Wolf Angel

by Mark Hobson

  The Weeping Tower and bridge

  “God no,” Pieter moaned, and then he reached into the car and grabbed the mike. Thumbing the switch he bellowed, “Code Red, Code Red, Zodiac! Prins Hendrikkade Bridge outside the cathedral, multiple-shots fired! Officers down, C’s down! Taking heavy fire!! Multiple gunmen, number unknown, firing from Schreierstoren tower! All units respond, Code Red!”

  Another burst of gunfire cut him off, this time the rounds riddling the patrol car where the other two officers were sheltering. They hunkered down even more, their eyes bulging in sheer terror.

  Once the firing paused Pieter sneaked another brief look, just long enough to see a third figure with a gun, this one aiming through one of the square windows just below the roofline.

  Fuck! Pieter thought to himself crazily. They had fucking assault rifles, possibly Uzi’s or C10’s from what he could see, real military grade stuff. Where the hell, where the fucking hell did they get those from? And even as he watched, something much worse happened. One of the men up on the roof pulled his arm back and then threw something small and round through the air, like a cricket ball, but when it hit the ground and bounced along in a series of metallic clinks Pieter knew instantly what it was and flung himself down just as the grenade exploded near the second patrol car. The ground shook, bouncing him up off the surface, and gravel danced just above the tarmac, and with a tremendous rush of hot air the police car exploded. Pieces of red-hot metal billowed out, scything outwards, but his own car sheltered him from the worst thankfully. Shaking his head to clear it, he looked in amazement at the fiery wreck of the car.

  A sudden fury built up inside him, a wild hatred, and Pieter raised his gun. Resting his wrist between the car’s doorframe and the open door itself, he aimed the Walter P5 at one of the figures on the roof of the building and fired two quick shots, the gun kicking hard. The shots struck the stonework, missing their target, but the silhouette of the gunman at least dropped from view. Encouraged by this the two other officers, one of them wounded, withdrew their own guns, and commenced firing. Their shots were slow and steady and precise, a testament to their training, and Pieter felt ridiculously proud of their coolness.

  If nothing else their return fire might at least keep the gunmen’s heads down, but the situation was still dire. There were civilians badly in need of help, and probably a number of them were dead, and from the look of it the tram was now well and truly ablaze. But Pieter knew if he made an attempt to dash across to the bridge he would be hit. Pinned down like this they were trapped and unable to offer any help. In addition two of his men were dead, one more wounded.

  He tried to think, but more prolonged gunfire from the tower made this impossible. The sound was beyond anything he’d experienced before, a roar of brutality, and he thought perhaps he was screaming in madness but wasn’t sure as the whole world was one huge cacophony of noise. Another loud explosion rocked the ground, and then non-stop automatic fire.

  How many were holed up in there? At least three, but then he noticed more pandemonium on the far side of the canal towards the old docks, so he assumed there were more gunmen opening up on that side of the tower as well.

  They had to do something quickly, otherwise they would have a massacre on their hands.

  ◆◆◆

  In the distance Pieter could hear the sound of sirens approaching but decided they could not afford to wait. Somehow he had to hit their flank and also draw their fire away from the bridge. The only way to do that was to get down the incline, past the tower itself. He knew there was a small deck down there on the canal side so presumably there must be a way into the building from there. If he could get down there he might perhaps hit them from behind, pin them down until help arrived.

  Pieter crouched low and crawled around the back of his car, and then down to the front passenger door. He was sheltered from the gunfire on this side, but just a few feet away was the burning wreck of the second patrol car, and the heat of the flames was nearly unbearable.

  Yanking open the passenger door and keeping his head down, he reached across the seat and released the car’s handbrake. Withdrawing his body, Pieter waited until gravity started to take effect, and slowly his car gently started to roll forward down the gentle slope of the street. Closing the door again, he kept pace with the vehicle, now well sheltered from the gunfire spitting out from the tower.

  The angle of his car glided it diagonally across the cobbled surface of the road, the front heading towards the low wall beside the gate and stairs leading down to the deck. It was only travelling slowly and it crunched into the stonework with only a slight bump, not enough to smash right through the wall itself. Thus embedded in the wall the car now gave him some perfect cover, and he leaned across the bonnet and looked up towards the gunmen on the roof, who were busy firing down towards the bridge in the opposite direction.

  Then he noticed that indeed, there was a fourth man firing through a window on this side, his shots hitting targets on the far side of the canal. Pieter could clearly see him framed in the open window, as of yet unaware of Pieter down below.

  Kneeling down and using the car’s bonnet as an armrest, he took careful aim, the gun’s sights centred on the gunman’s chest. He squeezed the trigger twice, there was the double kick, and then the figure was hurled backwards and fell from sight. A satisfied flush spread through Pieter’s chest, and his face was set in grim determination.

