The Newsmaker (Volume One Book 1)

by Tom Field

  He had entered New York at Newark instead of JFK, using an American passport that he had stolen from a tourist in Paris. An Afghan who had a U.S. passport, acquired when he had sought, and been granted, asylum in the States. He always used the same technique to get passports, and only ever used live passports, never fake ones. Passports that weren’t genuine were relatively easy to detect and with the introduction of scanners and CCTV at major airports it was harder and harder to fool the watchers. His technique was tuned to perfection. He would cruise the gay bars of local tourist spots in cities and look for the closest match that he could get to himself physically and facially. The men who frequented these bars would normally be travellers who had a desire to experience the local gay scene, and they would nearly always be travelling alone. He would then look for the appropriate nationality, which fitted in with where he wanted to travel to. This could be time consuming and on some occasions, it had taken up to four nights to find the right guy, but he would always wait until he got it right. Thoroughness would lead to fewer mistakes being made, and fewer mistakes would lead to less chance of discovery.

  He would then spend the evening complimenting the guy and plying him with drinks before leaving the bar for a night of passion and excitement at the guy’s hotel. Once there, he would find the passport and at the appropriate time, steal it. He would then say he was overcome with the urge to party again and drag the guy out for even more drinks and fun and then after the night had ended, suggest a romantic walk, before killing the guy in a secluded spot. With no I.D or clues as to who the guy was, it would generally take a couple of weeks to identify his victim and by that time, he would be long gone. And all of these murders would be put down to robbery and the naivety of a traveller abroad. Later, he would alter his appearance in the appropriate way. Passport pictures last for ten years. He had never understood why they were not updated every year. People change dramatically in ten years. He had been pleased to note that the passport he was using, in the name of Shah Daud Sultanzoy, only had three more years before it expired. The thing people change most over ten years is hair. It can thin, it can be longer, shorter or it can be lost and styles change dramatically. That’s why Fulken had gone to the barbers near Kings Cross and got a number one cut all over. Sure, he looked slightly different to his passport picture but the customs people would just see a change of hairstyle and put it down to that. People will always see only what other people want them to see. As predicted, he went through customs without a hitch, even receiving a “Welcome home, Mr. Sultanzoy,” from the Customs Officer who studied the passport that he had presented, a little longer than necessary and then, due to the politically correct madness of westerners, felt the need to welcome him home so as not to cause offence. The politicians, the do-gooders and the liberal people who swarm the media made everything a hundred times easier and Fulken loved them for that.

  He walked out of the airport and went straight to the cab rank. He picked the first cab he came to and climbed in. The driver was a Mexican guy in his mid-fifties and he looked like he was coming to the end of his shift. He was the kind of guy who wouldn’t notice or remember much.

  “Bowery,” he said to the driver.

  “Anywhere specific in Bowery?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there,” he replied.

  “Been anywhere nice?” the driver asked.

  “I don’t want to be rude, but I’m tired, so just take me home,” he replied, adding a yawn at the end of the sentence for extra effect.

  When they reached the corner of East 1st Street, he said, “Here will do.”

  The driver pulled into the kerb and said, “That will be seventy seven bucks,” an amount that he found offensive but made no comment on. He handed the driver eighty five dollars, a smaller or larger amount would stick in the driver’s memory.

  He walked up Bowery until he reached the end of East 3rd Street, and he slowly took in all the surroundings. The buildings weren’t as high as in other parts of New York. Most of them were only about six or seven floors high. There was lots of red brick and grey stone buildings and they seemed to blend in well together. A few trees lined the street, adding colour to it, and the occasional person sat on the steps of their apartments watching the world go by, but not scanning or expecting anyone. He walked up East 3rd Street and on the opposite side of the road, walked past number 153 to get a feel for the property and to see if anything looked out of place. The apartment that he was heading to was above a row of shops that housed a video store, a launderette and a grocery store. To the right of the building was a church and the front of the apartment block was partially hidden by trees. A good location he thought to himself. He slowly walked all the way up to the end of the street and stopped in Walmart to buy a disposable cell phone. He put in the sim card he had been given and turned it on, and was pleased to see that the battery was three quarters charged. He then slowly walked back again to apartment 153 and stopped about forty feet short, on the opposite side of the street, and dialled the number that he had kept in his miniature pocket book hidden in the inside of his jacket lining. There was no answer. Something that didn’t cause too much of a panic, but made him wonder if the number was no longer as reliable as he was led to believe it was. He dialled the second number he had. Again, no answer.

  Now he started to become a little concerned. This was an unusual turn of events as the brothers were always reliable. Had something gone wrong? Was him coming to New York a mistake? Was trusting them a foolish thing to do, knowing he had fallen foul to the FFW leaders? All of these thoughts rushed through his head at once. For the first time since this started in Paris he felt less than completely positive that he would achieve his goal. This unnerved him for a few seconds but he breathed in and reminded himself that he was Asif Fulken and he did not lose. He waited ten minutes and dialled the first number again. This time someone answered.

