passport control. The Border Agency staff inspected passports and checked the photo IDs against those in the cars. The car ahead of us was ushered to one side for further checks. I hoped that meant they would be too occupied to pull us as well. This was going to be it. If we were pulled over I had already decided I would make a run for it.
I felt nervous and sweaty as we pulled up to the Passport Control kiosks. Clive handed our passports and tickets over and whilst they were quickly checked another officer walked around the outside of the car.
We were waved on. I hadn’t realised I was holding my breath until I finally breathed out as Clive started following the road to the train.
Once we were parked up in the transport carriage, Clive stretched his legs and patched up the repair to the light cluster before re-joining me.
“That should hold and at least look as if we tried,” Clive said.
“What am I going to do, Clive?” I said as we were finally close enough to home to start thinking about the future again. “I mean, at the moment I’m a wanted man, high up on Interpol’s lists probably and on someone else’s hit list. I doubt I’ve got a job to go back to. So I'm jobless and homeless.”
“Well, for now, you’re staying with us. Brenda’s made up the spare room and you can stay as long as you need to,” Clive said.
“Thank you. But that can’t be forever. I’m going to have to do something.”
“Yeah, I know, but one thing at a time. Let’s get home.”
“One day at a time I guess.”
The journey through the tunnel was only going to take thirty five minutes so I folded the seat back slightly and closed my eyes. I was going to be driving next.
There was an arm around my throat. Pressing. Squeezing. Tightening. I couldn’t breathe.
“Gharhhh!” I gasped and sat bold upright.
“You all right?” Clive asked from the driver’s seat.
I sat back and looked around. “Sorry, yeah I’m fine.” We had arrived and were already starting to disembark.
“I keep having nightmares where I’m being strangled. Sorry,” I said as I rubbed my face and eyes.
“No need to apologise. You were well gone, so I figured you didn’t need waking yet.”
I looked out of the window to the familiar English Kent country side. The roads were busy, but then it was the rush hour and as Clive had pointed out, we were less likely to be pulled over by the police at such a busy time.
We pulled in to a service station so that Clive could phone Brenda again and the Friedmanns to let them know we had crossed over all right.
After a spot of breakfast, we set off for the final leg back to Clive’s house, about ninety minutes up the M20. It was my turn to drive. Clive had done most of the driving through the night. His face was badly bruised where he
had been hit, at this stage it looked an angry red, but the beginnings of blues, greens and yellows would soon begin to show.
“How’s the face?” I asked.
“Sore, but okay. What you did last night... Would you have shot one of ‘em? You know, like if they tried to rush you or something?”
I thought about it for a few seconds before answering, “No, but I needed them to think I would. I was so angry at that point. I wanted to shoot him anyway. They were a threat to us getting home. I know what I did was extreme, but at the moment this whole situation we’re in is extreme and I needed them to think that I would.” I remembered how Clive had been looking at me after the incident, “I knew what I was doing.” I wasn’t sure I did.
“Well, it did the trick.”
It felt good to be driving in England again. The M20 was having a good road day. So often traffic updates on the radio would report huge tail-backs, but today was good. It was busy, but moving, so we made progress.
Ninety-five minutes after arriving back in Folkestone, we pulled up outside Clive’s Victorian detached house in West Wickham. I had visited Clive before, but only at night so I hadn’t really appreciated how nice his house was. I pulled the car onto the white gravel drive in front of a detached double garage.
Before the engine was switched off, the front door opened and Brenda, Lee and Wendy came out to greet us. They were clearly relieved that we were home safely. Brenda immediately saw Clive’s face.
“Clive. Oh my god honey, what happened? That looks nasty,” Brenda said as she pulled herself away from their hug to get a better look.
“It’s all right, we’ll tell you about it over a cup of tea. I need a cup of proper tea, the Germans can’t make tea, that’s for sure,” Clive said clearly playing down what had happened to him so that Brenda wouldn’t fuss.
I had never met the Gregsons before. Wendy was petite with long wavy black hair and Lee was tall and well built, I knew he was a rugby player. We introduced each other as we all walked inside.
It was hard to think that I looked anything like Lee, he was a lot taller and slightly broader, and now his hair had grown back, he looked completely different.
“Thank you for that.” I said as I gave Lee his passport back, “I owe you guys big time for this.”
Brenda fussed over Clive’s bashed face. “I won’t lie, I didn’t want him to go, but he said this was very important, not just to him but to everyone. He’s very excited about what has been found Daniel... I hope it’s worth it,” she said.
Clive started telling the story of our journey home.
The story wasn’t any fairy-tale though, unless you included the Brothers Grimm. It was ugly, violent and sad. Most of all, it was scary. Scary, because it wasn’t over yet by a long-shot.
We had been travelling all night and I felt as though I was still moving. I ached and my gunshot wound throbbed and itched. Karin had packed new dressings in the holdall and I needed to tend to my wounds first and then get some rest.
Clive showed me where their spare bedroom was and after a quick shower and redressing my wounds, I tried to sleep.
Was I safe now?
I was thankful it was still daylight. I stared at the bright band of light around the curtains, thankful for its presence. Darkness lay host to thoughts and feelings I wasn't ready for yet, and images I just did not want to see.
I tried keeping my mind occupied by thinking about the technicalities of the device and how it might possibly be able to break the laws of physics, but flashes of horror kept on tormenting my effort.
