Unsung Warrior Box Set, page 6
part #1 of Unsung Warrior Series
The Oeuvre Francaise management knew who he was, and they were impressed.
The van slid into one of the loading bays next to the Sorbonne. Fedor wrapped the Lugers carefully in the sweatshirt. The two of them carried fake parcels into the building. They ditched the parcels in the toilets, and made their way unhurriedly back to Rue Soufflot.
The last half hour was going to pass slowly. The Finn lined up three cell phones on the desk in front of him. These were his weapons of mass destruction. He looked at them fondly. All he had to do now was wait, and he had plenty of experience at doing that. The four Oeuvre Francaise donkeys stalked about the room, checking things that didn’t need checking. Or went downstairs to smoke.
He almost felt sorry for them. The French government wasn’t going to change its mind on extremist organizations, regardless of the cost in lives and infrastructure. But Oeuvre Francaise was doing good work. They just didn’t know it. They were helping the Finn in his campaign to have his mentor, and only friend, freed from jail.
Carlos the Jackal was in his sixties now. And jail was no place for the grandfather of modern terrorism. The Finn’s gut knotted and twisted. It made his blood boil every time he thought about the situation. The world had the impression the oppressive, capitalist governments had won. But he would show them. The price they had to pay would be too much. Eventually.
Two years ago, he’d almost had them. A series of bombings at tourist spots round Paris had left the authorities running scared. There had been talk of giving the Finn what he wanted. But the Americans had stepped in, and put some steel in the French government’s resolve.
For two years he’d taken assignments in out-of-the-way places. Building up his reserves. Letting his profile in the media die down. Now he was back. And this time it would be different.
This time it was personal. He wanted to hurt the French people. And he’d do it by cutting a swathe through their best and brightest. The media would be full of innocent young people cut to ribbons. The populace would be screaming for it to stop. And the Finn would get his way.
He looked back at the laptop. The screen showed Rue Victor Cousin from end to end. It was a pity the one malfunctioning camera would have shown him the van, tucked in beside the Sorbonne. But he’d be able to see the effects when it detonated well enough. He smiled thinly in anticipation.
Lunch hour arrived, and the number of students increased. This was the moment he needed, when they congregated outside the buildings. Perhaps they would discuss something they’d heard in lectures, or organize a lunch spot with friends. But the swollen side walks would return to normal in less than ten minutes.
The four Oeuvre Francaise members sat around the room, leaning forward expectantly. The Finn nodded, and a look of excitement built in their faces. He entered a short number into the first cell phone. It sent a signal to a tower less than a kilometer away, and back to Victor Cousin.
A car at either end of the street lifted a meter into the air, the action clearly showing on the laptop. Then vaporized petrol ignited, generating a massive fireball from the pavement to the middle of the thoroughfare. A moment later the sound of twin explosions rumbled past the flat at Rue Soufflot.
The four men grabbed each other and beamed their delight. They punched the air with their fists. The Finn had warned them about making any noise. They turned back to the screen.
The people on the streets, mostly students, had turned in shock at the blasts. Now they began to run from the dissipating fireball at either end of the street. The people of Paris knew the drill. Where there was one blast, there would be others.
Once the two waves of people began to converge on the Sorbonne, the Finn punched a code into the second cell phone.
Two more cars detonated. A little closer to the Sorbonne this time, and on the other side of the street. He sighed a long breath of relief. Someone could have driven one of the cars away during the morning, but his luck had held. The second blast would drive the multitudes forward again, toward the side of the street that housed the Sorbonne. The Finn was herding them like sheep.
The area round the Sorbonne began to fill up. New arrivals pushed others up the steps. They pressed into the building and gathered round stone columns. The noise of sirens cut through the muffled sounds of shouting. More people came, and the street outside the building was at last full to capacity.
Perfect. The Finn grinned at his confederates in triumph. Everything was in place.
He input the short code that would set off the van. The vehicle sat in the middle of the sprawling throng.
Nothing happened.
He input the code again, and peered at the feed from the corner of Cujas and Victor Cousin. That would be the one to show the blast most clearly.
Still nothing. Panic began to rise inside the Finn. Detonators didn’t malfunction. The cellphone code was proven technology. Something else had happened.
The cellphone beeped, then its small screen lit up. He looked more closely. It was sending. Sending what? He beckoned the technician over.
“What is it doing?” he queried, but the technician looked as puzzled as he was. The Finn already knew the answer. The van had been found. The authorities were looking for the bombers.
He threw the cellphone on the floor, and stamped on it. The second rule of working behind enemy lines was to act quickly, and decisively. More sirens sounded, but these were closer. They squealed to a stop in front of the tailor shop below. More sirens were closing in from the street behind them.
“Evacuate!” he shouted, activating a program on the laptop. In minutes its memory would be indecipherable gibberish. Its contents were already copied onto a minuscule memory stick resting inside a seam of his shirt. The third rule was simple. Be prepared, at all times, for everything.
