Payback (27 page)

‘He returns to his apartment before lunch. If he goes out at all in the afternoon, it’s just to do some shopping. In the early evening he leaves home again to walk to the restaurant.
He doesn’t seem to have any close friends, and never goes to visit anyone. Even at the café he never spends any time talking to people. He just marches in, orders his coffee, takes it
over to a table and sits down with his newspaper, always keeping to himself.’

‘The newspaper?’

Watkinson nodded. ‘We thought about that, too, but there’s nothing there. The shop has a daily delivery of most British papers and Holden simply grabs the front one from the rack.
We’ve had people there watching him, and we’ve three times taken the front copy of the
Express
immediately before he arrives. We’ve never found anything in the paper, no
hidden messages, no enclosures, and Holden never seems bothered if somebody removes a copy just before him. That daily newspaper, we’re quite sure, is just a newspaper.’

He smiled slightly. ‘Thanks to the Dubai police, we’ve also had a tap placed on his phone. They gave us the tapes, but there was nothing interesting apart from his estranged wife
calling him every couple of days to complain about something.’

‘Any idea why she left?’

‘If his routine is anything to go by, probably just terminal boredom.’

‘There’s not much left.’ Richter shrugged. ‘Did you do a mail intercept?’

‘No. Mail intercepts out here need legal backing. The phone tap we managed quietly on the “old boy” basis.’

‘Did you bug his apartment?’

‘No, for the same reason as the mail intercept. An illegal bug isn’t worth the risk. I’m a firm believer in the Special Theory of Cock-ups as it relates to Sod’s Law. If
we’d placed a bug and Holden had discovered it and gone to the authorities, we’d have been dumped in the shit up to our necks.’

Richter thought for a moment. ‘Has he got a computer?’

‘Yes. It’s a fairly standard desktop running Windows and protected by a password. We sent a couple of people in to his apartment one evening. They were trained in burglary, not
computer science, but they had a boot disk that enabled them to circumvent the password and a big external hard drive. They copied the contents of Holden’s entire hard disk. My resident
computer expert checked the copy but it looks as if there’s nothing there.’

‘Anything else in his apartment?’

‘Not that we could find. My men took pictures of every room and they’re in the file in front of you.’

‘OK, I’ll look at them later. You checked the restaurant, too?’

‘Yes. We’ve had people there several times. Holden’s a waiter. He takes orders, carries plates to the tables and delivers the bills. The clientele is mixed, and he never pays
anyone any special attention. If he’s receiving messages from customers, we don’t know how he’s doing it. And even if somebody
is
somehow passing information to him, then
you have to ask the other obvious question.’

‘Exactly,’ Richter nodded. ‘Where are
they
getting it from?’

‘That’s the real problem here. Maybe James Holden is a genuine seer, and all he’s doing is telling us exactly what he’s dreaming.’

Richter grunted. ‘Do you really believe that?’

‘No,’ Watkinson replied, with a rueful smile. ‘I’m a rational man, with a degree in physics. My personal belief is that time only flows one way, and I can’t see how
anyone can witness an event that hasn’t happened yet. Another possible angle – which seems just about as unlikely – is that Holden is telepathic. He’s somehow able to access
the minds of the people who are placing these devices, and so what he’s “seeing” is not the actual explosion itself but the way the perpetrators visualize it happening.’

‘That’s just replacing one unproven paranormal technique with another one that’s equally unproven,’ Richter objected.

‘I agree. None of this makes sense. The only other way Holden could be getting his information is obvious, but then there’s the problem of motive.’

‘Yes. He could be in contact with the people who are planting the devices, so he knows about the bombs because they’re telling him. But why would they do that? What possible motive
could there be for a terrorist organization to leak details of its bombing campaign to someone who can then trot along and tell the authorities? And the other problem is that the Damascus
shahid
and the Manama car bombing were carried out by totally different groups. That makes the idea of Holden being used as a deliberate conduit even more unlikely, unless the activities of
those different groups were being coordinated by somebody else. But even then, I
still
don’t understand why.’

Al-Qusais district, Dubai

When Massood and Bashar returned to the hotel, they were laden with packages. They went straight to Saadi’s room and placed all their purchases on the spare bed.
Although both men seemed certain they’d found everything they needed, Saadi was too conscious of the importance of their mission to leave anything to chance, so he checked and inspected every
single item before he declared himself satisfied.

