REPRISAL
By
Rob Alexander
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED BY
Houghton Books at Smashwords
Reprisal
Copyright©2012 Rob alexander
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/robalexander2
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook. is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, only then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Cover Design by Proper
*****
This book is dedicated to
Louis Edward Gallagher BEM
‘A loyal friend to so many’
‘A Paratrooper through and through’
*****
Reprisal was an unexpected project, too many readers wanted to know what happened after Repercussion. There must be a moral there somewhere, next time I’ll ensure I tie up all the loose ends! Revenge, which ended up on the back burner, should be finished later this year. That’s the plan, but taking my full time job into consideration, maybe that’s a little ambitious!
The book would not have been possible without the help and support of many people. Steve and Cathy Lacey for their nautical information. Ged Hickman and Lars Davis tried to minimise my mistakes. Garry Hall and Drew Meek for their considerable input and frequent demands for changes. Liz Sinclair for her patience as she read and re-read the manuscript. John Arnold, Jamie Spiers and Andy Ley, for the technical stuff.
Despite all their best efforts all errors are my own. I hope you enjoy reading it.
Please note that I use English spelling throughout. You will see doubled letters (e.g. focussed), ou’s (e.g. colour) and‘re’ (centre) as well as a few other differences from American spelling.
*****
Table of Contents
Chapter One
US 0330hrs UK 0830hrs Europe 0930hrs Lebanon 1030hrs
Saturday, 1030hrs Lebanon
A restaurant near Shtawrah, Biqa’ Valley
The obvious Westerner was studying the sweeping views of the Biqa’ valley from his table near the window. He tried to calm himself; the waiter seemed to be watching him. Was he sweating excessively? It was hot, but not that hot. He fiddled with what looked like his personal sound system as if he were selecting another track. ‘Some gizmo this,’ he said to himself. He slowly turned the body of the gizmo to face the group of people in Arab dress sitting near the window.
The waiter appeared at the Westerner’s table asking for his order. The Westerner stopped nodding in time with his imaginary music and pulled out one of his ear phones. In Arabic, with a heavy American accent, the Westerner ordered more coffee.
He looked back to the group, his eyes again drawn to the only female, her yashmak covering the lower half of her face, accentuating her deep blue eyes. Obviously not a true Arab, he thought, and her skin tone was lighter too. His contact had been insistent that he came here today, but at the same time was very scared giving him the information. He'd been demanding a lot of money for what he described as “America’s number one enemy”. He played with the controls of his gizmo until the group’s conversation became clear. He quickly flicked to another panel on the screen and then opened it to check that the sound levels were good and the miniature camera was properly focused. Once he'd confirmed the conversation was being recorded, he tried to concentrate on what was being said and keep nodding to his imaginary track. In reality, all he could think about was the idiot who designed this gizmo. In a covert situation, anyone sitting near their target and trying not to make eye contact tended to be suspicious. If the operative was sitting there, holding an electronic device constantly pointing towards a wary target, he was going to be in trouble. He had to make sure he didn’t make eye contact, especially as most of these guys hated Americans. He felt himself get hot and begin to sweat profusely when he remembered he had just spoken and so they now knew he was American. He kept nodding, avoiding eye contact as he tried to concentrate on the conversation and hold the camera still.
‘The operation has gone better than we could ever have imagined. The Infidels are running in all directions, chasing shadows. The means to destroy the West through its belief in capitalism are in place and everything is going well. The infidels are like dogs, at each other’s throats, killing and wrecking their cities and homes. They're not so civilised now! They now know how we feel; they can live in the shadow of the gun.’
The younger man sat back and looked out of the window at the view of the Biqa valley before continuing. ‘We must be patient and wait at least a week or two before we begin the next stage. We’ll stay here with our brothers, away from the chaos in the land of the unbelievers. Nearly everything is in place, but timing is crucial. In the meantime I've a personal score to settle with some meddling Englishman called Symonds who almost ruined everything. When I find him, I'll take great pleasure in arranging something to repay him for his interfering.’
‘But you can’t go back there,’ Muhammad Hamaduna said, slightly worried.
‘Why do we have to go back in this electronic age?’ the female answered.
Husayn Murad, leant forward, flicking his shemagh over his shoulder. ‘How did you escape the chaos?’
The female with the blue eyes spoke with obvious excitement. ‘Stedman just drove straight past the factory to where I was waiting. It was easy; the explosion that destroyed the building was huge and a little close.’
Stedman Ritter leant forward, laughing. ‘The fools were following my cell phone as I expected. I drove past the parking lot and tossed it out of the window. Perhaps the explosion was a bit closer than I'd planned, but it was spectacular.’
The conversation became fuzzy as the waiter got between the gizmo and the table. He spoke to the Arabs and glanced towards the American.
‘Oh shit, the bastard is alive,’ the American muttered, suddenly realising who he was listening to. He looked up quickly. ‘Damn, I think I’ve been rumbled and Langley is gonna want to hear this.’
One of the Arabs used his mobile phone and the conversation became agitated.
The American threw some money on the table and headed for the door. ‘Time for a quick exit,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Now, how the hell does this thing transmit?’ He looked at the meter on the machine and saw it had no signal. He felt a sense of panic, as he continued muttering to himself. ‘Shit, now of all times. The most important bit of information I'll have ever got my hands on and the fucking machine doesn’t work. I’ve gotta get this information off to Langley, now.’
He cursed as he left the building and out into the bright sunshine. Initially, temporarily blinded, the walk to his car seemed incredibly long. He tried not to hurry as he heard doors slam and shouts behind him; instead he kept his eye on the meter, looking for a signal. He reached the car, jumped in, and started the engine. He saw the signal meter flicker and with a sense of relief he tapped the transmit sign on the screen.
