Authors: James Barrington
‘
I
am not feeling so confident,’ Litvinoff growled.
‘Your views are noted. I must also inform you that an internal inquiry has been ordered. The loss of this weapon is a very serious matter and the investigation will be reviewed at the
highest level. You are instructed to travel to Moscow forthwith, under escort.’
Litvinoff ended the call without another word, and for a few moments sat with his head in his hands. The delay in the FSB headquarters calling him suddenly made perfect sense. He crumpled his
napkin and threw it on the table, stood up and turned towards the door of the restaurant, where two men in heavy overcoats already stood waiting for him.
Cairo, Egypt
‘Romeo Charlie Three Six is clear to land runway two three right. Wind light and variable. Altimeter one zero one seven. After landing, call Ground on one two zero
decimal one.’
The pilot acknowledged, then glanced over at Wilson, sitting in the right-hand seat. ‘Your colleague?’
Wilson turned and called out. ‘Strap yourself in back there. We’re long final.’
‘OK.’ Dawson reached down to tighten the straps that he’d already positioned in readiness over his legs, then attached another over his chest.
After landing, the Cessna taxied across to a hard-standing where a white Mercedes was parked, the rear section grossly enlarged to permit people to stand up in it, and with red crosses painted
prominently on the side.
Vassily applied the parking brake and switched off the engines. Then he turned to look nervously at Wilson. The American grinned at him. ‘Don’t worry, my friend, we’ve no
quarrel with you. Keep your mouth shut, and we’ll never meet again. But breathe a word of this to anyone at all and be assured one of us will come back to Russia and find you, and you
really
don’t want that to happen.’
Studying the expression on the American’s face, Vassily believed him – absolutely.
‘OK, our ride’s moving this way, so let’s get the patient ready.’
Just under two hours later the Mercedes ambulance arrived at Ain Shams Hospital where Dawson, still apparently semi-conscious, was admitted for overnight observation. Wilson booked himself a
room in a nearby hotel, and went to bed almost immediately. He would have a lot to do the next day, and a very early start, and now he needed his sleep.
Potomac Consolidated TRACON, Vint Hill, Fauquier County, Virginia
The Potomac Consolidated TRACON was created to rationalize the Air Traffic Control procedures that had previously applied in the twenty-three thousand square miles
surrounding Washington D.C. This is one of the busiest aviation sectors in the world with around two million movements annually, and is arguably the most sensitive piece of airspace in America
because of the buildings that stand on the ground beneath it.
Before the Potomac facility opened, five separate TRACONs had controlled traffic within the area. The controllers were based in different locations, using separate radar systems and
communications which had necessitated continuous coordination between the various units. The Potomac facility had resolved the problems by consolidating the airspace into a single entity,
controlled from the new building at Vint Hill in Virginia.
Gillian Thorpe had worked as an Operations Supervisor for a little over ten years, and at the Potomac TRACON ever since it became operational. Four weeks earlier a tall, well-built, dark-haired
man named Charles Rogers had walked into her office, without an appointment, and showed her his FBI identification.
He’d sat in the chair in front of her desk and for about thirty minutes explained the measures the Bureau had taken in the aftermath of the events of 9/11 to check the legitimacy of both
commercial and non-commercial aviation. Most of what he’d said Gillian already knew, either professionally or through reports in the media, but some of it was news to her. These measures,
Rogers told her, had proved successful, but it was now felt that a further independent check should be instituted regarding certain types of flight plan.
The majority of flight plans are those filed by airlines themselves for their scheduled movements, and although they are submitted individually, the basic information remains the same. For
instance, every morning a British Airways 747 flies from London Heathrow to John F. Kennedy Airport at New York and then, with a fresh crew on board, does the same journey in reverse, departing JFK
in the early evening and arriving at Heathrow early the following morning. The scheduled departure times are always the same, as are the aircraft callsigns – British Airways use
‘Speedbird’ followed by a number – but what changes each day is the route the aircraft will follow, because of the Atlantic weather systems.
