by Tom Field
He stepped into the apartment and Gilligan followed, dragging the guy into the hallway and placing his hands behind his back, before cable tying him to the radiator. The guy was unconscious; the sheer pain had made him pass out.
“At least you didn’t shoot him,” Gilligan said.
Ward ignored him.
The hallway was about twenty five feet long and about ten feet in was a door to the right and another opposite it on the left. Ten feet further down it had two similar doors on either side. They were all a light oak colour. The walls were all painted brilliant white and the carpet was cream with a deep pile to it. It looked like an expensive place. There was a door at the end of the hallway that was ajar.
With his gun to his side, Ward approached it cautiously. He could hear voices coming from inside. He studied the voices for a few seconds and put five fingers up to Gilligan indicating that he could hear five voices inside.
Gilligan had his gun ready but still had no idea what Ward was going to do next.
A voice from inside shouted, “Jamil!” and two seconds later, “Jamil,” again, the second time the voice a lot nearer to the door.
Ward took a step back and as the door opened, a Middle Eastern guy in his thirties with a long beard pulled the door back, took one step into the hallway, and then stopped in his tracks when he saw Ward standing there with his Glock pointed at him and as he opened his mouth to speak, Ward shot him straight in the face.
The guys’ head exploded and the brilliant white walls and cream carpet were instantly covered with blood and brain matter. He fell backwards into the room and Ward stepped on him as he entered, leaving enough room for Gilligan to come in behind him.
At the table there were four guys.
Their faces froze when they looked at him.
One of the guys was in his late twenties and looked like he was the protector and the only one likely to fight.
He recognised Ali Yassin and Ahmad Saleem immediately from their pictures, but he didn’t know who the other guy sitting with them was. He was in his late fifties, sported a long beard and he sat passively and motionless.
He walked took three steps and said, “Put your hands on the table.”
They all immediately responded.
“What do you want?” Ahmad Saleem asked.
“Gentlemen,” Ward said, “I want to talk.”
TWENTY ONE
The four of them sat motionless, staring at Ward and Gilligan but not speaking.
The youngest guy was sitting nearest to Ward, closest to the door, and next to him sat the older guy. Yassin and Saleem sat opposite them.
There was an air of calm about them that said they had been through tough questioning a hundred times and they knew how to play the game.
Say nothing until prompted and show no fear.
These Americans never had the stomach to push beyond the line. They would always go so far, but their liberal rules stopped them from stepping over it.
But there was something different about this British man.
“Couldn’t you have just asked to speak to us?” Ali Yassin asked.
Ward ignored him and stood there, studying them all for about thirty seconds. No emotion on his face, just looking at them, one at a time. He knew right then; they would be able to give him all the information he needed if he played it right.
There was a dead guy lying on the floor with his face blown apart and they weren’t remotely fazed. These were big players and they needed to be handled accordingly.
“Who are you?” Ward asked, pointing to the older guy.
The man looked at the table and said nothing.
Ward turned to Gilligan.
“See,” he said, “You try and use manners and be civilised towards people and they just ignore you. Then they ask why we were reluctant to simply just ask to talk to them,” he added.
“He is just a friend,” Ahmed Saleem said.
“Can he not talk?” Ward asked.
“Not to you infidels he can’t,” the young protector spat.
“And who are you?”
He said nothing.
“Here’s my problem. I know that you have helped Asif Fulken prepare a bomb that he intends to detonate in New York. What I need to do is find him before he sets it off,” he said, “In regards to you, I don’t care if you live or die, I really don’t, but you will help me one way or the other.”
The four of them said nothing. He looked at the young protector again.
“Who are you?” he asked, still using a calm and measured tone.
“I am Karrar Qasim,” he replied.
“That’s better. Now we are getting somewhere.”
He looked at Gilligan.
“Have you heard of Karrar Qasim?” he asked him.
“Nope,” Gilligan replied, deliberately sounding disinterested.
“What do you do, Karrar Qasim?”
“I don’t need to tell you that.”
“Actually you do,” Ward said, “I need to know where you sit in the grand order of things so I can establish if I need to keep you alive or not,” he added.
Qasim looked at the old man next to him for guidance and the old guy slowly nodded his permission for him to speak.
“I look after the affairs of the elders in the community who need my specialist help,” he said.
“What are you a specialist in?”
Qasim looked at the old guy once more and again he nodded.
“I punish people for deserting their beliefs and their true callings. I punish people who the elders consider have become weak.”
“Like a protector of faith?” Ward asked.
“If you like,” Qasim replied.
“And the elders decide who is punished and how?”
“Yes.”
“You kill people?”
“No. We are not savages like you. We are brave people, loyal to our faith. What are you? You are a coward. Take away your gun and what do you have left? Nothing! I would crush you,” Qasim spat as he clenched his fists.
The old guy next to him put a hand on Qasim’s arm and he stopped talking and looked back at the table. Ward turned to Gilligan,
“Well that wasn’t very nice,” he said.
