by P. S. Bridge
‘I’m looking for my friend; I think he may be staying here. A short, fat guy, looking nervous?’
The kid behind reception shook his head.
‘No, not heard of him,’ he said, glancing around the room nervously.
Mark had realised he wouldn’t use his real name to check in so described him, making sure the kid saw the wad of notes Mark had hold of. Suddenly the boy seemed to regain his memory.
‘Room two-zero-one, down the hall,’ the kid said, pointing down the hallway. Mark smacked the notes into the boy’s hand and flashed him his gun from inside his jacket.
‘Hey kid,’ he said as the kid went back to his comic. He looked up again quickly at Mark. ‘RUN if you want to live!’
The boy’s face went white, and he looked in horror at Mark before he obliged and took off back down the hall, back to his comic. Mark smiled wryly and gently turned the door handle of room 201. It was locked, just has he had expected. He pulled a pick lock device from his left knee-level pocket and easily and quietly picked the lock. He moved inside, weapon drawn, and stealthily moved around the darkened room. The bed was unmade and there was a cup of coffee on the bedside table. Mark waved his hand over it; it was still hot so Frans seemed to have been expecting company. He moved back towards the door and noticed a shoe behind the floor length curtain of the window in the small reflection of the mirror hung on the wall. Mark turned and inched over towards the window. He gauged where the head of this person hiding behind the curtain would be, held the muzzle of the gun against what he presumed to be the head, cocked it loudly and shouted for Frans Luca. The curtain moved and Frans reluctantly stepped out from behind his rather obvious hiding place. Relieved to see it was Mark, he put his hand on his shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief. Mark grabbed him by the scruff of his collar and threw him onto the bed. He walked round the bed and turned on the bedside lamp. Frans lay there, a look of sheer terror on his face. Mark aimed the gun down at Frans’ crotch.
‘Start from the beginning and tell me everything you know about Mohammed Al Azidi and the weapons cache.’
Frans Luca gulped, smiled helplessly and nodded.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Frans Luca checked into the City Hotel, Bremerhaven as Alfred Monet, a stockbroker from Berlin, and made sure the concierge knew his cover story, just like Mark had suggested. He requested a room at the centre of the hotel and paid cash. The concierge smiled and passed him a pass key. Shaking slightly, Frans took it and made his way towards the lift and up into the room. Once there, he checked for the inside window Mark had told him to find, and tied the trusty black military grade rope to the outside of the window, onto a rather old-fashioned looking satellite dish bracket, and left the window open. Moments later he heard the sound of boots against the window sill and realised that would be Mark. He stood there looking sheepish and ashamed at having lied to Mark and running the way he did without warning and being responsible for Mark’s capture and subsequent run in with ‘The Wolf’. Frans looked at Mark, hoping to be forgiven but, to his dismay, Mark was NOT in a forgiving mood. Mark walked past Frans and threw his equipment onto the bed.
If anyone tried to look for Frans here, they would be met with stiff resistance and the element of surprise once again belonged to Mark King. Just the way Mark liked it. Mark took out of his bag the various pieces he salvaged which made up his two-piece custom AMP DSR-One sniper rifle he retrieved before reacquiring his hire car, plus copious amounts of hollow point and armour piercing ammunition. He wasn’t taking any chances here, especially if ‘The Wolf’ caught up with him which was virtually inevitable. He also, from his sock holster, took out his Kadet US issue army knife, at which Frans’ eyes widened. On the way to locate Frans, Mark had made an unofficial stop off and a closed military surplus supplies store and ‘borrowed’ some equipment which he had the genuine intention of returning once used. He left no trace of a break-in. From under his jacket, he produced his silenced pistol with separate suppressor and again, copious amounts of ammunition. Frans looked horrified at Mark and made a comment in German.
‘I don’t want to know where you got all this from and the less I know the better.’
Mark turned on him in a second, whipping the knife from the bed and under Frans’ throat. Frans got the hint and backed off, muttering to himself, forgetting that Mark spoke German and understood it.
