Payback (3 page)

Richter glanced at his watch. By his calculation, the incident at the road works had happened less than two hours ago. ‘How do you know about that?’

‘I know almost everything, Richter, almost all of the time. In this case, he ran your registration plate through the PNC. The plate was blocked, of course, and that raised a flag which
stopped his enquiry. The system forwarded the time, date and place of the incident to Vauxhall Cross, because Six issued the card. The duty officer contacted the patrolman who’d stopped you,
and then he told me all about it. QED. Anyway, don’t do it again.’

‘So why did you want me back here in such a hurry? And why are you in the office on a Sunday afternoon? Isn’t there any cricket on television?’

‘You’re here because the woodentops reckon they’ve discovered a terrorist cell lurking in an apartment pretty close to where we’re sitting right now.’

‘I presume you’re referring to the Metropolitan Police?’ Simpson’s dislike of all police officers was legendary. Richter assumed he’d been nicked as a spotty youth
by the local bobby – probably for something embarrassing. ‘And what has that got to do with us, exactly? Just to remind you, the “F” in “FOE” stands for
“foreign”. That means we’re not supposed to operate in Britain.’

‘I do know that, Richter. I run this outfit – remember? The reason we’re involved in this is quite simple. It’s also classified Top Secret and SCI, code word
“Jason”.’

‘I’m not cleared for “Jason”.’

‘You are now, with effect from fifteen twenty-two this afternoon.’

‘Wonderful, thanks. So what’s the story?’

‘One of our people is on the inside,’ Simpson said. ‘We have someone in the terrorists’ flat. He’s supposedly a part of the cell.’

‘Who is he, and what’s he doing there?’

‘You know him. In fact, you’re one of the very few people working here who has ever met him, but that was a while ago. To everyone outside this room, his codename is Argonaut.
Remember Salah Khatid?’

‘Christ, I thought he was dead.’

‘Not yet he isn’t,’ Simpson replied, somewhat enigmatically. ‘He’s been deep-cover ever since 9/11. We originally sent him out to Afghanistan to join the Taliban as
a sympathizer. He gradually worked his way down through Pakistan and into Iran, then crossed the Gulf into Saudi Arabia, sending us information the whole time. Good quality, real-time HUMINT.
We’ve been filtering his information to Five and Six, and selected bits to the Company.’

Simpson frowned. ‘About eight months ago he arrived in Germany, told us he’d made contact with a small group of Arabs, and then vanished. We assumed he’d been burnt, but six
weeks ago we heard from him again. The group was on the move, heading for London, and we guessed the next thing we’d hear would be target details. Instead, on Friday morning we were advised
by Six that a Met Police Legion Patrol had managed to locate Khatid’s terrorist cell. Five was planning to send in CO19, mob-handed, early on Saturday morning. I had to spend some time
convincing Six this was a really bad idea, and I’ve managed to get the assault delayed until tomorrow. Just as well, considering how long it took you to get back from Hereford. And I need you
there because you know Khatid.’

‘So what do you want me to do – go in and get him out before the plods kick down the doors?’

‘Not exactly,’ Simpson said. ‘I want you to go into the flat with the cops, positively identify Salah Khatid and then kill him.’

Monday
Kondal, Russia

A somewhat battered three-ton truck with two men in the cab stopped in a small car park on the outskirts of Kondal. The driver, Alexei Nabov, turned the vehicle round so that
it faced the road, then switched off the engine. Moments later, an elderly saloon car of Russian manufacture drove in and parked a few yards away, a middle-aged man behind the wheel.

Two men emerged from the hotel next to the car park. The names listed in their American passports were Richard Wilson and Edward Dawson, and they told anyone who asked that they were writers
collaborating on a book about the transfiguration of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics into the Confederation of Independent States and studying the effects this national trauma had caused to
the former citizens of the USSR. It sounded reasonable enough, and accounted for their laptop computers and conversations in Russian – both men spoke the language fluently – with local
workers and officials.

The single incongruous note was the fact that they didn’t look like writers. Both men were tall, just over six feet, and broad with the solid bulk that comes from hard exercise. Their
moustaches and comparatively long hair softened the image, but despite that, the impression they created was unmistakably military, or at least ex-military.

They both walked round to the back of the vehicle. Nabov and his companion, Boris Devenko, climbed down from the cab and followed them. Devenko released the padlock and pulled one of the rear
doors open. The atmosphere was tense, the two pairs of men watching each other very carefully.

