by Chris Ryan
‘You’ve absolutely no concrete evidence that he’s anything to do with Abu Ra’id.’
‘Not yet,’ Victoria persisted. ‘But if it turns out that this flat is linked in any way to Mr Al-Sikriti, presumably you won’t mind if we inconvenience him with a little extraordinary rendition. Pack him off in a Hercules to one of your black camps in northern Poland. I’m sure he’ll be a mine of information. Never mind if he’s one of the unfortunate majority who don’t survive the questioning . . .’
‘Al-Sikiriti can’t just disappear off the face of the earth. The political fallout would be . . .’
‘Funny, isn’t it,’ Victoria interrupted quietly, ‘how keen you are to violate a suspect’s human rights, unless they have the one thing that talks.’ She rubbed her fingers together to indicate cash.
‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t question him,’ Maddox said. ‘I’m just saying he has to survive the process, and remain intact. If anything happens to him, my government will deny all involvement. That’s a political reality, and it’s out of my hands.’
‘Did you hear that, gentlemen?’ Victoria said. ‘He remains intact. Otherwise our American cousins will be very upset.’
‘Where is this Al-Sikriti now?’ Danny asked quietly, happy to put a stop to the barbed sniping of the two spooks.
‘He’s in the place where the Saudi playboys love to come to spend their wealth and do all the things they can’t do in their own country,’ she said.
‘Right. And where’s that?’
Victoria looked out of the window.
‘London,’ she said.
Thirteen
In the morning they slept.
Having arrived back at the safe house, Danny gave himself two hours’ shut-eye that felt, when he woke, like it had only been two minutes. He and Spud had hauled their arses out of bed at 14.00hrs, when they returned to the basement of Paddington police station. Fletcher, their police liaison officer, was waiting for them. He looked even more put-upon that the last time they’d seen him.
‘Come on in, come on in.’ He beckoned them with his soft West Country accent when they appeared at his doorway. As they stepped inside, Danny saw that the piles of paper on his desk had grown even higher. ‘Been busy since we last met?’ Fletcher asked. ‘On second thoughts, don’t answer that.’ Danny recalled that it had been Fletcher who gave them the key to the safe house opposite the flat of the first bomber. He’d have put two and two together by now regarding that hit, even if he hadn’t joined up the dots with respect to the others.
‘Have Hereford sent through everything we need?’ Danny asked.
‘Yes, yes.’ He paused. ‘Probably shouldn’t ask, but is this all to do with the bombings?’
Poker face from both SAS men.
‘Quite understand, lads. Quite understand. But if it is, you’re doing a better job than us. Not a man to spare and still we don’t have a handle on what’s going on.’ More silence. Fletcher smiled. ‘Immune to compliments, I see.’
‘Found your intruder?’ Danny asked, to move the conversation on from questions they didn’t want to answer.
Fletcher looked at them blankly.
‘You mentioned it last time,’ Danny reminded him. ‘That bird with the intruder up on Praed Street. And you had that hit and run on that fella walking up to the university. Gengerov, or something?’
Fletcher shook his head. ‘Too much on my plate,’ he said. ‘Far too much.’ He rummaged around on his chaotic desk before holding up a set of printouts – A2-sized architectural drawings. ‘The Park Lane Hotel, thirteenth floor,’ he said. ‘Took the liberty of checking, the whole floor’s taken by a Saudi Arabian gentleman by the name of Muhammad Al-Sikriti. Must be quite an entourage he has, and costing an arm and a leg.’
‘He can afford it,’ Danny said. ‘Did you find out about the floor above?’
‘All rooms taken, I’m afraid. We could probably put pressure on the hotel to clear one of them for us, if you think that’s necessary.’
Danny and Spud looked at each other, and imperceptibly shook their heads. They couldn’t guarantee the current occupants wouldn’t kick up a fuss – or even that they weren’t part of Al-Sikiriti’s entourage. Putting in surveillance on Al-Sikriti from an adjacent room or a room above was a possibility, but in this instance, the wrong call.
