Soft Target 02 - Tank

by Conrad Jones

  In the embassy Omar opened the envelope and looked inside. His troubled mind could make no sense of its contents. He tipped the envelope upside down and emptied the contents into his left palm. There was a small electronic chip and a decorated synthetic thumbnail. He stared at the nail and the clouds of confusion started to clear. He recognised the fine artwork and a small diamante jewel that sparkled from the corner of the nail. He picked it up and held it close to his face, as his eyes widened in shock. Was this all that remained of Jeannie? He looked at the back of the envelope for a return address or a government stamp. There was nothing there to indicate who sent the package. It couldn’t possibly be from the British authorities; even they would not send the remains of his daughter in an envelope. He turned the nail over to look at the back. Bile started to rise is his throat and he gagged when he saw the blackened scab attached to the nail, small withered slivers of skin hung from the sides. The nail was removed from its’ thumb by force. Omar staggered backward, his legs weakened from the shock and his bodyguard grasped his arm and guided him to a chair. He mouthed soundless words to his minder and held out the bloodied nail. The big Arab took the nail and studied it carefully; then he opened Omar’s fist and removed the small chip from his sweaty grasp. He studied both sides.

  “It’s a SIM card from a mobile phone Sheik,” the bodyguard said removing his own cell phone from his pocket. He removed the back from his mobile and slid his SIM card from its fastening. He placed the chip into his phone and replaced the back. A polyphonic tune announced the phone being switched on. Omar seemed to be getting a grip of the situation and he pushed himself up from the chair.

  “What does this mean Yusuf?” Omar said squeezing his bodyguards forearm tightly. He still couldn’t comprehend what was happening. His mind raced through the different scenarios. Yusuf’s mobile rang.

  “We are about to find out Sheik,” Yusuf replied to his panic stricken boss. He placed the phone firmly into Omar’s hand and placed it near his ear switching the speakerphone mode on. Omar pressed answer. A thick guttural accent spoke.

  “Omar Kellesh?”

  “Yes this is Omar Kellesh speaking,” he answered; his voice almost a whisper, as sweat stared to run down his forehead. He felt the trickle of cold sweat run down his back.

  “The SIM card you have received has some pictures stored on it that may be of interest to you. Your daughter is alive, however, she will not be if you do not follow my instructions,” the voice sounded Soviet to Omar and Yusuf, and they both stared at the handset.

  “I want to talk to her. Let me talk to her please. Please don’t hurt my daughter. I will pay you as much as you want, please don’t hurt her,” Omar babbled into the phone as any frightened father would.

  “We don’t want your money Mr Kellesh. There is a bank of telephones at Euston station next to the flower stall. You need to be next to the second phone from the left in exactly one hour, or you will never see your daughter again. We have your telephones tapped, if you tell the police she dies. If you contact your embassy she dies. If you bring anyone except your driver she dies,” the soviet voice tailed off and static noise replaced it for a second before the line went dead.

  Omar collapsed back into his chair emotionally exhausted. His hands were shaking visibly. His daughter was alive but her life was in mortal danger. He stared at his bodyguard Yusuf as he calmly started to look at the photographs stored on the SIM card. Jeannie’s image was captured holding yesterday’s newspaper. Yusuf started to dismantle the cell phone.

  “The SIM card goes to our Secret Service for analysis. I am sure from the static noise on the line that the call was international. The accent was Soviet but I can’t pinpoint which country. We need to get to Euston station Omar. I will be your driver. Let’s go and find out who has Jeannie my Sheik,” Yusuf said as he checked that the magazine of his Uzi machine pistol was full. He strapped the weapon inside his leather jacket and placed two spare magazines into his inside pocket.

  Chapter 13

  Jeannie Kellesh/ Chechnya

  Jeannie Kellesh opened her eyes and the world was white. The ceiling was white as were the lights that illuminated it. The walls were tiled in shiny white squares, and the floor was finished to match. It smelled of antiseptic like a hospital. Jeannie felt like she was in a long dark dream. She could remember being in the queue for the boat trip but after that it was a haze. She had dreamed of being carried and moved several times, and remembered hearing strange foreign voices around her, some English and some she didn’t recognise. Jeannie could recall sharp scratching pains in her upper arm, and then comforting warmth that spread through her body afterward. She winced in pain when she tried to move her right hand. A throbbing pain radiated from her thumb but she didn’t recall hurting it. Jeannie tried to sit up but she was restrained by something, so she could not. She noticed a drip feed attached to her left hand and followed the line up to a medical bag containing clear liquid. The bag had the word methadone, printed on it. A small mechanical intravenous driver whirred and Jeannie watched helplessly as the methadone flowed along the drip toward her veins. She didn’t feel fear, because she didn’t feel anything at all, just the comforting warmth of the drug spreading through her body.

