SOFT TARGET III Jerusalem (SOFT TARGET SERIES)

by Conrad Jones

  “The Syrian sailors seen deserting were only reported two hours after we found this lot,” said the second officer shrugging his shoulders and slurring a Welsh accent.

  “What’s your name officer?” asked Chen smiling.

  “PC Frank Burton sir,” the uniformed officer replied. He was ruddy faced and looked like he had spent many years in the boxing ring, the disfigured shape of his nose indicated that he needed to work on his defence.

  “Ok Frank, have you interviewed anyone on the Syrian ship yet?” Chen asked.

  “No sir, we haven’t, because they have refused us permission to board, and no one on the ship seems to speak English,” officer Burton replied, flushing red with embarrassment.

  “When is she due to leave dock?” asked Chen. He was reaching for his cell phone. He flipped it open and waited for officer Burton to answer.

  “Today sir, that’s why I said it was so urgent when we spoke on the telephone. They’re stalling us hoping that we’ll just leave them alone, but marine law states that we can’t board a foreign ship when it’s harboured, without the captain’s permission,” the policeman replied, proudly quoting verbatim from the maritime legal code.

  “Good point Frank, but don’t worry. That ship is going nowhere until we know who jumped off it. We suspect the people who left that ship could be wanted terrorists, which means your men can board it with my authority,” Chen explained as he dialled the Task Force headquarters. “I want your officers to impound that vessel until we can get Task Force agents here. Don’t take any nonsense, use an Armed Response Unit and arrest everyone onboard. I want answers.” Chen was connected to headquarters and the uniformed officers headed back toward where the vehicles had been parked. It was a long walk in the pouring rain and they jogged most of it.

  “Hello, it’s Chen, is Tank there?”

  “I’m afraid not sir, he is at a funeral today. The Major is in the office and he’s asked me to contact you. Shall I connect you?” asked the operator.

  “Yes put me through.”

  “Hello Chen, have you made any progress there?” the Major came on the line.

  “There is evidence of a number of people leaving a Syrian vessel Major, they had an inflatable and fresh clothing waiting for them. It’s not your average asylum seekers jumping ship, this was a well planned, well executed operation,” Chen said, “I have ordered the local uniformed guys to board her and impound the crew. I need two squads to meet me at the boat as soon as possible sir.”

  “I will despatch red and blue teams to you immediately, we need to be thorough Chen. We’ve received information from our man in Israel that six members of Axe have dropped off the radar, and could be heading here. We can’t substantiate the information, but they could be trying to carry out a high profile assassination attempt.” There was a link forming and it was beginning to look like the two situations were connected. The fact that the terrorist cell had possibly already arrived was very worrying indeed.

  “Do you think that they could be here already? How old is the information?” Chen asked as he started walking back toward his Jeep. He pulled up his collar to keep out the driving rain.

  “We have no way of knowing, I’m afraid the informant was under Israelis interrogation and is no longer with us. We must assume that they’re already here, worst case scenario,” answered the Major sternly.

  “We’ll be onboard within the hour Major, I’ll establish coms as soon as we have something to report,” Chen closed his phone and put it in his trouser pocket before it could be soaked. He waved to PC Frank Burton and his colleague as they left in their police car, their wheels span in the gravel as they drove off. The uniformed officer was using the radio microphone as the car pulled away from the breakwater, already organising an armed unit to board the Syrian vessel. A huge wave hit the breakwater and Chen was splashed with salty sea spray. The wind was picking up and it started to rain even harder. The weather was closing in as he reached his Jeep. Chen opened the door and climbed into the driver`s seat, pleased to be out of the rain. He’d got to the Jeep just in time as he inserted the ignition keys the heavens opened and torrential rain battered his vehicle, and the wind shook it.

