Cobra 405

by Damien Lewis

  The Searcher stared at the damaged bar – and the longer he did so the more a dark doubt seeped into him, like poison. He stuffed it into one of the deep pockets of his robe and ordered the shipping container closed. Then he called together the Brothers from the previous night’s mission and ordered them to accompany him to the camp’s armoury. After all the fighting they had to rearm themselves, he explained, before they could relax and enjoy the day’s celebrations. After all, a Black Assassin had always to be combat-ready …

  They drove in convoy to the far end of the camp. Here there was a sunken firing range and an underground armoury. The Searcher was confident that Abu Jihad, the armourer, would be at work, as always. He wore jam-jar glasses and had the skin of a worm, as he never saw the light of day. Brother Jihad never seemed to rest from his bomb-making activities as he sought to better refine the weaponry that the Brothers had at their disposal. And he certainly knew how to build his bombs.

  The Searcher had the Brothers park their vehicles in the armoury’s bunker-like compound, and Abu Jihad began to issue them with a resupply of ammunition. Once the process was complete, The Searcher dismissed the other Brothers and told them to wait for him outside. Alone with Abu Jihad at last, The Searcher turned to speak to him about what was on his mind. Brother Jihad had been a scientist of some standing in his past life, before he had given up everything to dedicate himself to the cause of the Black Assassins.

  ‘I’m curious – how does one test for gold, Brother Jihad?’ he asked.

  Brother Jihad snorted. ‘This gold shipment – the whole camp has gone mad with gold fever. Well, they can keep it, if you ask me. What is it? A yellow metal. What’s to be so excited about?’

  ‘Of course … But do you know how to test for gold, Brother?’ The Searcher persisted.

  ‘It’s simple, isn’t it? You weigh it. There’s very little in this world that weighs as heavy as gold. If you’re still in doubt then you drill into it, and test the filings with nitric acid. If that doesn’t do it for you, you have to use an X-ray fluorescence spectrometer.’

  ‘Can you do anything like that here, Brother?’

  Abu Jihad glanced up through his thick glasses. ‘You have something you need testing, Brother? Where is it?’

  The Searcher produced the damaged bar from under his robes. He showed it to Brother Jihad, tracing the line of the bullet mark with his fingers. ‘This is what worries me,’ he announced. ‘Is that the silver of the lead from the bullet or …?’

  ‘Or the inside of the “gold” bar, you mean?’ Abu Jihad took the bar and weighed it in his hands. ‘Feels about the right weight.’ He grabbed a set of scales and placed the bar on them. ‘I normally use these for weighing the explosives, so I get exactly the right amount for each belt.’ He scribbled down a number. ‘Right, the weight in grammes divided by the volume of the bar in cubic centimetres should equal nineteen-point-three if it is gold …’ He punched some numbers into his calculator. ‘Hmm … nineteen-point-one. Within the margin of error.’

  Brother Jihad reached over and grabbed a drill. ‘I guess I’d better do the acid test.’

  He placed the golden bar on the bench, pulled the drill’s trigger and pressed the bit into the soft metal. For a microsecond it turned out an exquisite fluff of golden filings, but then they changed to a bright silver as the drill cut into the lead. A few seconds after that the note of the drill changed as it hit the tungsten core and struggled to cut deeper. A puff of smoke rose from the drill, and the acrid smell of burning metal filled Brother Jihad’s workshop.

  ‘There’s your answer,’ Abu Jihad remarked, failing to notice that The Searcher had gone white as a sheet. ‘Gold plate, then it looks like a three-mil layer of lead, with a very hard metal core. I wonder what metal it is? Fascinating … Maybe tungsten?’

  Abu Jihad glanced up, but The Searcher was nowhere to be seen. He had already bolted from the room.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  NICK COLES RAN a tired hand across his face. It had been a long day and a long night, and it was far from over yet. He’d been on the go for forty-eight hours, and all that was keeping him awake was caffeine and adrenalin. Still, just a little longer and Kilbride’s twenty-four-hour window would have expired, and they could blow the tungsten bomb. As far as Nick was concerned the time couldn’t pass too quickly. The whole of the Black Assassins, some three hundred fighters or more, were gathered around the shipping container. Even the Old Man himself was there. A carnival atmosphere had taken over their camp. It was the perfect time to hit the button and detonate the bomb.

