Payback (22 page)

‘So how’s Holden doing it?’ she asked. ‘From the reports I read, he definitely predicted the Syrian suicide bombing.’

‘He predicted
a
suicide bombing, without a doubt,’ Richter conceded, ‘but whether his prediction actually involved Damascus is another matter.’

‘Well, most of the details were pretty much on the money, and he even got the bomber’s name almost right.’

‘Yes, but Assad isn’t exactly an uncommon Arab name. I’d have been a lot more impressed if the
shahid
had been named Winston Churchill or something really unusual, and
Holden had known that. Where are we going now, by the way?’

‘If there is a genuine car bomb, I doubt if we’ll find it in this area, but Caxton wanted all the roads covered. So we’re going to drive out to the west side of Manama, and
then start working our way down through the more likely locations – meaning the streets where a car could be parked in the same spot for a couple of days without attracting too much
attention.’

‘Do you have any favourite locations?’

‘You mean where would I choose to leave a car bomb if I was a nasty Arab terrorist instead of a career officer in the internationally renowned Central Intelligence Agency?’

‘You could have given me the short version but, yes, that’s exactly what I mean.’

‘Probably somewhere in the Kanoo, Fadhel or Ras Rummaan areas.’

Jackson’s mobile phone rang, and Richter answered it. Julian Caxton’s voice was perfectly clear, and there was no mistaking the urgency in his tone. ‘The Bahraini police have
located a possible suspect vehicle. A large American saloon parked in Qassim Al-Mehze, near the Al-Jazira Hotel. Please investigate it and report back.’

‘Right.’ Richter said, ending the call. ‘The Al-Jazira Hotel,’ he instructed, and Jackson immediately increased speed. ‘That was Caxton,’ he explained.
‘The local plods have found a possible device in the vicinity. We’ve drawn the short straw, but at least he said “please”.’

‘He always does. He may be a bit of an old woman, but at least he’s a polite old woman.’

The suspect vehicle was in fact some distance from the Al-Jazira, near the junction of Qassim Al-Mehze with Tujjaar, but that didn’t matter because there were two Bahraini police cars
parked to bracket the target, and in the process they were also blocking the road.

Jackson eased to a stop and they climbed out. She identified herself to the police officers, then beckoned Richter forward. He followed her and they stopped a few feet short of two other
officers, who were peering through the windows of a cream-coloured Buick saloon.

‘That’s not the smartest move if there
is
an IED in that car,’ Richter observed.

‘True, but irrelevant. If it blows now, none of us would survive. Let’s just see what they’ve found and then get the hell away from here.’

Richter looked into the car. It was immediately apparent what had made the police suspicious. On the rear seat lay two closed, square cardboard boxes, and between them a coil of wire and
assorted tools. Below the wire he could just make out one corner of a dry-cell battery. He looked carefully for a few seconds more, then turned to Jackson.

‘This isn’t it,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘There’s no bomb in this car. My guess is it’s owned by a part-time electrician. Those two boxes are probably full of switches or sockets or bulbs or something. What
they’re absolutely not full of is explosive.’

‘How do you know? Are you sure?’

‘I know something about IEDs. I also know something about the mentality of your typical terrorist,’ Richter said. ‘If there is a car bomb here somewhere, you probably
won’t be able to see it through the car window because it’ll be hidden in the boot or under a seat. And if it is in plain view it’ll be inside a box or a suitcase, something like
that. You definitely won’t be able to see a battery and coils of wire.’

Jackson studied him for a few moments. ‘You’re positive?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely,’ Richter nodded. ‘I still don’t think there’s a bomb here at all, but if there is one,
this
thing definitely isn’t it.’

As he spoke the last word, there was a thunderous, echoing bang that seemed to shake the very ground they were standing on, and a billowing plume of dust rose from a nearby street.

‘Told you so,’ Richter said, already running back towards the BMW. ‘At least I was half right.’

Al-Qusais district, Dubai

On the eastern outskirts of Dubai, the three Arabs sat inside the Renault. Massood was running through the list of equipment they would need to assemble the following
day.

