by Albert Able
Over the next few minutes Igor was to learn the frightening events leading up to Hassan’s final act.
“His name is Hassan Eddie,” Sophie started through watering eyes. “His little brother was killed in that terrible massacre last winter.” She tried to hold them back but the tears trickled down her pale cheeks.
“Thank you, but let me.” Hassan took up the story and freely and honestly explained how he had been so passionately affected by his brother’s death and had so eagerly accepted the mission, therefore, to destroy the symbol of the hated oppressors and earn his place with his little brother alongside Allah.
From then on Hassan explained how it had all changed, beginning when he was shown the photographs of his target, Yuri Drumenco, his wife and teenage children, and how he had been shocked to recognise Igor Pulaski and Sophie in the picture and the supposition that he should kill them with the others.
“Yes, but he is not your prime target,” his master had assured him when he had queried their presence in the picture, “your target is the infidel Chief of Police Drumenco.”
Killing infidels, his earthly masters had assured him, was acceptable to the great god Allah who would, in the circumstances, Hassan was assured, absolve him for it. And so Hassan had agreed, displaying a suitable look of reassurance.
“Fear not, Hassan. Your mission is to rid this earth of non believing infidels. You are so lucky to have been chosen.”
And so although Hassan agreed to carry out his mission and he tried to look confident, the first serious doubts had already crept into his mind. And so, by the time they approached a modern looking bungalow on a high-class summer holiday home park outside St Petersburg on that early summer morning, he was both confused and well as being very frightened.
It was just daylight as they stopped about one hundred meters away from the house. Set slightly apart from the others, it occupied the corner site of the road junction.
“That’s the one,” the Leader pronounced after consulting one of the photographs. He instructed the driver: “We’ll get out, you park further back and wait for us.”
The Leader led the way to the front door and without hesitation repeatedly pressed the bell. It seemed like an age before the door was cautiously eased open and a woman’s face appeared.
The first of the henchmen rammed the door open, sending the woman flying with a scream. The other leaped into the hallway and grabbed the terrified woman, clamping a hand roughly across her mouth.
“Shut the fuck up if you want to live,” he snarled.
The first henchman pulled a revolver from a shoulder holster and was still screwing a bulbous silencer onto it as Sophie burst into the room.
Hearing Sacha’s scream, Sophie had also raced from her bedroom to be faced by the terrible scene. Calling on some primeval survival instinct she reacted instantly by diving in a headlong rugby tackle at the man with the gun, screaming: “What have you done, you bastard?”
The man was so surprised that in spite of being at least twice Sophie’s bulk he buckled under the assault, falling back against the Leader. They all crashed to the floor in a tangled heap.
The second henchman, still holding Sacha around the neck and mouth, recovered instantly. Removing his hand from her mouth he grabbed her by the hair pushing up until she was just standing on her toes, while the others attempted to disentangle themselves from Sophie, who continued to kick and claw at the fallen men.
“Tell her to stop it or I’ll kill you!” The man holding Sacha had also produced a pistol from his shoulder holster and held it to her temple.
Sacha realised that the situation was hopeless and responded instantly. “Sophie, stop!” she cried out, “Sophie, please!”
It still took a little time for Sophie to react but by now she was almost exhausted anyway. Reluctantly, she stopped the onslaught and slowly got up from the floor to stand glaring defiantly at her attackers.
“You bitch,” the first henchmen snarled as he finally stood up, smashing his huge fist into Sophie’s face in the same movement.
Sophie didn’t make a sound as she crumpled to the floor, the blood already running from an ugly gash under her eye.
“So where are the others?” demanded the second henchman, still holding Sacha by the hair.
“There are no others,” Sacha whimpered, still dangling like a puppet in the man’s vice-like grip.
The Leader had also disentangled himself from the mêlée and carefully brushed down his clothing as he closed the front door, still open from their charge into the house.
“That’s enough,” the Leader snapped at the man holding Sacha. He lowered her to the ground immediately.
“And you,” he pointed to the other henchman, “tie that one up while she’s still quiet.”
The man pulled a roll of parcel tape from his pocket and quickly secured Sophie’s arms and legs.
“Now the other one,” the Leader pointed at Sacha, “and then put them both on the sofa.”
Hassan was still frozen to the spot as he witnessed the whole scene in total amazement. He’d visualised several possible reactions to their arrival at the house but this carnage had not fitted anywhere into the picture.
“For a minute there I thought the boys were going to deny you your right.’ A sick smile spread across the Leader’s bearded face.
Hassan did not reply. His mind was racing: ‘This was all wrong,’ he thought, ‘and where was Yuri Drumenco?’
The Leader carefully checked the two women’s bonds, then turning to the two men, he commanded: “That looks secure enough - now search the place!”
It only took a few moments to establish that there were no other people in the house.
The Leader held Sacha by the chin “So where is your husband and the children?”
Sacha’s eyes blazed: “They are not here, we are alone.” She tried to pull away from his grip. “We don’t have money here,” she pleaded, “what else do you want?”
