Payback (33 page)

Richter glanced at his watch. ‘The World Cup starts in a little under ninety minutes.’

‘Christ, that soon? Right, you’d better get on with it.’

‘Forceful man, your boss,’ Watkinson observed, as Richter ended the call.

‘That’s been said before, though usually a lot less politely. What did he tell you?’

‘I’m to give you a personal weapon – which I tried to tell him I wasn’t authorized to do, not that it made any difference – and between the pair of us, with or
without the assistance of the authorities, we’re to ensure that the Saudi royal family and everyone else at Nad Al-Sheba enjoys a peaceful and uninterrupted day at the races. He’s
talking about going straight to the top of the Dubai Government and shaking some very important trees. Can he really deliver?’

‘You don’t know Simpson. He’s direct, persistent and very well connected. He’ll do exactly what he said he’d do. I don’t particularly like the man, but I do
respect his abilities.’ Richter glanced at his watch again. ‘Look, we’ve got to get going, Michael, and right now. What weapons have you got here?’

‘You
are
sure about this?’ Watkinson looked troubled. ‘If we go busting into Nad Al-Sheba with all guns blazing, we’re going to cause a hell of a diplomatic
incident.’

‘Only if I’m wrong,’ Richter said, standing up. ‘And if I am, causing a diplomatic incident will be the least of my worries. Now, what weapons have you got?’

‘Not many. Half a dozen Browning Hi-Power nine-millimetre pistols, each with two magazines, three privately owned hunting rifles and a couple of shotguns.’

‘And?’

‘And that’s it. Remember this is one of Her Majesty’s embassies, not the local branch of Kalashnikovs-R-Us.’

‘Shit,’ Richter said, ‘I was hoping for an assault rifle at least. We can forget about the shotguns, because confronting terrorists touting Kalashnikovs when all we’ve
got is a couple of Purdeys is a really good way to commit suicide.’

Watkinson grinned. ‘Purdeys they’re not – just a couple of skeet guns.’

‘Even worse. And I suppose the hunting rifles are bolt-action single-shot twenty-twos, because no gentleman would dream of going hunting with a high-velocity auto-loader?’

‘Not quite. One is a single-shot twenty-two, while the other two are about thirty-thirty calibre deer rifles, with magazines. But they’re all bolt-action – you’re
right.’

‘Forget them, then,’ Richter said. ‘We’ll have to take the pistols and hope we get close enough to use them. Bring four of them, all the magazines, and every round of
nine-millimetre you can lay your hands on. You do have some ammunition, I hope?’

‘Two or three boxes of fifty, I think. I’ll go and get everything together.’

‘You know I’m carrying a weapon,’ Jackson remarked, after Watkinson had left the room. ‘It’s only a nine-millimetre Glock, but I am pretty good with it.’

Watkinson was back in less than five minutes, carrying a cardboard box which he placed on the table in front of Richter. ‘I’ve got to make some calls,’ he declared, and left
again.

Richter took out a pair of shoulder rigs, each fitted with two magazine pouches on the webbing below the holster. He pulled one on, then picked up one of the Brownings and checked its action. It
was an old pistol, but seemed perfectly serviceable. By the time Watkinson returned, they’d loaded eight magazines, and Richter had one Browning in his shoulder holster, the other in his
jacket pocket. The other two were laid on the table ready for Watkinson, along with four magazines.

‘You’ll find one of your magazines is a bit lighter than the others, Michael. There were two full boxes of nine-millimetre, but only eight rounds in the third box, so the last
magazine has got ten bullets in it, not fourteen.’

‘But yours are fully charged?’ Watkinson asked.

Richter nodded. ‘I’m almost certainly better at this kind of thing than you are, or at least, I’ve definitely had a lot more practice. And the fact is that if any of us get
down to our last magazine, we’re going to be so deep in the shit it won’t matter anyway.’

‘You’re probably right.’ Watkinson pulled on the holster. ‘Are you coming on this jaunt, Carole?’

‘You bet.’

‘Do you need a weapon?’

Jackson shook her head, and opened the left side of her jacket to reveal why.

‘Right,’ Watkinson said. ‘I’ve called Inspector Hussein and briefed him. He doesn’t believe any of it, naturally, but he’ll be waiting for us out at Nad
Al-Sheba.’

