The Hijack s-2

by Duncan Falconer

  ‘How’s it look?’ Stratton asked. ‘Any sign of life?’

  Stratton did not know what to expect but any information would be welcome at this stage.

  Gabriel stepped inside the small, dank, dark room, the stone walls and domed ceiling darkened by centuries of candles and oil lamps. The only furnishings were an icon and crucifix on one wall, a chair and a small table with a dull metal sphere on it, slightly oblong, similar to a rugby ball but a little bigger. He stepped to the table and leaned over it to see the control panel. There were no flashing lights, dials, or digital countdown clock. The only indication of life was the grey LED bar which Gabriel had to lean closer to see. A thin black line was passing slowly along it from left to right.

  He stepped back through the door and into the walkway.

  ‘It appears to be doing something,’ Gabriel said.

  That’s all Stratton needed to hear.There was nothing more for it but the final Neanderthal phase of the operation. ‘You need to break it open,’ he said.

  ‘Break it open?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gabriel looked confused. ‘Why? It’s going to explode. We’re all going to die anyway.’

  ‘I want you to break it open and remove the plutonium core.’

  Gabriel was dumbfounded. ‘But there’s no point,’ he said.

  ‘Now you listen to me,’ Stratton said, anger creeping into his strained voice. ‘I don’t give a damn what you thought you saw in your daydream. I had a daydream too and it was me, walking out of here and going home, and it wasn’t as a ghost. That atom bomb is little more than a ball of plutonium surrounded by explosive. The explosive sets off the nuclear chain reaction. The device is designed not to initiate by accident or tampering. Its most important features are its safety protocols. Now I don’t know for certain, but it seems to me you could break it open and remove the plutonium without detonating it.You have more chance of stopping it blowing than you do of setting it off.’ Stratton stopped to deal with a bout of intense pain and concentrated on Zhilev’s Uzi on the ground beside him. When the pain reduced, he picked up the Uzi and pointed the barrel at Gabriel.

  ‘If you don’t I’m going to upset your plans of dying in a nuclear blast by shooting you through the fucking heart, right now.’

  Gabriel looked at the weapon in Stratton’s hand, unaware the magazine was spent.

  ‘Which is it going to be?’ Stratton said. ‘If I have to blow you away, I’ll go and do it myself.’

  Gabriel believed the bastard would do it too. But he was unfazed. He did not believe Stratton could save the day and did believe that his viewing had been accurate. He was strangely serene by the time he had walked to the old city. All the fears and depressions of the past few weeks had melted away as he came to terms with his destiny.The one beautiful thing that had come out of it was that he finally believed in himself and it felt good. He was not afraid of death now, and therefore Stratton’s threat was meaningless to him. He even had the courage to smile.

  Stratton could see the change in the man and the genuine contempt in his eyes for Stratton and his gun. His threat to try and defuse the bomb himself was a bluff. He would try, but he did not think he would have the strength to succeed. He maintained his determined gaze, but he felt his control of Gabriel slip away.

  ‘What difference does it make?’ Gabriel finally said. ‘Tell you what, Stratton. Since it’s your last wish, I’ll grant you it, but you have to do something for me in return.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Pray to God and ask him for forgiveness for all you’ve done in your life. I don’t know what that is, but I’m damn sure a lot of it didn’t please him any.’

  Gabriel stepped into the crypt.

  Stratton dropped the Uzi, unable to hold it any longer, and contemplated Gabriel’s words. The man had a point, but asking God for forgiveness now, just before he was likely to die, seemed to him like the actions of a creep. Apologising for a wrongdoing when all other options had gone was not a real apology in his eyes. Apologise when you don’t need to and it means something.

