The Newsmaker (Volume One Book 1)

by Tom Field

  “And then what?” he asked. By now he was getting bored of the build-up but dared not interrupt.

  “Then they drove to a house in Fordham Heights and they are still there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because they carried the containers in and the vans haven’t moved.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “No,” she replied, “The cameras literally face right onto the building.”

  “No one collected anything or other people turned up?” he asked.

  “No. The vans have not moved. All I have seen over the last two days are people going to work, a few delivery vans drive past and the local residents coming and going.”

  “Go on?”

  “So then I checked the address and it came up as registered to a guy called, Younis Ali-Wahim.”

  “Who’s he?” Ward asked.

  “He is a former Iraqi national who has been here for twelve years; a local businessman. He owns three modest electrical outlet stores,” she replied.

  “You have anything on him to go on?”

  “No, this guy looks clean. Not even on the radar of the intelligence services. He was granted asylum here after arriving on a boat that docked in Florida.”

  “So they are definitely all still there now?”

  “Yes, I’m looking at the live feed now.”

  “The women?”

  “That was more difficult. That took me at least six minutes to figure out,” she said without a hint of arrogance.

  Ward was now becoming impatient.

  “The short version please Nicole-Louise?” he said softly.

  “OK,” she said in a disappointed tone, much to his relief, “I hacked into his cell phone records and looked for calls made in the hour prior to them turning up at the apartment on Hubert. There was one number that lit up so I followed that and found it was registered to a woman.”

  “Go on?”

  “Then I hacked into her records and found the most common number called and found that was registered to the other woman.”

  “The two bomb makers?” Ward asked. She ignored his question.

  “So then I checked her medical records and she is an amputee and did the same with the other woman and got the same answer,” she said with an air of proclamation, “Then I hacked into the cell towers and the phones are still sitting in the building right now and they definitely haven’t left by the front door.”

  “All six of them are still in there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about the women?”

  “Their names are Sabeen Meram and Sanaa Kasim.”

  “Which is which?”

  “Meram lost her leg, Kasim her arm.”

  “Send me the address and don’t take your eyes off of the camera. If anyone moves you let me know immediately, OK?”

  “OK,” she replied.

  “You really are the best.” he said and he hung up the phone.

  He looked at McDermott.

  “We have found them,” he said, “And there is a chance the bomb is still with them and that Fulken might be there hiding.”

  “Shall we go?” McDermott asked.

  Before he could answer, his phone vibrated to indicate he had received a message. He opened it up. It simply said ‘Apartment 5, 2358 Webster Avenue, Fordham Heights’

  “Yes,” he replied.

  TWENTY NINE

  2358 Webster Avenue looked a nice apartment block. It was sandwiched between two other buildings, all five floors high. It was built out of brown brick and had not been ruined by inappropriately coloured fire escapes being fitted down the front of the building. The one escape that was fitted blended in well to the brown brick. It had a smart Glass door as an entrance that was reached by climbing two small steps, and the grey paint used on the masonry surrounding the door and first floor windows made the building look cared for and loved.

  There were rows of trash bins neatly stacked at the front of the building to the right.

  The vans were still parked directly outside the building.

  “Number five will be on the ground floor,” Ward said.

  “I’ll get Paul and the rest to go around the back of the building and we can take the front,” McDermott replied.

  “We have to take the two women alive,” he said, “Direct orders from The Old Man.”

  McDermott nodded.

  He pulled out his phone and called The Optician.

  “It would be nice if you gave me a heads up now and again,” he said as he answered without offering any greeting.

  “Are you here?” Ward asked.

  “Just got you in my scope now.”

  Ward instinctively looked left, right, up and even down for a brief moment but then knew it was pointless even trying to see him and gave up.

  “If you see anyone coming out who looks remotely like a bad guy, take them out and ask questions later,” he said, “But don’t kill the women.”

  “The Old Man has already briefed me,” The Optician replied and hung up the phone.

  He looked in his mirror and saw Paul and the others get out of the car and disappear down a side alley.

  “Give them a couple of minutes to get into position and then we will move,” McDermott said.

  Ward nodded.

  Fuller and Wired got out of the back of the car without prompting and walked towards the building.

  They were casually dressed in jeans, hoodies and jackets, with rucksacks over their shoulders and they looked like two lifelong friends, or work colleagues, heading somewhere non-important. Exactly how they were supposed to look.

  He watched as they approached the door, and he was not exactly sure what they did to the locks, but within twenty seconds they were opening the door and stepping into the building.

  “Showtime,” McDermott said, “You lead the way.”

  They both got out of the car and walked towards the building, walking within two feet of the vans, but neither of them glancing at them or even acknowledging them just in case there were eyes on them.

