Cold Kill (3 page)

‘The following day would be better,’ said Alen, in accented English. It was a prearranged phrase that meant everything was as it should be. If the operation had been compromised, Alen would simply have agreed with him.

‘Excellent,’ said the Saudi, and ended the call. He walked slowly round the resort until he was satisfied that there was no surveillance, then went over to the door of the beach bungalow and knocked on the door. Three quick knocks. Two slow knocks. Two taps with the flat of his hand.

The door opened and Alen embraced him as he stepped inside, kissing him on both cheeks. ‘
Allahu akbar
,’ he said.

‘
Allahu akbar
,’ said the Saudi, kicking off his sandals. ‘You are prepared?’

‘We are all prepared,’ said Alen.

They spoke in English, their common language: the common language of terrorists around the world.

Anna, Norbert and Emir stood at the entrance to the second bedroom, smiling nervously. None had met the Saudi before, but they knew of him.

The Saudi went over and embraced them one by one. ‘
Allahu akbar
,’ he said, as he held them. ‘God is great.’

‘We have tea,’ said Anna.

‘I cannot stay,’ said the Saudi, ‘but thank you.’

He sat down on the bamboo sofa and removed a plastic-wrapped package from his bag. He laid it on the coffee table and unwrapped it carefully to reveal six pencil-sized metal tubes with plastic-coated wires attached to them. He placed them one by one on the table. The detonators had been brought into the country by a pilot with Emirates Airlines who had helped the Saudi before. Pilots, especially senior pilots with more than twenty years’ experience, were searched thoroughly, but the detonators had been well hidden in a false compartment of the man’s flight case. The Saudi had met him in the Shangri-la Hotel, overlooking the Chao Pra river. They had had coffee with cake and made small-talk. Then the Saudi had left with the detonators and the pilot had sat with an envelope containing a hundred thousand dollars in crisp new notes.

‘Use three per vehicle,’ said the Saudi. ‘Where are the circuits?’

Alen nodded at the bedroom. ‘In there,’ he said.

The Saudi eased himself up off the sofa and padded through to the bedroom. He gave the explosive-filled fuel cans a cursory glance. The wiring circuits were laid out on the two beds. He studied them carefully. Two batteries in each circuit. Two on-off switches, either of which would complete the circuit. Redundancy was essential. They could not afford a mistake at any level. There were flashlight bulbs, which could be used to test the circuit. The Saudi checked all four on-off switches. They worked perfectly.

He went back into the sitting room. The four
shahids
looked at him expectantly. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You have done well.’

The
shahids
were the front-line warriors of the
jihad
, the martyrs who would give their lives for Islam. The Koran promised the
shahids
unlimited sex with seventy-two black-eyed virgins. It said that martyrs went straight to heaven and that places would be saved for seventy of their relatives. There would be eighty thousand servants to take care of them. And they would see the face of Allah Himself. The Saudi didn’t believe that, of course, and neither did the four
shahids
in the room. But they were still prepared to die. ‘
Allahu akbar
,’ they said in unison.

Nine kilometres below the white-flecked waves of the Andaman Sea, the pressure had been building for hundreds of years. Tectonic stresses, pressure that dwarfed anything that could be produced by man. The huge stone plate on which India and Australia rested had been inching northwards for millennia, pushing against the equally massive Eurasian landmass near Indonesia. Millions upon millions of tonnes of rocks forced against each other as the continents drifted over the surface of the earth. Three days earlier there had been an earthquake in the Macquarie Islands, but it had done nothing to alleviate the pressure close to Sumatra.

No single event triggered the rupture. At one moment the plates were jammed against each other as they had been for centuries, and at the next they slipped. It happened at precisely fifty-eight minutes past midnight, Greenwich Mean Time. The southern plate ripped under the northern plate, like a bulldozer blade cleaving through wet soil. Rocks ripped like cardboard. Pressure that had accumulated over centuries was released in an instant. The forces at work were almost unimaginable, equivalent to a million times the power of the atom bomb that had destroyed Hiroshima.

