by A P Bateman
13
The road on the map was a gently meandering ribbon of red which cut a swathe of colour across a page of white and beige and green. In reality, it was a potholed and uneven track which had been hewn from the rock using dynamite and lives which had not been valued under communist rule, and had fallen away into the abyss in parts that made it strictly one lane at the most dangerous of points, and barely two lane for the remainder.
King was glad he had taken the car. The particular motorcycle he had hired was more suited to smooth tarmac and would have proven to be a treacherous ride on this surface. A trail bike would have fared well, but either way, the potholes were easily the worst King had seen, and had already removed a section of spoiler at the front of the car when he had misjudged the severity of the first major pothole. He was now approaching a thousand feet above sea level and the pine forest reminded him of mountain passes in Mallorca, with jagged rocks jutting out and trees defying nature and setting roots down in the tiniest of crevices. However, it was wilder country than that Spanish tourist island, and he had already seen small deer and some large wild boar not far from the road, as well as the remains of several snakes on the road surface. He knew from past experiences that snakes soaked up the night-time heat on roads, and the fact he had seen remains told him that the road was used more often than its appearances would suggest. He had seen a few battered hatchbacks and some recklessly driven supply trucks heading towards him, but he had neither caught up on a vehicle, nor had one in his mirror for almost an hour.
With approximately four hundred metres to go until he reached the GPS coordinates indicated on the satnav, he pulled off the road and left the car in what appeared to be a hunter’s or farmer’s track. The map showed a plateau of land beyond the trees, and he assumed it could be accessed from different directions for subsistence farmers to exploit for grazing. There were thick mounds of pine needles covering the track, indicating nobody had driven on or herded cattle or goats along the track for a considerable time and he figured the car would go unnoticed parked here, out of sight of the road.
It was late summer, but the Albanian sun bore down on him, dry and relentless. The pine forest made for some shade but smelled like a hot sauna. He could taste the heady pine air in his mouth, feel it robbing him of his senses as he attempted to tune into his surroundings. He checked the Makarov pistol. It had been made ready, but the hammer was set forwards. Being a double action pistol, it would only require a stronger initial pull on the trigger for the first shot. After which, subsequent shots would cycle and leave the hammer held back, requiring a less frenetic pull. The Russian weapon was both rugged and crude, but generally kept working when its modern, expensive, and cutting-edge western counterparts had jammed and cracked and failed to cycle.
King quickly found the property. He was approximately sixty feet above it and one hundred and fifty metres away when the forest cleared enough for him to take the full layout into view. It did not look like a working farm, and nor did it look to have been used as a storage facility or haulage business. The road and location would not have made a great deal of sense for a venture like that. But it had been something. Once. It was now dilapidated, and the forest had started to claim ground, with younger pines and saplings and brush sprouting up between buildings. The house was basic. Four walls, a flat roof and two storeys. It would have been painted, but only once and a long time ago. King could not tell in which colour, but houses out here were generally white, and then cream, and then flaked, and then bare concrete. Touching up was something he doubted people had heard of, and neither was buying paint a second time. There was an array of out buildings, but King did not need to watch for too long to see that it was deserted and had not functioned as a farm in a long time. There was no loose hay or straw blown or scattered across the yard, no sign of manure. He studied the eaves of the buildings, the facias for CCTV, security lights or alarms. Nothing.
Working his way back into the woods, he walked down the incline adjacent to the property. By the time it levelled out, he was only fifty metres away and level with the yard. Midday with the sun directly overhead, clear skies and little shade. Not the ideal conditions for a tactical advance. King took a tentative step out of the shade of the fringe of trees and into the light. He checked his shadow. It was behind and to the left. So, he knew which way was north to keep his bearings. And the fact the shadow was behind him, even slightly, meant it would not reach his destination before him and give someone a tell.
The open ground was hot, despite the altitude, and he could feel the warm air rising from the smooth concrete surface. By the time he reached the first outbuilding, he was perspiring. He drew the pistol and wiped his brow. The door was a double-fronted wooden structure which had seen many seasons. Ice cold and searing heat. The planks had bowed so much that he could peer between the twisted timbers and see that the building was empty. Regardless, he opened the door outwards and blinked through the dusty beams of sunlight, like cinema projections interspersing the darkness within.
King could see tyre tracks on the hard earth floor. He bent down and took a picture of them, figuring he would compare the photograph with the tyres of the BMW. At least it would give him the definitive answer as to whether the vehicle had simply visited this place, or whether it had been stored here, meaning that Rashid and his team had used this property as a base. King closed the door behind him and skirted the perimeter of the property. The larger barn intrigued him. The doors were huge, and the doorway was high, indicating that perhaps a large vehicle could be stored inside. Maybe a lorry of some description. But it lay beyond the house, and there was no point bypassing the building and to do so would put him at risk. He glanced through the nearest window but could see little. Dust and grime, and what he thought to be a layer of pine sap, from dispersed seed pods had coated the glass and rendered it impervious. He tested the door, but it did not yield. Around the back, the glass was the same. The windows probably hadn’t been washed in decades. Again, the same as the paint. Once, and that was enough.
