The Service Read online

  The Service: Warlock

  Angus McLean

  Published by Angus McLean

  Copyright 2016 Angus McLean

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Acknowledgements

  The author would like to thank the advisers who have assisted with the writing of this book. They must remain anonymous for security reasons, but they (and only they) know who they are.

  They are the true heroes who put their lives on the line to protect our freedoms. My sincerest gratitude goes out to them.

  And once again, huge thanks to Vicki Schinkel who does my covers and provides great advice-you rock.

  This is a work of fiction, and all errors are the responsibility of the author.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Author Page

  Bibliography

  Prologue

  Village of Magas

  Drina Valley, North-Eastern Bosnia

  June 1995

  Death came at dawn.

  The sun was creeping over the lip of the valley and the village was starting to come to life. It was a small settlement of simple houses, many already damaged by various attacks over the years and repaired as best they could be.

  The main road into the village was rutted and narrow, potted with holes and horseshoe imprints.

  The trucks of the short convoy crushed the ruts flat as they rolled down the road from the south, heavy diesel engines throbbing and gear boxes grinding as the drivers struggled to maintain momentum and stability at the same time.

  The villagers heard the trucks coming and knew it was not good news. People started to come out of their houses, peering up the road to try and see who it was. Could it possibly be a UN visit? Probably not. Nobody cared enough about these poor peasants to send the UN to them.

  A few people started to make haste, rousing their families and getting ready to run. But it was too late.

  The first truck rounded the last bend and gunned it straight into the centre of the village, a small town square surrounded by a few basic shops and shuttered buildings. The head elder of the village had been awakened and shuffled out in his coat and hat, his pyjama legs flapping in the light morning breeze.

  The first truck ground to a halt and the rear flap opened, discharging a dozen armed soldiers. They quickly spread out across one side of the village square, rifles at the ready and game faces on. They wore the standard Serbian Army uniforms with the shoulder patch of the Red Wolves, the feared elite paratroop unit.

  The elder felt his gut go cold as he recognised the men before him, and he knew without a doubt what was about to happen.

  More trucks rolled into the town square, a jeep in the middle of the convoy making directly for the elder. It pulled up beside him and the front passenger got out. He was a tall, barrel chested man in an impeccably smart uniform, and with a face like stone. His black eyes bore into those of the elder, who immediately recognised him.

  Josef Durakovic, Major. Commanding Officer of the Red Wolves.

  The elder felt his bladder loosen and warm urine trickled down his leg.

  Durakovic walked slowly towards him as the soldiers kicked in the doors of the houses nearby, dragging the occupants out at gunpoint, women, children, men, old and young alike. Screaming, terrified.

  They were bundled into a group in the centre of the square, soldiers surrounding them, rifles raised threateningly. The soldiers were calm and in control, waiting for orders.

  Durkavoic halted a metre short of the elder, his eyes never leaving the face of the old man.

  ‘You know who I am?’ Durakavic asked softly.

  The old man nodded slowly.

  Durakovic nodded too.

  ‘Then you know why I am here,’ he stated.

  The old man nodded again, slowly.

  ‘I know,’ he croaked through a mouth dry as tinder. ‘You come to kill us.’

  Durakovic’ thin lips twitched into a smile, fleetingly then gone.

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘All Muslim pigs like you. You had your chance to go. You didn’t go.’

  ‘We had no chance,’ the old man croaked angrily, tears welling at his eyes. ‘We are just peasants, we are nothing to you. We don’t fight.’

  Durakovic nodded again, not smiling now.

  ‘That is correct,’ he said. ‘You are nothing to us.’

  His right hand went to the holster on his hip, and undid the flap. As he started to draw out his pistol, the old man took a step forward and spat as hard as he could. The dry white spittle landed on Durakovic’s tunic front and hung there.

  ‘Serbian shit,’ the old man snapped hoarsely, and Duracovic’s pistol came up.

  The single shot made the civilians jump, and the bullet blew a spray of blood and brain matter into the air behind the old man. The body dropped like a stone into a crumpled heap of stick-like limbs and thin tatty clothes.

  A woman screamed and her scream echoed around the town square.

  Durakovic turned to the sergeant standing nearby, and holstered his pistol.

  ‘Kill them,’ he said calmly.

  The snarl of automatic fire was deafening as bullets ripped through the throng of people, and within seconds magazines were being rapidly changed as the eager soldiers tried not to be the last one to get a kill.

  Silence fell again and the soldiers began to move between the bodies, single shots ringing out now as they administered kill shots to those still twitching.

  Durakovic let his eyes wander across the buildings around them, seeing the odd flicker of movement as civilians who had been hiding made a break for freedom. He was happy to let them go; they would spread the word of what had happened here today, and his reputation would spread further.

  He turned to his sergeant again and an unspoken warmth passed between the two men.

  ‘Burn it,’ Durakovic ordered.

