Terror and Revenge

By Olin Thompson

Terror and Revenge makes two people who are married, happy, and have a family subject of a terrorist who has no regard for the people hurt in his attacks on a government who in his opinion is repressive. The character of this story is the son, grandson, and great grandson of a long line of law enforcement from the early days of the settlement of the west. He joins with a Scotland Yard detective to solve this almost impossible to solve case and come to some closure with a tragedy in his own life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Warren
• Release date: Aug 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9780945949251

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Terror and Revenge

The fifth and final volume in the series Dean and Egan, the Story of Two Families Written by Olin Thompson

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Copyright © 2006 by Olin Thompson

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ISBN: 978-0-945949-32-4

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Website: http://www.bookwarren.com

DEDICATION

I want to thank my wife for her patience and assistance in reading and editing my work. The most influential person who urged me to test my talents and start writing was my college English professor. My mother said my imagination was too vivid and kept trying to get me to think like an accountant. I just couldn’t do that. I had to write.

My father was an accountant and thought that as a writer I’d never make it. He’s probably right, but then, I love writing more than adding and subtracting. Who knows what a deferred accrual debit is anyhow?

FOREWORD

The British have a variety of words we do not use in the United States. Since most of this book takes place in Great Britain, there are words the characters use that could likely cause difficulty translating into American English.

I recommend either the internet as a source or purchasing the dictionary that’s available and have it close by. I did not italicize the words, didn’t want to interrupt your reading, or underline them, which makes another distraction.

However, for realism and the authenticity of this story, I did need to use British expressions and characterizations.

The following internet site is a wonderful resource:

http://www.peevish.co.uk/slang

There are also books available from Amazon, and, I suspect, E-bay which will give you a broad spectrum of English English as compared to American English.

Two countries divided only by a common language.

PROLOGUE

It's o-ver! – the Sein Finn and IRA were redefining the cease fire with Britain. The political line from the terrorists was that they declared: Peace. Or did they?

Detective Inspector Shrump – Anti-Terrorist Squad, Homicide Division – sat at his desk in the silvery stainless steel and aluminum tower of New Scotland Yard and scrubbed his eyes. He looked over the pile of papers in front of him and wondered about going to his home in the nearby suburb of Reading.

He sometimes lived there with his mother after his father died. He had also bought a small one bedroom walk-down lease from a family in Bayswater near the corner of Craven and Glouster. He stayed in that flat more often than not, particularly when he had worked so late he’d not get to the Reading home much before dawn.

His mother at least fed him; while in the Bayswater flat he stopped for a croissant at the corner stall on Bayswater and Edgeware. He did pause to think of the historical significance of such memorials as Marble Arch. He'd harumph and move along, though.

But this week the desk work was like a gathering storm and the time was not increasing at all. His Sergeant, as with most of the squad, had been reassigned since the proclamation of Cease Fire. Other squads worked on the normal terrorist threats; but, the big menace, the IRA, was calm at the moment.

Shrump squeezed his eyes shut, then open, then shut again and thought of many things, but not of cabbages and kings. Nor was he very philosophical about any of it. He was angry. He was determined. And he was tired.

The industrial designed clock at the far end of the smoky room number eleven showed near six o’clock. He figured he'd be out of the office around two. Yet, with all that time to work, he yawned. Wide.

He was a policeman, apolitical. But, practical, he mused, over the breaks in the Irish peace talks, the bombs at the docklands, Soho, and in Manchester's financial district. The words of peace and tranquility the IRA mouthed, and Sein Finn echoed, meant that previously dubious supporters, particularly Americans, were taken in by the chit-chat over rules of the peace process and Yanks offered money, lots of it, to the IRA to speak of their positions on honor, dignity, fairness, and rights.

What the money did was to give the Sein Finn and IRA’s bloody boys the time and finances to consolidate not just their positions, but their arms purchases from Iran, China, Pakistan, as well as fast rising Viet’s and Russia’s Mafia.

Shrump thought of IRA-speak. Peace. Somehow he was afraid of that word from the mouth of a terrorist.

The bloody terrorists, Shrump concluded. They had no idea what honor, dignity, fairness, and rights meant. He'd not advertise his vote next election, but he'd certainly consider the latest....

