SOFT TARGET III Jerusalem (SOFT TARGET SERIES)

by Conrad Jones

  Four Task Force men approached the Jeep cautiously. The team leader pointed to the ground and then to his eyes, and the Task Force men dropped to their knees. They lay prone on the sea wall looking for explosives beneath the vehicle. The agents stood up and the team leader summoned them to look beneath the engine block.

  An explosive device was identified. It had been fitted to the electrical coil, on the engine block. The coil amplified the Jeep’s electric current, which powered everything fitted to the vehicle. The explosives would be detonated if Chen used the electric windows, central locking, ignition, stereo, heated seats or any of the other bells and whistles. Moving the vehicle or opening the doors was out of the question. The reaction team stood huddled together in the torrential rain, machineguns slung over their shoulders, concocting a plan. Chen wished he could hear what they were saying but they couldn’t risk opening a window to communicate with him.

  The agents looked to be concerned and rushed, which was unusual for a unit selected for their professional expertise. They broke and approached the front of the vehicle. One of the agents indicated to Chen that he must put his head down beneath the dashboard. Chen wasn’t sure what they had in mind, but they had seen the bomb, he hadn’t. Two of the agents took rolls of silver duct tape from their haversack and began sticking long strips of it across the windscreen. Even the torrential rain couldn’t stop the duct tape from bonding tightly to the glass. Layer upon layer was placed horizontally onto the glass, then vertical layers were placed over them, and the process was repeated until the duct tape was used up.

  Chen was lying across the two front seats. He jumped when an agent tapped gently on the window. He signalled one, two then three, with the first three fingers of his right hand. Whatever they were planning he would have to move quickly. Chen stared at the agent as he began the countdown for real. He counted mentally as the agent’s fingers flicked up, one then two. As the third finger appeared six, nine millimetre bullets ripped through the windscreen. The glass was fractured into a thousand pieces but remained in place held still by the duct tape. The agents dragged the shattered glass away from the vehicle and reached into the Jeep to grab Chen out. The wind and rain howled into the smashed window. Chen kicked against the dashboard trying to gain purchase, but he lost his footing and slipped. Strong hands pulled him through the windscreen and across the bonnet.

  He cleared the Jeep and landed with an unceremonious bump onto the concrete and gravel, his hips and legs submerged in a puddle. The agents didn’t stop there. Chen tried to regain his feet but they were pulling him too quickly, his legs dragged behind him through the puddles of rainwater and sea spray. He was pleased to be away from the booby trap, but surely, they were a safe distance away now. Chen was about to protest when the timer on the bomb reached zero minutes, and detonated the explosive charge. The shockwave lifted Chen and his rescuers off their feet, and blew them off the breakwater into the Irish Sea.

  Chapter Eight

  Nasik/ St. John’s Tower

  The lift door opened to reveal two slightly surprised businessmen. One of them was an estate agent the other was the refurbishment project manager. They had agreed to bring forward a scheduled meeting, so that they could inspect the building progress without interruption from the contractors who worked there. Several contractors had hired cheap foreign labour to work on the site, resulting in friction from local trade union members who refused to work alongside them. The tower was completely empty of workmen, except for the dark skinned painter stood in the elevator. Nasik could tell from their surprised expressions that the businessmen were not expecting to encounter any contractors. He could try to bluff his way through the situation, but his English wasn’t good enough. He didn’t have the required paperwork to give him authorised access to the tower either.

  “Step away from the door please, and you won’t get hurt,” Nasik spoke quietly, his pronunciation wasn’t perfect but it was said with conviction. The expressions of surprise turned to fear as the businessmen realised that the painter was holding a firearm, and it was pointed at them.

  “What the bloody hell is going on? What do you want?” spluttered the estate agent. He stepped backward instinctively trying to get away from the weapon and stumbled into a workbench. The sawhorse toppled over and a claw hammer fell at his feet. The estate agent stared at the hammer trying desperately to make a decision. Then he looked at Nasik, his eyes locked stares with the Palestinian for long seconds, sweat ran down his forehead. He was debating if he could reach the hammer and disable the gunman before being shot, or not. The odds were stacked heavily against him. The Palestinian read his thoughts. Nasik pulled the trigger twice and the silenced gun spat death. Two jacketed slugs slammed into the businessman’s abdomen, and he crumpled to the floor, all thoughts of picking up the hammer were gone forever.

  Nasik turned his attention to the second man. He gestured with the weapon and the project manager raised his hands and stepped away from his dying colleague.

  “Turn around and kneel down, I won’t hurt you as long as you follow my instructions,” Nasik said. The man knelt and placed his hands behind his head, his body shuddered as he started sobbing with fear. Thick black fluid was leaking from his colleague’s abdomen onto the workmen’s dustsheets. Nasik removed a thick roll of tape from his toolbox and fastened the man’s hands behind his back; then he stuck a strip across his eyes.

