All you need to know about books at www.booksmonthly.co.uk                                                     Issue 4 July 2008

HIT AND MISS

By RAFE McGREGOR

Jessica Smith switched on her hands-free.  “DS Smith.”

            “Jess – Harold – where are you?”

            Not a best beginning to the conversation.  “M6 northbound, just passed Junction 14.  I’m on my way back to Everton,” she added, in case Detective Chief Inspector Johnson had forgotten that he’d given her permission to do one a couple of hours ago. 

            “Good.  I want you to divert to Snow Leopard’s three-zero ASAP.  Do you need directions?”

            These codenames, where the heck did they get them from?  ‘Snow Leopard’ lived in Buxton, gateway to the Derbyshire Dales.  “No, I’m on my way.  Wha’ is it, sir?”

            “His security threat level’s gone up to amber.  New intel that he’s the target for another kidnapping.  No confirmation of timing or suspects.”

            Seven months ago al-Qaeda had planned the kidnap of a Moslem British soldier, but the West Midlands Special Branch got there first and made eight arrests.  “Is this connected to the Birmingham cell?”

            “We don’t know.  The target is different, obviously, but the plan exactly the same: kidnap him, and videotape his trial and execution.”

            Counter Terrorism Command had been on top of the situation since the 7/7 wake-up call – until the car bombs in the Haymarket and Glasgow airport.  But none of those had exploded and it’d been an unsuccessful year for al-Qaeda on both sides of the Atlantic.  That could all be about to change, however, because a recent MI5 investigation had identified at least eight al-Qaeda spies in police forces across the UK.  A plan to abduct and kill a former CTC agent was not in the least far-fetched.  Not any more.  “Okay, wha’ do I tell him?”

            “Exactly what I’ve told you.  You can mention Zulu Twenty-Two, but it’s not definite.  Derbyshire HQ and his local nick have been informed, and patrols will be routed to his three-zero on a regular basis – neighbourhood and armed response.  You’ll have to speak to him every day and visit once a week, starting tonight.”

            Zulu Twenty-Two was the codename for the Abu Hafs al-Masri Brigade and the problem with that particular group was that no one knew whether it genuinely existed.  Either it was al-Qaeda’s most covert branch, or an invention, part of the wider campaign to instil fear into the public.  “I’ll be there in abou’ an hour,” said Jessica.

            “Step on it.  We’ve not been able to reach him by phone, and the locals have already knocked on his door without success.  Find him, tell him, and let me know when you’re done.”

            “Wilco, sir.”

            He hung up and she swore softly. 

She’d been dead pleased when Johnson let her leave the office early.  Now there was no way she’d get to her mom’s before ten.  No wonder they couldn’t get hold of Jackson.  He and his wife would be out and about, like normal people on a Friday night.  She swore again.  The worst of it was, she’d been his handler for less than a month.  They’d neither met nor spoken.  The last time she’d seen him was two years ago, when he’d been unconscious, lying in a pool of his own blood in the Welsh mountains.  Jessica wasn’t exactly sure what had happened in between, except that he’d done some sketchy job for the CIA that’d spooned.  She didn’t know the details, only that he’d managed to piss off three intelligence agencies, almost ended the career of his previous handler, and been promoted to the top of the al-Qaeda hit list.   

            What did Johnson expect her to say?  Hi, I’m DS Jessica Smith, your new handler.  I’ve just stopped by to tell you that the AHMB plan to behead you on telly.  We’re not sure when, but don’t worry, I’ll be phoning you every day to check if you’re still alive.  I’ll know you’re not if you don’t answer, or when I see you on BBC News 24.  Enjoy your weekend.  She indicated to leave the motorway.  We don’t actually protect these people very well.  On top of which we give them naff codenames.  ‘Snow Leopard’, what was that all about? 

Jessica tried Jackson’s home number, and heard his wife’s American accent on the answering machine.  She identified herself and left a message for both of them to contact her ASAP.  She tried his mobile, then his wife’s; two more messages.  She rang her mom next and told her not to wait up.  At least she didn’t have to identify herself a fourth time.

Lynley steered the Tigra convertible into Birch Tree Grove.  “Hey, what’s the matter?”

