Payback (34 page)

On the first attempt, Richter felt the door give slightly. As his second kick landed, the wood around the lock splintered and the door swung open, crashing back against the interior wall of the
maintenance area beyond.

Richter and Watkinson moved forward cautiously, pulling the Brownings from their holsters as they stepped inside. Behind them, the policeman and Jackson followed.

The area was empty, apart from tools and equipment stored in racks and on benches. But at the rear was another door. Richter stepped across, turned the handle and pushed gently. It opened
immediately and he glanced into the space beyond, before closing the door again.

‘That leads to the void,’ Richter explained, keeping his voice down. ‘Michael, can you stay here with Carole and Hussein’s man while I look around?’

Watkinson nodded and began speaking in rapid Arabic to the police constable.

Richter opened the door again, just wide enough for him to slip through the gap, and closed it behind him.

For a few moments he paused, letting his eyes become accustomed to the gloom and working out the layout. Vertical girders formed a virtual forest of steel, with struts and cross-braces extending
like branches above his head. Cables and pipes ran in all directions, snaking across the floor and up the girders and interior walls of the massive structure. Equipment and machinery squatted on
the floor, some silent, but mostly running. Richter guessed these were air-conditioning units because of the massive pipes emerging from them. The constant noise would be a definite help: there was
no way anyone inside would hear him moving around, so all he had to do was keep out of sight.

Chambering a round in the Browning, but leaving the safety catch on, he stepped forward cautiously, conscious that somewhere in the echoing space around him one or more terrorists were probably
waiting, armed and alert.

Richter moved with infinite care, checking the ground before he took each step to ensure he didn’t trip over anything, but mainly concentrating on the view in front. Every few steps he
paused to scan the surrounding girders for packs of explosive or wires.

He saw nothing significant until he almost reached the far end, and even then didn’t see anyone, simply because Bashar was lying prostrate on the ground, hidden from view by some
machinery, facing in the direction of Mecca and saying his last, silent prayers. What Richter saw instead was nothing more than a thin red lead that appeared to terminate in a grey-coloured object
taped to one of the uprights.

He stopped dead, crouched down and scanned the area carefully. Within a minute he’d spotted three more similar grey lumps. For a moment he didn’t move, then took one cautious step
forward before freezing into immobility again.

Directly below the first object he’d spotted, a man suddenly rose into view as if he’d just erupted from the ground. Though he was wearing an overall, Richter didn’t think for
a moment that he was an employee of the racecourse.

The human eye is particularly well adapted to detect movement – a hangover from the days when early man shared his world with cave bears and sabre-toothed cats – and so Richter
remained precisely where he was. The man didn’t so much as glance in his direction, but looked towards a door in the rear wall. Richter realized immediately that the terrorists had got inside
that way.

Richter had the Browning in his hand, but didn’t even consider firing it. The distance between them was at least thirty yards, far too great a distance for pistol shooting. With a rifle
Richter could have dropped him in an instant, and would have done without a second thought. For a moment he regretted not asking Watkinson to bring along one of the deer rifles from the embassy,
but it was too late for that now.

The man in overalls looked at his watch, then turned away slightly. As he did so, Richter quickly squatted down, below the man’s line of sight. For a moment he just listened, alert to any
sound that could indicate that he’d been spotted.

He risked a quick glance around the side of the air-conditioning unit in front of him. The man in overalls hadn’t moved, so Richter did. Still in a crouch, he turned and looked back
towards the workshop where he’d come in, checking for any obstructions in his path. Then, still half-bent, he retraced his steps, moving more quickly the further away he got.

At the door to the workshop he looked back, but there was no sign of pursuit, no indication that he’d been detected. Richter opened the internal door and slipped into the maintenance
area.

Jackson and Watkinson were standing beside a bench on one side of the workshop, the police officer on the opposite side, both men covering the door with their weapons. As Richter appeared,
Watkinson lowered his pistol and flicked on the safety catch.

