The Hostage (53 page)

Father Kinsella lifted the thin leather strap of the binoculars over his head and tidily wound it around the centre hinge. He watched a moment longer then tiredly walked away towards the south side of the river. As he walked he took a mobile phone from his pocket and pushed in a series of numbers. He held it to his ear and listened to it ring. It continued to ring and ring. He looked at the face of the phone to check the number, cancelled it, then tried again.

The phone buzzed on the bridge of the
Alpha Star
. ‘Phone ringing on the bridge,’ announced the operator with the directional microphone, situated on the corn exchange roof, over the assault team’s secure communications network.

Two four-man assault teams stood in silence in a line along a dark corridor inside the exchange, the hoods of their bio-suits tied tightly around their gasmasks, their SMGs in gloved hands, not a spec of flesh visible.The first team leader stood at the slightly open door that led directly out on to the quay across from the
Alpha Star,
watching it, finalising his route to the boat now that he could actually see it. The third assault team was huddled near the fishing boats just south of the target.

Captain Singen watched from a window above the grain silo, the Squadron Sergeant Major beside him. The phone was perfect. London had given him the green light only a few minutes earlier and he was waiting for the best opportunity in the five or so minutes he allowed himself to choose a window to ‘go’. The best opportunity was defined by the greatest number of enemy that could be pinpointed at a given moment, preferably a visual pinpoint so that snipers could take them out of the game at the onset. Out of the eight probable targets on board - three in the bridge, Red on deck, Yellow One and Two below, Yellow Three possibly in the accommodation block or superstructure, and one below - only one target was visual and that was Red. The three on the bridge were fifty per cent visible, which was not ideal, but since the sniper knew where the phone was, now that it was ringing, all he had to do was sight it and wait for someone to walk over and answer it. That would give Singen a twenty-five per cent target lock, which was, for ship assaults, high.

The sniper watched a figure walk across the bridge and stop by the desk. ‘Phone picked up,’ said the directional mic operator. Had there been time MI5 would have provided a listening team to monitor the ship’s communications, giving Singen far more data on crew whereabouts. But the situation at present would do him just fine.

‘Standby . . . standby . . . Go!’ Singen said into his throat-mic.

The two teams snaked out of the door and moved from the building as if pieces of the brickwork had melted off and formed into stealthy black shadows. Team three moved briskly in file along the edge of the quay from the fishing boats.

Team one headed north of the corn escalator towards a large steel derrick on the edge of the quay that overlooked the boat. Team two headed for mid-ships. Team three went for the aft main deck. The sniper on the nearest fishing boat had Red in his sights.

As the first team broke darkness to be illuminated by the ship’s lights a bullet passed soundlessly through Red’s head. It entered his eye blowing out the back of his skull and he was dead before he hit the deck. The sniper hit him with another round just to make sure.

The sniper with the man on the phone in his sights did not fire immediately. He was waiting for team one to mount the exterior stairs and the leader to reach the bridge deck. If he took his shot too soon the other men in the bridge would be alerted and go for their weapons, giving them a chance of returning fire before the team could enter the bridge.

The three teams leapt on to the ship simultaneously and team one ran up the steps soundlessly in their high-adhesion footwear. The sniper kept one eye on the team leader and the other on the man talking on the phone. Team two’s leader paused by the main deck starboard entrance into the superstructure just long enough to look back and make sure his men were bunched behind him ready to go in, then he grabbed the edge of the partially-closed door, faced his partner, nodded once, and opened the door, rushing in at the half-crouch, gun-barrels pointed forward, taut against harnesses and levelled just below their faces. From that point on the team worked in pairs, clearing the main deck interior level before three men headed up to the next deck where they would clear no further and go secure, unless of course their support was requested.

As the third man in team one scaled the steps, he caught a glimpse through the small window in the external ‘B’ deck door of someone in a yellow coat at the far end of the corridor. ‘Target, “B” deck, port side, inside heading out,’ he said as he continued with his team to the bridge - he would not engage since he had his own job to do. That target belonged to someone else. As his team leader and the number two operative reached the starboard bridge wing something zipped over his head and slapped through the window of the bridge deck, making a single tiny hole in the toughened glass, and the man on the phone lost the front of his forehead. It took a moment for the rest of his body to get the message that he was in fact dead, and he dropped the handset a good second before his legs gave way. His two pals sitting in the corner of the bridge sipping tea saw him crash to the floor like a felled tree and got to their feet, but the reason for his collapse was not immediately apparent to them. By the time one of them caught sight of the dark figures closing in outside and went for his gun, bullets spat in through the windows and shredded him and his partner. As they hit the floor the starboard door slid open and the team issued in.

Team three ran across the aft deck to the rear door of the central superstructure that led down onto the lower deck and eventually into the engine room. As they approached the door they heard the short message describing the target on ‘B’ deck port side heading out. It was followed by another short message. ‘I confirm, Yellow Three on “B” deck starboard outside staircase.’ It was Spinks who could clearly see the target from where he was in the water.

The team leader moved to the port aft corner of the superstructure followed by his partner and they looked around it. The figure in the yellow jacket was coming down the steps.

 

Hank had stepped outside onto the starboard stairwell to check around.There was no sign of the guy in the red jacket and he decided to make his move. A gentle mist was coming off the water, a fair indication it was pretty cold.The thought of swimming was no longer appealing.The swim itself might be doable, but if he had to continue his escape in soaking wet clothes in this weather he could end up with pneumonia and he wasn’t exactly at his healthiest in the first place. The quay it was to be then. He would climb off the boat and walk away. The crewman in the red jacket had already mistaken him for someone else and so he might not have a problem even if he was seen.