  Chapter One

  Botany Town Centre

  Manukau City

  July 2015

  The afternoon rush hour always started early on a Friday, which suited Bahar Pasha well.

  It meant that by the time she had finished work and closed up the reception desk at the medical clinic, walked to the Starbucks and got herself a creamy cappuccino-her weekly treat-and made her way to the car, traffic had cleared enough to give her a good run home.

  Botany Town Centre always got busy on a Friday with the cinema, the pub, and the various eateries all picking up trade. People knocked off work and came to shop or meet friends and relax.

  She checked her watch as she crossed the car park towards the red Nissan Sunny. 615pm. She should be home by 630 and be eating dinner by 7. She could put her feet up and finish the magazine she had borrowed from reception. She smiled to herself, a stocky woman with greying black hair and a weathered, hard face. Life in New Zealand was good.

 
She got to the car and started to unlock it, then felt for the magazine in her bag. Nothing.

  Damn it. She would have to go back and get it. She locked the door again and started to head back towards the medical centre, craning her head back to drain the last of the coffee from the paper cup.

  As the froth hit her tongue her ears picked up the sound of a car, but too late. The Pajero backing out of the spot beside her clipped her on the side and knocked her flat, the Starbucks cup flying and froth spraying up her arm.

  Bahar hit the ground on her side, her head cracked into the asphalt and everything went black.

  When she came to a young police officer was leaning over her. She was lying on a gurney with straps across her chest and legs. She could feel nothing but pain everywhere, and her vision swam as she tried to focus.

  ‘Ma’am? Ma’am? Can you hear me?’

  The young cop looked very concerned and childlike, and she almost smiled, but all she could manage was a tired hmmmm.

  ‘Ma’am, what’s your name? Where do you live?’

  ‘Tat....Tatjana,’ she murmured painfully. ‘Tatjana Durakovic.’

  The cop frowned as he tried to spell that into his notebook.

  ‘Where do you live, ahhh....ma’am?’

  ‘We need to go mate,’ another male voice interrupted in the background, and Bahar felt herself being lifted and moving backwards. ‘You can speak to her at the hospital.’

  Bahar let her breath out and relaxed. Her head really hurt...

  Chapter Two

  Security Intelligence Service

  Auckland Regional Office

  Monday

  Leaving the morning city rush hour behind him, Charlie Nickals turned off Queen Street into a side alley and followed this past a couple of shop back doors to a discreet garage roller door. He leaned out the window and buzzed his access card against a reader on the wall.

  The door rolled up and he edged into the basement car park carefully, tyres squealing on the concrete as he took a slot near the stairs. The park was half full already. He swiped through the next reader and punched in his PIN before the doors unlocked, then took the stairs to the second floor. He was a shade under six foot and wide in the shoulders, with tousled sandy hair.

  The first floor was the street front, manned by a stern receptionist ostensibly working for Cunningham and Associates, a medium sized web design company.

  In reality the building was occupied by the 30 or so staff of the Auckland Regional Office of the Security Intelligence Service, the primary security service of New Zealand.

  Charlie buzzed through the door to the second floor corridor, past the locker rooms and meeting rooms, past the closed door of D Section (Technical Support) and into the main office.

  The open plan office had been split off by partitions into smaller pods, each pod occupied by a team. A Section (Counter Terrorism) occupied the rear wall, desks arranged into a table of 4, with a fifth desk on its own facing them with its back to the side wall.

  Charlie dropped his bag by the supervisor’s desk, waved a good morning to a couple of officers at the B Section pod, and grabbed his mug off the book shelf behind his desk. He paused to grab a mug off one of the desks in front of his own, and headed back the way he had come. The door of the female locker room opened as he passed it, and Sam Morrison hurried out, tucking a lock of just-dried mid-brown hair behind her ear. She was nearly as tall as Charlie.

  She looked harried, as she always did first thing in the morning, and he waved her mug at her.

  ‘Oh, you’re a star.’ She fell in beside him as they entered the staff room, and waited while he made tea. ‘Lucy was windy last night, took ages to go to sleep.’

  She stifled a yawn and took her mug from him.

  ‘Is the monster-in-law on deck today?’ Charlie asked, and she grinned.

  ‘Yeah, she’s all over it. Got some great advice about burping kids from her this morning, just what I needed...’

  Charlie grinned.

  ‘Liv was cleaning up a decent spit when I left,’ he said, ‘which was kind of good for me. I’d rather change a stinky nappy than clean up puke.’

  They reached the office at the same time as the boss’ door opened. He looked over, saw Charlie, and gave him a head tilt.

  ‘Duty calls.’ Charlie left Sam and his tea behind.

  ‘Morning Charlie, close the door.’

  He did so, and stood, waiting. Lewis Collen was not only the Assistant Director in charge of the regional office, he was also one of the few remaining spooks to have played an active role during the Cold War.