He didn't hear the gunshot, feel the gizmo being ripped out of his hands or notice he had left the road as his car plunged down the cliff towards the valley.
Stedman Ritter looked angrily at the transmitter, especially the little screen that said, Message sent.
Muhammad Hamaduna, gently put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Whatever your plans were, you’ll have to change them. You cannot stay here now. As soon as the Americans get that signal they'll send their Special Forces to kill you.’
Ritter shook his head slowly. ‘Now they know I’m alive they’ll hunt me down.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Get the plane fuelled. We’ll leave immediately and start the next phase a bit earlier than planned.’
*****
Chapter Two
20th September
US 0348hrs UK 0848hrs Europe 0948hrs Lebanon 1048hrs
Saturday, 0348hrs Boston
Operation Panther
An urgent shaking roused General Chuck Harvey from his fitful sleep in his chair. The General was in charge of Operation Panther, a joint agency task force trying to catch the cyber terrorists. He sat up, rubbed his hands roughly over his face, stretched and then ran his fingers through his close-cropped grey hair in a vain attempt to wake.
‘General, there is an urgent message from Langley. They’ve found Ritter. He’s alive! They’re sending a surveillance tape they've just received from Lebanon.' The General looked at the haggard face of Bob Victor and noticed his eyes were sparkling bright again. ‘God, do I look that bad as well?’ he thought as he followed him out of the office.
Major Tom Johnson, his second in command, was already there. 'General, the GPS signal originates from a restaurant near Shtawrah, in the Biqa’ Valley, Lebanon. The transmission only lasts just over four minutes. But, it confirms that Ritter was there about 16 minutes ago. That would be about 1030hrs, local.'
'No chance the bastard is still there?' the General asked.
'No chance, sir. When you watch the clip you'll see the group getting pretty agitated towards the end and the camera is moved in a hurry. The agent obviously felt he'd been compromised and made a run for it to transmit the recording.'
'Any news on the agent?' the General asked, receiving a slow shake of the head as an answer. He started watching the clip. 'I want to know everything there is to know about these other two Arabs.'
Bob Victor, an intelligence officer from the CIA currently seconded to Operation Panther, answered immediately. 'I've a positive ID of both of them. One is Husayn Murad and the other is Muhammad Hamaduna. They're both on our most wanted list. In fact, there haven't been any other reports of these two being seen together. They've both got strong links with Al Qaeda and organising terror campaigns. I'm waiting for other agencies’ files.'
The General was only half listening. 'Get me a secure line to the Joint Chiefs. We need eyes in the area, now.'
'General, got the Joint Chiefs on the line,' Bob said, handing him the phone. The General listened for a minute or so, before he put the phone down. He found a chair and sat down. 'Our orders are to keep looking for evidence of a second cyber attack. They want us back at Crypto City to maximise the use of the facilities there. The Mediterranean Fleet has been ordered to go-about and steam east to support any possible ground action. A Delta team has already been dispatched to Cyprus in readiness for a ground operation. We're gonna have to rely on eyes and ears on the ground for intelligence, we can't get a drone in position quick enough.'
The drone, or Predator, an unmanned aerial vehicle, was capable of eighty miles an hour with a range of 450 miles. It was regularly used for surveillance operations where it could stay airborne for 24 hours. In flight it would continually transmit high-resolution, real-time images. The cameras were powerful enough to easily pick out individual car number plates. On this occasion it would've been especially useful as it was also equipped with two Hellfire missiles. A positive sighting of Ritter could have been resolved immediately.
The General continued. 'They are gonna re-route a satellite, but he'll be long gone before that's in position. Bob, it's crucial you keep pushing your team. Maybe, you could check the passenger lists and private jets. He must have used a jet to get there, and it must have had a flight plan. We gotta find that bastard fast. He’ll be spooked as hell now. He’s certain to bring his plans forward. But where the hell is he? The bad news is that they want me in Washington now. They want to know what’s going on and what I’m gonna do about it.’
*****
Chapter Three
20th September
US 0355hrs UK 0855hrs Europe 0955hrs Lebanon 1055hrs
Saturday, 0855hrs GMT London
The Brigadier’s Office
Brigadier Colin Forest sat back in his chair as soon as he put the phone down. The Brigadier was in charge of an offshoot of British Intelligence and had been working closely with Operation Panther. The Brigadier was the complete opposite of his US counterpart. Where General Chuck Harvey had a barrel-chest, weighed in at well over 200pounds and had cropped grey hair, the Brigadier was a short, wiry man. The Brigadier had fairly long, curly, dark hair. His dark hair was thinning and he habitually brushed it with his fingers when he was deep in thought, much to the amusement of his men. They claimed that his unconscious action was probably the cause of the hair loss. Unfortunately, this was compounded by his other habit of smoothing down his now non-existent 70’s gaucho-moustache with his finger and thumb. Operation Panther was an American multi–agency task force set up to catch the group of cyber-terrorists who had caused worldwide chaos when they caused the financial systems to fail. They had established that Ritter was the mastermind behind the outrage, but after he had been declared dead in Boston, killed by one of his own explosions, the hunt for him had ceased.
The Brigadier wasn't sure what to make of his feelings. He was a little surprised that the call from Chuck Harvey had initiated such feelings. Was it excitement or dread? Both he and Alain Leroy, his opposite number in France, had always maintained that Ritter had staged his own death in order to initiate a second attack. They had been proved correct about the first part, but that would also mean the countdown had begun. What would the outcome be? Ritter had been very unlucky to be spotted so fast. Unfortunately, it might cause him to panic and start the next phase of his plans. They could have done with more time to pre-empt his next strike. He tried to concentrate after hearing the terrible news. There'd been carnage on the streets of London. Thousands of people had begun demonstrating on the streets when the cyber-attack had taken out the financial system, rendering their credit cards useless. There had then been a run on the banks, which had quickly run out of cash. The crowds had turned into a mob, determined to protest at Downing Street. They had killed several of the soldiers on the first barricades on Downing Street and then tried to overrun the final barricade, manned by the Paras. Soon, in the cold light of day, the final toll of the carnage would be known. The media would have a field day, full of accusations about the use of machine guns on the streets of London. He could already see the headlines, “A Bloody Sunday in their own capital city”. The politicians would already be sharpening their daggers, clamouring to get on various committees to find a scapegoat. Colin Forest knew that if Ritter got his way this was only the beginning. He had found and exploited a security weakness and used it as a catalyst to cause chaos in a money-driven society. The repercussions in the financial industry and economy as a whole would be felt for months, if not years, to come.
