Soft Target 01 - Soft Target

by Conrad Jones

  The local police arrived and carted Jarrod off to his favourite jail cell. Mustapha watched, feeling a little embarrassed, as Sian told the local officers what had happened. The police exited the bar leaving Sian and Mustapha together in the doorway of the pub. Sian turned to face Mustapha. “I hate it when people call me ginger, he always called me that at school,” she laughed. “Let’s go and watch the end of the game. You can buy me a drink for that!” Mustapha had spent the rest of the football game spellbound by this beautiful policewoman with auburn hair. Sian in turn was attracted to this quiet, dark skinned man, especially his piercing olive green eyes. It wasn’t long before they became friends and lovers.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Truck

  Majid drove the white transit van over the Britannia Bridge, leaving Anglesey behind. The view from the bridge was beautiful and he slowed down to look at the Menai Straits, which was below him. The stretch of water separated the island from the North Wales mainland. The treacherous rip tides that flowed between the two landmasses made the water look dark and fast flowing. He looked up to his right and saw the enormous peaks of the Mount Snowdon range. The view of the sea and the mountains soothed his nerves.

  In the back of the van he was carrying eight cardboard cartons containing denim jeans. Next to them was the disassembled metal structure of a market stall. The stall was made from one-inch square metal bars and they banged and rattled about against the metal of the van body. Plastic market stall covers were rolled up into huge white bundles covering everything beneath them from view. The rear body of the van had been lined with wooden panels, hooks and brackets attached to the wood held an assortment of clips and bungee cords. They would be used to keep the market stall dry once it was erected. If anyone had stopped him and searched the van on his journey from Ireland, he would have looked like an innocent market trader going about his business.

  The Semtex explosive that he carried had been packed into the spaces between the wooden panels and the van’s sides; the explosive was then covered in sawdust and coffee grounds, to disguise the scent from sniffer dogs. He had not been stopped. His journey across the Irish Sea was uneventful so far.

  His destination was a large industrial park in the town of Warrington. Warrington had become home to many of the large companies and brands that operated telephone support centres in the United Kingdom. The town was surrounded by motorways, which are Britain’s main distribution arteries, leading to every part of the UK, for distribution purposes it was an ideal location to base a business, it was geographically central, and because it was in the North West of England the rent and rates were considerably lower than the cities in the South. The town was home to a dozen large industrial parks, retail parks, call centres and science parks, and they were all situated conveniently next to the countries major road networks.

  The unit Majid was heading for had been rented the year before and comprised of an office reception area with a large warehouse at the rear. The van would be parked inside, invisible amongst the hundreds of white transit vans that buzzed around Warrington night and day. Once it was there, its deadly cargo could be unloaded and stored without the fear of interruption or capture. Majid chose to circle Warrington using the M6 motorway avoiding the busy town centre. The last thing he needed was to be involved in an accident or to be stuck in a traffic jam. He pulled off the motorway and just a mile further on, he approached the big steel roller shutter of the unit. The shutter clattered as it opened and he drove in nodding a greeting to the men inside. One of the men that stood in the doorway of the office was surrounded by the elders of the group. He recognised his face. His name was Yasser Ahmed.

  He felt honoured to be in the presence of a man so revered and his face flushed; he followed the hand signals of his friend Tariq. Tariq guided him through pallets of cardboard cartons that were scattered about as he was directed toward the rear of the unit. The unit had been empty when he had left three days earlier, but now there were two strange vehicles parked in the spot next to where he was instructed to park the transit van. Both the vehicles were old and scruffy looking. Two men were sanding down the paintwork and applying new cartoon decals to the two old ice-cream vans. Majid didn’t know what they were doing parked in the unit, but he knew that it was none of his business to ask.

  CHAPTER 18

  TTF Interviews

  Tank stood on the huge concrete police station roof with Faz and Chen. The station was situated two hundred yards from the River Mersey and the wind whistled through buildings from the Irish Sea. Tank crouched down as the chopper approached and touched down onto the landing pad. The big yellow Wessex helicopter had flown from the Royal Air Force base on Anglesey. It would take them just twenty-five minutes to fly to Holyhead. Faz had a plastic folder under her arm and she had to cling tightly to it, as the downdraft from the rotor blades grew stronger. The three taskforce officers climbed aboard the noisy machine.

  Morning, Sir. Make yourselves comfortable and strap yourselves in if you would be so kind. Flight time should be about twenty-five minutes, so we won’t be serving any breakfast and there is no movie being shown. We don’t have any toilet facilities so we will just get you there as fast as we can!” The pilot spoke with an Oxbridge accent that even the Queen would have been proud of. He sported a large moustache that wouldn’t have been out of place on the face of a First World War flying ace. “A comedian at this time in the morning is just what I need. All these Royal Air Force types are the same. They’re a bunch of bloody big puffs,” Tank said, leaning over to Faz so that she could hear him over the engine noise. Tanks time in the Army had made him biased about the R.A.F and the Royal Navy’s service men. Competition between the separate armed forces had always been fierce. The bias had stayed with him.

