‘So, how are you going to capture them?’ asked Kate.
‘The Prime Minister wants them captured alive,’ answered Craig. ‘The bosses believe that there’s a better chance of success if we seize them when they are all in one place. The plan is to have a vessel, with SBS personnel aboard, waiting for Golden Sundancer in Safi. They then overpower the terrorists and whisk them away to a waiting submarine.’
‘So quite simple, really,’ said Kate, with a grin.
‘Why aren’t they using the SAS?’ Rafi queried.
‘The special boat service, or SBS,’ replied Craig, ‘Is the Royal Navy’s special forces unit – it is every bit as formidable as the SAS, but is, in essence, the aquatic version. In many quarters they’re rated more highly! Things will have to be done quickly, which could complicate matters. The terrorists and their masters will probably be in our grasp for only a few hours. At Golden Sundancer’s present rate of progress, she’ll arrive in Safi early Monday afternoon, which gives us only twenty-four hours to prepare an appropriate welcoming party.’
‘How’s the plan going?’ Rafi asked.
‘Hold on a moment,’ said Craig, ‘Let me make a call.’ Several minutes later he put down the phone. ‘It seems we’ve arranged for two resourceful female Naval Lieutenants – Anna Gregson and Janet Steiner – to be flown to Gibraltar. They’re on their way as we speak, together with some special kit for our SBS friends.’
Craig continued explaining the plan. ‘Obviously, we don’t want to scare the terrorists’ leaders away. A fast motorboat moored in Gibraltar has been identified. We ruled out HMS Sabre, as there’s no way we can disguise her military parentage – one sight of her and the terrorists would run a mile. Furthermore, the Moroccan Authorities wouldn’t take kindly to the Royal Navy operating within their territorial waters. So we’re renting, or purchasing if we cock up, a Sunseeker Manhattan 56 called Puddle Jumper. She has a top speed of some thirty-two knots and is fast enough to get down there before them. Puddle Jumper is being given the once-over and provisioned as we speak.’
Craig paused, as if searching for an elusive word. ‘The awkward bit is that we have a hiccup or two on the resources front. SBS’s M Squadron, which deals with maritime counterterrorism, should be on standby. They’re, er… rather busy at the moment. They’re in action in the Middle East. The Air Chief Marshal has secured the services of two of their team who are cutting short their current operation and will be joining those on board Puddle Jumper. We had hoped for more, but so be it. The special forces command centre is sending SAS soldiers to Marrakech Airport and to the ports of Safi, Mohammedia and Casablanca. The last two, just in case our intelligence has ballsed up.’
A grin spread across Craig’s face, his white teeth framed by his tanned face. ‘A bright spark at the Admiralty has dreamt up a cunning plan. Our two naval officers and the two SBS operatives on board Puddle Jumper are to be joined by two retired civilians.’
Kate tilted her head to one side in surprise.
‘Yes, I know you must think that they’re off their rockers. The Navy has trawled through their records for recently retired naval officers who had seen active service and who could go along as parent figures to keep up the illusion that those on board are civilians. The retirement age for many very able officers is early fifties.’ Craig grinned. ‘They couldn’t believe their luck. They found a retired couple who are both still fleet of foot. Adrian Bell is a highly experienced commander and a master navigator, with considerable experience of active service. As a youngster, Adrian commanded one of the three HMS Scimitar class, fast training craft during the Cod War in the North Atlantic. They were at that time the fastest wet hulled military craft in the world. And it gets better: the commander’s wife, Helen, also has twenty years’ experience in the Navy. So we have two capable “parents” to look after our boisterous rabble. The two naval officers will become their daughters and the two SBS operatives will be the boyfriends.
‘Not surprisingly,’ continued Craig, ‘The husband and wife were a bit taken aback to be volunteered. They were at home in their garage, varnishing their dinghy. They’re currently packing their sailing gear. Two, twin-seat Harrier jump jets are waiting for them at the nearby Thorney Island army facility and will fly them to Gibraltar.