He pulled himself together quickly and picked up the phone. 'Woody, page Norry and Ross, please. Tell them to come in, ASAP. Get them on the next available flight to Malaga. We should have a copy of a surveillance tape winging its way to us. Burn off a copy for me and bring it in, please. Oh, forward a copy to Alain Leroy as well and get me some transport and tell him I’m on my way. '
He picked up the phone again. ‘Woody, ring Alain Leroy and warn him a copy of the tape is on its way. More importantly, better tell him to warn his contacts around Europe to look out for any unusual incident. Ritter is on his way.’
Within thirty minutes Major Norry Bedford and his second in command Ross McBean knocked at his door and entered his office.
'I take it you two expected a call?' the Brigadier asked with a smile. 'Ritter is in Lebanon and knows he was spotted.' He waved them to some seats and played the recording.
'I want you to start looking for Ginger Symonds and his crew. The tape confirms that Ritter considers them unfinished business. If you find Ginger, Ritter will come to you.'
He paused, a thoughtful expression on his face. 'My guess is that they'll be in Spain, especially as they've got a shed load of Euros to spend that they consider the spoils of war. Why break a 9 Squadron tradition? When a bunch of Para Engineers have worked hard, they’re going to play hard, and where better than Spain. You're booked on the next available flight to Malaga. Start there, as it's the gateway to many of the best-known lager-lout hotspots.' He looked at his watch. 'You better get going; it leaves in a couple of hours. You've been cleared to carry weapons on the flight and at the other end. Introduce yourself to the locals, as they could be helpful. But, keep it low key; tell them that you only want to put Symonds and company under surveillance.'
Norry and Ross started for the door when the Brigadier spoke. 'Try the car hire offices at the airport. They'll have a copy of all driver licences and their holiday addresses. The problem is they'll almost certainly be closed. Then, you'll have to find someone to open the door without starting a nation-wide manhunt. If you do get to speak to anyone from the car hire company, no doubt they'll remember them, as they most likely paid with cash.'
'Good luck. There'll doubtless be several companies,' the Brigadier said as an afterthought.
Colin Forest’s mind moved on to Ginger Symonds. Ginger had been kidnapped by mistake, but managed to escape and get back to the UK. He had met up with some of his old Para and Bootneck mates and stopped Ritter’s plans. Going by their recent performance, Ginger and his bunch of geriatrics had a better prospect of catching Ritter. He laughed out loud. ‘Geriatrics.’ His lads had nicknamed them “Ginger and the geriatrics”. Most of them would be in their forties, I’d hate to think how old my lads think I am if they call that lot geriatrics. He laughed again. The silly sods would probably have agreed to be the bait if he had been asked. What chance did the security forces have? The establishment relied on the use of intelligence gathering from numerous sources, but how much of it had now been compromised? The departments were full of political correctness, not prepared to make decisions in case it affected careers, stifling those who really could make a difference. They spent their time battling red tape or the Health and Safety regulations. Perhaps the events of the last few days would shake up the establishment. No chance, he thought as he came to a decision. Norry and Ross can have a snoop about to find our missing geriatrics, unofficially. He smiled, thinking to himself that this time I’ll have some men on the ground when Ritter shows up.
Saturday. 1045 hours. Paris.
Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire.
(DST; Directorate of Territorial Surveillance)
On arrival in Paris, Brigadier Colin Forest was shown into a conference room. He saw that the conference table was strewn with files and the centre was covered by several large pieces of paper. Alain Leroy jumped up to welcome him. ‘Colin, good to see you. Coffee?’
Taking the Brigadier by the arm Alain pointed out his spider chart on one large sheet of paper. Alain began to explain his thoughts. ‘Initially, I believed Ritter had tried to implement, what the Americans call a Fire-Sale. This involves a three-step cyber-attack. Step one; you take out the transport system. Step two; you take out the financial and telecom systems. Step three; you take out the utilities, gas, water, electricity and nuclear. Computers control all these various areas. If you attack any one group the computer system would cope, attack all three and the system crashes. He looked at the spider diagram on his desk for the umpteenth time. Each leg had a heading, but the bubble in the centre remained blank.
Alain Leroy leant his elbows on the table, stroking his grey beard. ‘He could have successfully completed his attack on the first two steps. But he didn’t, even after clearly demonstrating his ability to infiltrate the highest levels of security.’
He pulled over another big sheet of paper covered with the names and links supplied by Chuck Harvey. ‘I’m puzzled by some other aspects. Ritter planned things well, but I can’t see where he’s going. The links the Americans found answer a lot of questions, but . . .’ He started tapping the paper with his pencil.
Colin Forest nodded. ‘Put a new heading, “Media”. Colin Forest jumped up, grabbed a clean sheet of paper and began writing. ‘Bear with me a moment,’ he said. ‘People couldn’t get their money from the bank. No radio or TV. No media caused a panic. There was a run on the banks and panic buying. He used the media, or lack of it.’
‘Agreed, but what’s your point?’ Alain asked, but then answered the question himself. ‘He created chaos. But, why stop there? Maybe, he can’t make his next move until things calm down.’
‘The bastard.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Alain.
