by Conrad Jones
“All aboard ladies and gentlemen please, stand away from the guard rails. The next stop will be at Battery Park, New York City,” said the voice of the ships pilot over the speaker system. The voice made her jump and brought her back to reality. Zareta had watched the foaming water at the back of the ferry for forty-minutes while she remembered that horrific day. She had completely missed the ferry stop at the Statue of Liberty, lost in her memories. Her heart felt cold and empty again. The hopelessness of a decade of war against Christians and Jews returned to her. Hilary Rice the first black female president of the United States of America was arriving in New York tomorrow. She was to address the first ever Ethnic Minority Women’s Action Group at their conference, which was taking place at the world famous Madison Square Garden the next day. Zareta would be there at the conference, and she was desperate to meet the new President in person.
Chapter 46
Roman Kordinski/ Liverpool
Roman heard the metal panel in the cell door slide open. He felt stiff and bruised as he sat up on his cot bed. The prison guards had used Taser guns to subdue him in the van, when he had bitten the fat guard’s thumb off. The weapons were introduced to British law enforcement officers as a less than lethal option. They were used to control belligerent or potentially dangerous subjects, by hitting the prisoner with thirty thousand volts. The voltage had floored Roman rendering him unconscious. When he woke he was lying in a small cell, and was restrained with a straight jacket device. Roman looked around the cell and decided it was just a holding facility, probably situated in a police station or beneath a court room. There was no toilet, which ruled out a conventional penitentiary.
The face that appeared at the hatch was that of his solicitor. He heard angry muffled voices outside the door, and then the noise of keys being inserted into the lock. The series of metal bolts slid back into their housing noisily and the door squealed open. Two armed policemen entered the cell, and roughly pulled Roman from the cot. Armed policemen did not work in police station custody suites, he thought, it was not a good sign.
“I must insist that my client is released from that straight jacket immediately,” mumbled the lawyer to the armed guards. They didn’t respond to his request at all, in fact they hadn’t spoken to him once since he had arrived. The lawyer, Alan Williams, was waiting for his client at the High Court in Chester. When his client had not arrived he enquired about his whereabouts. Alan was informed that his celebrity client had bitten the thumb from a prison guard, and was transferred to the holding suite at the Terrorist Task Force headquarters, Canning Place, Liverpool. The fortress style building had underground access to secret government facilities miles across the city, and fortified tunnels, which led to the Crown Court building in the city centre. They were originally built to facilitate the incarceration and prosecution of Irish Republican terrorists, without fear of prison break attempts. Fears of Roman’s criminal network attempting to free him were highlighted by Major Stanley Timms. British law insisted that Kordinski must be committed to trial in the county where his crime was committed. Unless the safety of the prisoner was threatened, which the Major now insisted that it was. Having caused grievous bodily harm to a popular prison warder would make Roman a target for revenge by vigilante officers. The Major had no real concerns for the Russian’s safety, but he had applied the letter of the law to ensure the Terrorist Task Force gained control of Kordinski’s whereabouts. It would take an army to attempt to release him from the cells beneath Canning Place.
“I have noted your lack of response to my request, and I need both your names and ranks please, so that I can present a formal complaint,” the lawyer blustered, flushing red with frustration. He looked at the policemen and realised that they had no registration numbers on their shoulder lapels. British police wear an identity number on their uniforms unique to each officer. These officers had no such identification on them, which worried Alan Williams greatly. His client was to be charged with involvement in acts of terrorism, which at first glance was incredulous. He was one of the richest oil tycoons in the world, not a terrorist. The fact that he was being held in a secret facility beneath the River Mersey by British policemen, who wore no identity marks testified to the gravity of the situation. The officers opened a door, which led into an interview room and roughly sat Roman in a plastic chair. The room held two grey plastic chairs either side of a small metal table. All the furniture was bolted to the ground. The walls were bare except for a two way mirror fitted into the left hand wall. Romans straight jacket was attached to the chair, which prevented him from rising. There was barely enough room for the four men, who occupied its space. It was a deliberate tactic by the designers to cause claustrophobia.
“I really must insist that my client is freed from these restraints officer,” the lawyer tried again, “why is he being treated in this manner?” “He is innocent until proven guilty.” Alan Williams had to try to defend his client, but the truth of the matter was that he was disgusted by the charges being brought against the Russian businessman. If they were proved then he would be locked up for the remainder of his life. The evidence pointed to his involvement in two of the worst terrorist incidents ever witnessed on the British mainland. That itself was bad enough, but anonymous information was passed to Alan’s office, which indicated that the motive was monetary. The fact that there was no tangible political or religious purpose seemed to make it worse.
