by Aaron Fisher
Tony shook his head, “The Russian definitely said it was Dean who picked up the missile from the exchange.”
“So Dean must have met up with Thomas somewhere and handed over the launcher,” Craig said.
Richard snapped his fingers, “Tony, find the security footage of Capital Tower. You’ll be able to see what vehicle they unloaded the missile and launcher out of. Then, use all available C.C.T.V. you can access to trace the vehicle back to where Dean handed it over.”
Tony was already headed for his desk, “Then I can track Dean back to where he is now!”
“And with any luck, Giacometti,” Richard added.
Craig said, “Oh yeah, because we’ve had loads of that so far.”
313
16.24 BST (British Summer Time)
Present Day
Cardiff. Wales. Great Britain.
Old Vale Airfield, Rhoose
Giacometti acknowledged the irony in his actions. He had just watched the reports of the Pope’s plane crash broadcast on national television. The final achievement of his carefully orchestrated plan complete, the head of the Catholic Church dead, Giacometti began to pray.
He sat cross-legged on the floor of the old airfield control tower. The rain outside had eased off for now but the clouds had yet to part fully, casting the land below in shadow. Candles lay, scattered around the room, their flickering light brought his many tattoos to frightening life.
His was a pure faith. Free from false gods and deceitful prophets, he worshipped only the true Lord.
I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery. Do not have any other gods before me.
You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.
You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I the Lord your God am a jealous God, punishing children for the iniquity of parents, to the third and the fourth generation of those who reject me, but showing steadfast love to the thousandth generation of those who love me and keep my commandments.
He brought his hands together slowly and closed his eyes. It was over. It was finally over. Years of waiting, of planning, and now his mission was accomplished. He had rid the deluded world of its chosen idol. You did not worship any man, let alone one who sanctioned and led an institution of conmen, thieves and paedophiles.
Giacometti was still unsure of how he felt. He had imagined that there would be a sudden rush of euphoria, that somehow something inside of him would feel better, feel free. But he did not feel free.
He had showered and changed since his time with the last young girl yet still he could smell her scent. The beautiful aroma of untouched innocence replaced now with the stench of guilt, remorse and disgust, clinging on his nostrils despite any amount of scouring.
Perhaps there are some things you simply cannot cleanse? he wondered morbidly. Perhaps I’ll never fell clean?
Giacometti thought back to the last time he had felt clean. The memory was so distant and faint he sometimes wondered if ever a time had truly existed. Had he ever been that innocent boy with young eyes and a simple smile that he saw in his dreams? Perhaps. But that boy had been destroyed a long time ago. He had been forced to do things that he didn’t understand and didn’t want to do. He had been lied to by false prophets all his life, telling him that forgiveness would set him free.
Vengeance would set him free. As it was written in the scriptures.
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound...
Father Boccanegra had taken his life, all those years ago. Now he had taken his.
Perhaps that is the problem?
It wasn’t Giacometti who had taken Boccanegra’s life. It had been that damned Police officer. Paul Russell.
He cheated me out of my vengeance and now I can never have the closure I need. The pain will go on. The hunger. The terrible lust for purity. To feel pure. To be one with purity. Will it never end?
Despite all my patience and effort will I never find absolution?
It should have been by my hands that the abomination met his end. Not Paul Russell!
How did two policemen infiltrate and destroy my schemes? Because I broke the plan! I rushed! Why? Because His Holiness, the false prophet of God, changed his travel plans!
Giacometti shook his head, he had come to pray but his own straying thoughts were preventing him from worship. It was a simple thing that had sowed the seeds of his failure, but then he knew better than anyone that every action has a reaction. And every wound leaves a scar.
M.I.T. (Murder Investigation Taskforce), Cardiff Branch
“Got him!” Tony shouted across the bullpen. “Dean ended up at the old Vale Airfield, just outside Barry!”
“Brilliant!” Richard jumped to his feet, snatched up his jacket off the back of his chair and slid it on. “Craig, contact the A.T.S.T. have them assemble on the airfield right now!”
“They’re a long way out, boss. They headed back to Bristol after they found the warehouse empty,” Craig told him.
Richard shook his head, “Great. Just great. Okay, get hold of the local Armed Response. They’re gonna have to do. Also put a call out, I want all personal with firearm experience at their airfield. No one is to make their presence known until I give the order!”
Craig nodded, “Understood, boss. Does that include me?”
“No, I’m going to need you to coordinate things from here.” Richard smiled, “From now on, you’re the ranking officer on site, Craig Hughes.”
Craig’s cheeks blushed a little as he smiled. “Understood.”
Tony patted his fingers gently on his desk, “What about me?”
Richard turned to Tony slowly, zoning in on him with a steely gaze. “You think you’re up for another fire fight today?”
Tony met the stare with his own. “Absolutely.”
Richard nodded, “Good. Then you had better get down to the armoury quick and stock up on some more ammo.”