King looked around him, found a decent sized rock, then smashed the window and got ready with the pistol. He crouched, using the wall and the frame as cover, but nobody came. The place was deserted. King cleared the glass from the frame using the rock, then climbed through. The floor was tiled, the walls whitewashed and still clean, bright, and intact. He headed for the kitchen because that is where signs of habitation were most easily confirmed. The colour of the water in the taps when they are first switched on – especially from bore holes where a property such as this would most likely source its water - whether the fridge was running and the condition of the food inside, how hard crumbs were on surfaces – kitchens told an easily read story.
The water ran clear and there were tinned items in the cupboard. The fridge had been left running but was empty and the freezer box had a few pizzas and some packets of frozen minced beef. Basic fare. But the pasta and sauce and tinned beans and meats in the cupboard made King think it catered towards a more Western diet than the average Albanian. No olives, pickled vegetables, or cured meats. These items were certainly more like the sort of food a team of British ex-soldiers would get through as they planned and organised for their mission. He looked around for debris, and there were the odd crumbs of bread on the floor. They were dried and popped underfoot. He went through the rest of the cupboards and found nothing, then turned his attention to the other rooms. Basic, square bedrooms with roll mats on the floor, sheets half-made on top. No possessions. No tells. King surveyed the rooms. There was nothing to tell just how long the property had been empty, but he could see that the plan had been to return. Rashid knew enough not to leave evidence behind, and the bedding would be prime material for DNA sampling. King was surprised the farmhouse had been left as it was, which told him that the last thing on the men’s minds would be not returning.
Satisfied the building was at least free from threat, King went back outside and headed along the perimeter using th
e shadows of the forest for cover. When he reached the larger outbuilding, he could see that it was constructed much like the first, with timbers warped from the cold and heat and time. The doors were concertina style, with four folding doors, two on each side. King studied the padlock and the shackle it was locked through. The doors had been reinforced with plywood and metal sheeting around the locks. King bypassed it, knowing the Makarov and its shortened- case 9mm cartridge would do nothing to the hardened steel lock, so he worked his way through some briars and ran a hand along the timber planks that looked more bowed than the rest of the facade. He pocketed the pistol and took out his folding lock knife. It was a stubby model Buck knife with a three inch blade and he jimmied it between the planks and levered it enough to dig his fingers inside, where he clutched the plank and heaved, using his foot to press against the barn and get all of his weight into it. The plank started to crack, then split altogether and he put the knife away and got both hands onto the next piece of timber. The seasoned pine timber pulled out easily, and he soon had enough removed to slip inside. But first, he took a moment to squat on his haunches and study the inside of the building. He chuckled to himself as he took in the sight. Rashid wasn’t messing about. He had certainly gathered resources. The Bell Jet Ranger helicopter sat in the centre of the building, its skids tethered to a purpose-made trailer that worked like a manually operated load-bearing fork-lift trolley. The main rotor had been anchored forward and aft by webbing straps. Along the far wall, a selection of tools, fuel cans and manually operated fuel pumps kept the show on the road.
King slinked inside and allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom. It was stifling hot and the air was thick and it was an effort to breathe. The floor was made from earth, which had compressed and hardened over time. King studied the flooring, frowning as he walked towards an area of newly laid concrete. The rest of the floor was like so many he had seen in poorer, sun-baked regions like Iraq and Afghanistan where he had operated clandestinely for close to a decade. The earth could harden so much that he had seen mud huts deflect .50 calibre bullets. So why would an area of the floor be turned over to concrete?
King got his answer when he pulled a piece of tarp away and half coiled, half folded it. In the end, he simply walked backwards and tugged the sheet away, leaving it where it fell. He looked at the safe, submerged in the concrete. It had been a good effort and would not have been easy to secure. A digger could have extracted it, but the whole barn would have to come down first. Hand tools wouldn’t cut it, either. A pneumatic pick would take somebody days to extract the safe, which had been laid on its back flush with the floor. Which meant they would have had to have dug out a hole six feet deep, part filled it with concrete, laid the safe in on its back and filled the void with concrete. An arduous and time-consuming task for five men, but it meant that whatever they were storing would be safe from a random attack. King could see that planting charges would take days. Getting to the sweet spots of the safe would take heavy excavation. A gang without the specialist knowledge required would have to plan it right and allow at least two days and have a range of equipment to do it. King had cracked a few safes in his time, but he could already see that it would take more equipment than he had in his pockets. Certainly, more than he would find in the house. Making a homemade charge would not be enough for this beast, not unless he could drill to specific points. And even still, he would stand little chance to view the contents if they were blown to pieces and on fire from the super-heated residue of the IED. He took out his phone and photographed the make and model of the safe, then dragged the tarp back over it and headed for the gap in the wall he had created.