A massive earthquake shook the island of Sumatra for more than three minutes and registered 9.0 on the Richter scale. By the time the shaking had subsided, hundreds were dead. There had been only three bigger earthquakes in recorded history. But the fatalities caused by the earthquake were only a taste of what was to follow. The rupture in the ocean floor was twelve hundred kilometres long and a hundred wide. It averaged twenty metres deep and displaced millions of tonnes of water in a few seconds. On the surface, there was little change in the white-flecked waves. But deep underwater a tidal wave was racing outwards in all directions, north, south, east and west, travelling at the speed of a cruising airliner. Even at that velocity, the nearest landfall was two hours away.

The floor trembled, a slight vibration that was little more than a tickling sensation underfoot. Alen looked across at Anna. ‘Can you feel that?’

She nodded. ‘Like it’s shaking.’

Suddenly one of the framed pictures on the wall shifted. It was a beach scene. White sand, palm trees blowing in the wind, a fisherman tending his nets.

Norbert and Emir came out of the bedroom. ‘What is it?’ asked Norbert.

The shaking stopped as suddenly as it had begun. ‘An earthquake?’ said Anna, frowning.

‘They don’t have earthquakes in Thailand,’ said Alen.

Emir knelt and placed his hands on the tiled floor, as if preparing to pray. ‘It’s stopped now,’ he said.

‘It was nothing,’ said Alen.

Norbert pushed open the blinds and peered outside. Tourists in swimsuits were walking along the beach. The first vendors were appearing. Stray dogs were scavenging around litter-bins. ‘I’m going outside,’ he said.

‘It’s the final day,’ said Alen. ‘We should stay indoors. We should pray and meditate on what we have to do tonight.’

‘I know what we have to do tonight,’ said Norbert. ‘I need some air.’

Alen looked as if he was about to argue. Then he waved dismissively. ‘Do as you want,’ he said. ‘Are the circuits ready?’

‘They’re fine. I’ve disconnected the switches but everything else is in place.’ He unlocked the door, slipped outside and closed it behind him.

Alen went to the picture and adjusted it, then placed a hand flat against the wall. There was no vibration.

‘It could have been a large truck passing,’ said Emir.

Alen shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said. The vibration had felt too intense for that, but Thailand wasn’t in an earthquake zone. Japan, maybe, but Japan was a thousand miles away.

Alen went into the bedroom. The completed circuits lay on the twin beds, one on each. He examined them but didn’t touch them. Norbert knew what he was doing. Alen had met him in Bosnia, fighting the Serbs who were killing Muslim families and burying them in mass graves while the world watched and did nothing. In recognition of their services, both men had been given Bosnian citizenship, and passports in whatever name they chose. After the peacekeepers had moved into the former Yugoslavia, Alen and Norbert had stayed on, but while the killing had stopped, the Muslims had continued to be persecuted.

Alen had been approached first, by a representative of a Saudi-funded charity who asked if he would be prepared to continue his fight against the infidel. There was no pressure; it was a simple interview to see where his loyalties lay. Alen had left the man in no doubt that he served Islam. Norbert, too, was keen to continue the struggle. They had been taken into the al-Qaeda fold, then overland to Waziristan, a mountain ous area along the Afghan border with Pakistan, where their training intensified. That was where they had met Anna and Emir. In Waziristan their training had moved to an even higher level: they were groomed to join the ranks of the
shahid
. Alen had no doubts about what he was going to do. He had almost died many times in Bosnia, and he would have died happily then, fighting the Serbs. He would die just as happily in Thailand, killing the infidels as they drank whiskey and partied with prostitutes.

All that was left to do was to transfer the explosive-filled cans into the two Jeeps and insert the detonators. That would have to wait until dark. Now all they could do was wait. Prepare themselves. And pray.

He showered first, then changed into clean clothes. He took a mat out of the wardrobe and spread it on the wooden floor, making sure that the top faced the direction of Mecca. Alen prayed five times each day, and washed himself before each prayer.

He faced Mecca, and raised his hands to his ears. He prayed in Arabic, the language of Allah. That was something he had been taught in Pakistan. It was not enough to recite a translation of the Koran: any translation was a poor imitation of the real thing. Arabic was the mother-tongue of the Prophet and his wives, and the wives of the Prophet were the mothers of the faithful so Arabic had to be the mother-tongue of every Muslim. Alen proclaimed his intention to worship, then lowered his hands to his knees and bent forward, head bowed. ‘Subhaana rab-biyal azeem,’ he said, three times. ‘Glory to God, the Most Grand.’

