Three Faces of West (2013)

by Christian Shakespeare

  “OK fine, how do you want to work it?” He said suspiciously,

  “You take the ground floor; I’ll take the attic upstairs. I suggest you get your pistol ready.”

  “Right” Said John as he drew the Walther. In truth he already knew this, but he did not make an argument. As Jack moved off up toward a metallic fire escape round the corner, John slowly approached the door, pistol raised, primed for anything or anyone who may be inside.

  He opened the plastic door very slowly, the barrel of his gun forming the vanguard of his approach. He was met with a large open plan space, a mainly barren interior except for two individuals sitting at a wooden table close to the centre of the floor. Wearing scruffy looking clothes, at least one of them was bandaged around the head and shoulders. It seemed like a rather nasty injury. A small winching crane lurked in the background.

  Still unnoticed John looked around the room; various crates and containers were placed around the walls of the room but nothing immediately out of place. A small brown chest like container butted up against the wall to the right that looked different to the others that interested John but the immediate priority was the two figures at the table. Keeping his weapon drawn he slowly encroached upon them; it was only a matter of time before they spotted him and they did so after only a couple of steps. Looking up, they both flinched startlingly as they saw John pistol pointed at them, attempting to get up triggered the warning,

  “Sit down!! Alright who are you?” He said sternly with the gun barrel fixed upon his line of sight. The two men just froze for a split second, until the one who was not injured flinched again,

  “Careful!” Warned John, “Stay seated, now tell me, who are you?”

  “We say nothing!!” Said a voice from a darkened corner near come packing crates. Still with weapons raised, John peered to his right to see where the words came from. A third man, as scruffy as the others lightly walked towards him, his own pistol raised straight at John, a standoff ensured,

  “You should leave while you still can.” He said, but John wasn’t going to go anywhere,

  “You don’t sound English. Russians?” John replied as he turned his gun to the new arrival,

  “Yes.” The guns were still pointed at each other, nervous fingers on the trigger, both men’s eyes never leaving each other, waiting for the first one to crack.

  Upstairs the attic was completely deserted as Jack opened the fire escape at the top of the emergency staircase. It wasn’t very well lit apart from the main source of light, a decent sized window at the front end. It was enough to see around as Jack climbed inside. Closing the door behind him he could hear the muffled sounds from below, he knew John had made contact. The diversion below gave Jack the chance to look around the dusty, cobwebbed swept room filled with empty boxes and odd bits of equipment; one such was the operation to some kind of winch or crane. The large green mechanism lay dormant at one side of the attic compartment, but didn’t look like it would be starting anytime soon. Continuing his look, Jack made his way down to another side,

  “What’s that?” He said as he stumbled. Picking the object up he held in his hands a length of rubber belt, obviously made for industrial purposes,

  “Probably belongs on that winch back there.) He thought to himself. He set it back down carefully in a place where he knew he could pick it back up again, for he was certain he would require it. Continuing his investigation there was another box in the corner, cardboard and partially open which caught Jack’s attention which somehow, almost sub consciously let himself to be drawn to it. Opening the box all he found was clothing, three pairs of light blue overalls complete with black collars. The breast pockets and backs bore in the same black a familiar name,

  “APF Industries.” He thought to himself; this was a major link to past events. Packing the clothes away his attention began to turn toward the rubber belt he laid down, but something told him to investigate further. Picking up the rubber belt he could see where it attached to the machine, but fitting it, seemed harder than at first thought; it was just too slack. He needed something else to take up the tension,

  “There’s something still not right here.” He thought. Experience taught him to thoroughly investigate all areas before moving on, a small doorway leading outside to the rear of the property,

  “I wonder if there’s something out there? A spare part or something?”

  Jack rushed over to the door and opened it to reveal another fire escape leading down to a small closed off yard with a storage shed on the end. Making his way down he had to try while John was busy distracting the occupants downstairs,

  “That’s odd,” He thought to himself while feeling the wall the staircase was bolted up against,

  “It’s plasterboard on the outside too, smoother than the rest of the brickwork. Just like on the inside.”

  It seemed to West like some kind of very crude repair job, but there was no time to dwell on it just yet, he had to try and get that winch started,

  Reaching the floor he could see through the dirty window John in a standoff with the three men. Time was off the essence now,

  “If I can get that machine started,” He thought, “Hopefully that would provide a distraction for John to use to his advantage down there.” He thought. Slipping past unnoticed he reached the maintenance shed, and began forcing the old wooden door. Thankfully it was so old and neglected that it didn’t take too much time and effort to get it open. Inside he was faced with shelves with various yet unhelpful tools, except on the floor where there lay a silver crowbar,

  “I could use you.” He said as he picked it up. If there was any tool strong enough for forcing machinery then it was this one. Coming back through the fire escape and entering the attic once more, crowbar in hand he made his way over toward the machine. Walking a slightly different route to the one he took before however proved fateful for around halfway between the doorway and the winch, the floor suddenly seemed markedly more unstable than before,

  “What?!!” He said as the floorboards began to creak and bend ever so slightly. The change was only subtle but noticeable underfoot. West stopped in his tracks and stared at the floor before getting down on his hands and knees. Running his hands across the smooth floor there could only really be one conclusion,

  “These floorboards are loose.”

