Payback (19 page)

‘You have his mobile number?’ Alexander passed him a slip of paper. ‘You’ve booked our flights to Dubai? And confirmed the hotel and the car?’

The inspector answered on the second ring. ‘This is Sheikh Qabandi and I have some slightly confusing information for you. I confess I don’t know what’s going on, but
we’ve discovered that somebody rescheduled the flight for my horse’s journey. The air tickets have already been used, and Shaf is currently in Dubai, at the same stables we booked weeks
ago. We’re going there immediately, and I suspect you might find the missing Range Rover in the Riyadh Airport car park.’

‘This isn’t just some misunderstanding? Bin Mahmoud didn’t simply decide to travel to Dubai earlier than originally planned?’

‘No. He would never have changed the reservations without telling me, and there’s still the fact that the stables were left completely unattended. I’m still convinced that bin
Mahmoud has been kidnapped or more likely murdered. You may find forensic evidence in the Range Rover which could help identify the perpetrators.’

‘Very well, Sheikh Qabandi,’ the inspector sounded somewhat resigned, ‘I’ll initiate a search at the airport for the vehicle, and I’ll keep you informed.’

Cessna 340 air ambulance, callsign Romeo Charlie Three Six

The three men heard the roar of the MiG-29’s turbojets as the interceptor turned directly above them. Wilson peered up in time to catch a brief glimpse of the
Russian fighter.

‘What is it?’ Dawson asked.

‘A Fulcrum, and loaded for bear.’

Vassily stared upwards, his face pale, as the echo of the powerful jet’s engines faded away. Then he looked round nervously, his hand stretching involuntarily towards the throttles.

Wilson stopped his movement with a gesture. ‘Don’t worry.’

The pilot didn’t look convinced, and even Dawson, crouching down at the rear of the cockpit, appeared somewhat nervous.

MiG-29 interceptor, callsign Zero Six Eight

Beleshayov continued his turn, rolling out on north. For the moment he ignored the Cessna and instead checked the F-16s. They were still in battle pair, about three
thousand feet above him and turning right, clearly following him as he moved away from the Turkish coastline.

Beleshayov eased the throttles forward slightly, and the MiG-29 began accelerating. He wanted to convince the two Turkish pilots he was returning to base. Then he could execute a quick turn,
take out the Cessna and head for home.

He checked his radar. As he’d hoped, the F-16s hadn’t accelerated to keep pace with him, but had continued turning, hopefully to head back to their base inside Turkey. The worst
scenario would be for them to remain in their present location, flying a holding pattern, until he’d cleared the area completely.

He checked his radar again: the Cessna was some ten miles south, the F-16s six miles south-east. Beleshayov had just one chance to get it right. He throttled back the MiG-29 to an indicated
airspeed of just over two hundred and fifty knots, and held the aircraft on a north-easterly heading while he began his combat preparations. it

The tactic he’d devised was a simple, one-shot option. He’d decided not to use his R-60M missiles against the Cessna, since the Aphid is a Mach 2 missile using an all-aspect infrared
guidance system and with active laser proximity fusing, and Beleshayov doubted if the comparatively low heat emissions from the Cessna’s engines would be enough to guarantee a lock. But they
would certainly come in handy if the Falcons did decide to join the party.

Instead, he was going to haul the MiG-29 round in a tight starboard turn, and then kick in the afterburners to close the distance to the Cessna in the shortest possible time. Once the target was
within range of his cannon, he’d engage it and then head north, hopefully before the Turkish pilots could do anything to stop him.

‘Zero Six Eight. From command, situation report.’ The controller sounded irritated.

Beleshayov made a quick check of his navigation computer, then thumbed the transmit button. ‘Zero Six Eight is position north forty-two ten, east thirty-eight zero five, heading north-east
at Flight Level two five zero and preparing to engage the target. Target bears one nine zero range fifteen, three thousand below. Two number Turkish foxtrot one six interceptors bearing one five
zero range nine, three thousand above.’

As he finished this report, Beleshayov pulled the MiG-29 into a tight right-hand turn and eased the throttles forward. As the Fulcrum steadied on its new heading, the intercept controller
responded. ‘Zero Six Eight. Roger. Stand by.’