  Jeannie was in a secure ward in a hospital in Dagestan, Russia. The town was called Kizlyar. In 1996 the hospital was the target of Chechen rebels, who, in order to draw attention to their claims for a separate state, independent from Russian rule, attacked the building. In one of the most daring and brutal attacks of its kind, Chechen rebel warlord Salman Raduyev held three thousand people hostage. Russian forces surrounded the hospital to contain the rebels but did not attack in case the rebels killed the large number of hostages. Spetsnaz (Russian Special Forces) troops were brought in but even they could make no headway against the rebel barricades. There was a military standoff for nine days, which was highly embarrassing for the Russian government. The Russian government suddenly announced on national TV that the hostages in the hospital were killed by the Chechens; it was a complete lie constructed so that they could launch an eight-day rocket barrage on the town, without condemnation from a watching world. The hospital was attacked and taken by Russian Special Forces resulting in the death of many hostages. The Russians refused to confirm the number of fatalities but estimates run into the hundreds.

  The conflict between Russia and Chechnya had raged since the 15th Century when the area was dominated by the Muslim Turkish Ottoman Empire. Following its collapse in the 18th Century the Russians took over trying to secure buffer states around Mother Russia that could repel any future invasions. With the advent of World War 2, the Chechen people threatened to take arms against Russia in league with Nazi Germany. Concerned by the threat of a rogue state in his empire Stalin ordered the deportation of Russian based Chechens to Kazakhstan and Siberia, causing thousands of deaths in the process. The forced exile was swift and brutal. It is now believed a quarter of the indigenous Chechen population was decimated. There was no surprise when the Soviet Union began to collapse in 1990 that the Chechens rebelled again. The country was economically deprived, and was ruled by renegade warlords with different political agendas. Some genuinely fought for independence from Russia and a free Islamic state, while others fought to line their own pockets. The situation remains the same today.

  Following her kidnap Roman Kordinski had arranged for the Saudi Princess to be smuggled out of the UK, across Europe to Dagestan. She was far enough from Moscow for the authorities not to become aware of her presence, and close enough to the Chechen border to be extracted quickly in an emergency. The hospital was used by several different Organizatsiya for the same reason. Plastic surgery was a speciality and often used by Mafia members who needed to disappear. Mafia soldiers on both sides were treated here for gunshot wounds, away from the prying eyes of the Soviet government. The hospital had become a medical fortress since the hostage crisis. The Russian Spetsnaz had attacked the hospital with anti-personnel, mine dispersin
g, cluster bombs, which would remain in place and functional for decades. Access through the surrounding grounds was now impossible because of the remaining ordinance. A pathway was cleared to certain entrances but they were top-secret. Entry could only be gained at night time, under escort by troops that knew the secret paths through the minefields.

  Chechen rebels controlled the hospital and its access. They charged the warring Mafias huge fees to use the heavily defended medical facility. Even an archenemy like Roman Kordinski was welcome to use its facilities for the right price. Roman Kordinski planned to force the Saudis to increase the price of a barrel of crude oil, by threatening the life of his hostage. He would increase the price of his own crude produce simultaneously forcing the price worldwide through the roof. He could skim millions in profit before he had to return his interests to the Russian government. The Chechens were aware that he was a fading star in the Soviet Union, but they were willing to assist him with his plan by holding Jeannie Kellesh at their facility in Dagestan. Roman Kordinski was planning to return the Saudi Princess to her family if they cooperated with his demands. He had no reason to keep her in captivity. The new celebrity image that he had built carefully in the West was still fragile. His football team was prospering and it lifted his profile into the public eye on a daily basis. The longer Jeannie Kellesh was held the more chances of a mistake being made increased, jeopardising his public image.

  The Chechens however had a different plan. Once Roman Kordinski had returned his Russian business interests to the Soviet government he would have no further use for the Saudi Princess. The Chechens were planning to renege on the deal, and extract a huge ransom from the Saudi Royal Family for her safe return.

