by Rob Sinclair
Sittah was up on his feet and darted across the room for his phone. The detonator. If he was going down, he’d take as many of these heathens with him as possible. He frog-hopped over the sofa, then reached out for the phone on the table.
The rat-a-tat of gunfire blared behind him, and he felt warm thuds as the bullets tore into his back.
Sittah collapsed to the ground.
The phone was in his hand. He gargled and his lungs hissed. He couldn’t breathe, his sight was blurring. It took all his strength to tap the phone’s screen, trying his best to do what he needed, but he was drifting. A recognisable blur appeared on the screen, and he tried to muster every ounce of energy remaining to push his finger down onto it . . .
SEVENTY-TWO
Ghent, Belgium
Tamaniyyah dragged the body of the security guard leaving a trail of blood on the floor, then shut the door behind him in the maintenance room. The kill had been impromptu, but necessary. Sooner or later the guard’s colleagues would realise he was missing, but it would be too late to stop the poison by then. The cyanide canisters in the van in the car park just outside the room were already opened, the tubing from the van hooked up to the building’s ventilation system. Soon every person inside the twenty-seven-storey Arteveldetoren office block would be dead. Apart from Tamaniyyah, that was.
Having killed or subdued each of the guards on duty in the basement, the shutters for the car park were now rolled down. No one else would be coming in that way. As for the rest of the building? Itnashar had been careful. At the push of a button the building’s remaining security would be locked down, all access doors sealed shut, and booby-trapped with explosive strips should they be manually opened.
Tamaniyyah pushed the enter key on his laptop and for a second the room fell into darkness, before the emergency lighting system kicked it. He pressed the next button to open up the vent to take the cyanide gas from the van and into the building’s air system. Within minutes the cyanide would be working its magic. Several hundred people inside the building would be choking and convulsing in agony, their skin welting, their eyes, ears and noses bleeding, their mouths frothing as the poison worked through their systems. Wahid had said how incredible the sight was, and Tamaniyyah couldn’t wait to see for himself.
‘Number eight in position,’ Tamaniyyah said into his phone.
‘Received,’ Wahid responded.
Tamaniyyah quickly pulled the mask over his face. Then heard noises outside. He opened the door and looked out across the car park. Beyond the metal shutters he could hear banging, could see movement in the small gap between the floor and the metal.
Police.
Tamaniyyah whipped off his mask and picked up the radio.
‘The police are here,’ he said quickly. Just then there was a piercing siren as the building’s fire alarm was triggered.
‘Do what you can,’ Wahid said. ‘Don’t let anyone leave.’
Tamaniyyah replaced the mask and darted to the van, snatching the AK-47 from the passenger seat and the utility belt crammed with grenades. He slammed shut the door and strapped the belt around his waist. Then he headed for the doors that led up to the ground floor. Standing at a safe distance he lifted the rifle and fired at the explosive strips on the door. The small explosion blasted a hole in the doorway and, while the smoke cleared, Tamaniyyah uttered a final prayer.
‘Allahu Akbar,’ he said to himself, before bursting out into the open in the building’s main foyer, the AK-47 raised and ready to fire.
SEVENTY-THREE
Birmingham, England
Arab’ah crouched low as he and Hidashar made their way through the labyrinth of tunnels in the disused sewer. He didn’t need to look back, he could tell his brother was right there with him because of his heavy breaths.
‘We’re here,’ Arab’ah said. ‘We go up first, then we’ll hoist the equipment up after.’
‘You first then.’
‘Cover me, just in case.’
There was a thunk as Hidashar dropped the handles of the sled he’d been dragging and brought the M4 rifle on his shoulder round, pointing the barrel upward.
‘Ready when you are.’
Arab’ah nodded and clambered up. Light flooded in as he pushed the manhole cover away and climbed out into the tepid English air. All was quiet, except for the nearby roar of jet engines as planes taxied around Birmingham airport.
‘Come on,’ he shouted down to Hidashar.
Moments later the big man emerged and straightened himself out. Arab’ah checked his watch. It was already three minutes past twelve.
‘Hurry. We need to finish this quickly.’
Hidashar set to it, pulling the equipment up. It only took him a couple of minutes and they were soon getting set to drag both the drones and the homemade bombs up the mound to the top. They’d spent many days perfecting the recipe for the plastic explosives that were made from what were essentially common household ingredients; potassium chlorate crystals from bleach, Vaseline, wax and camping gas. Hidashar was confident the blocks they’d made would be more than adequate. They would crash the first bomb into the row of parked planes, the explosives together with the jet fuel enough to start a chain reaction of explosions across the airport’s gates. The second drone they’d fly straight into the terminal building where thousands of holidaymakers were crammed.
Many hundreds, if not thousands of people would die.
Just then, as they moved towards the mound, there was an almighty roar as a plane came in to land above them. They both instinctively craned their heads, their gaze following the plane as it headed for the runway. Arab’ah followed the jet until it disappeared out of sight beyond the mound.
‘What the––’ he said, and froze.
In front of them, at the top of the mound, a line of half a dozen armed police officers appeared.
‘Drop the weapons!’ came the shouts from both Arab’ah’s left and right.