“Your client is being held under the Terrorist Act, which means you have exactly thirty-minutes to communicate to him, starting from now. He is being restrained because he attacked an officer of Her Majesty’s Prison Service, which resulted in him losing his thumb. You now have twenty-eight minutes.” The guard looked at his watch.
“Well I am certainly going to require more than thirty minutes officer, whatever your name is. Also I will require privacy please,” Alan Williams was at a loss with the situation. Roman Kordinski was a golden goose of a client. His practice had literally disposed of its other clients six years ago to service Roman and his legal requirements. There were some serious accusations against the Russian tycoon, but nothing that couldn’t be made to disappear with enough money thrown at it. This was a different kettle of fish altogether. Tax evasion and accusations of mafia connections were one thing, this was another.
“This is where you will hold your communication sessions with the prisoner. We will remain present at all times, and you have twenty-six minutes remaining.” The Task Force officer looked at his watch again.
Alan Williams flushed purple with anger, but there seemed little to be gained by protesting at this time. He would have to use the courtroom to air his grievances.
“Did you assault a prison guard?” Alan asked Roman in a whisper, shaking his head in disbelief. Roman eyes brightened at the memory, but only for a second. Then he seemed to withdraw again. Roman Kordinski had always been in control of his life, and the life of those around him. Incarceration was magnifying the cracks in his schizophrenic personality.
“Roman are you alright?” Alan pushed his client for a response, “I can’t help you unless you talk to me, did you assault a prison officer?”
“Yes I bit the fat fucker’s thumb off,” Roman shrugged off his reply as if it were just par for the course, “he attacked me in the prison van, I was defending myself.” Roman lowered his head to show his lawyer bloody bald patches where the guard had ripped his hair out. Alan Williams frowned at the guards and removed a small silver digital camera from his scruffy briefcase. He flicked open the lens and snapped four pictures of Roman’s injuries.
“They knocked me out with Taser guns,” Roman added, and he lifted his chin up from his chest to reveal a deepening blue bruise just below his neck, which disappeared beneath the straight jacket.
The lawyer snapped three more pictures of the electric shock injuries and tutted audibly for the policemen’s benefit. Taser is a trademark name, and is an acronym for ‘Thomas A. Swift’s Electric Rifle’, named after
it’s science fiction teenage inventor. They were still controversial experimental law enforcement weapons because of the injuries and deaths they had caused.
“I want it noted that I am formally complaining about my client’s injuries, reasonable force has not been applied in this case,” Alan Williams said for the benefit of whoever was behind the two way mirror. It would not be the first time a dead cert guilty client had walked free from a courtroom because of a technicality. Alan had to try to find every chink in the police evidence. The problem was that the evidence looked solid. Failure to apply proper policy and procedure was the only weakness that Alan could see at the moment.
“What’s happening to my business outside,” Roman asked, “when will you get me out of here?” Roman stared at an enlarged mole on his lawyer’s forehead as if he had never noticed it before. He studied it with a vacant look in his eyes.
“There have been some serious issues with your Russian portfolio of business interests, but you should be more concerned with getting out of here right now,” Alan Williams replied.
“What issues?” Roman snapped back at his lawyer, trying to stand up but forgetting that he was restrained. He looked down at the straight jacket as if it had just suddenly appeared, with a look of concerned surprise on his face.
“We don’t have much time Roman, and we need to go through the rebuttal evidence before your committal hearing,” Alan said matter of factly, trying to avoid the issue of Roman’s Soviet interests. There was something very different about his client’s behaviour, he couldn’t put his finger on what it was, just something missing.
“I asked you, what issues?” Roman leaned forward as far as the straight jacket would allow him to move, and snarled the words toward his lawyer emphasising each syllable, making his accent more pronounced.
“Because you have been incarcerated there seems to be an issue with your legal right to operate businesses within Russian borders,” Alan answered rubbing his hand through his thinning hair.
“What are you saying Alan. Spell it out, what issues?” Roman stared at his council with angry eyes. They were cold eyes like a shark has.
“The Russian government has confiscated your companies and has taken over the running of them,” his lawyer blurted out, as if saying it quickly wouldn’t sound as bad.
“What did you say?” Roman was not used to being so helpless. His liberty was taken, now it sounded like his main income stream was terminated irreparably.
“You heard what I said Roman, look it’s more important that we get you out of the legal system so that we can appeal their decisions. We cannot do anything whilst you are behind bars,” Alan raised his voice a little trying to gain control of the situation.
“Shut up you fucking idiot, which business have they confiscated?” Roman jerked violently in his seat, but the straps held him. The lawyer looked briefly at one of the policemen but they stared uninterested at the wall beyond. Alan was becoming concerned that Roman might snap his restraints, but the nonchalant expressions on the armed policemen reassured him that he was safe.
