by Rob Sinclair
The door shifted slightly from the blow, and he quickly hammered it again, throwing as much strength as he could behind the second kick. This time the hinges failed and the screws holding them in place tore out of the wooden frame as the door crashed inward. Aydin barrelled into the apartment, expecting and ready for a counter attack.
But no attack came, and it only took him a second to realise there was no one else in the room. It was a tiny apartment: one living space with just two doors off it. He was standing in the lounge/diner/kitchen. Basic, worn furniture reminded him of the apartment back in Paris, but there were no signs whatsoever that anyone had been there recently.
He heard that noise again.
Not a creak at all, he now realised, but an electronic blip – coming from off to his left. He cautiously moved towards the two doorways that led off from the lounge. One was a bedroom with a small en suite beyond. The other was a small box room.
‘Shit,’ he said out loud.
In the smaller room was a desk filled with radio equipment. This was definitely where the signal he’d tracked was coming from. The problem was he’d been tracking the wrong signal. He’d expected to be barging in on Wahid and his brother Itnan. But they’d fooled him. All he was looking at was a radio repeater, equipment used to bounce the initial, weaker signal onward.
Aydin growled in anger. Too much time had been wasted on tracking this place and he still had no idea where his brothers really were.
Outside he heard commotion. Revved engines; panicked voices of pedestrians. Car doors opening and closing. Quick footsteps. He moved to the lounge window and looked down below. The Policia Local. Not coming to the apartment, but swarming on the bar across the street where he’d eaten breakfast minutes earlier, where the burner phone remained on the table untouched. So much for Cox giving him some breathing space to catch up with Wahid.
There was nothing else he could do there. It was time to go. He left the radio equipment in place and rushed for the door.
SIXTY-FIVE
The name of the man driving the black BMW was Grant Ledley. Cox had never met him before. All she knew was that he too worked for MI6, though he wasn’t a field agent, just an asset of some description. The ins and outs didn’t really matter. All that did was that Ledley drove the car as quickly as he could to get Cox to where she needed to be. Once again, they’d failed to bring Aydin Torkal into custody. Not that Cox was particularly angry about that. She’d pleaded with Flannigan to hold the pack off Aydin, to keep him under surveillance but to not bring him in. Flannigan had outranked her on that, and had the local police in Cordoba flood to the location where the signal from Aydin’s phone emanated.
It really wasn’t too much surprise that what the police found was Aydin’s phone on a table and what looked to be the remnants of his breakfast, but no sign of the man himself. He’d not cared about allowing MI6 to track his position to Cordoba, but – perhaps rightly so – he didn’t trust Cox or her colleagues fully and was still using evasive measures to stay in the game.
‘What’s our ETA?’ Cox said.
‘Sat nav says just after one p.m,’ Ledley said, without taking his eyes off the road.
‘Shit,’ was all Cox said to that. How much time did they have left? By one p.m. the attacks could be over and hundreds, thousands perhaps, would be dead.
Her phone vibrated on her lap. Her eyes flicked to the screen, hoping that perhaps it was Aydin. Instead, she recognised the prefix as coming from MI6.
‘Cox,’ she answered.
‘Clarissa Poulter,’ came the grating voice of the Trapeze supervisor. ‘And Flannigan is on the line too, as well as our radio comms expert.’
‘Christian Abbot here,’ the guy said on cue.
‘I’m guessing you’ve some news?’ Cox said.
‘Yes, actually,’ Abbot said. Somehow his croaky tone reminded Cox of an aged, white-haired wizard.
‘To give you some background,’ Poulter said, ‘Trapeze do monitor radio frequencies as part of our routine operations.’
‘Then why wasn’t this already picked up?’ Flannigan asked. He still sounded pissed off.
‘Because we didn’t know what we were looking for,’ Poulter said. ‘You have to bear in mind that there are countless ways to transmit radio data, and also countless measures that can be put into place to limit eavesdropping on whichever transmission method is being used.’
‘Aydin said frequency hopping,’ Cox said.
‘Exactly,’ Abbot said. ‘Frequency hopping on its own is far from military grade security, but for everyday civilian communications it’s more than enough to cover tracks, and is why Trapeze didn’t pick up these messages initially. To do so we first need to understand what we’re looking for. The prearranged transmission key perhaps, or some details of the content of the messages, or at least data on the start and end receivers.’
‘Look, guys, enough of the arse-covering,’ Flannigan said. ‘We understand you’ve missed this, we don’t need the excuses as to why. Just tell us what’s going on.’
Abbot sighed. ‘Basically, frequency hopping is a method of transmitting radio signals over rapidly changing frequencies, using a sequence known only to both transmitter and receiver. It means that the signal appears as little more than an increase in the background noise to a narrowband receiver, so it’s protected against straightforward eavesdropping.’
‘Okay, okay!’ Flannigan said, sounding even more irritated. ‘I really couldn’t give a flying rat’s arse about frequencies and transponders and gizmos and shit-sticks, just give me some fucking good news.’
Cox smiled at her boss’s rather unorthodox communication skills. She had to admit, she’d been thinking the same thing.
