Timebomb

by Timebomb (retail) (epub)

  ‘There are four of us, and one of you, plus the guys you’ve got staking out this place. Suppose I just tell my guys to open up?’

  ‘You’re welcome to try, obviously. You can probably see a small black object here on my lapel. That’s a microphone, and on my belt there’s a radio transmitter. Every word you or I say is being listened to by the snipers. The moment you try anything, two of your three men will be taken out. The good news is, they won’t feel anything. Then it’ll just be two of you looking down the barrel of this combat shotgun. So it’s up to you.’

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Ahmed bin-Salalah paid the driver and stepped out of the air-conditioned cab on the outskirts of the city. He waited on the pavement until the vehicle was out of sight, then made his way swiftly down a succession of side streets, getting further and further away from the main road.

  He stopped at an unmarked door set in a white-washed wall and knocked three times. After a few moments a narrow horizontal slit was opened from the inside and he found himself staring into a pair of hostile dark-brown, almost black, eyes. The slit slammed shut and bin-Salalah heard the sound of keys rotating in locks and bolts sliding back. The handle turned and he stepped through into a narrow hallway. Two heavily-built Arabs holding Kalashnikovs nodded a greeting to him and gestured for him to advance. Three doors opened off the hall, two of them closed and one open. Bin-Salalah paused at the open doorway and gazed into the room beyond.

  Inside, three men sat on large cushions arranged more or less in a circle, a brass tray in the middle of the floor, coffee pots, tiny cups and plates of sweetmeats arranged on it. Leaning against the walls behind them were several assault rifles and two RPG launchers.

  The men stood up as bin-Salalah entered, and greeted him warmly. Then they sat down again and all four ate and drank while discussing everything except the immediate reason for bin-Salalah’s presence. Only when they’d finished and the tray had been removed did they finally turn to the business at hand.

  ‘So, Ahmed,’ the oldest man began, ‘tell us what went wrong.’

  Dungeness, Kent

  Johnson stared at Richter, then glanced in the direction from which he thought the shot had probably come – a wide and featureless area of the beach – and then nodded to the three armed men standing nearby. Reluctantly, they lowered their submachine-guns and placed them on the ground, then walked slowly back to their cars and got inside them.

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘I’d like some answers,’ Richter said, ‘otherwise the next bullet from the sniper will be aimed straight at you. Now, what was the purpose of this operation? Why exactly did you order Stevens to orchestrate a bombing campaign in Europe, and then tell him to ensure the casualties were minimized?’

  ‘Is that what he told you?’ The American laughed shortly. ‘It was nothing like that. He was just meant to infiltrate a terrorist network, nothing more.’

  ‘Now why don’t I believe you?’ Richter asked. ‘Oh, yes, it’s because I talked to Stevens myself, and what he told me is rather different. Last chance, and your choice. I say one word and you’ll die right here, right now. Or you tell me what the hell’s been going on and then, if I believe you, you might still be able to walk away.’

  ‘Oh, shit,’ the man muttered, looking at Richter and clearly not liking what he saw. ‘OK, I’ll tell you, but just remember I’ve got diplomatic immunity. If you kill me, or my men, you’ll be in a world of trouble.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances. Go on, tell me.’

  ‘Look, originally it wasn’t my plan, but you’re right about The Special Group. That was where the idea came from. I was just tasked with its implementation. You have to understand the atmosphere in Washington. The President was getting worried about America’s place in the world. In the first Gulf War, we had the approval of almost every nation on Earth. In the second, our only real ally was Britain, and the President was concerned even then that British support was starting to slip away. He saw the anti-war protests in Britain, and he knew your government is basically weak and too much swayed by public opinion, and he was worried that the ‘Special Relationship’ was starting to unravel.’

  ‘So what did he do?’

  ‘He tasked The Special Group with concocting a scheme that would ensure Britain stayed firmly on-side.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They looked at the aftermath of the 9/11 atrocity back home, and the way the American people reacted to it. There was a lot of anger and a lot of blame directed at the intelligence community for not preventing it from happening, but the country basically closed ranks against al Qaeda and against radical Islam. Then they studied the July seventh bombings in London and saw that there was almost the same result. A lot of questions were asked about intelligence failures and why that group of men had decided to carry out the attacks, but there was no question of changes in policy or initiating a dialogue with the terrorists.

