Payback (7 page)

‘I don’t understand why our friend here had to be “killed”. Why couldn’t we just have arrested him and then handed him over to your lot?’

‘Three reasons,’ Richter explained. ‘First, we’ve got another job waiting for Argonaut here – and that has to be one of the silliest code-names yet devised –
which is apparently somewhat urgent. Second, getting our asset back would have taken days or maybe weeks, once he’d been arrested, but taking possession of a corpse takes no time at all.
Finally, Simpson thought that you’d have an easier time getting the other members of the cell to cooperate if they’ve just seen one of their own shot dead right in front of
them.’

‘Why didn’t you confide in me before the operation?’

‘If you’d known what I intended to do, you’d have insisted on briefing your entry team. And unless they’re trained actors, which I doubt, they’d have reacted in
exactly the wrong way. But by doing it for real, with no pre-briefing, they responded precisely the way a couple of good coppers should have done.

‘Now, as far as the world is concerned, one of these six terrorists was shot dead when armed police attempted to arrest him. The five remaining know he was in fact executed, which might
mean they’ll be easier to handle, and Argonaut can start his new undercover operation as soon as he’s ready. All in all, an excellent result.’

Manama, Bahrain

Assembling an IED isn’t difficult as long as you know what you’re doing, as has been proved by the IRA and other terrorist groups on many occasions.

The most difficult weapons to fabricate are those using improvised explosives, usually based on ammonium nitrate fertilizer mixed with fuel oil. Such devices are bulky and unstable, but can be
devastating. The Oklahoma City truck bomb that killed over 160 people in 1995 contained about two tons of ammonium nitrate fertilizer, and the IRA used the same substance to construct the half-ton
bomb that caused such massive damage to London’s Canary Wharf in 1996.

The problem with these types of IED is the bulk and weight of the components, and mixing the fertilizer and fuel oil requires both care and a large container. Delivery of such bigger devices
also presents problems, normally requiring a substantial vehicle. John Petrucci’s task was a lot easier, because everything he needed was inside the briefcase.

‘You want a hand with anything?’ O’Hagan asked, but Petrucci shook his head.

‘No. I’ll just grab a coffee in the bar, and then I’ll start.’

‘OK, we’ll aim to position it this afternoon at six, so work out your timing based on that. I’ll check the flights and book us a hotel in Cairo.’

Petrucci returned to his hotel room and locked the door. He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves – fingerprints on bomb components unaccountably seem to survive even the most powerful
explosions – opened the briefcase and placed all the components in front of him on the writing desk.

He was methodical and experienced, and had plenty of time. He proceeded with small, simple steps, checking each component carefully before he attached it, and then each function as he completed
it.

Fifty minutes later he made a final check of the connections and timer settings, then stepped out into the corridor and headed for the lifts, briefcase in hand.

Kondal, Russia

‘You’re obviously a member of the Mafia,’ the interrogating officer snapped, as Borisov lowered his aching body onto a seat in the interview room.

The officer was dressed in civilian clothes and had introduced himself simply as ‘Investigator Litvinoff’, so Borisov had no idea what rank he actually held or even which branch of
the police force he represented. The administrator’s worry was that Litvinoff might not be a police officer at all, but instead a member of the FSB – the
Federal’naya Sluzhba
Bezopasnost
– responsible for domestic counter-espionage, anti-subversion and counter-terrorism. The pistol and the bank passbook were both red flags that would immediately suggest either
criminal activity or some form of treachery.

‘How else can you explain these?’ Litvinoff demanded, confirming Borisov’s unspoken thought as he gestured at the unloaded Tokarev, and then the passbook, sitting on the table
between them.

The room was small and square, with stained and grubby white-painted walls, a low ceiling, and a very solid door. The only furniture was a metal table, its legs bolted to the floor, and three
hard wooden chairs.

For a few moments Borisov said nothing, wondering desperately what he could do to retrieve the situation. He’d been trying to work out what he should say ever since he’d stared at
the unavoidable sight of the oncoming car on the road outside Kondal, but he still had almost no idea. His best option, he decided, was to play dumb and innocent, as far as he could.