‘We need three or four bags to carry everything. We’ll also need dark clothing – Western-style would be best. Everything black – trousers, shirts, even sports shoes. And
then two rope ladders for the fence.’

‘Wouldn’t it be easier simply to cut through it?’ Bashar asked.

‘It would be easier, yes, but we dare not leave any trace of our presence there. That means we must go
over
the fence,’ Saadi said. ‘Now, do we have enough
wire?’

‘I believe so,’ Massood replied, ‘because all the packages will be positioned so close together. We should assemble a small toolkit, though. We’ll need things like tape,
sharp knives, pliers and wire-strippers.’

‘Will you need to buy them individually?’ Saadi asked.

‘No. It should be possible to purchase a basic kit, and then add any extras we require.’

‘Is there anything we’ve forgotten?’

Massood studied the list he’d prepared, then shook his head. ‘I think that’s everything, but I’ll go through it again this evening to make absolutely sure.’

Saadi looked at his two comrades and smiled. ‘We’ll make our purchases in the morning. Tomorrow night we’ll enter Nad Al-Sheba and complete the final preparations for our
jihad
. And the day after tomorrow will see a new dawn, and a new beginning, in Saudi Arabia.
In’shallah.
’

‘
In’shallah
,’ echoed Bashar and Massood.

Manama, Bahrain

Jackson swung the BMW round and accelerated hard. ‘I think it’s in Al-Mutanabi,’ she announced.

Moments later she braked hard, spun the wheel and accelerated, but then almost immediately stopped. They stepped out of the vehicle and were greeted, predictably enough, by a scene of total
chaos.

Above Al-Mutanabi, a huge cloud of dust was hanging, grey and brown and almost stationary in the still air, an ugly assault on the cobalt-blue sky. But Jackson and Richter barely gave it a
second glance. Their eyes were instantly drawn to the carnage in front of them.

The road was covered with debris, mostly of a mechanical origin – bits of a car or several cars – but some clearly derived from a different source. Tattered scraps of cloth, stained
deep red; unrecognizable fragments of tissue; body parts – a hand and arm, a foot in a ripped sandal – and, most upsetting of all, a severed head that had rolled across the road to come
to rest against the front wheel of a parked car.

Small fires burned on the road surface, the smoke adding to the pall that already hung over the whole area. Further away, the blackened and twisted remains of the floor pan of a car sat next to
the kerb, tortured metal shapes surrounding it. Richter had seen the effect of high-explosive detonations often enough to recognize immediately that this had been the bomb vehicle itself. When the
device exploded, the force of the blast had ripped off the doors, roof and panels, twisting the thin steel into surreal shapes, blown the engine and transmission out of the chassis, and shredded
pretty much everything else. But the floor pan had nowhere to go – the detonation had simply slammed it down onto the unyielding surface of the road beneath.

The cars that had been parked close to the IED had been blown away from the epicentre of the explosion, but at least they were still recognizable as cars. All the windows and doors in the
closest buildings had vanished, the glass and wood offering almost no resistance to the blast wave. Right beside the twisted floor pan, the adjacent building had lost most of its façade, and
it looked as if the whole front section could collapse at any moment.

What they could see was bad enough, but what they were hearing was worse. From somewhere beyond the wrecked cars they could hear a high and almost continuous wailing, a sound that seemed barely
human in origin, but there was no mistaking the agony it conveyed. Almost drowning that out were the shouts and screams of Bahraini pedestrians and drivers and people who’d been inside the
buildings when the bomb detonated, now running to and fro without clear purpose, wringing their hands and in deep shock.

Even worse than the noise was the smell: the acrid and unmistakable stench generated by the detonation itself, overlaid by an unholy amalgam of petrol, oil, burnt rubber, smoke, dust and charred
human flesh.

‘Get the rescue services mobile, if they aren’t already, and tell Caxton,’ Richter instructed, conscious that Carole-Anne Jackson was looking somewhat green. ‘I’ll
check out the rest of the street.’

As Jackson began dialling, Richter reached the epicentre of the explosion and stopped to look around. The source of the wailing – now markedly weaker and more intermittent – was
immediately obvious, for some thirty yards beyond the remains of the bomb vehicle a middle-aged Bahraini businessman lay sprawled on the pavement, clutching at his right thigh. There was nothing
left of his leg below the knee, just a shattered bone poking out of a sodden mess of flayed and bloody flesh.

