by P. S. Bridge
‘I am doing all I can to locate this intruder to my country and I am calling in every available resource and asset to capture and eliminate this loner, this sniper, this Russel Green.’
However, the person on the other end of the phone seemed to have more intelligence at their disposal than Kastner did and he hung up the phone, gripping it tightly.
Kastner checked all the records of flights and trains again before reaching for his phone and calling the airports, one at a time, requesting all their CCTV in the last 7 days. He realised this would be a mammoth task so called in some of his most experienced agents. He got up from his desk and went downstairs into the central operations room where agents were busy tracking all kinds of threats to Germany’s security. As always, because it was rare he came to the ops room, everyone turned to stare in fear at Kastner when he entered the room. He held his hands up to get everyone’s attention. He needed no words to do this, and surveyed the room, carefully, as if he was looking for a rat in a pipe network.
‘No one is going home until we have a fix on Mark King. I want him, alive if possible, but I want him and I want him TODAY!’ growled Kastner, his face flushed.
Everyone stared, motionless, at his request. His eyes grew narrow, and he straightened his back, angry at this apparent insubordination, and clapped his hands before breathing in and out a few times to calm himself down.
‘NOW,’ he said in a much calmer voice, ‘you want to go home? Find him!!!’
He screamed, and the room erupted into a tirade of phone calls, CCTV images, panicked, frantic and chaotic before eventually a rhythm formed as they pulled up countless images they had gathered from all across Germany of Mark King as Russell Green. Now the ‘Wolf’ was a little closer to his ‘prey’ and was going on the hunt!
Something had occurred to Mark as he was walking the corridors of his secure bunker. It was well stocked, all of it with modern equipment. He wondered how Nial Atkinson had acquired such a site, even considering he was ex-military. He decided he would dig deeper into the history of the place and look through the boxes of old papers stored in a secure storage cupboard on the second level of the bunker. Atkinson had told Mark they were his old financial records he stored there as it was about as secure as he could get, and he didn’t want them falling into the wrong hands.
‘The wrong hands?’ Mark said aloud to himself as he made his way up to the storage area.
There he found boxes upon boxes of paperwork, looking like old military files. He decided he needed a break from chasing Roman Vose for a while and picked a few of the files to look into.
Within a few hours, he was sat on the floor, surrounded by hundreds of partially open files. There was information here about missions Atkinson had been on and old photographs of him as a young soldier. One in particular stood out: Nial Atkinson with what looked like a company of other soldiers, posing with their arms around each other and guns over their shoulders. Mark took it, attempted to clean it up and put it in a frame. He thought back to his time at Sandhurst and wondered what life would have been like if he had pursued that career instead of the legal career he had chosen. He knew he couldn’t bear to leave Marie, which is why he allowed her to persuade him to go into the legal profession rather than the military. He was grateful really as he had enjoyed his career, but perhaps he wouldn’t be in this position if she hadn’t persuaded him to leave the dream of the military behind. Perhaps she would still be alive, although she would not have stayed with him if he had stayed in the army. He needed answers and decided to re-visit the nursing home where Nial Atkinson now lived, almost at the end of his life. Mark wondered where Nial Atkinson had the money he had, considering he was in the military although he was a senior ranking SAS officer. Something here just didn’t add up.
A nurse came with a tea trolley as Mark and Nial Atkinson faced each other across a chess board. Mark, as usual, was losing. Atkinson looked up and smiled at the nurse who placed two cups of coffee on the table next to the two men. Atkinson wasn’t supposed to have coffee but considering how popular he was amongst the nursing staff, they gave him virtually anything he wanted. The truth of the matter was that he wasn’t half as gaga as he allowed the nurses to think he was. He had spent years infiltrating the enemy and lying low for weeks before a strike was ordered and he was good at it. He learned how to acquire things in the home he shouldn’t have. One such acquisition was a small cache of small arms hidden in his room. Mark looked at Atkinson as if trying to read his thoughts. Atkinson smiled without even looking at Mark and told Mark exactly what he was thinking.
‘You want to know what I know,’ said Atkinson, smiling.