  Charlie noted the Herald on Lewis’ desk was folded open at the puzzles page, with both the Sudoku and crossword already completed. A tea pot complete with woollen warmer and a China cup and saucer sat beside it, the dregs of tea in the cup.

  Lewis waved at one of the chairs opposite him, and Charlie sat. Lewis glanced sideways at the laptop screen on his desk, then back at his subordinate.

  ‘Pete has definitely gone,’ he said, ‘Wellington emailed me to say he will be staying down there in a training role.’

  Charlie nodded silently. It only confirmed what the water cooler chatter had already guessed, but hopefully was good news for him.

  ‘You’ll be staying as the acting supervisor in the meantime,’ Lewis continued, ‘and the process will have to be gone through again. Although-’he paused to think for a second-’you were second to him only two months ago, so we should be able to just get it approved straight away without having to re-interview.’

  Charlie nodded again. Lewis’ piercing blue eyes drifted across his face.

  ‘I’ll let you know.’

  ‘And Sam stays as acting SIO?’

  Lewis nodded impatiently.

  ‘Yes yes, of course.’ He glanced at the screen again and his manner changed abruptly. ‘Anyway, we have something for you. And when I say we, I mean I and my good friends at SIG.’

  The Special Investigations Group was the Police unit detailed to liaise with SIS and conduct counter-terrorism and anti-subversive investigations. A healthy rivalry existed between the two groups due to their often-overlapping tasks.

  ‘Friday afternoon a woman got hit by a car in Botany. Broken leg, bruising, concussion. Held in overnight at Middlemore for observation, and released on Saturday.’

  Charlie waited. So far, so mundane, but he knew that Lewis was not a time waster so there must be a sting in the tail here somewhere.

  ‘When the cops attended they found her handbag, with a driver’s license. Bahar Pasha, Turkish national, now a New Zealand resident. 46 years old. Been here since 2008.’

  Lewis checked the details on his screen again.

  ‘As I said, she took a knock to the head and was concussed. When the cop spoke to her at the scene and asked her name, she told him she was Tatjana Durakovic.’

  Charlie inclined his head slightly. The name rang a bell somewhere, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  ‘Josef Durakovic is a wanted war criminal from Bosnia,’ Lewis continued. ‘He was indicted after a slaughter in a village there in 1995, but killed two guards and escaped custody before he could stand trial at The Hague.’

  Charlie nodded, remembering now.

  ‘He’s on Interpol’s ten most wanted, isn’t he?’

  ‘Was. He’s number eleven now. A Sudanese has bumped him down the queue.’

  ‘And Tatjana is his wife? Sister?’

  ‘Wife. Married her at 15-she was 15, he was 24. She stayed with him ever since. Gave him four children. Two boys were killed in the war, one is in jail in Syria, and the daughter is still over there.’

  ‘And Tatjana is living here now.’ Charlie digested it all, a thrill running through him. He started to stand, but Lewis gave him a look. He wasn’t finished yet. Charlie lowered himself again.

  ‘Her name is tagged by SIG. When the traffic cop ran it, they were alerted and did some checking. Fortunately they had the good sense to realise it was
a job for us, and gave me a call.’

  Charlie stayed where he was, knowing there was more. Lewis hadn't finished yet.

  ‘This is your op, Charlie. You run it.’ Lewis almost managed a look of animation. ‘If we can get a lead on him this would be a major coup for us.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Charlie started to move again but thought better of it.

  ‘But owing to the nature of our target, I’ve requested assistance from our friends at Papakura.’ Lewis held Charlie’s gaze. ‘One of their guys will be here shortly. Strictly as an observer of course, unless things should escalate.’

  ‘Of course,’ Charlie said with more sarcasm than he had intended. Lewis ignored it and continued.

  ‘Once you’ve had your briefing let me know.’

  He nodded and glanced towards the door, dismissing Charlie who made his way back to his pod, his mind racing. He saw his other two team members had just arrived and were catching up with Sam after the weekend. Eric Ho was short and nuggety with spiky jet black hair. He was knotting his tie and laughing at something Sam had said, while Rosie Maunsell dunked a herbal tea bag into her mug. She was taller than her regular work partner Eric, and had long wavy dark hair.

  ‘Rosie, Eric,’ he greeted them, and they both paused, sensing there was something up. ‘Get yourselves sorted and clear your decks, we’ve got a job on. You’ll need to be free for probably at least a couple of days. Sam, dig up all you can on a Turkish national called Bahar Pashu, female, 46. Lives in Auckland somewhere. I’ll send you some more details when I get them. Be prepared to brief on her in-’he checked his watch-’45 minutes.’

  He looked from one to the other, getting nods all round and feeling a kick of adrenaline through his system.

  ‘Everybody clear? Right, it’s game on guys.’

  He returned to his desk and quickly logged in, picking up Lewis’ email and scanning over it before forwarding it to Sam. He then logged into the Interpol website and copied as much info as he could find on Josef Durakovic, before doing likewise via the service’s own system, which contained more information.