  Nick heard a squelch of static in his earphones, which meant that a signal was coming in from GCHQ, the British Government’s electronic-intercept centre. His computer screen told him that it was a phone intercept, and from the code name he knew it was The Searcher making the call. A disembodied voice started talking in his headphones, providing a simultaneous translation of the Arabic phone call.

  The Searcher spoke first. ‘Your Holiness – pull everyone back from the container!’

  The Old Man answered. ‘What? Brother Mohajir? Speak up!’

  ‘Get everyone back. Save yourselves. It’s a trap!’

  ‘A trap? How is it possible …?’

  ‘Move, Your Holiness! Get the Brothers moving. Now! Move! Into the bunkers!’

  Nick felt his blood run cold. Somehow, The Searcher was on to them. He snapped off his headphones and turned to his boss.

  ‘Sir, they know it’s a trap. We have to hit them now, sir. Now!’

  ‘You certain, Nick?’

  ‘Absolutely. Now, sir.’

  ‘Then do it, Nick. Blow it sky-high.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Nick turned back to his computer and started punching in a sequence of numbers and letters – the code word to trigger the charge of RDX explosives at the heart of the tungsten bomb.

  The Old Man stumbled to his feet. In his right hand the mobile phone was still connected, and The Searcher’s voice was screaming at him to pull the Brothers back from the shipping container. One of the Brothers was on his feet, rocking gently backwards and forwards, halfway through a Koran recital, his eyes closed and his voice pitch-perfect in its sonorous incantation. The Brothers were transported by the Koran chanting to another, faraway place, where birds sang and the rivers ran clear and the girls—

  ‘Everyone back,’ the Old Man cried, his words choking on the harsh dry fear in his mouth. ‘Everyone back!’

  He tried to shout louder, stabbing a gnarled finger towards the shipping container, but the words died in his throat. He lashed out with his cane against those at his feet, flailing about like a madman. For a second the Brothers stared at him in total confusion – and then they were struck by a sudden realisation of what the Old Man was trying to tell them.

  He was mouthing a single phrase over and over and over again: ‘It’s a bomb! A bomb! A bomb!’

  A wave of hysteria rippled outwards from the Old Man: Brother stumbled over Brother as the Black Assassins’ Holy Day transformed into a moment of panic and fear. At exactly that instant a tiny radio receiver at the heart of the shipping container bleeped once, as Nick Coles’s coded message was received and understood. A split second later a small detonator charge ignited, and a microsecond after that one thousand kilos of RDX exploded with a force like that of a small atomic bomb.

  The steel walls of the shipping container vaporised instantly as a hundred thousand shards of jagged metal death blasted forth, pulverising the tractor unit of the truck and igniting its fuel tank in a giant ball of flame. The fearsome metal vortex pulsed outwards from the epicentre of the blast with an unsurpassed lethality, scything down all in its path. An instant later the assembled mass of the Black Assassins had ceased to exist, their bodies struck down and shredded as an awesome wave of devastation swept over them.

  Because of its immense density and hardness, the tungsten fragments had absorbed virtually the full energy of the explosion. The wave of death rippled onwards
across the valley floor, tearing into the Assassins’ vehicle compound and shredding the Toyota pick-ups as if they were paper. Burning-hot shards of tungsten lacerated the fuel tanks, and in seconds the compound became a sea of boiling flame. The main oil-storage tank was hit, shards of metal slicing through it like a thousand hot knives through butter. A massive belch of oily smoke shot skywards as the ten-thousand-litre fuel tank burst asunder, a tidal wave of fire engulfing the adjacent communications centre and the office block.

  The wall of metal death pulsed onwards and outwards, obliterating the camp of the Black Assassins … before finally expending the last of its awesome power on the distant valley walls.