Qasim snorted.
“So let me get this right. You think that if I put my gun down and stood to fight you like a man that you would crush me?”
Qasim’s eyes lit up.
He could sense that a challenge was coming and he believed to the core that he could beat this man to death with his bare hands.
“Are the women, old men and children you punish unarmed?” Ward asked.
Qasim said nothing.
He was mentally psyching himself up for the impending challenge.
“Would you like me to put my gun down and fight you?” Ward asked nonchalantly.
“Yes I would,” Qasim replied with a smile.
Ward lifted his gun and shot Qasim in the face from two feet away, the force of the bullet smashed him back into his chair, which immediately rocked onto its back legs and tipped over, Qasim only slid off of the seat when the back of the chair was flat on the floor.
There was blood everywhere. Ward had taken the initial release of blood over his arm and the old guy next to him was covered all over his chest and his beard, the spray even covering Yassin and Saleem. The whole table was a bloody mess.
Gilligan was once again unnerved by the sheer brutality that Ward possessed. He understood that it was fair to take some lives to save thousands and it wasn’t that which unsettled him. It was the fact that Ward was by no means psychotic, yet he showed absolutely no remorse for killing bad guys. He was totally indifferent to death. Like a guy who can take pepperoni on his pizza or not.
Ward looked at the other three guys.
Their whole demeanour had changed.
Like they knew that death was inevitable.
The good thing about facing guys in that position is that they will normally take the smallest opp
ortunity to salvage something good out of inevitability.
“You know why I shoot people in the face?” he asked the three of them.
No response.
He asked again.
“You, Yassin. Do you know why I shoot people in the face?” “No I don’t,” Yassin replied immediately.
Ward said nothing.
The three of them sat there waiting for an answer to his question but it never came.
Instead he took out his phone and spent a whole minute checking his e-mails just to give them a little more thinking time.
“Who are you?” he asked, turning to the old guy.
“I am a simple grocer who has come for help from these two businessmen,” he replied.
“What kind of help?”
“Help in bringing my family over to this country so that they can start a new life.”
“Do they help people do that?”
“They have the money and the contacts so yes they do,” the old guy replied.
“Are they going to help you?”
“I was waiting for their decision when you came in.”
“Apologies,” Ward said, “Let them give you their decision now,” he added, waving his open palm over the table in a prompt to let Yassin and Saleem speak.
“Yes, we will my friend,” Yassin said.
He could see that the old grocer was trying his hardest to look like the weak link.
The one most likely to crack.
The one with the most to lose.
Which meant he was the one with the most to hide.
He turned his attention back to Yassin and Saleem.
“I know that you have both built the device for Fulken,” he said, “But that’s OK, it won’t go off anyway because I have pieced everything together and the people funding him are now in our custody,” he lied.
The two men shot each other a nervous glance.
“Now what I need to know is where Al Holami has him holed up, so I can stop wasting any more of my time.”
The mention of Al Holami’s name visibly shook both of them.
“Tell me,” he said looking at Saleem, “Where is he?”
“I do not know. That is the truth,” Saleem replied.
“I believe you,” Ward said.
He raised his gun and shot Saleem twice in the chest knocking him sideways off of his chair so he landed head first on the floor with a loud crunch.
Yassin shrieked and stood up.
“Sit down!” he demanded.
Yassin sat down.
Gilligan stood behind Ward, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
“Now, Mr Yassin,” he said, “Where is Al Holami hiding Asif Fulken?”
“He, he is down in East 3rd Street. He has him there,” Yassin stuttered.
“Now I know you are telling the truth,” Ward replied and raised his Glock and shot Yassin twice in the chest,
He fell from the chair in an almost identical fashion to Saleem.
“Jesus,” Gilligan said, “Was that necessary?”
“Yes it was,” he said. “They had prepared the switches and detonators for a bomb that is intended to kill hundreds of people in my city.”
“So why say they were telling the truth?” he asked.
“Because they were,” Ward replied, “Saleem didn’t know where Al Holami was because he wasn’t privy to that information, and Yassin genuinely thought that Fulken was holed up on East 3rd.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Their work was done. Once they had passed over the switches and detonators there was nothing else for them to do, Isn’t that right Mr Ayad?” Ward asked, looking at the old guy.
“You have me confused with someone else,” the old man said calmly.
“You are Osama Ayad. I had assumed that anyway, but I got an e-mail with your picture on it a few minutes ago,” he said.
Ayad said nothing.
“A grocer asking for help coming to a meeting with a bodyguard? Come on, give me a break,” he laughed, “You had all you needed from those two,” he added pointing towards the bodies of Yassin and Saleem on the floor.
Ayad held eye contact with Ward but didn’t speak.
“And you are the one bringing the explosives to the party. The real big stuff,” he added.
“You think it is all so simple, don’t you?” Ayad said.
“In terms of your part in the overall play, yes I do,” he replied, “It’s always simple, people complicate it.”