Chapter 1

T he policeman thought as he looked down, It ain’t the bleedin’ best of times, but it might be the worst of times for the lass. And the sodding day ain’t gonna be any better for me either.

At that early morning moment the London Metropolitan Police Constable knelt over the lump found in a dark narrow walk. He had known it was a body in the debris – which looked to be kicked over the form – not thrown or pushed. The scars on the grass indicated boots had done the job. The constable smelled the nose twisting aroma of urine and noted the wet stain on the wall beside the body.

Police Constable Donovan Vickers was a large and florid fellow over six feet three and twenty stone, muscular arms hidden in the police issued lime green windcheater jacket, and hands someone once described as hams. He pinched the key on his shoulder pinned police radio and called Central. He straightened the weather jacket he’d slipped into when the morning drizzle had started.

PC Sierra Whiskey one three eight. Vickers indicated his district, Southwest One, and he was Police Constable number thirty eight. I’ve a DB, he stood and looked about to be sure he got the information correct, and squeezed the microphone again, at walk behind Westminster Cathedral. Send a supervisor and we need this place taped off before the tourists tromple the scene. Over to you. The dispatcher responded and investigators began to arrive within moments.

*****

What you think? I’m Detective Inspector Shrump, he introduced himself, held out his hand and shook Vickers’ huge paw which engulfed the Detective Inspector’s. Shrump sucked a noisy sip from a heavy-paper cup – on the side was printed MADE FROM RECYLED MATERIALS – only half full of coffee.

Prostitute? Shrump wondered.

Looks like she was ‘tak’n advantage of’. Vickers finger waved quotation marks, paused, and ground out the hot coal of his cigarette. Sometime last night, he added, looked at the cup in Shrump’s hand, and clearly envied the hot drink.

Probably the drive-away truck will stop and you can get a cup of something hot from them, Shrump said and looked back over his shoulder toward where one might be.

The investigation team should have a cart, Vickers said and went back to work on the crime scene taking notes in a four by two and a half inch spiral roll over book.

Shrump took it all in as a twenty five year experienced policeman, ten as Detective Inspector – the last five in Anti-Terrorist Squad, Homicide. He’d been sent to this site, since there had been so few Terrorist acts after the IRA had proclaimed they’d abide by the Cease Fire. There were no new cases on his desk, just paper work. Stacks of it. He was glad to get out of the office and onto a case. Further, Shrump had been glad to get a break from the bombings, the dead and maimed and injured as well as the glass shards and twisted metals. He’d seen almost everything there was to see in a man’s, or woman’s, eyes, he thought. It had been said, behind his back but in his hearing, he could read minds.

He looked up and noted Detective Inspector Peterman from Metro Homicide walking along the curbside heading for the crime scene.

What you doing here? D.I. Peterman asked.

Donno. Got a call and Carlisle tagged me, Shrump said with a shrug.

You know this is ours, Peterman responded with a nasty tone to his voice.

Sorry old man, but Carlisle insisted. Must have cleared it with your people, Shrump added.

We’ll find out about this, Peterman said and disappeared with a huff and angry stomping toward the car from which he’d emerged.

Right, Detective Inspector Shrump said to Peterman’s back and made a note with a ball point pen in a fold-over note pad.

Vickers returned and advised D.I. Shrump, Didn’t happen between eight last night and midnight. It had to be after that. Why not, old man? Shrump asked, looked up at constable Vickers skeptically, and sipped again at the liquid near the bottom of the coffee cup.

I tour this place often. It’s bad in here sometimes. The kids used to use it as a hide away to shoot drugs. I cleaned it out and now I patrol there regular. Midnight I got called off for that business down on the Embankment and no one covered here. Sometime after midnight. Might’a been a prostitute, but I looked at her a little while ago and I never seen her around, Vickers said.

Shrump remembered the copper had envied the coffee, so the Detective Inspector offered the policeman some from the passing cart pushed by a female police officer.

Right, the detective paused and looked at Vickers with the question in his eyes. No response from the policeman so Shrump then made more notes on his fold-over pad. Your name again? Ah, yes, Vickers, sir, he said and sipped at the hot coffee. Ah, yes, good work Vickers. Write it up and send it off to Central and let them put it on their computer. ’Sir. Well now. Detective Inspector Shrump looked to the other man who knelt about ten feet from the body so not to disturb any clues. Shrump wadded his empty cup in a ball and looked around for a place to dispose of it. He tossed it to a Police Constable standing near a dustbin hanging from the black wrought iron fence.