Still holding Sacha by the chin, the Leader leaned towards Sophie who had just stirred and blinked her eyes open, the right eye already swelling from the blow that has knocked her unconscious.
“Ah the brave one,” he pulled a vicious looking knife from inside his jacket and held it close to Sasha’s eye: “Perhaps you can tell me what I need to know?”
He waved the point menacingly closer to Sacha’s eye. “Let’s start with - where is your man?”
Sophie was brave, but no fool either. And so, nodding vigorously, she replied with what she hoped would be seen as a willingness to cooperate: “If you mean Igor Pulaski? I presume he will be on the way to his office in St Petersburg by now. He always starts work at the same time as his drivers.”
The leader looked at his watch. It was almost six thirty. “And Yuri Drumenco?”
“Probably the same, we are here alone for the weekend. Sasha’s children are staying with friends in Moscow,” she lied hopefully.
Disappointed, the Leader realised that the answers were almost certainly the truth and so after a moment of thought let Sacha go and ordered one of the henchmen to gag them both.
The Leader looked thoughtfully across at Hassan, beckoning him away from the others. “I seems as though our intelligence was slightly flawed, however, we do have the women of the two infidels and I believe that their death would cause so much bereavement pain that it would be an even more appropriate punishment in the circumstances - and so much more fulfilling for you. I will pray with you to ensure that your thoughts are clear and that you are ready to be delivered with these sinners from this evil world.”
Hassan Eddie wasn’t given time to respond and was urged to kneel with the Leader where they both spent several minutes bent in devoted prayer. It was in those last few moments that Hassan’s responsibility finally became crystal clear.
In
itially the two women had no idea as to the men’s real intentions until the two Muslims completed their prayers and the Leader removed a brass pencil like tube from his pocket.
“Ready?” he asked Hassan.
Hassan nodded and opened his jacket.
That was when the two terrified women saw the explosive waistcoat and the full horror of the situation flooded over them.
The Leader inserted the primer and snapped the buckle tight and cocked the firing pin.
“Allah be praised,” he intoned, turned and left, eagerly followed by the two henchmen.
As the door closed behind the departing men Hassan moved closer to the bound and gagged women squirming on the sofa. “My mission was to kill Yuri Drumenco,” he offered apologetically.
Unable to speak, the women’s eyes bulged in abject terror as Hassan’s hand moved towards the buckle on the waistcoat.
But he did not press the primer.
The reality for Hassan had come when he saw that family photograph showing Yuri Drumenco, Sacha and their two young boys together with some friends. Hassan had recognised Igor and Sophie at once.
Igor Pulaski, the one man who had visited his father and others in the hospital after the massacre. It was Igor Pulaski who had arranged for the best specialists to care for his father’s injuries and then arranged the job in the accounts office at Pulaski International.
Hassan knew then that this was no enemy and that the pious narrow philosophy with which the Leader had initially convinced him with was, at best, questionable.
Hassan Eddie was a highly intelligent man and knew that if he tried to back away from the mission he would be liquidated and quickly be replaced. So on that long night of terror, as he waited to sacrifice his life, he realised just how foolish he had been to allow himself to be indoctrinated by the Leader. And whereas he still passionately wanted to punish those responsible for his brothers death, he now knew that killing innocent victims, whatever nationality or creed, was not the way.
Hassan did not press the primer. Instead, he released the two women, all the time begging them to forgive him and to help him out of the explosive harness, before urging them to get away from the house immediately.
Sophie and Sacha were both so relieved by the sudden change of circumstances that they cooperated, albeit in a mild daze, as they gingerly assisted Hassan out of the harness and then helped him to set it up as a booby trap in the bathroom.
Finally, they all climbed out of one of the back windows and hid cuddled together in the bushes behind the neighbour’s house, trembling with after-shock. From there, after about ten minutes, they witnessed the Leader and the two other men cautiously approach the house and then enter it.
It was only three or four minutes before a gigantic explosion engulfed the bungalow, hammering into their eardrums and driving the air out of their lungs.
It took several minutes for them to gather themselves together and using Sophie’s car, which she had fortunately parked in the neighbour’s garage, they drove away from the devastation.
“And so here we are.” Hassan held out his hands in supplication and looked around. “Now all I want to do is make amends for allowing myself to be so gullible.”
There was a brief silence, as Hassan’s astonished audience completely absorbed the tragic story.
Sacha’s mother had not spoken until now and she broke the spell: “Well, what I think is that we should all have a cup of coffee.” She looked about her family: “Anyone?”
“I think you should make that a large vodka,” Igor responded and slumped on to the sofa alongside the two boys.
“How is the kayaking?” he asked conversationally.
“Really good,” the taller one replied with enthusiasm. He was apparently un-phased by Hassan’s alarming story.
Igor smiled and then looked up at Hassan and sighed. “It can’t have been easy for you either. I’ve never lost a close relative in that way.” He pointed the exhausted Hassan to a chair. “I suggest you sit down before you fall down.”