The two men looked around. Police were surrounding them on all sides. Over twenty armed officers, weapons drawn, closing in on them.
Arab’ah made a move for his radio, then flinched at a warning shot that smacked into the grassy ground in front of his feet.
‘Drop the weapons. Now.’
Arab’ah slumped. There was no way they could complete their mission now. But they wouldn’t go down without a fight. Arab’ah turned to Hidashar. Hidashar nodded back. As Arab’ah flung his hand down to his side, in a desperate attempt to reach the detonator on his rigged vest, he didn’t hear the boom as the first trigger was pulled.
SEVENTY-FOUR
Graz, Austria
Asarah spied from the roof of the apartment building over to the Graz Hauptbahnhof – the city’s largest train station – a hundred metres away.
‘It’s already filling up,’ he said into his mouthpiece.
‘It’s chaos,’ Talatah said in delight. He was sitting across from Asarah at the far end of the east side of the lead rooftop, pressed up against the short wall that wrapped around them, binoculars in hand. ‘There’re no trains coming or going.’
‘Should we wait, or do it now?’
‘We wait for five more minutes. Phantom is working. It will only get busier. The more people the better.’
‘Absolutely.’
Asarah’s earbud went quiet. He looked across the lead rooftop to the open crates beside them where the small drones were already set with their payloads – bombs that would explode in the air and disperse deadly phosgene gas over an area more than a hundred metres wide. Within seconds, well over a thousand people would be struck by the deadly gas. Talatah also had a wooden crate next to him that was filled with the bulbous rockets they’d created to fit the weighty Russian-made RPG-7. Each rocket was essentially a glorified Molotov cocktail, filled with a homemade incendiary mixture of petrol and liquid detergent that, on explosion, would stick to anything it touched and rapidly spread fire and panic across the hundreds of people in the packed station. Asar
ah smiled to himself.
‘Number three in position,’ he heard his brother say.
‘Received,’ came Wahid’s response.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Granada, Spain
‘Still no word from Birmingham?’ Itnan asked.
‘No. The video link is down now too. We have to assume they’re dead.’
Just then the video feed from Tamaniyyah in Ghent went down. Wahid growled in anger and ripped off his headset before flinging it across the garden.
‘Don’t be so disheartened, brother,’ Itnan said, not looking up from his screen. ‘It’s not over yet.’
Just then Wahid heard a rush of static from Itnan’s headset. He turned to his brother, who just shook his head.
‘Nantes is offline now too.’
‘He detonated the failsafe,’ Wahid said, with some satisfaction. His brother was gone, and he would be sorely missed, but the blast in the apartment block would surely consume many.
‘What about Ghent?’
‘He must be dead. But he’d already released the gas.’
‘And England?’
‘The video is down. Their radio is still active, but I can’t get a response.’
Wahid shook his head. ‘So they’re either dead too or in custody.’
Itnan didn’t respond to that.
‘They knew,’ Wahid said, gritting his teeth. ‘The police knew. We don’t have time to wait now, we need all remaining locations to go ahead immediately. Before it’s too late.’
‘Agreed.’
There was a whirring tone from Itnan’s laptop. A warning. Wahid again looked to his brother, who was staring at a video stream of the outside of their compound.
‘Looks like we’ve got company,’ he said.
SEVENTY-SIX
Cox, Glock in hand, held back from the black-clad men and women of the Grupos Operativos Especiales de Seguridad, or GOES, the SWAT team of the Spanish National Police. With her headset on she was receiving real-time updates from Flannigan, who was overseeing the raids in each of the locations. It had already been confirmed that the two terrorists in Birmingham were dead – a suicide blast that had also taken out an unconfirmed number of policemen. In Ghent the terrorist had been shot dead by police but not before he’d released deadly cyanide gas into an office block containing over a thousand people. AK-47 rounds had also been sprayed at the terrified members of the public trying to flee the building. And that wasn’t the worst of it. In Nantes, the efforts to capture number six had just turned deadly, with the suspect successfully exploding a booby trap inside his apartment building, despite the presence of local armed police who had, moments earlier, confirmed they had him under control. The death toll of that explosion was still unclear.
‘What about the other locations?’ Cox asked, as she crept along.
‘We’ve got teams on each site, finding these bastards and beginning to clear civilians. Wait . . .’ Flannigan suddenly said. ‘Shit. We’ve got confirmed explosions in Graz now too, in the central train station.’
Cox shook her head.
‘Reports of gunfire in Naples too,’ Flannigan said. ‘Though the police were already in the process of evacuating an office block there and securing the explosives that had been set.’
Just then, the GOES team out in front stopped dead. The squad commander, fronting the tip of the diamond formation, turned and gave his team instructions and hand signals.
‘We’re right outside now,’ Cox said. But her comment was met with silence. ‘Sir, are you still there?’
Nothing.
Cox took the phone out of her pocket. No signal.
‘Shit.’
Was that just because of the area they were in? No, she didn’t think so. Up ahead she could see the GOES guys turning and looking at each other quizzically. Cox had no idea why, but their comms were kaput. They were running blind now.