‘The two parents, as I call them, together with the two naval officers, will arrive in Gibraltar in the next couple of hours. Puddle Jumper should put to sea an hour after they land. The SBS officers will rendezvous with her in the next twelve hours. I understand a wet jump is planned.’
Craig paused. ‘As I was saying, the terrorists’ boat, at her current rate of progress, should make Safi by Monday early afternoon. Our team on Puddle Jumper plan to arrive under the cover of darkness, late on Sunday night.’
A frown fell across Craig’s face. ‘Getting them away is also proving difficult. It is rather embarrassing as a world power, but we seem to have all our submarines in, er… The wrong places or in dry dock for repairs, and the four new Astute class submarines are still not in service. The cutback in numbers, without the new replacements, has left the Navy decidedly short. The earliest any submarine can be off the coast of Safi is 15.40 on Monday. However, those at the Admiralty are a tad uncomfortable – well, that’s an understatement – as the only one that could get there in time is one of their Trident Class nuclear submarines with all her nuclear missiles on board. It seems that the prospect of having our terrorists on board her is beyond the Admiralty’s comfort zone. Out of the frying pan and into the fire! However, they have been won over by the PM. She’s broken off from her current manoeuvres and is sailing at full speed to be on station Monday afternoon.’
Rafi was about to ask a couple of questions, when his guide appeared at the door and beckoned him over.
‘The Prime Minister will see you now,’ said the secretary.
Rafi was ushered up the rather claustrophobic stairs to the PM’s meeting room. He wondered how Aidan and his team of five were getting on, and whether the PM and his new Chancellor of the Exchequer would tackle the impending financial problems head-on. His thoughts moved on to the huge risks now faced by the markets.
Rafi stopped outside the meeting room – he felt apprehensive. What if they’d reached mental overload and wanted none of his bad news? The future would be bleak.
As he entered, he was greeted by the sight of fourteen tired and slightly dishevelled-looking people. Aidan and his team were sitting along one side of the table. There was an unoccupied chair next to Aidan, to which Rafi was shown.
The PM stood up to greet Rafi. He looked pale and in need of some well-earned rest. On one side he was flanked by his private secretary, the head of press communications and the Defence Secretary, and on the other side, by his Chancellor and three people from his Treasury team. The PM did the introductions.
Rafi, meanwhile, looked around the shiny, dark wooden table. There was a grim feel to the room. His eyes caught those of Saara’s. They exchanged brief smiles – she seemed at ease in the exalted company. Aidan and his team’s faces looked strained, as if they were expecting a hard time.
The PM called the meeting to order. He was forthright. ‘Gentlemen, we are here at the request of Mr Khan. Yesterday he asked me to consider the risk our weakened financial markets are now facing and, if we agree with his predictions, he has asked that we listen to a strategy to stop our markets going into meltdown when they reopen on Tuesday. Mr Khan advises me that the main item on the terrorists’ agenda is not the physical disruption of our energy supplies, but rather financial chaos.’
The PM turned to his Chancellor. ‘I appreciate that it is only a few months since you took up your post. The final decision as to how we proceed rests with you. I shall back your judgement and the proposals you put before the Cabinet tomorrow, in advance of our statements to the Commons on Monday afternoon.’
The PM paused. ‘Before we start, I must reiterate that we are here as a group seeking to work as a team.’ He paused. ‘
If Mr Khan is correct, the challenge that faces us is gargantuan. He has made it clear to me that the terrorists expect us to hesitate and to drag our feet before we react. If we do, Mr Khan has in no uncertain terms advised me that we may not regain control of the financial markets. We have to consider whether Mr Khan’s hypothesis has substance. We must not shirk our duty, even if it means that we get bad press for taking a robust approach when others are unable to see the dangers facing us.’
The mood of the room was sombre. ‘Before we start,’ said the PM, ‘I should like to thank Mr Khan for his foresightedness and Mr Gilchrist and his team from the City and academia for their Herculean efforts. You have been able to focus on the financial problems at hand without being overwhelmed by the practical and human issues that we face as politicians. Gentlemen, the stakes are high.’ He turned to his Chancellor. ‘Is there anything you would like to add before we listen to Aidan and his team’s concerns and recommendations?’