“I said which businesses have they confiscated?” This time Roman was screaming. Spittle flew from his teeth, and dribbled down his chin as he began to fight against the restraints more vigorously.
“Calm down Roman,” his lawyer said in a hushed voice, but he was beginning to see the man behind the celebrity mask. The man behind the smiles and press shoots was very frightening indeed, and the more Alan could see the more he believed his client was indeed guilty.
“Answer the fucking question, you useless piece of shit,” Roman gritted his teeth together and hissed the question. “Which business have they confiscated?” he screamed. The Russian’s face was purple from excursion, and the veins in his neck and temples were pumped up to busting point. Alan was past the point of being offended by Roman, as he often lost his temper and became rude to his employees.
“All of them Roman,” the lawyer sat back in his chair, shocked and afraid at the mental state that his celebrity client was displaying. “The Russian government have seized all your businesses that are within the Soviet Union. They have also frozen your assets and bank accounts.”
“The bastards can’t do that, stop them,” Roman was almost hysterical now and a long globule of saliva dribbled from his chin. His head was shaking from side to side in denial of the facts. “That’s what I pay you for useless prick, stop them. Sell my oil reserves. That’s what you must do. Sell my oil reserves before they seize them, cash them in immediately.”
“The Saudi’s have slashed the price of a barrel of crude to the lowest level for decades Roman. The OPEC countries and Russia have followed their lead. Your reserves aren’t worth a penny,” Alan Williams had tried to consolidate Roman’s assets prior to this meeting, but it seemed that invisible hands were pulling important strings in the world of politics and espionage. It was as if an international conspiracy was manipulating the financial markets to destroy Roman’s criminal empire. He was literally penniless apart from secret stashes of money and investments, which only Roman would know about.
“What, the Saudi’s have done what, I’ll fucking kill her. That’s it, the Saudi bitch is dead,” Roman started rocking in his chair violently. Alan Williams sat open mouthed at the implication of what Roman’s ranting had pointed to. The two policemen looked toward the mirror in unison, clinically aware of the strength of the damming evidence they had just witnessed.
“Roman be quiet!” Alan Williams regained his composure and tried to stop his client from putting any more nails in his own coffin.
“I won’t be silenced, that Saudi bitch is as good as dead! They have double crossed the wrong man! Those fucking Arabs have crossed the wrong man!” Roman screamed a tirade of Russian swearwords. He looked like he was about to go into a seizure when the door opened and Major Stanley Timms entered the room. Behind him was Graham Libby, who was the Task Force pathologist and all round medical expert.
“I think that your client needs sedating,” said Graham Libby to Alan Williams. He placed a gentle hand on the lawyer’s shoulder sympathetically. The lawyer just nodded completely lost for words. He had never seen anyone having a psychotic episode before. He didn’t think that too much damage was done legally because the implication of the killing of a Saudi girl was purely coincidental evidence. His client’s mental state would be taken into account too, he thought, when Roman shouted again.
“That Muslim bitch Kellesh is dead, she’s fucking dead!” He was still screaming her name when they injected him with a strong sedative, by which time Alan Williams was being escorted from the custody suite into the long subterranean corridor, which led to an adjoining court room. He would have no choice but to change his client’s plea to not guilty on the grounds of insanity. Alan Williams thought that a trial would be a long drawn out process, at the end of which there was only one outcome. What Alan didn’t know was that he would never see Roman Kordinski alive again.
Chapter 47
Yasser Ahmed/ Kizlyar
Yasser and his men were resting deep inside a cave, high in the mountains above Grozny, Chechnya. Russian bombers were carpet bombing the ridge directly above them, in a vain attempt to kill the Mujahideen fighters that plagued their operations on the ground. The mountain shook violently and the constant deafening explosions made their ears ring. Incredibly the majority of the rebel fighters still managed to catch some sleep. The atmosphere in the cave was almost cosy. A fire burned in the centre of the floor space, and its orange glow flickered on the stone walls, making hypnotic shadows dance. As the men dozed a symphony of snoring and farting echoed softly from the vaulted rock ceiling. The lack of running water and appalling food hygiene caused an almost constant state of gastric poisoning amongst the Mujahideen. Wind was one of the unfortunate side effects that they all had to tolerate. It was definitely time for them to cross the border into Dagestan. Once today’s bombing ceased Yasser would lead the bulk of his fighting force 40 miles to Kizlyar, a s
mall town just across the border. The small town was capable of resupplying the rebels and its’ hospital could treat the injured Mujahideen. In Kizlyar they could eat fresh food, and bathe, luxuries not readily available to guerrilla fighters. It was also the current abode of the Saudi Princess Jeannie Kellesh, who had been in a drug induced coma state for two weeks and three days since her capture.
