by KJ Griffin
Chapter 34: Knightsbridge, London. October 31: 4:20 p.m.
The pay-as-you-go mobile finally started to screech from its perch on the coffee table of the rented terrace house at Ennismore Gardens, just behind Knightsbridge station. Al-Ajnabi leapt for it greedily. He was almost certain who the caller would be and the heavy Yorkshire accent confirmed his guess.
‘We’re in position. Just about to begin our approach.’
‘Good work, Neil. But are you sure it’s your special friend on check-in duty?’
‘Aye. That’s just been confirmed, but you’ll need to be there within the next hour to be sure of it.’
‘We’ll be there,’ Bailey grunted. ’Good luck to you, Omar!’ Smedley chuckled.
Al-Ajnabi snapped the phone shut, knowing that Smedley would need all the luck he could get pushing Steve Newton, an as-yet-unproven recruit, Joel Connor and an extra canvas bag of explosives all the way along that dark, narrow shaft from the underground tunnel to the drains between Speaker’s Court and the Members’ Tea Room.
The other faces in the room were studying him intently. He turned to face them and broke into a taut half-smile that was enough to precipitate an organised scramble for weapons. Al-Ajnabi watched inquisitively as the four others in his team set about the business of strapping Browning pistols and Heckler & Koch MP5K's into their concealment holsters.
Oh yes, they were all experts in their respective fields: few had a steadier hand for the sniper's crosshairs than the ex-IRA gunman McLaughlin, and Bailey had often wondered if McLaughlin had not been one of those firing down the Falls Road at him on that April morning over twenty years ago. Oscar Salazar had a nose broken in three places and enough missing teeth to show just how close the Peruvian secret police had taken him before his comrades in the Sendero Luminoso had rescued him from a police truck taking him to Lima's main jail. And as for Khalid the Algerian and the legendary Palestinian explosives wizard, Abu Fawaz, each could boast three decades of spectacular service for various Palestinian and Arab causes.
No, it wasn't the technical competence of his team that bothered Al-Ajnabi: it was their mongrel, mercenary loyalties. He had tried as hard as he could to forge a common purpose, a sense of team identity during the planning stages in Ramliyya, but he knew he had always had to make a trade-off between expertise and motivation. When the game was in play, which of them could he really count on? Which would follow agendas of their own?
He watched the four others taping extra clips of 9mm rounds and stashing soft rubber ovals of M452 anti-riot grenades into their pockets, and the doubts intensified: he had gathered together a ragbag collection of dangerous individuals whose ultimate loyalties might well push against the cause. When they time came, he reckoned he knew which of them would follow and which were fickle. If need be, there would be bullets between them, but all that was yet to come.
Khalid the Algerian emptied a box of M429 stun grenades and passed the contents around the room. He and Salazar were kitted out in stylish Armani suits, but no amount of designer material had been able to tame the wild, hill-farmer Celt in Brendan McLaughlin; a patchy furze of black beard, and a gaunt, sallow-skinned face sprouting a permanently mean stare were McLaughlin’s most promising likenesses to a Middle Eastern diplomat.
They had to wait by the door while Abu Fawaz re-checked the contents of his briefcase. Bailey could picture the inventory: Russian made RGD-5 defragmentation grenades, tilt fuses, trembler devices, tripwires, pressure fuses, and in all likelihood a variety of ingenious homegrown fuses worthy of a master-craftsman of Semtex.
The balding Palestinian snapped the briefcase shut and nodded in Bailey's direction.
Bailey pulled out the mobile again. It was time to contact Magdalena Ortiz. By this time she and Maria Vasquez should be in position in the café on Victoria Street waiting for Claire Ferris to show, while Amy Weatherington queued for public access to the Commons.
‘Good morning, Omar,’ came Magdalena's cheery lilting English over the phone. ‘We are in position waiting for our friend to arrive. Do you want me to call you when she arrives?’
Al-Ajanbi’s phone flashed up an incoming call. Hasan.
‘Magdalena, I've got to go now. Contact me again only if there's a problem. Otherwise, I'll see you inside,’ he sighed, switching to Hasan, who he hoped was calling from Driscoll’s office in the Commons, welcoming their three banking guests and keeping them busy with fifty-five page booklet of investment proposals.
‘Only the two guests from the IMF and the World Bank have arrived, Hadratak,’ Hasan informed him. ‘There’s no sign yet of the Japanese from Tokai Bank. Do you want me to call him?’
Bailey thought anxiously for a second.
‘No, leave him,’ he growled. ‘What's one more banker in a world of bankers? Just make sure Driscoll is down there to meet us. Ten minutes’ time. No more.’
The front door bell rang, echoing sonorously throughout the high ceilings of the downstairs rooms.
Chentouf checked from the reception room window, then unbolted the door for Saeed.
‘Salaam aleekum!’ Saeed smiled.
‘Aleekum salaam,’ Chentouf returned the greeting, peering out into the street to see if MI5 were following Saeed's unmarked black Mercedes.
‘Kullakum jahiziin?’ Saeed asked.
‘Daqiqa,’ Chentouf grunted, closing and locking the front door while he waited for Salazar, McLaughlin and Abu Fawaz to finish wiping the furniture and fittings of fingerprint traces.
Al-Ajnabi went to the door to greet Saeed, then paced impatiently in the hallway wondering how Smedley would be getting on in the tunnel, whether Yokochi would be running his side of the operation to plan, and whether Claire Ferris would now be leading Magdalena, Maria and Amy to her office in the Commons.
Finally the plump Jordanian came over to interrupt his thoughts.
‘Xalasna,’ he urged, casting Al-Ajnabi an irritable look. Al-Ajnabi stared back coolly at his bomb expert, wondering how long his partnership with Abu Fawaz would last once they were inside. The ideological differences between them were vast; the common ground which all those Ramli petrodollars had helped to forge between his own cause and the Jordanian’s view world politics could just as easily shift and crumble once the pressure mounted.
Saeed locked the front door and kept the key. Al-Ajnabi joined Saeed in the front of the Mercedes, leaving the four others to fight for space in the back. The hard metal of the Browning and the MP5K pushed into his back and the inside of his right leg. He turned round to wait for the others to settle in the least discomfort, then gave Saeed the signal to drive off.
As they turned right from Exhibition Road into Kensington Road, Al-Ajnabi switched on the radio and found a news channel. As he had anticipated, the newsreader’s voice was animated:
As I speak there are new developments to the bomb threats issued against McDonalds outlets in Birmingham, Luton, Newcastle and Manchester. Police in theses cities have now sealed off all central shopping areas, but so far only one device has actually been found in central Luton, which turned out to be a hoax.
Further unconfirmed reports of further bomb alerts in Sheffield, Liverpool, Romford, Croydon and Exeter, spreading the chaos across the country and turning some of Britain’s busiest city centres into ghost towns…
Al-Ajnabi turned the volume down. So far it looked like Yokochi was pulling his levers to perfection. And then, for the first time since leaving Tanzania, with the first signs of battle materialising before his eyes, he felt a swift surge of exhilarating relief wash over him, relief from the insidious doubt that had been plaguing him since his return to England. The game was now on, and he could taste the long-lost battle-cry as it welled up from somewhere deep inside.
At Hyde Park Corner police sirens moaned somewhere behind in a crescendo of complaint. Saeed caught the blue lights in his mirrors and pulled over to the kerb with the rest of the traffic.
‘Virgin Megastore, Piccadilly,’ Al-Ajnabi mutt
ered, checking his watch to admire Yokochi's split-second precision.