Authors: James Barrington
Buraydah, Saudi Arabia
They’d travelled to the country from all over the Middle East, and the car park on the outskirts of Buraydah was their penultimate rendezvous. The town had been
chosen because it was a long way from the site of the operation, and distance was important. More practically, there weren’t that many places in the area that could supply the equipment they
needed, but they’d found a source on the outskirts of town, and had already made the booking.
Once they’d finished their brief discussion, the men dispersed, climbing into their dusty four-by-fours – two Mitsubishis, a Toyota Land Cruiser and a Nissan Patrol. Three of these
vehicles were carrying goods in their luggage compartments. The Nissan held two bulky fabric bags, each about three feet long, which clanked metallically as the vehicle moved off. The two
Mitsubishis each carried four bales of hay. These appeared normal in every respect except one – they were too heavy, and the extra weight was entirely due to the oblong package that lay
concealed in the centre of each bale. The packages had been inserted very carefully, one end of each bale being cut out so as to retain its shape, and some of the hay then repacked into the cavity.
Without a detailed inspection, the bales would appear completely normal.
The two Mitsubishis headed out into the desert, while the Toyota and Nissan drove towards the centre of Buraydah. All the vehicles were ultimately heading for the same destination, some two
hundred kilometres to the north-east, but these two had a stop to make first.
Protected by a high chain-link fence, interrupted only by a set of wide double gates, the construction equipment yard was predominantly open space. More or less in the centre stood a
single-storey office building surrounded by a couple of acres of concreted surface, upon which stood a wild profusion of machinery: diggers, bulldozers, concrete mixers, cherry-pickers and other
equipment.
The driver of the Land Cruiser – the name he was using was ‘Saadi’ – stepped out of the vehicle and walked across to the office.
Inside it, three men were sitting at a long desk, a variety of maps, documents and calculators scattered in front of them, with a couple of computer terminals at one end. Saadi produced a sheet
of paper which he offered to the Arab who stood up to greet him.
‘Is it ready?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ The man scanned the paper and nodded. ‘We just have to load it on the trailer. You have brought a tow vehicle?’
Saadi nodded assent and proffered a gold credit card.
A couple of minutes later he walked outside again and backed the Toyota up to a four-wheel trailer, while a company employee drove a small digger around the building, manoeuvred it onto the
trailer and secured it with chains.
Less than twenty minutes after they’d arrived at the yard, the two jeeps drove back out through the open gates, Saadi’s vehicle now hauling the trailer. They were running altogether
over an hour behind the two Mitsubishis, but that didn’t matter because the others wouldn’t start until they got there.
Hammersmith, London
‘This is a joke, right?’ Richter said.
‘I don’t tell jokes and I don’t make jokes, as you well know,’ Simpson snapped, turning slightly pinker. ‘You can think whatever you like about this, but the
tasking came straight from our Cousins across the pond.’
‘Via Vauxhall Cross,’ Richter pointed out.
‘As you say, via Vauxhall Cross, but it’s still a CIA request and we’ve been instructed by Six to implement it. And I’ve chosen you.’
‘Why? Am I at the top of your shit list again?’
‘Not quite, as it happens. You got Khatid out of that flat in Stratford very competently, so this is by way of being a reward.’
‘A reward? This tasking is complete bollocks. It’s just a stupid waste of time and effort, and you know that as well as I do.’
‘You’re wrong,’ Simpson said. ‘The report from Dubai was very specific. Holden definitely predicted Friday’s suicide bombing in Damascus. There’s absolutely
no discrepancy about the dates. His statement was filed over a week beforehand, and they’ve got that in writing. And don’t forget that he’s been back to the embassy since, and
that’s what the Americans are really interested in.’
‘The first report could have been a coincidence.’
‘The Americans don’t think so, and they’ve got something of a track record in this field. Haven’t you ever heard of Sun Streak? Or Grill Flame? Or even Star
Gate?’
‘Like the TV series?’ Richter asked. He’d recently had Sky television installed at his flat, and was already beginning to regret it.
Simpson shook his head. ‘No, not like the bloody TV series. They were US government-funded projects, and they all dealt with this kind of thing. Get the relevant files out of the Registry
and read them, and anything else we’ve got – and do that today.’
