Assaf turned his attention away from Pharaoh Khafre’s statue and the Old Kingdom exhibits, and made his way through the ground floor, noting the locations of the CCTV security cameras, the staircases, and the general layout of the exhibits. He made his way up the north-west staircase toward Room 3, where the funerary mask of Tutankhamun would have normally attracted a large crowd.
‘The museum has two main floors and a basement,’ the dark-faced Assaf said, laying out the museum floor plan on the dining room table of the apartment he’d rented in a crowded area of Heliopolis, not far from Cairo’s international airport. It was very high stakes, but he had broken into other museums before, and US $250 000 was an attractive enticement. Assaf’s co-conspirators were eager with anticipation. Athletic and fit, Mahmoud Nassar would be with him on the break-in, and the overweight Abdul Kassab would drive the getaway van.
‘The ground floor is arranged in chronological order of the kingdoms. The first floor is arranged thematically, and we’ll be focusing on Room 3 at the very northern end of the building.’
‘And these are the stairs?’ Nassar asked, pointing to the icons on the plan.
Assaf nodded. ‘The two closest access stairs are in the north-west and north-east corners of the building. A daytime robbery is out of the question, even if we took a hostage. There are just too many guards, but the night shift’s a lot smaller. And if we do it around midnight, there’ll be less traffic on the road. We need to be at the Alexandria airport to load the mask by eight a.m.’
‘And apart from the guards, what’s the rest of the security like?’ asked Kassab.
‘It’s tighter than it was since the museum was broken into by protestors, but they were idiots just looking for gold. They missed priceless artifacts that would have sold for millions of dollars on the black market,’ said Assaf, ‘but don’t get any ideas . . . we’ll only have time to go for two artifacts – the mask and Tutankhamun’s gold falcon pendant which is in the same location. There are 200 cameras, and they’re not all visible, but they certainly cover Room 3 and Tutankhamun’s mask. The control room is here,’ he said, pointing to where he’d marked it on the plan, ‘but my contact tells me the computers are old, and they’re not capable of recording twenty-four hours a day.’
‘Not automatic?’ asked Nassar.
‘No. The screens in the control room are connected to cameras in the various rooms and halls, but the system’s pretty antiquated and if an incident occurs, a guard has to press a record button on a VCR.’
‘There’s a big protest scheduled for the day after tomorrow,’ said Kassab. ‘Can we take advantage of that?’
‘That would’ve been a good idea a year ago, but since the protesters are prone to looting, the military will move in with their armoured personnel carriers, so we need to do this tomorrow night, before the protest in Tahrir Square.’
‘So what’s the best way in?’ Nassar asked.
‘From what I’ve seen, there are any number of skylights with cracked windows that are vulnerable, but once we’re in we have to be able to disable the night shift guards. Since the last break-in, they’ve installed new lasers, especially around Room 3 and the mask, so I’ve ruled out getting in through the roof. But there is another way.’ Assaf got up from the table and disappeared into the main bedroom.
‘Courtesy of one of my contacts in the Egyptian Police Force,’ Assaf said, coming back and throwing Nassar and Kassab dark blue, military-style Egyptian police uniforms. ‘I think you’ll find they’re your size, but try them on.’
As his co-conspirators checked the clothes, Assaf continued. ‘Once we’ve got the mask, it will be secured in this box.’ He took the lid from a crate lined with polyurethane foam, made to fit the mask precisely.
‘What’s with the explosives?’ asked Nassar, looking at a second box behind Assaf.
‘Just in case we have to destroy the van,’ said Assaf. ‘So watch and learn, both of you. You might have to do this yourselves one day.’ Assaf reached into his bomb-making kit and extracted one of several old Nokia cell phones he kept for remote detonation.
‘First you dismantle a cell phone – any of the old ones will do – and locate the vibrator,’ he said, pointing to the rotating head on a small element about the size of a triple-A battery. ‘When the phone receives a text or a call, the head spins. We cut a hole in the side of the phone to expose the rotor and fasten the phone to a wooden base. A chopping board does fine.’
