He had been waiting about two minutes when the radio crackled and a voice said, ‘One-seven’, the last two digits of the telephone number. He lifted the handmike and acknowledged the signal by repeating the number into it, his voice muffled by the helmet.
The eastbound traffic was steady, but nowhere near as heavy as that coming from the direction of London, and the Yamaha had the advantage of speed and compactness; it slipped into the eastbound stream without difficulty. The bald man rode east for another half mile, indicated a right turn and pulled into the filling station located at that point on the road. On the forecourt he swung past the pumps to the airline, hefted the bike onto its stand and dismounted. Again he left the engine running.
The airline was close to the road, on the perimeter of the forecourt so that motorists using it wouldn’t obstruct the pumps. He crouched down behind the Yamaha and fumbled with the tyre valve, leaving its cap in place but pretending to be connecting the airline. From this position he surveyed his field of action.
On the other side of the road, exactly opposite the garage, a wall seven or eight feet high ran along the edge of the footpath. It was red brick with a sandstone coping. Halfway along its length it was interrupted by the sweep of a short drive, which led to a set of black and gilt iron gates. Large facing stones had been set into the curves of the wall on each side of the drive; the words carved in them stated the name of the manor house set in woodland behind the wall. By the drive and immediately inside the wall stood a Victorian gatehouse, built in the same brick and sandstone. A television camera in a weatherproof steel housing towered above one of the gates’ pillars; it looked down from a height of about ten feet so that its lens could view the whole approach area. Beyond the gates the drive wound out of sight through the woodland and shrubbery.
His gaze shifted back to the road. He had a clear view for almost a mile to the east. In the distance a large coach was approaching, its lighted windows visible above the foreground traffic. He scanned the other vehicles before sweeping his gaze back to the coach. He couldn’t yet see what was following it. Dropping the airline, he reached inside one of the side-mounted panniers and withdrew a steel box about four inches square. He slid down a recessed switch on its side and replaced the box in the pannier.
The coach had come close enough now for him to catch a glint of the white vehicle that was following behind it. He mounted the Yamaha, kicked up the stand and rode at once to the roadside.
The glint of white became the Sherpa van. A moment later he made out the gold Rolls-Royce Corniche and the dark-coloured Rover that were sandwiched between it and the coach. They were over to the crown of the road and, although the coach was still obscuring his view, he knew that both would be indicating their intended right turn into the walled estate.
The coach thundered past, its slipstream rocking the Yamaha against his leg. The Corniche was gliding to a halt about ten yards opposite him; before it could cross to the black and gilt gates, it would have to wait for the eastbound traffic to ease. The bald man counted four men in the Corniche and another four in the Rover as it drew up behind. The gaze of the Rover’s front passenger rested briefly on him, then moved on elsewhere.
He took the steel box out of the pannier and clamped it tightly under his left arm. Reaching back again, he drew out a circular tube about the size of a beercan and with a similar kind of ringpull. He eased the ringpull up without breaking the seal and wedged the tube between his right thigh and the motorbike’s saddle.
The Sherpa had come to a standstill behind the Rover, just at its nearside corner. It looked as if the driver was unsure if he had room to squeeze past on the inside. He was inching the van forward and towards the nearside; the other traffic behind him would remain blocked until he got through.
The bald man moved across the clear carriageway that this provided to the middle of the road, where he stopped and sat facing the Corniche. Over his left shoulder he watched for a break in the eastbound traffic, revving his engine as he waited.
An Audi was approaching; behind it the road was clear. He glanced back at the Sherpa; it had now got past the Rover and was moving westwards again, followed by the traffic that it had held up. The bald man’s companion was at the wheel; he drove past without a glance.
The Audi came up on the other side and the bald man released his clutch and moved forward. He did so just at the same moment as the Corniche began to swing across his path. The car’s nose dipped sharply as it braked; the peak-capped driver raised his left hand and impatiently waved the Yamaha on. The bald man acknowledged with a nod and moved forward again. He hugged the crown of the road, so that he was only inches from the gold Corniche.
Drawing level with its rear wing, he braked abruptly and dropped his right hand from the throttle. He ripped the ringpull and leant forward to roll the tube beneath the Rover. Instantly, billows of blue-grey smoke began to flood out from under the car. He took the steel box from beneath his left arm and smacked it against the side of the Corniche, just behind the passenger door and close to the petrol cap. It locked solidly in position, its limpet magnets clinging to the metal.
Despite the tinted glass, he saw the face of the robed Arab who looked out at him from the back seat: the face of Saleem Ibn Abdul Aziz Al-Saud. A hooked nose surmounted a wide mouth and jet-black goatee. The prince’s large eyes, their irises black and liquid, regarded him with puzzlement rather than alarm. He began to sit forward, peering towards the rear wing, to try and make out what had caused the clunk. None of the other occupants of the Corniche, also Arabs except for the driver, seemed to have noticed anything.
The bald man’s hand returned to the throttle just as the doors of the Rover flew open. All four men leapt out, only to begin spluttering helplessly as the gas filled their lungs.