  Bring me up to speed please, Faz. What do we know about the two men that Sian is holding?” Tank said, straightening his tie. He always looked uncomfortable in a suit; his neck was thick and muscular, making collars restrictive to wear. Faz had spoken to Sian at the custody suite in Holyhead just ten minutes earlier so she knew that her information was current. “We have run their pictures through the digital profile system. The Asian man is a blank. The other man is one Patrick Finnen, a former member of the IRA, current member of Sinn Fein. He served time in the `H-blocks’ for murder and conspiracy to commit murder. Finnen was also arrested on a Libyan Tanker called the Claudia on 28th March 1973 in Irish territorial waters off the coast of County Waterford. The boat was found to be laden with five tons of Libyan arms and ammunition, including 120 SA-7 shoulder mounted Surface to Air Missiles and 56 Rocket Propelled Grenade launchers. He was released from prison as part of the Good Friday Peace agreement three years ago. We have him listed as living at a Belfast address; the Irish police are getting a search warrant this morning. The car, a black Mercedes has false plates, but the chassis number matches a vehicle stolen in Manchester six months ago. The engine number however, matches a silver Mercedes stolen in London three months ago. It`s probably been created from several other stolen cars in a chop shop. The hidden storage compartment had forty kilos of military grade Semtex hidden inside. The explosive has been matched with a manufacturer in the Czech Republic. It’s part of a shipment that was sold to Libya on 23rd December 2002. We are checking to see if this batch matches any that has been used elsewhere outside of Libya. Right now it looks like the republicans are selling off their assets to the highest bidder.” Faz closed the thin plastic file as she exhausted the information in it.

  That is just bloody marvellous! Forty kilos of Semtex for sale, just one careful owner; How long is it going to take the Irish force to search his house?” Tank asked angrily. “Are they looking at any of his known associates?” Faz shrugged her shoulders and explained that a progress report should be available to them when they reached Holyhead. “Ask them how much of this stuff do they think the IRA has left. I want to know everything they know, and I want to know it today. I want their best men on this, and I want to know wh
at explosive capacity the republicans had. I want to know what type of weapons they are selling. Is there any possibility that they still have Surface to Air missiles at their disposal?”

  Tank knew that just one Surface to Air Missile in the wrong hands could lead to any civilian passenger aeroplane being shot down. Most of the commercial airports in Britain were built in suburban areas. Finding a position to launch a missile at a passenger jet on take-off or landing would not be difficult. “We don’t know how many Libyan arms shipments actually arrived successfully in Ireland. We know that the Royal Navy intercepted several Libyan vessels in the late 1980’s that were all laden with arms and munitions for the IRA.” Grace Farrington had the exact details in her file and she scanned them for anything that would be relevant. It was extremely difficult to make her voice heard in the speeding helicopter. “Do they have access to sniper rifles, machine pistols, R.P.G’S at this moment in time and if they do, how is it being sold to these lunatics over here? We know what Yasser Ahmed is capable of. If he gets his hands on this stuff we will be clearing up bodies for years. I want this route from Dublin to Holyhead shut tight.” Tank had to shout now to make himself heard. He pulled at his collar again, trying to make his shirt feel more comfortable. It didn’t work.

  They landed twenty minutes later and it was a short drive down London Road to the detention suite. Faz looked through the two-way mirror at the Irish man that sat handcuffed at the table. He looked tired and dirty. Two of Sian’s customs officers sat opposite the man asking the same questions over and over again. The Irish man sat silently and stared at an imaginary spot in front of him. It was a classic military interview technique, turn off and say nothing. Faz looked down the corridor for the others; they were walking down the sterile looking hallway toward her. She felt the eyes of the customs officer that stood next to her looking her up and down. Faz was a sexy black woman, tall and lean with an ass to die for, she was wearing tight black jeans and a white high-necked top that accentuated her breasts. She was a very rare specimen in a town like Holyhead.

  How long have they been interviewing Finnen for?” Faz asked the customs officer. His eyes snapped away from her body and he reddened with embarrassment. He had been caught in the act.

  About four hours, Ma’am. He’s given us a false name and address and that’s it. The Paki has said nothing at all so far,” he replied as Sian and Tank entered the room with Chen following behind them, talking on his cell phone. “He is not a `Paki’, Officer Jones. In fact, we don’t know what he is just yet, and until we do I would suggest you keep your racist remarks to yourself. Do I make myself clear or would you rather hear it from a white female superior officer?” Faz had suffered from racial discrimination all her career and she relished the opportunity to slap down a racist junior officer. “Make yourself useful, go into those interview rooms and take both of the prisoners a cup of hot tea.” Faz had virtually castrated him in a sentence.