Dawson and Nabov climbed inside and Devenko pushed the door closed behind them. Without saying a word they removed the screws that secured the wooden lid of a large crate, and began emptying it.
Some of the tools and equipment it contained were light enough to be lifted by hand, but for others they had to use straps and the roof-mounted chain hoist.

The last thing they removed was a battered wooden box, inside which was a bulky aluminium case, similar to those used to hold photographic equipment. Nabov unsnapped the two catches holding its
lid closed.

The device inside was exactly what Dawson had been expecting, but he still checked it carefully, ensuring that all its components were properly attached. On the inside of the lid were
instructions in multiple languages, including English, explaining precisely how the weapon was to be armed.

Dawson read these carefully, and even powered up the timing circuit – his actions observed with increasing alarm by the Russian – just to check that the battery was charged and the
logic circuits intact, then he used the master switch to shut everything down. Fifteen minutes later they’d repacked the crate and refitted the lid.

The moment the Russian turned away, heading for the rear doors, Edward Dawson acted in a blur of lethally targeted aggression.

Manama, Bahrain

During his previous employment with the CIA, Alex O’Hagan had spent two years in Bahrain so he knew the country well and, more importantly, he still had his contacts
there.

He and Petrucci were sitting in the back of a Mercedes cab driving down Sheikh Isa Avenue. An observer might have wondered at the route the vehicle was following, the driver making seemingly
random turns, but the Americans had no interest in where they were going. The driver was one of O’Hagan’s contacts and a member of an Arab terrorist group called Sharaf, and their whole
attention was concentrated on what he was saying.

‘The car’s no problem,’ he said, in fluent English. ‘But the other things will take a little more time.’

‘But you
can
get them?’ Petrucci insisted.

The driver, whose work name was ‘Ahmed’, glanced round. ‘Yes, I can get them, but I need something else from you.’

‘More money?’

‘No, I’m happy with what we agreed. What’s important is the positioning of the device.’

‘We thought maybe Government Avenue or Al-Khalifa,’ O’Hagan suggested.

The driver turned into Al-Sulmaniya. ‘We would prefer one of the smaller roads,’ he said. ‘In fact, we’ve already selected the best street – the best for us, that
is.’

‘Which is where?’ Petrucci demanded.

‘Al-Mutanabi Avenue,’ Ahmed replied, ‘between Al-Khalifa and Tujjaar.’

‘You have some particular reason for choosing that location?’ O’Hagan asked.

‘Yes, but it’s not necessary for you to know what it is.’

Petrucci stirred uncomfortably. ‘I don’t like the sound of this. We need to be sure about what’s going on here. Why that road?’

Ahmed glanced back at the American. ‘You don’t need to know, Mr Petrucci,’ he said firmly. ‘You’ve come to us for help with your plan, about which we know nothing,
and we’re prepared to assist you. In exchange, all we’re requesting is that the device be positioned in a particular location and we feel that’s not too much to ask. If
you’re unhappy with this arrangement, you’re perfectly free to obtain what you need elsewhere.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ O’Hagan said, raising his hand in a calming gesture. ‘We’ll take what you’re offering, no questions asked. Cool it, John.
Remember, Ahmed and I go back a long way, and we understand each other real well. Right, Ahmed?’

‘Right,’ the driver agreed.

‘When can we collect the stuff?’ O’Hagan asked, after a pause.

The Arab considered for a moment. ‘This afternoon,’ he said. ‘Come to Municipality Square at three-fifteen. I’ll pick you up in this same cab again.’

‘And then where do we go?’ Petrucci asked, his tone still slightly belligerent.

‘We’ll go to the place where the car you need will be parked. That’s all you have to know. Do not,’ Ahmed added, ‘forget to bring the money.’

Kondal, Russia

During and after the Second World War, an amazing variety of assassination devices were manufactured by the intelligence services of both East and West. These included
single-shot pistols concealed in cigars, pens and even belt-buckles; poison-gas weapons hidden inside cigarette packets or wallets – a favourite with the KGB – and delayed-action
devices like the microscopic ricin-filled pellet fired from a modified umbrella that was used by the Bulgarian
Darzhavna Sigurnost
to kill the dissident Georgi Markov in London in 1978.