What exactly was that supposed to mean? Beleshayov wondered as he checked the range of the Cessna. He didn’t want to be travelling too fast when he fired, because he had to be able to
change direction quickly, before the pilots of the F-16s could react. The faster an aircraft is flying, the wider the radius of any turn. Beleshayov was planning on engaging full military power and
getting the hell away from the area the moment he’d shot down the air ambulance, and that meant the tightest possible turn to the north-east.

His finger was actually resting on the firing button when the voice of the intercept controller sounded in his earphones.

‘Zero Six Eight. From command. Abort, abort, abort.’

Beleshayov instantly moved his finger, but he didn’t immediately alter course. ‘Confirm abort?’ he demanded.

‘Zero Six Eight. Abort confirmed. Break off and return to base immediately.’

‘Roger. Zero Six Eight is aborting.’

Beleshayov deselected the Master Arm switch and hauled the MiG-29 round to starboard, away from the two F-16s which had already left their holding pattern and were heading towards him. The
moment the Fulcrum was established in the turn, he engaged the afterburners and waited for the kick as they cut in.

Seconds later, the MiG-29 punched through the sound barrier and began opening to the north at almost one thousand miles an hour. The F-16s followed him for nearly two hundred kilometres –
Beleshayov watching them carefully on his radar – but the pilots made no move to intercept him. No doubt the Turks would file a protest with Moscow during the next few days, but that
wouldn’t be his problem, since he had just been following orders.

As he headed back towards Primorsko, now sub-sonic to conserve fuel, Beleshayov reviewed his actions, and those of the intercept controller, and came to the conclusion that the Cessna must have
been just too close to the Turkish coast. And, in truth, he was pleased. The idea of shooting down an unarmed aircraft was repugnant to him, no matter who or what the air ambulance had been
carrying, and he was also keenly aware that, if he had completed the intercept, he would likely have been attacked in his turn by the two Turkish fighters, and might not have survived. All in all,
it was a pretty satisfactory outcome.

A long way south, the three occupants of the Cessna looked down at the town of Tirebolu, on the Black Sea coast of Turkey, and experienced a similar sense of relief.

Wednesday
Sheraton Hotel, Manama, Bahrain

Paul Richter walked into the Al-Safir restaurant in the Sheraton and paused to look round. The huge picture windows offered a stunning view of the Arabian Gulf, and several
tables were already occupied. He spotted Carole-Anne Jackson in the far corner, and walked over to join her.

‘Hullo again,’ he greeted her. ‘Where’s Bill?’

‘He’s gone to pick up Tariq.’ She smiled. ‘Is your room OK?’

Richter nodded. ‘Fine, thanks. I’m trying hard not to get used to this five-star living. I’ve got the reality of my normal life back in London to look forward to when this
lot’s over.’

‘And that, I suppose, is not exactly fine dining at the Dorchester? That,’ she added, ‘is about the only hotel in London I’ve ever heard of.’

‘On my salary, I can’t afford to even buy a coffee in the Dorchester, far less eat there.’

‘It sounds like your salary scales are remarkably similar to ours. Where do you actually live?’

‘I’ve got a top-floor alleged mansion flat – really just a converted attic – in a pretty scruffy area called Stepney. Have you ever been to London?’

‘No . . . Well, yes, I did visit, but back when I was about sixteen. It was a typical American school-kids’ “do Britain in five days” trip. A day and a half in London
– Westminster and the Tower of London, if I remember right. Then Stratford-upon-Avon and Edinburgh’ – Richter smiled slightly at her pronunciation – ‘and a bunch of
other places. But I’m sure I’ve never been to Stepney.’

Richter glanced up to see Bill Evans approaching, accompanied by a short and stocky man with dark skin and a thick mop of black hair.

‘Hi, Paul,’ Evans began. ‘This is Tariq Mazen, one of our local colleagues. Tariq, this is Paul Richter, from London.’

The new arrivals sat down as a waiter approached, menus in hand. After they’d ordered, Evans leant forward confidentially. ‘Tariq is the man who brought us the report about the
mystery patient in the hospital. I’ve already explained to him why you don’t think the sighting can be genuine.’

‘It might be,’ Richter conceded, ‘but it’s far more likely just a case of mistaken identity.’

Mazen nodded. ‘I agree,’ he said, ‘but we still had to check it out.’

‘One question,’ Richter asked. ‘Why did you come to us instead of the Americans? They’re the people most anxious to find this man, and they’re the ones offering the
reward.’

