by A P Bateman
His eyes were accustomed to the dark and he could see the mound of earth rising up from the beach. Not quite a cliff, but it rose fifty-feet or so and was topped with a sporadic barrier of trees. The southern Cornish coastline, although still open to the elements, did not take the brunt of the Atlantic swell or wind like the north coast did. It was rare to find trees within a mile of the craggy cliff-line on that coast. While along the southern coast trees would often grow along the shoreline, in some cases so close as to cast fir cones and pine needles upon the shore.
The single beam of the torch shone from the beach. Five short pulses, and then three longer ones. A five second gap and the process repeated. Clenton responded as he had been instructed. He dropped his cigarette butt into the water and walked to the stern. The two crewmen waited on the deck. They had previously lowered the wooden tender into the water. It was a large tender, but also served as the Lady Majestic’s lifeboat. Stowed inside it was an inflatable survival life-raft with survival suits, supplies and flares, oars and fuel cans. Fixed to the stern was a five-horsepower outboard engine. The crew had removed everything except the engine and the oars and lowered the crate somewhat precariously into the middle of the boat and strapped it down securely. Neither had wanted to remain on the tiny boat as it chucked itself about in the swells, but both men climbed down the rope ladder and positioned themselves while Clenton untied the rope from the cleat and left it trailed through. He dropped the other end of the rope down to the younger man at the tiller and climbed down. As Clenton sat down on the bench seat, the younger man released the rope, casting off and started the engine. Clenton gathered up the wet rope, coiling it with a lifetime’s practise and dropped it into the boat as they moved steadily away and towards the shore. The swell was slow but sizeable and as they approached the shore they could see the rollers break and the offshore wind blew the spray back towards them. Clenton nudged the young man out of the way and took the tiller. He adjusted the throttle and slowed the boat until they matched the speed of the rolling wave and started to surf in. The wave was approximately four feet and at the last minute Clenton throttled back and the wave broke in front of them, he then gave the tiller a twist and aimed at the beach at full speed. The wave behind them loomed up and broke, but they were far enough in front to avoid it breaking on them and the wave, losing most of its energy simply washed them up the shore. Clenton turned the tiller and steered to port and they came up at the base of the slipway, grinding the bottom of the boat on the concrete. Both crewmen jumped out up to their knees in the water and pulled the boat clear of the waves. The older crewman pulled a rope attached to the prow and heaved the boat higher. He took an anchor out and ran up the beach, jamming it into the shingle and then ran back to the boat and wound the rope around a cleat, securing the boat to the shore.
Zukovsky walked down the steep shingle beach towards them. “Well done, my friend,” he said, holding out his hand warmly to the captain. Clenton shook his hand and grinned. Zukovsky said, “If you will please carry it to my car.”
Clenton shook his head. “How about some money first?”
“Of course,” Zukovsky replied. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a folded parcel envelope that was approximately four inches thick. He tossed it to Clenton, who caught it quickly and peered inside. “But please hurry. Get it into the boot of my car and we can all go our separate ways.”
Clenton nodded to his two crew and they unstrapped the crate and heaved it between them. They struggled, putting it down twice before Clenton hurried forwards and caught the other side. Zukovsky conceded and between the four of them they got it up the beach, over the mound of shingle and onto the sand of the carpark. The crate was heavy and cumbersome, but the ground was easier above the beach and it just fitted into the boot of the Jaguar. Zukovsky closed the lid carefully, and the crate touched the lid. He had measured and planned perfectly.
He smiled at the three men. “And that,” he said amiably, “Concludes our business.”
Clenton shook his hand and the two crew walked back down the beach in front of him. The older crewman pulled the anchor out of the shingle and fell forwards. He crashed down onto the ground and lay still. Zukovsky could hear the other two men laugh, but not for long. The younger crewman walked towards his colleague, then he too fell. He struggled up, but fell again. This time he did not move. Clenton bent down and tried to help the young man, then looked up in the direction of the carpark. He tried to pull on the boat, but it was far too heavy for one person to move on their own. He tried to run, but the steel-toed wellington boots he was wearing were cumbersome and he found the shingle too deep and unsteady. He fell onto his rear, clutching his stomach. He tried to get back up, but merely fell forwards and lay still.
Alesha rose up out of the line of bushes on top of the embankment and slid down the muddy slope. She held a rifle in one hand, the barrel tilted upwards and resting on her shoulder. It was a semi-automatic Ruger 10/22 with a suppressor fitted and a 3.9 x 50 night-vision scope mounted on top. The .22 subsonic rounds had been virtually silent in conjunction with the suppressor, and coped well at the two-hundred-feet range. The elevation had helped. In all she had fired five rounds. She walked past Zukovsky, her breathing rapid. She was flushed and her expression was one of heightened pleasure. She walked across the shingle and stood over the first body. She fired into its head. Then repeated this with the other two. She picked up the bundle of money beside Clenton’s body and walked back to Zukovsky. She kissed him on the mouth, hard and passionately. He smiled and they walked back to the car.