‘We’ll leave everything in here until this evening,’ he decided. ‘Then we’ll prepare the packages and transfer them to the car just before we leave for Nad
Al-Sheba. You’d better try to get some sleep this afternoon, because we’ve got a very long night’s work ahead of us.’

Dubai International Airport

Sutter applied the brakes and the Gulfstream came to rest on the hardstanding. Even as the whine of the jets died away, he saw two cars approaching, both white with dark
green doors signwritten in Arabic, and preceded by a small Air Traffic Control van with a roof bar, the yellow lights flashing. Leaving Haig to finish the shutdown, Sutter went back into the
passenger cabin.

‘Two cars are heading this way,’ he announced. ‘These guys are probably your liaison officers, so good luck.’

‘Right,’ O’Hagan said, standing up and walking across to the cabin door. As he opened it, a blast of baking air rushed into the aircraft. ‘Shit, that’s hot,’
he muttered. He peered out, saw the approaching cars brake to a halt at the edge of the hardstanding, and turned to face the other three men. ‘All ready?’

None of them replied, but O’Hagan hadn’t expected them to. They had no idea
what
the CIA had arranged with the Dubai security forces, so they were going to have to play
everything by ear.

‘Roy,’ O’Hagan instructed. ‘You and Jeff book into a hotel, once you’ve cleared customs and immigration. Then tell us where you’re staying, and both keep your
mobiles switched on. You’ll get the aircraft turned round and refuelled, of course.’

Sutter nodded. ‘We’ll do that right away. This plane will be ready to leave as soon as we are.’

O’Hagan turned back towards the cabin door. ‘One guy approaching. Western suit. Two others standing by the cars, dark green uniforms, green berets, so I guess they’re police
drivers. OK, Ed, over to you. You’re the ranking agent.’

When they’d stripped the dead CIA officers, each of the four men had selected the identification card bearing the photograph that was closest to their own likeness. Grant Hutchings had
been the ranking agent, and Edward Dawson just happened to look most like him.

The Arab reached the open door of the Gulfstream and peered inside. ‘Agent Hutchings?’ he asked, in virtually accentless English.

‘That’s me.’ Dawson stepped forward, extending his hand to flash Hutchings’s CIA identification.

‘I’m delighted to meet you,’ the Arab said, barely glancing at it. ‘My name’s Saeed Hussein and I’m a senior police inspector.’

Dawson introduced his fellow ‘CIA agents’.

‘One question, Inspector,’ Dawson said. ‘We’re all carrying personal weapons, as we’re required to do back in the States. Do you have any problem with us being
armed here in Dubai?’

Hussein shook his head firmly. ‘We expected that any officers sent here would be carrying weapons, so I’ve already arranged the correct documentation.’

Ten minutes later the convoy moved off.

‘You’ve been booked into the Al-Khaleej Hotel in Deira,’ Hussein explained, then turned to offer Dawson a card. ‘Those are my office, home and mobile numbers, so if you
have any problems, just call me. I’m based in the police station at the Old Fort on Naif Road. I’ll send a car for you at three, and then we can discuss our strategy.’

‘Thank you, Inspector. We’ll need to check in at the American Consulate sometime soon. Is that anywhere nearby?’

Hussein smiled. ‘Dubai isn’t really very big, and nowhere’s too far away. Your consulate is located in the World Trade Centre on Shaikh Zayed Road, only about four kilometres
south of your hotel. But must you go there in person? We have secure communications at the Old Fort you can use.’

Dawson appeared to consider this question, but in reality he had no intention of going anywhere near the American Consulate. Hussein had hardly looked at his identification, nor those carried by
the other three. Clearly he’d been told to expect a CIA team to arrive at Dubai in a Gulfstream. Expectation has a way of dulling the critical faculties, and because the four men were exactly
what he’d been expecting, he hadn’t done a proper check.

Dawson knew the consulate guards would be more thorough. His vague resemblance to the deceased Grant Hutchings wouldn’t be enough to satisfy them. But they had to check in because if they
didn’t it would ring alarm bells at Langley. So even if Hussein hadn’t offered the use of the police station’s communication facilities, Dawson would certainly have suggested
it.