He caught a glimpse of the automatic pistols in their hands as he accelerated swiftly past. The close-fitting helmet protected him from the gas for the short time he needed.
Four seconds had passed since the moment when the Corniche driver had waved him on.
He gunned the Yamaha east towards Sunningdale, keeping as close to the middle of the road as the oncoming cars allowed. In his rear-view mirror he saw the men from the Rover crouching to try and take aim. One of them had stumbled over to the Corniche. Prince Ibn and the others were now climbing out; they too had begun to cough. Cars travelling east were braking and swerving to avoid the activity in their path.
Pistol shots rang out but came nowhere near the bald man. He stretched his left thumb across the Yamaha’s handlebar and flicked the rocker switch. A ball of flame consumed the Corniche and spread back immediately to the Rover. An instant later the roar of the explosion reached him and he felt the impact of the shock waves in his back, like a kick.
Even as he triggered the explosion he was braking; he’d only travelled about five hundred yards. He slewed the bike across the path of a Sierra that was already skidding to a halt because of what lay ahead, and turned into the road that had come up on his right. The Sierra’s tyres screeched and he heard the crunch of colliding metal. As he entered the side road he stopped and put his foot to the ground; he allowed himself a moment’s glance back at his work.
The flames reached to the tops of the trees that lined the road. Oily black smoke curled above them to disappear into the night sky. In the heart of the blaze nothing could be seen of the Corniche, the Rover or any of the bodyguards. Prince Ibn and the other Arabs had vanished.
On the other side of the road another car lay on its side, caught by the blast as it was passing. There was no movement in or near it. Its roof was torn off.
The traffic was now in chaos on either side of the scene; more shunts had occurred, adding to the pandemonium. The bald man heard shouts and screams above the crackle of the flames; there was the noise of running feet as some of the bolder or more foolish drivers left their cars and raced towards the inferno. Others were trying to U-turn out of the crush of vehicles, to get away from the scene as fast as
possible.
Men had rushed out from the garage, carrying fire extinguishers, and were trying to douse the flames; it was plain that they were wasting their time. Even through the crash helmet and visor, the bald man smelt the acrid stink of burning rubber and petrol.
No one was stirring from the direction of the walled manor house.
A second blast belched blue and yellow flames from the blaze as the Rover’s petrol tank exploded. The men with the fire extinguishers were flung to the ground. Some of their clothes caught fire as the petrol sprayed them. The press of vehicles trying to leave the scene was increasing. Car horns and racing engines added to the clamour as drivers urged each other out of the way. The rip of tearing metal indicated that some had decided that parting with a bumper was the least of their worries.
The bald man became aware that eyes were watching him. The Sierra driver, who was either stupid or very brave, had climbed from his car and was moving towards him.
The bald man was in no hurry. His registration would be noted, there would be descriptions of the bike and himself. So he waited until the Sierra driver was only a few paces away before dropping the Yamaha into first and roaring off with the throttle wide open. His speed alarmed the people who’d emerged from their homes to see what was going on. Some of them stared as he flew past. More witnesses, he thought; which was fine by him.
*
A few minutes’ ride away, deep in a quiet copse at a spot called Valley End, the Sherpa waited. When the thin man who had driven it there heard the Yamaha in the distance he threw open the van’s rear doors and slid the plank into position.
On the floor, tethered as before, Ibraham was stirring. He tugged against the ropes and tried to turn his head to see what was going on. His eyes were dilated, his expression stupefied.
The thin man climbed up beside him and fetched a flat plastic case from the front seat. He opened it on his lap, withdrew a syringe, and filled it from a glass vial.
Ibraham focused on him for a moment and shook his head, mumbling something incoherent. The thin man ignored him and grabbed the young man’s left arm. Ibraham’s sleeve was already unbuttoned; the thin man pushed it up beyond the elbow and pressed his thumb into the soft flesh of the inner arm until the vein stood up. Ibraham’s small struggles were as weak as a butterfly’s.
The syringe pierced the vein and the struggles began to subside, eventually stopping entirely. The thin man watched Ibraham’s face as he pumped the heroin home. One tear plopped in the dust by Ibraham’s head, then his breathing became regular again.
A few seconds later the Yamaha pulled into the copse and the thin man rose to his feet. He pushed Ibraham well to the side and jumped out just as the Yamaha ascended the plank and came to rest inside the van. The bald man dismounted and began tying the bike in position while his partner stowed the plank and closed the doors.
Then they made themselves comfortable. There was no hurry.
*
Back at Windlesham the fire engines and ambulances were making the best of their gruesome task. The road was awash with oil, fuel and extinguisher foam. Gobbets of charred flesh and limbs littered the scene, twisted metal was scattered everywhere. The medics’ priority was the living. Some of the men who had received burns of a less severe kind had been wrapped in blankets and were receiving attention by the roadside, but the worst casualties had been loaded into the first ambulances and driven away. There was no help to be given to the occupants of the passing car. The traffic was stacked bumper to bumper as far as the eye could see in either direction. The police were doing their best to set up detours via the side roads but they could see that it would be many hours before normal flow was restored. They and the other emergency services were having an increasingly hard time getting to and from the scene, and were being forced to use the pavements and verges.
