WHAT GOES AROUND, COMES AROUND
By Bob French
Jamie
Kiernan sat on the bench in Gloucester
Park. The cold
November wind moaned in the tall branches of the bare chestnut trees as the
grey sky rushed above them threatening rain. He looked at Pete, his
older brother, with sorrow in his eyes.
“Pete,
I have to tell you something,” and with tears in his eyes, he explained how for
several years, Father O’Donnahugh, the family priest had abused
him. How he had told their mother, who had made the mistake of
confronting her priest and threatened him that she would tell all. A
week later she was found in the local cinema with her head caved
in. The weapon; an old iron poker, was found on the floor behind her
seat. No one saw the incident, but Jamie knew it was O’Donnahugh.
Three
months after the death of his wife, Jamie’s father took his sons away from the
tranquil village outside Belfast and moved to
Essex in England
in the hope of forgetting the past and finding a bright future. Two
months after they moved, Jamie took his life. He couldn’t live with
the shame and guilt of the past and blamed himself for his mother’s
death.
A
year later his father started to drink and was dead within six
months. Peter having lost everything, joined the Army and with
hatred in his heart made a name for himself in the Parachute
Regiment. He completed fifteen years before he had had enough and
decided to come out, turning his back on his friends and his religion and
wandered for a year working at any job he could find. It was whilst
working in a bookshop selling religious artefacts in Chelsea that he found peace of mind in the
Qur’an and after a while approached the Imam of the local Mosque for advice on
becoming a Muslim. A year and a half later, Peter took the name of
Abdullah.
His
love of the stories and the dedication to his studies did not go
un-unnoticed. Within the shadows of the mosque was Sherieff, a
radical Muslim whose job was to identify potential Jihad
warriors. Abdullah was ripe for the picking. After one
Friday prayers, Sherieff made a point of bumping into him on the steps of the
mosque and got talking. He invited him back to his place for tea and
it was here that with careful questioning got Abdullah to tell him of his past,
his skills as a soldier and knowledge of modern infantry weapons, particularly
as a sniper.
That
was nearly two years ago. Since then, Abdullah had carried out
several petty crimes, probably to test his nerve and belief in The
Cause. But now, he was involved in something
different. Now he was doing something important. He and
Sherieff had gone over the plans and the routine hundreds of times until he
knew every aspect of the job except the target and the arrival details. It
was just after lunch one Wednesday when Sherieff’s mobile went
off. He read the text, then looked across at Abdullah.
“Brother,
it is time. You know what you must do. May Allah go with you.”
Abdullah had already gone through the safe house making sure that nothing would
link him to the group. They both washed, then prayed and at two in
the afternoon, Abdullah, according to the plan, drove out of London and headed towards
Stansted. Once there, he skirted the northeast of the airport then
drove down Green Street to within three hundred yards of the perimeter fence of
the airport and parked up where he knew that in the morning many dog lovers
would park and walk their dogs. Then he made his way down to emergency gate number
five just in front of a small wood.
He
had visited this place about three weeks before and cut off the old padlock,
replacing it with a new one, then dug a vertical shaft, just inside the woods,
wide enough to deposit his weapon. He then covered it with the
camouflaged net he had made to hide himself in the tall grass. Once
the job was done, he would return the weapon to the shaft and cover it up using
the netting, making it virtually invisible to spot.
Just
after ten-fifteen that night he collected his weapon from the shaft, removed
the waterproof wrapping and gained access to the airport perimeter using the
key to the padlock, then crawled into position. His skill as an
intruder and sniper made him a past master at being invisible. He
looked down at the VIP Terminal, then flicked his sniper-scope to night-sights
and pressed the distance finder; seven hundred and sixty-three meters, checked
his sights and his camouflage netting, then relaxed. It was going to
be a long night.
Abdulla
smiled to himself. Unbeknown to Sherieff, that afternoon Abdullah
had driven via Harlow and booked himself into the Glamorgan Guest House, just
inside Harlow Old Town, shaved off his beard, dyed his hair dark brown so as to
resemble his passport photograph, then walked into the high street, dropped his
old clothes into a dustbin and purchased an open return ticket to Turkey from
Thomas Cooke, paying cash. His plan, once inside Turkey would be to make his way slowly down to
Antakya, in the south and catch a ferry over to Cyprus and vanish.
He
watched as the dawn crept slowly up over the horizon. The sun slowly
came up behind him, ensuring that he had the light behind him for the shot, and
he waited. Then he felt his phone vibrate and flipped the cover to
read the screed.
