The Newsmaker (Volume One Book 1)

by Tom Field

  “Great service guys,” he said, “I can’t remember the last time I walked into a shop and got hit with dual customer service like this.”

  “What do you want?” the guy in the middle asked Ward aggressively.

  As he finished his sentence, Ward heard the shop doorbell ring which notified him that the other contractor had left the shop. Empty handed and still confused no doubt, Ward thought to himself.

  Gilligan walked to the door, put the lock down and turned the shop sign to ‘Closed’.

  “What do you want?” the main man asked again, this time in an even more aggressive tone.

  “I told you,” Ward said, “I want some specialist equipment.”

  “Meaning?” he asked.

  The guy to the right of him nodded to someone over Ward’s left shoulder, and the three employees who were working on the shop floor all converged behind them and stood still, hands passively down by their sides, but clearly with their weight on one foot, ready to pounce.

  Ward heard Gilligan snort his contempt, and knew without turning around that he would be looking them up and down, sizing them up and that they would be hoping that this did not escalate into violence because from just looking back at Gilligan, they would know that they had no chance.

  “Meaning that you are the go-to people for what I want, so you can provide me with what I need. Isn’t that how customer service works?” Ward innocently asked.

  “So what is it you want?” the guy in the middle said for the third time, still holding his aggressive tone.

  “I want some equipment to make a bomb,” he said, as nonchalantly as if he was asking for a 3 Amp fuse, “And after that, I want you to tell me where Ali Yassin is.”

  “We can’t help you with either,” the guy in the middle replied, “Please leave our shop,” he added, raising his voice.

  “It’s not your shop, is it?”

  “I am the manager and I don’t want you here. We have rights, we are protected and we don’t have to listen to your crap so get out now before we throw you out,” the guy said, moving from behind the counter to the left.

  The lieutenant who had been standing to the left of the main man leant under the counter and came out with a baseball bat; the other lieutenant leant under and picked up a cosh. Ward raised his eyebrows in a mock startled look. The main man then put a hand in his trouser pocket and pulled out a switchblade, making a grand gesture in extending the blade fully.

  These were no more than simple followers, he thought. Reasonably adequate in a street fight but they would hold no sway with the elders and had no influence on the impending events.

  But they would more than likely know where Ali Yassin would be at this moment in time.

  Ward turned around and looked at the three guys that Gilligan was standing square onto and they all had a resigned look on their faces.

  “Anyone else?” Gilligan said, aiming the question at all three of them rather than one specific person. None of them responded.

  He turned back to the counter and looked at the leader,

  “You come into my country and talk about your rights. You think you are more important than our own people and you abuse our hospitality. You think you can ignore my requests?” he said in a completely calm and measured manner.

  Confusion covered their faces. They were struggling to compute how a guy with a British accent was declaring America to be his own country. He always used this to his advantage.

  “You stand there trying to intimidate me with bits of wood and a blade,” he added. “How disappointing.”

  Without any additional words or grand gestures, he pulled out his silenced Glock from inside his waistband and shot the guy in the kneecap.

  The scream of agony rang around the shop, even before the echo of the gunshot had faded away.

  The other two guys, the faithful lieutenants, had a huge dilemma now.

  Would they attack a guy holding a gun with bits of wood or face the humiliation of surrendering without a fight?

  He knew the answer, and paid no attention to them at all. The only guy who could help him was the guy rolling around the floor, clutching his right knee in agony.

  “Was that necessary?” Gilligan asked.

  Ward was unsure whether it was an attempt at humour or genuine concern. He chose the former and ignored it.

  He looked at the two lieutenants who were frozen to the spot.

  “Do either of you know where Ali Yassin is?” he asked nonchalantly. They both shook their heads.

  “Then I may as well kill you both now,” he said, raising his Glock.

  “Stop, please, I have his phone number,” the guy with the cosh said.

  “We already have that,” Ward lied.

  “Not his private number you don’t,” the guy pleaded.

  “Write it down for my friend there,” he said pointing towards Gilligan.

  The three guys under Gilligan’s care all nodded in unison towards the guy with the cosh, prompting him to do it, and do it quickly.

  The guy wrote it down and handed it to Gilligan.

  Ward looked at the guy who was holding the baseball bat and there was something in his eyes that told him that he had changed his mind and was going to back the option of making a stand. This feeling was confirmed by the way that the guy was shifting his weight onto his left leg.

  Ward wasn’t going to wait; he wasn’t going to see how it played out. Taking unnecessary risks wasn’t part of his DNA.

  He turned slightly, raised his Glock waist high and without a pause, shot him in the kneecap of the leg that was holding all of his weight.

  The guy collapsed into a heap and let out a scream identical to that of his friend, who by this time, was hyperventilating with the sheer pain that the bullet had generated.

  The last guy holding the cosh was now frozen in complete terror. Ward crouched down to the main man and bent in towards him.

