The Newsmaker (Volume One Book 1)

by Tom Field

  Lawson, on the other hand, never knew what to make of Ward, or Smith, as he initially called him. Before his first contact with Ward had taken place, he had been instructed by his superiors never to ask his name or speak a word about any conversations or information that they shared. He had simply been told to address him as ‘Smith’. Lawson, however, knew that this man he worked so well with was really the mystical Ryan Ward, although they had never discussed it and Ward had never confirmed it.

  Despite never being open about his real identity, what Lawson did know about Ward was that he would never betray him, and would do his utmost to protect him in the most extreme of circumstances. He knew that Ward had killed at least eleven people when they had worked together over the years in the UK, but Ward had always made sure that Lawson never actually witnessed an assassination. Deniability was everything.

  “Good morning. How are things?” Lawson asked without turning to look at Ward.

  “Good thanks. You’ve been fully briefed, I presume?” he asked.

  “Yes. We have an 8:00am appointment with a sexy news reporter from UKBC News.”

  Ward ignored the comment, as he had learned to do very early on in their relationship.

  “The file for this Fulken guy is on the back seat,” Lawson continued.

  He reached behind him and patted the back seat until his hand found the manila file, picking it up and opening it to scan through its contents. There was little in there that he had not read in the e-mail Centrepoint had sent him, the only useful content being the seven high-quality photographs of Fulken that the security services had managed to get their hands on. To his surprise, Fulken looked average – attractive even. He was of average height; had no distinguishing features, and he would pass by most people unrecognised. This was very worrying indeed. No wonder he had managed to keep hidden for such a long period of time. However, he now had a clear picture of his target ingrained in his mind and he was coming for him.

  “I want us to pay a quick visit to someone on the way,” he said quickly. “You know who Kareem Abdur-Raufe is?”

  “He’s a radical preacher in Stratford. We also know he is involved in prostitution and protection rackets, So much for purity of mind,” Lawson replied.

  “Take a left up here, it’s quicker,” Ward said.

  The morning traffic through London was slowing down to walking pace already. Lawson swerved into the bus lane and ignored the looks of disgust and the incessant beeping of car horns, which sounded their displeasure at his inability to obey the rush hour traffic protocols.

  Abdur-Raufe lived in a beautiful Georgian house with a short, gravel drive, which was close enough to the main road to impose itself on the rest of the street. He clearly wanted people to know he was above all others. The hypocrisy that he displayed by living in splendour, while preaching to others that possessions are not as important as faith, was never mentioned by those who knew him for fear of reprisals. As Ward had seen countless times over the past eight years, fear is what makes the world go around.

  “How do you want to play it?” Lawson asked, turning off the ignition.

  “Let’s just see how it plays out.”

  They stepped out of the car and walked up to a solid, black front door. Ward noted that there were no windows on either side of the door, but there were CCTV cameras. Before they could knock, the door was opened by a young guy in his early twenties. He scanned him from head to toe, concluding that he must be from Afghanistan given his style of dress.

  “We need to see Mr Abdur-Raufe urgently,” Lawson said as the guy stared into his eyes, transfixed.

  “Why, sir?”

  “Because if I don’t talk to him within the next two minutes the full resources of the British government are going to obliterate his crappy little empire,” Lawson growled, giving him a hard, cold stare.

  They both pushed past him into the hallway, while he just stood there, unable to do anything about these two men who, he thought, would break his neck if he attempted to question them.

  “Quickly little man, my patience is wearing thin,” Lawson said.

  Frightened, the guy scurried off through a large set of mahogany double doors to the right.

  Ward took the opportunity to look around the hallway. The floor was immaculately clean, the black and white ceramic tiles resembling a giant chess board. Exotic, brilliant green plants towered above them in all four corners, the smallest of which was at least six feet tall. There was also one on either side of the grand staircase, which was wide at the bottom, curving into a shorter width after five steps. Aside from the colourful foliage, the only other items that caught his eye were the two antique, tapestried chairs which sat to the side of the mahogany doors. Without a doubt, these were sentry posts .

  His thoughts were interrupted by the guy returning with an announcement.

  “He will see you now,” he stated sombrely, and beckoned them both towards him.

  “He’ll have his men in there with him,” Lawson whispered.

  “Don’t worry; you’re here. I’d back you against ten of his men every time,” Ward replied without looking at him.

  As it was, there were only six men in the main room with Abdur-Raufe. A quick scan of them all confirmed to Ward that the two sitting closely to the left of Abdur-Raufe would be the only ones likely to put up a fight, although they both looked more like brawlers than fighters, with their broken noses and feint scars. The nearest one to Abdur-Raufe was rotating an eighteen-inch piece of wood, carved to look like a miniature baseball bat, between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, glaring at them with a look of pure hatred. The one next to him was wearing a black scarf wrapped around his head, like a headband, which seemed odd as he had very short hair.

  The other four presented no threat at all, as Lawson weighed more than all of them combined, and the chances of them having firearms in the house within reaching distance were minimal. This line of work was a lot easier in the UK than the US due to the availability of guns.

