The PM shot a glance at his watch. ‘Too many people have created multiple identities and, currently, are able to get away with it. In future they will have to decide which one they will use, or they will be caught out. In the few instances where people have identical names and dates of birth, they will be asked to provide an additional forename or given name to differentiate them. Furthermore, the Homeland Courts will preside over issues relating to privacy, bugging and the scope of the Information Commissioner and the Data Protection Agency. These courts will champion the freedom of the individual, whilst being mindful of the threats posed by criminals.’
The PM’s voice gained a steely note. ‘We shall never give in to terrorism; however, we have to accept the painful truth that our trusting attitude has enabled terrorists to prosper unchallenged in our society.’
Once again Rafi’s attention shifted to the action on the big screen and he stopped following the events in the House of Commons in order to focus on Safi.
Dakka Dudayev had left Golden Sundancer and was enjoying a cigarette on the quayside. Janet and Anna waved at him and his brief acknowledgement was taken by them as an invitation to approach him. They hopped off Puddle Jumper and, in a carefree manner, walked around the harbour towards Dakka, with their caftans flowing in the wind. The material was bunched up and tied around their waists, thus obscuring the small pistols that were tucked into their bikini bottoms. Under their hair, out of sight, were miniature headphones, and tiny microphones were hidden in their bikini tops.
Janet approached Dakka as if he was the first red-blooded male she’d seen for a long while. Anna stood nearby, looking on shyly. The two women giggled like teenage girls. They looked beautiful, flirty and helpless.
At the airport, the sheikh was beginning to get annoyed by the delay. He pulled out a wad of banknotes and gave them to one of his bodyguards, with instructions to hurry the mechanic up. Minutes later, as if by magic, the mechanic reappeared carrying an aluminium stepladder on his shoulder and a large toolbox. He set up his ladder and climbed up to the rotary engine, then removed a side panel and looked in. He stood there for a minute, seemingly tinkering around. He closed the panel, gave the pilot the thumbs up and walked slowly back to the buildings.
The helicopter was ready to get on its way to Safi. The thirty-minute delay was all that had been needed.
On Golden Sundancer, the captain and Basel were still on the flybridge, while Dakka was on the quayside. This left the three remaining individuals below deck. It would soon be time for Clive and Jim to make their move.
Over the radio came the voice of the SAS man. ‘The captain is calling up the harbour master about refuelling. There’s no reply. He’s sending Sergy to investigate.’
Sergy walked up the gangway, stopped, spoke briefly with Dakka and walked off hesitantly down the harbour side. As he passed Puddle Jumper, he received a friendly ‘Good afternoon’ from the commander’s wife who was sitting in the sun on the aft deck.
Sergy was about to discover the problem. The harbour master was lying unconscious at his desk – he had had a visit from the second SAS soldier who had also bugged the room and placed a small gismo looking like a Coke can in the rubbish bin. It was a radio-controlled device containing some of the strongest knockout gas known.
Rafi’s attention switched back to the TV. The PM was in his stride. His sound bites were excellent.
‘After Stratford, nuclear weapons have become an irrelevance for this country. Worldwide, people are now aware of what a few kilograms of radiotoxins can do in a built-up area. The additional destructive power of a nuclear bomb has become superfluous. As a country we have many tonnes of plutonium and radioactive fission by-products. We also have proven delivery mechanisms that give us the wherewithal to explode a “dirty” missile anywhere in the world. This will be a sufficient deterrent in itself and therefore Trident missiles are overkill and will no longer be required by us. And this will bring massive financial savings.’
The atmosphere in the House was starting to thaw. ‘These savings will not be wasted. They will go directly to benefit the country and will be invested in our higher education system; in particular university research and development with science, the environment, engineering and linguistic departments at the forefront. Higher education has suffered from underinvestment over the past three decades, and we have seen the relative rankings of our universities on the global stage slip. Despite this, fourteen of our universities are in the top 100 in the world; twenty-five are in the top 200 and forty-three are in the top 500. These are figures we can be proud of. UK higher education is an area of international excellence. We shall build on this excellence and it will benefit our economy.’
The PM then paused and again looked at his watch. It was coming up to 14.45 – he and the Chancellor still had a lot more talking to do.
Kate nudged Rafi and pointed towards the screens.
The SAS officer watching Golden Sundancer had given the all-clear.
Clive and Jim slipped quietly on to the bathing platform. They peeled off their waterproof suits to reveal dry clothes underneath. Silently, they moved forward, their automatic pistols drawn. Talal and the captain were on the flybridge, chatting, whereas Sergy and Dakka were ashore. That left Chindriani and Hartnell below deck.
The SAS soldier’s monitoring device pinpointed the location of the two people in the cabins. Clive and Jim crept silently through the boat’s main stateroom and proceeded down the stairs to the cabins. They were directed towards the two men on their bunks.
Forty-five nail-biting seconds later Jim’s voice came over the speaker: ‘Both men are inoperative. They are gagged and tied up. Please advise when we should expect our next customer.’
Two terrorists down, six more terrorists and six bodyguards to go, Rafi thought to himself.
