BlindFire (5 page)

  Some  of  the  Majors  fellow  colleagues  at  the  time  had  often  argued  whether  Mckay was this legendary Butcher or  not. Some even  felt  that  he  was   something  of  a  phantasm  dreamt  up  by  failures  who  never  got  their bad  guys.  How could this man escape capture so often?  How could this steely eyed killer live so long with such a war machine after him?  Only  a few  special   duties  men  had  seen  him in recent years  and  lived  to  tell  the  tale, Major  John  Rothschild  was  such  a  man.  He  had  paid  witness  to the  calculated  efficiency  of  a  cold  blooded  killing  machine.

  "Come in John
ny
my boy."  He heard a voice booming t
hrough some
new
ly
fitted
speakers on the wall.

  "How did you know I was coming?"  He asked as he entered the room.

  "Good, isn’t it?"  Said the Colonel pointing to a bank of TV monitors.  "Had them fitted yesterday."

  "That was quick work."

  "I had the big boys do it.  Hush hush and all that, you know? Well Johnny my boy."  He said as he sat at his desk.  "Sit down have a drink and tell me all about it."

  "Thanks but I would rather stand Sir.  I’m afraid it’s bad news. Jack Mckay has resurfaced at last."

  "What?"

  "The attack Sir.
.! This morning... Remember, two
dead, two injured and one missing?"

  "Less of the sarcasm. What do you mean one missing?”

  “There was a second child in the car.” He was starting to get that feeling. “We don’t have her do we?”

  “Major  I  have  more  officers  in  the  field  and more  on  my  plate  than  you  can  imagine.”

  "I’m aware of that Sir, but we’re talking about a child missing from the scene of a murder."

  “The civilian police are dealing!”  Insisted the Colonel. “It’s not our problem.”

  Major Rothschild tensed with frustration. It  was  like  talking  to  a  very  stubborn  wall  "The  Butcher  of  Belfast, and  Jack  McKay.  Do these names mean anything
at all
to you, Sir?"

  “You think it was this so called ‘Butcher’?”

  The Major nodded. “I know it was
.”

  “Why?”

  “Simple, he told Stone
exactly who he was and why he was about to kill him .....” The Major said evenly.

"He’s  awake,
  has  made  a  statement  and we  have  an  artist  doing  an  impression  right  now."

  "An Artist..? I’ve got a bloody photograph of Mckay in my wallet."

  The Colonel opened a draw on his desk and retrieved a file which he held out for Rothschild. “Things maybe s
lightly more complicated than you know
.
”

   Major Rothschild frowned.

  “
Ten or so years ago a young
Paratrooper named Private Daniel Stone won the Military Medal no less. He
returned fire on three known terrorists after they ambushed his patrol. He was wounded in his shoulder and three of his colleagues were killed outright. He managed to kill two of them with his rifle and pursued the other on foot…”

  “Did he get him?”

  “Catch him..!” The Colonel burst out laughing.  “He chased that
dam
Provo
in full kit and carrying his self loading rifle for three miles and when he caught him, he gave that boy such a beating he was in a coma for two weeks.”

***

  As Major Jonathon Rothschild approached  his  office,  he  noticed  his  door  ajar
,
  someone  had obviously  broken  in.  The  lock  lay  discarded  on  the  floor  amongst wood  chippings  and  dust.  He  hated  people  entering  his  office wit
hout  permission
,   that  was  why  he  didn't  employ  a  secretary.  Privacy  was  paramount  in  the  dark  and  sometimes  lonely  world  of  counter  terrorism.  In  the  end  it  always  boiled  down to  just  the  players,  the  good  guys  and  the  bad  guys.

  "And who the hell are you? The  Major asked  the  man sitting  behind  his  desk  with  his  feet  resting  on  the  window  ledge.

  “I  could  easily  ask  the  same  of  you  my  friend,  as  it  is  I  won’t,  because  I  know  who  you  are... Major Rothschild.”

  “Herr Nolte I Presume, from the glory boys.”

