Soft Target 01 - Soft Target

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Soft Target 01 - Soft Target Page 11

by Conrad Jones


  Mustapha sat down in silence. He had never heard Sian talk about this big man. He was very distinctive, he would have remembered him if she had. He always remembered men with shaven heads, because he found them scary; they made him nervous. Tank stood close to where Mustapha had sat and he leaned over and passed him a photograph of Yasser Ahmed. Tank didn’t speak. He just watched Mustapha’s reaction. Every movement that Mustapha made gave Tank an indication of what he was thinking about. Every twitch of the eyes told Tank a story. Mustapha looked at the photograph. He looked up at Sian and then at the big man. “This is my brother Yasser,” he said slowly, almost in a whisper. “I was told yesterday that he was in this country. They called and told me that he wanted to see me. I knew that he would bring trouble with him for me; he always does.”

  Mustapha, we need to talk to your brother urgently. He was responsible for the recent spate of terrorist attacks in America. If you know where he is you must tell me.” Tank tried to disguise the tension in his voice. “Who called you and what did they say about your brother?” Tank pushed a little more.

  I don’t know where he is precisely, just that he’s here in Britain. I can believe he has caused all those deaths in America. He’s a monster. He caused many deaths in my country too, that’s why we had to leave. I’ve never met the people that support him. I never know who it is that calls me. When I speak to them, there is never a name used, never a number given. They speak in code to make sure that it’s me that they’re talking to. They will not speak until I say a sentence with the word Egypt in it. I am not welcome in their circles, I don’t hold with their views. They only ring me to see that I’m safe and have enough money to live. They feel that they have a responsibility to Yasser to look after me.” Mustapha stood up and continued to ramble. “I don’t really know who my brother is. I remember nothing of my him until he arranged for my sister and I to be smuggled from our home. We have lived with strangers ever since. Am I supposed to be grateful to this man? It’s because of his actions and his beliefs, that we have been running and hiding all our lives. I hope you catch him. I hope you kill him. I don’t have a brother anymore.” Mustapha wept and threw the picture across the room.

  CHAPTER 21

  Dublin

  Billy Finnen lifted the glass of dark liquid from the wooden bar and studied it for a moment. The white froth on the top of his Guinness had the pattern of a shamrock poured into it. “What’s the news on your brother Patrick, Billy? Are the police still holding him at Holyhead?” Shamus asked the question. He was trying to expand on what he already knew to be true. Billy Finnen wasn’t a man that you wanted to irritate, and he didn’t appear to be in the mood to talk. He was once the main enforcer for the Republican IRA.

  The IRA did not only fight a war for independence against the British Army, they also took it upon themselves to police the Catholic communities, they took a very dim view of anti-social behaviour of any kind, especially drug dealing, burglary and car theft. It seems ironic that these brutal killers deemed such ordinary crimes as unacceptable. If there was a thief identified within the community that needed to be punished, Billy would arrange for it to happen. The Provo’s favourite punishment was to kneecap their victim. A pistol would be placed against the back of the victim’s knee joint, and then fired; the bullet would exit the front of the joint, taking most of the shattered bone and cartilage with it. The result was to permanently cripple the criminal, leaving them with a limp. The resulting crippled limb would then be a stigma that the criminal had to carry around his community for the rest of his life. A visible warning to anyone that contemplated going down that path.

  Though he had pulled the trigger many times himself, the catholic community knew Billy as a fixer nowadays. His henchmen however were as brutal as he had ever been. Since the troubles with the British Army in Ireland had subsided, the IRA’s gangster networks had turned their hands to other business. Drugs were the number one profit maker, closely followed by the booming trade of importing young girls for the sex trade. Eastern European girls were given promises of great jobs in the UK, prospective nannies and nurses flocked over Europe’s borders in their hundreds, only to end up being sold into prostitution. The arms trade was also lucrative; the Provo’s had smuggled guns in and out of the country for years during the troubles, why waste an opportunity now? “It’s all about supply and demand, Shamus boy! We supply and then we demand the money!” was one of Billy’s favourite sayings. It was usually followed by a hearty slap on the back from a big hand that resembled a spade.

