Hellfire (41 page)

‘Vanishingly small, sir. But I think there’s a very
good
chance of fomenting anti-Western feeling if they and their families are woken up by masked officers brandishing MP5s.’

‘Spare me the liberal claptrap, Bixby,’ the Chief said irritably.

‘Not to mention,’ Bixby persisted, ‘the lawsuits we’ll open ourselves up to. Our legal people on the third floor are having kittens.’

‘Alright, alright!’ The Chief hesitated. ‘What word from Black and Buckingham?’

‘They’ve made contact with Al-Essa. Apart from that, nothing.’

‘They’re chasing shadows, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Bixby. ‘But so are we.’

The Chief’s eyes narrowed. He stared into the middle distance.

Then he spoke.

‘Make the raids,’ he said.

The operations room in Hereford was buzzing, despite the early hour. A large screen on the wall showed a close-up of the Qatari coastline. On a second screen was a map of London. The marathon route was marked on it in red. Ops officer Ray Hammond was staring at the map when he heard his name. He turned round. One of his guys in camo gear was approaching, carrying a clipboard. ‘We’ve had communication with Bravo Nine Delta, sir. They’ve made contact with Al-Essa.’

Hammond nodded. ‘Support units?’ he asked.

‘Our eight-man SBS team is online in Bahrain. They can mobilise whenever they get the call. We have a sixteen-man team from B-squadron en route to the Gulf from Syria. They should be on the ground within the hour.’

‘London?’

‘Two eight-man CT units on standby, north of the river at the Artillery Garden. We have a standby squadron in camp ready to deploy tomorrow morning in time for the marathon, leaving Hereford at 05.00 hrs.’

Hammond looked round the ops room. Fifteen men sat at computer screens, plugged into headsets, ready to mobilise astonishing amounts of firepower both in London and the Middle East.

But there was a problem. All the firepower in the world is no good, if you don’t know where to aim it.

It was still dark in St Albans. But the lights in one house were burning brightly.

Bailey had made himself a cup of tea, but it had grown cold as he sat in his front room waiting. He checked the time. Five minutes past seven. His associate was late.

He stood up and paced the room. His camera equipment was still piled up in the corner, next to the old piano. He lifted the piano lid and played a few random notes.

A knock on the door made him startle, even though he was expecting it.

He closed the piano lid, walked to the door and opened it.

A man about his own age stood on the threshold. He wore a charcoal-grey oversized beanie hat, and had a few days’ ginger stubble on his face. A black puffa jacket on which he’d pinned a small enamel badge in the shape of a helicopter. Jeans. Trainers. Bailey nodded a curt greeting at him. ‘McIntyre,’ he said.

‘Bailey.’ McIntyre walked into the room and closed the door behind him.

‘You’re late,’ Bailey said.

‘I took precautions, in case somebody was following me.’

‘
Who
was following you?’

‘Nobody. They were just precautions.’ He looked round the room and his eyes fell on the camera equipment. ‘I shouldn’t stay long. Let’s get started.’

They each took a flight case and carried them through the ground floor of the flat to the kitchen. Bailey unlocked the door leading to the garage. McIntyre followed him in.

Nothing had changed since the previous day. The old white van still had its nose pressed against the garage door. The sealed metal canisters were still there. McIntyre’s eyes lingered on them. ‘Is that it?’ he asked.

Bailey nodded.

‘How did they get it here?’ McIntyre’s voice cracked slightly as he spoke.

‘The Caliph has his networks,’ Bailey said. ‘I don’t ask about things I don’t need to know.’

At the name of the Caliph, both men fell silent for a moment.

‘Let’s load up,’ Bailey said. ‘It’s what you’re here for, after all. They’re too heavy for one man.’ He opened the back of the van. It was empty, and smelled faintly of petrol. ‘Camera gear first,’ Bailey said. He climbed into the van and piled his flight cases up against the front wall, before accepting the two McIntyre was holding and stacking them too.