‘Alitalia
737. ETA 1145.’ Another six hours he thought and remained
motionless. To remain completely still and alert in ice-cold and
damp condition was part of the snipers training and he was good at it.
At
11.30 he saw the Alitalia 737 approach the runway and land. It
taxied right to the end of the runway before turning back on itself and slowly
make its way down to the VIP Terminal. His phone vibrated again.
He
stared at the screen and blinked. He could not believe his
eyes. He quickly read the message again, then put his phone in his
top pocket. They had given him a Sako TRG22, one of the best sniper
rifles in the world; accurate to within three centimetres over one thousand
eight hundred meters.
Abdullah
slowly lifted the barrel, allowing the fork legs to gently slide down and give
him maximum stability, then pulled the butt into his shoulder. A flick of his
thumb turned the sniper scope on and instantly the Boeing 737 came into
view. He followed it until came to rest opposite the red carpet that
had lead to the VIP Terminal. There was a heavy security presence
everywhere. The first to come into view was a pretty young
air-hostess as she pushed the main cabin door back, then the steps came up
against the side of the fuselage and the security advance guards rushed up into
the aircraft. Abdullah started to control his breathing and waited.
Time
seemed to drag by, then suddenly out of the darkened doorway appeared the first
of the party. Immediately behind him was his Holiness, the
Pope. He stood awhile and waived. On his shoulder stood
a man dressed in a Cardinal’s frock coat with a distinctive black mole on his
forehead. Abdullah froze. My God, he thought to himself, the
Pope. He fought to control his emotions as the Pope moved forward to
take a nervous step down the stairway. Abdullah followed him on his
first step, concentrating on the predicted movement of his
target. He took his last deep breath steadied his sights, then squeezed
the trigger. He watched as the high velocity .308 round founds its
target. The head jerked back violently and exploded as the round
passed through the left eye; blood sprayed everywhere and the body slumped back
knocking over one of the security guards. Instant panic erupted at
both ends of the steps of the aircraft. Security men rushed forward,
screams went up and chaos reigned.
As
calmly as possible, Abdullah stood up, picked up the netting and the cartridge
case, racked the grass to remove any evidence that he had been there, retraced
his steps, unlocked the padlock, then locked it again and threw the key into
the long grass. He then placed the rifle in the vertical shaft,
covered it up and casually walked back to his car. Only an expertly
trained tracker would ever know he had been there.
No
one took any notice of him as he boarded the X30 airport bus, having parked his
car in a side street in Barnston, or when he approached the Turkish Airlines
desk and held out his passport.
“Good
afternoon Mr Kiernan, have you your ticket?” The young hostess studied it,
then looked up.
“We
will be boarding in forty minutes time, please place your luggage on the
scales.”
As
he sat in the departure lounge he felt his phone vibrate and glanced down at
the screen.
‘You
were not at the pick-up point. Did you get the target? Where
are you?’
Peter
smiled to himself. “Sorry Pal, this is now my part of the
plan.” Then dialled 999 and quietly informed the operator where the
militant Islamic group who attempted to assassinate the Pope could be
found. When he finished, he stood and made his way to the
toilet. In a cubicle, he extracted the Simcard, broke it in half and
flushed it away, then dropped the phone and its battery in waste bins outside
several of the shops in the Duty-Free area.
The
final call went out over the public address system and Peter Kiernan picked up
his hold-all and made his way to the boarding gate. The flight took
five hours and by that evening he was sitting in a bar in Turkey drinking
a beer and looking up at the television behind the bar. The Turkish
newsman was waving his hands around excitedly. Peter ordered
another beer and asked the bartender what the fuss was all
about. The greasy unshaven barman stared at the screen for a while,
then turned.
“He
say that someone try to kill the Pope in England today, but
missed. They kill a Cardinal….” He stumbled on the name.
“It’s
alright, my friend. His name was O’Donnahugh.” The barman smiled then
nodded his head.
“Then
the terrorist were arrested by British Police from…. How do you call it, a
tip-off.” The barman beamed at his ability to translate.
Peter
nodded his thanks to him. Inwardly he felt pleased with
himself. He had made it his business to know where O’Donnahugh was
and when he found out a few years back that he had been promoted to a position
in Rome, he
never for one minute thought that this opportunity would present itself. Then
raised the bottle to the screen and quietly said, “That’s for you, Jamie.”
Copyright
Bob French
Without
the cats to catch the mice