As the whispered debate in front of her quickly became more heated, Cox heard a clattering off to her left – a small stone scuttling across the cobbled street. She turned, pointing the gun out, looking into the mouth of a narrow, high-walled alley that snaked further up the hill.
No one there.
Or was there?
She was certain a shadow had moved across the ground, just next to where the alley veered off to the left.
‘Hey,’ she shouted out to the GOES group in front. ‘Puede uno de ustedes ayudar?’
One of the men at the back of the group nodded and jogged over to her, both hands around his Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun.
‘Qué es?’
‘Follow me.’
Cox moved towards the alley, treading carefully. She glanced behind her. The GOES officer was two steps behind, crouched low, the MP5 pulled up close to his face. Cox moved to the right, trying to get a better view up the alley. When she took one more step forward the shadow on the ground flickered again.
Cox’s eyes darted from the shadow and up to the figure who now lurched towards her. She pulled on her trigger . . .
Too late. The attacker dodged to the side, knowing exactly how she would react. The GOES officer shouted a warning, but he didn’t pull his trigger. He couldn’t – Cox was in his line of fire.
Before Cox could do anything else she’d been twisted around and pinned in position, an arm clasped tightly around her neck, choking her. Her Glock was pressed up against her temple. The man holding her pulled her back, so that just the tips of the heels of her feet were on the ground, giving her no room to counter and kick out behind her.
‘Lower your weapon!’ the man shouted in Spanish.
Cox gasped and choked as she tried to breathe. She recognised the voice. It was Aydin Torkal.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ Cox pleaded with the GOES officer. He seemed less than sure about that. ‘Aydin, please. They’ll kill you.’
‘Not before I kill you.’
‘Please, lower your weapon,’ Cox said again to the policeman.
‘Tell the men not to enter that compound,’ Aydin said.
‘What?’
‘The compound you’re surrounding! They can’t go in.’
‘Wahid’s in there!’
‘It’s a trap! You’ll kill them all.’
‘They know what they’re doing.’
‘No. They really don’t.’
Aydin shuffled forward, pushing Cox with him. The GOES officer stepped back in time with them. Two of his colleagues appeared at the end of the alley, alerted by the shouting no doubt.
‘It’s okay,’ Cox pleaded again. ‘He won’t hurt me.’
‘Don’t be so sure about that,’ Aydin said.
‘We want the same thing. We have to end this. Now. Aydin, it’s already begun. The killings have already started. We have to strike now.’
‘Not like this.’
They reached the end of the alley. The main group of GOES officers were still up ahead, crouched in position outside the compound. There was a loud call. A go signal.
‘No!’ Aydin shouted. Cox found herself echoing his calls. Perhaps it was the desperation in his voice that told her it was the right thing to do.
The GOES team took no notice. There was clattering and banging as the charges they’d laid blew the entrance open, and echoing sounds from further away as a second team stormed from the other side. Cox braced herself, held her breath, expecting a blast, a booby trap, just like Aydin had warned. It didn’t come. Instead, one by one the GOES team disappeared inside.
After a few short moments, the last man stepped in, moving out of sight.
‘Get down!’ Aydin screamed, letting go of Cox and flinging himself away, just a split second before the huge explosion.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Aydin was expecting the blast. That was why he’d kept his distance from the entrance of the compound, yet the force was still far greater than he’d imagined. Even though they were standing several yards away from the entrance, and already diving for cover, he was blown off his feet and dispa
tched onto the hard cobbles several yards down the road. The force of the blast, together with the jarring impact of the fall, was enough to send him to the brink of unconsciousness. Perhaps he had been unconscious for a short while, it was hard for him to know for sure.
As he started to regain his senses he realised he was on his side, lying on the ground. His bleary gaze fixed upon Rachel Cox’s bloodied face less than a yard in front of him. She already had a bruise from where he’d clocked her on the helicopter, but there was now a thick line of blood that snaked down from her hairline too. She was breathing, but otherwise unmoving.
Aydin groaned as he pulled himself up into a sitting position. Out in front of him there was a huge plume of smoke rising into the sky. No sounds of armed officers shouting or shooting filled the air now, only the hiss of fire and the whine of car alarms. Everyone inside that compound was surely dead. It was just a pile of smouldering rubble.
Which did beg one very important question. Where the hell was Wahid? Because Aydin was absolutely certain his brother wouldn’t martyr himself just like that. And yet this was the place that both Aydin and MI6 had traced him to.
Cox murmured. She didn’t look to be seriously injured, just dazed. The GOES officers who’d been in front, trying to protect Cox . . . Aydin didn’t fancy their chances. One had a two-foot shard of metal sticking out of his back; another was wedged into the shattered windscreen of a nearby parked car. The third, the one closest to them who’d had his MP5 pointed at Aydin’s face just moments before, was missing a leg and writhing awkwardly. It was more luck than judgement that Aydin and Cox were comparatively unscathed. Or was it simply that those three men had inadvertently acted as a shield for them?
But there was no time to dwell. As groggy as he was, Aydin needed to move. There would be more police on hand at any second, and they wouldn’t take kindly to his presence at the massacre. More importantly, he needed to find Wahid before he escaped for good.