  More long bursts of gunfire shattered the air once again, and he turned his attention to those up on the roof. The two men up there continued to pour heavy fire down towards the roadway and bridge, raking any target they could spot, but from where Pieter was he was gratified to see that most of the civilians had fled or found good cover. What’s more he saw the familiar sight of a police personnel van skidding to a halt near to the flank of the cathedral. The back doors flew open and out poured a phalanx of heavily armed assault police. Pieter knew these were equipped and trained to deal with this exact scenario, and they moved rapidly and fluidly with perfect precision, finding cover wherever possible, and immediately opened a heavy return fire towards the tower. Within seconds the building was shrouded in dust and smoke kicked up by their rounds, and the very earth shook under the power and violence of the gunfight.

  Another squad of police arrived. With the gunmen inside the building pinned down, this second team dashed forward to the main entrance, and using a battering ram they soon gained entry, lobbing in several flash-bangs to clear the entranceway before they piled in. The gun battle moved inside, the explosive sounds now echoing and reverberating from within the enclosed space.

  Pieter felt his heart rate start to slow a little, and he came to his feet somewhat unsteadily. But just as he thought things were getting a little more under control the sound of a loud engine caught his attention and he glanced down towards the deck below just in time to see a small speedboat emerge from the boathouse, turn onto the canal at full speed, and race away. On board he counted three or four people, all clad in dark clothing and heavily armed. Without giving himself time to think, Pieter raised his gun and aimed, then fired at the fleeing target.

  The round missed, he saw a spout of water fly up just in front of the boat, but it was enough to startle whoever was at the controls, making them yank at the steering wheel. The boat twitched, and the sudden movement unseated one of the passengers who fell off the stern and into the water. The speedboat roared away, leaving their man behind.

  For a couple of seconds the figure floundered in the water, but he quickly recovered his composure and struck out for the far side of the canal, making for a steep ladder fixed to the side of the wall. Pieter watched as he reached out and grabbed the bottom rung, then hauled himself up, drenched in water.

  The gunfight in the tower sounded to be nearing the end, with just single shots ringing out as the police assault squad began mopping up the last of the holdouts. Again making a snap decision, Pieter raced back up the slope and past the burning police ca
r, then turned right to run full-pelt over the bridge and by the bullet-riddled and smoking tram. Around him he saw dead and wounded civilians lying in the road, but he could not stop to offer them aid, instead he charged past and preyed he could cut off the escaping gunman in time.

  Yet even as he thought this he saw just ahead of him the figure emerge from the canal and clamber off the ladder, then race forward onto a second bridge, this one crossing over Oosterdok. It was packed with people, some peculiarly drawn towards the sound of the battle, others just standing as if frozen with terror. The gunman charged through the crowds, pushing and screaming at them, which sparked even more fear as they tried to move clear.

  Pieter followed through the crowds, holding his gun high and shouting for them to get away, and he emerged on the far side having lost sight of his quarry. Pausing on the corner, he soon saw him, running alongside the dock and heading east, no doubt hoping to escape in that direction. There were fewer people here, and the man was fast, already racing at full speed down the long, straight quayside, with the large expanse of water on his right and the huge, modern library building on his left. Pieter set off in pursuit again.

  A cold wind blew across the open dock, buffeting against Pieter and whipping up small waves on the water. There were a few boats moored here, mostly pleasure crafts, but most of the larger ones were at the very far end where the museum haven was, and because the location was slightly off the beaten path for tourists there were thankfully very few people around. Which was good as the gunman was still armed, Pieter seeing what looked like a small snub-nosed Uzi strapped over the running figure’s shoulder. He was also probably feeling increasingly desperate, abandoned by his fellow gunmen, and with a cop on his tail, so who knew what actions he would take to stay alive and escape?

  To make this clear to his pursuer the black-clad gunman turned and fired a short burst towards Pieter. The rounds went high, and the few people about scattered and ran. Pieter ducked and stayed back, keeping his distance, but when the man spun away and continued to run Pieter followed once again.

  Half way along the quayside was the large Chinese restaurant, permanently moored on its floating island out on the water. He thought perhaps the gunman might run up one of the narrow gangplanks and begin shooting people inside, but no, he ran straight on by, Pieter noticing the small faces of the diners within pressed up against the windows and watching events in amazement.

  On they went, Pieter feeling increasingly winded and wondering how long he could keep this up. There was no sign of his quarry slowing at all. Somewhere he thought he could hear a helicopter but it was hard to be sure because of the strong, gusty wind.

  Finally they came to the end of the quayside. Crossing the water here was a wide footbridge, linking the dockside with the roadway and the tunnel passing beneath the river Ij to the north shore of Amsterdam. Above the tunnel was the peculiar science museum with its rooftop café terrace. Pieter followed as the figure crossed over. Halfway across the bridge had a small turn and as he rounded the bend another burst of bullets came his way, tearing up the metal handrail inches from his chest.

  He waited a moment, using the pause to get his breath, and when he risked a quick peek he saw the man he was pursuing jump down off the far end of the bridge and turn sharply to the right, running alongside the steel flank of the museum. Pieter raced after him.

  They ran by the old ships and barges moored at the jetties. Sitting in his chair, a fisherman watched them, and then calmly went back to his fishing.

