Payback (14 page)

Many helicopters look ungainly, some look sleek and luxurious, but the Black Shark is probably the only one that manages to look implacably evil. From its fifteen-metre-diameter twin main rotors
to the pair of stubby wings carrying an awesome array of weapons, it looks more like something dreamt up by a Hollywood special-effects studio than a real aircraft.

This highly classified combat helicopter, designed by the Kamov Company and built by Sazykin Aviation, entered service with the Russian army back in 1995. Powered by a pair of two-thousand
horsepower turboshaft engines that gave it a top speed of nearly four hundred kilometres an hour, the helicopter was designed as a tank-buster, but its two-ton combat weapon load meant it could
tackle virtually anything.

Stopping – or even sinking – the barge would have been easy using the armour-piercing and explosive incendiary rounds fired by the standard thirty-millimetre cannon, but the pilot
had taken no chances. The aircraft was also armed with a dozen Vichr supersonic anti-tank missiles, each capable of destroying a main battle tank at five miles, and with a laser-beam guidance and
control system that virtually guaranteed a hit probability of one.

The barge captain had taken one look at the jet-black helicopter, bristling with ordnance and hovering a mere ten feet above the forward deck of his vessel, and had immediately decided to follow
the instructions that issued from the aircraft’s loudspeaker.

As soon as the mooring ropes were secured, a gangplank was lowered into position by a waiting crane, and Litvinoff quickly led his men on board. The captain was waiting on deck, and the FSB man
wasted no time. As his men fanned out to search the vessel, he stepped forward and showed his identification.

‘Captain, are you carrying any unauthorized passengers?’

‘No, of course not.’ The man shook his head in bewilderment. ‘This is a working cargo vessel, not a pleasure cruiser.’

‘Good. At least I know you’re telling the truth about that. So what about your cargo?’

‘What about it?’

‘Are you carrying anything that doesn’t appear on your manifest? And, before you answer that question, let me tell you that I have come here direct from Saratov.’

The barge captain stared at Litvinoff for a long moment, then dropped his eyes.

‘We collected a single crate there, yes. It was an unscheduled addition, but why are you interested? Why all this?’ The captain spread his arms to encompass just about everything
from the armed men on the quayside to the hovering Black Shark.

Litvinoff ignored his questions and watched as one of his own men approached. ‘We’ve searched the vessel, sir, and there is no one on board except for the crew members.’

‘Good. Now contact the helicopter and thank the pilot for his help. We won’t be needing the aircraft any longer.’

As his subordinate moved towards the gangway, Litvinoff turned back to the captain. ‘Who delivered this crate?’

‘Two men in a lorry.’

‘How did they pay you?’

Again the captain looked uncomfortable. ‘We agreed payment in cash. It seemed easier because that saved having to generate all the usual paperwork. And it was only one crate.’

‘Where are you supposed to be taking it?’

‘Volgograd. They said they would arrange a vehicle to collect the crate there.’

‘Right. Wait here.’

Litvinoff walked back across the gangway to where one of his subordinates was standing ready. Above him, the noise of the Black Shark’s engines increased markedly, as the aircraft
accelerated and began a climbing turn away from the barge.

‘Contact FSB headquarters at Volgograd. It seems the Americans will be waiting there to collect the weapon. Initiate a check of all vehicle-hire firms and hotels, and have local units pick
them up.’

Litvinoff turned on his heel and remounted the gangway. ‘Captain, you and your men are guilty of numerous offences, but I’m frankly not very interested in pursuing the matter. My
sole concern is that crate you loaded at Saratov. Instruct your crew to prepare it for immediate unloading.’

‘Yes. At once.’ The barge master hurried off and began barking orders.

Ten minutes later, the dockside crane lifted the crate from the hold and deposited it on the quay. Two stevedores stepped forward and unhitched the fabric straps.

For a few moments, Litvinoff just stared at the crate, then waved one of his men forward. The man approached cautiously, his right hand extended in front of him, holding what looked like a small
microphone. His entire attention was fixed not on the crate but on the Geiger counter gripped in his left hand. The instrument had begun to make a ticking sound that was audible all over the quay.
The FSB man stopped right next to the crate, then walked slowly around it.