Mark shouldn’t have been surprised at this. However, Atkinson always had a way of surprising people. He cared deeply for this man but there was something he always seemed to hide from the world. Perhaps it was the horrors of war and conflict, or the suppression of the stress of killing in the name of queen and country; no one really knew, but Mark knew something wasn’t right.
Atkinson looked up, his face turned serious.
‘I know what you want to ask me.’
Mark looked embarrassed at being found out, and rightly so, for Atkinson gave Mark a dressing down for snooping into affairs which were not his.
‘You shouldn’t go snooping around in affairs that don’t concern you. You may find out things you didn’t want to know.’
Mark apologised and Atkinson took it well.
‘The contents of that bunker are MY life. I haven’t been there in thirty years and with very good reason,’ Atkinson explained cagily, looking at Mark before turning away.
‘I’m sorry Nial, but if it concerns Marie and these goons trying to kill me, it concerns me too.’
Atkinson smiled and nodded.
‘How are things going?’ Mark shrugged and made a move on the chess board. ‘Do you like gardening? I like gardening. I think you ought to go on a holiday Mark, get away from it for a while.’
Mark shook his head in despair and was thinking Atkinson really was as gaga as he made out to be. Atkinson’s tone turned deadly serious, and he scolded Mark.
‘Mark, please don’t think me stupid enough not to know what you’ve been doing. I do still follow the news.’
He had easily put two and two together to figure out it was Mark who was doing all this killing.
‘Besides, your injuries give you away. Would you pass a gunshot residue test?’
Mark looked back at Atkinson. For some reason he feared this old man even though he was brittle and elderly. But there was something about Atkinson which still told Mark he still had it in him to break him in half and snap his neck if the situation called for it. Atkinson frowned as Mark showed him the picture he found of him and his battalion as youngsters. He realised it was time to tell Mark the truth, and he would not like it.
‘After my comrades and I left the military, we worked as guns for hire, working for the highest bidder. Some of the members formed a secret organisation which amassed them great wealth, hence my income.’
Mark listened intently, watching, as the old man’s eyes wandered back to a time when he was younger and happier.
‘They eventually grew so powerful and had so much influence; they began to get control of large companies, corporations and eventually turned to politics.’ Atkinson looked sorrowful and distant, his eyes slightly glazed over. ‘Many of the group turned against their respective governments and grew too power hungry, even for me. I argued with the group and eventually had to escape underground and never spoke to any of them again. I purchased the bunker off record with some of the money I had and spent the best part of five years living in hiding so I could not be traced. Eventually, when I got too old for the bunker, I made my will, sorted all my financial affairs and retired to this place where I could live the rest of my life in peace and safety.’
Mark was amazed. He sat there staring at the old war dog in total disbelief. Atkinson smiled and gave Mark a wink.
‘H
ence the secrets I hide in his room. One day, Mark, they WILL come for me. They always do. They leave no one alive.’ Atkinson’s smile turned to intensity and fear. ‘There are forces in this world, Mark. They will kill without hesitation and they will not mourn loss.’
Mark felt sick, especially when, before he left, he turned to Atkinson with one more question.
‘What is the name of this organisation?’
Atkinson looked up grimly and replied distantly as if remembering a long forgotten fear or sadness. He could barely even say their name and his voice trembled, ‘Invictus Advoca,’ he said absently.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The crowds filtered through check-in desks at Madrid-Barajas Airport in Spain as Mark shouldered his carry-on luggage and calmly glanced around the airport, scanning the crowd for anyone who might pose a threat to him. Satisfied he was not in any danger, he checked in through security and headed towards the taxi rank outside the airport, not wanting a repeat of Germany. He adjusted his Aviator sunglasses and tucked his passport back into his back pocket. He took out his tourist map and checked out the rates, times and costs of boat charters to his destination, the Island of Cabrera and the fourteenth-century castle which was where Nial Atkinson advised he would find someone who could provide information on Invictus Advoca’s current movements and arrangements. He was to meet someone Nial Atkinson only described as ‘El Toro’ or ‘The Bull’ and he didn’t know who this person was or even if they would be any help to him.
