Going Rogue, page 7
part #2 of Tom Novak Series
‘Well you’ve got the spur talking, Old Bean,’ Charlie said, appraising Tom coolly.
‘As in…?’ Tom asked.
‘Basically, everyone is wondering who you are. Taking out three nasty pieces of work as easily as taking out the rubbish. You weren’t even out of breath, I heard.’
‘They were going to kill Smith. I don’t like bullies. I just stopped them doing it and dodged out of the way of their attempts to take out their frustrations on me,’ Tom said in a matter-of-fact tone.
‘Well, opinion is split between those who felt that you should have let Mad Max finish Smith off and those that are very pleased to be rid of the Brotherhood. They were very unpleasant after all.’
‘Anything I need be concerned about?’ Tom asked.
‘I doubt it, old son. I think they are of the opinion that you’re best left alone. You know how people exaggerate: some who weren’t even there are telling the story and comparing you to some Kung-Fu expert.’ Charlie snorted in amusement.
Tom returned Charlie’s smile. ‘I really only want to be left alone. I’m not out to prove anything but I’m not about to let people beat the crap out of me.’
‘With you all the way, old son. Anyway, you’ve got company.’ Charlie nodded in the direction of the dining hall where Lenny Smith was approaching from. ‘I will leave you to it; I’m going back to the pad to read in peace. Too bloody noisy in here.’ Charlie stood and left, ignoring Smith who was now standing in front of Tom.
‘I wanted to thank you for what you did,’ Lenny Smith said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. His cheeks were hollow and he looked tired and wan.
‘Sit down. You look tired,’ Tom said, indicating the chair vacated by Charlie.
‘They’d have torn me limb from limb. I know I’m dying but I didn’t want to give those bastards the satisfaction of killing me.’
‘Forget about it. I don’t like bullies. Particularly Muslim bullies.’
Smith didn’t say anything, but Tom detected a shift in the man’s face as he processed Tom’s words.
‘I’m Lenny. What’s your name?’ Smith asked.
‘David. I already knew your name. You’re sort of famous in here: well, infamous anyway.’
‘Yeah, I know. A lot of people don’t like what I did. That’s why I constantly have a screw watching over me. Most of the serious ragheads are on the HSU thankfully. There are people who would like to see me ripped apart. They just don’t understand.’ He looked over at Ashraf who was leaning against a pillar watching them disinterestedly.
Tom said nothing but fixed Smith with a stare that was curious rather than threatening.
‘It’s just that someone told me why you’re in here,’ said Smith. ‘I don’t have many friends, but there are people who may be sympathetic about what I did, and word gets around. I got a whisper.’
‘Some people should mind their own business,’ Tom said, quietly.
‘Don’t worry, David. Your secret is safe with me. I didn’t get it from no prisoner, if you get my drift.’
‘I’m not sure I do.’ Tom was not going to bite or press for more information at this point.
‘Bang up, come on people, back to your cells!’ The yell from Ashraf called time on the conversation.
‘Anyway, look after yourself, Lenny,’ Tom said as he stood and they went their separate ways. He walked off to his cell thinking. Reading between the lines he surmised there were only two ways that Smith could have known the nature of the reason for “David Vidmar’s” incarceration. Either from an external source or from a member of staff at the prison. Regardless, the first touch had gone well.
Tom smiled to himself. Game on.
*
Tom was stretched out on his bed reading Charlie’s copy of Orwell’s 1984. He was engrossed enough in the classic novel to shun the prospect of association down by the pool tables. He wasn’t going to rush to get closer to Lenny Smith; he couldn’t appear too keen. The snippet of conversation that they had had the previous day, whilst brief, had revealed that Smith had access to information on inmates and the reasons for their incarceration. Tom was now thankful for the careful construction of a fully backstopped legend. The extra mile they’d gone in putting Tom through arrest and court as Vidmar had seemed over the top when it was planned but he was thankful they had. If Smith was able to get information as to why “David” was on remand, then what else did he know, and, more importantly, who was feeding him the information? He needed to speak to the team to let them know of this development.