  “Gunter Nolte.” Said the stranger slightly bowing his head. “At your service.”

  John  stared  at  the  stocky  German  with  hands  like  shovels  and   arms  chunkier  than  tree  trunks. He wisely decided
against trying to evict him
.

  "I'm  surprised  you  didn't  abseil  down  the  wall  and  smash  your  way through  the  window."

  "No,  I  forgot  my  parachute  and  abseiling  kit,  so  I  just  walked  up your  unguarded  stairs  and  picked  your  pathetic  lock."   Retorted the German in excellent English.

  "I would hardly call that ‘picking a lock’
!
Let’s  cut  the  shit  and  get  on  with  the  job,  we  can  start  with  a couple  of  simple  house  rules.  One,   that's  my  desk  and  seat, so get your  fat  arse  out  of  it.  Two,  don't  you  ever  and  I  mean  ever  pick my  lock  or  come  in  this  office again without  my  permission  and  last  but not  least,   I  run  this  show  and  don’t  forget  it.”

 
  Gunter Nolte smiled broadly, he liked this Englishman.
“While  we  are  on  the  subject  I  have  a  few  little  rules  all  of  my own.” The big German retorted. “One,  I'm  under  the  direct  control  of  my  government  and  you are  on  German  soil,  so  as  you  are  now  aware  you  do  not  run  this show  at  all.  As  for  your  lock  I  will  not  pick  it  again,  I'm  sad  to tell  you  I  broke  it  and  lastly  before  I  go."  He stood and leaned his stocky body across the desk.  "I have a  new  car, a German built Mercedes which I only collected this morning, when  we  are  friends maybe  I
will
let  you  drive  it."   With that the German got up and left.

  "At least you went through the door."  The  Major  muttered  only  half hoping  that  the  German  had  heard  him.

  As  he  sat  down  at  his  desk  he  could  feel  the  need  setting  in,  it always  did  at  the  start  of  a  job  of  this  magnitude.  It  was  becoming harder  and  harder  to  stay  off  the  bottle,  but  he  knew  one  touch  and  it  would  be  so  easy  to  become  an  alcoholic  again.  The  whole of  the  past  ten  years  he  seemed  to  have  been  in  pursuit  of   killers and  one  in  particular.  There  was  no  way  he  could have  been  able  to  stay  with  a  tank  regiment  or  infantry  unit  and  play  cowboys  and Indians  on  the  North  German  planes.  If  Major  John  Rothschild wasn't   living  on  the  edge  then  he  wasn't  living,  the  partaking  of alcohol  constituted  mistakes  none  of  which  he  could  afford.  The buzz  of  capturing  a  player  single  handed  was  his  only  pleasure  and one  he  worked  doggedly  at.

  The  ring  of  the  telephone  made  him  jump,  he  let  it  ring  several times  hoping  that  if  it  wasn't  important  then  the  person  on  the  other end  would  hang  up.

  "John it’s me."   The Colonel shouted excitedly.  "We have had a report in from the French coastguard. Apparently one of their men overheard  three  half  pissed  Irishmen  talking  in  a  bar  just  outside  Dieppe, one was  referred  to  as  Jack, another  Ohallern  or  something  like  and  they  mentioned  a  boat called  the  Regina."

  "How old is the report?"  Asked  John  as  he  glanced  out 
of
his  open door  and  through  a  window  on  the  other  side  of  the  corridor  only to  see  the  endless  grey  clouds  and  rain.

  "In the last twenty four hours."

  "Typical,  have  the  Navy  or  coastguard  or  whatever  it  is  we  use these  days  followed  it  up  yet?"