It took another two trips for them to bring all the camera equipment out of the front room and stash it in the van. Only then did they turn their attention to the remaining items in the garage.

The canisters with the Chinese lettering were very heavy. Even with two of them lifting, it was a struggle to get them off the ground. As they shifted them carefully towards the van, Bailey noticed how McIntyre couldn’t take his eyes off the seal. Beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead, and they were nothing to do with the heat or the exertion. McIntyre was obviously very scared of these canisters. Bailey didn’t blame him, because he was scared too.

It took a great effort to lift the first canister into the back of the van. Just as they had manoeuvred it inside, it slipped from McIntyre’s hands, and the base clattered noisily on the floor of the van. ‘
Shit!
’ Bailey hissed, just managing to hold on to the rim and stop it toppling. McIntyre grabbed his side of the rim again to steady it, and the two men exchanged a glare. ‘Slowly,’ Bailey said.

They eased the canister carefully to the side of the van, where Bailey strapped it carefully in place using six roof-rack cords. Then they lifted the second canister into the van and secured it tightly, before jumping back down into the garage and locking the van’s rear doors.

Bailey led his associate back into the kitchen and locked the garage door.

‘All set?’ Daniel asked.

‘All set,’ said Bailey. He shook his associate’s hand. ‘
Allahu Akbar.
’

‘
Allahu Akbar
,’ Daniel said.

They moved back to the front room, where Bailey held the door open for his accomplice. ‘You’re sure you weren’t followed?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘And you’re okay to set up the machinery?’

‘Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot. You take care of your bit, I’ll take care of mine.’

‘Until tomorrow, then,’ Bailey said.

‘Yeah,’ McIntyre replied. ‘Until tomorrow.’

Twenty-five

09.00 hrs, Arabic Standard Time.

Mustafa, Ahmed’s driver, was scared.

‘He will know something is wrong,’ Ahmed said as they waited for him in the luxurious penthouse apartment. He had changed out of his stained white robe and washed his face. He now looked every inch the Arabic businessman. ‘I have never invited him to come up here. He always waits for me in the car.’

Sure enough, when the knock came on the door of the room in which they were all standing, it was faint and hesitant.

Ahmed walked across the room and opened the door.

The man who stood there wore a
dishdash
and headdress. His face was slightly podgy, and he had a silvery moustache. He exchanged a few words in Arabic with Ahmed, who stepped back and ushered him in with a sweeping gesture of one hand. Mustafa was obviously deeply uncomfortable. His eyes darted around the room as he crossed the threshold. It was as if he couldn’t decide whether to ogle the rich furnishings or acknowledge the four other occupants of this room. Buckingham was standing by the window, looking out. Danny, Tony and Caitlin stood in a line behind the sofa. Grim sentinels, their arms folded.

Ahmed closed the door. ‘I have asked you up here, Mustafa,’ he said, reverting to English, ‘to answer a few questions. You do not mind, I hope?’

‘Sir . . . I . . .’ Mustafa stuttered.

Then he fell silent.

Buckingham had turned from looking out of the window. Mustafa clearly recognised his face. The last time he had seen Buckingham, Danny knew, they had discussed the Caliph. So there was no doubt what
this
discussion was about.

Mustafa suddenly started to sweat. He turned to Ahmed. ‘Sir . . .
please
 . . . my family . . .’

‘These gentleman – and lady – only want to ask you some questions, Mustafa. It is my wish that you answer them.’

‘But sir . . .’

‘That’s enough talking,’ Danny said. ‘We haven’t got time. Ahmed, you’d better leave the room. You won’t like this.’

Ahmed swallowed nervously. He put one hand on Mustafa’s shoulder. ‘Tell them what they want to know, my friend,’ he said quietly. Then he turned and left through the door that led into his bedroom.

Silence in the room. Danny stepped out from behind the sofa and strode purposefully up to Mustafa.

‘Bathroom,’ he said. ‘Now.’

‘What?’ Mustafa demanded. ‘Why?’

