As the Bell 412 dropped into the speeding traffic Glyn saw the vehicles in front of and behind the grey aircraft coming to a stop. Most of the drivers’ mouths were agape, passengers’ faces pressed up against the windows as they struggled to make sense of the situation unfolding in front of them.
The aircraft came to a stop twenty metres ahead of the black minivan, throwing up dust and debris into the already grey sky. Tiny stones hit the rotors, making little sparks as the blades spun.
As the grey dust cloud cleared Glyn could see the van driver clearly through his front window, his hands on the steering wheel and the vehicle now stopped. Down the road the other two aircraft had also landed, forcing a gap in the flow of traffic. Glyn’s men were now racing in pairs towards the minivan. The men ran around the now-stationary cars, paying them no attention as they moved towards their intended target with their weapons up in the shoulder, looking through their scopes. They surrounded the vehicle and, before anyone watching could even comprehend what was occurring, a sound and flash grenade went off in front of the car, thrown by one of the assaulters. Two men on either side of the vehicle smashed their reaming tools into the door windows in time to the explosions occurring in front. The SBS assaulter’s arms were inside the vehicle, the doors thrown open. The driver was unceremoniously dragged from the front of the car and manhandled to the ground, the huge Tongan straddling his back and pinning him down. The call came to Glyn that there was no one else in the vehicle.
‘What?’ He turned to the intel analyst. ‘We must have the wrong vehicle, Simon.’
‘No, that’s definitely it,’ the signaller insisted.
Glyn climbed out of the helicopter. Stuart unclipped and followed his commander. Both men pulled their balaclavas down over their faces as they walked towards the minivan.
Simon followed behind, staring at the screen, the signal getting stronger the nearer they got to the vehicle. ‘This is it, sir. One hundred percent lock on this vehicle confirmed.’
Bluey held up a laundry bag. ‘Only thing in the car, sir – and I suspect this is his phone that we found in it.’
‘Ah, for fuck’s sake,’ said Glyn. ‘We’ve been played.’
‘We sure have,’ his 2IC agreed. ‘We shouldn’t have fallen for it, Glyn. That’s no good at all. And if you don’t mind me saying so, if you were a little less focused on that MI6 lass and more focused on the task, I think we would have played this a whole lot better.’ Bluey was red in the face and Glyn sensed he wanted to say a lot more than he had.
‘This hasn’t been entirely straightforward, Bluey. The intelligence pointed to him making a run for it and—’
‘That Australian commando seemed pretty sure that Faisal Khan wouldn’t be making a run for the airport, but you were too busy having a pissing competition with him to recognise the fact that he might just know a thing or two about this guy.’
Glyn opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the arrival of Major Faruk.
‘The police are on their way; I suggest you go back to the warehouse and I will handle them at this end. Once we question the taxi driver, I will let you know what information he has.’
Glyn nodded curtly. ‘Let’s wrap this up, Bluey. We can continue this conversation later.’
‘I’ve said my piece, sir,’ Bluey told him. ‘Let’s get back to the warehouse and get the vehicles ready. I suspect we’re going to be heading back to Sultanahmet.’ Bluey motioned for the others to get back on the helicopters and the lads followed his lead.
Glyn lifted himself back into his seat on the Bell 412, followed by the rest of his team.
This mission is turning into a farce, he thought.
27
ISTANBUL
The Turkish security officer was in the middle of delivering his punchline to his two bored colleagues as Hassan al-Britani approached the gate of the Hagia Sophia. Hassan moved over to the two long plastic benches and opened his backpack. The guard kept talking as he put a hand in Hassan’s bag and moved the contents around.
‘What’s this?’ The guard stopped mid joke and pulled out a small black box, no bigger than a cigarette packet. He held it up, studying the device.
‘That’s a Netcom hard drive,’ said Hassan. ‘University essays and readings, that sort of thing.’ His blue jeans and New York Yankees baseball cap gave credence to his claim to be a student. This wasn’t the first time he had been to the museum that week and he knew how complacent the staff could be at the end of the day. Indeed, this was the first time that his bag had been checked; he was glad he had left his weapon behind.