He made two complete circuits, moving the sensor methodically up and down the wooden sides, then walked across to where Litvinoff was standing. ‘Nothing significant, sir. Normal background
radiation only.’

‘Does that mean the weapon isn’t inside the crate?’

‘No, sir.’ The officer shook his head. ‘The fissile material should be properly shielded and no radiation should escape. If I’d detected a significantly higher reading
than normal, it could mean that the casing had fractured.’ The man shrugged. ‘As to whether the device is actually in the crate, I’ve no idea.’

‘Right,’ Litvinoff nodded. ‘Open it.’

Two other FSB men walked forward carrying battery-powered screwdrivers, and within a couple of minutes the lid lay on the ground to one side. One of his men placed a short step-ladder beside the
crate and Litvinoff climbed up to peer inside. He saw a jumble of tools and equipment, but he knew that the weapon itself would be hidden at the very bottom.

‘Empty it,’ he ordered.

Al-Shahrood Stables, Ad Dahnā, Saudi Arabia

Sheikh Tala Qabandi had two passions in life – Rolls-Royce motor cars and thoroughbred racehorses – and it was difficult to say which inspired him the most. He
was well on his way to owning one example of every single model that Rolls-Royce had produced, though not even his enormous wealth would allow him to complete his collection. That was because many
of the early models were incredibly rare, and most of them were now housed in museums or private collections and were never offered for sale anywhere or at any price.

Horses were in many ways a lot easier. In the world of bloodstock, money talked, and with the funds the sheikh had at his disposal, his was a voice that couldn’t be ignored. What he
wanted, he usually got, simply because he could outbid almost anyone else. The result was a stable of first-class horses accommodated at the best training establishments throughout the world. He
had five in England, three of them at Newmarket; four in the States, in Kentucky; another four stabled just outside Paris, and a couple in Spain. In the Middle East he kept three horses, all of
them at Al-Shahrood, and of these his favourite was Shaf.

This year, he’d entered the horse for the Godolphin Mile thoroughbred event, part of the annual Dubai World Cup race meeting, with total prize money amounting to one million dollars. The
money was almost an incidental as far as Qabandi was concerned. For him, the thrill was watching his horse run – preferably at the head of the field – and the annual meet-and-greet with
other owners during the event.

As was his invariable custom, Qabandi was visiting the Al-Shahrood stables to check on his horse before its departure. Despite his love of Rolls-Royces, the sheikh had long ago decided that the
stables were too remote for access by road, and he travelled there, as today, in his private Bell Jet Ranger. There was no designated helicopter landing spot at the stables, but the wide parking
area at the end of the drive in front of the farmhouse was entirely adequate.

The helicopter arrived overhead Al-Shahrood just before noon. The pilot swung the Jet Ranger around in a tight circle, checking that the parking area was unobstructed before he landed. Then he
turned the aircraft into wind – the small windsock attached to a pole near the farmhouse was barely moving – and set the aircraft down in a cloud of dust and light debris, almost in the
centre of the tarmac.

Qabandi stepped out of the Jet Ranger, in his flowing white
gellabbiya
, followed by his personal secretary, William Alexander. The sheikh had decided to employ the young Englishman after
a succession of Arab assistants had failed to measure up to his exacting standards. The trouble with his fellow nationals, Qabandi had found, was that they didn’t regard punctuality as a
virtue, and he expressed this sentiment as an Arab himself. Like many scions of the wealthiest of the Gulf families, Qabandi had been educated in England, where the concept of always being on time
had been instilled in him. He found he simply couldn’t cope with the ‘any time this week will do’ attitude of his previous assistants. Alexander had proved himself quiet,
competent and highly efficient, and now Qabandi almost literally couldn’t manage without him.

As usual, Alexander was carrying a large briefcase which contained two phones – a GSM mobile and a satellite unit – plus a Sony Vaio laptop computer which basically contained
Qabandi’s entire life. It held copies of almost every business document he had ever generated or received, all his letters, his agenda and his address book. All those documents were contained
within a directory protected by a twelve-digit password known only to Alexander and Qabandi himself. The Vaio’s documents were duplicated on two desktop computers kept in separate locked
rooms in the sheikh’s palace outside Riyadh, each protected by a different password. There was nothing, Alexander believed, quite so important as duplication and back-up.