  He’s been moved to Liverpool we think, to the new Terrorist Task Force lock-up on the River Mersey.” Billy leaned forward toward Shamus and lowered his voice; he didn’t want anyone to overhear his conversation. The Republicans had fallen foul of informers for years. There were many people in Ireland who did not condone the Provo’s methods and were only too keen to sell vital information to the British Intelligence agencies. “I’m not a happy man, Shamus, my friend. I think that the Arabs have tried to fuck me over. They had the nerve to ask me if one of our men had tipped the fucking customs with information about the explosives that my own brother was smuggling. The nerve of them, I ask you! Have a van full of guns and grenades that belong to them mind you, but I’m not so sure they’ll ever see them now. I’m sure that you get my drift, Shamus, I don’t think that the Arabs understand exactly who they are fucking with, Shamus.” The Irishman took a long drink of his beloved Guinness before continuing. “They think that we’re a bunch of stupid Mick’s. They think that we’re just thick Irishmen. Well now we’ll just have to show them the error of their ways won’t we my friend?” Billy had a very strict code of justice. If you crossed him then it would generally cost you your life. “What have you got in mind, Billy?” Shamus felt the rush of adrenalin in his veins. It sounded like Billy meant business. That would mean that someone would get hurt; and that would also mean a big cash bonus for Shamus. “The Arab from Kilkenny that arranged the deal is on his way to the farm now. I want you to go and meet him there, Shamus. My brother is sitting sweating his balls off in a Liverpool prison because these fuckers have pulled a fast one. I want him hurt, Shamus, but I need him alive. He will need to be able to pass the message back to these bastards that we need some kind of compensation.”

  The IRA had experienced the power and wealth that governments and affiliated organisations from the Middle East possessed. The Republicans had received over two-million pounds sterling, in aid during their struggle against the British Army from Arab nations. Billy’s greed was taking control of his best interest. “Financial compensation for the imprisonment of my brother is what we need. I think… the name of the bastard who grassed them up, and about a million pounds should cover the damage. Lovely.” Billy took a gulp from his Guinness. Shamus swallowed his whiskey and nodded in agreement. “Is there anything that you need to know from the Arab, apart from the informer’s name?” he asked as the burning Irish whiskey warmed his stomach. “I need an address in Warrington. That’s where the money for the guns came from. I am planning to send a little parcel through the post, just as an incentive, you understand. I’ll need an address, Shamus, my friend. Bloody hell this is just like the old days!” Billy finished his pint and headed to the bar for another.

  CHAPTER 22

  Sanjeet / Ireland

  Sanjeet slowed the vehicle and turned onto the gravel track that would lead up to the farm. Both he and his passenger had been here before, to meet the Irishmen and arrange the arms deal. He had received an angry call that afternoon from Billy Finnen. Sanjeet had never met the man but he had spoken to him in negotiations on the telephone. The Irishman always sounded drunk, his voice slurred and his temper volatile. Billy had demanded a face-to-face meeting to discuss the vanload of guns and grenades that had not yet been delivered; and he was demanding information as to the reasons why the deal had gone wrong at customs. He was placing the blame for the arrest of his brother firmly at their doorstep. The Irishman insisted that t
he information must have been given to the police by the Axe group. Billy Finnen told Sanjeet that he had an informer working for the customs office at Holyhead. He said that his informer was positive that the anonymous tip-off had come from a man with an Arabic accent.

  Sanjeet slowed the vehicle down as they approached the empty farm buildings. He was worried about what the leaders of Axe would think of him. They had warned him not to go to the meeting with the Irishmen, but he felt that he had failed and let them down. He decided to meet with Billy Finnen at the farm, taking just his cousin, Ida, as support. He wanted to try to negotiate a refund of the monies paid, or to take delivery of the weapons.

  He drove the vehicle slowly into the empty farmyard. Suddenly the windscreen exploded inwards. A shower of shattered glass hit Sanjeet in the face; he felt the warm trickle of blood running into his eyes. Sanjeet looked at his cousin in the passenger seat as he slammed on the brakes and brought the vehicle to screeching stop. The bullet, which shattered the glass, had entered his cousin’s face just below the eye; the rear of his skull had exploded as the fat AK-47 ammunition exited, spraying the ceiling of the car, red. Two more bullets smashed through the ruined glass, ripping Ida’s jawbone from his skull. Teeth and bone hit Sanjeet in the face and he wrestled with the door handle, trying to escape. The door flew open and he scrambled away from the bloody scene and fell to his knees.

