Angels Fallen (14 page)

The lunch Arto promised was more of a processed food banquet with smoked meats and cheeses along with a local bakery’s assorted breads. The French are famous for their farmer’s lunches, and this was no exception. 

With the meal now complete, Arto cleaned the plates of his guests, scrapping the leftovers into a bin for recycling into his garden. 

“Enough business talk. 
Would you be so kind as to provide me with the plain truth?” Arto said. “So my Irishman and American sound like the ones you are looking for, ah?”  He looked to both for confirmation before deciding to proceed. “Good.  Then I see my eye for suspicious characters is still in working order.” Arto paused a few seconds. “Is there a reward included?  My pension doesn’t buy what it used to anymore with inflation and all.”

The i
nspector avoided eye contact with Arto. “Sorry, Arto, you will just have to accept the humble gratitude of your former employer as thanks.”

“Yes, yes, the humble gratitude speech.
But it does not pay the bill
s—
does it, inspector?  Arto replied angrily. “I was kind enough to invite you into my home and provide you with a lot of solid information for which I receive nothing but your humble thanks.” Arto turned and spat on the kitchen’s cobblestone floor in disgust.

“I think it is time for us to go
, Mrs. Lenine,” the Inspector said, seeing how agitated Arto had become. “Again, thank you for your information, Arto, and good luck in your position here.”

Inspector Jacko made an effort to shake Arto’s hand
, but Arto turned away with his arms folded in disgust.

“Adieu
, Arto,” the Inspector said.

Arto slowly turned to
face the inspector, a smile creeping across his face.  “But inspector, you forgot to ask me one important question. Do you want to know which way they were going through the locks? Or how about the destination they inquired about?”

Inspector Jacko feigned surprise to Rebecca before confronting Arto. “I can
not believe you, Arto,” he stammered, “a former policeman soliciting money for information. This is not only unprofessional behavior but also highway robbery.”

Arto resumed brushing aside the remnants from lunch. “Yes, it is a shame what society has done to us poor, hungry, retired policemen.”

Inspector Jacko lowered his voice in whispering to Rebecca, “Do you have a hundred Euro….

Overhearing the meager request, Arto relished his being in control of the situation.  “No, not a hundred, let’s make it more like
two hundred
,” he said. “For I am just a humble lockkeeper.”

“That’s highway ro
bbery. I will not pay it.” the inspector responded.

Returning to his sink, Arto tended to the dishes, laughing aloud at their obvious predicament. “I guess if you both split up with one going east and the other west, you will eventually run into the people you seek.”

“Damn you, Arto,” Inspector Jacko stammered once more, shaking his fist at Arto before turning to face Rebecca. “Mrs. Lenine, could you lend me two hundred Euro’s until we get back to the office so I can pay this lowlife of a man.”

Arto smiled as he watched their reflection in one of his cooking pans hanging over the sink.

The executive offices of MI-6 were anything but traditio
nal. From the Chippendale desk to the extravagant use of imported American oak panels and brilliantly waxed cherry wood floors.   The expensive yet tastefully decorated offices were intentionally meant to convey an impression of greatness and power, to intimidate all that entered. It usually had the desired effect on anyone exiting the elevator, overwhelming them with old world English charm.

Of course, the most
elaborate office happened to belong to the Director of MI-6, Sir Robert John. 

Besides the hea
vy use of expensive woods, the director’s office contained a museum quality assortment of antique weaponry, each a gift from various heads of state that were aware of his passion.  This, along with six oil-on-canvas paintings of his predecessors and one of Winston Churchill, hung about the room.

Presently seated around the
director’s cherry wood oval conference table were Rufus Sneed, Head of the Northern Ireland Office; General Anthony Parker, Head of the Special Air Service (SAS); and their various administrative underlings, totaling ten in all.

Sir Robert John stood up from his desk to address them. “Gentlemen, I am glad each of you could accommodate
me on such short notice. As my executive assistant, Mr. Hopkins, briefed you earlier, we evidently have a terrorist who has come back to roost.”

A wide screen
television displayed a grainy, thirty-year-old black-and-white photo for all to view.

“His name is Daniel Flaherty.”

“Next picture, Hopkins,” Sir Robert barked to his assistant operating the screen’s remote. “Mr. Flaherty blew up the Mayflower Hotel, pictured here after the bombing,” walking up to the screen before standing no more than a meter from its base and using his index finger to point out the dead bodies one by one: “killing ten of our Ulster allies.”

“Next picture, please.”
A white brick with the name of an arm’s manufacturer appeared on the screen.

“He used Czech made Semtex
smuggled in through his Libyan connection.  Next picture.”

A middle-aged, paunchy male, photographed from a distance
, flashed on the screen. “This is Omar Seri, someone whom we are all very familiar with, the former Libyan Deputy Intelligence Officer, and Mr. Flaherty’s primary source of explosives.”

Sir Robert leaned over, his fists resting comfortably on the conference table.  “Now for the good news
; he has resurfaced with an ex-US Navy SEAL by the name of James Dieter just outside of Paris, this information originating from a transmission we monitored between a canal lockkeeper and the main Interpol offices. Since the last message we have refocused additional assets in the area to monitor future transmissions.”

“Gentlemen, now is the time to rid the world of this type of bastard,” he said, pounding his hand on the table for full effect. “What I require, General Parker, is a small team, say only three or four of our SAS
lads, to visit the area of the last known transmission and pick up the trail and start the hunt for this bastard.”

“What about his American partner, sir?” General Parker inquired, squirming in his seat at the prospect of his people going into action. “The Americans w
on’t take too kindly to us offing one of their own.”