64
King eased the Mercedes into the nearest space along the street. He had driven around the block three times, ignoring the spaces further along. This space backed onto double yellow lines, and the car’s rear wheels were illegally parked. However, this space was also in view of what King guessed to be the MI5 watcher vehicle across the piazza style open ground in front of the mosque. The area was largely concreted with park benches and a water feature. A group of youths were skateboarding and using some steps near a streetlamp for performing tricks. They were wearing hoodies and using their phones to film. Most probably uploading to YouTube as they went. Other than that, the piazza was deserted.
King had left Caroline’s flat and driven a mile north. He had found what he had been looking for next to an Asian mini-market that specialised in halal meat. He admired the busy independent stores opening all hours and the locals’ patronage. There were all nationalities, but it felt like a community nonetheless. From there he had driven southeast to Brentwood and the hospital. Rashid had been ready. He had not been discharged, but he was willing to assist in King’s plan. He had dosed up on painkillers and had a dressing on his wounds, as well as a cannula in the back of his hand. But the drain had already been removed from his stomach and he would reconnect to the antibiotic drip when he returned. He had briefed King on the layout inside the mosque on the drive to Islington. As they parked, King noticed the man wince. The painkillers were wearing off.
“I need to make it look convincing,” King said.
Rashid looked at him and smirked. “I can see that.”
King looked down at the kaftan smock and baggy Islamic trousers he was wearing. He put the kufti skull-cap on and shrugged. “What?”
“It’s a look.”
“It’ll serve a purpose.” He passed Rashid the cotton sack and said, “Over the head and walk quickly. We’ll be on camera and I want to be in and out before the cops arrive.”
“What about my hands?”
King held up the roll of duct tape. “Sorry…”
They got out and King walked around the car and onto the pavement. The street was tree-lined and dark. It appeared that every other lamp was out. Perhaps it was cutbacks and the council had removed the bulbs. There was no light over the Mercedes, or the three cars in front. Rashid held out his hands, but King shook his head. “Behind your back, I’m afraid,” he said. “The more convincing, the better.”<
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“Figures.” Rashid turned around and King moved him in towards the wall. King wound the tape around twice. “I need to be able to get them off.”
“You will.”
“I won’t,” he said, struggling with his hands. “They’re too tight.”
“Well, I didn’t think you’d like the next part.” King spun him around and punched him in the face. Rashid recoiled backwards and King stepped on the man’s instep and held his arms to stop him countering. “Relax!” He looked at the blood dripping from the man’s nostrils and the split lip. “All done.”
“Bastard!”
“So true. Never knew my Dad.”
“Good. Hope your mother charged him double.”
King smiled. “Depends. Maybe it was free for my shot. By the time my sister was born she’d have taken payment in drugs.” He pat Rashid on the cheek. “You won’t upset me by downing on my parents. Now, time for the hood.” He slipped it on over his head. He checked Rashid over. Satisfied, he took out a folding lock knife and put a tiny cut in the inside of the tape near Rashid’s wrist. “That’s the best I can do.”
“What the hell have I signed up for?”
King caught hold of him and they walked swiftly down the pavement, out into the relative light of the gloomy piazza and across the open ground to the mosque. The main entrance was directly in front. There was a sort of open porch with a pitched roof at the main entrance complete with a large hand wash trough and a dozen rows of racks for shoes. Past this and halfway around the building was a municipal entrance used between prayers and for deliveries, post and people seeking counsel. The mosque acted as a help centre for Muslims and Islamic guidance, and in this sense the door was open to all, at all hours.
King reached the door and banged with his fist. He glanced back across the piazza and could see the youths staring. Past them, he could see the static van on the other side of the street. It was too far away to detect movement, but he would bet that inside there were at least two people panicked and unable to decide what action to take. He hoped they would call it in. Tonight was not the time to be a hero.
The door opened a few inches. It was on a chain, but King took the initiative. “Open the door! I have Rashid here, the treacherous pig! Zukovsky has told me to bring him here to our Islam brothers! He said the Iman would like to get a second chance with him. Now come on, open up!” The man peered out at them. King’s dark hair and half a weeks’ stubble, combined with a semi-year-round tan worked in favour with the Islamic clothing. Rashid struggled, putting on a good show, King gripped him firmly. He pulled up the hood. “See? Recognise this pig?”
The man nodded, unsure. He turned around and spoke to someone. And then the man was gone and a large figure loomed into the six-inch gap.
“Let me see,” the man said sharply.
King lifted the hood, Rashid struggled some more. “Come on,” King said. “I’m exposed out here!”
“Shut up!” the man thundered. “Leave him there.”
“No. I have a message for Iman Mullah Al-Shaqqaf from Vladimir Zukovsky.”
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
“I said…”
“I don’t care what you said. Zukovsky is my boss, he told me Al-Shaqqaf would want this man and I was to give a message only to him.”
“That’s Iman Al-Shaqqaf!”
“Forgive me,” King nodded. “My apologies,” he said, bowing his head.
