The Rhythm Section--A Stephanie Patrick Thriller

by Mark Burnell

  He kissed her again and she felt his fingers fumbling with the buttons on her shirt and she wished she had worn something else.

  ‘Is this what you brought me here for?’ she asked, tersely.

  ‘Would you be angry if it was?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Well, it isn’t.’

  He took her hand and led her through to the bedroom.

  Five hours ago, in London, she had made love with Frank. Now, in an apartment on the rue de Rivoli, it was Serra’s mouth that was busy with her nipples, that traced a line over her stomach and pressed itself between her thighs. Petra closed her eyes and tried to remember how to play the part.

  Half an hour later, they were in Serra’s living room. He was drinking a glass of wine, Petra was having Coke. She hadn’t bothered to shower—she’d been in a hurry to cover herself—and now she regretted it. She felt dirty. In both body and mind.

  ‘Tell me about Khalil,’ she said.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’m curious. He’s a name to everyone but nothing more.’

  ‘Like you are.’

  ‘But not to you. Who is he? What do you know about him?’

  Serra shrugged. ‘Only what I’ve been told myself and none of it came from him.’

  ‘But you know him better than most, right?’

  ‘Of course. But that doesn’t mean it’s all true.’

  ‘I understand that.’

  Serra lit a cigarette with a match. ‘As far as I know, Khalil was probably born in Kuwait City in 1966. His father may have been Mohammed Khalid Mahmud, an engineer from the Baluchi tribe in Pakistan. His mother may have been Palestinian and still nobody knows Khalil’s full name. If, however, these were his parents, then Khalil was raised in the Fuhayhil area of Kuwait City, which is a working-class district with a large Palestinian population. In 1986, Mohammed Khalid Mahmud returned to Pakistan, settling in Peshawar in the Northwest Frontier. By this time, as you know, Peshawar had become a strategic launching pad for the Mujahidin who were conducting their war against the Soviets just across the border in Afghanistan. So Khalil’s experiences in Kuwait City and Peshawar probably provided the basis for what he has become.’

  Petra drank from her can. ‘I know that he took spiritual guidance from Sheikh Abdul Kamal Qassam and that like Sheikh Omar Abdel Rahman, Qassam was convicted by a New York Court. That would be enough to give Khalil motive, but without finance, there’s no end-product.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘And you organize money on his behalf so what I’d like to know is this: where does it come from originally?’

  ‘Kamal Ibrahim Karim.’

  ‘I don’t think I know him.’

  ‘A follower of Osama bin Laden. Karim was trained in one of the Algerian camps financed by bin Laden. Where Karim differs from most of bin Laden’s followers is in the fact that he is rich, like bin Laden himself. Karim’s family have amassed hundreds of millions of dollars through oil, shipping, construction and banking. I don’t know the true value of Karim’s own fortune but it is certainly more than one hundred million dollars. He’s not Khalil’s only sponsor but he’s the main one.’

  ‘Are they ideologically aligned?’

  ‘Only in the sense that the United States is the number one enemy. Karim may be a Pakistani but he follows the Wahhabi sect of Sunni Islam, which is predominant in Saudi Arabia. Saudi Arabia has a special status throughout the Islamic world because it is home to the two holiest shrines in Islam: Haram al-Sharif, the Noble Shrine, and Masjed an-Nabi, the Prophet’s Mosque. For these two reasons alone, Kamal Karim finds it totally unacceptable that there should be American soldiers—Christian soldiers—on Saudi soil. They insult Islam by being there. That is his primary motivation. But even if they withdrew tomorrow, the United States would still be the number one enemy because of its support of Israel and for being a nation of Cross-worshippers. Until the enemies of Islam are defeated, there can be no rest. For Khalil, though, the matter is more personal. He craves revenge for the imprisonment of Sheikh Abdul Kamal Qassam.’

  ‘Khalil and Karim—how was their alliance made?’