‘And then?’
‘And then you can pack your swimming trunks and bucket and spade and get yourself out to Dubai and find out exactly who this Holden character is, and just what the hell else he knows. And
Richter,’ Simpson warned, ‘this is a simple, straightforward investigation of an event that has no immediately obvious logical explanation, so not even you should be able to make a
Horlicks of it. But remember this when you’re lying about and soaking up the rays out there in the Gulf – fuck this one up and I’ll drop you deeper than whale shit. Got
it?’
‘Got it,’ Richter agreed. The briefing appeared to be at an end, but he just sat there.
‘Well? What are you waiting for?’
Richter looked across at Simpson appraisingly. ‘There’s more to this, isn’t there? Why would you waste your time sending me all the way out to Dubai just to talk to this guy,
when any of the Six officers at the local embassy could do it? What else do you know?’
Simpson nodded slowly. ‘Very perspicacious, Rich-ter,’ he muttered grudgingly. ‘You’re quite right. If we’d just been given the tasking by itself, I’d have
told Vauxhall Cross to stuff it, but there’s more, and I suppose you might as well hear about it now. Between you and me, that Legion Patrol didn’t just stumble across Khatid’s
cell in Stratford – we leaked the location to them, through a low-level informer.’
‘That makes more sense,’ Richter said. ‘I suppose Khatid asked for an emergency exfil?’
‘Exactly. I do have a new tasking for him, but it’s not that urgent. Khatid wanted out because of what he heard in Berlin, and there was no other way to debrief him.’
‘So what did he hear?’
Simpson shrugged. ‘He thinks Osama and his merry men have another plan afoot, but this one’s a bit different.’ He leant forward and depressed a button on his desk intercom
unit. ‘Is Khatid still in the building?’
There was an answering squawk that made no sense to Richter, but Simpson nodded briskly. ‘Good. Tell him to get his arse up here right now.’
A couple of minutes later there was a knock on the door and Khatid walked in, smartly but casually dressed in designer jeans, shirt and leather jacket, and walked across to the other seat in
front of Simpson’s desk.
The only incongruous note was his personal grooming: his hair was unwashed, long and unkempt, the black beard straggly and untrimmed, his nails cracked and dirty. He also wasn’t wearing
deodorant. It completely ruined the effect created by the clothes, but Richter knew exactly why it was important. When Khatid went back to Afghanistan or Pakistan under deep cover, any trace of
contact with Western civilization – such as the smell of deodorant or even washed hair – could spell his death warrant.
‘You’re going back that soon?’ Richter asked, as Khatid sat down.
‘You think I’d want to smell like this if I wasn’t? I’m still waiting to hear exactly which godforsaken country I’m being sent to but, yes, apparently it’s
imminent.’
‘And then it’s back to camels and donkeys instead of black cabs and limos?’
‘Only if I’m lucky,’ Khatid said. ‘I think I walked most of the way across Afghanistan last time.’
‘If you two want to chat, do it in your own time,’ Simpson snapped. ‘Khatid, tell Richter what you heard in Germany.’
‘Right, Paul. It isn’t much, and it’s fairly non-specific. While we were in Berlin, I drove Hussein – he was the leader of our cell – to a meet with an Al-Qaeda
planner. The two of them talked in private, in a small safe house. I was told to guard the door, which meant I was very close to them, and I could hear some of their conversation. Mostly, the
planner discussed tactics and techniques, and I’ve already passed that data on to Five and Six.’
‘It was much better information than we’ve had for a while,’ Simpson interjected.
Khatid looked pleased, and continued. ‘Anyway, right at the end of their conversation the planner told Hussein that a new attack was imminent, and that although there would only be a small
number of people involved, the results would be spectacular.’
‘There weren’t many terrorists on the front line in 9/11, and I think you could say the results of that attack were pretty spectacular,’ Richter pointed out.
Khatid shook his head. ‘Hussein said something like that, but the Al-Qaeda planner told him it would be completely different, not a direct attack on the West at all. It wouldn’t be a
big bang, he said, but the effects would be felt all around the world.’
‘You mean they’re not aiming to blow up a building or hit an embassy, nothing like that?’