‘There’s at least one Arab, or someone dressed like one, at the far end of the stand, and I saw enough explosive to bring down a big chunk of the building. I didn’t see a
timer, so I guess the man himself is the trigger.’ Richter noticed Watkinson glancing at his watch. ‘How long have we got?’

‘None, practically. The race will be starting in about four minutes.’

‘Right. I can’t take this guy by myself, because I can’t get close enough to be certain of hitting him with my first shot. And if I miss, he’s not going to bother
shooting back – he’ll just fire the bomb.’

‘So you need a distraction to ensure he looks the other way?’

Richter nodded. ‘Yes. In fact, I need two things. You’ll have to distract his attention – just going into the other maintenance area and opening the inside door should do that.
Second, I need a better weapon.’ He glanced over at the policeman.

‘That might be difficult,’ Watkinson replied, keeping his voice low. ‘You’ve got no legal standing here. Taking a Dubai police officer’s MP5 isn’t going to
help your situation.’

For a brief moment Richter just stared at him, then crossed over to the police officer.

As if choreographed, Carole-Anne Jackson moved over to the internal door. When she got there, she bent forward as if to pick something off the ground, her skirt riding high up her thighs. The
police officer’s eyes widened in a mix of lust and disbelief as he watched her, and at that instant Richter moved.

He smashed his fist into the man’s stomach, just above his belt. The officer gasped and folded forward. Richter stepped back and brought the side of his hand down in a short jab to the
back of his neck. The man collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

‘Nicely done, Carole.’ Richter reached down, rolled the constable on to his back and relieved him of his Heckler & Koch.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s sort this bastard out.’

Watkinson stared across the workshop, his eyes flicking between Richter, Jackson and the unconscious policeman. ‘Jesus Christ. Tact and diplomacy aren’t exactly your middle names,
are they?’

‘We don’t have time to fuck about. We’ve got less than five minutes to stop these Arabs blowing this whole place straight to hell. A cop with a headache doesn’t matter.
Now, you and Carole get round to the other door as quickly as you can. Call Hussein immediately and tell him there is a bomb, so he must get the Saudis out. By the time you reach the door, I should
be close enough to take this guy. Just go into the workshop and make a bit of noise, bash something with a hammer, then push the interior door open. I’ll take care of it from
there.’

Watkinson hurried across to the outside door, Jackson following. Richter crossed to the other one, opened it and slipped back into the void, the MP5 slung over his shoulder, cocked and ready to
fire, the bolt closed.

Bashar checked his watch again. He had less than three minutes to wait before he depressed the button on the firing box. In less than two hundred seconds, the corrupt House of
Saud would effectively cease to exist. And that same instant would be the culmination of his life’s ambition, when he would, in one glorious instant, leave his imperfect corporeal form behind
and be immediately reborn in the divine presence of Allah.

The Prophet Muhammad and the
chouriyat
beckoned him. He reached down to pick up the small black box, holding it with a sense almost of wonderment. It seemed bizarre that a battery, a few
ounces of plastic and a handful of electronic components could achieve so much within a single instant. With one movement of his finger he would change history, cleanse the holy land of Saudi
Arabia, and ensure himself a place in paradise for all eternity. He truly was the instrument of Allah.

Richter retraced his steps through the darkness as quickly as he could. He had to be in position before Watkinson started his diversion in the workshop. It helped that this
time he knew exactly where he was going. He also knew that the Arab should be in much the same place as before, preparing to detonate the charges.

Less than a minute later, Richter was again crouching behind the roaring air-conditioner. His target was plainly visible, standing amid a group of girders with packs of explosive attached. But
what grabbed Richter’s attention now was what the man was holding.

It was a small black box, perhaps the size of two packs of cigarettes which, in any other context, would have looked entirely innocent. But Richter knew it was the detonator. And the fact that
the terrorist was now holding it clearly meant he was ready to press the button.

