Going Rogue, page 8
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
So he was glad when the cells were unlocked and he could get out for lunch and away from the landing where the stench lingered.
Lunch was typically uninspiring, as normal. But he needed fuel so he ate, unenthusiastically. After finishing his meal Tom excused himself and headed over towards the phones, passing the pool players and a handful of inmates crowded around the TV set mounted on the wall and set to a twenty-four-hour news channel. Tom looked at the rolling text at the bottom of the screen that read, ‘Dozens killed and injured in bomb attack at Islamic bookshop in South London.’ The reporter was explaining that an explosive device had been detonated right outside the door and that a coded message had been left with the bookshop that had meant the occupants of the shop had evacuated right into the bomb blast. The streets had been busy with worshippers making their way to the nearby mosque for Friday prayers, putting more victims right by the device. Jesus, thought Tom. This was bad. He needed to speak to Buster. He was shaken by the fact that he was still stuck in prison taking his time on an infiltration, and now scores more innocents were dead. It made him feel sick.
He went to an empty phone, keyed in his PIN number and dialled.
‘Yes.’
‘Buster, it’s me. I’ve just seen the news.’
‘It’s a bad one, Borat. The street was crowded as fuck. CTC are saying at least thirty dead and some of the injuries are fucking horrible. The pavement outside the shop was absolutely packed. The device is of a similar type to the last one although it seems it was detonated by mobile phone. Fort Halstead are on it now. You okay, by the way?’
‘I’m fine. I’ve made contact with our man and had some tea together. I’ve given him enough of the legend to think about. He’s been dangling a few carrots that I’ve not bitten at yet. I didn’t want to seem over-keen.’ Tom was fast realising, though, that he needed to up the ante.
‘Well, sooner you can get something, the better, my son. Jane is looking at all options. Special Branch in Belfast are trying to put pressure on the PIRA contacts they have to find out how much Semtex is out there, but no news yet. We have absolutely sweet fuck-all.’ Buster’s usual jovial banter had taken a knock with the seriousness of the situation.
‘I’m going to see him in a minute. He wants to make me a tea and if he’s clocked this on the news then it will be a natural conversation. One thing: can you get some research on a prison officer here, SO Jacobs? There is something about him I don’t like. The way he looked at Smith; there’s something there, so get everything you can. The way Smith speaks he simply has to have someone friendly in here.’
‘Consider it done, mate.’
‘Also, I need to get my exit plan sorted, sharpish. I will need everything ready to get me out of here. I assume the lawyers have it all ready to go?’
‘All ready to rock and roll as soon as you think you have what you need from chummy inside. Unfortunately, your EAW has been fucked up by the sloppy Slovenians. Apparently, the wrong location where you allegedly stabbed that poor chap and the wrong date is on the form and at the drop of a hat the warrant will be withdrawn. We will be ready with a crack legal team to get you out and on the street again whenever you say the word.’
‘That’s great. Maybe let’s get the wheels in motion; I think I will need to be out of here soon. I have to go; I don’t know how long I have till bang up.’
‘Be careful, Borat.’
‘Always careful, Buster.’
Tom hung up and made his way back up the stairs to Lenny Smith’s cell. Tom shouted, ‘Knock-knock,’ as he walked through the door. He found Smith sat on his bed looking at the small TV set that sat on a low table, which was showing the news, the same stern-faced reporter talking about the South London explosion.
‘Dave. Good to see you mate. I’ll put the kettle on. Seen the news?’ His breath was quick and his eyes were shining with excitement.
‘Tea would be good. Yeah, I’ve seen it.’
‘This will show the fuckers. It’ll fuck them right up. Nowhere to fucking hide.’ His voice was thick with a mix of glee and suffused aggression.
‘It all looks a bit familiar, Lenny. Your firm?’ Tom chose his words carefully. He didn’t want to ask too many questions but wanted to put pressure on Smith to volunteer more.