  “Hello?” the voice said.

  “I am in need of a brother,” he said.

  “You have arrived safely?” the voice asked.

  “Yes my brother. You have a safe haven for me?”

  “Not here. You need to move away, head towards Greenwich Village and I will contact you on this number when it is safe,” the voice said with urgency.

  “A problem?” he asked with equal urgency.

  “Some men are on their way, my men in Times Square told me they were hit this morning by a team of fifteen and they forced my whereabouts out of them by torturing them with electrical charges. They are coming to see me, but we will fight to the death and protect your quest,” the voice said, “Now go, it isn’t safe.”

  “You are a good friend Hassan,” Fulken said and hung up the phone.

  He turned and walked slowly away, concealing himself within the trees and passers-by. As he neared the end of East 3rd Street, he did not notice the standard black Sudan driving on the opposite side of the road, slowly checking the area and the surroundings. And the two men in the car, Ward and Gilligan, did not notice Asif Fulken either.

  FIFTEEN

  “Drive past a couple of times first, let’s see if anything looks out of place,” Ward said to Gilligan.

  They drove up East 3rd Street and then slowly back again. Everything looked normal.153 was an unassuming building, a row of shops underneath and a row of trees which offered just a little concealment.

  “What do you know about this Al Holami?” Ward asked.

  “He’s a pretty clean guy; on the radar but not flashing brightly. He doesn’t preach publicly or act as a spokesman for the community; he’s actually considered pretty low risk.” Ward despaired at this. He knew that the tactic being used was to have cells of clerics and supporters who publicly proclaimed hate for the west and flagged themselves up as high risk targets so they drained resources. This allowed the real puppet masters more room to operate.

  “And this is what the analysts have concluded, is it?” he responded with contempt.

  “You know as well as I do,
buddy, the brains live in a different world to us.”

  They drove on and parked about one hundred yards further up from Al Holami’s apartment.

  “How is this going to go down?” Gilligan asked.

  “The same way as at Khadil’s place. We’ll be vague, like we know something is going to happen but we don’t know by who or what. We should be able to gauge by his reaction if he knows anything,” Ward replied.

  “You want me to do the talking?”

  “Go for it, Marvin.”

  They got out of the car and Ward said,

  “You cross the street and approach the building from the other side of the road.”

  Gilligan crossed the street. They walked just a little slower than normal down the sidewalk, Ward had his hand in his jacket pocket, wrapped around his Glock.

  Always prepared.

  When he reached the entrance to the apartment, Gilligan crossed the street. The door had a buzzer entry system numbered one through to thirty, and they looked at each other.

  “Pick a number between one and six but not four,” Ward said.

  “One,” Gilligan proclaimed.

  “God you are lazy,” he replied. He pressed the buzzer for number five. A female voice answered.

  “Hello?” she sounded young and barely awake.

  “I’m really sorry to bother you but I have lost my keys, any chance you could buzz me in?” Ward asked in his clearest accent.

  “Are you British?” she asked.

  Ward smiled.

  The Americans love a British accent and they instinctively trust the person the voice belongs to.

  “Yes I am. Only been in the apartment about a week and I’m losing everything already,” he replied, trying to sound as bumbling as he could.

  “Hold on, I’ll come and let you in,” she excitedly said. The intercom went silent.

  “You never know,” said Gilligan, “She might be a looker.”

  They waited about twenty seconds and the door opened.

  She was a looker.

  She was a pretty girl in her early twenties, wearing a Jets top and blue shorts. She had jet black hair and had the tailored beauty that only American girls have. She looked Ward up and down, taking no notice of Gilligan whatsoever.

  “So, you know anyone in New York?” she asked. As much as Ward wanted to get into the building immediately and off the street, he didn’t want to arouse suspicion.

  “Only my work colleagues,” he innocently replied.

  “How about me and you…………” before she could finish her sentence there was a crack and a boom, her back arched and she lurched forward, a spray of blood following her. A second crack filled the air and a bullet smashed into the doorframe, to Ward’s left. Gilligan sprung up the steps to the right of the door and pulled the girl out of the doorway by the scruff of her Jets shirt and checked for a pulse.

  “She’s dead,” he shouted.

  Ward put his arm around the side of the door and fired three shots in the direction of the staircase. This gave him enough time to sprint into the hallway and take shelter behind the wall under the first flight of stairs. He could hear two sets of feet running up the stairs and shouted to Gilligan, “Clear.”

  Gilligan stepped into the hallway and edged towards the bottom of the stairs with his gun pointing up after the footsteps as he moved.

  “Let’s go,” Ward said, and took the lead, sprinting up the stairs. They reached the first floor without further incident. As they got to the foot of the stairs leading to the second floor, Ward caught a glimpse of a leg disappearing. He cautiously moved forward with Gilligan two steps behind him, with his back to him, and when they got halfway up the flight of stairs he heard a door swing open and the boom of a gun being fired. As he turned he saw Gilligan holding his gun horizontally, and a dead guy with half of his head missing lying on the floor to apartment number nine.