‘Think about the effect the media assumptions had on share prices. The stock in any company targeted by Ritter would have plummeted after today. Talking about the stock market, think how the events of the last few days will have affected the price of any of the financial institutions involved.’
‘Oui, oui. Of course.’ Alain was rummaging through paperwork on the table. ‘Look!’ he said pulling a report from a pile. ‘This report states that Sandford Ruben at Midtown Investments placed a bet on the stock of Century Industries Inc, Seabrooke Components and CP Foods going down.’ He made a disbelieving noise, then continued in a heavily sarcastic tone, ‘Strange, a real coincidence that he placed a bet on the day the IRS were going to visit Ruben about insider trading. Even more of a coincidence is that it was the same morning that they all got blown to pieces.’
There was a disgusted expression on Colin Forest’s face. ‘Ritter is one cold, callous bastard. He must have control of Ruben’s systems and will still collect, despite the destruction of the company buildings and its staff.
Colin Forest began fiddling with his glasses again. 'He seems to be working for, but at the same time using, Al Qaeda to cover up his own criminal activities. I wonder how much he’s siphoned out of the various banks during all the chaos he caused.’
Alain Leroy tapped his pencil on one of the legs of the spider labelled, Super computer. ‘Hell will freeze over before he loses control of his computer. He'll have to complete his side of the bargain for Al Qaeda or they'll kill him. He needs that computer. The Americans are stupid if they really think it got destroyed. They’re probably trying to cover up the fact that they still haven’t got control of some of the satellites and have been unable to track the computer down. It could be anywhere in the world.’
Colin Forest nodded in agreement, ‘It all comes back to computers. There are reports of computer violations all over Europe and the US.’
‘And Australia and Hong Kong. There are even reports from Russia and China.’ He paused, and shook his head. ‘This confirms something that's bothered me for a while, the concept that this is a global attack by Islamic radicals. If you accept their reasoning, you're either a believer or an infidel. The extremists argue that since there's no pure Islamic state, then the whole world must be Dar ul-Kufr, The Land of Unbelief. So nobody is safe, they’ve declared war on the world, but especially the Americans and Europe.’
On the way back to London the Brigadier rang Chuck Harvey and told him about his meeting with Alain Leroy. Chuck had quickly pointed out that the countdown had begun as most of the financial companies had already got their systems back, but the databases were a mess. The next problem would be on Monday morning, when the banks opened. How could they prevent another run on the banks? That alone could bring the country to its knees. If there was another major incident who knew what the outcome would be?
*****
Chapter Four
19th September
US 2300 hrs UK 0400 hrs Europe 0500 hrs
Friday. 2300 hrs. Boston.
Operation Panther.
‘What was the point of trying to destroy half of Boston?’ mimicked General Harvey. ‘The dumb bastards!’
Tom Johnston, stayed silent, but grimaced in sympathy. What could he say? The General had just got back from a meeting with the Chiefs of Staff in Washington and looked completely shattered.
‘I’ve had my balls chewed, kicked, and stamped on. The stupid bastards! Destroying Boston has given us the mother of all headaches. Where the bloody hell do you start?’ He glared at Tom Johnston.
‘Not a good trip then, sir?’
‘My, are we expert in understatement. Bad? It was fucking terrible. We gotta get this arsehole fast or we’ll find ourselves probing the Iranian ground defences on foot. Jesus, they wanted to know what the hell we’d been doing.’ He flopped back into his chair. ‘Gimme a drink before you hit me with any more bad news. I’m absolutely done in.’ He thought for a moment before he said quietly. ‘Sorry Tom I forgot you were in Boston and witnessed the carnage.
Tom Johnston strode over to a filing cabinet and brought out a bottle of Jack Daniels. His weary face managed to give a half smile in response He poured a good measure into a coffee-mug. ‘Only for medicinal purposes,’ he said as he poured himself one as well. He lifted the coffee mug in a silent salute. ‘I need this after today; it’s been the longest day of my life. God, I really feel like shit. You’ll need that drink when I bring you up to speed. It ain’t a pretty picture.’ He picked up the phone. ‘Bob, pick up your mug and come to the office. The General wants an update.’
‘Oh,’ was all he got as a reply.
Bob strolled in and immediately offered Tom his mug for a belt of the medicine. Bob dropped into a chair and the General noticed how tired he looked. ‘Hard going?’ he asked.
Bob nodded, gazing at the contents of his mug. ‘Bloody frustrating, more like it.’
Tom took a slurp of his drink, before pointing at the white board. ‘What we wanted was a breakdown of the companies targeted by Ritter. These are Century Industries; Midtown Investments; Seabrooke Components and CB Foods. What would have normally been a relatively easy exercise has turned into a bloody nightmare.’
He tapped the headings on the board. ‘All the buildings were totally destroyed. The incendiary devices completely wiped out the customer records. The cyber-attack means that we can’t access any of the bank records, therefore, there’s no easy way to check customers. Bob went to the IRS, but all their records are linked to the banks. They weren’t a lot of help, none of the staff turned up, saying it was too dangerous on the streets, and it’s the weekend anyway.’
He banged the board. ‘It’s the same problem with the computer violations. We’ve collated the companies, but have been unable to speak to anyone, again, as it’s the weekend and there have been some riots or something.’ He took a sip of his JD.
The General stopped him. ‘Calm down. Let’s look at what we do know. The media? He’s used the media every time and they will be working. Get hold of the editors and give them a heads-up on what’s going on. Explain that we need their help.’
Tom Johnston interrupted, ‘General, you’re gonna have to clear that from above. You know how paranoid the big Chiefs are about the Press and TV.’
‘We’ve gotta stop this bastard. We need to know about incidents as they happen. The security forces are at breaking point trying to clear up the mess that he’s already caused. Ritter knows he’s caused chaos, he did it on purpose.’