  Further along, where the museum ended, eight lanes of traffic vroomed into the cavernous entrance to the road tunnel, and here the escaping figure clambered over the retaining wall and dropped down to the road. Pieter went to follow, then saw that it was an eight or nine foot drop. He didn’t have time to take the longer route right around the incline, and so he gritted his teeth and jumped. He landed hard, the impact jarring his knees, but nothing twisted or tore, so he picked himself up and ran out into the busy lanes of traffic. Cars and vans screeched to a halt or weaved around him, and horns blared angrily, but Pieter ignored them and prayed for a miracle. Just ahead the figure had made it over and was running along the opposite pavement, turning his head to see how close his pursuer was.

  Seconds later, having made it in one piece, Pieter sprinted down the narrow path with the oncoming traffic just inches from his right shoulder. He watched the gunman twist and disappear around the wall, and moments later he did likewise.

  A long flight of steps climbed up the gentle sloping roof of the science museum, leading to the rooftop café terrace, and the man was all but sprinting up them like he was the bionic man or something. Already near to exhaustion, Pieter watched him in dismay.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me?” he gasped and panted to himself. This man was relentless.

  Pieter started to climb.

  Steps leading to

  rooftop terrace

  He’d only been here once before, with his then wife, to spend a pleasant couple of hours drinking beer. Under normal circumstances it was a fantastic location with probably the best views out across Amsterdam’s skyline. Yet this was anything but normal, and as he hauled himself up the steps he knew in the back of his mind that the gunman had made a bad mistake. For once at the top, with the only way back down being via these same steps, he would be corned with nowhere to go. He could take a hostage of course, a situation that Pieter fervently hoped did not happen, but ultimately he was trapped. It was this thought, this end result – taking him down and arresting him – that drove Pieter on for the last few strides.

  Finally reaching the top, he looked around.

  The rooftop terrace was built in a series of wooden stages, each higher than the previous one, like wide, ascending platforms. It was meant to represent the deck of an old sailing ship. The café itself was right at the top. Around the edges were a number of viewing spots with observation binoculars, and beyond them some handrails. And beyond that, a two-hundred foot drop straight down to the water below.

  The man he’d been chasing was standing by the handrail, staring out as though admiring the view. He was alone. Anybody else up here had had the good sense to run once they saw his firearm. Behind the man, far off in the distance, Pieter could see Schreierstoren tower shrouded in smoke. The sound of the helicopter from earlier was louder now, and glancing up he saw it swing into view, hovering just above them. Its side-door was open, and a police marksman was leaning out with his sniper’s rifle pointing at the gunman.

  Raising his Walter P5 and pointing it at the man’s back, Pieter approached slowly, hesitantly.

  When he was a dozen or so feet away he stopped.

  “It’s over you fucker!” he shouted. “You’ve nowhere to go! Put the gun down and turn slowly around!”

  The man did not move or reply.

  “Do It! Or that guy in the chopper will blow your fucking brains out!!”

  Slowly the head turned.

  To reveal not the face of a hardened criminal or terrorist, but that of a young teenage youth, a boy of perhaps fourteen or fifteen.

  Pieter gawped at him, completely thrown by the revelation and what it meant. A child! They’d been using a child to gun people down!

  Then the boy smiled at him, a menacing grin that seemed to taunt Pieter.

  Turning back to the handrail, the youth climbed up and dropped away into the abyss.

  CHAPTER 12

  DYATLOV

  Pieter staggered, partly from the downdraft from the helicopter, but mostly from shock. He reached out and grabbed a hold of the handrail where moments before the boy had been standing.

  Raising himself up he leaned over and looked down but all he could see was the grey water far below. Twisting about he raised his arm and signalled the crew on board the chopper, which then spiralled out and downwards, where it hovered a few metres above the surface of the dock. The rotor blades pushed at the water in a circular pattern, creating a mini squall, and it commenced gli
ding back and forth as they began a search.

  Pieter moved away and slumped down onto one of the wooden benches. In his mind he saw once again the boy’s face and his ugly smirk, and he cast his mind back to the night the intruder had broken into his home, and the brief moment their eyes had made contact. He knew, he was absolutely sure they were one and the same people. But this time, instead of making good his escape, rather than be captured he had made the terrible decision to jump to his death.

  View from the rooftop terrace

  showing Oosterdok and footbridge

  God, what kind of people were they dealing with here? Had the boy been so brainwashed that dying like that was preferable to imprisonment? And could he, Pieter, have done something to prevent it? If he’d known how young he was, he might have held back, maybe not even pursued him so determinedly. Yet the ruthless nature of these people was apparent from the gun battle back at the tower. He doubted if any of them were willing to be captured alive. And did they deserve to be, considering what they had done, to Mira and Monroe… and maybe to Daan! Jesus, in all of the uproar over the last thirty minutes he had completely forgotten about Sergeant Beumers.

  Grabbing his mobile he rang HQ and asked to be patched through to whoever was in command back at the tower. A gruff voice came on.

  “Dyatlov, make it quick.”