He jumped to his feet and walked out of the cell towards the phones on the ground floor. As he walked down the stairs, he saw Smith ascending towards him. He was walking painfully and seemed to be in a good deal of discomfort.
‘I was just coming to see you, Dave,’ Smith said, wincing in pain and massaging his abdomen.
‘Oh?’ Tom muttered, noncommittally.
‘I was going to see if you wanted a cuppa. I’ve all the stuff in my pad and I owe you a drink. Tea is the best I can come up with, but I do have chocolate biscuits,’ he smiled at this, showing a mouth full of uneven and discoloured teeth.
Tom shrugged. ‘I’m just off to the phone. I’ll drop in to your pad after that, if you like?’ he said, affecting an air of scant interest.
‘Great, Dave. It’s a date. I don’t get to speak to many folks in here. I’m in Pad 22 on the top landing.’
‘It’s not a date, Smith. It’s a cup of tea and a biscuit. I don’t want anyone getting ideas.’
Smith laughed, grimacing again as he did so.
Tom made his way to the phone bank in the association area. All the handsets were occupied and he had to wait for five minutes for one to become free, the inmate slamming the handset down and storming off muttering, “Stupid fucking bitch!” as he passed Tom.
Tom picked up the handset from the blue steel case, entered his PIN number and dialled the number.
‘If it’s not my favourite inmate. How you doing, jailbird? Dodging the sexual predators or are you treating it as a bonus?’
‘Hey Buster. How’s it going on the out?’ Tom replied.
‘All good with me. Had a big, fuck-off fillet steak for me tea last night; how was your gruel?’
‘Fuck off. Some of us are having to work for a living. Listen, I’ve made contact with our friend. I’m sure you saw the altercation I had with Mad Max and his friends?’
‘Did I ever, best thing I’ve seen for ages. The look on the big fucker’s face when his hand broke into forty pieces. Nearly pissed myself,’ Buster laughed.
‘Okay, well, I had a very quick chat with our friend after that, and he let something slip. He seemed to know exactly why I am in jail and suggested that he had a source. Either he’s getting contact direct from someone outside, or he has someone among the staff who is keeping him in the loop. Can you guys get weaving looking at all the staff, to see who may have similar sympathies or suggestible contacts? Maybe look at any ex-army staff members: can’t rule out someone he served with working here. Also have a look around for any mobile phones that could be being used in the nick. I know it’s likely to be a good few, but it has to be worth a look, especially if we cross-reference with his old contacts. Anything from the Prison Intelligence Unit?’
‘Nope. No visitors, no letters, and only a couple of phone calls to his sister. The calls have been intercepted and were just him apologising and wanting to make amends for their years of not speaking. She told him to fuck off, by the way. I guess he and his bosses know that everything he is doing will be monitored by SO15.’ Tom could hear the tapping of computer keys as Buster spoke.
‘Right,’ said Tom. ‘I gotta run. I’m about to meet him for a cuppa. Seems he wants to say thanks for me saving his worthless backside. I’ll try and call later.’
‘Take care, Borat.’
‘Always careful, Buster.’
Tom hung up, walked quickly away from the phones and up the two flights of metal stairs onto the second-floor landing. Finding cell 22, he tapped on the half-open door.
‘Come in,’ shouted Smith. Tom pushed the door open and walked into the cell. It was a similar size to the one he and Charlie were sharing but it contained only one bed, a desk and chair and the familiar toilet and sink combination.
‘You get a cell to yourself?’ Tom asked.
‘Yeah, I don’t think they reckon someone on remand for something as serious as me should share in case I pollute their minds. Or they kill me, one or the other. Tea?’ He smiled, ruefully.
‘Sure, why not. Milk no sugar.’
‘Want some burn?’ Smith offered a packet of Golden Virginia.
‘I’m good,’ Tom replied shaking his head.
‘I thought everyone from Eastern Europe smoked.’
‘Not everyone. I never got into the habit.’
‘Mind if I do?’
‘It’s your pad.’
Smith smiled and began to expertly roll himself a thin cigarette which he then lit with a lighter, inhaling deeply and with huge pleasure.
