Three Faces of West (2013) (27 page)

“FREEZE!!!!” He shouted. They did.

“Now, that’s better.” Said John in a slightly triumphant tone, “We’ll start again shall we? Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“We are not saying anything.” Said one of the other Russians defiantly,

“No we are not, so you fire if you want. You are getting nothing.” Was the reply from the injured one,

“You will tell me if you want that injury treated.” Replied John, his pistol still pointed at them, never lowered. The third one piped up again,

“So go ahead and shoot. You may kick weapon out of my hand, you would shoot three unarmed men, yes?”

John knew the three men were taunting him,

“No, not yet. What about that over there?” He said gesturing to the chest behind him he noticed when he first entered the room. The Russians absolutely knew what John was referring to,

“We do not know about chest. Why don’t you take a look?” Taunted the terrorists, clearly trying to call the bluff, he was having none of it,

“OK, you can either tell me the code, or…”

“Or…what?”

“Or, I kill your friend here who had the gun. Yeah? How about it? Fancy being a martyr today?”

The Russians were still not budging in their stance. They knew that the burden of proof was on John; if he could not open the chest, what could he prove?

“Go ahead,” Taunted the Russian, “You shoot me, you will not get the code.”

John tried something different, “And what about your friend? How is he going to get medical attention?”

“We shall cope.” Was the reply. It was now clear that even though it was John who held the gun, the terrorists were not giving up. Trying a different approach, he walked over to the chest and the small keypad on top of it. The chain and hook had come to rest nearby and in doing so had generated a lot of dust that was now resting across the floor and the chest itself. Looking he could see the key on the combination lock was also peppered with the light beige stuff. Taking a breath, he let loose a short sharp blow across the keys, generating a cough inducing cloud of dust in the air. John looked on as it cleared to see that three keys were noticeably less dusty that the others, as if they had been used before as a person’s hands had left their mark. The numbers were 5, 7 and 2,

“Well, what do we have here? Three numbers.” He said while pressing them; to be honest he had no idea of the combination at all, so he had to try as many as possible. Not easy as he was still keeping one eye on the three Russians and his Walther still trained on them.

Trying initially 5, 7 & 2, unsurprisingly the lock would not release, so he tried 7, 2 & 5. Again no joy, so he tried yet another combination, 7, 5 & 2. The lock clicked as soon as John hit the “2” button releasing it, luckily he hit the correct numbers so decided to take the chance of opening it. Subconsciously he thought perhaps there was more to this than meets the eye while pointing his gun at the three men. Almost without thinking, he flashed open the lid with lightening ferocity, almost expecting an explosion from some kind of booby trap. Thankfully it didn’t.

Glancing inside, the only thing he say were clocks, brass alarm clocks, crude and of the old fashioned type. The little bells and the stumpy legs showed their classic simplicity and crudeness, but it was the amount that stood out. There were tens of them, all packed into the box. It made John wonder,

“These look familiar.” He thought to himself. There was something about these clocks, one part of them that he had seen before, but for the life of him he could not think what,

“These clocks, what are they doing here?” He asked,

“We are watchmakers by trade.” Was the reply, John did not believe them for a second,

“I don’t think you are hiding clocks here just to repair them in this warehouse. Do you think I was born yesterday?”

The conversation was rudely interrupted by the injured terrorist. Blood from his head began pouring profusely from his forehead worse than before which cause increasing concern for the other two,

“You say you can help him?” Asked the third Russian

John saw it as a chance to gain info, “That depends, why is he injured?”

“He was tortured, by the American.”

“The American?” He asked, “This American, his mane wouldn’t be Bruenstein would it?”

All three Terrorists looked on in surprise, even the injured one in his agony,

“You know of Bruenstein? You work for him, yes?” The asked rather concerned. John put them into perspective,

“No I don’t. Tell me how did he do it?”

“You make sure he gets medical attention?” They asked, John reassured them,

“Tell me what I want to know and I’ll make sure he receives proper medical treatment.”

