SOFT TARGET III Jerusalem (SOFT TARGET SERIES)

by Conrad Jones

  “So you know who they are, where they’re from, all we need to know now is where they are and what they’re going to do next,” she said.

  “We think that we have an idea of what they’re planning, and it’s not good news I’m afraid,” Tank said.

  “Okay, let’s get all the cards on the table agent Tankersley, don’t beat around the bush,” she said in a manner that made it obvious why she was in the position that she was.

  “We’ve found traces of radioactive substances on board the tanker, cobalt and strontium, they can be used to make a dirty bomb,” Tank explained. The line remained silent and Tank signalled to David Bell to explain in layman’s terms, what the worst-case scenario would be.

  “Secretary Walsh, the initial explosion of a terrorist dirty bomb, is unlikely to result in many deaths, relatively speaking.” The Fat controller shrugged the last two words to emphasise their importance.

  “What do you mean, relatively speaking?” Janet Walsh asked, sounding a little irritated by the flippant use of the phrase.

  “Technically a dirty bomb is not a weapon of mass destruction. It is however a weapon of mass disruption. Its purpose would be to create psychological panic, mass hysteria, and terror, through ignorance. The containment and decontamination of thousands of displaced, panic-stricken people would be extremely expensive, and a logistical nightmare. Add to that the rendering of the affected area unusable and you have an economic disaster,” he finished with a smile, removed his glasses and cleaned them again on his tie.

  “Fucking hell,” the Prime Minister’s secretary swore for the first time in ten years.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Boris/ Kenneth/ Fernando

  Boris filled a small tin kettle with bottled water, and then put it on to a gas stove to boil. He took three paper cups from a sleeve and put a pyramid tea bag into each one, along with a splash of milk, and one teaspoon full of sugar. His sons took their tea the same way he did, white with one sugar. They parted their unkempt blonde hair the same way he did, pulled the same faces when they talked, and used all the same facial expressions. Both of them supported the same football team, Liverpool, the same cricket team, Lancashire, the same rugby league team, St Helens, as their sport mad dad. They were two chips off the old block.

  The boys had become clingy after their mother’s suicide; they rang him every evening from boarding school before they went to their dormitory. The time they spent together during school holidays was incredibly precious to them. Boris took them to watch football matches as often as they could get tickets, but their real passion was wrestling. They couldn’t get enough of the American entertainment sport, the character names, the incredible athleticism of the competitors and the razzmatazz captured their young imaginations. They were forever rehearsing wrestling moves and re-enacting classic match ups, providing their own running commentary for an imaginary crowd of thousands, usually ending up with one or both of them in tears.

  Boris heard his youngest son, Fernando rummaging around, the zip on his sleeping bag opened noisily. Then the zip on the compartment flysheet opened and Fernando’s scruffy head appeared.

  “What time is it dad?” he asked.

  “It’s time to get up lazy bones,” Boris said ruffling his son’s hair.

  “What time is it really?”

  “Tea time,” Boris said pouring hot water into the three paper cups.

  “Dad, what’s the real time, stop messing about,” Fernando said and he play punched his dad on the shoulder.

  “I don’t know, my watch is in the car son,” Boris said.

  “Well I know what time it is any way,” Fernando said unzipping the flysheet to his brother’s bedroom compartment. “It’s show time!” he said as he launched himself on top of his sleeping brother.

  “Stone Cold drops in the people’s elbow, followed by a Hulkster leg drop,” Fernando commentated for the imaginary crowd. He dropped onto his brother and struck him with the back of his elbow. The he stood up and jumped on him again, this time striking with the heel of his foot.

  “Get off me you little knobhead!” Kenneth shouted at his younger brother, but he couldn’t move because he was pinned inside his sleeping bag. Fernando made the most of his brother’s inability to strike back. He stood up quickly and then jumped on him again knees first.

  “He delivers the Tombstone, it’s got to be over now, and the crowd are on their feet, they’re going mad,” Fernando shouted as he knocked the wind out of his brother.

  “Aaah! You little git,” Kenneth moaned.

  “Kenneth stop swearing at your brother, I hope you don’t use language like that at school young man,” Boris said, “and get off your brother Fernando, this is a tent not Madison Square Garden.”

  Fernando climbed off his brother and grabbed his tea. He sat next to his dad, who ruffled his hair again.

  “You could cause trouble in an empty room, young man,” Boris said laughing, “come and get your tea Kenneth.”

  Kenneth lumbered out of his pit and sat down on the opposite side of his father. Boris handed him the cup of hot tea, which he took with one hand, while his other hand reached behind his father and pushed Fernando’s head forward, just as he was about to sip his drink. Fernando burnt his lip on the scalding liquid, and spilt it down his top.

  “Dad, look what he made me do, you little knobhead,” Fernando shouted at his brother.

  “You asked for that, and you’re the knobhead not me,” Kenneth said.