  Abdur-Raufe was sitting in a large, burgundy leather chair adorned with gaudy golden handles that curved downwards at the end. His legs were crossed and his hands were draped over each handle. He was in his late fifties, completely grey and had a long, unkempt beard that retained what Ward assumed were the last few black hairs on his body.

  “He reminds me of ZZ Top,” Lawson said.

  The two guys next to Abdur-Raufe bared their teeth at the indiscretion of the comment, and Ward was reminded why he liked Lawson so much.

  “What do you want?” Abdur-Raufe demanded in an authoritative tone.

  Without replying, Ward moved forward and stopped just two feet short of Abdur-Raufe. As he did so, the guy with the miniature baseball bat stood up and put his hand firmly against Ward’s chest. Before anyone in the room could adjust to the situation, Ward brought up his right fist with lightning speed and punched the guy full force in the throat, causing him to jerk backwards, before doubling over whilst gasping for air. He dropped the bat and collapsed forward onto the floor in a heap. Ward scooped the bat up.

  The guy wearing the headband jumped to his feet and Ward jabbed the bat hard into his right eye. No backswing. No warning, just a simple jab. Fighting a blind man is easy.

  As the guy started flailing his left arm in Ward’s general direction, he took a large backhanded swing of the bat and slammed it into the guy’s right temple, just below the rim of his headband, and it smashed into his skull with a sickening crunch. He hit the floor like someone had removed the bones from within his body and he had nothing left to support his body weight.

  The guy, who had been holding the bat initially, was still on his knees, his left hand supporting his weight flat on the floor, and his right hand gripping his throat, so Ward raised the bat two feet and brought it down hard against the back of his skull. He lost consciousness before his face smashed hard into the floor.

  He had no need to look behind him. He knew that Lawson would have his back. As it w
as, the other four guys stood still, frozen in fear, as much over the sheer size of Lawson and the gun that he was holding in his hand, as to what they had just witnessed.

  “You’ve killed them!” Abdur-Raufe screamed, jumping quickly from his seat, pointing his arm in the direction of his two guys, “You’ve killed them!”

  Ward stepped towards him and pushed him back into his chair with such force that he wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t dislocated the elderly man’s shoulder.

  “And you are two minutes away from being killed yourself unless you tell me what I want to hear,” Ward threatened in a quiet, calm voice.

  “Salif, call Mohammed. You can’t do this, we have rights, we are protected, and my solicitor will destroy you,” Abdur-Raufe screamed to one of the guys near Lawson.

  Ward stood towering over Abdur-Raufe and looked down at him with contempt.

  “You have no rights while I’m here. I’m everything people like you fear. I’m not governed by rules and having to think about your human rights. I don’t exist. The beauty of being me is that I can’t be found, and no one will look for me once I’ve killed you,” he said calmly.

  “I will tell you nothing. I am of no use to you, so you may as well kill me,” Abdur-Raufe said defiantly.

  He turned towards Lawson and nodded in the direction of the four guys cowering next to him, wide-eyed and clearly terrified.

  “Take them out of the room. Secure them somewhere. I will be two minutes,” he ordered.

  Lawson pointed his gun at them and herded them towards the mahogany doors. Without speaking or looking into Lawson’s eyes, they shuffled out of the room with Lawson behind them pointing his gun at their backs. The doors closed with the crisp, loud sound of the locking mechanism falling into place.

  Ward looked at Abdur-Raufe and smiled, and then he put his hand into the back of his waistband and pulled out his Glock, and then pulled out the suppressor from his jacket pocket. He maintained eye contact while he screwed the two components together slowly, ensuring the threads met in perfect tandem. One last firm twist and the silencer was in place.

  “What are you doing?” Abdur-Raufe cried with panic.

  “I’m going to kill you. No point in talking to you. You have already told me that you won’t tell me anything and I have an appointment in twenty five minutes so I may as well save myself some time.”

  “What do you want to know? I can help, please don’t kill me,” Abdur-Raufe begged, “I have children, I have wives. Please tell me what you want?”

  “I know everything you do. I know that you are guilty of using religion as a mask for your own greed. I know you manipulate young men into carrying out your criminal activities to accumulate money for your crusades, when really it is for your own personal greed. I know that you import drugs from Afghanistan and that you frighten men into handing their daughters over to you for prostitution. So killing you will mean nothing to me. However, I’m a fair man, so I will give you a sporting chance. I will ask you some questions; you will answer truthfully. Do you understand the consequences if you lie to me?” he asked in a soft, calm tone.

  “Yes I do. I promise I won’t lie.”

  Ward knew he wouldn’t lie.

  “Have you been contacted by Asif Fulken?”

  “Yes,” Abdur-Raufe replied.

  “What did he want?”

  “He wanted a secure place to hide. I told him that I couldn’t provide that.”

  “Why?”

  “My life has taken me in a different direction.”

  “Did you know he was going to bomb Paris?”

  “No. I assumed that the FFW were after him and he was seeking a place to hide from them,” Abdur-Raufe replied nervously.

  “Why would he hide from them?”

  Abdur-Raufe suddenly appeared to relax.