Setting the map out on the bed, Mark pulled a red marker from his pocket and circled Bremerhaven container port. It was just a short drive from where they were staying and Mark had no intention of leaving ANY trace this time or missing a target, especially one like Azidi. He sat down and beckoned for Frans to make coffee. Frans did as he was asked and soon the two of them were sitting, drinking coffee and discussing the best assault pattern for the container port. It was much the same as the one in London, only on a much grander scale, so Mark had to REALLY cover all his angles to gain entry, hit his target and get out again with minimal effort, maximum effect. Also he didn’t want to decimate the place like London either. He wanted a silent, effective kill that would send a message that Mark, now involved, was a force to be reckoned with and not to be underestimated. Frans was to provide Mark access, in and out again without too much of a problem. They both sat back and sipped at their third round of coffee and Mark noticed that Frans was shaking.
Frans had told Mark everything, about Kastner’s suspected involvement, that Frans was employed as a distraction for Mark and that, because he had led him to the warehouse in Holtenau, his card had been marked. Mark could see the poor man was terrified and softened up on him, letting his anger go. Seeing a man so shaken and desperate made Mark feel sorry for him rather than angry. Mark got up to find his cigarettes and patted Frans on the shoulder to comfort him. Frans put his hand on Mark’s which, although it made Mark a tad uncomfortable, also reinforced how scared Frans was.
‘I don’t want to die. I only wanted this whole awful sorry affair over with so I could go on living my life in peace and quiet.’
Mark related to that and told Frans about his history. Mark checked his watch and realised the ship would have docked by now but, according to the arrivals and departures conveniently published on the web, no ships were due to leave until the morning. They had time to kill and Mark needed to relax and unwind before the hell storm erupted all over this man, this Thomas Lundon, Frans had told him so much about. Mark had done his homework on him already and Frans Luca had filled in the blanks. According to Frans, it was HE who may have orchestrated Marie’s death and Mark’s professional and personal demise. It had to end and Mark would end it; here, in Germany. Mark handed Frans a tumbler of the strongest whiskey he could find on the market on his way to the Happy Motel.
‘Here, drink this. It will calm your nerves.’
Frans gulped it back and seemed to relax a little. Mark poured him another one and explained all that had gone on from the beginning.
By the time Mark had finished, Frans was blubbering like a baby and blew his nose on the corner of the bedsheet. Mark winced in disgust so he got up to polish his rifle and load it. Before he knew where he was, Frans had got up from his chair and was hugging him, squeezing him until Mark coughed. Mark didn’t quite know how to handle this so nervously patted him on the back while Frans cried into his flak jacket. This man was no spy! He was a normal person with emotions that had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and he didn’t deserve this.
‘I promise you I will help you.’
It only made Frans cry more and thank him repeatedly.
‘You are a good man, Mark.’
Mark looked uncomfortable with this and almost forcibly put Frans back in his chair. Mark looked at his watch again.
‘We’ll attack at three, during security details shift change when they are at their most vulnerable. We’d better get some sleep.’
Mark opted for the sofa whilst Frans got the bed. It wasn’t the most ideal setup but there was little choice.
Mark moved
to the window for a cigarette. He stared out and the Germany skyline as little lights came on in each building. He thought back to his honeymoon when he had done the same thing as he quickly smoked his cigarette. He missed Marie more than he had realised at that moment, but then he hadn’t stopped to think about it before, so much else had gone on. He heard a noise behind him and thought he saw a woman in white walking towards him with outstretched arms. It couldn’t be Marie? She was getting closer and all he could do was hold his arms out to her. Mark surveyed her body and saw she was bleeding. Within a second she was bleeding from multiple bullet wounds all over her body and her face conveyed signs of pain and desperation. Just as she came within arm’s reach, she vanished and he awoke with a start, loading his gun and pointing it round the room. The room was black, and he had fallen asleep after finishing his cigarette. He quickly surveyed the room and realised he was dreaming and let out a long breath as if he had been holding it for ages. He checked his watch: two-twenty AM. He strode over to the bed and shook Frans, who was snoring and had an eye mask on. He jumped him and rolled off the bed, creating a loud bang on the floor. He jumped up confused and scared, shouting something about being blind. Mark laughed to himself; at least it was a sign they were both alert. It was time to prepare for the onslaught.
