RED HAZE: A Werewolf Story for the 21st Century (20 page)

As always, she would save his genitals and eyes till last. Yes, she thought, the patient has to suffer, he has to be punished! Yes, he has to be! The whirring of the camera continued, her hands deftly pushing the suturing needle through the man’s bloodied flesh. Twice he had fainted from the pain, but each time she had brought him around, his pitiful groaning making her smile even more. Nearly finished, she thought. Then he could rest…just for a while! She paused and glanced behind her. Her mobile phone was ringing. “Just lie still darling, I won’t be long.” Lana Franke quickly removed her bloodied surgical gloves and mask, walked across to the phone and picked it up. Looking inquisitively at the facia, she discreetly smiled and pressed the receive button. “My love, how are you?”

“I am fine Lana! I do hope I am not interrupting anything important?”

She giggled, “no my love, I am just tending to a new patient.”

“Oh!”

“Yes, he’s being very uncooperative.”

“I see,” Von Kurst laughed delightedly.

“I am sure you will enjoy this new recording my love, so very sure.” Quickly closing her eyes, her tongue dancing across her lips, the attractive physician’s hand slid down her white surgical gown, stopping to caress the material over the hot, moist area at the top of her thighs. Her eyes closed as she spoke with her lover, her fingers gently stroking across the texture of the gown. Be careful not to climax, she thought, not yet!

“Lana, we meet at Camelot on Thursday. Be there!”

“Of course my love, of course.” The line closed. Casually, Doctor Lana Franke replaced her mobile phone, her gaze returning once more to her butchered captive. Thursday, she thought, the day after tomorrow, I haven’t much time! 

The patient began to struggle again as she walked back to the table, donned her mask and snapped on a clean pair of latex gloves, the look in her eyes returning to one of sadistic, demented violence. “That was a very important phone call my darling,” her hand ran across her pain-racked patient’s sweat soaked brow, her face lowering to his, “so I won’t be able to treat you for as long as I would have liked,” she gently whispered. “I’m afraid…I only have today!” He started to cry, trying piteously to beg for mercy once again under the pressure of the gag.  “Due to time restrictions my darling, I have now decided to begin your major surgery,” her gloved hand moved to the metallic bowl and grasped the larger scalpel, “therefore I intend to work on your genitals immediately!” The sadistic physician’s patient yelled again, his muffled squealing like a pig’s about to be castrated. He wrenched at the straps, his bloodied, tortured form wanting to flee the hell he was about to endure! “I am going to slowly remove just one of your testicles first.” Now the patient thrashed, twisting maniacally against the straps, shrieking like never before under the gag. The physician sighed, her masked face over his, the bright light still shining, glimmering as she prepared to commence her sadistic surgery. “I am afraid this will be an agonising operation my darling, but the restraints will hold you in place…as usual.” Slowly, Doctor Franke moved to the middle of the table, adjusted the operating light and gently grasped the patient’s scrotum. “Now then,” she whispered, her voice calm, concentrated, “which testicle do I remove first?” In a state of terrified panic the patient wailed incessantly as she lowered the larger scalpel between his legs. “Just for you Otto,” she whispered, “just for you!”

It was over four hours later and tensions were rising. Commander Hertschell, Colonel Mann, Jeanette Descard and Ash Piper were still in their meeting, with Nick Lucas and his team continuously monitoring their frenzied communication with numerous worldwide law enforcement and anti terror agencies. The time had passed slowly. In total, fifty devices had detonated, with deaths so far close to three and a half thousand. The number of maimed and seriously wounded still had to be confirmed.

Nick turned to his colleagues, pulled a crumpled tissue from his pocket and absent-mindedly began to rub at a smear on the right lens of his glasses.  “I just cannot believe this is happening, oh man, what a mess!”

“Any news on that ID yet Nick?”  The Canadian looked up, surprised to see Ash Piper standing at his side. He had not heard him enter the room.

“Nothing Ash, absolutely nothing.”

“What the hell is wrong with these people? Major terrorist atrocities are taking place all over Europe, and no one can come up with any decent intelligence regarding a criminal with a fucking birthmark under his right cheek. It’s bloody pathetic!”

