Tidal Rage

by David Evans

  Glass shards embedded themselves into Hoagie’s left side; large enough to cut, small enough to not cause any serious injuries. In a fluid motion, he used the strength in his back and legs to jump from a prone position to an upright stance. His timing was perfect, as a second bullet from the ArmaLite passed between his legs where his head had been a millisecond before.

  Adrenalin surged through Hoagie’s veins. Gone was the pain in his arm; gone were the nuisance cuts from the glass. It was fight or flight time, and Hoagie had never fled in his life.

  Falco Jager, aka ‘the Owl’, was a world-class rifleman. The medals he had won were a testament to his skills. He was also an excellent street fighter; he had honed his skills providing security outside dubious establishments in Hamburg, and at twenty-six years old was in peak physical condition.

  Hoagie had two inches in height over the Owl. This was important, as it was two inches less to cover the ground to get to him. More importantly, Hoagie was an ex-Navy Seal, who had trained for six years with the elite unit until his sexual orientation forced him out of the job he loved. He was six years older than the Owl but maintained a fitness level of a pre-thirty-year-old. The drawback was, he was injured. Although the pain was masked by adrenaline, the mobility of his right arm was down to approximately sixty percent of normal use.

  The Owl spun onto his back, the camouflage sheet now beneath him. Hoagie did not hear the second shot as the silencer had done its work, but the spit of fire was evident.

  Pouncing, Hoagie landed on top of the Owl, trapping the rifle between their bodies, ensuring the Owl could not aim and put pressure on the trigger. It would be a lottery as to which one of them would be hit, had the gun fired. The Owl tried to use brawn rather than brain by an attempt to headbutt Hoagie. Hoagie rode with the force of the headbutt, dropping his brow down slightly to take blunt the energy and protect the bridge of his nose.

  Stunned, Hoagie grabbed the gun from Owl and threw it sidewards away from the Owl. A mighty hand grasped around Hoagie’s throat and twisted him, so Hoagie was now under his assailant. The grip was firm, and the Owl was trying to pull Hoagie’s windpipe out. It was a grip Hoagie was sure he could not break clear from. Time to end this, Hoagie thought. Rapidly he swung his knife hand around the Owl’s back. With a quick incision and scrabbling round of the flick knife into the base of the Owl’s skull at the top of his spine, Hoagie disabled his assailant, and this quickly led to the Owl’s death, as the base of his brain was little more than shredded offal.

  With a little effort, Hoagie rolled off the corpse and observed his handiwork. He pulled the camouflage sheeting from under the Owl and covered the body. He crawled underneath the ample camouflage and took out his phone. The light of the screen shielded by the camouflage; he began to text Cutler.

  Fifteen minutes later, Cutler turned up at the Sage parking lot amidst the throng of guests leaving the concert. He knew from the text that Hoagie was to the far side of the building and out of sight. Once the main crowd departed, he made his way to Hoagie’s position unobserved.

  Cutler took in and evaluated the situation without either of them saying a word. He quickly removed the dead sniper’s leather jacket, wiped it down, and gave it to Hoagie to put on to cover his wounds. While it was ample in width, it was a little short in the arms but far less prominent than a man with blood-stained clothes entering the hotel.

  In silence, Cutler strapped the rifle to the corpse with the dead man’s belt. He signalled to Hoagie that he was going to scout the area to find a means of disposing of the body.

  Cutler carefully made his way down in the darkness to the edge of the Quay. There was a single-storey building that looked official, as it had a security fence around it, it seemed deserted. Cutler veered off to the left and circumnavigated the building’s perimeter.

  The building was HMS Calliope, a naval reserve centre. The British treated such premises as an extension of their Navy, hence the Her Majesty’s Ship Calliope name.

  The security fence gave Cutler the cover from the isolated late-night revellers who crossed the Millennium Bridge in small numbers. He retraced his steps back up to Hoagie.

  Silently they sat there for an additional hour until they were sure the last remnants of guests and entertainers had left the Sage building. Cutler did not want the casual observer seeing them carrying a body-sized object down the hill down to the side of Her Majesty’s Ship Calliope.

