by Chris Ryan
Two minutes later they were back in the room. Ahmed, sitting on the sofa, stared at his soaked, bleeding chauffeur in horror. ‘What did you do to him?’ he asked, clearly aghast.
‘Persuasion,’ Tony said.
‘What does Rashed have to do with the Caliph?’ Danny demanded.
Mustafa hesitated and looked away, but then caught sight of Caitlin standing by the door. The sight of his tormentor made him shudder, and he looked resolutely back at Danny, as if that were a safer option, though his eyes did flicker nervously towards Ahmed.
‘You may speak without fear of sanction from me,’ Ahmed said.
‘There are people who act as the Caliph’s eyes and ears,’ Mustafa said. ‘We do not know who all of them are, but I have known for many months that Rashed is one of them. I thought . . .’ He bowed his head. ‘I thought that by mentioning your conversation with the British man to him, it would mean my family were safe.’
A silence fell on the room. Danny stepped towards the mirrored coffee table, where the photographs of Ahmed’s parents were lying upside down. He turned them over and laid them out in front of Mustafa. ‘Look at them,’ he told the chauffeur.
For a moment, he thought Mustafa was going to vomit again as his eyes fell on the horrific scenes.
‘That’s the Caliph’s work,’ Danny said. ‘It’s what he did to your boss’s family. Now listen to me carefully: it’s the easiest thing in the world for me to arrange a large sum of money to land in your bank from an account linked to British intelligence. If you fail to do exactly what I tell you, I’ll make sure Rashed knows you’ve been working for the West, informing on the Caliph. When that happens, this happens to your family. Understood?’
Mustafa closed his eyes and nodded.
‘You’re going to call Rashed now. You’re going tell him that your boss is terrified, and that he wants to make a donation of a hundred million dollars to the Caliph’s cause. That he wants to meet him and make his peace with him. Do you get that?’
Again, Mustafa nodded, but he looked sick with fear.
‘Black,’ Buckingham said. He was standing on the far side of the room, his hands behind his back and his lips tight. ‘A word.’
Danny looked over at him. ‘Not now,’ he said.
‘Fine.’ Buckingham stepped forward. ‘Then we’ll discuss it in front of everyone. Let’s ignore for the moment the fact that you’re overstepping your authority. Do you really expect the Caliph to believe that this is anything other than a clumsy and obvious trap?’
Danny felt all eyes on him. And from the way Tony and Caitlin were looking at him, he could tell they agreed with the MI6 man.
He met Buckingham’s stare full-on. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t.’
‘Then why the bloody hell do you think this is a reasonable course of action?’
Danny looked at the others in turn. ‘Here’s what we know about the Caliph,’ he said, his voice calm and measured. ‘He’s a fundamentalist. He’s homicidal. He’s probably psychotic. He’s a control freak. People like that have vanity. They like to think that they’ve got the better of powerful men, like Ahmed. Plus, he won’t want to miss out on a hundred million dollars. You can buy yourself a 9/11 with that kind of cash. Or worse.’ He fixed Buckingham with a cool stare. ‘Of course he’ll suspect it’s a trap,’ he said. ‘But a little part of him will be thinking: what if it’s not? And that’s what we need to exploit. Whoever he sends to the RV, I’ll bet money that they’ll know how to reach him. He might even come himself. We’ve two SF units on standby in Bahrain, one SBS, one SAS. Nobody’s going to get past them. When the time comes, we’ll have them in place. If the Caliph shows, we’ll have the muscle to apprehend him. If he sends a lieutenant, we’ll be one step closer to the main man. Anyone got a better idea?’
The only sound in the room was Mustafa’s heavy breathing. Outside it was almost completely light. Danny looked at his watch. 09.30 hrs. That made it 07.30 in London. In a little over twenty-four hours, the starting gun for the marathon would sound. Already, tens of thousands of people would be making their way into the capital. Danny and his unit had one throw of the dice. If this didn’t work, the outcome would be too terrible to think about.
He looked at Mustafa. ‘We’re going to get in touch with London,’ he said. ‘I’m going to tell them what we know. Then you’re going to make the call.’