Nad Al-Sheba Racecourse, Dubai

Forty-five minutes after they’d separated, they met at the back of the Millennium Grandstand, right beside a small maintenance door. It had been locked when
they’d entered Nad Al-Sheba the previous night, but they’d forced it and merely closed it when they left.

Bashar had already shed his
gellabbiya
to reveal a pair of white overalls. Half the trick in being a successful impostor is to be in the right place at the right time, and anyone noticing
him would see an engineer already inside the racetrack, and would assume that his identification had been properly checked at the gate.

The door accessed a workshop and storeroom, but inside was another door that opened into the void directly beneath the stand – a cavernous space filled with struts and girders and
cross-braces, the far end of it vanishing into the gloom. Cables and pipes shared this void with pieces of machinery whose function Saadi couldn’t even guess at. Fluorescent lights were
attached to the girders, but enough light leaked in from the outside to make turning them on unnecessary. The air inside was hot and still, and the vast space felt stuffy and claustrophobic.

They strode across to a pile of cardboard boxes and Saadi tossed them aside, revealing the bags they’d concealed there the previous night. He opened one, took out a Kalashnikov and handed
it to Massood, who checked the magazine was fully loaded, then slammed it back into place. Saadi inspected the other two assault rifles, then picked up one of the other heavy bags and made his way
across the void.

Each bag contained about fifteen kilograms of C4 plastic explosive, enough to demolish a very substantial building. Most structures have load-bearing walls or columns of reinforced concrete
which support their entire weight, but explosive charges positioned so as to blow holes in the walls or cut through those columns could collapse a large edifice in seconds. And Saadi knew exactly
how to do that, because he’d been trained in Afghanistan by experts.

The biggest problem about the stand was that it wasn’t a conventional building. Like most structures housing multiple levels of tiered seating, it needed an immensely strong steel
skeleton. When Saadi had looked round the void the previous night, he’d realized at once that they couldn’t hope to demolish the entire building, only one end of it. But the explosion
and partial collapse would kill many of his targets, and then he and Massood could move in and finish the job with their Kalashnikovs. It was a simple and effective plan, and Saadi didn’t
think that much could go wrong with it.

When their taxi stopped outside the racecourse, they saw Hussein already waiting for them. He was flanked by five uniformed Dubai police officers, each carrying a Heckler &
Koch MP5 sub-machine-gun.

‘Michael,’ Hussein greeted Watkinson, his expression worried. ‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Frankly, I’m not, but it seems to make sense, given what we know already. And if we’re right, we have to do something immediately. The race starts just in a few
minutes.’

Richter stepped up beside the two men, Carole-Anne Jackson behind him.

‘This is your idea?’ Hussein asked, and Richter nodded. ‘Why do you think the attempt will be made during the World Cup event?’

‘Because it’s the biggest and most expensive race of the meeting, the only one that you can almost guarantee will be watched by everyone. It’s when all the stands and
enclosures will be packed full, so that’s logically when they’ll detonate the bomb.’

As Richter said the word ‘bomb’, Hussein almost flinched. ‘Should we clear the stands before the race starts?’ the Arab asked.

‘I don’t think that would be a good idea. If the terrorists suspect we’ve guessed their plans, they might decide to detonate their weapon immediately, just to kill as many as
possible. And trying to clear the stands quickly would probably cause a panic.’

‘So that means we have to find this bomb and disarm it?’

‘Exactly, and we need to start looking right now.’ Richter paused briefly. ‘Actually, it might be possible to just get the Saudi lot – the royal family, I mean –
out of the stand for their own safety. Could you manage that without alarming everyone else?’

‘I can certainly try,’ Hussein agreed, and led four of his officers off to start a very limited evacuation of the Millennium Grandstand, while Richter, Jackson and Watkinson,
accompanied by the one remaining policeman, made their way towards the rear of the structure.

‘Do you think he’ll be able to get them out in time?’ Watkinson asked.

‘Probably not,’ Richter replied, checking that the police officer was out of earshot, ‘but I wanted him out of the way. We don’t need a whole mob of people crashing
around underneath the stand looking for a bomb. If this is an Al-Qaeda operation, there’s a possibility they won’t be relying on a timing device in case something goes wrong with it.
This has to be a vital operation for them – one that could change the whole future of the Middle East.’