  “What?” Ward demanded.

  “You don’t know, do you?”

  Ward raised the Glock and pointed it at Abdur-Raufe’s head. He started to talk.

  “Our cause is one that demands loyalty and devotion against the devil that is the West, against the greed that the West represents. Yes I am guilty of choosing the wrong path too, but I have not turned against my leaders,” Abdur-Raufe declared.

  “How has he turned? I’m running late for my appointment,” he reminded him.

  “Asif has taken all of his training, his skills and his craft and left a big void in FFW that they are finding hard to fill.”

  “So they are pissed off with him and want him back?” Ward asked.

  “No,” Abdur-Raufe replied, “They are after him because he is selling his skills to the highest bidder. Asif is a mercenary now, with no faith or loyalty. The West is now his market. He works for the highest bidder.”

  “Are you telling me that the bomb he planted in Paris was not related to your cause?”

  “Yes I am,” Abdur-Raufe smugly replied.

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  “No I do not.”

  “Then I have no further questions or use for you,” Ward said. And with that, he straightened his arm and pulled the trigger and shot Abdur-Raufe in the chest. He then put one bullet in the back of the head of the two guys who were still unconscious on the floor, even though he was pretty sure that the bat guy was already dead. Always best to be sure.

  “Any use?” Lawson asked, as Ward joined him in the hall.

  “Yes. You need to get a clean-up crew here quickly. And what are the chances of these four keeping quiet?” he enquired.

  “They won’t say anything or ever come back here again, I guarantee it.”

  Ward didn’t ask why, even though he could see that Lawson was desperate to tell him.

  “We’re running late,” he said.

  FOUR

  Asif Fulken was patiently waiting for the call in his hotel room in Argyle Street, London. The voice said he would call at 08:00am.

  He was late.

  The hotel was nothing spectacular. It was middle range at best, popular with tourists and couples who were having a night out in London to explore the wide range of restaurants or see a West End show at one of the many theatres. He had chosen the hotel three weeks ago and booked it for three nights, but he hoped that he would only need it for one.

  He was fully aware that he was the most wanted man in Europe right now. If nothing else, the security services were efficient, but hiding from them was easy compared to hiding from his former family, the FFW. He was now sporting bleached blonde hair, and had two diamond studs fixed into his right ear. Changing his appearance had been one of the first things he did after leaving Paris. His passport, which was genuine, and brought from a drug addict in Barcelona, would not warrant a second glance. He was now Miguel Ramos, thirty two year old student from the Basque region. And if he didn’t come back to his hotel, no one would think too much of a single Spanish student failing to return for the remainder of his stay after sampling the single nightlife in London.

  He looked in the mirror and scowled. He hated this cheap new look, and it took all his strength to remind himself that it was only temporary and was crucial for this phase of the operation. After Paris, where everything had been so simple, he knew the British were more vigilant and that the volume of CCTV cameras in London made it impossible to walk the length of any one street without being recorded. He had got a real sense of satisfaction from the bomb he had disguised in the wheelchair, and he was sure that if he wanted to, he could use that tactic again.

  The positive thing was that the British security forces would be monitoring the city with additional resources, which meant fewer specialist people, and more officers hauled in for compulsory overtime to work the streets, and those that didn’t want to be there were never as vigilant.

  He turned away from the mirror and smiled to himself about how simple, yet profitable, his plans were. He was being paid two million dollars for an outlay that was no more than a few thousand Euros, for the activation switch, fuse, battery and other neces
sary wiring. He had collected the one hundred pounds of explosives from a derelict farmhouse in Dover at no cost to himself. The extended FFW family were still more than willing to assist him upon request. He had planned it to perfection. He had built the bomb to perfection too, installed it into a suitcase and added some further sulphur based powders to increase the initial flash as instructed.

  He never planned how he was going to plant a bomb before he had carried out extensive reconnaissance of the target because too many things change, and deviation from a set plan normally ends in disaster. He preferred to take a live look, and he believed that simplicity was always the key to a successful bombing. The American movies always made it so complicated and complications lead to mistakes.

  As he looked out of his hotel window, he knew that this plan was suited perfectly for London. He would call a black taxi company and request that they collect two suitcases from his hotel and transport it to his chosen destination, where his partner would be waiting to be taken to the airport for a vacation. A bonus would be payable to the taxi driver, but he had to be at the collection point at nine thirty am exactly as his partner would be finishing a meeting, which left only a small window of opportunity to make it to the airport. Clear instructions that the taxi could not be late were passed over and he agreed to hand over fifty pounds deposit to the driver for the airport journey when the suitcases were collected. He himself was the man’s partner who was staying overnight in a hotel, and he was unable to meet him himself as he had to head to Manchester to catch a different flight. A tracker was placed inside the suitcase so that he could monitor its location, and when the bomb was where he wanted it to be, he would detonate it by cell phone. He now had nothing to do but watch the clock.

  Then his cell phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  A clear, well-educated voice which sounded like the person who it belonged to had experienced a privileged upbringing asked, “Are you ready?”

  “Yes. Everything is in place. Have you deposited the next two million dollars?”