by Tom Field
He saw a coward who planted bombs to hurt unsuspecting, innocent people in countries far away from her place of birth, and a woman who thought that was an acceptable way to live, because it was under the flag of faith.
He saw someone who at that moment, was lying to him.
He saw someone he was going to kill.
He lifted his gun, pointed it at her head and saw total fear in her eyes for the first time.
She was looking up at him and all she could see before her was a seven foot giant, and as she opened her mouth to beg for mercy, he pulled the trigger and shot her three times in the chest. The force of the bullets knocked her back and the chair flipped over backwards and she landed on the floor, flat on her back. She was dead before she hit the ground.
“That’s for all of the innocent people,” he said.
“So much for keeping the bomb makers alive,” McDermott said in a tone which indicated sarcastic humour.
“She deserved it,” he replied.
McDermott nodded his agreement and then Paul, who was still sat on the sofa looking at the laptop they had taken from the old man said,
“You’d better look at this.”
They both stepped across to him. What they expected to see was a plan of a building or a written procedure of the detonation. What they expected to see was a ‘UPS’ van or a picture of Fulken.
What they didn’t expect to see on the laptop was a live feed, showing a guy tied to a chair in a dirty looking room with a hood placed over his head.
“Who is that?!” McDermott asked.
“No idea,” Ward said, “But don’t turn the laptop off,” he added as he looked at McDermott, “I need you to get two of the boys to Park Avenue and pick up Nicole-Louise and Tackler now,” he demanded.
“Ring ahead and inform them,” McDermott replied before heading over to Fuller and Fringe to give them instructions.
Ward looked at Paul and said,
“Put that down very carefully and do not lose the connection.” Paul looked around the apartment and saw a charger plugged into the wall and moved over to it and put the lead into the laptop, and then turned and gave Ward the thumbs up to indicate it was charging. He took out his cell and called Nicole-Louise. Tackler answered.
“There are two guys coming to collect you both now I need you over here. There is a live feed being fed to a laptop and I need to know where it is coming from,” he said and hung up the phone.
He then dialled The Old Man.
“What do you have?”
“The bomb makers I said were alive, I got it wrong” he replied and hung up the phone.
“Where now?” McDermott asked.
“We need to go over to USBC News. I want to talk to Walker.”
THIRTY
It was now just after 2pm and Asif Fulken was becoming more and more irate.
Sitting above the old shop in Lexington Avenue, he started to feel a little vulnerable and exposed.
He could not shake the vision of the man on the cell phone out of his mind.
He was so close to finishing his mission, and even closer to being rich enough to disappear and live in luxury with his family for the rest of their lives.
He was the master of destruction, he was a legend in the FFW, and the CIA were so afraid of him, they had given him money to take up safe haven in their country, along with numerous others from the FFW family.
But he was free of them now. They never appreciated him as they should of.
These stupid people in the West who are governed and influenced by so many liberal people in powerful positions have created so many more problems than they have solved by their actions. They clearly thought more of their enemies than their own people.
His faith had now all but disappeared, and his only motivation was a life of affluence and leisure. His mind started to drift away and became filled with visions of sun, beaches and his family all smiling, when the ring of his cell phone shattered the vision he had created.
“Hello?” the thick, well-spoken English accent said.
“About time,” Fulken replied.
“Is everything alright? You sound edgy?”
“I have control of everything, but the longer we leave this, the greater the risk of me being caught, and you not getting whatever you hope to achieve from this,” Fulken said.
“What do you think I want to achieve?” the voice asked.
He had thought about this question long and hard over the last four weeks. However he had tried approaching it, whatever angle he put on it, he could never come up with an answer that fitted.
His problem was that he had no idea who the voice on the phone belonged to. His only contact had been by cell phone, and the only people he had seen face to face were the men who took him away from the life he had made for himself in America and threatened his family.
He believed they were CIA men, and he had believed that they were somehow involved in all that was happening, up until he saw the man on the cell phone, whose face kept haunting him.
“You have a grudge against someone and want them disposed of and the first two times were smokescreens, and when I achieve my mission, no doubt whoever you want gone will be gone,” Fulken said.
“Very good,” the voice replied.
“This is true is it?”
“The bomb is to go off at exactly 9.55am tomorrow, you will stop on the corner of Lexington and East 42nd, right by the crossing on Lexington,” the voice said.
Fulken felt a rush of relief flood over him. He now had his final instructions. His initial thoughts were that he would only have about thirty seconds to get himself clear of the bomb, as there was no stopping there, but a ‘UPS’ delivery van outside a shop would not frighten too many people. He would walk down there later and see for himself the best way to approach it. He would be prepared when 9.55am came, he knew that much.
“I understand,” he replied, “And the money?”
“It will be all delivered the moment the job is done.”
“And you will walk away from my family and never watch them again as promised?”