‘General,’ Bob Victor said quietly. ‘I think you better listen to this before you go any further.’
The General looked at the grave, fatigue-lined face. ‘What you got, Bob?’
Bob Victor shook his head, ‘Not good. We knew that CB Foods was in the flavour industry, but we didn’t realise how highly secretive the industry was. They consider it essential to protect the identities of their clients and their brands. Soft drink, snack food and fast food companies all rely on their unique product taste or aroma and its secret formula. The aroma of food can be up to 90% responsible for its flavour. That same science allows the same flavour companies to produce the smell of famous perfumes and household products such as deodorant, shampoo, soap and furniture polish.’ He looked uncomfortable as he continued. ‘We found a connection when we looked back in the records. One report mentioned that a scientist had disappeared earlier in the year. He was a “flavourist”, a chemist with a specialist interest in the blending chemicals to produce subtle flavours. His body was found a couple of months later. He’d been shot, well, executed.’
Tom Johnston interrupted, ‘General if there’s a connection with Ritter, he’d have the means to commit wholesale murder.’
Bob Victor waved his hand to quieten him. ‘That’s not the worst of it. To compound our problems, the Food and Drug Administration doesn’t require the flavour companies to disclose the ingredients used in their additives provided they’re considered by the agency to be GRAS (Generally Regarded As Safe). The lack of public disclosure and secret recipes means that nobody else would know if the chemical concoctions have been tampered with. In fact, it’ll be almost impossible to test for. Just to confuse matters further, natural flavours aren’t always healthier than artificial ones. An example is almond flavour, benzaldehyde. When it’s derived from natural sources, such as peach, apple or apricot pits; it contains traces of hydrogen cyanide, a deadly poison. A different process can derive the same flavour, benzaldehyde, by mixing oil of clove and banana flavour, amyl acetate. This product doesn’t contain cyanide.’
The General muttered, but was silenced as Bob Victor held up his hand. ‘It gets worse. A microbiologist and his family have been reported missing. He told friends he was going to do a consultancy job in Europe for a month, but hasn’t been heard of since. He’s got vast experience in the meat packing industry and their biggest customer is the fast food industry. That’s really worrying. Did you know that over a quarter of the adult population of the United States visits a fast food outlet on any given day?’ He paused. ‘Contemplate the worst-case scenario. Ritter targets the nation’s largest purchaser of beef, pork and potatoes, second largest purchaser of chicken. The Corporation also hires over a million people a year, and is the largest owner of retail property in the world. What if he goes for McDonald’s?’
The General and Tom Johnston looked horrified. After a moment Tom Johnston said, ‘That would be mass murder.’
‘But the contamination doesn’t have to be fatal,’ the General stated quickly. ‘Just think about mine fields, yes they injure and kill, but they cause paranoia.’ He quickly explained Alain Leroy and the Brigadier’s theory about the financial institutions and the credit death-spiral. ‘The repercussions would be felt across the whole country, no, even the world. Even the hint of contamination of a product sold for the mass market would have major consequences. You’re talking about thousands of jobs. Not only in the fast food industry, but packaging, transport, meat preparation, farmers and all the people that service those industries. All those other industries would affect the financial market and, of course, the stock market. That bastard Ritter would’ve worked that out. We’ve got to get him before he does any more damage.’
‘Agreed, but where are we meant to start looking?’ Tom Johnston shouted. ‘We know he’s going to do something, but we’ve no proof of anything.’
Bob Victor looked at the strain on Tom Johnston’s face. ‘He needs transport. Nothing can happen till things quieten down. People have to get back to work before he can contaminate products.’
‘Don’t be so darned stupid! Most of the factories are still working as computers control them. There’ll be a huge demand for food products as soon as the stores open. We’d better pray that he hasn’t already buggered about with the production in some of the factories. If he has, it will be sitting in a warehouse just waiting to be unleashed.’
The General was ashen faced. ‘We need a media blackout. We’re gonna have mass panic like you’ve never seen. I need proof before I speak to the Chiefs of Staff.’
Bob Victor looked at him. ‘All we’ve got is circumstantial evidence. We’ve got to get some response from the companies that have reported computer crashes. We also need to get the police to check for scientists who’ve had accidents or disappeared. We need direction.’
Tom Johnston banged his mug down and walked towards the door. ‘It’s the fucking weekend! The police are working today, but they’re a little busy,’ he shouted, before he walked out of the door slamming it behind him.
*****
Chapter Five
22nd September
US 0400hrs UK 0900hrs Europe 1000hrs
Sunday. 1000 hrs. Spain.
Plaza de Las Flores, Estapona.
Ginger and Jack sat in silence at their adopted table in Plaza de las Flores, watching the world go by. Ginger felt relaxed; being surrounded by orange trees and tropical plants added to the restful atmosphere. The plaza was quiet, despite the many people ambling around.
'What time did they come in?' Jack asked, breaking the spell.
'Not sure. Early doors I think. I was out for the count.'
Jack looked at him before replying. 'I wish.'
'What?' Ginger asked, looking puzzled.
'Out for the count, like knocked out, and then you wouldn't snore. One night I'm gonna tape the row you make. Maybe, I could shame you into doing something about it. You could get a medic to re-drill the holes or summat.'
Ginger shrugged his shoulders. 'Done that. Regardless of the row, I feel good. Didn't realise how much the last couple of weeks had taken out of me.'
Barking bounded round the corner and made a beeline for them. 'Morning, lads!' he said cheerfully. 'Sleep well? Best night I've had in ages. Slept like a log.'
Jack looked at him with disbelief. 'Are you taking the piss? You must've heard the apprentice chainsaw going for it?'