‘So there’ll likely be a suicide bomber inside, with his hand on a relay?’

‘That’s my guess, and if a whole gang of us bash on in, he’ll take one look and press the button. We need a bit of finesse here.’

Within fifteen minutes, they’d strapped explosive around the struts and girders, all held in place with adhesive tape. Each pack of C4 had a slim pencil detonator
inserted, and these were all linked by wires to a black plastic box, plain apart from a push-button, a single switch and a warning light. Saadi walked around one last time to check that all the C4
was securely attached, that the detonators were inserted and the cables connected. Then he stepped back and went over to join his two colleagues.

‘We’re ready,’ he said simply.

Massood handed him a Kalashnikov, which had a length of stout cord looped through a hole in the stock. Despite having already checked the weapon once, Saadi did so again because they could
afford no mistakes.

The
gellabbiya
completely covers whatever is worn underneath it, but another advantage is that it also enables quite large objects to be concealed about the person. Saadi had no doubt
that, when they left the stand, what he and Massood would be carrying would be completely invisible.

Each
gellabbiya
had an embroidered seam running down the front, from the neckline to the bottom hem, and inside this were strips of Velcro. One firm tug would rip the seam in two, turning
the
gellabbiya
into a cloak with sleeves. More importantly, this action would allow its wearer unrestricted access to whatever was concealed underneath.

Saadi removed his
gellabbiya
and handed it to Bashar, then lifted up the Kalashnikov, dropped the cord over his head and allowed the weapon to hang,muzzle-down, in front of him. Walking
would be a little difficult, with the assault rifle banging against his legs, but Saadi wasn’t planning on walking very far. Massood mirrored his actions and within minutes both men were
ready.

Saadi pulled a racing programme from his pocket, checked his watch and did a quick calculation. ‘Detonate the device in exactly eighteen minutes from now,’ he instructed, ‘no
sooner, and no later.’

Bashar looked at his own watch and nodded agreement. For a brief instant none of the three spoke or moved, then both Saadi and Massood stepped forward, one after the other, and embraced him.

‘
Assalamu alaikum wa barakatuhu wa rahmatulahi
, Bas-har,’ Saadi murmured, his voice barely audible.

‘
Walaikum assalam
, my friends,’ Bashar replied equally quietly. ‘
Ma’assalama
.’ Go in peace.

Richter and Watkinson arrived at the grandstand only about two minutes after Saadi and Massood had emerged from the maintenance area and vanished into the crowds. ‘Where
will the Saudi royals be?’ Richter asked.

‘At the far end, I imagine, in the Del Mar Lounge on the fourth floor.’

‘We’re running out of time – the race starts in about fifteen minutes. We’d better split up. Take the police officer and check the front for an access door to the void
under the stand. Carole and I will check the back and meet you in, what, five minutes?’ Watkinson nodded. ‘If you do find a door, don’t open it.’

It didn’t take them long to discover that there were two doors in the rear of the stand, one at each end, bearing notices in English and Arabic. The English said ‘No admittance
– maintenance staff only’, and Richter guessed that the Arabic script said pretty much the same thing.

As they reached the far end, Watkinson reappeared with the policeman, both panting slightly in the hot, humid and essentially motionless air. ‘Nothing at the front.’

‘There are two doors in the back wall which may lead into the space under the stand.’ Richter glanced at his watch. ‘You said the Saudis would be watching the race from this
end, so my guess is that’s where the bomb will be. And if it is, the one thing we definitely shouldn’t do is kick down that door over there.’ Richter gestured behind him.
‘That would pretty much guarantee that anyone lurking inside will do the Guy Fawkes bit immediately.’

Unsurprisingly, the other door was locked, but they were in no mood to go looking for keys. Richter stood squarely in front of it, waited as the noise of the crowd in the stand above rose to a
roar, then raised his right leg.

There’s a technique to breaking down doors, and what you don’t do is charge at it, hitting it with your shoulder. Do that and you’ll just bounce off, at least the first few
times, because the whole door will give slightly, dissipating the force of the blow. You need to kick it, hard and focused, and right beside the lock. That way, all the energy of the blow will be
concentrated where the door is weakest – the lock itself. On most doors, about half the thickness of the wood is removed to accommodate the lock, severely degrading its structural
integrity.