“It’s frustrating for all of us Ash,” Jeanette Descard stood behind him, “we just have to be patient.”

“You’re right Jeanette. My apologies Nick, I wasn’t getting at you.”

“No problem Ash, no problem!”

“Here we go!” Jean-Paul’s voice suddenly brought a glimmer of hope, “the Russians are sending in three positive IDs, all from the FSB.”

“Well, at least that’s a start,” said Nick. “Okay everyone, let’s retrace once again and kick people’s backsides. We need that info and we need it now!” The communications staff at CEATA Headquarters moved into overdrive.

“I’ll take this info to the Commander and Colonel,” said Piper, briskly walking off with the printouts.

Slowly, Nick rose from his chair and walked over to Jeanette Descard, his concentration distracted by the look of intense concentration set on her pretty face.

“Doctor Descard, are you okay, you just seem very quiet?” Nick paused. Jeanette was staring into space, “something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”

“What…oh, no! I’m fine Nick, really, I’m fine.”

“No you’re not, c’mon Jeanette,” it was rare for Nick to call CEATA’s Chief Criminal Psychologist by her first name, but he was concerned, “we’ve worked together now for over a year. I know you, what’s up?”

“Nick, will you do me a very big favour?”

He grinned at her boyishly, knowing that he would.  Nick Lucas would do anything for Doctor Jeanette Descard, “sure, what do you want me to do?”

“Well,” Jeanette drew close and lowered her voice; her Anglo French accent as charming as ever, “I want you to run a thorough ID/medical record check on any, how shall I say…influential, white Europeans with a birthmark or blemish under their right jaw line.”

“What! Shit Jeanette, that could take days, we’ll just be chasing shadows, and for what reason?”

“It’s very simple my dear little computer genius, whoever is running this terrorist organisation has a great deal of financial backing.”

“Ah, I see, let me guess, you want me to run med checks on the…‘bigwigs’ of society? The elite, powerful and rich?”

Jeanette flicked her hair back and gently nodded her head, “correct Mister Lucas. As we are all well aware, this invasion of Iraq excuse for the atrocities is utter rubbish. With the evidence we’ve already gathered, I think we’ll find that someone in Europe is behind this, someone who is very, very rich!”

Nick shrugged his shoulders, “okay, I’ll get onto it! You’ll have to inform the Commander about this.”

“I know, I intend to do so right now!” Hurriedly, Jeanette vacated the Communications Room as Nick quickly moved back to his desk.

As he did so, Jean-Paul turned to him, his hands clutching several printed reports. “More ID checks are coming in Nick. We have five from Europol and two from the Israelis.”

“Good, take the info over to the Commander will you Jean-Paul, I’ve got work to do.”

“I am telling you, if you ask the vast majority of the British public about their thoughts on Islamics and Immigrants, they will say…” Jonathon White paused for just a few seconds, hopefully gaining maximum impact for his final comment “…throw them out of the country!”

There was uproar in the Studio as Trisha Spalding, the host for the British Broadcasting Company’s ‘Live Panorama Special Report’ appealed for calm from the enraged audience.

John Winstanley, representing Britain’s Labour Government could hardly be heard over the commotion as he spoke, his face angry, livid. “That sort of comment will get tensions rising and is completely unacceptable, now apologise to the Muslim community Jonathon!”

“Please, can we have calm ladies and gentlemen, calm please.” Trisha was doing her best to quell the feeling of unease in the studio.

“No, I most certainly will not! It’s about time the British people starting standing up for themselves and their rights.”

Trisha Spalding, her voice now showing distinct irritation, spoke abruptly, “Jonathon, those comments are both libellous and shameful. The BBC cannot, and will not accept slander like that on this programme.”

“This man is stirring up a hornet’s nest.” Jeanette Descard turned to Ash Piper. Both were sat alone, watching the debate in her office.

“Mmmm! The British National Party! They’ll certainly have a few words to say about immigration in Britain.!” Piper sighed.