  Stratton took a shallow breath and felt dizzy. He was not getting enough oxygen. He found the bullet hole in his shirt and, biting on the pain, tore it open to reveal the hole in his chest. The blood bubbling out of it with every exhale of breath was frothy. The only good news about a bullet through the chest was that there were no major organs or arteries in front of or behind the lungs, only ribs and muscle. Bleeding to death would be unlikely and as long as one lung was working properly, life was sustainable. The bad news was that the lung could collapse and come to rest against the heart causing it to spasm and stop beating. He could lie on his side but that guaranteed nothing.The only way to ensure survival until he could get to a hospital and be patched up was to re-inflate the lung.

  Stratton looked around on the ground for anything he might be able to use and saw a photograph. His eyes moved on and found another that he could not ignore. It was a picture of Zhilev and his brother, standing in the snow, arms around each other and smiling broadly. A stab of pain reminded him of his immediate needs and he disconnected from the photo and picked up a small piece of plastic wrapping beside it. As he took a breath, the frothy blood immediately around the hole was sucked back inside. He placed the plastic over the bloody hole to seal it. It did not matter how filthy it was since dying of infection was a low priority. But placing the plastic over the hole was not enough. That only blocked it; he needed to get air back into the deflating lung and that required a valve. He noticed a piece of masking tape on the side of the Uzi with the owner’s name and number on it. Using the tape, he stuck the piece of plastic to his chest, the tape placed above the hole so that the plastic flapped down over it. As he breathed in, the plastic blocked the hole, and as he exhaled, it allowed some of the air in the chest cavity to escape. With each breath, the lung would eventually inflate again. He dropped his hands to the ground, the effort exhausting him. It was all now up to Gabriel.

  Gabriel stood inside the crypt looking at the device that appeared every bit as evil as it was. He wondered what kind of sick mind had invented such a weapon, and what even sicker one would use it. Zhilev had such a mind, but he had paid the price.

  Gabriel ran a hand over it. The dull metal was cold. For some reason he had expected it to be hot, such was the stigma of the weapon. On reflection, cold suited it better. The worst killers were always cold.

  He rolled it over carefully and was then amused at his own stupidity. He had come to break it open and here he was treating it with reverence, a forgivable reaction perhaps for a thing of such power.

  He picked it up, surprised to find it heavier than it looked, and rolled it over in his hands searching for an obvious way of opening it, but there did not appear to be one. It was made of two semi-spheres riveted together. After a thorough inspection Gabriel could not see any way into the device other than penetrating the seam and prising it apart.

  He looked around for a tool of some kind and saw a large nail on the floor. As he bent down to pick it up, he found a stone under the table that looked like it might serve as a hammer. It fitted nicely in his hand and he got up, positioned the nail on the seam and tapped the nail head gently as a test. It made a small dent in the seam. He tapped it harder and the nail went in a few millimetres. Encouraged by his success he moved the nail along a couple of millimetres and repeated the process, this time prising the edge of the seam up a little by levering on the nail. Another puncture and he paused to inspect his work. To go around the entire seam would take a long time. What he needed was something bigger to jam into it and lever it apart. He was suddenly amused again, this time at the enthusiasm with which he was going about his task. He was reminded of his younger days when he used to enjoy helping his father fix his car in their garage. He always liked to tackle the simple yet awkward jobs, such as undoing the nut that didn’t want to budge, or attaching the hose that did not appear long enough, but since it had come off, it had to go back
on.

  As he scanned the dusty floor without luck, he moved his search to the walls, and his eyes came to rest on the metal crucifix on the wall beside the icon of the Madonna. He took it off its nail and inspected it, testing it for strength. It was made of brass and felt sturdy enough. God was going to help out after all, he mused.

