Payback (36 page)

No matter. The wires were still in place, the firing box just an arm’s length away. It would be the work of a moment to both avenge Bashar and topple the House of Saud.

With a muttered prayer, and almost without conscious thought, Saadi leant the Kalashnikov against a pillar and reached out for the box. He quickly checked that the wires were securely attached,
looked up at the explosive charges taped to the girders, and rested his finger on the button.

He bowed his head and mouthed ‘
B’ism-Illah-ir-Rachmani-ir-Rachim
’, then took a last look around him. He glanced down at the plastic box, called out
‘
Abdubaha
’ in a voice that was almost a shout, closed his eyes and pressed the button.

Nothing happened for a couple of seconds, then a quiet voice from directly behind him said ‘Bang’. Just as Saadi started to turn, a huge weight seemed to crash into the top of his
skull and blackness supervened.

Richter checked the unconscious man in front of him, removed the Browning pistol from his waistband and put it into his own pocket. Then he stepped across to where Saadi had
placed the Kalashnikov, picked it up and moved it well out of the way.

Carole-Anne Jackson watched him. She’d emerged from the workshop as soon as Saadi had shouted out, but by the time she stepped into the darkness, the Arab was already unconscious, the iron
bar Richter had found ensuring instant and prolonged oblivion.

He went back to his victim and checked the Arab’s pulse.

‘Will he live?’ Jackson asked.

‘Maybe, but I don’t much care either way. Right, that’s two down, one to go.’

To one side of the Millennium Grandstand, Massood watched and waited. He didn’t know how long it would take Saadi to trigger the bomb, but he was already worried. Above
him he could see the unmistakable signs of a controlled evacuation. Uniformed police officers and racecourse officials were clearly visible, leading people away from the windows. As long as Saadi
could detonate the explosives within two or three minutes, they might still achieve their objective, but if he delayed any longer, their principal targets would almost certainly escape.

Again he checked his watch, then made a decision. He would have to act independently. He moved away, heading for a point behind and to one side of the Millennium Grandstand, where anyone leaving
the building would have to pass.

‘Right,’ Richter said. ‘I’ll sort out this bastard, then we’ll wrap this up.’

He pulled down one of the wires still connecting the firing box and the plastic explosive, heaved Saadi on to his front and lashed his wrists together. Then he tied the unconscious man’s
legs to a thick steel pipe so that, even if he woke up, he wasn’t going anywhere. He removed the magazine from each of the Kalashnikovs, emptied the shells into his pocket and cleared the
breeches on both weapons. He took off his light jacket, slung the MP5 with its stock folded over his right shoulder, then pulled the jacket back on. The small submachine gun created a bulge in the
fabric, but no part of it was actually visible.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go outside and finish this.’

Unnoticed by Massood, Michael Watkinson stood beside a group of people in Western dress about seventy yards away and watched him. The lone Arab met most of the criteria Richter
had told him to watch out for: the frequent glances at his watch and his constant study of the grandstand, and he was walking in a peculiar, stiff-legged way that suggested he had something
concealed under his
gellabbiya
. Watkinson pulled out his mobile and pressed a speed-dial code.

Richter’s phone was on vibrate and silent, and immediately he felt the tremor in his pocket he pulled it out.

‘I’ve spotted one character who doesn’t look like he belongs,’ Watkinson said, and then described the man.

‘That could be contestant number three,’ Richter said. ‘Where is he now?’

‘Hanging around at the rear of the stand.’

‘He’s probably guessed their bomb isn’t going to blow, so he’s going to gun down the Saudis as they leave. Contact Hussein and tell him to stop the evacuation.
We’ve disarmed the bomb, so now they’re safer inside the stand than out of it.’

‘What about this man?’

‘Don’t worry. Carole and I will take care of him.’

Massood glanced around, alert for trouble, but saw nobody who caused him any concern. Anyone wanting to leave the Millennium Grandstand would have to pass within fifty yards of
where he was standing. At that range, with a fully loaded Kalashnikov and two spare magazines, he could do a
lot
of damage.