  Shamus brought the rifle butt down onto the back of Sanjeet’s head; Sanjeet fell forward and lay still. “You two, get rid of the car and the dead Arab. I want it wiped down and cleaned before you torch it. Now Sanjeet, you and I need to have a nice long chat inside!” Shamus had used the old farmhouse many times for interrogations. Several high-ranking IRA informers had eventually confessed to their betrayal inside the damp, mossy walls of the farm. Many more had confessed to things that they hadn’t even done just to stop the pain.

  Sanjeet had been trained for just three months in a terror camp in Somalia. When he came to the West, he moved first to London and then, after a visit on holiday, he had chosen Ireland as his home. The men that captured him had been republican soldiers all their lives. The British Army occupied Northern Ireland for thirty-eight years, causing a whole generation of men to grow up never knowing peace. The men involved in the Irish conflict, both the Catholic and Protestant paramilitaries, were hardened soldiers. When it came down to business they were brutal men with no mercy. Sanjeet had trespassed into their world and he was well out of his depth.

  He awoke with a start. Cold water had been thrown from a bucket into his face. He was tied to an old wooden chair in the middle of a derelict room, and his hands and feet were bound tightly with plastic clip-ties. “Wakey, wakey, Sanjeet my friend. My name is Shamus, and I work for Billy. Now Billy is a little pissed off right now, as he feels like you’re insulting his intelligence. He has the decency to sell you some guns, and what do your lot go and do? You only go and get his brother Patrick arrested. Now that is not polite or friendly. So what I need to know from you is where exactly your friends are, so that we can go along and sort this little problem out.” Shamus emphasised the vowels as he spoke, his Irish accent almost sounding friendly. It was as if he was speaking to a child or an elderly relative. Sanjeet remained silent. He looked at the floor but he could not disguise the fear in his eyes. He noticed that the old wooden floorboards were stained dark red with old dried blood. “I am a very patient man, but we need this information as a matter of urgency. I am sure you understand. Where can we find your friends?” Shamus coaxed, his voice was still far too jolly for this situation. Sanjeet looked at Shamus and shrugged his shoulders. Shamus nodded to the man standing behind Sanjeet, who then stepped forward into Sanjeet’s line of vision, leaning his weight slightly on a woodcutters axe, holding it as if it were a walking cane. He had an almost inane grin on his face. “Now this here is Martin, and he’s got no patience at all. In fact I would go so far as to say he’s mad. Now I wouldn’t want to be upsetting Martin, if I was you. The doctors have told Martin’s family not to let him have anything sharp. He is not a full shilling, we would say. He’s one sandwich short of a picnic. So I will ask you one more time, where do we find your friends?” Shamus was starting to scare Sanjeet now, with his jovial tone. He was enjoying this far too much. Sanjeet wished he could go back home to his family. He decided to try to cooperate. “I don’t know where they are. I only speak to them on the telephone. I only do as I’m asked. I’m sorry about your friend’s brother being arrested but I don’t know anything.” Sanjeet now had sweat mingling with the blood that ran into his eyes. Shamus nodded toward Martin. Martin picked up the sharp weapon and held it above his head. He smiled at Sanjeet as he swung the big axe. The blade arced down and smashed through the end of Sanjeet’s right foot. The big toe and the two next to it were completely severed. Sanjeet screamed and almost passed out. The pain seared through his brain. He thought about how he had become involved in this nightmare. He had known that the weapons deal that he procured would result in the deaths of many people. Now he was reaping what he had sown. He screamed again as he watched Shamus approaching him, holding a blowtorch in his hand. “I told you he was mad now didn’t I. You wouldn’t listen. Now we don’t want you bleeding to death here when you still haven’t told me where your fine friends are do we?” Shamus placed the blue flame of the blowtorch on to the bloody stump that was once Sanjeet’s foot. The flesh burned and blackened as the intense heat cauterised the wound. The bleeding stopped, but Shamus held the flame on his wound, this time he passed out.