‘The pistol is for my own protection,’ he ventured.

Litvinoff snorted. ‘Protection, Borisov? You work at the PO Start manufacturing plant in Zarechnyy. What enemies can a mere administrator’ – he sneered the word –
‘expect to make? Tell me that.’

‘I sometimes have to carry important documents outside the plant. These papers carry a high security classification, and I must be able to protect both them and myself.’

‘We found no such documents in your car,’ the investigator pointed out. ‘In fact, we found nothing of interest there apart from this bank book. Why do you have a foreign bank
account?’

Borisov knew he was fighting a losing battle, but he wasn’t prepared to give in without a fight. ‘I work as a consultant,’ he replied, a hint of desperation in his voice.
‘The companies that employ me often pay in dollars, so that means I must have a bank account outside Russia.’

Litvinoff opened the bank passbook and studied the entry on the first page with exaggerated care. ‘It looks to me as if there has only ever been one deposit made into this account,’
he said. ‘One deposit only, of two million American dollars. Two
million
dollars. What sort of consultancy work pays you that well, Borisov? What skills do you have that can command
that kind of remuneration?’

‘The work I do is confidential, so I can’t discuss it. That passbook is for a new account. I’ve only just opened it, and the money was transferred there from another
bank.’ That, at least, was true.

The investigator looked at Borisov and shook his head. ‘Your story makes no sense,’ he snapped, ‘but let’s assume for the moment that this money, this two
million
dollars, which is more than most workers in this country could earn in several lifetimes, has indeed been paid to you for some work you’ve done. But look at you. Your car is at least fifteen
years old and your clothes are shabby and worn. If you had been acting as a consultant and getting paid these sums of money, you would be well able to afford a decent car and good clothes. And you
certainly wouldn’t still be working at Zarechnyy as an administrator.’

Litvinoff leant forward across the table, and Borisov moved back slightly.

‘There are only two ways you could have acquired this money,’ Litvinoff hissed. ‘You’re either involved in some kind of criminal activity or you’ve sold something
to a foreign power. You’re already in deep trouble for carrying a concealed and unlicensed firearm. What I have to decide is whether you’re a traitor, or just a criminal, and whether
you’re going to prison for the rest of your life or if we should just take you outside and shoot you now.’

Borisov stared back across the table, wondering whether to try to buy his way out of the situation. He had adequate funds – that was abundantly clear to both him and the investigating
officer – and he could afford to be generous, even split the balance down the middle. What worried him was that any attempt to offer a bribe might backfire.

There could be surveillance devices hidden in the interview room, though he could see no indication of a microphone or camera lens. If he tried to persuade Litvinoff to let him walk out, he
might find that his troubles were only just starting. But he had to try, because the alternative simply didn’t bear thinking about. What encouraged him was that he was talking to only one
investigator, and he knew that usually two officers conducted such interrogations, often playing ‘good cop, bad cop’ roles. The fact that Litvinoff was questioning him alone might mean
he was hoping for an offer.

‘You’re wrong,’ Borisov insisted. ‘I do work as a consultant, and it pays very well. I could even employ an assistant for some jobs.’ That should be enough to bait
the line.

For a moment or two Litvinoff stared at him, then dropped his eyes to the passbook. ‘Two million dollars is a
lot
of money,’ he said. ‘If you were to employ someone,
what sort of payment would you expect to offer him for his services?’

Borisov felt he could breathe again, knowing he’d set the hook. All he had to do was negotiate a figure. He’d start as low as he dared, and hope Litvinoff wasn’t too
greedy.

‘Probably about twenty-five per cent of the gross remuneration,’ he said casually. ‘For this job I’ve just done, that would mean half a million American dollars. A very
substantial payment for very little work.’

‘That’s true, but you must appreciate the nature of what’s involved here. A more reasonable payment would be half the total – one million dollars each for you and your
assistant.’ Before Borisov could reply, the investigator continued. ‘Think of the problems you face. If you can’t walk away from here, you’ll never see any of this money.
You’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars, or even face a firing squad. Now, if somebody could arrange for all charges to be dropped, I think you’d agree that service was worth
rather more than five hundred thousand dollars. But, of course,’ Litvinoff finished, ‘it’s entirely up to you.’