‘We’re going to do what?’ Jackson demanded, as Richter ended the call.

‘We’ll go outside, find this Arab and take him down.’

‘I don’t think your Mr Watkinson is all that sharp at this kind of thing. Are you sure he’s identified the right man?’

‘No, but he’s the best lead we’ve got. The racecourse is full of people, so we can’t go charging out there waving assault rifles. You’ve reloaded your
pistol?’

Jackson stared at him. ‘Basic handgun one oh one. Of course I’ve reloaded it. What do you think I am – some kind of fucking amateur?’

‘Just checking.’ Richter smiled apologetically.

Inspector Hussein wasn’t having an easy time. Simply getting inside the Millennium Grandstand was tricky, because the staff, used to local police officers waving their
identity cards as a way to avoid the inconvenience and expense of buying tickets, initially refused him admittance. Not having time to argue, he overcame that hurdle by simply drawing his pistol
and marching straight past, followed by his group of armed officers.

All the members of the Saudi royal family at the meeting were watching the racing from the Del Mar Lounge, which had been reserved for their personal use. Hussein again found his way barred, but
this time by a group of bodyguards, and he had to wait until a palace official was found before he could explain his mission.

His ID was checked thoroughly before the official would take him seriously. The most senior members of the royal family were informed first, but that didn’t make much difference. Within
seconds, it seemed, everyone in the lounge knew that there was a bomb in the building and all they wanted was to get out. Immediately.

Hussein’s armed officers ensured that the evacuation was relatively orderly, and he’d just managed to get most of them heading towards the exits when he received Watkinson’s
call telling him to stop what he was doing. He did his best, and most of the Saudis responded positively, retracing their steps and resuming their seats, but one small group, led by some minor
princes, absolutely refused to do anything but leave the building.

And there was nothing Hussein could do to stop them.

Richter opened the external door and looked out. The area beyond was now full of people, which was both a help and a hindrance. It meant their quarry was less likely to see
them coming, but would also make it more difficult to spot him.

‘We’re a couple,’ Richter decided, ‘so walk beside me on my right. That should help shield the MP5 from view.’ Jackson linked her arm in his as they joined the edge
of a moving throng. ‘Watkinson described this guy as about six feet tall, heavy black beard, white
gellabbiya
, red and white
kaffiyeh
, somewhere in front of us. He’s
probably wearing a Semtex waistcoat, so we don’t just walk up and tap him on the shoulder.’

‘What do we do, then?’

‘We play it by ear. It depends on where he is and what he’s doing when we see him.’

To their left, a group of young Arabs emerged noisily around the corner of the Millennium Grandstand and began heading in roughly the same direction as Richter and Jackson.

Massood was getting concerned. Nobody resembling any member of the Saudi royal family had yet appeared. There were people surging all around him, and he still believed nobody
had realized his intentions, but eventually someone was bound to wonder why he kept pacing up and down in the same spot.

And then, as he turned back again to look towards the grandstand, his face creased into a smile. It wasn’t quite the group he had been hoping for, but he recognized a number of the younger
Saudi princes heading his way. Obviously the exodus from the stand was just beginning, so he had only seconds to wait. But then his face darkened, because nobody else was following them.

Suddenly Massood realized they’d failed. The authorities must have killed Bashar and Saadi, and disarmed the bomb. He was all that was left. He was the sole remaining
jihadi
, and
upon his shoulders now rested all the responsibility of this vital Al-Qaeda operation. He had no options left. He made his decision.

He watched the loose band of young Saudi princes get closer, his whole attention focused on them. For Massood, the other people around him had ceased to exist. His left hand crept up to the
neckline of his
gellabbiya
. His finger and thumb closed on the material of the Velcro seam. Just a few more yards and then he would act. A futile gesture, perhaps, but at the very least he
would be avenging his fallen comrades.

And then the leading Saudi was directly in front of him, a bare twenty yards away.
Now
, Massood thought, and pulled his arm down and to the left, ripping the seam apart to reveal the
Kalashnikov assault rifle hanging on its cord.