  Sian and Tank leaned against the two-way glass trying very hard not to burst out laughing at the embarrassed customs officer. “Stop causing trouble with the locals!” Sian gently slapped Grace on the arm in jest. The two female taskforce officers laughed. “Alright, Boss, how do you want to do this?” Sian said to Tank, still laughing.

  Sian, I want your officers pulled back to the custody suite. No one is to be in these interview rooms except us. Tell your people that if we need them, we will call them. No interruptions under any circumstances. Chen and Faz, you take the Irishman Finnen. No bullshit, tell him that we know who he is and that with his record he is looking at life behind bars. He is no longer a member of the IRA, therefore he is a civilian, not a political prisoner. The interviews are code black. They may have information that could stop an imminent attack. Make him talk. Sian you are with me. Get your people out and give me a five-minute head start before you join me with the Asian. Let’s go.” Tank spoke quietly, not wanting the customs men to hear too much before they were ushered out of the interview rooms.

  Tank walked into the interview room and closed the door. The Asian man looked up at the big man in the suit and he knew that he was no customs officer. He had just picked up the cup of fresh, hot tea that Faz had ordered for him. His mouth and throat were still burning from the effects of being shot by the Guardian Angel pepper spray the previous night. He was so thirsty; he had not had so much as a drink of water all night, and he was feeling very scared. The Asian man had heard the officers that were interviewing him repeatedly asking questions about explosives. He knew that being accused of smuggling explosives was a very serious situation to be in, but he said nothing, because he didn’t know anything.

  He had been ordered to pick up the Mercedes from Ireland, and to drive it back toward Manchester. The influential members of his small community had told him that he would be called en-route, with instructions and a final destination. He had not been in the country long, but had found a room to stay in and temporary agency work in Warrington. The Asian shared a house with six other men, two Egyptian, one from Jordan and three Pakistanis. They found him work at one of the huge distribution warehouses in the town’s industrial area. They picked, and then packed sandwich orders in a refrigerated cold room from midnight until midday. The work continued throughout the night. The sandwich deliveries then headed all over the country in refrigerated vans. It was dull, but the work force was predominantly all Asians, so there was a community atmosphere amongst the employees. There were always rumours being passed around the cold room at night. Talk of Mujahidin soldiers of God and unrest amongst the more extreme young Asian men. Despite living and working in Britain, many young Muslims felt the urge to commit violent protest in response to the British government’s policy in Iraq and Afghanistan. He worked with the men every night and prayed with them at their mosque every day. It was in the cold room that he had been recruited to drive the Mercedes from Ireland. It was part of a bigger plan he was told. It would be an act of faith, a demonstration of commitment to his new community. He did not think that driving a car from Ireland could be dangerous or difficult.

  Now this big man with a shaved head had come into the room and he had brought a feeling of malice in with him. The Asian man had just taken a sip of his tea, when without even speaking, the big man slapped him hard across the back of his head. The hot tea fell into his lap scalding his genitals, and he stood quickly, trying to escape the burning sensation in his groin. Tank threw a powerful roundhouse kick into the man’s midriff as he stood up from his chair; his shinbone sunk into the soft flesh and muscle, knocking the wind from his lungs. The Asian man fell heavily onto his side, gasping to get air into his body for the second time in twenty-four hours. Tank dragged him up from the floor and slammed him into the chair. He was struggling to breathe, still winded from the powerful kick that he had received. Tears filled his eyes and he felt more afraid than he had ever been. “What’s your name? You have been caught carrying bomb-making materials into my country. I take that very personally. I’m a little pissed off about it in actual fact.” Tank leaned over the table and glared into the frightened man’s tearful eyes. He could tell that he was nearly broken already. The Asian man looked at the empty table and said nothing. His bottom lip was quivering slightly.

  My name is Tankersley; I’m head of the Terrorist Task Force. I am the one who gets to decide which prison you will go into. I am going to put you into a jail full of National Front boys. Real live skinhead Nazi bastards. Have you ever heard of Combat 18? They like young Asian boys to be put into their prison. They get to work off all their aggression.” Tank watched the Asian pale, his eyes widened and tears flowed freely down his cheeks.

  Right now, that’s where you’re headed. What is your name?” Tank slapped him again knocking his head forward viciously. The Asian man started to cry, openly sobbing, and blood was running from his nose.

  You have been set up. You’re the fall guy. Whoever you think you are protecting has used you to smuggle explosives through this port into my country
.” Tank hit him again, this time with the back of his fist across the bridge of his nose.

  They waited until you and that thick Paddy next door, were on your way, then they made a phone call.” Tank tossed a telephone record sheet onto the table in front of the man. The man rocked backwards and forward in his chair, blubbering like a child. His nose and throat were still raw from the pepper spray he had encountered earlier. His eyes screwed tightly closed, saliva and blood dripped onto his shirt. Tank took a cassette from his pocket and placed it into the machine on the desk. He grabbed the Asian man by the back of the head, pulling it back sharply. “Listen to this. This is the sound of your boss, dropping you from a great height, into a great big pile of shit.” Tank pressed the play button.