Something about them, some indescribable sense of menace, sent a chill through the old man, and he decided immediately that his best option was to get himself somewhere else, somewhere less isolated, and quickly. He turned and started to run, heading for the path that led past the superstore, but this was always going to be a one-sided race. He was over seventy years old, stiff and arthritic, while each of his pursuers was half his age, strong and fit.
Within seconds, Barney heard the first of them directly behind him, his shoes loud on the concrete. He stopped and spun round to face his pursuer, right hand already raising his old hawthorn stick. It did him no good. The other brushed aside the old man’s pitiful weapon, then smashed a fist into his stomach. Barney gasped and folded forward, as if hinged at the waist. He collapsed onto the path, his breath rasping painfully.
His assailant stopped and glanced down, as his two companions stepped up beside him. All three looked down at Barney, who stared defiantly back up at them. He was still expecting nothing more than a beating. It had happened before, so probably would again. But he sadly underestimated the situation. Two of the men exchanged nods, and one reached into his pocket for a knife, clicking open the switchblade. Barney immediately began trying to scramble to his feet, determined not to give up without a fight. He’d just made it back onto his knees when one of his attackers grabbed the hawthorn stick and, with all his strength, swung the knurled end at the back of the old man’s head. This time, as Barney fell face-forward, he didn’t move again, which turned out to be a blessing because he didn’t feel them drag his body back up onto the grass bank of The Moat, or the blade of the knife stab into the left side of his throat just below his ear and rip its way through his windpipe and carotid artery. Barney took little over a minute to die.
His killer carefully wiped off the blood from the switchblade on a fold of Barney’s overcoat, then closed the knife and slid it back into his pocket. Without speaking, the other two men grabbed the old man’s wrists and ankles, picked up his corpse and carried it to the top of the sea wall. There they swung it backwards and forwards between them, to build up momentum, then tossed the corpse as far out as they could. The body landed with a splash in the dark water, limbs splaying out grotesquely, then the ebbing tide swirled it rapidly out of view.
One of the men then spotted Barney’s tattered old haversack, picked it up and tossed it into the water, well clear of the shore. It quickly filled with water and sank, unlike the body of its owner.
Onex commune, Canton of Geneva, Switzerland
Richter didn’t bother checking himself out of the hotel that morning. In his experience, almost every such operation he became involved in took far longer to complete than anyone expected, and this one was probably not going to be any different. So he just left his bags in the room, grabbed a quick coffee, then climbed into the Westfield and headed back to the police station.
In contrast to the previous evening, the whole station was buzzing. Six police cars and three unmarked vans – Volkswagen T5s – were parked outside, with their rear doors open, while officers in all-black combat clothing and carrying automatic weapons milled about.
Inside the station itself, Schneider was issuing final orders to his team before they moved off to their assigned locations to start the operation. He broke off as Richter walked in, and gestured towards a table on which lay a fabric bag containing an unusual-looking brown waistcoat, as well as an outer jacket and a helmet, on both of which the word ‘POLICE’ was boldly stencilled in white. Richter felt the fabric of the waistcoat and immediately recognized it as made from Dragon’s Skin, a revolutionary – and very expensive – new type of body armour. Unlike Kevlar, which is basically a rigid fibre capable of blocking the penetration of most bullets, Dragon’s Skin is flexible and moulds itself to the body of the wearer, offering greater comfort and therefore arguably better protection during action. He took a seat at the same table while Schneider completed his briefing.
‘This could be a long day,’ the Swiss police officer said finally, walking over to him. ‘Our surveillance team reports that three of the four inmates have now left the building, so there’s nothing much we can do until they return. The last thing we want is to challenge them on the street, in case they’re carrying weapons and civilians get hurt.’
‘Or wearing Semtex waistcoats?’ Richter suggested.