Mark located the car hire company based at the airport and confidently but politely advised them that there was a car, paid for and reserved in the name of Nial Atkinson. The young lady at the desk took a note of Mark and his details and handed him the keys and directed him to the carpark. When he got there, he wandered the bay numbers until he found the bay number listed on the paperwork. He was shocked to find it was a red 2015 Porsche 911 GT3 RS. Mark shook his head and smiled at the silly old fool for providing him with a car HE would drive rather than what was practical for Mark. However, he was amazed and wasted no time getting in and getting her started. On the passenger seat was a note written in black ink, it read,
‘I thought you could travel to Valencia in style. Check the boot. Nial’
Mark looked puzzled but smiled at Atkinson’s gift. He got out and opened the boot to reveal a massive silver case. He flicked up the locks and opened it. Inside, nestled in cut foam, were an Israeli-made DAN .338 Sniper rifle, a Kadet standard issue US army knife and a Glock 23 .40 S&W suppressed with an Osprey silencer. Mark couldn’t believe it. Also tucked into the foam, was a prepaid phone with a single number programmed into it. Mark took it and turned it on; it was fully charged. He dialled the pre-programmed number and Nial Atkinson answered it, advising Mark he assumed he got the car and ‘gifts’ with no problem. Mark laughed.
‘Silly old fool, but generous!’
Atkinson scolded Mark for this and advised him he thought Mark ‘might need a few supplies’. Mark was grateful to Atkinson for the help. He silenced Mark as if he was on a Black-Ops mission and gave him a set of instructions. He was to meet a ‘friend’ of his, El Toro, and would find him at Cabrera Castle on Cabrera Island and to follow co-ordinates thirty-nine degrees north, two degrees fifty-seven east.
Mark looked down in the case and found the military compass Atkinson had also supplied. Underneath the foam was a massive supply of ammunition, some boots, black combat trousers and a Kevlar flak vest, hat and night vision binoculars. He really had thought this through, Mark thought to himself as he thanked Atkinson who hung up. Mark grabbed the Porsche keys and checked his tourist guide. How the hell was he going to explain this lot if he was stopped by the Spanish Policia Local or Guardia Urbana if he was pulled over? A voicemail clicked up on his phone; it was from Atkinson advising him that, before he worried what he would do if the Guardia pulled him over in his car, Atkinson had taken care of that.
‘Who the hell IS this guy?’ Mark said aloud.
Mark wondered if he really knew Atkinson at all. But then he realised, Atkinson had been in combat in so many theatres of war over his career, he probably made useful contacts. Still, Mark couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel of the Porsche. Zero to sixty in three seconds, a three point eight litre flat-six engine kicking out four hundred and seventy-five horse-power and hits nine thousand revs per minute, Mark loved it. He also loved the satnav with Valencia programmed as a destination so all Mark had to do was to drive. After an hour into the two and half hour drive to Valencia, Mark pulled over for fresh water, cigarettes and something to eat. He bought a visitor’s handbook and read about his destination out loud.
‘The Cabrera Archipelago Maritime-Terrestrial National Park (Catalan: Parc Nacional Maritimoterrestre de l’Arxipèlag de Cabrera, Spanish: Parque Nacional Marítimo-Terrestre del Archipiélago de Cabrera) is a national park that includes the whole of the Cabrera Archipelago in the Balearic Islands (Catalan: Illes Balears, Spanish: Islas Baleares), an autonomous community that is part of the Spanish State. The park covers one hundred square kilometres though eighty seven square kilometres are covered by water. The park attracts relatively few visitors due to its remoteness. There is no permanent population, but there might be at any given time just under one hundred National Park staff members and other personnel on the islands.’
He considered stopping off at Ibiza before he headed to Cabrera to visit the clubs he heard so much about. But he decided he was too old and didn’t really need the distraction. He would charter a boat and go around the Island, direct to Cabrera. After a short break and a refuel, Mark was on his way.
The roaring Porsche 911 GT3 RS pulled into the carpark opposite the Land Ahoy Boat Charter company and was met by a young man in overalls, in the process of jet steaming the Mallorca 4, a Sessa C44, forty-five foot Sunseeker motorboat. Mark approached the young man, who seemed to know what he was doing with boats. It was Pablo Valentin, the owner of Land Ahoy Boat Charters and he took people on guided tours to Cabrera Island where Mark was to meet this ‘El Toro’ contact of Atkinson’s. Mark offered him five hundred euros for passage to the Island and be in constant radio contact, to collect him and possibly one other passenger.