“Well Ash, it’s starting, the retribution and hate. We’ve already viewed rioting in Paris and Brussels and now we have idiots like this inciting racial hatred across the UK.”

“Yes, Mister White must be very pleased with himself. It’s only a matter of time before the organised violence starts.” Piper’s sarcastic tone was unmistakable.

“Switch it off please Ash, I’ve seen enough of this rubbish!”

The day had dragged. Nick and his team were still busy. Further ID reports had been confirmed, checked and double-checked, but to no avail, with Commander Hertschell having also agreed to Doctor Descard’s plan for medical ID checks on influential members of the public across mainland Europe.

But the scenario was still, in many ways a waiting game for CEATA, with everyone knowing tensions were rising, and the clock…ticking.

The patient’s heart had stopped beating. The pain had been unbearable, but for Doctor Franke the surgery had been a minor success. The throes of the patient’s agony had been filmed extremely well. She was certain her lover would enjoy the footage, having worked on her captive slowly, painfully, the patient struggling wonderfully against the straps. She liked that, the will to live, the will to go on, even whilst undergoing such intense agony. She smiled. Oh, how she enjoyed testing her medical skills. Ever since the first days of cutting through human flesh during her time of study at Hanover Medical University, Lana Franke had become fascinated with all aspects of pain, especially the pain of her own patients.

Briskly the attractive physician pulled off her latex gloves and threw them in the blood soaked metallic bowl, both scalpels having been used to maximum effect, the clamps and other devices too. Now it was time to get rid of the body and freshen up. Lazily, she switched the video camera off and reached for her mobile phone.

“Maurice? Good…I have finished with the patient. Yes, I have to leave quickly for an important meeting. Just dispose of the body in the usual way and ask Ann to clean the theatre. Yes, your money will be paid into the usual account…yes…no problem!” She closed the line and began untying her gore stained surgical gown. Vile man she thought, glancing up at the large clock on the wall. Good, plenty of time for a relaxing shower before her flight to Innsbruck.

With a thrill of anticipation welling up inside her, making her heart beat that little faster, Lana smiled to herself. She had not set foot in Otto’s Castle for nearly six months. Camelot she thought, how wonderful it will be to stay there again. Pulling the bolt back across the metallic door of her operating theatre, Doctor Franke walked happily up the concrete steps and back into the Parisian house she adored so very much.

“Okay, we’ve got twenty three IDs from medical records across Europe, all with birthmarks either on or around their right jaw line. All these people are highly influential in one way or another.” Nick Lucas sat with his senior CEATA colleagues in Maurice Hertschell’s office.

“Well done Nick. Right, let’s get to work on any…” Jeanette Descard paused as she gazed around the room, everyone looking sombre and tired, “…suspects.” They studied and deliberated for over two hours, reviewing various files on businessmen and women, politicians, a football player and an actor, but all seemingly to no avail.

“As I said Doctor Descard,” apparently not amused, Nick threw a set of papers onto the coffee table in the middle of the Commander’s office, “shadows, we’re just chasing shadows. None of these people fit the criteria of a supporter of terrorism, this is just…well…plain stupid!”

“Relax everyone, relax.” Charles Mann, clearly frustrated, carefully thumbed through his own wad of papers. “Just tell me something Nick, how large a company are Von Kurst Electronics?”

“Hey…oh, sorry Colonel, yeah, they’re a huge microchip production company. They have offices and manufacturing sites across Europe, I think their head office is in Dusseldorf, yeah, it is! Why?”

“Oh, just casual interest. I see this chap named Oratz, Wilhelm Oratz, has a birthmark recorded on his medical records, but you can hardly see it on this photograph we have of him, it’s mostly covered by his shirt collar.”

“I had thought the same sir,” Piper interrupted, “but if memory serves me correct, this businessman has been on television, in newspapers, financial magazines, the list is endless!”

“Yeah, Ash is right sir! Von Kurst Electronics are well respected, believe me.” Nick leaned over the coffee table and picked up his set of, by now, well-ruffled papers. He flicked through them again and gazed down at the photograph of the German businessman. “Mmm, interesting…” he muttered.