  They walked straight into the building through the now unlocked door and Fuller was standing to the left of the hall with his silenced handgun hanging casually down by his side. Wired, offering a lot less discretion, was on the right hand side of the hallway with his silenced weapon held firmly in both hands ready to pounce.

  He had a focus, a deranged look in his eyes, that Ward had noticed every single time that he had seen him in action. This look never ceased to interest him and he made a mental note that one day he would sit down with Wired and try to establish just how his mind really worked.

  The door to number five was the third door down on the left. McDermott nodded in the direction of it.

  Ward moved forward and the other three followed in single file behind him; Fuller taking the back of the line and walking backwards in case someone tried sneaking up from behind. They reached the door.

  “How shall we do it?” McDermott whispered.

  “Shoot the lock,” Ward said, “I’ll go in and take the far right of the room, you take the near right quarter and these two do the same on the left,” he added, nudging his silenced Glock which he had now drawn, in the direction of Fuller and Wired.

  “You got that?” McDermott whispered to the two of them and they nodded.

  “Remember, the women have to be kept alive,” Ward said, “Get Paul to move in the back.” he added.

  “Go in ten,” McDermott whispered into his mic.

  Ward counted from ten down silently and raised his Glock and pointed it at the door lock, and as he reached zero in his head, he fired a bullet that ripped the door surround clean away, and McDermott used his right foot to kick to the right of the door handle almost as soon as the bullet had splintered the wood, and the door flew open.

  Ward took five steps in and moved to the right to take his far quarter of the room and out of the corner of his left eye, he could see Fuller almost exactly in line with him.

 
All six people they expected to be there were there.

  To the right, on a sofa, five feet in front of him, sat one man in his fifties who had a laptop which he was looking at. Directly in front of him, slightly to the left at a large pine table sat the two women.

  To his left, directly in front of Fuller, two men in their thirties were crouched over some small electrical components, both holding screwdrivers, and the fourth guy they expected to see was stood on the left hand side of the room, leaning against the wall drinking out of a mug.

  All six, neatly laid out for them.

  The six people that they expected to see.

  They all looked up in startled shock. At they did so, Paul shouted, “Clear,” and came walking through the door at the back of the room.

  The two guys who were leaning over the electrical components swooped down and reached out for their weapons, but as soon as their hands had moved, Fuller shot the one nearest to him in the back and the one furthest away in his head. His head exploded and blood and shattered bone sprayed in a three foot semi-circle around him, and his knees buckled as he fell to the floor as if he was an inflatable object having the air suddenly released from him.

  The second guy, who had taken the shot in the back, had arched backwards, and as he was falling he caught his head on a stone object laid next to the bench where their electrical components were laid out, and was dead before he hit the floor.

  For a few seconds there was an eerie silence in the room and then it was broken by the sound of a silenced shot ringing out. Ward spun his head left to see the guy drinking from the mug fall forward with a hole in his chest and land face first on the floor. Wired was holding his gun directly out in front of him, still retaining the crazed look in his eyes but his face was adorned with a big grin.

  Ward ignored this.

  The old man sitting on the sofa froze in fear.

  The two women sat there calm and looked around the room at the intruders, more in acceptance than anything else.

  McDermott moved past Ward and took the laptop from the old man.

  “Who are you?” Ward asked him.

  The old man sat rigid and said nothing.

  Ward raised his gun,

  “Last time, who are you?”

  “I, I, I am Younis Ali-Wahim,” he stuttered.

  Ward pulled the trigger and shot the old man straight in the face. His face exploded and he slumped back. He walked over to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down, directly opposite the women.

  “Do you know why I shoot people in the face?” he asked them.

  Neither of them said a word.

  Wallace walked in,

  “You had better come and see this,” he said to McDermott.

  Ward followed them out of the main room through the door, and then through another door, into a room directly in front of them.

  Inside the room there were four large chrome boxes with the lids off of them. They were all empty.

  Ward walked back to the main room and sat back down at the table with the two women.

  “Do you know why I shoot people in the face?” he asked again.

  It looked as though the one sitting on the left was about to speak when Fringe stepped into the room and said,

  “You had better come and see this Ryan.”

  They followed Fringe out of the room and out of a rear door back into the entrance hallway, about thirty feet down from where they had shot their way into the apartment.

  Fringe continued to the far end of the hallway to a door in the right hand corner. He went through the door and down a set of stairs until they were outside, at the rear of the building. He carried on for another fifty feet and arrived at a green coloured, wooden building which at some point would have acted as a garage but was now in a state of complete disrepair.

  On the floor was a chain and padlock which looked as though it had just been removed looking at the splinters of the bright wood against the green exterior.

  He pulled the door slightly open and walked in. Inside it looked like a very modern workshop. There were neat workbenches, all empty, a hydraulic ram that is found in all garages to lift cars up for inspection, and rows and rows of tools all stored neatly and in descending size, running along all four walls.

