Thunder (5 page)

“The suspect,” he replied, somewhat less aggressively.

“Weren’t you listening?” Manjeethra spat back, pulling herself up in her chair. She was not a slight woman, and she knew it. She’d never needed to use the word ‘slim’ to describe herself, nor ‘overweight’. She was ‘well built’ and, in full dress uniform like today, she knew she cut an imposingly powerful presence. “I said, the suspect was lying
face down
on the ground.” Suddenly she knew she had the upper hand here. Time to close this out. “When he turned over, I’m sure your suspect also made it clear to you that he had been surreptitiously seeking to draw and brandish his sidearm at my men.”

“The gun wasn’t loaded.”

“Of course,” she said sarcastically and, seeing him wilt slightly, decided to chuck in a quick eyelash flutter to further imbalance the ugly little pug of a man. “Of course, my officers and I had
lots
of time to ask him politely to hand the deadly weapon over to us so we could maybe check it over for him? Perhaps we could have asked him to cock it for us, just to check that no bullets were actually chambered? Perhaps we could have asked him to pull the trigger randomly? Maybe whilst he pointed it at a few of us? That Kevlar is supposed to be pretty good, isn’t it? Even at point-blank range.”

The pug sat silent.

“No Inspector, of course not,” she continued. “My choices were: ‘A’ – shoot him dead on the spot, or ‘B’ – incapacitate him as swiftly as possible. For the sake of my own, and for my officers’ personal safety, I chose Option B. I’ll look forward to receiving his personal letter of thanks for saving his life.”

The pug reached forward to the tape machine. “Interview terminated 11:48,” he said and clicked stop. “Chief Inspector Manjeethra,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “Ma’am... You need to be aware: I think he’ll likely walk for this.”