  “There are no rules and no protection for you in my world, so I am going to ask you questions and you will answer them. If I think you are lying to me I will put a bullet straight into your head, no second time of asking. Do you understand?” he calmly said.

  The guy nodded through gritted teeth and short, desperate breaths.

  He could tell by the look of fear in his eyes that he was not going to lie to him.

  “Do you know Sameh Ismail?” he asked.

  The main man nodded.

  Ward knelt on his knee and the guy let out a sickening scream.

  “Yes, I know who he is,” he said quickly.

  “Has he been here today?”

  “No,” the guy said.

  “Do you know who Asif Fulken is?”

  “They are one and the same,” the guy replied.

  “Is Ali Yassin making equipment available for him?”

  There was the slightest of pauses and the guy said, “Yes.”

  “Do you know what Fulken has planned?”

  “No.”

  “I need more,” Ward demanded, as he started to lean on the guys’ knee again.

  “No, I swear I do not. But I know it is big. Ali has been cautious all week and saying that something very big is coming.”

  “Did they make the bomb here?” Ward asked with an air of conviction that said he already knew the answer, even though he had no idea.

  The guys’ pupils widened. This was his moment of truth, Ward could see that. The guy paused for a split second and he could almost see the conflict swirling around in his brain. But he knew he would answer.

  Anyone who answered one question would always answer them all. It was just how it was.

  “Not the complete bomb,” he said, an air of defeat running through his voice.

  “I need more.”

  Ward leaned forwards again.

  “They made the timer and the switch.”

  “How will it be activated?” Ward asked.

  “Through a cell phone.”

  “You said ‘They’ made the switch. Who are
‘They’?”

  “Ali and Ahmad Saleem,” the guy said.

  “Do they have the explosives?”

  “No.”

  “Where will they get them?”

  “From Osama Ayad. Then they will put everything together.”

  “Do you know Al Holami?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where does he fit in?” Ward asked.

  “I heard Ali talking to him. He is to provide shelter for someone important.”

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know,” the guy replied.

  He didn’t know. Ward could see it in his eyes.

  He raised his gun in line with the guy’s head and looked him in the eyes, “Where is Ali Yassin now?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” the guy said, desperation running through his voice.

  “Then you haven’t told me anything I don’t already know,” Ward said.

  “Wait!” the guy said in panic, “There is something I know.”

  “What?”

  “Ali was saying something about meeting their guest tomorrow on West 8th Street.”

  “By the recording studio?” Ward asked.

  “Yes! That’s it. I swear,” the guy replied.

  Ward stood up, and looked at Gilligan,

  “It seems Nicole-Louise and Tackler were very much on the ball,” he said.

  “Yes but what are we going to do with this mess?” Gilligan asked.

  Ward thought for a few seconds.

  They could take them all into custody as accessories but that would alert Ali Yassin that they were onto him, and if they just walked out then they would be on the phone to Yassin immediately.

  “We should just kill them all now,” Ward replied without a hint of a smile.

  Gilligan looked at him and then looked even harder to see if there was a twinkle in his eye to show he was joking, but he saw nothing. This unnerved him.

  The three guys who Gilligan was standing guard over looked at him, pleading with him to do something.

  “You know someone who could babysit these guys in here until tomorrow?” Ward asked.

  “I would need to make a call but I could have someone here in ten minutes. Our clean-up crew loves it when you are in town, overtime goes through the roof!” Gilligan replied.

  “Make the call,” Ward said,

  He looked down at the main man on the floor,

  “If Yassin contacts you and you say one word to warn them that we were here I will come back and shoot you all dead. Do you understand that?” he asked.

  “Yes I do,” he replied.

  Ward knew he was telling the truth.

  Gilligan finished his call,

  “They will be here in ten minutes. Don’t worry, I took the liberty of asking for a medic to come with them in case you were concerned,” he added.

  Ward ignored him.

  “I need to make a call. Think you can watch these warriors on your own for ten minutes?” he asked Gilligan as he walked out of the shop.

  TWENTY

  Outside the shop Ward called Lawson in London.

  “Yes?” Lawson answered, clearly out of breath.

  “I take it you are with Abbi Beglin right now?”

  “Yes. That would be correct,” Lawson replied.

  Ward heard him moving from one room to another and closing the door.

  He momentarily had a vision of Abbi Beglin sprawled naked over Lawson’s bed.

  “What did you get on Walker?”

  “I have literally e-mailed it to you twenty minutes ago.”

  “You think he is involved in this in any way?” Ward asked.

  “It looks likely. Have a look and see what you think.”

  “And Beglin?”

  “She’s not involved,” Lawson said.

  “Actually, she is involved. She just doesn’t know it,” Ward replied.

  “And what do you want me to do with that information?” Lawson asked.

  “I want you to sit down with her and run through the Louvre bombing again. Exactly what happened.”

  “You could do it yourself,” Lawson said.

  Ward wasn’t sure by his tone of voice if Lawson was being serious or defensive.

  “How so?”