Paul had sat in silence since Zeddemore had left the room. Having slowed down to a stop, the exhaustion of the day had finally caught up with him. The last drops of adrenaline had left his body hours ago. Their potent kick of energy now replaced with achy fatigue and a sharp pain weighing on his brow. He was now starting to become aware of each of the wounds he had sustained throughout the day. Like a severely delayed reaction they emerged one after the other in chronicle order.
He leant forward on the table, resting his head in his arms. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept properly. Paul could never sleep for more than an hour or so at a time anymore and when he did the sleep was rarely restful.
The holding cell door opened, but instead of the replacement interrogator, in walked his brother, dressed smartly in a black and grey suit.
“Hey,” said Paul sitting up straight. “How come you get the nice suit and I get to look like a flaming P.E. teacher?”
Richard laughed. “I think it’s a good look for you actually. Maybe you should consider it as a career choice. Lots of fit girls running around in tight shorts. I know how you like them young!”
Paul pulled a face, “Piss off! I don’t like them that young!”
A group of people rushed past the doorway in a hurry. One of them stopped on seeing Richard. “Sir, we’re ready to go.”
Richard nodded, “I’ll be right there.”
Paul looked questioningly at his brother as the officer left. “Rich, what’s going on?”
“We’re being released without charge.”
Paul went to laugh but Richard didn’t join him this time. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah, I’ve been appointed as the new directing officer.”
“You’ve been released without charge and promoted?! How did you manage that?”
Richard avoided eye contact. “I’ve told them to get you some food. Catering’
s not up to much here so if you wanna order takeaway just tell them and they’ll get you whatever you want.”
Paul wasn’t stupid and he knew when his brother was holding something back. “Where are you going?”
Richard pressed his tongue flat against the inside of his teeth, “We think we’ve tracked down Giacometti.”
“That’s great news!” Paul said, standing up.
Richard nodded, “We’re assembling now to launch on his position.”
“Fuck the food. I’m ready to go now.” Paul headed towards the door, but the guard blocked his path. He turned over his shoulder, “Rich?”
“You’re not coming with us, Paul.”
Paul turned the rest of the way round to face his brother. “What? Why not?
“You’re not even a police officer.”
Paul scoffed, “According to that prick that was in here earlier I am. Come on! Let’s go.”
“Paul, I’ve asked way too much of you already today.”
“You’re not asking, Rich. I’m offering. I’ve come this far, I wanna see this through to the end.”
Richard shook his head.
“Come on! You need me. You know you do.”
Richard shook his head again.
“You know you need me. That’s why you brought me along with you this morning.” Paul playfully punched Richard in the arm. “Face it. You still need your brother by your side to look out for you.”
“I brought you along because together we fitted the description!” Richard snapped, suddenly. “I’ve spent the last ten years looking after myself just fine without your help, and last time I checked it was you that needed looking after! Not me!”
Richard regretted his words the second they left his mouth.
Paul’s smile dropped. He shook his head slightly and walked to the other side of the cell.
“Paul,” Richard started, he fumbled for something to say. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to go now.”
“Then go,” Paul said, his back to his brother.
“I am sorry,” Richard insisted.
“Yeah,” Paul agreed. “Me too.”
Richard left the cell quickly and the guard closed the door after him, locking Paul inside alone.
Old Vale Airfield, Rhoose
Dean Reynolds approached the control tower office door with deliberate caution. Giacometti hated to be disturbed when he was praying and Dean had already had to interrupt him when he was with one of his young girls today. He didn’t want to risk angering him any further, but they would have to move soon if they wanted to continue to evade the authorities.
Dean tapped his knuckles gently on the door and waited.
“Come,” Giacometti’s voce beckoned from inside.
Giacometti was stood, gazing out through the wide window that ran almost the entire way round the room. The black rain clouds had mostly absconded from the sky, replaced now with blues and whites of a summer’s day, cascading into the purples and reds of a slow, approaching sunset.
He turned and smiled at the sight of Dean in his doorway, “My friend Dean. My true friend.”
“The planes are fuelled and ready to go. You ought to leave soon.”
Giacometti nodded, “Yes, of course.” He moved forward and held Dean by the shoulders. “I think you might be the closest friend I have in the world. In many ways you are like a son to me, Dean. I love you, and I hope you know that.”
Dean smiled and nodded, respectfully, “I am grateful for everything you’ve done for me.”
“I wish I could convince you to come with me. They’ll be looking for you, you know.”
Dean grinned, “They’ll look, but they won’t see.”
Giacometti patted Dean on the shoulder, “Quite right.” In a sharp move he quickly produced a small, folded piece of paper from inside his shirt sleeve. “Consider this a token of my gratitude for your loyalty, and your friendship.”
Dean reached out to take it, but Giacometti pulled back slightly at the last moment.
“Be careful though, my friend Dean. I know you think it will bring you everything you desire. But it is hard to obtain something when you don’t know what it is you are looking for.”