  ‘Karim is based in Peshawar, where Mohammed Khalid Mahmud moved in 1986, so the chances are it had something to do with that. It would certainly lend credibility to the theory that Mahmud is Khalil’s father.’

  ‘Unless that theory itself was floated as a piece of misinformation.’

  ‘True.’

  Petra sat cross-legged on the sofa but Serra was pacing.

  ‘How long are you staying in Paris?’ he asked.

  Her lying response was automatic. ‘I’m flying to Zurich early this evening.’

  Serra raised an eyebrow. ‘Zurich?’

  ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, some slight mockery in his tone. ‘I should have known better.’

  ‘Yes, you should’ve.’

  ‘There’s no chance of you staying tonight, then?’

  ‘No chance.’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘That’s a shame.’ She reciprocated the dumb smile. He said, ‘Since you left, I’ve been thinking about you. About us.’

  Play the game. She dropped her gaze in an effort to look coy, a look which had never been natural to her. ‘So have I. More than I should have.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  She looked up. ‘It means that it could be dangerous for us.’

  Serra nodded and then said, ‘I have something to ask you that needs an immediate answer.’

  ‘And for this, I had to come here?’

  ‘There was no other way to discuss it. And there isn’t much time. Depending on what you say, I’ll need to make preparations straight away.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Khalil wants you to be a sleeper.’

  Petra took her time. ‘A hostage situation, then?’

  Serra nodded. ‘A hijack.’

  ‘On an aircraft?’

  ‘Yes.’

  During a hijack, it was a sleeper’s job to masquerade as one of the hostages. From this position, they spied on the hijackers, the aircraft’s crew and any on-board security. They did not participate in the hijack themselves, even in the event of the operation going wrong.

  ‘The answer’s no. Hijacks are too difficult to control.’

  ‘Not this one.’

  ‘Every hijacker thinks they have it worked out. Unless they want to die. And I’m not in that category.’

  ‘Believe me, the outcome of this hijack is assured. The hostages will be released. You will be one of them.’

  ‘Why me? Why not one of the hijack team?’

  ‘Khalil wants an outsider, someone who did not train with them. A non-Muslim. Someone he can trust.’

  She laughed at the irony. ‘So much for faith within religion. He thinks he can trust me just because he’s hired me?’

  Petra knew as well as Stephanie that money was no guarantee of loyalty.

  ‘No. He knows he cannot trust you. That’s why he wants you to do it on the same basis as New York. For the money.’

  ‘What’s the angle?’

  ‘He wants to meet you.’

  ‘There are easier ways.’

  ‘Not to meet Khalil. He is obsessive about security. He avoids all conventional meetings. He is suspicious of everyone and constantly fearful of identification, or something even worse. In this case, though, he sees a way.’

  ‘Let me guess. He’s going to be in the seat next to me?’

  ‘He won’t be on the aircraft. But he will be waiting for you when you get off it.’

  Petra had to concede that her curiosity was pricked. ‘Go on.’

  Serra stopped pacing and sat in the armchair nearest her. He leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, his voice lowered as though they were in a public place and might be overheard.

  ‘The aircraft will come down in Malta. It will be on the ground for a matter of hours—maybe twenty-four or so—and then the hostag
es will be released.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they will have served their purpose.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘You don’t need to know that.’

  ‘Where’s this flight supposed to be going?’

  ‘That remains a secret, too.’

  ‘Along with its place of departure, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And the timing?’ He gave her a dismissive look, to which she said, ‘You’ll have to tell me sooner or later.’

  ‘I know. And it’ll be later. At the moment when it is necessary and not before.’

  Petra found a smile from somewhere and said, ‘I’m glad to see that despite our situation, you haven’t lost your edge. We can share anything except trust.’

  Serra leaned back and exhaled blue smoke. ‘Unnecessary information should never be given out, not even to one’s closest friends. The Prophet Mohammed said, “He who keeps secrets shall soon attain his objectives.”’

