by A P Bateman
Next, King walked to a firing point of around fifty-metres. He fired the first shot at the top of the blanket and was surprised to see it hit just a few inches lower. He followed up with three more, getting a good feel for loading and handling the weapon. It was cumbersome to handle, yet light and easy to fire. King was stunned at how quiet it was to fire. A slight twang as the bowstring relaxed. King was confident nobody would hear a thing if they were twenty-feet or so away from him. Hopefully, they would be a lot further away than that.
16
Georgia
She would never have believed how good a bath could be. To her disgust, the water had turned dark and after she had soaped and rinsed and washed her hair twice, she had drained the water and run a second bath, where she washed again, rewashed and conditioned her tangled hair, and languished in the warmth of the water, with the aroma of citrus shampoo and coconut soap attacking her senses.
She had checked the windows of the tiny bathroom, only to find they were barred. She had checked these too, heaving them, but feeling no give. She could see she was in a rural location, and thanks to the time she had been given alone, and the travel of the sun, she had ascertained which way was east, and from that, she had all four points of the compass in her mind, with the large hillock in the distance acting as a marker. She figured that by sunset, she would know the time to within an hour.
She had been given curt instructions when the man had handed her the clear, plastic bag of toiletries, which had included a single-blade disposable safety razor. All the bottles, even the toothbrush and hand soap were to be returned. The towel provided had been little bigger than a hand-towel, and that too, was to be returned.
When she had towelled herself dry, she opened the door into the bedroom and looked for something to wear. Her dirty clothes had been taken away. The towel was barely large enough to cover herself, let alone wrap around her, and she felt vulnerable once more. She heard a knock at the solid oak door, looked around and then pulled the sheet from the bed over herself. The door unlocked, then opened. The door had no lock or handle from inside, and the sound had been like that of a bolt and padlock.
The man looked at her impassively. She had not seen him before. He seemed a little embarrassed. He dropped a pile of clothes on the bed, held out his hand.
“Your toiletries,” he said.
“I might want another wash,” she replied.
“You smell clean now,” he said, but he seemed embarrassed and hastily added, “The soap is strong.”
Caroline looked at the man. She figured he was in his early twenties. He did not look the same as the brute who had touched her, or the two East-Europeans who had driven her here. “I am Caroline,” she said softly. “Thanks for the clothes.”
The man nodded. “I know who you are,” he said. “I am to take your toiletries away,” he repeated.
Caroline reached out to the table, struggling to keep herself covered with the sheet. She picked up the bag and handed it to him. “Here,” she said. She looked him in the eye. She could see there was something there, something less cruel than the rest of her captors. She had been trained to make the most of every situation. She smiled again, “What is your name?”
The man hesitated, then said, “Michael.” He had no real accent, not that Caroline could make out, at least. “Are you hungry?” he asked.
“Famished!” she exclaimed. “Oh, please, could you get me something to eat and drink?”
He nodded but said nothing more as he backed out of the doorway and closed the door behind him. The bolt slid home with a heavy thud. Ominous, final.
Caroline looked at the clothes. Nothing much, and a little calculated. Plain white cotton underwear more on the skimpy side than Bridget Jones, and a white linen dress. She put them on, pleased that the dress covered her knees and that all were a good fit. She looked out of the window, saw from the position of the sun that she was looking northwest. There was a distant mountain range ahead of her. The terrain looked like farmed pastures, with many knolls and clumps of trees, but otherwise open ground all the way to the mountains. She would guess the mountains were twenty miles away. Any escape on foot in that direction would be a fruitless task. Too much ground to cover, nowhere to hide and besides, what would she do if she reached the mountains? Cold, high and deadly. Not the best terrain for a summer dress and bare feet.
The bedroom windows were barred also. Again, she opened the window and pulled at the bars. They were solid. She left the window open, the cool early summer breeze felt good on her flushed skin after the hot bath.
There was a sharp knock on the door, then the sound of the bolt opening. Michael stood in the open doorway with a tray. Caroline went to walk forward, but he said sharply, “No. Stay there. I will put it on the desk.”
Caroline shrugged, like it was no bother, but she knew that he had been briefed to take no chances with her. She knew that if she were to escape, then it was better attempted in the first few hours of a new location. But she also knew that her stomach was almost touching her spine and she had never felt so hungry, nor had lost weight so quickly. She looked at the tray of food and knew she would never chance escaping until she had eaten. The thought annoyed her, like she was becoming submissive, reliant on her captors, but she was a realist. She hadn’t given up, she just needed to bide her time.