“I didn’t have a choice. If I fail them or refuse to help them, the brothers can alienate me and I become a pariah,” Ayad stated.
“Let’s just do this the easy way and I will maybe let you walk out of here,” Ward said, “Now, when is Fulken going to get into the country?”
“He is already here.”
“That’s a good start. I already knew that so we are building trust well.”
Ayad smiled.
“Where is Al Holami hiding Fulken?”
“On West 8th Street.”
“Next to the recording studio?”
Ayad’s eyes widened.
Ward could see his surprise that he knew about the recording studio.
“Yes,” he replied, “Number 50, apartment 14.”
“How big is the bomb?” Ward asked.
“I got him 300 pounds of explosives,” Ayad replied.
“That’s a big bomb,” he said calmly. “How is he moving it?”
“I don’t know. A vehicle I assume.”
“When did he collect the explosives and switches?”
“Some men I didn’t recognise collected it all three days ago.”
“Describe them?” Ward demanded.
“Iraqi’s definitely. They said they got lost and so they must have been from out of state. They were all average build, average height and average looks.”
“Thank you Mr Ayad. I believe you have told me the truth.”
“Are you going to kill me?” Ayad asked.
“Yes I am,” Ward replied.
“But I told you the truth.”
“But you also planned to kill hundreds of Americans, and if I don’t stop the bomb from going off then how do you think it will sit with me if I let you live, knowing that all of those people have died because of you?” Ward asked.
“Please, don’t kill me. I can be of use in the future,” Ayad pleaded.
“He’s not going to kill you,” Gilligan interrupted.
Before Ward could respond, Gilligan pumped three bullets into Ayad’s chest, knocking him clean off the chair and onto the floor with the others.
“Was that really necessary?” Ward asked with a smile.
“Yes it was. They really see nothing wrong with killing hundreds of our people, do they?”
“No they don’t.”
“Then we have saved lives in the future.”
“We need to get to Greenwich to hunt Fulken. Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” Gilligan replied.
TWENTY TWO
Ward called Centrepoint, as Gilligan sorted out, the by now, over-worked cleaning crew.
“Where are you?” he answered, sounding agitated.
“We have found Fulken,” Ward replied.
“Where is he?”
“Holed up with Al Holami.”
The Old Man was quiet for a moment,
“Al Holami is a small fish, how come Fulken is relying on him?” he eventually asked.
“Because he is about the only one left that Fulken can turn to,” Ward replied.
“Don’t be so sure of that,” Centrepoint said, “There are almost a hundred willing and resourceful FFW sympathisers throughout New York. There is always someone to turn to.”
“There’s a lot less than that now.”
“Try and be a little bit careful. This whole thing is becoming a real mess and I have just had a call about the number of bodies you are leaving in your wake. People will start asking questions.”
“Then it�
�s your job to keep them away from me and to pacify the powers that be.”
“Which I will do,” he said, “But you have to get a win on this one to justify the trail of destruction you are leaving behind.”
“I always win,” Ward replied.
“Have you established who Fulken’s main sponsor is yet?”
“No,” Ward replied, “But I know roughly where to look. The important thing is to eliminate him and ensure that there is no bomb going off. When I have done that, I will focus on who it is.”
“Also the why?” Centrepoint asked.
“I know the why. I just can’t make it fit yet,” he said, thinking back to the one word that Charlie Dunno had written back in London.
“Well, make it fit quickly,” Centrepoint demanded.
Ward hung up the phone.
Asif Fulken walked out of the apartment block to make a call. He didn’t want anyone to be around when he spoke to the voice.
Al Holami was a bumbling fool but he had done well by ensuring that a safe place was provided and there were a team of four, more than capable looking men, to guard him. But they all had ears and they could all listen.
He headed down the street towards Greenwich Avenue. As he turned into the Avenue he took out his cell and dialled the number.
“Are you ready?” the voice answered.
“Yes I am. Everything is prepared.”
“No mistakes?”
“None at all,” Fulken replied.
“So you will be ready to finish the job tomorrow?”
“Yes. Have you put the other deposit in?”
“Yes I have.”
“Good. I will check shortly.”
“It is there. The bonus will be deposited an hour after the event,” the voice said.
“Do you know the target?” Fulken demanded.
“It will be the Chrysler building, day after tomorrow at 10.00am exactly. That gives you nearly thirty six-hours to prepare.”
“More than enough,” Fulken replied.
The line went dead.
Ward and Gilligan arrived on West 8th Street and drove at a slow speed along the road to check out number 50.
They reached it and continued driving past.
Ward did no more than glance at the building.
That was enough.
It was a five storey building and it looked run down. The windows were the old Georgian style, painted white, and the paint was starting to peel off of them. The front brick had been painted red, and on the top floor there were four long wooden windows. Their frames looked rotten, even from just his brief glimpse. The whole building looked as though it wasn’t really lived in. The entrance door was light oak coloured, with two big glass panels in it.