Fletcher handed over some photographs. They all showed the same man, but in different clothes. In one he wore full Arab headgear – a white headdress with a red band. In another, he wore just a dishdash, and in a third he wore a plain Western business suit. He was easily distinguishable, however, not so much by the thick black hair that covered the top of his ears, but by a slightly crooked nose that looked almost as if it had once been broken.
‘If I had his money, I’d get my hooter fixed,’ Spud commented. He looked up at Fletcher. ‘Anything else arrive for us?’
Fletcher nodded. He turned and, from behind his desk, pulled a metal case the size of a small tool box. He handed it over to Spud who rested it on the copper’s desk and unclipped the lid. From inside he pulled what looked like an ordinary black flashlight, about a foot in length. Fletcher blinked at it in surprise. ‘Could have fitted you out with a torch easily enough, fellas,’ he said.
The SAS men said nothing. Spud returned the torch to its box and held out his hand to shake Fletcher’s. Danny did the same. Their police liaison was a good man. A bit naive, perhaps, but a good man nonetheless.
The Park Lane Hotel was not a place for jeans and a leather jacket. From Paddington, Danny and Spud headed to Oxford Street, where Danny got himself suited and booted. ‘Nice threads,’ Spud said with just a hint of sarcasm as he emerged from Selfridges. Danny’s grey suit jacket was too tight around the shoulders, and he could have done with a shave. Otherwise, he looked the part. And most importantly, his Glock and radio pack were invisible under the suit. He bought a packet of Marlboro Lights and a lighter from a kiosk nearby. He wasn’t a smoker, but loitering outside a building as if on a fag break was always good cover.
From Oxford Street, they headed to Park Lane. Spud took the wheel of the Discovery, driving steadily down from Marble Arch and pulling up about 20 metres from the corner of the Park Lane Hotel.
‘Hope the fucker shows his face sooner rather than later,’ Danny said.
‘Trust me,’ Spud replied. ‘He will. These rich Arabs come to London for the hookers and marching powder, not to look at the rain from their hotel window.’
‘Well, let’s hope he hasn’t ordered in.’ Danny checked the time: 15.47. He gave Spud a nod, then jumped out of the car. The Discovery immediately pulled back into the line of traffic. Spud had a boring few hours ahead of him, circling round Hyde Park Corner and Marble Arch, driving up and down Park Lane, maybe parking up for a while in view of the hotel entrance until he got moved on. They’d keep conversation to a minimum over the radio, only checking in with each other occasionally, or when they actively had something to report.
Danny walked towards the entrance to the hotel. This wasn’t his first visit to the Park Lane. Two years previously he and a couple of other guys had been here bolstering a BG team babysitting a delegation from the Afghan government. He remembered that back then, like now, there was a line of black cabs queueing up at the entrance to drop off and collect guests. Back then they had been a strange mixture of businessmen and well-heeled families with bags from Hamleys and Harrods. There were no children here today. Hardly surprising. Who’d bring their kids shopping to a city under siege?
Danny passed unnoticed through the revolving doors, past a fat old bloke with an improbably young woman holding his hand, and into the foyer. He examined the space. High ceilings with chandeliers. A glossy black grand piano with a young Chinese guy playing cocktail music. Waiters carrying tea trays to guests lounging around on leather sofas. His first thought was to pick out the hotel’s surveillance cameras. If he could stay clear of them, so much the better. But he soon saw a number of small inverted domes on t
he ceiling, each with three cameras pointing down at different angles. The place was properly cased. There was no way to stay hidden.
His eyes picked out the lift – 30 metres away to his ten o’clock – then selected a sofa that faced directly towards it but on the far side of the seating area. A copy of The Times was on the glass coffee table in front of him. He grabbed it and idly started thumbing through its pages, keeping one eye on the lift as he turned over images of destruction in Piccadilly and, on page four, the familiar face of Abu Ra’id staring out at him.
‘May I get you anything, sir?’
An obsequious waiter with slicked hair stood by his side.
‘Coffee,’ Danny said. ‘Black.’ And he went back to watching the elevator.
A click in his covert earpiece. ‘You in position?’
