Hellfire (43 page)

Tony accompanied Ahmed into his bedroom, and returned thirty seconds later. ‘It’s secure,’ he said.

Danny still had his phone to his ear, with its open line to Hereford. He heard Hammond’s voice. ‘
Do you copy?
’

‘Go ahead,’ Danny said.

‘
The B squadron team is on the ground in Bahrain.
’

‘Roger that,’ Danny said. ‘Over and out.’ He killed the phone, and found that everyone in the room was watching him.

‘Support units are in place,’ he said quietly. But his mind was elsewhere. This all felt like a game of chess. Danny had made his move. But it was up to the Caliph to make the next one, and Danny couldn’t shake the uncomfortable sensation that he was about to be outplayed.

He suddenly strode over towards Ahmed’s bedroom and burst in. Ahmed was semi-naked – boxer shorts and socks. He was surprisingly muscular, and seemed to be in the process of changing out of his robes and into Western clothes – a pair of jeans and a shirt were laid out on his enormous bed. On the far side of the room were several other suitcases, piled high, identical to the one that contained the money.

Ahmed’s eyes flashed with irritation at the sudden intrusion, but he didn’t say anything.

‘You,’ Danny told him. ‘Get back in here. Any calls you want to make, you make them in front of me.’

Ahmed inclined his head mildly. ‘Perhaps you will allow me to get dressed first,’ he said.

‘Quickly,’ Danny told him, and he stood there impassively while Ahmed put his clothes on. Then he marched him back out into the main room, where the others were waiting.

13.00 hrs GMT.

The first thing Spud had noticed, on his arrival at Gatwick, was the heightened security. There were armed police everywhere, and a high concentration of uniformed officers patrolling the busy concourse inside.

You didn’t need to be a professional to spot that something was up. No doubt the general public thought this might be something to do with the flight that had gone down over West Africa. He kept registering people mentioning it in half-heard fragments of conversation. But Spud knew it was more than that. Security levels had been raised. Someone, somewhere was expecting something bad to happen here in the UK, not half a world away.

It made Spud’s job harder. He was here to apprehend al-Meghrani when – if – he showed. But al-Meghrani wouldn’t be apprehended without making a scene.

The Costa Coffee at Gatwick South had tables set out on the concourse in front of the shop. Spud sat alone at one of them. From here he could see the queues of passengers lining up at the check-in desks, but he didn’t yet know which one would be the desk for tonight’s easyJet flight to Athens. The tabletop was full of empty sandwich packets and coffee cups. He fiddled aimlessly with the ticket the machine had spat out at him as he’d entered the car park to stow his bike. Yesterday’s drinking, and Spud’s sleepless night, was catching up with him. His head ached, and the wounds on his abdomen throbbed more than usual.

Worst of all, he was riddled with doubt.

He kept seeing in his mind the pictures of al-Meghrani’s shrapnel-scarred hands. Last night he’d been positive that was what they were. Now, with the benefit of daylight and sobriety, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he’d got the scars in some other way. Maybe the picture had been of somebody else’s hands. And the flight details had been in al-Meghrani’s name, but Spud knew he didn’t have a passport. Maybe there was another Mr K. al-Meghrani – his brother, or something.

Maybe Spud was just wasting his fucking time. Maybe he should stop trying to play cops and robbers, get his arse into to London, apologise to Eleanor the spook and get on with the mess that his life had become . . .

His phone rang. He checked the number. He didn’t recognise it, but answered anyway. ‘Yeah?’

‘It’s me,’ said a female voice he immediately recognised as Frances.

Spud groaned inwardly. He’d hoped she was as uncomfortable about their one-night stand as he was. Seemed not.

‘Hi,’ he said noncommittally.

‘Where are you?’ she said.

‘Just . . . just at work,’ Spud replied. ‘You?’

‘On my way to London,’ Frances said. ‘Big day. Got any tips?’

Yeah
, Spud thought.
Don’t sleep around again, because if that psycho Tony finds out, you’ll find yourself at the wrong end of a bad accident.

‘Just keep going,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m . . . I’m kind of busy.’

‘Right,’ Frances said, her voice suddenly crestfallen. ‘I was thinking maybe we could meet up after the race. I’ve got a hotel room – you could take care of my aches and pains.’

‘Yeah . . . hello . . . it’s not a very good connection,’ Spud lied. He killed the line, and when Frances tried again ten seconds later, he sent it straight to voicemail.

He stared out on to the concourse. Hundreds of people swarmed around the airport. He looked up at the departures board. The Athens flight wasn’t even listed yet. He got up from the table, left the cafe and approached an information desk. A smiling airport assistant asked how she could help.

‘When does check-in open for the 23.58 flight to Athens?’ Spud asked.

The assistant checked her screen. ‘Not until 8 p.m., sir,’ she smiled.

Spud nodded. He headed back to the cafe and bought more black coffee. He didn’t really want it, but it was the only way to pass the time.

The hours dragged. Nobody entered Ahmed’s apartment, and nobody left. Danny wouldn’t allow it.

Mustafa was suffering. He nursed his broken fingers constantly, and about lunchtime he suddenly stood up and ran to the bathroom, where he vomited copiously. He needed pain relief, but there was none in the apartment and the alternative was to call someone in or allow him to leave. Not an option. The Caliph had eyes in Ahmed’s organisation. No information about their activities could leak from this apartment.

It was a waiting game, and it made Danny seethe with frustration.

At 18.00 precisely, Ahmed cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen.’ It was the first time anybody had spoken for hours. His words earned him a harsh look from Caitlin. ‘And
lady
,’ he corrected himself. ‘May I offer you some refreshment? I can call down to the concierge for food or . . .’

