Spectre (The Beginning Book 1)

by Anil John

  After a week, when there was no sign of him, Yakov made his move. He waited until the Padre left the building, and after fifteen minutes he walked upstairs, picked the lock on her door, and entered the apartment. He searched it swiftly and thoroughly.

  There were no photographs, memos or addresses that could lead him to Carlos.

  Yakov discovered the suits in the closet. He examined the ‘Ipanema’ labels of the premium men apparel brand in Brazil and, took one of the jackets off the hanger and tucked it under his arm.

  A minute later, he was gone, as quietly and swiftly as he had entered.

  The following morning, Yakov walked into the ‘Ipanema’ store.

  His hair was dishevelled and his clothes wrinkled, and he smelled of whisky.

  The manager of the premium store ‘Ipanema’ came up to him and said disapprovingly, ‘May I help you Mister?’

  Yakov grinned sheepishly, ‘Yeah,’ He said, ‘Tell you the truth; I got drunk as a skunk last night. I got in a card game with some German guys in the Casino. I think we all got a little drunk, pal. One of those guys - I don’t remember the name – left his jacket behind.’

  Yakov held up the jacket, his hand unsteady. ‘It had your label on it, so I figured you could tell me where to return it to him.’

  The manager examined the jacket. ‘Yes’, we tailored this jacket. I would have to look up our records. ‘Where can I reach you?’

  ‘You can’t,’ Yakov mumbled, ‘I am on my way to another poker game. Got a business card? I will call you.’

  ‘Yes, off course.’ The manager handed him the card.

  ‘You are not going to steal that expensive jacket, are you?’ Yakov asked drunkenly.

  ‘Certainly not,’ the manager said.

  ‘Good, I will call you later this afternoon.’

  That afternoon, Yakov called and the manager said, ‘The name of the gentleman we made the jacket for is Sir Fernando Morena. He has a round the year suite booked at Royal Tulip Hotel, Suite no: 666.

  Yakov checked to make sure that the door to his hotel room was locked. He took a suitcase out of the closet, carried it to the bed and opened it.

  Inside was a Pistol with a silencer, courtesy of a friend in the Israeli secret service. He checked to make sure the gun is loaded and the silencer was secure. He put the suitcase back in the closet, and went to sleep.

  Next day, at 5a.m, Yakov was silently moving down the deserted sixth floor corridor of the Royal Tulip Hotel.

  When he reached Suite no: 666, he looked around to make sure that no one was in sight. He reached down to the lock and quietly inserted a wire.

  When he heard the door click open, he pulled out the pistol.

  He sensed a draught as the door across the hall opened, and before Yakov could swing around, he felt something hard and cold pressing against the back of his neck.

  ‘I don’t like being trespassed,’ Carlos said.

  Yakov heard the click of the trigger a second before his brain was torn apart.

  Carlos was not sure whether Yakov was alone, or working with someone, but it was always nice to take extra precautions.

  The telephone call had come from Padre Pio and it was time to move.

  He dressed up, packed his luggage and moved out, threading across the corridor, and stepped out through a back door leading to an alley. A five minute wait to make sure that no one had followed.

  There was a taxi at the corner. Carlos gave the driver an address.

  An hour later, Carlos watched the city of Rio de Janeiro disappear beneath the clouds, like some celestial magician’s trick, and concentrated on the assignment ahead, thinking about the instructions that had been given. Make sure Sunny Jordan die a spectacular death.

  Carlos did not like to be told how to fulfil a contract. Only the amateurs were stupid enough to give advice to professionals.

  Carlos smiled. They will all die, and it will be more spectacular that anyone bargained for. Carlos slept a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Istanbul Ataturk Airport in Turkey was crowded with summer tourists, and the taxi ride to the hotel took more than an hour.

  The lobby of Hotel Ritz was busy with guests checking in and out.

  A bellboy took charge of Carlos’s luggage.

  ‘Take these up to my room. I have some errands to do.’

  The tip was modest, nothing that the bellboy would remember later.

  Carlos walked over the bank of hotel elevators, waited until the elevator was empty, then stepped inside.

  When the elevator was on its way, Carlos pressed the fifth, seventh, ninth and tenth floors, and got off at the fifth floor. Anyone who might be watching from the lobby would be confused.

  A rear service staircase led to an alley, and fifteen minutes after checking into Hotel Ritz, Carlos was in a taxi and on the way back to Istanbul Ataturk Airport.

  The passport read Fernando Morena. The ticket was on Turkish Airlines to Islamabad. Carlos texted a message to the Pindar:

  Arriving Tomorrow

  Fernando Morena

  Chapter 17

  Indian Embassy, Islamabad, Pakistan

  Early the following morning, Ruth Goodwin said, ‘The secretary to Mr. Debrato Roy is on the line.’

  ‘I will take it,’ Jordan said eagerly.

  He snatched up the receiver on the phone. He heard the voice of Roy’s secretary, ‘ Mr. Roy asked me to call you, Mr. Jordan. He is with the Prime Minister and unable to get to the telephone, but he asked me to see that you get anything you need. If you will tell me what the problem is?