A long the quay, Sergy arrived at the harbour master’s office. He quietly approached the shabby front door, which was closed. His hand was tucked under his loosely fitting shirt. Forty metres away, the concealed SAS man noted that he was undoubtedly armed. Sergy looked around before he pushed the door open and entered the tired-looking building. He closed it behind him. A torrent of what Rafi could only imagine were Chechen swearwords were picked up by the listening device.
Sergy was obviously far from pleased. He pulled out a small walkie-talkie. The bug picked up his conversation with the captain. ‘The harbour master is pissed out of his mind; sprawled out cold across his desk with an empty bottle of Scotch in his hand. I’ll sober him up and come back to the boat. Out!’
The SAS officer listening in pressed the red button on the small grey box in his hand. The knockout gas in what looked like a Coke can was released into the room. Six seconds later there was a resounding thump as the Chechen’s body hit the floor.
The SAS officer moved unobtrusively from his hiding place and skirted around the back of the harbour master’s office, out of the line of sight of those on Golden Sundancer. He slipped on a clear plastic gas mask, pulled out from his back pocket a scrunched-up flannel hat and placed it on his head. He stood there, waiting for the all-clear signal from his colleague who was observing the captain on the flybridge. As Talal turned to descend the stairs to the main deck level, the SAS man casually walked around to the front of the harbour master’s office, quietly slipping inside.
A minute later Sergy was trussed up like a Christmas turkey, as was the harbour master, just in case either woke up, which, given the circumstances, was highly improbable. Both men would be out for at least two hours; far longer if either of them suffered from a weak heart or asthma.
The SAS officer radioed in that the two had been tied up and, on hearing that the coast was still clear, slipped out of the office, making sure the door was left slightly ajar to let fresh air in to disperse the knockout gas. He then walked around the back of the buildings to join his colleague watching the minders waiting for the helicopter.
As Sergy was being tied up in the harbour master’s scruffy
office, the second SAS operative warned Clive and Jim of the imminent arrival of Talal below deck.
Talal was on his way to his cabin when he was ambushed. Not being trained in unarmed combat, he didn’t stand a chance and didn’t see what was coming. Unconscious and securely trussed up, he was left by Jim in his cabin, propped up in a chair.
Outside, on the quay, Janet and Anna were doing their best to chat up Dakka.
He was interested in them, but his training told him that there would be time later. He spotted the captain descending from the flybridge and turned to leave.
In their earpieces the two women received an order: ‘Slow him down; we don’t want him on board for a couple of minutes. Will advise when it’s safe for him to board.’
Janet called after Dakka. ‘Before you go, would you by any chance have a bottle of vodka we could borrow? Our parents are so boring; they don’t like people drinking on board. Please, please; we would make it worth your while!’
Dakka stopped and gave the two attractive women an appraising look. ‘Wait there and I’ll see what I can find.’
Janet moved alongside him and followed him towards the gangplank.
‘We need another thirty seconds – don’t let him board,’ came an urgent voice over the communications link. Anna broke into a run, caught up with Janet, tripped and went flying on to the concrete quayside. She let out a howl and a series of expletives. Janet bent over her friend who was spreadeagled on the ground. ‘Sis, are you alright?’
‘Oow, I’ve really hurt my knee.’
Dakka stayed where he was, watching.
Janet helped Anna to sit up. Blood was streaming down her leg from a nasty gash in her knee.
Dakka looked down at Anna and watched, then said in a matter-of-fact manner, ‘I’ll fetch the first aid kit.’ He paused briefly and then added, ‘And a bottle of vodka. Wait here.’
Moments earlier the SAS lookout had sent a warning to Jim and Clive that the captain was on his way below deck.
The captain sensed something was wrong as he was about to enter his cabin. As he turned to investigate, he was felled by a strong blow to the side of his neck.
‘Bloody hell, Clive,’ said Jim, ‘you nearly took his head off.’
‘Yep, I didn’t know he was going to turn around.’
The captain was securely bound up and dragged to his cabin, where he was dumped on his bed.
Clive and Jim waited silently and out of sight at the bottom of the stairs.
Dakka went to a cupboard in the stateroom and pulled out a bottle of vodka, then turned and collected the first aid box from the stern deck. He walked up the gangplank to the two women huddled on the quayside. He handed them the bottle and the box. ‘Put the box on the gangway when you’ve finished. I’m busy now. I’ll come over and see you later for my reward.’
Meanwhile, Clive and Jim had climbed the stairs and were waiting in the stateroom. Their earpieces kept them informed of where their target was. Dakka walked down the gangplank and through the open door into the stateroom. His sixth sense told him he wasn’t alone. He spun around to see Jim coming at him. Instinctively, he shifted his weight from one foot to another and let fly a lethal drop kick which caught Jim just below the shoulder, knocking him backwards. Jim started to pick himself up, but was too slow: Dakka was on him, his powerful hands locked around Jim’s neck, pinning him to the floor.
There was an almighty crash. Dakka slumped unconscious across Jim’s body. The remnants of a heavy glass decanter were scattered across the carpet.