“Well, if our Irishman has this American as a traveling companion, I would say he is guilty by association. Wouldn’t you agree, General?” Sir Robert replied.

“Loud and clear, Sir Robert,” knowing from experience that Sir Robert just signed the men’s death warrants. “Sir Robert, stop me if I am off base, but as I see it, we can have the operation done cleanly in a matter of days. If I may, I would like to provide some details of what a typical operation of this magnitude will look like.” 

Sir Robert nodded.

“As you are aware, we always keep a Special Air Services team on alert 24/7 for situations that could potentially arise. I can have a four-man SAS team on the ground in the Forte Locks area less than a few hours from the word go. They will travel incognito with civilian clothes and go via the Chunnel. Once our team is on the ground, we can expect to interrogate the owner of the home where the transmission took place and pursue our leads from there.  The team leader for this operation will be Commander Robinson, who is a veteran of the Irish troubles and the Iraq War. He has over 17 years experience performing this type of nasty work for us. 

Sir Robert nodded
once more. “Thank you, General, I will expect a progress update as the operation unfolds.”

“Yes, Sir Robert, can do. I will personally see to it and contact your assistant, Mr. Hopkins, with the requisite information,” the General replied. 

“Excellent. And another thing, General,” Sir Robert said. “This IRA rogue is a scoundrel who evidently is very good at what he does.”

“Sir Robert, I don’t think there will be a problem with Commander Robinson. He actually lived in the
Iraq desert for two months. He survived by living off the land similar to our old Eighth Army “Desert Rats.” Between the U.S. Navy SEALs and his SAS team, they pinpointed a majority of the Iraq communication positions for air bombardments. He is ideal for this type of operation. He actually relishes it.”

Sir Robert casually extracted a cigar from his desktop humidor, cutting one end with a modified 7.62 mm bullet before lighting it. “Well, the American traveling with Flaherty is an ex-U
.S. Navy SEAL, also a veteran of the Iraq War.  Hopefully he didn’t work together with your Commander Robinson, or this operation will be shot from the start, eh, General?  Thank you all.  This meeting is now adjourned,” he said, casually dismissing them with a wave of his cigar.

For years,
the British Government found it necessary to maintain a Special Air Service (SAS) commando team on alert 24/7, used primarily as a small quick-response team.  They stood ready to deal with any type of worldwide conflict.  SAS teams participated extensively in the Irish troubles and Iraq/Afghanistan Wars, responsible for damage so heavy that it was once compared to an Army division.

They are also known to work silently in most countries with or without the host country’s knowledge.

Seemingly a relic left over from the Cold War period, they now seem to dovetail nicely with the recent rise in worldwide terrorism. 

COMMANDER ROBINSON EYED
his twelve recruits as they prepared to jump off a cinder-block retaining wall used to simulate parachute landings. 

“You are supposed to be professionals,” he bellowed.

At 38, Commander Robinson was the “old man” of his SAS troop. Most of his own graduating class had already moved on to command positions in brigade or battalion levels years before. He would have nothing to do with a desk job. Commander Robinson preferred the field. At the end of the day, he wanted dirt in his nails to prove he put in a full day’s work.

“Don’t be a bunch of boot-licking sissies,” he yelled. “Stop your bitching and jump of
f the goddamn platform.  Christ sake, it’s only four meters to the ground.  The way you are complaining you would think it was a hundred damn meters.” The Commander picked up his MP5 submachine gun, inserting a full clip, slamming it into place with pure military efficiency.

“You would not have a problem if the damn aircraft were on fire now, would you?” he shouted.

One of the recruits unwisely decided to reply, a gangly boy of possibly 19. Every class had a recruit who thought they spoke for the rest. “But, sir, with our full backpack weighing close to 30 kilos,” the recruit stammered, “we could break an ankle or a leg jumping from this height, sir. Is this legal, sir? Could we just practice the tuck and roll without the heavy pack, sir?”

Commander Robinson knew they would hesitate at the platform. They always did. Hell, he had hesitated himself. But he grew to learn that you perform as ordered with no hesitation. It could be a matter of not only yourself being killed but also the troops with you.
They will learn that lesson the hard way
, raising his weapon at the recruits.

“Oh, is that all, little man. A little tuck and roll?” Commander Robinson yelled.  He w
alked down the line of recruits sneering at each one. “Maybe I can put out a few pillows down there for you to jump on or a mattress, wouldn’t that be nice?  Let’s get one thing straight. When I order you to jump, you damn well jump. Do you hear me?”

H
e approached the daring recruit only inches from his face. “You never, ever, question what I say.  Questioning what I say in the field could get you or me killed,
and I would not like that very much
. Do you understand what I’m saying?” He removed the safety from his weapon for all to see, pointing the weapon menacingly at the startled recruits. “I will give you all until three before I fire this weapon.”

A shout from his aide
, Corporal Bellows, saved the men for the moment, his aide holding aloft a cell phone. “Commander Robinson, you have an emergency call from General Parker.  It sounds like you are a go within the hour for a three-man show.”

Commander Robinson smiled. “Damn fine day it has turned out to be, Corporal Bellows, to be in action again. I guess we better get cracking.”

“Corporal, could you please take over this operation for me? Make sure these lads keep jumping off this wall until at least one of them breaks something, I don’t care what, a leg, arm, wrist, it does not matter. Understood?” He purposely said it loud enough to be overheard by the young recruits.

“Perfectly, sir,” the Corporal replied.

Each recruit nervously eyed the other wondering if joining the SAS was such a brilliant idea after all.