  ‘No,’ Jordan said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice. ‘I-I have to speak to him myself.’

  ‘I am afraid that won’t be until tomorrow. He said he would call you as soon as he was able to.’

  ‘Thank you, I will be waiting for his call.’ He replaced the receiver. There was nothing to do but wait.

  ‘Ambassador Sir..,’

  Sunny Jordan looked up. Ruth Goodwin was holding an envelope out to her.

  ‘The guard at the gate asked me to give you this. He said it was delivered by a young Pakistani boy.’

  The envelope was marked Personal, for the Ambassador’s eyes only.

  Jordan tore open the envelope.

  The note was written in a child’s handwriting. It read;

  Enjoy your last day on earth.

  ‘C’

  After a few hours, General of Security was studying the note. He shook his head. ‘There are lots of sick people out there,’ He looked up at Jordan, ‘you were scheduled to make an appearance this evening at the ground breaking ceremony of the new Library addition, I will cancel it and ...’

  ‘No,’

  ‘Sir, it can be too dangerous for you to...’

  The ground breaking ceremony for the new Indian Library addition was scheduled to be held at six o’clock in the evening at Islamabad Blue Square, in the large vacant lot next to the main building of the Indian Library.

  By 5p.m, a large crowd had already gathered. General had had a meeting with the Police Commissioner of Islamabad.

  ‘We shall certainly give your ambassador maximum protection.’ He assured. The Police Commissioner had been good as his word. He ordered all automobiles removed from the square, so that there was no danger of a car bomb, police were stationed around the entire area, and snipers were on every roof of the building around the Library.

  At a few minutes before 4p.m, everything was in readiness. Electronic experts had swept the entire area and had found no explosives.

  When all the checks had been completed, The Police Commissioner told Dev, ‘We are ready, and it’s clean.’

  ‘Very well,’ Dev turned to an aide, ‘Tell Ambassador Sir to come ahead.’

  Sunny Jordan was escorted to the limousine by four marine commandos who flanked him as he got into the car. When the limousine reached the dedication site, two marine commandos stepped up to the car door, looked around carefully, and opened the door to Jordan.


  As Jordan walked towards the lot where the ceremony was to take place, two armed members of the Police force walked in front of him, and two behind him, shielding Jordan with their bodies.

  From the roof tops, the snipers alertly scanned the scene below.

  The onlookers applauded as the Ambassador stepped into the centre of the small circle that had been cleared for Jordan. The crowd was mixture of Pakistanis, Indians, Afghanis and the officials from other embassies in Islamabad, Pakistan. There were a few familiar faces, but most of the people were strangers.

  Dev was saying, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my honour to present the Ambassador from the Republic of India, Mr. Sunny Jordan.’

  The crowd applauded.

  Jordan took a deep breath, and began. ‘Thank you...’

  He had been so caught up in the maelstrom of events of the past week that he had not prepared a speech. Some deep wellspring within him gave him the words. ‘…What we are doing here today may be a small thing, but it is important because it is one more bridge between our country and your country. The new building we are dedicating here today will be filled with information about the Republic of India. Here, you will able to learn about the history of our country which was no different from yours before the dreadful partition. There is something more important for the people of Pakistan to find out the soul of the Republic of India. When this new building is finished, you can finally know what India feels like. We are going to show you the spirit of India.’

  On the far side of the square, a car suddenly raced past the police barrier and screamed to a stop. As the shocked policemen moved towards it, the driver jumped out of the car and began running away. As he ran, he pulled a device from his pocket and pressed it.

  The car exploded, sending out a shower of metal into the crowd. None of it reached the centre where Jordan was standing, but the spectators began running around in panic, trying to flee, to get away from the attack.

  A sharpshooter raised the sniper and put a bullet through the fleeing man’s head before he could escape. He shot him twice more to make sure.

  It took the Pakistani Police an hour to clear the crowd away from Islamabad Blue Square and remove the body of would be assassin.

  The fire department had put out the flames of the burning car.

  Jordan was driven back to the Indian Embassy.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to go to the Residence and rest?’

  Dev had asked him while escorting him to limousine with the marine commandos.

  ‘No,’ Jordan had said stubbornly, ‘The Embassy.’

  After an hour, Dev hurried into the office.

  ‘We have identification on the dead man. His name is Fernando Morena on his passport. His real name is Carlos. It seems Carlos have been on everybody’s ‘Most wanted list’.’

  ‘Where is the body?’ Jordan asked.

  ‘In the morgue at police headquarters,’ Dev replied.

  The dead body of would be assassin was lying on a stone slab, naked. He had been an ordinary looking man, medium height, with unremarkable features, a naval tattoo on one arm. His clothes and belongings were piled on a table nearby.

  ‘Mind if I have a look at his clothes and belongings?’ Jordan asked.

  The Police officer shrugged, ‘Go ahead. I am sure he won’t mind.’ He snickered at his joke.

  Jordan picked up the jacket and examined the label. It was from a men shop in Rio de Janeiro. The leather boots had a German label. There were piles of money next to the clothing.

  Jordan turned to the Police Commissioner, ‘What do you have on him?’