Assaf bolted two screws through the board and attached wires, which led from the screws to the phone. ‘We use alligator clips to connect with ordinary torch batteries which will power the detonator for the plastic explosive. When the phone rings, the rotor spins, completing the circuit.’
It was after midnight when Abdul placed a portable flashing blue light on the roof of the van, drove up to the wrought iron gates of the museum, and blew the horn. A guard appeared from the small guardhouse, rubbing his eyes, and Assaf got out of the passenger seat.
‘We’re responding to an alarm – quickly – open the gate!’
‘Alarm? There’s been no alarm . . .’
‘Not here, you imbecile, at the central security control centre. If you still want to have a job in the morning, open the gate!’
The guard, a confused look on his face, fumbled for his keys and opened the double gates. Assaf got out to help the guard close the gates while Kassab drove on toward the central fountain and the main entrance. With the gates closed, Assaf pulled a CZ 75 semi-automatic nine-millimetre pistol from his holster.
‘Inside!’ Assaf shoved the guard inside the guardhouse.
‘One false move from you and you’re very dead,’ he hissed, holding the gun to the guard’s head. ‘But do exactly as I tell you and you’ll live to see another day.’
The hapless guard nodded, his face ashen.
‘Put a call through to the guards in the museum telling them you have a fault in your alarm system here. Tell them the police have arrived and they’re at the front door waiting to check things inside the museum. And remember,’ Assaf growled, glancing at a photo of a woman and two small girls, ‘one false move and you’ll never see your wife or either of your daughters again.’
With shaking hands, the guard picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. ‘No . . . I have a fault here, but the police think it’s coming from your end. They’re at the front door. Shukran, thank you.’ The guard replaced the dirty bakelite handpiece in its cradle and turned toward his attacker.
‘One of the night shift is on his way . . . it will take a couple of minutes for him to come up from the security room.’
‘Sit in the chair!’ Assaf whipped a length of nylon cord out. The guard winced in pain as Assaf tied his hands behind him.
‘How many guards inside?’ Assaf demanded, pressing the barrel of the gun against the guard’s head.
‘Just two,’ the guard stammered, ‘they’ve been cutting back lately —’
He didn’t finish the sentence. Assaf pistol-whipped him and the guard slumped forward, his head hitting the desk. Assaf took some gaffer tape from his pocket and quickly wound it twice around the guard’s head, sealing his mouth. He needn’t have bothered. The guard was dead. Assaf recovered the guard’s keys, locked the guardhouse door behind him and doubled past the fountain to join Nassar.
The lock on the museum door rattled and one of the night shift police opened it. ‘We don’t have any alarms going off in here,’ he said.
Assaf smiled disarmingly. ‘Better to be safe than sorry, with all the protestors on the streets. Do you mind if we check your systems? We’d like to start at the control room.’
‘Of course. Follow me.’
Assaf and Nassar followed the policeman down toward the control centre. Before they reached the outer door, Assaf swung his pistol hard, striking his target behind his right ear.
‘Bind and gag him,’ Assaf hissed. He crept up to the control room and peered over the ledge of the window. The other guar
d had his back to him, sitting in front of a bank of old computer screens, several of which were blank. Assaf could see the desk was equipped with just the basics: two phones, a control panel, and a microphone. The guard had accessed the internet and was watching porn on the closest screen.
Assaf opened the door and the guard turned, a sheepish look on his face. ‘It gets boring in here . . .’
Assaf smiled. ‘That’s okay,’ he said. He took a pace toward the embarrassed guard and smashed him on the side of the skull with his pistol.
The guard slumped onto the control room floor and by the time Nassar had dragged the other guard into the room, Assaf had his target bound and gagged.
‘Get their keys. We’ll need them for Room 3,’ said Assaf, searching the switches on the control desk for the laser system. Thirty seconds later he had it. ‘Here!’ he said, and he switched the system to daytime operation. ‘My contact was right,’ Assaf added, pointing to a pile of old security videotapes. ‘The Smithsonian this is not. Let’s go!’
Assaf led the way to the ground floor, through the exhibits of the Old Kingdom and the Middle Kingdom, and up the stairs to Room 3.
Once inside, both men paused in front of the centuries-old artifact, instantly recognisable around the world.