  “She’s flying to New York in four hours’ time to report on a news awards ceremony there in a few days” Lawson replied.

  “And her crew are all coming with her?”

  “Yes. They are meeting Walker there,” Lawson said, convinced he was telling Ward something he didn’t know.

  “You know what I am going to say next, don’t you?”

  “Yes. And I have already booked my ticket. I will ring you when we get there.”

  Ward hung up the phone.

  He walked back into the shop, just as a black van pulled up outside and four guys got out, each one of them nodding at him as they walked in.

  “You got that piece of paper with the phone number on?” he asked Gilligan, who then proceeded to check the pockets of his pants before pulling it out of his jacket pocket and handing it to Ward.

  “I’ll meet you outside,” he said.

  Outside in the street, he called Nicole-Louise.

  “Hello?” she answered.

  “I have a phone number. Can you trace it and tell me where it is now?” he asked her.

  “If it’s on, yes.”

  He read out the number and heard her tapping on a keyboard.

  “Whose number is it?” she asked, obviously waiting for the cell tower she had hacked into to pick up the signal.

  “Ali Yassin, one of the names you gave me earlier,” Ward replied.

  “How convenient.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’ve found the phone.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s in Hell’s Kitchen. At 437, West 46th Street, in a building owned by one of the other names we gave you earlier. The property belongs to Ahmad Saleem. Apartment 24. God we are good!” she exclaimed.

  “Yes you are,” Ward replied and hung up the phone.

  He opened the e-mail from Lawson and read with interest. The excessive money movements, the extreme travel schedules, the history of being sympathetic to the oppressed, it was all there. MI6 had done a good job digging on Walker.

  But something Nicole-Louise had said earlier niggled away at him.

  “We have been doing this long enough to know when information is hidden not to be found, and when it is put there to be found,” she had said.

  He pulled out his cell and hit redial.

  “Forgot something?” she said.

  “You know what you were saying earlier about things being put in places so they would be found?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to send you some information that MI6 found, Can you look at it and give me your take on it, and then maybe dig a little deeper to see how it got there?” he asked.

  “I can do anything,” she replied.

  He hung up the phone and forwarded the e-mail that Lawson had sent him.

  Gilligan came out of the shop a couple of minutes later.

  “Another mess cleared up,” he said and sighed.

  It was now 6.30pm, two hours before their scheduled meeting with Martin Walker.

  “This all seems like a bit of a mess, doesn’t it?” Gilligan asked.

  “On the contrary, it is all pretty clear now apart from one thing,” Ward replied.

  “Which is?” Gilligan asked.

  “Who?”

  “We know who. It’s Fulken or Ismail or whatever you want to call him,” Gilligan replied.

  “See my friend, that’s why I’m in charge. It’s always about the bigger picture,” Ward replied, realising immediately that he was starting to sound like The Old Man.

  Gilligan laughed to himself.

  “What?” Ward asked.

  “There’s a bomb about to go off in New York and you are as calm as anything.”

  “That’s because the bo
mb will never go off,” he replied.

  They drove via East 57th Street and Ninth Avenue and parked fifty yards back from Saleem's place.

  The building was a white brick, six-storey building with a green yawning over the entrance displaying the numbers ‘437’ in silver. The steps up to the entrance door were painted battleship grey and the entrance door was made of glass with a three inch wooden frame surround.

  As they approached the steps a guy was coming out of the building in his running gear and he politely held the door for them as they reached the top of the steps. Ward nodded his gratitude to the guy and they watched him bounce down the steps and set off at a faster than normal pace; clearly trying to impress the people who he assumed shared his apartment building.

  They walked in. The hallway was clean and spacious. No clutter anywhere. The carpet was an industrial type, in a light fawn colour. Set against the white walls it gave the entrance a fresh, cared for and probably as intended, expensive feel to it.

  “What apartment number?” Gilligan asked.

  “Twenty four.”

  “Great, it had to be on the top floor,” he groaned.

  Ward drew his weapon and walked slowly up the stairs and this unnerved Gilligan once more. There was nothing to indicate that they were expected or that they were walking into the lion’s den. They reached the top floor and number twenty four was right in front of them at the end of the hallway.

  “How are we doing this?” Gilligan asked.

  “Maybe we should just knock on the door and shout Pizza?”

  “Do you think, possibly, that we can go in and ask questions without killing anyone for a change?” Gilligan asked.

  “No.”

  Once again, Gilligan didn’t know whether Ward was joking or not.

  He walked up to the door and rapped on it three times.

  “Pizza!” he shouted.

  Gilligan could not believe what he was seeing.

  Five seconds later a guy in his early forties opened the door. He looked Syrian, he was athletic but not toned, and he had a look about him that told Ward he had seen enough death and destruction in his life to not be intimidated by anything.

  “We haven’t ordered Pizza,” he said.

  Without warning, Ward adjusted his feet and kicked the guy hard between the legs.

  The guy doubled over and hit the floor, without making any noise at all, which Ward found strange.