  Chapter 14

  Terrorist Task Force

  Major Stanley Timms stood at the window of his office, looking at the River Mersey flowing past. A tall four-mast, wooden sailing ship was docking next to the historic Albert Dock buildings. The port of Liverpool played host to the fleets of tall ships that constantly circumnavigated the globe when they visited British shores. As he watched the sailboat the Major recalled the last voyage he had made aboard a sailing vessel. It was as part of the Marine Task Force that was sent to fight Argentine military forces, which had invaded the Falkland Islands, in the South Pacific. The naval task force that had publically left English waters watched by the worlds television networks was spearheaded by the Royal Navy’s nuclear submarine the Water Sprite. As the fleet sailed from the port the submarine dived beneath the surface in full view of the cameras. The Argentine military Junta feared the presence of a Polaris nuclear submarine in their waters more than anything else, so they kept most of their fleet harboured safely in port. The truth was that the Water Sprite never actually left Liverpool harbour. When it dived beneath the waves at the head of the Royal Navy fleet it stayed on the ocean floor for the whole period of the conflict. It had suffered a major fire in one of its reactors several weeks earlier, which virtually rendered it useless. The mere suggestion that Britain had sent a nuclear submarine to the Falklands was enough to neutralise the entire Argentine Navy. The Major had received a citation for his service in the Falklands where the regiments of The Royal Marines and the Parachute Regiment had dismantled the invading Argentine army in a matter of days. He had followed his distinguished career in the Royal Marine Commandos by heading up the formation of the Terrorist Task Force. Military life seemed far simpler in comparison to the world of espionage that he now worked in. Using hindsight he realised that conventional war was straightforward. The enemy wore different uniforms, waved different flags and drove different vehicles, which in theory made them easier to identify and eliminate. The world of counter terrorism was far more cynical. The hidden enemy were masters of disguise and deception, avoiding close quarter battle was an art form. Tank and his team had raided a crucial target earlier that day arresting nineteen suspects. While this was a serious blow to organised crime in the region, they had made little impact on a potentially critical political disaster, which still faced the Middle East.

  “Sorry to disturb your thoughts Major but the team are ready,” Tank said poking his big baldhead round the doorframe.

  “Come in for a moment John,” the Major, said waving his hand. He was the only Terrorist Task Force member that called Tank by his first name, and when he did it usually meant that he was troubled by something. Tank stepped into the glass walled office that was called the goldfish bowl, and closed the door behind him.

  “MI5 have requested a full update on the Jeannie Kellesh situation. They are concerned that the Saudis will discover that we were aware that she didn’t die in the riverboat bomb from the start. The political fallout would be disastrous,” Major Timms said shaking his head, “so, I have confirmed that they can release the information that we have to the Saudis.” Tank thought that the Major suddenly looked old and tired. The creases in his forehead seemed deeper when he frowned, and he frowned a lot these days.

  “We have ordered our interrogation teams to concentrate their questions on the kidnapping, but we seem to have arrested only low level or prospective 18th Brigade members. No ‘tier one’ personnel were captured at the scene,” Tank explained. ‘Tier one’ was the description applied to leaders or key individuals of a target organisation.

  “No one is talking at the moment, or my guess is that they are all too far down the ranks to know about the kidnap,” Tank said, thinking about the empty gun racks in the cellar, “It looks like all the Brigade’s serious muscle were otherwise involved. Their armoury room was empty before we arrived, which is very concerning.”

  “Ask the team to join us in here John please; I need to bring everyone up to speed. The international consequences are frightening,” Major Timms said picking up a file and tapping it on the desk for effect. Tank thought about reinforcing the point that the key personnel from the 18th Brigade were at liberty and armed, here in the UK not in the deserts of the Middle East. That was a bigger priority to Tank than the ramifications that could potentially take place thousands of miles away. Major Timms was becoming increasingly concerned about political claptrap and less concerned about taking down terrorists in Tank’s opinion. Tank’s loyalty lay with the British public and he would ensure their safety at any cost. Westminster could worry about foreign diplomacy and political correctness, which was bullshit as far as Tank was concerned. He waved to the rest of the team and beckoned them into the goldfish bowl office.

  “What is the latest from the interrogation rooms?” the Major asked Faz as she walked into the room. She shot Tank a glance that indicated there was little progress so far. The longer the interviews went on the more obvious it was becoming that the detainees didn’t know anything of any value.

  “The only new information that we have is that there was a shooting incident at the Orford Arms yesterday, which involved foreigners,” Faz began. This was news to most of the team as the Brigade had refused to involve the police, even though two of its senior members were shot. Organisations like the 18th Brigade dealt with their issues internally.

  “According to the barmaid that we interviewed two Russian men walked into the Orford and asked to speak to Pete Dodge. There was an altercation in the back room and two Brigade Lieutenants were shot, one in the foot and one in the leg. Dodge’s right hand man is called Terry Nick and he was shot twice in the right foot with a 9mm weapon. The second man is still in a critical condition with a gunshot wound to the thigh and serious facial injuries. Apparently the Russians left through the back doors but no one seems to know what the altercation was about,” Faz finished shrugging her shoulders and took a seat next to Chen.