‘Roger that,’ Danny replied, scratching his nose to hide the movement of his lips. ‘Could be a long afternoon.’
Five minutes passed. Danny’s coffee arrived. He didn’t touch it for a full ten minutes. All his attention was on his surroundings as he picked out individual male faces from the guests milling around the foyer. Their numbers were fluid. At one moment there would be perhaps 30, the next 70. Danny continued to scan them carefully, only finally stopping to pour himself some coffee so he wouldn’t stand out.
After 45 minutes he was aware of the waiter hovering again. He looked up impatiently.
‘May I fetch you some more coffee, sir?’
Danny’s eyes went back to the lift. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Great.’
And then, just as the waiter was bending down to retrieve his used cup, Danny said: ‘Actually, no.’
The lift doors had opened. A small crowd of people were emerging.
There were eight of them. Three women, two men, three kids. They all wore traditional Arabic dress. Danny’s eyes picked out the faces of the two men. One of them had the distinctive crooked nose he was looking for. He spoke into his covert radio as the waiter walked away. ‘I’ve got eyes-on the target.’
‘Alone?’ came Spud’s voice.
‘Negative. He’s got half his fucking family with him.’
The lift doors shut, but the little group of eight Saudi nationals didn’t move more than a couple of metres away from it. The two men were deep in conversation. As he chatted away, Al-Sikriti put one hand on the arm of one of the women in what looked like a genuinely affectionate gesture, and the woman smiled at him. The remaining two women were fussing over the three children, who all looked rather surly and bored.
The lift doors opened again. Three more men emerged. Eleven surveillance targets in total. They also wore Arabic dress, but it was much plainer. They were pulling suitcases behind them.
‘Shit,’ Danny breathed. He nonchalantly pulled a twenty from his wallet and dropped it by his coffee things, then stood up and spoke into the radio again. ‘They’ve got their fucking suitcases with them. Looks like they’re leaving. Get ready to follow them.’
The group of eleven Saudis were walking towards the exit. Danny followed them from the other side of the foyer. Al-Sikriti was talking in an animated fashion to the children, gesturing extravagantly. The children’s faces suddenly lit up at this attention from their father. They even laughed. When they reached the exit, Al-Sikriti and his family held back while the three men in plainer clothes took the suitcases outside.
Danny walked past their little group, close enough to hear them chatting together in Arabic, before exiting the hotel. Directly ahead of him were two Mercedes, black, dark windows. The boots of each car were open and the assistants in plain dishdashes were loading the suitcases into the vehicles. The front and rear doors on the hotel side were all open, and two liveried chauffeurs stood by each car, waiting for their passengers. Danny hooked round to the right and pulled his packet of Marlboros and the lighter from his pocket. He cupped his hands against the breeze over the end of a cigarette, and lit up. Acrid smoke filled his mouth. He inhaled it deeply. And he kept eyes on the Mercedes. If Spud was going to follow whichever vehicle Al-Sikriti climbed into, he’d need the plates. Though by the look of things, the family were heading to the airport. So much for hookers and marching powder. This guy looked well and truly under the thumb.
The family emerged. Danny took another drag on his cigarette. He picked out Al-Sikriti again. He was embracing one of the women. Then he bent down and did the same to the children.
‘Hold up,’ Danny said into his radio. ‘I think the target’s staying here.’
Sure enough, thirty seconds later the women and children, along with the three male assistants – nine of the surveillance targets in all – had climbed into the cars. Al-Sikriti and the second man stood on the kerbside as the chauffeurs closed the doors on the family, then got behind the wheel. The two-car convoy pulled away. Danny snapped his attention back to Al-Sikriti. The jolliness in his demeanour had fallen away, replaced by something more serious. Wordlessly, he and his companion walked back into the hotel.
Danny stubbed his cigarette and followed. Back inside the foyer he watched as the two Saudi men returned to the lift and disappeared inside. Once more, Danny took a seat on one of the leather sofas.
Once more, he ordered coffee, and waited.