For this operation, Wilson and Dawson had decided to adopt the ‘KISS Principle’ – keep it simple, stupid – and had chosen the most basic possible method.

Dawson shook his right hand and then dropped his arm straight down, allowing the ten-inch lead-filled cosh concealed up his sleeve to fall into his hand, its descent stopped by the security
loop. As his fingers closed about its leather-covered fibre shaft, he swung the weapon with all his strength at the back of Nabov’s head.

But the Russian must have heard or sensed something, and half-turned back, reaching inside his jacket for his pistol. It didn’t help. The end of the cosh smashed into the left side of his
skull and knocked him unconscious. It wasn’t a lethal blow, because he’d moved further and faster than Dawson had expected. Nabov fell heavily to the steel floor, landing with a crash
that the American knew would have been heard clearly outside the three-tonner.

Beside the truck, Boris Devenko immediately tensed and reached for his Makarov. Wilson eyed him carefully, his own weapon within easy reach, wondering if he should react. Then he relaxed as
Dawson’s voice echoed from inside the vehicle.

‘Be careful with that, you fool. Use the hoist.’

Devenko dropped his hand from his weapon, and glanced at Wilson and the man who’d arrived in the car – Yuri Borisov, a senior PO Start administrator. ‘Alexei is strong but
he’s always been clumsy,’ he said, as a kind of explanation.

Inside the van, Dawson straddled the unconscious technician, grasped both sides of his jacket collar firmly and pressed inwards with his knuckles, closing off the blood flow through the carotid
artery to the Russian’s brain.

‘That’s better,’ he called out, maintaining the pressure on the man’s neck, his voice pitched lower but still audible, he hoped, outside the truck. Then he relaxed his
grip, checked for a pulse, found nothing and stood up.

‘Screw the lid back on,’ he said, tucking the cosh back up his sleeve and now talking to a corpse. ‘Wait a moment. I’ll get Boris to help you.’ He stepped across to
the rear door and rapped on it with his knuckles.

Wilson opened it and looked up at his partner.

‘Could you just help Alexei with the lid?’ Dawson asked Devenko. ‘Then I think we’re done here.’

The Russian nodded agreement, grasped the bar on the right-hand side of the door opening and hauled himself up. He was two paces inside the cargo bay before he spotted Nabov’s body, but by
then it was too late.

Wilson’s cosh – virtually the twin of Dawson’s, and modelled on those carried for self-defence by CIA officers operating in Europe in the 1960s – crushed the back of the
Russian’s skull.

New Scotland Yard, London

‘And who are you, exactly?’

The inspector from CO19 didn’t look particularly impressed as Richter ambled into the briefing room at New Scotland Yard. He’d been due there twenty minutes earlier, but the traffic
had been particularly heavy.

The room was already crowded with people, none of them known to Richter. Most were wearing civilian clothes, though several carried pistols in shoulder or belt holsters.

‘Smith,’ Richter said. ‘From Vauxhall Cross.’ Two statements, both factually inaccurate, and confidently delivered to a roomful of armed police officers. It probably
wasn’t a good start to the day.

‘Let’s see some identification,’ the inspector demanded.

‘Another fucking spook,’ someone muttered.

Richter walked forward and proffered the identity document he’d collected from Hammersmith that morning.

The inspector looked at it and frowned. ‘Is your name really Smith?’ he demanded.

‘It might be,’ Richter replied, ‘and that
is
what it says there.’

‘And we all believe that, of course. So what’s your role in this exercise?’

‘I’m just an observer.’

‘An armed observer, I note.’

‘Well spotted.’

The inspector had seen the butt of the Glock 17 protruding from the holster under Richter’s left arm. He always preferred to carry a revolver, but there was a very good reason why Simpson
had told him to take the automatic pistol.

‘Right, have a seat. All we’ve heard so far is the intelligence summary from the CTC briefer, and I’ve just outlined the assault plan.’

As Richter sat down, the inspector decided to have some fun with him. He took up a pointer and gestured towards a diagram pinned on a board behind him. ‘For Mr Smith’s benefit,
we’ve got six players at Tango One. We’ve two gunships, one of them a flounder, waiting at the jump-off here, plus two horses, each four-up. The premises are covered by fifteen footies,
that’s eleven plods and four plonks. When we kit-up at the FUP, don’t forget your QRVs and HVCs. All clear about that, Mr Smith?’