The five of them hit the bottom of the stairs and stopped. The weapons specialist handed a Luger to one of the others. The two men went out the back door, left and right, into a broad access lane. A police car skidded to a stop on the street forty meters away. The two men dropped to their knees and opened fire, taking a straight-armed, double-handed stance.
The cop in the passenger seat slumped sideways as the windscreen shattered. The driver reversed away from the access lane, squealing the tires. The men raced after him. They burst onto the street as two more police cars arrived.
They looked around uncertainly. They heard the command to lower their weapons, but ignored it. The weapons specialist opened up on the nearest car, and both men were mown down where they stood.
The Finn turned at the bottom of the stairs, and looked up at his two remaining confederates. He shot the man on his right twice in the chest. He turned sideways as the body fell past him. That left the technician. The man stood open-mouthed, unable to believe what was happening.
The Finn shot him in the throat, and again in the back as he fell. Donkeys were too slow, and too ungainly. He couldn’t risk them giving Interpol information about him.
He bounded back up the stairs. The front door to the tailor shop gave way with a splintering crash. The Finn rushed past the flat, then climbed through two more landings. When he ran out of stairs he pulled down the ladder that led to the storage space in the roof. He climbed it quickly. Footsteps were pounding up the stairs as he pulled the ladder up behind him.
He considered what he might gain by putting a few bullets through the ceiling below his feet as someone tried to lower the ladder. Then decided it wasn’t worth the risk.
Ahead of him a gable window led out onto the roof. He hurried through it and onto a long-run iron roof. He was lucky. This part of the roof had been replaced. The old, treacherous tiles had been removed.
Moving quietly on hands and knees, he made his way onto the next roof. He heard the dull beat of a helicopter from some distance away. That told him he needed to hurry. There was a three-meter drop onto the following roof, but his luck continued. He landed cleanly, and the roof held.
He saw the top of a fire escape further along. The back yard contained a family station wagon. He dropped onto the fire escape, and from there made his way through an open window.
The station wagon eased out into the street ten minutes later. A woman sat, trembling, in the front passenger seat. A nine-year old girl lay along the back seat. Her hands and feet had been bound, her mouth taped shut. The Finn had demonstrated how easily he could draw his pistol, turn, and put a bullet in her.
He now wore some of the husband’s clothes. They were a little tight on him, but it made the couple more of a matching pair. He picked up speed, and turned onto Soufflot. He saw the first roadblock ahead of him. It wasn’t yet complete. He accelerated, and drew the Pist 80.
He pointed it at the woman. One of the figures ahead of the roadblock shouted something to those behind it. The Finn could see half a dozen handguns trained on him, and at least one rifle. He figured they’d respect the hostage situation. Still, it was a tense moment.
He hit one of the police cars as he squeezed through the gap. The collision ripped a long scar along the side of the wagon. He picked up speed again. He needed to ditch the vehicle fast. The helicopter was probably over the tailor shop already.
He stuck to the one-way signs and circled the Pantheon. Then disappeared into the shadows of arches outside the Universite de Paris. He dragged the girl out of the back seat and dumped her against the brickwork. He waved the woman over to the driver’s seat.
“Conduisez! Dix minutes. Revenir. La fille sera ici,” he shouted, drawing on his limited French.
Several bystanders had noted the exchange, but hurried by. Good. The woman hesitated, and he pointed his pistol at the girl. The woman went white, and stepped on the accelerator. She disappeared into the sparse traffic. She could only hope the girl would still be there when she returned, as ordered, in ten minutes.
The Finn knew the ruse would only buy him so much time.
Leaving the girl where she was, he hurried into the university buildings. The complex seemed to be one huge library. He started to relax. This sort of situation was rife with possibilities. A quick scan revealed a basement, and cleaning staff.
He might live through this after all.
CHAPTER 6
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The Finn had to make the phone call. He knew that. But he didn’t want to make it right this minute.
That was the trouble. There was never going to be a ‘now’ that suited him. The person he was hoping might save him, would also exact a very high price.
Something scraped against the wall of the shed, and he drew his pistol reflexively. Cows. The countryside was crawling with them. The damn things got on his nerves.
One of the members of Oeuvre Francaise had picked him up and brought him here. It was the same farm where the woman’s father had hidden when he was hunted as a Nazi collaborator. The years after the war had been tough, and the children of the collaborators remembered.
So far the right-wing group had accepted the story the four donkeys had been killed by police. The four men were now heroic martyrs to the cause. It had helped to see the footage of Fedor and the other one advancing on police cars, guns blazing, before they were mown down.
Oeuvre Francaise had rushed to claim responsibility for the bombings. The police recordings, and the four blasts in Rue Victor Cousin, had catapulted the extremist group into international prominence. It had brought them a lot of airtime. They’d broadcast their message of revolution, and an iron fist, to the world. They were expecting hundreds of new members to sign up, and money to flood in.
So far the authorities hadn’t come forward and mentioned the last bomb. The one in the van. Or told the French people the bombings had the Finn’s handiwork written all over them. He was sure the authorities knew, and he didn’t like the silence. He needed to get out of the country, and he needed to get out fast!
He pressed the cell phone key and sent the message. It was a sobering moment.