‘Essentially, we’ve tracked their signals,’ Poulter said. ‘Although we weren’t given the transmission key, which tells us which frequencies the messages travel over and in which order, Abbot’s team have managed to perform analysis on the noise and have worked out the key for themselves. That in turn allowed them to identify the transmitters and receivers, not to mention repeater stations set up to intercept and bounce the signals.’
‘And?’ Flannigan said.
‘And we’re still transcribing the messages. These aren’t voice messages but text, basically on-off tones. Think of it almost like Morse code.’
‘But I explained the code?’
‘Yes, but it still takes time.’
‘What about the locations the transmissions are originating from?’ Cox said. ‘Do you have those now?’
‘Yes. We have addresses in each of the seven locations you believe are targets, so it looks like these radio signals are consistent with your other intel. Those addresses will hit your inboxes any second now.’
‘Clarissa, for Cordoba, please can you repeat the address on the line now?’ Cox said. ‘I’m travelling there as we speak.’
‘Cordoba isn’t one of the locations.’
‘What do you mean? We have credible intel that Cordoba is a target.’
There were muffled voices for a few seconds.
‘Cordoba was the location of one of the repeaters,’ Abbot said. ‘Perhaps it had been used as a transmitter at some point, but not in the communications we’ve intercepted this morning. There’s no one sending or receiving messages from that particular location now.’
‘So where is the transmitter then?’
‘Granada.’
‘Shit.’ Cox ended the call. ‘Change of plan,’ she said to Ledley. ‘We need to get to Granada instead.’
‘Not a problem, it’s actually closer. Should be there well before half-twelve.’
‘That’s still too late.’
‘Understood. I’ll do what I can.’
A second later Cox was pressed back against the seat as she watched the needle of the speedometer blur upward.
SIXTY-SIX
Aydin cursed his stupidity. He had the transmission key for the radio messages but hadn’t even thought about the possibilit
y that Wahid and Itnan would use a repeater to bounce the signals. He’d wasted hours tracking his brothers to Cordoba and had come away with nothing. But having tracked the signal more thoroughly, he did now know where they were. And he was closing in.
He was travelling in a stolen Seat Ibiza, as fast as he could across newly laid motorway that was as smooth as silk. But no matter how fast he went, he wouldn’t get to Granada before midday. On the passenger seat he had both a new burner phone and the radio transceiver. He considered calling Rachel Cox again. But what would he say to her now?
A blur of mountains and rolling hills filled with olive trees and burned grass passed by the windows. He resisted the urge to check and re-check the clock on the dashboard every five seconds. By the time he reached his destination, the attacks may well have begun, that he just had to accept. In fact, it was possible they’d have already ended.
When he next failed to keep his eyes off the clock, he saw that it was already ten to twelve. To his dismay he was still over twenty miles from Granada.
A crackling burst out of the radio transceiver, and he picked it up and cranked up the volume.
‘Ten minutes to go,’ came the voice.
It was Wahid. Aydin was shocked to hear him speaking. The other messages had all been coded text. The fact Wahid was now speaking showed just how close they were to fulfilling their plans. Wahid felt there was nothing to stop him now. Perhaps he was right.
Aydin felt a wave of nausea pass through him, and images of Wahid’s gurning face flashed in his vision. He imagined his brother sitting calmly in expectation, the radio in his hand as he waited for the bombs to explode and the poisonous gases to disperse. He saw the satisfaction on Wahid’s face as bloodied bodies lay strewn in debris all around him.
Aydin couldn’t let that happen.
He picked up the phone.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Cox answered the call from the withheld number, crossing her fingers as she waited for the caller to announce themselves.
‘Wahid’s in Granada,’ Aydin said.
Cox sighed. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way there now.’
She looked over at the speedometer. They were doing nearly two hundred km/h.
‘Have you found the others?’ Aydin asked.
‘I can’t tell you that,’ Cox said. She saw she had another call coming through. It was Flannigan.
‘Aydin, how far from Granada are you?’ No response. ‘Aydin, talk to me?’ The call clicked off. ‘Shit.’
Cox answered the call from Flannigan.
‘We’ve cracked all of the messages we’ve intercepted and we’ve got teams readying in every location,’ Flannigan said. ‘We’re closing in on them all.’
‘Good. But you realise we’ve less than six minutes to go now?’
‘I know. But we’re going to get them. I just had word that we found the cell in Germany.’
‘Seriously?’
‘The German intelligence services came up trumps. The cell were ready to release cyanide into the air system at a high-rise office complex in Leipzig. The police swarmed the building just a few minutes ago and caught the wannabe terrorist bastards red-handed. Twenty-five canisters of hydrogen cyanide recovered.’
‘Twenty-five, but––’
‘I know. I know. But it’s a start.’
‘Most likely the rest has been transported nearby. What was the next closest target to Germany? Graz or Ghent?’
‘Either would make sense.’
‘There’s something else. I just spoke to Aydin again.’
‘What? Where the fuck is that sod now?’
‘On his way to Granada.’
‘Cox, what the hell––’
She ended the call.
‘How far away are we?’ she said to Ledley.
‘Ten minutes,’ he said.