Another hour passed. Danny only pretended to sip his coffee. Too much liquid and he’d need a piss – not possible, when there was only him conducting the surveillance. The pianist finished playing. The clientele changed. Their clothes became more formal: women tarted up for dinner, blokes wearing evening suits. He was aware of two waiters eyeing him from the far side of the foyer. They were clearly talking about him, perhaps discussing whether they should ask him to leave for sitting here so long for only the price of a couple of coffees. He was beginning to think that he should get Spud to swap places with him, when the lift doors opened again.
A less sharp observer would have missed him.
Al-Sikriti looked completely different. The formal Arabic garb had gone. Instead he wore an immaculately cut grey suit with a pale pink shirt, open at the collar. His hair was waxed into place. He was accompanied by the same guy, who was similarly dressed. And on either arm, a girl. One brunette, one blonde, neither much older than eighteen, both of them wearing short, tight dresses that hugged their thighs and pushed their breasts skywards. They both wore diamond necklaces that glittered in the light from the chandeliers, and they gazed at Al-Sikriti like adoring puppies.
You sleazy bastard, Danny thought to himself, unable to stop a momentary flash of grudging admiration.
Al-Sikriti, his mate and the two birds cut through the throng in the foyer as they headed to the exit. Danny got on to the radio. ‘He’s leaving. Looks like you were right – he’s all Miami Vice with a couple of pros on his arm.’
‘Surprise surprise,’ Spud said. ‘There’s a limo waiting at the entrance. Looks like our man’s planning to have it large tonight, now the ball and chain’s on a flight back to the desert.’
Danny followed them outside. It was dark now, and already cold enough for his breath to steam. He took up the same position as before, and once again lit a cigarette. One of the hotel doormen stood at the back door of a waiting limo. The two girls giggled as they bundled into the back. Al-Sikriti slapped one of them on the arse as she disapeared into the car. Al-Sikriti turned to the other man, his face suddenly more serious, and gave him some kind of instruction. The other man nodded, looked rather wistfully towards the open door through which the two girls had disappeared, and turned to walk back into the hotel.
As Al-Sikriti climbed into the car, Danny strolled past. He saw a bucket of champagne which the girls were already pouring, and a blacked-out screen between them and the chauffeur at the front. He tried to get a glimpse of the chauffeur from outside, but the front side windows were also blacked out and before he could get an angle through the windscreen, the limo slid away from the hotel. Danny watched it go – not overtly, but from the corner of his eye. As it turned into Park Lane, Danny saw the unmistakable
shadow of a black Land Rover Discovery pull out behind it and keep its tail.
Danny dropped his cigarette and stubbed it out with his foot. He walked away from the hotel and started pacing the length of Park Lane. Spud was on the case now. As soon as Al-Sikriti and his escorts had reached their destination, he’d let Danny . . .
‘Okay, mucker,’ came Spud’s voice over the earpiece. ‘Prince Charming and his two fairy godmothers have just debussed outside the Golden Flamingo casino.’
‘They going in?’ Danny asked.
‘Yep. They must have been expecting him – some flunky’s just come out to open the car door.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
‘Stick a monkey on red for me,’ Spud replied. ‘I’m feeling lucky.’
Danny’s mate gave him the address. Sure enough, ten minutes later, Danny was on the outskirts of the West End, standing outside the Golden Flamingo. It was nondescript: an ordinary doorway in a Regency terrace with nothing more than a brass plaque the size of a letterbox to indicate the nature of the establishment. It was clearly a private casino. The door was locked, so Danny had to ring a bell to get access. He didn’t have to wait more than five seconds for the door to swing open. A neat little man with thinning hair gave him a patronising smile.
‘May I help you, sir?’
‘Here for a flutter,’ Danny said.
‘Unfortunately, sir, this is a members-only club.’
Danny nodded, then pulled his security services ID from his back pocket. ‘Here’s my membership card,’ he said. The doorman took it, and an uncertain look crossed his face. He didn’t look any more eager to let Danny in, so Danny leaned in and spoke close to his ear. ‘One phone call, mate,’ he blagged, ‘and I’ll have ten police cars pumping neon light outside your front door for the rest of the night. Could be bad for business. Or you could just let me in, and you’ll hardly know I’m here. Choice is yours.’