The lights of the tall cranes nestled against the quayside flashed in the darkness as muffled noises of containers moving and workers shouting to each other echoed to where Mark and Frans were perched. Due to his rather portly figure, it took a while to get Frans up and onto the vantage point overlooking the quayside. A large container ship was moored and its huge ropes pulled tightly as the slight movement of the water rocked the ship gently. It was piled high in places and not in others as a yellow dock crane busily removed the containers. Mark thought to himself that, as they were lead-lined, it wouldn’t be advisable to get stuck in one of those. He peered through his night vision binoculars down to a group of people stood at the bottom of a set of steel stairs which led to the port authority offices.
‘What can you see?’ he asked nervously.
Mark could see Roman Vose in his leather jacket, sub-machine gun slung over his shoulder like a sentry at a prison camp. Next to him stood Azidi and what looked like bodyguards, followed by a Japanese man in a suit and long hair. He looked like the buyer and Mark relayed this back to Frans.
‘A “business deal” no doubt. These people are into all sorts.’
Mark nodded and surveyed the rest of the dockside for security personnel. He saw eight or ten security guards all wandering about. This was a high profile meeting and carried high profile security measures.
‘Contractors,’ whispered Mark in a hushed voice. ‘Ten, max.’
He could feel Frans’ breath quicken and his hands shaking as he passed Mark his rifle. Something about this didn’t feel right but Mark couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He was on edge and he didn’t feel like this in London. Used to trusting his gut, particularly in court, Mark didn’t entirely dismiss this emotion, but he pushed it to the back of his mind, as he needed clear focus to get the job done. He COULD take them out from here, but he wouldn’t be able to vouch for the weapons cache. THAT was as important as his target. He had to get closer to find out which container it was in. He spotted the crane operator and realised that he would have an itinerary in that cab and Mark needed to see it.
‘Stay here where you can’t be seen,’ he said to Frans, who nodded nervously.
Mark hopped down, moving his way expertly through the shadows. He passed within feet of several guards and his first thought was to take them out with his knife, but nobody would die that didn’t need to die, that was his promise to himself. If his life was threatened, he would defend himself, but he could get to the crane without killing anyone. He made his move across the dockside and into the shadow of the ship. He hoisted himself up the mooring rope and onto the deck, where he moved along unnoticed until he got to the mooring rope at the other end of the ship. He slid down the rope to the foot of the crane and shimmied up the ladder to the cab. Just as the crane moved, swinging a container against another, he made his move.
Mark quickly jumped the crane operator from behind, hand over his mouth so he couldn’t scream, and hit him over the back of the head with the butt of his pistol. The guard fell limply into Mark’s arms and he laid him down checking his pulse. He was still alive and would wake up tomorrow morning with an almighty headache. So far, all was going according to plan. Just as Mark had predicted and prayed for, there was an A4 paper printed and stapled itinerary with all the containers listed in their number order. Mark took out his night vision binoculars again and scanned the ship and the dockside. He read aloud in a hushed voice,
‘Containers are numbered throughout fore to aft with odd numbers, i.e. in this case 01, 03, 05 and so on up to 75. The bay spaces for 40’ containers are numbered throughout with even numbers: 02, 04, and 06, up to 74.’
Mark scanned the pages and found another set of instructions.
‘The purple 20’ container in the first bay has the bay number 01. The light-brown 20’ container in the second bay has the bay number 03 and the light-blue 40’ container, which occupies a space in the first and second bays, has the bay number 02. The magenta-coloured container has the bay number 25, the dark-green number 27 and the light-green number 26.’
Mark thought for a moment. If there were seventy-five containers in the itinerary, and they were numbered one, three, and five, up to seventy-five, why was the one to Mark’s left in his line of sight marked seventy-six? It was an inconspicuous container which didn’t really stand out from the others apart from the fact it had the wrong number on it. Mark realised he had found it, and upon closer inspection with his binoculars, recognised it as the same one he had encountered in London. He smiled to himself, had a quick check of what was going on below and spotted Roman Vose below waving incessantly at the crane cab. He could make out something about being quicker before the radio the crane driver was carrying in his belt crackled into life.