  He was about to turn the keys and start the engine when he noticed a strange fragrance. Chen’s father still owned a Chinese restaurant in Liverpool’s China town. Chen was familiar with the many herbs and spices that were used in Chinese cooking, as he had spent countless hours in his father’s kitchen watching the chefs creating their culinary masterpieces. This smell reminded him of the kitchen but it was alien to his Jeep. It was the wrong smell in the wrong place. His expert intuition clicked into overdrive, something was wrong. Something was very wrong indeed. The spice that he could smell was Turmeric, a bright yellow powder with a very distinct fragrance. Chen looked around the vehicle, searching for anything that appeared to be out of place. Chen recalled that the spice was widely used in curried food, especially the type of food cooked in Asia and the Middle East. Its fragrance was so strong that the people that consumed it on a regular basis often smelled of the spice because it is excreted from the pores in the skin.

  Someone had been in the Jeep while he was on the breakwater. He started to sweat. The wind blew and the rain poured. The Jeep trembled slightly as the Atlantic winds blew around it. Chen lowered his head slowly beneath the dashboard, trying to see if the steering column had been tampered with. The plastic casing was offset; it had been removed recently and not replaced properly. On the floor of the foot well, beneath the brake pedal, was a tiny piece of plastic coated wire filament. The coating was bright yellow with a black spiral running around it. The Jeep had been valet cleaned two days earlier. Chen hadn’t been exposed to any electronic materials since it had been cleaned. Someone else had dropped that wire in his Jeep, and the only reason anyone would need wire filament was to plant a sophisticated explosive device.

  The wind howled beneath the Jeep, rocking it. Chen sat up in the driver’s seat and reached for his cell phone very slowly, the slightest vibration could trigger a motion sensor. He was absolutely convinced that there was a booby-trap bomb attached to his vehicle.

  Chapter 3

  Nasik

  Nasik parked the battered old Citroen van in a multi-storey car park on Mount Pleasant, Liverpool city centre. He had stolen it the day before from outside a house in a suburb of Warrington called Orford. It looked like a million other work vans that took to the roads every day, spotted with rust and dented. The van had belonged to a self-employed tradesman who ran a small carpet cleaning business. The unfortunate owner was still sunning himself on a beach in Florida, completely unaware that his livelihood had been stolen. The terrorist cell, that he belonged to, would be able to use the van for days before it would be reported stolen. Nasik had covered the advertising decals with aerosol paint, and swapped the registration plates to complete the disguise. Even if it were reported stolen, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

  He turned off the engine and stepped out of the vehicle. Nasik was wearing a white canvas boiler suit, the type that painters favour, and a new pair of Adidas training shoes. He opened the rear doors of the van and removed a tough resin toolbox. Home improvement warehouses advertised them as tough boxes. The box was the size of a large suitcase, fitted with wheels and a pop up handle so that it could be moved easily. It was also designed to be used as a makeshift seat or a stepladder, and could comfortably withstand the weight of an adult male. Nasik put a baseball cap on his head and was a little shocked when a tuft of hair came away from his scalp in his fingers. He looked at the strands for a long moment, and then folded cotton dustsheets over his arm and carried on as if nothing was wrong. He extended the handle on the massive toolbox and set off toward the busy town centre.

  When Nasik stepped out of the car park the persistent rain intensified, large raindrops bounced off the pavement soaking the bottom of his overalls immediately. He looked around to find his bearings and referred to a tourist m
ap that he had been given the night before. To his right, up the hill was the Catholic cathedral, known to the locals as Paddy’s wigwam, because of its distinctive conical shape. It dominated the skyline and looked like a giant chess piece topped with a stained glass crown weighing hundreds of tons. Nasik was fascinated by the building, but he had to blink to clear the pelting rain from his eyes.

  To his left, down the hill, the busy metropolis was already buzzing with life, despite the early hour. A twenty feet tall naked statue of a man stood above the door of a large retail building. It was situated at the junction of a major traffic intersection. Nasik found the volume of traffic intimidating, as it was completely alien to him. The concrete landscape that surrounded him was a strange, noisy frightening world. He walked through the rain past a colossal hotel called the Adelphi, it was built from white marble blocks and tall roman columns adorned the front of the building, atop wide sweeping stone steps.