But Danny had already grabbed his arm and was dragging him across the room to the other door. Tony and Caitlin followed. Buckingham made to follow, but Danny pointed at him and said: ‘You, stay where you are.’ Buckingham’s face was thunderous, but he obeyed.

The bathroom was large and well-appointed: a roll-top bath with gold-plated taps and shower attachment, a separate walk-in shower, twin sinks, a toilet, a bidet and two chairs. The walls and floor were covered with translucent, aquamarine glass tiles. When all four of them were inside, Danny locked the door. He turned. Mustafa was backing away from him towards the sinks. His lower lip was trembling.

Danny surged towards him, grabbed him by the throat, lifted him from the floor and slammed his body against the mirror behind the sinks. ‘You want to know why we’re in this room and not the other one?’ he whispered.

Mustafa could do nothing but nod his head.

‘Easier to clean up,’ Danny said.

Mustafa’s eyes bulged.

‘Understand this,’ Danny continued, his voice deathly quiet. ‘There is
nothing
I won’t do to make you talk.’

‘I . . . I understand,’ Mustafa said, his voice strangled and weak.

‘I don’t think you do,’ Danny said. He let go of Mustafa’s neck and quickly grabbed his right hand. Mustafa seemed to have some idea of what was coming, because he tried to clench his fingers. But too late. Danny had his fist around the chauffeur’s little finger. He yanked it sideways. The bone cracked, snapping as easily as if it were a piece of raw chicken.

Mustafa inhaled sharply. Tears welled in his eyes. But Danny hadn’t finished yet. He grabbed the chauffeur’s fourth finger and snapped it with the same brutal ease.

Mustafa cried out, but Danny slammed one hand over his mouth to deaden the noise. He jabbed one thumb over his shoulder to indicate Tony. ‘See him?’ he asked.

The chauffeur nodded vigorously.

‘He makes me look like a fucking schoolteacher. My advice is not to put me in a position where he has to take over. Understood?’

Mustafa was still nodding from the previous question.

‘I’m going to ask you a simple question. You spoke to your boss about the Caliph. Then you told someone about the conversation. Who was it?’

Danny removed his hand from Mustafa’s mouth. Mustafa sucked in another deep intake of breath and looked in horror at his two fingers jutting out at an unnatural angle from his hand. Then he looked at Danny. ‘I . . . I told nobody,’ he stuttered, before wincing again with the pain.

Danny gave him a level look. Then he turned his back on him. ‘He’s all yours,’ he told Tony. Then he nodded at Caitlin, and the two of them left the room.

They stood with their backs to the closed door. Buckingham was a couple of metres from them, his handsome face drawn. ‘What’s going on in there?’ he asked.

Danny didn’t reply. The noises coming from the bathroom answered the question for him. They heard glass breaking, and the thump and clatter of a body being manhandled across the room. Mustafa cried out several times. Then, after about a minute, there was silence.

Danny and Caitlin walked back into the bathroom. It was a mess. The mirror behind the sink was cracked at about the height of Mustafa’s head. The wall and floor tiles were streaked with blood. On the floor, halfway between the door and the sinks, Mustafa was lying in a foetal position with Tony standing over him. His moustache and mouth were covered in blood, and just to his right a tooth lay on the floor, the bleeding root still attached.

‘I’ll ask you again,’ Danny said. ‘Who was it?’

Mustafa shivered on the floor. It took a moment for Danny to realise that he was shaking his head.

Danny exchanged a look with Tony. They had to be careful. Too much force would make Mustafa pass out, or worse. Right now, he was their only link to the Caliph. If they lost him, they lost everything.

Caitlin stepped forward. ‘Put him in the tub,’ she said.

‘I can handle it,’ Tony said aggressively, but Danny glanced towards the roll-top bath with its gold-plated taps. Then he nodded at Tony.

‘Do it,’ he said.

They bent down and picked a squirming Mustafa up under the arms and by the legs. Ten seconds later they had dumped him in the bath, with his head at the tap end. His face was still bleeding, and the edge of the bath was smeared red where his hands gripped it.