‘Not at the moment, thank you.’
‘What then, please, are your proposals?’
Aidan spent a few moments detailing the expertise of those sitting next to him and turned to Rafi’s former boss, Donald, to make the presentation.
Donald stood up and walked over to a whiteboard which had been set up at the end of the room. He was confident, without being arrogant.
‘Our objective, gentlemen, in these uncertain times, is to provide the financial markets with a sense of certainty and confidence. We are facing two problems. Firstly, the terrorists have created a black hole in the Government’s finances and, secondly, Aidan has proved beyond all doubt that if the markets fall sharply when they reopen, the terrorists will make massive profits from their investments in derivatives. When I say massive, I mean tens of billions of pounds… And this will depress the markets even further.’
Donald paused and turned to the Chancellor. ‘Put this on top of the vast sums that the Government has to raise for the foreseeable future to balance its books, add in widespread blackouts, a stock market crash and large scale disruption to the UK economy… Quite simply, international investors will go elsewhere in their droves. Already there has been a significant shift in sentiment, as reflected by the currency markets where sterling is taking a hammering… To put it bluntly, I have major doubts as to whether the extra money required post Stratford can be borrowed in the markets. This would mean going cap in hand to the International Monetary Fund, and even they might not have sufficient funds to solve our problems…’
Night was closing in on Golden Sundancer. She was making good headway against the swell. The captain, Basel Talal and Sergy Kowshaya, the Cruden Bay terrorist, were on the bridge. They were in an upbeat mood.
Sergy looked out of the window at the spray coming over the bow. ‘We make port by midday Monday, yes?’
The captain glanced across at his charts. ‘Probably around 14:00 hours – later if the weather gets bad.’
Sergy shifted his eyes across at Basel. ‘The Sheikh will be there to thank us – personally?’
‘Yes, of course and Jameel Furud will be there also.’ Basel sensed that Sergy was uneasy. ‘You did well at Cruden Bay.’
‘But it was Dakka who hit the jack pot.’
‘Cruden Bay was simply brilliant… And you are now rich beyond your dreams,’ said Basel soothingly. ‘What are you going to do with your money?’
‘I am my own keeper. My family were all killed by the Russians… I hope to buy a big olive grove and find a nice woman.’
Basel smiled. ‘For someone with so much money – you don’t look very happy?’
‘Yes it is true, I feel sad… I’d be a €1 million richer if the bastard hadn’t sold us dud mortars… The damn shells wouldn’t go off – St Fergus should have been destroyed, just like Cruden Bay,’ replied Sergy. He’d had enough of the talking and went back to gazing out of the window at the waves and the spray.
Back at Number 10, the meeting with the Prime Minister was winding down. Donald had finished his presentation. Aidan got up and went over to a couple of large boxes in the corner of the room from which he pulled out smartly bound reports. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said as he handed them across the table, ‘You’ll find in these the numbers behind our proposals.’
‘I am grateful to you for your incisive work,’ said the PM. ‘Any questions?’
‘Just one,’ replied the Chancellor. ‘Timing is going to be tight. You and I will be making our announcements to the House on Monday afternoon. Am I right in assuming that we don’t want the terrorists to know that we’re onto their conspiracy, whilst they’re still at large?’
‘Yes,’ replied the PM.
‘So, the financial rescue plan shouldn’t be revealed until the terrorists have been captured, which is expected to be… When?’
‘Around 3.30 p.m. on Monday afternoon,’ answered the PM.
‘So that means we must speak for at least ninety minutes before being able to make any concrete announcements?’ queried the Chancellor.
‘Possibly longer, if the capture doesn’t go to plan,’ replied the
PM.
The Chancellor looked thoughtfully at him. ‘If you were to set the scene and explain how the Government is tackling the enormous problems associated with Stratford, and what the future holds, then I could run through the financial issues. Would that be OK?’
