CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Las Vegas, Nevada
Jake Harrison eased his shoulders and neck muscles. He had been sitting at his computer for hours. Daytime temperatures were unseasonably hot for December; almost fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit. The sun glared through the enormous plate-glass window. It was time for a break. He looked down over the concrete mass of Las Vegas, stark and uninviting in daylight. It looked like an enormous building site. Two hotels had been blasted to the ground a few months before. Now, towering skeletal frames rose out of the ground ready for the rebuild. Lavish amounts of money would be spent creating yet another fabulous hotel.
All sorts of people visited Vegas. Hardened gamblers who played the tables for a living, saddos who lost their shirts on the turn of a card; prostitutes, wannabe celebrities and get-rich-quick merchants, But it was mainly the tourists who kept the place going. Over two and a half million people turned up in December. They spent their time idling along ‘the strip’, standing on moving pavements that took them from hotel to hotel: shopping in the two-mile arcade or huddled over tables in the casinos.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since eight that morning. He grabbed his jacket and headed for the shopping mall. There was a great little restaurant that wouldn’t be too crowded this time of the evening.
Jake sat under a reproduction vintage lamp post and stared up at the artificial sky that covered the length of the mall. It had been created to give tourists the feeling of being out of doors. In the summer months they crowded inside to escape the searing heat. He glanced at his watch – almost five o’clock. It would be dark soon, bringing the crowds out to admire the illuminations.
It was close on seven by the time he finished his giant steak and fries. He gulped down the last of his lager, slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the table, and retraced his steps to the main entrance. Outside it was pleasantly cool and quiet. He inhaled deeply, savouring the cool air. The sidewalks had already filled up with ambling tourists.
Outside the Bellagio, a crowd watched the fabulous, illuminated fountain display. Jets of water danced to the strains of Elvis Presley’s ‘Viva Las Vegas’. Seeing the strip lit up always gave him a kick. He ran across the road towards the Bellagio, dodging taxis taking people to shows or down to Freemont Street, the original Las Vegas of the fifties. He felt like an hour in the casinos and a couple of drinks.
Settling at a vacant machine, he signalled to one of the waitresses carrying trays of free drinks around the casino.
“Bourbon on the rocks.”
“Your drink, sir,” the attractive brunette said, handing him a drink from her tray.
“Thanks, babe.”
He pressed a dollar bill into her hand and turned back to the machine. His finger was poised on the ‘hit’ button when all the lights went out.
“What the hell?” He whirled around at the sound of breaking glass behind him. The casino was in complete darkness. “Must be a total power cut,” he muttered.
Punters were still sitting down waiting for the lights to come back on. Pulling out the penlight he always carried, he threaded his way through lines of disabled machines towards the tables near reception. He shone his flashlight over the long counter. Shadowy figures scurried behind it issuing instructions to guests.
“Please stay where you are until the lights come back on. The emergency generator will kick in shortly. It’s just a power cut.”
Suddenly, the auxiliary lighting kicked in restoring some normality to the scene. Seconds later, the lights flickered and died again. Jake never did like being caught up in crowds, particularly in the dark. He felt claustrophobic. He couldn’t breathe properly. Pushing his way towards the glass entrance he lunged outside into complete blackness.
Not a single light glimmered along the strip. Just the faint image of the imitation Eiffel Tower indicated the existence of the Paris Hotel. The jabber of shuffling, frightened crowds lining the path from the Bellagio to the road filled the air.
“Hey!” a woman shrieked. “Someone’s stolen my purse!”
People started shoving and pushing. Others ran aimlessly across the road to the mall. Tyres screeched followed by a dull thud and a loud scream.
“Someone’s been hit!”
In the middle of the road a group of tourists stood frozen in automobile headlights like frightened rabbits. Cigarette lighters sparked. Children waved their light sticks, catching faces in an eerie, green glow. Suddenly, pandemonium broke out. People started screaming and running towards the hotels.
Jake ran into the middle of the road waving his arms at the line of stationary cars by the broken down traffic lights.
“The whole place is blacked out!” he yelled. “Turn your vehicles at an angle and fix your headlights on the sidewalk. Let’s get some light over there.”
Jake ran along the line of cars shouting instructions. Suddenly, a blaze of light lit up the crowds. It had an immediate calming effect. A few tourists giggled nervously; mothers soothed frightened children. In the distance a siren screamed. At last, the cavalry had arrived.
Police, ambulances and emergency services positioned themselves all along the strip.
“Please stay where you are until the situation has been assessed!” a police officer shouted through a bullhorn.
“When will the lights come back on?” a woman yelled. “That’s what we came here for; to see the lights! I’ll be contacting my attorney about this!”
“Shut up, Janie,” ordered the burly guy with her.
“What’s up?” Jake queried, approaching Lieutenant Benny Squires.
He’d known him since he was a detective sergeant and Benny was a gangly rookie, looking like a schoolboy in an oversized suit. He had been assigned to Jake for his first stint in plain clothes. They were partners for ten years until Benny got married. His wife was ambitious for him. She didn’t like him hanging around with ‘that loser’, as she referred to Jake, when he left the police force and set up his own detective agency.