‘’Course it fucking is. It’s all part of the plan. The bombmaker is a fucking genius; he should be, he’s a demolitions expert. He used to be one of the best at defusing the fucking things in Afghanistan. They thought I was a lone wolf, now they know that we are legion. The white man is fighting back against the Muslim and the Jew, and the Aryan Defence Front has more soldiers ready to do this and take our country back. I was just the first. There will be many more and my only regret is I won’t live to see it all come off.’ He was ranting now, spit flying from his lips and an almost maniacal grin on his face with his eyes flashing.
‘You could be part of this, Dave. You are just the type of soldier our army needs. You’re a fighter; you’ve seen combat and what those filthy rag-heads are like.’ Smith turned his wild eyes on Tom, a look of admiration on his face.
‘I can’t do much in here and, if I get extradited, I’ll be in jail fighting the bastards off unless my lawyer pulls something out of the bag. But Jesus, Lenny, this is a hell of an operation. Your firm really have struck a massive blow.’
‘Well if you do get out, Dave, I’ll give you a contact. I can vouch for you; I saw at first-hand what you did to those three wankers who tried to kill me. You took them all out without getting out of breath.’ Smith was still breathing deeply, his face flushed with excitement. He gestured back at the TV. ‘Look at that, Dave. Just look at the fuckers, running scared and wailing to their fucking perverted God.’
His eyes were shining with excitement at the horrific scene on the news programme. The footage had obviously been shot on a mobile phone, the sharp, jerking images showing bloody clothing and the remnants of bandages and dressings left by the paramedics strewn on the floor, while all the shop windows in view were smashed. Several pixelated bodies lay prone on the floor, the news programme obviously feeling that the footage was just too graphic to show unedited. Police had the crowd pushed well back behind cordon tape and the grief and horror on the faces was obvious. Several of the onlookers were sobbing and wailing at the horror scene.
‘Just look at it, Dave. This is what we need to happen. You must have lost friends in Afghanistan to their cowardly bombs. This is payback; payback for everything they have done to white men.’ Smith was ranting, spittle flying from his lips.
Tom was an unemotional man and he rarely felt anything that could be described as empathy, but even he felt horror at the scene on the television, the grief of those standing there. He steeled himself for what David Vidmar, committed racist, would be expected to say at that point.
‘Yes, they killed several of my friends with their bombs. I guess they are all finding out if the virgins are waiting for them right now. This will make the government sit up and watch.’ He delivered the words with what he hoped was a sadistic glee, but they tasted sour in his mouth.
Smith began to laugh uproariously at the TV, cackling with mirth at the terrible scene on the small screen. ‘ADF, ADF, ADF, ADF,’ he chanted almost to himself, his eyes fixated on the events. ‘That’s two strikes delivered to the enemy’s heart, Dave. Many more to come.’ Smith turned to look at Tom, fanaticism emanating from his every pore.
‘Hey, Lenny,’ Tom said, eager to move the conversation on. ‘Time for tea and biscuits and a change of channel before any screws come in. I want a chance of getting out of here, and a screw finding me watching this with you won’t help.’
Smith picked up the remote and flicked the TV off, busying himself with the kettle.
‘So, Dave. What’s your chance of getting out of here?’ Smith said as he handed Tom a plastic mug of weak tea.
‘I’m not sure. My lawyer thinks that there may be an error with the warrant application process in Slovenia. He’s waiting for the material he’s requested to come to him. If it looks wrong, he will apply to the court to have it overturned. This is shit tea by the way,’ Tom said screwing his face up at the weak, milky brew.
Smith ignored the jibe and carried on. ‘Well, fingers crossed, my friend. We need people like you on the outside to take the fight to the enemy.’
Tom snorted at this. ‘I had many problems in Slovenia when I was there and also when I spent some time in Bosnia. Much of the war in the Balkans was caused by the Bosnian Muslims and many, many good people were killed by them. They don’t belong in our countries.’