‘Most cons smoke, Dave. Everyone smokes tobacco and half the jail smokes that fucking awful spice bollocks. It’s monging half the place out. Stinks as well.’
‘Well I don’t do any of it. Only thing I’d like is a nice whisky now and again.’ Tom smiled; at that moment a nice shot of a good Highland single malt would have been just what the doctor ordered.
The kettle boiled and soon Tom was handed a plastic cup of steaming tea.
‘Thanks,’ he said as he took the cup.
‘Hobnob?’ Smith threw a packet of biscuits onto the bed and Tom helped himself to one.
‘So, David. When are you going back to Slovenia?’ Smith asked.
‘Not yet, I hope. My solicitor thinks there may be a chance. He thinks the paperwork has been fucked up in Slovenia. How did you know I’m from Slovenia, Lenny?’
‘Just a guess.’
‘Bullshit, a guess,’ Tom said fixing Smith with his calm gaze. ‘I bet you couldn’t even tell me where Slovenia is.’
Smith let out a snort of amusement. ‘Somewhere east, mate. Who fucking cares? I just heard that’s where you’re heading back to.’
‘Well, not if I can help it. I don’t fancy it right now; I may not be too popular. How does someone I’ve never seen talking to another soul know that I’m Slovenian?’
‘Dave, I may look like a broken and dying man and it may look like I have no friends. There are, however, people who share the views that I hold. Way I hear it is that you may share similar views.’ Smith spoke confidently, staring directly at Tom.
‘Why do you think that?’ Tom was determined not to reveal too much, too soon.
‘The way you helped me out against those Muslim fuckers. Some of the things you said and the fact that the reason that you are in jail is for nearly killing one of the bastards back in Slovenia.’
‘All I did was defend myself, nothing else. Look, Lenny, I hate Muslims, we can agree on that. They are causing problems in my home country and maybe I would rather not be anywhere near any of the fuckers. I just want to keep myself to myself. I helped you as I wasn’t going to let them kill you like that. If my lawyer does his job then I am getting out of here soon and I’m not going to fuck that up by getting into a fight against the Muslim fuckers locked up in here with me. If they leave me alone, I will leave them alone.’ Tom didn’t want to appear too radical or too eager to involve himself in any action at that stage. He needed to gain Smith’s trust fully first.
‘You’re a warrior, Dave. A proper warrior. I hear you’re ex-army like me. You’ve seen action?’
‘I served in the Slovenian army—Special Operations—and was in Afghanistan, yeah.’
‘Then you know, Dave. You know what the Muslims are like. You know what they are capable of. We have to fight back, Dave, and you’re a warrior.’
There was a pause in the conversation as both men appraised each other for a few seconds before a shout of, ‘Bang up! Back to your cells!’ broke the silence.
‘Well, Lenny. I’m a warrior who will be spending the next twenty years in jail if I get extradited to Slovenia. The courts are corrupt and only seem to want to protect the Muslims and Jews. So if I go back, I’m screwed. Right now, I’m keeping my head down. Thanks for the tea.’ Tom drained his cup and wiped the biscuit crumbs from his mouth.
As he stood, an officer he’d not seen before entered the room. He was tall and lean, middle-aged with tattooed forearms and a bristling silver moustache. The two stripes on his epaulettes identified him as a supervising officer. The ID badge around his neck read “SO Jacobs”.
‘Right, sunshine. Back to your pad,’ he barked.
‘I’m going,’ Tom said noticing the look and almost imperceptible nod that was exchanged between Smith and the prison officer.
‘Same time tomorrow, Dave?’ Smith asked.
‘Maybe. Especially if you still have Hobnobs.’ Tom left the cell and went down the staircase to his landing. He was pleased: contact had been made and it seemed that Lenny Smith wanted to talk. He really needed to speak to Buster, though. There was something in the look between SO Jacobs and Lenny Smith that he didn’t like one little bit. It wasn’t the normal exchange between prisoner and screw. It was a look of respect.
11
Nobody noticed Rocky. No one noticed him because he was careful, and he was anonymous. He could blend in anywhere because he had experience of covert operations in enemy territory. He was the newest recruit to the ADF, yet to prove himself in an operation. That was about to change.
