The Mark of Halam (A Jeff Bradley Thriller)

by Thomas Ryan

  Cunningham had no future in the force. He was a good man to have on side in a fight. He undoubtedly could handle himself. With the SAS training he could at least make a decision, think outside the box. He guessed Cunningham’s ready acceptance of him was because of Cunningham’s SAS cloak-and-dagger background and his experience working with men who lived in the shadows. Jeff had been right to insist Cunningham stay in command.

  The policeman guarding the entry to the warehouse stood aside to allow Cunningham to drive in.

  “This is the way you found it?” Caldwell asked as he climbed out of the car.

  “Pretty much. A forensics team has been through it but nothing has been moved from the premises.”

  The small entranceway had two doors. Cunningham opened the first.

  “This is the office. We didn’t find much of interest. Seems at least in here legitimate business was conducted in a normal manner. All the documentation and the information found on the computers thus far relates to the export company. In the next few days forensics will move the computers out of here.”

  “Which is Krasniqi’s desk?”

  “At the end of the room by the window,” Cunningham pointed.

  Caldwell nodded and walked towards it. Cunningham followed but kept a distance. He would give Caldwell room to manoeuvre. From where Cunningham stood the view through the window was of a high fence and a line of trees. The trees meant the compound was insecure. Any kid could climb a tree and scramble over the fence in seconds. Other than the security issues his men had not found anything of interest in the outside surrounds.

  There were four desks. Maps and a calendar hung on the wall. The desks were covered in files and documents. Nothing unusual at first glance. But for Caldwell this was a terrorist site, and he knew there would be something here. He walked slowly from desk to desk. Caldwell sensed Cunningham was about to say something. He held his hand up for silence. He needed to concentrate. He might miss it.

  Cunningham took the hint and moved back to the doorway, watching in silence. For the next hour Caldwell searched each desk. He pulled the drawers out, checked behind them. He emptied the filing cabinet and checked the toilet complex. Next he checked the walls, running his hand over the texture checking for imperfections. Then he turned his attention to the ceiling. There were two long fluorescent lights; double tubes covered by a translucent plastic cover. In Eastern bloc prisons this was where prisoners hid smuggled mobile phones. Caldwell pulled across a chair and, standing on it, removed the cover and handed it to Brian. He undid a knob at one end and the tube housing dropped down. Caldwell put his hand between the gap.

  “Bingo.”

  He removed something that looked like a radio, some rods and a small case like a flat laptop. He climbed down from the chair.

  Cunningham recognised it. “A satellite phone.” His tone was terse. He made a mental note to blast the forensics team. Caldwell had just made him look like an asshole.

  “Yes, it’s a satellite phone,” Caldwell said, placing the parts on the table. “This will be a direct link to Avni Leka. I’d stake my life on it. We could put a trace on it but the only person who knows which number to dial is dead.”

  “One of the others might have one. We could get lucky.” Cunningham nodded an agreement.

  “I’m surprised they left the phone behind,” Caldwell said.

  Cunningham said, “That’s easy. They were in a hurry. The phone is untraceable so why waste time retrieving it.”

  “Makes sense,” Caldwell said. “Akbar and his men have killed off Krasniqi but they will still need assistance. I think we can safely assume there are others out there. Show me the warehouse.”

  Cunningham led the way back into the foyer and through the second door.

  “Everything is pretty much as we found it except there was a hijacked container truck here. We dusted for prints and released it back to the owner. The truck was of no interest to us, only the contents of the container. As you can see, everything has been cleared out except for a few empty crates. I think whatever it was they received was loaded into small vans and not trucks. Otherwise they would have forklifted the crates and taken everything.”

  Caldwell approached one of the empty crates and plucked out a sheet of wrapping paper. He sniffed it then shook his head.

  “Oil. Weapons, probably Kalashnikovs, maybe some handguns,” he said holding up the paper. “Too many wrappers for my liking.”