Dean shrugged with a smile, “Well until then I guess I’ll just have to console myself with all the money and power I can imagine.”
Giacometti smiled thinly, knowing his words had fallen on deaf ears. Nevertheless he slowly held out his hand and Dean quickly took the piece of paper.
Watford Road, Caerphilly Mountain
Andrew Colgan had parked his car in the bay next to the infamous snack bar and walked along the footpath across the mountain fields for twenty minutes before venturing off into the woods alone. Finally, when he had come to a spot amongst the trees where he could see not a glimpse of evidence of another man or woman and the blissful silence had drowned out the low hum of traffic, he stopped.
He dropped slowly, resting his arm on a nearby rock and sat gently down on the quilt of fallen branches that covered the ground.
He reached into his trouser pocket and took out his wallet. He opened it and pulled out a handful of small photographs of his family. He had been secretly wishing that their first baby was a boy, but when Rebecca was born he fell in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her. He knew then the reason he had been put on this earth was her. He swore then that he would do anything in his power to love, raise and protect her in the best way he knew how. It was an oath he had failed to keep. He had failed her.
It was only when a tear fell on the photograph in his hand of Rebecca with her first bicycle that he realised he was crying again. He brought his knees up against his chest and held the photograph to his head.
Andrew jumped suddenly at the sound of his phone and had already decided to reject the call like the others when he spotted the caller was not his wife or Zeddemore, but Richard Russell. Fumbling, he opened the phone and accepted the call.
“Hello? Andrew? You there?” Richard’s voice said.
Andrew did his best to steel his voice, “Hi, Richard. I’m here.”
“Andrew, I’m so sorry.”
Andrew fought with the weight in the back of his throat.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.”
“Look, I’ll be honest I have no idea what to say to you right now. All I can manage is that, I am so sorry,” Richard paused. “I had to make a deal with them, Andrew. They were going to throw Paul and me in prison for a long time.”
Andrew knew what was coming. He had expected it from the moment Zeddemore had warned him somebody was going to have to be held accountable for today’s events. He had expected it, worried about it, but now he simply didn’t care. “It’s okay.”
“They promised me you won’t serve a single day. They’re probably going to make you resign but I’ll fight to-”
“Richard, it’s okay. You did the right thing. You have a family to think of.” Andrew wasn’t sure if he had accidentally come across as bitter, so he added again gently, “Richard, please, it’s... it’s fine.”
“Thanks, Andrew. For everything.”
“Yeah.”
“I just wanted you to know, that we’ve found him. We’ve found Giacometti. We’re en route to bring him in now.”
Andrew felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise suddenly. He forced himself to speak through the crippling choke. “Where?”
“I’m sorry, Andrew. You know I can’t tell you that. I’ve got to go. I promise you though, he’ll pay for what he’s done.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
Andrew ended the call. He pushed the phone back inside his jacket pocket and slowly pulled himself to his feet. He marched the distance back to the snack bar car park, picking up speed with each step. Behind the wheel he fed the car power with the turn of the ignition and switched on the police radio. Within seconds he knew that the M.I.T. and A.R.U.’s combined forces were closing in on the old Vale Airfield out
side Barry and he knew he would not fail his daughter again.
M.I.T. (Murder Investigation Taskforce), Cardiff Branch
Paul paced back and forth inside his cell. Some female officer had brought in a plastic tray with a jacket potato and cheese on, but against his training and the hungry ache in his stomach he hadn’t touched it. He was angry that Richard had left him behind. He was frustrated that he was being forced to sit out the final act. But most of all he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was needed out there and instead he was stuck in a dull cell with a microwave meal.
He’d seen how easy it had been to fool the A.R.U. this morning. They’d be double on their guard after that slipup, but Paul still wasn’t sure they were up for what Giacometti had in store for them. He had amassed a heavily armed force and whilst Paul doubted the majority of them had received any real training, the A.R.U was trained for quick surround, breach and clear scenarios. Combat over in a matter of seconds with minimal live rounds being shot. What they were walking into was going to be a major contact. A major, prolonged fire fight. They needed soldiers, not policemen.
Paul broke pace and headed for the door. He knocked loudly and waited. The door opened a few seconds later and the guard raised his eyebrow as he peered in, “Yeah?”
“How much longer have I gotta stay in here?”
“I’ve been told to keep you in here until I hear word from Richard Russell that the situation at the airfield is over. Then you can go home.”
Paul chewed his lip. He doesn’t want me gate-crashing his party.
“Well I need a piss.”
The guard glanced over Paul’s shoulder at the full glass on the table. “You haven’t even touched your drink.”
“That’s because I’m already bursting at the fucking seems!”
The guard seemed unconvinced.
“Tell you what,” Paul said, starting to undo his zip. “Cup your hands together and I’ll piss in them instead.”
The guard jumped back quickly, his hands in the air. “Alright! Alright! I’m going to have to escort you though.”