  The Tyne was at high tide and flowing fast. It took both Hoagie and Cutler to lift the body over the quay wall and drop it into the rapid flow of ice-cold water. The Owl was not the only body to enter the Tyne that night; several hours later, an unconscious Imran followed him in with the aid of three of Bruno’s accomplices. Not entirely what Cutler had meant by ‘Clear up your mess.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tuck received the call at 11 pm local time. He grabbed the phone from the bedside table and listened to Cutler explain some of what had occurred that evening.

  “Sounds like you’re having fun, is this a job I don’t know about?” Tuck inquired.

  “It’s a clean-up job from my days in the secret service, Tuck,” Cutler said.

  “What's your next move?”

  “We’re flying from Liverpool to Shannon Airport in Ireland and are catching a flight to Miami via Chicago within the next hour. We had to avoid the major airports in case of another incident. I need to update you on some other stuff that’s cropped up. How’s the stakeout going? Cutler replied.

  “I’ve got Stahmer sitting on Mick Hilton; we’re taking twelve-hour shifts. It’s been two days, and if I read this right, Hilton will be getting a visit soon from Rothhelm’s people,” Tuck reported.

  “I need Stahmer for another job I’m afraid, Tuck. We’ve had a cruise line owner on the phone. They spoke to Fabienne. It seems they had a mysterious fire on a lifeboat last month, which killed quite a few employees.

  “The families of the dead are not satisfied with the initial investigation and have been reaching out to several news stations in several countries. In turn, the bad publicity is hitting the cruise line hard, so they want us to investigate,” Cutler explained.

  “Christ, a cruise line asking us for help. Never thought I’d see the day,” Tuck replied.

  “Put Basmati on your case, but get him some backup, as he’s not a muscle man,” Cutler ordered.

  “I know a guy in Nassau, used to work for the local drug enforcement. Trained by us and now freelance. His name is Nathan Colton, an African American. He’s a big black guy, and he’s good in a situation,” Tuck announced.

  “If you are recommending him, that’s good enough for me. Get him on a flight as soon as possible. Pay him his standard contract rate, and we’ll evaluate later whether he would be an additional asset to the team if he wants a full-term contract.” Cutler hung up, and called Cheryl.

  “Hi, Max, what do you need?”

  “Fabienne has been on the line; evidently, there was an incident last month. A lifeboat exploded, seven dead crew. Jon Deloitte, the chief executive of Jules Verne Cruise Line, has asked us to investigate the incident. Fabienne says she believes the company’s insurers are baulking at a multimillion-dollar payout to the families of the deceased, and pressure from bereaved families.” Cutler relayed.

  “Yes, I heard about that on CNN news report,” Cheryl replied.

  “The internal investigation was flawed, and no conclusions were drawn, although the report stated ‘accident’. Appears my old recruiter, Wyatt Rockman, is an advisor to the insurance company and passed our names over as ‘a company they could deal with’,” Cutler quoted Fabienne.

  “Not what we precisely set up to do, Max. We wanted to investigate the failings in these companies, not work for them,” Cheryl said, a little irritated.

  “Doesn’t matter how we get to the outcome; the end goal remains the same. Same horse, different jockey,” Cutler replied.

  “What do you need me to do?” Cheryl asked.


  “Send Stahmer over to Genoa where the ship is berthed for the next few days. Also, send Ghislaine, as some of the crew don’t speak English, and he’ll need a translator.”

  “What about Tuck?” she inquired, knowing she was being kept out of whatever he was doing at the moment. Even though they were lovers, she would never compromise him by asking him directly.

  “Tuck is on other duties at the moment,” Cutler replied.

  “I know that Max; we’re partners, and we’re supposed to know what operations are going on. Keeping me in the dark is unlike you, so I can only assume the job has something to do with my husband’s case,” she continued, as Cutler grimaced at the words. My husband.

  “Cheryl, I’ll let you know when we know something. Let Tuck get on with his job, and as soon as I have something to tell you, I will, but not before. See you when I get back, our plane from Liverpool goes in an hour,” Cutler stressed, before switching the phone to flight mode.