It was also just the first step. The Count kept an impenetrable wall around himself. No one could get through, not even those carrying out operations for him. The Finn would be sent to some random place, then blindfolded and bundled into the back of a car. Then he’d meet one of the Count’s lieutenants. Never the Count himself.
He’d done some work for the Count over the last two years. Taken a shipment of diamonds through some rough territory. And carried out hits on two targets he’d been given, no questions asked. That should stand in his favor. If anyone could get him out of the country, it was this man.
His escape from the library had worked well enough. Descending quickly to the basement of the University library, he’d wandered through the many passages asking for the cleaning supervisor. It hadn’t been hard to act like a geek for the next part.
The supervisor had agreed to let him interview the cleaning staff for a research paper entitled, “Happiness and its dependence on social standing”. It was easy to get agreement from the supervisor when it was someone else being interviewed.
The Finn had apologized for not having any details on him at the moment. This was more of a ‘courtesy call’, and he would phone the man later in the week to start the project in earnest.
Then he’d engaged him in conversation. Yes, there was a night supervisor, two actually. They split the period when the library was closed between them, and the first one came on duty at 5 pm.
The Finn thanked the man. He wandered back through the passages, finishing his careful inspection of the layout. Then he secluded himself in a storeroom. He whiled away the time until it was after 5 pm. The night supervisor had been easily overcome. Then it had been a simple matter of waiting in the supervisor’s room.
Someone from Oeuvre Francaise had arrived about 2 am. The two of them had made their way out of the library on foot, and then through a storm water drain. Eventually they found themselves clear of the police cordon. Now he was hiding out in a farming area near Paris.
A return message arrived an hour later. Shortly after that a driver from Oeuvre Francaise picked him up, and took him to the destination he’d been given..
The Count’s men were late, but a black Mercedes eventually eased to a stop on the country lane beside him. He was searched, disarmed, bound and had his mouth taped shut. Then he was blindfolded. More of the tape. He wondered how much of his eyebrows would be left when it came off. He found out twenty minutes later. A heavy hand rested on each shoulder as he sat in an empty room. Then the door opened.
The Count’s lieutenant didn’t seem pleased to see him.
“Every time you blow something up,” he snarled, “governments tighten border security and put more money into communications surveillance. It makes it fucking difficult for the rest of us.”
The Finn nodded. He was here to beg. He didn’t have the right to a contrary point of view.
“So what do you want this time?” said the older man, standing in front of him. He was dressed in a dark suit. Though a bit rough round the edges, he could have been any businessman. He laughed out loud when he heard the Finn’s request.
“You’ve got nil chance, arsehole. You’re too hot to handle right now. The Count has to keep his hands clean, you know that.
“Save your breath,” he said, as the Finn went to speak. “The Count doesn’t need your money. And you were well paid for what you did in the past. He doesn’t owe you anything.”
The Finn subsided.
The man took out a cell phone and left the room. He was gone a long time. When he came back he didn’t speak for a long time either. The Finn grew restless. He began to wonder what the Count might have to gain by turning him in.
“I argued for cutting your throat and dumping the body,” said the lieutenant. He seemed to be making an effort to calm himself. “But it seems the Count has a job for you.”
The Finn breathed a sigh of relief.
“Though if I were you, I wouldn’t take it,” said the older man. He stuck his face in front of the Finn’s. There was something wrong with his smile. The Finn knew he wasn’t going to like the rest of the deal at all.
“We’ll get you out of the country, but your target’s in Singapore.”
The Finn drew a deep breath. Singapore was essentially a police state. It was going to be hard getting in and out.
“And he’s an ex-SAS soldier,” said the lieutenant. He was enjoying himself.
The Finn stiffened. He was sure he could take the target, but the SAS looked after its own. There would be a squad on his tail as soon as they figured out what had happened.
“New Zealand SAS,” continued the lieutenant. “Small place, maybe they won’t have the resources to hunt you down.”
The Finn doubted that. But more importantly, he needed somewhere to hide out after the job was done.
“Then you disappear into Borneo,” said the lieutenant, is if anticipating the question.
“You’ll be in charge of a security detail overseeing one of the Count’s operations. Spetsnaz and mercs. Back of beyond. A two year assignment.”
He moved back from the Finn.
“What do you say, bomber boy?”
The Finn didn’t say anything. Where the hell was Borneo. Malaysia? Indonesia?
“Make up your mind,” said the lieutenant roughly. “I’m sure there are other ways of solving the problem.”
“I’ll take it,” said the Finn. The lieutenant was telling him he was the problem. And he most certainly didn’t want to be ‘solved’.
“I’ll tell the Count,” said the lieutenant. He motioned his two heavies toward the prisoner.
“Take him out the back. Lock him down.”
He turned back to the Finn.
“I’ll let your little pals in Oeuvre Francaise know you’re leaving the country.”
He stalked out of the room.
Ihaka Cole headed north on the Nicholl Highway until he could turn left onto Duneath. It was late in the evening. The highway lighting flickered into life, and he switched the BMW’s lights on.