Manjeethra stared at him, filled with disbelief and anger, as the pug stood up and shuffled back out of the interview room.

~~~~~

Cordova

He approached the bank’s enormous pillared portico apprehensively. He felt uncomfortable and out of place. His subtle pale-blue pinstriped suit sat snugly over his muscular back. The trousers comfortably concealed his athletic legs and well-skied thighs. The shirt wasn’t too tight around his hefty neck and it had only taken four attempts to get his tie done up. Better than his normal clumsy attempts for parade... But then he’d had his mates, his brothers, around to help him.

Jack climbed the steps, two at a time, toward the huge granite frontage and walked into the expansive lobby.

“Go straight to the concierge.” He remembered his instructions clearly. That had always been one of his skills, throughout training. Been one of the things that had earned him his slot in his unit, back when he was just a ‘regular’. Yep, they could always rely on Jack to remember the stuff he was told. It got stuck in his head. Unlike the boring school books he’d struggled with at the orphanage. He approached the impressively uniformed man standing patiently behind his lectern.

“I need to get into my safety deposit box, please,” he asked in English.

The Spaniard looked at him dispassionately, “Of course, sir. Identification, if you may?”

The concierge’s English sounded better than Jack’s and he felt pleased he hadn’t attempted to make his request in Spanish, even though he could have. “Here,” he said, handing over one of his passports.

The concierge thumbed, somewhat arrogantly in Jack’s opinion, to the photo page and held it up theatrically for a few moments while he compared the picture with the man in front of him. Then he handed the document back. “Thank you, Mr. Vittal. Please follow me,” he said crisply.

“It’s Vit-ah-ley,” said Jack.

“As you wish, sir,” said the concierge, disinterestedly. “Please follow me.”

Jack followed the concierge through a couple of heavily guarded doorways and down a short corridor. As he walked, he couldn’t help smiling to himself at the thrilling sensation of subterfuge. He liked being Jack Vittalle, even if people kept insisting on mispronouncing it. The name felt and sounded like it belonged to someone important, someone interesting and besides, as far as he was concerned, Dominic had died back there with everyone else.

They reached a sizeable, locked, metal door. The concierge keyed a long sequence of numbers into a keypad on the wall and the doorway opened automatically, sliding seamlessly to one side. Beyond was a simple, white, brightly lit, empty space with a solitary metal table bolted to the floor in the centre.

“We will bring your box to you here,” said the concierge. “You will have complete privacy. Press the buzzer when you want to leave.”

The thrills vaporised and Jack hesitated at the open doorway...

“Please,” said the concierge gesturing for Jack to enter the room.

Jack could do a lot of things easily. A lot of things that less athletic, less military, less aggressive men would really struggle with. Unfortunately, small, closed rooms wasn’t one of them. He liked being outside, under the open sky. Tight spaces, well...

‘Some bloody covert-agent I am,’ he thought to himself. If he couldn’t maintain cover here, picking up his orders, then he had no chance. Mike’s bloodshot eyes suddenly appeared in his head, staring up at him, begging him. ‘Okay mate, just for you,’ he thought, steeled himself and stepped into the room, turning to the concierge as he went, and snapping irritably, “Don’t keep me waiting.”

The concierge nodded, a fraction more respectfully, and the door slid shut with a gentle thud.

The room was a simple cube, lined with seamless polished marble on the floor and walls. The distant ceiling also looked like it was stone-lined but it was difficult to see past the veritable battery of halogen down-lighters which peppered its entire surface. Vittalle looked away and blinked at the swirling bright etches burned temporarily onto his retinas. No cameras visible, nor any visible aberrations in the marble to suggest there was anything concealed behind it. Mind you, optics come very small nowadays.

The single metal desk was simply four legs with a large, flat, circularly machined, steel top. There was no other furniture and only the one door.

Jack placed his hands on the table’s cool surface and closed his eyes. ‘Exit: back through the door,’ he thought to himself. ‘Two guards have a full field of fire, so move fast. No chance for stealth. Shoot both quickly, move fast, and drop into the second entranceway to reduce hit chances. Two more guards to dispose of, then through into the atrium and go immediate left. Avoid the main door and look for an exit, somewhere along the side...’ He sighed. “No fucking chance,” he muttered to himself. This place had no viable exit strategy available. It was a good job he didn’t need one...

A hissing clunk announced the reopening of the door and he span around.

“Mr. Vittalle,” announced a tall, slim, woman dressed in one of the bank’s smart, blue and orange piped, corporate skirt and jacket combinations. “Here is your box, Señor.” She placed the box on the table, smiled pleasantly at him and turned and left the room. The door hissed closed again behind her.

Jack expectantly span the metal box around on the table. In every movie he’d ever seen, these boxes would be stuffed with cash, jewels and weapons. This was the first real one he’d ever encountered so he was excited to see what treasures might be packed inside.

He lifted the metal cover...

A plain A5-sized manilla envelope lay at the bottom of the large metal receptacle. It was so thin-looking that it was doubtful it contained more than one sheet of paper. One sheet of paper which would almost certainly need to be burned the minute he’d read it.

Jack sighed again, pocketed the envelope, and buzzed on the door to get out.

~~~~~

London

I’m still sleeping a lot. Long, dream-filled sleeps. Dreadful dreams. The ghosts won’t leave me alone. I can see you. I can see little Elizabeth. You’re beckoning to me from the end of your long dark tunnel.

“But the light is this way,” I shout, and beckon for you to come to me. “Come on. Come to me.”

But you don’t move...

You just stand there.

I take a step forward. I want to run but each step hurts too much. The pain becomes excruciating.

“I can’t get there!” I yell into the dark maw and I can see you turning away. Lizzie looks back over your shoulder and waves her little arm...

Then Grey Beard appears at my shoulder, startling me. His gruesome torn face leers toward me with what might possibly be a smile on his bloody lips. “Do the right thing,” he says in a rasping breath, then streaks away, down the tunnel, until he’s alongside you both.

