SOFT TARGET III Jerusalem (SOFT TARGET SERIES)

by Conrad Jones

  OTHER TITLES BY CONRAD JONES

  SLOW BURN

  SOFT TARGET

  SOFT TARGET II `TANK`

  The 18th Brigade

  THE CHILD TAKER

  `BLISTER`

  GerriCon Books Ltd

  Copyright 2010 Conrad Jones. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  The places named in this book are real. The fictional events are based on factual ones but have been changed by the author. Any similarity between the fictional characters and people in the public domain are coincidental, and are generated purely from the imagination of the author.

  First published by GerriCon Books Ltd 2010

  Chapter One

  Tank

  John Tankersley switched on the wipers to clear the drizzle from the windscreen of his black four by four. It had been raining heavily for the last three days. The sky was a dark shade of gunmetal grey, which indicated that it wasn’t going to stop raining any time soon. Suddenly, forked lightening illuminated the ominous clouds, and Tank wondered at the sight of a million volts of electricity snaking its way across the sky to find the earth. Tank counted in his mind, one-second, two seconds, three seconds, four seconds, then the clap of thunder roared above him and the drizzle became torrential rain. He had counted the seconds after a lightning strike since he was a small boy. His father had been a Chief Petty Officer in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy during the Second World War, and he spent hours explaining to Tank the maritime myths about the weather. Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight, red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning, and so on. Every second you counted following a lightning strike represented one nautical mile that the thunder had travelled from its epicentre. By counting the seconds you could tell if the storm was coming toward you or not. The shrill polyphonic ring tone of his car phone interrupted his thoughts.

  “Hello John, I am terribly sorry to disturb you, today of all days, are you on your own?” said Major Stanley Timms. The Major was Tank’s commanding officer, and head of the Terrorist Task Force. John Tankersley was the Task Force lead agent. He stood over six feet tall and weighed around seventeen stone. Most of his considerable size was packed around his upper body; his physique was unusually muscular and his colleagues nicknamed him Tank. His shaved head and Desperate Dan jaw line made him a fearsome looking man. Only Major Timms called him by his Christian name, and when he did it usually meant there was trouble coming.

  “Hello Major, what`s the problem?” answered Tank, he slipped his fingers inside his shirt collar to try and loosen its grip on his eighteen inch neck. He hated wearing collars and ties but he was heading to a funeral, so there was no choice in the matter.

  “We’ve had a communication from our man in Israel. He’s received information that an assassination attempt is imminent,” the Major was purposely vague because they were talking on civilian telephone networks. Any number of undesirables could monitor their calls. He would never discuss official business under normal circumstances, but this was urgent.

  “Is something planned here in the UK?” Tank asked.

  “We’re not sure about that yet. The information has come direct from Jerusalem. All we have so far is that key tier one personnel from a leading Palestinian terrorist organisation have slipped off the radar. These particular individuals have a penchant for assassination,” the Major couldn’t be any more specific. The finer details would have to be ironed out later on, where enemy agencies couldn’t listen in on the conversation.

  Tank wanted to know why the Israelis suspected that the terrorists in question had headed for the British Isles. He knew that the Major would have all the details, but the line wasn’t encrypted. The funeral would have to wait five minutes while he stopped the vehicle to change channels.

  “Give me two seconds Major,” Tank said. He indicated that he was turning left off the dual carriageway. The spray from passing vehicles was making visibility poor, but he could see an exit and he needed to park up. He had lost his bearings in the pouring rain, and talking to the Major wasn’t helping, so he looked down the carriageway for a landmark. There was a brown sign above the exit with a white elephant embossed in the centre of it. Tank smiled to himself as he realised he was driving into Knowsley safari park. His parents had brought him here many times as a child, and if his memory served him correctly, the weather had been similar to this on every occasion. He remembered that the animals always looked cold and wet and completely fed up, longing to be back on the sunny plains of Africa, or wherever they were originally from.

  Another bolt of lightning streaked across the dark sky. Tank counted in his mind again, one second, two seconds, three seconds, the thunder rumbled above. The storm is moving closer, he thought. Tank pulled the car to a halt in a lay by, just before the park entrance. He removed his cell phone from its cradle and then opened the glove box. Inside was cable, which he plugged into the bottom of his phone. He then switched his stereo onto a preset frequency. The car was equipped with encryption equipment, but it could only be used if the vehicle was stationary.

  “We are secure Major. What do you know?” asked Tank. The rain intensified and the car`s wiper blades were struggling to keep up with the deluge. There was a steady stream of cars passing him on their way to see the miserable animals in the rain.

  “Mossad have been interviewing a known operative of the Axe group,” the Major began. Mossad was the Israelis version of our Britain’s MI5 or America’s NSA, and they didn`t interview anybody in the traditional sense of the word. An interview is something you experience when applying for a job or a telephone loan, basic polite questions and answers. The Israeli security agencies do polite. They do however use extreme interrogation techniques and torture to extract information, as do most Western agencies if the truth were known.