‘Thank you, Inspector,’ Dawson said. ‘That’ll save a trip to the consulate, and time is, I think, now of the essence.’

British Embassy, Dubai

‘Have you seen Holden?’ Richter asked, closing the file, and Watkinson nodded. ‘What were your conclusions?’

‘He appears genuine enough. He seems disturbed by what he’s describing, and despite multi-questioning he always sticks to the same story.’ Asking the same question several
times using different forms of words is an old interrogator’s trick, often known as multi-questioning. ‘Ideally, I would have liked to strap him to a polygraph, but we’ve no power
to make him submit to that kind of testing. I did ask him if he’d do it voluntarily, but he got quite upset.’

‘A guilty reaction?’ Richter suggested.

‘Perhaps. Or perhaps not. You could look at it either way.’

‘OK. Is there anything else you need to tell me about him?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Do you need to look at the file again?’

Richter shook his head and slid it across the table. ‘No. Interesting but not helpful – that more or less sums it up.’

Just as Richter stood, his Enigma mobile rang. ‘Yes, Carole.’ He recognized her voice immediately.

‘This line’s secure,’ she confirmed. ‘There’s been a development at the Saudi end. The police have had a presence at the Al-Shahrood stables ever since Qabandi blew
the whistle, and the missing staff finally turned up this morning.’

‘Dead, I assume?’ Richter asked.

‘Yes, all dead. A pack of wild dogs had congregated at the back of the stables, and when the inspector noticed they were scratching in the sand he organized a digging party. They’d
got down four feet when they found the first corpse. There are about a dozen bodies in total. They’re running a full forensic work-up now, but it looks like they were killed execution-style:
one bullet each in the back of the head.’

‘Well, that certainly makes the case of the missing horse look a hell of a lot different. Any leads yet?’

‘No, but obviously this has now become the highest priority for the Saudi police force.’

‘What was that about a missing horse?’ Watkinson asked, as Richter ended the call.

‘Shaf,’ Richter said shortly, and explained about the grisly discovery at the stables.

Watkinson shook his head. ‘We knew the horse had gone missing in odd circumstances, but this certainly puts a different complexion on things.’

At that moment there was a brief double-tap on the door and a junior officer appeared with a buff envelope in his hand. ‘Secret Flash traffic from London, sir,’ he said, glancing
curiously at Richter. ‘For your eyes only,’ he added, passing the envelope across the desk.

Watkinson signed the classified-document register, ripped open the envelope and extracted a single sheet of paper. ‘This more or less confirms what you’ve just told me,’ he
said. ‘Vauxhall Cross has tasked us with assisting the Dubai authorities to find the men who flew here with Shaf. That isn’t going to be easy, because apparently they were travelling on
passports belonging to three of the stable staff, who were dead long before the horse was loaded aboard the aircraft at Riyadh. The only possible lead is that the Saudi police are examining a Range
Rover from Al-Shahrood. The vehicle was abandoned at Riyadh Airport, and they think it was used to tow the horsebox. I suppose they might manage to lift some fingerprints from it.’

‘That only helps if the bad guys are on record somewhere,’ Richter pointed out. ‘They’d have needed another vehicle at this end, so the Dubai police should be checking
hire firms here. My guess is that they’ll have hired a big four-by-four to deliver the horse, then turned it in for a less conspicuous car from a different company. The other obvious lead is
the transporter. These guys didn’t kill a dozen people just for the pleasure of delivering a racehorse to a stable here. They must have brought something else in the horsebox, guessing
security would be reasonably lax for a known horse entered in an event like the World Cup. By now they’ll have removed whatever they concealed in the trailer, but there might still be traces
left.’

Watkinson nodded. ‘I’ll suggest they use sniffer dogs, because I don’t think they have electronic explosive detectors here. That
is
what you mean, isn’t
it?’

‘Yes. They’ll definitely have brought in explosives, and probably a lot of them. Nothing else makes any sense, as far as I can see.’

‘Agreed. Right, what are you going to do now?’

Richter shrugged. ‘I came out here to see James Holden, so that’s what I’m going to do. This horse thing isn’t my problem – at least, not until my boss tells me
otherwise.’