Richter’s medical expertise was virtually non-existent, but he immediately did what he could. He pulled off his tie, stepped across to the victim, and fashioned a makeshift tourniquet
around his thigh. Richter wasn’t even sure if the injured man realized what he was doing, the incredible pain and massive shock probably rendering him incapable of coherent thought or any
real awareness of his immediate surroundings. He patted him on the shoulder and stepped away, hoping that an ambulance would arrive before the loss of blood killed him.

There were four other people sprawled on the pavement, but it took Richter only seconds to confirm that they were beyond anyone’s help. Further away from the site of the explosion, men and
women sat or lay on the pavement and the street, some leaning against the sides of parked cars or adjacent buildings, all in shock and most of them injured, but none too seriously, as far as he
could see. It looked as if the death toll was going to be fairly modest relative to the size of the IED, which had obviously been substantial.

There was nothing else he could do to assist the victims, and he could now hear the sound of approaching sirens, so he knew the ambulances and paramedics were almost there. Richter’s
training had prepared him for this kind of situation. His two highest priorities now were security – was there another device in the area? – followed by observation and
surveillance.

He doubted there was a second IED. The first blast had been so devastating that its detonation could have disrupted the firing mechanism of another nearby device. When terrorists doubled-up
explosive charges, they usually detonated a fairly small IED first, designed to cause only limited damage. Once the rescue and medical services were on the scene, they would trigger a second and
much more powerful weapon, so as to maximize the loss of life. It was a cowardly – and fortunately not very common – technique, and Richter wasn’t aware of any Middle Eastern
terrorist groups known to employ it.

That left surveillance. He was still checking the street when Jackson stopped beside him.

‘Caxton’s on his way: he should be leaving the embassy right now. Tariq and Bill will be here any minute,’ she said briskly, then looked around. ‘Christ, what a
mess.’

Richter nodded. ‘There’s one guy seriously injured over there behind that car – he’s lost most of one leg – and there are at least four dead.’

At that moment the first ambulance swung into Al-Mutanabi, the noise of its siren fading to silence as the driver stopped the vehicle. Doors opened and paramedics clambered out, bags in hand,
and ran across the street.

Jackson noticed that Richter was no longer looking at the destruction that surrounded them, but was staring down the street, his eyes focused on something about halfway up the side of one of the
buildings.

‘What is it?’ she demanded.

‘There,’ Richter replied. ‘That’s a surveillance camera, and it’s pointing this way. We need to get access to the tapes – assuming the camera isn’t on
the wall just for show.’

‘We can’t request it ourselves, but the police can get it. Tariq shouldn’t have any trouble.’

‘I won’t have any trouble doing what?’ Mazen asked, jogging up beside them, Bill Evans a few feet behind him. ‘May Allah forgive them,’ Mazen muttered, eyes
widening as he took in the scene in front of him.

‘Paul’s spotted a video camera up there,’ Jackson said, pointing down the street. ‘It may have recorded whoever planted the car.’

‘And we’ll need the tapes quickly,’ Richter added.

Mazen peered at the building. ‘I see it,’ he said. ‘Leave it to me.’

As he strode away, heading directly for two uniformed police officers, Bill Evans, who’d so far been staring in silence at the destruction, shook his head. ‘Bastards,’ he
muttered, almost to himself. ‘Murdering fucking bastards. And for what?’

‘Good question,’ Richter said. ‘Unless I’m missing something, there’s nothing special about this street, so why would anyone position the bomb here?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Jackson said. ‘Do you know anything about this area, Bill?’

‘Not much. There was just a shop on the ground floor and several apartments above it, I think.’

‘But nothing government or political?’ Richter pressed.

‘Nothing that I know of.’

‘So why the bomb, then? Terrorists don’t plant IEDs just on a whim. They have a reason for what they do, maybe using twisted logic that doesn’t make much sense to anyone else,
but there’s
always
a reason.’

‘I don’t know,’ Evans said, ‘but Tariq can make some inquiries.’