The Russians were out of options; with a gum pointing straight at them and one of their own becoming increasingly injured, they had to divulge as much as they dared,

“Bruenstein was here, yes. He was mad, he killed worker here by snapping of neck. He disposed of body somewhere. He orders us to keep clocks safe but has many more, now we tell you everything, now you help yes? Do it now.”

In the attic Jack had felt the shudder and thud of the crane as it swung wildly below. He himself was standing at the far opposite end at the winch system was in operation, but the vibration from the impact had cause part of the plaster covered wall to come away ever so slightly. It was the same wall that West had noticed whole he was going down the stairs earlier but this time the interior had come away. Arousing his suspicions he picked up the crowbar out of the mechanism and approached the plasterboard. There was clearly a gap on the near side just enough to slide a tool into, which was perfect for the crowbar. Inserting it meant that it didn’t take much leverage to break the crudely applied crusty material as a large chunk broke off. West continued on, each time taking away larger and larger chunks to reveal an obviously hollowed out wall interior. Continuing on, the building structure could be seen, the steel girders, a reinforced steel joint, bits of wiring and copper pipes as part of the plumbing…then he saw a decomposing head. The shock took him back slightly, but he regained his composure. Carefully hacking away the body was not badly decomposed; in fact it was still relatively fresh,

“So that’s why there’s plasterboard here, to cover up a body.” He thought

As he exposed more of the corpse clues to the man’s identity could be derived, early forties, male, dark brown hair, the head was also limp. The skin almost white from pallor and rigor mortis, but still fully clothed which appeared to be overalls not civilian clothing,

“Appears to have had his neck broken, that would explain why I saw his head first. Judging from his clothes he looks like a dock yard worker. I wonder why he’s here?” He asked himself.

“What is that smell?” Asked one of the Russians downstairs, indeed all of them could detect it. John who still had not helped the injured man tried to determine the soil and cheese like odour that was actually starting to become quite pungent,

“Smells like rotting flesh.” John said, “It’s coming from the attic.” He knew exactly where it was coming from; West had to be responsible for it. Walking over from his position slightly to determine the cause,

“Jack?!! What’s that smell?” He shouted. The three Russians looked surprised; John had just given away the existence of a second man upstairs,

“Jack!!” He continued, as his attention was firmly fixed on the ceiling. Still no reply from his partner as John took another breath to shout again, this time that little bit louder. But the large sharp sound of a crack rang out; splinters flew out of the part of some wooden crates at the side, causing John to duck.

“John, what was that? Who’s firing?” Asked West through the floor as John spun round to see the three Russians fleeing out of the door. Realising they were taking the opportunity to flee, the lead terrorist picked up his gun and fired straight at John. Only the rapid motion of his getaway prevented him from getting a clear shot, thus saving John’s life,

“STOP!!!” he shouted as he turned his weapon, but too late. Not even getting a chance to fire as they three were out of the door; the only thing he could hear were the blaring sound of sirens, getting louder and louder as they someone arrived on the scene,

“John, you alright?” Asked West through the attic floor,

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He reassured as he lowered his weapon, “But our Marxist friends have bolted.”

“Let them go.” Said Jack.

“Why?” Puzzled John.

He didn’t get an answer, at that moment the door burst open as swarms of police forced their way in like a tidal wave. Standing up, John saw the officers, there must have been about forty, including the ones outside, no doubt having the entire warehouse surrounded,

“I’m an intelligence officer.” Said John, not wanting to be arrested,

“I know you are.” Replied a voice, instantly John recognised the sound,

“Inspector Waterson!!” He said as he appeared in the doorway,

“I figured you would try and find Jack. You probably already knew you were being watched. Tracking you was the perfect way to lead me all the way to West while your friends in MI5 are off on a wild goose chase. I’m disappointed in you, you must have tracked suspects in your line of work and you couldn’t tell that you were a victim yourself? Oh dear…so, where is he? I presume he’s here.”

John complied, “He’s upstairs, you can get there round the side.”