Igor’s mind was racing. Not only was he digesting this remarkable revelation but also thinking where and how, out of all this fear and confusion, Hassan’s new enlightenment could be utilised against the multitude of other misguided souls who had also been ‘converted’ into living bombs.
“I know your father of course, a very proud and conscientious man. I have great admiration for him.” Igor looked at Sasha and the family. “He will be proud of you today.” He looked directly at the young man and held his gaze. “Hassan, I have an idea. Would you be prepared to tell me who and where you were trained, for instance, and possibly help to defuse this terrible hatred that exists between some of our people?”
Igor’s expression was grave as he stared into the eyes of the man who might have killed the thing most precious to him.
“Your coffee, Igor, Hassan.” Sacha’s mother interrupted and presented them each with large breakfast mugs.
Hassan absently reached out and took the mug; he was still reeling from the shock of being wrapped in an explosive waistcoat and the sudden realisation that life had a significantly greater meaning. Such a close shave with death would have completely numbed the senses of most men, but somehow Hassan was able to push it aside.
“In my heart I knew that what I was planning to do was wrong and now all I can think of is that just perhaps I was spared so that I could do something more creative.” Hassan ran his fingers through his hair. “So whatever you have in mind I don’t fully understand at this moment, but I confess it sounds like something I should be doing.” Hassan was emotionally drained.
Igor leaned forward from his chair. “Well, in that case we must get back to St Petersburg. There is a man there who will want to meet you.”
***
Alex Scott carefully read the lengthy faxes, which detailed the conversation between Sir Gerald Fisher and Mustafa Ben Lori confirming that there were probably four briefcase size tactical nuclear devices in the hands of the Syndicate and which were threatened to be detonated in Moscow, Paris, London and New York at any time.
The second fax covered the attack at the Chelsea Arts Club. A press report had been officially released stating that ‘a London Cab had been targeted by terrorists and the explosion had seriously damaged the entrance to the Chelsea Arts Club killing at least two as yet un-named people’. But the report suggested that one could be a former Minister of Defence, Sir Gerald Fisher. In this way the Boss noted that whoever was responsible for the attack would believe that they had achieved their goal.
For the Boss, the terrorist reported sitting on a bomb at Moscow’s GUM shopping mall was proof positive that Mustafa’s tip-off was genuine.
Alex, however, could not understand why the suicide bomber, instead of detonating the device, was still sitting tight and making demands for the release of some Kurdish political prisoners.
The possibility that some rogue group might have taken over the Syndicate’s plot would add another unwelcome dimension to the problem.
***
Carl Peterson was boiling with anger. The reports detailing the death of Lydia Rowland and Sir Gerald Fisher trembled in his hand as he picked up the telephone and dialled his son.
Rudi answered. “Hi Dad” was all he could say before his father shouted angrily down the phone.
“You stupid little runt! I told you to deal with Mustafa, not Fisher and the woman!” Angry as he was, even as the words were leaving his mouth Carl Peterson instantly regretted the insult carelessly expressed to his deformed son.
“Look, Rudi, I’m sorry,” he apologised ineffectively, “I didn’t mean that.”
Carl Peterson cursed himself. What he had really wanted to do was explain why killing the woman and Sir Gerald Fisher in particular would prove to be such a foolish error, since it merely drew unnecessary atte
ntion to the Syndicate and far from frightening off its enemies almost always had the opposite effect of waking a sleeping monster. But his anger almost immediately melted away as he realised the enormity of the insult; he also knew what Rudi’s reaction was likely to be.
Rudi’s sole objective in life was to please his autocratic father and in so doing prove that the man inside his ravaged body was at least as good as or better than anyone else. But now, as he sat in front of his computer consul in his specially fitted out room at the Schloss in Austria, Rudi froze as his father’s words penetrated painfully into his mind. For a moment he could not breathe; the ghastly truth about his grossly deformed body had left him without the ability to absorb such an insult.
Rudi felt the blood flushing into his head pounding his brain; the computer consul and the room seemed to spin as the anger welled up inside him. An uncontrollable scream emanated as a frantic gurgling croak from his twisted lips as he tried to release the pain from his tortured lungs.
Rudi felt another flush of nausea and lashed out at the desk with his prosthetic hand sending everything crashing on to the floor. He staggered unsteadily from the chair lashing out at the book shelf and scattering a dozen files in all directions. The angle poise lamp became a weapon that he used to thrash at the wall, chairs and the table.
The noise could easily be heard over much of the Schloss. It woke his sisters, who were well aware of Rudi’s near epileptic moods and ran to the computer room where they found him systematically trashing everything in sight.
Rudi’s sisters almost always slept together and night attire was not part of their philosophy.
“Over here, Rudi, my handsome ‘Buck Rabbit’,” Karen cooed, standing naked at the door. Her sister, Liz, appeared seconds later.
Rudi continued his assault as Liz added her invitation: “Hello, my ‘mighty Apollo’, let me see more of your great strength.” She called and beckoned with a tantalising finger.
Rudi must have sensed them there because his vision was still clouded with rage as he turned slowly towards them, then suddenly aware of his faithful sisters’ presence, he stopped.