Barking looked puzzled. Ginger looked the other way, trying to hide his grin. Barking shrugged his shoulders, ignoring the comment. 'What are you up to today? I'm going to get some more phones, it doesn't feel right to be without coms. You coming Ginger? I saw a bookshop and thought I'd browse round that for a while.'
'Nah, I said I'd go and recce the windsurfing with Rob.' He looked at his watch. 'Whenever he turns up.' He paused, looking across the plaza. 'Ah, talk of the devil.'
Rob and Stumpy flopped into two of the spare chairs at the table. ‘Casablanca, Bogart found it romantic,’ Stumpy muttered in his broad Scottish accent as he lay back in the sun. ‘Time for the hair o’ the dug. Get'em in, Legend,' he said, waving his arms about. 'Everybudy.’
Jack quickly started getting his fishing kit together. 'Not for me, I'm off to the pier.' He stood up and then asked, 'Don't they teach geography in Scotland? Either you're still pissed or in the wrong country.'
'Och. Piss off, you crabit faced shite. Awa an dangle yer toes in the watter. Wi a bit of luck a shark wull ave a ruddy grate bite.' Stumpy sat up quickly as the waiter arrived with six small glasses on a tray. 'Ahh, medicine.'
Ginger quickly ordered more coffee to go with the glass of the clear medicinal stuff. He couldn’t pronounce the name, but the locals seemed to like it. He watched as the other two threw it down their necks as if their lives depended on it. He looked at Barking, shrugged his shoulders, grimaced, and downed it.
Barking laughed at his expression. ‘The locals normally dilute it with water. I think its proper name is aguardiente de anis or anisado. It’s bloody strong, somewhere between 30 to 50 proof.’
‘How they can think a glass of aniseed is good for them in the morning is beyond me,’ Ginger replied, drinking coffee quickly. ‘It’s disgusting!’
'Where's Frank?' Barking asked.
'Still got his head down. He's gonna fuel the motor and see us by the beach for lunch.' Rob informed him.
Stumpy suddenly stood up, 'Gotta go, fitba scores.'
An hour later, found Ginger and Rob at the theme bar by the beach. Having established the prices for windsurfer hire, Rob had managed to persuade Ginger that an early lunch would be a good plan. Begrudgingly, Ginger had to agree that it would give them a whole afternoon to play on the water. By the time they got to the bar it was very busy. The only empty table was at the rear of the veranda at the bar. Rob wasn't happy with the restricted view, made worse by a large pot containing a palm. Ginger was quite content as he watched a bead of moisture roll down the side of his chilled glass. My view is excellent, he thought, as he gazed over the top of his beer at the two bikini-clad women at the next table. Both women had a golden tan and superb figures. He was especially pleased as one of the women had noticed the attention and had given him a little smile. He continued to study the contents of the yellow bikini, with a little more confidence. She turned slightly and smiled again. Ginger smiled in return; wow, she really did have gorgeous green eyes. He loved the way her light brown hair fell over her shoulders. He opened his mouth to speak, when the sound of brakes made him look down towards the road.
'Show-stopper! Ain't that a beauty,' Rob said, admiring the black vehicle with tinted windows that had stopped so abruptly below them. 'That's the new Volkswagen Tiguan. It's a 2L TDI.'
Ginger lost interest in the car at that point and had turned back to something far more interesting. The tone of Rob's voice made him look back towards the road.
'Oh shit!'
The doors of the vehicle were now open and the first thing Ginger noticed were the weapons in the hands of the passengers. The man getting out of the passenger door had just stood up, rested his weapon on the roof and started to fire aimed bursts into the crowded bar. The two unshaven, shemagh-wearing men who had erupted from the rear doors of the car, fanned out and started running up the incline towards the bar firing as they went.
'Down!'
Did he shout it or hear it? He dived backwards out of his chair as the bullets raked the ground. The table and chair that he'd just been occupying disintegrated with a series of vicious cracks. He felt a thump in his ribs. ‘Shit, I'm hit. Gotta keep going,’ he thought, as he rolled and rolled, ignoring the broken glass crashing down around him. He rolled off the raised veranda and fell the foot or so on to a flowerbed at the side. Shit, that hurt, he felt his back and then looked at his hand, fearing the worst. Nothing. All he could hear were horrific screams and smashing glass as a second weapon joined in. He hugged the ground, desperately trying to keep below the level of the veranda. Suddenly, there was silence. The silence was almost painful, his ears were ringing and there was the overpowering stench of cordite. He hesitantly peered over the edge, to look straight into the wide-open green eyes of the woman in the yellow bikini. Her bikini top was now scarlet and she was lying in an ever-widening pool of blood. Beyond her, the café was the scene of complete carnage, butchered bodies covered in blood lying around the upturned tables. Both Arabs were now at the top of the steps, inspecting the bodies as if they were looking for someone. The nearest Arab saw him, shouted, and started to move towards him, kicking a table out of his way. At that moment there was a blood-curdling yell, followed by a choked-off scream of terror. The noise brought him back to his senses, as everything seemed to go into a silent-slow motion. The Arab who had spotted him was just raising his weapon when he paused and looked the other way, distracted by the scream. In that split second Ginger sprang towards him. From the corner of his eye he saw that Rob had leapt up, pushing away the barrel of the assault rifle and was thrusting a broken bottle into the throat of the gunman at the top of the steps. The click of the working parts hitting an empty chamber galvanised Ginger into action. The Arab’s face had a look of horror as Ginger grabbed the barrel of the weapon. The Arab yelled, still frantically trying to eject the empty magazine and pull a new one from his jacket. With both hands now on the hot barrel, ignoring the pain, Ginger twisted one way and then the other and then shoved the weapon with all his strength into the Arab’s face. He felt intense pleasure as the man’s nose crunched, and blood erupted, splattering his shemagh. The fresh magazine clattered to the ground. The Arab recoiled. Ginger pulled the weapon from his hands, and quickly swung it like a baseball bat at his head. There was a sickening crunch and the man dropped instantly. The screams had alerted the other two men at the car. The driver dived out and in a crouching run took cover behind the trunk. Once in position, he began firing. Ginger scrabbled across the floor and located the fresh magazine. He felt ice cold, his movements slick as he fitted the magazine and pulled back the working parts. In one fluid movement he turned towards the gunman and pulled the trigger. He fired a short burst into the gunman at the rear of the vehicle, before ducking as rounds peppered the wall around him. He looked across the veranda at Rob who was scrambling around in an ever-increasing pool of blood, trying to find a fresh magazine. There was a comforting sound of click the magazine going home followed by a short burst. The other Arab went down.
