Soft Target 05 - Blister

by Conrad Jones

  “Fucking hell do something will you! Don’t just stand there,” Christopher Walsh shouted at Petre. Petre didn’t understand why he was panicking.

  “What would you like me to do?” he asked looking out of the bridge into the darkness. He cupped his hand over his eyes to stop the interior lights reflecting on the glass. The sky was dark and the snow was falling heavily now. It reminded him of his home, Poland. The police cruiser was cutting across the estuary at an angle, and was making a beeline to intercept them.

  “We cannot let them see the sledge. Cover up the shells quickly,” Christopher said. He was biting his lower lip and looked like a teenager in trouble.

  “They are covered,” Petre answered him without looking at him.

  “Well check them for god’s sake!”

  Petre looked at his employer and headed down the stairs to the lower decks. The sledge loaded with the first batch of shells was slung at the rear of the ship where a life raft would normally hang. He walked along the narrow corridor toward the stern. The corridor opened out into a large open area which had been used as a restaurant when the ship was a tourist attraction in the port’s refurbished dock area. The ship’s hull was fitted with a series of portholes every few metres. Petre crossed the open space and looked through a porthole, which was the size of a large dinner plate. The sledge was swinging gently with the ships motion and the shells were secured and covered with a thick green tarpaulin. Petre turned and headed back along the corridor. He walked past the metal stairs, which led down into the cabin areas. Petre felt the urge to explore them. Curiosity got the better of him. He hadn’t been down there before and he thought that he might be able to find something which would explain the predicament that he was in. None of Christopher Walsh’s rhetoric made any sense at all. The lack of salvage rights was one thing, diving at night was another, and then using the wrong equipment in the proximity of munitions was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  He descended the narrow steps and found himself in a dark corridor. There were cabin doors on either side, and each one was fitted with a round porthole. He peered into each cabin as he walked the length of the corridor. Most of the cabins were stripped to the shell but others were fitted with bunk beds and small foldaway tables. The cabins were not remarkable until he looked into the last one.

  At first Petre didn’t realise what it was that he was looking at. As the realisation hit him he felt his stomach twisting and his lower bowel loosening. His eyes widened and bile began to rise in his throat. On the floor was a bloated bloody body, which was once Joe Hammond. The head, face and torso were blistered with huge yellow swellings, stretched wafer thin as if they might burst at any second. In comparison, the legs and feet appeared almost normal in their dimensions, which amplified the condition of the upper body. One of the hands was severed at the wrist. The wound was jagged and pieces of bone and ripped arterial tissue hung from the stump. The hand itself was on the opposite side of the room hanging from a metal pipe. There was a silver handcuff fixed around. It looked to Petre as if the hand had been ripped from the arm, and blood was splattered across the walls and ceilings. He looked at the inhuman face and felt tears welling in his eyes. The eyelids were hideously swollen but between the tiny slits he could see the eyeballs moving. The abomination on the cabin floor was still alive. Petre tried to open the cabin door instinctively as the first tears ran down his cheek. He was fighting nausea with every breath and it was a huge effort to keep the rising bile down in his stomach. The door wouldn’t budge it had obviously been locked. Petre began to back away from the cabin door still transfixed by the hideous being within, when a heavy monkey wrench struck him on top of the skull. It crushed the skull cap and cleaved a wide gash in the skin. Petre crumpled to the floor in a heap.

  “Nosey bastard,” Christopher Walsh spat as he watched the Polish diver twitching on the metal floor.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Tank

  John Tankersley started to come around but he remained absolutely still. He knew from his training and experience that as soon as he moved his attackers would be on him. He remained completely still as he ran through a series of mental checks. Tank assessed the pain that he was in and tried to analyse his injuries. The back of his skull was throbbing and felt swollen but he still had feelings in his torso and legs. That was a good sign and meant that his neck wasn’t broken. His breathing was hindered which he didn’t think was due to the pepper spray. The effects of that were easing and his eyes had stopped stinging, although his throat felt like he had swallowed razor blades. Tank could feel stabbing pains in his ribcage as he breathed in. There were at least three or four ribs cracked by his best guesstimate, and that was hampering his breathing. It would also seriously handicap him if he needed to fight his way out of whatever situation he was in.

  Tank could hear a machine whirring at high speed and a grinding noise coming from somewhere close by. The sound was metal on metal. He could also hear compressed air hissing and diesel generators running. He was either in a garage of some type, a factory or a vehicle body repair shop. The chances were that he was in an illegal chop shop. Victor Brastz was known to have links with car ringers across the United Kingdom. Tank had read that in his file. He wished that he had paid as much attention to the rest of his file then he would have known that Victor had a prosthetic limb and he wouldn’t have been caught out on the beach. Tank knew that now was not the time to highlight his mistakes though. If you made a mistake in the world of counter terrorism then someone died, today it would probably be Tank. He was in terrible danger he could sense that. Tank could also feel that he was bound tightly to a post of some type. There was no blindfold though and no gag, which wasn’t a good sign at all. Whoever had him didn’t care if he saw their faces, nor were they worried that he might start screaming for help. That meant that he was being held somewhere remote where his screams for help couldn’t be heard, and that his captors planned to kill him once he had been interrogated so it didn’t matter that he could identify them.