  Tuck showered. Before he had time to dry off, his phone rang again.

  “Hi, Tuck. Stahmer here.”

  “I know who it is. I don’t know anyone else in the world with an accent like that.”

  “Ah, very droll, Tuck. Anyway, I think you need to get your butt out here, a car has pulled up outside the Hilton residence, the men don’t look friendly.”

  “On my way in five minutes,” Tuck replied and pressed ‘end’.

  Tuck contacted Nathan Colton, who had just finished two slugs of local rum; what he called lunch. Colton was happy to get the contract and said he would be on the next plane bound for Miami, and should be with him before morning.

  No more than half an hour had passed when Cheryl was ready to leave. She quickly tidied the crumpled sheets and bedspread, and went to turn off the television, when a breaking news headline caught her eye.

  “Terrorist attack at Liverpool John Lennon airport. Twelve persons confirmed dead at the scene. Local police and army are at the airport,” the scrolling news bar at the bottom of the screen displayed.

  Cheryl desperately tried to phone Cutler back, but received only the automated answer message.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Werner sat in his palatial villa; it was one of a pair of grand buildings sited next to each other at the highest point accessible by road on a hill overlooking the semi-circular bay of Akbuk, Turkey. The slope was like most hills around the area, strewn with olive groves and stone-domed, covered water wells. If you removed the sporadic villas, it would have looked the same as it had a thousand years ago. The general area was known as Didim, and was situated between Bodrum and Altinkum.

  The area had been chosen with care, both for its beautiful panoramic view and the isolation from the major resorts: Kusadasi to the north, and Bodrum and Marmaris to the south. The resorts were densely populated, and there was the possibility of Werner being recognized.

  The journey to Akbuk had not been comfortable. Bauer had purchased an American Winnebago for the trip. At some eight yards long and three yards high, it encompassed a large double bed so Werner could rest on the trip. There was an equipped kitchen with a new blender purchased to turn Werner’s food from solid to a more liquid state. There was also a fully stocked first aid cupboard jam-packed with antibiotics and sterilizing equipment to neutralize the infections.

  Bauer had driven the Winnebago across the German border into France near Strasbourg, as there was less of a police presence in this area. They were expecting him to try to cross into Austria or Switzerland, according to information supplied by Delegate Frau Uebering.

  Bauer had needed a rest break when they arrived at Chamonix, the French ski town nestled below the looming Mont Blanc. The game was nearly up before it started as an astute French cop wanted to know why Bauer had parked the van in the parking lot beneath the cable car. The sign clearly stated in several languages ‘No Campervans Allowed’.

  The cop wanted to see Bauer’s driver’s license, and then checked over his radio that it was not stolen, and Bauer’s credentials were real. Had the cop looked inside the Winnebago he would have seen a familiar face staring at him from a sitting position on the van’s large bed, for he would have seen the face in the picture that had been circulated that very morning from Interpol. Luckily for Werner, the cop was sloppy.

  From Chamonix, and with his ears still ringing from the metallic lambasting from Werner for his stupidity, Bauer drove through the Mont Blanc tunnel, paying the fifty-euro toll fee at the entrance. Crossing over to the Italian side of three mountains, the vehicle emerged high up, driving on the valley floors of the large, peaked mountains on either side. Stopping only for fuel, Bauer carried on driving past Lake Como before he was forced to stop at Lake Garda for a few hours of sleep. This time he found a campervan park on the lake shore and just signed in as himself, showing his passport.

  The next day he took the motorway down to Venice and bought an Anex ferry ticket for the two-day sailing to the port of Patras in Greece. The port authorities did not check the interior of the vehicle, so Werner remained hidden inside as they boarded.

  The Winnebago was directed into the bowels of the large ferry and parked inches away from the next campervan. What they had not expected was that Bauer was ordered out of the vehicle, under protest, as they did not allow drivers to stay with their vehicles. Once Bauer exited, another campervan was directed to park inches away from the driver’s door he had just exited, thus trapping Werner in the vehicle for the two-day crossing. Bauer tried to get down to the deck later that day but found all access routes locked. He fretted away the two days in the bar, purchased a cabin to get some fitful sleep, and ate and drank some more.