‘This is unusual,’ Qabandi frowned, as the two men walked towards the farmhouse. ‘Normally Osman comes out to meet us.’

But Osman bin Mahmoud didn’t appear from the stable block, or from anywhere else. Alexander rang the bell and knocked on the farmhouse door without eliciting the slightest response.

‘Surely somebody must have heard the helicopter,’ Qabandi said, his irritation clear.

‘They must all be up at the stables,’ Alexander suggested. ‘Perhaps there’s a problem with a horse.’

But when they reached the stable block, they found that was deserted as well. What was more worrying was the noise of the animals housed there. Almost all were whinnying or snorting, some
kicking at their doors, and a glance into the nearest stall immediately explained why. The water trough was completely empty, and there was barely a scrap of hay left.

‘Nobody’s been here for at least twenty-four hours. What’s going on?’

Alexander supposed this was a rhetorical question, and ignored it. Instead, he stared around the courtyard, looking at the individual stalls. All but a handful were clearly occupied but, when he
looked at the far corner, he suddenly realized that he couldn’t see Shaf’s head sticking out. In fact, it looked almost as if the thoroughbred’s stall door was ajar. He started
walking across the courtyard, then ran.

He reached the stable, pulled the door open and looked inside. One glance was all it took. Shaf was gone.

Manama, Bahrain

Richter retrieved his passport, walked into the Arrivals hall and looked round. He spotted an attractive, dark-haired woman standing at the edge of the crowd, holding up a
sheet of A4 paper bearing the name ‘EVANS’. He strode forward and stopped directly in front of her.

‘Are you waiting for me? Paul Richter?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘I’m Carole-Anne Jackson.’

‘Not Evans, then? I take it you’re American?’

‘Well spotted. You’re right, I’m not Evans. Something came up at the office and he got delayed. Come on, I’ve got a car outside.’

The heat outside the building hit Richter like a punch in the face – he’d never been terribly comfortable in hot climates. Jackson led the way to a white BMW saloon. Richter opened
the boot and put his case and computer bag inside, then sat down in the passenger seat. The heat from the black leather upholstery seared instantly through his light jacket, and he jerked forward
involuntarily.

‘Christ, that’s hot.’

Carole-Anne Jackson gave a chuckle. ‘You don’t need to tell me. Next time I buy a vehicle I’ll tell them to stuff the executive leather interior and give me some good
old-fashioned cloth.’

‘I hope this heap of German tin is air-conditioned.’

‘You don’t like Beemers, then?’

‘Not much, no. In Britain they always seem to be driven around by arrogant pricks who think owning one gives them the absolute right to cut everyone up. It could be worse,
though.’

‘Really?’ Carole-Anne Jackson gave a slight smile as she started the engine, and a welcome rush of ice-cold air blasted out of the dashboard vents. ‘How?’

‘It could be a Mercedes.’

Jackson had her hand on the gear lever, but removed it to look straight at Richter. Most people didn’t criticize her choice of car the moment they met her, and she found his outspoken
comments rather irritating. Irritating, but also somehow intriguing. ‘What’s wrong with Mercedes?’ she asked. ‘They’re beautifully engineered cars.’

‘So I’m told. Personally I think they’re over-engineered, overweight, underpowered,
really
expensive to maintain, vulgar, ugly, unreliable and grotesquely overpriced.
And I’ve never found one yet with comfortable seats. Apart from that, I’m sure they’re really good.’

Jackson stared at him for a few moments, then slid the gear lever into first and eased the car forward. ‘You’re what I think my mother would have called contrary. Is there anything
else you don’t like, so I can try to avoid the subject?’

‘Sorry,’ Richter muttered, ‘I’m not in the best of tempers today. I’m still jetlagged, so my body clock is running about four hours behind – or maybe ahead
of, I’m never really sure – what my watch is telling me. Added to that, I’m permanently at the top of my boss’s shit list, and he’s just sent me out to Dubai on what I
absolutely
know
is a wild goose chase.’

‘Ah.’

‘And what does that mean?’