He walked down the steps and paused at the bottom to decide which way around the superstructure to go. He didn’t want to bump into the red jacket. Hank took his SMG in his hands and turned back on the stairs to head aft. He hardly had time to blink when the figure in black that stepped out in front of him fired. It happened so fast his mind didn’t have time to register what had happened until the second bullet hit him like a hammer blow to the side of his head. The first struck him in the chest close to his left shoulder. He spun back, grabbed for the air as his balance went and his legs buckled. Something hit him in his side or he hit it and the world spun and turned upside down. A second later he plunged into the icy water. The shock served to realign some of his senses, but only barely. He had no idea what was up or down. His arms and legs flailed automatically but he had nothing to aim for. It was so black he could have been blind, and his head throbbed as if nails were being driven into it.

 

Team three leader stepped to the rail to look below and check on Yellow Three’s progress in the water. He watched for as long as he could spare, seconds was all he had, but the man did not resurface. He was satisfied.

He rejoined his team with his partner by the open door where a ladder inside led directly to the deck below and they hurried down.

The team moved swiftly forward through a dark storeroom to a door. The leader squeezed his partner’s shoulder once, twice and on the third they hurried through the door followed by the others and spread out in a corridor, pausing long enough to compare it with the area they had studied endlessly on the blueprints. A flight of stairs led up to the main deck that team two was clearing. They ignored it and moved down the corridor, checking a door on the left first, an empty room, then pausing outside another on the right. The team leader opened the door quickly and moved in splitting left, his partner right. They paused, guns up on aim at a man on the floor with a hood over his head and tied around a pole. The other two team members carried on down the corridor to clear the engine room while the leader quickly scanned the room as he moved to the prisoner. His partner found another man in a yellow jacket lying under a tarp.

Two dull thuds came from the engine room bulkhead, silent bullets that had passed through the target inside to strike the wall. ‘Engine room clear,’ came a voice over the radio.

The team leader removed the prisoner’s hood and pulled his head back to get a look at the face. He then removed his own hood and gasmask. It was Lieutenant Stewart. He scrutinised the dead man in front of him. ‘This isn’t Hank Munro,’ he said.

The team on the bridge paused long enough to be certain nothing else was alive within their target area. Both side doors were open and the bridge decks were being covered. ‘Bridge clear,’ said the team leader into his throat-mic.

‘Main deck and “B” deck clear,’ came a voice over the air. ‘Engine room and lower deck clear,’ came another voice.

The team leader then noticed the bridge phone swinging by its cord over the edge of the table. He picked it up, pulled his hood back to expose his ear, and placed the phone against it. It was silent, and then after a moment, the line went dead.

 

Father Kinsella wasn’t sure what he had heard. One moment he was talking to the captain of the
Alpha Star
and then there was what sounded like a short gurgling sound followed by a thump, as if the phone had been dropped. He said hello a couple of times, wondering if he had lost the connection and then he heard more strange sounds, like furniture being moved and things being knocked over. It went silent again for a moment and then he was sure someone had picked up the phone. But no one said anything, and then he thought he could hear breathing, strained, as if through a mask.

Father Kinsella disconnected and wondered if he should try calling again, and then had a horrible feeling something had happened. Considering what he had just seen outside MI5 headquarters it was a distinct possibility. If something had gone wrong he wouldn’t be able to find out just yet. He had done all he could anyway. His best bet was to get back home. In fact leaving England as soon as he could was probably a wise decision, all things considered.

He looked around for a taxi without luck and decided to walk to Waterloo station where he would get one for sure.Things had not gone as he’d hoped or indeed expected. Not at all.

 

Stratton pushed himself up on to his knees and took a moment to reorganise his senses. If there was one thing he hated it was losing control of his mind and motor functions. He was dazed but otherwise seemed to be okay; a quick scan of his limbs and torso confirmed that all the main bits were still attached.The blast had thrown him back a few feet but nothing other than the expanding gases appeared to have struck him. His gun was on the ground a few feet away and he stretched for it and took it in his hand. He focused through the swiftly clearing smoke and saw Aggy on her knees on the steps looking shaken. As he got to his feet so did she. She checked herself quickly for any damage then looked around and saw him standing and looking at her.

Stratton looked for the others in his team. Wilks was sitting shaking his head as if his ears were ringing and gave a thumbs-up to Chaz, who was walking over to check on his partner.

Aggy looked over at Lawton lying still on his back at the top of the steps and made her way to him. She knelt by him thinking he was dead until he took a sudden breath and opened his eyes, blinking hard. ‘Aggy?’ he asked, full of panic and fear, his voice dry and raspy.

‘I’m here,’ she said.

He moved a hand towards her and she took it.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she nodded, wishing she could say as much for him. Blood was seeping out from beneath him and pooling on the step. Her immediate thought was to get some aid or call for an ambulance but she decided to stay with him in case he didn’t have very long. Someone would be calling the emergency services by now anyway.

Stratton walked up the steps and loomed above them. Lawton focused on him and, surprisingly, appeared to smile.

‘Stratton,’ he croaked with difficulty. ‘Always . . . survive . . . don’t you? And . . . I bet . . . you’re . . . the only one of us . . . who doesn’t want to live for ever.’ He found his comment amusing but could barely manage a laugh before the pain cut it off.

Stratton hoped the man would die from his wounds very soon otherwise he’d have to end it for him, preferably before anyone arrived. He didn’t want to have to do it in front of Aggy. He’d heard the Mick had always been a good-humoured sort and now that he was all busted up and dying he wasn’t whingeing and whining but trying to be entertaining. If a man was likeable in his last moments before death, he was likeable in life. Aggy obviously liked him.That said something for the man.

Lawton looked at the gun in Stratton’s hand and seemed to know what Stratton had in mind. It wasn’t a surprise. ‘I don’t think there’ll be a need for that somehow,’ he said.