The Den, 12:15pm Day 33
It wasn’t until Mark started to process the latest Work Order for Colin that the names on the list became familiar. Not only that, but fifteen targets with a level four action was pushing the limits of remaining undetected.
Mark paused the program, spun around on his chair to face a different computer and started sending an email.
TO: - [Colin Mundy][email protected]
FROM: - [email protected]
SUBJECT: - Coffee and lunch now… please.
Colin,
Very hungry.
Mark
Mark waited all of two minutes before picking the phone up and dialling Colin’s number.
“Colin, it’s Mark—”
“I was just replying,” Colin cut in.
“Can we meet now, I don’t like—”
Colin interrupted, “Not on the phone. Meet me at Liverpool Street station by the Tie Rack. Twenty minutes?”
~~~
After the usual routine of meeting at one location and immediately moving to another, Mark and Colin sat on one of the benches at the far end of platform five. They were far enough up the platform not to be disturbed.
“So what’s the problem Mark?” Colin asked as they sat down.
“The latest work order is too risky.”
“In what way?”
“Too many to avoid detection,” Mark said.
“I thought this could be done undetected?”
“It is from our end. The danger is our counterparts in the IT departments of the target banks and companies... they might start to see a pattern.” As Mark said this he knew it wasn’t entirely true.
“Really, how many dupes?”
“Only two, yeah, okay, they’re not the problem. Look, I know this group of people on this work order. Not personally, but for my internet legend Henry Grout, as good as.”
“So what’s the problem? I still don’t see.”
“They’re just a group of middle aged men, with families, jobs, mortgages and bills, who have a hobby that is mostly considered to be a crock of conspiracy crap, yet our government feels they are a threat. A hobby! How are they such a threat that they and their families need to be punished like this?” Mark said.
A train pulled into the platform and a few passengers strode past having alighted. Neither Mark nor Colin spoke until everyone had walked by.
“'Ours is not to reason why. Ours is to do and die.'” Colin quoted coldly.
“Theirs. If you’re trying to quote Tennyson, then it’s: 'Theirs not to reason why. Theirs but to do and die,'” Mark corrected. “Trouble is, they have a good argument for doing what they do, and let’s face it, if we’re employed to stop it, then free energy and the Lockridge device must be real. So how does it serve the good of our nation, which is what working for the Home Office should be, shouldn't it?”
“All right, smart arse, but nonetheless, our jobs are not to question why this group of targets on this work order have been identified as a possible threat. Not terrorist, but probably an economic threat. We are balancing on such a knife edge at the moment that maybe the sudden introduction of new alternative energy would send the shares of companies like BP crashing. So many pension pots are linked to BP that the value of the pensions would be wiped out and we’d have another pension scandal. That’s just one possible effect on one company affecting a majority of pensions. Now that’s all the analysis I’m going to do on this.” Colin looked Mark straight in the eyes. “Do you still have a problem with the work order?”
“I don’t know. They’ve already deleted their group, or someone has,” Mark added.
“So what?”
“What good will come of a level four on them? Why such a high sanction?” Mark had never questioned any of the previous work orders. He always did his own research, something he had promised himself he would do, to try and learn more about the targets.
“Does it matter? Do I need to get someone else to do this work order?”
Mark thought about it for a few seconds before answering.
“No. It’s okay, I’m good for it,” Mark said, he was starting to have doubts about how much longer he could do this sort of work.
General Rourke’s Office, Day 33.
Spread out on General William Rourke’s desk was the BKA report from the leads in Stuttgart, in particular the second incident at the Locke farm. Amongst the photocopied papers wer
e photographs of the dead man, the ransacked room, the hand gun found, and an A4 photograph of Daniel Bateman found in the car parked outside the farm entrance. The photograph had come from Rourke’s own people, although that could never be proved.
Rourke looked at the picture of the dead man and knew what he was seeing was bad news. Yet another of his own Operatives had been killed whilst in pursuit of Daniel Bateman and the notebooks.
Was the Chinese behind another assassination of one of his men? Had this been Bateman, or was there another agency involved?
Rourke dialled a little-used number from his desk phone, waited for the other end to answer and then dialled a further four digits. There was a short high pitched whistle as the 128-bit encryption codes were engaged.
“William my friend, what’s the problem,” Senator Reaves asked.
“I’ve lost another operative. Ted, can you do me a favour and find out from Liang what’s going on. Is this another hit from Beijing?”
“I’ll call you back,” Senator Reaves said and hung up.
Rourke logged onto the network and did a serial number search for the hand gun found. He was pretty certain it belonged to his operative even though it would be registered to another soldier in another regiment who had been killed in action in Iraq or Afghanistan. The search was quick and positive; the HK USP 45 Auto was registered to a dead soldier and flagged for referral through Military Intelligence.
The phone rang. It was Senator Reaves.
“Just spoke to Liang and he said it was nothing to do with his government or his own ops and that their trail has gone cold as well. He seems to think that you are not in control of the situation,” Senator Reaves said.
“Oh, I’m in control, but it seems that there are other agendas working against ours.”
“Indeed. What is our status on this now?”
“Latest intel says that Bateman and the notebooks are probably back on UK mainland. Bateman is now obviously a top priority for the BKA, but I’m mobilising a unit for this today on the basis that the Secret Intelligence Service will be in the loop and that this can be linked back to Patch Barracks.”