  Nick Coles punched some keys on his computer terminal and pulled up a satellite photo. It had been taken just seconds after the detonation, and the image took his very breath away. He stared into his screen at a terrible scene of utter devastation. Not a single thing remained alive down there. The valley of the Black Assassins had taken on the hue of a scorched and blasted wasteland. Nick cast his mind back to the carnival that had been under way just minutes earlier.

  ‘Absolutely incredible,’ he murmured. ‘Absolutely incredible … Sir.’ He gestured towards his computer screen. ‘This just in, sir. Taken seconds after the blast.’

  ‘Christ … That’s extraordinary. Not a soul left standing, eh?’

  ‘Absolutely incredible,’ Nick repeated, unable to tear his stare away from the image on the screen.

  ‘I think “awesome” is the word they use these days, Nick. In any case, I think we can safely say we’ve done for them, don’t you? Get a copy of this to the Americans – General Peters at SOCOM, in particular. I think they owe us some heartfelt congratulations.’

  ‘I suspect there may have been one or two survivors, sir,’ Nick ventured.

  ‘You do? Who?’

  ‘That phone intercept … It was The Searcher, sir. I think he may have been absent from the area when the blast took place, along with a handful of his men. I’m just trying to acquire some imagery to confirm it.’

  ‘Damn! Still, two hundred and eighty out of three hundred isn’t so bad, is it, Nick? We got most of them, the Old Man included. I’d say the Black Assassins are finished. Get the imagery to the Americans. It’s still very much our day …’

  At the far end of the valley the blast wave had felt like an express train running right over them. Luckily, the ranges and the armoury were below ground level. Even so, several stray shards of tungsten had struck the vehicles, and Sajid had taken a flesh wound. Otherwise, The Searcher and his men had escaped more or less unharmed. But he could only imagine what horrors had befallen the mass of Brothers gathered around that shipping container. And as for the Old Man himself … His face set like cold stone, The Searcher ordered his two dozen fighters back to the main camp.

  Upon arrival they were met by a scene of indescribable horror. Where the truck and the shipping container had once stood there was now just a vast crater. The ground had been scoured clear of all vegetation – not a tree or a blade of grass left standing. And as for the Brothers, not a living soul was to be found. A discarded boot here, a blasted, buckled weapon there; a chunk of barely recognisable human flesh … Their sacred camp, the Holy Mission, the Cause – all of it had been obliterated for ever.

  The Searcher sank to his knees in the centre of the devastation. His fingers closed around a blackened, broken cane. It was the Old Man’s walking stick. The Old Man had perished here. Somewhere among these pulverised human remains there lay the heart of His Holiness – cold, lifeless and dead. Yet The Searcher couldn’t even find the pieces of his body to give him a proper burial. He bowed his head to the bloodied earth and wept as he had never wept before.

  How could he have done this? The Searcher asked himself. He was responsible. He had captured the container of fool’s gold; he had brought it into the heart of their stronghold; he had called the Old Man to celebrate; he had gathered the Brothers … He had fallen for the enemy’s evil trick. In short, he had killed them. He had killed them all. He had brought a terrible death to the Black Assassins, and an end to all their worldly dreams.

  The Searcher felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Sajid and Abdul. ‘The Brothers are wondering … what should we do?’ Sajid whispered.

  Their faces were stained with tears, their eyes hollow and empty. The sight goaded The Searcher into some form of action.

  ‘There is only one thing left, Brothers,’ he replied, through gritted teeth. ‘We must find those responsible for this terrible crime, this sin beyond all sin. And we must make them pay for it with their pain and their blood.’

  ‘But how, Brother Mohajir?’ Sajid asked. ‘We are finished …’

  ‘We are still breathing God’s air, and whilst we still have breath we can fight. First, contact all our brothers in the Lebanon. Tell them to surround the airport. Give a full description of the vehicle being used by these murderous infidel dogs. And mobilise our friends to comb the country for anything suspicious, anything that might lead us to these infidel whores … Anything at all, Brother. I feel it in my heart that they are still in the country, and that we shall be avenged before God with their blood.’