“Two murders already tonight. Just what I need. The crime rate will shoot up if this isn’t sorted out fast.” The squad car radio crackled. “Hold on, Jake. Yeah, Squires. Say again. Ya gotta be kidding me? It’s the precinct duty officer,” he said, turning to Jake. “Los Angeles is completely blacked out. Two trains crashed in the subway.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“I don’t believe it! Some nut tried to blow up the Hoover Dam! They think it’s a terrorist attack. We’ve gotta get these people off the streets.”
“I’ll get back over to the Bellagio,” Jake said.
“Thanks, Jake; Leiberman can go with you.”
Squires sent two uniformed cops to cover Caesar’s Palace. There was nothing more he could do until backup arrived.
People were already gravitating towards their hotels as best they could, feeling their way along in the moonless, overcast night. A huge groan, like a disturbed animal woken from sleep, rolled along the strip as people realised they were being corralled indoors.
“Take your hands off of me, bub!”
Jake felt the full force of a fist connect with the side of his head. He lashed out in the gloom and made contact with the flabby guts of the man who had swung the punch at him. He groaned and dropped to the ground, temporarily winded. Jake hauled him to his feet and poked him in the ribs with his penlight.
“Okay! Okay! I’m going inside. Stash the gun.”
Slowly, the crowds diminished. There was very little noise now, just the shuffling of feet and the occasional whimper of a small child.
Jake picked his way through the throng in the Bellagio lobby. Dark figures moved between the tables scooping up scattered chips. There were no cameras to monitor their progress. Someone appeared at his side with a storm lantern. It gave out just enough light for him to pick out the nearest bodies sitting on the floor. He clambered up onto the reception counter.
“Okay,” he shouted above the noise. “The elevators are down. Anyone with
rooms on the first or second floors can walk up. Let Officer Leiberman know. He’s standing right next to me. We’ll let you up one floor at a time. The rest of you remain here. It’s too dangerous to walk up to the other floors without lighting. I want a show of hands. How many of you are staying at other hotels?”
A few dozen hands shot into the air. “Okay, you’ll have to bed down here in reception for the night. It’s lucky it’s been so warm, because there’s no heating. Keep yourselves as warm as you can. Those of you who are guests will be more familiar with the outline of the hotel. There are plenty of carpeted public areas where you can make yourselves comfortable, if you can find your way. Those of you with torches or lighters use them sparingly. You may need them during the night. Reception staff will direct you to rest rooms.”
*
In out-of-town retail outlets and malls, looters took advantage of the absence of thousands of tacky neon lights. The ‘night’ girls, entwined with their latest punter when the lights went out, fearfully forced them out onto the street.
In a sleazy room off the strip, a brassy blonde plied her trade without enthusiasm. Holly Jackson, otherwise known as Roxy to the punters, struggled with the flashy tie around her neck. She clawed at the man bending over her. She couldn’t see his face now. His charming veneer had swiftly transformed into sadistic brutality. As she drifted into unconsciousness she wondered why the lights had gone out. One last pull on the tie and she was silenced forever. She wouldn’t work again, not tonight, not ever.
The man unwound his tie from Roxy’s neck and casually put it in his pocket. Carefully, he set her body straight on the bed and pulled the sheet up to her neck, covering the wheals. He flicked on his cigarette lighter. Leaning over, he closed the terror-filled eyes. She looked so peaceful, almost like a little girl, with her lips slightly parted. Only the specks of blood staining the sheet belied her peaceful pose.
For a moment he stood and watched her. So beautiful, but she was expendable. He dabbed the scratch marks on his face with a handkerchief and tucked it away with the tie. He would have to dispose of them. Snapping his lighter shut, Baranski stepped into the corridor, quietly closing the door behind him. He smiled to himself. One more city and his mission was complete.
Somewhere in the Bible Belt of America, Holly’s parents gazed lovingly at the photograph she had sent them. A fresh-faced girl, standing outside a realtor’s office with a millboard in her hand, smiled at them. On the back of the photograph Holly had written, ‘This is where I work.’
“Our Holly’s doin’ mighty well for herself, Emmy, mighty well.”
In Freemont Street, Baranski moved as sure-footed as a cat in the blackness of the night. Frightened revellers had sought safety inside restaurants and bars lit with feeble candlelight. Everywhere, panic and fear roamed the darkened streets.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
San Francisco, USA – Canada
It took him over eight hours to reach San Francisco on the freeway, dodging in and out of traffic on the multi-lane road. He stopped in a motel on the outskirts of the city. He didn’t sleep, just passed time drinking coffee and occasionally dozing.
Around nine o’clock the next morning he checked out and hit the road. Spotting a roadside diner, he pulled in and ordered an enormous breakfast. His work had made him hungry. Besides, he didn’t want to arrive at his hotel too early. He wanted to make sure his room was ready. He checked in just after midday.
“Your room is ready for you, Mr Dudek. Have a nice day.”
In his room Baranski opened his suitcase. He could only carry a limited amount of explosives from Chicago, enough for his last job. What he had left was just enough to cause confusion and fear, not enough to blow up the target.