With a great bellow of ‘
Allahu Akbar
’, he seized the pistol grip with his right hand and swung up the barrel to point at the approaching group, his left hand grasping the
fore-end to steady his aim.

‘Oh, shit,’ Richter muttered, breaking into a run. ‘There he is.’

About eighty yards away from them, a man in a white
gellabbiya
was levelling a weapon at a group of young Arabs directly in front of him. With a clear line of sight, Richter would have
opened fire with the MP5 from where he stood, but behind the gunman were throngs of racing enthusiasts, and the risk of hitting one or more of them at that range was too great.

So Richter ran. He pulled his jacket open and grabbed the MP5, swinging it up into the firing position, but he was still too far away, and far too late.

To his right, Carole-Anne Jackson was also running, simultaneously widening the distance between them to ensure she had a clear shot, the Glock in her right hand. But she, like Richter, had no
chance of preventing what was about to happen.

Massood took a moment to check his target, then squeezed the trigger of his assault rifle. His ability with the weapon was immediately apparent. Untrained troops tend to hold
the trigger down, which means that almost every round except the first three or four will go high and miss the target as the barrel lifts.

Massood had been trained to use the weapon the same way all elite troops are instructed – the so-called ‘double-tap’: two shots; correct aim; then two more shots.

His first two bullets took the leading prince squarely in the chest, then Massood shifted his aim slightly, to seek out another target. The terror in his next victim’s face was palpable,
and Massood exulted in that, taking a couple of steps forward. The front of the prince’s
gellabbiya
suddenly bloomed red and he tumbled backwards. His companions had turned and begun
to run, but nobody can outrun a bullet.

Another two rounds screamed through the air, seeking out Massood’s third target. Then two more, and yet another young man slumped forwards, shot in the back, his blood staining the ground
all around him.

Massood’s face wore a smile of triumph. This was what he had hoped to do, to help rid Saudi Arabia of the corruption that infested it. He had eyes only for the terrified young men fleeing
in front of him, choosing each target and dispatching him with the callous efficiency of an executioner.

Richter stopped, swung up the MP5 and took careful aim. There were still far too many people behind the terrorist, but he couldn’t afford to wait any longer. With every
second another innocent victim died. Collateral damage was a risk he was going to have to accept.

A few yards over to his right, Carole-Anne Jackson had obviously reached the same conclusion. At that moment she raised her Glock, took aim and squeezed the trigger.

Massood was shifting his weapon again when he suddenly became aware of the sound of two shots off to his left. A woman seemed to be aiming at him with some kind of a pistol. He
hadn’t been hit, though he knew the end was near: sooner or later the police would arrive and then he would die. But that was of no consequence to him as he quickly chose his next victim.

But before he could squeeze the trigger, something slammed into his left side and he staggered backwards. He looked down to see a sudden flare of blood erupting from a tiny hole in his black
shirt, just below his shoulder. But his left arm was undamaged, and he still had work to do. He ignored the pain spreading across his body and again took aim at one of the running figures.

And then another sudden stab of pain, and another, and another, and Massood fell sideways, crashing to the ground. Surely it couldn’t just be the woman, not with that pathetic little
pop-gun. He raised his head and looked up. A tall man with fair hair and blue eyes was running towards him, a sub-machine-gun clutched in his hand.

Massood’s strength seemed to be ebbing, his vision clouding, and now there was a roaring in his ears. With the last of his strength he pulled the Kalashnikov across his body, aiming it at
the approaching man.

His right forefinger was taking up the pressure on the trigger when a shadow fell across him and he looked up to see the last sight he would ever see. There was a woman standing over him –
and, just like Bashar in the dark emptiness under the grandstand, his immediate reaction was one of fury. How dare a woman have the temerity to interfere with the work of men, or obstruct his holy
mission?

And then he didn’t think anything else at all, as Carole-Anne Jackson blasted two nine-millimetre rounds through his head.

Saturday
Nad Al-Sheba Racecourse, Dubai