  But there was nothing else in there at all.

  “This is where they put it all together,” McDermott said.

  “But what did they put together?” Ward asked no one in particular.

  “I know the answer to that,” Fringe said.

  Ward looked at him quizzically.

  “Tell us,” McDermott demanded.

  “I’ll show you instead,” Fringe replied.

  He led them back out of the building and towards a dumpster and lifted the lid up.

  Inside were a number of empty paint tins, some spray painting equipment, and some large sheets of paper that would be used to hold advertising stickers that adorn company vehicles.

  Fringe leant in and pulled out an empty paint can and handed it to Ward.

  He read the tin and it said ‘Pullman Brown’ on it. He tossed the tin to McDermott.

  Fringe looked at him and smiled,

  “You get it now?” he asked Ward.

  “They have painted a vehicle in Pullman Brown?”

  Fringe laughed,

  “Maybe this will help?” he said and leant into the dumpster and pulled out a large crumpled piece of paper and then like a magician performing a trick, straightened it out in front of his audience.

  They watched as the paper unfolded and then Fringe turned it around and held it up. It was giant sticker in the shape of a police badge, it was coloured gold and brown and there were three letters on it which simply said, UPS.

  “Now we know what the bomb looks like. Well done,” Ward said to him, before turning and walking back towards the apartment, followed by them both.

  When they got back inside, the two women were still at the table looking calmer than they should have looked.

  Wired was looking bored as the killing was over, and was leaning against the wall.

  Paul was looking at the laptop and the rest of the team were standing with guns at the ready, pointing at the two women.

  Ward sat down at the table once again.

  He pulled out his cell and called The Old Man.

  “Status?” Centrepoint asked as he answered the phone.

  “I have the two women,” he said.

  “Alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll have a crew there in five minutes,” Centrepoint said.

  He hung up the phone.

  The woman to his right was smiling at him. A smug smile that said it was irrelevant that he had found her, they would not stop the impending carnage.

  Ward looked back at her with contempt.

  “Meram or Kasim?” he asked her.

  She didn’t reply.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said, “You are out of business and will probably be beaten daily in Guatemala Bay for the next fifteen years unless I help you.”

  “How can you help me infidel?” she spat out.

  “You can tell me where the bomb is going to?” he calmly asked.

  She looked at Ward with pure hatred across the table and then spat in his face, the spit landing just below his eye.

  Ward used the cuff of his jacket to wipe the spit away and looked up at her.

  He then lifted his Glock and shot her, straight in the face, from two feet away.

  The blood from the initial impact of the bullet shot forward and covered his extended hand and the woman next to her screamed out loud. She immediately slumped back and then forward and then rolled down off of the chair in an almost comical manner, and her limp body slid out of view and landed at the feet of her friend. She moved her chair back about three feet from the table by using her feet to push her body back against the chair, the chair legs scraping on the tiled floor as she did so.

  “You have no idea where the bomb is or w
here it is going to go off, do you?” Ward asked her, as she was now probably reconsidering the strength of her faith, “That’s why she reacted like that. If you had something to bargain with, you would have approached it from a position of strength not hit out in anger.”

  “No I don’t,” she replied.

  “Do you know where Fulken is?”

  “No I don’t.”

  He raised his gun.

  “But he was here?”

  “Yes he was. He collected the bomb,” she said.

  “How is the bomb disguised?”

  “In a UPS van.”

  “How is it detonated?”

  “By cell phone.”

  “Linked to one specific cell or by dialling a number?”

  “Linked to the cell number that he gave us.”

  “Do you have the number?”

  “In my head,” she replied.

  He looked down at her, and knew she was telling the truth. He noticed her right leg was twisted around in an unnatural position, a result of the push away from her dead friends’ body.

  “You must be Sabeen Meram?” he said.

  The woman nodded and then looked down at her twisted leg, aware that her leg would be the only thing people would relate to her.

  “I am going to ask you one more question. If you answer it, you live, if you don’t answer it you die. Do you understand?” he softly said.

  The woman nodded again.

  “Good choice,” he said, “You might have to tough out a few years in Guatemala Bay but you look like a survivor to me.”

  “I am,” she replied, “I have my faith.”

  “Here’s the question,” Ward said, “Tell me clearly and slowly the cell number that Fulken will use to detonate the bomb?”

  “1-408-255-2109,” she said without any hesitation.

  Ward looked to his right and McDermott was writing the number down.

  He looked at the woman.

  He saw someone who would want to survive at any cost, no consideration for Fulken or their mission; she was just looking after herself.

  He saw someone who had probably killed hundreds of American and British men, women and children; his people, and thought nothing of it.

  He saw someone that held herself in high regard and did not care for anyone else.