Danny was on the point of telling him that he wasn’t going to call
anyone
, when Mustafa’s phone rang.

Everyone turned to look at it as it vibrated noisily on the mirrored table.

It had only rung once when Danny’s own mobile vibrated. He answered quickly and was rewarded with Ray Hammond’s voice all the way from Hereford. ‘
London’s listening. Answer it.
’

Danny looked across the room. ‘Answer the phone, Mustafa,’ he said. ‘Now.’

There was complete silence in the MI6 ops room. Daniel Bixby found he was holding his breath. He’d caught a couple of hours sleep around lunchtime and was bone-tired. But now, suddenly, he was as alert as he’d ever been.

An Arabic voice rang out from a speaker. As before, the young Middle Eastern translator did his work.

‘
Hello.
’

‘
Tell Mr al-Essa that our friend accepts his kind offer.
’

‘
I will tell him that. He will be very relieved.
’

‘
Tell him not to be. Our friend wishes to meet him face to face. And he wishes to meet you too.
’

Silence.

‘
Where? When?
’

‘
Tomorrow morning. Seven o’clock. 28.608174, 52.283936.
’

‘
What . . . what are these numbers?
’

‘
A grid reference, idiot.
’

Immediately, there was a fluster of activity in the ops room as several of Bixby’s people keyed the coordinates into the computer. Bixby’s eyes were drawn to a large flat-panel screen on the wall just beyond the bank of terminals. The image zoomed in quickly on a map of the Persian Gulf, and a red dot appeared in the middle of the ocean, approximately 150 miles off the coast of Qatar.

‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ the Chief snapped. ‘They can’t rendezvous in the middle of the fucking ocean.’

‘One moment, sir,’ Bixby said mildly.

‘
If you are late, or you arrive accompanied by anybody else, our friend wants you to know that it will end badly for you and your loved ones. Is that understood?
’

‘
Yes.
’ The translator failed to render the terrified stutter that was obvious to everybody listening to the conversation.

The line went dead.

‘It’s an oil platform, sir,’ one of Bixby’s people called out. ‘An oil platform on the edge of Qatari national waters.’

‘Does it have a name?’

‘Yes sir. Qatar Drilling Rig 17.’

‘Find out who owns it,’ Bixby said. ‘Now.’

‘
It’s an oil rig
,’ Ray Hammond stated down the open line from Hereford. ‘
Qatar Drilling Rig 17
.’

‘Qatar Drilling Rig 17,’ Danny repeated out loud.

‘
London’s finding out who owns it now. Whoever it is, we’ll put the screws on them, find out if they . . .
’

‘Tell them not to waste their time,’ Danny said. He was watching Ahmed closely. At the name of the rig, the Qatari’s face had changed into an expression of complete bewilderment. ‘Wait out,’ he said down the line, before addressing Ahmed. ‘It’s yours, isn’t it?’ he asked quietly.

Ahmed slowly nodded his head. His expression had turned from bewilderment to nausea. ‘What kind of game is this man playing?’ he whispered.

‘A dangerous one,’ Danny breathed. He looked at his watch. 18.05 hrs. Twelve hours fifty-five minutes until the Caliph’s RV time. He spoke back into the phone. ‘It’s Al-Essa’s rig,’ he said. ‘We need to mobilise. We don’t have much time.’

Twenty-six

‘How many men are there on the rig?’ Danny demanded of Ahmed.

The Qatari was clutching clumps of his own hair. His knuckles had turned white. Mustafa sat next to him, physically shaking.

‘About two hundred,’ Ahmed said.

Danny took a moment to process that. He knew enough about these floating cities to realise that they would be filled with a massive cross-section of individuals. Roughnecks, welders, rig operators, drillers, engineers, cooks, safety and medical personnel . . . The rig would be populated by foreign nationals from all over the world. There’d be a manifest listing everyone on board, and if they had the time, the intelligence services would want to dig deep and find out if anybody on the rig had a possible connection with the Caliph.

But there
was
no time. Their only option was to evacuate the rig. Clear it of all potential existing threats.

‘We need to clear all personnel from the rig. How long will that take?’

Ahmed blinked at him. ‘It’s complicated. If I perform an immediate emergency evacuation, the Qatari emergency services will become involved. They will send a fleet of helicopters and will take perhaps two hours. But it will be common knowledge. The Qatari government will know what is happening.’

‘What if you do it as a training exercise, without the involvement of the emergency services. How long will it take?

‘I . . . I would need to summon my security staff.’

‘No,’ Danny said. ‘I don’t want anybody else in this room. You can make arrangements over the phone, but only with me listening.’

Ahmed nodded nervously. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will tell my security staff to initiate a training evacuation. We have a limited number of helicopters. It won’t be quick. Perhaps ten to twelve hours. But we should keep
some
staff on the platform, to maintain the essential systems.’

Danny shook his head. ‘Evacuate
all
personnel. Give the order now. I don’t want anyone left on that rig. We can’t risk an ambush.’

With a slightly stunned look on his face, Ahmed dialled a number on his phone.

‘Hands-free,’ Danny said.

Ahmed looked at him in surprise but pressed the keypad, and the sound of a ringtone came over the phone’s speaker. An Arabic voice answered. Ahmed gave a few short instructions, then hung up. He nodded at Danny. ‘It is under way,’ he said.

Danny looked at Buckingham. ‘Did he give the correct order?’

Buckingham nodded.

‘How do we get ourselves out there?’ Danny asked.

Ahmed looked momentarily flustered. ‘I . . . I have a private helicopter. It can transport us.’

Danny gave that a second’s thought. His preference would be to bring in one of the SF choppers from Bahrain, but that would mean alerting the Qatari administration, and the risk that the Caliph had eyes and ears there was too high.