The South London street was busy with traffic and throngs of pedestrians, many heading for Friday prayers at the nearby mosque.
Unlike Lenny Smith, Rocky was not going to get caught. He was wearing a jacket buttoned up to the neck and a baseball cap was crammed down low on his head. Nobody noticed the carrier bag that he had deposited amongst a pile of rubbish that was waiting to be collected from outside the Islamic bookshop and Da’wah centre.
The passers-by on the busy, rush hour street could not possibly know that the thick plastic supermarket carrier bag contained a compact device that contained half a kilo of Semtex surrounded by five hundred galvanised nails. They couldn’t have been aware that the mobile phone attached to the device with electrical wires led to an aluminium L2A2 detonator embedded into the Semtex. They also wouldn’t be aware that the initiating charge would be activated once a call was made to the mobile phone that was attached with duct-tape; in turn this would send an electrical charge into the detonator that would cause a chain reaction and cause the Semtex to explode. He was excited to be carrying such a sophisticated piece of ordnance and was proud to be the first team member to covertly deploy a device and exfiltrate safely out of enemy territory.
They would find out then, when the galvanised nails exploded in all directions, ripping and tearing into any unprotected flesh.
Rocky smiled to himself as he jumped onto the back of the bus heading back onto the main road in the direction of the South Circular Road. He was pleased with his infiltration and pleased that the ordnance had been covertly deployed just as the Major had ordered. He’d been quite clear that this mission was covert and sensitive, designed to cause as much fear and disruption as possible.
Rocky retrieved the mobile phone from his pocket and made a call with a pre-programmed number. The call was answered with a curt and strongly accented, ‘Salaam, Da’wah centre.’
Rocky spoke in an affected thick, Ulster brogue. ‘This is the Aryan Defence Force. A bomb has been deposited inside your premises and will be detonated in three minutes’ time. If you fail to evacuate your premises immediately the ADF will not be held responsible for the loss of life that will inevitably occur. This message is coded Alpha Delta Foxtrot eighteen.’ The code word had been the Major’s idea. Alpha Delta Foxtrot being the phonetic alphabet for the initials of the Aryan Defence Force. The number eighteen they had nicked from the, now defunct, Combat 18 far right group. The numbers related to the first and eighth letters of the alphabet, which, of course stood for Adolf Hitler. Rocky thought this was a nice touch.
Rocky hung up before the person at the other end had a chance to answer. He cleared the call history and looked at the Casio G-Shock watch on his wrist, counting down exactly one minute. At the same time he dialled a different number from memory and paused his finger over the call button; waiting, as he’d been ordered to do, for the full minute to pass. He imagined with glee the bustling shop emptying onto the already busy streets, directly into the kill zone. He wished he could have been there with an SA80 ready to unload a magazine into the crowd after the device had taken out a load of them. The Major had been adamant, however, that he was to be deployed again to take the fight to the enemy at another location. They were all motivated and willing to risk death or jail for the advancement of the cause, but this was not the time.
The seconds ticked by, seemingly in slow motion, until a full minute had elapsed. Rocky pressed the call button. There was no ring: there wouldn’t be, there wasn’t time. The electrical charge would move at about one percent of the speed of light from the phone to the device, initiating the explosion almost instantaneously. A distant, dull boom was audible.
‘I’m sorry, the person you are calling is not available…’ Rocky hung up, smiling. Mission accomplished.
12
Tom slept particularly badly that night. The spur was ridiculously noisy as one of the inmates had been overdoing the spice. He’d apparently smoked three reefers one after the other and had gone completely crazy. Firstly, he’d fainted, white as a sheet. Then, when he came around, he began yelling and shouting interminably and had not stopped all night. The smell from the synthetic drug had been revolting and had permeated under the cell door, its sour pungency making Tom feel queasy. He also had to admit that playing the part of a racist didn’t sit with him well; it left a sour taste in his mouth. He was an immigrant himself and of mixed heritage, the product of a Serbian father and Romani mother. He knew what it felt like to be a minority and to be judged.