Then he straightened up. ‘Sami’al laahu liman hamidah, rab-banaa lakal hamd,’ he said. ‘Our Lord, praise be to Thee.’

Then he fell to his knees and placed his forehead, nose and palms on the mat. ‘Subhaana rab-biyal a’laa,’ he said, three times. ‘Glory to my Lord, the Most High.’

He had just finished the third recitation when there was a sudden banging on the bungalow door. Alen scrabbled over to the bed nearest him and pulled a large automatic from under the mattress. He hurried into the sitting room. Anna had grabbed a handgun from her bag and was heading for the front door. Alen gestured for her to move to the left. Emir started to go to the main bedroom, but Alen clicked his fingers and motioned for him to stay where he was. If it was the police, they’d already have surrounded the bungalow and running wouldn’t be an option.

‘Who is it?’ he called.

‘Come and look at this!’ It was Norbert.

Emir cursed and Anna exhaled through clenched teeth.

Alen opened the door but kept the security chain on. Norbert was shifting from foot to foot, head bobbing excitedly.

‘We have a procedure,’ said Alen. ‘The code.’

‘Screw the code,’ said Norbert. ‘You have to see this. Come on.’

Alen glared at Norbert, but removed the chain and went outside after him. Emir and Anna began to follow him but he waved them back. ‘Stay there,’ he said, ‘and lock the door.’

Norbert was walking quickly towards the beach. Alen hurried after him. A sunburnt middle-aged couple were ahead, the man fumbling with a video camera. Other tourists were standing on the sand, gazing out to sea.

‘Norbert, what the hell are you doing?’ hissed Alen. ‘You know how important today is. We have to stay inside.’ His bare feet slipped in the sand as he walked.

Norbert stopped in the middle of the beach and pointed. ‘Have you ever seen anything like it?’ asked Norbert. ‘It’s just gone. The sea has gone.’

Where water should have been lapping at the beach, wet sand glistened under the early morning sun. Fish, large and small, were flapping about. Three old Thai men were scurrying to pick them up, putting them into plastic carrier-bags.

‘It’s a tide,’ said Alen. ‘That’s all. The sea is out there – you can see it.’

Norbert shaded his eyes with a hand and peered at the horizon. There was blue water in the distance. ‘The tide doesn’t go that far out,’ he said.

‘How would you know?’ said Alen. ‘You’re from Luxembourg. There’s no sea there.’

‘I’m just saying, the tide wouldn’t go out more than thirty metres or so, at most.’

Alen looked out over the wet sand. It was hard to judge distance without landmarks and the seabed was flat to the horizon. More Thais hurried on to the beach to gather up the dying fish.

‘We should go inside,’ said Alen. ‘All these tourists with their video cameras – it’s dangerous.’ He took his sunglasses from his top pocket and put them on.

Norbert shrugged and turned. The two men started to walk back to their bungalow.

‘You are prepared?’ asked Alen.

‘Everything is ready,’ said Norbert. ‘You know that.’

‘I mean in yourself. You, personally?’

‘Of course,’ said Norbert, defensively.

Alen looked at him over the top of his sunglasses. ‘You are stronger than Emir, you know that. If he has doubts closer to the time . . .’

‘I can handle Emir.’

Alen patted him on the back. ‘Of course you can. But you must watch him. As I must watch Anna.’

‘We’re all willing to do what we have to do,’ said Norbert.

Alen trusted Norbert. He had been trained by the best – by the Mujahideen in Afghanistan, by al-Qaeda in Pakistan. He was a late convert to Islam but he was physically and mentally prepared to die for Allah. As was Alen. Norbert would die first, with Emir. Their bomb would kill dozens and start a panic. Tourists would run away from the carnage, towards the sea, and that was when Alen and Anna would die, and with them hundreds of infidels.

A woman shouted somewhere behind them. Both men stopped. There were more shouts. Men and women. Thai, English and German voices. They turned.

A wave was heading towards the shore, a big one, bigger than any Alen had ever seen before. The shouts turned to screams. The Thais dropped their fish and ran across the wet sand. Most of the tourists stood where they were, frozen in terror, their video cameras still trained on the approaching wave.