  Immediately wedging the crowbar in the gap between the planks, he carefully tried to prise the floorboards out doing his best not to snap them in the process. Doing so might create the wrong distraction and play into the terrorists hands. The first plank came away revealing a tantalising glimpse of what was underneath. There was something there embedded in straw packing, so West immediately prised the second board out. As soon as it came away he recognised the contents, it was a weapons cache. Everything was here, automatic rifles, semi-automatic weapons, pistols, complete with ammunition, and all of a calibre too high for any kind of legalised restricted use. Accompanying the firearms were small bricks of putty like substance which Jack instantly recognised,

  “Plastic explosives.” He said to himself, “God knows what they are trying, or what they have access to.”

  The muffling of the conversation downstairs snapped West out of his train of thought,

  “The belt.” He said as he quickly got up and strode over to the machine with the rubber belt still in situ. Utilising the crowbar, he placed the flat chisel end underneath to take the slack and increase the tension of the belt. Once wedged and holding it steady with one hand, West reached for the stop start button, the control lay just about in reach,

  “Hope this thing still works.” He said as he pressed the green start button, instantly kicking the machine into life. The belt whirred round, enough for him to remove the crowbar as the machine roared and shuddered into life, its vibration proving the thrust to keep it going.

  “Good.” Thought Jack as he smiled, “Now we’re up and running.”

  Downstairs John was still deadlocked with the three Russians, his
pistol still pointing at his opposite number. Each man’s gun barrels in line with each other and ready to discharge but the overall result was stalemate,

  “You should not be here my friend.” Said the Russian in a dangerously cautious tone, yet he stopped short of pulling the trigger. Even if he did he would still have no time for it, the tense atmosphere and the battle of wills was suddenly and rudely broken by the whirring sound of machines. Still freezing, all men looked around to see what was going on, not daring to lower their weapons. John used the distraction to try and break the situation,

  “LOWER YOUR WEAPON!!!” He shouted, but the Russian did not,

  “I SAID LOWER YOUR WEAPON NOW!!!” He repeated,

  “You fool!!! You think I will surrender to you?!! I gave you chance…now you die!!” The Russian’s chilling reply came as he tensed his finger on his trigger. John, on the split second verge of firing in a pre-emptive move, could see the a hook on the end of a chain which was part of the winch crane in the background swing forward rapidly toward his rival,

  “DROP IT!!” He shouted just as the other pistol came into line with his eye,

  “AARRGGGHH!!” Grunted the Russian as the impact from the hook and chain hit him with full force on the back of the head, knocking him forward and the gun out of his hands. John himself fell back as the chain swung violently past him, swirling in circular motions, powered by centrifugal forces. Momentarily losing his bearings as he slid back across the concrete floor, John finally came to a halt about a foot and a half from where he stood. His Walther lading beside him, the instinct was to grab it,

  “Don’t!!! You will not pick it up!!” Ordered the Russian, now with a bloodied cheek from the blow he been the first on his knees. His pistol now back in his hand and trained on John, obviously he had been just that bit quicker. The other two Russians had by now raised to their feet and ready and poised to strike; now John really was in trouble,

  “Where the hell is Jack?” He thought to himself as he lay helpless on the floor in the gun sight of a pistol held by a desperate terrorist with no hesitation to kill.

  “Now I finally get rid of you for good!!” He warned as he pulled the trigger to shoot John. Instinctively he flinched as the firearm should have discharged. But instead of a bullet coming out of the end, it was just a harmless clicking sound. Initially the Russian did not know what to do, so he fired again, just another clicking sound; again he tried but just another click. With each attempt the terrorists, all of them were becoming increasingly alarmed, their trump card had just failed them. John deep inside thanked the heavens he was not shot realised the gun was jammed, but this small fact seemed to elude his would be killer. He took his chance, watching the eyes of his adversary; he waited for the opportune moment. John saw as the Russian broke eye contact just for a second to examine the jammed breech of his weapon, it was the time to strike. Making for the terrorist he picked up his Walther and immediately swung his right leg upwards,

  “Look out!!!” Shouted one of the other two terrorists as he looked up. The full force of John’s right shoe impacted against the pistol knocking the gun out of the Russian’s hand and across the floor. Stumbling back in stun he and the other two could not do a thing, not even rush John as he was the one with the loaded gun. He immediately pointed it at them before they could react,

  “FREEZE!!!!” He shouted. They did.

  “Now, that’s better.” Said John in a slightly triumphant tone, “We’ll start again shall we? Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “We are not saying anything.” Said one of the other Russians defiantly,

  “No we are not, so you fire if you want. You are getting nothing.” Was the reply from the injured one,

  “You will tell me if you want that injury treated.” Replied John, his pistol still pointed at them, never lowered. The third one piped up again,

  “So go ahead and shoot. You may kick weapon out of my hand, you would shoot three unarmed men, yes?”