  “Will you two stop saying that terrible word; I will not tolerate you swearing at each other, what would your mother think?” Boris used his last resort. Mentioning her name always shut them up for a minute or two. The boys were silent while they finished their tea, and Boris started to feel guilty again. He shouldn’t have said that. The boys sat either side of him in silence, holding their cups of tea to their lips. He decided to lighten the mood. He timed it perfectly, placing his own tea on the groundsheet unnoticed, and then play slapping the boys on the back of the head simultaneously, spilling their hot tea.

  “No way dad, that’s just not cricket!” cried Kenneth wiping tea from his jumper.

  “Get him! Let’s tag team him,” said Fernando as he pounced on his father knocking him backwards off his little camping stool.

  “I’m doing a choke slam,” Kenneth shouted and he tried to grab his dad round the neck.

  “I’m doing the three amigos,” Fernando said as he began a series of three star jumps around the tent, before finally pouncing on his hysterical father. The three of them ended up in twisted melee of arms and legs, chuckling until they thought they would cry.

  “Boris stopped laughing first. He’d turned slightly to catch his breath. Then Fernando and Kenneth followed their father’s gaze, confused at why he had stopped laughing. The three of them sat silently staring at a man dressed in motorcycle leathers, and still wearing a full-face helmet. He was pointing a huge ugly Bulldog revolver at them, fitted with a suppressor.

  Boris died first as two fat dumdum bullets smashed into his chest. Fernando and Kenneth followed immediately after. Their bodies were found two days later when the campsite manger received complaints about the smell coming from the tent, and the audible buzzing of a million blowflies.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Yasser Ahmed

  Yasser was sat in his cage with his back against the mesh. The sun was just coming up over the desert from the east behind the long low mountains in the distance. The rising sun cast them in dark shadows giving them a forbidding appearance. It was the third sunrise he had witnessed from the wire compound that had become his home, and he relished the time he’d spent there. It seemed like a lifetime since he had been in the open air with the blazing sun on his skin. Even his festering shoulder had displayed signs of drying up slightly. Scabs were starting to harden where running sores had been days before, as the healing power of the sunshine and fresh air worked its magic.

  The same three Eygptian men had guarded h
im since he’d arrived. The pilot was also still on site along with the helicopter engineer that had stamped on his shoulder, making five of them. Yasser dreamed of spending some quality time alone with engineer. He needed to learn the meaning of respect. The man had hurt Yasser for no other reason than the fact that he could do so, with no consequences. Yasser had killed and maimed hundreds, but he had a cause. He was a general fighting a war that had raged since Islam`s conception. The engineer had no such cause, and he needed a lesson in humility.

  The Egyptian guards were all inside the small felt roofed building that adjoined his cage. Yasser could hear them talking, laughing, and even squabbling over a game of cards every now and again. The smell of spicy food drifted from the open windows making his mouth water, he hadn’t eaten for three days now. One of the guards with a non-descriptive olive green uniform and high leather jackboots had come outside every two hours on the dot, to give him water. Yasser decided that when the time came he would give the man water, in return for the compassion that he had shown. No one forced him to bring water out to Yasser. The guard refused to speak, just nodding when Yasser thanked him for his kindness, but conversation was not what Yasser needed right now. He needed the opportunity to slit the guard’s throat, steal his weapon, slaughter the others and escape. He’d kill them all except the guard that had stamped on his ruined shoulder, he`d spend some time alone with him before he left this remote airfield.

  As the sun climbed higher, the structure of the distant aircraft hangar became visible. The three bright yellow airplanes still hadn’t moved, and they shimmered in the morning light as the heat haze rose from the runway tarmac. The sky above him was the most incredible blue colour, and yet the horizon was still dark.

  He wasn’t sure at first because the distant skyline was still just a strip of dark blue, speckled with fading stars, but there was movement on the horizon. As the fading strip of night sky shrunk below the distant horizon, tiny shapes appeared far away across the desert. Some of the shapes were small, some much taller swaying slightly. As time went by, he realised that the taller shapes were Camels. He could hardly believe that there were men walking, and men riding camels across the barren wasteland toward him.

  Bedouin tribes had crisscrossed the deserts of Africa and the Middle East for centuries. They were traditionally extended every courtesy by anyone they met. They were given fresh water and traded food supplies with the small communities that they stumbled across. It was seen as bad luck to refuse the Bedouin the opportunity to replenish their water supplies. Yasser watched for hours as the caravan approached the airfield, a dust cloud created by the camels followed their progress. He didn’t know if they would continue on their travels without stopping for water, or if they would ask the guards for supplies. He could only sit and wait, and pray.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Terrorist Task Force

  Graham Libby was the Task Force scientific advisor, forensic and ballistic expert, coroner and all round brain box. He was sifting through the mountain of information that had been gathered from the St John’s incident. His laboratory was a long rectangular shaped room lined with metal racking, designed for separating and storing evidence during analysis. The main body of the lab was dissected by three workbenches, each of which could be utilised from both sides, simultaneously. The benches held a line of implements and medical appliances positioned along the middle of the work surface, allowing several technicians to work simultaneously from opposite sides of the table. The evidence racks were already full to bursting point, packed with labelled brown paper bags. Uniformed policemen continued to bring more and more items in for analyses, which were now being lined up on the laboratory floor.