‘Is your foot to the floor?’ Cox said, looking at the speedometer, which was still hovering just below two hundred km/h.
‘Not quite,’ Ledley said.
‘Then what on earth are you waiting for!’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Ledley said, thumping his foot down.
SIXTY-EIGHT
They’d left behind the windowless room and were now out in the glorious, fresh air of Granada, the sun high up in the pristine blue sky. From the enclosed walled garden high up in the Albaicín district, Wahid looked out across the city. Off to his left the glorious palace fortress of the Alhambra sat proudly behind its lush green gardens. In front of him, the winding, narrow Moorish streets of Albaicín trailed downward to the wider, traffic-heavy roads of the modern city – though it was the more historic buildings that remained dominant to the eye even down there. In particular the looming grey and brown Cathedral de Granada with its massive tower and domed roof rising into the sky.
Not for much longer, though.
‘It’s almost time,’ Itnan said, sitting next to him on the bench.
‘Yes,’ Wahid responded.
He had feared the worst minutes earlier with the impromptu knock on the front door, but it had only been a courier with a parcel for the neighbour. He would be the last visitor afforded such a kindly reception. The door – the whole building, in fact – was laced with booby traps, armed and ready. Any further interruptions would simply be ignored. If someone wanted to break in that was their own fault.
Wahid picked up the tablet computer and laid it on his lap. At noon, he and his brothers would come out of the dark. He wanted to see and hear – and feel – what they were about to do.
The radio handset crackled and Itnan picked it up. Wahid frowned. There were still four minutes to go, what the hell was this? The message that came through was the code, rather than voice. Wahid listened to the intermittent beeps, trying to figure out the words in his head, already fearing the worst.
Itnan transcribed the short message for him.
‘It’s Germany,’ he said, turning to Wahid, his face dropping. ‘An SOS.’
‘Impossible,’ Wahid said, feeling rage bursting inside his chest.
Another message blipped over just seconds later.
Itnan grunted in anger. ‘Nantes too.’
Wahid, his whole body shaking with rage, looked at his watch. Still more than two minutes to twelve.
‘Push the button on Phantom. Do it now.’
‘Of course.’
Itnan scrolled through on his laptop, typing at lightning speed. Wahid held his breath. He realised his foot was tapping furiously.
Itnan stopped typing. He turned to Wahid, a strangely nervous look on his face, as though the magnitude of the situation had finally dawned on him.
‘It’s done,’ he said.
A wave of relief swept over Wahid, even though losing two locations already felt like a hammer blow.
‘Okay. Get everyone else online.’
Wahid pushed the speaker bud into his ear and navigated into the live video app that would connect him to each of his brothers. One by one there were clicks as they all came online and the black screen on the tablet divided, then sub-divided as head-cam video from each location came through live. Only five screens.
‘I’m not getting anything from Leipzig or Nantes,’ Itnan said.
Wahid didn’t respond. There was nothing either of them could do about that now.
Another glance at his watch.
Fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine . . .
‘Now.’
SIXTY-NINE
Naples, Italy
Hamsah, in the driver’s seat of the silver Mercedes Sprinter, showed his paperwork to the guard then waited. After a few seconds, the guard gave him a sullen nod, and the red and white barrier lifted. Hamsah drove the van down the ramp, into the underground car park of the thirty-three-storey Telecom Italia Tower. The car park was filled with gleaming silver and black and white executive cars. Hamsah drove round them to the service area where two other emblazoned vans – one for an electricity company, the other an office supplies company –
were already parked. He slotted his van alongside them, then stepped from the vehicle into the musty air. Without bothering to lock the van he moved over to the service entrance and bound up the stairs two at a time to the ground floor. He came out of the stairwell into the main foyer and, head down, walked purposefully for the exit.
‘Number five in position,’ Hamsah said into his phone.
‘Received,’ Wahid responded.
SEVENTY
Cordoba, Spain
Tis’ah, wearing his security uniform, walked through the old prayer hall of the Moorish Mezquita. Such a glorious piece of history. It was a shame to see it going to such waste with that vile infidel structure crammed inside. At least today the grand former mosque would serve a worthy purpose once more.
Striding out into the open-air courtyard he felt the blazing sun hitting his skin. The exit was just in front.
‘See you tomorrow,’ José called to him as he headed out.
‘Of course,’ Tis’ah said.
He lifted up his phone. ‘Number nine in position,’ he said.
‘Received,’ Wahid responded.
SEVENTY-ONE
Nantes, France
Sittah was on his knees in the apartment, his hands behind his head. An armed police officer stood before him, the barrel of a handgun pointed at his head while they searched the place.
‘Okay. It’s just him,’ came a gruff male voice from behind Sittah. ‘Get him out of here.’
The officer lowered his gun and came for Sittah. This was the last opportunity he’d have to make his brothers proud. He had to try. Sittah sprang into the air and caught the policeman beneath his chin with an elbow. In a flash of movement Sittah took the gun, fired three times into the officer’s chest as he fell, turned, crouched and fired three more at the man behind him. Both were wearing Kevlar vests, but the power of the rounds was still enough to knock them out of action.