  ‘The Special Group reported these findings to the President, but he wasn’t convinced. He thought the next time America needed public support to take on one of those countries designated as part of the “Axis of Evil”, Britain might not be willing to step up to the plate. It wasn’t military support he was worried about – America can handle that, no problem – but world opinion is important. What the US can’t do is be seen to be acting all alone. We absolutely need at least one other nation to support us, and the only one that’s ever done that consistently is Britain. If Britain were to refuse, that would be a serious blow to us.’

  ‘I think I can see where this is going, unfortunately, but carry on.’

  ‘OK. The Special Group came up with a plan. They decided that the easiest way to keep Britain firmly supporting American foreign policy was to launch a series of bombings in Europe, ending with a major attack on London. If it could be established that all these atrocities were the work of radical Islam, The Special Group believed that some other European nations might also decide to support America, which would be a bonus, but a serious assault on London – something like 9/11 – would definitely make Britain join forces with us against al Qaeda and radical Islam, and that was our primary concern.’

  ‘Unbelievable,’ Richter muttered.

  ‘That was the briefing Stevens was given. We believed he was the ideal man to handle it, because he had the language skills to pass as either a Frenchman or a German, besides having the right background in Agency work.’

  ‘You mean his career in Clandestine Services?’

  ‘OK, I can see you’ve done your homework. But I guess you can also see why we mounted this operation, though with hindsight it looks like Stevens wasn’t the best choice for the job. How was he minimizing casualties? By calling the authorities before each attack occurred, I suppose?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘It looks like he fucked up in London, because what happened there wasn’t exactly what we had in mind. A series of glorified bank robberies isn’t really in the same league as the Twin Towers.’

  Richter shook his head. ‘Those bank jobs were just intended to raise some cash for a German terrorist group and to cause a certain amount of confusion. The real target was a sunken ship in the Thames Estuary, stuffed full of explosives. If that had gone off, we’d have had our very own 9/11 right here in London, thanks to your foul little scheme.’

  For a moment the American looked almost pleased. ‘So Stevens was on track after all,’ he muttered.

  Richter shook his head. ‘No, not really. That plan was the brainchild of a German named Hans Morschel, and the target was suggested to him by an al Qaeda front man.’

  Johnson hesitated. ‘So if it had worked, it really would have been down to radical Islam?’

  ‘Yes, oddly enough. But didn’t you ever wonder, you Yankee fuckwit, how we might react if we discovered that our capital city had been devastated by some crazy plan cooked up by the bloody CIA and The Special Group, on the instigation of the President of the United States?’

  ‘Obvi
ously we considered that, but we decided that the chances of exposure were sufficiently small that it was worth taking the risk.’

  ‘Did you, now?’

  ‘Stevens was a highly experienced agent, very familiar with this kind of operation. We reckoned he had the ability to handle this, and keep our involvement secret.’

  ‘And now? Now that we know exactly what you planned and why?’

  ‘It’s unfortunate, is all.’ The American shrugged. ‘I suppose the bomb or whatever this guy Morschel planted didn’t go off?’

  ‘It went off all right,’ Richter said, ‘just not in exactly the right place.’

  ‘And Morschel?’

  ‘He’s no longer with us.’ Richter paused for a few seconds. ‘Do you have any idea how many other people died in this little operation of yours?’ he asked.

  Johnson shrugged again. ‘I’ve no idea. Quite a few, probably. But they’re just collateral damage. You’re bound to have casualties in ops of this sort. Eggs and omelettes, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I don’t have all the figures myself,’ Richter said, in a voice that was low and dangerous, ‘but in Onex in Switzerland four police officers died, and the same number in Stuttgart. Then, here in London, Morschel’s men slaughtered probably a couple of dozen in all, just ordinary men and women going about their normal business. So that’s over thirty people massacred and you’re telling me the reason is just to let the fucking President of the United States of America retain some political credibility.’ His voice rose almost to a shout at the end of the sentence.