Jim struggled to regain his breath, as Clive hauled the muscled man off him. Moments later, Clive had Dakka’s arms tightly secured behind his back with reinforced plastic handcuffs.
‘Thanks mate,’ said Jim, as Clive carried on with securing the terrorist’s immobilisation.
Jim got up slowly. ‘For a heavy man, he sure moved quickly! I reckon the bugger has either broken my collarbone or dislocated my shoulder.’
‘No good asking you for a hand in getting him down below, then?’ Clive dragged Dakka across the stateroom and, with a series of loud bumps, down the stairs, and reappeared a few minutes later.
‘I’ve put him with the captain. Right, let’s have a look at you.’ Jim stood in front of Clive.
‘Lift you arm as high as you can. Is that all you can manage? Does it hurt here?’ he asked, as he prodded his collarbone area.
‘Not much.’
‘Turn around and think of something nice; your girlfriend with no clothes on – got the picture?’
Jim nodded.
Clive took hold of his arm and with a quick upward motion relocated his shoulder back into place.
‘Jesus!’ screeched Jim, ‘That was bloody painful.’
‘Come on, let’s see what you can do with your manky arm. Can you hold a gun?’
Jim nodded.
‘You’ll be useless in a fight unless the opposition has a blouse on,’ commented Clive.
Rafi smiled. Six out of six accounted for on the boat. This left the four minders on the quayside and the five in the helicopter.
The helicopter was about fifteen minutes away. The communications equipment in the Nimrod picked up the mobile phone conversation between the helicopter and one of the heavies on the quayside.
The sheikh’s bodyguard was saying, ‘Is everything OK? I’ve tried to ring the captain but there’s no answer.’
The heavy standing on the quayside looked across at Golden Sundancer. ‘All quiet here. The captain has gone below; probably getting ready to meet you.’
‘Good. We’ll be with you in about fifteen minutes.’
Rafi made a mental calculation. The operation was running about twenty minutes behind schedule. He hoped the PM and his Chancellor had sufficient material to keep talking, then noticed that the PM was handed a folded piece of paper.
Colonel Gray, standing nearby in the Ops Room, had arranged for its delivery only a few minutes earlier. The note read: ‘Terrorists on boat at Safi have been captured. The helicopter with sheikh and Jameel is en route to Safi and expected to land in next fifteen minutes. We estimate it will take sixty to seventy-five minutes to wrap things up.’
The Prime Minister paused to read the message – his face gave nothing away – turned and passed it across to his Chancellor, who read it, smiled and tapped the pile of files in his lap. The PM took a deep breath and carried on. He was a professional, carrying on as if his prolonged speech was the most natural thing in the world.
‘The role of our armed forces has to be reconsidered. Our military forces must be properly equipped to defend us against terrorist attacks. We have to change our strategy and start fighting not with brute force but with minds and souls. Post-Iraq we have surrendered the moral high ground. Our international image is tarnished. We must rebuild the trust in ourselves and our country.’
The PM was in flowing form. ‘It is time to restore our sense of fair play and equity. Warfare has changed. Warfare is moving from the macro level and large theatres of war, to the micro level and local operations. We need to refocus our military prowess and twin our military might with our anti-terrorist expertise. Stratford has been the wake-up call to end all wake-up calls. We have to be able to counter terrorist attacks on our own soil and have the wherewithal to deal with major calamities should they ever arise again. We must have personnel and equipment fit for purpose; I have asked the head of the armed forces and the Defence Minister to prepare a briefing note to this end for Cabinet. Part of their brief will be to consider the valuable role that the Territorial Army and former military personnel can play. In particular, they will look at the specialist skills they can offer, and will advise on how they might be appropriately rewarded for their part-time commitment to our military activities.’
Anna’s knee was patched up by Janet. The two women slowly walked back to Puddle Jumper clutching the first aid box and the bottle of vodka. They had been informed via their earpieces that Dakka had been overpowered.
&
nbsp; Anna smiled; the gash to her knee had been worthwhile.
On board Puddle Jumper, Anna was given a hot cup of tea by the commander’s wife. The commander was deep in thought, looking over the charts in front of him.
‘What are you looking at?’ asked Janet.
‘I reckon it’s always a good idea to know exactly where everything is, just in case things turn interesting and one has to leave in a hurry,’ came the reply.
The sound of an approaching helicopter caught their attention and that of the four heavies.
Across on Golden Sundancer, a mobile phone started ringing in the cabin where Basel had been stowed. Clive opened the door and pulled the phone out of Basel’s trouser pocket.
It was Jameel. ‘Baz, Jamie here; we’ll be landing in a couple of minutes. The sheikh is most pleased and wants to congratulate you personally. He says he’s looking forward to the London markets reopening tomorrow. He says after tomorrow he’ll have jumped up the world’s rich list by umpteen places. His positions in Frankfurt and Chicago should also show fantastic profits; he’s going to close the lot tomorrow and send the markets spiralling down. We’re all going to be so bloody rich it’ll be difficult to count the noughts! Baz, are you there?’ Jameel heard the sound of a loo flushing and a muffled voice.
Clive hung up and smiled.
The helicopter hovered over the area next to where the minders were standing, preparing to land.
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