  “It seems that since we captured Yasser Ahmed, the Axe group has splintered into several factions. At the moment, they seem to be concentrating their efforts in Gaza and the West Bank. Some known associates have been spotted meeting with senior officials from Hezbollah in Lebanon. Several of Ahmed’s senior lieutenants have cropped up in Afghanistan, and there are at least three still in Chechnya, but the Israelis have lost track of six of the others, two marksmen and four explosive experts,” the Major left the information to hang in the air for a second so that Tank could digest it.

  “What makes them think that they`re headed here?” asked Tank, he was thinking at a thousand miles an hour. The possible connotations of the chaos that could be caused by such a highly skilled group of terrorists were infinite. Yasser Ahmed had demonstrated that terrible carnage could be created by just a few determined suicide bombers during the first ‘Soft Target’ campaign. Osama bin Laden had achieved equally devastating results by attacking the Twin Towers.

  “Mossad extracted the outline of a plan from the Axe insurgent, he’d indicated that there was a plot to assassinate key personnel in Britain, but we`re not sure who or when,” the Major explained.

  “Can’t they get more specific information from him?” Tank asked. He was well aware of the interrogation, or interview techniques that Mossad employed. If the Axe man had specific information then the Israelis would extract it, there was no doubt about that.

  “It would appear that the insurgent died during the interview. Apparently he suffered a massive heart attack and couldn`t be revived. That’s all we know,” the Major said.

  “Bloody typical, you would think that they would learn to temper their interview techniques. The Israelis’ over enthusiasm leaves us with
a conundrum Major. Do you need me to come in now?” Tank asked. The funeral was due to start in twenty minutes.

  “No John, you need to be there today. I know how much she meant to you. I will call the team together later on this afternoon, turn up when you’re up to it,” the Major knew Tank had to attend the funeral. There was no way he could miss it.

  “Thanks Major, I’ll see you later on,” Tank terminated the call and placed the cell phone back in its cradle. Another bolt of lightning exploded across the darkening sky. One second, two seconds, then the thunder roared and the rain came down harder.

  Tank selected drive and indicated. He turned the car one hundred and eighty degrees and drove away from the safari park. It was three miles further on to the church. Tank stopped at the traffic lights at the junction of Burrows Lane. On the left was an imposing war memorial dedicated to those who had fallen in the Great War. A ten feet tall bronze infantryman stood on top of a stone podium, bayonet fixed and his gun at the ready. The bronze figurine of his sweetheart reached longingly with her arms outstretched toward him. It was a poignant effigy dedicated to those who lost their lives and loved ones. The statue was cast from bronze, and oxidation had turned the metal the colour of jade. The First World War or the Great War as it is often called was supposed to be the war to end all wars, ‘How naive’, Tank thought. The traffic light turned green and he drove on through the rain, the roads awash with surface water, his tyres produced a loud splashing noise as he accelerated.

  Tank turned round a long sweeping left hand bend. The church stood in a small copse and had an arched wooden gate leading up several smooth stone steps to a huge studded wooden door. The building was made from red sandstone blocks with tall stained glass windows placed symmetrically down each side. There was a pub called The Griffin situated a few hundred yards from the church entrance, at the edge of the graveyard.

  Tank parked next to the curb at the end of a long line of vehicles. He could see that the hearse was arriving closely followed by the black limousines that carried close family members. The coffin was decked with red roses. Tank felt his stomach twist, a feeling only the bereaved can truly identify with. There was a tremendous feeling of loss and emptiness, hopelessness and anger. He felt warm tears filling his eyes and he blinked to try to clear them. He reached for a tissue from his pocket, and his hand bumped his Glock 17 in its holster. Tank removed the 9 mm pistol and placed it into a lock box, which was situated between the front seats. He slipped out the bullet magazine and placed that away from the gun in the glove box, which he also locked.

  Tank turned the engine off and opened the door, taking a deep breath to compose himself. The rain hammered down and bounced off the pavement soaking the bottom of his trousers in seconds. Rivulets of water ran from his bald scalp down the back of his neck saturating his collar and the back of his shirt as he approached the funeral party. The faces of some of the bereaved family were familiar, but much older than he remembered. Wrinkles, grey thinning hair, double chins and expanding waistlines were attacking his relatives on mass. He had not seen some of his cousins for thirty years or more, not since they were young children playing in his grandmother`s garden.

  Tank nodded hello to two familiar faces in the throng. Clive and Martin Henderson, his cousins were much older than the last time they had met, but their features still looked the same. Clive was with his wife Fiona, but Martin was alone. Tank couldn’t remember what Martin’s wife had been called, and he wondered if they were still together. He nodded hello to them across the throng of mourners. The coffin was carried into the church on the shoulders of pallbearers, supplied by the funeral directors. None of the family carried her because it was too upsetting. Tank couldn’t have done it even if he had been asked. As the mourners entered the church, lightning flashed again and the thunderclap was instantaneous this time. The storm was directly overhead.