  Tank listened intently to his surroundings to pick up any information that might help him out of this predicament. Apart from the machine noises, there wasn’t much to go on. There was a heavy odour of engine oil and spray paint. He could also smell thinners or turpentine. Tank was almost certain that he was in a chop shop, which wasn’t good because it would almost certainly have Eastern European crime family connections. The Eastern Mafioso did not tolerate any threat to their business interests. Trouble was annihilated without mercy. He steeled his resolve mentally before opening his eyes. Tank spotted three things in the first few seconds.

  The first thing that he noticed was a bad thing. The two men who had beaten him unconscious were sitting in a glass walled office about twenty yards away. They were talking to another man who was wearing oily overalls. His hands and face were smeared with engine grease. They spotted that he had awoken immediately.

  The second thing that he noticed was a good thing. His black pickup truck was parked near to a set of double doors twenty yards to the right of the office. That was good thing because it was fitted with a GPS tracker, as are all government vehicles. If and when the taskforce realised that he was in trouble then the first thing that they would do is to check the tracker for its location.

  The third thing that he noticed was a very good thing indeed. His model 17 Glock was on a workbench five yards away from him next to his wallet and his keys. The Glock was registered to the Ministry of Defence, and then sub registered to a counter terrorist unit with the highest security clearance. British law does not allow an armed officer to draw his weapon without clearance from a senior member of the hierarchy. This law caused a problem for the intelligence units and counter terrorist officers as the world they work in does not grant them the time to seek permission to use a weapon. To get around the red tape the taskforce and units similar to them, have their weapons chipped. As soon as a weapon is removed from its lockbox or holster a sensor reports it and
the time and place are registered on the taskforce computer. The chip also feeds information from the weapon itself. If it is discharged, another signal is sent. The technology is designed to alert high command that an agent has been compromised and could need backup. The icing on the cake is that every pistol is married to its user. If the weapon is used and then contact between the handle grip and the agent’s hand is broken for more than ten seconds then an alarm is sent that the officer is either incapacitated, has been disarmed by an enemy or is dead. Tank didn’t know how long he had been unconscious but he did know that the taskforce would already have a reaction team on route. The chips in the gun and the truck would lead them straight to him. All he had to do now was to stay alive until they arrived.

  The three men in the glass walled office spotted that he was awake. Victor and his partner left the office and headed toward him. The grease monkey headed in the opposite direction toward the machine shop noises. He had to weave between a dozen or so prestige vehicles, some were covered in paint splattered tarpaulins others were painted in grey primer ready to be sprayed a different colour. There was a wide wooden sliding door which partitioned this section of the shop from the one where the machines were working. The grease monkey slipped between the door and the wall and was gone. The two men that had jumped Tank headed toward him. Tank noticed with some glee that Victor and his friend were banged up around the face. They didn’t look very happy as they approached. Tank met them with a wide toothy grin.

  “That lip looks sore Victor,” Tank sneered as they approached. Victor’s bottom lip was swollen to twice its original size and there were tooth marks etched deep into the pink flesh.

  “I’m glad that you have a sense of humour,” Victor growled. He swung his right hand in a clubbing motion and smashed Tank in the mouth. The punch numbed Tank’s face and sent pain shooting upwards from the nerve endings in his teeth through his brain.

  “To be fair I think my mother hits harder than that,” Tank smiled and revealed blood smeared teeth. He spat a blob of blood and phlegm which landed on Victor’s foot. Victor flushed crimson with anger but Uri pulled him back from hitting him again.

  “He is trying to wind you up Victor,” Uri said calmly.

  Tank eyed Uri coolly. This man had been trained by the military at some point. Tank was trying to provoke Victor in order to avoid the imminent interrogation. It was standard Special Forces procedure if captured. The longer a direct line of questioning could be avoided the less information the enemy could glean. Everyone had a breaking point. The longer the captive would spend under torture the more information he would part with. Tank was playing the game but Uri knew the rules too.

  “Let’s stop fucking about shall we? Why were you following Victor?” Uri asked. He picked up a claw hammer as he spoke.

  “I’m investigating a stolen car ring and we received information that Victor was involved. It looks like I’ve found the chop shop, thanks for that,” Tank answered flippantly.

  “You are not a policeman. Policemen investigate stolen cars not military units.” Uri walked toward Tank and placed the head of the claw hammer against his cheek. Tank felt the cold tungsten steel against his flesh. “I’ll ask you once more, why are you following Victor?”

  “We know that Victor is an informer for the Serious Crime Squad. He passes information to one of their officers mostly about his European connections,” Tank fed Uri a partially true line. He was playing the game again by trying to split the opposition. Uri looked at Victor and frowned. Victor blushed again and despite shaking his head, he looked as guilty as sin.