“Thank you.” He said as he walked back outside, “Officer, remain with this man, he can come outside, but don’t let him go.”

Waterson made his way around to the fire escape leading upwards where Jack lay, opening the door to enter the attic as John freely walked outside with an accompanying officer,

“Look you just missed three Russian terrorists, they’re armed, one of them is injured quite badly.”

The officer replied in kind, “We heard some kind of gunshot as we approached.”

“Yes, they fired at me, but I’m unhurt. You see I’m an intelligence officer, it’s vital you find those men so I can interrogate them.”

The officer decided to challenge John on this point, “Do you have proof of this?”

“Yes I do. Inside that building there is a chest, it’s full of clocks. I’ve reason to believe that they may be used for something.”

“Like what?” Replied the officer sceptically,

John continued, “I can’t say too much but they are linked, as are the three men as terror suspects to something big.”

The officer was not totally convinced, but was open to hearing more. John could see this clearly,

“If you don’t believe me, talk to Inspector Waterson, he’ll confirm my story.”

The officer believed part of the tale, “Oh Inspector Waterson came to us from New Scotland Yard, said something about tracing two intelligence officers. So I guess you’re one of them?”

“Yes, I am. But I need to find those Russians.”

“Don’t worry, they couldn’t have got far. We’ll find them.”

Suddenly a large sharp bang rang out causing everyone to turn around to see what it was. It sounded like a gunshot, but there was no time for deliberation, a huge crashing sound of smashing glass, louder than the shot filled the air as huge shards of broken glass flew out causing everyone to flee he immediate area. Sharp jagged pieces fell to the floor like daggers, each on with the potential to maim or kill. Looking upwards the source was a large attic window, yet throughout this deadly shower fell a body, backwards, hitting the ground with a bone crunching thud a couple of seconds later.

Once the dust and glass had settled, John and the other police officers rushed over to the fallen person. Bending down each officer knew who it was even as they rushed over; to John the face was instantly recognisable,

“Inspector Waterson!!” He said, shockingly. Covered in shattered glass, his face and hands covered in blood from the cuts, nobody checked to see if he was alright, there was no point, he had a clear gunshot to the forehead. He was dead instantly. Looking upwards, all he saw was the shattered window frame but with no sign of Jack, he did not know what to think at all, he just stared upwards, not even noticing if there was any commotion from the police or not. Only a commotion from the side broke his trance as officers dragged the three Russians back to waiting vans. John immediately got up and confronted them,

“Wait, I…I need to talk to them, I’m in counter intelligence.” He asked the arresting officers as they bundled the suspects in the back of their vehicles,

“Sorry, you’ll have to ask someone else. These are coming back to the station; you’ll have to talk to them there.” Was the reply he received. He was too stunned to argue, at least they were caught and in custody,

“Can you smell smoke?” He then asked rather curiously. Turning round he heard even more commotion as the officers were busy moving away from the building. White smoke rapidly turning to black billowed out of the attic, the hint of orange flame flickered out of the upper floors. John knew what Jack had done,

“Oh no you don’t Jack! Not this, first you kill a police officer, then you try to destroy the evidence!! You’re not getting away again, I swear!!”

He couldn’t let Jack go again, not a second time. Knowing he was here to stay for the time being, wherever Jack went, no matter out of character, he had to follow. If he didn’t, he could be implicated in the death of Inspector Waterson. Knowing there really could be no sign of Jack at the moment, he committed himself to discovering the truth to all this.

Chapter 18:

The next morning, the banks of the River Colne, 09:15am. Standing over the burnt out remains of the now ruined warehouse, John stood looking over the sight. The black charred shell of the structure still stood tall in the abundance of white smoke which protruded from every orifice. From the distance he was observing from, John could see the site was still busy with activity, fire crews who had arrived earlier were now in the process of damping down in a prevention of another ignition. Looking over the sight in the clam still morning gave him the time to think things over quite definitively, the seagulls over head the only interruption to his train of thought,