Borisov didn’t hesitate. ‘What you say makes sense. If I could be assured that no charges would be filed, I’d be happy to pay the sum you suggest.’

‘Right,’ Litvinoff said. He picked up the pistol and the passbook and smiled for the first time. ‘I’ll see if I can find somebody who can assist you. Meanwhile,
I’ll have some refreshments sent in.’

Manama, Bahrain

Alex O’Hagan walked out of the Al-Jazira Hotel, John Petrucci following, briefcase in hand. They’d already checked out, and their bags were waiting in the
lobby. O’Hagan had explained to the desk clerk that they had a meeting to attend in Manama, and they’d be returning to collect their luggage before going to the airport.

The car park lay north of the hotel, but they headed south and stopped at the end of Al-Mutanabi. While O’Hagan conducted an entirely imaginary conversation on his mobile phone, Petrucci
stood beside him, apparently idly waiting, but in reality checking the road for any cameras that could record them when they eventually parked the car.

He spotted two. One was fixed, covering the Al-Khalifa junction, and was presumably a traffic camera. The second was located on a nearby building and was mobile, pointing up the street for about
two minutes at a time, before rotating to point in the opposite direction.

Three times Petrucci lifted his left arm, apparently checking his watch. In fact, he was holding a digital camera, scarcely bigger than a credit card, and each time he raised his arm he took a
picture.

When they reached the car park, they didn’t immediately approach the Chevrolet. O’Hagan again made a ‘call’ on his mobile while they scanned the surrounding area,
checking that nobody was watching.

O’Hagan unlocked the doors and slid behind the wheel, immediately starting the engine to get the air-conditioning working. Petrucci sat in the passenger seat, the briefcase on his lap. As
the air inside the car cooled, he opened the case to make a final inspection of the weapon. O’Hagan glanced down at the deadly contents and nodded. Petrucci closed the briefcase and scrambled
the combination locks.

On the back seat of the car was a holdall containing a
gellabbiya
and
kaffiyeh
for each man, a basic disguise that instantly changed their appearance from that of Western
businessmen to just a couple of locals. The outfits would help to muddy the waters slightly if any cameras did manage to record their images when they positioned the vehicle. Once they’d both
pulled the Arab clothing on over their suits, O’Hagan put the car into gear and drove slowly away.

On Al-Mutanabi, he manoeuvred the car into the only parking space he could find, but left the engine running. The vehicle wasn’t positioned precisely where Ahmed had requested, but it was
close enough, and O’Hagan wasn’t prepared to wait for one of the spaces right outside the building to become vacant.

‘OK to arm it now?’

O’Hagan nodded. ‘I hope to Christ you’ve set the timer right.’

‘Trust me,’ Petrucci replied, but he still held his breath as he removed insulating tape from two wires that protruded from holes drilled in the side of the briefcase. He twisted the
exposed strands of copper together, then pushed the briefcase under the seat until it was invisible.

O’Hagan adjusted the exterior mirror until it was pointing well above the horizontal, and carefully angled it so that he could see the motorized camera on the side of the building behind
them. The camera was facing towards the Chevrolet but, as he watched, it swung round to point in the opposite direction.

He switched off the engine, climbed out and locked the car, then both men started walking away, towards Tujjaar. Directly underneath the camera mount they stopped and appeared to engage in
conversation, before walking on again the instant the camera turned back to point at the Chevrolet. When they reached the end of the road, Petrucci looked back down Al-Mutanabi, just as the camera
swung towards them. He couldn’t help himself. He waved, then walked on.

The Americans continued along Tujjaar until they reached the Capital Hotel, where both men headed for the toilets. When they emerged, the Arab clothing had gone, now stuffed deep into the used
paper-towel basket in the lavatory. Stepping outside, they flagged down the first taxi they saw. Just a few minutes later they’d collected their luggage from the Al-Jazira and were heading
towards Muharraq Island and Bahrain International Airport.