The guard lost interest. Dropping the black box back into the bag, he waved Hassan through and finished his joke, laughing along with the others. Nothing exciting ever happened here – mostly because of the two vans of tactical police that were permanently stationed between the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, but also because of the significance of the building itself. First built in 537 as a Greek Orthodox church, it had changed hands between Greeks and Catholic crusaders and then, in 1453, become an Ottoman Empire mosque. Now a museum, the mosque was rich in religious history and tradition and had been largely overlooked in recent years by those who had less than wholesome agendas. Relatively speaking, a meeting between ISIS thugs and a Taliban intelligence officer was an insignificant moment in that rich history.
Hassan closed his bag and showed the local security officer his museum all-access pass.
Abu Brutali followed close behind him, looking down at his smart phone the entire time, giving the security guard only the most cursory of glances and a nod. He wore Western clothes too: black Nike runners, sweatpants and a white jumper that hid the top of a six-inch dagger. He wore a Canon camera around his massive neck. The two of them looked like a couple of British Lebanese lads on holiday, which was exactly the point. Breezing past the security they walked around a small tour group of Europeans marvelling over the remains of the original church near the entrance and made their way towards the outdoor kiosk.
Hassan purchased a bottle of water and then the two of them entered the building through the giant wooden doors that once sealed the cathedral shut from intruders and opened only to welcome the most important of visitors.
‘Let’s go up here, to the top level in the back corner.’ Hassan led the way up the stone staircase that would take them to the upper levels of the museum.
‘So, we get the stuff from Khan and then what?’ Brutali asked.
‘We get the plutonium, yes.’ Hassan frowned at the giant. ‘And then you take care of him. We can’t have someone like him out there on the loose with a vendetta against us, regardless of his faith. You can have your fun with him – just make it quiet and quick.’
Brutali smiled and adjusted the blade against his thigh. ‘That’s a given.’
Hassan put his bag on the ground and kneeled down to open it. He pulled out the small black box, screwed in three small antennas and switched the device on.
‘What makes you think he’s coming armed?’ asked Brutali. ‘That we would need something like that, I mean.’ He nodded at the box.
‘Why else would he have had that suicide vest hidden behind the couch? He’s coming ready for anything.’
‘You sure that thing is going to work, Hassan?’
‘It will work as long as he sticks to his usual pattern. If it doesn’t work, none of us will know about it until we are at the feet of Allah.’ Hassan put the device back in the bag and stood up.
‘I would just prefer to stay a while longer in this life, Hassan. So much killing of infidels yet to be done.’ Brutali laughed and pulled out the blade, spinning it around in his fingers.
‘Put that away,’ Hassan hissed.
Hassan looked over the edge of the balcony and then up at the huge dome of the mosque. Most of the visitors were starting to leave now.
‘There he is!’
...
Rounding a corner on the top floor of the museum, Faisal spotted his two British adv
ersaries. He was confident it would be just them. He had sent whoever was tracking his phone on a wild goose chase. Back in the hotel room, he had grabbed the phone and stashed it inside a second laundry bag along with some clothes that had been scattered on the floor. Grabbing the Adidas sports bag, and the laundry bags, he’d hurried out of the room. He ditched the laundry bag containing the listening devices into a room-service trolley standing unattended in the corridor, then took the elevator to the lobby and strolled casually out of the hotel and into the street.
Just around the corner from the Hotel New House was a line of taxis and limousines with private drivers. He had approached the car at the front of the queue, but saw that the driver was older; he looked like someone’s kind grandfather. Faisal walked past him to the minivan that was next in line.
The driver was younger, well built and cocky; most probably Iraqi, judging by his looks. Faisal disliked him on sight.
‘Are you busy?’ Faisal asked. ‘I have an urgent job for you.’