  Tank was the last person to enter the small church. There was a musty old smell as he entered, age and woodworm combining to leave their distinctive odours. He was soaking wet and distressed. Tank wasn’t scared of any man alive, and he wouldn’t think twice about killing a wanted terrorist, but he was still only human. He`d been born under the star sign of Cancer the Crab, which his sisters reliably informed him meant that he had an extremely tough exterior, but was soft once you got inside the shell. The news that Major Timms had imparted to him earlier was already at the back of his mind as there was an aura of grief around the mourners that had already infected him. He needed to deal with the funeral first then the terrorists would have his full attention, which was something that they would not enjoy.

  The church was warm as the funeral party entered it, relieved to be out of the thunderstorm. Visible puddles were forming on the ancient wooden floorboards as umbrellas were closed, and raincoats dripped on the floor. They were greeted at the door by a portly man dressed in a simple long black religious robe. There was a plaited rope tied around his ample belly and a wooden cross, hung from his neck, on the centre of his chest. He welcomed the guests with a solemn greeting, which suited the occasion.

  The last guest entered the church and the usher noticed that he was an unusually large man with a shaved head. He looked like his suit would split down the back if he moved too quickly. The holy man noticed rainwater forming tiny rivers that were running down the bald man’s scalp, and for a second he thought he had seen a red dot of light on the back of his head. As the church usher closed the door, he noticed a dark panelled van driving slowly past the church, the driver was of Middle Eastern appearance. That in isolation wasn’t so unusual, but the fact that he was wearing dark sunglasses in a thunderstorm was odd.

  If Tank had noticed it then he would have realised that something was afoot. He hadn’t noticed the van, nor did he notice that there was a man aiming a sniper rifle at the back of his head. The sniper had been about to take the shot when the lightning flashed, blinding him for a second through the telescopic sights, and distracted him. When his vision returned, he looked back through the scope but Tank was inside and the door was being closed behind him. They would have to wait for the funeral party to emerge before they could complete their mission.

  Chapter 2

  Chen

  Chen stood on the huge stone breakwater, which separated Holyhead harbour from the Irish Sea. The breakwater had been built jutting out one and a half miles into the sea to protect shipping from the devastating storms that rolled in from the Atlantic. It was built from huge blocks of granite and stands thirty feet above sea level. An access road runs the full length of the structure and it`s wide enough to carry articulated wagons along it. Despite the breakwater’s size and robust stature, it needs to be protected from the crushing waves that batter it relentlessly. Trucks arrive daily, which carry huge blocks of slate and granite. The rock is lifted by crane over the sea wall and dropped into the ocean to act as a buffer. They were piled up to protect the breakwater from the destructive power of the crashing surf. At the end of the huge marine edifice was a lighthouse, which warned shipping away from the treacherous rocks. Chen had parked his vehicle at the beginning of the access road and had walked five hundred yards along it. It wasn’t the first time the Task Force had been called to investigate shipping incidents. The Welsh port of Holyhead was one of Europe’s deepest harbours and it serviced super-tankers, which brought minerals for the manufacture of aluminium from the Middle East. There was absolutely no way of monitoring who was aboard the foreign vessels that arrived in port.

  Chen was from Chinese origin and had been part of the Terrorist Task Force since its formation. He had been sent to Holyhead to investigate reports that several men had been seen jumping from a Syrian tanker while it unloaded its precious cargo. From where he stood on the breakwater, Chen could see the tanker jetty across the harbour where the ship was anchored. The harbour was a busy ferry port through which over two million passengers a year travelled to Ireland. Both foot passengers and heavy goods vehicles utilised the route. Busy po
rts like Holyhead were almost impossible to police, because of the sheer volume of international shipping that called there.

  Two uniformed officers were stood a hundred yards further along the breakwater; they noticed his arrival and approached Chen. They looked wet, bored and disinterested; one of them was kicking stones off the edge of the huge seawall into the stormy ocean.

  “The dingy was found just there, and the clothing was found here,” one of the officers said pointing to a section of the sea wall. There was a rusted metal ladder attached to the wall, which descended into the murky ocean. The water was a deep green colour topped with white tips as the waves rose and fell against the breakwater. There were the remains of a four-man inflatable on the road, next to a pile of wet clothing.

  “Have they been touched?” asked Chen pointing to the discarded clothing. There was a slim possibility that DNA samples could be recovered from the material. Cross contamination at the crime scene could cause confusion at the crime laboratory. It could also cost thousands of pounds of wasted man-hours to investigate useless evidence.

  “Yes, we were looking for identification. We thought they belonged to swimmers or sailors that hadn’t returned,” the officer said defensively. The harbour was home to a busy marina, which was used as the berth to hundreds of expensive yachts. Unfortunately, not all the boat owners were as responsible as they should be, and the local police were often sent on a wild goose chase looking for people that weren’t even missing. Alcohol and high spirits had often ended in tragedy at the marina.