  “Stand up,” Nasik ordered. He grabbed the man’s arm roughly and guided him to a roof support, which was situated in the centre of the circular restaurant. He taped the businessman to the scaffold pole, and then forced him into a sitting position. Nasik noted with disgust that the man had urinated in his trousers. The man continued to sob as Nasik walked back to the lift. Nasik pulled the toolbox from the elevator into the empty restaurant. The estate agent groaned as he passed. Nasik pointed the pistol at the prone man and shot him again, he stopped groaning. The Palestinian’s plan had been compromised, so he needed to adapt the situation accordingly. He picked up the dead man by the ankles and dragged his body into the lift. Then he removed the pin from a fragmentation grenade and fixed it beneath the armpit of the corpse. If anyone moved the body, the grenade would explode two hundred feet below at street level, giving Nasik an early warning of approaching danger.

  Nasik reached inside and pressed the ground floor button inside the elevator. The doors closed and the lift descended with the booby-trapped corpse in it. There were lights above the lift doors and they illuminated, indicating that the elevator had reached street level. Nasik picked up the claw hammer and used it to force open the lift doors. He righted the workbench and wedged it between the doors exposing the long dark shaft, rendering the lift useless. He was back in control of the situation but time was running out, he had to be quick if he was to successfully complete his mission.

  Nasik wheeled the toolbox across the deserted restaurant to a booth next to the windows. The radio station that now occupied the old restaurant had built a soundproof broadcasting booth. It was made from glass. Inside were a mixing desk and a comically big foam covered microphone. The old restaurant was a circular shape, with walls made completely from glass. Situated hundreds of feet above the city centre it was a perfect viewing gallery. It was also the perfect sniper’s nest. He took four sections of a Cheytac-200 sniper rifle from the box and assembled them with expert speed. It was an exercise that he had rehearsed hundreds of times, blindfolded. The rifle was completely assembled and loaded with 7.68 mm bullets in under two minutes. He attached a long-range telescopic sight and pointed it toward the river. Nasik used the huge bronze Liverbird statues, which were perched on top of the Liver buildings, to focus the sights. The Liverbird statues were half a mile away, next to the river. As the image became crisp, he panned the rifle left toward the Albert docks, and focused them again. The docks were old converted grain storage buildings, built at the height of Liverpool’s maritime domination. The port was once the busiest in the world, and was the centre of the s
lave trade at its height. Nasik was happy with the distance, now he needed to find his target. He panned the rifle right, until the police headquarters at Canning Place came into sight.

  The structure was built from prefabricated concrete slabs. Every corner of the building had narrow slit shaped windows fitted into the stairwells. The windows were adopted from medieval castle architecture, and were designed to be used as sharpshooter positions if the building ever became under siege. He raised the barrel until it was pointing at the top floor. The image was slightly blurred so he adjusted the sights again. There was a man stood in the window, holding a telephone to his ear. The image cleared, and Nasik lined up the crosshairs of the sights, directly on the forehead of Major Stanley Timms.

  Chapter Nine

  Tank/ Eccleston Churchyard

  Tank dialled the Task Force hotline but it was constantly jammed. The congregation would soon be heading outside into the graveyard and into the path of a sniper; he was going to have to deal with this on his own. He activated his emergency beacon twenty minutes after the reaction team had left to rescue Chen. An armed response unit would be dispatched by the local uniformed division, but they would not arrive before the requiem was finished. Tank scanned the Mercedes van with his telescope again. He could make out the silhouettes of two men, a driver and a shooter. The rifle was not standard issue for any Western agency; it was a model more commonly used by African and Middle Eastern militias.

  Tank opened the door to a small store cupboard, which was situated in the corner of the converted loft. He studied the contents of the cupboard quickly, and formulated a plan of action. There was a five-litre container of methylated spirit, which he removed along with some cleaning rags. Tank twisted the top off the container and stuffed the rags into the purple liquid. The smell of the spirit reminded him of chemistry lessons at school. The church used the spirit to fuel its lanterns. He carried the container toward the door and paused at the desk. On the centre of the leather topped desk there was a heavy glass paperweight, holding down a pile of documents. Tank slipped it into his jacket pocket and sprinted down the narrow stone stairs.

  The church usher seemed concerned as Tank entered the main body of the church. Tank summoned him over.

  “Do you have the keys to the main doors?” Tank asked in a hushed voice, so as not to disturb the mass.

  “Yes, I have them here. What’s the problem?” the usher was confused by the strange question.

  “Is there any other way into this building?” Tank asked guiding the usher toward the main doors by the arm.

  “There’s a leper door behind the altar,” the usher replied. The church had been built in medieval times when lepers were not allowed to mingle with the public, even during worship. Small-secluded entrances were built into churches as standard features, to accommodate the infected members of the community.

  “Lock the doors, and do not open them under any circumstances until you hear my voice,” Tank squeezed the ushers arm to emphasise the urgency in his request.

  “I’m afraid that’s against health and safety regulations. I can’t lock the church with people inside. What are you doing with that methylated spirit, you know that it’s highly flammable don’t you?” the usher blustered, offended by the big policeman. He was not the type of public servant that was easily intimidated by anyone, police officer or not.