            Jackson scratched the scar on his cheek idly, and there was a pause before he answered.  “Nothing.  I’m still surprised that Andy offered me the assistant manager’s job after all the days I’ve had off.  It couldn’t have come at a better time.  I don’t think I’ll be any good to mountain rescue for much longer; my hip hurts like hell and it’s bound to get worse.”

            “You don’t know that, but you need to be more careful.  And that means no more mountains, honey.”

            “You know what really surprises me?”  He turned to his wife, resting his hand on her long, firm thigh.

            “Tell me.”  She smiled.   

            “How much I’m looking forward to having a normal job, a regular life.  I joined the security forces when I was nineteen; I’ve never known anything else until we moved here.  Let’s hope there aren’t any more interruptions.”  He stroked her leg through the flimsy silk skirt. 

            “There won’t be.  The Brits and the Agency both know to leave you alone now, and the South Africans have too many of their own problems.  We’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

            Jackson wasn’t worried about interference from intelligence agencies, he was worried about retribution from terrorists – al-Qaeda especially.  It was possible that they didn’t know he’d been responsible for the death of four of their operatives, but he doubted it.  He was also worried about the reports of spies in the police service.  How safe were he and Lynley?  On top of which the law of the land prevented him carrying a firearm to defend them.  He had a Colt .45 in the house, but because of the need to keep it hidden, it would be of little practical use should an unexpected attack come.  Perhaps he was over-reacting now that he was so close to the life he wanted. 

Maybe Lynley was right.

            Jackson watched her from the corner of his eye.  Even after five years, he still found it difficult to believe she’d ever been his lover, let alone his wife.  Physically, it was an unlikely match, and he couldn’t remember where he’d found the courage to speak to her in the first place.  Him, a chunky five-nine with a welt of scar tissue down his face; her, a leggy five-eleven who looked as if she’d stepped from the pages of Vogue.  They’d both been in the Green Dragon Tavern in Boston, watching the New England Patriots.  Jackson had always been an American football fan, and he’d probably been so caught up in the game that he’d just started talking to the stranger next to him without thinking.  He’d not had time to be intimidated by her looks.  Sometimes, an instinctive reaction was best.  Thinking often meant hesitation – and hesitation could get you killed.

            Lynley braked and turned into the tiny cul-de-sac at the side of their house.  She avoided a white van parked under the ash tree, looped round in a neat semi-circle, and pulled up onto the short drive.  The headlights illuminated their garage door, and Jackson noticed the hammer he’d propped against the fence on their way out.  Lynley might be the most beautiful and intelligent woman he’d ever met, but she was also the most untidy.  He often wondered how she could be the same person who ran a successful chartered architect’s, and drafted extensive and meticulous plans with such ease.  She’d left the hammer on top of one of the dustbins and he’d set it down next to the garage so he’d remember to put it away on their return.  He looked at Lynley – she hadn’t noticed – and climbed from the car.  As soon as he closed the door, she initiated the roof and boot traction, which kicked in with a metallic whine.

Jackson picked up the hammer, realised his keys were in his left trouser pocket, and switched the tool to his right hand.  He fished out the keys, shifting to one side so he could see the lock.  He found the right key – inserted it – it wouldn’t turn.  Perhaps Lynley had forgotten to lock it when she’d left this morning.  It wouldn’t be the first time.  Jackson gave the door a push, and took a step back as it swung upwards.

Two men stood in the garage, blinking in the beam of bright light.   

Each carried a pistol.

            Jackson drew back the hammer and hit the closest man straight in the forehead. 

The sickly crunch of impact was drowned by the crack of a shot from the second. 

The first screamed and crumpled. 

Jackson heard a shout in Arabic from behind – he struck the second man, catching him in the temple.  A grunt – two shots from behind – the roar of the Tigra’s engine.  Jackson hit the second man twice more as he fell, and his face and skull disappeared in a sheet of blood.

He crouched and spun on his heels.

Lynley reversed the car: a third man with a gun dived out the way, rolled, jumped up, and ran to the white van.  

The tyres protested as Lynley slammed on the brakes. 

Jackson strode towards the van, heard the engine revving.  Lynley grated gears.  He raised his palm, and shouted, “Stay there!  Get down and stay where you are!”

The van driver saw Jackson unharmed – panicked – floored his accelerator, left his accomplice behind. 

Jackson hefted the hammer back.

The third man shouted – changed direction – sprinted in between the Tigra and the van.

Jackson hurled the hammer as hard as he could. 