Pablo agreed because he knew Atkinson and, after a fashion, beckoned Mark on board to set out first to Palma, Mallorca, then onto the Island of Cabrera. Pablo advised Mark it would be a five to six hour trip and if he wanted to pass the time, he could help load food and supplies on board.
After an hour of loading the boat with all the supplies they thought they would need, Mark sat back and lit a cigarette while Pablo passed him a cold beer. He was grateful of the rest and refreshment and they toasted the boat before gulping down the refreshing Spanish beer. Mark lay back against a box and enjoyed the warmth of the Spanish sun, a much different weather system than the UK and Germany. He was tired of globetrotting chasing killers but he felt it necessary to pursue these people wherever they went. Pablo motioned him on board so Mark grabbed his case, his beer and left his cigarette in his mouth as he walked towards the Sessa.
With a top speed of thirty-four knots or thirty-nine miles per hour, it would take roughly five hours to get to Palma Mallorca so Mark took this opportunity to sleep for a while. He left Pablo explicit instructions to report anything suspicious, and, as Pablo knew what kind of business Atkinson had been in, he knew what Mark meant. As Mark made his way below deck to the larger of the two bedrooms, Pablo loosened the safety harness of the M16 machine gun he kept hidden in a removable panel under the controls, switched the radar on and kept his eye on the horizon. He anticipated trouble and had to be ready for it.
The jerking of the Sessa’s engines slowing down awoke Mark from what had been a deep sleep. He freshened up and came up to see they were pulling into the beautiful Nazaret Harbour. Mark had elected a blue cardigan, short sleeve white shirt and grey chinos. He came above deck wearing his Aviators and remembered that since he bought them, he was just looking for an excuse to wear them.
Pablo, as usual, wore his deck shorts, flip-flops and Musto jacket with sunglasses. They made their way ashore and Mark followed Pablo as he led him to a small marina café. A short while later, both Pablo and Mark were sitting at the Garito Café drinking coffee and eating. The pair sat and discussed their route to Cabrera and Mark called Atkinson to provide an update.
‘We’re resting. The Garito Cafe,’ he said smiling.
‘I trust you met Pablo?’ Atkinson laughed.
‘Yeah. Not much of a conversationalist.’
‘Never was! I could tell you a story about the last time I was at the Garito Café and a waitress who used to work there?’
‘Too much information,’ Mark laughed, smiling to himself, ‘speak soon.’
He hung up the phone and sat back and relaxed to finish his cake and croissant. Mark decided he would have a scout around the local area before they head off to Cabrera and stretch his legs. He visited a few novelty shops and noted it was very touristy here in some parts, but the parts he preferred were the local, backstreet cafes, and shops and out of the way places. He stood on the corner and lit a cigarette. He glanced up to notice someone across the street; they seemed to be watching him and they looked out of place. Mark didn’t know what it was about it, but he knew something didn’t feel right and he was always taught at Sandhurst to go with your gut. Luckily, as he was wearing Aviators, it didn’t show when his eyes moved so the stranger opposite wasn’t sure if he had been spotted or not so he moved a little down the dusty street. The stranger moved too.
‘Once more,’ Mark said quietly to himself as he walked, ‘and I’ll have you!’
Mark walked a little further and turned a corner, and the stranger moved again. Slightly panicked but remaining calm, Mark looked around to see how to get behind his target. He found a stairway into what appeared to be an empty home. Waiting until something distracted the stranger, Mark sped through the open wrought-iron gates and up the stone steps to the rooftop. Peering over the edge, he noticed the man was wandering aimlessly up and down trying to work out where Mark had gone. Mark looked at the rooftop opposite, only a six foot jump, so took a run up and leapt silently over the roof to the building on the other side. Mark found a doorway and slipped through, apologising to people in their rooms as he made his way downstairs and out onto the street. He followed the stranger down an alley and relaxed when he realised he hadn’t been spotted. Turning a corner, Mark felt for his Glock from under his shirt in its back holster and flicked off the safety catch. He held it out before him and whipped round the corner, face to face with the stranger. It took both of them a few seconds to register they faced each other before Mark fired questions at him.