These commercial flights were not a problem, Rogers had said, because of the stringent security measures now imposed at all American and major international airports, but the FBI was growing
concerned about charter flights, cargo carriers, private aviation and even government-operated aircraft. These categories, he explained, posed different kinds of dangers. There was always the
possibility that a group hostile to America could hire, steal or commandeer an aircraft and, after evading security at some small airfield, turn it into a flying bomb.
To counter this possibility, the FBI had increased its surveillance measures across the country. Most of the new procedures had already been applied at the points of origin – airfields,
flying clubs, maintenance facilities and the like – but the Bureau believed that significant additional data could be extracted from analysing flight plans. Initially, this was being done on
a random basis, choosing areas of the country likely to be particularly targeted by terrorist organizations. Selecting Washington D.C. and the Potomac Consolidated TRACON had been a no-brainer and
that, Rogers had added, was where Gillian Thorpe could help the Bureau.
And so, for just under a month, Thorpe and her fellow supervisors had been analysing all non-commercial flight plans processed by the TRACON, selecting those which met the FBI’s criteria,
and sending the data they extracted to the email address Rogers had provided. Twice the TRACON had received acknowledgements from him, and three times requests for additional information about some
particular flight.
That morning, Thorpe scanned the overnight plans, identified those that she would need to extract data from, and began working on them. The thirty-seventh flight plan she opened had been filed
the previous evening by the State Department. It was for a Gulfstream G450 out of Andrews Air Force Base, destination Dubai, with a single refuelling stop planned in Barcelona, Spain, and departing
the following afternoon.
This flight plan had been filed with the Andrews Airport Traffic Control Tower and forwarded to the Potomac TRACON and, Thorpe noted, well ahead of the required minimum time, which was ninety
minutes before takeoff. Most such plans are filed as late as possible, after the aircraft’s operating authority has finalized all the details, because it’s much easier to file late than
to submit early and then have to make changes. State, Gillian Thorpe presumed, had no intention of altering any aspect of that flight.
After extracting the data, she would send it on to Washington Center. From there it would be routed to Boston Center, to the Canadian authorities and thence to Eurocontrol, thus ensuring that
all controlling agencies that would handle any portion of the flight were aware of the programmed movement.
She wasn’t to know it, but this particular flight plan was the only one that Charles Rogers had the slightest interest in. Rogers – his real name was Roy Sutter, and the closest
he’d ever got to the Federal Bureau of Investigation was when he drove past the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington D.C. – had been waiting for two particular pieces of information
extracted from that plan for the whole of the last week. Minutes after he opened the email in a cyber café in Paris, he made copies of the relevant sections, pasted them into a new message
and sent it on to another email address.
He would monitor the messages sent by the TRACON supervisors for another twelve hours, just in case there were any changes to the Gulfstream’s details, and then he’d send Thorpe the
email he’d already prepared. This would tell her the Bureau no longer considered the arrangement necessary, and thank her and her colleagues for their efforts and cooperation in assisting the
FBI to combat international terrorism.
But before he did any of that, he’d catch the first available flight down to Barcelona, because the next phase of the operation was starting about twenty-four hours sooner than he’d
expected.
Sheraton Hotel, Manama, Bahrain
Richter was lying in bed, reading a bad novel that he hoped would eventually send him off to sleep, when he heard a brief double knock on the door. He pulled on his
dressing gown and padded over to open it.
Carole-Anne Jackson was standing outside in the corridor. Richter said nothing, just opened the door wide. Jackson walked in, stopped in the middle of the room and glanced round.
‘Very nice,’ she said. ‘I’m glad I’m not paying for it.’
‘So am I. Is there a problem?’
Jackson sat down in one of the easy chairs and looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Not really. It’s been called off.’
‘Why? Does that mean the geniuses at Vauxhall Cross have finally come to their senses?’
‘That would be a bit too much to expect. No, it’s something simpler and more obvious than that. Twenty minutes ago Tariq Mazen rang me. He’d just come from an emergency meeting
called by his informant, the cleaner at the hospital. The sheikh’s private ward is now empty.’