‘Exactly, though I reckon that’s less likely. This lot look to me like white-collar terrorists, not Arab fanatics. I’ve got some plain-clothes officers going through the entire apartment building now, getting all the other residents out of the place – discreetly, of course. They should have finished in about half an hour. We’ve commandeered an apartment right on the other side of the street to use as our local command post. If you’re ready, we’ll drive over there now. But then all we can do is wait.’
Richter nodded. Waiting around for the action to start was one of the things he’d always been good at.
Sheerness, Isle of Sheppey, Kent
Jasper was a long-haired Jack Russell terrier with a firm view on taking regular walks, which fortunately coincided with the views of his owner, Walter Keane. At precisely seven thirty in the morning, three in the afternoon, and eight in the evening, no matter what the weather, Jasper could be seen secured on his long lead, pulling his master at a brisk pace down Beach Street, then up onto the sea wall and north-west to the end of The Moat, before returning home by the same route.
This morning was no exception, and just for a change it wasn’t raining. Jasper led the way unerringly along the top of the sea wall, pausing briefly to inspect sites visited recently by other canine adventurers, and barking at any seagulls that had the temerity to alight in front of him. These pauses gave his elderly owner, grey raincoat now flapping in the wind, a bit of a chance to catch up, and also to catch his breath.
As they reached the rear of the Tesco superstore, and were about to take the path alongside The Moat, Jasper’s barking reached a new crescendo, but this time it wasn’t seagulls that aroused him. It was a handful of crows and a couple of magpies scrabbling about on the grass near the edge of the water. Probably a dead rabbit or maybe just a rat, Walter assumed, as he drew near, reeling in the terrier and trying to quieten him. The birds flapped off as the pair approached, and Walter looked down curiously to see what carrion they’d been feasting on.
But instead of the ripped and torn small furry body he had expected, all that was visible was a large discoloured patch of grass, stained dark brown. Puzzled, he peered more closely, then he noticed several other things that shouldn’t have been there. He bent down, his old bones protesting painfully.
A few seconds later he straightened up slowly and looked around. There was nobody else in sight – though at that hour he would have been surprised if there had been – and for the first time in his life he wished he had a mobile telephone. Jasper was beginning to sniff eagerly at the stain on the grass, and Walter had to tug him away urgently. He looked over towards the superstore. Perhaps there was a public phone there he could use? Shortening the lead to keep Jasper out of further trouble, he walked away, taking the path that led across the superstore car park.
In the event, he didn’t need a phone, because just then he saw a Kent Police patrol car drive into the parking area on a routine check. Walter Keane waved an arm vigorously till the vehicle stopped, and a couple of minutes later he was excitedly showing the two patrol officers what he’d found.
‘This looks like blood to me, Colin,’ the driver muttered, touching the edge of the stain with a cautious finger, ‘but we’ll need forensics down here to make sure.’
His partner looked less convinced, but he couldn’t dispute that something questionable seemed to have happened here, where they were standing. The rucked-up tarpaulin, stained old trilby, and the walking stick they’d found a few yards away, one end smeared with what looked suspiciously like blood, confirmed it.
‘I’ll call it in, Dave,’ the other officer announced,
decision made. He pressed the transmit button on his personal radio and then described to the control room what they’d been shown by Walter Keane near the sea wall.
Ten minutes later, Jasper and his owner were able to continue their interrupted walk, the pensioner having given a brief statement and provided his contact details. Forty minutes after that, a white police van appeared and drove over to the side of the car park where the two police officers were still standing on the nearby sea wall. Four men climbed out, opened the back doors and plucked aluminium cases from inside, then headed up the slope towards them.
‘James Monroe, SOCO,’ the newcomer announced to the two constables. ‘What is it and where is it?’
‘We think it’s blood, and possibly evidence of a serious assault.’
‘Who’s the victim?’
‘No idea. All we’ve found so far is an area of stained grass and a walking stick that looks as if it might have been used in the attack. There’s also a discarded hat and a tarpaulin that might have belonged to the victim.’