  “I’ve got your back, go,” Gilligan said.

  Ward took three steps and then he stopped dead. The sunlight was breaking in through the hallway windows and he could see the clear outline of two shadows stretching down onto the stairway wall and carpet. He counted to three and exploded up eight steps and fired without seeing the targets. One shot straight, one slightly to the left. Two direct hits. Both guys fell to the floor, and Ward climbed to the top of the stairs. The guy he had hit with the first shot was still alive, clutching his stomach, the other guy stone cold dead with a large hole in his chest.

  “Where’s Al Holami?” he asked. The guy said something in Arabic that Ward couldn’t decipher and so he asked again,

  “Is Al Holami here?”

  The guy said something else that he couldn’t understand and so Ward raised his gun and shot the guy in the head.

  “He might have been useful,” Gilligan said.

  “He can’t creep up behind us and shoot us if he is dead,” he replied without even looking at Gilligan. He continued to climb the steps slowly. They reached the top of the stairs and the only place left to go was out onto the roof through the emergency escape door. The door was ajar.

  “They want us out there so we are sitting ducks,” Gilligan said.

  “So let’s give them a target then. Find out where they are,” and with that, Ward burst through the door, sprinted twenty feet forward with lightning speed, and dived behind a skylight which was raised about two feet. He heard the distinct sound of two different guns being fired, the bullet whistling through the air as he hit the ground. He now knew that there were two shooters there. He also knew that one would have to be waiting for Gilligan to appear and that meant only one of them would be focusing on him. He changed his magazine, even though he had nine bullets left.

  Always prepared.

  He heard a shot fire and concluded that Gilligan was on his game and was showing the other shooter enough to warrant a shot but more importantly, to give enough away so that he could work out how to take him down. He didn’t need to worry about the other guy. He knew with utmost certainty that Gilligan would take his opponent out. Keeping his body flat to the floor, he looked out from the left of his cover and saw nothing but flat roof. He pulled himself in, adjusted his body and looked out to the right. There was an outhouse there. A wooden shed, probably used only for storage, he thought. As he was gauging the distance and likelihood of the guy being there, he saw an arm appear from the right hand side of the shed and then some hair. He pulled back out of sight before the guys eyes had come out from his cover. He needed Gilligan to make his move now. He didn’t fancy playing hide and seek for the next half an hour. Sure enough, almost as if he was reading his mind, there was an explosion of four shots and then Gilligan shouted, “You want me to take yours as well as you are taking so much time?” Ward put his head around to the side of the skylight and saw no movement from behind the shed.

  “You want to kill him or shall I?” he shouted.

  “Please. No shooting. I’m coming out,” a voice from behind the shed shouted.

  “Throw your weapon out, punk,” Gilligan screamed. A handgun was tossed about six feet to the front of the shed. The guy walked out, arms raised high above his head.

  “Please, don’t shoot!” he pleaded as Gilligan started to walk towards him.

  “Stop!” Ward shouted. Gilligan stopped immediately, “He might be wearing a bomb,” he continued.

  Gilligan instinctively took three steps back.

  “Go and pat him down,” he said.

  “Why don’t you go and pat him down?” Gilligan replied.

  “Because I’m more important than you.”

  “I’m not wearing a bomb Mister, I promise,” the guy shouted.

  “Shut up,” Ward ordered.

  “Go and pat him down anyway,” he nodded to Gilligan.

  “You go and pat him down!” Gilligan replied

  “I told you, I’m more important than you, just get it over with.”

  “I’m not wearing a bomb, look!” the guy pleaded and lowered his hands.
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  “Stop,” Ward shouted, “One inch lower and I will blow your head apart,” he added.

  “How can you be more important than me?” Gilligan asked

  “I just am,” he replied.

  “Well I disagree with that. You don’t even exist. They give you anonymity so you can run around killing whoever you want so there is no come back on anyone. I am a top Government Agent, decorated in fact, so that makes me more important than you.”

  The guy was now visibly traumatised by the revelation about Ward and eyed him up and down in sheer panic.

  “Fine,” Ward said, “I’ll just shoot him in the head and then search for a bomb after. He won’t tell us anything anyway, these warriors never do,” he said as he walked towards the guy with his gun pointing at his head.

  “I will, I will tell you anything you need to know. I have information, please, I know where Al Holami is,” he pleaded.

  He reached him and punched him hard in the stomach, a right handed uppercut catching him unawares and the guy doubled over.

  “He’s not wearing a bomb,” he shouted to Gilligan. He grabbed hold of the guy’s jacket and pulled him along the floor to the edge of the building. The guy screamed as Ward let go of him.

  “Where is he?” he demanded.

  “Greenwich Village,” the guy replied.

  “Where?”

  I don’t know exactly.”

  “Not good enough,” Ward said and lifted his Glock.

  “I know it’s close to Washington Square Park.”

  “You are lying.”

  “I’m not, I swear, it’s somewhere on West 8th Street.”