The television cameras and the press hadn’t yet got through, but one amateur photographer had been busy. It was the woman with the crew cut. She and her companion had driven the Volvo into the filling station after the man on the motorbike and had caught everything on film until the tear gas forced them to close their windows. Their shots included the motorcyclist and the white Sherpa.
By the time the police started enquiring from car to car for witnesses, the camera was out of sight and the women seemed just as upset as everyone else. They had seen nothing until the explosion itself, and then they’d dived for cover. Or so they said.
When the road was clear, they were just two travellers among many that day who seemed only to be glad to be leaving such a scene of carnage.
*
It was one thirty in the morning, still and silent on the downs and heathlands, when the Sherpa, having travelled south to pick up the A3, reached the outskirts of the small town of Hindhead. It turned into the gravelled car park north of the town and stopped in its far corner. The deep gorge known as the Devil’s Punch Bowl fell away beneath it, hidden in the darkness. An occasional set of headlights traced the route of the road that curved around the rim of the gorge.
There was no sign of life in the beauty spot’s car park. It was too cold a night for lovers and the hikers had retired to their hostels long ago.
The thin man got out of the van and set the portable transmitter on a bench at the end of the parking area. He switched it on and tapped the microphone with his knuckle while the bald man checked the reception on the Yamaha’s receiver. Everything was coming through loud and clear.
Leaving his partner in position by the bench, the bald man took the wheel of the Sherpa and drove slowly back onto the A3.
He was no longer wearing the motorcycling gear. Ibraham had been dressed in the leather suit, boots and gauntlets; the helmet was in the bike’s rear-mounted pannier, whose lid had now been removed.
The road was empty and the bald man drove slowly around the mile-long loop. At the tightest stretch of the left-hand curve a crash barrier separated the opposing traffic lanes; an earth bank screened the inner lane from the steep drop beside it.
As the road came out of the curve, the crash barrier ended. On the right was a dirt track leading into the gorse-covered Hindhead commons.
The bald man accelerated across the road, before any traffic should appear and see him, and took the Sherpa well down the track and out of sight. He turned off the engine and lights.
Ibraham was regaining consciousness again. By the time the bald man had manoeuvred the motorcycle down from the van’s loading bay, the cold night air had revived the young man further.
‘Ibraham – can you hear me?’
The Libyan nodded uncertainly. He started to shiver. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead.
‘Please, please,’ he croaked. He looked up pleadingly. ‘Ohh –’ The sigh was like a death rattle. ‘I am so cold.’
He sat up unsteadily and hugged his knees. For a moment he stared at the gauntlets on his hands, uncomprehending, then shivered again and buried his face against his knees. Sobs began to shake his body in long, irregular waves.
‘Allah, what have they done to me?’
The bald man fetched the plastic case and recharged the syringe. The sobs continued but there was no resistance as he took Ibraham’s arm, pulled back the leather sleeve and inserted the hypodermic into his vein.
‘I’ve got good news, Ibraham,’ he said as he pushed the plunger steadily down.
Ibraham’s head was still pressed against his knees but the shaking was beginning to ease.
‘We’ve heard from your people. They’ve agreed to pay up. We’re going to make the exchange now. Come on.’
He helped Ibraham down from the van and onto the bike, and began trundling it back along the dirt track. Ibraham looked down and realised what he was sitting on.
‘You’ve ridden one of these before, haven’t you? Airmen are good with all kinds of machines.’
Ibraham nodded, still sniffing and sobbing. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’re going to ride down the road to meet up
with your friends. Not far.’
A dazed smile spread across the young Libyan’s face. ‘Who is there? Ahmed? Salim?’
‘Yes, yes. They’re all there, waiting for you.’
By now they’d crossed the A3 and were passing the spot where the earth bank began. No vehicles had appeared. The bald man pushed the Yamaha into a break in the gorse bushes and started the engine. He held the throttle so that Ibraham couldn’t rev it accidentally. A lone car flashed past; the bald man waited until its engine note died away.
‘One-seven,’ he said into the handmike.
‘One-seven,’ came the immediate reply.
Ibraham stared at the radio unit, noticing it for the first time.
‘That was my partner,’ the bald man explained. ‘He’ll let me know when your friends arrive, then I’ll show you where to ride, to meet them.’
They waited for another three or four minutes. A few cars passed in both directions. The bike was positioned so that Ibraham had his back to the road and paid the cars no attention. The bald man stood facing him, making sure that he didn’t touch the brakes and bring on the brake light, and keeping him chatting. He checked that Ibraham understood the basics of gear changes and use of the clutch, but the exercise became more meaningless as the heroin sent him higher. The bald man didn’t mind; it wouldn’t make much difference in the end.
Then the radio crackled again and the voice said ‘One-seven.’
The bald man didn’t acknowledge this time. He planted the crash helmet on Ibrahim’s head, not bothering to fasten the chin strap, then pushed the bike as fast as he could and got it positioned on the road and into gear. A clap on the back and Ibraham wobbled off, gathering speed as he entered the long curve.
He was on the wrong side of the road, riding without lights.
Patriots Page 28