The operations room in the basement of the MI6 building was suddenly ablaze with activity. At the centre of it all was Daniel Bixby, his head leaning as it always did against the padded headrest of his wheelchair, but his tired eyes intense. The Chief stood next to him, chewing the nail on his right thumb. He said nothing. He’d lost control. Proceedings were up to Bixby now.
‘GCHQ?’ Bixby demanded.
‘Online, sir,’ one of his men shouted. ‘They have a satellite trace on Mustafa’s phone.’
‘Are they ready to get a fix on Rashed’s mobile?’
‘Roger that, sir.’
‘Translator?’
A pleasant-faced young man of Middle Eastern appearance sitting at a table five metres away raised his hand. He was wearing a set of headphones, though only one ear was covered, and had a notepad and pencil in front of him.
‘Hereford?’
A voice crackled over a nearby loudspeaker. ‘We’re in contact with Bravo Nine Delta unit. They’re standing by for your permission to go ahead.’
‘Everybody ready?’ Bixby demanded. There was no suggestion to the contrary, so he gave the instruction. ‘Make the call.’
‘Make the call.’
Danny had his phone pressed to his ear, an open line to Hereford HQ. He could hear the tension in Ray Hammond’s voice, and could feel it in his own chest.
‘Roger that.’
Mustafa’s iPhone lay on the mirrored table. Mustafa himself was cradling his broken fingers, and fresh blood was still dripping from his mouth where Tony had ripped his tooth out. Danny had kept the photos of Ahmed’s parents upturned to keep his mind focused, but in fact, all Mustafa’s terrified attention was on the phone itself. ‘Unlock it,’ Danny told him. The chauffeur winced as he pressed his bloodied thumb to the start button. A wallpaper picture of Mustafa with two small children disappeared. ‘Bring up Rashed’s number, put it on loudspeaker, then dial,’ Danny told him.
The chauffeur did as he was told. The sound of a dialling tone filled the room, then beeping tones of a number being dialled.
A pause.
Rashed’s phone started to ring.
Three times.
A dry voice answered in Arabic. Mustafa licked his bloody lips, then spoke hesitantly.
‘Rashed?’
The sound of the phone call filled the ops room at MI6. Three rings, then a distant voice.
‘Rashed?’
Bixby’s Arabic was good, but the translator spoke above the conversation, converting it into English in a flat, expressionless voice for the benefit of those, like the Chief, who couldn’t understand it.
‘Who’s this?’
‘It’s me. Mustafa.’
‘I’m at work. What do you want?’
‘I need to get a message to our friend.’
‘What makes you think our friend would want a message from you?’
There was a pause of ten seconds. Bixby and the Chief exchanged an anxious glance. The voice of Mustafa cleared its throat nervously before speaking again. But when the translator converted the conversation into English, he continued with his previous lack of expression.
‘Mr Al-Essa is scared. He won’t leave his apartment.’
‘That will teach him to have a loose tongue.’
‘He wants to make our friend a peace offering. Rashed, it is a lot of money. I think the . . . I think our friend will be interested.’
‘How much money?’
‘A hundred . . . a hundred million.’
There was another pause. Bixby swallowed nervously.
‘In return for what?’
There was a barking, cynical laugh.
‘So you will contact him?’
Bixby hissed quietly. Mustafa sounded too eager. Too jumpy. He sensed Rashed had picked up on it, because there was another long pause.
‘Maybe. Stay by your phone.’
A click. The line when dead.
Instantly, Bixby raised his voice. ‘Get on to GCHQ,’ he announced. ‘I want to know if they got a trace on Rashed’s phone.’
A murmur of voices from the other side of the room. Then, out loud: ‘That’s a negative, sir. Rashed’s line was fully encrypted. We can’t locate it.’
Bixby swore. ‘All we can do now is wait,’ he told his boss.
Danny had a little Arabic, but not enough to have understood the conversation. He had to judge by the sound of Mustafa’s voice whether the conversation was heading the way he wanted it. Rashed had sounded as hesitant as Mustafa. Hard to distinguish the tone of a different language, but Danny thought he sounded suspicious.
Now the conversation was over, Mustafa was profusely sweating.