  “I’d pretty much come to that conclusion myself. What about the bigger boxes?” Cunningham asked.

  “I would think these held missiles. The sort you fire from the shoulder. Ground to air.”

  “Jesus,” Cunningham said. “They can’t shoot down passenger airliners with shoulder launchers. Self-defence, I would think. Choppers?”

  “I agree,” Caldwell said. “They didn’t come all this way to blow an airliner out of the sky; they could do that anywhere.”

  “The submarine?”

  “No. I doubt it. These things are heat seekers. A sub would give them nothing to target. I think you were right first time. If a police helicopter or military plane comes a-calling they’ll blast it out of the sky.”

  “Okay. So the big question remains. What the hell are they up to?” Cunningham said, more to himself.

  Caldwell was bent over one of the two larger crates, ten or twelve feet in length and three feet wide.

  “Well, well. Now we know.” Caldwell held up a plastic bag. “I might be one of the few people in the world who know what these are. I can’t tell you how I know, but these trinkets,” Caldwell rattled the bag, “are a master cylinder repair kit for an MK 46 torpedo.”

  “You’re sure?” Brian asked.

  “Yes I’m sure, and the crates are the right size.”

  “Then the crates held torpedoes?”

  “There could have been something else in there but I think we assume the worst and if we’re wrong, well, who would care. MK’s are easy to get hold of and in the eighties were modified for use in shallow water. They can be launched from any type of boat including a recreation launch with the right apparatus attached.” He shrugged. “It’s easy enough to make a launch chute.”

  Cunningham kicked at the small table and sent half-filled coffee cups sailing through the air. “Then it is the sub they’re after?”

  Caldwell nodded. “It’s the sub.”

  To date the idea of the submarine had never been seriously considered as a target because it had seemed impregnable, but now neither man had any doubts.

  “I don’t suppose we can convince the powers that be to cancel the submarine visit?” Cunningham asked, breaking the silence.

  “Not possible,” Caldwell replied. “Believe me, if it were that easy I would organise it. But think about it. It has taken thirty years for New Zealand to accept visits from nuclear-powered vessels. The reason for the ban in the first place was because citizens of your country were frightened of an attack on the ships and they’d all die of radiation poisoning. If the US backs down now they will be agreeing and the ban goes back on. We need to be in these waters.”

  “Okay, I get the point.”

  Caldwell went on, “I’m afraid this has to be done the hard way. Find them and stop them. We will alert everyone needing to know and I’m assuming the submarine commander will have defensive measures he can put in place. Question is how far are you prepared to go to get the answers we need, Inspector?”

  Cunningham looked across at Caldwell. “I take it you have something in mind?”

  30.

  His name was Jamil Khallid. A 29-year-old Egyptian national. It had not taken the Language Department at Auckland University long to determine that the language on Moana’s tape recording was Egyptian Arabic. A visiting student had been able to translate. Cunningham ordered Jamil’s fingerprints be sent to police in Cairo. He had telephoned himself
to speak with his equivalent rank and explain its urgency. The Egyptian police cooperated and responded quickly. Khallid was known to them. He had been arrested a number of times. Petty crimes mostly. They suspected him of involvement in a car bombing. Now that he was captured they would be very interested in speaking to him. Under no circumstances should the New Zealand police release him. Cunningham had assured the Egyptians that this wasn’t going to happen.

  All Whangarei police officers had been called into the station, even those on leave. A 200-metre perimeter of armed officers surrounded the station. The search for the other terrorists had been scaled down. Inspector Jimmy Carlyle reluctantly accepted that they were probably back in Auckland by now. The three terrorists might have escaped but if they wanted to try and rescue their comrade it would not be successful on his watch.

  Khallid was brought out from the cells, handcuffed and surrounded by six members of the SAS. This move surprised Carlyle. He had been informed that the duty of escorting the prisoner was with the police anti-terrorist team, the STG. The SAS replaced them at the last minute. There were another five squadron members outside. All armed. Carlyle gave a nod of approval. Brian Cunningham was taking no chances.