The slamming of car doors alerted Ginger to the arrival of a second black vehicle.
'Where's Stumpy?' Ginger shouted, his throat dry. His ears were ringing and all he could taste and smell was the sharp reek of cordite.
'Bar!' Rob shouted, before firing at the other car.
Ginger crawled across the veranda into the bar, ignoring the broken glass and blood. Stumpy was lying just inside the door, covered in blood. Ginger reached across to feel for a pulse and was greeted by a throaty voice. 'See you, keep yer hands to yersel. Leave my fucking kit alone, am no deed yet.'
'Where are you hit?' Ginger asked, dragging a tablecloth off and ripping it in half.
'Where am a no hit? Just go and git the bastards.'
Ginger ripped Stumpy's shirt open and started to pad the wounds. Stumpy stopped him. 'Are you deef? Can ye no hear the sirens?' He tried to push him away. ‘I telt ye get outta here, get the bastards.'
Ginger paused, despite the ringing in his ears he could now hear the sirens.
'Are ye still here? Fuck aff noo afore the coppers catch ye. Tea bag the bastards.'
'What?'
'Perforate them like Tetleys. Piss aff noo. I gotta think noo. How the fuck dae I explain to the wife how I copped a bullet fishing. She's gonna do me in.'
Ginger crawled back out of the door, ducking as rounds knocked holes in the masonry and showered him with debris. 'Rob, sirens. Bug out this way, now. I'll cover you.'
He crabbed his way back to the low wall. As he carefully peered over the top of the wall he saw the white-jacketed man barge the driver of the second car out of the way as he ran past. The driver regained his balance just as Ginger fired a burst towards the car catching the rear passenger and making the white-jacketed man duck. Ginger took aim again but, before he could pull the trigger, there was a yell from behind and a body landed on top of him. A pair of arms went around him and an unshaven chin dug into his neck. In the split second it took him to react to the surprise he smelt his sweat and bad breath. He rolled, although his arm movement was restricted, he began to pound the butt of the weapon into the man’s ribs. They struggled, but Ginger kept hammering into his ribs with ever increasing force. His arms pistoned, slowly the grip was loosened. Ginger felt the pressure slackening and renewed his efforts smashing the man again, and again. The Arab tried to get to his feet, but as he started to push himself up Ginger brought the butt hard against his knee cap. There was a loud crack followed by a scream as the man’s knee gave way. Rob raced past Ginger and shouted at him. 'Move!'
Ginger scrambled to his feet, smashed the butt of the weapon into the man’s face and took to his heels. They jumped down into the lane and quickly looked back. The white-jacketed man had arrived at the veranda he casually took aim and shot the crippled gunman Ginger had been grappling with. He then started yelling and pointing towards them. They sprinted off as the car started up. It began reversing, people jumping in as it was moving, to give chase down the lane. They glanced back when they heard another shot. The white-jacketed man was calmly walking away from another injured gunman he had just executed. The approaching police sirens were getting louder as there was another single shot. Moments later two more shots followed in quick succession.
'Callous bastard,' Ginger said.
'Suppose he makes a saving on the medic's bills?' Rob said sarcastically.
The sound of an engine revving made them look back along the narrow lane. The other black car was coming down the lane with the passenger hanging out of the window trying to aim a weapon at them.
'Take out the driver,' Ginger yelled. They both stopped running and fired a couple of rounds
'Out,' yelled Rob.
'And me. Leggit!' Ginger said, and began running like hell.
Jack liked fishing in the old harbour, as it was a good excuse to sit and watch the world go by. He loved to watch the old local fishermen mending their nets. He liked the stink of old fish and even the smell of fuel oil in the harbour. He couldn't settle today, something was bothering him. He didn't normally mind when females smiled at him but today was different. He was sure he knew her from somewhere, and no, he didn't have any outstanding paternity issues. He'd stopped on his way to the old pier and watched her organising a couple of guys loading supplies on to a large yacht, named Geist. He racked his brains but couldn't think where he had seen her before. Whatever, she moved in rich circles, the yacht was worth a fortune. What's more, the supplies were fit for a gin-palace. Cases of expensive booze and canned luxuries must mean they're gonna have a party, he thought. He began to wonder how big the yacht was. He estimated that it must be over 40 feet, perhaps as long as 50 feet. How many could it sleep? Maybe six to eight people in luxury. What a sad bastard. He was jealous. He'd always wanted to cruise the Med on a large yacht. He then noticed a flurry of activity. They were making ready for sea.
It was only after getting his emotions in check, did he begin to enjoy his fishing again. He'd just begun to relax, when he was jolted back to reality by the sound of an assault rifle. He immediately recognised the sound of an AK-47. Almost instantly, he remembered where he'd seen the woman before. You stupid bastard! It's the fucking bitch. He glanced past the harbour entrance towards the yacht, now under full sail, fast-disappearing, heading north. He grabbed his fishing knife and started running towards the sound of gunfire. Bollocks. If any of them get hit, it's my fault. I should've recognised the bitch quicker.