‘No, I’m not busy,’ the driver replied. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘I have this bag of clothes and other items that I need delivered to Sabiha Gökçen International Airport; I have a friend who is waiting for it. Can you deliver it?’ Faisal pulled out five hundred US dollars and thrust it into the driver’s hands.
The driver gave a huge smile when he saw the money.
‘For this much money, I would do a lot more than just drive this bag to the airport,’ he said.
‘There will be a man standing near the taxi rank with a sign for Hussain Al Daeib – give him the bag. He will give you another five hundred.’
The driver directed Faisal to put the bag in the back of the van. ‘I’ll take it straight away,’ he promised. Then, with a wave, he eased the minivan into the early-afternoon traffic.
Faisal had watched him as he disappeared up the road and then turned and headed down the hill towards the Hagia Sophia.
...
Faisal had slipped inside the museum with a large tour group an hour before. When the guided tour commenced, he had quietly peeled off from the group in the main hall before taking up a position in a corner from where he could watch everyone come and go. He saw the ISIS operatives arrive and make their way to the top floor and Brutali playing with his knife. He knew what he had to do – not just for his son, but for countless others – and the reasons that he must do it were known only to him and Allah. Faisal faced Mecca and prayed for what might well be the last time.
The Afghan stopped a few metres short of the two Brits.
‘Well, I’m here,’ he said. He was pleased there was no else around.
‘Where is it, Faisal?’ Hassan demanded.
‘It is in the bag. Order the release of my son and I will give it to you.’
‘You’re in no position to bargain. Just hand it over. I have no need for your son if you give it to me.’
Faisal considered this for a moment, then he opened the bag and pulled out the silver canister.
Hassan’s eyes widened. He took a step forward and accepted the container from Faisal’s outstretched hand. ‘See? That wasn’t so hard now, was it?’
‘Now let my boy go, Hassan. I have done as you asked.’
‘We haven’t had him for days, Faisal. Why do you think we came to your room in the first place?’ Hassan placed the canister inside his backpack and took off his baseball cap. He rubbed a hand over his cropped hair before placing the cap back on. ‘Apparently, the retards who were holding him let him escape.’ Hassan looked across at Brutali. ‘I mean, what is it with Afghans? You give them one simple job and they screw it up.’
Brutali neither smiled nor frowned; he just stared at Faisal.
Hassan continued, ‘So you see, we no longer had anything over you. That doesn’t matter, though, does it – because now we have this.’
Faisal laughed, softly at first and then harder and harder. He held his own sides before wiping the tears from his eyes. He was laughing from relief that his son had escaped, as well as the affirmation of the task at hand.
‘In that case, you are the one who is in no position to bargain. I thought that something wasn’t right; I have been in this game for a long time, my young friend. I’ve dealt with Westerners like you for years.’ The Afghan narrowed his eyes at the two Brits. ‘You don’t have anything, Hassan. I took the weapon apart; it’s in my room. There are others looking for it, the ones from the alley, and they will find it and then it will be gone. You have nothing.’
Hassan spat at Faisal’s feet. ‘You’re a slimy fucking Arab, that’s for sure.’ Hassan’s British accent became more pronounced as his anger escalated. He waved a hand at Faisal. ‘Just end this prick, Brutali, and then we’ll go to his hotel and get what is ours. I’ve had about all I can take from this piece of shit.’
Brutali smiled he took off the huge black-and-silver ring that was on his right hand and placed it in his pocket. ‘I’m going to enjoy this, you slimy Afghan prick.’ He pulled out the long blade.
‘Not so fast.’ Faisal ripped open his shirt, exposing the suicide vest. He stood taller. ‘First, I’m an Afghan, not an Arab. I’m also a Muslim, not whatever it is that you two think you are, and today I rid the world of your hate. Don’t look so shocked; I told you before, Hassan: I’m not fighting the infidel. It’s always been about defending my home from invaders.’
‘So killing yourself and us here is how you defend your home, is it?’ Hassan said mockingly.
