SOFT TARGET III Jerusalem (SOFT TARGET SERIES)

by Conrad Jones

  The helicopter engines drowned out any noise, so Yasser didn’t hear the footsteps approaching him. He still had a hessian hood over his head, which dulled his senses even further. Suddenly a size twelve combat boot crashed down on his shoulder and unbearable pain wracked his body. Yasser gritted his teeth together, and screamed in agony. He rolled away from his attacker and curled up in a ball, trying to shield a further attack. There was a tirade of abuse hurled in his direction, but it wasn’t in a language that he understood. The engine noise was deafening, but he thought his attacker might be speaking in a Greek dialect. Yasser had heard that several Eastern European countries were sympathetic to the West’s rendition programme. The guard could be from Macedonia or Albania, he wasn’t sure, and it didn’t really matter, but his survival instinct was telling him to gather as much information about his surroundings as he could.

  Yasser had trained several victims of American rendition in Pakistan, and he had learned some important facts from them. There was a consistent modus operandi. Victims were never transported by road, always by aircraft. Helicopters were used to carry prisoners to and from the jails. Commercial jets were chartered to transfer them across the international borders of sympathetic countries, where they would meet the helicopters to complete the journey. Victims of rendition were usually given enemas to negate the need for toilet breaks. They were fitted with a nappy and then drugged to make them compliant. If Yasser’s information was correct then the helicopter flight would be the first leg of a longer journey. At some point, his captures would strip him and subject him to an enema.

  When they did he would make his move, it wouldn’t matter if he died, because he was already as good as dead. If he reached his new destination alive then he would be locked up deep in a filthy dungeon, with a new set of interrogators and a new set of torture techniques. Once inside, its impenetrable walls and iron gates, the opportunity to escape would be zero. Yasser knew that he was too weak to endure any more torture, and his amputated arm was so infected that he could barely stand the smell of his own flesh rotting. He would soon succumb to septicaemia without medical attention. He would not allow himself to be imprisoned again. He would die first.

  Chapter Eleven

  Major Stanley Timms

  The Major was sitting at his desk when the telephone rang. It was the control room giving him an update on the developing situation in Holyhead. The agents that had rescued Chen were cold and wet, but otherwise uninjured. Chen was on the line to the control room.

  “Patch Chen through to my direct line,” the Major said. He was aware that a device had been planted on Chen’s vehicle, but the circumstances were confusing.

  “Hello Major,” Chen came on the line.

  “What happened there Chen?” asked the Major. “I have the preliminary reports, but they don’t make sense.”

  “I parked the Jeep on an approach road to the breakwater, about five hundred yards from where the dingy was found,” Chen explained. “I was walking through the scene with the local uniformed officers, for about forty minutes.”

  “That’s not enough time for the attack to be random. Did you notice anyone following you there?” the Major asked.

  “I didn’t notice anything untoward, but then why would there be?” Chen answered. “As far as I was concerned I was there to confirm the evidence was of genuine interest to us.”

  “Was the vehicle compromised, or had you secured it?” the Major pressed.

  “The vehicle was secured Major,” Chen replied. “Whoever attached that device was an expert. Obviously, we’ll know more when the forensic boys have finished, but our men said the device was fitted to the coil, wired into the electrics. It comprised of a mercury motion sensor and a timer. The device was high tech and the bombers were quick.”

  “Someone must have manufactured the bomb, and then followed you, waiting for an opportunity to attach it,” the Major speculated.

  The line buzzed indicating that there was another call coming through.

  “Sorry to interrupt Major,” said the switchboard operator, “Tank is on the line, he’s using the emergency channel.”

  “Put him through, and leave Chen on the line too please,” the Major ordered.

  “John, what’s happened?” the Major asked. He was aware that Tank had been attacked too, but wasn’t party to the facts yet.

  “Major, I’ve just taken out two insurgents armed with a CheyTac sniper rifle,” Tank began, “they were positioned in the graveyard, outside the church. Both men were Middle Eastern in origin. I can only assume they were targeting me.”

  “Are you injured John?” the Major asked, he stood up and walked to his office window, “Chen has been attacked this morning too.”

  “I’m fine Major, how is Chen?” Tank answered, concerned.

  “I’m okay Tank,” Chen answered for himself, “it sounds like the two incidents could be connected, and it’s too much of a coincidence for them not to be related.”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind that the attack here was well planned and aimed at me,” Tank said, “what happened to you Chen?”

  “I was investigating the men that jumped ship in Holyhead. When I returned to the Jeep it had been rigged,” Chen explained, “plastic explosive attached to a mercury switch and a timer.”

  “We need to assume that Task Force agents are being deliberately targeted Major,” Tank said, “We’ve got to make sure everyone is accounted for.”

  “We know where everyone is at the moment, but there’s one person that springs to mind as being very vulnerable,” the Major said. The line remained silent while they digested the information and then figured out the possible connotations. The Major turned away from the window and walked toward his desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he’d seen a flash in the distance.

  “I had to think about that for a minute,” Tank said, “you’re talking about Grace Farrington aren’t you?” Tank’s stomach twisted. Grace was lying helpless in a hospital with absolutely no security whatsoever.