‘I can’t believe they don’t have this more heavily guarded,’ Assaf said, staring at the boy king’s funerary mask displayed inside a glass case. Made of solid gold, the mask weighed eleven kilograms and was interspersed with blue glass stripes and precious lapis lazuli. The forehead featured a royal cobra next to a vulture, symbols of the goddesses Wadjyt and Nekhbet, and below the mask the chestpiece was covered with rows of blue lapis lazuli and turquoise, and red carnelian.
‘Probably because no one would be able to sell it, at least not on the open market.’ Nasser was nervous now.
Assaf took a small hammer from his pocket and smashed the glass on the side of the cabinet. The noise was deafening. He quickly smashed the remaining glass shards away from the wood, grabbed the bottom of the stand and eased the artifact from its enclosure.
‘The pendant,’ he said, indicating another display case. Nasser smashed the glass, extracted the priceless bejewelled falcon and slipped it into a separate bag. The art dealer in Venice had provided very strict instructions. The mask was to be delivered to a contact at Alexandria’s airport. A charter jet would be waiting to take them to a small airport in the south of Italy, and then on to Venice, where Assaf would deliver the pendant personally to Rubinstein’s gallery.
‘Let’s go,’ Assaf said. He reached for the Motorola two-way radio handset on his belt. ‘Cobra, over.’
‘Cobra, on my way, out.’ Kassab had kept the van running, and he eased away from the restaurant complex at the side of the museum and drove around to the front.
Assaf walked purposefully down the front steps to the van and placed the priceless mask and pendant in the specially padded crate. He secured the lid and leapt into the front seat
Nassar closed the front door to the museum behind him and jumped into the rear seat of the van, just as a police car, blue and white lights flashing, stopped at the wrought iron gates near the guard house.
‘Xara! Shit!’ Assaf swore. Assaf put the magnetic portable blue light back on top of the van. ‘Drive toward them . . . slowly,’ he ordered, screwing a silencer on to his pistol.
16 Bagram Air Field, Afghanistan
O’Connor struggled with the controls of the stricken Gulfstream. A loud warning tone sounded and both master warning glare-shield switches illuminated. The left fire handle also illuminated and the solenoid popped it from its stowed position. O’Connor glanced at the rest of the gauges and swore. The left fuel-control switch was illuminated, and a ‘left engine fire’ message had appeared on the crew alert display.
O’Connor rotated the left fire handle to the first of the discharge positions and called the tower. ‘Bagram Tower, this is Hopi One Four, we’re taking ground fire, pilot deceased, co-pilot is lapsing in and out of consciousness. Request emergency fire crews, port engine on fire, over.’
‘Bagram Tower, copied, traffic is Night Thruster Two airborne three miles to the north, one one eight decimal fife.’
Sounds like it’s all in a day’s work for those guys, O’Connor thought ruefully. He glanced at the co-pilot. Spalding was slumped in his seat but he’d regained consciousness, and O’Connor switched to the intercom.
‘Talk me down, Brad,’ he said calmly. O’Connor had done some flying with the Marines, but he was by no means a pilot. He concentrated on maintaining a glide path. ‘We’ve got a fire in the port engine. I’ve activated the fire handle, but the warning lights are still on.’
Spalding nodded. The three-beep warning tone was filling the cockpit.
‘Hit the discharge two position on the left fire handle.’ Spalding was almost as calm as O’Connor, his training kicking in. ‘That’ll activate the other bottle in the engine nacelle.’
O’Connor reached for the handle on the cockpit centre pedestal, and the warnings ceased, but both men knew they were now flying on one engine and the aircraft had rolled toward the dead one.
‘Use the rudder to counter the yaw, and keep it below 200 knots,’ Spalding directed, pointing to the airspeed indicator. ‘Flaps eight degrees.’
‘Eight degrees.’ O’Connor reached for the selector and set it.
‘We’re going to be crabbing sideways on to the runway, so you will have to aim off to the right and straighten at the last moment. Bring the power off a fraction . . . we want 180 knots.’ Spalding’s voice quavered as he fought to retain consciousness. ‘Flaps twenty degrees,’ he croaked.
‘Flaps twenty.’