Mazen nodded again. ‘That’s true, but here we’ve always had much closer ties with Britain than with the United States, and I was worried about how the Americans would react.
They so often seem to have a somewhat arrogant and macho attitude to senstive situations. I don’t include you, of course, Carole: I regard you as an honorary Englishwoman.’ Jackson
inclined her head but didn’t respond. ‘I guessed the Americans would probably want to surround the entire hospital with tanks and troops, and maybe even send in a SWAT team. On balance,
I thought the British would react in a more discreet manner.’

‘Yes, we’re big on discreet,’ Richter agreed, ‘and the reality is that, after the latest defence cuts, we probably don’t have enough tanks and troops left to
surround anything quite as big as a hospital.’

‘Yes,’ Mazen smiled. ‘There’s that, too.’

Once they’d been served their meals, Richter again asked the question he’d posed earlier. ‘As we have to confirm this man’s identity, how do I get to see him if his ward
is securely guarded?’

‘Perhaps “guarded” is the wrong word,’ Mazen suggested. ‘Entry to his ward is controlled, certainly, but my informant tells me that medical personnel are able to
enter and leave quite freely. I believe that the measures are mainly intended to protect this man’s privacy.’

‘That’s another reason why your informant’s probably mistaken.’

‘Exactly.’ Mazen shrugged. ‘We can probably get you inside fairly easily, just by giving you a white coat and a stethoscope.’ As a plan, Richter thought, that left
something to be desired. ‘What might prove more difficult is actually taking a photograph of the target. Will London insist on a picture, or would your eyewitness testimony be
enough?’

All three of them looked at Richter. ‘We’ll definitely need a picture,’ he decided.

‘And you can’t just wander on to the ward waving an Instamatic, in case it really
is
our Saudi friend,’ Jackson suggested.

‘Absolutely right. Do you have a technical intelligence section here? Or just a Minox or something I could use?’

‘I think we can get you a buttonhole camera with a remote shutter release, something like that,’ Evans said.

‘That should work.’ Richter turned back to Mazen. ‘As well as the white coat I’ll need to be carrying some kind of identification. I won’t be able to march straight
in – I presume the bodyguards will be checking names at the very least.’

‘That shouldn’t be a problem. My informant has already obtained the identification card of a doctor who won’t be back at the hospital for a week. He’s currently at a
medical conference in Kuwait.’

‘Your hospital cleaner knows that for a fact?’ Rich-ter’s voice was openly sceptical.

Mazen smiled patiently. ‘No, Paul. He’s a simple man who just obtained what I asked him to find. I have a separate contact on the hospital’s administration staff who made the
travel arrangements for the doctor. Unfortunately he doesn’t have access to medical records or admissions information, otherwise all this might not be necessary.’

‘Right,’ Richter said, ‘that sounds like it should work. Let’s meet here again for breakfast tomorrow morning, to finalize details for the entry.’

Volgograd, Russia

Vaslav Litvinoff had endured a somewhat fraught evening because he was now effectively out of the loop. He’d abdicated his responsibility to the staff at the FSB
headquarters in Moscow, and they in turn were relying on the Air Army of North Caucasus to stop the Cessna.

He called Moscow three times, but on each occasion he was told there was no news. Finally, he went out to eat a solitary meal in a restaurant close to the FSB office, his mobile phone on the
table beside him, while he anxiously waited for the call that would signal the conclusion of the incident. But when FSB headquarters finally contacted him, the news wasn’t what he’d
expected.

‘We’ve let it go.’

‘You’ve done
what
?’ Litvinoff could hardly believe what he was hearing.

‘We had no option. The Cessna had almost reached the Turkish border before the fighter got to it, and by then the Turks had launched two interceptors of their own. The air-defence staff
decided it was safest to order the pilot not to engage the Cessna. If he had done, the Turks would probably have shot him down.’

‘But the nuclear weapon. That—’

‘That,’ the FSB officer interrupted firmly, ‘is no longer our problem. Whatever those Americans are planning, we’re reasonably certain it won’t involve any of our
own territories. We’ll advise the SVR and the GRU, so they can take appropriate steps, but our initial analysis suggests that these Americans may have been working for the CIA, so they may
have stolen the weapon simply to study its design and construction.’