He ran along the promenade towards the rapidly building crowd. He already knew exactly where the shooting had happened. Heart pounding and sweat running into his eyes, he pushed into the crowd until he saw the demolished bar. The tables and chairs had been destroyed; all the windows smashed and huge chunks of masonry were missing from the walls. He started to push his way closer but stopped. He saw the blood-splatter up the walls and bloodied bodies on the steps.
Jack swallowed several times, as he had difficulty breathing. He rubbed his forehead, trying to rub away the blinding headache, as he pushed his way out of the crowd. He walked in a daze past the small lane beside the bar when he heard a shout. He looked down the lane and saw a police officer holding up a blood-covered shirt. He felt sick, it was too much of a coincidence, no one else but Rob wore shirts like that.
'Someone is gonna pay for this,' he said to himself.
Frank was feeling rough. The lie-in hadn't improved the headache, if anything, it had got even worse. His temper hadn't improved when fuelling the motor. He'd bought a bottle of Coke, as he'd heard somewhere that flat Coke was good for his delicate condition. He'd shaken the bottle and immediately sprayed himself with the contents. That was bad, but having lots of people laughing at your antics wasn't funny. He'd had a complete sense of humour failure. His headache worsened.
Back at the apartment, Frank was in the middle of pulling on a clean shirt when he heard the first bursts of fire in the town. He started to rush to investigate when he heard a crash and the splintering of wood in the adjoining apartment. At the same instant he heard a burst of gunfire in his neighbour’s accommodation; he saw his door beginning to move as the barrel of a weapon came through the opening. Frank just hurled himself at the ever-widening gap. He took no notice of the agonising scream as the woodwork connected with a forearm; he was intent on getting hold of the weapon. Grabbing it, he slammed his 200 lbs repeatedly into the door. Just as he finally got possession of it, there was the almost simultaneous crack of an AK-47 and the thwack of the round hitting the door jam. He leapt backwards, fumbling as he tried to hold the weapon properly, as a row of holes appeared in the doorframe splintering the wood. The door swung open and Frank fired clumsily at the silhouette of a man, sending him staggering back across the corridor. The Arab thumped into a big picture window and tried to bring his assault rifle to bear. Frank got a proper grip of his weapon and fired several more rounds, smashing the glass and sending the man through the blood-splattered remains of the window. He cautiously peered into the corridor and saw another gunman disappearing down the stairs. His temper was fed by irrational thoughts, how dare they attempt to kill him when he was changing his shirt? The dangerous mix of anger-fuelled adrenalin pumped through his veins, he bellowed at the man and chased after him, determined to catch him. He came under fire from a handgun when he reached the top of the stairs. Frank didn’t hesitate when he saw the gunman turn to run, without a pause, he let out a huge yell and leapt down the stairs, firing as he went. He barged into the gunman, who fell backwards, a look of shock and then horror on his face as his chest turned scarlet. They both tumbled down the remaining stairs until they landed in a heap in the half-open doorway. Frank staggered to his feet when he spotted the injured man fleeing across the car park. He took one look at the bloodied body on the floor before running out outside to continue the chase. The look of disgust that crossed his face as he watched a car accelerating away turned to a slight smile. He started jogging across the car park towards his car to give chase.
Barking was walking back towards the apartment, when he heard gunfire from the direction of the seafront bar. He'd just turned, when there was a burst of fire from the direction of the apartment. Immediately he started to run towards the apartment and just as it came into view, there was another burst of fire. He had had an anxious moment when there was the sound of breaking glass and a man crashed through the first floor window. He had an apprehensive moment when he heard the single shots of a pistol, but then he heard a shout he recognised, followed by another burst of firing, that proved that Frank was still alive. Seconds later, he saw another man run out of the doorway holding his arm and jump into a car. The man was panicking and clearly had problems starting the car. The car was over-revving, spewing gravel in all directions as it careered towards the exit. He dived out of the way as the car sped past.
'You OK?' Frank asked, jogging towards him.
'You're covered in blood.' Barking said, getting up from the gravel drive.
'Not mine, belongs to another one at the bottom of the stairs. Get any useful kit out of the rooms. Don't forget to collect all the passports and what's left of the money. Then get out, plod will be here fast. I'm going after the twat with the busted arm.'
Barking pulled a phone out of his pocket. 'Here. Numbers are already in it, I'm number three. I’ll go and check on the others.'
Frank grabbed it, muttered his thanks, before jumping into his hire car to continue the chase.
Barking ran into the apartments. Grabbing a bag, he quickly collected people's valuables and the remaining bag of money from Ginger's room. His thoughts were all over the place. What had gone wrong? Who were they? First, he had to find out about the rest of the crew. He slung the bags over his shoulder and was already speed marching towards the sea-front bar as the sirens started to get closer. What the hell had happened to everyone else?
*****
Chapter Six
22nd September
US 0430 hrs UK 0930 hrs Europe 1030 hrs
Sunday. 1030 hrs. Estapona. Spain.
'Hello sir, Norry here. We finally got the address of the apartment from the car hire place this morning. We've just arrived at that location, and,' he sighed, 'the whole place is swarming with police. It looks like bad news, I'm afraid. To get any answers, I'm going to have to introduce myself, but I think I'm going get more questions than answers. Sorry sir, going to have to call you back we're being waved away.'
'Where to, Boss?' Ross asked. He was silent for a moment, before he said, 'Two body bags were being loaded up and there was a lot of damage to the first floor. That’s where their apartments would be located.'
'I know. Head towards the area where all the other sirens are coming from. This is going to be difficult. If we admit to even knowing these guys, we're going to spend a lot of time answering questions. If I make it official, they're going to ask even more questions.'
Ross had begun driving along the sea-front when he exclaimed, 'Jesus fucking wept. Boss, look at that bar on the left.' He was silent momentarily. 'You're gonna have to make it semi-official to get a look-in down the morgue to confirm the ID of the stiffs in the body bags.'