‘Well?’ Danny demanded.
It was Buckingham who answered. ‘I don’t think Rashed bought it. He told Mustafa to wait by his phone, but he sounded very edgy.’
Ahmed stood up. He looked as though he had aged several years in the past hour. ‘You will excuse me?’ he said mildly. ‘This meeting could take place at any time. I have arrangements to make.’
Danny shook his head. ‘You’re not leaving this apartment,’ he said.
Ahmed nodded towards the door into his bedroom. Danny turned to Tony. ‘Check there are no other exits through there,’ he said.
Tony accompanied Ahmed into his bedroom, and returned thirty seconds later. ‘It’s secure,’ he said.
Danny still had his phone to his ear, with its open line to Hereford. He heard Hammond’s voice. ‘Do you copy?’
‘Go ahead,’ Danny said.
‘The B squadron team is on the ground in Bahrain.’
‘Roger that,’ Danny said. ‘Over and out.’ He killed the phone, and found that everyone in the room was watching him.
‘Support units are in place,’ he said quietly. But his mind was elsewhere. This all felt like a game of chess. Danny had made his move. But it was up to the Caliph to make the next one, and Danny couldn’t shake the uncomfortable sensation that he was about to be outplayed.
He suddenly strode over towards Ahmed’s bedroom and burst in. Ahmed was semi-naked – boxer shorts and socks. He was surprisingly muscular, and seemed to be in the process of changing out of his robes and into Western clothes – a pair of jeans and a shirt were laid out on his enormous bed. On the far side of the room were several other suitcases, piled high, identical to the one that contained the money.
Ahmed’s eyes flashed with irritation at the sudden intrusion, but he didn’t say anything.
‘You,’ Danny told him. ‘Get back in here. Any calls you want to make, you make them in front of me.’
Ahmed inclined his head mildly. ‘Perhaps you will allow me to get dressed first,’ he said.
‘Quickly,’ Danny told him, and he stood there impassively while Ahmed put his clothes on. Then he marched him back out into the main room, where the others were waiting.
13.00 hrs GMT.
The first thing Spud had noticed, on his arrival at Gatwick, was the heightened security. There were armed police everywhere, and a high concentration of uniformed officers patrolling the busy concourse inside.
You didn’t need to be a professional to spot that something was up. No doubt the general public thought this might be something to do with the flight that had gone down over West Africa. He kept registering people mentioning it in half-heard fragments of conversation. But Spud knew it was more than that. Security levels had been raised. Someone, somewhere was expecting something bad to happen here in the UK, not half a world away.
It made Spud’s job harder. He was here to apprehend al-Meghrani when – if – he showed. But al-Meghrani wouldn’t be apprehended without making a scene.
The Costa Coffee at Gatwick South had tables set out on the concourse in front of the shop. Spud sat alone at one of them. From here he could see the queues of passengers lining up at the check-in desks, but he didn’t yet know which one would be the desk for tonight’s easyJet flight to Athens. The tabletop was full of empty sandwich packets and coffee cups. He fiddled aimlessly with the ticket the machine had spat out at him as he’d entered the car park to stow his bike. Yesterday’s drinking, and Spud’s sleepless night, was catching up with him. His head ached, and the wounds on his abdomen throbbed more than usual.
Worst of all, he was riddled with doubt.
He kept seeing in his mind the pictures of al-Meghrani’s shrapnel-scarred hands. Last night he’d been positive that was what they were. Now, with the benefit of daylight and sobriety, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he’d got the scars in some other way. Maybe the picture had been of somebody else’s hands. And the flight details had been in al-Meghrani’s name, but Spud knew he didn’t have a passport. Maybe there was another Mr K. al-Meghrani – his brother, or something.
Maybe Spud was just wasting his fucking time. Maybe he should stop trying to play cops and robbers, get his arse into to London, apologise to Eleanor the spook and get on with the mess that his life had become . . .
His phone rang. He checked the number. He didn’t recognise it, but answered anyway. ‘Yeah?’
‘It’s me,’ said a female voice he immediately recognised as Frances.
Spud groaned inwardly. He’d hoped she was as uncomfortable about their one-night stand as he was. Seemed not.