The pathology people will have to say, said another investigator as he studied the grass and dirt near the victim. Say what? Shrump asked.

If this is what I think it is..., the man tapered off the statement, but talked so softly Shrump could hardly hear it. Should convict, the man said, stood, and with a self-satisfied grin looked at Shrump.

Shrump waited for more from the investigator, but nothing came. The Detective Inspector thought it would be in the report and went about checking for other clues.

The clues were bagged, the urine sample which had puddled in the rain collector was put in a tiny vial, the grass was scoured for prints, and the rest of the men walked bent over shoulder to shoulder with eyes to the ground for the slightest clue; the two detective investigators checked for any information from the cursory glance by the Pathologist.

Well, Doc, what you think? Shrump wondered.

She probably got it from a broken neck, the rotund man said, mouth pursed in a thoughtful expression while his glasses slid down on his bulbous nose. Got a lot of striations on the edge of her mouth. Looks like a scarf or some’at, he said as he used the vernacular for something which seemed out of place for an educated man like the Pathologist. Tied her up to gag her. Wrists were bruised and looks like hair pulled out. Looks to be semen on her stomach and down her leg. No penetration I’d wager. The Pathologist’s dark grey coat was baggy and his mismatched grey pants were wrinkled. D.I. Shrump didn’t wonder a bit that everyone called the man Bumbles.

Got in a hurry. Bumbles wiped his nose on the sleeve of his coat. Any more coffee? No. Not funny, Bumbles said and looked around like he hoped something would pop out of the ground.

Right, old man. Try to give the report to me straight away, won’t you? Soon as I can get at it, ole sod, Bumbles said, grey hair sprayed from under a driving cap; he groaned as he rose from the kneeling position and stretched.

Too old for this, he mumbled. He wiped his knees of grass and moisture, but the green stain remained.

I’d like the preliminary report if we could get it. Then the final later would be all right, Shrump said.

The Pathologist nodded to his assistants; they zipped the plastic bag closed and put the body on a scissor legged carrier. She disappeared into the back of the twenty year old elegant elderly black Jaguar wagon and Shrump figured the body would be delivered into the forensic maze.

*****

The flight was on the final approach to Heathrow and Will Egan, Granville William Egan IV, tried to peer through the fogged window to see what London might look like from the air. The earth appeared as a checker board of brilliant greens with roads and hedge rows to separate one emerald square from another. But London itself was covered by low clouds; and, a scuzzy rain fell, so the city was a grey blur.

Will sighed as the plane bumped down and rolled to a stop. Couldn’t see much of London, he said, but he’d seen enough to whet his appetite for more. Coming from a parched dry and windy brown grey rocky landscape he had been enchanted by the thought of the lush green home of his ancestors.

Sharon hugged his arm.

They checked through immigration, passed customs, and changed only a few travelers’ checks at the bank window in the main lobby of the airport for bus fare, tips, and what he called, Mickey Mouse stuff. The two hour Airbus ride to the Russell Square hotel was on a red double decked bus and the driver, helpful the whole time, chatted over a speaker system to advise passengers of the historic sights as they passed them.

Will listened to be sure he understood the accent. Sharon nudged him when he grimaced at the pronunciation of MONstrous, or extr’ORdinary.

They passed row on row of flats Will thought would be tiny apartments back home. The Egan’s place in Albuquerque was roomy and Will thought these flats couldn’t be very large. He shook his head thinking of the crowded conditions and how little privacy people must have.

It took more than a day to quench the jet lag, but the big city wouldn’t wait.

Harrods today, Sharon said with a smile the next morning. She was clearly brighter than the weather.

Shopping? Will asked, already knowing the answer. All day, she replied.

They dressed warmly for the early May weather. She wore a wool blend dark blue skirt and a lighter blue blouse. Her sweater was blue and white patterned. Will admired her choice and thought she had always had excellent taste in clothing, and he added with a smile, men.