‘Muslims are polluting Europe, Dave. But many countries are fighting back. The skinheads in Ukraine are real patriots fighting the Jews, the blacks, the Muslims. Some of our organisation have links with the Ukrainian skinheads. This movement doesn’t just stop in England. It’s throughout Europe and America, where the white, Aryan race is going to fight back and wipe these fuckers out.’
Tom thought the time had come for a question to test the water.
‘How big is your organisation in the UK?’
‘Not big, Dave, but we are growing and the people we have are powerful. I’m talking about senior military officers, prison officers and some lawyers. We have ordnance and weaponry and we have the expertise. We have financial backing from patriotic businessmen. This is our time. We just need more committed soldiers like you to continue taking the fight to the enemy. We want battle-hardened men who’ve seen combat; not the usual thick fuckers from the EDF and NF. We want disciplined warriors.’ Smith was ranting once more, speaking without pause, his eyes alight with the passion of his cause. Tom felt uncomfortable in his presence but knew he needed more information.
‘So, what’s next?’ Tom asked.
‘More of the same. More strikes and one or two of the high-up Mullahs have targets painted on them once we are ready to take it forward. Every time we strike, we raise the stakes and get closer to the race war that this country needs so badly. Your average Joe needs to know just how far down the road of Islamification we are. Then they’ll fight back and we can get some real power and start the process of repatriation.’
‘Do you really think this can happen?’
‘It will happen, Dave. Just you watch.’
Tom decided that he had to make David Vidmar’s position abundantly clear. He was a soldier, a hired gun and he hated Muslims. He closed in tight to Smith and said in a hoarse whisper, ‘Look Lenny, if you can get me into this then I will be part of it. I just don’t want to get overheard in here speaking like this in case it causes me problems getting out.’
A shrill tone rang in the corridors outside accompanied by shouts and screams and general sounds of a disturbance.
‘Sounds like it’s kicking off again, I wonder if it’s the same bloke overdoing the spice,’ said Tom.
There were further shouts outside the cell. ‘Bang up, bang up, everyone back to their own cells.’
‘I best be going then,’ Tom said as he stood. ‘Thanks for the tea, I’ll see you later.’
‘Think about it, Dave. If you get out, I can give you a name and someone to call. I’ll vouch for you. The ADF needs people like you.’
‘Well let’s see if I get out, first.’
Tom left the cell and descended the steel stairs towards his own landing. There was a group of prison officers on the ground floor with an inmate heavily restrained by the pool table with blood splattered and smeared on the polished floor all around them. Tom groaned and went to his cell where Charlie lay on his bed reading a weighty book. He moved the book to one side. ‘Been socialising with our favourite far-right terrorist, dear boy?’
‘Just a cup of tea.’
‘I’d take care, if I were you. I know you took care of the Muslim Brotherhood rather impressively, but I hear that you have not made yourself popular in some quarters on the spur.’
Tom just shrugged.
‘Seriously, David. It only takes a sharpened toothbrush into your ribs and you are gone. There are one or two people on the spur more than capable of doing it. So look out; I won’t always be there to keep an eye.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Tom said as he lay on his bed and picked up his own book.
He pondered what he had just learnt from Smith. It sounded like there could be an opportunity; an introduction to someone on the outside could be the break they needed. He had to get to a phone, but he had to remain natural and engineer a release. There was an unknown quantity of Semtex out there with a skilled bombmaker and, if Smith was to be believed, committed soldiers ready to commit further atrocities.
Tom felt suddenly vulnerable and for the first time was pleased to hear the cell door bang shut. It was time to get out of HMP Belmarsh.
13
The Major walked into the exclusive private members club just off Pall Mall. He was a little nervous; despite his rank and commission he was not used to sumptuous surroundings like this, as he was basically a working-class boy from a council estate who had done well for himself.
He was dressed in a pin-striped suit and he wore his regimental tie, his tidy moustache well-trimmed and his short grey hair neatly cut. It had been made clear by Oleg Zelenko that the club had a strict dress code and so he had been careful to dress appropriately. He had initially met Zelenko through a mutual acquaintance who had indicated that Mr Zelenko wanted to meet him to discuss a “business opportunity”. It hadn’t taken long to learn that they held similar world views. It became apparent that Zelenko had inexhaustible resources and the Major had the skills and contacts that the Ukrainian needed.