  Johnson grinned at him. ‘Politics is a dirty game and you British need to grow up and recognize that, if you’re going to play with us big boys. While you’ – he jabbed a finger towards Richter – ‘you need a reality check. You might not like it, but we’ve all got diplomatic immunity and that means we’re untouchable. We’re leaving here, and you won’t dare try and stop us. Both these cars are armoured, so screw your snipers. My men are aiming their pistols at you right now, so drop the shotgun and back off.’

  Richter glanced to his left. In the Ford parked about twenty feet away, both side windows were now open, and in each a figure was clearly visible, a handgun pointing in his direction.

  Johnson was absolutely right, and Richter knew he had no real choice. He was probably already in trouble for blowing the tyre on the American’s car. You didn’t mess with people who had diplomatic immunity. But then he thought about all the people who been blown to pieces by Morschel’s truck bombs in London, bombs that had been placed by the German terrorist group, but essentially working to Johnson’s plan. And then he thought about the way Stevens had been butchered, and he realized that there really was only one choice he could make.

  ‘Fuck you, Johnson,’ he said, and tilted his head forward, his mouth close to his lapel microphone. ‘Take him out,’ he snapped.

  Johnson’s face turned suddenly grey as he heard these words, and then his body jerked sideways as the sniper’s bullet took him in the chest.

  And then the three bodyguards in the parked Fords opened up, and before he could bring his SPAS-12 up to the aim, Richter felt three solid punches in his chest as he tumbled backwards, collapsing to the ground beside the parked Jaguar.

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  ‘I genuinely do not know.’ Bin-Salalah spread his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Badri was there on the boat, and had full instructions on how to detonate the explosives should the automatic system fail. I know that our objective wasn’t achieved, but my understanding is that the explosives on the boat did detonate. That suggests that either the explosion didn’t provide a high enough yield to cause the sympathetic detonation we expected… or something else went wrong. Perhaps the autopilot failed to navigate the boat to the optimum position, or Badri himself became confused and triggered the explosion prematurely.’

  ‘Or perhaps some third party intervened and managed to detonate the explosives well away from the wreck.’

  Bin-Salalah inclined his head. ‘There is also that possibility,’ he agreed.

  ‘What of the other incidents in London?’

  ‘I gather those worked exactly as our German colleague anticipated. His men completed their tasks as planned, and as far as I know not one of them was apprehended. And, of course, we are not in any way implicated in these somewhat sordid crimes.’

  ‘I’m pleased that something worked as planned,’ the elderly cleric murmured. ‘So there really is nothing we can salvage from this?’

  ‘At this stage, no,’ bin-Salalah replied, ‘but I have another suggestion you might like to consider. Not as spectacular a result as this operation would have achieved, but financially almost as destructive to the British – and also with a significant death toll.’

  ‘And just as complicated, I presume?’

  ‘No, much simpler. It will require two vehicles, two controllers, four shuhada and approximately half a metric tonne of plastic explosive. And I do not see how it could be detected or prevented.’

  The old cleric leant forward, his eyes shining. ‘Tell us,’ he instructed.

  Dungeness, Kent

  ‘How is it, then?’ Colin Redmond Dekker asked, as he eased Richter into a sitting position against the passenger door of the Jaguar.

  ‘I feel numb, mostly,’ Richter said, his breath coming in short and painful gasps.

  ‘I’m not surprised. One of those guys was using a forty-four magnum. That’s bound to sting a bit, even with what you’re wearing. And where the hell did you get that body armour? We’ve only just started testing it at Hereford.’

  ‘It was a gift from a friend in Switzerland,’ Richter said, glancing down at the Dragon’s Skin vest Schneider had sent him, and trying a smile for size.

  He looked around at the carnage on the pebble beach. One of the Fords – the one that still had all four tyres intact – had gone, powering away from the scene seconds after Johnson’s body had hit the ground, and the snipers had made no move to stop it. But when the third bodyguard had aimed his pistol from the disabled car at the crumpled shape lying beside the Jaguar, Dekker and the second sniper, also from 22 SAS, had opened up immediately.