  Sanjeet woke up in agony when Martin stood on his mangled foot. He screamed, but found that they had stuffed a rag into his mouth to muffle the sound. “I am going to leave you with Martin for a while. He thinks he can cut bits off you, and then stop you bleeding from now until midnight. It’s only six o’clock, so I have bet him that you’re dead by seven-thirty. He’s convinced that he can keep you alive until 12 o’ clock though; but as I have already told you, he is bloody mad.” Shamus lit a cigarette with the blowtorch. “No! No, please don’t hurt me anymore. I’ll tell you what you want to know. Please don’t let him hurt me again. I just want to go home to my family.” Sanjeet wasn’t sure if the Irishmen would let him go or not. He started praying that they would. Shamus pulled up a chair and sat opposite him. “I thought you might just do that.” Shamus smiled.

  CHAPTER 23

  Holyhead/ Sian’s House

  Tank walked over to the patio doors and looked at the view; he watched the waves crashing against the rocks beneath the white lighthouse, which looked tiny from this distance. Sian and Mustapha were in the kitchen making coffee. Mustapha had become upset during their discussion, so Tank suggested that they made some coffee to give the Iraqi man a break. He had a major situation to control and he tried to arrange the pieces in his mind. He heard a car approaching and turned to see Chen and Faz come to a stop outside. He waved at them through the glass and signalled with his hands for them to come in. They walked in silence toward the house, gazing out past the building to the sea. Tank was playing mental chess with the information that he had gathered in the last forty-eight hours.

  The most wanted terrorist on the planet was in the country and had tried to import explosives from the now redundant, but still dangerous, Irish Republican Army. Sian and her team had apprehended two men who were in the process of smuggling the explosives from Dublin to Holyhead, but Tank was convinced that it was a decoy to cover a larger shipment.

  Chen walked into the room with Faz, at the same time as Sian and Mustapha walked in from the kitchen carrying their coffee cups. Chen and Faz simultaneously reached for their guns. Mustapha froze like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming truck. “Whoa! Put the guns away. Put the guns away please guys! He is not who you think he is.” Tank moved between his officers and Mustapha and the two agents lowered their guns. “Meet Mustapha Ahmed. He is the brother of Yasser Indri Ahmed.” Tank took the coffee cup from the shocked Mustapha, whose hands were shaking, s
pilling the hot liquid onto the wooden floor. “As you can tell, my guys are quite keen to catch your brother.” Tank lead Mustapha to the couch and he sat down next to him. “What did we get from Patrick Finnen?” Sian asked, referring to the interrogations at the customs suite. “It’s pretty complicated, but the gist of it is that he thinks he was set up by the Axe group. Finnen and his cronies, all ex-Provo, were approached by Axe, who wanted to purchase guns and explosives.” Faz started to explain.

  I am sorry but what are Provo’s?” Mustapha interrupted. If this was really all about his brother then he wanted to understand. “Provo’s is the slang name for Provisional IRA members; they were the Catholic paramilitaries, terrorists. Anyway the contact came from a man called Sanjeet, who was based in Kilkenny, he handled all the negotiations for Axe, and he had insisted that the cargo be split into three loads. The black Mercedes we already know about, there is a transit van somewhere full of AK-47’s, Uzi submachine guns and grenades. In addition, the icing on the cake is that there was also a van containing Semtex, twenty-two RPG’S and two Surface to Air Missiles. We don’t know where that is. Finnen seems to think that the guns are still in Ireland.” Grace Farrington shrugged her shoulders and raised her hands as if baffled by her own story. “Do we know where this stuff is headed?” Tank stood up and walked over to the patio doors. He unfastened the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. “Warrington. Finnen said that his brother Billy had traced the money to Warrington. The second prisoner is Usef Mamood. He says that he was just picking up a black Mercedes. That’s all, he was to let the previous owner drive it onto the ferry across from Dublin to Holyhead, and then he was to drive it back to Warrington. He’s been working in a sandwich distribution warehouse at a place called Kingsland Grange. We have his address, he shares a house with six others, all Middle Eastern nationals, they all pray at a mosque in Appleton. He is insistent that he knew nothing about any explosives. He says that he’s new into the community where he lives, and that he was set up. One more thing, we have traced the SIM card from the phone that made the anonymous tip-off. It is an unregistered prepaid SIM card, we can’t trace the owner, but we have triangulated the whereabouts to guess where… Warrington.” Faz smiled, her white teeth seemed to gleam against her dark skin.

 

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