The man pushed the door shut, unfastened the clip then stood back, opening the door. King pushed Rashid roughly inside. The man pushed King up against the wall. He was the same height, but a good two stone heavier. At least sixteen stone and he seemed muscular and fit. King had to fight his urge to resist. The man patted him over, found the knife and put it in his own pocket. He spun King around and patted him down the front. Satisfied King was unarmed, he turned to Rashid and ripped off the hood. Rashid flinched. He recognised the man as Al-Shaqqaf’s bodyguard.
“Oh, we’re going to have some fun with you,” he said. “You won’t be getting away this time.” He beckoned the other man over and told him to hold Rashid still.
Rashid looked at him coldly. “How’s your arse?”
The man smacked Rashid with an open hand. It made a huge slap and Rashid recoiled. He smiled, looking at King. “Maybe you want in on this?”
King shrugged. “Sure. I have a message for the Iman first.”
The man nodded. He took out his mobile phone and dialled. He started to talk, walked across the foyer for privacy. He nodded, looked at the man who had opened the door and nodded his head towards a thick oak door off the other side of the foyer. “Downstairs.”
65
The Hercules C130 banked hard to port, its engines wailing all the way through the ninety-degree turn. The pilot acknowledged the message from the AWACS radio operator and tipped the starboard wing slightly bringing the plane onto its new course.
Scott MacPherson tapped the co-pilot on his shoulder. “How far now?” he asked.
The co-pilot glanced at the map strapped to his thigh. “Five minutes and we will be passing over her.”
MacPherson nodded. “Right, give us the red light when we’re over her and the green light when we’re five miles clear. Keep on her heading.”
The co-pilot nodded. “When do you want the ramp down?”
“Sixty seconds. We’ll switch over to our personal air supply now.” He tapped both the co-pilot and pilot on the shoulder and held up a thumb. He walked back into the cargo hold and signalled his sergeant. The light in the hold was a dull red gloom. Red allowed the men to maintain their night vision.
Sergeant Peters got up from the bench seat and thread his way through and over the men’s legs and equipment. “Do we go now Boss?”
“We go. Get the men standing by, we go in three minutes.”
Peters turned and signalled the men. As he disconnected his air supply and switched to his own tank, he saw the men do the same in unison. Their own air was cooler than the central supply. It was mixed with more oxygen.
Four men went to the rear of the plane, just short of the ramp. They dragged the three rubber bundles into position, then stood aside for the men who had made ready first. They moved past them and checked their own equipment. The RAF loadmaster connected his lifeline to the wire above and made his way past the men to the control at the base of the ramp. The loadmaster turned to the men and raised his hands above his head. He dropped them slowly in front of him, indicating the men should form two lines and make their way towards him. The ramp started to open and the cargo bay was engulfed by cold air and a tremendous hum of engine noise. The ramp opened slowly and the red light above flashed briefly before remaining on.
The three lead soldiers each pulled a length of para cord on the rubber bundles and a flashing beacon activated on each one.
MacPherson shouted, “Equipment check!” He was standing at the front of the line on the port-side. His 2IC, Sergeant Peters was standing at the end of the line on the starboard-side.
Each man checked over his equipment in an order which personally suited them, although their primary weapons and ammunition were all stored in waterproof containers inside the rubber bundles. They all carried a diving knife strapped to their legs and a Sig P225 pistol strapped to their thigh in a low slung holster. Each pistol was loaded but not made ready.
The dull red light in the hold switched off. The whole rear of the plane was lit just by the single red bulb at the base of the ramp. The loadmaster pressed his earphones tighter to his right ear as he struggled to hear the cockpit communication over the wind noise as the plane cut through the night at two hundred miles per hour. He looked up at MacPherson and held up his right hand with all five digits extended. He counted each one off. The plane slowed considerably as the pilot neared stall speed, the engines lowering in tone, but sounding as if they were struggling. The speed dropped to just under one hundred miles per hour as the loadmaster’s thumb folded and he pump
ed his fist in the air, the light beside him switching from red to green in the darkness.
MacPherson stepped aside and the four men nearest the ramp, two men from each line, pushed the rubber bundles off the edge of the ramp and followed them out into the night. MacPherson followed, diving straight ahead, barely a metre behind the four men, but thirty metres behind them once he cleared the ramp. The engine noise vanished in an instant and within seconds he was reaching terminal velocity and plummeting towards the cold, grey North Sea twenty-five thousand feet below.
They were using the HALO technique. High Altitude Low Opening. Falling almost all of the way and using their skydiving abilities to travel towards the target. The three lead men would tip themselves forward, increase their speed to catch up with the bundles and guide them forwards. The rest of the men would fan out and follow. At that height it would be possible to travel three miles in any direction of their choosing. At fifteen hundred feet, using their wrist mounted altimeters, they would open their chutes, then decelerate until they were twenty feet from the water, break free and splashdown. Their chutes would drop away from them without dragging them underwater. If there was a failing, if they sustained an injury during descent by colliding with another soldier, or made an error in judgement, the parachutes were calibrated to open automatically at twelve hundred feet.
The men filed off into two groups, falling together in the buddy system, a circle with their heads close together. Both groups remained close. Regrouping after the jump would be easier if they were closer during the descent.