  ‘He flew in from Istanbul on Turkish Airlines two days ago. He checked into Intercontinental Hotel in Islamabad under the name of Fernando Morena. His passport shows his home address as Rio de Janeiro. It is forged.’

  The Police Commissioner moved in to take a closer look at the dead body, ‘He does not look like an international assassin. Does he?’

  ‘No,’ Jordan replied. ‘He doesn’t.’

  Chapter 18

  Fifteen miles away, Carlos was walking past the Residence, fast enough so as not to attract the attention of the armed marine commandos guarding the entrance, and slowly enough to absorb every detail of the front of the building. The photographs that had been sent were excellent, but Carlos believed in personally checking out every detail. Near the front door was the fifth guard in civilian clothes, holding two Dobermans on leashes. Carlos grinned at the thought of the charade that had been played out in the Islamabad Blue Square. It had been a child’s play to hire a junkie for the price of a noseful of cocaine.

  The big spectacular event was yet to come on this Independence Day. For fifty million dollars, I will give them a show of their lifetime.

  The decorations for the Independence Day party at Jordan’s Residence, were flown into Islamabad in a Boeing C-17 of Indian Air Force, late Saturday afternoon., and were trucked directly to the Indian Government Warehouse in Islamabad, Pakistan.

  The cargo consisted of one thousand green, white and orange balloons, packed in flat boxes, three steel cylinders of helium to blow up the balloons, two hundred and fifty rolls of confetti, party favours, noisemakers, a dozen banners, and miniature Indian flags.

  The cargo was unloaded in the warehouse at 8p.m. Two hours later, a small truck arrived with two oxygen cylinders stamped with Indian Army markings. The driver placed them inside.

  At 1a.m, when the warehouse was deserted, Carlos appeared. The warehouse door was left unlocked. Carlos walked over to the cylinders, examined them carefully, and went to work.

  His first move was to empty the three helium tanks until each was only one third full. After that, the rest was simply genius.

  A day before of the Independence Day Party, the Residence was in a state of chaos, floors were scrubbed, chandeliers dusted, carpets and upholsteries cleaned. Every room contained its own series of distinctive noises. There was hammering, as a podium at one end of the ballroom was being built for the band, the whit of vacuum cleaners in the hallways, sound of cooking from the kitchen.

  At four of clock that afternoon, an Indian army truck pulled up at the service entrance of the Residence and was stopped. The guard on duty said to the driver, ‘What have you got in there?’

  ‘Goodies for the party.’

  ‘Let’s take a look.’

  The commando inspected the inside of the truck, ‘What is in the boxes?’

  ‘Some helium cylinders, balloons, flags and stuff for the India’s Independence Day celebrations.’

  ‘Open them.’

  Fifteen minutes later, the truck was passed through. Inside the compound, two guards began to unload the equipments and carry it into a storage room off the main ballroom.

  As they began to unpack, one of the marines said, ‘Look at these balloons? Who the hell is going to blow them up?’

  The Manager of the residence walked in, accompanied by a stranger wearing army fatigues.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the manager said, ‘Here is the one that’s in charge of the balloons and equipments. Here is the General of Security’s order.’

  One of the guards grinned at the stranger, ‘Better you than me,’ and the stranger had no expression on his face.

  The guard asked the stranger, ‘What’s in these cylinders?’

  ‘Helium,’ the stranger said curtly.

  As the guards stood watching, the stranger picked up a balloon, out the tip to the nozzle of a cylinder for an instant, and as the balloon was filled, tied off the tip, it floated to the ceiling. The whole act took no less than a few seconds.

  ‘Hey, that’s great.’ The guards smiled and left.

  ‘You have a few hours,’ The manager told the stranger, ‘better get to work. You have got a lot of balloons to blow up.’

  Later, in the Residence storage room, the stranger in the army fatigues was filling the balloons in the presence of the manager of the residence.

  The manager could not und
erstand why the orange balloons were being filled from one cylinder, the green balloons from a second cylinder, and the orange ones from the third. Why not use each cylinder until it is empty? The manager wondered.

  He was tempted to ask, but he did not want to start a conversation. Not with this man.

  Through the open door that led to the ballroom, the manager could see trays of different cuisines being carried out of the kitchen into the ballroom and set on the tables along the sides of the huge hall. It’s going to be spectacular, the manager thought.

  Chapter 19

  At the Indian Embassy, two dozen marine commandos from Indian Army were being given orders by Dev Arora, the Deputy in Chief of Mission.

  ‘I want the Residence guarded like a fort, The Pakistanis are being cooperative. Prime Minister Khan has ordered his soldiers cordon off the square. No one gets through the line without a pass. We will have our own check points at every entrance to the Residence. Everyone going in or out will have to pass through a metal detector.

  The building and the grounds will be completely surrounded. We will have snipers on the roof of the buildings. Any questions?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Dismissed.’

  There was a tremendous feeling of excitement in the air. Huge spotlights ringed the Residence, lighting up the sky. The crowd was kept moving by a detachment of Indian and Pakistani soldiers. Plain clothes men mingled with the multitude, looking for anything suspicious. Some of them moved around with trained police dogs sniffing for explosives.