  John knew the three men were taunting him,

  “No, not yet. What about that over there?” He said gesturing to the chest behind him he noticed when he first entered the room. The Russians absolutely knew what John was referring to,

  “We do not know about chest. Why don’t you take a look?” Taunted the terrorists, clearly trying to call the bluff, he was having none of it,

  “OK, you can either tell me the code, or…”

  “Or…what?”

  “Or, I kill your friend here who had the gun. Yeah? How about it? Fancy being a martyr today?”

  The Russians were still not budging in their stance. They knew that the burden of proof was on John; if he could not open the chest, what could he prove?

  “Go ahead,” Taunted the Russian, “You shoot me, you will not get the code.”

  John tried something different, “And what about your friend? How is he going to get medical attention?”

  “We shall cope.” Was the reply. It was now clear that even though it was John who held the gun, the terrorists were not giving up. Trying a different approach, he walked over to the chest and the small keypad on top of it. The chain and hook had come to rest nearby and in doing so had generated a lot of dust that was now resting across the floor and the chest itself. Looking he could see the key on the combination lock was also peppered with the light beige stuff. Taking a breath, he let loose a short sharp blow across the keys, generating a cough inducing cloud of dust in the air. John looked on as it cleared to see that three keys were noticeably less dusty that the others, as if they had been used before as a person’s hands had left their mark. The numbers were 5, 7 and 2,

  “Well, what do we have here? Three numbers.” He said while pressing them; to be honest he had no idea of the combination at all, so he had to try as many as possible. Not easy as he was still keeping one eye on the three Russians and his Walther still trained on them.

  Trying initially 5, 7 & 2, unsurprisingly the lock would not release, so he tried 7, 2 & 5. Again no joy, so he tried yet another combination, 7, 5 & 2. The lock clicked as soon as John hit the “2” button releasing it, luckily he hit the correct numbers so decided to take the chance of opening it. Subconsciously he thought perhaps there was more to this than meets the eye while pointing his gun at the three men. Almost without thinking, he flashed open the lid with lightening ferocity, almost expecting an explosion from some kind of booby trap. Thankfully it didn’t.

  Glancing inside, the only thing he say were clocks, brass alarm clocks, crude and of the old fashioned type. The little bells and the stumpy legs showed their classic simplicity and crudeness, but it was the amount that stood out. There were tens of them, all packed into the box. It made John wonder,

  “These look familiar.” He thought to himself. There was something about these clocks, one part of them that he had seen before, but for the life of him he could not think what,

  “These clocks, what are they doing here?” He asked,

  “We are watchmakers by trade.” Was the reply, John did not believe them for a second,

  “I don’t think you are hiding clocks here just to repair them in this warehouse. Do you think I was born yesterday?”

  The conversation was rudely interrupted by the injured terrorist. Blood from his head began pouring profusely from his forehead worse than before which cause increasing concern for the other two,

  “You say you can help him?” Asked the third Russian

  John saw it as a chance to gain info, “That depends, why is he injured?”

  “He was tortured, by the American.”

  “The American?” He asked, “This American, his mane wouldn’t be Bruenstein would it?”

  All three Terrorists looked on in surprise, even the injured one in his agony,

  “You know of Bruenstein? You work for him, yes?” The asked rather concerned. John put them into perspective,

  “No I don’t. Tell me how did he do it?”

  “You make sure he gets medical attention
?” They asked, John reassured them,

  “Tell me what I want to know and I’ll make sure he receives proper medical treatment.”

  The Russians were out of options; with a gum pointing straight at them and one of their own becoming increasingly injured, they had to divulge as much as they dared,

  “Bruenstein was here, yes. He was mad, he killed worker here by snapping of neck. He disposed of body somewhere. He orders us to keep clocks safe but has many more, now we tell you everything, now you help yes? Do it now.”

  In the attic Jack had felt the shudder and thud of the crane as it swung wildly below. He himself was standing at the far opposite end at the winch system was in operation, but the vibration from the impact had cause part of the plaster covered wall to come away ever so slightly. It was the same wall that West had noticed whole he was going down the stairs earlier but this time the interior had come away. Arousing his suspicions he picked up the crowbar out of the mechanism and approached the plasterboard. There was clearly a gap on the near side just enough to slide a tool into, which was perfect for the crowbar. Inserting it meant that it didn’t take much leverage to break the crudely applied crusty material as a large chunk broke off. West continued on, each time taking away larger and larger chunks to reveal an obviously hollowed out wall interior. Continuing on, the building structure could be seen, the steel girders, a reinforced steel joint, bits of wiring and copper pipes as part of the plumbing…then he saw a decomposing head. The shock took him back slightly, but he regained his composure. Carefully hacking away the body was not badly decomposed; in fact it was still relatively fresh,

  “So that’s why there’s plasterboard here, to cover up a body.” He thought

  As he exposed more of the corpse clues to the man’s identity could be derived, early forties, male, dark brown hair, the head was also limp. The skin almost white from pallor and rigor mortis, but still fully clothed which appeared to be overalls not civilian clothing,

  “Appears to have had his neck broken, that would explain why I saw his head first. Judging from his clothes he looks like a dock yard worker. I wonder why he’s here?” He asked himself.