‘He’s gone? Does he know where?’
Jackson grinned. ‘Nobody knows
exactly
where he’s gone, but it really doesn’t matter. The sheikh died early this afternoon, and now we know precisely who he
was.’
‘Brilliant,’ Richter muttered. ‘So who was he?’
‘His name wasn’t Rashid, but he
was
a sheikh and a minor member of the Saudi royal family. He’d come to Bahrain for dialysis, as we guessed, but then he died of liver
failure following some kind of complication.’
‘Well, that bears out what we all thought. It’s a pity he didn’t die a couple of days earlier – then I wouldn’t have had a completely pointless journey.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Your visit here might not have been a total waste of time.’
For a long moment Richter said nothing, just looked at her. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘I can’t deny it’s been a pleasant interlude being here. A good meal this
evening, very pleasant company, not to mention the five-star accommodation.’ Jackson still said nothing, just smiled. ‘You do realize,’ Richter added, ‘that the pointy-heads
at Legoland have strict rules about their employees fraternizing?’
‘Point one: fraternizing was not what I had in mind. Point two: they’re never going to find out unless one of us tells them. Point three: you don’t work there, and nor do I, so
they can stuff their rules. Now stop dithering about and pour me a drink.’
Thursday
Sheraton Hotel, Manama, Bahrain
Richter woke early. He glanced to his left, expecting to see Carole-Anne Jackson lying there, but the bed was empty. In fact, the sheets were pulled up neatly, and her clothes
had gone from the back of the chair where she’d left them the night before.
‘So much for breakfast in bed,’ he muttered, though in truth he wasn’t bothered. He’d always found ‘morning after’ conversations difficult, especially when he
hardly knew the woman who’d shared his bed. Most of his infrequent sexual encounters tended to be of the one-night stand variety and, on the one occasion when he had become deeply involved,
it had ended in disaster.
He was usually happy to follow the pithy advice of a wealthy but alimony-weary American friend many years earlier: ‘If it flies, fucks or floats, rent it.’ Cynical maybe, sexist
certainly, but not having a wife or a permanent girlfriend meant Richter had one less thing to worry about.
But as he relaxed on the pillows, the bathroom door opened suddenly and Jackson appeared, fully dressed. She smiled at him. ‘Sorry to rush off now, but I’ve got an early start.
I’ve had a call from Caxton.’
‘I didn’t hear the phone.’
‘I left my mobile set to silent and I found I’d missed a call from the office, so I’ve just rung in. Julian Caxton, our Head of Station, wants to meet you here at the hotel
before you leave for the UAE.’
‘No problem. What about?’
‘He didn’t say. Probably just to apologize for your wasted journey.’
‘As you said last night,’ Richter pointed out, ‘it wasn’t
entirely
wasted.’
‘No,’ Jackson agreed, ‘not entirely. Anyway, Caxton will be here around ten, and he’ll see you down in the lobby. Something urgent’s come up at the office that I
have to deal with, so I’d better go now.’ She walked round to Richter’s side of the bed, bent down and kissed him. ‘I guess I’ll see you around,’ she added.
‘I don’t think I’m likely to get back out here. Once I’ve finished in Dubai my boss will expect to see me hunched over my desk in Hammersmith, pushing piles of paper
around.’
Jackson smiled down at him. ‘I don’t know why,’ she said slowly, ‘but I have the distinct feeling that we’re going to run into each other again.’
Nad Al-Sheba Racecourse, Dubai
Saadi lowered the miniature binoculars and looked thoughtfully towards the Nad Al-Sheba racecourse. When the operation had been formulated in Afghanistan, the planners had
realized that without detailed knowledge of the racecourse’s layout and security systems, the question of obtaining access could not be addressed. So they’d left Saadi to work it out
for himself.
But getting inside wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped. With a full programme of racing already in progress, the racecourse was constantly active, with groundsmen, caterers, bar
staff and other tradesmen milling around, not to mention thousands of spectators.
‘My friends,’ he turned to Massood and Bashar, ‘I would welcome your suggestions. How are we going to breach their security?’