“I am a man of my word. Once your work is done the contract will be settled in full, and you will never hear from me again after I end this call. I will take this opportunity to thank you for your work and also take the liberty of thanking you in advance for completing the contract.”
The line then went dead.
He looked at his watch and calculated there were just seventeen hours left and then this would be all over. He smiled to himself. He knew he would win, he always did.
He put on his coat and walked out of the shop and along Lexington towards East 42nd Street, to prepare the perfect delivery of the bomb.
In Central Park, Lawson and Abbi Beglin were walking hand in hand towards Strawberry Fields,
“I need to ask you a few more things about Walker,” he said.
“Seriously Mike, haven’t we exhausted this?”
“Just a few more things.”
“OK. But for every question you ask that is a dinner date in London you owe me.”
“Deal,” he replied, knowing that he would never hold up his end of the agreement.
“Then ask as many as you want,” she said with a smile.
He thought about the questions that Ward had instructed him to ask, and even though he thought they were stupid and irrelevant, he had to ask them.
“When you were in Paris, who decided camera angles and what is your best side and what was the best view of the Louvre and so on?”
“I told you, Nigel Reid, my Producer,” she replied.
“So he decides every angle?”
“Most of the time.”
“What do you mean most of the time?” he asked, “I asked you that before and you told me all of the time.”
“Well obviously he will get instructions if it’s a big event or if it involves a world famous landmark or building but yes, most of the time he has a free hand,” Beglin replied.
&nb
sp; “Did he have a free hand in Paris?”
“What did I just tell you, isn’t the Louvre famous enough for you?” she asked with a chuckle, “Mike, I am so going to have to educate you in the more refined things in life,” she added, before reaching up and kissing his cheek.
“Seriously Abbi,” he said, sounding frustrated, “So who was instructing Reid what to do in Paris?”
“Martin Walker obviously,” she replied, “He is the chief news editor.”
“He always does it, only him?”
“It’s only happened once with me in Paris, I don’t know about the other reporters. These are odd questions Mike, what are you getting at?” Beglin asked.
“The news alert that you did about the bomber being on the loose,” he said, “Did Reid oversee that?”
“Don’t be silly,” she replied, “Something that big with the ramifications that would probably come with it, would not be left to Nigel.”
“So who then?” he asked.
“Walker made the decision and then proof read and agreed the autocue. Why all these questions about Walker? Do you think he is involved?”
Lawson didn’t reply. He stood there and without even noticing, he released the grip from her hand and their hands came apart.
“What is it Mike?”
He said nothing. He just stood still, running the questions Ward had instructed him to ask through his mind, and now with her answers, he was starting to piece every part together himself. Ward had been twenty steps ahead of them all this time. He now knew why he had to ask the next question,
“Can you do something for me Abbi?”
“I’d do anything, what is it?” she asked.
“Can you call whoever was producing the Westminster interview and ask them if the instructions were given from the producer or Walker when the bomb went off?” he asked.
“I can, but why?” she enquired, like all reporters do.
“Just do it Abbi, and do it now!” he said urgently.
She took out her cell phone and dialled a number. To Lawson’s right the marble circle on the floor seemed to look up at him and the giant word ‘IMAGINE’ seemed completely ironic.
Not in a million years could he have imagined that Walker would be involved, and yet Ward had known that way back in London.
Now he understood why Ryan Ward was so revered.
Beglin began a conversation which sounded as though she was being switched through to about four different people, and after five minutes she hung up. Lawson was still staring at the word ‘IMAGINE’.
“I spoke to a colleague, her name is Sharon Graham,” she said, “Obviously she tends to get the smaller stories than I do and that’s why she was covering the Abbey, and she says that her producer was getting instructions on the day of the explosion,” she said.
“Continue,” Lawson said hurriedly. .
“She said her producer, Nathan Hurst was moaning about interference from HQ.”
“Who was interfering?”
“Martin Walker,” she replied.
Ward and McDermott arrived at USBC News headquarters on 6th Avenue at 2.30pm. They parked directly outside the building.
“You want me to come in with you?” McDermott asked.
“No,” Ward replied, “Just in case you speak he will recognise your voice.”
“I can pretend I’m mute,” McDermott said with a smile.
Ward smiled back at him and opened the car door. As he went to climb out McDermott said,
“Wait!”
He stopped moving forward, slid back into the car and closed the door,
“Well, well, well,” McDermott said, “Look at that,” he added, pointing towards the main entrance doors. Martin Walker was walking towards the steps to the building directly in front of them, his protection in close attendance.
“Well at least I know it won’t be a wasted journey,” Ward said as he watched Walker go through the glass doors.
“Not him, the guy with him,” McDermott said.
“You know him?”
“Know him?” McDermott said, “He used to be one of us.”
“He was in your team?” he asked surprised.
“No, not in mine, he passed his training and had a month in Seal Team 6 but got busted out. He wasn’t up to scratch. Sometimes the duds get through. I couldn’t see him clearly before but now, it’s definitely him.”