James Monroe, the senior Scene Of Crime Officer, didn’t look over-impressed at such evidence, and even less so when he stood over the disturbed area of grass.
‘Is that all?’ he demanded.
‘Yes.’
‘Christ on a bike. This could have been caused by anything. Kids larking around, dogs fucking, a cat killing a bird, anything.’
The two police officers exchanged glances.
‘Look, we reckon that’s blood on the grass, and there’s blood and loose hairs on the end of the walking stick. Unless the local cats have started beating the crows to death with cudgels, something else happened here, and we were right to call it in.’
‘Don’t try and get smart with me, constable,’ Monroe grunted, then knelt down to open his case. After ordering a batch of photographs to be taken of the scene, he selected several samples of the discoloured grass, delicately picked up and bagged the battered trilby, and then the tarpaulin. For a couple of minutes he bent over the walking stick, carefully studying the discoloured end, then picked it up too and wrapped a plastic bag over its head. After handing the stick to one of the other SOCOs, he instructed them to cover the area in clear plastic sheeting and to erect stakes with crime scene tape around the perimeter.
‘Probably a complete waste of our time and resources, this,’ Monroe muttered irritably, after ordering his men back to their van. ‘This was your bright idea,’ he turned to the constables, ‘so you two can stay here and guard the scene, just in case.’
‘Just in case what?’
‘Fucked if I know, but it’ll do you good.’ Monroe glanced up at the sky. ‘Looks like it might rain,’ he added hopefully, and trudged off back to the car park.
Onex commune, Canton of Geneva, Switzerland
The apartment building looked pretty much as Richter had expected: five floors with, probably, four flats on each, the whole building looking clean and smart. He and Schneider were currently watching the main door from a virtually identical building across the street, while two black-clad officers did the same from the other window in the same room. Net curtains covered both, and no room lights were on, so they knew they were effectively invisible from the outside.
The secure radio beside them crackled to life, then a voice said something in high-speed German, to which Schneider replied briefly in the same language.
‘Right,’ he said to Richter, raising a pair of binoculars to his eyes as an elderly couple, accompanied by a fit-looking young man wearing a jacket and tie, emerged from the entrance and began walking slowly down the street. ‘That’s my colleague Jean-Paul bringing out the last of the other occupants, so now the building’s totally empty and we just have to wait for these three suspects to come back.’ He replaced the binoculars on a side table, picked up the radio and crossed the room to a pair of armchairs. Richter followed him dutifully.
Empty mugs, soft-drink cans and half-consumed packets of crisps and sandwiches littered the low coffee table in front of the chairs. The provisions were ample because they were prepared for a long wait. Richter had skipped breakfast at his hotel, so he pulled a tattered novel out of his jacket pocket, selected a sandwich that looked as if it might have chicken in it, and popped open a can of Coke.
‘I warn you, surveillance can make you fat,’ Schneider remarked, eyeing him.
Richter grinned. ‘Only if you do it for a living,’ he said, and took another bite. ‘How are you planning to do the entry?’ he asked, dusting breadcrumbs off his trousers.
‘This is still essentially an unconfirmed report,’ Schneider reminded him, ‘so we don’t want to kick down the apartment door and go in with all guns blazing. We’ve decided to send one of our men to knock on the door and try to gain entrance without the use of force. If he manages that, our armed officers will be right behind him. If he doesn’t, we’ll have to use a ram. Either way, we’ll get inside.’
Richter nodded. ‘Personally, I’d use the ram and take advantage of the element of surprise.’
Schneider waggled his hand from side to side, indicating the fine line to be decided between the two opposing strategies. ‘That might well be the right decision, but we’d prefer to avoid bloodshed if possible. My superiors have already decided that this approach is preferable.’
‘But they’re not here, in the firing line,’ Richter pointed out.
‘Agreed,’ Schneider sighed, ‘but they’re still in charge.’