Michael stepped back, and Caroline hustled forwards. She picked up a chunk of bread and bit down. There was a satisfying crunch as she bit through the crust and she chewed quickly, then dipped the bread into a large mug of soup. She took another mouthful, but this time her mouth felt the explosion of flavour from the onion, garlic and beetroot. She knew it was borscht and that narrowed down her location a little. The flavour was overwhelming, and she knew it was only because she had not eaten in so long. There were slices of cold sausage on a tin plate next to the soup and she ate these quickly. She looked at Michael as he made to leave. “Thank you, Michael. It’s much appreciated,” she paused. “Please, stay,” she said, taking a sip of the tepid soup. “I haven’t talked to anybody in such a long time…”
“I am not allowed,” he said. “I have to get more food…”
“Just a minute,” she said. “I’ve been so scared. You look like a kind person, Michael. I can tell that. You look a bit like my brother,” she said. “I miss him terribly. He’ll be so worried about me…”
The young man looked at his watch. It was a cheap, plastic digital model. He wore gold rings on his fingers and was fiddling with one subconsciously. “I can’t,” he said.
“Where am I?” she asked. “I was travelling for hours, days even.”
Michael shrugged. “I can’t tell you,” he said. “Now, I must go and get food for the others…”
“Others?”
“I can’t tell you!” he snapped. The change in his expression shocked her, and he could see this, and his face softened. “Now, I must go,” he said.
Caroline looked sadly at him. “Okay,” she said. “But promise me you’ll come and see me when you’re done. You could bring more food,” she smiled.
The young man nodded, and Caroline caught him staring at her legs as she tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into the soup. She was annoyed, there hadn’t been a spoon or anything else that would be useful in her escape.
17
Dover, England
“It doesn’t get any better than this. A Paki smuggling an assault rifle? Now, let’s start again. Where did you get it?”
Nothing.
“For the tape, the suspect refuses to answer.”
“For the tape, the officer just called a British citizen a Paki.”
“Smart-arse, are we?”
“One of us is smart. I think the other is just an arse.”
“What were you planning to do with it?” the second anti-terrorism officer asked. “An ISIS attack on UK soil? What, another random act of slaughter? “
Nothing.
“Again, for the tape, no answer. Look, we�
�ve got you for nine more days, sunshine. You’ve had four, you’ll break sooner or later,” the lead officer paused. “And it will be sooner, mark my words.”
“Cakewalk.”
“What?” the lead officer asked.
Rashid smiled. “Fairground game. Like musical chairs. It means this is a piece of piss.”
The junior officer slammed his hand down on the table. “This is an interrogation!”
“Interview, shit head. And an easy one at that.”
The lead officer turned over Border Force arrest notes in front of him. He looked at Rashid, shook his head. “What is it? ISIS? Al Qaeda?”
Nothing. Rashid stared impassively ahead.
“You were caught smuggling an assault rifle through the port of Dover.”
“Nah, not me, mate. Someone must have planted it. Strapped it to my car’s exhaust and were going to follow me, pick it up when they had the opportunity.”
“So, you say,” the junior officer commented.
“Are my prints on it? I don’t think so.” Rashid smiled. He had stripped the weapon, smeared it with a sheen of bleach and left it for an hour before oiling it and wiping it clean. The bleach would destroy any of his DNA. He had used gloves, wrapped it in bin sacks, strapped it underneath using duct-tape. He had dumped the twenty spare rounds for the weapon – no point carrying anything further incriminating. The ammo had come from Hereford but could not be traced to his absence. One or two rounds at a time over the years, pocketed after operations or drills and kept in his personal stash, along with a pistol and some ammo he had relieved a dead Taliban fighter of in Afghanistan – a man in Rashid’s line of work could never be too careful and he knew he may need the weapon one day.
“You’re a smug one.”
“What? For a Paki?”
“I didn’t mean that,” said the lead officer.
“Charge me or let me go. You have nothing more than my unwitting possession of a firearm.”
“You’re AWOL. You’re a serving soldier in the Parachute Regiment.”
Rashid knew where their information would lead and where it would end. His military service history would terminate at the unit he served in before his time in the SAS. He was never under any obligation to correct them. “I was on holiday,” he replied.
“That explains the gun,” said the junior officer sarcastically.
“Does it?” Rashid shrugged. “I was travelling to Britain, not away from it.”
“Maybe you’re a traitor then? Maybe you’re in the army and all the time, you’re an extremist planning an attack?”
“So, I’d be bringing in a gun, why?”
“To harm British citizens!” The officer interjected. “Unless it has something to do with Russia’s state visit in a couple of months. Is that it? You’re not happy with their support of the Assad regime in Syria, want to help fellow Muslims?”
Rashid laughed. “Fellow Muslims would also be Assad and his soldiers. You have a great imagination there, you’re obviously wasted as a policeman.”
The officer slammed his fist down on the table, making his colleague flinch, but merely making Rashid smile. “Tell us about the gun!”
“What sort of gun was it?” Rashid asked.
“An assault rifle.”
“Doesn’t narrow the field much.”
The lead officer looked at the notes, took out a photograph. “An M4.”
“Nice,” Rashid said. “Never used one. The Paras use the SA80. And if I were a terrorist, with access to an entire warehouse full of SA80 rifles, then I wouldn’t have to travel to France to buy one. I’d smuggle one out of barracks.”