“You know his name?”
“Lucas,” McDermott replied, “Can’t remember his first name.”
Ward stepped out of the car and walked through the glass doors and into the building. The same girl as before was at the reception desk. She smiled when she saw him.
“I’ve come to see Mr Walker again,” he said with a smile.
“Sorry sir, I can’t remember your name?” she said apologetically.
“It’s Mr Chennell.”
She picked up the phone and dialled a number,
“Mr Chennell is here to see you sir,” she said in an ultra-professional manner, “OK, thank you,” she added as she put the phone down,
“His assistant will be down to collect you in a minute,” she said sweetly.
“Thank you,” he replied, and went and sat in one of the black leather armchairs that were placed to the left of him.
After five minutes the elevator doors opened and Lucas stepped out. His eyes went to work immediately and when they focussed on him, they were trying to calculate what he knew and what he didn’t know.
He had witnessed this guy take a blow to the windpipe and go down like a child. Having found out about him not being up to scratch for the Seal team, he looked a lot less capable than before as he stood to greet him.
“Hello Mr Chennell,” he said, shaking Ward by the hand.
“Hello.”
“Mr Walker will see you now but would prefer if you could try and call ahead next time. He is busy, but he will fit you in.”
He led Ward towards the elevator and pressed the call button. They waited for a few seconds in silence until the doors opened.
“After you,” he said, offering Ward into the lift. Ward stepped in.
“Making any progress?” Lucas casually asked.
“Some,” he replied.
“Anything interesting?”
Ward couldn’t resist the opportunity to lay down a marker,
“Just a bit of a fight with some guys playing at being tough,” he replied, “I’m sure you’ve come across plenty of those?”
Lucas smiled, a smug smile and nodded,
“Many indeed, but you escaped unharmed?” he asked in his irritating droll.
“Of course, we came across a few mercenaries who used to be in Seal Team 6, you know the type that stick it out with them for ten years and then sell themselves as tough guys when they are really just overblown boy scouts,” he replied, looking straight ahead at the elevator doors.
Lucas was visibly unnerved by this statement. Whether that was because he thought Ward might be on to him, or he knew people from Seal Team 6, wasn’t clear. So he pushed harder.
“I mean, how these guys get off on thinking they are tough, I’ll never know do you?” he asked innocently.
“Some of them are more than tough. They are natural born killers,” Lucas replied in a very hostile manner.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,” Ward said, “You weren’t a Seal were you?”
Lucas ignored him and didn’t speak again until the elevator doors opened,
“Follow me,” he barked.
Lucas led him down the hallway that was lined with full length glass acting as office walls, and reached the large oak doors at the end of the hallway. He opened the door and walked in, and once again, Walker was sitting at the large table with Lord Ashurst-Stevens at the head, and the three stooges opposite him.
“Good to see you again,” Ashurst-Stevens said to Ward.
“You too,” he replied. He looked at the three lawyers, “Are you not allowed out on your own?” he a
sked him, “Can we talk without those three here?”
“They know all my affairs and there is nothing that you can say in front of them that I wouldn’t tell them,” Ashurst-Stevens replied.
“I don’t like them, so as long as you tell them to keep quiet then we won’t have a problem,” he said.
Ashurst-Stevens looked taken aback.
“It is a little disrespectful coming in here and speaking to us like that, Mr Chennell,” he said, “We are offering you our full support and I have actually had a knighthood bestowed on me by our Queen, so please afford me the appropriate respect.”
“I’m not British, so your title doesn’t hold any sway with me,” he said, “But I will respect you as someone who can help us because we really aren’t getting anywhere,” he added.
“You aren’t British?” Ashurst-Stevens queried.
“No. I’m American, British and Irish for good measure so I guess that makes me everyone’s friend,” Ward said completely seriously.
“How can we help you?” Ashurst-Stevens asked.
“I want Mr Walker to come with me for a few hours; I need his advice on something,” Ward said.
“Advice on what, specifically?” Ashurst-Stevens enquired.
“That I can’t share I am afraid. I’m protecting Queen and country and that is classified MI6 information.”
“Touché!" Ashurst-Stevens declared.
Walker looked very, very, very uncomfortable sitting at the table.
“Unfortunately,” Ashurst-Stevens said, “Mr Walker is needed right now; we have a number of important events to cover in the next twenty four hours and we need his co-ordinating skills here with us.”
“You can’t spare him for two hours now?” Ward asked, “He doesn’t look very busy to me.”
“I’m sorry, we really can’t. Your colleague Mr Lawson is spending time with our Miss Beglin, so I am sure she can probably tell you as much as Mr Walker can. You are welcome to pick her brains, she doesn’t have anything scheduled, I believe until tomorrow morning. Is that correct Martin?”
Martin Walker nodded. He had the look of a man who was completely lost.
“Well if you are sure, Beglin will have to do.”
“If it changes, I will let you know, would you like to leave a number where we can reach you?”