‘Be quick, we have a deadline!’
Mark picked up the radio.
‘Roger, ten-four,’ he replied in his best low, deep voice.
After getting familiar with the mechanism, he loaded a few more containers onto the dockside before he came to the one he wanted. He set the control console in the cab to automatic and climbed out of the cab and down the ladder, pausing periodically to check for Roman Vose and any guards. They had gone.
‘Shift change,’ whispered Mark, ‘at last!’
On the way down, the crane had lowered the container just enough to reach. He jumped, placing plastic explosives in the tubing which bolted containers to one another when stacked, and quickly hurried away.
Once on the ground, Mark made his way back to his original position where a very nervous Frans was waiting eagerly for his return. Mark got behind his rifle and did a sweep of the dockside. The new guards were now on duty and making their way towards patrolling the dockside to take over from their colleagues. He had his sights firmly trained on the metal staircase which led to the port authority offices which were two cabins stacked on top of one another. He held the detonator in his hand ready and informed Frans about what it was and how to use it. Then he waited, picking his moment carefully.
He looked for Roman Vose but lost sight of him; presumably he was away at his car calling his boss to provide an update, all the more reason to get on with it. He found the tranquillisers in his hip holster and loaded his pistol with them, with that he jumped a passing guard who was blissfully unaware of their presence eight feet below them, and shot him in the neck. He quickly dropped to the ground and Mark dragged him away. Mark then grabbed his cap, so that silhouetted against the night and the ship, he looked like he belonged. Each guard he came up against nodded to him without realising he was not one of theirs, and Mark quickly dispatched them with the tranquilisers one after another, dragging their unconscious bodies to a convenient hiding place:
four down, six to go. He would have to use his hands as he was low on tranquilisers. This would involve a more cunning plan. He tiptoed up behind a guard and, arm around his neck, knocked him unconscious with a whack of his pistol butt. He had to move quick before the remaining guards realised some of their number were missing. He jogged silently towards the port authority cabin and hid underneath the window and listened in. From what he could see, they were discussing target designation.
‘Great,’ he whispered to himself, ‘now I have multiple targets to take out!’
He counted six Arabic voices in total and pieced together that these were Azidi’s men. He wouldn’t lose sleep over taking them out, but at a distance, it was much safer. He repeated the mantra he had been taught at Sandhurst.
‘Never put yourself at unnecessary risk in a combat situation.’
Those words echoed at him from a visiting SAS major after whom he named his two children. He ran back to his rifle where Frans was, by this time, white with nerves.
Frans looked concernedly at Mark.
‘You seem never to be bothered by who you kill,’ he said coldly.
Mark looked puzzled.
‘Who have I killed so far tonight?’
In Frans Luca’s lack of combat experience, he really wasn’t sure who was dead and who wasn’t until Mark reassured him.
‘No one’s dead so far, just unconscious.’
Frans relaxed more. Suddenly, noises came from the port authority office. Something was wrong so Mark lined up his sights. He caught two of Azidi’s soldiers with one shot, clean through before the pandemonium set in. People were running about all over the place and Roman Vose’s voice rang out before vanishing between the rows of stacked containers. Mark fired off another few shots which took out another of Azidi’s associates and narrowly missed Azidi himself. Mark slapped the floor in frustration and his hand stung. He would deal with the pain later. Sweeping the dockside with his rifle, he lined up another Azidi associate in his sights, this time on the run. The rifle recoiled, and the target fell, blood spatter still flying. Mark was already on his next target and he too dropped to the floor dead. That was it, there was one more: Azidi himself. But he couldn’t find him so took his rifle on the run. Mark ran through the maze of containers until he spied a shadow. He looked up and realised he could get the drop on this target from above so scaled the containers, inching along the edge of the overhang, unhooking his rifle. He took aim, steadied himself for the recoil and fired. Mark’s hollow point grazed Azidi’s shoulder, and he hit the side of the container he was hiding behind from the impact of the bullet. He shouted insults at Mark in Arabic and Mark gritted his teeth and managed a wry smile.