‘Hi,’ he said noncommittally.
‘Where are you?’ she said.
‘Just . . . just at work,’ Spud replied. ‘You?’
‘On my way to London,’ Frances said. ‘Big day. Got any tips?’
Yeah, Spud thought. Don’t sleep around again, because if that psycho Tony finds out, you’ll find yourself at the wrong end of a bad accident.
‘Just keep going,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m . . . I’m kind of busy.’
‘Right,’ Frances said, her voice suddenly crestfallen. ‘I was thinking maybe we could meet up after the race. I’ve got a hotel room – you could take care of my aches and pains.’
‘Yeah . . . hello . . . it’s not a very good connection,’ Spud lied. He killed the line, and when Frances tried again ten seconds later, he sent it straight to voicemail.
He stared out on to the concourse. Hundreds of people swarmed around the airport. He looked up at the departures board. The Athens flight wasn’t even listed yet. He got up from the table, left the cafe and approached an information desk. A smiling airport assistant asked how she could help.
‘When does check-in open for the 23.58 flight to Athens?’ Spud asked.
The assistant checked her screen. ‘Not until 8 p.m., sir,’ she smiled.
Spud nodded. He headed back to the cafe and bought more black coffee. He didn’t really want it, but it was the only way to pass the time.
The hours dragged. Nobody entered Ahmed’s apartment, and nobody left. Danny wouldn’t allow it.
Mustafa was suffering. He nursed his broken fingers constantly, and about lunchtime he suddenly stood up and ran to the bathroom, where he vomited copiously. He needed pain relief, but there was none in the apartment and the alternative was to call someone in or allow him to leave. Not an option. The Caliph had eyes in Ahmed’s organisation. No information about their activities could leak from this apartment.
It was a waiting game, and it made Danny seethe with frustration.
At 18.00 precisely, Ahmed cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen.’ It was the first time anybody had spoken for hours. His words earned him a harsh look from Caitlin. ‘And lady,’ he corrected himself. ‘May I offer you some refreshment? I can call down to the concierge for food or . . .’
Danny was on the point of telling him that
he wasn’t going to call anyone, when Mustafa’s phone rang.
Everyone turned to look at it as it vibrated noisily on the mirrored table.
It had only rung once when Danny’s own mobile vibrated. He answered quickly and was rewarded with Ray Hammond’s voice all the way from Hereford. ‘London’s listening. Answer it.’
Danny looked across the room. ‘Answer the phone, Mustafa,’ he said. ‘Now.’
There was complete silence in the MI6 ops room. Daniel Bixby found he was holding his breath. He’d caught a couple of hours sleep around lunchtime and was bone-tired. But now, suddenly, he was as alert as he’d ever been.
An Arabic voice rang out from a speaker. As before, the young Middle Eastern translator did his work.
‘Hello.’
‘Tell Mr al-Essa that our friend accepts his kind offer.’
‘I will tell him that. He will be very relieved.’
‘Tell him not to be. Our friend wishes to meet him face to face. And he wishes to meet you too.’
Silence.
‘Where? When?’
‘Tomorrow morning. Seven o’clock. 28.608174, 52.283936.’
‘What . . . what are these numbers?’
‘A grid reference, idiot.’
Immediately, there was a fluster of activity in the ops room as several of Bixby’s people keyed the coordinates into the computer. Bixby’s eyes were drawn to a large flat-panel screen on the wall just beyond the bank of terminals. The image zoomed in quickly on a map of the Persian Gulf, and a red dot appeared in the middle of the ocean, approximately 150 miles off the coast of Qatar.
‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ the Chief snapped. ‘They can’t rendezvous in the middle of the fucking ocean.’
‘One moment, sir,’ Bixby said mildly.
‘If you are late, or you arrive accompanied by anybody else, our friend wants you to know that it will end badly for you and your loved ones. Is that understood?’
‘Yes.’ The translator failed to render the terrified stutter that was obvious to everybody listening to the conversation.
The line went dead.
‘It’s an oil platform, sir,’ one of Bixby’s people called out. ‘An oil platform on the edge of Qatari national waters.’