  Gabriel jammed the bottom of the crucifix into the small gap he had made with the nail and pushed down on it, but it would not penetrate. He picked up the stone, turned it in his palm until it was snug and raised it up. ‘Forgive me, oh Lord,’ he said and brought it down heavily on top of the crucifix. It plunged into the sphere and Gabriel wiggled it around until he could pull it out easily.A thick, white, flaky substance oozed from the tear and crumbled on to the desk. Gabriel did not know for sure what it was, but since Stratton had described the device as explosive material surrounding a plutonium core he suspected it must be the explosive charge itself. He worked the crucifix along the seam, bending it back and forth, gradually widening the gap until the two halves suddenly popped apart. Both semi-spheres were filled with the white substance which surrounded the core, a sponge-like material no bigger than a tennis ball. He put down the crucifix and pulled at it. The surface broke apart easily to expose another sphere the size of a golf ball made of a dull silver metal. He pulled it out and held it in his hand and only then did it occur to him it was the radioactive nucleus, the plutonium. Gabriel realised he had effectively done what Stratton had asked of him. He had neutralised the device. But that could not be.

  His mind raced over the images he had seen regarding his own destruction and began to wonder if they had been wrong. But how, since the other viewings had proven to be so accurate? To describe Zhilev well enough for anyone else to finger him in a line up would have been impossible, but after seeing the giant on the floor, he knew instantly it was the beast he had been frightened of all these weeks. Now it would appear he had been wrong about the explosion, but he still could not believe it.

  Gabriel regarded the device on the table long and thoughtfully, the two pieces filled with the white substance, the crucifix and stone beside it, and realised he had seen the exact image before. He looked at the walls of the room, the icon, chair, the domed ceiling, all as he had seen it. As he looked back down at the bomb he saw a flash and heard the beginning of a loud explosion and then silence, and his heart leaped into his throat. It was not déjà vu. It was his viewing. He had not been wrong after all.

  The device gave a single, short beep.

  The explosion was thunderous and blew the doors clean off the crypt walls and into the walkway.

  Stratton was close to the entrance and only survived because he was not in the direct line of the blast. It was like standing beside the muzzle of a huge cannon as it went off.The shockwave threw him over and the explosion rocked his brain. The entire walkway shuddered and went black as pieces of stone and mortar fell from the ceilings. The traders’ tables directly in front of the crypt were shredded and blown away, the lighter debris flying out of the end of the tunnel like feathers from a burst cushion, followed by bellowing smoke. It seemed as if the ancient building complex would cave in. However, having survived so many wars over so many centuries it seemed it was not about to crumble now, as if Christ and Allah had agreed to protect their interests. The shaking quickly subsided and the buildings remained intact.

  Stratton lay on the ground with his hands over his head, his ears ringing and mind spinning, but conscious enough to ask himself if his time had finally come. As he opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to clear the grit from them, he could see a distant light penetrating the thick dust.

  He eased himself back up into the sitting position and coughed painfully, surrounded by smoke. The walkways were in near darkness, the dead neon lights dangling from their wires, making the daylight at the ends of the three tunnels contrastingly bright.

  His recollection of the previous few minutes began to reassemble and he suddenly thought of Gabriel. There was no point even considering the possibilities of him surviving.

  Stratton spat dirt from his mouth and thought about checking the plastic over the hole in his chest to see if it had fallen off but right then he did not care. His prediction of walking away from this operation alive, which was nothing more psychic than a wish, looked as if it might come true after all. He considered actually attempting to walk but quickly decided against it.Why bother, he thought? The place would be crawling with troops in a moment, and he would be carried off on a stretcher to a hospital. His thoughts went back to Gabriel and he felt sorry for the old guy. He realised he had to go into the crypt to check, just in case. Stranger things had happened, although he did not expect to find anything.

  He gathered himself and prepared for the pain. Anger was always a good tool at times like this, like the final charge into the jaws of death, and, without wasting another second, he gritted his teeth and rolled on to his hands and knees. The pain was almost unbearable and for a moment he could not pull in a breath, then his diaphragm kicked in and his lungs took in the air stabbing him once again. He crawled up the wall, got to his feet and shuffled to the hole where the crypt doors once hung.