It smashed the glass of the driver’s window: the van veered – bounced up onto the pavement – crashed into a lamppost. 

Jessica saw the Town Inn and knew she was close.  She found Birch Tree Grove and started looking for number thirty-nine.  The houses on the left were in the teens, those on the right the seventies; how was anyone supposed to find anything?  She’d have a major cob on by the time she eventually located the Jacksons.  It was all the cul-de-sacs that cacked up the numbers.  Jessica tried the third one and realised her mistake immediately.  She rolled down her window for a better look at the houses and heard a car backfire somewhere further up the road.  Actually, it was a bit loud for that. 

Another bang. 

Must be fireworks. 

The sound of a car wheelspinning, the screech of brakes, shouts, the tinkle of breaking glass.

            Jessica swung her Audi around, unclipped her seatbelt, and drew her Glock.  She selected second gear and drove up Birch Tree Grove with the pistol cradled in her lap.      

            Footsteps – someone running – a figure burst into view a few metres ahead – charged the car. 

            She braked – pointed the Glock over the steering wheel – shrieked at the top of her voice: “Armed police, freeze!”

            The man kept coming – raised his fist – cried: “Sharmoota!”

            Too late, Jessica saw the gun. 

Jackson was at the door in seconds.  He wrenched it open, grabbed the driver, threw him down.  He was on the man before he landed, punching his face – one, two, three, four, five times.  He kept hitting until there was no more movement.  

Jackson sprang up and opened the back of the van.  Inside there was a steel ring bolted to the floor, manacles, handcuffs, two boxes, a rucksack, and a Samsonite case.  He turned to the Tigra.  Lynley was nowhere to be seen.  Perfect.  “Can you hear me!”

            “Yeah, I’m here,” she shouted from the car. 

            Jackson glanced at the three bodies – one on the road and two in the garage – one twitching, the others still.  He made a split-second decision.  “Go inside, pick up the black briefcase, a pair of walking shoes, and the .45.  I’ll meet you out front.”

            She switched off the car, and dashed into their back garden.  

            Jackson saw neighbours peering from behind curtains. 

He picked up the Samsonite case, dropped it in the Tigra, and raced to the garage.  The first man was moaning, the second silent; neither were in any condition to fight.  Jackson saw a Taser stun gun and a 9mm pistol, a compact Zigana.  He retrieved the pistol, eased the hammer down, and slipped it into his jacket pocket.  Then he ran back to the car and drove to the front of the house.  Lynley arrived with the briefcase in one hand, and a carrier bag in the other. 

            She jumped in.  “Where are we going?”

            “The FBI office in London, I’ve got a present for them.”  He pulled off as she closed the door.  “I’ve still got friends there; they’ll keep us safe.”

Jessica saw the muzzle flash.

She returned fire through the windscreen; the noise was deafening. 

The suspect kept coming. 

She fired twice more: double-tap.

His head jerked back – he dropped the gun – collapsed.

She whipped up the handbrake, debussed, and rushed to him.  She saw he was bleeding, kicked his pistol into the gutter, and bent down to examine him. 

Dead. 

Her ears were still ringing and all she could hear was the thumping of her heart.  She felt sick.  She swallowed, took the Glock in both hands, and jogged up the road.  Jessica saw the white van first: streetlight askew, vehicle smashed. 

A blue Tigra hurtled towards her, two people inside.

She raised the Glock.  “Stop!  Armed police, stop!”  Somebody please stop. 

The car skidded, darted off to the left, mounted the pavement, and bolted past.

            Jessica turned, saw it fly round the corner, and ran back to her Audi.  She thought she heard more shots, but she couldn’t be sure because of the ringing. 

She reached the bend and saw the dead suspect, her car, and the Tigra stopped beyond. 

A man who could have been Jackson dropped a handgun onto the road, climbed into the Tigra, and sped off for town. 

Jessica leapt into the Audi, shut the door, put the Glock in the side panel, and gunned the engine.  She slammed the car into reverse, stamped on the accelerator, and slid round into a cul-de-sac.  The car swerved violently, but she corrected – braked – changed into first – and stamped on accelerator again.  The Audi pulled right – Jessica counter-steered, narrowly avoiding a parked car.  She swore, stopped the vehicle, and jumped out.  Just as she feared: Jackson had shot out both tyres on the driver’s side. 

            She never saw him again.

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