‘No. When I was in the Blue Mosque Allah finally revealed my purpose to me – and it’s greater than just defending my home.’ Faisal took the switch from his pocket and held it in the air. He took a step towards the two ISIS terrorists.
‘Allahu Akbar! God is great!’ he shouted at the top of his voice as he pressed the button on the remote.
Nothing.
He pressed again.
Hassan folded his arms across his chest and sighed. ‘It seems that it is I that knows you, Faisal; you’re too modern for your own good, my old friend. If you had just used a circuit instead of a remote…’ Hassan nodded at Brutali. ‘Kill him.’
‘My pleasure.’
Faisal sprinted towards the balcony, preparing to jump off in the hope of sliding some way down one of the giant marble pillars. Brutali moved too, much faster than Faisal. The athletic brute caught him mid stride and yanked hard back on his hair. Faisal’s feet slid out from under him. Still holding Faisal by the head, Brutali smashed his knee into the Afghan’s back, so that he was bent over backwards, exposing his throat. Brutali’s knife flashed from his side. Faisal saw the blade from the corner of his eye and struggled for all he was worth to escape the monster’s grip. He tried in vain to lower his head and protect his neck, knowing only too well what was coming. Brutali laughed. Faisal swallowed hard and mustered the last of his strength, struggling against the immense grip that held him in place. Brutali lifted the knife high into the air in front of Faisal’s face and then, in one swift motion, he punched the knife into Faisal’s throat, sliding the razor-sharp edge inside of him and then straight out, severing the jugular.
Faisal gurgled on his own blood, his mouth opening and closing as he gasped for breath. He tried to scream but blood just sprayed from the artery. His eyes were wide, taking in the last sights they would ever see in this lifetime.
...
Brutali threw the now-limp Afghan up against the balcony parapet. The Taliban’s blood flowed across the marble banister and pooled over the ancient Viking runes, carved by Halvdan, a Nordic mercenary, more than one thousand years before. Brutali stabbed Faisal in the kidneys for good measure.
‘That will do,’ said Hassan. ‘Let’s go – we need to get to that hotel room before anyone else does.’
Brutali cleaned his blade on Faisal’s white shirt then put the knife back in the waistband of his sweatpants. He watched with satisfaction as the life flowed out of the Afghan and pooled on the floor at his feet.
‘It ama
zes me that you never get any blood on you, Brutali,’ said Hassan, turning to observe the giant’s immaculate white jumper.
‘It’s a gift.’
28
SAMANDIA ARMY AIR BASE
Rachel watched as the three Bell 412s lifted off from the field opposite the industrial warehouse. Glyn and his men crouched low as the aircraft departed, shielding their eyes from the water and debris kicked up by the spinning blades. Glyn was the first to stand and make his way across the open field and through the wire fence leading to the warehouse on the other side. The rest of his men followed, heads down, walking in silence.
Glyn came alongside Rachel and the two of them walked towards the building.
‘Alright?’ Glyn said finally.
‘Well, no, not really.’
‘These things happen. Now we just have to fix it.’ Glyn strode ahead into the warehouse. Walking past the hire cars, he headed towards the armoured Land Cruisers. ‘Get the intelligence guys to search for him. If they locate him, we’ll pick him up.’
‘He’s off the grid, Glyn!’ Rachel exclaimed. ‘He used the time we spent chasing his handset to escape. Jesus, Glyn, don’t you get it? He’s a ghost now – gone!’
Glyn removed the weapon sling from around his neck and placed the Heckler & Koch MP5K on the bonnet of his car. He ripped open the velcro on the body armour and lifted it up over his head and arranged it neatly on the ground, then put the weapon on top of it. He stood. She could see that he was struggling to maintain his calm; clearly the big Welsh officer wasn’t accustomed to losing. He might have hit the odd dry hole or two in Afghanistan, but this was different: he had been played. ‘I’ll get the guys organised and when Major Faruk gets back we’ll head into Sultanahmet and search his hotel. We can look for clues, maybe catch him somewhere around there.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding! The major mightn’t be back for hours. Why don’t you just get out there now?’
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