  He expected it to be dark inside but a shaft of light beamed in through a hole in the roof where there was once a dome. The walls were scorched and anything that had not been made of stone had disintegrated, including Gabriel, except for one of his shoes. He started to feel giddy and was about to turn around and rest his back against the wall when he saw something on the floor in the middle of the room. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the step then leaned forward on to his hands and reached out. He picked up the small metal sphere, rested back against the wall and inspected his find. It had to be the plutonium core - Pu 239, if the paper he had read on the likely device was accurate. If it was any higher than 239 he would suffer radiation poisoning and probably die, even if he had not touched it. But 239 was safe, a piece of paper was enough to protect from the rays.

  He could hear footsteps approaching, mingled with the ringing in his ears, and he put the plutonium in his pocket.

  A man stopped in front of him. The trousers were not that of a soldier’s and Stratton looked up to see it was Abed.

  Abed crouched to look at the Englishman who appeared to be in a bad way, but he could judge his condition more accurately by looking into his eyes. They were as bright and determined as before and Abed knew this man was not so near to death.

  ‘You’d . . . better get away from here,’ Stratton said, finding the breath to speak. ‘This . . . place will . . . soon be crawling with soldiers.’

  ‘It’s already too late for that,’ Abed said.

  Abed had wanted to leave soon after he saw the older man help Stratton to the floor, but the arrival of several soldiers at the other end of the walkway had made the prospect a risky one. He decided to wait until the place had become busier; despite the fact that would mean cordons and more police and soldiers, it would also mean more Palestinians converging to see what had happened, and he could say he was just another shopper caught up in the incident.

  But after the explosion that had brought down most of the shelves in the shop on top of him, he made his way to the doorway to take a look and as the dust cleared saw Stratton lying on the ground with his hands around his head. After watching him struggle to sit in the doorway of the crypt, he felt compelled to go to the man and see if there was anything he could do for him. It was the Arab way.

  ‘You will live, habibi,’ Abed said, using the phrase of friendship.

  ‘That’s the plan for now,’ Stratton said. ‘Get out of here.’

  ‘When I have helped you,’ Abed said, opening Stratton’s jacket enough to see the blood on his torn shirt and the wound beneath it. ‘We must get you to a hospital.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty . . . of people here for that, soon enough.’

  ‘Look at it this way. By helping you out of the city, I could be helping myself.’

  Stratton eye
d him with a slight smile. ‘Maybe that would work . . . Okay. Let’s give it a go.’

  Abed nodded and stooped to help Stratton up, when they both heard footsteps crunching on the debris and looked around.

  Raz was standing a few yards away with a pistol in his hand levelled at them.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Raz said, calmly and assuredly.

  ‘I’m just a tourist,’Abed said, standing up. He knew immediately that the older man in civilian clothes had to be Israeli police or military intelligence. ‘I was in a shop just down there when the explosion happened and I came to see if this man—’

  ‘Your name is Abed Abu Omar,’ Raz interrupted. ‘You’re from Gaza, and you are a terrorist.’

  Abed could hardly believe what the man had said. His dreams of freedom immediately evaporated and were replaced by the image of a prison cell, with him inside, rotting in a corner.

  The urge to run, no matter what the danger, took a grip of him.

  Raz had been several streets away when he heard the shooting and had little doubt it was something to do with Stratton and his urgent dash into the city. As he hurried to where the sound had come from, the explosion was a shock that filled his mind with visions from so many bomb blasts he had been to in his city. As he broke into a run, in his mind he could already see the blood, severed limbs and struggling wounded. He arrived on the scene to see Stratton lying in the dust, and, again, he felt a mixture of anger and concern at the Englishman’s presence in his country which had somehow led to the explosion. But when he saw the man who was talking to him, every other thought left his head, brushed aside by the incredible possibility that it was Abed, his son. Only when Abed turned to look at him was he certain. His gun was already in his hand from when he first heard the shooting, and a part of him was thrown into confusion when Abed saw it aimed at him. Raz wanted to lower it, but he took a firm grip on himself and checked his resolve, knowing what he had to do.