  The Major was just about to answer, when a CheyTac bullet crashed through his office window, and hit him between the shoulder blades. It was like being hit with a sledgehammer. He was catapulted forward onto his desk. The Major tried to hold onto the edge of the desk, but consciousness was fading fast. He could only think about Grace being on her own, unprotected, when a second bullet smashed through his left shoulder, sending him into a spin, which landed him on the floor behind a metal filing cabinet. The Major crawled as close to the wall as he could, hiding his body from view of the window. As he drifted into unconsciousness, he could hear high velocity bullets slamming into the filing cabinets.

  Chapter Twelve

  Abu/ Grace

  Abu waited for all the commotion to quieten down before he decided what to do. This was supposed to be a straightforward assassination. The target was a cabbage; surely, he couldn’t possibly get this wrong. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but his target was surrounded by medical staff. Her family had been taken away crying, hopefully, she was dying anyway and he would be saved the job of killing her. He doubted it though, because he wasn’t that lucky.

  Abu’s family were once rich Palestinians and had lived in Jaffa, which is now part of Israel’s Tel Aviv. They once owned miles and miles of orange groves and orchards, which they farmed. Their fragile existence was shattered in 1948 when war broke out between the Arabs and the Israelis, and they were forced into exile in the West Bank as refugees. Abu had grown up in poverty, constantly reminded by his parents that they were once rich. His father couldn’t accept the loss of his wealth and he died from a broken heart when Abu was very young.

  Like many disenfranchised young Palestinian men, Abu’s only ambition was to join the Palestine Liberation Army and fight the Jews. When he reached the tender age of fourteen, Abu left home to fight. He had travelled to a training camp in Syria to learn how to use explosives, and that’s when he’d met Yasser Ahmed. Abu became a dedicated follower
of Ahmed’s teachings. Although Abu had been a dedicated soldier of Islam since an early age, he hadn’t received the recognition that he felt he deserved. Other Palestinians had climbed through the ranks of his organisation, while Abu was still a foot soldier. He was convinced that his family was cursed, forever unlucky.

  There was a sudden flurry of activity in his target’s room. To his dismay, his target was wheeled from her ward toward a large elevator, surrounded by a scrum of white coats. She couldn’t be dead; unfortunately, something else had happened, which was just Abu’s luck. The medical staff pushed her bed into the lift and the doors slid closed. He stood and watched the lights above the lift doors illuminate. The lights stopped at number five. She had been taken to the fifth floor.

  Abu headed back toward the stairwell and started to climb up to the fifth floor. As he began his ascent, the lights above the lift doors moved again. He passed visitors and hospital staff en route but no one paid the lowly cleaning staff any attention, as long as he didn’t loiter too long in one place his disguise rendered him invisible. He reached the door, which led into the ward, and he stopped to catch his breath. A combination of nerves and physical exertion was taking its toll. The doors to the stairwell burst open and two young doctors sprinted passed him down the stairs on their way to a critical emergency somewhere. Their voices faded as they turned on the stairs, quickly going out of sight. Abu’s heart was pounding with fright. Instinct told him to abort the mission, report to the others, and then assess if the woman was still a viable target. Abu and his affiliates were not on suicide missions, they were soldiers of Islam, assassins. Failure to complete a simple mission such as this would only add fuel to Abu’s self-loathing. He was always unlucky. This was another prime example. His target was supposed to be in a coma, helpless and easy to access.

  The ward doors stopped swinging, and Abu looked through the round porthole window to assess the situation. There was a wide-open area beyond the door, starkly illuminated by a raft of strip lights. Three beds were lined up along the walls to the left, only one of which was occupied. The occupant was white skinned. This couldn’t be his target. To the right was a metal machine, it was shaped like huge anvil with a tunnel bored through the middle of it. There was a throng of white coats standing next to it, and he could just see the feet of someone who had been put inside the machine. The feet were black with pink soles, but were dainty enough to be female. Abu guessed that his target was inside the big scanning machine. The group of doctors and nurses seemed to be discussing the situation; Abu watched them nodding their heads as there seemed to be a general consensus of opinion, and two nurses were headed straight toward him.

  Abu jumped up three stairs at a time to reach the sixth floor landing before the nurses entered the stairwell. He paused at the top of the flight of stairs and held his breath, waiting to see which direction they took. The doors opened and the nurses headed down the stairs toward the fourth floor. Abu breathed out and wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead.

  “I’ve never known anyone to show signs of motor neurone activity after so long comatose, have you?” the nurses chattered.

  “Never, it’s very unusual, but we’ll see what’s what when she’s done in the scanner, she’ll be in there an hour at least.”

  Abu checked his watch. He had heard what the nurses had said and deduced that his target was going to be in the scanner for an hour at least. Apart from the doctors who were initially around her, the ward only had one other occupant. Two of the doctors had already gone elsewhere, as had two of the nurses. He tiptoed back to the fifth floor doors and looked in. There was only one woman near the scanner, and she was sat behind a protective screen looking at a computer terminal. The other doctors were huddled at the far end of the ward, heading toward an alternative exit, which seemed to lead into an anti-ward beyond the doors. His target was inside the machine and the other patient was unconscious in her bed. He reached inside his cleaner’s overalls and touched the cold handle of his revolver.