  At first he had been miffed that it was not he and his men escorting the prisoner to Auckland but he had kept the disappointment to himself. When Cunningham phoned he had convinced him that if Khallid’s friends made an attempt to rescue him, the SAS was better trained to handle it. They had the military experience. Most had served in Middle East hot spots. Begrudgingly Carlyle saw the wisdom behind the decision and acquiesced. But he was not happy about it and said so. He wanted it on record that he and his men were fully capable of ensuring a prisoner could be delivered to Auckland.

  Secretly though, he was pleased to be rid of his unwanted guest. None of his men, including himself, had any experience with these types of offenders. Over the last two nights he had worried that armed terrorists might try to rescue their captured comrade. His men would have had no chance.

  There were three vehicles, one to carry the prisoner and two escorts. A helicopter would follow them into Auckland. This had also confused Carlyle. Why didn’t they just chopper him to Auckland? When he asked he received no reply. All police stations on route had been notified and officers would be lining the highway at varying intervals to control traffic and ensure the convoy was not held up.

  Carlyle led the way outside. Khallid and his escort followed. He was pushed onto the back seat. A soldier sat either side of him. At the end of the street a crowd had gathered. Journalists, press photographers and television news teams were everywhere. One of the cameramen had a CNN insignia. Jesus, Carlyle thought. Now we are international news. He hoped nothing went wrong until they were well out of Whangarei. He admonished a constable standing next to him for not having a button done up. Now was not the time to look sloppy.

  The main highway back to Auckland passed through the rural township of Wellsford. It had long been the supply centre for local farmers and a stop-off point for motorists. The kilometre-long main street started at the top of the hill just past the Wellsford High School, and ran down to the bend in the road leading to the food hall that included a McDonalds restaurant, and on to the outskirts of town and the continuation of the highway to Auckland. The right-hand side of the road all the way down to the McDonalds was lined with cafés and retail shops, and on the left a service station and a pub – the meeting place for farmers and locals alike to meet and discuss everything from the fortunes of the local rugby team to the unpredictable weather. The stores and side streets offered everything from hamburgers to seeds and tractors. It was an active town and with the many tourists passing through a prosperous one too. Little happened and everybody knew everybody; a trusting community.

  Mid-morning in Wellsford was not unlike any other weekday. Traffic was heavy with trucks and buses moving goods and people back and forth from Auckland, and cars carrying locals and tourists. The pavement bustled with early morning shoppers. Patrons sat at outside tables enjoying coffees in the morning sun. The townsfolk, preoccupied, failed to notice the group of men in dark clothing assembling at the bottom of the hill.

  There was an air of anticipation in the village; the same excitement that built up each year leading up to the annual Santa parade. All knew of the events that had taken place in Waipu and that today the captured terrorist would be driven through their town. Television and radio bulletins alerted the locals that the convoy was getting closer, and latecomers dashed from homes to line both sides of the street, housewives escaping the drudgery of their daily routine and farmers decided to leave the hosing of cowpats off the concrete floors of their milking sheds until the drama had passed.

  The whoop whoop of the police helicopter blades signalled the convoy’s approach. All eyes looked skywards and then towards the top of the hill. The police cars rounded the bend at the top of the main street and began their descent with media vehicles in hot pursuit. The CNN crew was rushing back to Auckland to prepare for the arrival of the submarine. They had footage of the terrorist leaving the police station and had settled down in their vehicle to relax and enjoy the drive.

  At the bottom of the hill a truck attempting to pull out of a side street and turn onto the main street had been stopped by a police officer. No traffic was permitted until the convoy had passed. The officer offered a friendly smile and informed the driver it would only be a few minutes. The driver nodded and waited patiently.

  The convoy passed the service station and neared the bend.