  “That is bullshit!” Victor punched Tank in the mouth again. Tank tensed his jaw against the blow to stop his jawbone from breaking. He could still fight and function normally with broken teeth and split lips, but a broken jaw was a different kettle of fish. Tank twisted his head and spat blood into Victor’s face. Victor raised his hand again but Uri pulled him away again.

  “Victor is a fucking grass, he turned informer to avoid a jail sentence and deportation. The Serious Crime Squad has him on their payroll. I needed some information about an Eastern European operation, so Victor was the first obvious person to milk for it,” Tank added fuel to the flames. Uri was nodding his head and looking at Victor.

  “I believe you,” Uri said looking back at Tank. “What operation were you investigating?”

  “What do you mean you believe him?” Victor was open mouthed as he turned on Uri. The two men faced each other, Victor was snarling but Uri was calm.

  “There have been rumours about you for a long time Victor,” Uri shrugged his shoulders. He turned back to Tank. “What operation were you investigating?”

  “What are you talking about Uri, what do you mean rumours?” Victor protested vehemently. The more he protested the guiltier he looked.

  “Shut up Victor,” Uri said quietly. “Answer the question, what operations are you investigating?”

  “We are investigating money which is being laundered in this country. It is then sent to Chechnya to purchase arms and aid to help the Islamic extremists who are fighting the Russians,” Tank lied. Uri showed no signs of emotion in his expression. Tank couldn’t read him so he decided to continue, but this time he was telling the truth. “Victor has a slush fund in an Icelandic bank that he intends to use to escape the country. I work for a military counter terrorist unit and we believe that his associates are using the same company to launder their money. I needed to question Victor about his Chechen associates here.”

  Uri stared at Tank as he spoke but he gave no indication whether or not he believed. Tank could not read his expressionless face.

  “How do you know about Victor’s bank account?” Uri was looking for threads of truth in the story that Tank was telling. The devil is always in the details. Concentrate on the details and the truth soon unravels.

  “The account that he has is a fabricated one manufactured by the intelligence agencies. It is a virtual account created by the computer boffins in the serious crime units. They drip feed him small amounts of cash every time he spills his guts to the police. As soon as he tries to leave the country or withdraw a large sum of money it will be dissolved. There isn’t really any account there,” Tank explained. It was in fact the truth. Victor’s face darkened again.

  “Bullshit! Kill him now he’s lying,” Victor ran at Tank and punched him again. Uri tried to stop the blow and it glanced harmlessly off the side of Tank’s head. Tank smiled again to annoy Victor even more. “I think my sister hits harder than that Victor. When you get to prison they’ll love a little fairy like you.”

  “I’m not going to prison you bastard,” Victor was purple in the face with anger.

  “You’re nothing but the crime squad’s bitch Victor, and the best of it is that you’re too stupid to realise that you’re being fucked up the ass,” Tank laughed and spat at him again, blood and phlegm trickled down his forehead and he smeared it away with his sleeve. His eyes had become dark and were full of hatred. Victor was the weak link and Tank had to keep the pressure on him. It was a diversionary tactic taught to Special Forces personnel all over the globe, ‘the interrogated manipulating the interrogator’.

  “He’s a fucking liar,” Victor lunged at Tank again but Uri grabbed him by the collar. “Uri I bought my Bentley with cash two weeks ago. Pound notes you fucking dog.”

  Tank laughed again, which had the desired effect on Victor. Uri shook him violently to calm him down but he was having little success.

  “They let you buy the Bentley because it has got more bugs fitted in it than the jam tent at the ugly bugs ball,” Tank didn’t know that but he was improvising and making a convincing job of it too. “Now they can listen to everything you say and do all day long. You’re nothing but a puppet.”

  “It sounds like genuine secret service tactics to me,” Uri said holding Victor by the scruff of the neck. “They catch a stool pigeon like you and pay them to sing, except the money never actually exists. Oh you can
take a few hundred out here and there but the bulk of the balance that you see is an electronic mirage, virtual money. As soon as you try to run it will never materialise Victor my friend.” Uri released Victor and he staggered backward a few steps.

  “I’m not a stool pigeon Uri,” Victor was beginning to lose his composure. “I’ve been stringing them along and feeding them bullshit to keep them off my back.” Victor lunged at Tank again and kicked him hard in his left knee. It was painful but hardly an incapacitating blow. Tank spat in his face again. It was the ultimate provocation. All the time they were talking about Victor and his indiscretions the taskforce were getting closer, and Uri was getting nothing from Tank except trumped up accusations about Victor. He had to keep playing for time.

  Victor wiped the blood and phlegm from his cheek and ran at Tank flailing his arms like a windmill in a hurricane. The blows were weak and ineffective. Tank closed his eyes and tensed his body to absorb the pain. Eventually Victor became tired and Uri once again pulled him away. He pulled a stool away from beneath a workbench and pushed Victor onto it. Uri placed his hands on Victor’s shoulders and pressed down hard. Victor wouldn’t stop glaring at Tank until Uri grabbed his chin between his fingers and thumb. He turned his head toward him and spoke very calmly.