Outside, the brightness of the early afternoon sun in the cloudless sky was debilitating after the gloom of the barn. King blinked away the white light, but both heard and felt the gunshot as the bullet slammed into the corner of the building just inches from his shoulder. He dodged back and drew the chunky Makarov from his pocket. He cocked the hammer back, the safety disengaging. Another gunshot. A dull thud. Small arms fire. Most likely a weapon in the same ballpark as the Russian pistol. King darted around the rear of the building, the briars snagging and tearing at his jeans and skin, ripping his T-shirt. He spun around, aware he had had his back exposed for too long. Once he had backed through the thorns, he reached the fringe of the forest and headed right, back towards the farmhouse. He figured anyone taking shots at him would not expect him to return, even by a roundabout route. If the person behind the gun was tactically trained, they would be following up their shots by advancing. Piling the pressure on. King had been there. But he wasn’t your average prey.
King had simply rounded the barn and was edging his way around the other side between the building and the farmhouse when he saw the flash of movement. He raised the pistol, edging forwards the entire time. When he reached the corner of the building, he squatted low, edged out weapon first, stealing a glance at the man who was now advancing on the far corner of the building, his back to him and his own pistol aimed out in front. The man had adopted the classic Weaver Stance and was shuffling forwards his left foot always in front and shoulder width apart, his left hand cupping the underside of the weapon’s butt. King opted for the strong-arm retention stance, carrying the weapon close to his chest to avoid snagging and ready to punch the weapon out straight when he wanted to bring the weapon on target. He had found that by using this technique, he could also use his left hand and both feet in unarmed combat techniques, only falling back on the pistol when he needed to. It gave him more options than the man who would be viewing everything through his weapon’s sights. King stood up and hustled forwards. The man was already easing around the corner of the building and as King caught up, and the man realised his prey was in fact behind him, he struggled to bring the weapon back around onto his target. King launched a front kick into the man’s right kidney, and as he dropped his foot forwards onto the ground, he punched out the weapon and struck the man under his ear with the muzzle of the pistol. The man cried out, still trying to get his pistol up to aim, but King clamped his hand over the weapon and the man’s entire right hand, then pulled and pressed his own elbow into the man’s own and spun his weight back onto his right foot. The man’s arm was locked tightly, and he had to go with King’s momentum to avoid his arm being broken. The brain is extremely good at this – sending messages to the limbs to do anything to avoid being broken - which is why you can see small people spin bigger people in the air in any dojo. At a shade under six-foot tall and fourteen stone, King was not small by any means and the man was thrown over savagely, landing on his backside, but this time his arm was locked tightly with King standing above him, pressing down on the straightened limb and bending his wrist.
King tucked his own pistol into his waistband and relieved the man of his own, which allowed King to get better resistance on the wrist. The man tried to get up, but King merely took half a step backwards and the hold doubled in resistance and the man howled.
“Okay! Okay!” he shouted. King did not really know for what, because he was beaten, and King held all the cards. “I give in!”
“Leroy Wilkinson?” King paused. “AKA, Flymo…”
“Who the hell are you?” He snapped, but relaxed and let out a breath as King released his grip and stood back two paces, the pistol now in his right hand and held close to his chest. “You’re Box?”
King watched the man rub his arm and wrist. He figured the man would feel it in his shoulder tomorrow. He had taken in the man’s features during the scuffle, but the moment he had spoken, he knew he was on track. “Recognised you,” he said. “From your file.”
“You’re the clean-up party?”
“Is that what the operation needs?”
Flymo shrugged. “Fucked if I know. They’ve gone off radar, and any contact for Box has gone unanswered.”
During the Second World War MI5 had used the address PO BOX 500. Even today, ‘Box’ was how many people in the know referred to the Security
Service.
“You’re on your own, son.” King paused. “Five have tested the water, it was bloody freezing, so you’re done.”
Flymo got up unsteadily and held out his hand for his weapon. King ignored him. He wasn’t about to give a man who had just been cut loose a weapon. He would have to earn King’s trust first.
“Then what capacity are you here in?” he asked. “Not tidying the loose ends, are you?” His eyes were wide and did not leave the gun in King’s hand. “Oh, for Christ’s sake…”
King had learned to read people over the years. White people typically drained of colour in the face when they were scared; they also reddened when they were angry. But black people were more difficult to read. It all came down to their eyes. And King could tell fear from anger in the man’s wide, pleading eyes. He could tell agitation, too. Their eyes were a flashpoint, a beacon of emotion. Right now, Leroy Wilkinson was terrified.
“I’m here for Rashid.”
“To tidy loose ends…”
King shook his head. “I’m here of my own accord.”
“You’re King…”
“I don’t know you.”
“Rashid mentioned you.” Flymo paused. “Christ, your eyes… You’re looking at me like you want to tear out my throat… He said you had cold eyes.” He shook his head despondently. “You are going to kill me, aren’t you? You just want to know where Rashid is, first.”
“Have you got a key to the barn?”
“Yes.”
“Open it.”
Flymo shrugged. He put his hand in his pocket and froze when he saw the muzzle of the pistol in King’s hand rise slightly. King nodded for him to continue and he slowly retrieved a shiny key.