  A blaring horn drew attention from bystanders. Something was amiss. The blaring continued. All eyes turned to the intersection. Gasps from the crowd as the truck now accelerated across the road sending the point duty police officer leaping for safety. The truck stopped, blocking both sides of the road forcing the convoy to a complete stop.

  “Bloody truckies!” someone yelled.

  There were no dissenters to the statement, just a lot of nodding of heads. Everyone had been trapped behind a truck that refused to pull over and let them pass. No one liked truckies. Then finger pointing and yelling turned into screams. Men with black balaclavas pulled over their heads moved out from the crowd. Strange weapons held at arm’s length were turned towards the crowd and bullets sprayed over their heads. At first no one moved. Startled rabbits eyes wide open. More shots came and legs pushed overweight and undersized torsos in random directions. People ran in circles, running into each other, the smallest knocked to the ground and the biggest pushing and shoving their way to safety. In seconds locals had disappeared down side streets or into shops or prostrated themselves on the pavement in a mass religious submission to God, praying to be safe.

  One of the first to react was the CNN cameraman. He had had experience in the Middle East and knew immediately what the sounds were. Their vehicle had come to a halt just as the others had. He took hold of his camera and leapt from the vehicle, already filming before he managed to stop his forward momentum.

  The SAS took up shooting positions but held fire. The crowd ran in all directions. The local officers who had been controlling traffic, like most New Zealand police, were not armed. The SAS pulled them to safety. The firing from the men in balaclavas increased in intensity. The first two SAS soldiers out of their vehicles had fallen to the ground. Not moving. Hysterical bystanders ran across the road between the police cars to escape the black clad invaders, adding to the confusion. Some patrons in the outside cafés had pulled the tables over and were using them as shields.

  Heavy fire forced the soldiers back. Masked men surrounded the vehicle that held Jamil Khallid. Out gunned, the soldiers inside put their hands up. To fight back would be suicide. They would have no chance. The other soldiers now held their fire. They had lost control and their comrade’s safety came first. No one needed to die trying to protect a terrorist.

  The CNN team now had live coverage feeding into their satellite l
ink. From behind the safety of his vehicle, a journalist reported on the action as it unfolded, interspersing his commentary with a summation of events over the last few days. Instant news, being the lifeblood of CNN, ensured the feed from the small village of Wellsford was going into living rooms across the globe.

  The passenger door opened and the soldier was pulled from the car and was made to stand to one side. Khallid climbed out. He was smiling as he stood, ecstatic that his comrades had made such a daring rescue. No attempt was made to remove his handcuffs. Two men in black took hold of him by the arms and ran to the other side of the truck. Others lined either side of the truck lay down covering fire. The white plume of a missile passed in front of the helicopter hovering above. The pilot turned away and disappeared beyond the horizon.

  Then they were gone.

  Eye witnesses said they escaped in four white SUVs. The local car dealer from his position under a table confirmed they were Toyota Prado Land Cruisers. Ambulances arrived and the fallen men were loaded into them. The truck that had blocked the road delayed the SAS pursuit, and without the helicopter they had no idea where the fugitives had disappeared to. There were too many country roads that led to too many hiding places.

  Locals rose from the pavement. Stunned silence turned to nervous chatter. Women with children in tow made their way home and the men gathered in the pub. The landlord had already phoned the wholesaler for more beer. The most exciting event ever to take place in Wellsford would be discussed late into the night. Later, as drinks disappeared into stomachs sagging over strained belt buckles and the stories became more exaggerated with each glass, the townsfolk would agree how fortunate they had been that with all the shooting no civilians had been injured.

  31.

  Like everyone else, Barbara Heywood watched the CNN broadcast mesmerised by the shootout in Wellsford. She envied the CNN journalist, who until this moment had been an unknown and now in the space of a few minutes had become an international star. The follow-up would continue and with the arrival of the submarine he would remain in the public arena for at least the next two weeks. The murders, the protests in Auckland, gun battles in the north; to the outside world New Zealand must be taking on the appearance of a country under siege.