Richter guessed he had seconds at best to take the Arab down.

There was a sudden roar above Bashar’s head as the spectators in the stand started yelling and shouting enthusiastically, and he instinctively looked up. That meant the
World Cup race had just started, so only a minute to go. He lifted the box to chest-height and flicked the switch. Instantly the red light glowed, indicating everything was ready. All he had to do
now was press the button.

‘
Allahu Akbar
,’ he murmured, and at that moment he heard a loud bang from somewhere nearby. It took him a moment to realize it had come from the workshop. Probably someone
collecting a piece of equipment, Bashar guessed, then he smiled. Whoever it was had picked the wrong moment, as he would very soon find out.

But then the connecting door swung open, crashing back on its hinges.

Bashar reacted immediately. Ducking down, he put the box on the ground and stood up again, the Kalashnikov in his hands pointing straight at the workshop doorway.

The moment Bashar dropped out of sight, Richter ran forward, closing the distance between them. He’d covered less than five yards when the Arab stood up again, the
assault rifle pointing away from him towards the sounds he had just heard.

Richter didn’t hesitate. In one fluid movement he brought the Heckler & Koch up to eye-level and squeezed the trigger.

The light was poor, Bashar was about twenty-five yards away, and Richter had never fired that particular weapon before, which explained why the first two shots of his three-round burst missed
completely. But the third bullet hit home, smashing into the stock of the Kalashnikov. It splintered the wood, knocking the assault rifle to one side, and then passed clean through Bashar’s
right forearm, kicking him backwards.

The big Arab howled with pain and shock, dropped the damaged weapon and clutched at his wounded arm. He stood upright for only moments, before dropping down out of sight, and Richter guessed
that he was still going to try to detonate the explosives. And there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop him, because the ground between them was littered with heavy machinery. As long as the
terrorist stayed low, he was invisible and invulnerable.

Richter started to run, leaping over pipes and dodging around the humming and roaring equipment, his entire attention concentrated on finding a position from which he could kill the man
he’d just wounded. But, even as he began to move he realized that nothing short of a miracle would prevent the terrorist from triggering the bomb.

Bashar was not the most intelligent of people, but he was a slow and reliable worker, within his limitations. This was why Saadi had selected him to detonate the explosives,
rather than position him somewhere outside the stand with an assault rifle.

For a second or two, Bashar squatted on his haunches, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He’d heard a noise from the workshop but the shots had come from his left, from within
the void, which meant there were at least two opponents after him. He assumed they were the Dubai police.

He dragged his eyes away from his shattered right arm, blood pumping from the wound, and looked at the Kalashnikov lying on the ground beside him. The stock was ruined, the wood splintered and
its rear section severed, but because the AK47 has a pistol grip it could still be fired. And beyond the assault rifle lay the plastic box, the light still glowing, so he knew he could complete his
task. He glanced at his watch. He had less than thirty seconds before the time Saadi had told him to fire the explosives.

To his left, even over the noise of the machinery around him, he could hear the sound of running footsteps. Bashar reached down with his left hand and picked up the Kalashnikov by the pistol
grip. It was awkward to handle: the heavy weapon was designed to be fired two-handed, and its natural balance had now been destroyed. Gritting his teeth with the pain, he aimed in the direction
where he’d heard the footsteps, raised his arm slightly and pulled the trigger, sending a long burst of 7.62 millimetre bullets screaming across the top of the machinery beside him and deep
into the void.

Richter saw the Kalashnikov the moment Bashar raised it, and immediately threw himself flat on the ground, rolling to one side and into the cover provided by a solid chunk of
machinery. He had hoped his bullet might have wrecked the assault rifle, but that clearly hadn’t happened. But at least the terrorist hadn’t pressed the button to fire the explosives.
Yet.

Bashar hadn’t expected his shots to hit any of his attackers, but he guessed that they would now approach him more slowly and cautiously. He dropped the Kalashnikov and
scrambled across towards the black plastic box.