  “Lock the doors, or I’ll place you under arrest, and then lock them myself. Do I make myself perfectly clear?” Tank raised his voice slightly and members of the congregation noticed the fracas at the rear of the church. People turned to look at the altercation and the vicar stopped his sermon. Tank could feel the withering looks he was getting from members of his own family. There wasn’t time to explain, he needed to move now.

  “Lock the door,” Tank stared at the little man, and he did as he had been instructed. Tank walked down the aisle. The congregation was sat in stunned silence.

  “You will need to continue the sermon until I return, vicar, there’s police business outside I’m afraid,” Tank flashed his badge and the vicar nodded open mouthed in response. He knew that Tank was in law enforcement and he sensed that the situation was urgent. The vicar cleared his throat and continued, although no one was listening anymore. They were far more interested in their relative’s behaviour. There’s nothing like a relative misbehaving at a funeral to get tongues wagging. Some of the congregation turned to each other and whispered conversations could be heard throughout the church. Tank entered the vestry and headed toward the leper door at the far end. He noticed spare robes hanging from hooks on the wall. They were long black gowns used for Eucharist services, beneath them were ceremonial mortarboards, which were worn on the head. Tank removed a set and put the biggest robes that he could find on over his suit, and he placed the mortarboard on his head. He unlocked the leper door, opened it and headed into the thunderstorm, carrying his impromptu Molotov cocktail.

  As Tank stepped into the torrential rain, lightening flashed again. Tank counted silently in his mind until the thunder clapped. He left the church from the opposite end that he had entered it. The section of graveyard he was in was hidden from view by trees and undergrowth. A hedgerow ran along the edge of the graveyard for a few hundred yards, and offered him cover from the men in the black van. The urge to run and close the distance quickly was overwhelming, but if the men in the Mercedes turned to look in his direction, they would find it a little odd to see a priest dashing around the graveyard in the rain. Tank strolled briskly over the graves, hiding the container of methylated spirit behind his cassock. He kept his head bowed and his face obscured. Three minutes later, he was twenty yards away from the Mercedes. The driver moved position and looked in the direction of the church. Tank turned away, froze and placed his free hand on a headstone, as if he were praying for a departed soul. He read the inscription silently in his mind, trying to appear as authentic as possible.

  The driver saw Tank move from the corner of his eye, and turned in his seat to get a better look. There was movement in the back of the van too. Tank turned his face away from the van, knelt down and hunched his shoulders as if in prayer. He removed the glass paperweight and a lighter from his pocket, using his obscured hand. Tank lit the rag, and the spirit ignited with a whooshing sound. He turned quickly and launched the paperweight with all his might. The heavy glass ornament shattered the driver’s window and struck the terrorist on the side of the head, knocking him over the gearstick. The second man panicked and tried to turn his rifle toward Tank, but his movement was hampered by the headrests. It gave Tank precious seconds. The sniper was still wrestling with the gun when the burning container of spirit was launched through the broken window of the van, splashing the occupants with its contents. The container ruptured spraying the flammable liquid around the van. There was a delay of two seconds before the methylated spirit burst into flame. The interior of the vehicle became a raging inferno. Tank sprinted to the side door of the Mercedes and pulled open the door. The flames licked at him as he reached in, and pulled the burning terrorist from the rear of the van. The driver managed to open his door by himself, and he staggered from the vehicle and fell burning onto the road. Tank grabbed the sniper and punched him hard on the jaw. His body went limp. The driver was still alight, and he tried to regain his feet. Tank threw a powerful low roundhouse kick, which swept the drivers legs from beneath, and he crashed to ground. The Task Force agent dragged him onto the road and rolled the terrorists over through the puddles, trying to extinguish the flames, as half a dozen armed response vehicles screamed to a halt, their sirens blaring.

  The armed police surrounded the suspect Mercedes and began to search it for weapons and explosives. Tank turned toward the little stone church. The entire Tankersley clan were stood aghast in the pouring rain staring at him dressed in vicar’s robes, stood over two smouldering bodies, and surrounded by armed police.

  “It looks like our Tank has had a spot of bother,” his uncle whispered to the prie
st.

  Chapter Ten

  Yasser

  Yasser tried to make himself comfortable. The helicopter had been flying for over an hour, and his legs were becoming cramped. He shifted his weight and blood circulated back into his limbs. The pain in his infected shoulder was present, but it was bearable for now. He sensed that there was someone lying next to him, not far away. The stench of stale sweat that pervaded from him told Yasser that it was another prisoner. The smell was male. Yasser could hear that the prisoner’s breathing was laboured, either because of injuries sustained during torture, or the onset of a serious respiratory disease. Tuberculosis was rife in prisons that were built in the eighteen hundreds, such as most of the Eastern European jails that are used by the West for rendition. Yasser stretched his legs toward the sound of the breathing, and his foot made contact with a body. Yasser poked the prisoner gently with his foot, but he got no response. He kicked harder and the prisoner groaned audibly, but there was no communication from him.