Then Dad’s there, touching my shoulder, leaning in and whispering. “Do the right thing.” Then he’s also with you, and you’re a tiny group of three adults and one swaddling babe in the far distance. You are somewhere I can’t get to, looking back at me over your shoulders. Watching me standing alone here, stranded, as you slowly walk away...

~~~~~

Cordova

Jack was impressed. His expectations had been comprehensively exceeded.

The manilla envelope had contained three whole sheets of wafer-thin paper which were laid out neatly on the coffee table in front of him.

He sat back on the solitary battered sofa for a minute, and glanced round at the piles of rubbish which he’d swept brusquely off the tabletop and which now lay scattered over the surrounding floor.

He’d had more comprehensive orders for cleaning out the latrines than he had here...

Then again, three sheets were better than one.

Four targets had been identified. They were travelling independently across Europe, heading generally east. He had been allocated one of the four, and these few sheets were dedicated almost entirely to him.

The target was expected to cross the border into Northern Spain sometime today. Heading slowly southward toward the Mediterranean.

One of the sheets was a collage of photographs, and he stared into the eyes of the man he had been ordered to kill, while he considered what to do next.

~~~~~

London

“So there are three assets in the field?” asked The Bull, more commonly called Major Charles, also called Sentinel.

Facing him, on the other side of his meticulously tidy desk, Greere nodded. “Yes, sir. All three assets have been activated.”

“Your plan?” Major Charles watched his subordinate carefully. There was something he found distasteful about this particular Brigadier, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Maybe it was just the overall look of him? The man’s lifeless black hair lay in a flat, side-parted, bowl around his head. He had bulging eyes, a too-small nose and his mouth appeared to be painted in a permanent grimace. For sure, this little Hitler was no oil painting but his record was very credible. The guy was ambitious, seemingly imaginative, and his field work had been highly impressive... Nope. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

Brigadier Crispin Greere passed a single sheet of paper over the shiny antique desktop to his boss. “Of the four targets, I’ve selected three: the ones we know are already on the European mainland, according to the best information available at the moment from our other departments, and from Interpol. Assuming our assets are successful in their missions, we can redirect one or all of them onto the fourth target later.”

Major Charles scanned the sheet which contained short profiles on the four terrorists. “The assets are definitely untraceable?”

“They are known only to myself and Lieutenant Colonel Ellard. They know nothing about each other. They all think they’re a unique operative and have, of course, had their original identities ceased. Their drop boxes and support infrastructures are individually attached to independent shell organisations associated with one of my other personae... You’ll forgive me if I don’t give you chapter and verse, sir.”

“Very good.” The Major absolutely didn’t want the detail. It took years to develop all of the necessary multiple identities and organisational infrastructures required to run multinational deep-cover teams. He knew. He had his own portfolio. “Readiness?” he asked instead. “You had reservations when I gave you the ‘Go’ order.”

“They have to be used at some point. Now is as good a time as any.” Greere avoided answering the question.

“Code-names?” asked the Major.

“Iron, Steel and Tin.”

‘Nice touch,’ thought the Major to himself. Using common words to keep them off the keyword sniffers. Excellent. Maybe he was being too harsh on Greere...?

~~~~~

Parc National de la Vanoise

Iron watched the paper burning in the open fireplace of the old French mountain chalet. Pictures of his target were now stored in the cellphone on which he’d receive the intercept details.
‘Make your way to Paris and await instructions...’
He sifted the ashes of the note until they were all pulverised. Good. He’d got just enough time to turn over that big mansion at the foot of the valley on his way out.

He’d been watching.

It had been empty for days.

~~~~~

Berlin, Germany

Steel ran his standard-issue Golok machete gently along the whetstone, then tested it against his arm, where its edge sliced neatly into his skin drawing a wafer-thin line of blood. He stared at the red ooze. Fascinated. Then put the blade back to the whetstone.

With his other hand he gently lifted the final sheet of paper from the floor, moved it to his mouth, stuffed it in, and started chewing nonchalantly.

He was already in Berlin. He didn’t need to go anywhere.

Hiding out, like the Brass had told him to, in some shit-hole of an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, near the godforsaken and eternally condemned town of Salzwedel, had been boring. There had been no bars and no girls to distract him. It was too quiet there. Far too quiet. In all that silence he could only hear the whistling bullets, the crack of rifle-fire, the concussive boom of close artillery strikes. There was no way he could have stayed there. Besides, that credit card he’d been using seemed to be unlimited. Stupid Brass. Should know better than to give combat grunts like him too much time to think.