At two o’ clock, he left the hotel and headed towards the Golden Gate Bridge. He paid the six dollars toll and drove down the access road at the regulation speed. His hand rested on the holdall he had purchased earlier. Sweating with anxiety, he pulled it onto his lap. The traffic was heavy, threatening to hold him up. He must be in a clear flow of traffic if he was to come out of this alive. He had set the charges to allow him time to get off the bridge.
When he reached the middle point, he threw the holdall out onto the road and drove on. As he exited the famous landmark, a loud explosion rocked the bridge. Cars screeched to a halt, jack-knifing across the lanes. Baranski drove on. He had to get away before the emergency services and police arrived. He headed for Interstate 5. It would take him right up to the Canadian border to British Columbia Highway 99. Tomorrow morning he would be on his pre-booked flight from Vancouver to Geneva.
*
British Columbia, Highway 99
He had been driving for hours through freezing fog and rain. He cursed the weather and the slow progress of traffic. Ahead, the queue of vehicles moved at a snail’s pace through border control. Baranski felt the perspiration rolling down his neck, soaking his shirt collar. Quickly, he wiped his face with a handkerchief and took a brief glance at himself in the driver’s mirror. The long hours of driving without a break showed in his pasty face.
Slowly, he nudged forward. His heart skipped a beat. Police! Three patrol cars were parked up diagonally across the highway. Something was up! Don’t be a fool, he chastised himself. They were bound to have alerted border police. Just stay calm. He came to a stop beside the Border Protection booth. He didn’t anticipate any problems, but he had to be extra careful not to display any signs of nervousness: anything that would alert the craggy-faced man behind the window.
“Your passport, sir.”
“Filthy day,” he commented.
The cop ignored the pleasantry. “Polish?” He looked searchingly at Baranski. “What’s your business in Canada?”
“I’m a wine dealer. I visit the United States a couple of times a year, usually to the Napa Valley. I decided this trip I’d take some time out and drive up to Canada. I’m meeting up with some old friends. They’re on holiday in Vancouver.”
“Visa?”
Baranski produced his forged visa. Poles didn’t have much chance of getting an official visa, especially for America. It was usually hit and miss.
“Where are your friends staying sir?”
“The Sheraton.”
An overweight cop, with his hand on his gun, lowered his head to the window.
“Step out of the car, sir.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong! I’m just a businessman taking some leisure time.”
“Just do as I say. Step out of the car. Anything other than personal luggage in the trunk?”
“Just a pile of wine catalogues and a box of souvenir glasses.”
The policeman nodded to his partner. He walked around to the trunk and yanked it open. After rummaging around amongst the contents, he leaned into the car and searched the glove compartment, under the seats and the door storage area.
“Will you be travelling back to the US?”
“Yes, in about a week’s time,” Baranski lied.
“Okay, you can get back in the car, sir.”
The policeman waved him on and walked to the next vehicle in the line. Baranski smiled as he drove into Canada. There was no reason for them to suspect Tarek Dudek.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Washington, DC
The United States National Security Council, along with representatives of G8 countries, sat around the table with grim expressions on their faces. The shooting in New York, and a series of bomb attacks across the United States and Europe had made their impact. Most were minor with very little loss of life, but it was enough to scare them.
The group stirred when the doors behind them opened and two men entered the room. A bleak expression on his elongated face, Clive Pearce loped to a chair at the head of the table.
“Good morning gentlemen and ladies,” he added, noting the two women sitting at the far end of the table. “This is Major Jack Conrad, British Military Intelligence. What he has to say is of vital importance to all our count
ries.”
Conrad stood up. “The bombings in America and Europe are part of an organised plan to weaken morale,” he stated. “Similar incidents have occurred in Russia and the Far East. So far most have been relatively minor in terms of loss of life. I believe that the intention is to divert attention from the real purpose. The bombings and attacks on utilities are just the beginning: the tip of the iceberg. They’ve been executed by an organisation known as the Black Militia.”
A whisper of consternation and expressions of disbeliefs echoed round the room.
“I’ve actually seen this Militia. It’s not an army in the conventional sense. More an organisation composed of a few hundred people, but extremely powerful. It’s led by a man known as the Generalissimo.”
“Come on, you can’t be serious!” a highly decorated military man exclaimed.
“I can assure you I’m deadly serious.”
“It’s Islamist terrorists. Look what’s happened in Germany, France, Belgium. They’re all over the place.”
“That’s true, but these attacks are different. They are not based on religious fundamentalism, although his aim is world domination.”
“Go on, Jack,” Pearce said.
“After discovering their facility in the Swiss Alps I was taken captive, but I managed to escape. I was investigating the disappearance of two British army officers. It transpired there was a connection between them and murder victims found in Shropshire on Detective Chief Inspector Ben Wallace’s patch.”
“Do ya think we wouldn’t have uncovered this plot?” a heavy-jowled man in his sixties questioned. “The CIA don’t need any lessons from British Intelligence. Langley would know.”
“Let him finish,” Pearce interjected.
“They were also connected to one of your senators; Ethan Bateman,” Conrad continued.
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