  ‘You’re a regular reader of the Qur’an, are you?’

  ‘I’ve found that in my line of work, it pays to have some knowledge of it.’

  ‘Oh, I can imagine.’

  ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘It’s too sudden.’

  ‘I know, I know. But I need an answer.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Why me?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I assume this plan has been in development for some time. Khalil must have known that he was going to need a non-Muslim sleeper. Why did he leave it so late? That doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘There was a sleeper in place. But he is no longer available.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He had a car accident.’

  ‘Right.’ Petra manufactured a knowing smile. ‘What really happened?’

  Serra gesticulated with his hands. ‘It’s the truth. It was the kind of thing that could happen to anyone. He broke both his legs.’

  ‘He’s not dead, then?’

  ‘No. Just hospitalized.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Three days ago. Right here, in Paris.’

  ‘So I’m a substitute?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘How does Khalil fit into all of this? Was he going to meet the man I’m replacing?’

  ‘No. But when—how shall we say it?—this vacancy arose, he saw an opportunity. Khalil will be in Malta when the plane is on the ground. That was always his intention.’

  Another jolt to the system.

  ‘Along with a lot of security.’

  Serra smiled. ‘If you know Malta, it’s an easy place to lose yourself. Khalil visits the island and moves around it as he pleases. He has always felt comfortable there. It’s like a second home to him.’

  ‘What does he have in mind for me?’

  Serra shrugged. ‘I don’t know the details. But he’ll find a way to contact you.’

  Khalil on Malta. The idea crystallized. But to get there—to get the chance she needed—there was the hijack. And, for the moment, it was a hijack without details.

  Serra was asking her what she thought about the proposal.

  Petra tried to gather her scattered thoughts. ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘I realize it is very quick. But I have to have a yes or no.’

  ‘And I have to have some time. Not much, but some.’

  ‘Is it a question of money?’

  ‘It’s always a question of money.’ Serra opened his mouth—presumably to make a generous offer—but Petra cut him short. ‘But I know that Khalil will pay whatever I ask, so in this case, it’s a question of something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Prophet Mohammed said, “He who keeps secrets shall soon attain his objectives.” Like me, you’ll just have to wait and see.’

  24

  As instructed, Petra left the Eurostar Terminal at Waterloo by foot and headed for Waterloo Bridge. She had called Magenta House from Paris and had been told that she would be met. The rain was torrential, reducing the roads to a shimmer. She was passing the National Theatre on her right when a black Mercedes pulled to the kerb. Alexander was in the back. Petra climbed in beside him, glad to be out of the rain, if nothing else. She shook her head, spraying drops of water over the leather seats.

  ‘Why the call?’ Alexander asked.

  ‘I know who the Sons of Sabah are.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Khalil has planned a hijack. They’re the team who’ve been trained to carry it out.’

  ‘Serra told you this?’

  ‘Not exactly. But it all fits.’

  ‘Why’s he letting you in on it?’

  ‘Because he wants me on board as a sleeper.’

  ‘What kind of sleeper? What do you have to do?’

  ‘He hasn’t said. I’m supposed to be replacing the original sleeper who had an unfortunate accident in Paris a few days ago. A car crash. Both his legs were broken. The thing is, Serra needs an answer immediately. That’s why I called. I need to know about the car crash.’

  Alexander nodded. ‘It shouldn’t be a problem.’

  They were halfway across Waterloo Bridge. To her left, Petra could see the large Adelphi building, monumental in the night. Magenta House, however, was invisible behind the black branches belonging to the trees in Victoria Embankment Gardens, although she caught fragments of light which might have been from its windows. Magenta House never slept. Nor, by reputation, did Alexander.

  ‘A hijack,’ he mused. ‘As far as I know, it would be a first for Khalil.’

  ‘There’s something that doesn’t feel right about this, don’t you think?’

  ‘Is Khalil part of the team?’

  ‘No. But he’ll be there at the end. That’s the point of my inclusion, apparently.’