  The Searcher strode across to his vehicle and pulled out a small black briefcase. He unclipped the lid and flipped it open so as to form a small satellite dish. At least he still had his satphone. It would take him a while to acquire the three satellites that he needed for a firm enough signal. And he needed to charge up the satphone’s battery, which meant he would have to run his vehicle for a while. But he would be patient. All things were possible with time.

  And now he had all the time in the world.

  It was the ringing of the Thuraya that had woken him. Kilbride groped for it sleepily and held the handset to his ear.

  ‘Yeah, what is it?’

  ‘We hit the detonate button, Kilbride.’ It was Nick Coles’s voice, and he was sounding exhausted. ‘We had to. Sorry. But they’d rumbled our game. I promised to let you know if we did, hence the call. Ten minutes ago – and total devastation. If you’ve got the Psion handy I’ll send you some pictures.’

  ‘No need, Nick. Were there any survivors?’

  ‘A handful. We’re just getting some images through. Maybe two dozen, out of three hundred. I’d say they’re finished, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘That’s still enough to come after us, Nick. Keep an eye on them, will you? If they move, I want to know about it, okay?’

  Kilbride glanced at his watch. It was 1.45 p.m. He’d been asleep for six hours or so, lying in the shade of their battle-worn jeep. He felt remarkably refreshed. They would need to get on the move soon. The drive out of Wadi Jehannam would take a good three hours, probably more with an injured man in the vehicle’s rear. The road was rough, and they would need to take it slow. And then it was another three hours to the Tripoli docks.

  Kilbride grabbed an opened tin of rice pudding and spooned some into his mouth. It was good energy food and fine eaten cold.

  Nick Coles was feeling mightily pleased with himself. It was mission accomplished, or pretty much so, and he was driving home for the first good night’s sleep in three days. He was looking forward to the weekend. His daughter was coming to visit with her long-standing boyfriend. There were rumours of an engagement, and although Nick didn’t think the man was quite good enough for her – an archaeology student, of all things – the prospect of grandchildren pleased him no end. It would be something to sweeten his retirement, and Lord knew he needed it with that dragon of a wife with whom to contend.

  He took the turn-off from the M3 to the A303 and began the long drive into the Wiltshire countryside. He had moved out of London five years ago, first to rented accommodation and then to the converted farmhouse. On one level they hadn’t been able to afford it, but there was a little family money, and his government pension wouldn’t see him too badly off. In any case it was his dream retirement home, and after thirty-nine years of serving his
country Nick Coles reckoned he’d earned it. Most importantly, there was the annexe – a place where he could hide from the wife and find a little peace in the world.

  There was a soft trilling from his mobile. Perhaps it was his daughter phoning about the weekend. Nick punched the answer key on his hands-free and spoke into the speaker.

  ‘Nick here.’

  Silence for a second, unnerving in an odd sort of way.

  ‘Erm, Nick Coles. Who is it?’

  ‘You’re dead, Nick.’

  ‘Who is this?’ he blustered, although he’d recognised the voice instantly.

  ‘You’re dead.’ A cold statement of fact. The voice of The Searcher. Flat. Dead. Lifeless. Chilling. ‘Maybe not this week. Not this month. Not this year, even. But every day you’ll be glancing over your shoulder, Nick, running from shadows. I want you to know and to feel every day what it’s like to face your death …’

  ‘You didn’t appreciate our little present, then?’ Nick tried to put steel into his voice, but a cold chill had gripped him.

  ‘You killed him. The Sheikh. His Holiness. Snuffed out his life … I’ve nothing left to live for. You killed the dream. All that’s left is to kill you, Nick. Your death is what’s keeping me going. You’re a dead man, as sure as there is only one true God. Better get used to it.’

  ‘And Kilbride? He sold you the lie, didn’t he, Knotty? And like a fool—’

  ‘Dead, too, as soon as we find him. And we will. You killed the figurehead, Nick, but we have thousands of supporters. You can’t conceive how much they hate you, and those like you. With their help we’ll find him. And then I’m coming for you.’