  "Well, let me see."   The  Colonel  shuffled  a  piece  of  paper  about  on   his  desk  if  only  to  make  some  noise,   then  took  a  sip  of  his  now cold  tea.  "The  coastguards  are  dealing  with  that  one  let  them  sort  it  out.  Oh  I  nearly  forgot,  we  have  just  had  the  report  back  from forensics  and  something  of  a  breakthrough.  Finger  prints  found
on the Soldiers car
at the  scene  match  with  your  Jack
  Mckay. 
I pulled his
psychological
profile drawn up by one of our men some years ago. It
suggests strongly of a psychopath who likes to kill. Perhaps  someone  who  hides  his  love  for  killing  behind  a  reason  or cause  in  this  c
ase  terrorism. This points to the possibility that he has killed outside the game.
"

  "Yes, I’ve got a copy of that somewhere?"  Said
the  Major
, Who had always been
  suspicious  of psychological  profilers,  who  in his  books  lived  on  the  same  distant planet  as  clairvoyants.

  "
Well...
Since around the time of his release there have been a number of unsolved murders in garrison towns. Always Soldiers  wives, they  were  all  strangled and so
me were sexually assaulted,  most
  had  their  wedding  rings  removed.”

   “My  god  what  the  hell  are  we  dealing  with  here?  Why hasn’t some one been assigned to this before for god sake?”

 
"Well that’s what I wanted to talk to you about"   He growled.  "I want you to quietly look in to things, see if we can’t sort out this unfortunate mess
."

  Major Jonathon Rothschild smiled; this was exactly the chance he’d been waiting for. “I’ll get right on it sir.” He said and hung up.

***

  Danny  Couldn’t sleep
,  the  fear  of  seeing  his   son  covered  in  blood  was  simply  too  much.  But  he  managed to  close  his  eyes  every  now  and  then
.  It  was  during  one  of  tho
se moments  when  the  padre  entered  the  room  and  introduced  himself.

   He
took
one look at the cross on his lapel and wondered
if it might    have been better to
close his eyes and pretend to be asleep
.

  "A man could get lost
in this place." The Padre said and smiled.  

  "Padre."  Danny
muttered,  then  wondered  why, after all  this  man  was in  military  uniform  and  wore  the  rank  of an Officer. “Sir..!”

  "How are you feeling today?”

  "Up until a couple of minutes ago I was feeling
just fine..
.
Sir!
"

  "Of course."   Mused  the  Padre,  knowing  exactly  what  was  coming next  he  braced  himself  for  the  onslaught.

  “Look Sir or Padre or whatever or whatever it is I’m meant to call you! I don’t do the whole god and praying thing… So if you don’t mind I’m really tired and I’d like some peace and quiet.”

 
"Well if that is what you want I’ll go. You know praying can help a great deal in circumstances such as these.
"

    "Pray..!
Pray,
”
Danny
spat bitterly and then turned his head away from the priest. “
yes  I  would  like  you  to  pray  and  while  you're  doing it,  could  you  ask  the  big  man  in  the  sky  where  he  was  the  other day,  when  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  really  needed  him,  like,  I  could
have  really  used  his  help.”

  "Son,  I  came  here  in  your  hour  of  need  to  comfort  and  pray  for you.  It's normal  to  feel  the  way  you  do now,  but  God  is  a  forgiving man and...."

  “Take your dog collar and piss off
."
Danny growled, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the rails on his bed. He began to feel his blood reach boiling point.
"Will he forgi
ve the man who did this?"   He cried angrily
. "Will he forgive me for not even trying to stop him?
I’m meant to be a fucking Paratrooper and I couldn’t even protect my own family.
"

 
The Padre took a step back and smiled nervously. "Well I’ll leave you for now but
  If  you  need anything  just  get  in  touch  through  the  usual  channels."

  "Usual channels." Danny’s manic
laughter shuddered and jerked his whole body.  "What? You  mean  I  pray  and  you  come  running"  He  wanted  to  stop  laughing,  but  he  couldn't. And  neither  could  he  control  the  tears  which  flowed,  draining  him of  his  will. Soon someone was pushing a needle into his arm banishing him to darkness.

  The Padre remained physically unshaken. He  had  seen  many  victims  of  catastrophe  or  violent  attacks  put  the  blame  on  God  before. However, persistence was the name of the game.

  "I shall pray for you anyway my son."   He whispered to the sleeping soldier.  "You know something, dying is
dreadfully
easy it’s the living that’s difficult."