  He pulled up the collars on his overalls to try to stop the rain from seeping in, but to no avail. The temperature in his homeland never dipped below thirty degrees Celsius, and he was struggling to acclimatise. He’d seen rain only twice in his life. The wind blew off the river and seemed to penetrate his clothes; he hadn’t been warm since he had arrived in this god-forsaken country. Nasik jumped with fright as lightning forked across the dark sky, thunder rumbled seconds later. He steeled himself against the wind and rain, and walked faster toward his destination.

  Nasik was born in the part of Israel known as the West Bank. Muslims, Christians and Jews had fought over this disputed territory for centuries, but in 1948, religious conflict resulted in millions of Palestinians being forced from their own country and being exiled in the West Bank. It became a breeding ground for suicide bombers in recent years, and they have taken a terrible toll from the Israeli people. Israel adopted a policy of zero tolerance against the Muslim populations in the West Bank and Gaza strip. When a suicide bomber was identified, the Israelis launched brutal search and destroy missions into Gaza and the West Bank, which targeted their families. The homes of the bomber`s families were demolished by tanks and bulldozers, in retaliation for any attack on Israeli soil.

  Nasik was born to one such family, who were distantly related to a Muslim extremist, who chose to blow himself up on a bus packed with Jewish workers. Nasik and his family were dragged from their home and could only watch, helpless as the Israelis demolished it. The search and destroy missions were supposed to send a message of warning to the wider Muslim community, that insurgency would not be tolerated. Homeless, Nasik left the West Bank and headed for a religious camp situated in the deserts of northern Somalia. It was there that he became a dedicated follower of the legendary Yasser Ahmed. He trained for four years in the camp under the direct supervision of Yasser.

  Nasik had a forte with a sniper rifle, and he became an excellent marksman, eventually teaching the newer recruits how to shoot. For many years, he had been focused on the Muslim struggle that affected him the most, Israel. The wider struggle only became an issue when Yasser Ahmed was captured. Now he had been given the opportunity to use his skills on a mission that would have a global impact, and take revenge for his leader.

  Nasik dragged his toolbox half a mile across the busy city centre, all the time keeping his destination in clear view. As he approached it, the sheer size of it shocked him. He stood beneath it and stared upward, his jaw hung open slightly. The St. John’s tower was attached to a large two-storey shopping mall. The tower was seventy-five feet in diameter and over two hundred feet tall. It was a perfect cylindrical shape, until near the top of the structure, where there was a large disc shaped section. It looked like a flying saucer had landed on top of the tower. The disk shaped section had originally been a restaurant, which revolved imperceptibly offering breathtaking views of the city. In more recent times, it had become the home of a local radio station, called Radio City. The building was currently undergoing major refurbishment, which ousted its tenants to a temporary site, and that’s what Nasik’s plan depended on.

  At the base of the tower at street level, there was a stainless steel door. The door concertinaed to reveal a goods lift. To the right of the door was a keyhole, which activated the service elevator. It was used to transport deliveries and heavy equipment to the old restaurant area situated at the top of the tower. Nasik fumbled in his pocket for the bunch of keys that he had been given the previous evening. They’d been labelled and marked with coloured plastic tape to save him time on the mission. He flicked through them until he found one that had been labelled, ‘lift 1’. His hand was visibly shaking as he inserted the key into the lock and twisted it. It didn’t budge. Nasik cursed under his breath and twisted the key in the opposite direction. The key turned and he heard the lift spring into life behind the steel doors. The elevator car clunked into its place in the lift shaft, and a bell rang as the door slid open. He stepped inside, dragging the toolbox out of the torrential rain. Nasik opened the dustsheets that he had carried with him and used the dry pieces to wipe the rain from his hands and face. He was cold and wet through; his hands were numb and still shaking. He took a deep breath to compose himself. Nasik took a packet of cigarettes from the toolbox. He flipped open the lid and tried to remove one with his fingers but they refused to work. He put the packet to his lips and used his front teeth to take out a cigarette. Nasik lit the cigarette with a match and inhaled deeply. The warm smoke soothed his jangled nerves momentarily and he held it in his lungs as long as he could, enjoying the sensation and its calming effect.