  He decided to wait fifteen minutes. If the scan took an hour the doctors would probably leave, and then return when it was completed. He headed back up to the sixth floor landing and looked for the cleaner’s cupboard. Abu needed a mop and bucket to get him into the ward without arousing suspicion. He found it just to the side of the elevator doors on the sixth floor, but unluckily it was locked, typical. Abu used a pocketknife to twist the lock open. Inside the cupboard, he found three empty mop buckets, red, yellow and green, and the corresponding mops. He wasn’t sure why they were different colours but it didn’t matter. He grabbed the nearest one and waited inside the cupboard, relieving himself in the cleaner`s sink while he had the opportunity. He hadn’t realised how badly he needed to urinate until he saw the sink. His nerves were taut and the next fifteen minutes would feel like an age.

  Abu opened the cupboard door fifteen minutes later, and headed down the stairs to the fifth floor, carrying his red mop bucket and yellow mop. He reached the ward doors and looked inside. He couldn’t believe his luck. The ward was empty apart from the two patients that he had seen earlier, one white asleep in bed, the other black in the scanner. The doctor that had been studying the computer readout had gone. Abu pushed the doors open with his mop bucket and stepped into the ward. He double-checked that the ward was empty and then headed toward the scanner.

  The machine was emanating a humming noise as he approached it. He took his revolver from his waistband, clicked off the safety and checked that the noise suppressor was screwed on tightly. He pointed the gun into the scanner aiming for his target’s abdomen and fired. The gun clicked and nothing happened. Abu stared at the pistol in disgust. How much bad luck can one person possibly have? The bullet was a dud. He pointed the gun into the scanner a second time and pulled the trigger. This time the gun worked perfectly. Abu kept pulling the trigger until the remaining five bullets had been discharged into his target. The protruding black feet twitched every time a bullet slammed into the body.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tank

  John Tankersley didn’t need a picture drawing to tell him that the Terrorist Task Force was under attack from a resourceful and determined enemy. Chen had survived being bombed, Tank had foiled two snipers, and the Major was en route to hospital in a critical condition. If it hadn’t been for the thunderstorm at his grandmother`s funeral, then Tank wouldn’t have spotted the snipers in the Mercedes van. The Task Force had dispatched two combat units to impound the Syrian vessel in Holyhead harbour; another was heading to the high dependency unit at Liverpool’s Royal hospital, to protect Grace Farrington. Chen and Tank had agreed to meet at the hospital, after all, the Major and Grace would already be there. His cell phone rang.

  “Tank, where are you? We think the shooter was positioned in the St. Johns tower,” said Ryan Griffin. Ryan was on secondment to the Task Force from the Royal Signals regiment. Using reverse trajectory, they could pinpoint where the sniper had fired his shot.

  “Good job Ryan,” Tank said. “Set up a cordon around the city centre. I want the bastard found.”

  “Roger that Tank. We’re there now, my men are surrounding the place, and uniform divisions are evacuating the area as we speak.”

  “Be sharp Ryan, these people are very good, very good indeed. Keep me posted I`ll be at the hospital until I know the Major and Grace Farrington are safe,” Tank said, ending the call. The rain was still hammering down, making driving conditions dangerous. He needed to concentrate on the road ahead. He needed to reach Grace. He dropped the Shogun into fourth gear and stepped on the gas, accelerating the vehicle past the safari park toward Prescott Road. The road led directly into Liverpool city centre, and the Royal hospital, where his two colleagues were clinging to life by a thread. The route through Huyton was painless but the traffic thickened as he approached the McDonalds drive thru in Page Moss.

  Tank opened his window and stuck a magnetic blue flashing light on the roof of his Mitsibushi. He switched it on a
nd floored the accelerator, reaching eighty miles an hour in seconds. Tank turned up the heater, trying to dry off his damp suit. He felt chilled to the bone, but he didn’t think it was anything to do with the constant thunderstorm. Ten minutes later, he was pulling into the hospital car park. He headed for the main entrance and screeched to a halt in front of the revolving glass doors.

  A security guard stepped out and was about to object when Tank flashed his badge. He gave the guard his keys and told him to park the vehicle, and leave the keys behind reception. The guard nodded and climbed into the driver’s seat. Two agents in full combat gear approached him, carrying Mossberg pump action shotguns. They were Task Force men. Across the reception area, Tank saw uniformed policemen carrying weapons. They nodded but looked confused and concerned to see Terrorist Task Force agents on the scene. Tank hadn’t asked an armed response unit to attend, so someone else must have called them. Uniformed armed response only attended confirmed shooting incidents, and as far as Tank was aware, no one in the hospital had been shot.

  “How’s the Major?” Tank asked the first agent.

  “He’s in pretty bad shape Tank, he took two in the back. He’s lost a lot of blood; they’re operating on him now.”