  They docked early in the morning, and it was thirty minutes before he was allowed on the vehicle deck. Bauer was unable to get into the vehicle, as he had to wait for the campervan parked alongside to disembark. Eventually he climbed in through the driver’s door, and the stench of urine and detritus hit him.

  “Dummkopf!” was his metallic greeting from Werner.

  Bauer could see that the campervan was in a total mess, and the carpet outside the toilet was stained with urine.

  “Nothing in the fucking van works without a hook up to electrics or off the leisure battery, which is immobilized when you lock the goddamn door!” Werner fumed.

  “They got me out so quick; I didn’t have a chance to do anything!” Bauer pleaded.

  “You locked the door, asshole, no lights, no water, and no toilet flush. I have had to live off the bottle of water by the bed because I couldn’t see what food was in the cupboards. Do you know how dark it is down here when they close the doors and turn off the lights?”

  Ten minutes later they had disembarked the ship with no immigration to go through due to the open borders of the European Union. Bauer parked a mile along the beach road and began the clean-up of the van on Werner’s orders.

  They crawled the hundred and eighty kilometres to the port of Piraeus, due to the Greek government running out of funding for a new toll road, and which was now renamed the ‘road of death’.

  On arriving in the port that serves Athens a short distance away, Bauer bought a ticket for the Winnebago and himself. This time, the Blue Star Ferry that would take him overnight to the Greek island of Kos had a motorhome deck, where the owners could stay with the van, as it was open on one side and well ventilated. Only the use of liquid petroleum gas for cooking was banned, so the trip was far more pleasant than the initial crossing.

  The shock came when they purchased a ticket for the Turkish Sea Line ferry from Kos to Bodrum. The ship was not a ship, but a converted wooden gulet, which had enough room on the back for two vehicles or one motorhome. The access ramp was moving, and would rise up three feet or so on the dockside with the swell of the Aegean, almost causing the Winnebago to topple off as it hung on with two wheels on and two wheels off the gulet, in a precarious position.

  Werner sat in the toilet as Bauer took an hour to complete the document control and purchase
motor insurance to cover Turkey. They had been warned beforehand that customs would pop their heads into all incoming vehicles for a brief look, which they did, but it took all of three seconds.

  Akbuk was mainly a Turkish resort with a minority of Brits and French expatriates. For ten months of the year, the crystal-clear turquoise Aegean Sea shimmered in the sunshine. The traditional Turkish restaurants would deliver their splendid cuisine daily; unfortunately for Werner, this had to be blended so he could consume it.

  Kurt Bauer stayed with Werner for three months while he set up a network of Kurdish minders, men with whom he had a long-standing relationship with. With the help of the Kurds, he also set up links with corrupt local police officers, who would relay any information that may affect Werner’s stay in the area.

  The team of six Kurdish minders was split into three shifts to ensure that there were always two of them with him, for twenty-four hours per day, three hundred and sixty-five days per year.

  Werner had grown stronger under the healing rays of the sun. He had gained back his ruddy complexion, and regained a little of the weight he had dramatically shed. The only major frustration for Werner was the intolerable voice box he had to hold to his throat to speak. It somehow decreased his power and the respect he was held in, or so he thought, as paranoia was another legacy of that awful day in the Bavarian Alps.

  Delegate Frau Uebering was a regular visitor; taking time out from her duties in the Bundestag to ensure her other main business was maintained. Whenever she visited, she would bring along her lover and attorney, Von-Baer. It would annoy Werner that quite often they would contaminate his pristine swimming pool with their bodily fluids as they cavorted unashamedly.

  Jan Eichmann, the gang’s master forger, who had been arrested at the same time as Werner, had served only two years of his ten-year sentence, thanks to the intervention of Delegate Frau Uebering, using her contacts in the judicial system. Eichmann had, under the delegate’s and Werner’s instructions, begun the reproduction of hundred-dollar bills. They had set up a workshop on a farm just inside the Hungarian border with Austria, with easy access to Vienna and the autobahns back into Germany.