  Suddenly the lift jerked and started to ascend as if it had a mind of its own. Nasik pressed the buttons on the panel to stop it, but it carried on upward. Someone in the old restaurant at the top of the tower had pressed the call button; it was supposed to be empty today. Nasik dropped his cigarette on the floor and stood on it. He reached into the toolbox and removed Colt .357. Then he opened a small compartment in the box, and took out a two-inch suppressor, which he screwed onto the barrel. He slipped the silenced gun inside his overalls, and closed the toolbox. It felt like an age passed as the elevator climbed two hundred feet toward the old restaurant. Nasik was stood facing the doors when the bell rang and they slid open.

  Chapter 4

  Grace Farrington

  Grace Farrington was the Terrorist Task Force’s number one agent below Tank. She was in a critical condition in a high dependency unit, at Liverpool’s Royal hospital. The hospital specialised in long-term coma care. Grace had been shot twice during an incursion into Soviet held Chechnya, on a top-secret mission. The high velocity bullets, which ripped into her body, had been fired by the nefarious terrorist leader, Yasser Ahmed. The surgeons had removed her spleen, which had left her susceptible to infection. The physical wounds had healed well, but her body had gone into traumatic shock and switched off her brain as a defensive reaction. She was breathing for herself but nothing more.

  Despite strict Task Force regulations about interdepartmental relationships, Tank was her lover and soul mate. He had spent every spare minute at her bedside reading newspapers aloud, or just telling her what was happening at work.

  Tank didn’t really believe that Grace would wake up, and neither did the doctors that were honest enough to be straight with him. What they didn’t know was that she was becoming more aware of what was going on around her. She knew when visitors were next to her bed, especially Tank. She could recognise his voice. Grace had heard her father and mother fussing around her bed, as if she were a little girl, not a senior member of the Terrorist Task Force. There were other voices but she couldn’t distinguish them all. Grace knew in her subconscious that something bad had happened to her, but she couldn’t remember what it was. There were vivid memories of terrible pain and a noisy helicopter journey, then nothing. Her body still hurt sometimes but not as bad as it had. Grace sensed that she was healing and would become more aware as time went by. She also knew that she needed to wake up soon, but not just yet.

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nbsp; On the morning of the funeral, Grace was aware that her father was sitting next to the bed, and that her mother was fussing around putting water into a vase. Auntie somebody had sent fresh flowers. She was also aware that Tank hadn’t been there today, which her subconscious told her was unusual. Grace was stressed, and her heightened awareness knew that something wasn’t right. Her brain was starting to function again, as if someone was walking through an empty building turning on all the lights.

  Her right hand twitched, she wasn’t sure how she’d made it move, but it felt good. The movement shocked her father so much that he wasn’t sure if she had actually moved at all, or if he had imagined it. Grace had an overwhelming sense of dread and she felt that she had to escape the dark helpless world that she dwelled in. She needed to return to the real world because something bad was going to happen. Her index finger twitched again.

  “Doctor, nurse, someone get in here quickly!” her father pressed the emergency button next to Grace`s bed. A nurse entered wearing a starched white uniform, which didn’t flatter her curvy hips, and black nylons. She had black hair pulled back harshly from her face, and tied up on top of her head in a bun. Her forehead was covered in acne, large red angry spots clustered across her skin, reaching into her hairline. Her shoes clicked on the vinyl floor as she walked. She looked tired and disinterested, there was little to no hope that this coma victim was going to recover. She couldn’t understand why the visitors were making such a fuss. She silenced the alarm.