‘That’s the impression I got. Based on what I overheard, my best guess is that this time Al-Qaeda’s chosen an economic target, and probably one located somewhere in the Middle
East.’
‘Like what?’ Richter asked. ‘An oilfield?’
‘That’s an obvious possibility,’ Simpson said. ‘We don’t know any more at the moment, though Six has put some feelers out. Anything else, Khatid?’
‘No, that’s it. That was all they said.’
Richter stood up and shook hands with him. ‘Take care of yourself, Salah. Send me a postcard from Kabul.’
When the door closed behind Khatid, Simpson finished his briefing. ‘Right, so although I’m expecting you to check on this Holden character, you’re really going out to Dubai for
two different reasons. First, because that Damascus suicide bombing might have something to do with whatever foul little scheme the Al-Qaeda planners have come up with – it’s in the
right area, at any rate. And the second reason is that I want somebody out there, one of my people rather than a Legoland paper-pusher, just in case the shit does hit the fan.’
Kondal, Russia
Borisov had hoped to be out of the police station soon after Litvinoff left the interview room, but so far that hadn’t happened. The promised refreshments –
tea and a selection of small cakes that appeared to have been retained well beyond their sell-by date – duly arrived, but of Litvinoff there had been no further sign.
By ten-thirty Borisov was getting worried, though he tried to remain as calm as possible, just in case there were hidden cameras watching him. At eleven the door opened, and a uniformed officer
appeared to escort him to the detention area, but Borisov noted that he was being treated with a little more respect. Perhaps Litvinoff had instructed the officers that he was not just some common
criminal.
But they still locked him up for the night. The cell contained almost nothing – a tiny and inadequate radiator, barely warm; two bunk beds, each with a thin mattress, a pillow, a blanket
and a discoloured single sheet; a steel toilet bowl and sink bolted to the wall in one corner, and a small hand-towel. The only illumination was a bright bulb inside an armoured wall light, mounted
well out of his reach above the door.
Borisov guessed it was going to be a cold and uncomfortable night, and in that he was right. He dragged all of the bedding to the lower bunk, tucked the cleaner of the two sheets around the
mattress and put the other sheet and both blankets on top. Then he slid into bed, still fully clothed apart from his jacket and shoes, closed his eyes and tried to sleep. In this endeavour he
wasn’t helped by the light, which remained on all night, or by the stabbing pain from his broken arm and swollen hands as the effect of the painkillers wore off. It was well past midnight
before his body finally succumbed to fatigue and he finally dozed off.
Tuesday
Volgograd, Russia
Volgograd was the rock that broke the back of the German advance in the Second World War. Then known as Stalingrad, its strategic location on the Volga ensured that the Germans
had to take it if they were to conquer Russia. The assault began in August 1942 and ended six months later, with the city virtually flattened, almost half a million German soldiers lying dead, and
an ignominious surrender for what was left of Hitler’s Sixth Army.
Of course, neither Dawson nor Wilson knew any of this, and wouldn’t have cared if they had. Their sole concern was to get themselves and the weapon out of the CIS as quickly as possible.
And now they were running late.
It had taken them longer than they’d anticipated to dump the truck and get back to Saratov, and the train on which they’d booked tickets was long gone by the time they reached the
station. The next available train to Volgograd was running late – very late – and didn’t reach its destination until after midnight. Not surprisingly, they found they’d
missed the Astrakhan connection they’d planned to catch by over two hours.
Despite the lateness of the hour, all the waiting rooms were packed with people, presumably waiting for something other than a train, as the last scheduled departure of the evening – a
Moscow express – had already left. Wilson opened the door to one waiting room, peered inside, then swiftly withdrew. The combined odours of stale tobacco, alcohol, unwashed bodies and the
inevitable boiled cabbage were more than he could take.
‘So what do we do now?’ Dawson asked. ‘Find a hotel?’
‘At this time of night? No way – the last thing we want is to attract attention, and two foreigners checking into a hotel in Russia at one in the morning would definitely ring alarm
bells. We’ll go find ourselves a train. Any train. It’s too cold to sit on the platform, and we can’t go tramping round Volgograd lugging this lot.’ Wilson gestured to the
two large suitcases and computer bags lying on the platform beside them.