He wondered what to put on; but ended wearing tan chino slacks, a Pendleton shirt, and oxblood loafers. He carried a mid-weight mid-thigh natural jacket, and wore a tan driver’s cap.

Got your umbrella? Comfortable shoes? Will asked as he picked up the camera bag.

Yep, got both of the umbrellas and the best shoes. Sharon patted the shoulder bag.

They walked the short distance to Euston Station: Tube, Train, and Bus Terminal the sign said. They checked their London Center Guide, caught a number 14 bus, and got off in front of Harrods. Sharon took four pictures, two with Will in the frame and he thought she could hardly believe she would be shopping in Harrods. The sun broke through and spiked a reflective shine on the wet roadway.

The ninth wonder of the world, Sharon said and looked up at the huge building in what he thought must be shopper’s awe. They wandered in and out of every department, but a small bag of chocolates was their only purchase; it went in the shoulder bag, as Sharon said, For later. Can’t eat here, Will murmured near noon. Why not? No place to sit. He looked in the cafeteria style room crowded with patrons. And the coffee bar downstairs was full too. We can wait, Sharon said.

Not me, Will said and patted his stomach. Want to go someplace? Saw a pub across the street, Will said and grinned impishly.

Sharon nodded her approval.

Will told her the croissant and coffee in the hotel earlier didn’t stick very well. Just then his stomach growled.

They found the easy way out to the street and while they waited for the WALK signal, Will’s policeman’s mind wandered to the traffic, and the parked car. Why would they allow parking like that on a busy street? he wondered.

Light’s changed, Sharon said and tugged lightly at his hand. The sign painted in the street urged them to LOOK -+ and Will obeyed, then crossed.

He looked one more time at the man walking from the car parked in the oddest place.

No other parked cars, he thought and decided it was a messenger, but the man was empty handed. Must be something in his jacket pocket.

Will recorded in his mind a long black leather or vinyl coat, brown hair, shuffling walk, dirty sneakers, and blue jeans. As the walker turned to look back Will noted the young man’s misshapen nose.

What? Sharon asked, and once more hugged his arm to her.

She seemed to be delighted to be here, shopping, and seeing the country where their family histories began.

Nothing, nothing at all, Will said and threw away the thoughts as they reached the curb and turned toward the pub.

Oh, look. Sharon stood staring at the window of the dress shop with plastic models draped in the most elegant of the day’s styles.

Will thought they were a bit too, Too what? Too radical? That’s it, I guess. He shook his head and stepped back and took out the camera. I’ve got to get a picture of this, he thought.

The focus was sharp, but he saw his own reflection in the glass and moved slightly further away and to the side. He felt the object behind him and looked back to see that it was a lamp standard which blocked his way. It looked old and had a green patina which gave it elegance.

He checked the light meter once again, the little red dot glared at him.

Will, come here. Sharon beckoned.

Hang on, babe, he muttered to the back of the camera. When he snapped the picture the whole world exploded. He was thrown against the metal light pole and the last vision he had was slow motion of the flash and billows of orange and red, the blast of heat and fire, the store windows blown inward and Sharon flying into the mannequin’s arms, his wife’s beautiful soft light brown hair on fire and her clothes smoking.

And almost at the same time he felt the clunk and solid blonk of the lamp pole against the back of his head and he went blank.

*****

Hey, mate, the voice said softly. You’ll be fine, just lay still. Please. The pressure of hands on his shoulders and the ache in his chest and legs made him do as the person asked. Will tried to see; but, even as his eyes opened, he saw nothing. He tried to put his hands up, but the person held him still. Will felt too weak to fight him.

Sharon, Will whispered, feeling a deep hurting flash in his chest which kept him from screaming. He smelled burned flesh, singed hair, and death.

Sir? The man’s nearly whispered voice came closer. What’s that? Sharon. My wife. In front of the store, Will said hoarsely. Oh, sir, she’s bein’ tak’n to Emergency at Royal Chelsea. What’s that? Will didn’t understand. The ringing in his ears wouldn’t stop and he tried once more to open his eyes. And though he knew they were open, everything remained black and a haze filled his mind like a television set at three in the morning when nothing is on, not even a test pattern.