  ‘And where will the end be?’

  Petra opened her mouth and then shut it. She thought of Rio de Janeiro and New York, two straightforward operations that had gone wrong.

  ‘I don’t know. Serra wouldn’t give me any details. No flight, no date, no places. But he’s in a hurry so we can assume that it’s imminent.’

  ‘You don’t even know where you will meet Khalil?’

  She shook her head.

  They drove across Trafalgar Square and headed along the Mall towards Buckingham Palace, where they veered right up Constitution Hill to Hyde Park. Alexander dropped her by the Inter-Continental. From there, it was a five-minute walk to her flat but she was drenched by the time she reached it.

  She shed her damp clothes in the bedroom and took a hot shower. Afterwards, she wrapped herself in a towel and made herself hot chocolate flavoured with cinnamon. She flicked through her meagre collection of CDs and picked out ‘OK Computer’ by Radiohead. Then she called Frank.

  ‘I’m back,’ she told him before he’d had a chance to say anything.

  ‘Do you want to come over?’

  ‘No. I’m too knackered. I want you to come here.’

  Forty seconds later, there was a knock on the door. They kissed. Petra led him into the kitchen, where she offered him the remains of the chocolate.

  ‘No thanks. It looks like you could use it more than me.’

  She rested her head on his shoulder. ‘You’ve no idea.’

  In the sitting room, they lay on the sofa in one another’s arms and were largely silent until Frank asked her, ‘What is this we’re listening to?’

  The song was ‘Exit Music (For A Film)’.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  He grimaced. ‘It’s suicidal.’

  ‘I know. But do you like it?’

  ‘What’s there to like? It’s depressing.’

  ‘That’s the best kind of music there is. My idea of Hell is the Beach Boys.’

  ‘You don’t like to be uplifted?’

  ‘This is uplifting.’

  They went to bed and Petra remained awake despite her exhaustion. The phone rang at ten past one
. Yes, they had found the man in question. There had been a seven-car collision the previous week on the Boulevard Périphérique, near the Porte de Bercy. One woman had been killed, four people had been injured, including Eduardo Montoya, an Argentinian tourist. Both Montoya’s legs had been broken and, after initial treatment, he was now recovering in a private clinic. The voice on the other end of the phone told Petra that Montoya was really Hugo Pentoral, a Venezuelan national who had started out in the narcotics trade and who had spent the last three years operating in Europe as a lowly-paid, unskilled assassin, specializing in the Eastern bloc, where his targets tended to be unprotected government officials who had the nerve to be honest. Petra put the phone down quietly but Frank was awake.

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Nothing but,’ replied Petra, slipping out of bed.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ve got send to send an e-mail to someone.’

  ‘At this hour?’

  * * *

  It is cold in the sitting room, which is appropriate. I think of the people who are due to fly on the aircraft that Khalil intends to hijack. They are the same people who were on flight NE027. They are my family, they could even be me.

  In the back of the minds of air travellers, those little questions linger. Will we be delayed? Will an engine fail? Will we crash and be killed? But how many people actually worry about being hijacked? We see it on the TV and imagine the horror but we console ourselves with the statistical improbability of suffering such a fate. But somewhere out there, right now, people are plotting to seize commercial airliners or blow them out of the sky. Like being involved in a car crash, being a victim of terrorism always happens to other people. Until it happens to you. And then it’s too late to do anything about it.

  I send an e-mail to Serra.

  * * *

  The sign on the basement door said the Anglo-Egyptian Cargo Company was closed. Beyond the rusted railings, weeds sprouted from cracks in the concrete. Pollution had turned the grass grey. Petra pushed the gate open and stepped off the Earls Court Road. Behind her, the evening rush-hour crawled towards the Thames. She went down the steps to the basement. The company sign was nailed above a door which had iron bars across a panel of frosted glass. She peered through the main window, which was similarly protected, but could see nothing. Beyond the grime, the curtains were drawn.