‘Extend the landing gear.’ Three green lights lit up, indicating the landing gear was locked.
‘Landing gear down,’ O’Connor confirmed. At least that was working, he thought, grimly concentrating on getting the Gulfstream down in one piece.
‘Increase power . . . maintain 140 knots, flaps 40 degrees, maintain 700 feet per minute descent.’
O’Connor checked the altimeter, lowered the flaps a further 20 degrees and eased the starboard throttle lever forward. He glanced at Spalding, but the co-pilot had lost consciousness again.
‘Guess you’re on your own, buddy,’ O’Connor muttered. The ‘piano keys’ on the threshold were fast approaching and O’Connor could see the emergency fire trucks, their lights flashing either side of the runway. He switched focus from the runway to the instruments and back again. The threshold flashed past slightly to port, and at 50 feet he brought the starboard thrust lever to idle, straightened the aircraft and held the nose elevation. The aircraft slammed on to the runway, blowing a tyre, but O’Connor held the nose until it came down as the lift decreased. He immediately pushed the brakes on the rudder pedals, deployed the spoilers, applied reverse thrust and countered with nose wheel steering as the blown tyre and single engine thrust threatened to slew the aircraft. The plane slowed and when it reached 60 knots, O’Connor lowered the spoilers, but as he disengaged reverse thrust a heavy machine gun opened up from beyond the far runway threshold. Two fifty-calibre rounds shattered the cockpit windscreen, missing the co-pilot and O’Connor by centimetres.
O’Connor calmly dialled up the fire control frequency for the drone crew in Nevada. ‘Night Thruster Two, this is Hopi One Four, taking fire from beyond the northern threshold, over.’
Captain Rogers banked the Predator drone gently so as to not lose control, mindful of the fractional delay of satellite transmissions between Creech and his aircraft airborne over Afghanistan. He headed south, back toward Bagram, scanning the villages to the north of the airfield.
‘Bottom left of screen!’ Major Crowe exclaimed. The intelligence analyst, call sign Sentinel, had detected two men firing what looked to be a vehicle-mounted weapon from the cover of a small village.
‘Possible new target, designate one zero, white pickup truck beside mud hut.’
‘Pil
ot copied.’
‘Sensor copied.’ The tight-knit crew calmly and deliberately prepared to attack. ‘I’ve got him.’ Sergeant Michelle Brady adjusted the cross hairs onto the target. The two al Qaeda operatives, she knew, would have no idea they were in her infrared and laser sights. The small drones could be neither seen nor heard from the ground. It was the weapon the terrorists feared most.
Major Crowe scanned the village for movement. Satisfied there was none, he gave clearance to lock on to the target. ‘You’re cleared to lock on to Target One Zero.’
‘Pilot, copied.’
‘Sensor, copied. Code?’
‘Pilot – entered.’
‘Sensor, weapon power?’
‘Pilot, on.’ Together, Rogers and Brady went through their well-worn procedures to ensure the AGM-114 Hellfire air-to-surface missile would lock on to the target and find it.
‘Sentinel, confirm your weapon configuration.’
‘Pilot, four missiles.’
Major Crowe made a final check of the area for any sign of other movement. Satisfied the area was still clear, he authorised engagement. ‘Sentinel, you’re clear to engage the pickup, Target One Zero, at your discretion.’
‘Pilot, cleared to engage pickup truck. Arm the laser.’
‘Sensor, laser armed . . . lasing.’
‘Within range . . . three, two, one. Rifle!’ Captain Rogers fired one of his Hellfire missiles, and almost immediately, two small boys riding pushbikes came into view, heading toward the pickup.
‘Oh no!’ Michelle Brady gasped involuntarily. Like Captain Rogers, she had two small boys of her own. The drone crew watched helplessly as the missile of death, travelling at over 400 metres a second, silently approached the target. To try to divert it might cause even more casualties. The control screen pixelated as the missile unerringly found its target and the pickup exploded in a ball of flame and smoke. Brady saw what she thought was a pushbike arc into the night air. Captain Rogers continued to circle over the target, numbed by what he had seen unfold on the screen.
The Alexandria Connection Page 12