  Johnson had been right in claiming that the Ford was armoured, but vehicle armour is intended to defend against small-arms’ fire and will only normally cope with rounds fired by pistols, assault rifles or submachine-guns. Dekker, however, was using a Barratt, a lethally-accurate ultra-long-range sniper rifle that fired a half-inch round, and against that the car’s armour had proved completely ineffective. The first round had smashed through the rear window and ploughed on through the rest of the vehicle, virtually cutting the bodyguard in half on its way. The following half-dozen rounds essentially reduced the Ford to scrap metal.

  ‘You’re lucky they didn’t try for a head shot,’ Dekker said.

  ‘It was a gamble,’ Richter admitted, ‘but American basic combat training always recommends aiming at the centre of the body mass. Particularly with a pistol, which was all those guys had. A head shot is just too difficult: it’s far too easy to miss.’

  ‘Right, are you OK to drive now? Or do you fancy nipping over to the Britannia Inn for fish and chips?’

  ‘Another time, Colin. Once I get in the driving seat I should be fine,’ Richter said, struggling to his feet. ‘But I’ll be bruised for bloody weeks.’

  ‘What do you want us to do about this mess? I mean, do you want me to call it in, or just get the hell out of here before the plods arrive and start asking awkward questions?’

  ‘Collect the weapons and any ID these two guys are carrying, then let’s get out of here. I’m sure you can play with the MAC Tens up at Hereford. You could make an anonymous triple-nine call from a phone box somewhere near here to get things moving, and I’ll call the Kent woodentops once I get back to London, and steer them in the right – or rather the wrong – direction. I’ve got a contact I was working with earlier on during this op, and I’m sure I can use him.’

  ‘Wha
t’s the story?’

  ‘It’ll be pretty close to the truth. I taped what Johnson said, and I’ll feed edited bits of that to Five, just enough to establish that he was the original architect of the scheme. I’ll even suggest that when his masters discovered what he’d done, they ordered his termination. There’ll be a lot of unanswered questions, but there’s enough truth in the story to stop any serious fallout. And I know a senior guy in the Company, so I’ll make sure he knows what really happened.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You ordered the assassination of two CIA officers, both with diplomatic immunity. Isn’t Simpson going to want your balls on a platter or something?’

  ‘Probably,’ Richter grinned, ‘but that’s nothing new. In my job, I’m pretty well always in the shit – the only thing that varies is the depth. But I’ll survive, I guess.’

  ‘OK, Paul, we’ll get out of here now,’ Dekker said, as Richter lowered himself carefully into the driving seat of the Jaguar. ‘Until next time. And there will be a next time, I suppose? Some other op going bad and you need the boys from Hereford to bail you out?’

  ‘You can count on that, Colin. There’ll definitely be a next time.’

  Author’s note

  SS Richard Montgomery

  The SS Richard Montgomery was a dry cargo Liberty Ship built by the St John’s River Shipbuilding Company at Jacksonville, Florida, completed in July 1943 and named after an Irish soldier killed in the assault on Quebec in 1775. In August 1944 the ship embarked 6,127 tons of assorted munitions at Hog Island in Philadelphia, and immediately sailed for Great Britain, arriving in the Thames Estuary in preparation for joining a convoy to Cherbourg.

  Upon her arrival, Acting Lieutenant Commander R J Walmsley, the King’s Harbourmaster, ordered the ship to anchor in a berth off the northern edge of Sheerness Middle Sand, despite the fact that at low tide the water depth there was a mere twenty-four feet, and only thirty feet at high water. As trimmed, the Richard Montgomery drew about thirty-one feet – three feet more than the twenty-eight feet of most Liberty Ships – because of the weight of her cargo. The discrepancy was quite obvious to the assistant Harbourmaster, Roger Foley, who tried to berth the ship elsewhere, but he was over-ruled by Walmsley. Foley refused to carry out the original order unless it was put in writing, which Walmsley declined to do, and Foley left the office.