The Major didn’t need much convincing. Zelenko was an intimidating and powerful character and a little bit of internet research had made it abundantly clear the level of resources that the Ukrainian had available to him. He wasn’t just rich, he was a billionaire with yachts, private jets and property around the globe.
He was met at the door of the splendid Georgian building by the concierge, who checked his name against a list. ‘Of course, Major. Mr Zelenko is expecting you and is currently waiting in the smoking room. Please follow me, sir.’ His accent was cultured but with an undertone of the East End of London beneath the surface. The Major noted the maroon and blue Brigade of Guards tie around the man’s neck. As they walked the Major said, ‘I see the tie. Which regiment?’
‘Grenadiers, Sir. Twenty-two years. And yourself?’
‘RLC. Ordnance disposal, mainly.’
‘Well, sir, you have my fullest respect.’
‘And you mine.’
They walked into a wood-panelled, deeply carpeted room that housed leather wing-backed chairs around low coffee tables. A white jacketed steward hovered discreetly in the background, ready to spring into action if beckoned by any of the chairs’ occupants. All were hidden behind broadsheet newspapers and no one was talking. A large ornate grandfather clock ticked loudly in the corner of the room. The whole feeling was ornate, formal and, the Major had to admit, a little stuffy.
The concierge led the Major to the furthest reach of the room and to a large bay window where a well-built middle-aged male in a beautifully tailored suit sat reading a newspaper. The sun streaming through the window glinted as it struck the gold watch that adorned his wrist. His hair was steel-grey and closely shorn, and his jaw was covered by neatly trimmed and styled designer stubble. Despite his impeccable and tasteful attire, the man radiated an enormous, intimidating presence.
‘Mr Zelenko, Major McEwan,’ the concierge spoke deferentially.
The man looked up from his armchair and fixed McEwan with piecing, cobalt blue eyes that shone but held no warmth. ‘Ah, Major. Delighted to see you. Please sit. Peter, would you please bring some coffee for us both.’ He stood and extended a shovel-like hand for McEwan to shake. It was rough and calloused, and McEwan’s eyes were drawn to the web of the hand where three small dots were tattooed in faded black ink. He was no expert in Russian and Ukrainian Mafia, but he was fairly confident that tattoos on fingers indicated that a prison sentence had been served.
‘Of course, sir. Right away.’ The concierge silently retreated. He was followed by the other six occupants of the room who, as if by some invisible command, all left the room, leaving the two men alone in the ornate space apart from a silently scowling bull of a man dressed in a well-tailored suit. This other man had a shaven scalp with heavy, roughly hewn features. He looked dangerous and intimidating and remained sitting in a chair by the door staring intently at McEwan.
‘My dear Major. It is so good to meet you again. I thought it important that we talk over progress. Please ignore my associate, Igor, who will remain while we talk. He has the ability to go deaf if I order him to do so.’ His accent was heavy, but his command of English was excellent.
Zelenko appraised McEwan for a few moments, the clock splitting the room’s silence with its relentless ticking.
‘My fellow members are aware that when I come into the smoking room and am joined by a non-member that their absence would be greatly appreciated. Such thoughtful chaps. Or it’s possibly that they know that their tab at the members bar will always be added to my account.’ He smiled showing teeth that were very white and even: clearly the result of some highly expensive orthodontic work.
‘Well, Major. I thought it appropriate that we take a little time to meet and ascertain where we currently are. As I am sure you are aware, our friends who have been assisting with the finances for our project will be looking for a situation in which they can anticipate a return on their investment.’
‘Mr Zelenko, as I am sure you have been monitoring, the two engagements with the enemy to date have been extremely successful.’
‘Yes, I saw. Such a shame that some innocents got caught up, but casualties of war are unavoidable sometimes.’ Zelenko shook his head in a poor attempt at sympathy.