“So, you’re a hard para, are you?” the junior officer asked. “You think you’ll breeze through this?”
“What, exactly?”
“This process of questioning.”
Rashid looked at his watch. He had not been charged yet, but under the prevention of terrorism act, they had fourteen days before they had to charge or release him. But they also had to allow him six hours uninterrupted sleep and provide him with three meals, four drinks and as many toilet breaks as he required. A cakewalk to an SAS officer who had successfully infiltrated ISIS in Syria and lived amongst them as a spy for months.
There was a knock at the door and a detective walked in.
The lead officer looked around, then turned to the recorder and said, “Interview suspended at sixteen-forty-two, DI Blakemore has just entered the room…”
The detective whispered into the lead officer’s ear. The lead officer was a DCI and he looked to be ten-years older than the DI. The DCI stood up, glanced at Rashid and ushered the DI to the corner of the room, where they talked animatedly in low voices. Both men left the room and a uniformed officer stepped inside to keep the two to one ratio.
The junior officer smirked. “Sounds like they’ve got something significant. Say a little prayer to Allah, you’re fucked, mate.”
Rashid tapped the top of the recorder. “You aren’t allowed to talk to me without the tape running,” he said. “That’s a shame, because it won’t pick me up saying how much I enjoyed giving it to your old lady.”
The detective laughed. “I’m not married, dickhead.”
Rashid leaned forward and smiled. “I know. I was talking about your mother.”
18
Tuscany, Italy
King looked at himself in the rear-view mirror and smiled. He had learned the importance in maintaining a sense of humour in life. It had got him through tough and desperate times. The fact that Caroline was being held captive was always on his mind, but as he looked at the fifty-euro set of fake gold chain around his neck, worthy of Mr T, he couldn’t help wondering what Caroline would say. It was off-set wonderfully by the black T-shirt and black suit. King had used butter to grease his hair and smear it backwards. His head now stank of rancid dairy product, but he didn’t care. He looked every inch the Russian bodyguard. Every inch one of Nikolai’s men.
King had parked his vehicle on a narrow mountain road approximately half a mile downhill from Luca Fortez’s property. It was a tactical and practical decision. Exfiltration, and this one would be hot, was better made downhill. Less exertion, more speed – which in turn meant he would present himself as a more difficult target – and an uphill escape would mean that he would have to drive back past the entrance to the property.
King would have to skirt the property, hiking the steep hill for at least a mile and a half, before observing the property from above. He would then make his way down to the vineyard and enter the grounds to the property through the fence.
King found the walk uncomfortable. The late afternoon sun was hot on his back, the temperature a dry and draining thirty-degrees. The ground was arid, with the earth baked hard, and much of the terrain was sharp rock and loose shale, which made every footstep difficult, as he dropped backwards a few inches with every tread. The pine trees were scented and seemed to give off their own heat. He was using dead-reckoning, cursing leaving his button compass back in Scotland, simply using the sun and the mountainside as his directional prompts, although he was aware he could be veering drastically off course and away, or worse - head-on towards the vineyard. He had no friendlies out here, so as usual, he had left his mobile phone behind. There was no point in carrying it, and with the use of scanners, the phone’s signal could be traced simply by a pulse receiver. The phone emitted a signal wherever it went, and this could be exploited. The people using the equipment may not know whose phone it was, but they would know that one was in the area and could easily home in on it.
He had slung the crossbow over his shoulder using a belt and tucked the bolts into his pockets. It wasn’t an ideal way to carry them, but he had the sheath knife fastened tightly to his trouser belt and the flick knife in his jacket’s inside pocket and was not dressed in tactical clothing. The suit had started to tear, and he was both hot and uncomfortable, the excess butter he’d greased his hair with had started to run into his eyes. The ma
cabre sense of humour in him just hoped he didn’t die out here and was left looking like this for someone to discover. A greasy-haired extra from a rap video with four-pounds in weight of gold-painted brass around his neck and a crossbow strapped to his back. The police would be scratching their heads for months.
When King had estimated the distance, he tracked across the mountainside and crouched low, listening to his surroundings. He took a 500ml bottle of water out of his pocket and downed the contents in a few mouthfuls. He wedged the empty bottle between some tree roots, and wiped his face with his sleeve, before taking out a crossbow bolt and standing up to cock the weapon. He tucked the bolt under the spring clip and kept the cumbersome weapon held in front of him. The going was much easier downhill, and he moved at twice the speed as his climb, taking care to watch the ground for loose rocks, tree roots and snakes. He had seen some big spiders, which looked like tarantulas to him, waiting patiently in the centre of giant webs, spanning five or six feet between the trees. He was sure they weren’t too harmful, certainly not lethal, but he didn’t want to put his face in one while he was watching the ground. He had to remind himself that he needed to keep aware not only of his footsteps and his immediate vicinity for natural threats, but to be ready for the human factor too. As he closed in on Luca Fortez’s property, he realised that he was approaching one of the most dangerous and untouchable men in Italy. His men would be armed.