‘Yes, that’s what I had in mind,’ agreed the PM.
‘Then if things are delayed, I shall just have to make sure that I have some other worthy proposals I can talk about, which will use up time,’ said the Chancellor with a small frown. ‘I have been given a lot to consider. Mr Gilchrist, I am extremely grateful to you and your team for letting me have advance warning of what to anticipate. I hope I can live up to your expectations.’ He glanced back at the PM. ‘Perhaps I could retire with my team to work on Monday’s speech. I will report my proposals to Cabinet tomorrow evening?’
‘Yes, please,’ replied the PM. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘I have an observation,’ said Rafi. ‘If the wind had been blowing in the opposite direction, the City of London would have become the no-go area. I believe the terrorists would have thought of this, so my thinking is that they could have sizeable positions in both the Frankfurt and Chicago derivatives markets. I think we should strongly suggest that they do not open on Monday.’
‘Good point,’ said the Chancellor. ‘Leave that with me.’
The meeting had finished. The PM spoke to Aidan’s team. ‘Would any of you like to watch Monday’s proceedings from the Gallery?’
‘If it’s alright with you, sir,’ Aidan replied, ‘we would prefer to watch with a couple of trading screens in front of us in order to see what the other markets make of the speeches.’
Saara spoke up. ‘I would like to take up your offer, please. I am ashamed to say that I’ve never been into the Houses of Parliament. This would make a good first time, I think.’
‘Of course.’
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ said the Chancellor. He picked up his papers and, deep in thought, headed for the door, followed by his team.
Aidan hovered by the door. ‘How on earth did you manage to get all that documentation together so quickly?’ Rafi asked.
‘It was a close run thing. We brought in a couple of Donald’s team to help with the word processing behind the scenes, plus we did a great deal copying and pasting from existing documents. A couple of large printer/photocopiers were shipped in from my offices and in the end we borrowed the PM’s secretarial team for the collation and binding of the documents. I reckon we did quite a good job!’ answered Aidan proudly.
‘Truly outstanding considering the circumstances,’ replied Rafi.
‘Would you like to join us for a quick bite to eat?’
Rafi was about to say yes when the PM beckoned him to stay behind with his permanent secretary.
‘Unfortunately, it seems I still have a few things to do. Let’s get together for lunch soon, though.’
The room emptied leaving just the PM and Rafi. The tense atmosphere that had characterised the previous meeting remained. The PM picked up the phone and Kate was shown in. ‘Sorry, I don’t have that much time; I have another meeting due to start in five minutes. I wanted to speak to you both. I had considered leaving it until this was all over, but it didn’t seem appropriate, given all you’ve both gone through and done.’
The PM drew breath. ‘It’s not possible for me to fully express my gratitude. Your foresight has given us the opportunity to come out of this disaster with some vestige of hope for the future.’ He had a serious look on his tired face. ‘Mr Khan and Inspector Adams, were I to be in a position to grant you a request, what might it be?’
Rafi looked at the Prime Minister and then across to Kate. He sensed that his first wish had been granted. He had found someone with whom he would enjoy spending time; hopefully a great deal of time. Rafi returned his gaze to the Prime Minister. ‘I’m not certain whether I need anything, thank you, sir.’
‘But come now, there must be something?’
Rafi thought for no more than a few seconds. It dawned on him that here was an opportunity of a lifetime – he could do something that would have made his hard-working parents proud. Rafi took a deep breath. ‘Well, here goes. Would it be possible for there to be a Royal Garden Party at Buckingham Palace, where those invited are drawn from Muslim communities throughout the United Kingdom? Not the movers and shakers, but rather the quiet, hard-working, first-class citizens who help to make this country tick. For too long they’ve been unappreciated and disenfranchised.’
The Prime Minister thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I like your idea of acknowledging those who quietly get things done.’
‘Also, it would be much appreciated if my flat could be given a bit of a tidy up!’
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