Emergency, you know, at the Royal Chelsea Hospital. Just by Sloane Square. You’ll be going along shortly, mate. Will heard the we wa we wa we wa warnings of an emergency vehicle adding to the confused noise and what he thought must be the rush of people talking, yelling, and hurrying.

Is she all right? Will asked and the man behind the voice said nothing. Will lashed out with a clutching hand, trying to grasp what had happened, but he had nothing to cling to, nothing to grab, and no one there to help him. He had a sudden sinking feeling of doom, where the loss would be too much to bear. But he wanted to know just the same. He wiped his eyes and felt the warm sticky ooze he thought must have been blood from somewhere. A person held his hand now, murmured softly in his ears, but the sounds faded as he tried to hang on.

Will wanted to open his eyes again, but there was no light, then there was no sound, and then there was nothing.

*****

American – are we? the new voice asked, he thought, sweetly. Sweetly like his grandmother’s, and the person seemed busy at a task near him. He tried to follow her, but he couldn’t hear her movements they were so quiet. He wanted to reach out, but his arms seemed detached and he couldn’t tell if he even moved. He worried about two things then: his wife and his arms. Were either there any longer?

Where am I, where’s my wife? Will asked into the air.

Ah, I’ll not know that. The woman came closer and he felt her touch his arm. He was relieved of the concern he might be missing many parts of his body, but not of where his wife was. The woman’s lilting accent made Will think she was, probably, Irish. She seemed to end her sentences with a rise as if they were questions. Her voice also seemed to sing. You’re in the care ward Chelsea Hospital. My wife? Will asked. His throat choked as he knew the response wouldn’t be good.

Sorry, old man. Couldn’t do a thing. She didn’t make it, another voice said, a male, above him, then touching, probing, and finally fingers resting on Will’s shoulder.

Who’s there? Will tried to lift his arms, but he still felt detached, immobilized.

Ah, sorry. I’m Dr. Fansbry, just relax for now. You’ll be fine and your parts are all here. Will heard him turn away and say, Nurse. Then a glow, a warmth, a sudden feeling of well being swept over him. He felt the tears come to his eyes and he also sensed the coolness as if the tears were silver water as they ran down his cheeks. He didn’t see them drip one after another onto his crisp and clean white pillow case.

At some time in the darkness, Will never knew what time it was, or what day it was, he felt fingers tug at his eyelids, but there was still no sight.

Good, Fansbry said. What is it? Will asked.

Just a little nerve damage. We don’t think it’ll be permanent and you’ll be fine after a bit of a rest. Sharon? Will asked.

She’s being taken care of. You’ll want to talk with the embassy people as soon as you get some strength. And the police will like to chat with you. I’m sorry, old boy. I really am. We did everything, but the bloody explosion was so bad. She took the brunt of it and there was little we could do. The voice seemed sad.

How long will I be here? Will was now anxious to get out and go looking. Looking for a vicious and care less killer. The killer of Sharon.

Be a few more days, I’m afraid, old man, but you should be up and about within a fortnight. How long is that? Will asked and gritted his teeth.

Ten days. Two weeks the most. Until your eyes heal and your ribs. You took the bonnet of that car against your chest. Broke a rib. Hood, I believe you call it in the States. I’ll let the police talk to you about that. Probably, tomorrow. Will Egan wanted to see, but he could only smell and the odor was of a hospital, alcohol, betadynes, and cleansers.

*****

You bleedin’ fool! The young man with the black hair pounded on the hand-made table. One wood leg was shorter than the other three and it tipped back and forth, making a rapping noise each time it did. He sipped at coffee from a styrofoam cup. The man’s voice echoed through the cavernous building.

I can’t believe you did that! he yelled and swiped at the paper napkin and plastic spoon on the table and they fell to the floor with a swoop and clatter.

What you want me to do, Sean? You want me get caught leavin’ the flippin’ car in front of Harrods? Just get out and walk away? The bloody pigs’d be on me straight away. Get off me arse! He blew at the steam rising from the top of his cup, nervous and cold at the early morning hour.

Shoulda used your brain. I knew it. Sean put his head in his hands and rubbed his face, hard. Toby, I knew you’d fuck this up too. You ain’t got brains to do nothin’ roight. I shoulda let, he hesitated and pointed to the other boy, "Ryan do the job. Usin’ that ole dynamite instead of