  Tank entered the lab and made a beeline for the scientist.

  “I’ve got your message, anything new to report Graham?”

  “Come and look at this,” the scientist said excitedly.

  He led Tank to a workbench that had the tattered remains of a bloodstained suit spread out on it. He switched off the desk lamps and turned on an ultraviolet torch. The material at the back of the jacket had a patchy glow, as if luminous talcum powder had been sprinkled on it. Tank looked at Graham Libby for an explanation.

  “This is the suit worn by the booby trapped body in the lift at the bottom of the tower. Since we received the information about the radioactive substances from the Syrian vessel, we’ve scanned everything with a Geiger counter, the suit is contaminated.”

  “So was it in contact with the same radioactive substances that we found on the ship?” Tank quizzed.

  “Oh, I can’t tell you that I’m afraid, only that it was in close proximity to a radioactive field recently,” the scientist explained.

  “I can tell you that the levels displayed by this material are mirrored by contamination readings that we took from the lift itself. The most convincing evidence however is that it is emitting both beta and gamma radiation.” He went along the bench to a set of black and white negatives, which pictured a badly buckled, blood stained lift car. There was a square smudge on the floor, highlighted by ultraviolet light, about three feet square.

  “Beta and gamma radiation, and that matches with the profiles for cobalt and strontium. Is that the imprint of a device?” Tank asked remembering what the fat controller had said about how much damage a suitcase dirty bomb could cause. Worse still, he was thinking that it was evidence that the radioactive material was actually in Liverpool city centre somewhere.

  “Not necessarily no, it tells us that a container was placed into that lift car that was either radioactive itself, or contained radioactive materials, but look at this, I haven’t even started yet.”

  The scientist rubbed his hands together. He stepped sideways further down the bench, obviously following a scientific trail of analysed evidence. Tank rubbed his blue eyes as he tried to follow the doctor through the vagueness and speculation of a scientific investigation. It was probably very interesting if you’re a scientist, but just plain frustrating as the investigating team looking for concrete answers. There didn’t seem to be anything specific yet and he didn’t have time for indicators, might be and possibly, maybe and could be. He needed solid leads to follow.

  The next set of negatives showed the incinerated remains of the old restaurant. The charred skeleton of a human being, grinned a macabre toothy smile. On the floor to the left of the remains was another rectangular smudge that glowed blue. Tank nodded, whoever put the container in the lift also removed it at the top of the tower.

  “The explosion in the tower, it wasn’t what you’re insinuating was it?” Tank asked confused. The fat controller had told them that the actual explosion of a dirty bomb would be no different to any other detonation in character. There would be no terrifying black mushroom cloud collapsing in on itself, identifying it as containing nuclear isotopes. There would be a big bang and then people would start getting sick.

  “What? Oh no, it wasn’t a dirty bomb. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression, although it would have been the ideal place to explode one, being so far above the city, prevailing winds and so on, it could contaminate most of the North West,” Graham Libby explained matter of factly.

  “The tower has been checked for anything that could have been left there, and the area is clear, so where did the container go?” Tank said. Graham Libby picked up a stack of negatives. He placed the first one on the desk and then stacked the others one at a time on top of the first one. They showed the wide arcing stairwell that led from the top of the tower to the shopping centre below. The stairs showed the same patchy blue smudges on random steps, as if someone had carried the container a distance, and then placed it down to rest. The further down the stairwell the photos pictured, the more frequent the smudges could be seen, as if the fugitive was becoming increasingly tired.

  “Where does this trail lead to,” Tank asked the obvious question, growing bored of the scientist’s enthusiasm for his work. He needed answers, how the science lab arrived at
the answer didn’t matter right now.

  “I’m just getting to that,” the doctor replied stiffly, a little disappointed that Tank wasn’t incredibly impressed with how clever he was.

  “Please get to the point Graham, there could be a device out there somewhere heading for god knows where, about to be detonated,” Tank spoke quietly and kept his voice at an even pitch. The tech boys had obviously done a great job but Tank had terrorists to catch. The pictures followed a luminous trail down the stairwell, into the shopping mall and out onto an exterior balcony. There it seemed to disappear.

  “The trail ends here at this balcony,” the scientist said gruffly.

  Tank remained silent and folded his arms waiting for Graham Libby to proceed. He was testing his patience now. The last thing that Tank needed right now was a sulky science officer. He knew the doctor was gagging to explain his theory, so he waited for him to crack first. It took just a few seconds. Graham Libby cleared his throat and continued.