A few minutes later, the radio crackled again. Schneider held a short conversation in German, then issued brief orders to the other two men, who turned and left the room.
‘They’re coming,’ he informed Richter. ‘It seems the three of them went out to a local restaurant for breakfast, and they’ve just paid the bill. Our watchers report that they’re heading this way, so we’d better get suited up.’
‘Right.’ Richter took off his leather jacket and donned the Dragon’s Skin waistcoat, making sure it was securely fastened.
Schneider had already decided that they would approach the building in one of the vans, driving it around to the back entrance. The target apartment was situated on the third floor, on the street side, with windows that offered an unobstructed view up and down the thoroughfare, so they would have to approach from the other side of the building to remain undetected.
‘Here they come,’ Schneider murmured, involuntarily moving back slightly from the window. Richter stepped up beside him and peered out. Three young men were walking along the pavement on the other side of the street. About fifty yards behind them, an elderly woman, wheezing and bent with arthritis, was making heavy weather of pushing a bicycle along the kerb.
‘Is she one of yours?’ Richter asked, pointing at her.
Schneider nodded. ‘Marjit Nielsen,’ he said proudly. ‘She’s twenty-seven, got a figure like an hourglass, holds three marksman qualifications and can run a kilometre in a whisker under three minutes. But she’s really good at impersonating old ladies.’
‘Impressive. I’d like to meet her, maybe.’
Schneider glanced at him and grinned. ‘Forget it. She’d eat you alive.’
‘You’re probably right.’
Down in the street, the three men turned left and entered the building. The ‘old woman’ continued past them and disappeared into a side street, giving no sign of glancing left or right, though Richter guessed she’d missed nothing.
‘Show time,’ Richter announced, picking up the helmet he’d been provided with.
They left the stake-out and walked down the stairs to ground-floor level, then out through the rear entrance into the courtyard, where one of the Volkswagen vans was waiting, engine running and the rear door wide open. Two of Schneider’s men were already sitting in the back, weapons ready in their laps.
‘The rest of the team will meet us behind the target building,’ Schneider explained. ‘I didn’t want all three vans parked together, just in case one of the targets happened to walk this way and wonder what
they were doing here.’
Schneider pulled the van door closed behind him and rapped on the side panel. The driver nodded, then engaged first gear. The vehicle drove slowly out of the courtyard and then turned immediately right, the opposite direction to the building that was their objective, so as to circle round and approach it from the rear.
Four minutes later the driver braked the van to a halt and switched off the engine. Schneider opened the door and climbed out, followed by Richter and the two armed officers. The other Volkswagen vans were already there, and now he counted ten officers in all, including Schneider, who once more reviewed the plan of attack with his men.
‘There are two exits from this building,’ he explained to Richter, after he’d finished, ‘plus the door leading to the underground garage. I’ve got nine men here to do the job, and I’m leaving two of them in the lobby to cover the street entrance, the rear door and the lift, and one down in the garage. The plain-clothes officer will go up first, wearing a vest, to try to get the door of the apartment open without this degenerating into a shooting match. He’ll claim he’s carrying out a spot check on behalf of the landlord. If he does get inside, there’ll be five armed men right behind him.’
‘What about me? Where do you want me to be?’
Schneider considered for a few moments. ‘You can come up to the third floor with us, but stay out of the way until we’ve secured the apartment.’
That suited Richter fine. Armed, he would have been happy to kick down the door, but without a weapon there was no way he was going to walk into the middle of a shoot-out.
Schneider and Richter headed across to the lift, accompanied by the plain-clothes detective, who was apparently a volunteer for this job, according to the Swiss officer, and they ascended to the third floor. Once the doors opened, they stepped out into a small lobby, with a corridor leading off to their right. Five armed police officers, wearing all-black combat outfits, were already standing waiting for them, weapons at the ready.
Timebomb (Paul Richter) Page 3
